by Deryn Lake
He had quite enjoyed the ride from the police station to Lewes but by the time he was seated in a room on his own, he was nervous again. Dickie didn’t like being enclosed and this was just how it felt to him. As if he was going to be locked in this little room for eternity. And then to his amazement he heard somebody singing, just a snatch of song but it was immensely cheering. He strained his ears and at that moment the door opened and the singing stopped, though the three people who had come into the room were all humming. Dickie looked up at them, half raising his eyelids.
There was only one dressed like a policeman and Dickie thought he was about sixteen at the most. The other two were in civvies and the older man sat down next to him and said pleasantly, ‘Hello, Dickie. I am a solicitor and I am here to represent you.’
Dickie made a protesting movement and Potter went on to say, ‘It’s all right, Dickie. Mr Dovell is a friend of Mr Tennant’s. You won’t have to pay him anything. Neither of them, I mean. They are doing this because they like you.’
Dickie couldn’t understand it. He knew that lawyers were things that you had to buy. But he stopped thinking about that as Potter switched a little machine on and said a few preliminary words into it.
Then, ‘Are you Richard Donkin?’ he asked.
Dickie stared at him, and finally nodded his head.
‘Can you tell me where you were on Saturday, May the first this year, between the hours of three p.m. and the following morning?’
Dickie looked blank and Mr Dovell, who had met Tennant and liked him while they had both been attending the Police Law course at Hendon, said, ‘Come on, son, don’t be shy. Just tell us, did you go to the fair?’
Dickie shook his head and growled, ‘Trees.’
‘What about them? Were you watching from them?’ said Potter.
‘I dances,’ said Dickie with great effort.
‘Switch the recorder off a minute,’ said Alasdair Dovell. ‘Listen, Dickie, if we ask you questions about where you were, could you just answer by nodding or shaking your head?’
A pair of blue eyes, vacant and somehow profoundly sad, stared into Alasdair’s with a beseeching glance. Dickie nodded.
Alasdair spoke to Potter. ‘Would that be all right for you, Sergeant? I mean, I think it’s as far as we’re going to get, otherwise.’
‘Yes, I felt sure we were going to have to compromise when this interview began.’ Potter turned to Dickie again. ‘When the fair ended did you stay in the woods?’
Definite nodding of head. Alasdair said, ‘My client indicated yes.’
‘And did you go to the Great House afterwards and sit outside?’
Terrific nodding of head.
‘And what did you do then, Dickie? Did you go back to the woods?’
Dickie hesitated, then seizing a piece of paper lying on the desk, looked round pleadingly.
‘I think he wants a pen,’ said Alasdair.
‘I’m just glad my boss isn’t here,’ said Potter, reluctantly handing Dickie a biro.
Then all three present onlookers grew silent as they watched in amazement as he drew a portrait of a road, a morris dancer dressed in tatters, a black hat on his head ringed with a row of pheasant feathers, and a girl dressed in white, standing, looking across the fields into the dim distance.
‘Skye,’ said Potter.
‘What?’ said Alasdair.
‘Chris O’Hare kept rattling on about trying to pick up some posh totty named Skye. He apparently did not succeed but after tempting her to walk a little way with him she turned and left. So far, nobody seems to know who she is and house-to-house hasn’t revealed her whereabouts either.’
Alasdair turned to Dickie. ‘Are you showing us that Skye went off in the direction of the murder? Is that what it is, Dickie?’
There was a silence that seemed to last for ever while Daft Dickie pondered what had just been asked him. Then he turned to Potter, every vein on his face standing out, and from a throat that sounded as dry as the Sahara Desert rasped out, ‘Yes.’
‘You didn’t push him too hard?’ said Tennant, when Potter rejoined him at the Lakehurst incident room.
‘On the contrary, sir. We all entered humming like Madame Butterfly on a bad night, and he ended up by drawing for us a mysterious picture set at the crossroads. Here it is.’
‘My God,’ Tennant exclaimed.
‘What?’
‘He’s actually got talent. It looks like the later work of van Gogh. He could make a fortune selling these.’
‘But does it tell us anything?’
‘Not really. The carer from the children’s home says he – Ned – hurried straight home.’ Tennant changed tone. ‘We’ve got to find Skye, Potter. I think she might hold the key to the whole thing.’
‘But how do we find her? She might have been a day tripper come from London.’
‘And she might just as easily not. I’ve got a hunch, Potter. Do you feel like a pint at lunchtime?’
‘I could do with one certainly.’
They made their way to the Great House rather earlier than usual and Dominic looked round immediately for Jack Boggis, rather fearing that they might have beaten the old toper to it. But they were in luck. Jack was in his usual chair, back turned to the general public, Daily Telegraph spread before him, quaffing his ale like an old soldier. Tennant braved the usual rebuff and sat down opposite him, flicking at Jack’s paper and saying, ‘Peep-bo, Mr Boggis. I’d like to speak to you.’
The newspaper quivered with annoyance and eventually Boggis laid it down, fury flying from his fingertips.
‘Well?’ he said.
‘Yes, very, thank you. How about yourself?’
‘I was reading a very interesting article until I was interrupted.’
‘May I offer you a pint to make redress? I see by your smile that I can.’
Boggis’s lips were drawn back in a snarl.
‘Good,’ Tennant hurried on. He looked contrite. ‘The reason I sought you out is a serious one, and it’s on account of your tremendous powers of observation.’
Boggis glared.
‘I need your help, sir, and I need it desperately.’
Boggis chuffed like a pug but Tennant was unable to translate the sound and continued.
‘I am relying on your powers of noticing things, sir, with reference to the night of the Medieval Fair. I know you were in this pub and I expect you saw many familiar faces in here. But it is one in particular that I am interested in and that is the blackened-up face of a morris dancer, Chris O’Hare. Did you notice him, by any chance?’
‘And if I did?’
‘Potter, go and get Mr Boggis a pint of ale, there’s a good chap. Now, as I was saying, did you?’
‘Yes, he walked past me in order to find a seat.’
‘And did he have a woman with him?’
‘Yes. A pretty young thing in a long white dress.’
‘Did you recognize her?’
‘No. She had one of those highfalutin’ Venetian carnival masks on. All I could see was her chin and her forehead.’
‘What about her hair?’
‘That was gathered up in one of those golden snood affairs. But it was dark, I could see that much.’
Tennant received one of those odd premonitions which he had occasionally had in the past. He suddenly felt certain that he knew who Skye was. But he showed none of this to Jack Boggis, who was looking as if he were longing to get back to his paper. Tennant got to his feet.
‘Well, thank you very much, Mr Boggis. You have been as helpful and kind as always,’ he said, keeping his face absolutely straight.
Boggis shot him a quizzical look but Tennant was leaving the pub, with young Potter solemnly bowing his head in the doorway.
‘Bloody fools,’ Boggis muttered, as he re-opened his favourite newspaper and started to read.
Outside in the car Tennant said, ‘I want you to go and find O’Hare at the garage and give him a hard time. See if you can learn any more about this blood sa
crifice thing. Ask him if he is the leader of a coven?’
‘And where will you be, sir?’
‘I’ve got a couple of calls to make. We’ll meet up again at Lewes about six.’
‘Very good. I’ll find out more about our dwarfish archer too while I’m at it. See if he noticed anything while he was having a quickie in the woods.’
Tennant guffawed. ‘I shouldn’t imagine you’ll get much response there. I mean, one doesn’t do a lot of looking around. You’ve other things on your mind.’
‘I’ll take your word for it, sir,’ Mark said cheekily, and drove off.
Susan Richards was in a state of terrible tension. To add to her crippling sorrow that Debbie should have been cut down by some depraved assailant, her younger child, Johnnie, had now gone into a state resembling a catatonic trance. He lay in bed, not moving nor eating, not even going to the lavatory. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling and he made no response to Susan’s increasing efforts to stimulate him. She rang Dr Rudniski in barely controlled hysteria and he assured her that he would come immediately. In fact, he appeared thirty minutes later, by which time Susan had consumed half a bottle of wine and was feeling somewhat better.
He gave Johnnie an intra-muscular injection to let the boy get some sleep and afterwards came down to talk seriously to Susan.
‘It is obvious that Johnnie has taken the death of his sister really hard. But why should he have done that, do you think?’
Susan stared at him and said, ‘Why do you think? He’s in mourning for her, of course.’
‘Please excuse me, Mrs Richards, my English is not perfect. I have seen many children in mourning but none have ever taken the form of Johnnie’s. I feel that there is some additional thing. For example, he did not see her murdered, did he?’
‘No, no he didn’t.’ And then Susan stopped and sat thinking. ‘At least, I don’t believe so. But then I was asleep most of that night. Oh God, I should have checked his room. Perhaps you’re right. Oh, Doctor, it’s all my fault.’
Kasper’s big Polish heart bled for her. He hated seeing women in distress, particularly this poor wretch whose world seemed to have come to a terrible end. He sat quietly for a minute or two, then said, ‘Can your ex-husband not help you? He should be here at a time like this. You have told him?’
‘I phoned him today, after I got back from Lewes. I didn’t speak to him. She answered. Scarlett, his mistress. So I sent him a text but he hasn’t replied.’
‘I can telephone if you wish. I can tell him that you no longer should be left alone.’
‘But then he will bring that horrible Scarlett. If he comes at all.’
‘I can tell him not to bring her,’ answered Kasper, assuming more authority than he actually had.
Susan smiled weakly. ‘I don’t think he’ll listen.’
‘May I ask the whereabouts of WPC Jones?’
‘I think she has gone to the Incident Room. She won’t be long.’
‘Ask her to ring me when she returns. I would like to speak to her. Meanwhile, leave Johnnie to sleep. I shall be here first thing tomorrow morning to check on him. And, Mrs Richards …’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t drink too much. You will feel worse if you have a hangover in the morning.’
Major Wyatt had decided to keep his appointment with old Mrs Chambers, whose garden he attended once a week. She was a sprightly pensioner with a razor-sharp memory and a rather amusing line in conversation. Frankly, once he had assured himself that Melissa could cope with the situation at home, he had set out on his bicycle, his gardening tools in a bag slung across the handlebars.
Mrs Chambers dwelled in a small cottage which had once belonged to an agricultural worker on the Beaudegrave estate. But these had long since been sold off and fortunately the house was semi-detached so the old lady had a couple of arty neighbours who came down at weekends. They were able to check on her well-being but Hugh still worried that an elderly woman should live in such an isolated position. However, she was trimming the hedge as he arrived and gave no sign at all of being of advancing years.
‘Ah, Major, good morning to you. You’re just in time for a cup of tea. Or would you prefer coffee?’
‘Whatever you’re having, Mrs Chambers. Thank you so much.’
She led him into her chintzy kitchen and ushered him on to the window seat. ‘Well, what do you think?’ she said.
‘About the murders, you mean?’
‘Yes, of course. Were you at the Medieval Fair?’
‘Indeed I was. My granddaughter, Isabelle, was dancing round the maypole. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. But it was a terrible business, what happened afterwards. Absolutely terrible.’
‘Yes. Of course, I could see it from my bedroom window. Only in the distance, but still visible.’
‘I didn’t realize that,’ said the major, sipping his tea and wondering what was coming next.
‘Funnily enough, that was one of the nights when I had a bad turn of insomnia. I’ve been suffering from it for years, you know. The doctor gives me pills but sometimes I just can’t sleep for toffee. So I read instead.’
‘I see,’ answered Hugh, hoping that she was going to tell him something further. He was not to be disappointed.
‘That night – I refer to the night after the fair when the murder happened – I looked out of my window at the scene of so much earlier merriment …’
‘Yes?’
‘And I saw something.’
‘What?’
‘Two figures dancing round the maypole, while a third figure looked on.’
‘My God, could you see who they were?’
‘No, that I couldn’t tell. But I definitely saw them. It was not a dream.’
‘Have you told the police about this, Mrs Chambers?’
‘Do you think I should?’
‘Definitely. Could you make out who they were? I mean, what sex or what age? Personal facts?’
‘No, I couldn’t see the details. Just people.’
‘Did you happen to notice the time?’
‘Yes, it was three in the morning. The grandfather struck in the hall below.’
Hugh made up his mind. ‘Come along, Mrs Chambers. We’re going to get in your car and I am going to drive you to the police incident room. I think this is vital information and you must pass it on immediately.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘Yes,’ answered the major. ‘I really, really do.’
SEVENTEEN
Tennant had been thinking of calling on Melissa Wyatt and her hysterical granddaughter but had changed his mind halfway. He sincerely hoped that the child had settled down by now but, quite frankly, did not feel in the mood for the sound of distant weeping. Feeling a bit of a sissy he nonetheless drove resolutely on till he finally perceived the outlines of the castle rising in the near distance. It impressed him every time he saw it. There was something so solemn and so grand about it that it never failed to make him catch his breath. He slowed down so that he could take in something of its wondrous beauty.
At this time of year the wildfowl on its impressive moat were busy building nests along the bank. Elegant black swans sailed along, the water on their feathers glistening like crystal in the sunshine. Tennant stopped the car and got out to look at them, feeling childish for doing so but wanting a moment alone to absorb the gorgeous palette of colour that nature was providing on this most beautiful day. Ducks chugged along, looking beside the larger waterfowl like the tugs drawing Titanic on its first – and last – voyage out to sea. Moorhens dipped their heads and raised them in their inimitable way. White swans glided over the moat like the regal and beautiful birds they were. It was heavenly. Nature at its most productive and graceful. Tennant loitered, partly because the loveliness was overwhelming, partly because he had a tricky job to do inside and he wanted no ruffled feathers of the human sort.
Knocking on the door of the private part of the castle, the Victorian buildings w
here the family lived, it was answered by Sir Rufus’s fiancée, the gorgeous Ekaterina, looking even more stunning than when they had first met eighteen months earlier. He realized that it was happiness that had added the finishing touches to the portrait, the splendour that can only come from within. There and then, with no preconceived plan at all, he decided to ask her advice.
Unaware, Ekaterina said, ‘Dear Inspector Tennant, how nice to see you. I’m just having some tea, would you like some? I do hope that this is purely a social call.’
‘Partly, I must confess. There’s something I want to talk to you about.’
‘Oh, dear.’
She picked up the house phone and ordered tea, meanwhile beckoning him into a comfortable chair. They had been placed in their summer position by the long windows overlooking the moat and once again Tennant cast his eyes on the beautiful panorama but from a different perspective.
‘Well, now,’ she said. ‘What does my favourite policeman want with me?’
‘Before we get down to business, I must tell you that you look absolutely radiant, Ekaterina.’
‘For the first time in my life I am really happy. Did you know that Rufus and I are getting married in September? You promise to come?’
‘Where and when, exactly?’
‘The second Saturday. There is to be a small ceremony in Chelsea Register Office and then Nick, dear Nick, is going to bless our marriage in the chapel here in the castle. And afterward there will be a reception in the Tudor dining hall.’
‘Sounds wonderful. I shall take a day’s leave.’
‘And your darling Mark Potter, he must come too. My four girls will act as bridesmaids and it will be such a joyful occasion.’
‘It is about your girls that I wanted to talk to you. The eldest one, in fact.’
Ekaterina’s face changed, looking so doleful that Dominic felt obliged to say, ‘It’s nothing serious, I assure you.’
It was at this moment that the tea tray arrived and it wasn’t until they were settled with cups that Dominic said, ‘You remember the day of the Medieval Fair?’
‘Of course I do. The two big girls ran a stall and we all dressed up. It was a lovely fair, but to think it should end in terrible tragedy …’