by Bill Kitson
‘So I believe, but I can’t be certain. Anyway, that’s all I can tell you about Stan. Is there any reason for you asking?’
‘Not really, merely curiosity.’
‘OK, what about these murders? Is it true that they were killed in the same way as Lewis?’
I kept my end of the bargain, and with Eve’s help, told Henry everything we’d witnessed earlier that day. Towards the end of our account, Eve said, ‘All the houses in that terrace look a bit dilapidated, which is a real shame. They could look very pretty in that setting but they’ve been sadly neglected. Do they still belong to the estate? Is that the reason they’ve been left to deteriorate, because of old Mr Latimer’s death?’
‘They do belong to the estate, but Mr Rupert’s death isn’t the reason they’ve been allowed to get in such a sorry state. There’s no point in spending a load of money on houses when there’s every chance they might be demolished in the near future, is there?’
‘Demolished?’ Eve sounded horrified by the idea. ‘Surely not! They can’t be in such bad condition? They’re stone-built and look really sturdy. Are they unsafe? If they’re that bad, why are people still living in them?’
Price smiled, as much at Eve’s vehemence as the questions themselves. ‘No, there’s nothing wrong with the houses. Structurally, they’re as sound as the day they were built, or pretty near it. The rumour is that there’s a new trunk road to be built and one of the routes under consideration will take it right across the corner of the Rowandale estate, past the end of the village, and right through that terrace. If that happens, the estate and those houses will be worth a heck of a sight more than their current value. That’s always supposing the scheme comes off. If it does, the estate will benefit another way too.’
‘How’s that, Henry?’ I asked.
‘They’ll need thousands upon thousands of tons of road-stone and aggregate; hardcore and the like. The top side of the estate is all limestone, but the lower end, beyond here, there’s a lot of sandstone, shale, gravel, and so forth. It’s ideal for the civil engineers, because extraction and transport costs will be minimal.’
‘I hadn’t heard anything about this road scheme,’ I admitted.
Price chuckled. ‘That’s because you don’t come in here often enough, Adam. It’s been the major topic of conversation for weeks on end, before we had these murders to talk about.’
Shortly after, we were sitting at our table awaiting our meal. The dining room, in contrast to the bar, was almost deserted, so it was much later in the evening before I was able to obtain the other information I was seeking. I mentioned it to Eve as we were choosing from the menu. ‘Did you notice whether Zeke Calvert was in the bar?’
‘He wasn’t; I looked for him specially, in view of your talk with Mr Price.’
‘Never mind, I feel sure he’ll make an appearance at some stage. Everyone else in the village seems to be in the bar, I can’t think Zeke would miss out.’
Sure enough, Calvert was seated on a stool at the far end of the bar when we returned following another excellent meal. I bought him a pint and after chatting for a while, with no prizes for guessing the topic of conversation, I asked Zeke the question I’d had in mind all evening. I prefaced it by talking about Walter Armstrong. Calvert, who I knew had no time for his successor, was, unsurprisingly, somewhat less than sympathetic.
‘Can’t say I’m upset. Can’t say I’m shocked. Bugger had it coming, I reckon.’
‘Why do you say that?’ Eve asked.
‘He’s only been here five minutes and already he’s made enemies of everyone in t’ villages. I reckon there’s a mile long queue of suspects.’
‘You might be included in that list,’ I pointed out.
‘Aye, well, I don’t say I’d have done for him, but I wouldn’t have rushed to give him t’ kiss of life either.’
‘You think he was murdered by someone he upset?’
‘Isn’t that allus the case? Anyroad, that’s for t’ police to find out. Not that I reckon they’ve much chance wi’ yon Ogden running t’ show.’
‘What about the other victim?’
‘I don’t know owt about her. Maybe she just visited Armstrong once too often.’
‘That wasn’t the first time she’d been to his cottage, then?’
‘Nah, she were there regular away. At least if that fancy Stag were hers.’
‘Can you recall if you saw her at Armstrong’s place on Thursday of last week?’
Calvert thought for a moment. ‘Thursday, that’d be the day when Blenheim Boy won at Wetherby, wouldn’t it?’
I nodded. ‘That’s right.’
‘Aye, I thought so; I went into town specially to put a bet on. When I came back I saw that fancy car on his drive and thought to mesen he’s at it again, the lucky bugger, that lass must need specs to take up wi’ an ugly-looking sod like him.’
‘What sort of time would that have been?’
‘Early afternoon; around half past two, I reckon, near as owt. I got home just in time to put telly on and watch the race. Won a hundred quid on it, I did. Then I sat and watched Barbara being interviewed by that commentator; the one who talks like he’s got a plum in his mouth.’
That was one more for Ogden’s list of witnesses to Barbara’s alibi, I thought.
We chatted as we walked back to Dene Cottage, but the subject of the murders was not mentioned until we got indoors, when Eve said, ‘Your theory about Matthews and Armstrong is getting to sound more and more feasible, Adam. When you looked out of the bedroom window in Armstrong’s cottage, did you get a clear view of the place where Lewis’s car was found?’
‘As clear as anything, Evie. I could even see the tyre marks on the grass verge where the recovery vehicle towed the Mercedes away. If Armstrong and his paramour were in that room last Thursday afternoon, and they weren’t too busy playing hide the sausage, they couldn’t help but witness everything that went on across the other side of Thorsgill Beck.’
‘Don’t be so coarse, Adam. The only flaw in your theory as far as I can tell is, how would the killer know they’d seen him? Even then, how could he be sure they could identify him? Unless he was known to them, of course, or one of them at least.’
‘There’s no easy answer to that. He might have seen that they were watching, but I doubt it. As I recall, last Thursday was quite a nice day, and the low afternoon sun at this time of year would have been right in his eyes as he looked across the beck.’
‘If the killer didn’t realize he’d been seen, then that rather destroys your theory, doesn’t it?’
‘It does,’ I paused. ‘Unless…’
‘Unless what?’
‘We don’t know anything about the woman with Armstrong, but we do know a bit about him, and not much of it is good. Just suppose either Armstrong, or his mistress, or both of them decided this was too good an opportunity to miss, and decided to try and make a bit of profit out of what they’d seen?’
‘Blackmail, you mean?’ Eve looked dubious.
‘That was the thought I had–but for that to work, as I said earlier, the killer would have to have been known to at least one of them.’
‘There again, their deaths might be totally unconnected to that of Lewis. It could be that the killer was a jealous husband or lover after all; and that he thought this would be a good chance to take his revenge.’
‘I think that might be stretching the long arm of coincidence a bit far, to have two such violent murders with no obvious connection taking place within two hundred yards of each other.’
‘I suppose you’re right. How do you think Ogden will view it? Do you think he’ll look beyond jealousy as a motive?’
‘At a guess, I think Ogden will opt for all the murders having been committed by a homicidal maniac; some sort of psychopath who chooses his victims at random. He’ll probably issue a warning to the public which will have everyone too scared to leave their house for weeks to come.’
I had an uncomfortabl
e feeling that if Ogden was seeking a deranged killer, who better to choose than a vagrant with no fixed abode, no visible means of support, and possible mental health issues. It was only later that I vowed to stop getting these notions, or at least to stop expressing them. They were being proved accurate far too often for my liking.
The following morning, I was less than surprised to see Pickersgill’s car parked outside Dene Cottage as I walked back home with the morning paper and groceries I’d bought at the village shop.
Eve had already made Johnny a mug of tea. As I grew to know John better, I wondered how many of these he got through during his working day, and marvelled at his ability to consume that much liquid. It must put a severe strain on his constitution. However, given his in-depth knowledge of the area, no doubt he had plenty of secluded places where he could relieve the pressure, free from embarrassment.
The news he had come to impart merely confirmed what we already suspected. ‘The woman whose body was found in Armstrong’s bedroom was a Mrs Veronica Matthews. She’s the estranged wife of Trevor Matthews; the property developer you met in that confrontation at the stables.’
‘Did Matthews know that his wife was sleeping with Walter Armstrong?’ Eve asked.
‘Apparently he did, according to the garbled account Ogden gave me of his interview with him. The tale Matthews told our worthy inspector was that they parted amicably a couple of years back. Matthews had already taken up with a fitness instructor he met when he joined one of those new-fangled health clubs in Leeds and they’re now living together. Mrs Matthews retained the marital home as part of the separation agreement, and by what he told Ogden; Matthews actually introduced Veronica to Armstrong after the split, and approved of the arrangement.’
‘That’s all very well, but it must have made the relationship between Armstrong and Matthews difficult.’
Eve disagreed with me. ‘I’m not so sure about that, Adam. There was certainly no evidence of strain between them that Sunday at Linden House.’
‘You could be right, and perhaps Matthews is telling the truth.’ I turned to Pickersgill. ‘Does the fact that Ogden repeated the details of his interview of Matthews in such detail mean you’re back in his good books and in the loop once more?’
‘I wouldn’t go that far. He has to feed me a certain amount of information regarding any crimes he’s investigating within my area. Besides which–’ Pickersgill smiled cynically,‘–he knows that if he pushes me too far I can always pick up the phone and have a quiet word in the chief’s ear.’
‘Do you have much influence with the chief constable?’
The smile broadened. ‘You could say that–he’s my cousin!’
‘That must explain how you’ve kept your job for so long.’
Having made certain that Eve couldn’t see what he was doing; Pickersgill gave me an extremely vulgar gesture. I ignored it, and told him, ‘I’m glad you’ve come this morning, because I want to ask you about something I heard in the pub last night. I was talking to Henry Price and he mentioned something about a proposed new trunk road that would cross part of the Rowandale estate. Do you know if that scheme is going ahead? Henry was a bit vague about it.’
‘That idea has been kicking about for the best part of twenty years to my knowledge, but either the government of the day or the county council never seem to get round to providing funding for it. They usually come up with an excuse along the lines of the country’s economic situation, or other road schemes that are higher priority. Recently, though, there seems to have been a concerted move to apply pressure for the trunk road to go beyond the discussion stage. It’s rather a novel situation, with everyone concerned suddenly taking it seriously. Is there any specific reason you wanted to know, or was the question merely down to idle curiosity?’
‘No, it was a little more than that. I’ll let Eve explain. It was an idea she had after she heard what Henry had to say.’
‘I simply wondered if the motive for Lewis’s murder might have something to do with this new road. I seem to remember Lewis worked in either the Planning or Highways Department of the county council, which would be closely involved in anything like a major trunk road construction. It just seemed to be a huge coincidence.’
‘That’s as maybe, and I take your point, but I fail to see what the motive would be.’
‘Perhaps he was able to influence things such as the route the new road would take, or the awarding of contracts to the civil engineers who would build it. That may also explain how he was able to afford such an expensive car, which is something that Adam suggested needed investigation.’
‘You could well be right, but it’s a huge step from bribing a local government employee to murder, don’t you agree?’
Pickersgill got to his feet as he spoke. Having thanked Eve for the tea, he said, ‘None of that has any bearing on the reason for my visit. I’m on my way to the station to collect Barbara Lewis. Ogden has decided she’s stayed at our hotel long enough. He checked out the details you gave him and is satisfied with her alibi. He now believes she had nothing to do with her husband’s murder.’ He paused, before adding, ‘That’s something that anyone who knows Barbara could have told him all along, had he asked.’
We set out for Linden House when we judged Barbara would be home. Our relief that she had been released was tempered by our curiosity over her refusal to explain what she had been doing or where she had been during her absence in the time leading up to her arrest. In respect of this, there was one question I particularly wanted to ask her. I was keen to hear her response and equally eager to see her reaction to my suggestion. In the event, I was both surprised and, to begin with, baffled by both.
It was Eve who provided me with the opening I needed to pose my question. Once Barbara had thanked us for providing the information that had persuaded Inspector Ogden to sanction her release, Eve returned to the subject of Barbara’s missing week. The trainer’s silence and the accompanying secretive smile only reinforced Eve’s determination to prise the truth from her friend.
As much to distract Eve as anything, I suggested, ‘I think you were in Rowandale Forest. Isn’t that the case? And I guess you weren’t alone. I think you were with the tramp.’
Barbara’s smile faded to a mask of secrecy. Her reply, ‘Rowandale Forest at this time of year?’ failed to convince me, so I went one stage further.
‘I think I might even be able to put a name to that mysterious stranger.’
‘You do?’ Barbara’s response was a clear challenge.
‘Yes, I believe that tramp isn’t really a vagrant at all. I think it’s someone you once knew extremely well; someone who has been at odds with his father, and has returned to the area after a long absence. I believe he is Stan Calvert.’
I watched Barbara very carefully as I spoke, noticing her expression become more guarded all the time, until at the end she smiled and shook her head, which in itself was more revealing than her words, which were directed at Eve. ‘What was it you once told me about Adam? Something along the lines that he sometimes notices far too much for his own good, wasn’t it? What you failed to tell me was that although his guesses are usually accurate, sometimes, he’s wide of the mark.’
She smiled at me. ‘Good try, Adam. Perhaps before long I’ll be at liberty to tell you exactly what I have been doing and you’ll realize just how wide of the mark you can be.’
We were seated at her kitchen table. As with many houses, her kitchen served as the focal point for activity. Having come to a mutual unspoken agreement not to discuss the matter further, we drank tea while Barbara tackled her pile of mail. It was noticeable that the junk mail was far more plentiful than the business post. Towards the end, however, she opened an envelope whose contents demanded far closer scrutiny than the casual glance she had given all the others.
As Barbara read the brief note we saw her expression change from one of mild irritation to outright anger. ‘What a bloody nerve,’ she muttered. She looked up and I
could see she was close to tears, but whether these were of rage or sorrow, I couldn’t judge, for the time being.
‘Would you be available to come over here tomorrow afternoon? It appears I’m due to have a visit and I want someone here to witness that I didn’t strangle him or give him a black eye?’
‘Who is it?’ we asked in unison.
‘See for yourselves.’ She flicked the letter across the table, the action one of disdain and resentment. One glance at the letterhead convinced me the visitor would be unlikely to be the bearer of good news.
Unaware that we already knew about the sender, courtesy of the local gossip factory, Barbara explained. ‘Rhodes and Moore are the solicitors dealing with the estate of Rupert Latimer. Aside from Matthews challenging the validity of the bequest to me, which would entail me losing the house and stables, he’s been a pain in the neck all the way through, demanding all sorts of information and asking stupid questions. That–’she pointed to the letter,‘–is just the latest in a long line of pieces of unnecessary red tape.’
We read the letter, in which the writer, Norman Rhodes, stated that he intended to visit Linden House the following day, with a view to conducting an inventory of all property and assets that might or might not pertain to the estate, and requesting that Barbara make herself available to allow him access to all areas. Although the word used was ‘request’ the terminology made it sound more like a demand. There was, for example, no mention of whether the timing of the visit would be convenient to Barbara.
‘Can he do that?’ Eve asked. ‘Is that normal practice, Adam?’
‘I’ve absolutely no idea. None of my relatives had enough in their estate for anyone to worry about probate.’
‘It’s really quite immaterial,’ Barbara said. ‘That visit is an inconvenience, nothing more. Whatever he says or does won’t make any difference. One way or the other, I’ll either end up losing Linden House or gaining far more. That decision is out of my hands–and his, for that matter. However, I would be grateful if you were able to be here.’