Passing Strange

by Catherine Aird

  He read them at the same time as he made healthy inroads into his ploughman’s lunch. Even so, he hadn’t eaten his meal at the same rate as Crosby had got through his.

  “That was good,” said the constable, pursuing the last silvery onion round his plate. “I feel much better now.”

  “So do I,” said Sloan. He, though, was not talking about his stomach. “Did you see Edward Hebbinge go?”

  “I did.” Crosby caught the onion. “He said something about fetching us some tea.”

  “Did he?” said Sloan absently. He had a lot of thinking to do and not a lot of time in which to do it. “What we haven’t got, Crosby, is any –”

  “Sorry, sir,” interposed the constable, “I forgot the salt.”

  Sloan sighed. At least Dr Watson had had a mind above food.

  “Now that I’ve seen Norman Burton,” Sloan said more explicitly, “I can safely say that the only thing that we’re short of in this case is any sign of a motive.”

  The commission of murder rested on a three-legged stool. Those three legs were motive, means and opportunity. In that order. Sloan knew now about the means and the opportunity. He said to Crosby that he had no idea why murder had been done. He couldn’t for the life of him think of a motive.

  “Gain,” said Crosby simply. “It’s always gain, sir.”

  “No, it isn’t,” said Sloan, irritated. “There’s revenge. You should know that.”

  “Sorry, sir, so there is. I was forgetting. There was that man last month who carved up his wife’s fancy man down by the railway sidings, wasn’t there? That was revenge all right.”

  “He’d have killed his wife, too, if Sergeant Gelven hadn’t got there first,” said Sloan with spirit. Policemen were maids of all work. “That was something else.”

  “Jealousy, I suppose.” Crosby swept up the last of the pickle on his plate. “The green eye of the little yellow god.”

  Sloan added another class of murder to revenge and jealousy.

  “Lust of killing,” he said shortly. “Don’t forget that.” That was the one that no one at the police station liked. You never knew where or when that sort of killer was going to strike again. And again. And again. Rhyme and reason didn’t come into it. One Jack the Ripper on the loose and nobody in the Force slept easy. Then even the War Duties Officer was likely to be asked to put aside his files on nuclear holocaust and get out on to the beat.

  Crosby had been thinking along other – quite different – lines. “It’s one way of getting rid of the opposition too, isn’t it, sir? Some countries go in for that, don’t they?”

  “Elimination,” said Sloan briskly. “There’s another class of murder a bit nearer home for you, too.” He was after all, supposed to be teaching the lad, wasn’t he?

  “Sir?”

  “Murder from conviction.”

  “From conviction?” Crosby paused, puzzled. “Death in police custody, you mean, sir?”

  “Good God no.” That was the last thing any constable should be thinking of. “Killing from conviction, Crosby, not by conviction. Listen,” he said in despair, “do you remember those letter bombs we had last year?”

  “’Course I do, sir. Nasty little things.” He put his plate down carefully on the grass beside him. “I must say those onions were just the job.”

  Detective-Inspector Sloan abandoned his role of lecturer. The descent from the sublime to the ridiculous was too much for him. He would leave Oliver Cromwell out of it. He continued to eat his own cheese and pickle in silence. All this did was to conjure up the image of Superintendent Leeyes. That worthy officer, too, had enjoined upon Sloan to find out who benefited most from Nurse Cooper’s death.

  And with the same simplicity.

  Presently he said aloud “Strictly speaking, of course, the Court doesn’t need to be shown a motive in a murder case, but –”

  “Excuse me, sir, but are you ready for your fruit pie yet?”

  “Don’t worry about me,” said Sloan with a mild sarcasm quite lost upon his subordinate. “You carry on.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The constable reached for the paper bag.

  “And perhaps,” he added pleasantly, “when you’ve quite finished your pie you’ll bend your mind to our other problem.” Who was he, Sloan, to stand between a fellow officer and his hunger pangs?

  “Sir?”

  “I know that the Prosecution doesn’t have to present a motive to the jury –” that, in his view, only underlined the dream world in which some elements of the legal profession lived – “but the jury like it.”

  Now he came to think of it, so too did the judge. Without some sign of a motive the judge was apt to rule that the murderer be detained until Her Majesty’s pleasure be known.

  “There’ll be gain in it somewhere,” prophesied Crosby indistinctly. “And I’ll tell you another thing, sir. Maurice Esdaile’s not going to lose whatever happens.”

  “True.” There was absolutely nothing of the born loser about Maurice Esdaile. “Now we must –”

  “Sir, we’ve got company again.” They had already had Norman Burton.

  Sloan looked up. “Ah, so we have.” Edward Hebbinge came round the corner with two steaming mugs of tea. “That’s very kind of you, sir, I must say. Seems to be your role, doesn’t it, sir, bringing the tea round.”

  Hebbinge nodded. “I’m the one with the keys to the Priory.”

  Sloan took a mug. “Move over, Crosby, and let the gentleman sit down.”

  The land agent handed over some tea to Crosby. “That’s all right, Inspector. I won’t disturb you.”

  “Do sit,” said Sloan expansively. “Here, between us. We’re just about to reconstruct the crime. You might be able to help.”

  “That’s different,” said Hebbinge. “Anything that I can do …”

  “You will,” Sloan finished for him.

  Hebbinge gave him an odd look but settled himself down between the two policemen. “Naturally.”

  “Reconstructions are all the rage these days,” said Sloan. “Preferably with someone of the same age and build as the victim acting the part.”

  “To help jog the memory,” said Crosby. “Usually a week to the day afterwards.”

  “Just so,” said Sloan. “To remind people of what they saw. Or what they thought they saw. It falls down some of the time.”

  “People don’t always remember properly,” agreed Hebbinge.

  “Funny thing, memory,” said Crosby. He really had finished eating at last.

  Sloan hadn’t. He waved a piece of pie. “Actually, Mr Hebbinge, it’s not too difficult to work out what happened yesterday.”

  “No,” said the land agent thoughtfully, “I don’t suppose it is.”

  “Richenda Mellows turns up at the Flower Show,” began Sloan.

  “Nothing to stop her doing that, Inspector,” said Hebbinge.

  “And takes a look round to see what she can see that might help her cause.”

  “Nothing wrong with that either, Inspector. The girl’s only human, and though I say it myself the Priory is a very nice piece of England. Anyone in their right mind would want it.”

  “Er – quite so.” Sloan took a bite of his pie. “Not only does she turn up but she has a nice quiet chat with Nurse Cooper.” He stared ruminatively at the rest of his pie. “I can’t myself quite understand why she didn’t think of doing that earlier. Perhaps someone told her it wasn’t the same nurse after all these years and not to bother.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Let’s forget that for a moment.”

  Hebbinge laughed uneasily. “If you say so, Inspector.”

  “Nurse Cooper confirms that Richard Mellows’s baby daughter had a strawberry mark,” went on Sloan.

  “I thought that was only dukes,” said Crosby.

  Hebbinge turned to him. “You’re thinking of strawberry leaves, Officer.”

  Crosby liked being called ‘officer’.

  Sloan had not lost the thread of his dis
quisition. “Someone, however, has been keeping an eye on Richenda Mellows. When she comes out of Madame Zelda’s tent –”

  “Looking thoughtful?” suggested Crosby.

  Sloan’s lilies didn’t need gilding but he let it pass. “After she came out he –”

  “He?” said Edward Hebbinge swiftly.

  “The murderer, sir.” Sloan’s face was expressionless. “Am I going too quickly for you?”

  “No, no, Inspector. Carry on. This is all very interesting.”

  “After Richenda Mellows came out of the tent the murderer slipped in,” said Sloan. “He finds Nurse Cooper is full of joy. She can identify Richenda Mellows as the rightful owner of the Priory and put everyone out of their misery.”

  “That would be progress,” said Hebbinge warmly.

  “The murderer says he’s pleased too,” postulated Sloan.

  “But he isn’t,” said Crosby.

  Edward Hebbinge said nothing.

  “He isn’t at all pleased,” said Sloan.

  “Why shouldn’t he be pleased?” asked Hebbinge.

  “Ah, sir, now you’re asking. You could say,” said Sloan, “that you’ve put your finger on a weak spot. Shall we leave that particular point for the moment?”

  It was the only one that troubled him now. The silly thing was that the answer was probably staring him in the face.

  If he knew where to look.

  Or what he was looking at.

  The agent opened his hands. “As you please, Inspector.” He raised his eyebrows. “After all, it is your – er – reconstruction, isn’t it?”

  “Not being pleased,” continued Sloan imperturbably, “he goes away to think what he can do about it. He hasn’t much time.”

  “Why not?” asked Crosby.

  “Perhaps Mr Hebbinge can answer that?” suggested Sloan.

  “Not me, Inspector! You’ve got the wrong man for a quiz.”

  “Pity,” said Sloan. “Never mind. It was worth a try. The murderer,” he explained, “hasn’t much time because the District Nurse might well tell the next person who came in the same thing as she’d told him.”

  “Ah,” said Crosby, satisfied.

  “Am I right, sir,” Sloan asked Hebbinge, “in thinking that Joyce Cooper was a talkative woman?”

  “You are,” said the land agent promptly. “Not indiscreet, mind you. I would say that she was never that. Just talkative. She was a friendly soul, Inspector. Popular with everyone.”

  “Of course,” reasoned Sloan, “she would have no means of knowing that what she was saying could constitute a danger to anyone.”

  “I must say, Inspector –” here Hebbinge gave a short laugh – “that I can’t see myself that it could either. It seems a bit far-fetched.”

  “Can’t you, sir? The murderer must have thought it could, though.”

  “Obviously,” conceded Hebbinge without argument, “or he wouldn’t have done anything so terrible as kill her, would he? If, of course,” he added, “it was as you say and it was the Mellows connection that led to it.”

  “Oh, it was, sir, it was. No doubt about that.” Sloan lifted the mug of tea that Hebbinge had brought to his lips but before drinking was apparently struck with another thought because he set it down again. “Once he had decided to kill her he had to find something to do it with.”

  “Naturally.”

  “So he set off looking for a weapon.”

  Hebbinge said, “I understand from your constable here that it was a length of wire all right.”

  “Oh, it was,” said Sloan gravely. “From the reel left by Mrs Kershaw in her basket. No problem there.”

  “That should be a help, Inspector.”

  “A great help,” said Sloan.

  “You can prove that, I take it?” said the agent. “Even without the reel?”

  “Oh yes, sir. No problem there. The piece that killed Joyce Cooper had two ends. One end fits exactly with the wire still in the flower arrangement that Mrs Kershaw did. There’s a tradition in the village, I understand, that the winning arrangement is taken to the church.”

  “The Flower rota causes a lot of trouble,” said Hebbinge obliquely.

  Sloan hadn’t ever met a rota that didn’t. “The flower arrangement was locked in the church overnight,” he said steadily, “ready for this morning’s service.”

  The agent bowed his head. “That, too, should be a help.”

  “A great help,” said Sloan again. “Our murderer finds the reel of wire and then tries to think of a good way of getting back into Madame Zelda’s tent with it. Without it being noticed, of course. He finds one.”

  “Does he?” said Hebbinge. He moistened his lips.

  “And he goes back there,” said Sloan.

  “With the reel of wire,” supplied Crosby, licking his fingers. “Mustn’t forget that.”

  “No,” said Hebbinge austerely.

  “He didn’t forget it,” said Sloan. “He took it with him, broke off as much as he needed and proceeded to kill Joyce Cooper. Then he walks back to the Flower tent only to find Mrs Kershaw’s trug has gone. He can’t drop it safely back in there so he has to find somewhere else to park it until he can retrieve it without being seen.” He turned so suddenly towards Hebbinge that the agent gave a startled jump. “Am I boring you?”

  Hebbinge essayed a polite smile. “Of course not, Inspector. I find your exposition fascinating – quite fascinating.”

  “Then I’ll carry on,” said Sloan with a quick gesture.

  “Our murderer – let’s not give him a name for the time being.”

  “Just as you say,” said Hebbinge politely.

  “Our murderer looks for somewhere else to leave the reel against the time when he can come back and collect it unseen. He chooses the Fruit and Vegetable marquee.”

  “Why the marquee?” enquired Hebbinge.

  “Traditionally it was always the last tent to come down,” said Sloan promptly. “That meant that he had the longest possible time in which to retrieve it.”

  This raised an objection from Crosby. “Why didn’t he,” he said, waving an arm, “just go off somewhere in the grounds and park it under a plant. You can’t say there aren’t enough plants.”

  “Perhaps Mr Hebbinge can tell us that,” suggested Sloan.

  Mr Hebbinge appeared to be having some difficulty in concentrating. He shook his head.

  “No?” said Sloan. “Well, the answer to that is that he could walk about the Show quite easily without the reel being seen. If he set off across the garden with it someone might have noticed and remembered.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Crosby plaintively.

  “Think about fruit pies,” advised Sloan helpfully, “and how you carried them.”

  “He didn’t retrieve it, though, did he?” pointed out the land agent. “It was still there when we struck the marquee.”

  “Something prevented him getting it back,” said Sloan.

  “Another little point to be left?” suggested Hebbinge with a hint of sarcasm.

  “Detail,” said Sloan. “Mere detail.”

  “Forgive me,” said the agent, “but I can’t quite understand why the reel of wire should be so important. No doubt you have your reasons.”

  “Oh yes, sir,” said Sloan tonelessly. “I have. My guess is that the reel had fingerprints on it – the murderer’s fingerprints.”

  “Ah, I see.” Hebbinge nodded. “You have the advantage of me, Inspector. I didn’t think in this enlightened day and age criminals left fingerprints on anything.”

  “They do when they can’t wear gloves,” said Sloan solemnly. “A man couldn’t wear gloves on a hot day like yesterday. They would be more noticeable than what he did carry. Don’t forget that this crime was completely unpremeditated, will you? Our villain had to think very quickly.”

  Hebbinge ran the tip of his tongue round his lips. “So this reel of wire – that you haven’t got, by the way – had the murderer’s fingerprints on the outsi
de?”

  “Oh no, sir. Not on the outside. On the inside of one end. Where he held it to carry it.”

  “Without the reel, Inspector, I take it that this is, of course, pure supposition.”

  Sloan looked hurt. “We were only reconstructing the crime, sir. We weren’t talking about evidence.”

  “Of course,” Hebbinge gave him a quick, jerky smile. “I was forgetting. I’m not a policeman, of course, but I should say that there were one or two – er – gaps.”

  “Indeed there are,” said Sloan swiftly. “I can’t very well charge a man on the strength of having seen a couple of fruit pies dangling beneath a tray, can I?”

  “Not very well,” said Edward Hebbinge uneasily.

  “But that’s how he carried the reel of wire around without anyone seeing it. Flat under a tray.”

  The land agent had gone a rather nasty colour.

  “Nor yet,” said Sloan, “on the strength of his having gone out of his way to take the victim a cup of tea.”

  “All the Show helpers got their tea,” countered Hebbinge swiftly. “Hers was the last, that’s all.”

  “That’s all, was it, sir?”

  Hebbinge looked wildly from one policeman to the other. “But she’d drunk her tea. Her cup was empty when Norman Burton found her. It all happened after I’d been in with her tea.”

  “It did indeed,” said Sloan with vigour, “but not long after. You – sorry, sir – slip of the tongue, I got carried away – the murderer killed her first and then – er – drank her tea.”

  “With a straw,” said Crosby, looking up in sudden wonderment. “I found the straw.”

  “A nice touch, that,” said Sloan. “Made everyone think that she was killed later than she was.”

  “You’ve got this pretty well worked out, Inspector, haven’t you?” said Hebbinge thickly. His colour was now a rather ghastly white but he was still in control of what he was saying.

  “Pretty well, sir. Mind you, I’m only thinking aloud what might have happened.”

  “All this then,” said the agent hoarsely, “is mere postulation?”

  “You could call it that, sir.”

  “Why tell me?”

  “Well, sir,” responded Sloan vaguely, “it seemed to work very well in Hamlet, didn’t it?”