‘Rupert may have thought he was smart enough to get away with it, and Barry wouldn’t have thought it through.’
‘Admittedly, both could have killed all three, but Gwen could only have killed two of them.’
‘Why?’
‘Sheila Blatchford’s body would have required a degree of aptitude, the physical strength to have wielded the chainsaw. It’s unlikely that Gwen could have killed her.’
Bob Exeter, up until now quiet, felt the need to make a point. Tremayne knew him to be a taciturn man, not given to wild gestures or excessive speaking. His manner could be deceptive to those who didn’t know him, but Tremayne knew he deserved respect.
‘You made an earlier comment that you still needed to prove that my client, Reverend Tichborne, is guilty as charged. Why?’ Exeter said.
Clare liked the look of the man: confident, no more than forty-five, and fit.
‘We’ve got a confession, that’s true,’ Tremayne said, ‘but Reverend Tichborne has already stated that he killed his wife when we know for a fact that he didn’t.’
‘And you think the confession that you have now may be false?’
‘No. Our forensics and crime scene team are checking through the evidence, trying to ascertain the truth as to why he killed Stephanie Underwood.’
‘I told you,’ Tichborne said. ‘She wanted to expose me as the murderer of my wife. I couldn’t let her do that.’
‘It makes no sense,’ Tremayne said. ‘You obviously had an issue with your wife’s death, a morbid belief that somehow you had been responsible.’
‘It’s true. I was confused. I wanted to pay for what I had done to my wife. I wanted to remain and administer to my flock in Compton. Stephanie came between what I knew I should do and what I wanted.’
‘I know we’ve been over this before, but why kill her? There’s no record of her causing any harm in the village, and even if she had been a gossip, it was only harmless chattering, not the sort for people to take offence, and certainly not the sort to incite people to retribution and anger, even violence. Your position would have been safe, and no one would have believed her. You were a respected man in the community, a leader, yet you decided to take the life of a harmless old woman.’
‘I told you. It was gratifying to kill her and to see her sitting there, peaceful and at ease.’
‘I’ll be requesting a psychiatric evaluation, Reverend Tichborne,’ Tremayne said. ‘Also, I’ll make a request for your wife to be exhumed. The report stated death due to natural causes, but we’ll let our pathologist check her out.’
‘You’ll find that it’s true,’ Tichborne said.
‘Why didn’t you admit to it at the time?’
‘I wanted to, but I was afraid. I’m not a brave man, you must know that.’
‘My client is innocent until proven guilty,’ Exeter said.
‘That’s understood, but what we’ve heard from the mouth of your client is that not only is he guilty of one murder, he may now be guilty of two.’
‘I’m guilty of one, don’t you hear me,’ Tichborne said, his voice animated, its pitch raised. ‘My wife was an accident, although I blame myself. I was under stress from her complaining, and I didn’t look at the dosage. It should have been two tablets crushed in her drink, but I put ten. Don’t you hear me? Don’t you believe me?’
Clare thought to call for a doctor as the man was frenzied and on his feet. Instead, she grabbed him by his right arm and put him back in his chair. Tichborne broke down, sobbing, his head on the table.
‘You’ll need to halt this interview,’ Exeter said.
‘Ten minutes,’ Tremayne’s reply. Tichborne was still not telling the truth, and the man had issues. He had killed Stephanie, there seemed to be no doubt on that, but the reason why still eluded them.
Ten minutes elapsed before the interview continued. Tichborne was once again stable.
‘Reverend Tichborne, we can see that you are an emotional man, given to extremes. Is that a fair assumption?’
‘It is.’
‘Is it also possible that your confession of the murder of Stephanie Underwood is false?’
‘I killed her. I deserve to be punished.’
Tremayne looked over at Exeter. The lawyer offered no reaction.
‘The time between the woman’s death and my arrival at the cottage was no more than sixty to ninety minutes,’ Clare said.
‘I saw you,’ Tichborne said.
‘From where?’
‘I can see the cottage from the upstairs of the rectory.’
‘Did you see another person at the cottage?’
‘I saw a man. He left after you had entered.’
‘Did you recognise him?’
‘Not from that distance.’
‘Then how did you know it was me?’
‘Your car, the clothes you were wearing. But the man left soon after you arrived. He crouched behind a hedge on leaving the cottage, and then after a few minutes made his way up through the fields.’
‘Did you see his car?’
‘No. He would have parked on a back road behind some trees. I can’t see that far, and I can’t see the road out of the village. That’s the truth.’
‘Why did you make a scene with wanting to see the dead woman? A sense of duty, a ghoulish attraction?’
Tremayne wrapped up the interview after a succession of vague answers. He could see that it was going around in circles. The Reverend Tichborne, if he was psychiatrically disturbed by the events surrounding his wife’s death, Tremayne knew, then he would be found not guilty of the murder of Stephanie Underwood due to diminished responsibility.
***
Two things happened in Compton. The first and the most significant was that the opposing groups came together. On one side, Rupert Baxter and his liberal view of the world. On the other, Margaret Wilmot, now a known lover of Rupert. Eustace Upminster and Hamish Foster vacillated between the two groups; ideologically more in Rupert’s corner, committed through marriage to the other. Barry and Gwen Woodcock kept neutral. The setting was the pub, not the church.
The second thing to happen was that a committee of the church elite was in the village and at the church. They had been met and informed by the crime scene team and the uniforms on duty that even the bishop himself couldn’t get them permission to enter the rectory.
One of the three churchmen phoned Tremayne and received a similar response. If they wanted to see Tichborne, then Bemerton Road was where they needed to be, and subject to only one of them entering the cell, then Tremayne would permit it.
The three left, having driven past the pub on the way into the village and on the way out, not realising that some of the answers were in there.
‘Tichborne was always an odd character,’ Baxter said. He stood behind the bar dispensing drinks. A time of unity did not prevent him from profiting as he accepted payment for the drinks that everyone seemed to want. Margaret held a gin and tonic, Rupert a pint of beer.
‘Fitted right in,’ Eustace Upminster said.
‘What do you mean?’ Barry Woodcock said, his wife holding his arm. Her man was in the lion’s den, and she was there to protect him.
‘It’s just an observation. Not all of us like each other, but we maintain a united front against outsiders.’
‘It’s our village,’ Margaret said.
‘Why murder Stephanie?’ Eustace said. ‘She was a busybody, but she’s not the only one in this village. Margaret’s quick with a scurrilous comment, and Gloria could dish the dirt as good as anybody, and from what we’ve heard, she had a few skeletons in the cupboard.’
‘The mysterious husband?’ Rupert said.
‘It was him that hit Sergeant Yarwood on the head. They arrested him for it.’
‘But what did he want?’
‘The police have kept that under wraps, but we can surmise. Gloria, how much money did she have? Margaret, you’re the one who understands such things. What do you reckon?’
‘The cottage, some money in the bank, not a lot in itself.’
‘More than we’ve got,’ Gwen Woodcock said. ‘And you want to throw us out on the street, even after all we’ve done for you.’
‘Done for me?’ Margaret said. ‘You’ve paid your rent, nothing more. And then you’re talking to the police, telling them about my private business.’
‘Only because you threatened us. How are you with a chainsaw, Margaret? You’re strong enough to have cut up Sheila.’
‘Be quiet, all of you,’ Desdemona Foster said. For once the woman who said very little spoke up, her squeaky voice replaced by a resilient and robust tone. Everyone in the pub took notice. Her husband, Hamish, the recipient of her invective on more than one occasion behind closed doors, only looked at her. He removed his hand from her shoulder.
‘The floor’s yours, Desdemona,’ Baxter said.
‘Four people have died, and of those, only one has someone charged with the crime. Don’t you realise it? One of us is a murderer, maybe two. The police suspect Barry and Gwen, but there’s no proof. Rupert hated Gloria and Sheila, not so much Bert, and they’re all dead. Maybe Rupert killed them. No doubt he had a good reason.’
‘I would have killed Gloria on the day of James’s death, that’s true, for what she said. James was a sensitive soul. He only saw the good in people, not that there’s much in here. And Desdemona, why now? You always sit there impassively listening to the verbiage on that side of the bar, and now you decide to speak.’
‘You can’t talk to my wife like that,’ Hamish Foster said.
‘I can and I will,’ Rupert said. ‘Desdemona’s got something to say. She may not say much normally, but we need to hear it now, unpleasant home truths if that’s to be the case.’
‘The police come out here every day, Inspector Tremayne and Sergeant Yarwood. They ask a few questions, find some answers, but they don’t get the full truth, do they?’
‘We answer them as we can,’ Eustace Upminster said. His wife sat still, not looking up, not looking around.
‘That’s what I mean. Someone in this room is a murderer. If that person has killed three and can sit here calmly, then they are a cruel and calculating person.’
‘What do you mean?’ Gwen said.
‘If they can kill three, they can kill four or five. Their original motive may no longer be valid. If it was Barry or Rupert who killed the first three, then they had a reason to hate, but what if now someone’s got a taste for it?’
‘A bloodlust?’
‘Why not? Don’t those who slaughter animals on the farm become ambivalent to the process? Don’t men in war become blasé about taking another life, committing atrocities? It could be that our killer is the same. He could be here now saying little or saying a lot, and all the time eyeing his next victim up and down, imagining the knife going in, the bullet penetrating the body, the chainsaw severing it limb by limb.’
‘For Christ’s sake, stop it,’ Gladys Upminster said. ‘Enough is enough. Haven’t we suffered enough? Desdemona, you need to stop watching those inane television detective series. They’re making you crazy, imagining things when they aren’t there. Isn’t it obvious who’s guilty?’
‘Who?’ Rupert said. ‘Are you about to say that it was either Barry or me?’
‘Who else had the motive? And Margaret’s next, that’s who. What will it be for her? How will she die?’
‘You’ve a sense of the dramatic,’ Baxter said. Gladys’s husband said nothing, only glared at his wife. ‘Your son died in an accident and you blame yourself. It’s unhinged you. I hated Gloria and would have done her harm at the time, but I’ve moved on. I suggest you do as well.’
‘He’s right, Gladys,’ Eustace Upminster said. He raised his glass to Baxter for another pint of beer.
‘I’ve killed no one,’ Barry Woodcock said. ‘You’re the one with the secrets,’ he said, directing his eyes at Gladys.
‘What do you mean?’ Gladys replied.
‘I knew your son. We were friendly, and sure, he was wild, but it was you with your constant nagging at him to shape up, get a haircut, find a good woman, a decent job. You drove him to despair, yet he said nothing; just stormed out of your house and let off steam. It was an accident, but you were the trigger. Accept the truth and move on. I lost James, a decent man and a friend.’
Gladys Upminster said nothing. Eustace looked at Barry and mouthed a thank you. Someone had finally told his wife the truth, someone other than him. He hoped that the grieving process would commence and that his wife would move on, rather than listening to the endless droning on, first of Gloria and then Sheila and now Margaret.
‘Are we going to tell the police the truth about this village? The lies, the hidden secrets? Or are we all going to sit here and let one of us murder us all?’ Gwen said.
‘Very well,’ Margaret said. ‘The truth.’
‘Let’s start with you, Margaret. You’re the de facto leader of this village, not through any true authority, but through your wealth.’
‘My life is private, not that you’d respect it.’
‘Just because I told the police about you and Rupert. Look at you two, opposite sides of the bar, pretending to have nothing in common, but we all know.’
‘Not everyone.’
‘We’re not stupid, Margaret,’ Hamish said. ‘We all know about you two, and besides, what does it matter? Just stupid old-fashioned pride that no one’s spoken of it, and you and Rupert act as if touching the other would be akin to catching a disease.’
‘It’s our private business,’ Rupert said.
‘Agreed,’ Eustace Upminster said, ‘but if it has a bearing on who the murderer is, then it’s not.’
‘I don’t see how it’s relevant,’ Margaret said.
‘That’s the point, you don’t,’ Gwen Woodcock said. ‘But you’re not a trained police officer. Maybe it is relevant, maybe the other secrets that this village holds so close are.’
‘My relationship with James was not platonic,’ Barry Woodcock blurted out.
‘I was correct,’ Margaret said. ‘I know what I saw.’
‘I was young, impressionable, and I was very fond of James.’
‘Gwen, any comment?’ Rupert Baxter asked.
‘We have no secrets, Barry and me. I’ve always known the truth.’
‘Yet you constantly denied it, even to the police.’
‘It’s a secret, and as with Margaret, a secret we would have preferred not to tell anyone about.’
‘Has anyone anything more to say?’ Eustace Upminster asked. ‘Does anyone want to admit to murder? Maybe we should call Tremayne and Sergeant Yarwood to join us? We need to stop the murders and in here seems the best opportunity. Hamish, you’ve not said much. You could have carved up Sheila. She was Rupert’s blood relative on their father’s side. Now there was a man who used to put it about. No sneaking up to Margaret’s pile of rubble. It’s a wonder you two entwined don’t bring the rest of it down.’
‘Scurrilous and unworthy,’ Baxter said. ‘Margaret is a fine woman, not someone for your titillation.’
‘Strange bedfellows, that’s all I’m saying. And what about Gloria, were you sleeping with her? Was she jealous? Did she have to die, so you and Margaret could continue cavorting? The truths are coming out now, no need to hold back.’
‘Upminster, you’re a bore and a pig. Your attempt at humour is in the worst of taste. I was not involved with Gloria or anyone else in this village, only Margaret, and only in the last year.’
‘But as teenagers, you were.’
‘We all were. You were with Gloria and Stephanie yourself, and don’t deny it.’
‘I’m not, but it was innocent love, no more than fumbling in the dark.’
‘What I have with Margaret is pure, so don’t attempt to imply it’s anything else.’
‘And with Sheila?’
‘If you must know, I was in love with her. I would have married her back when I was younge
r, but then the issue of a shared father doomed the relationship. We remained friendly, if distant, from then on. We disagreed on many things, the same as I do with Margaret, but we can’t help who we love and who we do not. Eustace, the truth about you and Gladys?’
‘We’re going,’ Gladys said, as she grabbed her husband and dragged him out of the pub. After that, the pub slowly emptied. The Fosters left after Hamish had drunk another two pints of beer; Desdemona had reverted to type, and she barely said another word. The Woodcocks left arm-in-arm.
In the pub, Rupert and Margaret remained. ‘A strange night,’ Rupert said.
‘No more than usual. You know that you are a wicked man,’ Margaret said. She smiled at her paramour. ‘We make no sense.’
‘None at all. Will you stay the night?’
‘Seeing that it’s no longer a secret, then yes.’
‘It never was. We should make it legal.’
‘In time. Once the deaths stop.’
‘Will they?’
‘Who knows?’ Margaret said.
Chapter 18
Louise Regan, the head of Forensics, peered at Tremayne through her thick-framed glasses. ‘You what?’ she said.
‘It’s only a thought, but what are the chances of finding anything?’ Tremayne said. Clare was with him, the question of Tichborne’s guilt for two deaths still fresh in their minds.
‘You’ve read the report, Tichborne’s wife died of natural causes, nothing untoward in itself, although she was relatively young. She was still subjected to an examination by a doctor. Not as exhaustive as if foul play had been suspected, but the woman had a history of ailments, a weak heart. The police were not involved as no suspicion surrounded her death. Haven’t you got enough to deal with at the present time without exhuming her?’
‘We do, but if Tichborne is correct in what he said, then it’s possible murder, or at least involuntary manslaughter.’
‘The paperwork will be extensive, and there’ll be delays. The woman died eleven years ago, so I’d not hold out for much proof of anything. We know the drugs she was on, and there may be traces, but ascertaining whether they were at an overdose level will be almost impossible to prove conclusively. Unless it’s critical, I’d suggest you leave the woman where she is.’
The DI Tremayne Thriller Box Set Page 127