Tremayne had followed through on a possible avenue of enquiry, although he, like Clare, was not too keen on the idea. And Louise Regan was right, the paperwork would be horrendous, the results probably inconclusive.
The rectory had revealed that the Reverend Tichborne was a fastidious man, the items of cutlery in the kitchen drawer all in their correct places: the forks to the left, and then the knives, followed by the spoons. In the cupboards, the condiments were lined up in their jars and bottles, the labels pointing forward, the cups and saucers neatly stacked. Clare, who had had a cursory look over the place, marvelled at how anyone could be so neat. She tried in her cottage, but the hours she worked precluded such attention to detail. She had considered hiring someone to come in on a casual basis to clean, but so far had refrained on account of the cost. She had adopted a regimen of doubling the repayments on the mortgage to shorten the payout period from the original twenty-five years down to less than half, and it was paying off. A cleaner would have impeded her plan. Nothing more had been found in the rectory, except for a large collection of photos of the vicar and his wife; some on holiday, some in the church, more when he had been ordained, and then her as the blushing bride. Apart from that, no sign of any other woman in the building, which was not surprising. In fact, only a few people in the village could ever remember entering the rectory, and most meetings of the churchgoers, and those interested in Sunday school for the children and organising an annual fair, occurred in the vestry. Tichborne still languished behind bars, and Stephanie Underwood’s house had revealed that Tichborne was more than likely the murderer, a strand of wool from a jumper having been found near to where the dead woman had been. The forensic analysis had confirmed that it matched clothing that had been found in the rectory. Also, a smudged fingerprint found on a door handle at the woman’s cottage was almost certainly Tichborne’s, although when it had been placed there was open to conjecture. The case was tightening on Tichborne, although Tremayne still had his doubts, but would not voice them at this time.
The get-together in the village pub had been described to Tremayne and Clare by Baxter, who, feeling some contrition about revealing the details of the interview between Tichborne and the two police officers, was going out of his way to make amends.
Tremayne realised that another visit to the village of Compton was necessary, but to do what? To ask what? Everyone had been questioned, nothing new had come from the pub get-together, apart from confirmation that Barry Woodcock and James Baxter were intimately involved, the reason for Gloria Wiggins’ denouncement proven.
Tremayne sat in his office, the ubiquitous laptop beckoning him, its charms failing. He called in Clare. It was always the same, Tremayne knew, when sitting in the office. The itchy feet, the need to get out there and stir the pot, ruffle a few feathers, but policing was becoming bureaucratised, and more could be achieved from the relative comfort of an office than out in the field. Tremayne missed the good old days when instinct and experience counted for plenty; now everyone was an instant expert, even his sergeant who could tell him almost as much as Forensics and Pathology by searching on Google.
‘Yarwood, what now?’ Tremayne said. Clare could see him champing at the bit.
‘No leads to follow up on, just conjecture,’ Clare said.
‘But now we know that Woodcock and James Baxter were more than hand-shaking friends, and everyone knows about Margaret Wilmot and Rupert Baxter. Those two revelations must have opened some wounds, and Gwen Woodcock, she supported her husband, but had she known the truth, or was it just an immediate reaction? Important to know, don’t you think?’
‘Important, but what does it tell us? The pigs where Bert Blatchford died would make better witnesses. It’s a shame we can’t ask them.’
‘They may well be better than some of the others in the village,’ Tremayne said.
‘Some? I’d say all of them, even Tichborne who’s still holding back.’
‘Forget Tichborne. We’ve exhausted him for now. Who else is there that’s not figured in our investigation?’
‘No one of interest. It’s a small village, and everyone’s been interviewed, and more than once. Could it be someone else, someone unknown in the village, the missing piece?’
‘It’s not likely. Personally, I’m not too keen on Baxter, too smart by half, and he knows what’s going on. And this relationship with Margaret, bizarre.’
‘Is it? Two lonely people in a lonely village thrown together by fate and by history.’
Tremayne got up from his seat; he needed out. As he made for the exit, Moulton waylaid him with the inevitable questioning about the investigation, a gentle enquiry about his health.
‘The man’s getting ready to try for my retirement again,’ Tremayne said to Clare after Moulton had left.
‘You’ll resist,’ Clare said.
‘I’m not so sure. I’m getting tired of working here, and the atmosphere in the building’s not what it used to be. I could take up golf, even become a stamp collector, something like that.’
‘You’d be dead within the year.’
‘It’s just an idea, but each time Moulton comes around there’s another sweetener. Jean’s interested in travel.’
‘The man who regards any more than ten miles from Salisbury as a trek into the unknown. Hardly your style, is it?’
‘It could be with Jean. Travel broadens the mind, that’s what they say.’
‘Your interest extends no further than policing and betting on three-legged horses. What mind-broadening experience will travel bring to you?’
‘You’re right, but the investigations don’t get easier, just more obscure. The murderers are either smarter, or I’m getting dumber.’
‘It’s not you, it’s them. Anyone with a computer can research forensics, how to carry out the perfect murder, how to avoid leaving evidence.’
‘Our murderer is smart?’
‘He could be.’
‘Or she? There’s no reason to exclude a woman,’ Tremayne said. He and Clare were outside the office. For once, the sky was clear and blue, even though there was a cold breeze.
‘We could access their internet habits,’ Clare said.
‘And see who’s been looking at sites they shouldn’t?’
‘Not that, but sites that delve into the intricacies of policing, forensics, and how to conceal evidence.’
‘Stephanie Underwood was an avid surfer of the internet. Check her history. She could have killed Gloria Wiggins, and her statement that she didn’t hear anything still has an air of unlikelihood about it.’
Tremayne continued out to Compton. He needed to talk to Rupert Baxter. Clare returned to the office to focus on internet records. She needed a judge to authorise examination of the woman’s surfing activities and then found that the internet coverage in the village was not the best. A newly-installed tower up on the main road had assisted, but it had not been in place when the first murder was committed. Stephanie Underwood’s surfing habits were easily obtained. She had an eclectic taste in subjects to research: medieval history, particularly pertaining to Salisbury and especially to Compton, and an interest in weaponry and crime and the perfect murder.
Clare also received permission to access the internet history of several other people in the village. The Blatchfords were not on the list, nor were the Woodcocks, as neither husband nor wife had a computer or a smartphone set up for data. The Upminsters, especially Eustace, did, as did Margaret Wilmot and Rupert Baxter. The Reverend Tichborne did have a laptop, and it had not taken long to find that his searching on the internet was primarily for preparation of the droning sermons that he gave, apart from a couple of email addresses that he occasionally sent messages to.
‘I always knew the truth,’ Baxter said, when Tremayne asked the question. The two men were holding a pint of beer each. Tremayne was propped up on a stool on his side of the bar; Baxter was leaning forward, one of his elbows resting on the bar.
‘That’s not what you
told us.’
‘It wasn’t that important, and James was my brother. I didn’t want to add to the local gossip, and besides, it was Margaret who had told the truth.’
‘What is it with her? Tremayne said. ‘No disrespect, but you and she don’t fit the mould of young lovers. Margaret’s a terse woman, not a lot of humour, and you’re gregarious, even if you’ve got a mouth that never closes.’
‘That’s the fit. Sometimes, I like it quiet and less extrovert; Margaret has spent her life, even her childhood, with her mind being stoked with this feudal idea of the Lord and Master. Her father was a tyrant, used to hit Margaret until he had hammered into her what you see. I can’t blame her for what she is, and she is a good woman. Somehow, the two of us come together in that one place, and then it’s fine. No pretensions, no discussions about what ails the world or this village, no discussion of who killed who.’
‘It makes for a difficult relationship.’
‘It does, but it’s fun. I’m not one for a mealy-mouthed subservient woman. I had one of those, and she did a runner, took my child as well. With Margaret, I’m on safe ground.’
Tremayne thought the man’s explanation plausible. And besides, there were other more important facts to be ascertained.
‘Tichborne? What do you reckon to him murdering Stephanie Underwood?’ Tremayne asked.
‘What’s to say? It came as a bit of a shock when he confessed to her murder, and now, the word is that the death of his wife was suspicious.’
‘You’ve not heard that from me.’
‘It’s the word in the village. I can remember her, a pale woman, taller than him, a few years older.’
‘Did she talk much?’
‘Only down at the church and occasionally on the street. I never had more than a cursory chat with her, the weather, how was she, that sort of thing. She never came in the pub, strict teetotaller, and Tichborne always looked worn down by her. He was much more open after she had gone.’
‘Open? Tichborne? He’s not one of life’s most sociable, even now.’
‘Compared to when his wife was alive, he’s a changed man. Before, he’d not say boo to a goose and certainly said very little to anyone. Locked himself up in the rectory and the church most of the time, apart from when he was out visiting a sick or elderly parishioner. A decent man, even if he wasn’t best-suited for his vocation. But then, I wasn’t meant to be a publican. I had dreams of academia, but the family tradition placed this in my hands, as James wasn’t willing to take it on.’
‘It could have been sold,’ Tremayne said. ‘And what area of academia?’
‘Tradition meant a lot to my parents, even if fidelity didn’t to my father.’
‘How did James feel about Sheila Blatchford being a relative, a half-sister?’
‘It wasn’t spoken about, and I’m not sure he knew. My father told me before he died, knowing that I was more open-minded, but James was younger, more idealistic. I don’t think my father would have wanted a disapproving son, especially James.’
‘Why James and not you?’
‘James was his favourite. Everyone’s favourite, in fact. An attractive child, a handsome youth. And he had a pleasant manner that drew people to him. My parents idolised him, although they were good to me. You can’t help having favourites, can you?’
‘I suppose not.’ It reminded Tremayne of his own childhood, the elder sister, wealthy and living up in London. It had been years since he had seen her, and she was growing old and not in good health. A visit to see her suddenly seemed important.
‘You’d not know it by looking at me, that I’ve a genius-level intellect,’ Baxter said.
‘You hide it well. This village hides its secrets, the same as you.’
‘It does. I still read a lot and study, but I wasn’t the most motivated. It’s a damn nuisance having intelligence.’
‘I’ve never had that problem.’
‘Inspector Tremayne, you’re smarter than you think. You observe, listen, apply logic. To me that’s intelligence. What I’ve got is a head full of ideas, some coherent, others fanciful.’
‘What if you applied your fanciful ideas to this village? What do you come up with? And did Tichborne kill his wife?’
‘He could have. The man should have gone through the grieving process, but when she died, he didn’t act in that way. For the first couple of weeks, he was in the pub every night. Just a glass of wine, nothing stronger, but before, she would have kept him out. I suspected that he may be a man partial to the drink, but I’ve never seen him drunk.’
‘There were a few bottles of whisky and vodka down at the rectory,’ Tremayne said. ‘No sign that he was heavily into them.’
‘I don’t get why Tichborne killed Stephanie,’ Baxter said. He had poured himself another pint of beer, given one to Tremayne.
‘According to him, Stephanie knew that he had killed his wife, and she could prove it.’
‘How and why? Stephanie wasn’t that sort of person. A gossip, but harmless, and no one disliked her, not even Gloria, and they lived next door to each other. A strange pair, the two of them. One frivolous, the other severe and demanding.’
‘Any different to you and Margaret?’
‘Not really, and Margaret takes this fire and brimstone stuff seriously. A clever woman, yet she gets involved in such nonsense, even acted friendly with Gloria and Sheila, not that she had anything in common with them.’
‘Did Margaret like the two of them?’
‘Margaret’s a complex woman. She’d like to be more approachable and agreeable, but it’s in her heritage, the stiff upper lip, the talking down to the peasants.’
‘Are you a peasant, Baxter?’
‘Not me, although my heritage is in trade, a despised profession to the landed gentry. This pub has had a Baxter behind the bar for over two centuries. Margaret likes Gwen Woodcock, although you’d not realise it. It’s Barry that Margaret has a problem with.’
‘On account of him and James?’
‘Margaret was married once, a long time ago. He lived in a village not far from here, and it didn’t last for long. It turned out that his inclinations were not for her, but for others.’
‘James?’
‘It was a long time ago, and James would have only been young, and it wasn’t Barry either. Margaret found out on the wedding night.’
‘Not consummated?’
‘Margaret won’t tell you, but you needed to know the truth. I’m telling you for her. It made her an embittered woman, and for years she’s lived in that old house, mainly on her own, apart from Gwen going up there occasionally to clean around a bit, and to help out if she could.’
‘But there’s no overt signs of affection between them.’
‘There can’t be, not from Margaret. And you’ve met Gwen enough times. A humble woman, looks after Barry and the children, although no money to talk of.’
‘Does Gwen know that Margaret likes her?’
‘She does. Why do you think Gwen told you about Margaret and me?’
‘You’re telling the story,’ Tremayne said. He was halfway into his third pint. He was driving, and it wouldn’t do for a police officer to be caught over the limit. He determined to drink no more.
‘Margaret would let her reticence condemn her before she’d reveal the truth about her and her family. To her, certain things must not be spoken of to outsiders and those below her station. Don’t get the impression that she’s a snob, but her former husband, her and me, are not for general discourse.’
‘If we charged her with murder, she’d still hold back on any evidence to prove her innocence if it besmirched the Wilmot name?’
‘That’s about it. I’ve spoken to her about it, tried to get through to her that it’s the twenty-first century, and people don’t care about a person’s peccadilloes, their family. I’ve told you about mine, warts and all.’
‘You kept quiet about your brother.’
‘Not really. I preferred not to
talk about it, but I would have if it had been necessary. That’s a big difference to Margaret.’
‘You’ll defend her, as will Gwen?’
‘We will.’
‘But Gwen’s being evicted?’
‘Margaret’s trying to force Barry to shape up, but he’s really hopeless. He’ll just let life pass on by, and if he’s out of the farm, then he’ll throw himself on the mercy of the village. Someone will give him somewhere for them to live.’
‘A strange way to live.’
‘That’s Barry. In the end, Margaret will probably relent, and Gwen knows this, but Barry’s too slow on the uptake to understand and to do something about it.’
‘It makes him an unlikely murderer,’ Tremayne said.
‘It does. Barry couldn’t kill anyone, although Gwen’s more resilient.’
‘It could be her, is that what you’re saying?’
‘Not Gwen. She’d not do anything to come between her and her children. A good woman who married the wrong man.’
‘Who was the right man?’
‘Not me. And besides, Gwen wouldn’t have fitted into academia. She’s a village woman, and I wanted the bright lights of Oxford.’
‘There are not many bright lights in Oxford.’
‘You know what I mean. I’ve a degree from there, a couple, in fact.’
‘Then why back here, family tradition or not?’
‘The pub was here, and once I was back, I found that I preferred it to the stuffy, cloistered atmosphere of university life. I carry on my research when I get a chance, publish the occasional paper, quantum physics. Here I can do that, and I’m free to work at my own pace, go fishing when I want.’
‘And to seduce Margaret,’ Tremayne added.
‘That as well. We talk about my research sometimes. I don’t think she understands much of what I write about, but she takes an interest.’
After leaving Baxter, Tremayne found Clare at the police station with her laptop and a monitor. She looked up as he entered. ‘You’d better see this,’ she said.
The DI Tremayne Thriller Box Set Page 128