Dark Ritual

by Patricia Scott

  Fowler turned back to Macey. “Mr. Macey, we have finished with you for the moment. You can go.”

  He stood up. “When can I have the dirk back? It’s a family heirloom. It belongs in the family.”

  Fowler sighed. “You must be joking. You’re lucky not to be charged with carrying an illegal weapon, Mr. Macey. And it will be needed to be produced as evidence in court. We may have to call you in again shortly. Do not leave the area.”

  Macey stalked out.

  Next to be brought in was Mr Brown.

  Brown sat down with folded arms with a look of annoyance to face the police officers. A typical ‘drill pig’ Fowler’s Army experience told him.

  “I don’t know why I was called in, Chief Inspector. I have an alibi for Sunday night. My wife will give me that. No problem.”

  “So you say, sir. But I would first of all like to ask you how well you knew Sandra Peterson.”

  He shrugged. “Not that well. We talked a bit occasionally in the general way of things. She used the post office frequently. She picked up her mail from there and we met sometimes in the Fox and Goose. I had no interest in the girl other than as a customer. I’m a married man, Fowler. I’ve got no time to mess around with a slapper like her.”

  Fowler frowned. “You wouldn’t call Sandra a slapper, would you, Mr. Brown? An attractive girl, a flirt perhaps but I don’t think she merits that description, does she?”

  “Perhaps not.”

  The door opened and Captain Bell strolled in confidently. “Good morning, Chief Inspector Fowler. Captain Roland Bell. I understand you wish to ask me a few questions.”

  “Good morning, sir.”

  Bell’s eyes met Brown’s who grinned back broadly. Bell frowned and fidgeted with his rust colored paisley silk cravat tucked neatly into his thin neck.

  “Right, Mr. Brown. No more questions for the time being. We may have to speak to you again later. Thank you.”

  Captain Bell sat down carefully on the wooden chair, and hitched up his elegant fawn pants over his knees, and his eyes as Macey’s had been previously, were drawn quickly to the large board and pictures of Sandra on the wall behind Fowler’s head.

  Then his roving attention swung back to Fowler who greeted it with a short smile. “This won’t take long, will it Chief Inspector? I’m afraid that I’m extremely busy at the moment.”

  “As we are too,” Fowler’s eyes met Peale’s. “Thank you for attending so promptly, Captain Bell. It makes our job so much easier.”

  “That’s what I thought. Felt I had to do my duty, Chief Inspector. Not that I can be of much help. So fire away.” He touched the fair ridge of fluff on his upper lip, which represented a moustache.

  Fowler leant over the table top. “So when did you last see Sandra Peterson?”

  He cleared his throat carefully, pursed his thin lips. “Ahem. Let me see now. I think it was in the Fox and Goose, Chief Inspector. She was having words with that young idiot Macey. I thought personally that they were an item. Although I think she flirted with anything in trousers. Brown rather fancied his chances with her too.” This warranted a slight hysterical guffaw. “Although I don’t think he registered with her. She was a class above him.”

  Fowler frowned. He wanted to wipe the supercilious look off the man’s face. “Did you know that Sandra Peterson was an investigative journalist, sir? And a very competent one apparently, who was following up a news story here?”

  Bell raised his bushy eyebrows just a little. “Really? I knew that she was involved with that shiftless lot of protesters on Kilernee Hill. Actually, I had little interest in Sandra Peterson. So I wouldn’t have known much about that.”

  “So how was it then that you were seen drinking in her company more than once, sir? According to various statements from witnesses frequenting the Fox and Goose?”

  His weak mouth tightened. And for the first time a look of alarm showed in his full light blue eyes. They looked ready to bolt out of his head Fowler thought with amusement.

  “If you’ve got that information from Brown or Macey, you can’t believe a word of it. Damn it! It’s absolute rubbish!”

  “So tell me when did you last see Sandra Peterson alive, Captain Bell? Was it on the weekend? Did you hold any conversation with her? Perhaps she told you what she was really doing in the village? We have been told by her editor that she was working on something that would have been a scoop for her newspaper.”

  “If she was then she never chose to confide to me,” Bell declared coldly.

  “When did you last see her, Captain Bell?”

  Bell looked scornful now and rubbed the fair fluff on his lip again. “Friday — I think it was. Ye-es. Midday it would be. She was flirting with Brown in the saloon bar. And Macey was there too, looking on like a sulky school boy. By the way, did you know that he carried a knife and I heard that he threatened Brown with it later,” he added smugly. “Ask Liz Brown. She must know about the girl and her husband. And the way she carried on with him. Shameless it was.”

  “You knew them personally, Liz and Gary Brown, sir? Brown was known to be a good reliable non commissioned officer in your company? A staff sergeant?”

  “Yes, he was in my company. And Erika knew Liz, his, wife quite well. Erika made it her business to know personally all the wives that she met at the Wives club. And found her most pleasant and agreeable. But no more than that. We have had no occasion whatsoever to mix with them here since.”

  Fowler looked at the man’s expensive moss green, tweed hacking jacket, nut brown pants, cream silk shirt, paisley colored cravat and the highly polished brown boots. He had created the look of a country gentleman and it must have taken a lot of dosh for his part to be able to afford to do so.

  “You play cricket with Brown in the Lower Milton team, sir. Is that not correct?”

  Bell nodded. “Yes, occasionally. I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

  “You’ve been married some time, Captain Bell?”

  “I most certainly have. But you know that already, Chief Inspector,” he said dismissively drawing, his thin body up into a ramrod position on the chair. “Erika and I have been married ten years and we have our son Peter who is eight.”

  “You have made friends then here, sir? It’s not so easy to settle into to village life, is it? Villages like this do not look on newcomers so favourably as a rule. Especially those with two homes for instance.”

  “We cannot be accused of that. We have only one. And it’s also our place of work.” Bell frowned. “We have a good friend in Howard Tefler, the Lord of the Manor. He made us welcome when we first came. An Australian, he inherited the Manor house from his uncle. He puts quite a lot of money into this village. And has done some good work on the cricket pavilion, which he had rebuilt, and this church hall redecorated and also paid to get an important church bell repaired.”

  And you’re doing a bloody good PR job for him, too, Fowler thought smothering his amusement. I wonder if everyone else thinks that Howard Tefler is such a bloody miracle worker.

  He tidied the notes in front of him and felt sure there was more to dig out here. Why was Bell so keen to recommend Tefler as a good egg? Was he worried about something that could come out later?

  “And you were at home on Sunday night, sir? All evening or only part of it?”

  “I most definitely was at home. All night. Will that be all?”

  “For the moment. Thank you, Captain Bell, for being so cooperative. If we need to ask you further questions we’ll call on you.” Bell didn’t look quite so happy with this but said nothing. “We may have to check with Mrs. Bell also that you were as you say at home on Sunday night.”

  This instantly flurried the Army man into a quick remonstration. “Surely there is no need for that, Fowler. But Erika can most certainly verify that we were sharing the marital bed from ten thirty onwards on Sunday night. We are both early risers. I’m used to it after Army service.”

  Fowler smothered a
grin. He had come across other officers and gentlemen like Captain Bell during his seven years Army service, but was glad he hadn’t had any personal dealings with him. He could see why Brown couldn’t stand him. What the hell were they doing living in such close quarters to one another in Lower Milton?

  Bell strolled out of the incident room well pleased with his performance; a smug smile wreathed round his lips and with a natural swagger in his walk.

  Fowler thought he would have to ask Howard Tefler where he was on Sunday night. He also wondered why the cool atmosphere between the two Army men existed so plainly. Bell definitely preferred to ignore Brown. There was no love lost between them. Was it the same between the two wives?

  Fowler picked up the mobile phone carefully with a handkerchief. A sheer waste of time of course. It would be smothered in prints by now. The boy’s mates would have handled it.

  However, there was a text message on it...

  SANDRA WHERE ARE YOU? PLEASE GET IN TOUCH. MUST TALK. RAFE

  “Who the devil is Rafe? Her boyfriend?”

  Peale looked at it. Shook his head. “Have to ask the Petersons. Could be a colleague at work.”

  Viviane got another phone call. “Bob here. Could you ask your son if he knows anyone connected with Sandra Peterson, called Rafe?”

  “If I can get hold of him. I’m expecting him down soon.”

  “Good. We need as much as possible on her private life. We’re not getting the whole story at the moment from anyone.”

  Afterwards, she wondered whether Rafe could be the father of the baby Sandra had had terminated.

  Fifteen

  They had some unexpected visitors come through the incident room door shortly afterwards. Two elderly ladies. Viviane could have prophesied that Daisy Doughty would pay them a personal visit sooner or later. Daisy arrived with Stella Pope, who’d obviously been roped in for moral support and the use of her arm, as they promenaded in their flowered print dresses and rose pink and blue cardigans, slowly down the incident room, and up to Fowler and Peale. The latter viewed them gingerly.

  Mrs. Doughty’s reputation for inquisitive gossip had been well circulated amongst the police officers by now. Peale looked for help from Fowler when he first spotted them.

  He said in a low aside to Fowler. “It’s Mrs. Doughty, the bolshy old girl, who keeps sending us in the plates of apple tarts and cakes, Bob. She’s the main source of all the food and gossip around here.”

  Fowler chuckled. “She’s just what we can do with, Peale. Smile and make her welcome.”

  “Good afternoon, who’s in charge here? Is it you, young man?” Daisy Doughty asked eyeing Peale.

  “Good day to you, ladies. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Fowler, can I help you, Mrs.—?”

  “I’m Mrs. Daisy Doughty, young man an’ you should know that already. I’ve been trying to make up my mind whether to come in or not. Stella Pope, my friend here insists that I should.”

  “I did, Chief Inspector.”

  Stella Pope helped to seat her friend carefully down onto a chair and sat down beside her. This considerable effort on the part of the two ladies caused the strong smell of aniseed drops and lavender to waft upwards in the warm atmosphere in the room. Peale felt his nose twitch and rubbed it protectively, which move produced a glare from Mrs. Doughty immediately.

  Fowler smiled pleasantly. “Mrs. Doughty, I understand from my officers that we have you to thank for all the tasty cakes and the delicious slices of apple pie that have kept us going of late. I must thank you on behalf of everyone here. You have been most generous.”

  “Glad to hear you enjoyed them, Inspector.” She granted him a smile, clasped her flower wool embroidered canvas bag to her heavy bosom and nodded. “Everyone here must do their bit to help.

  “An’ if you’re looking for the man that killed that girl, Sandra, you could do no better than charge that bossy Aussie,” she snorted. “Now, you should know who I’m talking about, Chief Inspector.”

  And Stella Pope nodded beside her.

  “He thinks he’s the big cheese round here,” she continued. “That Mr. Tefler. An’ if I weren’t the good decent lady that I am I could think of some other choice words for that slippery rattlesnake. That man thinks he owns the place since he came here to live in the Manor house. That’s right, isn’t it, Stella?”

  Peale standing beside Fowler turned his head away to grin at Gerry Coombe, who smothered a giggle.

  “That’s right, Daisy,” twittered Stella patting her thin flushed features with a heavily lavender scented lace handkerchief. This made Peale’s nose twitch even more and he felt desperately for his handkerchief in his pockets ready for an oncoming sneeze. He suspected that he suffered more than a bit from hay fever and was obviously allergic to lavender.

  “Mr. Tefler, Mrs. Doughty? We haven’t met him yet.”

  “Tefler’s not the gentleman, his uncle were and never will be.”

  Fowler wondered whether it had anything to do with Tefler bringing a French chef into his kitchen, and Daisy losing her favoured position as the family cook. Boyle had passed on this information when they sampled her famous strawberry tarts earlier.

  She folded her plumps arms tightly around her ample chest and the look of hostility in her washed out blue eyes declared a standoff if anyone decided to take exception to these choice words. Stella Pope beside her nodded, and smiled gently, and obviously agreed.

  “Mr. Howard Tefler, Mrs. Doughty? I gather that he’s the Lord of the Manor? He holds the title deeds?”

  “He might think so. Lord of the Manor, my foot. He don’t own this village,” she snorted loudly, and filled the warm air around her once again with the questionably, delectable flavour of aniseed cough drops.

  Fowler suspected that if she could, she would have doused Howard Tefler with sulphur and scorched him.

  “That man inherited the Manor house and a bit of woodland. That’s all. His uncle, he weren’t keen on him inheriting the village. He gave us all the chance to buy our houses some years ago. An’ we took ‘em. So Tefler has no hold over us. An’ Kilernee Hill belongs to us all. He likes to flash his money, by spending it on things here, like the church hall roof ‘cos it helps the man with his taxes, don’t it, Chief Inspector?”

  Peale grinned at Fowler. There was more dirt to come yet on Tefler by the sound of it.

  Mrs. Doughty made it her pleasure to find out anything salacious or grubby about the Australian, which she thought would knock him off his Lord of the Manor pedestal.

  “Them dance girls from his night club; he takes ‘em out here in his flash red sports car whizzing around the countryside. Has ‘ern staying there for weekends. Has a houseful of ‘ern at a time. He likes to entertain his women well, he does,” she said fixing Peale with a knowledgeable stare. “They’re only young kids. Look barely sixteen most of ‘em. That Trish at the Fox an’ Goose was one of ‘ern. An’ she’s eighteen if that.”

  Fowler said, “Did he entertain Sandra Peterson, as well, Mrs. Doughty?”

  “Well now.” Daisy breathed in deeply. Peale drew back, waited nervously for the gust of aniseed breath to follow it. “I did see Sandra Peterson out in his car more than once. I think they might have had something going on. Oh, he’s a charmer all right if you likes a bit of the rough, the money and the Aussie tan. Didn’t take him long to know when he was onto a good thing with her,” she snorted.

  “Daisy, you don’t know that.”

  Daisy settled the bag on her lap more comfortably and grimaced. “Well — pr’aps not. I hope that she gave him a good run around for his money. She probably did. She was independent, that girl. Reminds me a bit of myself.

  “He makes his money with them young girls he’s got performing in his night club. Lap top dancers they’re called. Seen girls like ‘em pole dancing nearly naked on the tele, haven’t we Stella?”

  “Only in films, Daisy. You don’t know that this is true.” Her friend protested gently beside her. “It’s only
what you’ve heard from the parlour maid at the Manor.”

  “Oh — yes I does, Stella Pope. She’s my second cousin’s daughter and Maureen don’t lie to me. She told me Tefler invites them girls there for the weekend before they go to work in his night club. Kind of a welcome like,” she snorted and grimaced balefully. “They have fun, those girls, carrying on in his indoor swimming pool. He got that put in as soon as he came here. We reckon he greased the councillors’ greedy hands with cash to get the planning permission for it.”

  “Is there anything else you think that we should know, Mrs. Doughty?” Fowler probed gently. “When did you last see Sandra Peterson? Was it recently?”

  “It were that.” She scratched her chin thoughtfully. “Let me see now. On Friday. I were spending a quiet few minutes in my conservatory. An’ I heard her having a right old barney with her dad. Knew it were them straight away.”

  “You are quite sure about that, Mrs. Doughty?

  “Of course...” She stared out Peale as he leant forward to hear more. “I were asked by Mrs. Stevenson to make a Corn Dollie for the Church Harvest festival. It were all quiet like, the Corn Dollie were finished an’ I were saying some special words over it.” She paused and wrinkled up her wispy grey brows a moment while they waited. “I like to do that. An’ it was then that I heard the racket going on out there through my privet hedge. There were raised voices out in the back lane behind my cottage. So I took a quick look because I thought I recognized whoever it were causing the rumpus.”

  “And it was Sandra and her father, Mrs. Doughty?” Peale asked politely.

  She nodded. “It were that... I saw Sandra sitting in the front seat of her father’s car. An’ they were having such a set to... Going at it hammer and tongs they were. She was giving her old chap a good telling off. They could be heard across the other side of the village.”