“Did you notice whereabouts the gun was lying before you left?” asked Sims.
Mullins pushed his cap back another inch. “Sort of to one side it was,” he answered, “as though it ’ad fallen from ’is ’and.”
“And was it in the same position when you came back?” asked Sims.
“I wouldn’t be sure of that. I didn’t stop long, you see. What with Daff alone up at the cottage and I knew she was nervous like, ’aving ’eard the shot, and there were plenty of ’em ’anging around, so I went up ’ome.”
“Who did you say heard a shot?” asked Sims.
“Daff, my wife.”
“At what time did she hear it?”
Mullins took off his cap, scratched his head, and put it on again before he answered. “Can’t say I know. But we went down to the Carpenter’s on the motor-bike close on seven, so it must ’ave been before then. You’ll ’ave to ask Daff. All I know is she ’eard it; she said so directly Mr. Paul came. ’Alf-past ten it was. We’d got back from the Carpenter’s and ’ad a bit of supper and I’d just said to Daff, ‘’alf-past ten, girl, come on, let’s pack it in,’ and there was a knock on the door and Mr. Paul asked if I would give them an ’and. ’E said as ’ow the colonel ’ad gone out with a gun and not come back and then Daff said ’ow she’d ’eard a shot down in the woods.”
“I’d like to see Mrs. Mullins at once,” said Sims.
“Well, that’s easy enough, we lives just down the lane at Clint’s Cottages.” Mullins wiped his hands on an oily rag. “Come on, mate,” he said, “I’ll show you.”
Daff Mullins was a tall, well-built girl with fair fuzzy hair pushed back behind her ears; the redness of her cheeks contrasted horribly with the sickly mauve of her twin-set, her eyes were brash and blue.
“Yes, I ’eard the shot,” she told Sims. “Gave me a turn it did, afterwards, when Ken told me it was the murderer that fired it.”
“It’s too early to assume that,” said Sims. “But now, Mrs. Mullins, can you give me any idea as to the approximate time of the shot?”
“Well, we’d ’ad our tea,” said Daff Mullins, “I’d just done the washing up and I went out to the dustbin—it stands just outside the back door—to empty the sink strainer. The light was beginning to go and I stood there a minute, looking around and thinking thank goodness the winter was over. And then I ’eard the shot.”
“But what time was it?” Sims could no longer control his impatience.
“Oh, it was just gone six. I ’eard the news come on as I went out of the door. The same old stuff, I thought, they repeats it over and over again, and I didn’t bother to listen.”
“Now, Mrs. Mullins, you’re quite sure of that? You heard a shot a moment or two after the commencement of the six o’clock news?”
“That’s right,” agreed Daff. “When I went out to the dustbin.”
“I’d like to get this substantiated,” said Sims. He turned to Mullins. “Have you any neighbours?”
“No, the other cottage is empty. They’re good enough for tractor drivers, but not for cowmen. ’Ernes, our cowman, ’e’s got a council cottage in the new estate round at the back of the Carpenter’s. Course ’e’s been ’ere a good many years. The Colonel was talking about doing Clint’s up and putting bathrooms in, but, it never got further than talk.”
“Can you think of anyone else who might have heard the shot?” asked Sims.
“What about Mr. ’Arris, Ken?” asked Daff suddenly. “’E wasn’t in the Carpenter’s when we got there, was ’e? ’E came in later and if ’e was down in the shepherd’s hut at six ’e ’ave been bound to ’ear the shot.”
“Yes, if ’e was there, ’e’d ’ave ’eard it,” Mullins agreed.
“Where does this Mr. Harris reside?” asked Sims.
“Well, since Barclays turned ’im out of Well Cottage ’e’s been living in the old shepherd’s ’ut. It stands just down below ’ere at the side of Clint’s copse.”
“You mean in that old green caravan affair?” asked Sims in amazement. “But it’s only a few hundred yards from the spot where Colonel Barclay was murdered.”
“You’ve got it, mate. But the copse stands between it and the plantation, so ’e wouldn’t ’ave seen nothing, not even with the trees so late. Still, there’s no telling what he may ’ave ’eard.”
“Where does he work?” asked Sims.
“’E does jobbing gardening mostly. Where would ’e be today, Daff?” asked Mullins.
Daff thought. “Rectory, isn’t it?” she said. “Trents Mondays and Fridays, Miss Yates Thursdays and Rectory Tuesdays. Wednesdays ’e does ’is shopping. That’s right, you’ll find ’im up at the Rectory. The new one, mind—there’s no one in the old one yet—you ’ave to go right round at the back by the church.”
“And you say that the Barclays turned this Mr. Harris out of Well Cottage; is that a fact?” asked Sims.
“Well, I don’t know the rights and the wrongs of it,” admitted Daff, “but I ’eard Mr. ’Arris carrying on about Colonel Barclay one night in the Carpenter’s. But ’e’d ’ad a pint or two and ’e’s a funny man at the best of times, Mr. ’Arris is. Well, you know what I mean, ’e’s not like anyone else.”
“’E’s all right if you don’t rub ’im up the wrong way. ’E’s just against progress, that’s all.” Ken Mullins tried to amplify his wife’s explanation. “’E ’ates cars, reckons you sees a lot more if you walks. Don’t want no modern conveniences, nor nothing like that. Well, ’e’s welcome to his shepherd’s ’ut, that’s what I say.”
“We can’t all be alike,” agreed Sims. “But when you talk of Harris ‘carrying on’ about the Colonel do you mean that he was making remarks of a threatening nature, Mrs. Mullins?”
“Oh, no, ’e didn’t threaten ’im, the Colonel wasn’t there. It was just that someone said they’d ’eard talk that Barclays was going to plough up church field and Mr. ’Arris said don’t you talk about Barclays to me, I’d like to Barclay ’im. Something like that; you know ’ow men go on in pubs.”
“You don’t remember his exact words?”
“No.” Daff shook her head.
“And the Carpenter’s, I take it, is the public house opposite the green?” asked Sims.
“That’s right. The Carpenter’s Arms, next door to the school it is,” Mullins explained.
“Well, things seem to be moving at last,” said Sims, when he and Finch had regained the car. “I suppose we’d better go and look this Harris over right away; he sounds an unbalanced sort of individual . . .” Already he saw Dobson and Gage discomfited—eating their words. He brought himself back to reality sharply. “To the New Rectory, then,” he directed Finch, “and are you sure you’ve got that heater full on? I’m perished with cold.”
Edward Harris wasn’t as old as his reported dislike of progress had led Sims to believe. His hair, badly in need of a cut, was grey and his brown, weather-beaten face had an ageless quality, but there was nothing elderly about his movements as he worked on a trench for the hedge which was to divide the vegetable and flower gardens of the New Rectory. Fifty-ish and as strong as a horse, thought Sims.
“Mr. Harris?” he asked, observing earth-stained corduroys, a leather-patched jacket, and a red spotted handkerchief round the neck of a collarless shirt.
Harris straightened up. “That’s me,” he answered.
“We are police officers investigating the death of Colonel Barclay. I think you could help us by answering a few questions.” Sims spoke in his most official tones and as he spoke he thought that he detected a flash of fear across Harris’s otherwise impassive face, but when the man answered his voice was steady. “Ask away,” he said, “I’ll help you if I can.”
“Good. Now, Mr. Harris, I understand that you at present reside in the shepherd’s hut at the side of Clint’s Copse.”
“That’s quite right.” Harris’s voice was soft and slow.
“Were you in that hut on the afternoon and evening of last
Saturday?”
“No, I was out walking. I usually walk on Saturdays—fifteen or twenty miles—it’s the best way to see the countryside.”
“What time did you get back?”
“I was back in Winmore End about seven, or a bit later perhaps. I went in the Carpenter’s Arms for a pint of beer and a sandwich and there I stayed until Mr. Paul Barclay came in to ask if we’d seen anything of the Colonel and then I offered to join the search . . .”
“Were you alone on this walk?”
“Not entirely. Nellie, my constant companion, was with me.” He pointed across the garden to where a large black and white mongrel bitch, part sheepdog, part terrier, lay on a sack.
“I’m afraid that’s alone as far I’m concerned,” said Sims. “And you didn’t call in anywhere or meet anyone the whole time you were out?”
“No, my object was to avoid the company of man. I was seeking solitude. The mentality of people who spend their time on crowded beaches is beyond me, and as for the weekend car drivers . . .”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted Sims, “but what I’m getting at is whether you can produce anyone who knows where you were between five and seven on Saturday evening?”
“Not a soul,” Harris answered simply.
“Right. Well, that’s the first point. Now, Mr. Harris, I’ve been informed that you had a grudge against Colonel Barclay and you were heard to make remarks of a threatening nature in the Carpenter’s Arms. Do you admit this?” he asked, when Harris remained silent.
“If I was heard I must have said something, I suppose,” answered Harris.
“You admit making remarks of a threatening nature, then?”
“Not until I know what I’m supposed to have said.”
“Oh, come, Mr. Harris. It was in connection with Well Cottage; you resided there prior to your removal to the shepherd’s hut, didn’t you?”
“Yes, that’s quite right.”
“And your landlord was the late Colonel Barclay?”
“Yes.”
“When did he give you notice to leave?”
Harris thought. “Three weeks ago last Friday,” he answered at length.
“And, of course, you resented this action. Now, Mr. Harris, having admitted so much, do you stick to your story that you were nowhere near the shepherd’s hut between five and seven on Saturday?” The man was frightened. A pleasurable and unusual feeling of self-confidence surged through Sims, but when Harris answered his voice was still firm.
“Yes, I never went near the hut between five and seven.”
“Perhaps you met up with Colonel Barclay in the woods then?” suggested Sims, and there was an unpleasant edge to his voice. “Very possibly you started telling him what you thought of him; perhaps there was a struggle . . . Well?” An expression of mulish obstinacy appeared on Harris’s face. “Think what you like,” he said, taking his spade. “I’ve got work to do.”
“Very well, Mr. Harris, if that’s your attitude—but I shall want you to come down to the police station in a day or so and make a full statement. Meanwhile, I’ll have a word with your employers.”
“There’s the front door.” Harris indicated it with a thumb over his shoulder and then without another word he bent to his spade and resumed work on the trench.
Mrs. Willis opened the Rectory door. Thirty-six, thin to the point of angularity, with brown hair neat in a nondescript style and a pale decisive mouth, her sharp nose glowing pinkly through an ineffective scatter of powder, Joan Willis was no beauty. But Sims, thinking—a real vicar’s wife, none of Molly’s style—missed a fine pair of hazel eyes.
“The Rector’s out, I’m afraid,” she said, when Sims had explained his presence, “but I can tell you anything you want to know. Come in.”
“I really require some confidential information about your employee,” said Sims. “I understand that Harris has been making threatening remarks with reference to the late Colonel Barclay. Has he said anything to you on this point, Mrs. Willis?”
“No, he hasn’t said anything to me. He spoke to the Rector about the Colonel giving him notice to quit Well Cottage, but really, you know, he had nothing to grumble at; he’d been renting that cottage for four-and-six a week for three years, he must have known that it couldn’t go on for ever.”
“My information is that he was grumbling bitterly.”
“I daresay he was, he’s always been a moaner. Look, inspector, let me get you a cup of coffee. I’m sure you could both do with one on a horrible morning like this.”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Willis, it’s almost our lunch hour.”
“Oh, come on. It won’t take me a minute to make it, really. I’ll go and put the kettle on.”
“No, thank you.” Sims was firm.
“Oh, well, if you really won’t. Well, go on about Harris, what else do you want to know? Mind you, he’s always been a bit of a dark horse. No one in the village knows what his background is. I wonder if he has some gipsy blood, but then you see he’s obviously had some sort of an education. He’s a great talker when he starts; I always keep well away from him when he’s working. Well, I mean, one can’t afford to pay four-and-six an hour for them to talk, can one? I don’t care for Harris really, he doesn’t seem genuine to me; I wouldn’t trust him further than I could see him. But then, you can’t pick and choose who works for you nowadays, can you? I mean, they’re all so well off they don’t want odd jobs and you’ve got to be grateful for what you can get.” She paused for a moment and Sims spoke quickly to stem a further spate of words. “What I wonder is, whether Harris resented Colonel Barclay’s action enough to contemplate revenge?”
“Well, he certainly resented it,” began Joan Willis. “But . . .”
“Well, Mrs. Willis, thank you for your help,” said Sims, edging towards the door. “I’ll call again to see Mr. Willis; when is the best time to catch him?”
“Oh, immediately after lunch, about two o’clock, or evenings, we don’t go out much. Of course Thursdays is choir practice and Tuesdays it’s the boys’ club and every other Monday there’s a British Legion meeting . . .”
“I’ll call about two, then,” said Sims, opening the front door. “Good-morning,” and he hurried down the path. “Twelve-thirty,” he said to Finch, who caught him up at the gate. “If we want any lunch we’d better get down to Crossley right away.”
“Whatever you say, sir,” said Finch in unfriendly tones, for the Inspector’s remarks on his driving still rankled.
After lunch they interviewed the landlord of the Carpenters’ Arms. Dressed in a dark suit, and with his narrow white face half hidden behind the thick black rims of his spectacles, Ted Rawlings didn’t look like a country publican, nor was he one by choice. Ill-health had driven him from a neo-Elizabethan tavern much patronised by coach parties, to the quieter life of the cream-washed Carpenter’s Arms.
“Harris?” said Rawlings, in answer to Sims’s question. “Harris. Ah yes, I’ve got him. A seedy individual; he doesn’t appear to have a collar or tie in his wardrobe and he persists in bringing a large black and white mongrel dog into the bar despite notification to the contrary. What I call a real country type—as obstinate as one of their own cows.”
Sims laughed. “You’ve got the right one,” he said. “Now I understand that he’s been making remarks of a threatening nature with reference to the late Colonel Barclay; have you heard any of this going on, Mr. Rawlings?”
Rawlings considered the matter. “We’ve had nothing but the Colonel in the public bar for the last few days,” he said. “They’ve even stopped grumbling about the weather. Now, if my memory is not at fault, it was Fred Butler who started the conversation about the Colonel last Friday evening. That’s right. He came in after the parish council meeting and told the assembled company that the Colonel intended ploughing Church Field and the cricket pitch, and they were all busy calling him hard names. Harris was in, which was unusual for him; he doesn’t come in often and, generally, Saturday is his night.
”
“And Harris mentioned Well Cottage, I understand,” said Sims, jogging the publican’s memory.
“Ah yes, I’ve got it now; he had a private grievance to air.”
“Can you remember exactly what he said?”
“Not word for word, but I can the gist of it. The language was getting a bit lurid and someone, I think it was Eric Trent, called out that there were ladies present and that drew my attention to Harris. He was standing by the bar, tankard in hand, and he looked rather flushed. ‘Don’t talk to me about that old B,’ he said. ‘I’d like to settle him once and for all.’ Then he began to air his grievance about the cottage, but I called out for last orders and that was that.”
Rawlings thought that Eric Trent would be the most likely person to corroborate his statement and Finch took down the address. Then the detectives went out to their car. Across the green, Sims saw three women talking and he recognized one of them as Veronica Sinclair.
“Drive round there,” he told Finch. “I want to see if Mrs. Sinclair can be a bit more definite about when her brother left; in view of the time the shot was fired ‘about six’ just isn’t good enough.”
Veronica, bound for the village shop, had the three children with her, and, while she talked, Simon filled her basket with stones and in the pram Lucy surreptitiously removed her socks and shoes, while William sucked a toy car with illicit joy. Joan Willis, neat in a camel coat and a red beret, had come to offer her services to Veronica, and Mrs. Dawson, also bound for the shop, had joined them.
“Police car,” said Simon, abandoning the basket and wiping his muddy hands on his mother’s skirt.
“Well, now,” exclaimed Mrs. Dawson, “did you hear that, Mrs. Willis? Would you credit it? Oh, he’s a bright little button our Simon is, ‘Police car,’ he says.” A doting look spread across her large, foolish face. “And how old did you say he was, Mrs. Sinclair?”
“Four,” answered Veronica absent-mindedly; she was looking at the police car.
They Died in the Spring Page 3