“It’s the detectives again,” said Joan Willis, as Sims and Finch emerged. “They’re coming to see you, I suppose, Veronica; I had them this morning.”
Pram before her, Veronica went to meet the two men and there was a belligerent light in her brown eyes.
“Good afternoon, Inspector,” she said. “We’ve heard nothing from the police station; isn’t there any news of Hilda Schmidt?”
A spasm of irritation crossed Sims’s face. “If you have heard nothing from the Crossley police you may take it that there are no fresh developments, Mrs. Sinclair,” he answered.
“What are the police doing then?” demanded Veronica. “I don’t believe they’re making the slightest effort to trace her; they’re all so busy catching out the motorists in Crossley that when something serious happens they just ignore it.”
“Oh, come now, Mrs. Sinclair, there’s no need to drag out that old grievance; the police are doing their part, I can assure you. What we want is some help from the public and that’s what we’re not getting in this case. The body was moved, the gun handled; I daresay it was done in the best of faith, but it hasn’t made things any easier for us. Now, instead of adding to our difficulties, Mrs. Sinclair, suppose you try to be accurate in your recollections of last Saturday evening.”
“I was as accurate as I could be yesterday,” answered Veronica, her face setting in obstinate lines. “It’s not accurate to say you remember things when you don’t.”
“No, I quite agree with you there, but it does seem strange to me that no one glanced at a watch when Mr. Barclay left and that, apparently, your radio was silent all evening.”
“It may seem strange,” Veronica was angry now, “but it isn’t. I was bathing the babies, so naturally I took my wrist watch off, the clock has gone wrong and my husband disapproves of using the wireless as a background noise.”
“Is this about Saturday evening, Veronica?” asked Joan Willis. “I was wondering if I could help. You remember I came round about the jumble; your brother was with you then and that was about six, wasn’t it?”
“And then you came on round to me, Mrs. Willis,” Mrs. Dawson joined in. “We stood there on the doorstep quite a while talking, didn’t we now? You said that you wouldn’t come in for you had another call to make. Mr. Paul’s old army truck was still stood outside then.”
“Army truck?” asked Sims.
“It’s a Land Rover, actually,” Veronica explained sullenly.
“They all look alike to me,” admitted Mrs. Dawson. “But whatever it was it stood there all the while we were talking, didn’t it, Mrs. Willis?”
“Yes, you’re quite right, Mrs. Dawson,” Joan Willis agreed. “In fact it was still there when I left.”
“And so you would put the time of Mr. Barclay’s departure at after six?” asked Sims. “About five or ten minutes past?”
“Oh, quite that,” agreed Joan Willis.
“Well, thank you, ladies, I’m glad to have got this matter cleared up.” Sims pocketed his notebook and turned for the car. “Time for a quick cup of tea,” he murmured to Finch, “and then we’ll look in on Inspector Miller before we make tracks; I don’t want to be late tonight.”
“I don’t believe they’re even trying to find Hilda,” said Veronica indignantly as she watched the raincoated figures cut across the corner of the green.
“Now, look, I’m coming in tomorrow morning to give you a hand, Veronica, you can’t possibly manage all the cooking and washing and housework and the children on your own. With Gillian back we can dash through my work in no time,” Joan Willis spoke positively, “and then I’ll pop round, about half-past ten, will that do?”
“Oh, Joan, you can’t. It’s awfully kind of you, but you’ve got plenty to do yourself. Anyway, perhaps Hilda will turn up.”
“Well, if she does, give me a ring, otherwise I’ll pop in about ten-thirty. I must be off now, it’s my afternoon for visiting old Mrs. Newton. I’m glad your rheumatism’s better, Mrs. Dawson. ’Bye, Veronica, ’bye.”
Detective-Inspector Sims, glad to be off his feet and out of the biting wind, lingered overlong in the Old Belle tea rooms and, when he dropped in at Crossley police station, intending a brief visit before he turned for home, he was greeted by a very flustered Inspector Miller.
“Oh, my lord, where ever have you been to?” Miller demanded. “You’d better get up to Well Cottage, Winmore End, as quick as ever you can; they’ve found the body of a young woman in the well there. The chief’s come over himself and he’s been kicking up no end of a shindy because we couldn’t contact you—talk about unparliamentary language! They think it’s the body of the missing German girl—that Miss Schmidt.”
Chapter Four
Chief Detective-Inspector James Flecker was whistling as he locked the door of his flat. He pocketed the key, picked up his suitcase and an empty milk bottle to deposit in the hall, and ran downstairs.
Detective-Sergeant Browning was watching the front door of the tall, grey, dismal-looking house and, as it opened, he climbed out of the car and met Flecker on the pavement. “Well, sir, this is a nice surprise,” he said warmly. “When I heard that you’d been seconded to the vice department I thought they’d put an end to our little jaunts together. I could hardly believe my ears when I was told to report to you this morning.”
“I could hardly believe my ears when they gave me the case,” said Flecker. “I thought I was condemned to spend the rest of my life reporting in triplicate to that old fusspot Bolton.”
“Superintendent Bolton’s been a bit difficult to work for, has he?” asked Browning in sympathetic tones as he opened the boot of the car. “He’s got a name for it.”
“Well, since I’ve escaped I can afford to be charitable,” said Flecker with a grin, “so let’s say that we didn’t see eye to eye.” He stowed his modest suitcase on top of Browning’s large one. “And how have you been doing?” he asked. “You’re looking very smart in that natty piece of gents’ overcoating, I must say.”
Browning looked down at his coat complacently. “It’s British-warm style,” he said; “a very handy sort of length and does for town or country.”
“So does mine,” said Flecker, still grinning. “Here, info’,” he went on, handing Browning a rolled-up folder from his pocket. “I’ll drive and that’ll give you a chance to get up to date. It sounds quite a straightforward case,” he said as he started the car, “but apparently the Bretfordshire police have lost several of their senior plain-clothes men—retirement and ill health and so on—and a double murder has properly put the wind up their chief constable. He told the AC that he hadn’t anyone of sufficient experience to handle the case. Thank the lord for crabbed old age and pestilence since they procured my release.”
“It can’t have been as bad as all that,” protested Browning. “I always thought the vice boys had rather a good time of it, a nice comfortable assignation in a night club, a young lady for company, free drinks; some people don’t know when they’re lucky.”
“No doubt there are nice comfortable night clubs,” said Flecker, “but I’ve yet to be sent to one; mine were always depressingly tawdry, and as for Police-woman Margaret Stephens, well, we just weren’t kindred spirits. We always passed ourselves off as a couple who’d just had a flaming row; it was easier than trying to act like love-birds and allowed Margaret to air her opinion of my dancing.”
Browning laughed. “Not quite your cup of tea,” he said. “Well, it’s a good thing they’ve sent you back to central office.”
The case notes occupied Browning until they were clear of London and the suburbs and running easily through a pleasant and orderly landscape. Model farms, fenced woodlands, labelled footpaths; the river, which for some way accompanied the road, flowed soberly, the hills inclined gently; it wasn’t real country, thought Flecker, hankering for sombre ranges against the skyline and rushing, rebellious streams.
“And who’s your money on?” asked Browning, closing the folder.
“I’ve no favourite yet,” Flecker answered, “but the Bretford man seems to fancy the jobbing gardener, Mr. Edward Harris.”
“Um, he sounds a bit of a shifty type, but they don’t run to murder as a rule, do they?”
Flecker looked at his watch. “Can you survive on beer and sandwiches?” he asked. “There isn’t time for a proper lunch if we’re going to be in Crossley at two.”
“That’s all right, I know what I’m in for working with you,” replied Browning cheerfully. “But I do hope they find us somewhere a bit better to stay than the pub on the last case. The Dog and Duck, wasn’t it, at Lollingdon? That was a place. Cold,” he laughed reminiscently. “I don’t believe you ever took off your overcoat except to go to bed and then you had it spread on top.”
After the beer and sandwiches, Browning drove and Flecker relaxed into unmethodical meditations on the case, but all too soon Browning announced, “Crossley, here we are. I’d better enquire for the police station; it looks like one of these old places that’s all one-way streets.”
Originally no more than a halting place on the route of the wool-bearing pack ponies that travelled south across the county to London, Crossley had been granted a charter in Elizabethan times, and then, though growing a little each year, had remained a picturesque and peaceful market town until the second world war. Since the war, building on the outskirts had doubled the population, comparatively fast trains had made the town and the surrounding countryside a paradise for the more sophisticated commuter, and the traffic on the main London to Bretford road, which passed through the centre of the town, had become a continuous stream, which only slackened at night. The milling crowds had grown too large for the pavements; there was no space for the country housewives to park their cars; the long distance motorists ground their teeth as they joined the High Street’s perpetual traffic jam; petrol and diesel fumes scented the air. Above the crush and the noise, the beauty of the Elizabethan and Georgian buildings went unnoticed; the shopkeepers and the house agents grew rich.
The police station was an ugly red building tucked away out of sight behind the town hall. Browning appropriated a parking space with “Reserved” painted heavily across it, and the two men climbed stiffly out of the car. Now that he was there, Flecker felt all his usual reluctance to confront his county colleagues; co-existence was an effort and taking charge required an energy he did not possess. “All things have rest: why should we toil alone?” he demanded of the town hall.
“Folder, sir,” said Browning briskly, “and a nice sharp pencil.”
“I shall only gnaw it,” warned Flecker, as he led the way into the police station.
George Dobson, the chief constable, and Detective-Superintendent Gage waited with Inspector Miller in his office. Dobson, a spare man with sandy hair going grey and a lined and liverish face, paced up and down the room.
“Two o’clock,” he said suddenly, looking at his watch. “They’re going to be late.” But a moment later Flecker and Browning were ushered in. The three Bretfordshire men rose and, expecting a grizzled veteran, their eyes turned to Browning. Tall and soldierly, well-dressed, with greying hair and an Anthony Eden moustache, he looked like a man to command, but Browning, used to producing this effect, hung back. Saying “Chief-Inspector Flecker?” rather doubtfully, Dobson found himself shaking hands with a younger and much less impressive person. Stockily built and only just tall enough for police regulations, Flecker had dark hair which grew in unruly profusion. His clean-shaven face looked good-natured, his shapeless mouth affable, and only his dark blue eyes gave any hint of intelligence.
Dobson introduced Gage and Miller and then plunged, without further preamble, into a résumé of the case. He began with the murder of Colonel Barclay, telling, as the Yard men already knew from the case notes, how the search party had mistaken it for an accident, but the pathologist at the hospital, Dr. Hedley, had insisted that the gun had not been fired at point-blank range as was at first thought, but at what he described as close range, approximately ten feet. Both barrels of the gun had been fired, but only one into Colonel Barclay; the shot recovered from his body was appropriate to the type of cartridge case in the shotgun. The gun had been identified as the Colonel’s and the cartridges were the brand he normally used and the same as the half dozen in his pocket. Flecker fished in his overcoat pocket, produced a handful of old envelopes and began to make notes.
Dobson went on to the murder of Miss Schmidt. Her body had actually been found on Tuesday evening, but the chain of circumstances leading to its discovery had begun on Monday when a local builder, Arthur Cole, had visited Well Cottage. Cole had been asked by Colonel Barclay to send in an estimate for its repair and modernization, and he had decided to go ahead, despite the Colonel’s death, for the Barclay father and son were in partnership and it was expected that things would go on much as before. Cole had opened the well out of curiosity and the sight of a silk head-scarf floating on the water had not perturbed him for, at that time, he had not known that Miss Schmidt was missing. When he heard of her disappearance, he began to wonder whether the scarf had any significance and, on Tuesday afternoon, he told Police-Constable Random about it. They had visited the well together, salvaged the waterlogged scarf and taken it to Mrs. Sinclair, who had recognized it as belonging to Miss Schmidt.
Random had contacted Inspector Miller and the river rescue team had come over from headquarters and found the body, and also her overnight case which had been thrown in with her. According to the medical report, Miss Schmidt had been rendered unconscious by blows on the back of the head with a blunt, flattish instrument, probably from four to five inches wide. She had incurred frontal head injuries during the fall down the well, but death was caused by asphyxia due to drowning.
“That was Tuesday,” said Dobson, laying down one sheaf of papers and picking up another, “except that we had two men on a door-to-door job, inquiring about Miss Schmidt’s men friends, with a negative result. This morning we’ve had the inquest on Colonel Barclay—the coroner brought in the usual verdict—and the fingerprint report on Well Cottage and it’s no help either. Most of the prints belong to Harris, one or two to the Colonel, one or two to young Barclay, one or two to Miss Schmidt, so I suppose she’d been poking about there. Barclay says that both he and his father went round the cottage after Harris had moved out, trying to decide what improvements should be made.
“Superintendent Gage and the Barclays’ solicitor spent the morning going through the Colonel’s personal papers, but they found nothing there of any interest to us.
“Well, there you are, you’ve got a copy of all the statements to date. That’s all the help we can give you; it’s your pigeon now.”
“Quite, sir,” said Flecker, looking up from his doodling, for there had been a note of dissatisfaction in the chief constable’s voice.
“I wonder if the chief-inspector has any queries?” murmured Superintendent Gage smoothly; he could feel Dobson’s irritation building up as the Scotland Yard man, instead of leaping to his feet and producing electrifying schemes, sat on at the table staring dreamily into space.
“Well, have you any queries?” asked Dobson, suppressed irritation in every word.
“Yes,” answered Flecker, shuffling through his envelopes. “There was no sign of a struggle in the larch plantation?”
“No sign at all,” answered Dobson.
“Of course the search party had trampled about a bit; you don’t think they might have obliterated what signs there were?”
“I went down there myself on the Sunday, sir.” Inspector Miller looked nervously at the Chief Constable, but addressed himself to Flecker. “The ground was like a rock so there would have been no footprints or anything of that sort, but the bit of undergrowth at the side of the track was quite untrampled and young Random said that the colonel’s clothing was not disarranged at all as you’d expect if he’d been fighting.”
“Good. Thank you,” said Flecker. “That, pl
us the medical evidence—it mentions no superficial cuts or bruises—sounds conclusive. Who identified the gun?”
“Young Barclay,” answered Dobson.
“And you haven’t found the weapon which killed Miss Schmidt?”
“If we had, we should hardly have forgotten to tell you,” snapped Dobson irritably.
“Sorry, it was only a rhetorical question.” Flecker relapsed into thought and Browning watched sadly as his nice sharp pencil was chewed reflectively. The silence became irksome. Gage and Dobson looked at each other, and Miller shuffled his feet. At last Flecker spoke. “The contents of Colonel Barclay’s pockets; you sent us a list of them.” He scuffled in the folder and then, finding the appropriate page, began to read through the items. “Six loaded cartridges, one wallet. Here we are, contents of wallet: driving licence, AA and Brown-chester Country Club membership cards, etc., etc. Oh yes, three pounds ten in notes and a further five pounds in an envelope. What sort of envelope?” he asked, looking up at the Chief Constable.
“Just a perfectly plain envelope, so far as I know,” Dobson answered. “You’d better get it, Miller, and let the Chief Inspector have a look.”
Miller unlocked a cupboard and produced a cardboard box in which the contents of Colonel Barclay’s pockets had been neatly packed. The envelope was squarish, white and of good quality paper. It had been folded over once to fit in the wallet and bore no name or address.
“Was it sealed?” asked Flecker.
“Yes, but not very securely. We didn’t have much difficulty in opening it; you can see that from the envelope,” Miller answered.
“And only Colonel Barclay’s fingerprints,” said Flecker musingly, as he turned back to the folder. Suddenly he became brisk. “Could you lend us a large-scale map of the district?” he asked. “And a guide to show us the spot in the larch plantation where you found the Colonel’s body?”
“Any amount of maps,” said Miller, jumping to his feet and rummaging in a drawer of the filing cabinet which stood under the window. “And, as for a guide,” he glanced nervously at the Chief Constable, “I could take them myself sir, if they wouldn’t mind running me back afterwards. Better than taking Random off his beat again and I don’t suppose anyone else would find his way down through the woods, the path’s not very plain.”
They Died in the Spring Page 4