“Oh, we believe the most unlikely things,” said Flecker easily. “Fact is stranger than fiction, etcetera, etcetera. Right, Mr. Mullins, if you’re ready.”
Mullins looked at his oily hands and working clothes and asked if he hadn’t better go home and have a wash first, but Browning, assuring him that he could wash at the police station, packed him firmly into the car. All the way to Crossley Mullins talked; mostly he told anecdotes of his uncle’s experiences as a special constable, and Browning, inserting a word here and there, kept him happy, while Flecker sat at the back carefully holding the gun. When Mullins, glorying in every moment of his sudden importance, had signed the typed statement and had his fingerprints taken, Flecker elected to drive him back to Winmore End and sent Browning to pack their overnight cases and to tell the manageress of The Swan that they had to go to London unexpectedly, but would be back on Sunday or Monday.
Mullins’s flow of conversation continued unabated all the way back to Clint’s Lane and Flecker waited until the last moment to ask his question. “What was it like,” he asked, stopping the car outside the farm gate, “working for two masters?”
“It didn’t trouble us much,” Mullins answered without reserve. “We knew ’oo the boss was; what the Colonel said went, you see, and Mr. Paul knew it too. I wouldn’t ’ve wanted to be in ’is shoes, the way the Colonel spoke to ’im sometimes. ’Ernes said ’e’d ’ave given in his notice many a time if ’e’d had to take ’alf what ’e’s ’eard Mr. Paul put up with. Not very nice, you know; it isn’t as if ’e were just a bit of a boy. If ’e killed his old man, I wouldn’t altogether blame ’im, but why should ’e kill the German girl, that’s what I don’t understand.”
Chapter Eight
By dint of much persuasion Flecker got the report out of the forensic laboratory by noon on Saturday. The information it contained was more or less as he expected. The blood on the butt of the gun was of the same group as Miss Schmidt’s: The only distinct fingerprints belonged to Ken Mullins, and the few fragmentary ones they had managed to bring up were Colonel Barclay’s. The whole surface of the gun appeared to have been wiped or smeared and neither barrel had been fired since it was last cleaned. The small shred of black wool was thought to belong to a variety of cloth known as pebble tweed and from the grey fluff and the white twist adhering to it, the inference was that it came from a greyish-black tweed with a white pebble effect. Large quantities of this tweed had been manufactured four years earlier, when pebble tweeds had been in fashion, and sold mainly for ready-made clothes, both male and female.
“In fact they can’t help us much,” said Flecker, passing the report to Browning.
“And if we went round the Barclay and Sinclair wardrobes we’d find a pebble tweed coat in every one, if the rest of this case is anything to go by,” complained Browning.
“Oh, things aren’t as bad as that; at least the experts agree that the Colonel’s gun hadn’t been fired,” Flecker told him, “and that settles one point for us.”
“You mean that Mrs. Mullins’s six o’clock shot and the one Harris heard at ten or a quarter-past six were both fired by the murderer?”
“Looks like it, bearing in mind the fact that Harris may be an unreliable witness.”
“Well, if Harris and Mrs. Carlson are speaking the truth, and she seemed a straightforward sort, that lets Paul Barclay out, without bothering about what time he left the Sinclairs.”
“Yes, but there are a devil of a lot of ‘ifs’ to it. I don’t feel inclined to rule out anyone yet. Look, I’m going back to Crossley this afternoon to keep an eye on things and I’ll try to find out a bit more about Miss Schmidt; previous employers and so on. Then, if there’s any lead to follow up here, I’ll telephone you on Sunday; otherwise you can come down on an early train on Monday morning.”
“You’re sure you won’t be wanting me over the weekend?” asked Browning doubtfully.
“Positive. It’s not devotion to duty, I’m really going back because I want to; I’ve no love for London in the spring.”
*
Later as Flecker drove towards Crossley, he rather wished that he had Browning’s company. He felt detached and solitary among the pleasure-seeking family parties and fell to reckoning how old his children would be by now if he and Pauline had stayed together and had them. He reminded himself that in that atmosphere of endless and exhausting quarrels the children would have grown up maladjusted; things were better as they were. Trying to remove the last tinge of regret, he studied the men in the family parties. Men, he decided, struggling vainly to make both ends meet. Fastidious men, hating the bottle and nappy business—the messy side of raising children. Men burdened with school fees or wives who kept up with the Joneses; men subject to endless nagging because they couldn’t keep up with the Joneses. But even if you persuaded yourself that marriage was hell, there were still the lucky devils with girls beside them and all the fun ahead.
His mind travelled on to Winmore End. The cascade of yellow down the wall of the Old Rectory, the blue and white sitting-room with the sunlight on the books. There were intelligent women. Women whom fate had knocked about a bit—not bright young creatures in search of a fairy prince—but adult women who’d lived and learned and grown in stature by doing so. He shook himself and superimposed the grey shadow of police pay and promotion across his mental picture of the blue and white sitting-room. Though he was a useful backroom boy, he was hardly the sort to rise high; he was too impatient of routine, too unconventional. He’d need superintendent’s pay at least to marry the sort of woman with whom he wanted to spend the rest of his life and, by the time he had it, he would be bald, eccentric and egocentric and have false teeth. He sighed and turned his mind back to the case.
If one kept hammering one’s head against a brick wall long enough something usually turned up and he was safe from Dobson until Monday, when he would have to produce some sort of a report. Chief constables were a dismal lot, he reflected; they asked central office for help and then, when you arrived all eager beaver to do your best for them they turned round and insinuated that they could have managed just as well, if not better, without you. But most jobs were like that, he supposed. After all, one was paid for doing them, one shouldn’t expect appreciation too. How often do I tell Browning that he’s wonderful? Flecker asked himself with a grin. Still, he knows he’s wonderful; he emanates an aura of cheerful complacency. But, perhaps when he’s tired or when he wakes in the middle of the night he starts to doubt and dwells on the fact that he’s still a second-class sergeant after God knows how many years and, as he can’t pass written exams, likely to stay that way.
Flecker had tea and idled at the Swan until he judged that the Sinclair children would be in bed, then, leaving the reds and yellows and the dark elongated cloud islands of the sunset behind him, he drove to Winmore End. He left the car in Church Lane, secret and green now for the quickthorn was in leaf and the chestnut in the Old Rectory stableyard had burst its buds and long folded fingers of green were unclenching and preparing to fan out. The late evening air was soft, warm and cherishing and, as Flecker walked down the passage to the Green, a single bird, overcome by the general feeling of euphoria, burst into liquid, trembling song.
Aubrey Sinclair opened the front door and stood looking at Flecker as though he was the last person he wanted to see. “I’m sorry to bother you so late,” the Chief Inspector said apologetically. “I wanted to ask Mrs. Sinclair for some more information about Miss Schmidt.”
“Oh, well, you’d better come in. My wife’s upstairs, she’s having trouble with one of the babies.”
“Oh dear, I could come back later or you may be able to help me.”
“I don’t suppose she’ll be long. I don’t think it’s anything serious; it sounded like the usual yells and screams. Oh, for the day when they become coherent and ask for the drink of water or the pot or the aspirin instead of just yelling.” He stood in the hall, obviously undecided whether to put Flecker in the ki
tchen or the sitting-room. “My brother-in-law and his wife are here,” he explained. Then, making up his mind, he opened the sitting-room door and, announcing loudly and brightly, “The Chief Inspector’s come to ask Veronica something about Hilda,” he ushered Flecker in.
Paul Barclay had evidently taken his family into his confidence and he looked the better for it, altogether less abject, thought Flecker, but Jean Barclay seemed hostile; she turned her back on him and made a pretence of looking out of the window.
Sinclair said, “I’ll go and see if I can take over from Veronica,” and he left the room, shutting the door behind him.
“It’s been a lovely day,” remarked Flecker.
Paul Barclay cleared his throat. “Yes, lovely,” he agreed, “but mind you we could have done with a shower or two; the land’s crying out for rain and if we don’t get it there’ll be a milk shortage before we know where we are.”
“They say the farmer is never satisfied,” observed Flecker.
“I don’t know that that’s altogether true, though I admit that we like our little grumble, just like anyone else.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Jean burst out as she swung round from the window. “There are two people dead and a bloody gun in our Land Rover and you go on and on talking about the weather.”
“Don’t you start, Jean,” said Paul Barclay, dropping the bright tone he’d put on for Flecker. “You’ve been the one calm person.”
“Well, I can’t stand all this pretence. It can snow for all I care. Why don’t you ask the Chief Inspector if he’s found out who dumped the gun in the Land Rover?”
Paul Barclay turned to Flecker. “I’ve told my wife about everything, including Mrs. Carlson,” he said. “Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair know too, and my mother,” he added a little ruefully.
“Good. That’s a great help; it’ll make things much easier for us,” said Flecker. He looked at Jean. “We found out something that may help us discover who put the gun in the Land Rover, but no absolute indication of who it was. And this is where you could help us,” he went on, turning back to Paul. “Could you make a list of all the places you left the Land Rover at between six o’clock last Saturday and whatever time it left Stones Farm on Monday morning? I don’t mean now, but when you’ve a minute.”
“Yes, of course.” Paul Barclay looked pleased with his task. “I may as well start now,” he said; “I mean I’m not doing anything.” He was searching the Sinclair writing table for paper when a harassed-looking Veronica burst in.
“Oh dear, it’s long past seven and I haven’t even begun to think about supper,” she wailed.
Jean said, “Can’t I do something, Veronica? Look, I can peel spuds.” Paul made an effort to take charge. “Sit down a minute, Veronica,” he said firmly. “I’ll get you a drink.”
“I’m the villain of the piece,” observed Flecker, “coming with my tiresome questions at such an inopportune moment, but I thought the family would be safely in bed.”
“They would be usually,” Veronica said sipping the sherry which Paul had handed to her; “it’s just that Simon’s become frightened of the dark and when he screams he wakes up the others and then it takes simply ages to get them all off to sleep again.”
“Well, I’m trying to find out a bit more of Miss Schmidt’s history and I wondered whether you knew anything of her previous employers? Either from references or from herself?”
“Not much,” answered Veronica. “As I told you before, Hilda wasn’t the sort of girl you could make a friend of. She didn’t confide in me at all, in fact she liked to be mysterious. The only job she told me anything about was the one just before she came to us. She wasn’t with children then, she worked in a teashop; it was in Marlborough or Winchester I think; or it might have been Sherborne—some town where there was a public school, anyway. Before that she’d always been with children.”
“I see,” said Flecker chewing his pencil reflectively; “and did you have a reference from the teashop?”
“Yes, but I remember I asked for one from one of the mothers. I mean I wanted her to look after children so the teashop reference didn’t cut much ice, but she said that both her jobs had been with army families and she’d left when they were posted abroad and then lost touch.”
“Sounds a bit fishy,” observed Flecker. “How did you get hold of her? Advertisement, agency or through friends?”
“It was through an advertisement and an agency,” answered Veronica. “You see, I saw an advertisement which said foreign girls as mothers’ helps or something, and when I wrote they sent Hilda to see me.”
“Can you remember the name of the agency?”
Veronica frowned. “No, but I think we kept it; we thought we might want it again. I might be able to find it.” She made for the writing table, which stood in a corner of the room and began to pull out drawers and scuffle among papers. Aubrey Sinclair came in then. “Peace reigns,” he said, looking complacent. “You flap so, Veronica, you make them worse.”
“You don’t remember the name of the agency that sent us Hilda, do you, darling?” asked Veronica, still scuffling. “The Chief Inspector wants it and I’m sure it’s here somewhere.”
“For heaven’s sake don’t do that to those papers, darling,” exclaimed Aubrey Sinclair irritably. “How do you think I’m ever going to find anything again now you’ve churned them up like that?”
“Well, you look then,” said Veronica mutinously and, abandoning the search, she sat down.
“If you can remember anything at all about the agency or even in what paper you saw the advertisement, we can probably trace it,” said Flecker, watching Sinclair search angrily and in vain.
“I have a feeling that it was in Knightsbridge, and we saw it in the New Statesman,” hazarded Veronica.
“Kensington,” corrected Sinclair. “Here it is.”
“That’s wonderful,” said Flecker, taking the newspaper cutting. “Thank you very much. I’ll have enquiries made in London and see what we can find. One other thing. Did Miss Schmidt ever seem unexpectedly flush with money? Did it ever occur to you that she seemed to have more than you paid her?”
“No, she always seemed very hard up,” Veronica answered. “I used to feel rather mean sometimes and wish I could pay her more.”
“Her post office book was in her handbag,” said Flecker thoughtfully, “and there are no unexpected riches there. All right, Mrs. Sinclair, never mind. Thank you very much. Good night,” he said generally, as he made for the door.
“We ought to go too, Jean,” announced Paul Barclay. “Ma’ll think we’ve deserted her and you know what she is about eating late.
“Oh, don’t be so ma-ridden,” retorted Jean. “It’s early, and anyway I want to talk to Veronica. You and Aubrey have another drink while I do the spuds and then we’ll go.”
“Oh, all right,” Paul gave way lugubriously, “but don’t blame me if Ma flies off the handle; you know what she is at the moment.”
Aubrey Sinclair let Flecker out of the front door as Jean and Veronica closeted themselves in the kitchen.
“Spuds,” said Jean. “Where do you keep them?”
“Oh, don’t bother, Jean, honestly. We don’t need them. We had an enormous lunch. If Aubrey’s hungry he can eat bread. Can you see the tin opener anywhere? Lucy’s been at this drawer again. She’s at an awful age now, she’s so mobile—”
“We’re going to start a family as soon as this business is over,” confided Jean abruptly. “It’ll mean no hunting next season, but still—I’d have done something about it before if I’d known Paul minded, but he never said.”
“No,” agreed Veronica, “he never does. Oh, Jean, I am glad; it’ll make all the difference.”
“Lesley Carlson’s going away,” Jean went on, whizzing a toy car up and down the edge of the table as she talked.
“So she ought.” Veronica spoke indignantly. “I’m sorry for her, but the unhappy time she had herself ought to make her all the more ca
reful not to bust up other people’s marriages.”
“I expect it was partly my fault,” said Jean. “It started in the autumn when I was away. You remember, first I went on that jumping course and then I stayed with the Keens in Ireland. Paul had just had that row with your father about changing from milk to beef and he was feeling pretty dreary; if I’d been here it wouldn’t have happened.”
“Oh dear, I do wish they’d hurry up and catch the murderer,” wailed Veronica. “Then we could all begin to forget this awful time.”
“I’m a bit afraid,” said Jean. “They’ve unearthed so many horrible things already I keep wondering what they’ll find out next. Do you think the police ever make mistakes, Veronica? That people are ever hanged for murders they haven’t committed?”
“No,” Veronica answered stoutly, though, as she said it, a nagging doubt was sown in her mind.
“But even if it’s someone in the village, poor old Harris gone a bit potty or something like that, things will never seem the same again,” said Jean dismally.
“Listen! That’s Simon calling. We’re never going to get any supper tonight,” cried Veronica, darting from the room.
*
On Sunday morning Flecker telephoned Browning, gave him the name and address of the agency which had supplied Hilda, and instructed him to collect every crumb of information about her that he could, before coming to Crossley on Monday. Flecker devoted the rest of the morning to the Sunday papers and then, after lunch, he drove up to Winmore End to walk in the woods. He left the car in Church Lane, and permitted himself one wistful glance at the east side of the Old Rectory before setting off along the road to Well Cottage.
The hedgerows were lush with the verdant growth of wild parsley, rooks cawed about unwieldy nests in the branches of green-flushed elms, the sun was warm on Flecker’s back and soon he decided to carry his coat. Four minutes’ brisk walking brought him to Well Cottage and another two took him up the headland of the ploughed field to the woodland path. On the edge of the woods the birds were singing, but as he walked on into the cool depths a cathedral quiet fell, broken only by the sudden startled clap of a wood pigeon’s wings and the distant murmurings of their soporific coo. Here too the anemones bloomed, white and frail against a background of brown leaves and grey trunks. And, deeper still, he came to clearings where the sun slanted into the woods and here were glades of bluebells, seas of translucent blue and green.
They Died in the Spring Page 11