The Nursery Rhyme Murders

by Anthony Litton

  ‘We shouldn’t keep you long, Sir Ian,’ he replied courteously, as Ian lead them into his study. What a lovely room, thought Calderwood, as he glanced round, noticing its elegant proportions and a bay window looking out onto the wide lawns, home to a small covey of peacocks. Sunlight flashed off their glittering heads which rose and fell as they sought food in the manicured grass. Ian’s desk was placed firmly in the centre of the large window, giving him the opportunity to stop work and enjoy the serenity of the view; something, Calderwood felt, that he rarely did, judging by the petulant frown which seemed a fixed part of his features.

  ‘Well, come on then, tell me. Is it old Rutherford?’ he asked abruptly as he sat down behind his big desk.

  ‘Formal identification is still awaited, but we’re working on that assumption,’ replied Calderwood neutrally.

  ‘But surely…!’ Ian shrugged his thin shoulders impatiently and left the rest unsaid. He wanted the interview over quickly for reasons of his own and was anxious to get rid of them both. ‘Anyway, what do you want to know?’ he asked ungraciously, rising and pouring a large drink, though only for himself.

  ‘Firstly, Sir Ian, we’d like to confirm your whereabouts between, say, 6am and 8am this morning and, secondly, to try and discover whether you heard or saw anything remotely out of the ordinary between those times,’ Calderwood replied.

  ‘Ha! Both easy! I was asleep in bed until around 7.30 when Appleton, my valet, woke me, so that’s that sorted! As to my hearing or seeing anything remotely out of the ordinary – well, as I was asleep, that rather answers your second question, does it not?’

  ‘Indeed. We’ll need to speak to Mr Appleton, and any other staff you have in the house, of course, so he can, no doubt, confirm the time he woke you,’ remarked Calderwood, ignoring the irritated glance he got from the baronet, clearly peeved that his word wasn’t good enough.

  ‘And can anyone confirm that you were asleep until 7.30?’ he asked quietly. ‘You appreciate, I’m sure Sir Ian, as a Justice of the Peace yourself, that we must ask these sort of questions,’ he added, neatly forestalling the display of petulant wrath about to burst forth.

  The baronet’s expression made it clear, however, that he thought his status as a JP should actually exclude him from being asked such questions, although he didn’t actually voice the thought. Shallow and self-centred he may be, but entirely stupid he wasn’t, and he could plainly see in the calm but steely look from the young police officer’s grey eyes, that it would get him precisely nowhere. A bully, he never took on those he knew were either stronger than himself or those who would fight back.

  ‘There is no one,’ he replied at last, through tight-lips. ‘My wife has her own room, so you’ll have to take my word for it, won’t you?’ he added, his voice curving upwards with a sneer.

  ‘How well did you know Dr Rutherford?’ the DI asked.

  ‘Know? Know?’ he repeated, dismissively. ‘Not at all, naturally, other than the occasional visit when I needed something locally and couldn’t get to my usual man in London. In Harley Street,’ he added, lest there be any doubt.

  The interview finished shortly afterwards and they asked to speak to his wife. She appeared after a long delay, her own displeasure obvious in the cold, closed features of her thin, almost gaunt, heavily made-up face.

  The resulting interview with her didn’t prove any more pleasant than the one that they’d just had with her husband. In Bulmer’s view, it was worse. Indeed, he found that his left wing beliefs were very much reinforced by the displays of uncaring arrogance that both man and wife had shown; that they were unaware of much of it, only, in his view, made it worse.

  ‘I must say, Inspector, I tend to agree with my husband. Isn’t it a waste of your time interviewing us?’

  ‘Why would you think that, Lady Blaine?’ the young DI asked courteously.

  ‘It’s obvious, surely!’ she said impatiently. ‘Why on earth would we want to murder some old man? Some local we hardly knew? It’s absurd! Surely you can see that?’ she added, as both men merely looked at her silently for a moment.

  After a moment Calderwood responded coolly. ‘Hardly just “some old man” or just “some local” surely? He was a long-time resident and prominent member of one of the villages on this estate; an estate owned by your husband. Not to mention the fact that the death occurred only a few hundred yards from your house, a house, moreover in which you were resident at the time,’ he ended, his official tones masking his fury at her dismissive arrogance.

  ‘My husband and I, Inspector, lead very busy lives and we are frequently not here. Indeed, I myself only returned from town last night, so no, it’s not surprising that we scarcely know the man. And, I may say, that your inference that I was in the house nearby, and may have been somehow involved, I find insulting, or I would if it weren’t incorrect,’ she added, a small note of triumph in her voice.

  ‘You weren’t in the house? May I ask where you were, then?’

  ‘I was out riding, as I am virtually every morning I’m in the country. A ride, I may add, which took me across the estate, right out into the forested area that used to be run by the Forestry Commission.’

  ‘Alone?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. My husband no longer rides and my son is still abroad.’

  ‘Which route did you take to get to the forest? Bulmer asked looking at the ordinance survey map he’d brought with him from the station when they’d received the initial call.

  ‘I took the bridle path which runs from near the stables and down behind the house. It leaves the grounds just past the castle ruins. Yes, it does take me by the spot old Rutherford, or whoever it was, was found, and no, I saw nor heard nothing. I was…’ she broke off suddenly. ‘…I had some thinking to do,’ she added after a moment.

  ‘Thinking?’

  ‘Yes, oh nothing deep. It’s just that I have a speech to give next week to the local WI. It always takes me an age,’ she added, with a little laugh.

  ‘How long were you out riding?’

  ‘Lord! I can’t remember exactly,’ she said, her increasing impatience with a process that she saw as beneath her, very clear.

  ‘Approximately will do for the moment,’ Calderwood persisted, the quiet courtesy of his tone not disguising his intention to get answers, however long it took.

  ‘Oh, from about 7.30 until around 9, 9.30,’ she responded petulantly. ‘I returned via the back lanes, so knew nothing of what had happened until I was in the stable yard and the groom told me something had happened.’

  ‘I see, so you neither saw nor heard anything at all unusual, on your way to, or back from, your ride?’

  ‘No, I’ve already made that clear, I think. Is that all? I really am terribly busy this morning.’

  ‘Yes that’s all for the moment, Lady Blaine, but we may have more questions as the case unfolds. I’d be grateful therefore, if you do plan to leave the area, if you could discuss your plans with us beforehand,’ replied Calderwood impassively.

  What a poisonous couple, he thought later, as, all interviews completed, they drove away down the long winding drive, its white gravel gleaming in the dying sunlight. And what a waste of such a beautiful house, he mused, the artist in his soul offended by the sacrilege. Even Bulmer, who was the first to admit to possessing few, if any, of the finer feelings where art and beauty were concerned, had been impressed as the house first came into view on their arrival, several tiring hours previously. The sweep of the stone steps leading up to the double doors, themselves set in a carved frame, along with the strong, central triangular stonework set over the doorway and its rows of large windows set flush with the warm red brickwork and the stone ornamentation on its corners, made it one of the most impressive houses in the county. With the Virginia creeper softening its symmetrical lines, it was also, besides being a prime example of the Queen Anne style of architecture, an incredibly beautiful and restful house to look at. Fronting, as it did, part of a much older house, replete with
rumoured ghosts, much of it dating back to the late Plantagenet’s, it was also one of the most intriguing houses in the region.

  At least the indoor staff had been relatively easy to sort out, thought Calderwood, resting his head against the passenger seat’s back rest. The still demanding lives of household servants had meant that they were all accounted for during the relevant time. By 7am all four, including the two that lived out, had been beginning the long day to be spent in serving the squire and his lady. More importantly, all had seen each other at least two or three times, if only briefly, during the crucial time period so, at this stage, neither Calderwood or Bulmer saw them as being involved. Which left only the six outdoor staff – the two gardeners, two gamekeepers, one groom and the Land Agent.

  Chapter 5

  ‘I wonder what would happen to the two of them if all their staff suddenly stopped functioning?’ Bulmer had earlier mused in disgust, as they walked round the house to the Estate Office. ‘Probably collapse in a useless heap, just like puppets with no one to pull their strings,’ he muttered.

  Calderwood said nothing, well aware of how easy it would be to stoke his subordinate’s left-wing fury, but he himself couldn’t help comparing the vulgarity and arrogance of the two current occupiers of the lovely old house, to the quiet breeding and natural good manners of Eleanor Blaine-Appleby, who’d left it almost a lifetime previously.

  Fortunately for the blood pressures of both officers, the attitude and manner of the estate’s agent, interviewed immediately after his employers, was entirely different. His simple courtesy and obvious desire to help were a complete contrast to their arrogant indifference.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks. I’ve kept fiendishly busy all day. It’s the only way I can cope, to be honest,’ he admitted frankly in response to Calderwood’s polite enquiry.

  You don’t look fine, thought Bulmer dispassionately as he and Calderwood took seats opposite Robert’s desk in his large, cluttered office. The Agent seemed to have aged ten years or more in the few hours since they’d first seen him. They had met him during their previous time in the village and they knew that normally, with his short, stocky build and fair, weather-beaten features, he looked a walking advertisement for a typical hale and healthy countryman. Not today though, thought the DS as he prepared to take notes. All colour had left Robert’s face, leaving it a blank, almost bleached, canvas; his pale blue eyes providing virtually the only colour.

  ‘How long have you worked for Sir Ian?’ Calderwood asked, trying with straightforward questions to settle the obviously still shocked man in front of him.

  ‘Thirteen years or so. I came a year or so before Sir Pelham died.’

  ‘He was Sir Ian’s father, I believe?’ said Calderwood.

  Robert nodded, ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘And you report directly to Sir Ian?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ replied Robert, his well-bred voice carefully neutral.

  ‘I understand that a John Abbott, one of the gardeners, found the body; he then phoned you, I gather?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’

  ‘What did you do when you responded to Mr Abbott’s phone call?

  ‘I went there straight away, obviously. Then I saw… saw the body and phoned the police, then Sir Ian and then Eleanor,’ he replied.

  ‘Ourselves and Sir Ian, I can understand, but why phone Mrs Blaine-Appleby?’ asked Calderwood curiously.

  ‘Oh, force of habit, I suppose,’ he shrugged. ‘I got to know Eleanor twenty odd years ago, even before I got the job here. Her father was still alive then. She often came up to see him, or to ride one of the horses she kept here. She did the same when Sir Pelham, her brother, owned the estate. He was a lot older than her, but they were very close,’ he added, looking a little uncomfortable.

  Interesting, thought Bulmer. It was one helluva strong habit to last so many years after the previous squires had both died. No wonder the present one was looking daggers at him and Desmond Appleby this morning.

  ‘When did you realise that it might have been Dr Rutherford?’

  ‘Immediately – by the clothes. They were what he always wore when he was out bird-watching,’ Robert replied.

  ‘The body was found face down. Did you move it, even a little, to try and see if it was him? It’d be quite a natural thing to do.’

  ‘Yes and I might have done it instinctively, except John told me he hadn’t touched anything and that made me realise I shouldn’t either. One of the benefits of all those murder mystery shows on TV – we know what we shouldn’t do!’ he replied with a brief, weak smile.

  Calderwood who had caustic views on many of those shows, smiled politely. ‘Fair enough,’ was all he said. ‘Did you see or hear anything? Anything at all on your way to the castle?’

  ‘No, nothing. I was already here, in my office, so it only took me a minute or so to get there,’ the agent added.

  Calderwood nodded. That fitted in with his own calculations. Situated as it was in a corner of the stable block, the estate office was little more than one, perhaps two, minutes brisk walk to the little glade.

  ‘Was anyone with you?’

  ‘No, Moira – my wife, who works here a couple of mornings a week – was still at home. I saw Ben, the groom, briefly, when I arrived at around 7.30. He was just saddling up Ebony, Lady Blaine’s horse, but other than that, I saw no one.’

  ‘You didn’t see Lady Blaine, yourself?’

  ‘No. I heard her voice a little later, but that’s it, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What about before you got to your office? Were you with your wife then?

  ‘No, again, unfortunately, I wasn’t. I was over in Patchett’s wood. It’s a small wooded area on the edge of the park itself,’ he added. ‘I had a couple of contractors working there and I wanted to see how they were doing.’

  ‘Contractors?’

  ‘Yes. These days we tend to use contractors for a lot of estate work; Sir Ian believes that it’s more cost effective than employing men with specialist skills all year round,’ Robert explained, again in a neutral voice.

  ‘So, they saw you when? Around sevenish?’

  ‘No.’ the agent replied ruefully. ‘They weren’t there. ‘It’s a small firm, just father and son, really. Just as I got to the wood, the son phoned me; his father had had a mild heart attack just as they were leaving to come over, so he was at the hospital with him. He was very apologetic, but it couldn’t be helped, obviously,’ Robert ended.

  Calderwood nodded, saying nothing, but very aware that the call having been to the agent’s mobile, meant that he had no alibi at all for any time up to when he saw the groom in the stable yard. He was struck how much the agent’s understanding contrasted with his employer’s selfishness and wondered again how Robert stuck with the estate. Calderwood knew that any man with his skills would be able to walk into any number of similar jobs.

  ‘Did you know Doctor Rutherford well?’ he asked, moving on.

  ‘Yes, fairly well; we both played Bridge, so we and half a dozen others met fairly frequently.’

  ‘Were you aware of any tensions around Dr Rutherford, between him and another player, for example? Anything that could have led to his death?’

  ‘Absolutely not! Quite the reverse. I’ve never seen a man so popular, even loved, as Alan was. I’ve been going over and over everyone we both knew, to see if anything occurred to me, but there’s nothing, nothing at all’

  ‘Thank you. We’ll need a full statement off you in due course, but I think that’s it for now,’ Calderwood said, rising to leave.

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t be of much help,’ Robert replied, himself rising courteously and walking with them to the door.

  Having got directions from the agent, they drove the short distance to the Abbott’s small cottage, set deep in the woodland surrounding the estate’s extensive parkland.

  ‘Take your time, Mr Abbott,’ Bulmer said quietly, a short while later, taking the lead on John Abbott’s interview. ‘We�
��re sorry to have to bother you so soon after this morning’s event, but…’

  ‘Oh don’t worry, lad, best get it done now, though I don’t think there’s much more I can tell thee,’ he replied. ‘Not on top of what I told young John, this morning,’ he added. Bulmer smiled. “Young John”, born in the village, was now approaching the age of forty and had been a policeman for almost twenty years. Despite that, he would never be known to the older residents as anything but “young John”.

  ‘If you could take us through this morning, what time you left home, that sort of thing,’ Bulmer prodded gently, as the elderly man just sat quietly looking into the middle-distance. He’s obviously still in a degree of shock, thought Calderwood, sitting back and quietly watching. He liked what he saw. Unlike Dennis Hickwell, who, seemingly, had matured in a vat of malevolent vinegar, he sensed a warmth in the man in front of him. The brown face, deeply weathered from his years of working outside in all weathers, gave out a feeling of generosity of spirit and kindness, both traits very much alien to his irascible old contemporary. Although obviously not far short of retirement, his stocky body still showed most of the signs of strength that had first attracted the damsel who became his wife, almost forty years previously - and who was sitting, with firm immovability, on the settee beside her husband. She also had kindly features, though they were plump with the red of a rosy apple, rather than tanned, but both policemen strongly felt – correctly – that if they upset her husband too much she would swiftly step in and, equally swiftly, eject them from her house.

  ‘It were my usual time of around 3 or 4 minutes before 8 o’clock - my starting time is 8, you see – when I… I… found him.’ A teetotaller, he took a deep drink of the very strong tea his wife had insisted they all have and which threatened to remove the backs of the policemen’s throats.

  ‘You can be that precise?’ Bulmer asked looking up from his note-taking in surprise.