by Dean James
Jane held the paper in her lap and flashed the light onto it. It was a newspaper clipping from nearly thirty years ago. “Student dies in ski accident” the headline read. I skimmed the article quickly, then looked blankly at Jane.
“Did Colonel Clitheroe have a son?”
CHAPTER TWENTY
“You’re simply too impatient, Simon,” Jane said, X tapping the newspaper clipping with one gloved finger. “The answer is right here.”
“Oh,” I said. I had stopped reading the moment I saw the name. Lester Clitheroe had been an honors graduate of Oxford University, a former divinity student on holiday in Switzerland, I read further, when he died in a tragic accident He had apparently skied off the side of a mountain into a crevasse, and the body was never recovered. His companion on the holiday, his fellow student Neville Butler-Melville, had tried to save him, but to no avail. The crevasse into which Lester Clitheroe had disappeared was simply too deep and too difficult for anyone to attempt a rescue. Survivors included the victim’s parents, Athelstan and Georgina Clitheroe.
“So he was the colonel’s son,” I commented needlessly.
“Apparently so,” Jane said dryly. “I can’t imagine that there is more than one Athelstan Clitheroe in the world.”
“Why on earth would Abigail Winterton have such a clipping?” I asked Jane.
“Part of the pattern of a blackmailer is collecting all sorts of information about one’s targets. Goodness knows what else Abigail might have uncovered about the colonel’s past. This doesn’t seem to be of much use, but you never know.”
“Hmm...” I looked at the clipping again. “Maybe our dear vicar murdered this Lester Clitheroe. Maybe it wasn’t an accident at all and Miss Winterton somehow found out about it. Maybe it’s the vicar who killed her to cover up this heinous deed in his youth.”
“Really, Simon, you do have the imagination of a novelist,” Jane said lightly.
I wasn’t certain that Jane had intended that as a compliment, but I refused to take offense. “We’ll see,” I muttered. I leaned forward and picked up another of Miss Winterton’s romance novels from the shelf. Riffling through the pages, I found more bits of paper. Jane followed my example and started searching along with me. After going through every book on the shelves, probably at least two hundred, we had quite a collection of papers. Many of them were news clippings, but some of them were simply bits of notepaper on which someone had jotted down cryptic scribblings.
I sat back and surveyed our treasure trove. “So, what do we do with all this? Surely we can’t keep it all. The police should have it, don’t you think?”
“You’re quite correct, Simon,” Jane concurred. “We can’t keep this evidence. It must be turned over to the police. But after we make copies of everything, don’t you think? There’s no reason we can’t do that first, surely.” In the glow from the flashlight I could see her vulpine smile.
I laughed. “A woman after my own heart. Yes, let’s make copies first. I even have a small copying machine in my office in the cottage. But how do we arrange for the police to have this evidence without exposing our little venture in housebreaking?”
Jane thought for a moment. “I’ll call Detective Inspector Chase and tell him I need to get some books of mine that Abigail had borrowed. I’ve no doubt I can be persuasive enough. And no comments from you, Simon!” She paused to shine the flashlight in my face. “Once we’re up here, I’ll pick up one of the books and manage to discover the paper inside. The good detective inspector will catch on very quickly, I’m certain.”
“And how are the papers going to get back into the books?” I asked. “After we copy everything, we bring all the bits and bobs back and stuff them into the books again, I take it?”
Jane laughed. “You do have a talent for stating the obvious, Simon.”
I helped Jane stack the papers into as neat a pile as we could manage; then we wrapped them all in an extra black scarf Jane had brought along. We sat on the bed for a moment, surveying the room.
“Do you suppose there’s any use in our trying to find a copy of that play?” I said.
“The police don’t seem to have been as thorough as they should have,” Jane said, indicating the papers rolled up in her scarf. “They might have overlooked it, though I should think it would be more difficult to hide.”
I borrowed the flashlight from Jane and shone it discreetly around the room. “And if Abigail herself was the author, she doesn’t seem to have written it on a computer.”
“Abigail was rather distrustful of modern electronics,” Jane said. “If she wrote the play, she did it the old-fashioned way, either by hand or on a typewriter. There’s an old manual typewriter downstairs in the shop.”
We made a cursory examination of the room, trying the most unlikely places, hoping to chance upon a copy of the mysterious play, but our efforts yielded us nothing except a few nosefuls of dust.
We eased back downstairs and into the night. I checked my watch, and it was only a few minutes past the three-quarter hour. Our stealthy activities hadn’t taken very long.
We walked silently through the night back to my cottage. Inside my office, I quickly set up the copy machine, turned it on to let it warm up, then asked Jane if she’d like some tea while we worked. She said she would, and I departed to the kitchen to prepare the tea.
When I came back, Jane was busily copying Abigail Winterton’s collection of papers. I took over while Jane sipped at her tea. The job was tedious, for it took time to line the scraps of paper up properly on the copier, then remove them and set up another batch. But after half an hour, we had copied everything. I made a copy of the copies for Jane to take home and study on her own. Then I took a last gulp of my tea, helped Jane wrap the originals into her scarf, and we hustled back down the lane to put the evidence back where it belonged.
By the time we were finished, it was nearly four A.M. Jane and I decided that we’d both like a chance to rest a bit before tackling the next job: making sense of Abigail Winterton’s collection of papers. We agreed to meet a bit past ten in Jane’s cottage. That would give me time to set Giles to work on something, then get out of his way for a while. And out of temptation’s reach, I thought with a flash of humor.
Back at home, I napped for an hour, then was up again, watching the glow of dawn spreading and working away at my next best-seller. What a comforting phrase! That’s all the stimulus I need to start writing.
By the time Giles knocked on my door at nine, a whole hour early, I was suitably dressed for my visit to Jane, plus I had a long list of tasks for Giles. That should keep him busy for a couple of days at least.
I responded to his cheeky “Good morning, handsome!” with a rueful smile and a shake of the head.
When I handed him the list of tasks, he merely grinned and said, “No problem, Simon. Your wish is my command.”
“And you’re incorrigible, Giles! But I suspect that you revel in that fact.”
He offered me another cheeky grin, then set to work. I sat at my desk, doing a bit of research for the masterpiece-in-progress until time to go to Jane’s. Giles worked quietly, occasionally humming to himself. I pretended not to recognize the tune to “Going Outta My Head Over You.” He was even more shameless than I can be—when the occasion warrants.
A few minutes before ten, I put aside my work, adjured Giles to behave, and then walked slowly to Jane’s cottage.
Jane opened her front door before I had the chance to knock, and she hurried me inside to a spot on her sofa. I plumped down and made myself comfortable, and I laid beside me the folder containing my copies of Abigail Winterton’s papers.
“Why the all-fired hurry, Jane? Whatever has got into you?” I asked in amusement. In the brief time I had known her, I had never seen Jane in a hurry over anything. She was always so calm and detached.
“I’m burning with curiosity, Simon. Aren’t you?” Jane almost snapped at me.
“If you were that curious, why didn’t you s
tart reading through these papers on your own?” Goodness me, it really was amusing to see this side of Jane.
Jane fixed me with a glare that could have frosted even Gloriana herself. “Because I’ve had other matters to attend to this morning, Simon. Such as calling Detective Inspector Chase and arranging to meet him at Abigail’s to find those books I lent her. Two o’clock this afternoon. Not to mention calling at the chemist’s to pick up a refill of my pills! With all that out of the way, we can concentrate for a while on this.”
She waved a hand to indicate the papers. “I think the first thing we ought to do is number the pages of our respective copies so that we can refer to them more easily.”
“Yes, good idea, Jane,” I said. She came to sit beside me on the sofa. I drew out my favorite Mont Blanc from my jacket pocket, and we commenced to organize and number the pages of our copies.
Once that was done, we started with page one. At some point, we might have to cut the pages apart and reassemble them in a different fashion, depending on their subjects. In another life, I think I would have made a good cataloger in a library. I like having things organized myself (though you’d never tell it by my messy desk), and Jane seemed to share that tendency.
Jane and I read the various bits on page one together. The first one puzzled me because it seemed to be an accounting of some sort. There was a name at the top of the scrap that said “Harriet Jenkins”; beneath it were figures representing years, and across from the years were various amounts, like three pounds or five pounds. There were gaps between years, and sometimes the amounts were large, sometimes small. But over the course of some twenty-five years, Harriet Jenkins had apparently paid out over three hundred pounds to Abigail Winterton.
“What’s the story behind this, do you think?” I asked Jane.
She laughed. “Harriet Jenkins is known throughout the parish for her prize-winning roses. I’d guess that if we checked the years indicated here, they would correspond with the years in which Abigail was judge for the parish flower show.”
“Little thank-you gifts, do you think?” I said cynically.
“But of course, Simon. Nothing so crude as a bribe, naturally.” Jane laughed again. “Harriet does produce some lovely roses, but that collection of blue ribbons means more to her than I would have suspected.”
A similar record on page one caught my eye. “What’s the story, then, with this Diana Daye?”
Jane thought for a moment. “Ah, yes, she raises Pekingese. Blue ribbons at the parish dog show, I would imagine.”
Evidently prize Pekes were worth more than roses, or else Diana Daye was wealthier. The sums she had paid out amounted to well over fifteen hundred pounds.
“What do I do to get myself chosen as a judge for some of these things, Jane? Sure sounds like a good way to make money!”
Jane offered me a very pained look. “For the sake of our friendship, Simon, I choose to believe that was a joke. In poor taste but nevertheless a joke.”
“But of course, Jane,” I said, a tiny bit nettled. “I assure you I haven’t the least need of taking money from these poor folk.” The woman certainly had a fastidious sense of humor. Maybe if she were around me long enough, she’d lighten up a bit.
We found numerous other records of payments like these. It seemed that Abigail Winterton had done a thriving business in handing out prizes at various parish contests. There were some names that Jane didn’t recognize, so she suspected that Abigail might have extended her operations to the county level.
In addition to the accounts of monies paid, we found numerous news clippings, most of which detailed some sort of indiscretion or incident involving locals. Jane observed that a number of those involved had since moved from the village. Evidently they found it easier to move away than to put up with Abigail Winterton’s intrusion into their privacy.
There were several clippings involving Everard and Samantha Stevens. At one point, about five years ago, Mrs. Stevens had caught her husband in flagrante delicto with a chorus girl in an apartment they owned in Paris. The resulting injuries to the chorus girl and to Mr. Stevens had been worthy of several inches of type. I approved Mrs. Stevens’s gumption; she wasn’t as passively accepting of her boorish husband as I had thought.
She was also capable of violence, as I pointed out to Jane.
“Most interesting,” Jane agreed. “She certainly bears watching.”
We came again to the clipping about the death of Lester Clitheroe. “I wonder what significance this has?” I said aloud.
“We’ll have to call upon Colonel Clitheroe and try to find out something more about his family. There may be a story there, or it may be nothing more than a terrible tragedy.” Jane tapped her fingers restlessly on the paper. “I’ve never been inside the colonel’s cottage. He’s a bit reclusive, though he does involve himself in some things. But he is an avid gardener.” She turned to look at me. “Your garden is in desperate need of help, Simon, don’t you think?”
Catching her idea, I nodded enthusiastically. “Of course. And since I’ve heard the colonel is such an expert, surely he can advise me on what to do. Capital idea, Jane!”
“Perhaps we can call upon him around tea time. I’ll call him later and sound him out,” Jane said.
“But you seem to be quite the expert as well,” I pointed out. “To judge from what I’ve seen of your garden. Won’t the colonel think it rather odd that I’m consulting him rather than you?”
Jane’s eyes narrowed as she stared at me. “No, I think not.” She sighed heavily. “First, I have others do the work on my garden, Simon. I’m no expert. Second, the colonel is a man who would think it only natural that another man, namely you, would wish to consult him rather than me, a mere woman.”
Well, I wasn’t going to argue with that, so I turned a page and focused on the next bit of scandal-in-the-making. There had been a few full-page items among Abigail Winterton’s collection, and this was one of them. A letter, which seemed to be a copy, it was dated nearly eight years ago and was signed by one Alistair Hinrichs, who appeared to be a Cambridge don. The letter was addressed to Giles Blitherington, and in it Professor Hinrichs bewailed the shabby treatment Giles had received at the hand of Trevor Chase. Furthermore, Professor Hinrichs assured the “darling boy” that he would be happy to assist in any attempts to clear his name so that he could resume his place at Cambridge. For whatever reasons, Giles had apparently chosen not to accept the offer, for he had never gone back to Cambridge. Or perhaps Hinrichs had promised more than he could deliver.
If nothing else, however, it corroborated to some extent Giles’s version of what had happened between him and Trevor. I mulled it over for a moment, then told Jane what I was thinking. I briefly sketched for her the two different versions of the story that I had heard and then asked her what she thought.
“I can corroborate Giles on at least one point,” Jane said immediately. “I do know that Trevor was fully aware of where Giles lived because he came to Snupperton Mumsley to spend a few days with the Blitheringtons that Christmas after Giles’s first term at Cambridge. So Trevor most assuredly lied about not knowing where Giles lived. And if he lied about that, I’m inclined to think that he may have lied about everything else.” She fell silent for a moment. “Giles is definitely spoiled and used to getting his own way, but most of the time, he’s not really spiteful or malicious. I think that I would have to believe Giles’s version of the story.”
I felt more relieved to hear that than I would have cared to admit to Jane. Or even to myself.
“That being the case,” I said, “do you think any of this gives Trevor a motive for murdering Abigail Winterton?”
“If the full story were ever to come out, Trevor would be completely humiliated,” Jane said. “The Blitheringtons have been here since the year dot, and that still counts, believe me. Lady Prunella is tolerated, even affectionately in some quarters, because she does manage to do quite a lot of good, sometimes despite herself. Trevor
would most definitely be seen in a bad light, and the villagers would ostracize him. He’d have to leave. But would he kill to stop that from happening? Or because he got tired of the blackmail? I’m not sure.”
I agreed with Jane. She knew him better than I, certainly. It could be a very powerful motive for murder. But perhaps someone else had had a more compelling one.
We went back to our reading. There was a clipping of the wedding announcement of Neville Butler-Melville and Letty Clivering cut from an Oxford paper twenty-five years ago. The couple had honeymooned for a month in Denmark, where they had originally met the year before, according to the article.
Neither Jane nor I could figure out what significance this one had other than an interest in the vicar’s life. But one question did occur to me.
“She didn’t even know the man at that point, did she? I mean, Abigail Winterton didn’t. So how could she have known to cut out and keep this clipping? And from an Oxford paper, nevertheless?”
“To answer your last question first, Simon, Abigail subscribed to newspapers from all over. That I knew already. As for her interest in Neville, well, he’s almost a local boy. He grew up in a nearby village, and Abigail probably has known him for a long time.” She indicated the wedding announcement. “And by the time he and Letty married, Neville had already been assigned to our parish. He assumed his duties immediately after his honeymoon. He and Letty have been here ever since.” My eyes had drifted back to the page while Jane talked, and I was idly skimming. Then my eyes riveted upon something.
“Good grief, Jane!” I said excitedly. “Just look at this!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The item to which I referred so excitedly was another letter, this time an original. I skimmed it quickly. Dated several years ago, it had been written by a friend, someone named Parthenope Foxwell, who obviously well knew Abigail Winterton’s snoopy tendencies. I read it again more slowly; and Jane did the same.