by J. A. Lang
Faced with such accusations, Mayor Rory Gifford had decided to take a line of strenuous denial on all fronts. There had been no affair, he insisted. Yes, he had been at the Cotswold Grand Hotel on March 8th, but only to attend a Rotary Club dinner. As to his connection with Miranda Matthews, he professed an even deeper level of perplexity. There had also been no blackmail, no payments, and certainly no plans to put an end to Miranda Matthews’ scheme. A scheme he knew nothing about, of course. Because there had been no blackmail. Or affairs.
Yes, he had taken a walk down Warren’s Creek that Saturday lunchtime. To admire the scenery, he claimed, and get away from the hubbub of the Fayre. He’d come across Miranda’s floating body and immediately turned tail (presumably losing tail at the same time) and hurried back to the Fayre.
So why hadn’t he informed the police straight away of his discovery?
Because he knew they’d take it the wrong way, just like they were doing now.
Mrs Angela Gifford, visited at her own home, confessed to no knowledge of her best friend’s blackmail activities, nor of her husband’s workplace philandering. He had, she admitted in tremulous tones, been guilty of a number of extramarital missteps during their first years as man and wife, but that had been a long time ago. Rory would never do such a thing now, especially not with a career at Westminster to think about. It had to all be some kind of misunderstanding.
As for Miss Karole Linton, it didn’t take long for her to break down and admit to the affair, especially after being shown a few of the more unflatteringly angled shots. She claimed to have been taken in by the mayor’s silver-fox charms and his tales of woeful married life. However, she claimed she had no idea about Miranda’s blackmail scheme, nor of Mayor Gifford’s plans to put a rather terminal end to it.
All in all, by nine o’clock that evening, Mayor Rory Gifford had been taken into police custody on suspicion of the murder of Miss Miranda Matthews. Down at the Cowton Police Station, the case was declared as a large feather in the caps of all involved.
“Bah! It is all wrong. It cannot be!” Chef Maurice thumped his fist down on the table, sending pieces of cutlery flying.
Dinner service was over at Le Cochon Rouge, and the team was sat around the big table, Chef Maurice holding a spoon and a tub of the brown crab appetiser he claimed would not last until tomorrow, Dorothy inspecting the silverware for smudges, and Patrick applying ice to his shoulder to ease the strain caused by repetitive crêpe tossing after the night’s dessert special of Crêpe Suzanne. (Similar to Crêpe Suzette, except with double the Grand Marnier and extra singed eyebrows.)
Alf had disappeared off somewhere, possibly to work on yet another apocryphal recipe.
“What do you mean, all wrong?” said Arthur, who had come round to deliver the news of Mayor Gifford’s dramatic arrest. “They’ve traced the bank payments, and found Miranda’s fingerprints all over that note we found in his desk. It’s blackmail, all right. Fair and, well, unsquare.”
“Oui, I do not say that Monsieur le mayor was not a victim of blackmail. But why then does he murder, when he already gives Mademoiselle Miranda what she asks for in return for her silence?”
“Maybe he couldn’t trust that she’d keep schtum forever. Blackmail isn’t an easy habit to give up, I hear. Can’t see Gifford being happy, sitting in Parliament, knowing Miranda could come after him for more at any moment.”
“And what of the pipe? To take it from his very own garden? It is an imbécillité!”
“I guess he thought it was safer than going out and buying a foot of iron piping. People might talk.”
“And why choose the day of the Fayre?”
“Maybe something happened that week. Miranda wanted more from him, perhaps. He refused, and she was going to rumble him there and then. Big audience and all. A real bake-off bonanza.”
“Non, non. This I do not believe. There is something here, something that we do not see.”
“Come on now, old chap. You can’t deny the facts. After all—”
“Bah, the facts! Oui, the facts give an answer, but it is not the correct one. I know it, in here.” Chef Maurice prodded a thumb at his own ample stomach.
“It’s terrible, seeing our politicians carry on like that,” said Dorothy, holding a fork up to the light. Owing to her bad knee, which had been giving her trouble these last few weeks, she’d spent the last half hour industriously spreading the news via telephonic means, and was now free to put her leg up and bask in the satisfaction of a task well done. “Young enough to be his daughter, that girl is! He should be ashamed of himself.”
“I think he’ll be a lot more than ashamed once the courts are done with him,” said Arthur. “They’re saying it’s a life sentence, most likely.”
“And to think he had the cheek to run for Parliament this next election! Say what you like, I was never going to give him my vote. Shifty kind of fellow, I always thought.”
Arthur considered telling Dorothy that Beakley did not, in fact, form part of the Cowton constituency, but decided that such knowledge would simply rile the head waitress into further complaints about her rights to not vote for Mayor Gifford in the next elections.
“To tell the truth, I heard he didn’t have much of a chance of getting into Parliament, anyway,” said Arthur. “The current chap, Peter Ainsworth, is pretty popular with his constituents, and they’re not the sort to fix something that isn’t broken.”
“Bah, this case, it is all broken,” grumbled Chef Maurice.
“Oh, come on. You’re just upset that for once it wasn’t you who solved the crime. Justice has to come before ego, my friend. Just be glad they caught the chap.”
“Humph. Non, I am certain that we still miss something. Something most important.” He drained his mug of chocolat chaud and stood up. “I must go to think in the quiet. There can be no sleep until this case is solved!”
Ten minutes later, after a bout of sporadic thumping above them, the kitchen was serenaded by the snorting, chainsaw-buzzing sound of one slumbering chef, safe in the arms of Morpheus.
It was nearing midnight at The Skinny Jean, the latest bar favoured by the younger Cowton crowd. It had only opened a month ago, but already the dance floor had reached that critical point of stickiness whereby revellers were constrained to dancing on the spot, for fear of losing a shoe should they lift a tentative foot.
“Why the long face?” said PC Sara, nudging PC Lucy with her elbow and almost causing the latter to slip sideways off her barstool. “You’ve hardly said a word all evening.”
PC Alistair, weaving slightly, appeared back at the table with a tray of drinks. “Two pints of Longhorn Bitters”—he placed one of the foaming glasses in front of PC Lucy—“and one, um, Goings-On on the Beach,” he mumbled, handing the tall pink glass to PC Sara.
“Goings-On on the Beach is exactly what Miss Grumpy Boots here needs,” she said. She clinked her glass against PC Alistair’s pint. “We’ve just cracked a high-profile murder case, and unearthed a shocking scandal at the very top of local politics. So what’s with all the moping I see here?”
“I’m not moping,” muttered PC Lucy, who was slumped across the table, chin rested on folded arms. “I just think we might be missing something. If you listened to the way he was talking—”
“Oh, come on, don’t tell me you fell for Rory Gifford’s ‘I’m so innocent, look at my chin dimple’ routine,” said PC Sara severely. “We got our man. So let’s drink to us!”
She tipped back her glass, while PC Alistair sipped on his beer and looked surreptitiously down at the cocktail list. PC Lucy stared at her pint, sighed, then downed it all in one long gulp. The empty glass thumped back down onto the cardboard mat. “There. Happy?”
PC Sara regarded her friend. PC Lucy was a one-night-one-drink kind of woman. Downing her third pint in a row meant that something was definitely up. And she had an idea that it had nothing to do with death or politics.
“This is about that fellow of yours, i
sn’t it?”
“’Snone of my business, what he chooses to do with his life.”
“Rubbish. It’s completely your business. Take a firm line and tell him he can’t just go gallivanting up north and leave you here like this. Men appreciate a voice of authority. Isn’t that right, Al?”
“Yes, miss!”
“That wouldn’t work, not on Patrick,” said PC Lucy, her head now resting back on the table. “He’s not that kind of guy. His career means everything to him. He made a load of sacrifices to become a chef . . .”
“So you’re happy to just let him up and go like that, then?”
“Course not.” PC Lucy started to lift her head, then appeared to think better of it. “He’s—” hiccup “—the best guy I’ve ever met. I thought this might actually—” hiccup “—go somewhere, you know? But they say, if you love someone, you’ve got to let them go . . .”
“Maybe I should leave—” started PC Alistair, looking uncomfortable.
“Oh, don’t worry, Al. She won’t remember any of this tomorrow.”
“Course I swill,” said PC Lucy, sitting up, indignant and slightly swaying. “Just like I’ll remember the exact moment when the only guy I’ve ever really loved goes sweeping out the door—” She flung out one arm, almost taking out PC Alistair’s half-finished beer.
“Oooo-kay, that’s enough,” said PC Sara, standing up and putting an arm around her friend’s shoulder. “Miss One-Drink here needs to be getting home. You okay getting back, Al?”
PC Alistair nodded. As his two colleagues stumbled their way for the door, he took one final look at PC Sara’s unfinished cocktail. Then he shook his head, squared his shoulders, and marched away without a backwards glance.
At the table directly behind the one recently occupied by three of the Cowton and Beakley Constabulary’s finest, a dark figure, hat pulled down over face, watched them go.
A hand reached into a pocket, and there was a little click. Then the figure stood up quietly, and followed them outside . . .
Chapter 13
Hamilton the micro-pig woke the next morning to the sound of rustling outside his kennel, which was located in what had previously been Le Cochon Rouge’s long-neglected vegetable garden. This overgrown field had been his home now for the last several months, and he was getting to be quite territorial about it.
His owner, the big fat man who gave him plentiful apples, had recently planted a small patch of carrots and crispy lettuce, and the local rabbit population had started dropping by daily to check on the patch’s progress. Hamilton, who had firm ideas about where these carrots and lettuces should end up—namely, in his own feeding bowl—had therefore taken to patrolling the vegetable bed at regular intervals throughout the day. Micro-pig he might have been, but he was still comfortably larger than the average rabbit—a fact that both species had come to appreciate after a few minor tussles.
He stuck his snout outside, ready to head-butt any presumptuous carrot-curious rabbit, then gave a loud squeal.
The rabbits had decided it was payback time, and gone recruiting.
Traipsing about the field was a ginormous pastel-pink rabbit, attempting cartwheels, falling over a lot, and pausing periodically to wiggle its buttocks against the gnarled old apple tree over by the fence.
Every now and then, it would twist its head around to inspect its big white bobbletail. “Aha! I knew it!” was its war cry, before launching itself into another forward roll across the grass.
Hamilton retreated into his kennel to consider his options.
He had a feeling that his usual routine of grunting loudly and running full tilt at any bobble-tailed behind might not work in this particular case.
Then again, perhaps there would be no need. Unlike its smaller relatives, his newest furry visitor seemed hardly interested in the carrots and lettuces at all.
The kitchen crew of Le Cochon Rouge had all but forgotten their morning duties as they stood in a line at the edge of Hamilton’s little field, watching the antics within.
Dorothy had rung up Arthur, on the basis that she’d never hear the end of it if he’d missed out on the current proceedings, and so he formed the end of their impromptu viewing gallery, taking the occasional sip from the tea thermos in his hand.
“How early did he start drinking?”
“I don’t think he has been, luv,” said Dorothy. “Came bouncing down the stairs first thing this morning and out into his car. Didn’t even stop for a coffee. And then he came back all like this.”
She waved an arm at the giant rotund rabbit still romping back and forth across the field, its pink fur rapidly turning to brown.
“If he thinks that pretending to go completely bonkers will make me choose to stay on here, he’s barking up the wrong tree,” muttered Patrick.
“Speaking of trees,” said Arthur, “did you see him trying to climb the apple tree just now?”
“I think I shut my eyes at that point, luv.”
They watched as the rabbit tugged once more at its tail, nodded with extreme satisfaction, then marched over in their direction.
“Voilà! I have gathered the necessary proof.” It turned around and pointed jubilantly with both paws at its now mud-encrusted behind.
“I’m never going to be able to forget this image, am I?” said Arthur, mostly to himself.
“Proof of what, luv?” said Dorothy, handing a cup of strong black coffee over the fence.
“That he’s lost every single one of his marbles?” said Patrick.
Chef Maurice reached around and tugged on the tail once more. “You see? It stays!”
“Please tell me you didn’t nick that rabbit suit from the Cowton Police evidence closet,” said Arthur.
“Eh? Non, this costume, it is my own. I made its purchase this morning at the Cowton Store of Fancy Dress. It is a little tight, perhaps”—he lifted two paws to the sky in demonstration—“but it has been sufficient for my experiment. Regarde, how firm the tail stays attached? It is impossible that Monsieur le mayor lost his own tail from a simple run through the woods. Non, his tail, it was not lost—it was stolen! Most likely cut away.”
“Surely he’d have noticed someone coming at him with a pair of scissors,” said Arthur.
“Ah, but remember what he said. That all day, the little children had come to pull at his tail. For someone then to come and cut it, without his notice, is not so difficult. In a big crowd, too, it could easily not be seen.”
“So you’re saying someone, the murderer presumably, cut off his tail and threw it into the woods, to put us off the real scent?”
“Exactement! I have thought much on this matter, and I am now certain that the true murderer will be caught. Today!”
“Cor. That’s brilliant,” said Alf, who was easily impressed.
“So who did it, then?” said Patrick.
“Ah, I cannot yet say. The situation, it is most delicate. And there are a small number of matters where I still make a guess. But, by the end of today, the answers will hide from me no more!”
He strode off towards the kitchens, but was headed off by Dorothy, waving a tea towel, who insisted he get out of the grubby suit before he trekked a line of mud across the just-mopped floor.
A while later, Hamilton emerged from his kennel and, after a quick look around the field, trotted over to sit down in the middle of the carrot patch, where he remained for the rest of the day.
There was a small phalanx of journalists occupying the pavement outside Miss Karole Linton’s terraced home, located down a narrow side road off one of Cowton’s main shopping streets.
They snapped a few desultory shots of Chef Maurice and Arthur as the two of them pushed their way through to the front gate and let themselves in. Chef Maurice was carrying a wide cakebox and a folded note—the latter of which, after liberally applying himself to the doorbell with no result, he shoved through Karole’s letter box.
“We also bring my most famous cherry clafoutis,” he shouted i
nto the opening, lifting the flap to allow the smell of buttery almonds and sweet cherries to waft on through.
“What was on that note?” whispered Arthur, trying not to make eye contact with the press mob, who had been out here since the early hours, surviving on cold tea and cigarettes, and were now eyeing the cakebox with the look of a herd about to charge.
The door cracked open, treating them to an inch-wide slice of Karole Linton’s tear-streaked face. She looked them up and down, then swung back the door just enough to allow them to squeeze inside. (Given that one of her visitors was Chef Maurice, this required an opening of some considerable width.) Flashbulbs popped as the crowd of hungry journalists got in a few shots of Karole’s bare hallway.
She slammed the door shut and leaned against it. She wore a baggy knitted jumper, jogging bottoms and fluffy slippers. Her hair was mussed and her eyes belied a night of tears and lack of sleep. In her hands, she clutched a dark green mug with the logo of the Lady Eleanor School for Girls.
Miss Caruthers’ girls, thought Arthur, seemed to be making quite a name for themselves in the world. Though in Karole Linton’s case, her recent appearance in the news would probably not be making it into the Spring Term newsletter.
“Do you really mean what you said in your note?” she demanded. “That you believe Rory didn’t do it?”
“Well—” Arthur started, but was interrupted by a sudden elbow.
“Oui, that is correct. And you think the same, do you not, mademoiselle?”
She nodded fiercely as she led them through to her front room, dark from the tightly drawn drapes. Hot drinks were offered and politely declined. In Arthur’s experience, upset women were generally incapable of making a good cup of tea.
“So tell us, mademoiselle, how is it that you believe in the innocence of Monsieur le mayor, after all the evidence that is presented?”
“I just knew it had to be a setup. Rory doesn’t have a violent bone in his body. We visited a hospital once, and he practically passed out at the sight of a little bit of blood. He won’t even kill the spiders in the office. I have to do it!”