‘Oh we can’t go yet,’ protested Deb. ‘We’ve only just got back. Besides we must help Hilary wash up.’ And with a virtuous air she began to collect crockery.
‘All right,’ said Mark. ‘Five minutes.’
The washing up was barely under way when Commander Chadwick came in by the back door.
‘Hullo he said. ‘We seem to have a large staff.’
‘We’ve had Scotland Yard to tea,’ Hilary told him, ‘as well as Mark and these two. Scotland Yard are waiting to see you. Would you like a cuppa before you become involved?’
‘No thanks, I had one in Melborough. Where’s your mother?’
‘In the drawing-room, talking to the coppers.’
Charlie met Mark at the drawing-room door. Mark said, ‘Good evening, Charlie. I came to tea, but I’m just going; if I can persuade my family to leave your kitchen.’
Charlie answered, ‘Oh, hullo, Mark,’ and then stood in silence, unable to think of anything appropriate to add.
Elizabeth took charge. ‘Go and talk to Chief Inspector Flecker,’ she said to her husband. ‘He’s been waiting hours. I’ll see Mark out.’
‘I’m sorry you’ve waited “hours”,’ said Chadwick, looking at Flecker. ‘But it’s quite easy to telephone first and make an appointment.’
‘Yes, of course,’ answered Flecker, noticing that the Commander was the same height as himself though of a much lighter build. He could see little resemblance to Hilary in the severe blue eyes and straight, uncompromising mouth. ‘Still, we haven’t been wasting our time; both Mrs. Chadwick and Mr. Broughton have helped us a lot. Now I’m sorry to bother you, sir,’ he went on producing his envelopes. ‘But there are just one or two questions about the party.’
‘You needn’t apologize,’ Chadwick told him. ‘It’s your job to ask questions and my duty to answer them.’
‘True,’ said Flecker. ‘Well, first of all, did you tell any one, besides Mr. Broughton, that Mr. Vickers was coming to your party?’
‘I didn’t tell anyone else,’ answered Charlie slowly, ‘but of course Mark may have done so, or Guy Vickers for that matter. It’s also possible that we were overheard, but I don’t think so, I told Mr. Broughton at the meet on the previous Tuesday that Guy was coming.’
‘But as far as you were concerned only four people — your wife, your daughter, yourself and Mr. Broughton — knew that Vickers was coming?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Now at the party, you had no drinks poured out waiting, I understand; you poured out for each guest as he arrived?’
‘Yes, when I knew what he wanted to drink.’
‘And then you filled up their glasses in the hand, as it were?’
‘Yes.’
Flecker glanced at his notes. ‘Did anyone mislay a glass during the evening?’
‘Not that I know of; no one asked me for a new one.’
‘Did anyone seem vague about their ownership? You know the sort of thing that goes on: “Is this mine?” — “Oh, I think so; that one up there’s Bob’s and I think this must be mine — yours had more in it”.’
‘No, I didn't hear anything of that sort,’ Chadwick answered.
‘According to the notes I inherited,’ Flecker went on, ‘practically everyone drank your cocktail. The exceptions were Mr. Broughton, whisky and Mrs. Chadwick and Miss Brockenhurst, sherry.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Now, can you give me any idea at all on how much they drank? I know it’s asking the impossible, but anything you can remember may help me.’
‘Well, Bewley put away the most,’ said Charlie. ‘Every time I looked round his glass was empty. I imagine that five or six cocktails would be a conservative estimate. Mark only had two whiskies, but they were large ones and he didn’t stay long. Mrs. Broughton had two cocktails and then I didn’t offer her another because she was already rather obviously tight. Denton had three, possibly four, cocktails. Miss Brockenhurst had about three sherries; I was working hard on her because she’s inclined to be heavy-going conversationally, but from what my wife said to me afterwards I gather I didn’t succeed. Vickers had three cocktails, I think, and so did Colonel Holmes-Waterford. Rather moderate going for both of them, but of course the Colonel didn’t stay very long. That leaves my family. My wife had two sherries during the party, but she’d had a glass beforehand. My daughter drank about two and a half cocktails; she was so busy talking I don’t think she had much time to drink. I acted as taster, trying each new brew as I mixed it; so I kept my glass in the kitchen, which left me with both hands free while I was pouring out.’
‘One thing emerges,’ said Flecker, looking at the notes he had made as the Commander talked. ‘Everyone had two drinks or more. You’re quite certain of that? Because my experience of parties tells me that while everyone hangs on to his first drink, as the drowning man to the proverbial straw, he often leaves his second drink about and sometimes loses his third.’
‘I’m quite certain,’ Chadwick answered. ‘You see, I rather fancy myself as a bartender, so if anyone had refused a second glass I’d have wanted to know the reason why.’
‘Well, I won’t keep you any longer, sir.’ Flecker stuffed his notes into his pocket. ‘Thank you very much for all your help … Home, James,’ he said, as he and Browning went out to the car.
‘Finishing early tonight, aren’t we?’ asked Browning.
‘A policeman’s work is never done,’ said Flecker. ‘I’ve got to meditate on the vagaries of man and you’ve got to pack. You know how long that takes you.’
‘Pack?’ asked Browning.
‘Yes, we’ve got to cast our nets a little wider. I want you to pay the Vickers family a visit. Paul, the brother, should be home by now since the funeral’s on Friday, and he may be more helpful than his parents. I want you to see if you can establish any more connections between Guy Vickers and our list of possibles. Rout out what you can about Antonia, and learn something of his army life, where he was stationed and so on; Broughton, Bewley and Holmes-Waterford were all soldiers.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
IT WAS JUST AFTER MIDNIGHT when Flecker, who was in bed but not really asleep, was startled back to full consciousness by a frantic knocking on his door. ‘Come in,’ he called, sitting up and switching on the light. Mrs. Gordon’s head appeared, curlers glinting metallically among the hennaed hair. ‘You’re wanted on the phone,’ she said breathlessly. ‘It’s the police and they say it’s urgent.’
Flecker got up without a word and began to dress, pulling his clothes on over his pyjamas. Like many dreamers he was cool in an emergency, his habitual calmness remaining undisturbed when his mind was jolted into concentration. He laced his shoes and found his overcoat, torch and gloves before he ran downstairs, followed by the still panting Mrs. Gordon.
‘Flecker here,’ he said, picking up the telephone.
‘Jarvis of the county police, sir. I’m on duty at the kennels at Lap worth. The summerhouse in the garden has just gone up in flames. I thought I’d better let you know.’
‘Yes, I’ll come over right away.’ Flecker put down the receiver and turned to Mrs. Gordon. ‘If I’m not back by breakfast time, would you tell Sergeant Browning to carry on as arranged, please?’
‘Yes, I’ll be sure and tell him that. Don’t you worry, I won’t forget. Whatever’s made them call you out of bed like this in the middle of the night?’ she added as she unlocked the front door. ‘Not another murder, I hope?’ but her voice, avid for sensation, belied her words.
‘Nothing serious,’ Flecker answered, hurrying out.
The night was bitterly cold, but the sky was clear. Flecker, driving to Lapworth as fast as the tortuous roads would allow, blessed the brilliant moon. He could see no sign of fire as he drove down the lane to the kennels, but the moment he left the car he smelt smoke and the warm, friendly odour of burning wood. He hurried round the side of the house and there across the lawn, he could see Mark and Jarvis, wielding pitchfork and a
xe; dark silhouettes against a background of flames. The summerhouse itself was a smouldering ruin and round about it on the grass lay bundles of flaming thatch which the two men had hacked from the roof.
‘Good morning, Chief Inspector,’ called Mark cheerfully when he caught sight of Flecker. ‘You’re too late; you’ve missed all the fun.’
‘Good morning, sir.’ Jarvis wiped a black and sweaty hand across his black and sweaty face. ‘We did what we could, but I’m afraid she’s had it.’
‘How did it happen?’ asked Flecker, looking at Mark.
‘Don’t ask me,’ answered Mark flippantly. ‘As a householder and ratepayer I shall lay a strong protest against the apparent inability of the police to protect private property.’
‘Who gave the alarm?’
‘I did,’ said Mark. ‘I was taking a walk round before I went to bed. I was in the stableyard when I saw a sudden glare in the sky and smelled fire; I shot round here, and then I was going for the hose when I met this chap of yours. Of course Codding has put the hose away for the winter and all the taps are frozen up. We were reduced to buckets and the water butt, otherwise we might have made a better job of putting it out.’ He was grinning cheerfully; he had enjoyed the action and felt himself again after days of brooding.
‘She didn’t half go up with a whoof, sir,’ said Jarvis enthusiastically. ‘Just as though someone had tipped a can of paraffin over the thatch. And you have a look under that bit of floor, sir; there’s a bundle of rags that look as though they never got going. Looks like arson all right.’
Flecker shone his torch under what remained of the floor, but made no comment. ‘Did you see anyone about?’ he asked Jarvis.
‘No, only Mr. Broughton.’
‘Had you been round this side of the house at all?’
‘Yes, two or three times, sir. But I kept up on the path close to the house; I didn’t come down here.’
‘There are two battery lamps in the boot of my car,’ said Flecker, handing Jarvis his keys.
As the constable hurried away Flecker turned to Mark. ‘How long had you been wandering about before you met Jarvis?’ he asked.
‘About ten minutes I should think. I’d walked round the stables and filled up a couple of empty water buckets before I saw the fire.’
‘You hadn’t got the dogs with you?’
‘No, they’d been barking earlier. I thought it was probably at your man and as I didn’t want to wake the place, I left them indoors. They’d all been out once when the children went to bed.’
‘Which door did you leave the house by?’ asked Flecker.
Mark looked a little shamefaced. ‘To tell you the truth,’ he said, ‘I came out of the office window.’
Flecker looked at him sharply. ‘Why?’
‘A sudden re-awakening of juvenile irresponsibility,’ Mark answered, leaning on his pitchfork and grinning. ‘I was tired of finding a policeman on the doorstep every time I went out and, as I didn’t know which doorstep he was on, I went out through the window.’
‘A pity,’ said Flecker.
‘Now I’m back in the doghouse, I suppose,’ said Mark, looking faintly amused. ‘Look here, Chief Inspector, how was I to know someone was going to set fire to my summerhouse? If I had known, my behaviour would have been exemplary and I should have taken care to be having a nice chat with Jarvis when the balloon went up. Besides, why should I burn down my own summerhouse?’
‘Why should anyone burn it down?’ asked Flecker. He was reproaching himself for not having examined the place before. It was true that he had meant to do so this morning while Mark was at the inquest, but now he had been forestalled. It was also true that it had already been searched by the county police, but their minds had been fixed on arsenic and they might easily have missed some vitally important evidence. What evidence, he asked himself, would need such a wholesale method of destruction? Apart from bodies and bloodstains, the answer seemed to be fingerprints or some small thing that had been dropped and could not be found. But it would have to be very conclusive evidence to be worth the risk of focusing so much attention on the summerhouse. It was possible, of course, that it had been an act of spite unconnected with the murders, or the work of a crank — for Broughton was now getting a good deal of publicity in the daily Press.
‘I suppose,’ said Flecker, looking up at Mark, ‘you didn’t set fire to it yourself?’
‘No, I didn’t. And, if I had, I should have let the thing burn down and not helped Jarvis put it out.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ said Flecker. ‘Having been caught almost in the act of starting a fire, to pretend you were putting it out would be the most intelligent thing to do.’
‘Still, I needn’t have been so efficient,’ Mark pointed out. ‘I could have stood about wringing my hands. I could have wasted a long time waking all the men. I could have telephoned for the fire brigade and, what with a manual exchange and the fire engine having to come from Melborough, the summerhouse would have been ashes before they arrived.’
‘You could,’ agreed Flecker. ‘But on the other hand all those buckets of water will have effectively destroyed any fingerprints.’
‘Well, if I can’t leave fingerprints in my own summerhouse, where can I leave them?’ demanded Mark.
‘It wasn’t your fingerprints I was interested in,’ said Flecker as Jarvis came back. ‘Now,’ he went on, taking one of the lamps, ‘if someone wanted to reach the summerhouse without coming down the lane and through the front gate, how would he come?’
‘Either through the stableyard,’ answered Mark, ‘though that means the lane, unless he took a crosscountry route from the road — or else from the Langley to Great Lap worth footpath.’
‘How do you get here from the footpath?’ asked Flecker.
‘Down there.’ Mark indicated a little path that led away from the lawn through rough grass and shrubs to where a clump of chestnut trees marked the corner of the garden and the beginning of a pasture field.
‘We’ll have a look down there,’ said Flecker. He led the way, shining his lamp on every inch of the ground before him and in the bushes and shrubs on either hand. The ground, frozen hard by the five-day frost, yielded no clue. The shrubs, well cut back, presented no boughs to brush an intruder, no thorns to tear at his clothes. By the chestnut trees a wicket gate led down into the moonlit fields. ‘There’s the path,’ said Mark, pointing across the field. ‘There are three stiles between here and the church at Great Lapworth, and at this end there’s one out into the Little Lapworth road, about three hundred yards further along than our lane. Then, if you cross the road, you can go on to Langley, but that part of it is a bridle path and there are gates instead of stiles.’
‘Neither of you heard a car start either before or after you saw the fire, I suppose?’ asked Flecker.
‘No,’ answered Mark.
‘Nor me,’ said Jarvis. ‘And I think I would have done because sound travels a long way these frosty nights.’
Flecker turned back. ‘I’ll have a look down there later on,’ he said.
They went back to the summerhouse. Several of the bundles of thatch had begun to smoulder again. Mark picked up a bucket and strolled off towards the stables as if to fetch some more water. Flecker turned to Jarvis, who waited expectantly beside him. ‘Did you hear Mr. Broughton before you saw him?’ he asked.
‘Well yes, I think so, sir. I heard what sounded like a bucket kicked over in the stableyard and slipped round there quick; but there was no one about, so I thought it must have been one of the horses. Then I came back round the front and was just going round to the lawn side of the house when I met Mr. Broughton. He said, “The summerhouse is afire; I’m going to fetch the hose”, or words to that effect.’
‘Did you take a look yourself before you rang me?’
‘Oh yes, sir.’
‘And the fire was well established?’
‘She was burning all right and as I looked she went up with a whoof, j
ust as though someone had tipped a couple of cans of paraffin over the thatch.’
‘I suppose,’ said Flecker, that you don’t remember whether Mr. Broughton smelled of paraffin when you ran into him? He does now, but then so do you. You thought that paraffin had been used to get the fire going — might it have been the smell of it that made the thought of paraffin leap instantly into your mind?’
Jarvis considered Flecker’s words for several moments before he answered. ‘I wouldn’t like to swear to it either way, sir,’ he said. ‘You see, my young sisters not much of a hand at lighting fires and if mum’s back’s turned she resorts to the paraffin can; that’s how I come to recognize the whoof of it. Singed her eyebrows once, Sis has, but even that hasn’t stopped her.’
Mark had returned with the water and was making a determined effort to quench the last vestige of fire. A smell of wet, charred wood pervaded the garden. Without the fire it was very cold and Flecker, salvaging the half-burnt rags from under the summerhouse, was delighted when Mark offered to make tea, remarking maliciously as he did so that he was providing nothing stronger, ‘out of deference to police regulations’.
‘We’d love some,’ Flecker answered, as he put the rags into a paper bag from his pocket. ‘Come on, Jarvis.’
As they waited for the kettle to boil Flecker took the opportunity to ask Mark which of the guests at the Chadwicks’ party knew of the footpath and of the little gate into his garden.
Mark thought for a moment. ‘All the Chadwicks,’ he answered. ‘Holmes-Waterford, Bewley, but not the Dentons or Miss Brockenhurst so far as I know. We had a lot of parties in the garden at one time but none lately; I think the last was nearly four years ago.’
‘However, Mr. Denton comes to the stables quite often, I imagine?’ said Flecker.
‘Yes, and I sometimes bring him in for a drink. But I can’t remember taking him round the garden. Of course, the footpath is plainly marked on the map.’
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