Gin and Murder

by Josephine Pullein-Thompson

  ‘Which of the windows look out over the lawn?’ asked Flecker.

  ‘My wife’s bedroom and the drawing-room, which we don’t use at the moment.’

  Flecker began to examine his half-burned rags. They appeared to be the remnants of a sheet and they smelled of paraffin. The least charred part was the hem and he made his way along it, examining it carefully inch by inch, until he came to the corner where a stoutly sewn-on nametape, still intact, bore the word ‘Broughton’ in blue script. He looked at it for a moment and then sighed as he returned the rags to their paper bag. ‘I’ll just put this in the car,’ he told Mark.

  When he came back Deb and Jon had appeared and evidently raided the larder.

  ‘We’re having a midnight feast,’ Deb told him.

  ‘For which,’ said Mark ruefully, ‘I shall get a rocket from Nan in the morning.’

  ‘Blame the police,’ suggested Flecker, sitting down. ‘Our shoulders are very broad. Tell her the Chief Inspector had a lean and hungry look,’ he added with a grin at Jarvis, who, now that he had taken off his helmet and washed the grime from his face, was obviously very young and seemed rather ill at ease.

  It was a quarter to two when Flecker said that he must go back to work. He rescued Jarvis from Deb, who was giving him long and detailed instructions on what to do if the stables caught fire, and together they walked round the garden and stableyard. It was colder than ever and except for intermittent puffs of wind the only sounds came from the stables, the occasional clink of a bucket or the scrape of hoofs on a loose-box floor as one of the horses got up or lay down.

  Having told Jarvis to include the summerhouse in his rounds, Flecker left him to keep his vigil alone and set off across the fields. Out in the open, the moon and frost combined in silvered brilliance, but the hedgerows and trees cast great black shadows over the path to Lapworth, shadows which vibrated eerily as the wind rustled through the frozen twigs. Flecker found himself absurdly tensed; constantly looking round instead of keeping his eyes on the path at his feet.

  He examined the three stiles carefully, collecting every bit of wool or cloth which adhered to them, however insignificant looking, and putting it away in an envelope. From Great Lapworth he turned back and, passing below the kennels, continued along the valley to the Little Lapworth road. There he looked for recent signs of a stationary car, tyre marks and patches of oil or water, but found nothing. Feeling warm and energetic he decided to go on to Langley, but he soon regretted his decision for the bridle path, rutted by tractors and poached by many hoofs, was frozen hard and the uneven surface made walking unpleasant. The gates yielded no clues and, when he reached Langley and had to retrace his steps, Flecker felt tired and disheartened. He began to wonder whether he was as good a detective as he was supposed to be and whether Hollis, who sounded like a hustler, wouldn’t have completed the case by now. In all his successful cases luck had played a large part; supposing luck deserted him now?

  A very alert looking Jarvis spotted him the moment he reached the kennels and came up to report that all was quiet and even Mr. Broughton had gone to bed. They chatted for a time and then Flecker went to work on what was left of the summerhouse. Patiently and methodically he sorted through the charred and sodden mass, laying his finds in rows on the lawn: a charred box containing undamaged croquet balls, two and a half mallets; the metal part of a trowel, sundry remains of deckchairs, all the odds and ends one would expect to find in a summerhouse, plus an empty gin bottle and a quantity of broken glass.

  Dawn came, heralded half-heartedly by the depleted cock population of the post-Christmas months, before Flecker had finished. Day followed with the temperature still below freezing and a slight strengthening of the bitter wind. It was just light when finally Flecker straightened up. He was standing by the summerhouse, trying to rub some warmth into his numbed and filthy hands, when something crashed into the bushes below, between him and the chestnuts. He ran down the little path to the gate and cautiously looked out across the field. He did not need the string of boxers and spaniels to tell him that the angular figure, the corduroys and windcheater, the short red hair, belonged to Miss Chiswick-Norton. She was walking very briskly across the field towards the stile which led to the Little Lapworth road and the bridle path to Langley.

  Flecker hurried back to the shrubbery. Crawling among the bushes, it took him only a short time to find the missile, a small rusted tin with a tattered label which read: Atkinson’s Weedkiller. Poisonous. Contains Arsenic. Gathering it up gently in his handkerchief he returned, whistling tunelessly, across the lawn.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ‘SUPPOSE,’ said Colonel Holmes-Waterford, as his wife got up from the breakfast table, ‘you don’t feel like attending the inquest this morning?’

  Alicia turned back from the door. Her well-groomed hair, dark and abundant, framed a plump, determined face. Her roundly obstinate chin was tilted for battle. She was a woman who prided herself on her forthrightness.

  ‘Not on your life,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t stand Clara Broughton when she was alive, or Mark, who thinks he’s God Almighty because he’s master of those tuppenny-ha’penny hounds. And now that they’ve got themselves into this sordid mess, I’m even less interested. I’m certainly not going to gape at Mark because he’s a murderer. But don’t let me stop you; they’re your friends, not mine.’

  ‘The papers have evidently plumped for Mark,’ said Duggie Holmes-Waterford pacifically. ‘But I don’t know that it’s a foregone conclusion yet. I see that one of them states that an arrest is imminent, but until that happens I don’t think we should cast our votes or weight the scales too heavily against him. The inquest is being held at the police station and I think I shall just look in. After all, having known Mark and Clara so long, I think it’s really my duty to go.’

  ‘Duty, my foot! You’re just going to gape.’

  Duggie stared fixedly at his plate as he struggled to gain command of his temper. ‘I don’t think that’s quite fair, Alicia,’ he said, ‘considering all the years I’ve known Mark.’

  ‘“It’s not fair”,’ Alicia mimicked him. ‘If you had any sense you’d drop Mark like a hot brick, not to mention all those boozy Bobs and Steves and your ghastly friends from Sleeches Farm. Daddy’s going to think we know some nice people when he reads the Sunday gutter Press,’ she added over her shoulder as she marched out of the room.

  *

  ‘But I don’t want to go,’ said Antonia Brockenhurst for the third time. ‘I went to Guy’s inquest and that’s enough. Anyway, I’ve got a lot to do.’

  ‘But Annie, you must,’ Miss Chiswick-Norton protested. ‘It’s no use running away from these things. We’ve simply got to face up to it; come along now, be a brave girl.’

  ‘No. You can go if you want to. I’ve got to take Goody Two Shoes out for a couple of hours; I must get her fit if I’m going to race next month. Then there’s Grey Malkin’s leg to poultice and I’ve just got to clean out the hens, their house is in a perfectly disgusting state.’

  ‘Poor old Norty’ll have to go alone then,’ said Miss Chiswick-Norton dolefully. Norty had been her nickname when she served in the A.T.S. and she was as devoted to it as she was to the war years, which had remained her finest hour, despite the passing of more than a decade of peace.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Antonia, with relief. ‘You go and then you can tell me about it afterwards; though I suppose they'll only adjourn it like they did Guy’s.’

  ‘You never can tell,’ said Miss Chiswick-Norton. ‘But don’t you worry, dear, Old Norty’s not as silly as she lets people think; she works behind the scenes, and, believe you me, everything is going to be all right.’

  Antonia Brockenhurst looked at her partner vaguely; then she said, ‘Well, I must go and groom Two Shoes. Bring back something for lunch; I’m sick and tired of eggs.’

  *

  Stephen Denton knew very well that Sonia had only pretended to be asleep, but he had subscribed to the prete
nce and got his own breakfast. It was a nice state of affairs he thought, as he ate bacon and eggs without relish. They had done nothing but quarrel since Vickers was poisoned, for, despite her tearful denials, it was obvious that Sonia believed her husband had killed her lover. Every evening since Vickers died, thought Steve, we’ve rowed. He knew that he was largely to blame; for however good his intentions, he had only to be in the flat half an hour to find himself shouting and storming. Demanding that Sonia should tell him he was a murderer to his face, that she should call the police. He knew he was being unreasonable, but how, he wondered, could one help it? The trouble about marriage was that you learned to know your partner too well; you knew the reservations behind the most emotional protestations of belief, you recognized the judas kiss. The only remedy was to work later and later, to spend a couple of hours in the Coach and Horses, to come home late enough for Sonia to be in bed, to keep up the pretence that she was asleep, and to eat one’s dried-up supper in solitude.

  *

  Flecker returned to Lollington with just enough time to wash, shave, change his incredibly dirty clothes and eat a hurried breakfast, before taking Browning to catch the London train. Browning was very offended that he had been left out of the adventures of the night and refused to admit Flecker’s argument that it was absurd for two people to lose their sleep when one would do. He departed, still disgruntled, and Flecker drove to the police station.

  Superintendent Fox seemed friendlier than before. ‘Ah, I’ve got something for you,’ he said, producing the report from Anstruther. ‘Sodium arsenide, he says.’

  Flecker read the report through quickly. ‘There’s something even more interesting than that,’ he said. ‘At least, I think so. Can you spare me a couple of men?’

  ‘Two?’ Fox looked doubtful. ‘We’re in the middle of a ’flu epidemic, and we’ve got to turn the place upside down for this inquest. Wait a minute though, what about Broughton? We don’t need to keep a man up there permanently, do we, now that we know it wasn’t his weedkiller?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir,’ answered Flecker thoughtfully. ‘Some odd things seem to be going on.’

  ‘I heard you had a spot of bother up there in the night. In fact I telephoned the open Borstal this morning, but they’ve got their full complement of boys. I’d be inclined to put it down as a coincidence myself. Still, if I send the patrol car round that way and get the local chap to pop up a couple of times a day they ought to be all right. Broughton hasn’t showed any signs of running and he’s quite capable of dealing with the press himself. What do you want these chaps to do?’

  Flecker explained. One was to go round the wine merchants and the off-licence pubs and shops with a list of names and find out which of those mentioned on it dealt where and what they consumed. The other man was to find out where flypapers could be bought. He was to make a note of brands sold and to find out if anyone on the list had been buying them.

  ‘If we could get hold of a few photographs from the local paper or somewhere, it would be a help,’ Flecker suggested. ‘And the other thing I want,’ he went on when Fox had finished making notes, ‘is the report of the inquest on a child drowned at Langley three years ago.’

  *

  After the inquest on Clara Broughton, a dreary proceeding over which Nan’s tears cast an even deeper gloom, Bob Bewley tried to collect the other suspects for a drink in the Coach and Horses. Mark, accompanied by Nan and Codding, had already left; he had dodged the photographers by using a side entrance to the police station and had driven off without a word to any of his friends. Charlie Chadwick’s curt, ‘Not now, Bob,’ clearly showed that he thought the suggestion unsuitable, but Bewley, quite unabashed, went on to tackle Duggie Holmes-Waterford.

  ‘Come on, Colonel, you look as though you need one. It’s a medicinal necessity after what we’ve been through.’

  With Alicia’s comments still rankling, Duggie refused firmly and looking at Bob, who, in his last good suit was at his most respectable, reflected that the bloodshot eyes and the tinge of purple that discoloured his nose were clear indications of the sort of life the man led. Perhaps Alicia was right; when all this was over he’d drop the local riffraff and stick to his own sort.

  Only Steve Denton consented to drink with Bob and he stipulated that it must be a quick one and only one, out of consideration for his equine and bovine patients.

  Bob bought the drinks and led the way to a quiet corner.

  ‘Cheerio,’ he said, and then, embarking at once on the topic he wished to discuss — ‘I don’t know how these murders are affecting you, Steve, but I’m being treated in Hazebrook as though I were Crippen himself. The old biddy who comes in once a week to clean up, cowers in corners with chattering teeth and none of my little village girlfriends will even drink with me. I think it’s time we put our heads together and sorted it out. The police aren’t exactly hurrying themselves and now Clinkerton tells me that Mark’s going to let Haines hunt hounds because of the “unfavourable publicity” he’s received. That means no hunting worth having, for the poor old chap doesn’t go a yard.’

  ‘I’m under a cloud too,’ said Steve; ‘both with Sonia and with the police. But I don’t see what we can do about it. I’m just waiting for them to find the right man. After all, they’ve got the knowledge, the equipment and any evidence there is.’

  ‘They weren’t there when Vickers was murdered,’ said Bob. ‘If we got everyone together in the Chadwicks’ room again, we could sort it out, surely? Vickers couldn’t have been poisoned right under our noses without any of us seeing a thing.’

  Steve sighed. ‘Well, I’d be glad enough to have it sorted out.’

  ‘I didn’t realize you were having a rough time,’ said Bob. ‘I thought it was only Mark they were itching to arrest. D’you think he’s in the clear?’

  ‘I don’t know at all, Bob; but Sonia says the Chief Inspector knows that Mark is interested in Hilary, or Hilary in Mark, whichever way round it is — if it is.’

  ‘That’s bad,’ said Bob. ‘Not that I suppose there’s any incriminating evidence to be found, but it’s the very fact they’re both such souls of honour that makes murder the answer. No one would suspect that old libertine Bob of murdering for love. If he couldn’t have one woman he’d have another; married, unmarried, doesn’t matter; it’s all one to me. But Mark’s got very old-fashioned views on holy matrimony. He told me once that illicit amours should be conducted as far away from home as possible; he was very disapproving of what he crudely called my “whoring round the village”.’

  ‘Well, you do go a bit far, you know,’ Steve said amiably.

  Bob laughed. Then, looking more serious, he put his hand on the other’s arm. ‘Will you get hold of Elizabeth, Steve? Use your well-known charm and persuade her to ask us all there on Saturday evening? She’s more likely to do it for you than me. If I suggest it she’ll think I’ve got some shady ulterior motive.’

  ‘I’ll do my best to get them together,’ said Steve. ‘But I’m not sure that I wouldn’t rather provide the hospitality myself; the Chadwicks have had enough to put up with. I’ll ask Sonia and let you know, Bob.’

  ‘Right you are, but don’t take no as answer from any of them. They’ll probably jib at first; they seem to have a sneaking feeling that murder isn’t the done thing, but really they’re all dying for a good gossip. Oh, and I shouldn’t ask Mark,’ Bob added as Steve got up to go. ‘It’s a bit too near the funeral.’

  *

  Flecker had spent most of the morning in Langley, trying to discover the presents whereabouts of Mrs. Basset, the foster-mother of the drowned child. The village had changed in the last three years. The villagers had left the damp but picturesque cottages overlooking the Meld and migrated to the council-built estate on the hill and, in their wake, the impoverished gentry of the countryside, selling their unheated houses to institutions, had moved in. With one accord they had installed bathrooms and modern kitchens, removed fireplaces of mottled tiles reve
aling ancient hearths, turned the cabbage patches into lawns and rosegardens. None of them could help Flecker. In the post office he found an old couple who explained that their daughter had gone out for the day and left them in charge. Changing their spectacles they turned the leaves of various rather unbusinesslike-looking exercise books with shaking hands until they came to Mrs. Basset’s name and the address to which she had asked that any letters should be forwarded. To Flecker’s disappointment it was a London address. Three years was a long time in London, he thought gloomily, and town memories are shorter than country ones. As he thanked the old couple for their help, there was a clattering of hoofs outside the post office and he came out to find Antonia Brockenhurst trying to force a large and excitable-looking horse along the path between his car and the pillarbox, with the evident intention of posting a letter.

  ‘Can I help?’ asked Flecker. ‘Shall I post it for you?’

  ‘She ought to do it; she’s just being perfectly ridiculous,’ replied Antonia angrily, and, giving Goody Two Shoes a wallop with her whip, was at once precipitated wildly across the road. ‘Stop it, you stupid brute,’ she growled as she yanked the mare round.

  ‘Give me the letter, Miss Brockenhurst,’ said Flecker in tones of authority, and added, as soon as Antonia had stopped struggling with her horse, ‘I’ve got something you may be able to identify.’ He posted the letter and fetched the tin of arsenic from the car. ‘Do you recognize this?’ he asked, holding it up, and knew at once by her face that she did. Uncertain what to answer she stared woodenly at the tin until Flecker decided to help her out.

  ‘I believe you told the police originally that you had no weedkiller on the farm so far as you knew. This looks ancient enough to have been left behind by a previous tenant,’ he suggested.

  ‘Yes, it looks very like the one we found on the window-ledge in the apple shed,’ said Antonia guiltily. ‘It didn’t belong to either of us, though; we’d never set eyes on it before, but it must have been there all along. I suppose it was just that we’d never noticed it …’