Killer Cases: A Lambert and Hook Detective Omnibus

by J M Gregson

  He had in fact a thick coat about his shoulders, too warm if anything for this summer’s day. Lambert, struggling to follow the working of this twisted, agile mind, wondered how to proceed.

  ‘I was sorry to hear about your boy,’ he said desperately. He meant it: who wouldn’t be sorry who had heard the sad tale of Wino Willy Harrison? But he had not known that son, and the words rang false to himself even as he said them, a means to an end, a cheap way past a sick man’s defences.

  Willy flashed him a momentary look of outrage, plucked an imaginary sprig of vegetation from the air in front of him, flicked it contemptuously towards his tormentor’s face, and cried, ‘There’s rosemary. That’s for remembrance!’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Lambert. Even Hook, who had little idea what was going on, caught Willy’s bitterness.

  ‘We’re here about a death,’ said Lambert, contriving to sound to himself both trite and desperate.

  ‘“The Angel of Death hath spread his wings,”’ intoned Willy. He leapt upright and opened his arms above them like some Victorian tombstone sculpture.

  ‘“Any man’s death diminishes me,”’ said Lambert without thinking. And evoked at least a quick glance of sympathy amid the mockery.

  ‘“To every man upon this earth

  Death cometh soon or late,”’

  said Willy.

  ‘“Death lays its icy hand on kings,”’ said Lambert. He was desperate to keep the contact going, but had no idea where this ridiculous game of quotations could lead; he tried not to look at Hook.

  Perhaps the bard purged Willy’s contempt and brought him back to his own strange and tragic reality. He said quietly,

  ‘“Golden lads and girls all must,

  As chimney-sweepers, come to dust,”’

  and Lambert, catching his mood correctly this time, picked up the familiar words of consolation,

  ‘“Fear no more the heat of the sun,

  Nor the furious winter’s rages.”’

  Hook, sitting on a flat stone and studying the cold ashes of a dead fire, could scarcely believe his ears as he heard the two voices above him in quiet union on the next lines,

  ‘“Thou thy worldly task hath done,

  Home art gone and ta’en thy wages.”’

  There was a long silence, perhaps a full minute, as Willy thought of his lost son, Lambert regretted the crudity of his original attempt to use that memory, and Hook wished he were miles from here.

  Then Lambert said reluctantly, ‘Our death was a murder, Willy.’ The words hung heavy in this lonely place. Hook thought that injured brain had not registered the distinction between death and murder, but Lambert had seen the brown eyes flash briefly within their dark hollows. The quick mind had its quotation ready. Willy said gruffly,

  ‘“Truth will come to light; murder cannot be hid long.”’

  Lambert said, ‘Yes, Willy, but we need your help to bring this truth to light. We think you might have seen something.’

  ‘“The little dog laughed

  To see such sport,

  And the dish ran away with the spoon.”’

  Willy was away across the sheepfold like a wild thing. Lambert thought he had finally lost the thread of connection with that strange mind, until they saw the object of his attention. A black and white mongrel dog stood on its hind legs, its front paws on the lowest part of the wall, its head on one side. Willy was with it in a second, his two hands stretched to fondle its ears.

  ‘“Young blood must have its course, lad,

  And every dog its day,”’

  called Willy. Then he vaulted the uneven stone wall and leapt away like a schoolboy with his delighted canine friend.

  ‘“Thou shalt do no murder,”’ called Lambert desperately, reduced to the Book of Common Prayer as he saw his witness disappearing.

  Willy stopped dead and turned back towards them. He enjoyed this quotation game, the first stretching of his brain for pure amusement that he had known in several years. He called across bracken and heather to his partner in this intellectual conspiracy.

  ‘“For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak

  With most miraculous organ.”’

  Then he turned and flung a stick for his new companion, wild and high into the bracken, cackling delightedly as the dog leapt high over ferns in pursuit.

  Lambert turned back to a perplexed Hook. ‘That was young Hamlet’s view of things,’ he said in explanation. When his sergeant looked disapproving, he added triumphantly, ‘He said it just before he staged the first recorded reconstruction of a violent crime. Forward-looking as always, the moody Dane.’

  They saw Wino Willy once more. As they began their descent from the moor, they glimpsed him above them, sitting with the dog between his feet on a knoll of ground, perhaps two hundred yards away. The birds wheeled around the motionless pair, some of them settling even as they watched. They took bread from his fingers, so that even as the police-men watched, Wino Willy was transformed to a latter-day Francis of Assisi.

  They thought he had not seen them, but in this world Willy was as alert as a wild thing to his surroundings. As they turned to depart, he called to them through the clear, sun-warmed air, startling the larks above and the stonechats below. ‘“The more I see of men, the better I like dogs.”’

  His valediction rang in their ears as they trod carefully back towards the world of men. Hook was disappointed but phlegmatic about what seemed another dead end. He had enjoyed the walk, and he had not expected much from Wino Willy anyway. What he could not understand was the elation which his chief was striving so ineffectively to conceal. The ways of superintendents were arcane indeed, but surely the intellectual contest alone could not have so excited him?

  Lambert, wrestling with his recall of that contest, was certain there were clues to the mystery within it somewhere. He had not managed to isolate them yet. But in due course he would return to the strange world of Wino Willy.

  Chapter 15

  The offices of Arkwright and Sons were touched with the genteel shabbiness which indicates long standing and reliability in the legal profession. The Georgian windows were dusty but genuine; the front door with its polished brass fittings had the myriad small scratches of age, but it was solid mahogany. Inside the building, the doors were low and the rooms small, but little altered since the days when clerks on high stools copied documents in copperplate. This place said, ‘We were here a century and more ago, and we shall be here a century hence. Put your trust in us.’

  Alfred Arkwright could hardly have provided a greater contrast with Wino Willy. He was probably ten years older: Lambert’s first thought was that he would comfortably outlive that broken being. The solicitor’s silver hair was impeccably groomed, the skin on his perfectly shaved face gleamed on the high cheekbones. The blue eyes telegraphed interest, but polite, discreet interest. The small hands with their spotless nails would protect you against the petty ploys of the unscrupulous. The gold-rimmed spectacles seemed not merely an aid to better sight but an accessory added to guarantee the competence of this guardian of respectability.

  They sat in leather armchairs while he poured the coffee: it would never have done to have had a third party overhear their discussion. His suit was probably fifteen years old; even Hook noticed the narrow, perfectly pressed lapels. It was nowhere threadbare: probably it was one of many in Arkwright’s wardrobe. Like the building, the furnishings, the man himself, it exuded quiet, established quality. In this place, ostentation might be the worst of sins, but everything was ordered, unchanging, reassuring. Wino Willy Harrison’s landscape of wide skies and singing, wind-tossed birds was a different world indeed.

  Alfred Arkwright used deliberation as a professional tool. Lambert was in a hurry to complete this routine business, but there was no way he could alter the solicitor’s measured pace. Carefully, he checked the detail of George Robson’s account of wills and intentions. ‘Austin Freeman was a highly respected figure in the town,’ said Arkwright w
ith fond reminiscence. The implication of what followed was that his son Stanley was altogether less reliable. Yes, Austin had clearly indicated his intention of leaving the business jointly to his son Stanley and George Robson. But he had never made a will to that effect; Arkwright’s shrug acknowledged yet another example of human frailty undermining the best legal advice.

  Stanley Freeman had apparently chosen to ignore his father’s clearly expressed intention. Alfred Arkwright’s look of distaste was not for the morality of the action but for the laxity of legal provision that allowed it. He showed just the right amount of reluctance to divulge the details of the will of Stanley himself: he was experienced enough to know that a murder inquiry made this essential, but decorum demanded a little well-bred resentment of this invasion of his territory.

  Lambert, his mood still preoccupied with thoughts of the injured mind they had left on the moor, eventually became impatient with this effete and civilized ritual. ‘Mr Arkwright, both you and I know that you’re going to tell us everything eventually. I’d prefer that we didn’t have to wring it from you by means of a long list of questions and answers to satisfy your imagined scruples. Please tell us straightforwardly exactly what Mrs Denise Freeman is left in the will.’

  Alfred Arkwright had for a moment the sullen face of a frustrated schoolboy. Lambert had spoken brusquely, probably because his mind was still dominated by the image of Willy Harrison silhouetted against the sky with dog and birds. The solicitor recovered his equilibrium quickly; losing face was the ultimate crime for him, and any ruffling of his urbanity must be taken as a warning. ‘She gets the bungalow, Glebe House, which was the family home, her car, various shareholdings, which will be valued for probate at around £30,000. There are insurance policies which I understand should give her another £50,000.’ Arkwright had proposed to dispense this catalogue as a series of gobbets of information; it was a habit, no more.

  ‘And the business?’ said Lambert.

  ‘Mrs Freeman will be entitled to five per cent of the profits per year for the rest of her life.’ If Arkwright thought the arrangement unusual, he gave no sign of it in his demeanour.

  ‘What about control of the firm?’

  ‘That passes entirely to Mr Robson, together with the ownership of the company.’

  ‘Conscience money,’ said Bert Hook, speaking for the first time, without looking up from his notes. Arkwright’s small smile might have been a grudging acknowledgement, might have been a contemptuous dismissal of an idea so squalid and emotional. He put his coffee cup and saucer carefully back on the tray. Speculation was certainly no part of his brief.

  For the men before him, speculation was inevitable. George Robson had already indicated that he knew the terms of Freeman’s will and the motive it gave him. No doubt Denise Freeman knew also. Resentment could turn to hatred when nursed in holy wedlock. Many a husband had been killed by an embittered spouse. Lambert wondered how much Denise knew about Margot Jones.

  He was reluctant to add the question he knew he must. ‘Were there any other financial bequests?’

  ‘None. There are no family retainers in the Freeman household.’ Arkwright examined his perfectly manicured nails. His ordered and respectable world did not admit mistresses, though wills sometimes contained puzzling and suggestive clauses. Poor Margot, thought Lambert. The only person who genuinely grieved for Stanley Freeman, perhaps the only one who really needed material provision, was ignored in the will. Stanley’s death had shut her out of his world more finally than the thickest of doors.

  The detectives were standing now, ready to go. Perhaps it was their haste that ruffled Arkwright into volunteering information for the first time. He said, ‘There is one provision which strikes me as rather strange.’ His pained expression regretted that he should be beset by any such controversial opinion. ‘Not exactly financial, but I think we could say with financial implications.’ The cautious verbosity reassured him and his tone resumed its former suavity. He reached into the file in front of him, but they all knew he had the detail clear in his mind without such check. ‘It concerns the ownership of a bungalow. No. 3, Acacia Avenue, Oldford. It is occupied at present, I understand, by an elderly lady, who lives there rent-free. A Miss Alice Franklyn.’

  ‘Who owns it?’ said Lambert shortly. He had tired again of massaging this carefully assumed panache.

  ‘It was owned by Stanley Freeman. The clause I referred to says that on his decease it should pass to someone else. Not the occupier.’

  Lambert was now thoroughly impatient with this absurd ritual of small delays. ‘Who?’ he said harshly.

  ‘Miss Emily Godson,’ said the solicitor.

  Chapter 16

  They thought at first that there was no one in the house. Hook rang the bell twice, but there was no sound of answering movement within. Maple Cottage was a comfortable, low-slung building. Its low front wall and wicket gate made one expect a cottage garden, with old-fashioned perennials growing into each other and the scent of honeysuckle overriding more subtle and individual ones.

  Probably the garden had originally been like that. And no doubt in those days its fertility had been abundantly supplemented by the products of an outside privy: Bert Hook, who was a modest expert in this field, would willingly have enlarged on what was now denied to a hungry soil. Some time after this radical change in sanitation, the garden had been changed to a more formal pattern. A small, immaculately manicured lawn followed the curve of the path towards the front door. Neat rows of lobelia, tagetes and antirrhinums were already in lusty flower and would soon merge into variegated carpets around the cerise and red geraniums that were dotted among them as specimen plants. It should have been like park bedding, but, perhaps because of the low walls that surrounded it and the absence of straight lines, it remained curiously intimate amid its seed-packet profusion of colour. On the tiny porch which enclosed the front door, a climbing rose dangled its scented, crimson blooms and maintained the memory of the cottage’s older history. Skilfully photographed, it could still adorn the lid of one of those chocolate boxes which take the evocation of a former age as the only guarantee of quality.

  Lambert toyed with this thought, studying the angle a photographer would choose. As he looked towards the corner of the cottage, a figure materialized silently at this very point. In silhouette against the light, she might for a second have been part of his fancied Victorian picture. Her neat white blouse had enough lace to be in period, even if its material was manmade and its decorations machined. But the tweed skirt showed sturdy ankles and calves which would have scandalized Victorian mores.

  ‘You’re early.’ Emily Godson made it sound like an accusation. Hook was glad he had not been caught peering through the windows into an empty house.

  ‘A little, I’m afraid, Miss Godson.’ Lambert was at his most affable. ‘We had to change our plans and come to see you before Mr Hapgood. I did try to phone you earlier.’ He didn’t tell her that it had been Alfred Arkwright’s one unexpected piece of information that had steered them hither so directly.

  ‘I’ve been in the greenhouse. I thought I might as well take advantage of the leisure you compelled upon me.’

  Why couldn’t the wretched woman accept graciously the windfall bonus of time spent in the garden she so obviously loved? ‘I thought you’d find our interview less embarrassing here than at the station.’ Lambert could threaten if he had to. Then he said, ‘You’ve got your garden looking quite beautiful.’ The three of them looked round, while Hook murmured sycophantic support.

  ‘You’d better come inside,’ said Emily Godson gruffly, mollified despite her worst intentions. Lambert accepted tea, to Hook’s scarcely muted delight, and presently they sat in a low-ceilinged parlour, balancing Crown Derby saucers with infinite care upon their ample laps.

  ‘My mother’s. She died four years ago,’ said Miss Godson. Lambert wished the Alfred Arkwrights of this world could be made to dispense information so quickly.

  ‘She l
ived here with you?’ It was not just small talk. He wanted to build up as full a picture as he could of his suspects, and he had learned little of Emily Godson from his colleagues’ preliminary reports. ‘She had her children here, nursed my father through his last illness here, died here herself,’ said Emily. It would have sounded sentimental with a different delivery, but this woman was brisk and matter-of-fact. She would find it easier to conceal than to reveal emotion, even when it was that most laudable love of a daughter who had missed marriage to care for a widowed mother. If marriage was indeed the boon that idea demanded. They looked down the narrow back garden to where the maple which gave the house its name was a mound of amber in the sun. That was where the privy must have been, thought Hook; what a pity not to have a patch of brassicas taking full advantage of its opulent legacy.

  ‘You have brothers and sisters?’ said Lambert quietly. He was looking at the greenhouse at the other corner of the garden’s extremity. How on earth did anyone manage to keep such a place so tidy? There was not a pot or a box visible between its aluminium glazing bars save those which contained plants; what a contrast to his own large and disorderly glasshouse, where bags of compost mingled with sprays, crocks and discarded grow-bags amid the tomatoes.

  ‘I have a brother, that’s all,’ said the woman on his left. Something in her tone transferred his attention from the garden to her face. It was in its way an impressive face, of the kind an artist would carve rather than paint: it would need a Rembrandt to capture its suggestion of dignified suffering.

  ‘I hadn’t heard of a brother,’ said Lambert. He felt a small spurt of guilt at this deliberate inference that he already knew a lot about her when in fact they knew so little. Her brown eyes gazed down the garden. Her strong nose looked very straight in profile. The dark, greying hair was cut short and neat, almost masculine around the strong head. From this angle, the determined chin, the high, clean profile, the unexpectedly long lashes showed the striking beauty she must once have been. The large mouth drooped a little at the corners, so that he willed her to the smile he knew would light up her face. Suddenly he understood, more clearly than if she had complained to him for an hour, that this woman had not had very much pleasure from life. There coursed through him one of the sudden, violent surges of sympathy he thought he had left in his childhood, so that he wanted to reach out and touch her.