by Joyce Cato
‘Yes, Sir Hugh?’ Jason asked levelly, wondering why he hadn’t been shepherded out along with all the others.
‘Nothing,’ Sir Hugh mumbled, then saw that he wasn’t going to get away with that, and added reluctantly, ‘only there’s Ferris Labs, you see. Right on our doorstep. They’ve got some good brains in there, or so I’ve heard, and I daresay they’d have access to cyanide. I just thought—’
‘Right, Ferris Labs,’ Frank chipped in. ‘I knew the name of Caulcott Green sounded familiar for some reason.’ He turned to Jason. ‘They’d have the know-how and equipment in that place to produce a gizmo like this, right enough.’ His myopic eyes suddenly widened. ‘And doesn’t Gordon Trenning work there?’ he added, rather as a movie buff might talk about a film star.
Sir Hugh looked more uncomfortable than ever.
‘Who?’ Jason asked sharply.
Frank obliged. ‘Dr Trenning, sir. I’ve read one or two of his papers. He’s a bit of whizz-kid, sir. I … er … follow things in his area of research,’ he mumbled, as if admitting to subscribing to porn.
Jason’s eyes began to gleam. Perhaps this was going to be one of those cases where it was handed to you on a silver platter after all? If the murder weapon was such that only a very few people could have made it, and one of them was right on the victim’s doorstep so to speak… .
‘Is Dr Trenning at the fete today?’ he asked generally.
‘Yes he is.’ It was John Clarke who replied.
Sir Hugh opened his mouth to speak, and then abruptly closed it again with a snap.
Jason turned to Flora. ‘Sergeant Glenn, get some help and find this Dr Trenning. I want a word with him as soon as possible,’ he added ominously.
Outside, speculation was buzzing. The fete-goers hadn’t missed the fact that no one was allowed to leave the playing field without producing ID for the policemen at the exits, and being granted permission to leave. So far, though, few people had opted to go. Human nature being what it was, everyone wanted to stay and watch the drama unfold.
By now it was widely known that the vicar was dead. It had given Carole Anne a very nasty stomach-churning moment, until someone else had confirmed that it was James Davies, and not her stepfather, who had died. She wanted to find her mother and stepfather and make sure that they were both all right, but she suspected that if she did so, their protective instincts might take over, and they might insist she return home. Which was the last thing she wanted. She was still actively engaged on a plan of action to get herself photographed by the famous Marc Linacre. And whilst, in the face of such a tragic event, she couldn’t help but feel a flash of shame for being so selfish, she sturdily reminded herself that all the top people, when being interviewed, always stressed how you had to be tough to get to the top.
So, tough she would be. Like nails. But perhaps, later, she’d just find her mother and see if there was something that she could do to help out.
Marc Linacre and his wife were standing with a group of others, pretending to watch the football, but really watching the flower show tent. Taking advantage of their distraction, Carole Anne sidled up to Marc. As she did so, however, she noticed a man in a suit slipping around the back of the tea tent. For a moment, she had that weird, slightly giddy feeling that you get when you feel as if you’ve been here and done it all before. And then she realized that it was the same man that she’d seen earlier in the afternoon, and that he’d been doing exactly the same thing then – sneaking around behind the tea tent.
Not again, Carole Anne thought, wrinkling her nose. He must have a weak bladder or something. Gross. But at least, this time, nobody followed him.
Then she took a deep breath and let her hand very ‘accidentally’ and lightly brush against Marc Linacre’s. As he half-glanced down and across at her, his face comically dropping at the sight of her, she beamed at him beatifically.
‘Hello again,’ she said cheerfully.
On the other side of him, Angela Linacre’s head whipped around.
‘Who’d have thought that all this was going to happen … ’ Carole Anne said, trailing off as, with a visible yank, Marc was pulled away. Angela, with a firm grip on her husband’s arm, pulled him further into the crowd. Carole Anne watched them go, her eyes narrowing in despair. Just what did that wife of his have against her? she thought mournfully. Then, with a concerted effort, she stiffened her backbone. If Mrs Linacre thought that she was going to keep Carole Anne Clancy off the cover of Vogue, the old harpy had better think again! She gave a brisk nod of her head, causing a young boy passing by to stare at her in surprise.
She’d just have to think of something that would really grab his attention.
As she turned away, she noticed the eye-catching figure of Daphne Cadge-Hampton emerging from the tea tent; even Carole Anne had to admire the old girl’s style. She certainly was a scene-stealer. A thought crept into her head. She’d bet that old sour-faced Mrs Linacre was a bit of a snob. If she could just get on the countess’s good side, and score points by introducing Her Ladyship to Marc Linacre and his wife, maybe even get them to think that the Nobles hobnobbed regularly with local aristocracy, well… .
Carole Anne watched the old woman thoughtfully. She already knew her slightly from when she’d volunteered to help run a jumble sale for one of the countess’s favourite charities, and they’d got on like a house on fire. The old lady had liked her ‘spunk’, whatever that meant. And from what she’d overheard, the dowager countess had been a bit of a goer too, in her day, so she might well approve of Carole Anne’s plans to become a model. It was certainly worth a try to get her on side.
As she watched, though, Lady Daphne lowered herself onto a deck chair just outside the tent and even from that distance Carole Anne could see that she was deeply unhappy about something. She was breathing deeply, and her jaw was clamped as tight as a vice. Perhaps she should offer to go and get her something to drink – or fetch a doctor? Although she looked more angry or worried than in distress.
Either way, now was definitely not the time to approach her for a favour. And with rare insight for one so young and single-minded, Carole Anne reluctantly turned away.
CHAPTER 11
Jason stepped outside the tent and looked around. Of all the murder scenes he’d had to cope with, this was by far the most unusual, and the most nightmarish. There had to be hundreds of people in the playing field. How to start eliminating them?
He heard a shout from the football field, and a ragged cheer went up. Well, those playing football could be knocked off the list for a start, he mused, and felt himself smile ruefully.
The question, of course, was when was the capsule planted? If it had been deposited fairly early in the day, it could have been anybody who’d done the deed, although Dr Gordon Trenning surely had to be top of the list.
He got out his notebook and began making memos to himself.
Question the rose-grower.
Question those in the tent to see if anybody went near the rose, or smelt it, at any time. That might give him a time frame for the planting of the murder weapon.
Find out who hated the vicar… . At this he paused and shook his head. A vicar, for pity’s sake! Although he knew that attacks on the clergy were, unfortunately in this modern day and age, sadly on the rise, even so, this killing was so bizarre. He couldn’t help but feel that it just didn’t fit somehow. It felt off. A high-tech crime, committed against a harmless clergyman just didn’t gel. And yet, James Davies was dead.
He’d already sent out constables to gather all the information available on Dr Gordon Trenning. He could only hope that it would help him to get into the mind of the man. If he had indeed been responsible for the outlandish murder weapon, what on earth had possessed the man to make it?
‘The preliminary interviews are almost over, sir.’ Brian Gilwiddy’s voice interrupted his dire musings.
Jason sighed heavily. ‘Right. We need a temporary incident room,’ he said, looking around the area
vaguely. His eyes alighted on the fortune-teller’s tent. It was small but private. It would do at a pinch.
‘Right, clear the fortune-teller’s tent, will you? We’ll use that for an interview room. If she’s any good, it won’t come as much of a surprise to her,’ Jason added, with a wolfish smile.
Gilwiddy, surprised at his chief’s sudden flash of humour, grinned appreciatively and trotted off.
Jason was still writing memos to himself when Flora Glenn walked quickly up to his side. ‘Sir,’ she said sharply.
Something in her tone had Jason’s head rearing up quickly. His eyes quickly scanned around her, but she was alone. ‘No Dr Trenning?’ he asked archly.
Flora took a deep breath. ‘Yes, sir. That is, I’ve found him. But he’s dead.’
Flora led her superior officer around the big tea tent to the rear. Here Jason looked over the scene with a jaundiced eye.
The tent had been set up only about a foot from the perimeter fence. Lying in the narrow alleyway it created, facedown, was the figure of a man. He looked pathetic. He was wearing a suit that was now hopelessly crushed and sweat-stained. The back of his head, showing already thinning hair, had been caved in by what looked like a single, massive blow. There was surprisingly little blood. For a few moments, Jason simply stood and stared down at him.
‘I’ve checked for a pulse, sir,’ Flora said, unable to stand the silence. All her previous excitement had suddenly evaporated with her discovery of yet another body. Perhaps it was because she had found him personally. Perhaps because she too thought there was something rather pathetic about the dead man. So unbearably sad. In some ways, she felt, it was worse than seeing the vicar dead, although, if asked, she wouldn’t have been able to say why, exactly.
But Jason knew why. Whereas the vicar’s death had caused much shock and dismay amongst his friends and community, he already sensed that nobody much would mourn for this man. The vicar had at least died amongst his friends. This man had died alone.
Jason sighed. ‘Go and get John Clarke. Then the SOCO team,’ he said flatly to Flora. They were certainly going to be busy today. He’d just known this was going to be a bugger of a case. He’d just known it.
A green-faced constable, who Flora had commandeered to stand guard whilst she’d fetched Jason, hastily looked away from the sight of the body as Flora brushed past him.
Jason bent down gingerly and peered into the profile of the dead man. His had been a nondescript sort of face – neither old nor young. Not handsome, but not ugly. The sort you wouldn’t look at twice, in fact. And yet it was looking more and more likely that this anonymous man had indeed been responsible for that fantastic capsule of death, and had thus started off this whole chain of tragic events.
But if this murdered scientist was the catalyst for all this death and mayhem, what on earth had gone wrong? Why had he wanted James Davies dead? Had he wanted James Davies dead? Obviously, something, somewhere, was seriously amiss here, or else why would a possible killer now also be lying dead? So there were two killers? Had they, in fact, formed a partnership? It was unusual, he knew, for two people to collaborate to kill, but it was not unheard of.
Jason backtracked his thoughts a little and rose stiffly to his feet.
Taking it for granted that Trenning was the maker of the capsule – and that, he felt sure, was now a fairly safe bet – was it possible that he’d constructed it for someone else, and that another party had stolen it for their own purposes and then killed him? Or had Trenning and someone else indeed been in collusion to commit the murder of Caulcott Green’s vicar, and then, for some reason, Trenning’s partner had killed him afterwards? Perhaps in order to make sure that he would never be able to talk to the police about it afterwards?
A scientist and a vicar, both dead at a country fete. Why?
‘Hello, another one?’ The hearty voice, naturally, belonged to Dr John Clarke. Jason nodded, and as the doctor brushed past him – difficult in that narrow space – Jason said curtly, ‘Try not to disturb anything, Doctor. Just ascertain death, and if possible, identify him for me.’ No doubt the police’s own surgeon would have something to say about local amateurs being given first shot at his corpses! But it seemed a shame not to take advantage of the local GP’s knowledge.
John grunted, knelt down, peered at the wound, checked the pulse and stared down at the face. Then he nodded once, and got cumbersomely back to his feet.
‘Yes, that’s Trenning all right. Killed by what looks like a single heavy blow to the back of the head. And not long ago, either. Not more than half an hour, I’d say, but probably much more recently than that, even. Say five to fifteen minutes ago. Of course, your chaps will be able to give you every little bit of info once they’ve had him on the table for a few hours.’
Jason sighed and nodded. So he’d been killed whilst the police were already present at the playing field. Wonderful. He could imagine what his superiors would have to say about that! Not to mention the media, if they found out. ‘Any thoughts on the weapon?’ he asked gloomily.
‘Something big and blunt, or there’d be more blood. Whatever it was, it caved his head in with a large round circular indentation, but it didn’t cut him up much. So it had no sharp edges. A mallet, maybe? A rounded cudgel of some sort?’
Jason sighed. ‘Right. Flora, we need a search team set up. And we need this field emptied of all non-relevant witnesses.’ He was getting tired of having such vast numbers to think about.
Flora, glad to be given something positive to do, nodded and quickly got to work.
Jason looked beyond the body, then ran his eye along the tent and spotted the open tent flap, which seemed to have been loosened about halfway down the canvas wall. Careful where he put his feet, he stepped over the prone Gordon Trenning, and noticed the doctor disappearing back the way he’d come. With his girth, it wouldn’t have been very easy for him to follow Jason anyway.
The chief inspector found his nose wrinkling as he crouched down and then wriggled under the flap and through the back of the tent. He quickly realized why; he was in a narrow, dog-legged space with portable loos on either side of him. Taking a few steps forward, left, then right, he suddenly came into the main body of the tea tent itself. There, several female eyes turned his way in obvious surprise, no doubt wondering how he’d managed to appear from seemingly nowhere, and for an instant, Jason felt as if he were back at school, being given the evil eye by his disapproving teachers.
Sitting on a chair, a blonde rag doll of a woman was listlessly sipping tea. There was a curiously blank look to her eyes, which told him at once that he was looking at the widow.
Beside her was a big, buxom woman with brown hair turning to grey, big grey eyes and a normally cheerful mouth, now turned down and looking anxious. For her part, Vera Gant stared back at the blond, handsome man who could only be a policeman, and her lips thinned ominously.
But it was the third woman, a little sparrow of a thing with bright button-black eyes and an energy that probably never seemed to diminish, who got to her feet and attacked first.
‘You must be a policeman,’ she said. ‘I’m Mrs Dinwiddy. And poor Mrs Davies should be home in bed. She’s already had to rush to the loos to be sick once, and with this heat, I’m sure it can’t be doing her any good to just be sitting here, waiting around for you lot.’
She paused for breath, and as she did so, Vera Gant took over.
‘My Ernie says there are men at the gates, and they ain’t letting people out unless they go through some rigmarole about showing ’em their driving licences or something. A damn disgrace, that is,’ she pronounced, vigorously nodding her head. ‘As if we all carried things around with us that have our names and addresses on ’em.’
Then her hand fell to Wendy’s shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze, but the woman didn’t seem to feel it.
‘She should have a doctor,’ Mrs Dinwiddy added, when Vera had said her piece.
Jason nodded. ‘Dr Clarke is around somew
here. Perhaps you’d like to bring him in?’ he took the wind right out of her sails by neatly agreeing with her.
Mrs Dinwiddy stiffened, then inclined her head graciously, and marched out of the tent.
As she passed, the Dower Countess, Daphne Cadge-Hampton, who’d been sitting in a deck chair in the sun, got ponderously to her feet. She’d heard voices inside, and was anxious to hear what was being said.
‘Mrs … er…?’ Jason turned to Vera, who stiffened her backbone and straightened her shoulders as if getting ready to face Armageddon.
‘Gant’s my name. Vera Gant,’ she said challengingly, as if expecting the police to doubt her word.
Jason smiled his most winsome smile. ‘Mrs Gant. Tell me, have you heard anything strange in here in the last … oh, I don’t know, half an hour or so?’
Vera’s big grey eyes widened. Whatever she’d expected to be asked, it obviously hadn’t been that.
‘Hear anything? Whaddya mean? What sort of thing?’ she demanded.
Jason shrugged. ‘A cry. A thump. Anything odd.’
Vera’s eyes narrowed. She was obviously puzzled, and half suspected a trick of some sort. Slowly she shook her head. ‘No,’ she said cautiously. ‘I never heard nothing like that. Did you—’ she turned to look down at Wendy, her eyes softening in pity as she saw the vicar’s wife raise a tea cup to her lips with badly shaking hands.
She turned back to Jason. ‘No, there was nothing,’ she said firmly, and Jason believed her. For all her self-protective belligerence, he got no sense that she was being dishonest.
He looked around the tent thoughtfully, then back the way he’d come. The tent was big, and the loos being outside meant the women were a good distance from the back of the tent. It would probably have been possible for the killer to sneak around the back and kill Trenning without being heard inside. Especially if Trenning didn’t have a chance to cry out. And if he’d been hit from behind, he wouldn’t have known it was coming. It was a very silent way to kill someone. Even so, whoever had done it must have known the tent was occupied. To take such a risk!