‘I’d like to see this scrapbook,’ said Flecker thoughtfully.
‘Oh yes, of course, I’ll fetch it at once, they live in the morning-room.’ Molly leapt to her feet. ‘I won’t be a moment.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Flecker, ‘I’ll come too. Save carting it about.’
Joy Hemming was reading a newspaper. ‘Scotland Yard, I presume,’ she said, taking off her reading spectacles as Flecker came in.
‘Miss Hemming?’ asked Flecker, and introduced himself.
Molly Steer was looking at the bottom shelf of the bookcase; she proceeded along the floor in a crouched position, making small agitated noises. Then, suddenly, springing to her feet, she cried in distraught tones, ‘It’s not there, Joy. The year before last’s scrapbook is not in its place.’ She looked wildly round the room. ‘What can have happened to it?’
‘I haven’t a clue,’ Joy retorted calmly, ‘but what does it matter now?’
‘The Chief Inspector wants it.’
‘Well, the Chief Inspector won’t blow up if it’s not immediately forthcoming,’ Flecker told her.
‘It’s probably there,’ observed Joy calmly as she made for the bookcase. ‘Molly never can see an inch in front of her nose.’ She bent down and checked the year on the back of each one of the twenty-one green volumes. ‘No, she’s right; it’s not there. That’s very peculiar.’
‘Do either of you remember putting it back?’ asked Flecker, and when the secretaries realised that neither of them had put the book away, the search was transferred to the drawing-room and later to the dining-room and to T.T.’s bedroom. When Browning reappeared he joined in with enthusiasm and soon had the secretaries hunting in a more methodical manner. Flecker, deciding that he would be more usefully employed elsewhere, wandered off to the kitchen. When thunderous knockings brought no answer he opened the door into the large, old-fashioned kitchen with its wooden table and dresser and then led on by the sound of a wireless blaring away at its maximum volume he found Mrs. Maggs sitting in a wicker chair in a small room off the kitchen. The wireless on a table beside her was draped in newspapers which were held in position by a seven-pound weight.
‘Good afternoon,’ shouted Flecker, trying to compete with a powerful North Country voice which was advising children on the care and feeding of captive newts. ‘I’m a policeman.’ He handed her his warrant card. She read it slowly, examined it carefully and then reached out to switch off the wireless.
‘The other one took away the bottle,’ she said into the sudden and blessed silence.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Flecker answered loudly.
‘No, not for the night; he never brought it back at all,’ said Mrs. Maggs indignantly.
Flecker sat down opposite her in the other wicker chair. He wrote on an envelope, ‘I’m trying to find out who poisoned Miss Thistleton, have you any ideas?’ and passed it across. Mrs. Maggs read it carefully. ‘It was something she ate at the show, that’s what it was. I never did fancy the food they gave you in tents.’
Flecker took another envelope and wrote, ‘I’ll look into that,’ and ‘Did Miss Thistleton take a milk shake to every show?’
‘If she was going to be out all day she did,’ Mrs. Maggs answered.
‘Did she always drink it?’ wrote Flecker and passed another envelope across.
‘Yes, mostly she did. I’ve only had to pour it down the sink once or twice all summer. I’m sure I don’t know why you’re writing all this, though,’ Mrs. Maggs sounded indignant, ‘I’m not that deaf.’
‘No, of course not,’ Flecker agreed with unconvincing falseness, ‘only we don’t want to make any mistakes.’
‘No, I never worked for a Miss Takes; it was a Miss Coombs I worked for; nearly twenty years.’
Flecker extricated himself from Mrs. Maggs’ domain bawling his thanks and making gestures of good will and returned to find his search party in very low spirits; the secretaries were snapping at each other and even Browning’s enthusiasm was flagging.
‘Leave it,’ Flecker told them. ‘See what the daily women have to say tomorrow and then well think again. One of them may have put it away somewhere.’
Joy Hemming returned to her easy chair and her newspaper but as the detectives drove out of the gates the dutiful Molly began to search again, toiling from room to room opening drawers and cupboards to a noisy accompaniment of falling objects.
‘Was Miss Dix any use?’ asked Flecker as Browning drove towards Hamberley.
‘She’s very anxious to help, and she’s got more sense than you’d think from her clothes,’ Browning told him. ‘They got to the show early both days and Mrs. Keswick parked the box as close up to the trees and the hedge as she could to give the horses a bit of shade. Friday they had a farmer called Potling on one side of them and Miss Scott’s car on the other, with Chesterfield’s trailer next along and Mrs. Pratt’s box behind them. On Saturday they were right against the hedge with Browns’ next to them and Pratts’ and Chesterfields’ in the row behind them and Keswick and Farrell both a bit further along, but in the same row.’ He passed over his notebook. ‘I’ve drawn a bit of a sketch if you want to have a look.’
CHAPTER FIVE
CHARITY CHESTERFIELD looked across the breakfast table at Hugh’s fair head and thin face bent sulkily over his plate and controlled a desire to scream with exasperation. Of a naturally cheerful disposition herself, she had found it hard to be patient with the moodiness which had overtaken him these holidays and though she knew that adolescents pass through these phases and eventually emerge as quite reasonable people, it seemed to her an almost wanton waste of what could be a comparatively carefree time.
‘If it’s going to be wet you and Sarah might go to the cinema this afternoon,’ she suggested. ‘Marion and I will be at the funeral, but you could take yourselves on the bus.’
‘I don’t suppose there’s anything worth seeing,’ Hugh answered obstructively.
‘Well, look in the local paper and find out.’ Charity Chesterfield spoke sharply. ‘And do try to be a bit more cheerful, Hugh. We’re supposed to be cheering Marion up and at least she’s got something to be miserable about.’
‘Oh, leave me alone,’ said Hugh savagely, and pushing back his chair abruptly he rushed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
Charity’s stout body sagged a little. Whatever one did it was never enough; people refused to be happy. There was Marion upstairs wilting like a broken flower after a storm, Hugh behaving in an utterly impossible manner; only Sarah, who was still young enough to be delighted by a deluge of rain that would soften the ground for jumping, had worn a smiling face. Perhaps I’m wrong, thought Charity, perhaps we aren’t meant to be happy, but there is so much on earth and if one has two arms and two legs and eyes to see and ears to hear — what more do they want? She crossed the room to the window. The rain was falling so solidly that it was like looking through the side of an aquarium and in the aquarium, clutching mackintoshes about them as they hurried up the flagged path from the front gate, were the detectives. Charity Chesterfield ran to open her front door.
‘“Safely, safely gathered in”,’ said Flecker, grinning cheerfully as he removed his mackintosh and allowed it to drip on the doormat.
‘My word, what a downpour,’ exclaimed Browning breathlessly. ‘Still, it’s needed.’
‘Yes, it’ll save me watering what’s left of the garden, thank goodness,’ agreed Charity.
‘How’s Mrs. Keswick?’ asked Flecker.
‘Not very bright.’ Charity Chesterfield allowed her depression to show. ‘I wish — well, I suppose I really wish that none of it had ever happened.’ She led the way into the pleasantly shabby sitting-room. ‘If only T.T. hadn’t flaunted her power and her money about. She asked for this.’
‘Did she tell you she intended leaving most of it to your children?’ asked Flecker.
‘Yes, and I told her not to be a stupid old woman,’ said Charity Chesterfield bluntly. ‘She’d let Laurence gro
w up expecting to inherit, she couldn’t just leave him high and dry and I told her so.’
‘Did you convince her?’
‘No, not then, but I might have done by today if she hadn’t been poisoned. Of course she loathed Helen Farrell; she’d have gone to almost any length to prevent her having the spending of Thistleton money.’
‘But why was she in such a rush to do anything?’ asked Flecker. ‘Why didn’t she wait to see if Keswick married Mrs. Farrell before disinheriting him?’
‘That wasn’t Theodora’s way; she liked violent action. Besides, she wasn’t expecting to live for ever. She had an operation about two years ago for some sort of malignant tumour and, apparently, if it came back there wasn’t much more they could do. I think she liked to feel that her affairs were in order just in case.’
‘When did you have this conversation about her will?’ asked Flecker.
‘Last week. Two or three days before the show, I suppose.’
‘And did she mention it at the show?’
‘There wasn’t much opportunity for private conversation; she just brought me up to date with her latest ideas. She was thinking of leaving something to Marion — Mrs. Keswick — then.’
‘Had you known Miss Thistleton for a long time?’ asked Flecker.
‘About fourteen years; we came here soon after Sarah was born. Theodora had lived at Whittam all her life.’
‘And the Keswicks?’
‘I’ve known Laurence almost as long as Theodora. When he was in the army she always asked him to stay when he had any leave and then gave a series of very dull parties for him. When he married he used to bring Marion, but it’s only since they came to live at Down End that Eve got to know them well.’
‘What’s Mrs. Keswick like normally?’ asked Flecker. ‘Would you describe her as a nervous person?’
‘No.’ Charity sat down on the arm of the large, shabby sofa. ‘She isn’t nervous of dogs or horses or thunderstorms or burglars, but she’s a sensitive person and she didn’t have a very happy childhood; that always makes a difference.’
‘You mean she’s basically insecure?’ asked Flecker.
‘Yes, I suppose so. You see, her mother was an actress, quite a well-known one, but father had gone off and I gather life was a very hand to mouth affair. Marion was dragged about all over the place and she told me once that sometimes when the electricity was cut off, because they hadn’t paid the bill, they cooked over a candle.’ Flecker said, ‘Oh dear, and I suppose she thought she saw the same pattern repeating itself.’
Charity Chesterfield, suddenly realizing that she had been talking to the enemy and that, as usual, she’d said too much, tried to improve matters. ‘You needn’t run away with the idea that Marion poisoned T.T. though; she’s the last person to commit a murder. And, anyway, Laurence being well-off isn’t going to help her; is it?’ she demanded aggressively.
‘No, it doesn’t look as though it is,’ agreed Flecker mildly. ‘Now, you were at this show on Friday,’ he went on, as he produced his envelopes. ‘Did you see Miss Thistleton talking earnestly to anyone?’
‘No, I don’t think so, but you see I was busy. Sarah was jumping. She did very well actually. She jumped off three times against those objectionable little Pratts and came third; otherwise they’d have swept the board.’
‘The Pratts’ horse-box was close to the Thistleton box,’ observed Flecker. ‘Why are they so objectionable?’
‘Well, they’re always winning,’ complained Charity Chesterfield. ‘They arrive at the local shows with a truckful of ponies and carry off all the prizes. They spoil the atmosphere; they’re so determined to win they ride as though their lives depend on it. They push in Musical Chairs and you’d never find a Pratt admitting that she’d missed out a post in Bending. And the whole family looks as though it could do with a good wash, mother included.’
‘In fact they lower the tone?’ suggested Flecker with a grin.
‘Oh, here’s Marion,’ exclaimed Charity as Marion Keswick appeared at the door with the bull terrier at her heels. ‘I was just telling the Chief Inspector why the Pratts are so disliked, though I can’t think why he should be interested.’
‘Local colour,’ said Flecker.
‘The mums hate them because they win,’ observed Marion. ‘I’m always rather pleased when they do. After all,’ she turned to Charity, ‘if Sarah wins you all feel a nice warm glow for a day or two and Sarah buys Copperfield a new head-collar or something. But when the Pratts win it means a square meal or that they can pay the electricity bill.’
‘Yes, I know that’s true,’ agreed Charity, ‘but I wish they’d earn their keep some other way. It spoils what should be a pleasure.’
‘I didn’t know horse shows were a sort of free fight for next week’s housekeeping money,’ said Flecker thoughtfully.
‘Well, I’ll get out of your way.’ Charity made for the door. ‘Don’t let them worry you, Marion.’
Flecker said, ‘Sit down, Mrs. Keswick,’ and then when the door had closed behind Charity he turned to Browning. ‘I forgot to ask Mrs. Chesterfield to fill in her trailer’s position on our map; see if you can find her.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Browning answered briskly, and taking the folder he went out in pursuit of Charity.
Flecker turned back to Marion. She was sitting very tense and still in her chair; she looked wan, with dark shadows under her eyes. He sat down opposite her, pushed back his unruly hair and said earnestly, ‘Look, Mrs. Keswick, there’s one thing I want to make quite plain. If you didn’t add hydrocyanic acid to that thermos of milk shake you’ve absolutely no reason to worry. I know it’s unpleasant to be suspected of murder, but eventually I shall find out who did it and then the whole thing will be cleared up.’
‘“Cleared up” is a euphemism for someone being hanged, I suppose,’ observed Marion coldly.
Flecker looked at her with interest. She wasn’t, he decided, quite as crushed as she seemed. ‘No, not hanged,’ he answered, ‘unless he or she has committed or means to commit another murder; gaoled for life, that’s about fourteen years — it doesn’t seem a very unreasonable expiation. You see,’ he went on as Marion sat staring before her, ‘everyone on the staff had just as much opportunity to poison the milk shake, but you seem to be the only one with a motive.’
‘Yes,’ said Marion in a voice that grated with pain, ‘it’s so likely that I should murder T.T. so that my husband can keep Helen Farrell in comfort.’
‘No, of course you wouldn’t,’ Flecker agreed, ‘but if money was the original difficulty and your husband had only begun to take an interest in Mrs. Farrell since you parted, you might have killed T.T. in the rather desperate hope that with the money position solved he’d come back to you.’
Marion covered her face with her hands. ‘Well, I didn’t,’ she said in a muffled voice. ‘It never occurred to me. And, anyway, I don’t think that money would bring Laurence back.’ She suddenly raised her head and looked at Flecker. ‘Don’t you see, the whole point is that Laurence doesn’t think money’s important and I do. He’s quite happy to consider the lilies of the field or to wait for something to turn up. He doesn’t lie awake at night wondering how we’re going to pay the electricity bill or what we’ll live on if the pigs are the wrong weight for the bacon factory. He thinks he’ll win the Open Jumping at Upshott or his premium bond will come up and he turns over and goes to sleep. It’s all very well, I suppose, for two grown-up people to live like that, but you can’t subject children to it; it’s not fair.’ There was a faint note of hysteria in her voice.
Flecker said, ‘Yes, I do see. But you haven’t any children, have you?’
‘No.’ Marion looked down and flushed faintly pink.
‘Do you know anything about T.T.’s scrapbooks?’ Flecker asked.
‘I’ve seen them. T.T. regarded them as a monument to her life’s work; she was inclined to produce them after dinner.’
‘Were all the photographs of horses?’
‘Not in the earlier books: then she was still interested in relations and picnics and dogs and cats, but in the last few years, since winning became the only thing which mattered to her, they were all of horses. Generally they were photographed wearing their rosettes or with T.T. standing beside them holding cups. Sometimes a competitor’s number was pasted in if it had been particularly lucky and then there were newspaper cuttings and once she even had wads of prize money stuck in. Some show had taken the trouble to acquire new bank notes and do them up in cellophane packets — usually they just send you a cheque. T.T. thought the money looked so beautiful that she had it stuck in intact. It must have been rather bitter for the secretaries, when they’re so underpaid.’
‘In fact she was fairly eccentric,’ observed Flecker. He got up. ‘Well, thank you, Mrs. Keswick; you’ve been a great help. I must go and find my sergeant,’ he added vaguely as he stuffed his envelopes into his pocket.
The rain had stopped and already the Chesterfield lawn looked appreciably greener. Since the house appeared to be empty but for Marion and himself, Flecker wandered out and found his way to the stable, a humble building of brick and flint opening on a yard of moss-grown cobbles. From there a sound of hammering led him to the garage where he found Browning beating a Jael-sized nail into a dilapidated jump stand, watched by Sarah Chesterfield, a fair, solidly-built girl with a plain but pleasant face, and her mother. Charity, who was sitting on an upturned box and nursing an enormous vegetable marrow, saw Flecker first.
‘Here’s the Chief Inspector,’ she observed guiltily. And Sarah pleaded nervously with Browning, ‘You must stop now. I expect I can finish it.’ Browning looked up at Flecker. ‘Won’t be a sec, sir,’ he remarked cheerily.
‘There’s no desperate hurry,’ answered Flecker. He leaned against the garage wall and looked down at Charity. ‘I don’t think I upset Mrs. Keswick,’ he told her.
‘Thank heaven for that.’ Charity spoke forcefully. ‘The poor girl’s had enough to put up with lately. Your sergeant’s doing his good turn for the day too — mending Sarah’s jump; he said you didn’t need him.’
Murder Strikes Pink Page 8