Murder Strikes Pink

by Josephine Pullein-Thompson

  Flecker shook his head. ‘No, someone did try to get in.’

  ‘Oh, do you think it was the murderer coming back?’ Molly, her pale eyes goggling behind the green spectacles, sounded terrified. ‘I mean he might have come back to find some evidence or something. Or do you think Joy and I know something and he meant — he meant to murder us?’ She gazed intently at Flecker, almost beseeching reassurance.

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ Flecker told her, ‘but I’ll leave you a police guard until we’ve sorted it out.’

  ‘Oh, Joy, supposing he had got in? We might have been murdered,’ Molly wailed.

  ‘Don’t make such a fuss, Molly. He didn’t get in and he didn’t murder us, so there’s nothing to wail about,’ Joy told her sharply.

  ‘It’s all very well for you to be so brave about it, but I was much nearer him than you were, I came downstairs.’

  ‘I came downstairs as soon as any useful purpose could be served by it.’ Joy spoke with asperity. ‘I had the sense to telephone the police from upstairs first. And, if you hadn’t started shrieking he wouldn’t have been frightened off and the police would have caught him red-handed,’ she added triumphantly.

  ‘How can you be so unkind?’ protested Molly. ‘I ran into the umbrella stand in the dark and having made all that noise what could I do but call for help?’

  ‘Did either of you see anything of the would-be intruder?’ asked Flecker, growing tired of their wrangling.

  ‘No,’ Joy answered at once. ‘I looked for him out of my bedroom window, but the first floor of the house overhangs a bit and you can’t see the french windows.’

  ‘And when you were telephoning,’ asked Flecker, ‘did you hear anyone making off? Footsteps on the gravel or anything?’

  ‘No footsteps, but I heard a car start.’

  ‘A car. Did it sound as though it was close? I mean, just outside the house?’ asked Flecker.

  ‘I’m no expert’, Joy answered. ‘It’s donkeys’ years since I’ve driven, but it certainly wasn’t just outside the house. It was quite loud though. It must have been about halfway up the drive I should think.’

  Flecker turned to Browning. ‘Would you take a look?’ he said. And as Browning left the room, he went on, ‘Now, Miss Steer, your turn. What did you see and hear?’ Flecker was still disentangling Molly’s long, confused story when Browning reappeared with a triumphant expression on his face and a sheet of paper in his hand. He laid the paper before Flecker. On it he had written, ‘Looks as though he left it in shrubbery, right-hand side, top of drive. Land Rover with a fairly worn set of heavy duty tyres and a slight oil leak in either the back axle or the differential box.’

  ‘Good,’ said Flecker getting to his feet. ‘One last question, Miss Hemming. Have you told anyone else what you told me about your drinking the milk shake?’

  ‘Only Charity Chesterfield,’ Joy answered. ‘She telephoned again to ask whether Laurence had turned up and then she went on to talk about the murder and I told her about the milk shake.’

  ‘And you, Miss Steer?’

  ‘I haven’t told anyone, not a soul,’ Molly answered him.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  IT WAS JUST after nine on Saturday morning when Flecker and Browning, after only a few hours’ sleep, reappeared at Whittam House. Having checked with the constable on duty that there’d been no further disturbances, the detectives drove round to the stables. One Land Rover, coupled to its trailer, waited on the gravel sweep.

  ‘Our first customer,’ said Browning, parking the police car beside it. He got out and gave the Land Rover’s tyres a casual glance. ‘Not guilty,’ he told Flecker. ‘Too new a job altogether.’

  In the stable they found Helen Farrell grooming her horse and Brenda Dix mucking out.

  ‘Good morning; no Mr. Keswick?’ inquired Flecker.

  Helen looked up. The hideous green-blue bruise and the half-closed eye seemed almost sacrilege on that lovely face. ‘Laurence isn’t coming to the show,’ she said shortly.

  ‘Why not?’ asked Flecker.

  ‘God knows. Both his horses are entered and five of T.T.’s. He’s chucking away pounds in entry fees.’ She body-brushed her horse in short, angry strokes.

  ‘Is he still up at Down End?’ asked Flecker.

  ‘He was last night. He’s had the telephone disconnected — he says he wants some peace. If you ask me he’s off his rocker.’

  ‘We’re going to shatter the peace,’ said Flecker grinning. ‘Any messages?’

  But Helen had lost interest in him.

  ‘Be a saint and fill my hay net,’ she called down the stable to the already overworked Brenda, ‘I’m never going to get there at this rate.’

  The yard at Down End Farm appeared to be empty and Browning, observing Keswick’s Land Rover standing in an open-fronted implement shed, suggested, ‘A quick dekko, we can always make out I was looking for him.’

  ‘Right you are. The less they know about our interests the better, considering how they telephone each other. I’ll go on towards the house.’

  A few moments later Browning overtook Flecker. ‘No, it’s not him,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘No oil leak and two new tyres. What’s Miss Scott got besides that sports car?’

  ‘A horse-box, I suspect,’ answered Flecker. ‘She had some very outsize doors on her garage.’

  ‘And Mrs. Pratt’s only got that old rattle-trap,’ observed Browning sadly as Flecker knocked on the door. There was a truculent sound about Keswick’s footsteps as he came down the passage. He flung open the door and looked as though he were about to loose an angry stream of words, but his expression changed when he saw the detectives.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said, as though pleasantly surprised. ‘Come in. I’ve just made some coffee, would you like some?’

  They followed him into the kitchen, which was in a state of considerable confusion, and Keswick advanced on the cluttered sink. ‘I wash them when I want them,’ he announced rather defiantly. ‘I can’t see that it matters whether one washes up before or after meals — the total time and energy expended it exactly the same. Tea spoons, tea spoons,’ he muttered, searching among the miscellaneous objects which covered the draining board.

  They took their cups of coffee into the sitting-room, which had grown several degrees dustier since the detectives’ last visit. When they had disposed themselves about the room Flecker said, ‘I gather you’re not going to the show today.’

  ‘You gather correctly,’ answered Keswick, in a voice which forbade further questioning on that subject.

  ‘I also gather that you have severed communication with the outside world. Mrs. Chesterfield is very anxious to get in touch with you.’

  ‘Yes, I told the telephone people not to put through any more calls. The Sunday papers wanted my memoirs “as told to our reporter,” Mrs. Farrell seemed to require endless sympathy for that black eye and Christina Scott wants to ride T.T.’s horses for me. She’s been throwing out rather obvious hints for several days, but when she heard I wasn’t going to ride them at Hallam myself she rang up with all sorts of propositions for sharing the lolly. Though why she suddenly expects to start winning again, I can’t imagine. Anyway she wouldn’t take no for an answer and she began to hint that I ought to rise above my dog-in-the-manger nature. I’m afraid I lost my temper. Do you know what Charity wanted?’

  Flecker shook his head.

  ‘I’d telephone her, but she’ll be at Hallam all day.’

  ‘We’re going along too,’ Browning told him.

  ‘In the character of detectives?’ asked Keswick. ‘But what on earth for? I mean what do you hope to discover there?’

  ‘Background, background,’ Flecker answered with a grin, ‘and we’ve a few details to look into.’ He pulled his envelopes out of his pocket and began to sort through them in a leisurely manner. Then he looked up at Keswick. ‘I know you’ve already said that you didn’t go near Miss Thistleton’s horse-box last Saturday, but that was in the
context of near enough to put poison in the milk shake. I wonder if during the day you weren’t somewhere near; near enough to have been seen coming away from the direction of the box?’

  Keswick scratched his head thoughtfully and then became slightly embarrassed. ‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘I think that could have happened. I had a bit of luck. I won the Upshott Shield and fifty pounds; I was feeling rather flush and it occurred to me that perhaps my wife could do with a contribution towards the housekeeping. I went over towards T.T.’s box, but Marion didn’t seem to be about so I gave up the idea.’

  ‘I see. And do you remember Mr. Frogmorton telling you about the lethal potentialities of linseed?’ asked Flecker.

  ‘Linseed?’ repeated Keswick, looking puzzled. ‘Oh yes, of course, the Pratt pony. Oh, I see what you’re getting at.’ He looked hard at Flecker. ‘That was prussic acid too.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Does this mean that you suspect me of murdering my cousin?’ he asked, a note of belligerence in his voice.

  ‘Not particularly,’ Flecker answered equably. ‘Mr. Frogmorton assures me that he and his assistants have told all the horse owners in the district that prussic acid can be released from linseed. No doubt most of them were at the Upshott Show.’

  ‘But I’m the one who inherits a quarter of a million, less estate duties,’ suggested Keswick.

  ‘True,’ agreed Flecker getting to his feet, ‘but still, money isn’t the only motive for murder.’

  Keswick looked amused. ‘Well, in exchange for those few kind words I’ll provide you with a ringside car park ticket and a couple of members’ guest badges,’ he said. He chose one from a selection of envelopes propped along the mantelpiece and sorted through the contents. ‘There you are, they’re not mine,’ he added, as the detectives began to thank him. ‘I’ve never been able to do things in style. They’re T.T.’s, but it seems very fitting that her avengers should go as her guests.’

  ‘We are coming up in the world’, said Browning, as he settled himself in the car. He attached his enclosure badge to his buttonhole and squinted down at it complacently.

  ‘Very nice too,’ he observed, ‘but as things have turned out,’ he added, looking critically at Flecker, ‘it’s a pity you didn’t put on your better suit.’

  ‘Oh hell, we’re not going to the Royal Enclosure at Ascot,’ Flecker told him, ‘and anyway it’s going to rain.’

  ‘And you with no mackintosh. We’d better turn back, hadn’t we, and fetch it from Frailford?’

  ‘No’, Flecker answered firmly. ‘It won’t kill me to get wet. Come on, step on it or you’ll miss the jumping.’

  ‘Every Land Rover in the country’, said Browning cheerfully as he drove past the car park and on towards the ring.

  ‘I’ve a shrewd suspicion,’ remarked Flecker, ‘that we shall only need to look at one.’

  In the ring a competitor was jumping. ‘Nothing very big there,’ observed Browning, looking at the course. ‘I expect it’s just the Grade C.’

  As Flecker climbed out of the car the first rain fell; a few isolated drops that were ominously large. ‘I don’t suppose it’s any use looking for competitors in the enclosure,’ said Flecker, gazing dubiously at the busy scene. ‘We’d better try the collecting ring, if we can find it.’

  Helen Farrell was sitting on her shooting stick by the collecting-ring entrance, her lovely face further marred by an expression of discontent. ‘Good morning again,’ said Flecker, ‘have you performed yet?’

  ‘No, the absolute imbeciles have mucked the whole thing up. They had so many entries they’ve divided the Grade C into two sections and they sent the postcard telling me that I’m in the second section, to London, so of course I haven’t had it. I’m not in till three. I could kill them. All that rushing about to get here and now I’ve got to wait hours.’

  ‘Isn’t there time to go home and come back again?’ suggested Flecker.

  ‘It’s such a stinking waste of petrol, besides all the bother of loading and unloading the horse,’ she pointed out angrily.

  It began to rain harder as the detectives wandered through the horse-box park, looking for the Chesterfield Land Rover. It was Browning who observed Marion Keswick hastily gathering an armful of horse equipment that was strewn around a trailer, and bundling it in the back of a Land Rover.

  ‘There we are,’ he said, and, ‘Better run for it, hadn’t we?’ They turned up their coat collars and ran through the downpour. Marion was fumbling with the back flap of the Land Rover, trying to close it against the rain; Flecker went to help her while Browning walked round, glancing casually at the tyres of the Land Rover and then peered underneath. He nodded grimly as he rejoined Flecker. Flecker turned to Marion. ‘Is Mrs. Chesterfield about?’ he asked.

  ‘She’s on the showground,’ Marion answered, ‘but she went off with Sarah to find a place for a practice jump. There’s no room even to exercise up this end.’

  ‘Will you shelter us,’ asked Flecker, ‘until she turns up?’

  ‘Yes, all right.’ Marion looked at them apprehensively. ‘There’s room for three in front and you can watch what’s going on in the ring; there’s a sort of natural grandstand here; the ground rises, Charity remembered from last year.’ She climbed into the driver’s seat and started the windscreen wipers. ‘Charity doesn’t seem to bother about the battery,’ she told them as they crowded in beside her.

  ‘Not much of a performance,’ observed Browning disapprovingly as a competitor refused three times at the first fence and left the ring.

  ‘I expects it’s the rain,’ said Marion; ‘it upsets most horses.’

  Flecker produced a collection of damp envelopes from his pocket and began to study them in a preoccupied manner. A wild and untrained grey horse, carrying his head horizontally, proceeded round the ring at the gallop, demolishing every fence in its path. ‘Not a very high standard,’ said Browning in dissatisfied tones.

  Flecker turned to Marion. ‘Did you have any disturbances last night?’ he asked.

  ‘Disturbances?’ Marion repeated doubtfully. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Someone tried to break into Whittam House,’ Flecker told her, ‘but the secretaries frightened whoever it was off.’

  ‘Well, we certainly didn’t have any burglars,’ answered Marion and then, catching sight of a sturdy figure completely enveloped in a very long mackintosh and a large yellow sou’-wester, she added with relief, ‘Oh, here is Charity.’

  Charity Chesterfield looked vaguely at the detectives as they climbed out of the Land Rover and announced, ‘That obstinate fool of a collecting steward, he’s making the children jump according to their numbers and the whole show is going to be held up for hours while the ones with several ponies change from one to the next. Sarah’s going twenty-eighth and she’s soaked to the skin already.’

  Marion said, ‘Oh dear,’ and, ‘Chief Inspector Flecker wants to ask you something.’

  But Charity was looking at the ring where the stewards were altering the fences for the next class.

  ‘Go on,’ she said, ‘put them down. Lower than that. You can’t expect the poor kids to jump much in this.’ Flecker asked, ‘Where do you keep the key of your Land Rover, Mrs. Chesterfield?’

  ‘The key of the Land Rover,’ said Charity, looking at him with unfocused eyes. ‘Oh, anywhere. In the Land Rover generally, or in my pocket.’

  ‘What about at night?’ asked Flecker.

  ‘Oh, sometimes I put it on the hall table. Look, there’s the Graham child, stopped again, I can’t think why they bother with that pony.’

  ‘What about last night?’ asked Flecker.

  Charity looked at him vaguely. ‘Oh, the key. Probably I left it on the hall table. Here’s a Pratt, the little one; I expect she’ll go clear.’

  ‘Last night then you, Mrs. Keswick, or presumably your son could have taken the Land Rover out without the others being aware of it,’ said Flecker, showing less patience than usual as the rain t
rickled down his neck.

  Marion said, ‘Charity, do attend. Someone tried to break into Whittam House last night.’ She looked at Flecker. ‘But I don’t see what this Land Rover’s got to do with it.’

  Charity pulled herself together abruptly. ‘Hugh can’t go out alone,’ she said, ‘he failed his test.’

  Flecker pushed back a lock of wet hair and said, ‘Did any of you take the Land Rover to Whittam at any time yesterday?’

  ‘No, we didn’t go near the place,’ Charity answered firmly. Flecker looked at Marion.

  ‘No, I’ve only driven it once and that was down to the village when we ran out of salt.’

  ‘Right,’ said Flecker. ‘Well, last night someone attempted to break into Whittam House. We think whoever it was came in a Land Rover with an oil leak and a set of fairly worn tyres. Your Land Rover,’ he looked at Charity, ‘has an oil leak and a fairly worn set of tyres and so, naturally, I’m inquiring into its whereabouts last night. Is your son here?’

  Charity’s ruddy face had taken on a greyish tinge, but her voice was unshaken. ‘No, he isn’t,’ she answered, ‘and there must be thousands of Land Rovers with oil leaks.’

  ‘Yes, I expect there are,’ admitted Flecker equably. ‘Is Hugh at home?’

  ‘No, he’s gone out for the day with a friend. I don’t expect him back much before supper.’

  ‘I’ll come round this evening then,’ said Flecker.

  As the detectives hurried through the drizzling rain to sample the delights of the members’ enclosure Marion and Charity sat damply in the Land Rover, both wearing worried expressions.

  ‘Why should it be your Land Rover?’ asked Marion; ‘and why should Hugh have gone to Whittam House in the middle of the night? The police have gone mad.’

  ‘Yes, that’s it, the police have gone mad,’ repeated Charity in unconvinced tones. She looked away from Marion. ‘Hugh’s been behaving so very oddly lately,’ she said in a strained voice.

  Marion, finding the position reversed and herself in the role of comforter, hastily prised her mind from its preoccupation with her own affairs.