Murder in the Cotswolds (The Sheriff Chick Charleston Mysteries Book 5)

by A B Guthrie

  “We were just drowsing. His arm was around me. All of a sudden his body jerked. He kind of reared up in bed. Then he fell back and was still. I sat up. There was a knife sticking in him, and I knew he was dead.”

  “What else did you see?”

  “I saw the door being closed.”

  “Who was closing it?”

  “I don’t know. I couldn’t see who it was.”

  For what seemed a long moment, Charleston looked at her. To Perkins she seemed frail and even younger than she actually was. A young girl in distress with the law barking at her. He could wish Charleston didn’t have to go on.

  With a slight movement of his head, as if her last answer didn’t satisfy him, Charleston changed his tack. “What did you do then?”

  “I listened for breathing, I mean his breathing. I felt for a heart beat.” The words came in slow and hushed sentences, as though she were doing these dread things again. “He was dead. I could tell that much. It was awful.”

  “But I believe you didn’t sound the alarm right away?”

  “I didn’t. I couldn’t. I got out bed. He had dropped his jacket and trousers on the floor and left his shoes there.”

  The randy dog, Perkins thought. So eager to jump in bed with the girl that he couldn’t wait to get all his clothes off.

  Charleston went on, “So he was just partly dressed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go on, please.”

  “I put his jacket and trousers on a chair. There was nothing much in the pockets except his wallet. I took the money out of it.” With a small show of defiance she added, “I’ve still got it, every cent. I don’t want it. I’m not a thief.”

  “I’m sure of that, but why did you take it? I don’t understand that.”

  She stuttered over her answer. “Why, why, I guess it was to protect myself. People wouldn’t think of me as a burglar, living the way I do right here in the inn.”

  Again Charleston sat silent for a moment. He had lowered his gaze, and now he lifted it and looked at Rose’s face, maybe to prepare her for what was to come.

  What he must have seen, Perkins reflected, was a drawn and still tear-stained face and a young mouth that trembled. But go on, Charleston, he said to himself. Get it over with.

  At last Charleston said, “That won’t do, Rose. You’re holding something back. I know that. I know that when you sat up in bed and saw the door closing, you saw who was closing it. It’s best to admit it.”

  She was quick with her answer, too quick, Perkins thought. “I just saw a man slipping out, only the back of him. I told you I don’t know who it was.”

  “Yes you do, Rose. Shall I say his name?”

  “You weren’t there. How can you know?”

  Charleston took a deep breath and let it out slow. He went on, nodding to his words, not talking directly to the girl. “Young men can do crazy things when they’re upset in love.”

  He waited until she said, “Why do you say that?”

  “Yes, a young fellow in love with a girl hates the man who comes between them. He loses his head.”

  “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “Oh, yes you do, Rose. We both do. We have an example before us.”

  She had held up bravely, Perkins thought. Tears, yes, and sobs, but still with spirit behind them. Now she drooped, the last resistance gone. Her face looked stricken, still with despair.

  “It was Larry Bates, wasn’t it, Rose?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Just tell the truth, Rose. Just say it was Larry.”

  “Don’t beat on me. You know it, so why beat on me?” she answered in a last little flare.

  “We need your confirmation, Rose. Without it we don’t have a case.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “And once you say it was Larry Bates, your aunt will be in the clear. Think about that.”

  That ruse again, that trick that went against the grain. Perkins could see dislike of it in Charleston’s face.

  She answered, each word slow in coming, standing by itself, “It was Larry Bates.”

  Charleston and Goodman waited while Inspector Perkins took Rose back to the inn.

  “You’re a tough interrogator,” Goodman said.

  “Can be, but I hate it. Acting mean makes me feel mean.” Not exactly mean, he thought but somehow unworthy, as if he’d failed some test of humanity.

  “Always?”

  “Nope. Just with innocents like Rose.”

  “I guess you know you saved Inspector Perkins’s hide.”

  “That’s one satisfaction.”

  “And it’s got my thanks with it. Perkins’s, too, I know.”

  Constable Rendell came through the door. “Working late?” Goodman asked by way of greeting.

  “Saw the lights. Thought I’d check in. What’s up?”

  “What’s up is we’re about to close the shop.”

  “I figured so. I heard the inspector ripping skin off of Hawley.”

  “It’s not that. We’re back in business. Case solved.”

  “The hell!”

  “It’s Larry Bates, the bus boy. We’re about to put the arm on him.”

  “I’ll be damned.”

  Perkins returned then. “I left her in the hands of the Witherspoon woman. She said she’d give her some hot milk and a couple of tablets. She’s rather a wreck.” He shrugged as if to shrug so much sympathy away. “She wanted the killing to look like a robbery. She saved every penny she took from Smith’s wallet.” He turned and put his hand on the doorknob. “Let’s march.”

  As they filed out, Rendell said, “How do you want us, Inspector?”

  “Not too close. Don’t want to look like a delegation. Rose said it wasn’t but a few minutes’ walk.”

  The night was clear, though somewhat chilly, and the stars gave light enough for their footing. Perkins led the way. They crossed an intersection, then another, and Perkins halted in front of a small, unlighted house. He spoke in a whisper. “Rendell, sneak around and watch the back door. Goodman, stay off to one side. I’ll go to the door with Charleston well behind me.” He went silent for a moment, then added, “All this to-do to arrest one whelp, but you never can tell.”

  A patch of garden fronted the place. Charleston saw no flowers except one forlorn peony. Perkins stepped along a narrow walk to the door. He hesitated then, as if to find a bell push, gave up, and banged his fist on the door. He waited and banged again, and a light came on, and a whiny voice said through a crack in the door, “What do you want? Who is it?”

  “Police. Is Larry Bates here?”

  The voice answered, “Yes. No. He’s sleepin’. Come back tomorrow.”

  “You wake him up and do it now.”

  “No, I won’t. I just won’t.”

  “We’ll break in, then.”

  “Don’t do that. Oh, God, he’s not in trouble, is he?”

  “Just wake him up.”

  “He’s a good boy.”

  “Wake him up.”

  “He’ll have to put some clothes on.”

  “All right. No stalling. We’ll wait right here.”

  The night, it seemed to Charleston, had turned darker, though no clouds obscured the stars. Change in his vision, perhaps, from the light through the door to the dark outside. He heard no sounds except the little sounds of his own breathing. Somewhere a dog barked. To be in keeping, it had to be a black dog.

  Then came the step-step of feet inside, and a male voice said through the door’s crack, “I ain’t done nothin’! Who says I did?”

  “Open up.”

  Perkins gave a shove to the door. It swung, halted, and then swung full open. Larry Bates stood there.

  “All right, Bates,” Perkins said. “Come along.”

  “What’s wrong? I said I didn’t do nothin’.”

  “Come on.”

  “What for?”

  “To answer some questions.”

  “What about? I already answ
ered your questions.”

  “About murders. About Oliver Smith. About Constable Doggett.”

  The boy did a blind bolt, charging straight ahead. For a bare instant Charleston was put in mind of a loco horse. Bates knocked Perkins sprawling and ran toward Charleston. Charleston dodged aside and put a foot out. Bates tripped, seemed to soar, and fell flat on his face. Almost as he fell, Goodman was on him. Charleston helped with the handcuffs.

  Bates quit struggling. He cried into the ground, “Oh, Jesus! Oh, you bloody buggers.”

  From the doorway his mother screamed, “What you doin’ with my boy? Stop it. Leave him be. Stop it, I said.”

  Rendell returned from the back of the house. Perkins said to him, “Hush her up if you can. Tell her we won’t hurt him, just ask some questions. Anything.”

  Bates was crying quietly. He trudged along with them to the incidents room and sat down when told to. Goodman removed the handcuffs.

  Perkins took his time before saying, “You’re entitled to legal help if you want it. You can make a phone call. And you can keep silent, not answering our questions, if that’s your choice. And I caution you that what you say may be used against you. Understood?”

  “I don’t want none of that.”

  “All right. We have evidence that you drove a knife into Mr. Smith’s back.”

  Bates wiped his nose with the back of his hand and raised wet eyes. There was dirt on his face from his fall. “What will happen to me?” he asked, as if an answer might come from the air.

  “That’s for a jury and judge to decide. We can’t say.”

  “I’ll tell ’em he deserved killin’ like he did. That’s what I’ll say.”

  “Why?”

  “He took away my girl, don’t you see? And he was ruinin’ her. He was ruinin’ Rose. That’s why I killed him.”

  “The jury may think that’s not enough reason.”

  Bates flung up his hands and cried out, “Ain’t there no right in this world? Who says I done wrong?”

  Charleston put in quietly, “Why don’t you tell us more about it, Larry?”

  Bates had his hands in his lap now. “He was havin’ Rose on. I knew that.”

  “It seems she was willing.”

  “That was how he was ruinin’ her.” Bates spoke with renewed heat. “Don’t you see? I waited until I caught ’em together, then I pushed the knife in him, and God himself will say I done right.”

  Goodman looked up from his notes, shaking his head at what he had heard.

  Charleston bent forward. “Then you killed Doggett? Did you find that killing easier after the first one?”

  “It weren’t easy, and I didn’t want to do it, but there was nothin’ else for it. I had to.”

  “Had to?”

  “He was onto me.”

  Perkins took over. “Tell us about that.”

  Bates swallowed while he hunted for words. “That night. You know, that night.”

  “The night you killed Mr. Smith?”

  “I told you he had it coming.” There was some defiance there yet.

  “Yes. Yes. Go on.”

  “That night, it was late, and Doggett saw me leaving the inn.”

  “He was suspicious?”

  “No. Not then. He asked me what I was doin’, leavin’ the inn so late, and I had to make up a story. I told him I had forgot some medicine I bought for my mother from the chemist’s and had to come back to get it.”

  “That satisfied him?”

  “I guess so, until later. Then he must have started thinkin’ on it, and he went to the chemist who told him different.”

  Perkins looked toward Charleston and said as an aside, “Score one for Doggett. That’s what he wanted.” Then, to Bates, “Tell us the rest.”

  “He asked me to meet him at his place that night, Doggett did. He didn’t say what he wanted, but he sounded like he had something on me. So I sneaked around to his house, and he told me about goin’ to the chemist and said that was proof I was guilty, and he kind of laughed and said he’d show you smart men something, and there was that little bat there, and I took it and swung it hard as I could.”

  The rush of words seemed to have been too much for Bates. He took a long, shuddering breath and put his head in his hands.

  It crossed Charleston’s mind that Doggett had thought to redeem himself by solving the Smith murder all on his own, the poor bungler.

  Perkins said to all of them, “That seems to be it.”

  “One question for the record,” Charleston said. “Bates, how did you get back into the inn the night you killed Smith?”

  Bates said through his hands as if the point didn’t matter, “I just made out to lock the back door, that’s all. Simple.”

  Perkins came to his feet. “That’s enough for tonight. Go along with Sergeant Goodman. I’m talking to you, Bates. Rendell, maybe you’d better go along with them.”

  Goodman put his notes aside. “If he wants to, but I can handle it.”

  When they had gone, Perkins said, “Chick, I want to know what tipped you off?”

  “Sure thing. Young Smith gave me sort of an idea, the beginning of one. He got furious when his girlfriend said she would or could find another man. He made threats against him, whoever he might be, and I got to thinking about young love. Terrible thing, young love. All glands and no brains. Then, tonight, when I learned about Rose’s affair with Oliver Smith, the two things came together, along with a third. That was Bates, moon-calfing over Rose. They would have for you if you had heard Tom Smith.”

  “I doubt it. And then that threat, your saying Mrs. Vaughn had to be guilty. You sure know more than one way to skin a cat.”

  “Now, Fred, don’t call Rose a cat. Detection gone wrong, that is.”

  Perkins grinned, then sobered. “Going to miss you, Chick, we are. Hard for me to say how much I thank you.”

  “Aw, pisswillie, Fred. Skip it. Aren’t you going to call headquarters?”

  “Right away.” Perkins lifted the phone, but before he dialed he said, “With pleasure.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Alone in his quarters, Perkins sat thinking, or, as his father might have put it, thinking he was thinking. He ought to come alive, throw stuff in his bag and be ready to leave for Gloucester in the morning. Goodman would pack for him, if it came to that. That was just what he needed now he was so old, a batman.

  He ought to be satisfied. Case solved. Position secure, at least for the time. Yes, satisfied but not elated. Who could rejoice, pinning a murder on a young loony. Just a bunch of muscles who thought he’d done right. All balls and no brains.

  Once in a while you nailed a man who was evil all through, and then you threw your hat in the air. Not this time, though. Not this time.

  So tomorrow he’d be on his way. Goodbye to Upper Beechwood. Goodbye to Chick and his wife. Soon enough they’d be only memories. Too soon. Goodbye to Drusilla if he saw her. Best maybe he didn’t. Too hard to say. It wasn’t a choice he was making: it was accepting the facts. It was the hardest lesson in life, maybe, this having to learn to say goodbye.

  But the hell with it all. He came to his feet.

  He tossed things in his suitcase, not caring about wrinkles, jammed them down to let the lid close, and fastened the latch. His briefcase was locked and all right. His watch said midnight. When you didn’t know what else to do, you went to bed.

  He had one shoe off when there came a soft tapping at the door. He strode to it, leaving the shoe. He looked in her face and brought her to him. “Not so sad, Dru. Please, why so sad?” She was limp and unresponsive in his arms, and she said, “I’m sorry, so sorry, Fred.”

  “Why?” He hadn’t meant to sound demanding. “Nothing we’ve done?”

  “Could you spare me a drink?”

  “Of course,” he answered, putting heartiness in his voice. “You’re tired. It will boost you.”

  He had bought a fresh bottle, and he poured splashes into two glasses, adding ice a
nd water to hers, and brought them in and handed one to her. “Please sit down and relax, and after a while you can tell me.”

  “Can’t there be happy endings?” she asked, looking beyond the untouched glass in her hand.

  He sat down on the bed close to her. “There can be happy times. I’ve had them with you.”

  “Yes, and that’s all in the past.” She went on, not looking at him, not looking at anything except space. “In the first place, it was a kind of curiosity. I think you know that, Fred. Yes, and add physical hunger to it.” She hesitated, took the merest sip of her drink, and continued, still looking into space. “Then it changed for me, Fred. It was sort of magical, like a spell. I wanted to be with you. I don’t mean for a sneak night or two. I wanted a lot more than that.” She lifted her face to his then and asked simply, as a child might have asked, “Fred, would you have had me for keeps?”

  The truth hit him, and the words poured out of themselves. “God’s sake! Would I have you? My dear, night and day, all the time, everywhere.”

  “Thank you, Fred.” There were tears in her eyes. “Thank you, but …”

  “What’s the matter? You can get a divorce. We’ll get one.”

  She lowered her head and shook it slowly, and a tear fell on her hand. “Oh, I wish, I wish—but it’s not for us, Fred.”

  “Tell me why.”

  She nodded, put her glass on the floor and put her hand on her mouth to straighten it out. “I know he’s not much of a husband, and I guess he’s not honest, but doesn’t a decent person answer to need?”

  “I’m in the dark.”

  “The United States government wants him returned there to answer charges. They’ve filed for extradition. The lawyers called up.”

  “What charges?”

  “I guess it’s fraud. Some insurance thing. Walter is so close-mouthed. Could they—I mean we—have been traced through your murder investigation?”

  There was nothing for it but an honest answer, though he was slow in giving it. “That’s a possibility. I’m not sure. My headquarters was supposed to ask Washington about them. You’ll have to know. I was the one who suggested Washington.”