by David Field
It was the Wednesday following the discovery of Marianne Ormonde’s body and Jack was in the process of trying to explain what he’d learned at her brother’s art gallery, while Uncle Percy seemed more interested in their accommodation. Jack had left on an early train from Paddington, with a full farewell breakfast cooked by a somewhat tearful Esther, who’d insisted more than once that if his absences were to become a regular feature of their married life, she’d prefer him to earn his living as a coalman. His expertly packed travelling bags — another benefit of life married to Esther — had been unpacked in the only room that the so-called ‘hotel’ seemed to possess, and the two men were supposed to be exchanging information.
‘I have a very strong suspicion that the brother knows more than he’s telling us,’ Jack told Percy as the pies were delivered by the barmaid, who gave Jack an appraising grin that suggested why the establishment might only have one room available for legitimate travellers.
‘So he’s an arrogant bugger who doesn’t like being questioned by nosy Peelers,’ Percy suggested. ‘You meet plenty of his type in our job.’
‘No, it’s more than that,’ Jack insisted. ‘According to his assistant — a Miss Prendergast — he was very fond and protective of his sister. Yet he showed no emotion when advised that she was dead and he seemed to know that already. Plus he let slip his knowledge that she’d been murdered. And his explanation for leaving Tarlton a day early was unconvincing. His beloved sister had gone missing, he didn’t contact the police and he didn’t stay on to conduct any extended enquiries into her whereabouts, or what fate may have befallen her.’
‘We’ll need more than that,’ Percy replied as he took another swig of his pint of local bitter, then belched discreetly. ‘But no harm in your remaining to suspect him, provided that we continue local enquiries with an open mind.’
‘And how are they going?’ Jack enquired, to a snort of reply from Percy.
‘The blokes who discovered the body haven’t been able to add anything, but I haven’t yet managed to speak to the night duty porter who should have been issuing and collecting tickets at Kemble Station that evening. It’s almost as if he’s been avoiding me, and his father was quite rude when I made my third enquiry at the house where he lives with his parents. Name of Parsons — Michael Parsons. Apparently he needs his beauty sleep during the day, or so his father insists.’
‘Shall we go back up there around tea time, which is when most night workers are having their breakfast?’ Jack asked.
Percy shrugged his shoulders in a non-committal gesture. ‘Maybe, but since you’re back here and you were the one who interviewed Mr Ormonde, the victim’s apparently unconcerned brother, we might get up to that farm of his that you’ve got the address of. Where is it again?’
‘Tarlton, a few miles out of Kemble,’ Jack advised him. He consulted his notebook for the precise address. ‘Sandpool Farm. We’ll need to hire a coach with a local driver.’
‘It just so happens that I met one of those yesterday evening, while I was having my supper,’ Percy advised him with a smile. ‘He apologised profusely for narrowly missing me while he was playing darts over there in a corner and I was weaving my way between the tables on my return from the lavatory out the back. We got talking afterwards and I bought him a drink to confirm that there were no hard feelings. It went on expenses, of course, since it can aid police enquiries no end to have local contacts. If you’ve finished that pint, that’s him over near the door. Shall we?’
‘Once I’ve availed myself of that lavatory you mentioned out the back,’ Jack replied, grinning. ‘You may consider the local beer to be weak, but you’ve had more practice than me, and it’s only lunchtime.’
By mid-afternoon Percy and Jack were seated alongside each other on a fine brocade settle, while the housekeeper Mrs Bradfield, from the matching armchair, was enjoying the experience of being interviewed by two detectives from the famous Scotland Yard in London.
‘There’s just me,’ she explained, ‘and Clarice the maid, what lives in, an’ old Bert the gardener, coachman, handyman and owt else what’s needed around the place. I does the cookin’, but I goes ’ome once the dishes goes on the supper table, an’ Clarice does the washin’ up.’
‘We’ll need to speak to both Clarice and Bert in due course,’ Jack advised her.
She frowned. ‘It’s Clarice’s afternoon off an’ she’s no doubt walkin’ out with ’er fella. Nice young man, works at the timber mill in town. Swindon that is, not Kemble. As fer Bert, ’e’ll likely be in the garden somewhere. D’yer want me to fetch ’im for yers?’
‘Not yet,’ Percy told her. ‘Tell us about last Friday evening.’
‘Well, like I said, I went ’ome after the supper were served. Trout, it were,’ she added by way of afterthought. ‘Trout, followed by apple turnover an’ cream. Then I went ’ome, like I said.’
‘Did you serve the meal?’ Jack enquired.
Mrs Bradfield shook her head. ‘No, that were Clarice’s job, but there was only one of ’em ate the apple turnover. I remember that, ’cos Clarice come back inter the kitchen an’ complained that the master and mistress ’ad some sorta disagreement over the trout — well, not the trout itself, you understand, but while they was eatin’ the trout, an’ —’
‘Any idea what the disagreement was about?’ Percy interrupted.
Mrs Bradfield shook her head again. ‘No, but maybe Clarice could tell yer. I remember because when the puddin’ came back off the table, there were only one portion of it gone, so I took the liberty o’ takin’ the rest ’ome ter Ted — that’s me ’usband.’
‘The following morning,’ Percy reminded her, before her conversation drifted even further off the point, ‘what time did you turn up for duty?’
‘Seven o’clock on the dot, as usual,’ Mrs Bradfield confirmed. ‘I’m cook as well as ’ousekeeper, an’ I always cooks the breakfast when the master’s ’ome.’
‘And when did you become aware that Miss Marianne was missing?’ Jack enquired.
She thought for a brief moment, before replying. ‘That wouldn’ta bin ’til mid-mornin’ sometime. Clarice told me that the mistress ’adn’t shown ’er face fer breakfast, an’ she an’ Bert finished off the kippers and eggs what I’d cooked, then sometime later Clarice come back downstairs an’ told me that ’er bed ’adn’t bin slept in. Miss Marianne’s, that is. So I went upstairs, an’ right enough the bed were untouched.’
‘Couldn’t she simply have got up before anyone else had stirred, made her bed and then slipped out for a walk or something?’ Percy enquired.
Yet again Mrs Bradfield shook her head with certainty. ‘No, fer two reasons. The first is that the lazy — well, let’s just say that the mistress weren’t in the ’abit o’ makin’ ’er own bed, and what’s more, she wears a very distinctive perfume, an’ lots of it. “Tuberose” it’s called, an’ after she’s spent the night in ’er room, it fair gasses yer when yer go in there, an’ the winders ’as ter be thrown open.’
‘When it was realised that she hadn’t slept in her room,’ Jack persisted, ‘what did you all do next?’
‘Well, the master went walkin’ round the lake, ’cos that’s where ’is sister were in the ’abit o’ walkin’ sometimes, then ’e seemed ter accept that she’d maybe gone further afield an’ ’e tried ter assure us that she’d be back in due course.’
‘But she wasn’t?’ Percy prompted her, earning another vigorous shake of the head.
‘No, she never come back that day, nor the next.’ Her face turned slightly pale, despite her ruddy rural complexion, as she asked, ‘Is it true what they’re sayin’ — that ’er body were found in the railway tunnel at Kemble?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ Percy confirmed gently and she reached inside the sleeve of her blouse for her handkerchief and blew her nose loudly, adding ‘poor lamb’, before falling silent.
‘Did anyone suggest calling in the local police?’ Jack enquired.
‘B
ert did, but the master said not to create a fuss. Said as ’ow Miss Marianne ’ad a lot o’ personal worries an’ were gettin’ a bit absentminded, like.’
‘But surely, you must all have been worried for her safety, wandering the countryside, exposed to the elements and who knows what all else?’ Jack insisted.
Mrs Bradfield shrugged in half agreement. ‘Like I said, we was — Clarice an’ me, anyroad, an’ Bert were goin’ on about ’ow she coulda met wi’ foul play, an’ all that, but the master said not ter worry, so we tried not ter.’
‘Do you have any idea how she was dressed when she left?’ Percy enquired.
Mrs Bradfield nodded for once. ‘It just so ’appened that I ’elped ’er unpack ’er things when she first arrived, an’ I reckon that she musta put back on the tweed cape she’d bin wearin’ when she got ’ere from London, ‘cos it’s nowhere ter be found now. An’ accordin’ ter Clarice she ’adn’t bothered changin’ fer supper, so she’d still ’ave bin wearin’ the light brown costume she arrived in. A long gown wi’ a matchin’ jacket, it were.’
‘That suggests that she left here sometime on the Friday evening,’ Percy prompted her, ‘since it was raining that night, wasn’t it?’
‘It were just startin’ when I left ter go ’ome,’ she confirmed. ‘More like a drizzle, it were, but I lives a mile down the road, third cottage on the left as yer comin’ inter the village, so I was fair soakin’ when I finally reached me own back door.’
‘You didn’t see either her or the master on your journey home?’ Percy enquired and it was back to the vigorous head shake.
‘Mind you, I ’ad me ’ead down at the time, on account o’ the weather, but neither of ’em passed me on the road.’
Percy and Jack exchanged glances and shakes of the head. Jack closed his notebook and stood up, followed by Percy, who stretched out his hand towards the housekeeper, which she gripped with a firmness that suggested years of practice with a rolling pin.
‘Thank you for your assistance, Mrs Bradfield,’ he cooed in his constabulary manner. ‘If there’s anything else that occurs to you, please leave a message with Sergeant Oakley at the local station.’
‘There’s maybe one thing ... no, p’raps I shouldn’t mention it.’ She hesitated and Percy’s look became sterner.
‘We’re investigating the mysterious death of your former mistress, Mrs Bradfield. If there’s anything at all that you think may help us…?’
She stood wringing her hands for a moment, then opened up. ‘Well, I’m not one fer talkin’ ill o’ the dead, yer understand, but it’s just...’
‘Just what?’ Jack prompted her.
‘Well, mind when I mentioned Miss Marianne’s distinctive perfume and ’ow strong it were?’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, an’ this may mean nothin’ yer understand? But it’s just that part o’ me duties was makin’ up the beds in their rooms when they was stayin’ over, an’ sometimes — not all the time, mind you, but sometimes...’
‘Yes?’ Percy all but demanded.
‘Well, sometimes I could smell it on the pillows in the master’s room an’ all.’
Chapter Five
‘Don’t jump to conclusions too early,’ Percy warned Jack as they sat in the back of the coach, with the canvas pulled up, on their journey back into Kemble.
‘It fits, though,’ Jack reminded him. ‘The man showed no concern when his sister went missing, he tried to minimise the immediate investigations into her disappearance, he knew she’d been murdered, and now this — the fact that he’d been, well...’
‘Playing on forbidden turf, you mean?’
‘You know what I’m getting at. And she was pregnant,’ Jack continued. ‘There’s our motive.’
‘You mean his motive,’ Percy corrected him. ‘The means were presumably conveniently provided by the Great Western Railway, and what we need now is the opportunity. Plus we need a good deal more direct evidence linking him with her death.’
‘Do you think he may have been unwise enough to insure her life for a large sum of money?’ Jack asked hopefully.
‘Why search for another motive, when we’ve got her pregnancy?’
‘But how can we prove that they were ... well, at it?’ Jack replied.
Percy frowned. ‘A very good point. From what you tell me about the man and his manner, he’d hardly be likely to admit it, would he? Apart from the scandal and the social disgrace, it would be pointing the finger at him directly for her death.’
‘We need more information about his movements on the Friday evening. Plus hers, of course.’
‘What time is it by that splendid gold Hunter that your father bequeathed you? Assuming that it wasn’t pawned to pay for your honeymoon, that is.’
Jack took out the fob watch from his waistcoat pocket and studied it carefully. ‘A few minutes short of five, why?’
‘As you suggested while we were doing battle with those meat pies, Mr Parsons may well be having his breakfast now. What say you that we call in and spoil his appetite?’
‘Instead of doing that and being put off our stride by his belligerent father, why not wait until later and catch him at work?’
Percy smiled. ‘There are times I’m glad my brother had a son. And we can sink a couple of pints in advance of that, to fortify us against what I fear may be on the supper menu at our hostelry.’
‘Yes, sirs, where would you like to go?’ the eager-faced young ticket seller asked from behind his glass panel. There was a slot at the foot of it, through which money and tickets could be exchanged and Percy slipped his police badge into it and smiled as the man’s face dropped.
‘If you’re Michael Parsons, we don’t need to travel beyond that door there,’ Percy advised him with a nod towards the door that led into the office behind the glass. Parsons hastened to unlock the door from the inside and usher them into his official world, then gestured towards a gas stove in the corner.
‘I’ve just put some water on to boil — would you gents like a cuppa?’
‘No thank you,’ Percy replied sternly. ‘Just some information.’
‘My father said that the police wanted to speak to me,’ Parsons replied with a weak smile. ‘I take it that it’s about that evening that the woman was found in the tunnel?’
‘Unless you’ve been defrauding the Great Western Railway, then yes, we’ll restrict our questions to that. I’m Detective Sergeant Enright and this is my Detective Constable colleague, also called Enright. You may notice the family resemblance, but we’re both from Scotland Yard.’
‘Delighted, I’m sure,’ Parsons replied without releasing the forced smile from his lips. ‘So what can I tell you?’
‘On the night that the body was found in the tunnel, when did the last train leave Kemble for London Paddington?’
‘The last one that stopped here? That would be the ten thirty five — “all stations”.’
‘And the one before that?’ Jack enquired.
‘Nine twenty-seven. Same thing, “all stations” from Cheltenham to Paddington.’
‘Did either of them have corridors linking the compartments?’ Percy enquired.
Parsons shook his head. ‘Not the locals — those new-fangled corridor carriages are confined to the express services. The locals are all single compartments.’
‘How many of them are First Class?’ was Percy’s next question.
‘Most of them,’ Parsons replied. ‘A few Third Class, towards the rear, but predominantly First Class.’
‘The last train out,’ Jack persevered, ‘I think you said it was the ten thirty-five. Was it running on time?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did anyone get on or off at Kemble?’ Percy enquired.
‘No.’
‘And if they had, you’d have noticed?’ Percy persisted, noting the rapid movement of the man’s throat as he added, ‘Because you’d have been on the platform, collecting tickets, wouldn’t you?’
‘Of course —
that’s part of my duties.’
‘Fine,’ Percy concluded as he rose to his feet. ‘Thank you — you’ve been most helpful.’
‘Always glad to oblige,’ Parsons replied with a relieved expression. ‘Are you sure you won’t stay for tea?’
‘Certain,’ Percy confirmed somewhat sternly as he led the way out to the coach that was awaiting them and was on permanent daily commission to Scotland Yard, to the considerable delight of Josh Babbage, proprietor and operator.
‘Where next, boss?’ he asked.
‘The local police station,’ Percy announced. ‘I need to send a cable to London,’ he advised Jack, who was looking a little nonplussed at their hasty departure from Kemble Station.
‘I reckon that cove was lying,’ Jack observed petulantly.
‘I know he was,’ Percy replied with a smirk. ‘But what about? That’s the important question.’
‘It’s important for us to know whether or not Marianne Ormonde got on that train,’ Jack reminded him.
Percy allowed himself a knowing smile as he replied, ‘Obviously she got on that train. How else could she have finished up in the tunnel?’
‘Perhaps her brother dragged her down there — remember the gag in her mouth?’
‘I haven’t forgotten. But what if the brother got into the same carriage with her, intent on doing her harm, and she began screaming?’
‘But Parsons told us that she didn’t get on the train and that the carriages had no connecting corridor. No-one could have come to her assistance inside that train, even if she was on it.’
‘Inside the train, no. But someone on the platform, perhaps? Someone in a position to instruct the guard to stop the train as the rear carriage went past him?’
‘Parsons?’
‘Who else?’
‘Then why didn’t he?’
‘We don’t know if we’re correct in our theory about the gag. But there’s another possible explanation.’