Motives For Murder

by J F Straker

  ‘Probably Diana,’ said Colin. ‘She knew about it.’

  ‘Diana?’ James looked thoughtful. ‘How did she come into it?’

  Colin told him.

  As they continued on their way back to the school James said, ‘I can’t make that fellow Pitt out. One moment I think he’s sound, the next he seems completely crackers.’

  ‘He’s all right.’ Colin was prepared to defend anyone attacked by James. ‘Not spectacular, perhaps, but he knows his job.’

  ‘Does he? He asked me some pretty pointless questions this morning, I thought. When did Dad last go up to London, for instance, and where did he stay? What in Hades can he want to know that for?’

  ‘Obviously gunning for the male Latimers,’ Colin said cheerfully, ‘and can’t decide which is the worst. Neither can I.’

  ‘I thought at one time that he’d picked on me as the villain of the piece,’ said James. He looked doubtfully at Anne. ‘Had that idea occurred to either of you?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Anne said at once, the blush returning as she recalled her talk with the Inspector. ‘Don’t be silly, James.’

  ‘It occurred to me,’ said Colin. ‘I dismissed it because I considered you hadn’t the necessary guts.’

  ‘Thanks. And, not to be outdone in old world courtesy, may I say that, although I did not actually add the fatal dose, all my sympathies are with the fellow who did. I only deplore his lack of success.’

  Anne looked reproachfully at her fiancé as James Latimer stalked off.

  ‘Why do you always have to rub him up the wrong way?’ she asked. ‘It’s so silly. There’s no reason at all why the two of you shouldn’t be friends.’

  Colin scowled. ‘There is, and you know it. Come on, let’s get some tea before Chris scoffs the lot. What puzzles me,’ he said, frowning, ‘is why Diana blabbed to the police. Do you think she considered it to be her duty? Or was she just out to make trouble for James?’

  ‘It may not have been Diana,’ said Anne. ‘It could have been Webby. She knew —she wormed it out of Diana on Thursday night. That’s what the two of them were discussing when I went up to bed. Yes, I bet it was Webby. She’s a dear, but she does love to talk.’

  ***

  In later years Sergeant Maddox was to remember that particular Saturday as one of his luckier days. Out of the blue he had to produce witnesses who would confirm or deny Bain’s statement that Chris Moull had had a bicycle with him on the morning of October the twenty-second. Neither Pitt nor Maddox could say why the bicycle was important; but since Moull himself had made no mention of it, had stated categorically that he had been on foot, and had been seen by Russell to return without it, important it must be. But the question still remained — why?

  Where, pondered Maddox, should he look first for information? Postmen? Milkmen? Roadmen? Newsboys? They were all likely to be abroad early in the day.

  He decided to try the milkmen first. That was Lucky Strike Number One.

  There were two dairies serving the district that lay to the north of Abbey Lodge; Lucky Strike Number Two was when he chose Haddyn Farm instead of wasting time at the Chaim Road Dairy. And Lucky Strike Number Three came up when Bill Mander, the first rounds-man called into the office by the dairy manager, recognized Christopher Moull’s description.

  ‘Yes, I seen him,’ said Mander, a little man with a face pointed as a ferret’s. ‘Nearly ran me down, he did. Not that I’m blaming the chap, mind you,’ he added in all fairness, suddenly remembering to whom he was speaking. ‘It was me own fault. No, come to think of it — it was the old woman’s fault. She’d got me that wild I didn’t look where I was going. But that’s the geyser, Sergeant. Duffel-coat, blue beret — couldn’t be anyone else, could it?’

  ‘You’re sure it was the same morning?’ asked Maddox.

  ‘Sure? Course I’m sure. Here!’ He rummaged among a pile of ledgers and papers on the untidy office table, and produced a printed slip which was headed Tladdyn Farm Dairy. Account for week ending Friday, October 21st. ‘See that? That’s what caused the rumpus.’

  ‘What rumpus?’

  ‘With Mrs Grant, same as I’m telling you. Some of ‘em leaves the money with the empties, and some of ‘em — them what’s up early enough — pays me when I call on the Saturday. Well, Mrs Grant’s one of the early ones.’

  ‘How early?’

  ‘I don’t know when she gets up, mate, but it’s about half-past six when I reaches her place. That’s out along the Chaim road, t’other side of the bridge.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Maddox. ‘Let’s have the rest of it.’

  ‘Well, we’ve had trouble with the old girl before, see; so the boss says not to take any chances. Most mornings she has a pint, others it’s two; and I enters it in me book before I leave the house, just to make sure. That week she’d had ten pints; but soon as I bangs on the knocker she whips open the door, swearing like ruddy hell and saying as how she’d only had eight.’

  ‘Very tricky,’ murmured the Sergeant.

  ‘I’ll say! Made me hopping mad, it did. I told her straight she wasn’t getting away with it this time. “Either you pay me for the ten,” I says, “or you don’t get no more milk until you do.” Then she starts calling me names and saying as how she’d report me to the boss; so I just pops the milk back in me basket and lams.’

  ‘And that was when you nearly collided with the cyclist, eh?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Lost in his recital of Mrs Grant’s duplicity, the man had temporarily forgotten the question that had prompted it. Now he regarded the Sergeant with bright, inquisitive eyes. ‘What’s Duffel-coat done, mate?’

  ‘I don’t know that he’s done anything. He’s wanted for questioning, that’s all. Ever seen him before or since Mr Mander?’

  ‘I didn’t rightly see him that time,’ the man admitted. ‘I wasn’t looking where I was going, see? I had me head down swearing like a trooper, I was — and suddenly this here chap’s almost on top of me. I just sees the bike and a pair of brown trousers and his white coat, and then he’s gone.’

  ‘You didn’t see his face, then?’

  ‘No. Only his back view, like. That was when I noticed he was wearing a beret.’

  ‘How big a chap would he be?’

  ‘Well, now.’ The man considered this point. ‘Well, I don’t rightly know. Not easy to tell, him being on a bike. A bit bigger’n me, perhaps.’

  That would fit Moull, thought Maddox, satisfied. ‘Which direction was he going?’ he asked.

  ‘Towards the bridge. Must have come from out Chaim way,’ said Mander.

  Why should Moull be cycling along the Chaim road at six-thirty in the morning? wondered Maddox. More important still, why should he try to hide the fact that he had done so? Recalling all that Russell had told them about the various members of the staff at Redways, the Sergeant decided to prowl farther afield. Since Moull had been coming from Chaim, since Diana Farling had a cottage there, and since Russell had declared that there was at least ‘something’ between those two young people, the Farling cottage might offer a clue to the mystery.

  He had some difficulty in finding it, since he did not know the address and few people in Chaim appeared to have heard of the girl. It lay down a muddy track about a mile outside the village; a small grey stone building with a sharply pointed roof. There were, he judged, peering through the gaily curtained windows, two rooms on the ground floor, with one or possibly two attic bedrooms above. At the back a stone washhouse had been converted into kitchen and scullery, and an outside earth-closet and well indicated that the cottage had not yet been blessed with the comforts of modern plumbing.

  Primitive but attractive, he thought, as he wandered through the unkempt garden to where a stream bordered the small orchard. An old fisherman’s punt, badly needing a coat of paint, was moored to the bank, where a patch of grass had been trimmed to form a rough lawn. Does her sunbathing here, no doubt, thought Maddox, and entertains her boyfriend. Well, if it’s priva
cy she’s after she’s got it here.

  He walked back along the track to where the police car waited on the road. At the junction stood a large Georgian house, its ordered garden surrounded by a tall, close-clipped box hedge. A man was working at the front, and Maddox pushed open the drive gates and padded across the smooth lawn to talk to him.

  ‘Police, eh?’ said the man, startled. ‘Yes, I’ve seen her. Tall, red hair, good-looker. What’s the trouble?’

  ‘No trouble,’ said Maddox. ‘And I’m not interested in the girl. I’m just trying to contact one of her boyfriends. He may be able to give us valuable information.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know about her friends,’ the man said doubtfully. ‘I don’t see her much, anyways. I’m told she just comes for weekends, and I’m not here then.’

  ‘The chap I’m interested in,’ said Maddox, ‘was out this way on a bicycle about a fortnight ago. Exactly a fortnight ago.’

  ‘What time of day?’ asked the other.

  ‘I’m not sure. Either some time after dark on the Friday evening or very early on the Saturday morning, around six o’clock.’

  ‘Then I wouldn’t have seen him,’ said the man. ‘I don’t start work till eight and I finish at five. Sorry.’

  Disappointed, Maddox thanked him and turned away. But before he had reached the gates the man called after him.

  ‘Hey! Wait a minute.’

  Maddox waited.

  ‘A fortnight ago, eh?’ The man came close to him, a flicker of excitement on his rather bovine countenance. ‘That’d make it the twenty-first of October, wouldn’t it?’ And when Maddox nodded hopefully he went on. ‘There was a chap went up the lane that night on a bike. About twenty-past ten, it’d be. The family were away that weekend, and the guv’nor asked me to come in nights and do the boilers. I was just leaving when I saw him go past.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  The other shook his head. ‘I couldn’t say. It was dark, you see, and there was the hedge between us. Looked like he was wearing some sort of light-coloured mackintosh.’

  ‘Could it have been a duffel-coat?’

  ‘Could have been, I suppose. I’d say it looked more like a mackintosh, though.’

  ‘Was he wearing any sort of headgear?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ the man said. ‘All I saw was this here mackintosh moving along behind the hedge. I can’t tell you no more than that.’

  It was six o’clock by the time Maddox had completed his various missions and was able to return to the school. The clouds that had been gathering all day brought heavy rain late in the afternoon, and the Sergeant grunted with relief as he stood in the front porch and shook the water from his raincoat and trilby. Inside, at the far end of the hall, James Latimer and Miss Farling appeared to be engaged in argument, but the Sergeant was too intent on reporting the result of his day’s labour to waste time in eavesdropping.

  As he stepped into the hall the two looked round and saw him. James, an angry expression on his face, disappeared towards the study. Diana, smiling sweetly, bade the Sergeant good evening.

  ‘Evening, miss,’ said Maddox. ‘Is the Inspector here?’

  ‘In the library, I think. Mr Latimer left him about ten minutes ago. If I may say so, Sergeant, you look very pleased with yourself. Like a cat full of cream. Or should I say a policeman full of clues? Are you? Full of clues, I mean?’

  Maddox laughed. ‘We don’t give away trade secrets, miss. But I’m certainly not full of cream.’

  ***

  Pitt had had a trying and unprofitable day. It was some consolation to him to learn that at least one of the team had met with success.

  ‘Moull must have spent the night at Miss Farling’s cottage, I suppose,’ he said. ‘He was without his bicycle when Russell saw him return the next morning, but he could have dumped it somewhere and collected it later. I wonder what reason he gave the girl for leaving so early.’

  ‘We could ask her,’ Maddox suggested. Pitt nodded. ‘We could — but I don’t think we will. Not yet, anyway. Are there any other houses down that lane of hers?’

  ‘No. It’s completely isolated.’

  ‘It’s a pity the identification isn’t clearer,’ said the Inspector. ‘A cyclist who may or may not have been Moull was seen going down the lane to Miss Farling’s cottage on the Friday night: at six-thirty the next morning another cyclist — who probably was Moull, from the description of his clothing — was seen coming from the direction of the cottage towards the river: and at about seven-twenty (Bain isn’t very certain of the time, I’m afraid) a cyclist who definitely was Moull was seen, dismounted, on the towpath.’ He frowned. ‘If Moull killed him why should he hang around? Why didn’t he clear off at once?’

  ‘Maybe he heard Bain coming, jumped off his bike intending to hide, but wasn’t quick enough.’

  ‘Perhaps. Well, the first step is to establish whether Moull slept in his own bed that Friday night. The maid might know. She takes Miss Connaught an early morning cup of tea, so maybe they all have one. And if Moull wasn’t in his room she would at least know if his bed had been slept in.’

  ‘It’s over a fortnight ago,’ the Sergeant reminded him.

  ‘Let’s hope she has a good memory,’ said Pitt. After a pause he went on, ‘Now we know why Moull refused to take prep for James Latimer that Friday evening. Remember Russell told us about that? They all expected him to volunteer, and he didn’t.’

  ‘Do you think he had already planned to murder the old boy?’

  ‘Go easy,’ warned Pitt. ‘Just because he took a bicycle-ride that morning it doesn’t make him a murderer.’

  ‘Why be so secretive about it, then?’

  ‘Miss Farling might be responsible for that. She would probably object strongly if he let every one know that he had spent the night at her cottage. And who could blame her?’

  ‘You don’t think he did it?’ asked Maddox, incredulous.

  ‘I didn’t say that. I admit the bulk of the evidence is against him, but I’m not rushing my fences. And don’t forget that Moull was one of the few who did not appear to benefit by Connaught’s death.’

  ‘We don’t have to establish a motive, thank the Lord!’ the Sergeant said piously.

  ‘No. But it helps. Well, you rustle up the maid, Maddox, and we’ll see what we can get out of her.’

  As the Sergeant left the room he had the impression that something was wrong. But there was no one in sight, and everything appeared to be as usual. ‘Must be imagining things,’ he told himself. ‘Old enough to know better, too.’

  But as he walked down the corridor towards the kitchen the uneasy feeling that he had missed something still persisted.

  Moments later there was a light tap on the library door, which opened slightly to admit the tousled head of Colin Russell. ‘May we have a word with you, Inspector?’ he asked.

  ‘We?’

  ‘Miss Connaught and myself. It’s rather urgent, or we wouldn’t have bothered you. incidentally, your constable seems to have disappeared.’

  ‘Even policemen have to disappear at times,’ Pitt said. ‘We’re all human. Now, what’s the trouble?’

  Colin, uneasy but defiant, told his story. Anne, distressed and tearful, stood beside him bravely, silent except when he appealed to her for confirmation. And as Inspector Pitt listened his cheerfulness vanished, his brow grew heavy with anger. By the time Colin had finished he was almost glaring at his two unhappy visitors.

  ‘I wonder if you appreciate the seriousness of your position, Mr Russell,’ he said, as Colin’s lame apologies stumbled into silence. ‘Both of you could be charged with wilfully concealing vital evidence and with obstructing the police in the execution of their duty. You should have handed that bottle to the police immediately you found it, Miss Connaught.’

  ‘I know,’ said Anne, still tearful. ‘But you weren’t here. Neither was the Sergeant.’

  ‘No matter. You had no right even to show it to Mr Russell, let alo
ne give it into his keeping. And you, sir — just what was your purpose in taking possession of the bottle?’

  Colin, his face red, took his hands out of his pockets and then, not knowing what to do with them, stuck them back again. He began to feel as he imagined a boy must feel when confronted by an irate schoolmaster. I’ll be a jolly sight more lenient with the little devils after this, he vowed fervently.

  ‘I know it was stupid of me,’ he said. ‘But you weren’t here, and I thought that if I could find the owner of the bottle before you returned it would be one up to me. After all, I’m the chap they tried to poison.’

  ‘And I’m the chap who’s supposed to catch the poisoner — not you, Mr Russell,’ Pitt retorted. ‘Tell me, how did you propose to become “one up” on me, as you put it?’

  ‘I was going to wait until all the staff were present — at dinner, say — and then produce the bottle from my pocket. I thought the owner might give himself away if suddenly confronted with it like that. I meant to give it back to you afterwards, of course.’

  ‘Neatly labelled with the owner’s name, eh? That was generous of you. Instead of which you leave it carelessly in your raincoat pocket, handy for the first person who happens to fancy it.’

  ‘There’s no need to be sarcastic,’ Colin said hotly. ‘How was I to know the damned thing might get pinched?’

  ‘I should have thought it was highly probable. You are firmly convinced that someone murdered Mr Connaught, you know someone tried to poison you. Stealing a bottle from a raincoat pocket is small beer after that. Particularly if the thief knew that his life might depend on its recovery.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry. But the bottle’s gone, and pitching into me won’t do any good.’

  ‘It will if it teaches you not to meddle in police affairs. When did you last see this bottle?’

  ‘Just before tea, when I hung my raincoat in the hall. About four o’clock. At six o’clock, or just after, it had gone.’

  ‘Two hours,’ mused the Inspector. ‘During which time anyone in the school could have lifted it with the greatest of ease. Miss Connaught — who besides Mr Russell knew that you had found the bottle?’