by Faith Martin
Jason sighed again. OK, so witnesses often needed reassuring and cajoling along. That was part of the job.
‘Well, Mr Waring, if it’s nothing then it won’t matter, will it? And if it is relevant, then it’s best to tell us.’
Paul flushed. ‘Fine,’ he said, somewhat testily, sensing the other man’s impatience. ‘It’s just that when I came out of the shop after buying the wine and beer, I noticed a man I’d seen before walking across the square to his car.’
‘And you’d seen this man before where? At the vicarage?’ Jason asked, feeling himself tense up. This was the first they’d heard of any stranger lurking about the vicinity.
‘No. I saw him in town. Cheltenham, I mean. A few weeks ago now, I suppose it would be. He was with Maurice in a pub. They seemed pretty friendly, really talking up a storm, but quiet, like. I didn’t recognize him at first — the man in the square, I mean. On the day that Margaret died. It just sort of vaguely registered that I’d seen him somewhere before, you know how it is.’
Jason nodded. ‘Yes, I understand. And then?’
Paul looked blank. ‘Huh?’
‘What happened then?’ Jason prodded with infinite patience.
Paul blinked. ‘Well, nothing. He just got in his car, I presume, and left. Like I said,’ he began angrily, ‘it’s probably nothing. I just thought I should say something, that’s all.’
And what’s more, the tone of his voice implied, I wish I hadn’t bothered. He got to his feet and gave Jason a can-I-go-now look.
Jason nodded, then sat for some time after his visitor had left, twiddling a pen and thinking furiously. Had this stranger been in Heyford Bassett to visit Maurice? And if he had, why had Maurice not mentioned him? The village was not a place that you could just ‘pass through’ on the way to somewhere else. So if he hadn’t been here to see the Oxford don, then just who was he, and what had he been doing in the village on the afternoon Margaret Franklyn had been killed?
Unless Paul Waring had been mistaken in his identification, of course. Or lying.
* * *
At that moment, Monica was walking along the pavement towards the village shop. She’d run out of milk and needed some stamps. Better to buy a few books’ worth now, while they still had a post office at all, she thought gloomily. With all the cuts in post offices going on, she didn’t know if their shop would survive the cull for much longer.
‘Oh, Mrs Noble, there you are. I was just wondering how you and the vicar are coping. You’re all right, I trust?’
Too late, Monica realized that she’d just stumbled into prime Muriel Larner territory — namely, the vicinity of her garden hedge. She’d earned her nickname as the village menace by dint of being able to talk the hind legs off a donkey. And attempting to do so whenever possible.
Monica forced a smile. ‘Hello, Muriel, yes, we’re fine, thanks.’
‘Oh good. I can’t imagine it’s much fun living in a house where,’ her voice dropped dramatically, ‘murder’s been done.’
Monica bit back a grin. Not for Muriel a sly hint or dig. She’d just come right out with it. It was this trait that almost endeared her to Monica, in a funny kind of way.
‘It’s the kind of world we seem to live in nowadays, I’m afraid, Muriel,’ she said sadly.
Muriel’s cat, a disreputable ginger tom with tattered ears, hopped onto her garden gate and began to wash his bent whiskers. Muriel stroked him absently, and he gave a lawnmower-loud purr.
‘I hope you enjoyed the fair, though? Had a nice time?’ Monica asked quickly. If she could just sidetrack her, she might be able to get away.
‘Oh yes, great fun,’ Muriel gushed. ‘And we were all so looking forward to going to the fair, and had been for ages, as I told that young chap with all the muscles. If only we’d known! Well, none of us are psychic, are we, so it’s no good cutting up now about missing out on things back here, is it?’
Monica found herself fighting off a fit of the giggles. No wonder Muriel was so unpopular with her neighbours! She could well see how her candour could chafe!
‘Not that you ever expect something bad to happen on your own back doorstep, obviously,’ Muriel continued. ‘And none of you people did, either, I ’spect?’ she added cunningly. ‘Otherwise I’m sure you wouldn’t have been having a party in the first place.’
Monica winced at her unintentional callousness. ‘No, it came as a dreadful shock,’ she managed to say feebly.
‘Arr, it would,’ Muriel nodded her grey head sagely. ‘I saw that divorced woman just the day before it happened and asked her if we’d see her at the fair, you know, all friendly, like, and you should have seen the look she gave me!’ Muriel sniffed.
‘No. Well, Pauline can be a bit—’
‘Still, I hope that nice Mr Franklyn ain’t letting himself get too down,’ Muriel interrupted, blithely unaware of her rudeness. ‘You have to watch new widowers, you know,’ she added significantly. And tapped the side of her nose knowingly.
Monica blinked. Now exactly how was she supposed to answer that?
‘Oh, Mr Grantley. Cooo-eeee!’ Spotting another victim who’d been unable to take evasive action in time, Muriel waved a hand furiously. Across the road, a man walking his dog blanched.
Monica quickly ducked her head and cowardly walked away, leaving Mr Grantley to his fate, with a muttered farewell. She passed her fellow victim on the way, giving him a rather unchristian sorry-but-rather-you-than-me look in passing. He managed a gallant smile, but his dog looked at her with big, accusing brown eyes.
She made it to the small village shop with a sigh of relief and collected a basket before strolling around the few aisles, immediately popping in her pint of milk. The shop, like most villages lucky enough to still have one, was an all-round convenience store. She selected some notepaper and tried not to wince at the price. It was one of her many ‘duties’ as a leading light of the community to be seen supporting her local tradesmen and women. The shop did well enough though, since most of the conference-goers from the old manor would wander down for their daily papers and odds and ends, and comment on how ‘quaint’ it was to be in a ‘real’ shop again. And most of them, out of sheer nostalgia, bought some of the sweets kept in huge jars that lined the windowsills.
Monica approached the till with a firm smile fixed on her face, for she’d just noticed Madge Tilsbury waiting there, her own shopping basket all but empty. Also watching her approach was Phyllis Cox, the inimitable shopkeeper. Phyllis, at fifty-two, was widowed and spry, and the ‘information centre’ of the village.
Monica, confronted by two pairs of avid eyes, braced herself. ‘Morning, Madge. Phyllis,’ she said cheerfully.
‘Morning, Mrs Noble,’ Phyllis said.
The perpetual use of her married name was one of the few drawbacks of being married to Graham, Monica had discovered. All of Phyllis’s other customers were called by their first names, but although Monica had urged her to do the same for herself, she was the vicar’s wife, and as such was doomed to be Mrs Noble until judgement day.
‘Mrs Noble,’ Madge echoed politely, then cast a quick look at Phyllis. Phyllis nodded encouragement. ‘I was just saying to Phyllis here,’ Madge launched into conversation instantly, ‘my old dad was at home Saturday afternoon.’
‘Oh?’ Monica murmured, wondering where this could be leading.
‘Well, he said he’d be all right on his own for a while,’ Madge added defensively. ‘And he would have it that I was to go off and enjoy myself for a few hours at the fair.’
And Monica suddenly remembered that Madge was Arnold Tilsbury’s youngest daughter. Unmarried, she had stayed on at home, first to look after her mother, who was now dead, and just recently to keep an eye on her father, who, unfortunately, had the early stages of Parkinson’s.
‘I’m sure it made a nice change for you to get out and about on your own for a bit,’ Monica said firmly. ‘It must have done you the world of good. Did you enjoy the fair?’
; Both women unbent a little in obvious approval. Some old biddies didn’t like the vicar’s wife because she was pretty and younger than her husband. But the jury was still out with the vast majority of villagers, and for Monica to show such understanding and sympathy with a carer’s plight went a long way in raising her profile with the shopkeeper and Madge.
‘Ah, it was wonderful,’ Madge said. ‘I won a goldfish.’ Then her brow furrowed. ‘Anyway, when I got home and found out about, well, all your trouble, Dad said something that sort of stuck in my mind.’
And in a flash, Monica knew why she was being told all this. Madge and her father had been Heyford Bassett residents all their lives, and were honest, hard-working people of an older, simpler order, who’d simply never come into contact with the police before, or ever expected to. And what they needed now was a go-between, someone they could trust to keep their best interests in mind. And Monica made for an ideal conduit.
‘I see,’ she said softly. ‘How very worrying for you. Was it something that might be relevant to the case, do you think?’ she asked, very careful to keep any hint of pressure out of her voice.
Again Madge and Phyllis exchanged quick, nervous glances. ‘Well, it might be,’ Madge said reluctantly. ‘You see, when I heard about . . . the trouble, and told Dad, he said he’d actually heard shots that afternoon, about ten minutes apart, he said. Loud as could be, and coming from the vicarage. Or Chandler’s Spinney, he wasn’t sure.’
Monica nodded encouragingly. ‘Yes, somebody said much the same thing to my husband Saturday evening,’ she confided craftily. ‘I’m sure he’s already mentioned it to Chief Inspector Dury. But if he hasn’t, I’ll be sure to pass on your message to him myself. What time did your father say he thought he heard the shots?’
‘Ah, well, there’s the thing you see,’ Madge said uncomfortably. ‘He’s not good with his memory, Dad isn’t. Not anymore. He thinks the first one was at about three o’clock. But he’s sure the shots came ten minutes or so apart.’
Monica nodded, looking grave and concerned. No doubt the Tilsburys were trying to be genuinely helpful. And there was no point in sounding like a know-it-all by saying there was only one shot. That would only negate all the goodwill she was accumulating now.
‘I see. Well, thank you for telling me, Madge. I’ll be sure it gets passed on to the right quarters.’
Madge heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Thanks ever so, Mrs Noble.’
Monica nodded and turned to Phyllis. ‘Can I have three books of first-class stamps please, Phyllis?’
She didn’t know it then, but that conversation would soon come back to haunt her, and make her wonder how she could ever have been so stupid as to not realize its importance straight away.
But that would come later.
CHAPTER 11
Jim Greer had been praying for a break all morning, and those prayers that they get a lead soon were answered at around 2:30 that afternoon, with the ringing of the telephone. The sergeant picked up the receiver, listened for a few moments in silence, then said crisply, ‘Right, that’s very helpful. Can you give me your exact address?’
Jason, who was going through the background reports on the vicarage residents, concentrating at the moment on Paul Waring’s meteoric rise to a bodybuilding fortune, caught the note of excitement in his sergeant’s voice and looked up hopefully. Like his sergeant, he too had been hoping, if not for divine intervention exactly, then for a spot of random luck to come his way.
Jim was scribbling away furiously, and after he hung up, he looked across at his superior officer and grinned.
‘We’ve got a nibble, sir. A very nice but discreet lady from a bank just called. She said that she recognized Margaret Franklyn’s picture in the paper as being that of a lady who rents a safety deposit box at her bank.’
Jason cursed. ‘I thought you got onto their bank on Saturday for their financial records?’
Jim was already getting to his feet. ‘I did, sir. But this isn’t the Franklyns’ usual bank, and the deposit box is in her name only, which leads me to wonder if her husband even knew anything about it.’
Jason reached for his jacket.
‘Let’s ask him on the way out, shall we?’ he murmured. ‘He’s back in their flat now, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, sir. He was seen coming back this morning.’
‘Been out on the tiles all this time?’
‘Spent Sunday night drunk in one of the cells in Cirencester,’ Jim said flatly.
Jason nodded without comment. One of the dilemmas in a murder case was that posed by the victim’s spouse. On the one hand, they were often a prime suspect. On the other, a police officer had to always be aware that, if innocent, these people were grief-stricken human beings who’d just had their whole world violently turned upside down. And a little compassion and understanding never hurt anything, he’d always thought, as long as you didn’t allow it to cloud your judgement.
Sean, when he finally opened the door to their summons, still looked a little the worse for wear.
‘Oh,’ he said dully, opening the door wider. ‘It’s you. Come on in.’
‘We won’t stay long, sir,’ Jason said, and didn’t miss the relieved look in the other man’s eyes.
The picture he was getting of the Franklyns’ marriage didn’t exactly portray it as being that of a match made in heaven, but you never really knew. Even if they weren’t exactly love’s young dream, Jason knew that the loss of a person who’d played a major part in your life could still be one hell of a wrench, and leave anyone feeling vulnerable and lost.
‘Good. I’ve got to see the undertaker about things,’ Sean said vaguely.
Jason looked at him even more closely, knowing a fudged excuse when he heard it.
‘Perhaps it might be a bit premature to be thinking like that, sir,’ he said gently. ‘I doubt your wife’s body will be released any time soon. Besides, it’s best to take these things as and when they come.’
‘Oh. Right. Er . . . thanks for the advice, Inspector. I’m just—’ Sean shrugged helplessly. ‘I just don’t know what to do with myself, that’s all.’
Jason nodded. ‘I’m sure it’s very difficult, Mr Franklyn. And we’ll try not to keep you for long. If you could just answer a simple question for me, we’ll be on our way. Did you know that your wife kept a safety deposit box?’
Sean, who’d been looking vaguely around the room, abruptly swung his head towards the policeman. He looked stunned, and then, quite unmistakably, furtive.
‘Safety deposit box? Margaret?’ he said harshly. ‘No. For her jewellery-making materials, you mean? Precious metals and semi-precious stones? That sort of thing? And do you mean at our bank?’ Something about his bluster rang a warning bell deep in the back of Jason’s mind.
‘No, it wasn’t at your regular bank,’ he said, nothing of his suspicion telling in his voice. ‘Thank you, Mr Franklyn, that’s all for the moment.’
‘Just a minute,’ Sean said roughly, reaching out to catch hold of Jason’s arm as he turned to leave. ‘I have a right to see what’s inside it! I am her husband, you know!’
His face was flushed now, but whether with excitement or fear, neither policeman could have said. Jason very carefully disengaged his arm.
‘We’ll be sure to leave you a receipt for any items taken from it,’ he said carefully, and Sean flushed and flung himself away.
‘Oh, do what the hell you like,’ he muttered ungraciously. Jason nodded to Jim, and both men left the room. But the instant the door was shut behind them, Sean walked to the telephone.
He had to talk to his solicitor. Quickly.
* * *
The bank was one of the main five, with a branch situated in a prime location in the heart of Cheltenham. The lady who’d called quickly identified herself when Jason approached one of the tellers, and hastily showed them through the back and into a small beige room.
‘I wasn’t expecting you quite this soon,’ Mrs Judith Banner said, a s
hade flustered. Wearing a smart blue suit and neat hairstyle, she was the epitome of a trusted bank employee. ‘I do hope, Chief Inspector, that there will be no, er, mention of this bank’s connection to Mrs Franklyn in the newspapers?’
Jason assured her there wouldn’t be as far as the police public relations office was concerned, and listened to her patiently as she recited the bank’s policy on the obligations of privacy towards customers. Eventually, however, she took them into a room down in the vaults.
‘Normally, of course, Mrs Franklyn would bring her key and I mine, but in the circumstances . . .’ she trailed off hopefully.
‘Yes, of course,’ Jason said, making a quick mental note. Find the key. It had obviously not been kept at the Franklyn flat or amongst Margaret’s personal possessions, otherwise the police search would have uncovered it by now.
‘We have duplicates made of the customer keys, of course,’ Mrs Banner admitted. ‘They will lose them. And sometimes they die, and the next of kin can’t find them. Perhaps you’d turn this key while I do the same?’
The long, flat box was extracted without any more fuss and Jason carried it to the table provided. It wasn’t very heavy. Jim politely thanked the bank employee and walked her to the door and held it open for her. When she was gone, Jason flipped back the lid. Wordlessly he went through the contents.
The box contained papers that related to Margaret’s insurance, her passport, some money (£1,600 they were to discover, when they later counted it), some private letters from a lover (the last one dated over two years ago) and a pile of various odds and ends.
The first thing Jason checked was the insurance.
‘Hmm, she’s insured for £100,000. Not a fortune, but the beneficiary’s her husband.’
The passport was current.
Jason next read the love letters with a slightly uneasy feeling that he shouldn’t really be doing so (which he quickly quashed) and then passed them on to Jim.