‘Could be,’ Pollard agreed. ‘As we go out, I’ll ask the barman if the gentleman who just left with his wife was Major Hildred Cumming-Thorpe. That would be about the right social level, I think. I’d like to — hold it, Toye.’ The man had returned and was crossing the room directly towards their table.
‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘Do forgive my crashing in like this, but of course I recognise you, Chief Superintendent. This is probably entirely out of order, but I just want to say that I’m Rodney Kenway-Potter, and if there’s anything — absolutely anything I can do to help in this ghastly business, you’ve only got to give the word.’
Pollard had risen to his feet. They were both tall men, and their eyes met.
‘Thank you, Mr Kenway-Potter,’ he said. ‘We’ll be coming along to see you, I’m afraid, although I don’t know exactly when, but I’m glad to have met you now. We’ve read the statements you’ve already made, and if by any chance you can think of anything further to add to them, it would be a help, of course.’
‘I’ll try, Chief Superintendent, but honestly my mind feels bone dry on the whole affair. Anyway you know where to find me. Will you excuse me now? My wife’s waiting in the car.’
Pollard and Toye watched him make for the door and go out. Toye looked enquiring.
‘The lady,’ Pollard said, ‘didn’t want him to make contact. Why? Finish your drink and we’ll go.’
Back in the half-empty dining room of their hotel they worked through an adequate, if uninspired meal in companionable silence. They had arrived at cheese and biscuits when an elderly foursome took possession of the next table. After they had ordered, a desultory conversation about the Woodcombe case started up. A cosy motherly voice expressed the opinion that having the poor young American drowned in your own river, and then a lot of nasty anonymous letters going about wasn’t at all nice for the people living at the Manor. How many years ago was it that a kiddy had been killed falling out of a tree in their woods over to Woodcombe? Dogged by bad luck, they seemed to be.
After some discussion it was agreed that it was six years ago, back in the summer of 1974.
‘People called Kenway-Potter own the place where it happened, don’t they?’ a male voice enquired. ‘One of their own kiddies, was it?’
Pollard, sitting with his back to the speakers, helped himself to some more gorgonzola. The motherly voice said that it had been a village boy, not one of their own, she was sure of that, and something funny about him, but she couldn’t recall what. At this point the arrival of starters put a stop to the conversation for the moment, and when it was resumed a fresh topic was introduced.
After a decent interval Pollard signalled to his waiter for the bill.
‘Worth looking into?’ Toye asked, as they emerged from the dining room.
‘Unlikely,’ Pollard replied. ‘Martin and Deeds obviously haven’t thought it worth mentioning. All the same, we’ll just ask about it when we get back to the station.’
A verbatim report of the inquest and the statements made by the boy’s adopted parents, headmaster and others were soon available. The death of Robin Westbridge, aged ten, in July 1974, appeared to have been a perfectly straightforward tragedy. He had been adopted by a childless Woodcombe couple, George and Mildred Westbridge, at the age of two months. The home was modest but comfortable, George having a good steady job in the accounts department of a leading store in Littlechester. The representative of the County Council’s Children’s Department had consistently given very favourable reports of the set up on all counts. Robin had grown up healthy, and was doing well at school where his ability was assessed as above average. He was, however, something of a loner, imaginative and a reader, fonder on the whole of his own company than of the rumbustious activities of his age group. The Westbridges had told the police that recently Robin had been inclined to go off on his own and been reticent about where he had been, but as he always turned up at mealtimes they had not worried unduly, feeling that any attempt to push him around would be all wrong for a child of his type.
On the day of his death, Robin had returned home as usual on the school bus from Littlechester, been given his customary snack by Mrs Westbridge and gone out again. The Westbridges’ evening meal was at six-thirty, when George got back from work. When Robin had not reappeared by half-past eight a search of the neighbourhood was organised by the villagers. He was found unconscious an hour later at the foot of a big oak in the Manor woods. He had broken his neck and severely fractured his skull and died shortly after admission to hospital. Investigation of the tree showed that it had been frequently climbed to a considerable height, to a place where a ‘tree house’ had been constructed in the branches.
In his summing-up the coroner emphatically cleared the Westbridges of any suggestion of neglect or inadequate supervision of Robin. Active intelligent boys of ten, he said, could not possibly be kept on leading strings, and this meant that their parents had to accept a degree of risk. It was obvious that Robin, an imaginative and enterprising boy, had an exciting secret life, like many children of his age. In due course he would have grown out of it, but at the time it was an essential part of his development. The only possible verdict was one of Death by Misadventure. The deepest sympathy would be extended to Mr and Mrs Westbridge by all their friends and by everyone living in Woodcombe.
‘Except that it happened on Kenway-Potter property,’ Pollard said thoughtfully when they had finished reading, ‘it’s difficult to see any possible link with the Tuke affair.’
‘Don’t you think that the kid would have got an extra kick out of the fact that he was trespassing?’ Toye suggested. ‘Enemy territory, and all that.’
‘You’ve probably got something there,’ Pollard agreed. ‘God, I hope the twins’ exciting secret lives don’t lead to something like this.’
‘Two of them,’ Toye replied reassuringly. ‘Safety in numbers, you know. They said that poor little blighter was a loner.’
‘Bless you for those heartening words. Here, we’d better return all this info to the management and limber up for tomorrow: Bolling the Belligerent, Kenway-Potter the Rather Unnecessarily Helpful, Mrs K-P who Wants to Keep Out of It. In short, the lot.’
At the moment when Toye went off to return the official documents on Robin Westbridge’s death, Rodney Kenway-Potter came out of the front door of Woodcombe Manor. Dusk was falling, its oncoming hastened by a low bank of cloud in the sunset sky. He walked round the house and through a half-open door into a walled vegetable garden to which the sweet peas were always relegated as leggy and untidy growers. Amaryllis was still picking industriously in the half-light.
‘Give over, love,’ he said. ‘You can’t possibly see the colours.’
‘No problem,’ she replied. ‘I like a random mix best of all. I’m just coming in, though.’
They went back into the house together and Amaryllis vanished into the kitchen regions. Presently she reappeared, walking with caution and bearing a large silver bowl containing a mass of multicoloured sweet peas. She set it down carefully on a side table, briefly buried her face in their fragrance and began to make a few adjustments.
Rodney, lying back in an armchair with his arms folded watched her intently... It’s beauty based on bone structure that lasts, he thought. That lovely brow and chiselled nose, and the set of her head on her shoulders... A few crow’s feet and the odd line here and there don’t matter a damn ... nothing does...
‘That’ll do,’ his wife said, taking a step backwards and surveying her work. ‘I shall spoil the whole thing if I go on fiddling.’
She sank into a chair facing Rodney’s and silence descended. It had become protracted when she suddenly broke it. ‘Roddy, of course you must go to that meeting at County Hall tomorrow morning. I can’t think why I suddenly made such a hassle about that Scotland Yard man coming. If he turns up without ringing first and you’re not here, well, he must come again, that’s all... It’s the way this wretched business has flared up aga
in when it all seemed over and done with...’
‘My dear, I don’t wonder the prospect of yet another copper asking the same questions gets under your skin. It’s all my bloody fault, anyway. If only I’d never asked young Tuke to come up to supper.’
‘You will go to the meeting, though, won’t you?’
‘O.K., I will then, if you’re quite sure about it. You’re looking a bit fagged. Let’s have a nightcap and turn in early for once.’
Chapter Four
Before leaving for Woodcombe on the following morning Pollard called in at the Littlechester police station and found that some additional information on Leonard Bolling and James Fordyce had come through from the Yard. It did not, however, add much to the facts that were already available. Leonard Bolling had sold the premises of his bookselling business for a very considerable sum on his retirement. James Fordyce now had an established reputation as a genealogist.
‘So what?’ Pollard enquired as he boarded the Rover with Toye. ‘It explains how Bolling has been able to buy another house over at Wynford before the sale of Bridge Cottage has got to the completion stage, and suggests that he hasn’t bothered to stand out for a top price. I can’t believe that there’s much money in genealogy.’
‘Sounds as though he’s nuts, near as no matter,’ Toye said as they waited at traffic lights. ‘Bolling, I mean. Going to a Cash-and-Carry when he’s got a pot of money. What’s he going to do with it, for heaven’s sake?’
‘Leave it to a noise abatement society, I should think. Seriously, though, I’m getting cold feet over Bolling and the longstone business. He’s just on seventy and Deeds says in his report that he’s only about five foot. Would a retired bookseller who fits that description be likely to have the right sort of tools and the stamina for the job?’
‘He may be a keen gardener,’ Toye objected with his usual caution.
‘Deeds suggested something like a pickaxe for loosening the stones. Not a usual garden tool, I’d say.’
Toye conceded this point. ‘But does it matter?’ he pursued. ‘I mean there’s no proof that the longstone vandalism had anything to do with Tuke’s death.’
‘No proof. At present, that is. But I find it jolly hard to believe that two acts of deliberate vandalism committed within roughly twenty-four hours and five hundred yards of each other aren’t somehow connected. And if Bolling didn’t do the longstone job, who did? We’ve quite enough to investigate without having to start an enquiry into that, though.’
On arriving at Woodcombe they drove straight through the village and took the turning to Marycott, parking on the grass verge beyond Bridge Cottage, the use of which by the fishing syndicate had so incensed Leonard Bolling. They walked back and stood for a few moments on the bridge, looking down into the cottage garden. It was in a pathetically neglected state. Rampant forget-me-nots, pansies and marigolds were fighting a losing battle against weeds, and the overgrown roses looked as though they had not been pruned for years.
‘You win,’ Toye said. ‘He’s no gardener.’
‘Come on,’ Pollard said. ‘Into battle.’
They had only taken a couple of steps when he stopped dead with an exclamation and looked up and down the road.
‘Notice anything?’ he asked.
‘Only that they’ve had the road up lately, and it hasn’t been resurfaced yet.’
‘This is it. Water main, Muggett said. I can’t believe that the Manor hasn’t been on main water for some time, so they could have been taking it to Marycott. The signpost says its four miles.’
Light suddenly dawned in Toye’s eyes. ‘Tools?’ he queried.
‘Just that. They could still be at it. Let’s go and see. If Bolling “borrowed” a hefty spade and a pickaxe, it’s possible that it was noticed. Chaps on a manual job can get quite possessive about the tools they’re using.’
They followed the roughly filled-in trench for nearly three miles before arriving at work in progress. A mechanical excavator was in use, but some preliminary breaking-up of the surface was being done with pickaxes. In a small hut of corrugated iron a man was studying a blueprint. He looked up as Pollard and Toye came towards him.
‘You can get through, gents,’ he told them. ‘There’s no ditch this side.’
‘We don’t want to go any further,’ Pollard told him. ‘We’ve just come along to see if you can give us a bit of help.’ He held out his official card, and the man’s eyes widened. ‘You’re the foreman, I take it?’
‘That’s right. The engineer comes out from Littlechester Roads Department, but ’tis straightforward, and us carries on most times. Dave Wilson, I am.’
‘Well, this is what we’d like to know, Mr Wilson.’
As Pollard talked, he sensed interest and response. The job had been started in mid-April. Woodcombe was on the mains already, and it was a case of taking the water over to Marycott where they’d been creating for it for years. They’d started the job just beyond Woodcombe Manor, which was as far as the mains went. Yes, they’d thought that some kids had been mucking about with the tools, one night right at the start. It was before they’d had the hut for locking up odds and ends. Some muddle at the blooming depot. One of the chaps had found his spade and pickaxe lying in the hedge. He’d call it to mind.
A stentorian bellow brought a burly figure with tightly-curling red hair out of the ditch. He regarded Pollard and Toye with extreme suspicion, but on hearing what was wanted became highly voluble. Yes, he remembered it well enough. He’d put his tools away, propped against the digger. Best he could do, seeing as the hut hadn’t come out. Come the morning, they’d been chucked into the hedge just past the Manor gates. Dratted boys from the village, sure enough.
‘We’re interested in this,’ Pollard told the two men. ‘I suppose you can’t remember what day it was when you found the tools had been moved?’
‘April twenty-third, it wur.’
‘How can you be so sure after all this time?’
The red-haired man guffawed. April the twenty-second was his birthday and they’d kept it up a bit at home the night before. He’d come to work with a thick head, and finding his tools mucked about with had made him proper mad. The interview ended on the best of terms with a clink of coins and references to the birthday party. A field gate was opened to facilitate turning the Rover, and work came to a general halt as its departure was watched with keen interest by the whole work force.
As they drove back to Woodcombe Toye expressed admiration.
‘A real breakthrough,’ he said. ‘The penny’d never have dropped with me.’
‘The pickaxe did it,’ Pollard replied. ‘It just didn’t seem to match up with an undersized retired bookseller of seventy, and yet it was the obvious tool for the job. That water main being put in was a sheer stroke of luck. We can risk a frontal attack now, I think.’
In response to Toye’s knock Leonard Bolling, a diminutive figure powerfully charged with hostility, flung open the front door of Bridge Cottage. He had surprisingly rosy cheeks like a boy’s, untidy grey hair and a small ragged moustache, and surveyed them with sharp eyes from behind old-fashioned gold-rimmed spectacles.
‘No need to waste time telling me who you are,’ he said in a surprisingly loud voice before Pollard could introduce himself. ‘I know. And I’ve nothing whatever to tell you about the drowned American. I never set eyes on the fellow.’
He made to shut the door, but Toye had unobtrusively manoeuvred a foot across the threshold.
‘Mr Edward Tuke’s death isn’t the immediate reason for this call, Mr Bolling,’ Pollard told him. ‘We’ve come to see you about something else in the first instance. No doubt you know very well what it is. May we come in, or would you rather come with us to Littlechester police station and help us with our enquiries there?’
He thought he detected a flicker of malicious amusement, behind the spectacles.
‘I detest visitors at all times, and particularly when I am moving house. However, at the mome
nt it appears to be the less obnoxious option.’
Pollard gave Toye a swift wink as they entered the house, squeezing with difficulty past the tea chests of books in the tiny hall. They were led into what appeared to be the main sitting room. This, too, was full of tea chests into which an extensive library was being carefully packed. Any chairs were inaccessible, having been stacked in front of the windows.
‘Empty cases over there if you want something to sit on,’ Leonard Bolling said, manoeuvring himself into a space in front of the fireplace and remaining standing. ‘Now then, get on with it. What do you want to know?’
‘Certainly,’ Pollard said. ‘With apologies to Churchill, having acquired the tools for bringing down the longstone, why didn’t you finish the job by putting them back where you found them? Or was chucking them down by the Manor gates meant to be an additional gesture of contempt to Mr Kenway-Potter? You must have realised that the chaps on the road works would notice that somebody had been mucking about with their gear.’
Leonard Bolling gave a short sarcastic laugh. ‘Police College, I suppose? Possibly postgraduate entry? However, I’ll concede that you’ve got eyes in your head, Mr Chief Superintendent Pollard, and some wits in it as well to have worked it out. I underestimated the job, as you call it, and ran out of time. People were beginning to get moving. I’d nearly made it back to the roadworks with that damned heavy spade and pickaxe when I heard a car coming from the Marycott direction, and only had time to chuck the things down and go to ground just inside the Manor gates. Since we’re going in for quotations, I decided that the better part of valour was discretion, left ’em there, and came home by cutting through the trees down to the river path. Anyway, I was flat out. I’m seventy, and as you see, pint size.’
Pollard recognised a note of bitterness and frustration. ‘You must be remarkably fit for your age. What was it that took you so much longer than you expected?’
‘The bits of rock the longstone was bedded in were jammed so tight that it was the hell of a job to loosen ’em and get ’em out. The bloody pickaxe weighed about a ton, and I could hardly manage the thing. Then I ran it too fine. When I’d got the longstone down I ought to have called it a day, but I was hell bent on getting that bastard Kenway-Potter’s God almighty notices down as well.’ There was a brief silence.
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