‘Someone,’ he told her as he munched, ‘has blown up Bolling the bookseller. Sounds like Happy Families, doesn’t it? Poor old blighter, but anyway I don’t suppose he knew a thing about it... Yes, love. I damn well will have another cup…’
A quarter of an hour later he had snatched up his overnight bag and unlocked the garage. As he drove out with a parting wave to Jane, he reflected that he was at least well ahead of the rush hour. Another encouraging thought came: if it was arson, presumably with intent to kill, at least the two Kenway-Potters were in the clear. Was there after all a homicidal maniac at large in Woodcombe, masquerading as a perfectly normal member of the village community? Of all possibilities this was the most daunting from a detective’s point of view. As long as you could see the logic of criminal behaviour, however deplorable the motives impelling it, there was a decipherable pattern to unravel. In the case of the really mentally deranged there was no demonstrable relationship between thought and action.
Pollard reminded himself that he had already given this possibility serious thought and rejected it in the light of his personal experience of life in a village community. There was no point in reconsidering it at this stage unless some entirely new evidence had emerged. Superintendent Newman’s early call seemed to suggest that he felt the fire and Bolling’s death in it had some connection with Edward Tuke’s.
On arrival at the Yard he found that Toye had contrived to get there before him, and that the Rover was at the ready. A report had come in at six o’clock from the watcher on duty outside the Kenway-Potter’s hotel, stating that they had made no attempt to leave during the night. The man’s relief was due at eight and would ring in on taking over from a nearby callbox. Pollard arranged with his own office to make a telephone contact at half hourly intervals on his drive down to Littlechester, and shortly afterwards left with Toye. The latter was reacting to the new development with his habitual caution.
‘Sounds to me as if Littlechester have got the wind up,’ he said. ‘Not that you can blame them. But from what Mr Kenway-Potter said, he thought there’d be a lot of feeling against Bolling once it got round that he was responsible for bringing that stone down, and it didn’t sound as though he meant to keep the matter to himself. Kenway-Potter, I mean.’
‘If it was arson as a revenge for Bolling’s vandalism, don’t you think the explosion takes a bit of explaining? A deliberate attempt to kill Bolling seems to be going a bit far. I should have thought ducking him in the river or something along those lines would have been more likely.’
‘I reckon the explosion could have been an accident, unintentional, I mean. Suppose the idea was to scare Bolling by starting a small fire well away from the stairs — say in the kitchen, and the old chap had got a can of paraffin near a window where inflammable stuff was dropped in and set alight?’
‘You may have got something there,’ Pollard said thoughtfully. ‘Or could it have been a cylinder of bottled gas? Anyway, in the first instance the whole business is Littlechester’s pigeon. Our job is to find out who’s responsible for Edward Tuke’s death. Unless they’ve got some conclusive link between the two, or apply to the Yard for us to take it on, we’ll go ahead with questioning Mrs Fordyce and hopefully Mrs K-P... Stop at the next callbox you see, and we’ll ring back to see if anything’s come in about the K-Ps.’
They were informed progressively that a couple of suitcases had been loaded into the boot of the Kenway-Potter’s Chrysler, and that the couple had left the hotel at half-past nine, heading westward with the observation car following at a discreet distance.
‘With any luck, we shan’t hear any more until they get to Woodcombe,’ Pollard commented. ‘I left a message for the chap to ring us at the Littlechester station when he’s seen them safely home. The village’ll be swarming with newsmen and photographers, so he won’t be obvious.’
They had made good time and arrived at Littlechester shortly before ten. A harassed Superintendent Martin was obviously relieved at their arrival.
‘Decent of you to come down at the drop of a hat,’ he said over cups of coffee in his office. ‘That bloody village is getting in my hair. I suppose this latest development is on our plate at the moment, but I can’t help feeling that it must tie up with the Tuke business somehow, and ought to be on yours. Since I contacted you our forensic chaps have rung to say that it looks like arson. They can’t get in yet to make a proper examination. I’ve told them to keep their mouths shut, of course. This is how they think it was done…’
As Superintendent Martin talked, Pollard found that he could visualise the layout at Bridge Cottage perfectly clearly. From the road a gate wide enough to admit a car opened on to a gravelled space. From this the path which he and Toye had followed branched off on the left and led round to the front door. A short drive followed the east side of the house to a yard at the back containing several outbuildings, one of which was presumably used by Bolling as a garage. The whole property was enclosed by a stone wall about four feet high, except on the river side where there was a boundary hedge.
‘Just the four walls standing,’ the Super was saying, ‘but the back door’s still there although it’s partly burnt. There’s one of those cat flap affairs at the bottom of it. Our chaps say there’s a distinct smell of paraffin just there. They think whoever started the fire pushed newspaper or shavings or whatever soaked in paraffin through the cat flap and put a match to it. This would have set the lino alight, and the heat seems to have made a cylinder of bottled gas explode and the whole place went up in a matter of minutes. By that time anyone could have got over the wall at the back and disappeared into Manor Woods.’
Toye asked who had first seen the fire and raised the alarm. It had been a woman living next door to the post office, close to the south end of Lower Bridge. She had been up in the night with a sick child, and, chancing to look out, had seen a flickering glow in one of the downstairs windows of Bridge Cottage. There was a telephone kiosk outside the house and she had run down and put through a 999 for the fire brigade, and then started rousing neighbours.
‘How long was it before the explosion happened?’ Pollard enquired.
‘Say about five minutes,’ Superintendent Martin replied. ‘Some of the men had rushed over with a ladder and put it up to Bolling’s bedroom window, and were hit with bits of brick and tiles. He slept at the far end from the kitchen but they were driven back by the smoke and heat. The fire people are hoping they’ll be able to get the body out by the end of the morning, but there’s no chance of going through the debris until it’s cooled down. They think there’s a risk of part of the back wall caving in, too.’
‘I suppose there’s no doubt that Bolling actually was in residence?’
‘Meaning that he might have fired the place himself for the insurance money? Doesn’t seem likely as he’d sold the place, although I hear the contracts haven’t been exchanged, luckily for Mr Fordyce. No, I think there is no doubt that he was there all right. The woman at the post office says she saw a light in his bedroom window at about eleven last night. Anyway, we’ll soon know for sure. I’ve got a couple of chaps seeing if they can find any traces of somebody getting away along the river bank, and over the wall at the back into the Manor woods, but it doesn’t seem very hopeful. It’s only in detective novels that criminals are obliging enough to leave bits of their jackets hanging on bushes... Come in.’
‘Telephone message for Chief Superintendent Pollard, sir.’
Pollard was handed a folded paper and read the few lines of information it contained.
‘Thanks,’ he said to the constable who had brought it. ‘No answer.’ As the door closed he turned to Superintendent Martin. ‘Well, one thing’s definite. Whoever did the job, always assuming that it was arson, it wasn’t the Kenway-Potters. They spent the night in a Surrey hotel with one of our people parked in a car outside, and are only just back at the Manor.’
There was an astonished silence.
‘I thought she was in S
t Kilda’s Nursing Home, officially with a threatened appendix.’
Pollard grinned. ‘So did we until yesterday evening. Interesting, isn’t it? We’re seeing her this afternoon. Not that I’m expecting much to come of it, but we’ve one or two other irons in the fire. I’d like to know what the forensic chaps find when they can get into Bridge Cottage.’
‘Sure. Look in on me about six this evening if you’re around. We may be a bit further on by then, and I’d be glad of your opinion. I suppose I’ll see my home again someday…’
‘Well, that’s that,’ Pollard remarked a few minutes later as they went out into the car park. ‘Arson at Bridge Cottage a strong possibility. Obviously Martin can’t wait to push it on to us, but I’m not playing until a definite link with young Tuke’s death emerges. We’ve quite enough on hand. Mrs Fordyce next. I’m not expecting much from her, although I suppose Tuke may have had a lengthy chat with her when he went along on the morning of April the twenty-third to fix up his appointment with her husband. Something else has occurred to me. What do you think would have been a reasonable time for Fordyce to take for escorting Tuke to Upper Bridge and showing him up the path to the longstone? According to him he came straight home. We’ll check with her.’
Toye considered. ‘Ten minutes at the outside. It’s no distance, and they’d have said all they wanted to say by then, barring goodbye.’
‘I’d put it at that myself. Just on chance we’ll bring the conversation round to it.’
When they drew up at the gate of the Fordyces’ bungalow the front door was half open.
‘You never know who’s listening, do you?’ Pollard remarked sotto voce. Avoiding the path which bisected a small rectangle of lawn they approached silently by walking on the grass. A heated argument became audible.
‘You’ve told me a dozen times already that the sale hadn’t gone through because the contracts hadn’t been exchanged. Fair enough, but why don’t you DO something. Ring Ford’s and say we’ll buy the site and rebuild. Somebody else may get the idea. Get up and go, for Heaven’s sake.’ The feminine voice was shrill and indignant.
‘I’ve also told you several times,’ James Fordyce replied, his voice suggesting nearness to the limit of control, ‘that the site is now part of Bolling’s estate. He may or may not have left a will and appointed executors. In any case there is bound to be considerable delay in settling his affairs. To start with there’ll be an inquest.’
‘I want to GET IN FIRST. Why can’t you ring our own solicitor and tell him to contact Bolling’s, then?’
With a quick glance at Toye, Pollard took a few heavy steps on the path and proceeded to ring the doorbell loudly. Dead silence descended within, followed by the sound of someone coming from the rear of the bungalow, and the door was flung open by James Fordyce who gave Pollard a quick dismayed look.
‘Good morning, Mr Fordyce. I hope this isn’t an inconvenient time for your wife, but we’d be glad of a few minutes with her, as we understand that Edward Tuke called here before you yourself got back on April the twenty-third.’
Pollard’s tone was business-like but pleasant. James Fordyce relaxed perceptibly.
‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘Do come in. I’m afraid we’re rather at sixes and sevens this morning and you’ll find her a bit upset. You know what happened here in Woodcombe today, of course?’
‘Yes, we do. A spectacular disaster almost on your doorstep is enough to upset anyone. We won’t keep her long.’
They were propelled into a fair-sized sitting room with a dining alcove from which a serving hatch led into the kitchen, James Fordyce remarking that he would tell his wife that they were there. Pollard glanced round and diagnosed a studied effect produced by someone with social ambitions. An indifferent portrait of a young woman in mid-nineteenth century garb hung over the fireplace. One or two good pieces of furniture were carefully sited to catch the eye. Easy chairs and a settee were over-supplied with opulent cushions. A few coffee table books and copies of Country Life were in evidence. Quick footsteps coming downstairs suggested that Mrs Fordyce had been carrying out hasty repairs to her makeup. The next moment she came into the room, shutting the door behind her, and addressed herself to Pollard a shade breathlessly.
‘I’m so sorry to keep you waiting: we hardly know where we are after this dreadful disaster. Do, please, sit down, won’t you?’
Pollard was sympathetic, introduced Toye, and took a chair facing Eileen Fordyce with its back to the light. She was more attractive than he had expected, and it was easy to visualise her appeal in her early twenties. At the moment there were signs of tension in her face and small red blotches in the region of her cheekbones. He decided to encourage her to talk about the fire in order to get her more relaxed.
‘I suppose the first you knew about the fire was the explosion?’ he asked. ‘It must have been terrifying in a quiet place like this.’
She shuddered slightly. ‘It was terrible. The whole bungalow shook and the windows rattled so violently that I can’t think why the glass didn’t crack. We scrambled out of bed half asleep and went to look out, and could see the glow of the fire at the other end of the village — this is a semi-bungalow with a room upstairs. I thought it must be the I.R.A. I think I screamed... James was dragging on some clothes and saying he must go and see if he could help get people out. I didn’t want to be left alone so I began to grab some clothes, but he wouldn’t wait. Just told me to go in next door and see if Mrs Rawlings was all right.’
‘Was she?’ Pollard asked, to keep the narrative flowing.
‘I saw that her light was on, so I didn’t stop. I ran on and a fire engine overtook me. I couldn’t find James in the crowd. Everybody was running about and shouting. As soon as I saw it was Bridge Cottage that was burning I started calling at cottages where old people are living on their own. Keeping tabs on them is Mrs Kenway-Potter’s and my special thing, you know, the poor old dears. I felt I simply must get round to them all, as she’s been ill and wouldn’t have been able to come down.’
Pollard found this implication of intimacy with Woodcombe Manor surprising, and put out a feeler.
‘Yes, of course,’ he agreed, ‘even if she had been at home. As you know, no doubt, she’s been away for a short break with her husband, and they only got back this morning.’
The incredulity and anger in Eileen Fordyce’s eyes were unmistakeable. Obviously she had known nothing about the trip to Surrey.
‘Yes,’ she replied unconvincingly.
‘What I really came to ask you about, Mrs Fordyce,’ Pollard went on, ‘is the contacts you had with Mr Edward Tuke. We are interviewing everybody known to have met him, you see, just on the chance that some fact might come to light that might explain the puzzling circumstances of his death on April the twenty-third.’ Watching her expressive eyes closely he thought he saw signs of wariness.
‘I can’t add anything to what I’ve already told Inspector Deeds,’ she said. ‘You see, I hardly met him. He called here about half-past eleven that morning to fix a time to see my husband, and we just said good evening to each other when he came for his appointment at five and I let him in. I heard him leave with my husband soon after six, but I was talking to Mrs Rawlings next door, over the garden hedge out at the back, and didn’t come in.’
‘He didn’t actually come into the house when he called in the morning, then?’
‘No. Naturally I asked him in and offered him coffee. We try to be friendly to visitors in this village. But he said he wanted to look round and go over to Littlechester.’
‘It was your husband who took him up to see the longstone, then?’
‘Oh, no, my husband didn’t go up with him: just showed him where the path starts and came straight back. We had a lot to discuss. Bridge Cottage had just been put up for sale and we were considering making an offer. And now —’ she gave a little shrug and lifted her hands expressively.
‘It must have been a great shock to hear of Edward Tuke’s de
ath so soon after he had left here.’
Eileen Fordyce swept her hand across her brow. ‘It was simply terrible. I shall never, never forget it.’
By professing a show of interest Pollard elicited the sequence of events from Rodney Kenway-Potter’s first telephone call to James Fordyce’s precipitate departure.
‘I wanted to go too, of course. I thought I might be some help to Amaryllis, but James said I’d better keep out of the way. I went upstairs to see if I could follow what was happening from the window, but it was too dark... It was a relief to hear our neighbour, Mrs Rawlings, calling up from the kitchen door. Then we heard the ambulance go past. She isn’t exactly a friend of ours, of course, but when she asked if I’d like to go in and have a cup of tea I was quite glad to. It was nearly ten before James came back. He’d been up at the Manor.’
Husband acceptable, wife not, Pollard thought, discerning a note of resentment. ‘Well, Mrs Fordyce, we needn’t take up any more of your time, and thank you for your help. We’ll just drop in on your husband for a moment, if we may, if you’ll show us which is his study.’
James Fordyce was sitting at a desk covered with a variety of papers and reference books. He glanced up, looking tired, strained and defensive.
‘I’m sorry to have to bother you again,’ Pollard told him, ‘on top of what happened during last night, but you’ll understand we have to push on with the Tuke enquiry come hell and high water.’
‘Come in and sit down,’ James Fordyce replied briefly. ‘Sorry there’s so little room. What do you want to know?’
The study was a narrow strip at the back of the bungalow with a single window overlooking the back garden. Bookcases, a large desk and a freestanding filing cabinet made it uncomfortably congested. Pollard and Toye manoeuvred themselves on to a couple of upright wooden chairs.
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