by T E Kinsey
‘I know that roué of old, though,’ said Cheetham. ‘If he’s not tupping her, he’s tried to.’
‘Steady on,’ said the inspector. ‘No need for that.’
‘I do beg your pardon, my lady,’ said Cheetham. ‘But, no, I didn’t speak to Orum. He raised his glass to me in what you might call an ironic salute, but I ignored him.’
‘I see. And you left the pub when?’
‘About one in the morning, I should say.’
‘All of you together?’
‘No,’ said Cheetham. ‘To my eternal regret, we left Basil in the company of some of the villagers. He was in his element – free booze, a fat cigar, and spinning yarns to a captive audience. We couldn’t drag him from that. But I wish we had.’
‘And was there anyone abroad as you returned to the house?’
‘A few revellers came out with us, but they all went back towards the heart of the village.’
‘I see,’ said the inspector. ‘That does leave us with a troublingly large gap in our story. Hancock found the body at . . .’ He riffled through the pages of his notebook. ‘At, or around, five in the morning. That leaves us with four hours unaccounted for. We’ll need to find out when Newhouse left the pub. Ah well, that’s for another time. Are you happy to continue, Mr Cheetham?’
‘Certainly,’ said Cheetham. ‘Though I fear my account of last night will be boringly familiar. Another very successful evening. An even bigger audience. A more excited reaction to the picture—’
‘You showed . . . The Witch’s Downfall again, I understand.’
‘That’s right. We’re all very proud of the piece. We’re not going to let the actions of one degenerate take anything away from that. So, yes, we showed the picture again. We brought the cast – it’s not often that happens – and we wanted to show off our masterpiece.’
The inspector continued with his note-taking. ‘And you went to the Dog and Duck again after the show?’
‘Exactly as before, Inspector. We were treated all night and we left at around one o’clock.’
‘And came straight back here?’
‘Straight back, yes.’
‘And straight to bed?’
‘We yarned for a little longer in the kitchen, and then Zelda and I retired, leaving Phemie to look for a snack.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said the inspector. ‘I think that’ll be all for now. You’ve certainly filled in quite a few missing details. Is there anything you’d like to add? Anything that might help us find out who did this?’
‘Nothing I can think of, Inspector, no.’ Cheetham stood to leave.
‘Just one more thing before you go, then,’ said the inspector, looking up. ‘Who do you think is responsible? Who do you think killed Basil and Euphemia?’
The question seemed to have completely blindsided Mr Cheetham, who said, ‘Orum,’ before he could stop himself.
‘Thank you, sir. Would you mind asking Miss Drayton to join us, please?’
Cheetham left without closing the door.
The house was well built and pleasingly appointed in the modern style but, for reasons which baffled everyone, it hadn’t been fitted with servants’ bells. For the most part this wasn’t a problem – there were few of us in the household and a spirited shout was usually sufficient. But uncouth yelling wasn’t really the done thing when there were guests present and so it fell to Yours Truly to walk to the kitchen to order more refreshment. Tea this time.
I was cornered by Edna for an exposition of the ancient art of floor scrubbing – something she was expressly forbidden from doing until the inspector had . . . inspected. Miss Jones then invested a few moments in restating her objection to working in a room that had so recently contained a dead person. I decided to say nothing about the dismembered forequarters of the dead sheep in the larder, nor the corpses of the mackerel she had disembowelled in the sink the week before. Instead, I listened patiently, tutted and ‘Oh, I know’-ed in the right places, and offered my reassurances that everything would be back to normal soon.
By the time I returned to the dining room, Zelda Drayton was already ensconced at the table and introductions had been made. I sat in my usual seat next to Lady Hardcastle and listened.
Zelda’s account of the events of the two previous evenings added little to what we already knew. She was somewhat more generous on the subject of Aaron Orum, though it was clear that she still harboured some resentment over the way he and Cheetham had fallen out. The only serious divergence from the ‘official’ story was her own reaction to the deaths.
‘I mean,’ she said, breathily, ‘it makes you wonder, doesn’t it. Who’s next? It’s the witch, that’s who. Burned alive. I’m not at all sure I ought to be hanging about round here waiting for that.’
The inspector let her voice her fears for a few moments more and, eventually, she subsided into nervous silence.
‘Thank you, Miss Drayton,’ he said when she had finished. ‘I’m sure you have nothing to worry about. We’ll have this cleared up in no time.’ He looked back through his notes. ‘Oh, there was one more thing. I didn’t want to interrupt the flow. You said you saw Mr Orum getting up from his table as you left the pub on Tuesday night.’
‘That’s right,’ she said.
‘I wondered why you mentioned it. Did you attach any significance to it?’
She sat for a moment in thought. ‘I don’t know. I was just aware of it, that’s all. And obviously he was the only other person in the pub that I knew, so I must have noticed.’
‘Did you see where he went? To the bar, perhaps?’
She thought for a moment longer. ‘Now I come to think of it,’ she said, ‘he was coming towards the public bar. We were heading out the door and it looked like he was coming towards us, but he veered off.’
‘Did you notice where he veered off to?’
Another pause. ‘Towards Basil, I suppose. The little crowd round him, at any rate.’
‘But you didn’t actually see him approach Mr Newhouse?’
‘No, we were out the door and into the cold. I couldn’t say for sure.’
‘Thank you,’ said the inspector. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’
‘Right you are,’ she said, already standing. ‘If you need me for anything else, you know where to find me.’
She was out in the hall with the door closed behind her before any of us could say another word.
‘That was very illuminating,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘You mean the fact that her story was exactly the same as Mr Cheetham’s?’ I said.
‘So, you both noticed, too,’ said the inspector.
‘Word for word in some places,’ I said.
‘They’ve definitely agreed on their version of events,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘They’ve spent hours together in the morning room,’ I said. ‘They’ve had a lot of time to get it straight. And what about all that stuff about “it’s me next”? She’s terrified one minute and sticking to a perfectly rehearsed version of events the next.’
‘It happens more than you’d imagine,’ said the inspector. ‘Oddly, it’s more often the innocent folk who go to such lengths. They want to make sure they’re not falsely implicated in any wrongdoing, so they make certain that they tell a consistent story.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I thought we were on to something there.’
‘Most likely not,’ he said. ‘But it’s intriguing nonetheless.’
‘They’ve both got it in for Aaron Orum,’ I said. ‘That bit about him going into the public bar sounded like a bit of lily gilding to me.’
‘I agree,’ he said. ‘But we can’t discount it just yet.’
‘We often found that in our previous line, didn’t we, Flo?’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘It sometimes happens that people know things they’re not prepared to give up, but they’ll concoct a way of pointing you in the right direction so you can work it out for yourself.’
‘True,’ I said. ‘
Although just as often they were simply trying to settle old scores by dropping someone in it.’
‘A policeman’s lot is not a happy one,’ said the inspector. ‘Nor ever a particularly straightforward one. Shall we go to the pub?’
‘I thought you’d never ask,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘To speak to Orum and Caudle.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘How frightfully disappointing. Surely we could just have a swift one. Since we’re there.’
‘I’m not allowed to drink on duty, my lady,’ he said.
‘No, dear, I know. But Flo and I aren’t on duty, are we? Get the coats, Flo – this has been a trying time and it is my considered opinion that the mainbrace is in urgent need of splicing.’
‘Aye aye, m’lady,’ I said, offering a sloppy salute and setting sail for the coat stand in the hall.
As usual, Aaron Orum was sitting in the snug with a tankard of cider and a newspaper. If it hadn’t been for the fact that it was Thursday’s paper, I’d have been hard put to tell whether he’d moved from the spot at all since I’d first seen him there on Monday. And back in her own spot from Monday – indecorously close to Mr Orum – was the Bristol News’s eagerest reporter, Miss Dinah Caudle.
They both looked over as we entered. Mr Orum seemed a little nonplussed, but Miss Caudle knew all three of us. While Mr Orum favoured us with a puzzled frown, her glare was quickly replaced by an insincere smile.
‘Lady Hardcastle,’ she said. ‘How do you do? And Inspector Sunderland, what an honour to receive an actual visit from one of the Bristol CID’s finest. I thought you were too important to mix with witnesses these days. I thought you had uniformed lackeys to do that sort of thing for you.’
Lady Hardcastle offered a curt, ‘How do you do?’
Inspector Sunderland smiled. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Caudle,’ he said. ‘Am I to take it that you’ve given a statement to Sergeant Dobson?’
‘Oh, no, Inspector. Nothing so grand as a sergeant. We had to make do with Constable Bumpkin, didn’t we, Aaron?’
Mr Orum smiled at her and nodded his agreement.
‘His name is Hancock,’ said the inspector, ‘and he’s a very fine young officer. I hope you answered his questions fully, frankly . . . and politely.’
‘He’s an impertinent yokel,’ she said.
‘You think it an impertinence to work towards catching a murderer? A murderer who has killed twice already and may yet kill again?’
‘It’s an impertinence for an oaf like that to question innocent citizens as though they were common criminals.’
‘Then I’m most terribly sorry, but I’m afraid I’m going to offend you further,’ said the inspector equably. ‘I should like to hear your account of the last two evenings for myself.’
‘Then you shall be disappointed, Inspector. I have urgent business elsewhere.’ Her manner softened as she said to Mr Orum, ‘Shall I see you later?’
Orum smiled again. ‘Of course. We’ve nowhere else to go, after all.’
She returned his smile before rising from the table and walking through into the public bar. We heard the clack of her heels on the flagstone floor as she strode briskly towards the stairs leading up to her room.
‘I don’t have any urgent business anywhere,’ said Mr Orum. ‘I’d be more than happy to answer your questions, Inspector . . . Sunderland, was it?’
‘Yes, sir, that’s right.’
‘How do you do? Aaron Orum. Artist, innovator, businessman, bon viveur . . .’
‘. . . buffoon,’ I added silently. At least I hope I didn’t say it out loud. Lady Hardcastle’s sudden smile made me doubt myself.
‘Please, sit down,’ continued Orum. ‘All of you.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said the inspector. He placed his neatly brushed bowler hat on the table in front of him and drew his notebook and pencil from the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘Did you attend either of the moving picture shows?’
‘Both,’ said Orum.
‘Both of them? Really?’
‘Really and truly. I was expecting a different programme for the second night – and for the most part I got it – but it was still touching to see my picture for the second time in a week as a tribute to poor dear Basil.’
‘Your picture?’
‘Yes, Inspector, my picture. Surely you’ve heard the story by now. Everyone else seems to know.’
‘Indulge me, sir. Explain to me how the moving picture made by Mr Cheetham’s company can be “your” picture.’
‘I really shouldn’t have to keep explaining this.’
‘It’s obviously very important to you,’ said the inspector. ‘I should have thought you’d be pleased to explain it to as many people as would listen. You seem to be implying some sort of theft, after all. Surely you wish recompense. Or retribution?’
‘Now look here!’ said Orum, half rising to his feet. ‘I’m not above doing a few weeks in chokey for thumping a policeman, you know.’
‘Then please save yourself a gaol sentence by sitting down and telling me what you’re talking about.’
‘And implicate myself further?’
‘Further, sir?’
‘You’ve as good as said you think I killed Basil and Euphemia.’
‘I certainly didn’t wish to suggest that,’ said the inspector. ‘I merely wish to learn all the facts of the case so that we can track down their killer.’
Orum resumed his seat with a sigh.
‘Very well,’ he said, wearily. ‘A long time since,’ he began portentously, ‘veiled in the swirling mists of time, Nolan Cheetham and I were friends. Childhood pals. Boon companions. Our friendship survived the trials of adolescence, rivalries over girls, the exhaustion of working long days at the mill. We shared a passion, you see, a passion for the theatre. And we worked at it together. Became famous in our way. And opportunity stretched out before us like a diamond-cobbled road.’
‘I see,’ said the inspector. ‘Though if you don’t mind my clumping over your metaphor, diamond cobbles sound a tad slippery to me.’
‘Clump away, my dear sir,’ said Orum. ‘Slippery and treacherous, they were. We soon fell from the glittering path.’
‘What caused this . . . fall?’
‘What always causes men to fall from the path of ambition and greatness, my dear inspector? A woman.’
‘You ended a lifelong friendship over a woman?’ said the inspector.
‘Alas and alack, would that it were not true,’ said Orum. ‘Elsie Butterworth was her name. Lovely lass. We were to be wed, she and I. But Cheetham turned her head. He didn’t want her. He didn’t love her. He just didn’t want me to be with her. She broke off our engagement and began walking out with him. Within a month he’d broken up with her. I could have taken it if they were really in love, I think, but when that happened, when I found out he’d only done it to split us asunder, I couldn’t bear it. I punched him on the nose and left the business. We barely speak now.’
‘I don’t mean to make light of your experiences,’ said the inspector, ‘and I’m sure they’ve had a profound effect on your life, but I’m struggling to see how any of this makes The Witch’s Downfall your property.’
‘You’re not a patient man, Inspector, are you? I merely thought a little background would help to underline the completeness of our falling out. While we were still pals we would talk about all manner of things. Ideas fizzed around us like Bonfire Night fireworks. One evening, the whisky was flowing and we took off on a flight of fancy about seventeenth-century witchcraft. There were famous trials in the early 1600s, you know. The Pendle Witches. I concocted this story for a play about a witch who falls in love with a lad from the village but has to get rid of her rival, a beautiful young girl. I think that might sound a little familiar?’
The inspector looked to Lady Hardcastle and me for confirmation.
‘It’s the story of The Witch’s Downfall,’ I said. ‘The core of it, at least.’
‘I didn’t just com
e up with the core,’ said Orum. ‘I thought up killing the girl with a poisoned apple, the suitor going insane and throwing himself from the church tower, the Witchfinder . . . everything. The whole thing was my idea. Cheetham began drawing sketches of the props we’d need on stage, of the scenery we’d have to build. “Special effects”, he called it. We planned through the night.’
‘But you never produced this play?’ said the inspector.
‘No, his betrayal put an end to our partnership before we could even begin.’
‘I can well understand how you might feel aggrieved to see that same story made into a moving picture.’
‘You have no idea, Inspector. No idea.’
‘Has this sense of grievance ever spilled over into acts of retribution or vengeance?’
Orum laughed. ‘I am a man of words and ideas, Inspector, not “acts of retribution or vengeance”.’
‘You said you punched your dearest friend on the nose.’
‘Oh, yes, but that was in the heat of the moment. I prefer to exact my vengeance by doing what I’m doing now – I play the ghost at the feast. It is my fervent hope that that tiresomely toilsome little weasel chokes on his guilt every time he sees me. I’ve tried a more direct approach in the past. I’ve sent him letters, you know, explaining the situation in proper legal terms, but he ignores them. I thought of confronting him, too, taking him to task in public, but that would do no good, either. No one thinks of themselves as a wrong’un, do they? Everyone has some self-serving justification for their actions. But now I know how much it rattles him, I think that lurking about the place, being an irritating thorn in his proverbial side, as it were, might get the job done just as well.’
‘And you’ve made certain that he sees you, I gather,’ said the inspector.
‘As often as possible.’
‘In here on the night of the first performance, for instance?’
‘And the second,’ said Orum. ‘Lurking, smiling, raising my glass – but never approaching him. Never giving him the satisfaction of a confrontation. Never giving him the chance to spin his lies and play the innocent party.’