A Picture of Murder

by T E Kinsey

  ‘Are we invited, then?’ said Edna with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Inspector Sunderland will be joining us.’

  ‘Oh, I guessed that, my lover,’ she said. ‘Never known a policeman to pass up a chance for some free food. I was meanin’ that the other two, Mr Cheetham and Miss Drayton, has gone out.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I wonder how they . . . Never mind. Three it is, then.’

  ‘Right you are, Miss Armstrong,’ said Miss Jones. ‘Anythin’ else?’

  ‘Not for the moment. Thank you, ladies.’

  I rejoined the interrogation party and we set off once more across the village green.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The charabanc had already dropped off its passengers, and the protest was in full swing by the time we emerged from the end of the lane and looked out across the green. The placards were looking a little the worse for wear after three full days of angry waving, but their bearers were no less agitated and no less keen to see an end to the filth being projected into the minds of the impressionable. The kinematograph had to be stopped.

  ‘We’re doing nothing illegal,’ said the leader, Mr Hughes, as we approached.

  ‘Nothing illegal at all, sir,’ said Inspector Sunderland. ‘You’re wasting your time, certainly, but you’re doing nothing wrong.’

  ‘Doing the Lord’s work is never wasting time,’ said Mrs Hughes.

  ‘I can’t argue with that,’ said the inspector. ‘But in this instance, the Lord might be prepared to let you have a day off. There’s no picture show this evening. It’s Bonfire Night.’

  ‘Another pagan festival,’ said Mr Hughes.

  ‘Is it?’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I thought it was a celebration of the thwarting of a plot to blow up Parliament.’

  ‘Yes. Well,’ he mumbled. ‘That’s not how it’s celebrated now. It’s returned to its pagan roots.’

  ‘Be that as it may,’ said the inspector, ‘I’m sure your comrades can spare you for a few moments now that you know there’s no show for you to stop today. I should like to ask you some questions.’

  ‘About what?’

  The inspector raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.

  ‘No one from our group had anything to do with those dreadful deaths,’ said Hughes.

  ‘No one has suggested yet that you did,’ said the inspector. ‘But I would be neglecting my duty if I were to fail to seek information from all possible witnesses. We should be able to find a nice quiet table at the Dog and Duck.’

  ‘I don’t drink.’

  ‘I persuaded Mr Arnold that he could earn a few extra coppers if he were to serve tea and coffee,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘In the absence of a tea shop, I felt that he would be able to fill a gap in the market. He agreed.’

  ‘I shall not set foot in that house of sin and debauchery,’ said Hughes.

  ‘The police station, then?’ suggested the inspector. His tone was still courteous, but we could all see that his patience was wearing thin.

  Hughes thought for a moment. Entering the pub would represent a minor betrayal of his principles, but a trip to the police station was still seen by many as a mark of disgrace. Who, other than criminals and their victims, ever visited such a place? And since he wasn’t the victim of a crime, that would mean . . .

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘The Dog and Duck. But I’ll not linger a moment longer than necessary. And I shall definitely not partake of any alcoholic drink.’

  ‘That’s understood, sir,’ said Inspector Sunderland. ‘I shall order a pot of tea and you may drink it or not, as you prefer.’

  Hughes handed his placard to his wife and walked with us across the green to the village pub. Daisy left her father’s butcher’s shop as we approached and gave me an inquisitive look. I mouthed, ‘I’ll tell you later,’ and she hurried along the pavement to the pub to begin her second job.

  We followed her in. Lady Hardcastle and the inspector settled their ‘guest’ at an out-of-the-way table while I went to order a pot of tea. Daisy had hurriedly removed her coat and was smoothing down her apron as she bustled towards her station behind the bar.

  ‘Was it him?’ she asked in a whisper. ‘Our ma said it was. She don’t trust that lot.’

  ‘She was sure it was Aaron Orum when I last spoke to her,’ I said.

  ‘He’s dead now, though, i’n’t he?’

  ‘It might have been guilt that drove him to take his own life.’

  She paused. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Oh, it might, mightn’t it? So it’s not Hughes, then? It really was Orum all along?’

  I laughed. ‘We still don’t know. The inspector is just speaking to as many witnesses as he can find. Can we discuss it later, though? For now we need a pot of tea for four.’

  ‘Not four pints of scrumpy, then? That would be much easier.’

  ‘Before lunch? Goodness me, no. Hughes is a teetotaller and even we draw the line at booze for elevenses. Put the kettle on, there’s a poppet.’

  ‘I’ll bring it over,’ she said.

  I rejoined the others mid-conversation. Inspector Sunderland was looking at his notebook as he spoke.

  ‘. . . spotted looking in through the pub window after midnight on the night Basil Newhouse was killed.’

  ‘It might have been me,’ said Hughes. ‘I was . . . out for a walk.’

  ‘Out for a walk? In Littleton Cotterell? After midnight?’ said the inspector. ‘You’re staying at the old Seddon house on the way to Chipping Bevington, aren’t you? The rest of your group left the village before ten o’clock according to our witnesses.’

  ‘I was with them. We took the charabanc back to the house.’

  ‘And then you came back?’

  ‘I couldn’t sleep so I went out.’

  ‘It’s a good five miles to the Seddon house. That’s a fair distance for a late-night stroll.’

  ‘There’s a bicycle at the house,’ said Hughes. ‘I rode back to the village. I wanted to see for myself the effect that the moving picture had had on the village.’

  ‘And what did you see?’

  ‘Debauchery. Carousing. Drinking.’

  ‘The good people of Littleton Cotterell enjoying a lively evening in the pub, in other words,’ said the inspector calmly.

  ‘They’d clearly been riled up and inflamed by that dreadful moving picture.’

  ‘That’s beyond my area of expertise, I’m afraid. What did you do then?’

  ‘I’d seen all I cared to see, so I cycled back to the house.’

  ‘Did you see anything unusual on your return journey?’

  ‘Nothing especially unusual, no,’ said Hughes. ‘A couple of drunkards staggering home and another bloke on a bicycle, but nothing out of the ordinary.’

  ‘Did anyone see you when you returned to the house?’

  ‘No, they were all asleep.’

  Lady Hardcastle had been listening intently during all this. She smiled warmly at Hughes and said, ‘You take your mission very seriously, don’t you, Mr Hughes?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘We’re doing God’s work.’

  ‘It must sometimes feel terribly lonely, though,’ she continued. ‘Just you and your wife standing against a godless world.’

  ‘You imagine that we’re alone? You’ve seen how many we were able to gather to fight Cheetham’s filth. They’re but a small number of the followers we have in Bristol. There are like-minded all over the country. All over the world, in fact.’

  ‘I never knew,’ she said. ‘You’re an international organization, then?’

  ‘A brotherhood,’ he said proudly.

  ‘How exciting.’

  Inspector Sunderland was clearly unsure where this line of questioning was going and gave me an enquiring glance: should we stop her? I shook my head: she knows what she’s doing.

  Hughes hadn’t seen us. ‘We spread our message throughout the Empire, across Europe, and even to the United States,’ he said.

  ‘It
would be wonderful for you to get a chance to meet them, I should imagine,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Have you ever thought about getting together with your colleagues from around the world?’

  ‘We’ve already had such a gathering,’ he said, proudly. ‘We gathered in El Paso.’

  ‘Goodness me,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘How exotic. Spain?’

  He laughed. ‘You might think so, but no. It’s in Texas. In America.’

  ‘Well I never,’ she said. ‘That’s a great deal more exotic even than Spain. What an adventure. It must have taken simply weeks to get there.’

  ‘It was quite a journey,’ he said. ‘But it was worth it.’

  ‘I should imagine it was. I’m quite envious, to tell you the truth. I’ve only ever been to Washington.’

  He smiled indulgently.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Inspector,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I seem to have expropriated your interview. I do apologize.’

  ‘Think nothing of it, my lady,’ said the inspector. ‘It’s always helpful to have a little colour. But if I may . . . ?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you. So you returned to the old Seddon house—’

  ‘I do wish you’d stop calling it that,’ said Hughes. ‘It’s owned by Mr Nathaniel Biddiscombe now. He has nothing to do with those godless Seddons.’

  ‘The Biddiscombe house, then,’ said the inspector. ‘What did you do when you arrived?’

  ‘I went straight to bed. The exertions of the bicycle ride were exactly what I needed. I dropped off to sleep almost at once.’

  ‘And you were up bright and early to return to your vigil?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Hughes. ‘I shared a plain breakfast with the group. We prayed for the success of our venture and for the downfall of Cheetham and his heathens, then we were ready and waiting on the drive when the charabanc pulled up in the lane.’

  ‘And the next night?’

  ‘I returned to the house as usual, but I didn’t venture out again.’

  ‘And last night?’

  ‘We joined the gathering crowd when Orum fell from the tower, but as soon as it was clear that there was nothing we could do to help, we left the village and returned to the house once more.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Hughes,’ said the inspector as he closed his notebook. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’

  ‘I’m free to go?’ said Hughes.

  ‘You were always free to go,’ said the inspector. ‘But, yes, I have everything I need. You’re welcome to stay and finish your tea, of course.’

  ‘Thank you, no. I shall get back to my work and out of this den of iniquity and vice.’

  ‘As you wish. Good day.’

  Hughes left without looking back.

  ‘Where did you learn your interrogation techniques, my lady?’ asked the inspector once we were back in the dining room. We were reviewing the crime board.

  ‘My what?’ she said. She was writing some notes on the board and wasn’t giving the inspector her full attention. ‘Oh, the America thing?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That was very accomplished.’

  ‘Just a little idea we developed in a past life. We were talking about it only the other day, as a matter of fact. It turns out that people are happy to tell you everything they know – you just have to create the right mood and they’ll chatter away without a care. Intimidation has its uses, of course, but mostly for bringing chaps to heel. Torture is so medieval, don’t you think?’

  ‘Some of my colleagues would disagree with you,’ he said, ‘and I’ve seen more than one confession beaten out of a hard man. But I’ve always favoured a less brutal approach. You should give lectures for the Force.’

  ‘I hardly think the more brutal among your fellow officers would pay any attention to a dotty lady with a weakness for sentimental tunes and brandy.’

  He smiled. ‘Still, he’d not have told me about his trip to America if I’d asked him.’

  ‘No, I don’t think he would. But I don’t think he would have told me if I’d asked him directly, either. One simply has to find a way of letting them talk about it for themselves.’

  ‘And now we know that he might have had access to your mystical mushrooms,’ he said. ‘I’m not certain if it helps us at all, mind you.’

  ‘To tell you the truth,’ she said, still examining the crime board, ‘I’m not certain it does, either. It makes him a possible suspect for the Orum killing, but he has alibis for the other two murders. Weak and uncorroborated alibis, I’ll grant you, but he’s able to make a claim to having been elsewhere both times.’

  ‘I can’t quite see why he would kill Mr Orum,’ I said. ‘Very few people knew of his link to the moving picture.’

  ‘That might not be important,’ said the inspector. ‘If we assume that Hughes wanted to stir up controversy to get the moving picture banned, then it wouldn’t actually make any difference who was killed as long as it was done in a way reminiscent of the story.’

  ‘True,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘And the young chap who played Gormless George isn’t part of the tour so it would have to be someone else. I think Gertie told me he was abroad in a touring production of Lady Windermere’s Fan.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ I said. ‘Someone definitely wanted to complete the set.’ A thought struck me and I paused for a moment before slowly saying, ‘Except . . .’

  ‘Except what?’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘Well, let’s say your version is correct. Mr Orum was given his dodgy mushrooms in the pub and his demonic visions began there in the snug. He ran out, pursued by those demons, and hurried towards the church. He locked himself in and then threw himself from the tower to escape them. Just like in the moving picture.’

  ‘That’s it, as I understand it,’ said the inspector.

  ‘But what if the mushrooms had brought on a vision of fluffy baa-lambs gambolling in a spring meadow? He wouldn’t have fled in terror then, would he? And how could the poisoner guarantee that he’d seek sanctuary in St Arild’s even if he or she did manage to influence the vision somehow? And once there, how could he be persuaded to jump off the tower? There are too many . . . What is it you say, my lady?’

  ‘Too many variables?’ she suggested.

  ‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘Too many variables, too many moving parts. It’s a thoroughly unreliable way of killing someone if you also have something specific to say about the wickedness of moving pictures.’

  ‘You make a good point,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘A very good point indeed.’

  ‘You mentioned influencing the vision,’ said the inspector. ‘Do these mushrooms make one suggestible? Like hypnosis?’

  ‘We’ll have to wait for Simeon to do the research,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘He’ll be the one to know. If they do work that way, our suspect would have to have been in the pub that evening, whispering in his ear.’

  ‘That’s a lot of people,’ I said. ‘It was busy in there – we saw them all tumbling out of the door to watch him go.’

  ‘But it puts Dinah Caudle back in the running,’ she said.

  ‘Let’s not jump to any conclusions until we’ve heard a little more from Gosling,’ said the inspector. ‘In the meantime, I need to check that all is well back at the station. Might I impose on your hospitality a little further and use your telephone?’

  ‘Of course, Inspector,’ she said. ‘It’s no imposition. You’ll still stay for lunch?’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘That would be most agreeable.’

  I went to the kitchen to check on progress. Miss Jones had been hard at work and had done us proud.

  ‘I see a bonus in your future,’ I said. ‘And for you, too, Edna. You’ve both gone above and beyond this week and I know that Lady Hardcastle appreciates your efforts. As do I. Thank you.’

  ‘Just doin’ our jobs,’ said Miss Jones.

  ‘She’s right,’ said Edna. ‘What else would anyone do? I’d not say no to a bonus – every penny counts round
our house while Dan’s laid up – but I’d never expect one.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ I said, ‘I shall see that your wonderfulness doesn’t go unacknowledged.’

  ‘I tell you what you could do,’ said Edna, ‘and it won’t cost the mistress a penny.’

  ‘Go on,’ I said, intrigued.

  ‘Our Dan does love a cigar,’ she said. ‘And Mr Newhouse smoked such lovely ones. He has a . . . a whatchamacallit . . . a Thermidor in his room.’

  ‘A humidor?’ I suggested.

  ‘That’s the fella,’ she said. ‘And it’s not like he’s goin’ to be smokin’ ’em no more.’

  ‘I can’t see anything wrong with that,’ I said. ‘Mr Newhouse was a generous man in life. I’m sure he would be delighted to know that his cigars were bringing someone pleasure after his passing.’

  ‘I’ll just take a couple, mind,’ she said hurriedly. ‘It don’t do no good spoilin’ Dan. He’d just get accustomed to ’em and start complainin’ when they ran out.’

  ‘Take as many or as few as you wish,’ I said.

  I left them to their work and returned to Lady Hardcastle and Inspector Sunderland, who were still staring at the crime board in the dining room.

  I recounted my recent conversation with Edna.

  ‘Good idea,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘It will save them going to waste. Do you enjoy a cigar, Inspector?’

  ‘I can’t say I ever developed a taste for them,’ he said. ‘I used to smoke a pipe in my younger days, but Mrs Sunderland doesn’t like the smell of the tobacco on my clothes so I stopped. I still carry my empty pipe, mind you.’ He produced his familiar briar pipe. ‘People seem to trust a pipe smoker, even when he’s not smoking.’ He held it by its bowl and pointed the stem at one of the sketches on the crime board. ‘Handy for pointing at things, too,’ he said.

  ‘I say,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘It is, rather, isn’t it? What do you think, Flo? Should I get a pipe?’

  ‘An old-fashioned, long-stemmed clay pipe, my lady,’ I said. ‘Although, if all you’re going to do is point at things, wouldn’t a pencil be just as much use?’

  ‘Where’s the fun in that?’ she said. ‘I have a reputation as a batty eccentric to foster.’