Which brought him to the Major, who had stumbled on the scene of the crime. So far, nobody had seriously thought of him as a possible suspect. The idea was ridiculous and had been dismissed by everyone, even Inspector Squibb – blood-spattered blazer notwithstanding. Marjorie Cuthbertson, he felt sure, would share the view that her husband was quite incapable of murdering anyone. And she should know.
There was, of course, always the possibility that the murderer had been a complete stranger to Frog End. An outsider passing through and wandering freely around the Manor gardens, as visitors often did. There were plenty of unstable people at large these days. People who killed for some imagined reason, or for none at all. Or perhaps it had been someone who had known Deacon in the past? An old enemy who had finally tracked him down to take revenge? The Colonel knew that he was straying into the realms of fantasy but one had only to pick up a daily newspaper to read about true happenings that were far stranger than fiction.
One thing was sure, whoever had killed Deacon would have had enough strength to strike fatal blows. There had been no risking a half-done job.
Then I can write a washing bill in Babylonic cuneform
And tell you ev’ry detail of Caractacus’s uniform
In short, in matters vegetable, animal and mineral
I am the very model of a modern Major-General
The phone rang and the Colonel lifted the receiver.
Ruth said, ‘They’ve found Jacob.’
THIRTEEN
The police had found Jacob cowering in an overgrown hollow deep in woods beyond Frog End. Their dogs had tracked him down like an animal. He had been arrested and taken to the police station. The Harveys’ solicitor had been present to see fair play but the Colonel had been denied any access to Jacob. Inspector Squibb had remained adamant.
‘He’s being held in a cell for questioning, sir.’
‘On what charge?’
‘None, as yet.’
‘How long is he to be held?’
‘At least twenty-four hours. Longer, if we have reason to suspect him of a serious crime, such as murder – which we do.’
‘What evidence do you have?’
‘More than sufficient.’
‘Jacob’s fingerprints may be on the murder weapon, Inspector, but that’s not proof. According to Mrs Harvey, he used the same spade many times for his work at the Manor. Fingerprints can last a long time, I believe.’
‘As Frog End’s amateur sleuth, Colonel, perhaps you can also explain away the blood belonging to Mr Deacon left on the Major’s blazer lapel?’
‘Jacob must have touched Mr Deacon’s body when he discovered it. It would have been a natural reaction. He might also have touched the spade.’
‘He might also have picked it up and hit Mr Deacon very hard over the head. Otherwise, why did he run off? And keep running? And hiding?’
‘He was probably afraid that he would be suspected.’
‘With good reason. But what was he doing in the greenhouse in the first place? I’d like to know. According to Mrs Harvey, he was meant to be digging over a potato patch in the kitchen garden.’
‘Have you asked him?’
‘Many times. He won’t say. In fact, he won’t say anything – or nothing that I can understand.’
‘Mrs Harvey thinks he may have gone to the greenhouse because he was worried about Mr Deacon pinching out the tomatoes. It was usually his job.’
‘So she told me. Which makes it all the more likely that he killed Lawrence Deacon.’
‘Over tomato side shoots?’
‘Jacob’s a nutcase, Colonel, and nutcases don’t think or behave like normal people. And don’t forget he resented Mr Deacon being there at all. Saw him as a threat.’
‘That’s supposition, Inspector. We don’t know for certain how Jacob felt about him, or what he thinks about anything, for that matter. If you’d let me talk with him I might be able to get some proper answers.’
Jacob trusts me, he might have added, except that it was impossible to claim any such thing. More likely, Jacob trusted nobody.
The Inspector opened his office door. ‘That won’t be necessary, thank you, sir. We don’t need to use up any more of your valuable time.’
The Colonel paused as he left the room. ‘I doubt if Jacob would ever be considered fit to plead, Inspector.’
‘That’s not for us to decide, is it, Colonel?’
Sheila was late collecting Johnny but it was all right because he was still busy doing the watering. Sheila waited until he’d finished and watched while he wound up the hose, quick and neat as anything. The way he managed the chair these days was a marvel. Spinning it round on a sixpence, taking corners in one, whipping forwards and backwards along narrow paths. Such a difference from when he’d started and had refused even to lay a finger on the wheels. Now, as long as the surface was reasonably smooth and flat, he could go anywhere, not to mention that Dr and Mrs Harvey had now provided special ramps for disabled visitors wherever they were needed. It wasn’t quite so easy in some places, of course. That’s where she came in. Johnny still needed her for the tricky bits. She still had a role to play. And everything was going to work out, now that Mr Deacon had gone. She’d booked her first driving lesson with Never Fail already.
‘I’m ready, Mum.’
He seemed in a much better mood – not cross with her any more. She pushed the chair down the drive quite fast. The days of aching arms and painful blisters had passed and the sun was shining.
Johnny said, ‘Mrs Harvey says the police have found Jacob.’
She stopped pushing. ‘Where was he?’
‘Hiding in some woods. They’ve arrested him. He’s being questioned about the murder of Mr Deacon. He didn’t do it, though.’
‘How do you know he didn’t, Johnny?’
‘Because Jacob’s not like that.’
‘You can’t be sure. Not with someone like him.’
‘Yes, I can, Mum. I’ve learned a lot about people. You do when you’re in a wheelchair. You watch people when they’re not watching you. They don’t see you properly because you don’t count as normal for them. But you notice things about them all the time – things that nobody else notices. It wasn’t Jacob. They’ve got the wrong person.’
She dared not ask any more questions. Instead, she carried on in silence, pushing the wheelchair down the gravel driveway, out of the Manor gates, round the green and down the slope to The Close. As they passed Shangri-La the Major came to the window and raised a half-empty glass.
On his way back from the police station, the Colonel stopped at the Manor. He found Ruth upstairs, bathing his godson. She was cradling him carefully in the warm water and Alan was splashing about with his arms and kicking hard with his legs.
‘He loves it,’ Ruth said. ‘Float the duck towards him, will you, Hugh.’
The bright yellow plastic duck bobbed along merrily and the baby grabbed hold of its orange beak and stuffed it in his mouth.
The Colonel thought of bath times long ago when Marcus and Alison had been very small and Laura had been in charge. There had been other ducks and boats and fish floating about and a green turtle with a hollow back for holding soap which had been a particular favourite. After bath time there had always been a bedtime story or nursery rhymes which he had enjoyed reading to the children. King John was not a good man, he had his little ways, and sometimes no one spoke to him for days and days and days … He could still remember the words and feeling sorry for the king who had no friends and sent himself Christmas cards.
Army duties had often meant missing out on such pleasures and later, when he had been posted abroad to outlandish places and Marcus and Alison had been sent to boarding schools in England, he and Laura had both missed out on a great deal more. So, he thought regretfully, had the children.
He said, ‘I’m afraid I didn’t get very far with Inspector Squibb. He wouldn’t let me near Jacob.’
‘Tom only saw him for a moment. H
e says he was in a dreadful state. I wish we could help him.’
‘The police are a long way from actually proving anything. The fingerprints on the spade handle could well be old ones.’
‘What about the blood he left on the Major’s blazer?’
‘Jacob must have got it on his hands when he found Deacon’s body.’
‘The Major seems convinced that he’s guilty.’
‘The Major saw him running out of the greenhouse in a panic, that’s all.’
Ruth said, ‘Well, if Jacob didn’t kill Lawrence, it must have been someone else.’
The duck was bobbing about in the bath again. The Colonel re-directed it back to his godson. Freda Butler had made the same very logical remark. And like Miss Butler, Ruth was waiting for him to come up with something helpful. Something comforting. At the moment, he had nothing to say, but he still had something to do. It was high time to visit Tanya Carberry and find out more about her.
When the flat doorbell rang, Tanya was afraid that Inspector Squibb had come to interview her again. More than afraid, she was petrified. She waited, unmoving, and after a moment or two the bell rang again. It didn’t sound like the Inspector. His ring had been loud and peremptory whereas this one was quiet and polite. If it was someone from one of the other flats they might think her unfriendly or rude if she didn’t answer. After waiting another moment, she went to the door and opened it.
‘Good evening, Mrs Carberry. I’m so sorry to disturb you.’
She had met him once or twice and seen him at the Manor several times. He was a good friend of the Harveys and a godfather to little Alan, which meant that he was to be trusted.
‘Please come in, Colonel.’
In the sitting room, she invited him to sit down. He did so, smiling at her. It was a very charming, reassuring smile.
‘I’ll come straight to the point and I promise I won’t keep you long.’
What a contrast to the Inspector, she thought.
‘What can I do for you, Colonel?’
‘I’m sure you’ll have heard that Jacob has been found and arrested by the police and that he’s suspected of murdering Lawrence Deacon?’
‘It’s not surprising, is it? Considering the circumstances.’
‘They are rather damning, I agree, but although the circumstances point towards Jacob’s guilt there is no actual proof of it at all.’
‘There was blood on his hands. Major Cuthbertson said so.’
‘Nevertheless, Dr and Mrs Harvey don’t believe that he’s guilty. Nor do I. It’s not in his nature to attack anyone and we firmly believe that he’s innocent. So, I was wondering, Mrs Carberry, if you could add anything to the picture that might help us establish his innocence, or at least throw some doubt on his guilt.’
She said, ‘I’m sorry but I’ve nothing more to say. I’ve already been interviewed by Inspector Squibb at considerable length.’
‘So I gather. And I’m sure it wasn’t a pleasant experience for you.’
‘No, it wasn’t.’
‘I’ll try to do better. Could we go over the events on that day very briefly – if it wouldn’t be too much for you? I’ll leave at once, if you prefer.’
She said, ‘I really don’t see how I can help you.’
‘It’s just a question of checking the facts. Making quite sure of them. I believe you were working on one of the herbaceous borders when you heard Major Cuthbertson shouting for help?’
She nodded. ‘I ran over and found him standing outside the greenhouse door in a state of shock. He told me that there was a body inside. I didn’t believe him at first but when I went to look I saw Mr Deacon lying there face down.’
‘You knew it was him?’
‘I recognized his clothes. As I told Inspector Squibb, he always wore the same ones for work.’ She shuddered. ‘There was a great deal of blood. At first, I thought he must have had another stroke and injured himself as he fell … until I went nearer and saw the spade.’
‘You were aware that he was working there that morning?’
She nodded. ‘He’d come by the border earlier and told me he’d been given the chore of pinching out the tomato side shoots. He said he was taking a break as it was very boring.’
‘Did he say anything else to you?’
‘No.’
‘Nothing offensive or upsetting?’
‘No. Just about the tomatoes.’
‘What did he do then?’
‘He walked off – back to work in the greenhouse, I assume. I really don’t know. I’d prefer not to talk about this any more, if you don’t mind, Colonel.’
He said, ‘I’m very sorry to distress you, Mrs Carberry. There was a reason for my question. If Mr Deacon was ever offensive to you in any way, then he could also have offended others. I understand from his wife that he could be quite a difficult man. He may have done or said something that led to his murder. Somebody had a very strong reason for killing him.’
‘Jacob did. Mr Deacon treated him unkindly. He taunted him.’
‘Jacob’s odd, but he’s never been violent. He shies away from people and avoids any sort of trouble. Inspector Squibb wrongly believes him to be guilty and poor Jacob isn’t capable of defending himself. That’s why I’m standing up for him. I need your help, if you’re willing to give it.’
She was silent for a moment. At last, she said, ‘Lawrence Deacon pretended to be nice, but he wasn’t. He told me once that his wife was having an affair. I wouldn’t have blamed her if it was true but I think he made it up.’
‘Why do you think that?’
‘I went to Mrs Deacon’s shop in Dorchester when I was trying to find a present for someone. She didn’t seem at all the sort of person who would be interested in having an affair. I could tell that her shop meant a lot to her and that she was very proud of it. Her husband seemed to resent that.’
‘Did he say so to you?’
‘He said that there was no need for her to work. She could have stayed at home with him.’
‘Is there anything else you can tell me about Mr Deacon?’
‘He was horrible to Johnny, as well. I overheard him telling him that he was glad that he would never be able to walk again. That it served him right.’
‘What did Johnny say?’
‘Nothing. He didn’t answer.’
‘He must have been upset or angry?’
‘I don’t know. He just went away.’
‘Did you say anything about this to Inspector Squibb?’
‘No. I didn’t want to get Johnny into any trouble. He’s suffered enough. Besides, he couldn’t have had anything to do with the murder.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘He can’t walk, can he? How could he possibly have killed Mr Deacon?’
‘From what I’ve seen, Johnny is very adept at getting about in his wheelchair, and he has extremely strong arms. Haven’t you noticed?’
She stared at him. ‘Well, he didn’t do it, Colonel. I’m quite sure of it.’
‘Where was he on the day of the murder?’
‘Working in the rose garden, I think. I didn’t actually see him until he came up to the greenhouse after the Major had discovered Mr Deacon’s body.’
‘You didn’t see him before then – at any time during the day?’
‘No.’
‘Not at all?’
‘No. Not at all.’
‘I understand he often came to eat his lunchtime sandwiches with you at the old stables?’
‘He did sometimes but I wouldn’t say it was often.’
‘What did you talk about?’
‘He never said much.’
‘Not even about his accident?’
‘He never talked about it and I would never have raised the subject. It was a terrible thing to happen and it had obviously affected him deeply.’
‘Mrs Harvey told me he was doing well with the gardening. Learning a lot and getting rather interested.’
‘She was ve
ry kind to him and lent him books.’
‘And now he’s back at work again.’
‘Yes, Mrs Harvey’s very pleased.’
‘Does he still have his sandwiches with you?’
‘Not since the murder.’
The Colonel said, ‘Going back to that day, what did Johnny do when he arrived at the greenhouse?’
‘There was nothing he could do. I suppose he must have waited around until his mother came to take him home. I really can’t remember. It’s all a blur.’ She put her hand to her forehead. ‘I’d like you to go now, if you don’t mind. I’ve got a dreadful headache.’
He left at once. When she had closed the door, she leaned against it. She’d told him the truth, but not the whole truth.
The Major was considering the whisky glass in his hand. It was either half-full or half-empty, depending on which way you saw things. The trick was to keep an open mind and let life jog along with its ups and downs – more downs than ups these days, it seemed to him. He still hadn’t got his best blazer back and he was still shaky from seeing Deacon’s body prone among the tomatoes. What a horrible sight! And all that blood! It would probably haunt him until the end of his days.
He held out his other hand in front of him to see if it was still shaking. Yes, a definite tremor. You could tell a lot about people’s state of mind from their hands – whether they were nervous, or angry, or tense or, as in his own case, suffering from delayed shock. Hands were symbolic, of course. You gave someone a helping hand, you shook their hand to seal a bargain, or to extend a welcome. Fathers gave their daughters’ hands in marriage – Marjorie’s father, a major general, had been noticeably reluctant, as he remembered. People waved hallo and goodbye with their hands, clapped them together to applaud, put thumbs up or down to show approval or otherwise. And not forgetting, of course, Winston Churchill’s famous V-sign for victory with his hand. Now, there was a real leader of men! If it hadn’t been for Churchill, people would have thrown in their towels instead of bagging sun beds and everyone would be speaking German now.
He drank some more whisky and looked at the glass again. More like half-empty now, and when he looked a bit more closely he could see chips on the rim and smears all over the glass – the old girl’s idea of washing-up. In the old days, serving abroad, they’d always had servants who knew what they were doing. The glasses had always shone brightly. No chips or spots or smears. The one he was holding was the last survivor from the expensive set the regiment had given him for his retirement, along with the musical cocktail cabinet. The rest of them had long since bitten the dust, thanks to Marjorie’s kitchen ministrations.
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