by TP Fielden
‘You do realise that all the evidence points to your having murdered Sir Frederick Hungerford?’
‘Me? What do you mean?’
‘Professor Sirraway,’ said Judy, softly, ‘where is your tie?’
‘My tie?’ He felt vaguely around his neck. ‘I hardly need one out here – I don’t expect the Queen will be paying me a call this morning.’ He seemed genuinely bewildered Miss Dimont should want to take an interest in his personal apparel.
‘The one you were wearing the other day. At the Conservative Club. Do you recall it?’
‘Of course I do! I only have two – the other one’s for funerals.’
‘Where is it?’
Just then Terry returned with the biscuits in one hand, his Hassleblad in the other. One sharp look from Judy sent him scurrying to photograph some of the more interesting aspects of eighteenth-century mill design seen from the Dartmoor perspective – but he kept a watchful eye out as he wasted a precious roll of film.
‘Professor, I get the impression you haven’t the first idea of what serious trouble you’re in. The police are looking for you, not because you ran away from a murder scene, but because they believe you killed Sir Freddy with your necktie.’
‘Ridiculous.’ He dabbed at his pockets with his hands.
‘Because,’ went on Judy remorselessly, ‘of the way you tried to involve Mirabel Clifford in your pursuit of Hungerford, and because she’s now dead, they believe you murdered her as well.’
Sirraway jumped to his feet. ‘This is sheer lunacy!’ he shouted. ‘How could I possibly have murdered her? And him as well, you’re saying? Where’s the logic…’
‘Logic has nothing to do with it, Professor! Suspicion is all that’s needed in a murder inquiry, followed by proof of motive and method. However you view these two events, you are at the heart of the police’s investigations – their number one suspect.’
He sat down on the grass with a bump. ‘You sound like a cheap television programme.’
Taking not the slightest offence, Miss Dimont leaned over and handed him a biscuit. ‘Look, it’s not me who’s accusing you. I’m a reporter – we have no part in the process, we just report things. But you do need to see that you’re in terrible, terrible trouble.’
Sirraway looked away into the river. ‘I don’t know that I care that much, one way or the other. What do you want to know?’
‘Tell me what happened after you were attacked at the hustings by… by… you know.’
‘There was a fight. He was vicious. He kept shouting I had a knife – I didn’t have a knife! I wasn’t going to let him get the better of me, but he’d got hold of my tie and was trying to throttle me with it. I managed to pull away and tore it off and stuffed it in my pocket – and just at that moment people came in, got us apart, and that was that. Well, almost – he had one more go at me when everything had subsided, but they got him off me pretty quick.’
‘And your tie?’
‘Didn’t give it a thought. I have no idea where it is. I’d made my point with Hungerford – I could see him looking at me from the corner of his eye while he was making his speech – so I decided enough was enough, and I left the building.’
‘Didn’t go down to the men’s room?’
‘I don’t know where that is. I’ve never been there before.’
‘And then you did what?’
‘Well, I was thinking about going home, but I was upset. So I came out here.’
‘And spent Friday night and Saturday night here?’
‘I’ve made one room in the mill quite comfy – no good in winter, of course, but heavenly at this time of year. Have you ever seen dawn rise over Hunt Tor?’
‘It must be extraordinarily beautiful.’
‘It is,’ said Professor Sirraway. ‘And I have my books.’
Terry had moved round behind the couple and was getting some nice angles of the killer – nothing Judy could do about it except privately condemn his opportunism.
‘Let’s turn to Mirabel Clifford.’
‘Nice woman, but, you know, part of the political class. Ready to cover for her fellow politicians, give them the benefit of the doubt. She knew all about Hungerford’s extortion, and theft, and blackmail – all those terrible things he did – but she wasn’t prepared to do anything about it.’
‘Some would say it wasn’t her job. She was hoping to bring a new style of representation to Temple Regis – as far removed from Hungerford’s approach as could be imagined.’
‘Huh!’ said Sirraway. ‘That’s all you know! She was just like the rest – corrupt, and corruptible.’
‘Did you dislike her enough to kill her?’
‘What, with the knife I didn’t have when I murdered Freddy Hungerford? Don’t make me laugh!’
‘Then where were you the night she was killed?’
The professor smiled and the creases on his forehead disappeared.
‘Hatherleigh Bridge Club. At my house. Until the early hours. My guests included the vicar, the chairman of the parish council, and the distinguished leader of our Women’s Institute – she got the OBE recently. Do you think between them they might provide a sufficiently good alibi?’
Despite the success of their mission there was a fierce argument between reporter and photographer as they sped across Dartmoor on their way home.
‘Should have done it.’
‘Nah.’
‘Terry! I’m going to do it when we get home!’
‘Leave ’im alone and ’e’ll come home, wagging his tail behind ’im.’
‘He’s a murder suspect! We have to tell Topham!’
‘Ho, yus?’ said Terry in a mocking voice. ‘Is this the same Hugue-noh Dimont-oh who just two minutes ago told me the man was innocent of both crimes?’
‘Well, yes, but…’
‘Look, Judy, you said yourself on Friday we have to have something the national press doesn’t have. We have exclusive pictures and an interview with the man accused of murdering two political candidates in one town. That’s dynamite.
‘But,’ he went on, ‘if you call up Inspector Topham and tell him where Sirraway’s hiding, it’s his job to go and arrest him. With no other suspect in sight, Topham will charge Sirraway with murder. The moment he does that, we can’t use the interview – and phut! – the exclusive you were demanding will have gone.’
‘There’s such a thing as the law, Terry!’ shouted Miss Dimont, whose hair was all over the place because of the way Terry was driving. ‘Look out!’
They missed the farm tractor by a squeak but Terry didn’t slow down, he was all revved up. ‘You’ve got your scoop!’ he cried. ‘Hang onto it!’
‘We’ve got to hand him over!’
Terry stopped the car. They were coming down into Temple Regis and the sight of the estuary sparkling beneath them had the magical effect of creating a ceasefire.
‘Well, do what you feel is right, Judy, but you can forget about lunch in the future.’
‘I didn’t get lunch today,’ she smiled. ‘But we did get something better, Ter, didn’t we?’
She gave him a look. And casting aside all inter-office protocol, Terry leaned over and gave her a smacker on the cheek.
Miss Dimont remained perturbed. If he was to be believed, and his alibi sounded pretty cast iron, Sirraway was in the clear over Mirabel’s murder. But that still left Hungerford’s killer unaccounted for, and all the while Judy failed to pass on his whereabouts to the police, she remained guilty of harbouring a murder suspect.
Unless she could quickly prove a theory that had been growing at the back of her mind, she could find herself in jail and her career as a local reporter in ruins. And so an hour later, in answer to the emergency call-out, Auriol waited for her in their favourite seat on the Promenade.
The heat of the evening sun had galvanised the silver band into giving their all to a selection from South Pacific – their favourite seeming to be the thumpingly good ‘Bloody Mary’, which had c
ome round for the third time in an hour.
‘Bit noisy,’ said Judy, who was thinking about Terry and hoping for a quieter spot.
‘Oh, go on,’ said Auriol. ‘I’m waiting for them to do “Some Enchanted Evening” – brings a tear to the eye every time.’
‘Not mine. Anyway, this is urgent and as I said, I need your help to work it out. Shall we move away?’
The pair strolled further from the bandstand and took a seat looking out to sea. The horizon was ablaze in the sunset, the occasional ship disappearing into it as if into a fiery furnace.
‘I think I have the answer,’ said Judy, slowly. ‘But I need that brain of yours to work overtime on seeing what’s wrong with this theory.’
‘Go on.’
‘Of course it wasn’t Professor Sirraway. He’s the victim of an elaborate set-up.’
‘Tell that to the police! All they want is a name and a number – they let the courts do the rest.’
‘Not necessarily. He had a real beef against Sir Freddy for stealing what was rightfully his. That mill, patched up, is worth a lot of money. But I’m convinced by what he said about the necktie. First, because I don’t believe he’s a killer – honestly, Auriol, if you could have looked into his eyes you would say the same – and second because a necktie, dangling out of a pocket in a crowd, is the easiest thing in the world to whip away without the owner noticing.’
‘Who would do that?’
‘Only one person, Auriol, only one.’
‘Who?’
‘David Renishaw.’
‘What? What on earth makes you pick on him?’
‘Just listen. Renishaw arrives at the Riviera Express last November. His purpose is to kill Freddy Hungerford – the reason I’ll explain in a minute.’ She raised her hand to prevent Auriol butting in.
‘He’s not what he seems. Yes, he’s an outstanding journalist, but he’s also a very troubled man. This is a hunch, but it fits the timescale – he plans to do the murder when Hungerford comes down to Temple Regis for his leaving do. But at the last moment Mr Rhys takes Renishaw off the job and gives it to Betty. He goes along anyway, and hangs around outside in the crowd – and there he sees Professor Sirraway protesting like mad, stirring up the party faithful.
‘And that’s when he gets the idea of laying suspicion on Sirraway for Sir Freddy’s death.’
‘You’d better go on, I’m confused.’
‘My hunch is based on what Geraldine Phipps told me yesterday – that when Renishaw came to visit her, he was fixated on Pansy Westerham. He told Geraldine that his mother was Serenata Forbes, but he told me his mother had come from Paris.
‘Nata Forbes was born, currently lives, and will beyond a shadow of doubt die in Chelsea. Pansy, on the other hand, lived in Paris just as David Renishaw described. David’s mother had one child – just as Pansy had; and she disappeared – just as Pansy did.’
‘Yes, but…’
‘I think Pansy Westerham was David Renishaw’s mother. No proof, just a feeling – but it takes us further along the road of this hunch.
‘When the departed librarian, Miss Greenway, read the carrier-bag file on the various people Hungerford had extorted money from over the years, Pansy’s name was on the list – and, she told her colleague Miss Atherton, the notes went into detail on how Hungerford had squeezed every last penny out of Pansy so that she had to sell her house.
‘She was made bankrupt, she died. And as we know, Renishaw got hold of those notes – can you imagine how much that must have enraged him, to read how his mother had been milked of her last penny, to the point where she had to throw herself from the top floor?’
‘Or was pushed,’ reminded Auriol.
‘Or was pushed,’ agreed Judy. ‘But wouldn’t he have wanted to kill the monster who caused his mother’s death?’
‘But hold on a minute,’ countered Auriol. ‘Surely you’re mixing up fact and supposition here – that’s always a dangerous combination! Why would Renishaw wait twenty-five years after his mother’s death before suddenly wanting to avenge it?’
‘I’ve thought about that. The most likely reason is he only recently discovered it wasn’t an accident. Or maybe he never knew what had happened to her – if you recall, he said she just upped sticks one day, left Paris and never came home. How would he ever manage to find her?
‘He also said she was married to a hotel concierge, but I have my doubts about that. If you’d seen the photos of her, my dear, dressed up to the nines and weighed down in jewels!’
‘It’s a long time to bear a grudge.’
‘A grudge? Auriol, that was his mother – she died! Whatever fortune she had, it’d been stolen by Freddy Hungerford! That’s grounds enough, surely – especially if you think she disappeared when he was twelve – the most vulnerable age, psychologically, for a boy.’
Just at that moment Auriol got her wish – the band broke into ‘Some Enchanted Evening’, and for a moment the pair fell silent, each imagining their own particular stranger across a crowded room.
‘OK,’ said Judy after a moment or two, ‘let’s move onto the murder itself. When Renishaw and Sirraway were parted, the professor put his necktie in his pocket. Terry saw that. Sirraway told me he only hurriedly pushed it halfway in, it was dangling out. After they’d been parted and the dust had settled, Renishaw launched himself at the professor again – and that’s when he could have snatched it, it wouldn’t have taken much skill.
‘So now Renishaw’s got the murder weapon – and he’s laid suspicion on Sirraway by shouting he’s got a knife.’
Auriol nodded. ‘What happened to the knife, by the way?’
‘There wasn’t one.’
‘Well, so far you’ve got me half-believing this, but why did Renishaw murder Mirabel Clifford? It seems a bit extreme to kill someone in cold blood just to divert suspicion to another quarter.’
‘No, no, that wasn’t him,’ Judy said, half to herself. ‘He was with Denise, the sub-editor, the night Mirabel was killed.’
‘Ha!’ laughed Auriol. ‘That blows the whole theory apart, then. For you to be right, there would have to be not one, but two killers.’
‘You said that the other night,’ said Judy, ‘and now I think you’re right.’
‘Who’s the other killer, then?’
‘The late Sir Frederick Hungerford.’
Twenty-Six
In an anteroom just off the Grand Hotel’s Palm Court, the morning conference of Fleet Street’s finest kicked off with unwonted urgency.
‘Purple Perfidy for the two o’clock at Haydock Park,’ called Brittenden.
‘Call My Bluff, Newmarket 2.45,’ shouted Crossley.
‘Has to be a two-way at Uttoxeter,’ yodelled Mulchrone. ‘Foolish Pride and Damaging Expense, absolute certainty!’
They were pooling their information not about the Temple Regis murders, but on which nag they favoured from their gleanings of the Sunday newspaper tipsters.
The important work of the day done, and with the newest member of the pack dispatched to the bookmaker with their orders, Guy Brace looked around his colleagues and heaved a contented sigh.
‘We seem to be making progress,’ he said genially. ‘But not too much – this should last the week out! Meantime there’s a meeting on at Exeter this afternoon, any of you gentlemen care to join me?’
A murmur of assent spread through the room. Life on the road away from loved ones, away from El Vino and the Cheshire Cheese and the Mucky Duck, could be hard on a middle-aged reporter and they were forced to take their comforts where they could. Though Exeter may not be among the front rank of racecourses, it would do at a pinch.
‘So what have we got?’ said Brace. ‘On the murders? Inks?’
‘Off to see Hamish Madden, Freddy Hungerford’s majordomo,’ replied Inkpen. ‘He was away over the weekend. He should have something useful to add.’ Inks would come back with a lively backgrounder on the MP, helping to fill the void until the murderer was f
ound. This much he would share – what he didn’t say was he’d be doing a little digging over the business of Mrs Baines.
He may look snootily down on the dregs of humanity who staffed local newspapers, but Inkpen was no fool – he’d been storing up the info on the MP’s mistress ever since Miss Dimont teased him with it when he was last in town. Without her help he’d discovered Mrs Baines’ name, and once given the fuller story by Madden, would be up to town to nail her sob story while his colleagues swilled champagne and squandered their expense accounts on the gee-gees.
‘Progress on Sirraway, anybody?’
‘Nothing, Guy. He just waltzed off down the Promenade, probably bought himself an ice cream and a ticket for the dodgems.’
‘His house?’
‘I was up there yesterday,’ said Brittenden. ‘Had a long chat with Sergeant Gull, not the sharpest tool in the box, but he hasn’t been back there. So I guess by now he’s in Timbuktu.’
Brace opened the debate to the floor, and within an hour the team had collectively devised their tomorrow’s article, based on a mad professor theme. Each would write it up differently so that if anybody compared newspapers the next day, it would look as though each of them had gained their own insight into the character and nature of this murderer on the loose.
‘Mr Inkpen? A telephone call for you, sir.’
The reporter strolled out to the lobby and picked up the house phone.
‘Inks, it’s Charlie Berry.’
‘Charlie.’
‘In case you’re still interested, I’ve got a name now. For the Interpol suspect.’
‘Blimey, I thought they’d given up on that.’
‘Budgetary constraints, old man. But it’s all been cleared now – the Interpol boys’ll be coming down today.’
‘Back up a little bit,’ said Inkpen, pulling a pencil from his top pocket. ‘Who is he? What’s he done? I’ve written a million stories since we had that conversation, Charlie, and I can’t remember what—’
‘The name on the passport is D. P. Ouistreham, don’t know his first name. Wanted for murder, and they’re pretty determined to get him – so you can bet your bottom dollar they’ll be making their presence felt when they arrive.’