Died and Gone to Devon

by TP Fielden

  ‘Hmm, interesting.’

  ‘Come to think of it, you’ve had a couple of murders in Temple Regis recently, haven’t you? Well, don’t let me make two and two equal five, mate, but it looks like a bit more than a coincidence.’

  ‘Much obliged,’ said Inkpen. ‘The usual two hundred in a nice brown envelope.’

  ‘Mind how you go,’ said the copper, and hung up.

  Inkpen returned to the anteroom and promised Guy Brace he’d report back at the cocktail hour. Stepping out of the hotel lobby, it took him five minutes to reach the Old Jawbones where he found Hamish Madden already waiting in the upstairs bar.

  ‘Thanks for seeing me,’ said Inkpen. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Just the ticket. Put something in it, though, will you?’

  Inkpen ordered a double brandy and poured it in. ‘Mmm,’ said Madden, breathing in the fumes, ‘Heart starter!’ It was not yet eleven o’clock.

  The reporter spent the customary quarter hour asking after Madden’s welfare, his background, his school, his lack of a wife, and his long and devoted service at Westminster.

  ‘It’s funny,’ Madden said, ‘after today I shall never see this place again. Funny how things turn out, isn’t it?’ He did not seem like a man in mourning.

  Inkpen had his notebook out, but rested his pencil while the brandy went to work. His exclusive on the MP, the widow, and the Chelsea love nest was just around the corner – it was only a matter of patience.

  ‘Another?’

  ‘Thank you. Don’t bother with the coffee.’

  ‘Now,’ said Inkpen when they were settled again, ‘tell me all about Mrs Baines.’

  Madden sang like a canary. Sir Freddy was married to a brute of a wife – German, after all – and had patiently endured this state for nigh on fifty years. Recently he had found true love in the arms of Mrs Baines, and who could deny him that consolation?

  For appearance’s sake he and Lady Hungerford maintained a united front, but the storm clouds were about to burst, with Mrs Baines angling to become Lady Hungerford while the present Lady Hungerford was only waiting to claim her social advancement when Freddy took his seat in the House of Lords before dumping him.

  This seemed interesting but hardly earth-shattering, and before long Inkpen’s thoughts were meandering. He was thinking about Interpol.

  ‘Well, thank you Mr Madden – let’s hope they find the killer soon.’

  ‘For all our sakes!’ said the fellow, looking mournfully towards the bar. Inkpen made a hasty exit but mercifully for Madden, who hated to drink alone, he didn’t have long to wait to find a new companion.

  ‘Hello there, I heard you were in here. Judy Dimont, d’you remember?’

  ‘Would you care to join me in a drink?’ said Madden, half rising to his feet.

  ‘No, let me.’

  The formalities dispensed with, Miss Dimont employed much the same warm-up technique as Inkpen – only judging by the pinkness of her interviewee’s cheeks, she needn’t wait so long before getting to the point.

  ‘You see, I find it perplexing that Sir Freddy was on his way to the House of Lords, then suddenly did a complete turnaround and came back to fight this election.’

  ‘He did it for the party, and for Miriam.’

  ‘Mirabel.’

  ‘Yes. He was deeply concerned that her death meant the seat would go to Labour or the Liberals. He had to come back, d’you see, to save it.’

  ‘That’s not my understanding,’ said Judy, sweetly enough. ‘I’ve been told he’d been promised the peerage and so stepped down, only for the peerage to be rescinded.’

  ‘You seem remarkably well informed. But I assure you—’

  ‘I don’t think Sir Freddy ever had any intention of standing as an MP again – but the prospect of not having a seat at Westminster, for a man like that… Quite impossible!’

  ‘He came back to save the constituency.’

  ‘He came back because he wasn’t going to get his peerage after all. It was kyboshed by the Palace.’

  ‘How d’you know that?’

  ‘Private information.’ Thank you, Arthur, for drinking with those gasbags at your club.

  ‘But,’ Judy went on, ‘by the time he got the bad news Mirabel Clifford was already well established as his successor. What was he to do? Suddenly he was faced with political oblivion – and he couldn’t bear it.

  ‘Most men in his circumstances would just sigh and accept their fate – but not Freddy! He was too big, too important a man, to be beaten like that. And the easiest route to staying in power was to get rid of Mirabel, and stand once more in the constituency which, after all, had elected him many times before.’

  ‘What absolute piffle,’ said Madden in a muffled voice, and got up to go to the bar. Judy wasn’t sure whether he would come back.

  ‘The problem with you journalists is, you don’t know things so you make them up,’ said Madden, loftily. ‘It’s complete horse-poo, all of it – you don’t know anything!’

  ‘Well, I’m going to tell you something you don’t know, Mr Madden. Do you know the name Pansy Westerham?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You should. Your Sir Freddy had a hand in her death. It was many years ago, but just because a person dies doesn’t mean they’re forgotten – by friends, by people who may be related to them.’

  Miss Dimont turned her face up to Madden.

  ‘And maybe that’s why his longed-for peerage bit the dust – because people remember. Whether he killed Pansy, or whether he merely caused her death, it’s impossible to say. But she died, and he was responsible – she’d become an embarrassment once he’d milked her of all her money.’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘What I’m saying is that he was ruthless. And, given what happened to Pansy Westerham, it’s my belief Freddy Hungerford also killed Mirabel Clifford.’

  Madden’s pink cheeks turned bright red. ‘How dare you! How dare you speak ill of the dead? Of a man who gave his life to public service and was the backbone of Parliament! You’re a disgrace – I’m going to report you to your editor!’

  ‘Report away, Mr Madden, only I haven’t finished yet. I think it was his intention to kill her, and to frame an innocent man, Professor Sirraway.’

  ‘Ah! Now there you’re wrong! Sirraway was nothing to do with…’ Madden paused, his mouth open.

  ‘Oh,’ said Judy, seizing this. ‘So Sirraway wasn’t part of your plan! What was it, then?’

  Madden reached across the bar and picked up a brandy bottle. ‘You’ve no idea,’ he started, ‘no idea at all…’

  ‘I think I do.’

  ‘Really? Really? You think someone of Freddy’s age could haul a protesting woman halfway up a winding staircase? With her shouting and screaming and struggling as she went?’ His voice was suddenly agitated, uncontrolled. ‘You think he’d have the strength to do that? You think he’d have the nerve to do that?’

  He sloshed the brandy into his glass. ‘You think he had the stamina and the guts to do such a thing? To drag her up and out onto the platform before shoving the knife into her? D’you think that old bully could manage all that? Well, you’re wrong, Miss… er… you have no idea. You reporters – you just make it up. You make it up!’

  The man stood rigid, as if to attention. The whites of his eyes shone bright.

  ‘I have to go now,’ said Judy, after a long silence. ‘Sorry if I upset you. Why don’t you sit here with your nice glass of brandy, it’s been such a stressful time for you.’

  She slipped quickly down the stairs, pausing to see if he was following her. Then stepping out into the bright sunlight, a miracle occurred – a policeman was to be found standing in the Market Square. Better still, it was the redoubtable Inspector Topham. With intense relief, Judy raced up to him.

  ‘Inspector.’

  ‘Miss Dimont. I haven’t anything more to add at the moment, if that’s what you’re—’

  ‘Inspecto
r. We’ve known each other a long time. Our views differ quite a lot, but we do have one thing in common – a desire to see the right thing done.’

  ‘If you put it that way, I…’

  ‘I’m going to ask you to do something which is completely counter to your police training, and probably against your gut instinct, too.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Up there, in the top bar of the Jawbones, is Hamish Madden, the assistant to Sir Freddy Hungerford. I ask you, based on our joint passion for the right thing, to go up there and arrest him on suspicion of murder.’

  ‘I can’t do that.’

  ‘If you want to, you can.’

  ‘He killed his own boss? Sir Freddy? Ridiculous – he was serving drinks when—’

  ‘Not Hungerford, Inspector! Madden killed Mirabel Clifford! On Hungerford’s instructions maybe, or maybe just to please his boss. But he killed her all right.’

  ‘You got the evidence?’ said Topham, sizing up the task ahead and raising his eyes to the top window of the Jawbones.

  ‘Enough. And it’s all right, Inspector, he’s had a few. Actually, he’s had far more than a few. Judging by his demeanour, he’s ready to call it a day.’ Though not to a mere woman, she thought with asperity.

  ‘I’ll need to get a couple of men,’ said Topham, still hesitant.

  ‘Don’t bother. I think he’ll come like a lamb.’

  As she walked off into the Market Square, Miss Dimont saw Inkpen striding towards her. ‘Hello,’ she said, stepping in front of him, ‘thinking about interviewing our Mr Madden? You might be just a moment too late.’

  ‘Did him earlier,’ said Inkpen importantly. ‘You were right about Hungerford’s mistress. But also wrong – the story’s a bit ho-hum.’

  ‘Why don’t you break the habits of a lifetime and share some information with a local journalist for a change?’ said Judy, teasing. ‘I’ve got something to offer in return – something far better than Freddy Hungerford’s popsy.’

  Inkpen looked about the empty square, then back at Judy. Though he’d been given the Interpol tip by Charlie Berry, so far he hadn’t been able to get any further with it. Desperation had driven him back to the Jawbones in the hope Madden would juice up what he’d said about Mrs Baines – ho-hum or not.

  ‘What information?’ said Inkpen suspiciously.

  ‘About Mirabel Clifford’s murderer. I think there may be an arrest soon.’

  ‘Arrest? Are you sure?’ The boys were all up at Exeter Racecourse – they won’t like this, he thought. On the other hand, it’ll be my scoop!

  ‘OK,’ said Inkpen slowly, strapping on an insincere smile. ‘Why don’t we sit over here in the sun?’

  ‘You go first,’ encouraged Miss Dimont, as they settled on a bench. ‘You know what I’m going to tell you, it’ll just be a name.’

  ‘How can I assist you?’ said Inkpen, not meaning a word of it. ‘Anything I can do…’

  ‘Interpol,’ she said. ‘I just want to be sure I haven’t done something terribly wrong. I wondered, since you were telling me about it before, whether anything more had come of that particular line of inquiry?’

  ‘Are you hoping Interpol may have a lead on who did the double murder? That they’re chasing the murderer? That they know who he is?’

  ‘In a nutshell.’

  ‘Which might then discount the imminent arrest of the suspect whose name you’re about to give me?’

  Gosh, thought Miss Dimont, you’re cleverer than you look.

  ‘Looks like we’re evens,’ he said. ‘A name for a name. You go first.’

  ‘No, you.’

  ‘It won’t mean anything, it’s a foreigner.’

  ‘Go on anyway.’

  He got out his notebook and flipped back a page or two. ‘The man Interpol is after is a D. P. Ouistreham. Wanted for murder. My source thinks he could be responsible for the two down here but I doubt it myself.’

  ‘Can you spell that?’

  He did. ‘Sounds Dutch to me.’

  ‘Ouistreham is a port in Normandy,’ said Judy. ‘Famous for its Calvados, famous for its D-Day. You must have heard of Pegasus Bridge, surely.’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘Anything else you can tell me about this Frenchman?’

  ‘Nothing more, that’s it – but I should’ve thought it’d be a piece of cake to find someone with a Froggy accent in a place like this.’

  ‘You don’t seem to have had much success yet, though?’ said Miss Dimont sweetly.

  ‘Your turn,’ said Inkpen sourly. ‘Haven’t got all day.’

  ‘Well, you’re in for a thrill,’ said Judy, waving her hand towards the Old Jawbones. ‘Oh look, here comes Terry, aren’t I lucky to have a photographer! Where’s your snapper, Mr Inkpen?’

  Up at ruddy Exeter Racecourse he thought, but bit his lip. ‘So what am I looking for?’

  ‘Unless I’m much mistaken, out of that door, very shortly, will emerge Inspector Topham of the local CID accompanied by your friend Hamish Madden.’

  ‘You mean…’

  ‘Yes. Madden killed Mirabel Clifford.’

  ‘Wow!’ said Inkpen, shedding his professional cool. ‘That’s terrific!’ He turned to Judy, beaming. ‘Sorry, I didn’t have much to give you by way of exchange – just the name of some Frenchman who can’t possibly have anything to do with all this.’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ said Judy slowly. ‘You’ve just given me something very precious.’

  Twenty-Seven

  It was all over Page One next morning, with every national newspaper carrying Terry’s exclusive picture of Hamish Madden being led away by Topham.

  DOUBLE MURDERER NABBED brayed most of the headlines – phrased differently according to readers’ tastes, naturally, and with only The Times using the word ‘apprehended’.

  Though inaccurate, the body-count was of less interest to the headline writers than the fact the police had cuffed their man. And since Madden had not yet been charged, reporters and editors were free to write follow-up pieces describing the background to the case.

  Which was just as well since, with the exception of Inkpen, Fleet Street’s finest had been caught on the hop and so far hadn’t written a single word. When the murderer they were supposed to be hunting was collared, they’d all been on a distant racecourse celebrating Mulchrone’s double in the 4.30 which had made them all rich as Rockefeller. What with the popping of corks and this and that, their bus did not deposit them back at the Grand until 6.30 p.m. – by which time Inkpen had written and dispatched their copy for them.

  ‘Brilliant job, Inks – shampoo on me tonight!’ they all cried, relieved their bylines would be on the front page tomorrow morning; fearful of the inevitable where-were-you call from their news editors.

  It was the photographers who were really in the soup – not a single one had a photo of the mass killer, and picture editors up and down Fleet Street had to buy in Terry’s brilliant shot, one in which he contrived to make Hamish Madden look very guilty indeed. It meant a nice bonus for him, and a useful few quid in the Riviera Express coffers, too.

  Back at the newspaper in question there was another, more urgent, murder conference going on. Once again the editor took his seat by the window and let Judy do the talking.

  ‘The job isn’t over yet,’ she said commandingly to her troops. ‘And now we have a real chance to beat the nationals at their own game – show them what we’re made of!’

  ‘Nae a chance o’ that,’ drawled John Ross from the back of the room, ‘it’s Tuesday. We don’t come out till Friday. That gives them two days’ start on us. They have the money. They have the manpower. They have the…’ But here he paused – even a cynical, embittered, clapped-out old Glaswegian with a whisky bottle in his bottom drawer couldn’t betray his colleagues by saying, ‘they have the talent, and we don’t.’

  But the silence which followed said it for him.

  Judy’s leadership was greeted in two ways – to the younger me
mbers of staff, it was a thrilling call to action. To the time servers it inspired nothing more than a mixture of guilt, disbelief and denial – the Express wasn’t there to provide nationwide scoops, it was the home of Athene, and Mothers Union reports, football results, and the latest harebrained scheme of the Mayor, Sam Brough.

  But Miss Dimont rose above their trepidation.

  ‘Our main task is to find David Renishaw,’ she ordered. ‘As you know, he has left the staff, but I believe he has information which can help us. It can help us a great deal. So I want everyone to put on their thinking caps and come up with some idea of where he might be found – if he’s still in Temple Regis, that is. Terry and I have a job to do for the next hour or two, so I’m leaving Betty in charge of co-ordinating your search ideas.’

  Betty put her nail file down and blushed.

  ‘We’ll be back at lunchtime and I hope we’ll all have made some good progress by then.’ As Miss Dimont stood, she could see smiles on the faces of some of the staff, and one or two clustered excitedly around her as she headed towards the darkroom.

  ‘Get a move on there, Terry,’ she called, though she could see her partner in crime was up to his elbows in developer fluid. ‘Some unfinished business!’

  The Minor could go at quite a zip when it wanted, but even so the journey back to Dartmoor was less exhilarating than in the Morgan. ‘What are you hoping for?’ Terry was saying as they whizzed past Bonehill Rocks.

  ‘There’s something worrying me that needs sorting out,’ she replied. ‘At the same time I want to reassure Sirraway. If he can hold out a couple of days more at the mill, he won’t be arrested and we’ll have our scoop for Friday’s paper.’

  ‘Slight shift of tack from the other day. You were all for handing him over, putting him in chains.’

  ‘A lady’s privilege to change her mind, Ter, you know that.’

  That raised a sardonic laugh.

  When they reached Rattlepark Mill, they discovered the professor had spent his time erecting an awning out from the back door to the edge of the lawn, and was sitting contentedly under it, reading a book. He looked like a holidaymaker, not one of the most wanted men in Britain.