A Fête Worse Than Death (5 page)

There was a stone bench with a lion's head at the end of the terrace. Ashley sat down and snuggled himself into the angle between the back of the seat and the carved lion's body which served as the arm. ‘Those are the questions, aren't they?' he said, taking out his pipe and tobacco pouch. ‘The who and the why. Talking of “who”, who's Mr Lawrence?'

Haldean smiled. ‘Do you always answer one question with another?'

‘I just wondered about Mr Lawrence. Apart from Miss Vayle and Mr Lawrence I can see where everyone else fits in. I mean, you're all members of the same family. Are they relations as well?'

Haldean shook his head. ‘No, they're not. Mr Lawrence is a Canadian copper-mine owner. Nice bloke. He and Uncle Philip are Marguerite Vayle's trustees. Her parents died some time ago and Marguerite stays here from time to time. She's taken a shine to Colonel Whitfield – you've met Colonel Whitfield, of course? – and Mr Lawrence came over to do a bit of polite inspection. From what I can gather, he's quite a big bug in Canada. He endows libraries and so on and was a sort of war profiteer in reverse. He let the government have copper at knock-down prices during the war which earned him everybody's grateful thanks.'

‘Good for him,' said Ashley, filling his pipe and inspecting the bowl. ‘You come across so many stories of fortunes made by those who were out for what they could get, it's nice to hear about someone who wasn't in it for themselves.' He put a match to his pipe. ‘What did you have against Boscombe?'

Haldean shrugged. ‘As I said, I had the misfortune to be his CO. He'd only joined the RFC to escape from the infantry – not that I blame him for that – but he had a genius for fermenting trouble. And the worst of it was, you could never pin it on him. The Flying Corps wasn't like the army. It was fairly free and easy and everyone did their bit without making a great deal of fuss about whose responsibility it was, but he was a real barrack-room lawyer.'

‘I know the type,' said Ashley with feeling.

Haldean nodded.' It wasn't just that he always insisted on his rights, he was clever, too. He had a flair for hunting out someone's weak spot and leaning on it. He had a bad name with women, too. He was in my squadron for about three months and caused me more trouble than a whole
Jagdstaffel
of Germans. I must say I was fairly relieved when he managed to smash up his plane and get invalided home. That was a few months before the end of the war. The details'll be on his record. Granted all that, I'd still like to know how he came to be murdered at Breedenbrook fête.'

‘Well, we do know the “how”,' said Ashley with a half smile. ‘That's something, anyway. The “who” is another matter.' He pulled at his pipe reflectively. ‘We know when the murder took place, which is always a help. You saw him go into Mrs Griffin's tent at about twenty past three. It was approximately four o'clock when Mrs Griffin returned so that means anyone who wasn't in sight for the whole of that period is theoretically suspect. Now although I don't suppose I should be telling you this, there are some people we've more or less excluded right away. You and Captain Rivers should be the chief suspects of course, but . . .' He shrugged. ‘I just can't see it somehow.'

‘Is it my honest face?'

Ashley grinned. ‘Partly that, but I don't suppose you'd be so keen to tell me how much you disliked him if you were the murderer.'

‘If I was writing this, that would automatically make me very suspicious indeed.'

‘Maybe, but Captain Rivers would have to be in it with you, and that I can't believe for one minute. All the local lads said what a decent bloke he is and that's how he struck me.'

‘I'm glad you see it that way,' said Haldean thoughtfully. ‘It'd upset Greg to know he was suspected of murder. Really upset him, I mean. If you suspected Isabelle she'd laugh herself stupid, but Greg's not like that. Who else is out of it?'

‘Mrs Griffin, of course, Mrs Verrity and the rest of the judges' panel for the cake competition – which includes Lady Rivers, but it doesn't rule out Miss Rivers, Colonel Whitfield or Sir Philip.'

Haldean raised his eyebrows. ‘I say,' he began in a different voice. ‘You don't actually suspect Isabelle or my uncle, do you? I know I said Belle would laugh herself silly, but it's a nasty business to be mixed up in and as for my uncle . . .'

‘Don't concern yourself, Major. There are plenty of other people who could have done it without dragging in either Miss Rivers or Sir Philip. The point I was making was that they
could
have done it, which is a very different thing from saying they did do it. I've got the local men started on the business of taking statements from the villagers but it's a long-winded affair and there's nothing to say that they're going to be completely accurate. Fortunately the cake competition fixes a time in people's minds otherwise we wouldn't have a chance. After all, when you're out for the afternoon at a village fête you're not checking your watch, even if you have one, every five minutes.' He blew out a wreath of smoke. ‘All of which makes me think that “why” might be a more fruitful question to ask. Any ideas?'

Haldean hitched himself on to the balustrade, resting his feet on the arms of the bench. ‘Why? He wasn't a nice man, but you don't get murdered because of your lack of charm. Why does someone get murdered?' Haldean meditatively scratched his chin with the stem of his pipe. ‘I suppose there are several reasons,' he said eventually, ‘but the ones I can think of off the top of my head really boil down to gain or fear. There's revenge, of course, and simple insanity, but gain or fear strike me as the most common. Who would Boscombe's death benefit? Did he have any money?'

Ashley shrugged. ‘We know precious little about him. He was staying at the Talbot Arms and he gave his address as London. So far that's all I really know. I've asked Scotland Yard to try and find out where he lived. They should be able to trace him through the odds and ends in his pockets. Amongst all the usual things he had a lady's wristwatch, so there might be a woman in the case, but he also had a bill from his club which ought to tell them something.'

‘Will you be going up to London?' asked Haldean.

‘When I get the all-clear from Scotland Yard, yes. But locally speaking, you're one of the few people here who seem to have known him. What was he doing at the fête in the first place?'

‘He wouldn't say. He obviously knew Colonel Whitfield though, if not very well. I asked the Colonel about it. Boscombe was involved in the Augier Ridge affair where the Colonel won his VC and Boscombe had corresponded with him about a book which he – Boscombe, I mean – was writing. I gather that was the extent of their acquaintance. Come to think of it, that's probably why he was down here. From what he said, he knew Mrs Verrity, too.'

‘Yes, she told me that when I talked to her earlier. She didn't know him at all well, though. She had a private hospital in France during the war and he'd been one of her patients.'

Haldean gave a short laugh. ‘Is that what it was? I might've known it was utterly tame. He said they went “way back”, and gave a revolting leer. That was typical of him. He was not a nice man, Mr Ashley.'

‘He doesn't sound it. Had you run across him since the war? Before this afternoon, I mean?'

‘Only once. It was some time ago. Last August or September, I think. I can check the date if it's important. As I said, he'd written a book about the war, an autobiographical thing telling us all how foul it was and his own part in it as a Doomed Youth. I know he lived to tell the tale, but that's neither here nor there. He breezed into the offices of
On the Town,
the magazine where I work, and presented me with a chunk of manuscript which he wanted my unbiased opinion on.' Haldean laughed. ‘I don't suppose he wanted anything of the kind, but I read it anyway and it was all right, if you like that sort of thing. I recommended him to Drake and Sanderson and they offered to take it, but when I saw Boscombe this afternoon he said that the sales they'd predicted were hopeless and he was going to publish it privately. Goodness knows why. It costs a bomb to bring out a book yourself, so he might have had some money to play about with. I suppose the truth of the matter is that he'd fallen out with the publishers. He quarrelled with just about everyone else.'

‘Can you remember anything about it? His book, I mean.'

Haldean frowned. ‘I read the first four chapters or so. There's a lot about the Somme and a long passage about the tunnels under the Augier Ridge. As far as I can recall, Boscombe says he was wounded and rescued by Colonel Whitfield and his party. Boscombe was frightened to death down in the tunnels. That bit's really well done. Damn! I wish I could remember it more clearly.'

Ashley shook his head. ‘Don't worry. I can't think that it's going to be so important, but I'd like to see what he wrote. It might give me some insight as to who he was.' He knocked his pipe out and stood up. ‘I'd better be getting along. I'll probably find out more in London about him than I can locally.'

Haldean paused. ‘Look, Superintendent. Don't take this the wrong way, but I'd really like to help if I possibly could. If you contact Inspector Rackham of Scotland Yard I'm sure he'd speak for me and all that. At the very least I can give you a lift to London. I've got my car down here.'

Ashley hesitated. ‘That's very good of you. Inspector Rackham, you say? I'll have to contact the Yard in any case if I'm going up to Town. By the way . . .' He paused. ‘What was the case you were mixed up with in London? The real one, I mean?'

‘It was the affair at Torrington Place. A nasty business altogether.'

Ashley's eye's widened. ‘
That's
the one.' He looked at Haldean with increased respect and thrust out his hand. ‘About that lift, Major. I'd be delighted to accept and it's been a pleasure meeting you.'

Haldean shook the outstretched hand, a smile illuminating his dark eyes. ‘Believe me, Superintendent, the pleasure is mine.'

In the billiard room the conversation, which had also ranged round the fête and sudden death, with diversions into the weather and the comparative merits of celluloid and ivory billiard balls, had settled on Richard Whitfield. ‘If you want my opinion, Rivers, he's too old for Miss Vayle,' said Lawrence, sighting his cue.

Sir Philip wrinkled his forehead. ‘Old? Damned if I'd think of him as old. He's what? Mid-thirties? My word, that was a thin cut. Well done.'

‘I'd say he was nearer forty. She's nineteen.' Lawrence chalked his cue again and lined up for his next shot. ‘I guess I may be being overly protective,' he added in his soft Canadian drawl, ‘but there's a good deal of money at stake and I'd like to see her happily settled. As one of her trustees, it's my responsibility.'

‘And mine too,' said Sir Philip. ‘Oh, bad luck. Just whispered past. I know that as trustees we've got to be careful of fortune hunters,' he said, frowning at the white ball, ‘but I don't think Whitfield's one. I'm not saying he hasn't been feeling the pinch a bit lately – who hasn't? – but there's no reason to believe he's only or even mostly interested in Marguerite's money.' He stood back and stroked his chin, watching the white ball kiss the red into the end pocket.

‘Well, from what I hear, it sounds as if his stables need some money spending on them. I gather they're not what they were.'

‘That's not his fault,' objected Sir Philip. ‘Old Mr Whitfield tried his hand at a bit of speculative investment during the war. He tied a lot of capital up in foreign securities in the hope of a big return and, of course, it all went wrong. Whitfield was telling me about it the other day He's done very well to keep the place going since his father died. He manages, but a lot of men in his position would have sold up long ago.' He bent over the table, sighting the angle of the cue ball. ‘But that's academic in a way. It's Marguerite herself who worries me. It's a damn difficult situation, Lawrence. Once he knows the truth he might cry off altogether. There's no point pulling a face, man,' he added as he walked round the table. ‘We have to look at facts.'

‘You're saying he might . . . er . . . throw her over?'

‘Not exactly,' said Sir Philip, lining up his shot. ‘They're not engaged yet. But he wouldn't be human if it didn't count for something.' He sighed. ‘I feel horribly responsible, you know. She first met him when she was staying here for Christmas and the affair or interest or whatever you want to call it had got well under way before I knew anything about it. It was Alice who warned me about the possible pitfalls. I did hope it might peter out, but it didn't. Hmm. Difficult angle, that one. But I do think,' he said, walking round to the score board, ‘that we'll have to tell Whitfield.'

‘I really think,' said Lawrence mildly, ‘that we should tell Miss Vayle first.'

Sir Philip gloomily regarded this prospect. ‘You're right, of course.' He brightened slightly. ‘Perhaps Alice'll do it. I can always rely on her for this sort of thing.'

Haldean strolled back into the house after having seen Ashley to the door. Going to the sideboard he poured himself a whisky and soda and curled up in a corner of the sofa.

‘You're looking very pensive, Jack,' said his aunt. ‘Did Mr Ashley want you to help him?'

Haldean half smiled. ‘You saw what I was aiming at? I
think
I've done it. With any luck he's going to ring Bill Rackham and sound me out. I rather liked him – Ashley, I mean.'

‘So did I,' said Lady Rivers, putting down the book she had been reading. ‘He reminded me of a terrier we used to have. You remember Tucker, don't you, Isabelle? He was very solid and totally dependable. He got very slow in later life, and was very nearly blind, but once he'd got on the scent of a rat nothing could shake him off. He was devoted to you, Isabelle. He was such a loyal little dog.'