Fall of a Philanderer (20 page)

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Authors: Carola Dunn

BOOK: Fall of a Philanderer
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“Because I wouldn't say, and I'm sorry but I'm not telling you that bit either, even if you are the chief inspector's wife.” He was still very pink in the face, and went on with obvious relief, “Ah, Mr. Fletcher seems to have finished with those two. Your turn, ma'am.”
“Hadn't you better suggest looking for splinters in their hands before they leave?”
“Oh, right-oh!”
He went over to Alec and Horrocks. Anstruther and Baskin exchanged a few words, then joined Daisy.
“Well, at least neither of us is under arrest yet,” said Anstruther. “We'll wait and escort you back to the house.”
“In the hope that the rain may have let up a bit by then.” Baskin smiled. “Though our sailor claims it's going to get worse before it blows itself out.”
“Westcombe is sheltered from the high winds but you can bet it's pretty rough out at sea. Listen!”
Above the drumming of rain on the roof, Daisy heard the rumble of thunder. A flash of lightning suddenly illuminated the hall. She jumped to her feet. “Oh dear! Belinda's not afraid of thunderstorms but I don't know about Deva. Perhaps I'd better run back.”
“Not to worry, Mrs. Fletcher, Cecily will take care of them. You don't want to go out in this unless you have to.”
Another and much brighter flash was followed after a few seconds by a crack of thunder.
“Coming closer,” said Baskin. “Hello, Vernon, having fun?”
“Mr. Fletcher's asked me to help him again,” the young man said importantly. “If you gentlemen wouldn't mind stepping over closer to this lamp … Oh, and Mrs. Fletcher, he'd like a word with you now.”
As she moved away, Daisy read nothing but curiosity on the faces of the two suspects—no trace of alarm. Glancing back, she saw Vernon abstracting a pair of tweezers and a magnifying glass from his case. Aha, a splinter hunt!
Horrocks was joining them, notebook in hand, Daisy was glad to see. She sat down on his chair, firmly on Alec's side of the table.
“I take it this splinter in the hand idea is yours,” he said, resigned.
“Why should you think that, darling?”
“Because he had just been talking to you and he looked back at you twice.” He grinned at her. “And his manner was definitely sheepish. Of course, a lack of splinters won't eliminate them, but if either has splinters matching what was found in Enderby's skin, he'd better have a jolly good explanation. Was that what you came here for?”
“No, I only just thought of it. Don't forget to check Stebbins—or is he out of it?”
“No, no one saw him working in his garden. But a gardener probably has such tough hands no splinters would penetrate. Same goes for a farmer.”
“You haven't found Olive Coleman yet?”
“Not yet. I've had people out checking all her relatives, not a single one of whom is on the telephone. No luck so far. We've also been trying to find out if she had any particular friends in Malborough, where she went to school. She left a couple of years ago, at fourteen, like most of these farm-girls, but she might have kept in touch.”
“Did you know that Sid the beachcomber is her uncle?”
“No! Great Scott, Daisy, how did you find out? Are you sure? Mrs. Coleman never mentioned him.”
“Yes! Chance. Quite sure. She might not have thought of him. He's Coleman's brother, not hers, and I expect he keeps well away from the farm. He's been pretty badly treated, I gather. They're probably ashamed of him, too. But it's just possible Olive might have taken refuge in his shack, isn't it?”
“We'll certainly have to check.” Alec looked up at the streaming windows as thunder followed lightning. “But not this evening. I can't send the men out searching the cliffs for his shack in this weather.”
“Mr. Baskin knows where it is. That is, he's seen it, though I don't know if he could pinpoint the spot on the map. And it started out as
some sort of shepherd's hut that Mr. Anstruther knew when he was a boy. But I doubt either of them would happily lead you there in near darkness in the middle of a thunderstorm.”
“It'll have to wait till tomorrow. If Olive's there, she won't be going out either. I'll send someone up in the morning. Thanks, love. Anything else you know that I don't?”
“'Fraid not. Not that I know of. Will you be home for dinner?”
“I'm not sure. Don't wait. By the time I've heard Vernon's report on the post mortem, I rather doubt I'll have any appetite anyway!”
B
y morning the storm had blown over, leaving streamers of cloud racing north-eastward before a blustery wind. Long swells surged up the inlet in spite of its sheltered position.
“Don't let the children play on the beach today,” Anstruther advised, sticking his head into the dining room at breakfast time. “The tide's low now but as it comes in there'll likely be freak waves, bigger and more powerful than the general run. We wouldn't want the girls washed out to sea.”
“Thanks for the warning.” Alec could only hope he wasn't going to have to arrest the man, who seemed in so many ways a decent chap. If it came to that point, he'd leave the job to Mallow, under guise of letting the locals reap the credit.
The girls were round-eyed. “You mean we could drown?” Deva asked breathlessly.
“Not if you stay off the beach,” Daisy pointed out. “We'll go for a walk. It's fun on a windy day like this.”
“I'll go with you, if I may, Mrs. Fletcher,” said Baskin. “If that's all right with you, old chap?”
Daisy accepted the schoolmaster's escort, and Alec gave his permission, not sure if he was playing the role of husband or policeman. Both, he supposed.
On his way to the parish hall, he reflected that arresting Baskin would be almost as difficult as arresting Anstruther. He wouldn't much mind putting Stebbins behind bars, though he was sorry for him with that flighty wife of his, and as for Coleman, it would be a positive pleasure.
Olive Coleman must be found. She was almost certainly the only person other than the murderer who had seen what happened up on the cliffs.
As he stepped across the threshold into the hall, his breath caught in his throat. After the fresh, brine-scented wind gusting in from the sea, the fug inside seemed almost thick enough to be cut with a knife. Several large, damp, hardworking policemen had slept and smoked therein. Sweat, wet wool, tobacco and stale beer mingled in a noxious miasma. Alec's one thought was to find an excuse to escape.
Mallow had already sent most of the men out to continue with enquiries begun yesterday. After an unctuous greeting, he immediately made Alec feel guilty by continuing, “A telephone call came last night, sir, after you left. I didn't disturb you as there wasn't much to be done about it till this morning, in my opinion. I hope you'll agree.”
“Who was it?” Alec tried to hide his irritation. “And what about?”
“Leigh, the local constable at Malborough, found someone who saw a bicyclist riding along the main street just about when Mr. Anstruther claims to have been there. She couldn't recognize him from the photograph—says he looks just like a thousand other naval officers in his uniform with all that face fungus. But she claims she might recognize him if she saw him again dressed as he was then.”
“Was the bicyclist she saw bearded?”
“She wouldn't swear to it. Saw him at an angle from the side and rear.”
“Damn! It doesn't sound very hopeful. We'll have to give it a try, but if there's one possible witness, there may be more to come. We can't start sending Mr. Anstruther all over the countryside to see people who may or may not recognize him.”
“No, sir. I was going to send Sergeant Tumbelow to fetch her, but I thought I'd better check with you first.”
Alec recalled his frightful ride with the sergeant. “Is she an elderly lady?”
“I didn't ask her age, sir,” Mallow said reproachfully.
“Well, ring up Leigh and find out if she's willing to travel in a motor-cycle side-car. If so, say we'll fetch her.” As the inspector crossed to the telephone, Puckle approached and came to a sort of attention in front of Alec. “What is it, Constable?”
“I bin thinking, sir.”
Sternly repressing an urge to congratulate the man, Alec gave him an encouraging “Yes?”
“What I thought is, seeing summun's got to go and see him anyways, acos o' the girl, it might be just as well to ask Sid Coleman did he notice anyone up on the cliffs Sunday arternoon. Acos he's a wandering sort of chap and he mought as well have bin there as anywheres else. That's what I thought.”
“Good thinking, Puckle! I'll go and talk to him myself.” Though the foul air was slowly dispersing through open windows and doors, Alec now wanted to escape his conscientious, efficient, unsettling inspector. Indisputably, Mallow was not the right person to question the timid beachcomber. “I know he can't speak, but I gather he understands quite well?”
“Aye, sir. Dessay he knows all the suspects by name, but anyhow, was you to show him their photygraphs, he could nod or shake his head.”
“Hmm, it'll be more difficult if he saw someone other than those four. But we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Constable Leigh knows where his cabin is. He's going up this morning to look for the girl. I'll go with him.”
 
Alec found himself once again bumping and rattling along in the lowly side-car, wishing fervently for his Baby Austin. As he clambered out in front of the Malborough police house, he said severely
to Tumbelow, “Take it easy on the way back. We don't want a willing witness too shaken up to see straight.”
Tumbelow started a grin then swallowed it. “Yessir!”
PC Leigh was a sturdy countryman of about thirty. He introduced his witness, Miss Flick, a thin woman with a sharp, twitchy nose, who had been walking her corgis on Sunday afternoon. Her nose twitched even more when she heard that Alec was a detective chief inspector from Scotland Yard.
She started to explain that she had been in a side lane, approaching the main street, when a man on a bicycle had crossed in front of her. “He was almost past when I noticed him, so—”
“We very much appreciate your willingness to help,” Alec said. “If you recognize the man in question, you can describe the circumstances to Inspector Mallow in Westcombe and he'll ask you to sign a statement. Sergeant Tumbelow here is ready to take you over there now.”
“Me too!” piped up a youthful voice. A tow-headed lad of nine or ten, eyes bright with excitement, dashed into the room. “Me mum
would
scrub me face afore she'd let me come. I'm a witness too, been't I, Mr. Leigh?”
“That you be, lad. This here's Jackie Diggory, sir, and we won't be asking what he was doing atop Mr. Benson's orchard wall of a Sunday afternoon.” Leigh frowned darkly on the miscreant. “You see, sir, he didn't notice the man on the bike but he'd swear to the bike, being as how he's saving up his pennies to buy one for hisself and looking around him, like, to see what kind he fancies. This gentleman's Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher of Scotland Yard, Jackie.”
“No kidding? Cor!” Jackie exclaimed ecstatically. “And a ride on a motor-bike? I don't care if I does get a dusting for scrumping owld Benson's apples!”
“Not on
my
pillion,” Tumbelow asserted. “In the side-car you'll go, with Miss Flick.”
Miss Flick wasn't at all sure she wanted Jackie as her fellow passenger.
Already chagrined at not being allowed on the bike itself, Jackie naturally took exception to this. “No more does I want to ride wi' such a fusspot,” he declared.
It took all Scotland Yard's authority to reconcile them to travelling together, but at last they were sent off. Alec rang up Mallow to warn him that the boy was coming. “Make sure you get a description of the bicycle from him before he sees it. And get Anstruther to put on the clothes he was wearing that day. Miss Flick's evidence won't be worth much at the best, but Jackie's might if you do it right, Inspector.”
“Always supposing it's the right bike.” Mallow still hankered to arrest Anstruther, who had looked so obvious a choice at first.
“Let's hope,” said Alec. “I'd be happy to eliminate a suspect.”
“Oh, Stebbins is out, sir. A young fellow just came in, was walking with his girl in the fields near those cottages and saw him in the garden at the end of the row. He knows it was round about three because the girl wasn't supposed to be with him and she was afraid she'd get caught if she wasn't home by half past, so they kept an eye on the time. Constable Puckle says there's no reason he'd lie for Stebbins.”
Perversely, Alec was disappointed. If Anstruther's borrowed bicycle was identified, he'd be left with only Baskin and Coleman on his list.
Where Baskin was concerned, so far the only reason to suspect him at all was a few odd questions and reactions. No motive had yet come to light, though someone was supposed to be working on it at the Yard—someone no doubt engaged with a dozen other cases whose chief investigators were at hand to chivvy him.
Coleman seemed far more likely as a murderer, but the case against him was equally in need of an eyewitness. His daughter was the most probable person to have seen what happened. If he hadn't killed her in his anger at her shameful behaviour, might he have done so to silence her? Either way, dead or alive, Olive Coleman must be found.
Should she not turn up alive by tomorrow morning, Alec decided,
he'd have to start a thorough search of the area between the Coleman farm and the murder site. That would mean mustering all the police he could persuade the CC to send him, and calling for volunteers.
“How likely is it that the girl might have taken refuge with her uncle?” he asked Constable Leigh as they crossed Malborough's main street and turned down a muddy lane between high hedges.
“Not very, sir,” Leigh said apologetically, glancing from the mud to Alec's suit and obviously wondering why so senior an officer should choose to tramp through the mire on a wild goose chase.
“Why?”
“Well, sir, she's bin brung up to think him a disgrace to the family, and as for him, he keeps well away from them, being afeard o' his brother. Rightly so, from what I've heard. He don't come into Malborough for fear o' meeting him.”
“So you don't know him personally?”
“I bin out to his hut a few times, seeing it's in my district, but you can't hardly get to know a chap that can't talk. A harmless, docile sort of chap he do be. I niver had no complaints about him.”
“Not likely, then, to have taken a swing at Enderby to avenge the honour of the family,” said Alec with a smile. He hadn't seriously considered Sid as a suspect, only as a possible witness.
“Oh no, sir, not at all. I misdoubt he'd understand the notion—the honour o' the family, I mean—and he's no reason to care what becomes o' her.”
The beachcomber had no motive. Someone else besides Coleman might, however. “Did you ever hear of a local lad, one of Coleman's farm-hands perhaps, being sweet on Olive? I assume she's reasonably attractive, or Enderby wouldn't have been interested. You've seen the only photograph we have. Even blown up it's not much use.”
“Aye, she's pretty enough if you don't mind a sullen look. Some men like a pout, but I niver knew a girl that pouted as didn't turn into a bad-tempered woman.”
“Very true, but Enderby wouldn't concern himself with what kind of woman she'd grow to be.”
Leigh shook his head with a frown. “Didn't concern hisself wi' aught but his own pleasure, seemingly. Far as I know, none o' the village lads has a fancy to Olive Coleman. Her parents work her hard and she's hardly ever seen in Malborough.”
“The farm-hands?”
“Now, they're another matter. For all I know, they could all be mad after her, specially as she's the only child and'll come into the farm some day. Or would've afore she brought shame on the family. But they're none o' them young men. The youngsters all went off to War and not a one came back. Them as survived found greener pastures. We'll take the left fork here, sir.”
After another stretch of muddy bottom, the lane started rising. Then the hedges became banks, and soon unfenced, heather-clad slopes spread to either side. Leigh turned off on a nearly invisible path winding through purple-belled heather, bracken and occasional clumps of bright yellow gorse. At least the footing was much drier here, in spite of last night's downpour. The blustery wind was invigorating.
They climbed over the brow of a hill. Another, higher, rose before them but Leigh skirted its foot. As they rounded the shoulder, the next valley came into view and Alec saw a clear, shallow brook. What he at first took for a heap of dead bushes resolved into a brushwood fence surrounding a patch of cleared ground where vegetables, gooseberries and currants struggled in the poor, thin soil.
On the opposite slope, explaining the need for the fence, sheep stopped grazing the wiry grass to stare at the intruders. The only sounds were their intermittent bleating, the babble of the brook, and the cry of a solitary seagull circling overhead.
The original stone shepherd's hut must have blended perfectly into the background of the rocky crag standing sentinel at the head of the valley. Sid Coleman's repairs and additions were nearly as well camouflaged, built mostly of wood weathered to a silvery grey by sea and sun. The roof was patched with sheets of corrugated iron, rusting to the hue the bracken would take on as autumn approached.

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