Shades of Murder (29 page)

‘Did you lock it up?’

‘Well, no,’ admitted the unhappy Ron. ‘I told you, I’d unscrewed the hasp. I just forgot the arsenic.’

‘Forgot it?’ asked Minchin in clear disbelief.

‘Well, I had a lot on my mind!’ countered Ron. ‘What with the ladies selling up and my garden going to be built on, more than likely, and then this Jan turning up . . . It’s not as though I expected anyone to go in the shed, is it? It’d been locked up for fifty years, I reckon. Only the ladies lived in the house, no kids likely to go ferreting about where they shouldn’t be. Why should the ladies go in there? Neither of them did any gardening. I thought I’d be going back in there myself sooner than I did. Events overtook me, as you might say.’

Minchin looked as though he might say a great deal, but kept his peace.

‘So,’ continued Ron, ‘the next time I thought about it was when Mrs Painter came.’

Minchin unclasped his hands and pointed at Juliet.

‘No!’ Ron shook his head furiously. ‘That’s Miss Painter, Dr Painter’s sister. This was Mrs Painter, his wife.’

‘Gawd, is she in on it too?’ muttered Hayes.

‘She’s a county councillor,’ said Ron, as if this explained matters. ‘She’d heard about this Jan fellow and she came over to have a word with him, but he wasn’t there. She was looking for him in the garden when she found me. I told her, I thought he was up to no good. She said they were all well aware of it and I wasn’t to worry. Then she left. Of course, the minute she left – you know how it is – I remembered the arsenic and I wished I had told her about it, because being on the council, she’d know what to do with it.’

‘Hang on.’ Minchin raised a hand. ‘Did this meeting with Mrs Painter take place in or near the potting shed?’

‘No, it was over by the stableblock. I keep my tools there. If it’d been near the shed, I’d have remembered the arsenic.’

‘This stableblock is where, in relation to the shed?’ Minchin demanded.

‘Other end of the property, near the house.’ Ron stopped to review his story so far and observed, ‘I know it sounds strange, but that’s how it was. You see, I’d been so worried about Miss Oakley and her sister. I was trying to keep on eye on that Jan. I worked extra hours so I could watch him. I even went in on the Saturday he died. Normally I don’t work Saturdays. Now, the next thing that happened was, he was dead. I didn’t hear about it until the Monday morning when I turned up to do the garden as usual. I don’t garden on a Sunday. The Good Book says you shouldn’t work on the seventh day. I’m not a church-going man, but I was brought up properly. We all had to go to Sunday School, my dad saw to that. He said it instilled proper principles. If there was more Sunday School now, there’d be less of this juvenile crime. Children have to be told what’s right.’

‘This isn’t a debate about juvenile crime,’ said Hayes in his thin voice. ‘Who told you Jan Oakley was dead?’

Ron stared at him resentfully. ‘Miss Oakley told me. She said he’d been taken very ill on Saturday night and the ambulance took him to the hospital, but he’d died. I said I was sorry to hear it. That’s true because I was sorry that she’d had the worry of it. But I wasn’t sorry to hear he was out of it. He was a trouble-maker.’

‘Ron . . .’ murmured Meredith. It would be best if Ron just stuck to his account of the arsenic and avoided comments of that nature.

Minchin had heard her and glared. ‘I don’t think Mr Gladstone needs you to prompt him, Miss Mitchell! Perhaps you and Miss Painter would kindly wait in the corridor while Mr Gladstone concludes his statement?’

There was more upheaval while Ron’s two ejected supporters took their resentful departure.

‘I thought,’ said Ron pathetically, when they’d gone, ‘it’d be drink and drugs because it nearly always is, these days, isn’t it? The papers are full of it. I thought perhaps he’d been swallowing those Ecstasy pills.’ He looked appealingly at Pearce as if he hoped replacement support might come from this familiar quarter.

‘He had some?’ asked Minchin.

‘I don’t know,’ said Ron, sounding affronted, ‘but I’ve read about them. I thought it’d be the sort of thing he’d do, taking drugs and drinking. I wasn’t surprised he died. Of course, later on, I heard he’d been poisoned but I still thought it would be accidental. He’d eaten something he
oughtn’t.’ Ron’s whole figure seemed to deflate. ‘Then this morning, Miss Painter and Miss Mitchell told me it was arsenic. The fact was, I’d just been in the shed. I’d remembered the arsenic and I’d decided to telephone Mrs Painter about it, so as not to worry the Oakley ladies. Since Mrs Painter is on the council, she’d know what to do. But when I went to the shed, it wasn’t there. I came out wondering what to do and saw Miss Painter. It was a terrible shock,’ he concluded.

Minchin looked at Pearce. ‘Inspector,’ he said, ‘could you arrange for Mr Gladstone to sign his statement? Give him a copy.’

‘No problem,’ said Pearce. ‘Come on, Ron.’

‘Just a sec,’ said Minchin, raising a massive hand. ‘Bring those two women back, would you?’

Pearce opened the door. Juliet and Meredith appeared with suspicious alacrity.

‘I want you here,’ said Minchin to them, ‘because I want you to hear me say I’d prefer you didn’t chat about this to anyone, all right, Mr Gladstone?’ Ron nodded. ‘Right, you two?’ Minchin added to the two women in less than gallant tones.

‘We wouldn’t dream of it,’ said Meredith starchily.

‘Can’t I tell my brother?’ asked Juliet. ‘He’s been wondering about the source of the arsenic.’

‘Why don’t you let me tell him?’ asked Minchin. He slapped both palms on the desk. ‘Thank you all,’ he said. ‘Very much.’

They were dismissed.

‘I understand,’ said Meredith, determined to be polite – after all, these were newcomers, strangers to the area – ‘that you and the inspector are going to be staying in my cottage. I mean, it’s empty. I don’t live in it now. It’s fully furnished and equipped. I hope you’ll be comfortable.’

‘Your
cottage?’ said Minchin heavily. ‘Now why doesn’t that surprise me?’

Pearce, the moment he was free, called by Markby’s office to give an account of the interview.

‘Thought you’d like to be kept abreast of events, sir, as they say.’

‘Absolutely, Dave. You’ll report everything to Superintendent Minchin first, naturally. He’s in charge of this. But I,’ said Markby in a steely voice, ‘am responsible for this outfit and I need to know what everyone in it is doing.’

Dave Pearce, not displeased at being cast in the role of mole, made his way to the canteen to get some lunch.

Sergeant Prescott was already there, demolishing the last of his sausage and chips. A lively murmur of conversation which had been going on in the room ceased abruptly as Pearce entered and then resumed.

Pearce dropped his packet of cheese and tomato sandwiches on the table by Prescott. ‘Mind if I join you, Steve?’

‘No, sir.’ Prescott pushed aside his coffee cup. ‘You just missed them.’

‘Missed who?’

‘The men from the Met.’ Prescott gave Pearce a furtive look.

‘Why didn’t they stay?’ asked Pearce. ‘Didn’t like the look of the grub?’

‘Think they judged the place a bit full,’ Prescott told him. ‘They probably wanted to talk. Mr Minchin asked me how to find Fourways. He said he needed to see the layout for himself. I offered to drive them out there but they reckoned they’d like to go on their own.’ Prescott flushed and with some hesitation asked, ‘What are they like?’

Pearce broke open the triangular plastic sandwich box and extracted a dry-looking wedge of brown bread. He prised the two pieces apart and looked less than impressed with the small amount of cheese and unripe tomato within. ‘I used to bring my own,’ he said. ‘I reckon I’m going to start doing that again. This is rubbish.’

‘I didn’t mean the sandwich, sir, I meant—’

‘I know what you meant, Steve. I’m sure Superintendent Minchin and DI Hayes will go through the evidence like a dose of salts and solve our case before we’ve got time to work out what they’re doing. Show us rural plods how it’s done.’

Prescott cleared his throat. ‘I don’t know if I ought to mention this, sir, but they’ve already got themselves a couple of nicknames.’

‘That was quick,’ said Pearce, who knew that the canteen liked to pin its own labels on any newcomers, especially if, like Minchin and Hayes, they stood out from the crowd.

‘They, um, they’re calling them Flash Harry and The Ferret.’

Pearce burst into laughter and nearly choked on his sandwich.

“Thought it’d cheer you up a bit,’ said Prescott comfortably.

‘It’s a consolation, Steve,’ said Pearce. ‘Thanks for telling me.’

He wondered whether it would be out of order to pass that bit of information on to Markby and decided that, sadly, it probably would.

The afternoon had turned very warm. Within the grounds of Fourways the heat was trapped, absorbed and reflected by the high stone boundary wall, the walls of the outbuildings and by the house itself. The old place slumbered in a dark mustard-coloured sleep against the background of trees and rolling countryside. Puffs of white cloud hung motionless above it, testimony to the lack of breeze. The impression was of an oil painting. It was there but somehow not real.

Minchin and Hayes stood just inside the entrance by the castellated yew hedge and surveyed it all in silence. They seemed awed by the sight.

Hayes rallied first. ‘Not bad, is it, being a country copper? Driving round the countryside, calling at a few places like this one. Beats trying to find your way in and out of a high-rise housing estate without being duffed up and coming back to find your car tyres slashed.’

‘That place, Bamford, is bigger than I thought it would be.’ Minchin squinted appraisingly at Fourways. ‘I expect they’ve got their drunks, druggies and hooligans.’

‘Amateurs,’ said Hayes bitterly, dismissing Bamford’s criminal element. ‘They want to have to deal with real hard cases.’

Minchin had turned his attention to the yew hedge. ‘Fancy bit of work, this. What do you reckon to the old boy? Think he was genuine?’

Hayes shrugged. ‘If I’d found a bottle of arsenic I wouldn’t just stick it back on the shelf and forget about it. But then, perhaps if you live round here, you don’t worry about things so much. One day must be much like another. People get a bit lax about things. He didn’t like the dead man, did he?’

‘Seems no one did.’

‘Going to interview the old girls?’

‘Not today. I want to get a general impression of the layout. We’ll find this potting shed and the stableblock, and take it from there. Soon enough tomorrow to tackle the owners.’

At the mention of owning such a property, Hayes’s attention was redirected to the house itself. ‘Rum-looking place, isn’t it? Like the background for a horror film, all funny shapes, pointed windows like a church and what’s that turret doing stuck up there?’

‘It’s a folly,’ opined Minchin. ‘That’s what they did in the old days when they had more money than they could spend. They built follies.’

‘What do you reckon it’s all worth?’

‘Enough to kill for,’ said Minchin briefly. ‘Come on.’

Hayes extracted a cigarette from a crushed packet and lit up. They set off side by side in silence. Methodically they toured the outer perimeters of the property and then took it section by section. They found the potting shed and hunted their way through the contents, taking a side of the building each.

‘OK?’ asked Minchin.

‘OK,’ said Hayes. ‘Provided none of ’em thinks of making a bomb. Seen those sacks of fertiliser?’

They moved on to the stables. In the old tackroom they observed signs of Ron’s occupation, his camping stove and kettle, mug, jar of coffee, folded copy of the day’s newspaper.

‘Got himself a nice comfy little spot here,’ said Hayes. ‘Just what would he do to hang on to it?’

Minchin took a seat on the bench. ‘We know when the gardener found the arsenic. We don’t know when it went missing. The shed was unlocked. Anyone could’ve gone in there.’ He began ticking off names on his massive fingers. ‘We know Gladstone was in there. Either of the old ladies up at the house could’ve gone in there. The dead bloke could’ve gone in there, come to that. Then there’s this woman, Mrs Painter. She could’ve gone in there when she was looking for the gardener. Either of those two other women, Juliet Painter and Meredith Mitchell, could’ve gone in there. There are no gates to this place. Anyone passing by could’ve walked in and looked around to see if there was anything he could nick.’

‘Well, that bleedin’ narrows it down,’ said Hayes sarcastically.

‘Doesn’t it just?’ Minchin gave a thin smile and leaned his head back against the wall. His eyes studied the interior of the tackroom, taking in the harness pegs. ‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘Someone would kill for this place.’

There was a scrape of footstep outside. They exchanged glances. Hayes stubbed out his cigarette on the floor and ground the butt into the dust with the sole of his shoe.

‘Who’s there?’ asked an uncertain, elderly female voice.

‘It’s all right, madam,’ called back Minchin. ‘It’s the police.’

The tackroom door creaked and Damaris Oakley appeared in the opening. She was wearing another of her late father’s hats, a yellowed panama, and an old-fashioned linen dress with a tucked bodice. On her feet she had well-worn canvas shoes which had split at both toecaps.

‘I don’t believe,’ she said reproachfully, ‘that I know you.’

Minchin handed over his warrant card and introduced the inspector. ‘We’ve come down from London, madam, to give a hand.’

‘Oh yes, of course. Alan said you would be coming. Why are you in here?’ Damaris had studied the card carefully and now returned it. ‘I’m Damaris Oakley.’

‘Just looking around, Miss Oakley.’

‘The other police, our local force, have already done that,’ she told him. ‘Do you wish to speak to me or to my sister? My sister’s taking a nap. She’s found all this a great strain.’

‘We don’t need to trouble either of you just now,’ Minchin said. ‘One of us will call tomorrow when we’ve had a chance to bone up on the details. The inspector and I only arrived today.’