The Problem at Two Tithes (An Angela Marchmont Mystery Book 7) (21 page)

‘Oh,’ said Angela. ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t remember.’

‘Your mother and I were friends as girls, you see,’ said Margaret, ‘although we drifted apart as we got older. I was full of spirit, then. I wanted to know everything—wanted to go out and see the world. I was going to be a doctor, or a great explorer, or a professor. I wanted to study and learn everything. I was clever, you see.’ She looked down at the ground. ‘Of course, I never did any of that. Girls can’t, can they? We have to stay at home and do as we’re bid, and quite rightly, most would say. So I stayed here and got married and had Norman, and that was that. Nobody seemed to think I might want something more. Nobody seemed to care. Life goes on here, doesn’t it? Just like it has for five hundred years or more.’

She glanced up again and looked directly at Angela as though defying her to utter a contradiction.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Angela inadequately.

But Margaret seemed not to need any sympathy. She had a listener, and that was all that mattered.

‘I remember thinking when you were born that you were doomed like me—doomed to spend your life stifling in this place,’ she said. ‘You had spirit, just like I’d had, but I was certain you’d soon have it knocked out of you. You’d marry some respectable local man, as I did, and then waste away with the dullness of it all. The cake sales, and the church flowers, and the endless nothingness. But you grew up and went away, and I was so terribly envious of you. For a while I was tempted to run away myself, but where could I have gone? I had no money—Tom saw to that—and no education to speak of. I ought to have done it when I was young if I was going to do it at all. So I stayed here and read books about people who had adventures and screamed silently in my head as women do. You never had to do that, though, did you?’

‘I suppose not,’ said Angela.

‘And look at you now,’ said Margaret. ‘You’ve done well for yourself, it’s clear enough to see. I wonder how I’d have turned out if I’d done the same as you instead of wasting my life here.’

Angela wanted to say that her own life had not been exactly plain sailing either, but she stayed silent, for she knew that, given the choice, she would far rather have her own life than Margaret’s—and in fact, it was fear of an existence like that which had prompted her to leave Banford in the first place.

‘It’s not too late, you know,’ she said. ‘It seems hard that it should take a death to set you free, but now you can do whatever you want. There is nothing to stop you.’

Margaret shook her head. Her tears had quite dried now, and she had reverted to her old, expressionless manner.

‘I couldn’t do it now,’ she said. ‘I’m too set in my ways—too old to change. And besides, there’s still Norman to think about. You know they’ve arrested him, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ said Angela.

‘I don’t suppose for a moment he really killed his father, but it’ll take all our money to prove it if it goes to trial, so I’ll be back where I started. I shouldn’t mind, but it’s not as though Tom was ever worth all this effort.’

Angela raised her eyebrows.

‘That’s another thing you got right and I got wrong,’ said Margaret. ‘You had a husband too, but you didn’t hesitate to get rid of him when he didn’t suit your purpose.’

‘I shouldn’t quite put it like that,’ said Angela, taken aback. ‘It’s not as though I didn’t have good reasons for it.’

‘Well, and so did I, only I never acted. Tom was a cruel man, and I bore it for forty years—should have had to bear it for twenty more, perhaps, had someone not come and rid me of him.’

‘Cruel, was he?’ said Angela.

‘Yes, cruel,’ said Margaret. It was as though the walls had come down and now years of pent-up acrimony and resentment were at last finding utterance. ‘I don’t mean he beat me or anything like that—oh, no, he was far too clever to do anything so obvious. But he was never kind to me, like a husband ought to be to his wife. He treated me with disrespect in public and private, and belittled me when I was doing my best to be a dutiful wife. I knew shortly after I married him that I’d made a mistake. If there had ever been any love between us, it disappeared quickly.’ She paused. ‘I don’t know why I’m telling
you
all this,’ she said. ‘Why, we hardly know each other.’

‘Perhaps because we have a number of things in common,’ said Angela. At that moment she pitied Margaret Tipping greatly. Despite her unprepossessing manner, her rancour and her evident bitterness, there was a certain tragedy about her grief over her wasted life, as she saw it.

‘Perhaps,’ said Margaret. ‘Still, you know what it’s like to be unhappy in marriage, so you don’t want to hear all about my sorrows. But perhaps I oughtn’t to have made them quite so obvious, and then the police wouldn’t have come round and accused me of killing Tom.’

‘You didn’t have anything to do with it, did you?’ Angela was almost certain she knew the answer, but wanted to hear it from Margaret herself.

‘No,’ said Margaret. ‘But I might have had I known how to use a gun. On the day he died I was more angry with him than I’d ever been in my life.’

‘Why?’ said Angela.

Margaret again looked at the ground.

‘It’s hard to talk about such things,’ she said finally. ‘I don’t know that it can do any good. Perhaps I ought to let it all lie, and forget about it.’

Angela said nothing.

‘It was the humiliation of it,’ said Margaret finally. ‘Forty years I lived with him, and his spiteful ways, and his cruel sense of humour. But at least I thought it had been my own decision—my own mistake—the product of my own free will.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Angela. ‘Surely nobody forced you to marry him?’

‘No, of course not,’ said Margaret. ‘I married him because I thought I loved him. That was my fault, but I thought at least he was sincere too. Then last week I found out it was all a lie, and that I was nothing but the prize in a card game.’

She almost spat out the last few words.

‘
What
?’ said Angela, in the greatest astonishment.

‘That’s right,’ said Margaret. ‘He told me so the day before he died—out of spite, of course.’

‘But how?’ said Angela.

‘Oh, it was all because of Andrew, of course,’ said Margaret. ‘The two of them had been rivals for years—long before this dispute about Dead Man’s Path came up. Andrew was sweet on me, once, and I liked him well enough, but I was in no rush to marry—I was still dreaming of another life, you see. As Tom told the story, he had seen me first and had told Andrew so. Tom thought that meant he had a claim on me, although there was nothing between us then. I don’t know what went on, exactly, but I suppose it all happened while they were in drink. Tom could never bear to be beaten by Andrew in anything, and they agreed to fight it out over a game of cards. The loser was to withdraw and give the other a chance to win me. Win me!’ she said bitterly. ‘As though I were a trophy, or a rosette, or a prize cow, instead of a human being with feelings and wants and rights of my own.’

She fell silent, and her breast heaved with the indignity of it all, but her face was as expressionless as ever.

‘And Tom won the game,’ said Angela.

‘Yes,’ said Margaret. ‘He won, and I don’t suppose he cared two straws for me, but he was determined to have his prize and flaunt it before Andrew Norris, so he set himself to winning me over. He could be charming when he liked, and I was upset that Andrew had stopped seeking me out—although of course I didn’t know why—and so I let myself be flattered into marrying Tom. I suppose he thought one wife was as good as another. It didn’t take him long to find out his mistake, and I suffered from it for the next forty years.’

‘And you never knew about it? Didn’t Andrew Norris ever say anything?’

‘No,’ said Margaret. ‘I suppose he didn’t want to admit to having lost to Tom. I expect that’s why he made such a fuss about Dead Man’s Path: he was determined not to lose to him again.’

‘But why did Tom suddenly decide to tell you what had happened after so many years?’

‘I don’t know. But we’d been angry with each other over something, and it turned into a row and he accidentally let it slip. I still hadn’t quite taken it in when he started taunting me about it, even though he must have known how shocked I was. He said how did it feel to know that he’d only wanted me as a prize in a game?
And
he’d cheated at that. Then he looked at me as though he despised me and said if he’d known then what I was really like, he should never have bothered. Still, though, he thought it must be some consolation to me to know that Andrew had been furious when he had told him about the cheating.’

‘Oh, he told Andrew, did he?’ said Angela.

‘That’s what he said,’ said Margaret. She paused. ‘So, now you know it all, I suppose you’ll go and tell the police. Tell them of the humiliation I’ve suffered. After all, it makes my motive stronger, doesn’t it?’

‘I think they will have to be told, yes,’ said Angela gently. Mrs. Tipping was right: if ever there was a motive for murder, then this was it.

‘I ought to have told them myself,’ said Margaret, ‘but I couldn’t bring myself to do it—and besides, I knew I hadn’t killed Tom, so what was the sense?’

‘I’m sorry about all this,’ said Angela, ‘and I don’t know what to suggest. Perhaps you could go away somewhere until all the fuss has died down. As it happens, I don’t believe the lawyers
will
get all the money, as I’m pretty certain your son didn’t do it, and I mean to see to it that he and Kathie are released as soon as possible. Once they are free, there’s no reason you couldn’t leave for a while. Perhaps you could go abroad.’

‘I’ve always wanted to travel,’ said Margaret wistfully. ‘I should love to go to Egypt.’ She shook her head. ‘I wish I could believe what you say, but I’ve been disappointed too many times in my life to rely on it. And I will spend the money on Norman if I have to—after all, he is my son.’

‘I’m almost certain you won’t have to,’ said Angela.

‘Well, you’re the clever lady detective,’ said Margaret. ‘I hope you’re right.’ She seemed to realize where she was and looked surprised. ‘I’d better get back,’ she said. ‘There’s work to be done.’

She walked off abruptly, and Angela was left alone to reflect on their extraordinary conversation. Poor Margaret Tipping! How awful it must be to feel buried alive for forty years, and then find out that one’s whole life had been founded on a lie. There was little wonder the woman felt so bitter. Angela hoped very much that she would be able to make good on her promise to secure Norman’s release before long—otherwise she feared that Margaret was right, and all the money would disappear on solicitors’ fees.

Angela had been going to spend a little longer looking around the area for clues, but on reflection she decided that it was now a matter of urgency to speak to the police. Accordingly, she walked back into the village and entered the police station. There she found only a constable on duty, who informed her that Sergeant Primm had been called away to another village on a burglary case, and was not expected back until later that afternoon. She was about to explain what she had discovered, when it occurred to her that perhaps it would be of more interest to Inspector Jameson. She thanked the constable and said she would come back later, then went across to the telephone box that stood on the edge of the village green and made a call to Scotland Yard. After explaining herself patiently several times and using up most of her money she was finally put through to Inspector Jameson, who was not strictly on duty but had come in to catch up on some report-writing.

‘Oh, inspector, I’m so glad you’re there!’ said Angela, cutting short his salutation. ‘I need to speak to you about the Tipping case. I think I may have found the evidence you’re looking for.’

‘Do you mean you have proof that Norman Tipping did it?’ said Jameson. ‘You must give it to Primm, if so. He is in charge now.’

‘Sergeant Primm is out,’ said Angela. ‘And in any case, it’s quite the opposite. I know Norman didn’t do it and I think I can prove it.’

‘Are you sure?’ said Jameson, sounding suddenly alert.

‘Yes. I’ve spoken to—oh, bother,’ she said, as the operator asked if she wanted any more time, ‘I haven’t any more change. Listen, Freddy and I are looking about for more evidence, but we need your help. Please come.’

‘I’ll be there as soon as I can,’ said Jameson with decision, and rang off.

Angela came out of the telephone box and paused for thought. It would be at least a couple of hours before Inspector Jameson arrived. If they were lucky, that ought to be enough time for William to do what she wanted him to do. She hurried back towards Dead Man’s Path and was just in time to meet Freddy and William at the bottom of Tithes Field.

‘Here he is,’ said Freddy unnecessarily. ‘I haven’t told him anything.’

William expressed the strongest curiosity to know what was wanted of him, and Angela explained as best she could. He listened and nodded in understanding.

‘Do you think you can do it?’ said Angela.

‘I guess so, always assuming I can find him,’ he said.

‘That ought to be easy enough,’ said Freddy. ‘He’s in the Red Lion every day from twelve o’clock.’

‘How do you know that?’ said Angela, impressed.

‘I make it my business to know,’ said Freddy loftily. ‘I do
occasionally
do some work in return for the five bob a week they pay me at the
Clarion
, you know.’

‘I should never have guessed it,’ said Angela. ‘Very well, William, I shall leave it in your capable hands. You know what we want to find out, but you may have to ply him with a certain amount of drink before you can get it out of him.’

‘What if he won’t admit to it?’ said William.

‘I hope he will,’ said Angela. ‘We do have other witnesses, but they’re children and I don’t know whether the police will take their word for it. You shall just have to do what you can.’

‘All right,’ said William. ‘I’ll do my best.’

‘If you can manage it you’re a better man than I am,’ said Freddy. ‘I’ve spoken to him several times but he’s as close-mouthed as an oyster and won’t say a word to me.’