Who Saw Him Die? (8 page)

She snapped straight back at him, proudly. ‘Please don't try to humour me, Mr Quantrill. I know quite well what you think. My brother was a figure of fun in Breckham Market: poor old Clanger – yes, I know what you all called him – poor old Clanger Bell, the town drunk. None of you took him seriously in life, and you're not prepared to take his death seriously either.'

The Chief Inspector started to protest. She cut him short. Her face still showed no emotion but her throat, quilted by the accumulating lines of middle age, flushed crimson with controlled indignation.

‘Oh yes, there's been a police investigation. Yes, an inquest has been held. But all of you pre-judged the verdict. From the moment you heard of his death, every single one of you assumed that it was my brother's own fault – that it was the
driver
of the vehicle who didn't have a chance, rather than Cuthbert. I know, because at first I thought the same thing.

‘I expected my brother to die like that, and I make no pretence of mourning for him. All I've felt, quite frankly, has been relief. But when Cub – when Cuthbert was a boy, I loved him … And ever since I read the report of the inquest, I've had a deep sense of injustice. I am absolutely convinced that my brother's death has not been fully investigated. Can't you
see
, Chief Inspector, how significant it is that Goodrum concealed his boyhood association with Cuthbert? Surely, now you know that the man responsible had a lifetime grudge against him, you
can't
continue to dismiss my brother's death as a mere accident!'

The woman was a tiger when she got going, thought Quantrill with respect. No wonder Molly was in awe of her – there'd be no excuses for slacking by Red Cross volunteers when Eunice Bell was anywhere about.

‘I take your point, Miss Bell,' he said gravely. ‘But there are several other factors we have to consider. For a start, Goodrum is a common enough name in Suffolk. Can you be sure you're talking about one and the same person?'

‘Yes. I have local contacts, and I checked my facts. It's the same Jack Goodrum – now a self-made man, retired, with new money and a new wife.'

‘All the more reason, then,' suggested Hilary, ‘for him not to go jeopardising his new lifestyle simply to settle a very old score.'

‘But you forget,' said Eunice Bell. ‘Goodrum is self-made. I know about self-made men – my great-grandfather was one, and my grandfather carried on the tradition. Self-made men are ruthless. They have to be, or they wouldn't get to the top of the heap and stay there. And a ruthless man who bears a lifelong grudge against a mere town drunk is hardly likely to let either morality or sentiment stand in his way.'

‘You may be right,' acknowledged Quantrill. ‘But I'm afraid, Miss Bell, that all you're offering us is speculation. You can't be sure that Mr Goodrum ever
had
a grudge against your brother. For all you know, young Jack Goodrum came from a violent home and got regular thrashings from his own father. What you imagine to be a significant event in his life might really have meant very little to him at all.'

‘And even if the boy did resent the punishment, and left Breckham Market feeling that he had a score to settle with your brother,' said Hilary, ‘it all happened such a long while ago … What – thirty-five years?'

That was before the detective sergeant had been born; and in her view, life was too short to be wasted by dwelling on the past. She gave the older woman a friendly, coaxing smile. ‘Don't you think it's more likely that Jack Goodrum will have forgotten all about it by now? People don't really harbour resentment for that length of time, Miss Bell, do they?'

But Eunice Bell, head stiff and high, throat flushed with the vivid memory of the hurts and humiliations of her own unhappy youth, knew otherwise. ‘Yes, Miss Lloyd,' she said. ‘Oh yes, they do.'

‘So much,' said Sergeant Lloyd, ‘for talking Eunice Bell out of her allegation of murder.'

‘She knows her own mind too well for that,' agreed Quantrill. ‘What's more, she's obviously got a sound mind to know. We can't get away with claiming that she's off her rocker, so now we're lumbered with an investigation that hasn't a snowball's chance – oh: coffee for two, please, miss.'

After they left Tower House, Quantrill had led the way in his car to the former White Hart, a Tudor inn with a Georgian brick façade that had been extended and modernised in the 1960s and renamed the Rights of Man, in honour of Thomas Paine who had ancestral connections with the town. White Hart or Rights, the hotel remained what it had always been, the best in Breckham Market.

On his own, or with a male colleague, Quantrill would have gone for refreshments to the old-established coffee tavern, just opposite the livestock market. There, in an agreeable fug behind the steamed-up windows, and in the hearty company of farmers and dealers, he could have made up for his meagre breakfast by munching a couple of pigs-in-blankets – whole sausages shawled in shortcrust pastry, succulent, steaming, fresh from the oven …

But he had no intention of taking Hilary Lloyd to the coffee tavern. Not that she'd have turned up her nose at its dinginess; she was too experienced a police officer to be fussy about her surroundings. He wasn't going to feed his face in front of her, though, and there was no point in tormenting his tastebuds with the smell of those home-made sausage rolls if he couldn't allow himself to eat them.

There was another reason, too. His relationship with Hilary was too delicate for him to want to expose it to the comments of the regulars either at the coffee tavern or at the Coney and Thistle, his favourite pub. After all, this was strictly a working break, a necessary pause to discuss the enquiries they were pursuing. Much better, then, to bring her somewhere where he wasn't known – and why not to the buttery of the best hotel in town while he was at it? Even if the coffee did cost – he moved the menu card surreptitiously to arm's length across the table, the better to be able to read it in the dim lighting – good grief!
Fifty pence a cup?

The waitress brought the coffee, and left the bill. ‘Is this one of your eating places, when you're off duty?' Quantrill asked Hilary, trying to find out more about her than she had ever volunteered.

‘Not at these prices!' she laughed, emphasising her independence by putting her share of the money on the table. ‘We seem to have strayed into expense-account territory. It isn't your kind of place either, I'd have thought,' she added, looking round at the décor. ‘Surely you don't approve of fake Tudor beams?'

‘No – but I don't mind'em in a modern extension like this when the rest of the hotel's genuine. I've cracked my head on their real Tudor beams often enough to be glad not to have to duck when I come in here. Haven't been for about four years, though. They used to do a very useful all-day bacon and egg meal, but it seems that everything's changed …'

He held away the menu (Molly kept telling him that he ought to have his eyes tested, but he was hanged if he'd admit the necessity) and focused on the unimaginable, largely unpronounceable new-style offerings: pizzas, burgers, tacos, lasagne, enchillados …

‘Rubbishy foreign grub,' he grumbled. ‘This is England. Suffolk. Who wants to come here and eat
this
?'

‘The briefcase brigade does,' said Hilary reasonably. ‘They rush all over the country on business, and once they get into a hotel they don't know whether they're in Suffolk or Southampton. This is fast food, and that's what most of the customers want. If it comes to that,
I
like lasagne. You probably would, too, if only you'd give it a try.'

‘No
thanks
.' Quantrill had never had any inclination to go abroad, and he saw no reason why he should have abroad foisted on him when he was at home. ‘But at least there's plenty of elbow room here, and it's not a bad cup of coffee,' he conceded. ‘If the management has the decency to give us a free refill I might even come again.'

He signalled to the waitress – the refills
were
free – then sat back and looked round the buttery. It had been completely refurbished since his last visit, but now he was here again he could recall that occasion as though it were yesterday. He was with a woman then – Jean Bloomfield, who had been headmistress of the girls' grammar school when his daughters were pupils. Jean, a widow with whom he had fallen so blindly in love that he had publicly held her hand across the table as he tried to repudiate his marriage … Jean, who for a moment had returned the strength of his clasp and acknowledged that the attraction, at least, was mutual …

Well, that was all four years ago. The tragedy and heartbreak of that relationship had shaken him profoundly, and had taught him to keep his emotions in check. True, he'd since had some long-term eye contact with a shapely woman police constable – but he'd made no attempt to take it any further, and WPC Patsy Hopkins had eventually deserted him to marry his boss.

And now here he was with Hilary Lloyd, who had neither the sad beauty of Jean nor the obvious physical attractions of Patsy. What she had instead was capability, directness, a shining intelligence. Having at first resented her intrusion into the masculine world of Breckham Market CID, Quantrill had found himself increasingly glad of her presence both professionally and personally. He valued her, desired her company; desired her.

He wasn't in love with her, he knew that. Having had the experience of falling in love with Jean Bloomfield, he couldn't confuse that overwhelming passion with the lesser longing he felt for Hilary. This, he supposed wryly, was probably what was known as infatuation … And yes, common sense told him that if he pushed his chances with her, he might not only make a fool of himself but lose her completely. One wrong move from him, and she'd almost certainly ask for a transfer.

But to hell with common sense. That was what had kept him from taking advantage of Patsy Hopkins's friendship, and look where that had got him: best man at her wedding!

Besides, time wasn't on his side. Lesser longing or not, what he wanted was an opportunity to prove to Hilary – and therefore to himself – that he was still young, still capable of ardour. He was working on the problem when he heard her say, ‘What about the bedroom?'

‘What?'

‘Clanger Bell's bedroom. Why did you make a point of asking Eunice Bell if you could look at it before we left Tower House?'

‘Oh – sorry, I was thinking of a different person.' He lit one of the appetite-quelling small cigars that he occasionally smoked. A man was entitled to
some
pleasures.

‘Yes, Clanger … Well, when it was obvious that we couldn't shake Miss Bell's claim that her brother was murdered,' he explained, ‘I thought we ought to let her see us starting an investigation. And having a look at poor old Clanger's bedroom was the only thing I could think of.'

‘His sister was completely taken aback when you asked to see it,' said Hilary. ‘She certainly wasn't expecting that. She carried it off very well, I thought, considering that her brother can't have slept in the room she showed us for at least thirty years. It was very sad, really – all those ancient teenage adventure magazines, and the model aircraft, gathering dust in that cold room … I wonder where he really slept?'

‘By the kitchen stove, as like as not,' said Quantrill, relaxing over his cigar. ‘I knew an old feller – a bachelor farmer – who did that for at least the last ten years of his life. He often had to go out in the night to attend his stock, and there wouldn't have been much pleasure afterwards in returning to a cold bed. He was snug enough in his armchair, with an old greatcoat over him and his dog at his feet.'

‘I can't imagine Eunice Bell allowing Cuthbert to live like
that
. Though come to think of it,' reflected Hilary, ‘she did say that she had little or no control over him – and his clothes always looked as though they'd been slept in.'

‘The two of them probably had separate living quarters,' said Quantrill. ‘Tower House is plenty big enough.'

‘True … And the point isn't significant, anyway, is it? Miss Bell begged us to investigate, and it isn't in her interest to conceal anything that could be relevant to her brother's death.'

‘So where do you suggest we go from here?' said Quantrill with half-intended ambiguity. ‘You're in charge, I'm not officially on duty today.'

‘No you're not, are you?' Sergeant Lloyd looked unflatteringly pleased at the prospect of independent action. ‘Right – I suggest you go home, Chief Inspector, and make the most of what's left of your rest day. I'm going to find out whether the three eye-witnesses to the accident are the upright citizens that they led us to believe. And then I'll have a talk with Jack Goodrum, and I'll put a report on your desk first thing tomorrow morning.'

‘Hold you hard, Hilary!' Quantrill protested. ‘You're welcome to the eye-witnesses, but I want to see this Jack Goodrum for myself. I'd be very interested to know how an ordinary Suffolk boy managed to make a fortune by the time he was fifty …'

‘And how he might have managed to run over someone he disliked and get away with a verdict of accidental death?' added Hilary soberly. ‘Because this is what worries me – the thought that Eunice Bell could be right.'

‘Yes. That's what I'm bothered about too, and why I'm coming with you. If Miss Bell
is
right, then Jack Goodrum has committed a near-perfect murder, because we've got a snowball's chance in hell of proving it.'

The mid-Victorian Gothic buildings of Felicity Goodrum's son's new school were widespread and imposing. They were distributed over a hillside on the outskirts of the Suffolk town from which the College took its name, and from the sloping lawns in front of the Great Hall there was – given good weather – an impressive view across the valley to the roofs of Saxted and the ruins of its ancient castle.