Deadly Thyme (34 page)

The publican brightened up and nodded. Any brighter and he would glow. “Would
’e let ’im know I do want the dog?”

“He
’ll be told.” Jon leaned forward. “Before you go, one more question. Did anyone bring up any disagreement with Tavy that you were privy to? Or was he worried about something having to do with anyone else?”

“
’E were auncy since the girl … er … since the girl went and …”

“You mean anxious
—since the body was discovered?”

“Since she disappeared.”

“In what way anxious?”

“Not like
’im to wander round, like ’e were lookin’ fer ’er himself.”

“I see. And do you know if he found something out?”

The man shrugged. “Why else did ’e get chopped?”

Mr. Sonders had been watching too many gangster movies, Jon thought. “If you think of anything you
’d like to add, would you get back to us right away?”

“Yes, sar.” Mr. Sonders signed his statement and went on his way.

41

Sunday afternoon

Jon put both hands to his face and tried to rub his weariness away. He stretched his legs under the table. The cubicle held a lingering sour fug. He stared at the ticking clock. “Only one interview in and I can hardly keep my thoughts in order.”

Perstow placed a hand against his forehead, closing his eyes.

“Not you, too?” Jon asked, suddenly worried.

“I'm fine. Not much in the way o
’ sleep.”

“Time for lunch
,” Jon announced.

A bright expression flushed across Perstow
’s face, as if Jon had offered him a raise in pay. “Sure!”

Out of doors, the gray sky glowered. The wind carried a biting chill. Puddles of rainwater dotted the pavement. Before they had made it past the pottery on their way to the Spider
’s Web, rain burst from the leaded sky. Inside the pub it was a little less dreary than the weather outside, but not by much. Jon ran his fingers across cigarette-burned pits along his chair’s arm. “They all say ‘Tavy kept himself to himself,’ do you think they decided together what to say?”

“I
’d say the same of Tavy,” Perstow offered. “I heard you went to visit Mr. Trewe? How did you find him?”

“He can
’t stand lying abed while the world is ‘up to something.’ Says it is like an electric current under the skin.”

“Holdin
’ still won’t be good for him, I reckon.” Perstow smiled.

Jon wondered if
, with Trewe in hospital, Perstow would feel more talkative. “He does like to be in the thick of things doesn’t he?”

“Yes, s
ar. He was always one for being active.” Perstow rubbed his stubby-fingered hands around his glass. “He is a good man, the DCI.”

“He seems well
respected.”

“I mean
sar
. Beggin’ yer pardon.”

“What?”

“He’s a
good
man.” Perstow looked uncomfortable.

Jon watched the man
’s expression. “You’re referring to our surveillance. We still know nothing. Surely he isn’t always so explosive. Don’t you agree, he seems on edge?”

“P
’r’aps here lately. Worried about his health. But that isn’t him really,” Perstow continued. “No matter what comes, he’s the type who wouldn’t let anyone down.”

“Let
’s order lunch.” Jon studied the Pub’s blackboard. The chalk markings were the same as yesterday and the day before. Jon supposed the special of the day was in reality the special of the month: plaice or cod, jacket potatoes, ploughman’s, homemade biscuits, coffee or tea.

After a brief discussion on the offerings
, Perstow insisted it was his shout and went to the bar to order.

Settled again, Jon asked Perstow, “What have you gleaned from the interviews so far?”

“One of the farmers is suspicious of the death of his prized racehorse. Colic, the vet told him. The farmer thinks it was poison. Another farmer says an arson fire destroyed one of his barns the same week.”

“When was this?”

“Just a few weeks ago.”

“Who haven
’t you interviewed?”

“The magistrate, his wife, the librarian.”

“They are next.”

Back at the inciden
t room, Jon called Mr. Malone in for his interview. He was anxious to see how he reacted to Jon’s presence and the absence of Trewe. Mr. Malone seemed unperturbed. The man had a jaunty, energetic walk.

Just inside the door, Malone turned to Jon. “Is this a formal interview? Formal?”

“It is a customary visit to talk to anyone who might have known Mr. Tavish.”

“Then I
’m not necessarily helping the police with their inquiries?” Malone made the motion with his hands indicating quotation marks as if to underscore the meaning of “helping” in a sarcastic way.

“Just a friendly interview.” Jon already saw this interview starting on the wrong foot.

Malone started forward when he saw Perstow in the interview room. He turned back to Jon. “Then you are taking over for Peter Trewe? Poor man. I hope he is well.”

“He
’s better,” Jon said.

“DI Graham is not taking over, Mr. Malone,” Perstow growled. “He is only filling in.”

A raw undercurrent of wariness flashed between these two men. Perstow didn’t like Malone—or was it the other way round? Even with no door, the cubical had an airless feel.

Mr. Malone sat, elegant in his lightly pinstriped wool suit, cut to fit perfectly, a colorful, woolen scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. He didn
’t skimp on fine clothing. Jon had seen his Bentley. Where did a public servant and local tour guide find the money for such amenities?

“Ye know me. And you
’ve met Detective Inspector Jon Graham.” Perstow nodded toward Jon.

“Yes,” Malone gruffed.

Perstow pressed forward with a surprising air of authority. “Mr. Malone, you’re a regular at the Spider’s Web?”

“Yes, my wife and I do try to go every day. Every day. Keeps us in touch with the people, you understand.”

“Where is your wife?”

“She is coming just after me.” The man looked down his sloping beak of a nose as if such a question was far below standard in his book.

Jon didn’t appreciate the man’s condescending attitude. “Tavy did not seem very sociable.”

“Oh
my! No, no! He was quite friendly. Quite.”

“Did you talk to him very much?”

“Not really. No, no. Mr. Tavish and I were not really what you might call friends. He kept himself to himself. I am sure we spoke occasionally. Only occasionally. There have been many times when I go to the pub alone. Those are times I might have spoken to him. If alone, I usually watch the TV or the darts—or the characters at the pub—
the characters!
You understand what I mean? The regulars at that pub are characters, some quite sinister, actually, and some colorful, but all very interestin’. Listening to the talk, you can pick up all kinds of information.”

He
’s trying to tell me my business.
“Did you have something in particular you would like to tell us about these characters? Who would you say is sinister?”

“Well, there are the farmers who put on airs
, but are no better than they should be.”

Jon didn
’t want to pursue a self-righteous diatribe. “Do you believe any of these characters had anything to do with Annie Butler’s or Tavy’s murder?”

“I don
’t know anything about that.”

Perstow pushed a clipboard toward him. “Then if you
’ll sign here, you may go.”

Malone
’s mouth opened and closed a few times, his bow tie bobbing up and down, with no sound forthcoming. He finally managed to sputter, “That’s it? Didn’t you want to know if I had seen anything suspicious?”

“Have you seen anything suspicious?” Jon asked.

Mr. Malone sat back primly. “Well, now that you mention it, and I’m glad you have, I did see something. I saw a man talking to Mr. Tavish on Friday afternoon.” He leaned forward. He whispered and nodded like he was telling dirty secrets. “Friday. I was there on Saturday when the dog showed up and everyone remarked about the fact the dog was alone. So the day before?” He pointed to his head. “It sticks!”

“What did this man you saw talking to Mr. Tavish look like?”

“I only remember the beat-up, old hat the other man wore, pulled down. Suspicious.”

Perstow leaned forward. “Where did you see them?”

Mr. Malone seemed to swell with the importance of what he was saying, “On the cliff side. I was walking to my car; it was parked up the lane from the pub. I like to walk sometimes. Walking—good for the back.”

“Can you describe him?” Jon asked.

“A young man. Young. The man waved his arms around. I noticed. I noticed.” Mr. Malone watched Jon for a few moments, eyes sparkling.

Jon did not normally feel any animosity toward anyone, but this man irritated him. And he wasn
’t forthcoming. Rather, he seemed to take pleasure in forcing them to ask him more questions. “Could you hear them talking?”

“I could hear them shouting.”

“What were they shouting?” Jon asked.

“I could not hear specifics.” Malone pointed to his ears, shaking his head.

Jon glanced at Perstow. Could he tell if Malone was lying? Or had the great-nephew been lying?

Perstow said, “Mr. Malone, if you think of anything else will you get in touch with us?”

“Of course. More than pleased, of course!”

“One more thing.” Jon leaned forward. “Before you leave
, do you mind telling me how a public servant, lecturing tourists and volunteering as village magistrate, can afford a Bentley?”

Mr. Malone gasped. “As if
that
is any of your business. I acquired my car in probably much the same manner Mr. Perstow afforded his, Mr. Graham. My wife bought it for me.”

42

J
on Graham watched the obviously offended man stomp out of the cubicle and across the room to where his wife was sitting.

“N
e’er liked that one so much.” Perstow glowered.

Jon glanced at Perstow. “I didn
’t know you had a car.”

“I do keep a car in the old lean-to, but there
’s not much need for driving it about except on holidays. I’d rather make use of my trusty push bike. But what he says is bothersome. I had always believed Liz Malone came from humble circumstances and came up in the world marrying that one.”

Jon decided to thwart Mr. Malone
’s plans by bypassing his wife on the interview list for the moment. The next person to be interviewed entered the cubicle with shoulders slumped and face averted. The tall woman’s mouse-colored hair was pulled back severely into a knot, though some strands had escaped, feathering out from the sides of her head to frame thick-rimmed glasses. The silky, smooth skin on her face covered a delicate bone structure most women could only hope for. If she took the time, she could be a classic beauty. Jon wondered why she chose to hide behind herself. He pulled out a chair.

“Miss Karen Gower?”

She nodded.

“You
’re the Perrin’s Point librarian? We’ve met. You helped me with some research.”

She nodded again.

Jon noted her clothing was a good quality but not the latest style, by any means. Her hands lay calmly on the table in front of her. Well preserved for a woman of forty.

“Could you tell us what you knew of Mr. Tavish?” Jon wondered if she would nod her way through the interview. She leaned forward. He was surprised at the tears running down her face. She made no attempt to brush them away.

“I would not be alive right now,” she said, her voice deep and softly melodic, “if not for Mr. Tavish.”

Jon took this in. As far as he knew, this was the first person to reveal Tavy might not have been entirely consistent in keeping himself to himself. “What do you mean, Miss Gower?”

She stared straight ahead. What he could see of her eyes revealed irises of deep Wedgwood blue. Her expression was hard to read. Strength? Hardness? Unbearable sorrow?

“When I moved here it was to
… bury myself away. Tavy came to the library often. It started out … We talked about books mainly. Gradually, we became friends. He told me about his daughter, how much he missed her. Told me I reminded him of what she might have been like if she had lived.” The tears started again. “I loved him for that. He didn’t have to say it. He talked about forgiveness … at my lowest point … He sensed my despair. He talked me out of it.”

“It?”

“Killing myself.”

Jon waited for more. Her posture suggested she expected a challenge.

Very softly Perstow said, “The past is behind you, Karen.”

She sat up at that. She turned to Perstow as if seeing him for the first time. She had a dazzling smile. “That
’s what Tavy would have said.” She pushed back a thick strand of hair that draped across her forehead.

Jon held in an audible gasp. A thin red scar cut across her forehead from side to side, as if someone had tried to scalp her.

She caught his eye. “I see my past every day.”

Jon found his voice. “Can you think of anyone who would want to do Tavy harm?”

“That’s just it. He was the kindest man.” Miss Gower stared down at her hands. “I can only think he must have frightened someone. His way of talking, saving his words for important things, I imagine he knew something, or he knew … the child’s murderer.”

“Did he mention living family members, how he felt about them?”

More hair fell forward into her face when she dropped her eyes. She pushed it back. “Yes! A great-nephew. He was very fond of him, I recall.”

“Did Tavy ever indicate to you there was trouble with the great-nephew?” Jon asked. “Think hard, Miss Gower. This is important.”

“He spoke warmly of him, said he enjoyed his company whenever he came to visit.”

Perstow leaned back. “Thank you, Karen. You
’ve been a great help. You will miss him. I’m sorry for your loss.”

She signed papers and left.

Jon looked over at Perstow. “I wonder why Mr. Malone would’ve lied about the shouting great-nephew. Or did someone else wear a floppy, beat-up hat like Tavy’s?”

Next was Mrs. Malone. Jon walked out into the large room and motioned for her to come. Mr. Malone sat glowering in a corner.

Mrs. Malone stood. She was a woman of understated elegance from the style of her hair to the tips of her shoes.

After they were settled in the interview room, Mrs. Malone leaned forward and touched Jon
’s arm. “I am so sorry for Mrs. Butler. This latest tragedy has me losing sleep.”

“Why
’s that?” Jon asked.

“The
village has always been so … so quiet.”

He watched her slender hands move gracefully up to finger a gold chain around her neck. She said, “In the few months of tourist season we get noise. As fo
r me, I love the quiet. Now … I don’t feel comfortable here, or free, the way I have in the past.”

“Did you know Tavy well?”

“Not really. At the pub, we would talk sometimes—about gardening. He knew the names of the plants and trees. I tried his herbal remedy for colds. It worked.”

“What was it?” Jon asked.

“Tea made from the wild thyme. Stopped a cough.” She smiled and played with the end of a strand of hair.

Warmth flushed from deep within. Here was something important. “Did Tavy ever discuss other uses for thyme or its meaning?”

“Yes. He said it meant courage. It’s good for the digestion. If, every day, you take a teaspoon of honey the bees have made from the thyme flowers, you won’t have allergies. He was brilliant.”

“Seems he had a good student in you,” Perstow offered.

“Did he never mention its local connection with death or rituals?” Jon studied the way she fidgeted with her hair and pulled on her fingers, practically wringing her hands. She seemed to have lost weight from a week ago.

She looked horrified. “No!”

“Does your husband share your enthusiasm for gardening?”

“He says he hates gardening. Black thumbs. But he knows a lot about it. He says he studies it to aide in his guided garden tours.”

“Did your husband use any of the remedies you made with the local herbs?” Jon asked.

“My dear husband insisted he would never take anything made with local herbs.”

“Why’s that, Mrs. Malone?”

“Said I was trying to poison him.” Mrs. Malone sat at the edge of her chair.

“Why would he say that?”

“I used thyme one evening in the pork. Something upset his stomach that night and he said it was the supper. Forbade my using anything freshly green to cook with again. It
’s all very frustrating.”

“Does your husband have stomach problems?” Jon asked.

“Not usually.”

“You had a nice friendship with Tavy?”

“Oh yes.”

Jon went on to ask more questions. She hadn
’t talked to Tavy in weeks and hadn’t seen him in all that time. Interview terminated.

By the time Jon made his way back from the men
’s toilet, Mr. and Mrs. Malone were gone. He glanced over the notes from some telephone interviews and looked over the china board, adding a detail here and there.

Perstow and the tall constable Stark stood in a corner of the inciden
t room talking quietly. Whenever Jon saw Stark he thought instantly of a stork, so remembered his name. Stark dabbed at his red nose with a handkerchief.

Jon called out, “Constable, weren
’t you in charge of tea and crumpets?”

Stark held up both hands as if he was giving up.

Perstow bantered back, “Something wrong with the electric kettle.”

The officers grumbled about no tea as they signed out of computers, gathered papers and joined Jon in the main common area. Several mobiles were trilling sporadically with officers answering or turning off the volume. Some were mashing at their mobiles, sending hurried texts.

Jon sent one of the men out for some sort of machine that would provide reliable hot water. In the break area there were plenty of biscuits and tea bags—useless without hot water.

Perstow piped up, “Just heard from the DCI. He
’s coming in tomorrow.”

“Good,” Jon said. “Well, Stark, anything on your end?”

The tall constable cleared his throat. “The only thin’ stands out is the one statement by the postmistress.”

“How so?” Jon asked.

“I’ve talked to her many a time about the murder. She’d give me bits and bobs.” He swiped at his long nose. “Tavy came into her shop Thursday week and wanted to know if any farm animals had been poisoned or lamed, and that’s not all.” Stark peered at his notes. “He wished to know who received the most mail-order catalogues—in particular, from plant centers—and if those same people received pharmaceutical supplies from mail-order chemists.”

“And the postmistress would remember that?” Perstow sounded amazed.

“She said she never paid any attention to that sort of thing.”

“I bet. Well, it
is
interesting,” Jon said, wondering.

“The postmistress seemed so adamant about not remembering
,” Stark said and sneezed.

“You think she was lying?” Jon asked. Of course she was lying, he thought, but wanted Stark
’s impression.

“I
’m certain of it.”

“I would like to interview her again.” Jon nodded at Perstow. “It might be good to get the answers to those questions.”

Stark looked hopeful. “Getting on for dinner time, innit?”

Jon glanced at the time on his mobile.
Just because he and Perstow had had a late lunch didn’t mean others weren’t going hungry. “It is. You may go.”

Stark grabbed up his jacket.

As Perstow prepared to follow, Jon stopped him. “Do you mind waiting back a bit?”

“No, sar.”

“What’s the story on Miss Gower?”

“Ah!” Perstow said. “Noticed the scar, did you? Happened in the village where she
’s from. A girl jealous of Miss Gower’s looks had her boyfriend attack her. He took it to levels not planned. Raped her and cut her. Almost didn’t survive. Poor, poor lady.”

“So she hides out in the
Perrin’s Point library. Sad story.”

“Aye! Sad indeed
, but she’s better for being here. Good place to live—before now.” Perstow shook his head and made a sucking sound through his teeth. “Before this.”