Late of This Parish (10 page)

As Kite led into the questioning, it became clear there was nothing new Mrs Oliver could tell them about seeing Willard going into the church, nothing but what her husband had already told Mayo: she had observed no one else in the vicinity at a minute or two after six when the old man had been propelling his wheelchair up to the church door. ‘I remember the time,' she said, ‘because I was keeping one eye on the clock. I had to be in Hurstfield by seven.'

‘Who was your appointment with, Mrs Oliver?' Kite asked, pencil poised.

‘I was due to attend a meeting at a friend's house to discuss raising funds for an animal welfare society I'm concerned with.'

The dedication of people like the Rector's wife to such causes never failed to arouse Mayo's admiration, but at the moment he was more interested in the fanaticism which is sometimes a corollary. It didn't follow that because you loved animals enough to want to alleviate their suffering, you had to go to any lengths to bring this about, however extreme or illogical, yet there were people like that. However, he felt it was going to take an immense effort of will to imagine Mrs Oliver as one of them. With enough of this sort of fanaticism to kill Willard for what he'd done, or for what she imagined he'd done. Even more to imagine her being associated with the acts of mindless terrorism which are indifferent to the killing and maiming of innocent people, such as the bomb attack on the Fricker. He didn't dismiss it as impossible, though. Jack the Ripper might have been a mild-mannered man at home.

He asked her, ‘As a close neighbour and presumably a friend, what was your opinion of Mr Willard?'

Mindful of how her husband had reacted to the same question, he expected a similarly cautious assessment from Mrs Oliver but there was neither caution nor hesitation in her response. ‘He was no friend of mine! Nor did I want him to be. I know he was a very clever man – much too clever for me, in fact, and too cold, the sort whose head rules his heart. But his attitudes weren't what one expects from a man in his profession and –'

‘I'm afraid my wife isn't being very charitable,' the Rector interrupted, throwing her a look of astonishment, rather as if the family pet had suddenly turned round and bitten him.

‘I'm only saying what I believe to be the truth, Lionel. I don't want to speak ill of the dead and I know one must make allowances for his age and the state of his health – and I'm very sorry he had to die the way he did. But I didn't like him or his attitudes, nor did I like the way he treated Laura – though that, of course, was none of my business.' She broke off abruptly, then added, ‘If you want a champion, don't speak to me, speak to my son Sebastian. He won't hear a word against Mr Willard.'

Sebastian Oliver. The S.O. of Willard's diary? ‘Yes, I'd very much like to. Is he in now?' Mayo asked.

‘He is, but I don't think now would be a good time to talk to him. He's only just come in and heard the news and he's very upset.'

‘Rubbish, Catherine! He's recovered enough to have been running up our telephone bill for the last ten minutes. I'll go and fetch him – if he's not ringing Tokyo or Timbuctoo,' said the Rector, leaving the room with a glance of deep displeasure at his wife and a small silence behind him.

Mayo said, ‘Well, Mrs Oliver, while we're waiting, would you please tell me what you meant about Mr Willard and his daughter?'

She replied with some sharpness, ‘I said that was none of my business.'

Then she could only have mentioned it because she wanted him to know, but wasn't prepared to have the accusation of gossip levelled at her, a phenomenon familiar enough but surprising in Mrs Oliver, who so far had given an impression of total honesty. ‘Perhaps then we'd better talk about this disagreement you had with Mr Willard over the badgers that were killed.'

‘Oh dear. Oh yes, the badgers. I knew someone would've told you about them by now.' While it was evidently upsetting to her, she seemed relieved at the change of subject and took the opportunity to replenish her coffee cup, offering the pot to the others, an offer not taken up. She hadn't, Mayo noticed, eaten one of her own sandwiches. Charitably, he decided she was almost certainly a vegetarian. ‘I'm sorry now in view of what's happened that I accused him of instigating the killing,' she went on. ‘One doesn't like to feel that any person one knows has died with a mutual bitterness unresolved. But you know, he really was quite obsessed about that lawn of his.'

‘I've seen it. It's a mess.'

‘But it's only grass! It'll soon grow again. There was no justification for having the poor beasts shot! I don't believe he would have stopped until he'd had them all wiped out, either.'

A small tic twitched at the corner of her mouth. She put her hand to cover it and he saw the hand was trembling. This small, mild-seeming woman had her Achilles heel and the action she believed Willard responsible for had exposed it. Who could say what might have followed?

Fanatics and oddballs were familiar territory, at least you got to meet your share in police work, and soon ceased to be surprised at what small things could trigger them off. But could Mrs Oliver conceivably have become so incensed by the shooting of the badgers that she had deliberately gone into the church after him, taken that velvet cushion from the altar and put it over his face until he could no longer trouble her or take revenge against the animals she doted on? She'd had the opportunity, she had seen him go into the church and it would have been the work of a minute to slip out of the Rectory and in behind him. Another minute or two to do what she had to do and then slip out, perhaps waiting until her husband had emerged from the house and gone round the back of the church to enter through the vestry door. It would have been risky, the timing being so restricted, but so it had been for whoever the killer was.

He realized she was speaking again, but her agitation was now under control. ‘One has to keep things in proportion, not be sentimental, Lionel says. But it really was quite horrible. I've been watching the badgers come into the clearing for months. One gets to recognize them, to know their individual characteristics. But however much I deplored what Cecil Willard did, Mr Mayo, I wouldn't have wished any harm to come to him.'

At that point, Lionel Oliver came back into the room, followed by his son.

In his slender build and the slightly quizzical cast of his features Sebastian Oliver resembled his mother, but he had a physical beauty she lacked. That and self-possession, plus a rather conscious charm, immediately suggested itself to Mayo. His thick dark curls were cut close to his shapely head. His eyes were very dark, and they danced when he smiled, but when he didn't they were opaque and shiny, like obsidian. How old was he? Twenty-five?

He perched on the arm of his mother's chair. Kite, who was ready to be prejudiced against anyone who wore pink shirts, thought he looked just the sort of yuppie who
would
be telephoning Tokyo. Besides the pink shirt, he had on a pale grey cashmere sweater and beautifully cut, dark grey slacks and on his feet were soft ox-blood leather moccasins. DC Farrar had nothing on him.

‘I find all this fairly incredible, I must say. I've been dining with a friend at the River House in King's Grafton,' he said, naming a currently fashionable, and expensive, establishment in the area. ‘We've only just got back and heard the news. I've just rung Philly, Ma, and she's as shattered as I am. Absolutely shattered.'

If he was, or even as upset as his mother had suggested, he was hiding it well enough. Which was more than possible, Mayo owned. Even on such short acquaintance and despite his apparent openness, something about Sebastian Oliver suggested inherent secretiveness, a reluctance ever to give anything away willingly. ‘What time did you leave here this evening?' he asked him.

‘Oh, just after six.'

‘According to your mother, Mr Willard was going into the church about that time. Did you happen to see him?'

‘No, I can't say I did.'

‘When
was
the last time you saw him?'

He replied that it had been the previous day, confirming Mayo's surmise that the initials in Willard's diary had been this. ‘About half past six it would've been, I suppose, I'd only been here about half an hour. I wanted to see him but he wasn't expecting me and I didn't want to interrupt their supper, so I decided on the spur of the moment to go along and see him before Laura arrived home.'

‘He wasn't expecting you? But he had six-thirty, and your name, written in his diary.'

‘Had he? Well,' Sebastian said coolly, ‘I gave him a ring before I went in, just to see that it was OK, so he must have written it down then. There was no other prearrangement to see him, but I usually do make it in my way to pop in when I'm here. I'm afraid I don't have the pleasure of living in Wyvering.' He smiled but nevertheless managed to make it sound as though it was a pleasure he could quite easily forgo and gave an address for Kite to note down in his book which Mayo knew was considered to be one of the more desirable places to live in London. ‘I came down with Philly in her car. I thought I'd save myself a lot of hassle – only as you can see from the grey in my hair if you care to take a closer look, it's an experience not to be recommended in any circumstances.' Anticipating the next question, he explained, ‘I'm talking about Phyllida Thorne, her parents live next door and that's her MG outside, and I can tell you that driving with her is something else. Have you ever noticed, women reveal more aspects of their character than you'd really like to know about when they get behind the wheel of a car? Yes, well, I'm only here for the weekend. It was a surprise visit and I'll probably leave on Tuesday morning, if, of course I'm allowed to.'

‘We have your address, sir,' Mayo said stolidly.

‘Seb!' his mother exclaimed. ‘Oh dear, I thought you were here for longer, this time – especially since Philly's staying the week. How disappointing!' The Rector said nothing but looked, if anything, rather relieved at the news.

‘I thought so too, Ma, but something's come up. I may have to get back. By British Rail, desperate as that is – but better than a ride in Philly's MG, even so. Sorry.' His wide smile had all the confidence of one who fully expects that whatever he does, he will be forgiven for it and Mayo saw from his mother's resigned expression that it would be.

‘You appear to have been very friendly with Mr Willard?' Mayo said. ‘Unusual, if I may say so, with a such a big difference in your ages.'

‘Oh, I've known him for yonks. He used to coach me in history at one time, during the hols. I dare say it says a lot for him that we stayed good friends.'

‘What did you talk about when you called to see him yesterday?'

‘I really don't remember,' Sebastian replied, rising elegantly from the chair arm and standing with his back to the fire, his hands in his pockets. ‘This and that, you know how it is.'

‘Did he by any chance mention being bothered by anything – or anyone, come to that?'

‘Lord no, but then he wouldn't. We didn't meet on those sort of terms. We rarely talked about personal things. In any case, I wasn't there long, fifteen minutes perhaps, no more.'

‘Did he strike you as being any different from usual?'

‘No.' The young man paused. ‘Well, if you call being pretty sharp different then yes, maybe he was. But then, he wasn't exactly renowned for his gentleness, old Willers. Yes-es, I did yet the impression something might have upset him, now you mention it. Perhaps,' he added flippantly, ‘his lunch or something hadn't agreed with him.'

Mayo said nothing. Sebastian's grin gradually faded and he began examining his immaculate nails. After a moment he looked up and said, ‘People got the wrong impression of him, you know, he wasn't such a bad old stick at all. In fact, I genuinely quite liked him. He was a bit moralistic, but there was no fudging things with him. He told you straight out what he thought so that you always knew where you were with him.'

Mayo had the impression that for the first time, Sebastian Oliver was speaking with genuine feeling and not for effect or evasion. But he was curious about this friendship which had apparently existed between the two, with fifty years between them. Not that he discounted the possibility, he was just interested to know what it was they'd had in common. He continued to watch the young man steadily, without saying anything, and under his silence Sebastian's self-assurance, like many another's, wilted. ‘Damn it, you're not suspecting
me,
are you? I
liked
him, I'm hardly likely to have bashed him over the head with a blunt instrument, am I? I wouldn't know how, for one thing ... I'm so totally cack-handed I'd probably have missed if I'd tried. You ask my pa.'

The Rector made a noise like ‘Pshaw!' and Mayo's flash of empathy with young Oliver did a reverse turn.

‘It doesn't follow,' he said sharply. ‘There's only your word for it that you got on with the old man – and that nothing happened between you yesterday that caused you to kill him today. I'm not saying you did, but where were you at six-fifteen, the time Mr Willard is estimated to have died? King's Grafton isn't more than twelve miles from here. Six o'clock was rather early to be setting off to take dinner there, wasn't it?'

Sebastian looked suddenly pinched round the nostrils, but he said shortly, ‘We went for a drive around first. It was a lovely evening and you appreciate the countryside after living in London. I was with Philly and she'll confirm that.'

‘In her car? So you pocketed your principles?'

The other acknowledged the irony with a small smile. ‘This time I drove.'

Mayo thought about the note in Willard's diary. ‘Do you know anyone called Sara – or Sarah, maybe,' he asked, altering the pronunciation to rhyme with ‘fairer'.