The Price of Butcher's Meat (51 page)

I tried to hint at this possibility to Peter, but his mind was elsewhere. Ollie's death went some way to fitting in with my theory, but all it did for Peter was provide a possible culprit, caught apparently in flagrante with regard to one crime, and reported as being at loggerheads with the victim of the other.

With the enthusiastic support of ace reporter Ruddlesdin, Peter was trumpeted as the fastest gumshoe in the east the following morning, only to discover the bays had withered before even he was crowned. With friends like Ruddlesdin, Peter really needs friends like you and me, Andy!

Then followed all that weird business about the forged will and Clara Brereton. This brought Teddy right into the foreground. Silly ass! If he'd paid any heed to Esther, he would never have attempted to contact Clara. He is the worst kind of fool—the kind that thinks he is clever!

But at the same time as Clara's “accident” was leading Peter down another false trail, Clara's involvement was stirring up some strange notions in me.

Wieldy was helpful here, feeding all the evidence and statements straight into his computer and thence straight into mine. As Esther got drawn into Peter's net, I knew that unless I could make some sense out of all this, I would have to come forward and confess to my part. Meanwhile, following the old principle that a good lie is best constructed on a solid basis of truth, it seemed sensible to prepare something to keep Peter happy when he started getting close to Esther's involvement. So we prepared a version that told the truth, except that it left me out.

Encouraged by the idiot Ruddlesdin, the media were already trumpeting another triumph for Peter. (Incidentally, doesn't it bother you, Andy, that locally at least the media seem so eager to cry, The king is dead, long live the king!) Of course I would never have let it reach the
point where Peter laid formal charges, but I was hoping to find a way to test my hypothesis that Hen Hollis must be involved before I came forward and confessed my part in the drama.

And then the sad discovery at Millstone Farm was made.

Everything fell into place. Hen, Daph's sworn enemy, at the Hall without her knowledge or approval, had to be a prime suspect, didn't he? His guilt-inspired suicide in the house she'd ejected him from, the house where he'd first seen the light of day, was the perfect end to what would come to look like Peter's perfect investigation! It was also a result that cleared the Denhams and left me free to make my miraculous recovery (which I hope you've enjoyed!) and walk off with my beloved and now rather rich Esther into the golden sunset. I should have been as happy as Peter and the press at this conclusion to his labors.

But like you, Andy, I am both blessed and cursed with the kind of mind that cannot leave things alone.

I found myself recalling Pet Sheldon's description of her encounter with Daph by the stable not long before her death. She was angry, yes. But what struck Pet was that she was hurt, she was upset.

Making Daph angry wasn't difficult. Upsetting her was a lot harder.

Also I was troubled by the placing of Ted's watch by the body. That was the act of a mind under control, not a mind spiraling into a panic that would rapidly lead to another murder followed by self-destruction.

And at a simple practical level, how would Hen have known he would find Ted's watch with his clothes in the room where he changed in the Hall?

But above and beyond all these doubts, reservations, and queries, I had some special knowledge.

I have always been fascinated by the behavior of my fellow human beings, their vanities, their hopes, their fears, their strengths, their weaknesses, above all their deceptions both of themselves and others. So in the months I have been living here in Sandytown I have taken careful note of what goes on about me. It is marvelous how eventually such notes of things apparently disconnected and of very little consequence
may, so long as you do not try to force an issue or superimpose a pattern, come together to make a clear and often surprising picture.

Charley Heywood has an inkling of this and will, I suspect, become a very fine clinical psychologist. You too, dear Andy, are in your own way a painter of such pictures, at times almost an artist. As I say, it is my suspicion you might already be sensing an outline that moves me to talk to you now.

What I had come to understand was that dear Daphne, a woman of strong appetites that the advancing years had done nothing to take the edge off, needed more than the odd encounter with a reluctant Lester to satisfy her needs. Once she had him chained up in the matrimonial bedroom, I do not doubt he would soon have been taught how to sing for his supper, but while the pursuit was on, she needed someone else to keep her in trim, someone vigorous enough to meet her high standards, and someone with very good reason to keep the liaison discreet.

She found him in Alan Hollis. He was in her employ. More, he was going to receive the reward of the freehold of the Hope and Anchor when she died. She could see him on a regular basis to “go over the accounts.” The frequency of these meetings surprised no one who knew her attention to detail in matters of money. The living accommodation at the pub was used only by Hollis himself, and by lawyer Beard and his secretary when they came to town. (Your own feeling that Miss Gay might be worth talking to suggests that your mind was already drifting in this direction, Andy. Am I right?)

So she felt safe and secure in using Alan as her source of regular servicing. And had she continued to regard this as a simple mechanical transaction, perhaps all might have been well. Alas for her (and this is often the case with the willful and self-centered personality) familiarity bred not contempt but something like affection.

She came to like and to trust Alan Hollis, and to believe her feelings were reciprocated.

Oh, Andy, there is a lesson here for you and for me. Never believe that those whom we use actually like us!

And now I must reach to the uttermost limits of hypothesis, based on such a flimsy ground of evidence and tragic hints that I can only justify it to myself by presenting it in the form of narrative fiction. Indulge me a while!

 

Daphne Denham, her soul in a state of considerable agitation after her confrontation with her deceitful nephew, looked out of her window and saw at his work the one man she knew could restore her inner harmony.

“Alan,” she called. “Would you step inside a moment, please. There is a matter of accounting I need to discuss with you.”

Hollis obeyed, they went up to her room, and a little while later she emerged, with the placid smile on her face of a woman whose entries have been double-checked and whose books are in perfect balance.

For the next hour or so she moved serenely among her guests, receiving their compliments and gratitude with graceful condescension, till a rough encounter with the uncouth Mr. Godley, a guest at her party only because he was a protégé of her neighbor Mr. Parker disturbed the even tenor of her ways. Seeking solitude to recover her equilibrium of spirit, she moved away from the main body of the party and found herself approaching the site of the actual hog roast. Irritated already that her man Ollie Hollis had sent word of a delay in preparation caused by some defect in the machinery, she was further annoyed not to find him by the roasting cage, basting the revolving pig.

A sound, or a combination of sounds, caught her attention.

It came from the machine hut. It sounded like a champagne cork popping, accompanied by upraised voices and raucous laughter.

She approached, angry reproaches forming on her lips, an anger increased when she recognized one of the voices as that of her pet hate, Hen Hollis.

And then she stopped in her tracks as another voice, even more
familiar, rang in her ears. It was the voice of Alan Hollis, her servant, her server, and, so she foolishly believed, her friend.

What he was saying chilled the blood in her veins.

“Aye, fill us up, Hen, it's been hard graft today. And the hardest bit of all was tupping her ladyship! By God she's a handful—nay, she's a barrowful! It's like being in bed with a prize porker. And that's just what she sounds like when she comes, tha knows, like one of her own pigs when you slit its throat. Whee whee whee, it squeals, and that's the noise Daph makes too. Whee whee whee—oo, don't stop, Alan—whee whee wheee!”

Lady Denham turned and rushed away, not stopping till she reached the stables. Here, to her beloved old horse, Ginger, she poured out her heart. For the time being anger had been drowned by hurt, that this man to whom she had given herself with abandon, this man whom she had trusted and even liked, this man who had been the beneficiary of her generosity in life and who would be an even greater beneficiary on her death, this man had betrayed her, had mocked her, had bandied her name around in the company of his low relations, had given her archenemy, Hen Hollis, a weapon to mock her with…. How could she bear the pain? she asked dear patient Ginger. How could she bear the shame?

There was a noise behind her. She turned to see another object of her hate approaching, Nurse Sheldon, her rival for the affections of Dr. Feldenhammer. What had she heard? Had she said anything to the horse that Sheldon could use against her?

The creature was daring to look sympathetic, to ask if she was all right! This was not to be borne! She dashed the tears from her eyes and set out to put the creature in her place. A few moments later she had reduced her to a quivering wreck capable of nothing more than the futile gesture of hurling a glass of wine.

Fortified by this triumph, Lady Denham felt just anger coursing through her veins to replace those weakling emotions of hurt and distress. These Hollises would find out who they were dealing with!

Back she went to the hog roast hut. Silence fell as she stood in the entrance. Behind her the sky grew lurid as the storm approached, a sheet of distant lightning etched her against its fleeting brightness.

“Ollie Hollis,” she cried, “you can start looking for a new job tomorrow morning. Hen Hollis, you are trespassing on my land. If you are not gone in five minutes, I will set the dogs on you. And as for you, Alan Hollis, I am giving you notice to quit the Hope and Anchor. And when you go, take a long look back, for by then I shall have removed your name from my will and the Hope and Anchor will be as far out of your reach as loyalty and decency clearly are from your soul!”

As she finished, thunder rolled through the air. She turned and walked away, triumphant, confident that nothing Hollis could say could be anything more than a gnat's bite to the reputation of Lady Daphne Denham.

Then she felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned. It was Alan Hollis. His once longed-for touch was now anathema to her. She slapped his face. To her shock and horror he struck her back. She fell, cracking her head against a stone. But worse was to come. For the second time that day she felt the weight of his body upon her. Once more she was squealing like a stuck pig, but this time the resemblance went further than mere sound. For his hands were round her throat, and she was truly dying.

 

I think that probably gets as near the truth as any fiction does, Andy. I reckon Ollie would panic and take off; Hen, after his initial delight that his old enemy is dead, would probably begin to consider the consequences as they might affect him, but cool-headed Alan would get him to drag Daphne into the long grass, then tell him to make himself scarce, there was no reason anyone should ever know he'd been there.

Now Alan himself heads back to the hall. The storm is getting nearer and people are getting agitated. He sees Clara and tells her what's happened. Why would he do that? you ask. Because, my dear
Watson, another little bit of local knowledge I have acquired through keeping my sharp blue eyes skinned is that dear calm and collected Clara has been following auntie's example and sampling Alan's wares herself! She it was, I suspect, who came up with the clever idea of putting Ted in the frame. I mean, he was the most obvious suspect, and she happened to know where he'd left his clothes and his watch when he changed to go swimming. So while Alan takes charge of relocating the booze into the house, she slips off, breaks the clasp of the watch, and snags it on Daph's dress. Then she returns, and she and Alan give each other an alibi for all the significant period.

Later that evening, Ollie fetches up at the pub, still in a state. His asthma is so bad he heads off to Miss Lee's for relief. It is clear to Alan that Ollie cannot be relied on. Sooner or later he's going to come clean about what happened. When Hen shows up a little later, Alan first of all makes it clear that in the eyes of the law they will be equally guilty. Okay, Hen may get a lighter sentence because he didn't actually strangle Daphne, but he'll still be going to jail. And, here's the clincher, Alan probably assures him that he will not be able to inherit Millstone Farm. (Interesting legal point that, as it was by Hog's will, not Daphne's, that it reverted to Hen, but I don't suppose he was in a state of mind to debate such niceties!)

He then tells him where he'll find Ollie. To be fair, perhaps all he meant was for Hen to try and talk some sense into him, but when it turned out that Hen had gone over the top and stuck a needle right through the poor sod's spine, that must have seemed like a sign from whatever God Alan worships that everything was going his way!

Now the only weak link remaining is Hen. Easily dealt with. Alan knows where he'll be, and that night he heads out to Millstone with a bottle of scotch.

Could be Hen had already done the deed, but I doubt it. Whatever, by the time Alan leaves, Hen is dangling from a rope in the stairwell, there's a suicide note on the kitchen table, and at a single stroke Alan has got rid of the one remaining witness and provided the police with a self-confessed murderer.