The Problem at Two Tithes (An Angela Marchmont Mystery Book 7) (10 page)

‘Nothing that way, as I told you, sir,’ said Primm. ‘Just houses.’

‘No,’ said Jameson. ‘And I think I may have given one of the residents rather a shock just now.’

‘That’s Alice Hopwell,’ said the sergeant. ‘Poor woman. Her husband ran off and left her with no money and far too many children to look after. She’s proud, though, and a hard worker. She takes in washing and does cleaning around the village, and the kids have to shift for themselves as best they can most of the time, the poor things.’

They went back indoors and through to the tap-room, where they thanked Bob Sanderson and left.

‘Very well,’ said Jameson as they stood outside the door. ‘Let’s be really thorough about this. I’m going to assume for argument’s sake that in the twenty minute interval between twenty to two and two o’clock, during which Norris and Ben Shaw were in the snug by themselves, Bob Sanderson and his two customers were somehow struck temporarily deaf, dumb and blind, allowing Andrew Norris to sneak past them and into the street.’

‘All right,’ said Primm.

‘Now, then,’ continued the inspector. ‘The question is, were those twenty minutes long enough for Norris to run all the way to Dead Man’s Path, shoot Tom Tipping and then return to the snug?’

‘Sneaking past the deaf, dumb and blind landlord again, I suppose,’ said Primm. ‘I don’t know. Hallo there, young man.’

This last remark was to Peter Montgomery, who was hovering a little way away from them, watching them with great interest.

‘Are you on the trail of the murderer?’ he said breathlessly. ‘May I come? I won’t be any trouble, I promise.’

Jameson was just about to tell him to run along when Kathie Montgomery emerged from the butcher’s shop and came over to them.

‘Peter!’ she said. ‘What have I told you about bothering the police? You must come away at once. I’m terribly sorry, inspector,’ she said, turning to Jameson, ‘but he’s so dreadfully enthusiastic about it.’

Jameson looked into Kathie’s bright blue eyes and relented.

‘Should you like to come with us?’ he said to Peter. ‘We’re just looking at an alibi. I’m afraid it’s not at all interesting, but you shall help us if you like.’

‘May I?’ said Peter, glancing up at his mother in great excitement.

‘Are you sure he won’t be in the way?’ said Kathie, still looking at Jameson.

‘Of course I’m sure,’ he replied. ‘He won’t be any trouble, will you, Peter?’

‘Oh,
no
, sir!’ said the boy.

Kathie smiled gratefully, and Jameson suddenly felt like a hero.

‘You idiot,’ he thought uncomfortably.

‘Now, mind, you must come away when they tell you to,’ said Kathie, and with that she left them to it, slightly to Jameson’s relief.

‘Can you run?’ he said to Peter.

‘I should think so,’ said Peter.

‘Good. Now, I am going to walk to Dead Man’s Path and stand in the spot in which Mr. Tipping died. We had better adjust our watches to the same time, Primm.’

They did so, and Jameson went on:

‘Very well. I shall need fifteen minutes or so to get there. After that you, Peter, must run as fast as you possibly can to join me, pause for a few seconds and then run back here to Sergeant Primm. Do you think you can do that?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Peter.

‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ said Jameson, ‘for otherwise I should have to do it and I’m not sure I’m up to the task.’

He left Peter and Sergeant Primm and set off for Dead Man’s path, and the experiment was duly carried out according to instructions.

‘Just under eleven minutes on the way there, and nearly twelve minutes on the way back,’ said Primm as the three of them stood together on the green some forty-five minutes later, Peter burying his face in an ice-cream which had been his reward. ‘The shooting would have taken only seconds, of course, but still, that’s twenty-three minutes altogether.’

‘Yes, and of course we have to take into account the difference in physical condition between an eleven-year-old boy and a man in his sixties,’ said Jameson.

‘Then there’s the fact that he didn’t have a gun with him,’ said Primm.

‘He might have hidden it somewhere,’ said Jameson, ‘but still he would have had to stop to pick it up.’

‘And someone would surely have seen him running down the street,’ said the sergeant.

‘Very well, then,’ said Jameson, ‘I think we can safely discount that theory and consider Norris’s alibi to have been tested and found solid. Where does that leave us, then?’

‘Back where we started,’ said Primm.

‘I hope not,’ said Jameson. The church bell rang for a quarter to one, and he said, ‘I hate to think on an empty stomach. Let’s have something to eat and talk the case over in the meantime. How is the food at the Red Lion?’

‘I’ve had worse,’ said Primm. ‘Bob’s a good fellow, all told.’

‘Then let’s go there.’

Primm agreed and the two men said goodbye to Peter and returned across the green. As they were about to enter the Red Lion a young man came out, and they stood back politely to let him pass. It was Freddy Pilkington-Soames. He greeted them with enthusiasm.

‘So there you are, inspector,’ he said. ‘I’ve heard rumours of your presence since I got here yesterday, but so far you’ve remained determinedly elusive and I was beginning to think it was all a cruel hoax. But here you are, striding forth on your quest for justice as usual.’

‘Hallo, Freddy,’ said Jameson. ‘Not so much striding forth as going for lunch. So the press have got wind of the thing, have they? I suppose it was only a matter of time. I do hope you’re not going to make a nuisance of yourself.’

‘I?’ said Freddy. ‘Certainly not. At least, no more than usual, and you can’t say fairer than that. Things are quietish in London at the moment, though, and so a story like this is inevitably going to attract attention.’

‘Just so long as you don’t write any nonsense,’ said Jameson, who was familiar with the sort of story commonly produced by publications such as Freddy’s.

‘Of course I won’t,’ said Freddy with dignity. ‘I am bound by honour to speak and write only the truth, come what may.’ He saw something over Jameson’s shoulder and his face darkened. ‘You’d better watch out for Corky, though. He’s hot on the scent of who knows what—or at least, he thinks he is—and his pen produces only the purest, thrice-distilled fiction.’

The two policemen turned to see Corky Beckwith standing a few feet away, apparently engaged in conversation with a pretty, dark girl, who was regarding him contemptuously.

‘Hallo, Marthe,’ said Freddy, recognizing her. ‘Did Angela send you out? Is this gentleman bothering you?’

‘Gentleman? Which gentleman do you mean?’ said Marthe with magnificent disdain. ‘There is a
person
here who insists on asking me questions of the greatest impertinence, but as for
gentlemen
—’ here she gave a sniff, ‘—I see none before me but yourselves. Excuse me, for I am very busy and have no time to stay here.
Bonjour
, M. Pilkington-Soames,
bonjour, M. l’Inspecteur
.’

And with that she sailed off, her nose in the air.

‘What did you interrupt for?’ said Corky. ‘That’s Angela Marchmont’s maid. We were getting along famously, and I had all but got her to agree to speak to me about her mistress. I had in mind a piece for the women’s pages about Mrs. Marchmont’s beauty secrets—how she does her hair, what she puts on her face—you know the kind of thing: “Our lady detective never goes to bed without first anointing her face with a generous amount of Calvert’s Cold Cream, in order to ward off the arrival of those fine lines which
will
begin to encroach once a woman reaches a certain age.” If you hadn’t turned up I’d have had it all straight from the horse’s mouth.’

‘Don’t talk rot,’ said Freddy. ‘Why, she squashed you neatly in about three words.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Corky. ‘I am unsquashable.’

‘Well, that’s true enough,’ said Freddy.

Corky, undaunted, now turned his attention to Jameson and Primm.

‘Hallo, inspector,’ he said. ‘Are you going to give me the low-down on this story, then?’

‘Sorry, Mr. Beckwith,’ said Jameson, who knew Corky of old. ‘We’ve got nothing for you at present, I’m afraid, but I’ll let you know as soon as we have anything that’s worth printing.’

‘Never mind,’ said Corky, who never let a lack of official information get in the way of a story. ‘I shall think of something. I say, though, speaking of Mrs. Marchmont, when I talked to her yesterday she told me she would be helping you with the investigation.’

‘Did she?’ said Jameson in surprise, thinking it was most unlike Angela.

‘She never said anything of the sort, you ass,’ said Freddy.

Corky waved his hand.

‘She may not have said it in so many words, but I could tell she was thinking it,’ he said. ‘I don’t mind telling you, inspector, that the presence of Angela Marchmont on the scene raises this murder far above the plain, common or garden crime and puts it firmly at the forefront of the public interest. Very well, then, if you’ve nothing to say for the present I shall go and begin writing up my story. Goodbye.’

He strolled off with a smirk and a nod. Freddy glared after him.

‘Poor Angela,’ he said. ‘What has she done to deserve Corky Beckwith? Perhaps I ought to have a word with her.’

He went off, and the two policemen exchanged glances then went into the inn.

‘So,’ said Jameson, once they were fairly settled at a table in the corner and had ordered the veal and ham pie, which Bob Sanderson had recommended as being particularly good. ‘Who murdered Tom Tipping, if not Andrew Norris?’

‘Well, with Norris out of the picture—and always assuming it wasn’t a random stranger who just happened to be passing and took a dislike to Tipping for some reason—the next most obvious suspects are his family, of course,’ said Sergeant Primm. ‘I should never have said it of them, but we can’t ignore the possibility that they may have done it.’

‘No,’ agreed Jameson. ‘Very well, then. I’ve met them both, but of course I don’t know anything about them other than what they told me yesterday. Suppose you tell me more about the Tipping family—in fact, you’d better tell me something about Tom Tipping first, since he’s the poor fellow who’s come off worst in all this. Why would someone want to kill him? Was he a particularly unpleasant man?’

‘No,’ said Primm. ‘Not as such. He was friendly enough to those who knew him, but I imagine he wasn’t the easiest of men to get on with for those as had to live with him.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Why, he could be a bit overbearing at times,’ said Primm. ‘You know—the sort who won’t let you finish what you’re saying before he jumps in with his own remarks, so you’re never quite sure whether he’s heard you. He didn’t do it enough to irritate, though, so perhaps that doesn’t mean anything. And he had a funny sense of humour—by which I mean to say peculiar, not to laugh at. He liked to bait people. You know how he provoked old Norris about Dead Man’s Path. That was just like him. Once he knew your weakness you weren’t safe from his jokes, even though he was the only one who found them funny. I think he liked to find people’s weak spots and prod at them, if you catch my meaning. He was mightily pleased with himself for stealing Margaret from Norris years ago, and couldn’t resist boasting about it. Of course, that irritated Norris, and then when this question of the path came up, Tom saw another opportunity to provoke him. He was always insisting to Norris’s face that the path was common land, and when it turned out that Norris had gone to law about it, he wrote to the local newspaper to say that Norris was weak in the head—of course, he didn’t quite put it like that, but that was what it sounded like.’

‘Perhaps he really did believe that Dead Man’s Path was common land,’ said Jameson. ‘From what I’ve heard here, the only person who really believes it belongs to Andrew Norris is Andrew Norris himself.’

‘That’s true enough,’ said Primm, ‘but Tom Tipping made a point of opposing Norris deliberately. Of course, in the end, what started out as a case of mild dislike turned into an out-and-out feud.’

‘This Tipping doesn’t sound the pleasantest of fellows,’ observed Jameson.

‘Oh, he was all right as long as you didn’t take him too seriously,’ said Primm. ‘Of course, it might have been different for his family, since they had to live with him all the time.’

‘Yes,’ said Jameson. ‘What you’ve told me about him might have been a good enough motive for murder. He might have unwittingly goaded someone into it. But who? Do you think Mrs. Tipping might have done it? What can you tell me about her?’

Sergeant Primm paused to collect his thoughts.

‘She’s a close one,’ he said at length. ‘I should call her a dark horse. You can never tell what she’s thinking.’

‘She didn’t seem especially upset about her husband’s death,’ said Jameson, ‘although that might have been shock, of course. I assume they’d been married a long time. Was it a happy marriage?’

‘It’s difficult to tell,’ said the sergeant. ‘He used to have little digs at her in front of other people. Sometimes you could take it as a joke but at other times it seemed a bit less than kind. Some people might not have minded it, but Margaret Tipping never struck me as having much of a sense of humour. I shouldn’t be surprised if he’d worn her down over the years.’

‘Enough for her to take a shotgun and kill him?’

‘Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?’ said Primm. ‘When you put it like that it doesn’t seem likely. I shouldn’t have called her the type, but of course there’s no saying what a woman might be driven to after forty years of marriage to a man who continually provokes her.’

‘True enough,’ said Jameson, glancing at his notes. ‘And there’s the question of how she did it, since she was supposedly helping at the fête all day. If she did do it she must have slipped away pretty quietly.’

‘You’ll have to speak to Lady Cardew about that. She organized the thing, and she and Margaret Tipping were on the cake stall together for most of the day, when she wasn’t playing Lady Bountiful. She might be able to give you more information.’

‘Yes, I shall certainly pay Lady Cardew a visit,’ said Jameson.