Death of an Ordinary Guy Page 12

  Graham smiled. “I’ve known country squires, landed gentry who weren’t as well off as the title and house would imply. Besides, what’s Derek good for—another thirty or forty years? That’s thirty years of dishing out £300. Arthur could do a lot with £9,000.”

  I mumbled that most people could, then ventured, “Maybe his fiancée nagged him into it. I don’t mean she came right out and told Arthur to kill Derek. In a roundabout way. You know, when Arthur and Ramona were discussing their marriage, say. She sighs prettily and says she sure wishes they could replace the draperies in the drawing room, or wouldn’t it be fun to have matching pink Jaguars and mink driving gloves.”

  “A woman’s point of view, Taylor. Well, that’s a nice little job of work for you. Find out the financial status of those involved.”

  “Yes, sir,” I muttered, knowing what I was in for. Maybe I could pawn it off on one of the constables.

  The noises of the incident room had quieted to a background rumble of ringing phone, beeping fax and conversational buzz. The door banged as someone left; a metal chair scraped across the floor. Someone was complaining about the weather forecast and wishing he had warmer socks. Graham leaned back in his chair and stretched. The morning was nearly bumping into afternoon and, if I knew him, he would be feeling we weren’t progressing very quickly.

  “So, Taylor, what did you think of our Colonel Vernon Wroe?”

  “He of HRH George VI’s Armed Forces?” I said. “Besides my vote for family nut?”

  “Retired,” Graham reminded me.

  “He’s still an active nut. Do you think,” I asked, attempting to believe the scenario, “Wroe, priding himself on being a vigilant officer, would lie about seeing Uncle Gilbert?”

  “He may not have lied, but he could have misinterpreted what he saw.”

  “Hardly speaks well of a former colonel in Intelligence. I thought those chaps were highly trained. Always saw their man, as it were.”

  “Anyone can assume, and it was dark—way past sunset. And don’t confuse the Mounties with Wroe.” Graham pushed the mug across the table. “I don’t recall the Intelligence branch, or any branch, having a monopoly on expertise. Lord knows we haven’t.”

  “Still, being so highly trained…” I paused to consider Wroe’s dubious talents. He may have had lightning-sharp skills during the war, but would they still be as honed fifty years later? Did they stay with a soldier so that he lashed out in instinct? “Sounds like he reveled in what he did during the Great Conflict.”

  “He loved it.” This time there was no mistaking Graham’s bitterness. “You heard him. He was absolutely dripping with emotion about the good ole days. I’m all for patriotism and defending the home soil, but our dear colonel bordered on fanaticism. I got the distinct impression that he was sorry when the war ended.”

  I stated that there was no accounting for some folks’ tastes. “Ardor aside, do you think he could be right in what he saw? You think he’s a reliable witness?”

  “That’s a very difficult question to answer. Short of staging one of those witness exercises we had to suffer through in our police courses…”

  “At least he’s trying to help. Makes a nice change of pace.”

  Graham smiled. “You always try to see both sides of a situation. It’s wonderful to have such law-abiding citizens, yes. They’ll point out a possible murderer but they won’t actually lower themselves to slander by saying he’s drunk.”

  “What is this world coming to?”

  “You have asked The Question. So what’ve we got, then?”

  We bent over our notebooks, conferring and sorting through possible motives until I insisted on lunch.

  * * * *

  Uncle Gilbert had forsaken the whiskey bottle Monday morning for his lithium salts, I discovered when I tried to interview him after lunch. It was his normal antidote for the attacks of manic-depression that cyclically claimed him. He was not altogether good at remembering to take his medicine. And right now he was not good at remembering much about the previous evening. He sat on the edge of his bed, his feet dangling over the side, his body still in rumpled pajamas, and half-listened to his nephew. It was obviously still too early to think. Besides it probably hurt his head.

  “You bleeding berk!” Arthur yelled. “You’re looking at a murder charge!”

  Gilbert blinked stupidly at Arthur, hearing the words and the wrath behind them, yet not comprehending what he had done to warrant such an outburst. He asked again whom he had murdered.

  “That American tourist,” Arthur snapped, forgetting I hovered in the open doorway just behind him.

  Uncle Gilbert sagged against the pockmarked headboard, the pillow puffing out on each side of him like whipped cream oozing from a cream puff. His eyes tried to determine from his nephew’s face what his ears couldn’t, for he stared at Arthur. “Don’t yell at me, Laddie. I’m under a lot of stress. I’ll forget to take my medicine.” He didn’t have to enumerate what that might cause. Evidently they both knew.

  “You’re under stress?” scoffed Arthur. “Hell, what about me? What about this nose-above-water establishment? If many more guests check out and the business should fold—”

  Gilbert groaned and pulled the sheet up to his neck. His fingers gripped the fabric as though he needed the tactile assurance that he and Arthur weren’t players in one of his alcoholic nightmares. He squinted at Arthur, who was pacing the floor and coaxing all types of groans and creaks from the wooden floorboards. Yet there was something surreal about the scene, something Max Ernst might paint.

  Arthur stopped his pacing and turned to me. “Honestly, Sergeant, the man’s more of a nuisance than he’s worth at times. But what can I do? He’s family and I love him.”

  I said I’d known many similar situations.

  Arthur glared again at his uncle, evidently short on sympathy. “Where were you last night? The Sergeant wants to know. And so do I. I didn’t see you all afternoon, and you weren’t at evening tea. Byron said you were at the bonfire. Where’d you go afterwards? I didn’t hear you come in.”

  Gilbert pulled the sheet tighter, shielding himself from Arthur’s verbal battery. “Art, why all the questions? Slow down, slow down! Where was I, when did I come home… What’s so important? Who’s that behind you?” he said, seeing me for the first time. “Ramona? Come in, Dear. Such a bold one you are, coming into my bedroom.”

  “That’s not Ramona,” Arthur yelled. “That’s Sergeant Taylor. Police! C.I.D. And what’s so important is that Steve Pedersen was murdered.” He tried conveying the problem by loudness where logic failed. “You made an ass of yourself last night, confessing you had killed Pedersen. The Sergeant, here, heard you. Now she wants to question you.”

  Either volume or repetition finally won over. Gilbert sat up, letting the sheet fall from his chest, and stared open-mouthed. He screwed up his eyes, as though willing his mind to sort through the confusion. “The fire. Yes. I remember. There was Talbot and the vicar, and a tall, trim man taking tea. Right?” Arthur swore. Gilbert took that as encouragement and went on. “Were we talking over your wedding, Art? That’d explain the vicar. But that tall chap— He an antiques dealer? But there’s something about the woods, isn’t there? Did I kill someone in the woods?” Gilbert rubbed his eyes, opening them to look at Arthur’s bright crimson face. A hint of saliva ebbed from a corner of Gilbert’s mouth as he squeaked out his disbelief.

  “Can’t remember?” Arthur asked. He strode up to the bed, grabbed Gilbert’s pajama shirt, and shook him till the mattress springs squealed. “I’m not surprised, considering the whiskey and brandy you put away earlier yesterday. It’s another typical day, isn’t it, with you not recalling a thing. Is this sergeant going to accept that? Will she overlook your convenient faulty memory, whisper consoling things about your mental illness, or figure it’s all an inept attempt at an alibi—that you really did kill that man?” He had finished his speech in a fury of sound, and pushed his uncle back against the h
eadboard. He paid no attention to Gilbert’s wailing of innocence; the slam of the door behind us punctuated his opinion.

  THIRTEEN

  After my sojourn at the manor house, I wandered down the road, enjoying the autumn afternoon and trying to make sense of the scene I’d just witnessed. Not that there probably was much, considering Uncle Gilbert’s condition. But it was something to think on.

  I met Margo as she emerged from the gift shop. No doubt interviewing Mason Conway, I thought, noting the time. I waved at her and we walked to the pub.

  “At least I didn’t have to put on one of those space suits you and Graham had on last night,” Margo said, referring to her eavesdropping of Wroe and Talbot. “God, if there’s anything that camouflages my figure—”

  “Margo,” I said, interrupting her tirade on fashion, “have you ever taken any acting classes?”

  She stopped to throw the last bit of her sandwich at a group of wrens, watching them peck at the bread and ham while she said, “No. At least no RADA stuff. Strictly amateur in the church hall. Charades and things. Why?”

  “I don’t suppose someone could put on an act every time you see him, pretending to be inebriated.”

  “Why? Who’s pretending?”

  “Uncle Gilbert. Gilbert Catchpool,” I explained as she straightened up from watching the feeding frenzy.

  “Don’t blame me, blame the booze and my genes?”

  I found myself looking at her, wishing I had her genes. Even ten years ago, the age Margo is now, I didn’t look that good. I never had a great figure. It was lying somewhere beneath the two stone of baby fat I euphemistically called my weight problem. And my shorter stature tended to make me look dumpy in a way Margo never would experience. I ran my fingers through my short-cropped hair. That was one of my good features. It was auburn and glowed like a new penny. I was proud of my blue eyes, too. At least genes had handed me something nice.

  “Bren?” Margo called me from my contemplation. “Did you hear me? Why would he pretend to be drunk?”

  “Only thing I can think of is he doesn’t want to be questioned about something. He’s using it as a shield.”

  “Are you getting any information from him?”

  I shook my head and showed her a blank notebook page.

  “Works damned well, I’d say.”

  “And Sir Lancelot only had a shield of heavy metal.”

  I returned to the pub’s private barroom. A few of the constables were back from their early afternoon investigations and entered computer data or made the myriad of telephone calls needed in a murder inquiry. Graham was at a computer, conferring with Constable Fordyce, obviously pleased. He equated the hum of efficient work with progress. And he hated to think that a killer would get away with murder.

  “Suppose it’s too early for anything medical from Ahrens,” he said to no one in particular. He consulted his watch. “I’d like to know what he’s found, if it differs from last night’s cursory report. Oh, hello, Taylor. How’d it go with our favorite relative?”

  I told him he didn’t want to know, and slumped into a chair. “So, nothing from Ahrens, I take it.”

  “We must maintain the constabulary rule of patience right now.”

  “Along with the Force’s attitude of courtesy, compassion and understanding? Tall order.”

  “Obviously they didn’t tell you in school you’d have to be so stoic. Were you out ill that day?”

  “If they had clued us in, many of us wouldn’t have continued.”

  “So, what we’ve got so far… Doesn’t matter right now if Pedersen was bludgeoned or hanged. For the moment, let’s abandon the line assuming Pedersen is the intended victim and concentrate on the mistaken identity theme. Makes more sense to focus on a local, anyway. There are all those years of village living that give your neighbor reason to wish you dead.”

  “And opportunities to do it,” I volunteered.

  “If you’re agreeable to my little suggestion, Taylor… Who’d want to kill Derek? You may consider the dole or not, as you wish. Let your imagination soar.”

  “Well, I’d say most likely it’s Talbot.”

  “Even if he can’t substantiate his claim, aren’t there any friends, old-age pensioners who would’ve known him, someone who could prove his family line? Never mind Coventry’s disaster. Someone must be able to speak for him. What is he?”

  “Sixty-two. Not so very old these days.”

  “Wroe’s eighty. If he knew Talbot, he’s got eighteen years on him. He could have known Talbot when Talbot was growing up.”

  “Either one could have baby-sat the other,” I said, thinking they were both infantile.

  “But who’d watch the baby sitter?”

  “Some older relative would certainly help Talbot’s case. Family photo album ought to be somewhere. They didn’t all live in Coventry, did they?”

  “Since you’ve turned the mere act of gossiping into a higher art, Taylor, would you mind seeing if you can ferret out something along that line?”

  “Now?” I asked, gazing rather fondly at Graham’s coffee mug.

  “I know you just returned from battle, but if you wouldn’t mind. Strike while the day has light.”

  “Yes, sir.” I stood up, then paused for a question. “I’m not betting either way on anyone. But as much as Talbot screams ‘real motive’ to me, I’ve got to ask if a sixty-two-year-old man isn’t a bit old for this sort of game.”

  “You mean murder? If he did kill—”

  “No, sir,” I interrupted. “Proving he was adopted. That was fifty-five years ago!”

  “Some people are never too old for greed, Taylor.”

  The computer printer at the next table began spitting out paper and Graham walked over to it. “Might be Ahrens’ report. Hold on, Taylor.”

  In response to Graham’s inquiry, Fordyce looked up from the huge monitor before him. “Nothing from Buxton—or Ripley, sir,” he said, referring to Constabulary headquarters. “But I’ve finished entering all the names. And the current notes from the other constables. I’ll type up yours and Sergeant Taylor’s if you’d like.”

  Graham sighed. “Thank you, Fordyce. You’re up to the task, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  Fordyce nodded, thanked his superior, then sympathetically uttered that some cases were worse than others.

  “A truer statement, Fordyce,” Graham said. “Any time you want to show off your Questioning 101 technique, you can have a go at Uncle Gilbert. Or Talbot.”

  Fordyce shook his head, punching a computer key before stating, “I’ve seen him. Heard him. I’d hate to be up against Talbot on a bad day.”

  Graham, his eyes still fixed on the page before him, casually asked why.

  Surprised, Fordyce stammered, “Oh, sorry, sir. Thought you’d read all the notes on the Pedersen case.”

  A slow blush crept over Graham’s face. He gulped, explaining that he’d had a late night and had only returned from questioning some people and conferring with me.

  “Well, sir,” the constable offered, “Talbot Tanner almost killed a man twenty-two years ago.”

  FOURTEEN

  Fordyce averted his eyes from Graham’s astonished face. God, I thought as Graham threw his notebook onto the table top. The man’s either going to have a stroke or have Fordyce’s guts for garters. Fordyce raised his eyes from the computer monitor as the room grew quieter. The other constables had abandoned any semblance of work to stare at Graham. It wasn’t often he did a cock-up of anything.

  “Killed a man?” exclaimed Graham after he found his voice. “Are you certain?”

  “Yes, sir. In 1973. I can print it out for you.”

  Graham thanked the constable, but said he would read it in detail later. “Who got into a dust-up with Talbot? Don’t tell me Derek. I don’t think I could take that just now.”

  “No, sir,” Fordyce returned quickly. ”Byron MacKinnon.”

  “Arthur Catchpool’s secretary?” I said.

  Fordyce
nodded. “The only thing that saved Byron, evidently, was the vicar.”

  A hurried ‘thank you’ just squeaked out of Graham’s mouth before he tossed me my jacket and we left the pub.

  Luckily for Graham’s blood pressure, Lyle was at the church, bending over a letter he was laboriously composing in his crowded, small office. The vicar looked up as we entered, smiled at the postponement of his disagreeable task and the companionship our visit offered, yet managed to conceal his surprise at seeing us so soon after that morning’s meeting. Perhaps police work is more like parish work than I imagined. Whenever someone needs us, we’re there. I’ll have to ask Graham sometime.

  Lyle indicated two chairs, realized they were impossible to get to, and mumbled his apologies. He rose from his desk, picked up the stack of books that hid one chair seat, and told me to sit.

  “I’m delighted you dropped by,” the clergyman said, turning slightly, trying to find a depository for his armful.

  “Hope we haven’t come at an inconvenient time,” Graham returned, taking the books from the man and setting them gently on the floor. He cleared his own chair, winking at me.

  “No, no,” Lyle hurriedly assured him, reclaiming his chair behind the desk, looking relieved that the books had found a temporary home and that his composition chore was delayed. “Nothing that can’t wait. I find these letters difficult to compose. What can one say after the first sentence expressing sorrow for a death?”