Alibi For A Corpse, page 7
part #3 of Pollard & Toye Investigations Series
‘We shall want to see this chap,’ Pollard said, making a note of it, ‘and Mrs Cupple, too. Who else lives in the house? Your father?’
‘Dad’s up the cemetery. There’s only me an’ me Mum, when we’ve no lodger.’
‘Right. Well now, Mr Cupple, when we’ve typed out what you’ve been able to tell us we shall ask you to read it over, and to put your name to it if you think it’s a true statement. But I want you to think once more if there’s anything else you can remember about Mullins. Anything which might help us to trace him and count him out of the enquiry we’re making.’
Trevor Cupple scowled in the throes of unaccustomed mental effort, and scratched his head.
‘’Ere,’ said Moyra Fox suddenly, ‘didn’t ’e say, ’e’d bin to the Grammar? Fat lot o’ good it did ’im!’
She spoke with such bitterness that Pollard spared a fleeting thought for the advantages of comprehensive schooling.
‘That’s right,’ Cupple replied. ‘So ’e did.’
‘Thank you, Miss Fox,’ Pollard said, turning to the girl. ‘That may be a useful bit of information.’
She covered her self-consciousness at being thus addressed with a toss of her head.
When Sergeant Toye returned from dealing with the Cupple statement he found Pollard scribbling furiously. ‘Time to get a few facts down on paper,’ he said, looking up and pushing some blank sheets across the table. ‘Let’s assume for the moment that Cupple was speaking the truth, and start off with Mullins.’
They settled down, at first working independently, then pooling and summarizing their ideas. Finally Pollard wrote the last words of a final version, and they sat reading it through.
STEVE MULLINS
Height, build and hair colour appear to correspond with those of the skeleton. He was beaten-up, almost certainly by Bickley, and announced his intention of getting even with the latter.
Shortly after being beaten-up he vanished.
He claimed to have been to a grammar school.
REG BICKLEY
Physically powerful and hot-tempered.
Almost certainly attacked Steve Mullins.
Owns the land on which the car dump is situated, which is very near his home. Ill at ease when questioned about hooligans molesting his stock. So was his wife.
Constable Haycraft discounts him as the corpse-dumper on psychological grounds. Sybil Pendine may have some hold over the Bickleys.
HENRY STOBART
Sybil Pendine claims to have seen him in the lane on the night of July 31 last year, shortly after seeing moving lights in the car dump field. When taxed with having been there he did not deny it. His way of life is eccentric, and he reacts violently to any invasion of his privacy.
(Further information about him awaited.)
DEREK WAINWRIGHT
From his reactions and those of Nora Pearce it seems possible that he is lying about never having been to Twiggadon before.
Seemed genuinely astonished to learn that the dead youth had only been put into the car boot last year. These points suggested:
(a) that he was in Twiggadon last summer, but
(b) was not involved in the dumping of the corpse. Query: What is he lying for, then?
SYBIL PENDINE
Her activities are eccentric, and some of them may be illegal.
She admits to being out and about on the night of July 31 last year (a date and time with traditionally sinister associations: Lammas Eve).
Claims to have seen moving lights in the car dump field, and Henry Stobart in the lane shortly afterwards, and has sent him what may fairly be called a threatening letter on the subject, probably the first step in a blackmailing attempt.
The reactions of Haycraft and the Bickleys suggest that she may exact tribute elsewhere.
Query: Could she have been an accessory to Stobart? Bickley? A.N.Other? She has not got the physique to have killed and dumped the youth on her own.
NORA PEARCE
Her reactions when questioned suggest:
(?) that she saw Derek Wainwright in Twiggadon last summer and does not want to give him away.
(?) that she is concealing information about someone about whom she has emotional feelings. This could be Wainwright in theory, or Bickley or Stobart. Or A.N.Other again.
‘Difficult to think of anyone of her sort falling for Bickley or Stobart, wouldn’t you think, sir?’ Toye asked presently.
‘Imagination boggles at what some women can fall for. No, I don’t think either of them can be ruled out on that score. She must have had a lonely, restricted sort of life with old Miss Wainwright, and might have invested one of them with a totally false glamour as a form of escapism, you know. Where do we go from here, I wonder? On the whole I think you had better work this end: Ma Cupple, and the trail of Mullins when he left Bridgeford. I suppose he did leave it? Perhaps you’d better take a look under the Cupple floor: they might have discovered that he had some natty loot on board. Then there’s the chap he worked for. It may be impossible to track him down on a Sunday, of course. I’ll go over to Twiggadon again, and follow up some of these queries. There’s just the chance we might get something about Stobart by the evening.’
Pollard started well ahead of the Sunday morning traffic, and was able to mull over the case as he drove out to Twiggadon. He finally decided to begin with a call on Sybil Pendine. The torn fragments of the note had proved informative. Henry Stobart’s prints were on them, superimposed on others. These latter were identical with two clear prints on the bottle of ‘Stomach Soother’ bought by Toye. After being fingerprinted the scraps of paper had been put together again and mounted. He would confront her with the finished product, and in the course of questioning her about Stobart suddenly switch to the subject of Reg Bickley, to see how she reacted.
As he slowed down to take the turning two small figures emerged from the hedge, and with expressions of portentous secrecy signalled to him to stop.
‘Hiya, helpers!’ he said. ‘Got anything for me?’
‘We’ve come to report, sir,’ Philip told him with eager formality. ‘It’s top secret. Could be big stuff.’
‘You’d better get in,’ Pollard said, slewing round and opening the rear door. ‘It’s more private in the car.’
They nodded vigorously, perched bright-eyed on the edge of the back seat. The sun had brought out a crop of freckles on their faces. Philip had a scratch on his nose, and Clare had grazed her knee. With an effort Pollard brought back his attention to the matter in hand.
‘Go ahead,’ he invited.
‘We’ve watched out for anything funny-peculiar, the way you asked us to,’ Philip told him. ‘It was Clare noticed it,’ he added, struggling to play fair. ‘Go on, you tell.’
Clare gave Pollard a shy glance, blushed slightly and finally plunged.
‘It’s Miss Pearce,’ she confided. ‘We think she’s a — Secret Agent.’
‘You’re doing it all wrong,’ Philip interrupted impatiently. ‘You’re hopeless, isn’t she, sir? When you’re making a report things ought to be in order, oughtn’t they?’
‘You find out much more if you let people tell you things in their own way,’ Pollard said. ‘You’ll soon find that out if you join the CID when you grow up. Carry on, Clare.’
‘Well, she sits up in her bedroom window with a pair of b’noculars, watching the path out on to the moor, and that cottage where the horrid tall man lives. So p’raps he’s a Russian spy, and traitors go there with secret plans. It’s Phil’s idea, really,’ she concluded magnanimously.
In spite of the absurdity Pollard felt his interest quicken sharply.
‘When did you see her doing this?’ he asked.
‘Lots of times,’ they replied in chorus. ‘First morning we were here,’ Philip went on, ‘we got up t’rrifically early, didn’t we, Clare? Hours before everybody else. We went out to explore, and saw her then, and we’ve seen her every day since. I asked her if she was a bird-watcher, but she said she wasn’t specially.’
‘We haven’t told anyone,’ Clare assured Pollard.
‘That’s jolly good,’ he replied. ‘You’ve both done very well. Most people come unstuck because they can’t keep quiet.’
They went pink with pleasure.
‘I say, sir,’ burst out Philip, ‘d’you think it’s true? About N.P. being a secret agent?’
‘I mustn’t say what I think, you know. The CID has to be very very cagey. But just go on keeping your eyes open — without letting anyone see you’re doing it, of course.’
‘We can be on duty all day today,’ Philip assured him. ‘Daddy’s gone off for a terrific hike. He said it was much too far for us, so we’re having a day at home with Mummy, and N.P.’
‘Is your mother at home now?’
They nodded, and Clare volunteered the information that she was sorting things for the sale.
Pollard made a lightning decision, and offered them a lift home. On the way they chattered about Nora Pearce, whose stock had risen sharply with them.
‘She’s a fab cook, too,’ Philip said. ‘Meals are smashing.’
Rachel Wainwright greeted Pollard with a complete absence of constraint, and led him to the drawing-room, but he sensed at once that she was worried and preoccupied. The twins hesitated for a moment on the threshold, and then removed themselves after giving him looks full of significance.
‘Do sit down,’ she said, dropping into a chair and indicating another. ‘I hope the children aren’t being a nuisance. It’s so good of you to let them think they’re helping you. They’re so excited about it that they seem to have forgotten the shock they had.’
‘Not a nuisance in the least,’ Pollard assured her, as he rapidly improvised a question on a wholly fictitious issue. ‘They’re a most taking pair. Actually I looked in on the chance of a word with your husband, but as I gather he’s out perhaps you can tell me what I want to know? Did old Miss Wainwright ever own the field where the cars are?’
Rachel shook her head.
‘I’m afraid I haven’t a clue. I should think Derek would have said so if he knew she had. I can’t tell you when he’ll be back, either. He felt like a long walk, and has gone off to climb Lordsbarrow, isn’t it called? The highest tor. He thought he’d make a round, and took some sandwiches.’
Her voice trailed off slightly.
She’s uneasy about him, Pollard thought. Can he have gone off because they’d had a row? Somehow it doesn’t seem in character — her character, I mean. Behind that pale gold fragility of hers there’s a sort of maternal stoicism and staying-power.
‘I must say I envy him,’ he remarked pleasantly, beginning to work the conversation round to the real purpose of his visit. ‘It’s a marvellous part of the world. I gather it’s a first visit for all of you?’
‘Well, actually Derek did dash down to Bridgeford for one night last summer, for a Curators’ Conference. But unfortunately I was in hospital at the time, so he cut the trip as short as he could. It’s all entirely new to me and the twins, and we think it’s super.’
Pollard made a sympathetic enquiry about the hospital. Rather to his surprise she began to talk freely, almost with relief. He learnt about the motor accident, and the loss of her baby, and the transformation of the family fortunes by Bertha Wainwright’s bequest. It struck him that she showed a curious lack of jubilation about the latter development, and he wondered what snag there could be.
Finally he rose to go, apologizing once more for taking up her time, and saying he would look in again to see if her husband could clear up the point about the field.
Scrapping his original programme he turned the car and drove to Wilkaton. Calling at the police cottage he found Constable Haycraft off duty, gardening in his shirtsleeves, and asked for the use of his telephone. He rang Bridgeford, and was put through to Superintendent Puckeridge. After listening, the latter pointed out in a resigned tone that Sunday wasn’t the day you’d choose for making enquiries about conferences held a year back, but undertook to get the information wanted through a private source. In a surprisingly short time he rang back. No Museum Curators’ Conference had been held in Bridgeford during the previous year, or in fact, at any time during the past five years.
Pollard thanked him warmly, told Haycraft that he was following up a useful lead, and drove off again leaving the latter looking unmistakably relieved. Once clear of the village he stopped and studied his large-scale map of the area. Assuming that Derek Wainwright had gone on to the moor by way of the Nine Watchers’ track, it seemed reasonable to suppose that he would take as direct a route as he could to Lordsbarrow, and reach its summit at a suitable hour for his picnic lunch. On the far side of the moor a convenient B road skirted the lower slopes of the tor. Pollard looked at his watch, and debated with himself for a few moments. Then he started up again, and made for the road in question. It’s a chance, he thought, to take him completely by surprise. Admittedly, I can’t see him committing a murder and then heaving the body into a car boot, but why the hell did he fake this conference if it wasn’t to get himself down to this part of the world for some reason. Another woman? Suppose he had some perfectly legitimate reason which he didn’t want to worry his wife about, as she was ill? Could he have run a chap down on the road who died of shock, as Pulman had said was possible, and then panicked and dumped the body? But then, if there hadn’t been a still earlier visit to Twiggadon also unknown to his wife, how would he have known about the car dump?
Half an hour later, still speculating, he was following a rough track through waist-high bracken, devoutly wishing that he were more appropriately dressed for moor walking. He took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves, only to be bitten by a horse-fly. Improvising a fly-whisk he plodded up and up, pausing at intervals to admire the panoramic view unrolling below him. Far away on the eastern horizon was the gleam of the sea, and he suddenly yearned for a cool, refreshing swim. Hot and sweaty, he arrived at last at the lower slopes of one of the impressive barrows from which the tor took its name, but there was still no sign of Derek Wainwright. It was not until he reached its top that he saw him lying on his back in the heather, so still for a moment Pollard’s heart missed a beat. Then, hearing approaching footsteps, the figure suddenly came alive, sat up, and looked round.
Pollard raised a hand in greeting, but there was no response. Surely, he thought, he isn’t going to cut and run…
‘How on earth did you know I was up here?’ Derek Wainwright demanded, looking white and strained.
‘I called in at your house to ask if you could give me a piece of information,’ Pollard replied easily, dropping onto the heather beside him, ‘and your wife said you were making for this place, so I thought I’d cut round with the car on the chance of finding you.’
There was a short pause.
‘What is it you want to know?’
Pollard emerged from the handkerchief with which he was mopping his face.
‘It’s about the field where the cars are. Did your late cousin own it at one time?’
‘Good Lord, I’ve absolutely no idea! It might have been, I suppose. The solicitor in Bridgeford —’ He broke-off abruptly, and stared warily at Pollard. ‘Look here, I just don’t believe that you’ve sweated up here to ask me a footling question like that? What are you hounding me for like this? Why don’t you come out with it?’
‘Hounding strikes me as a bit of an overstatement,’ said Pollard mildly. ‘But you’re perfectly right. What I’ve really come for is to give you an opportunity — in decent privacy — to reconsider the statement you made to Inspector Crake last Tuesday. In it you said categorically that you’d never been in Twiggadon before.’
‘Oh, I see. You’re trying to pin the murder of that chap in the car on me.’
Pollard lit a cigarette, and puffed smoke at the flies circling round his head.
‘An outrageous remark, really, Mr Wainwright. Stupid, too. At the lowest level I’ve got my reputation and career to think about.’
In the silence which followed he watched a passing breeze set up a ripple in the bracken. It swept past them, and moved swiftly and silently into the distance.
‘I apologize,’ Derek Wainwright said unexpectedly. ‘I take it back. The fact is that through sheer bad luck I’ve landed myself in a ghastly spot — I can see that. It’s the sort of thing that would happen to a mutt like me. I’d better tell you the whole thing, I suppose… Aren’t you going to caution me?’
‘We only caution people when we’re going to make a charge. I’m merely asking you if you’d like to amend your original statement.’
‘All right, then. I can’t imagine how you’ve got on to it, but I did come down last summer. I meant to have a go at talking to my cousin. We were absolutely on the rocks…’
Pollard listened once again to the story of the family’s misfortunes, and of the long-standing feud between the two branches. The prospect of making a successful appeal to Bertha Wainwright had seemed so forlorn that Derek had decided to keep his plan from Rachel. Hence the need to invent a conference at Bridgeford, to account for his visit to the area. The Wrilburn Museum authorities had been very ready to give him leave of absence to attend to urgent family business, and a friend had lent him a car, his own having been smashed beyond repair in the accident.
At this point in his narrative Derek broke off.
‘What was the date of this visit?’ Pollard asked, to get him moving again.
‘July 31 —’
Either a damn clever bit of bluff, or an almost incredible coincidence Pollard thought.
‘What time did you get to Twiggadon?’ he asked.
The problem had been filling in time without spending money. He had driven down in a leisurely way, and arrived at Twiggadon just before five, feeling that this was the most propitious hour for an uninvited call on an old lady. He had parked at the turning, and walked down to find the house, having previously looked up its name in a telephone directory.
