Alibi For A Corpse, page 8
part #3 of Pollard & Toye Investigations Series
‘And then, Mr Wainwright?’
‘And then, the plain truth is that I hadn’t the guts to put my pride in my pocket and go in.’ Derek stared at him with a kind of hopeless bitterness. ‘A successful chap like you just wouldn’t know what it feels like not to be able to provide decently for your wife and family, especially with your wife in hospital only just getting over a miscarriage.
‘It’s a peculiarly degrading sort of hell, take it from me. And I knew that I’d make a bish of seeing Bertha, anyway. I always do. I muffed my Oxbridge interviews, and had to go to Redbrick. I’d never have got my present job if the chap they’d appointed hadn’t ratted on them at the last minute, and they were in a hurry to find someone. And I’ve applied for bigger jobs dozens of times, knowing perfectly well that I could make a success of the work, but they’ve only got to see me to turn me down. Of course, I rationalized not going in to see my cousin. I stood outside that ghastly house telling myself that she might leave me something after all, but that if I tried to cadge now, I’d risk any chance I had of a legacy, and that I’d be a fool to do it. But I knew perfectly well that I was being gutless, of course.’
‘How long did you stay in Twiggadon?’ Pollard asked without comment.
‘I don’t know exactly. I seemed to lose count of time. I walked down past the farm and the cottage, and sat on a rock for a bit, thinking things over. Then I went back to the car, and sat there.’
Questioned closely as to whether he had seen anyone about, Derek was emphatic that the place had seemed completely deserted. He’d thought it surprising. Then he had decided to start driving homewards, looking out for a lay-by where he could spend the night, to save the price of a bed. Later, being badly in need of something to eat, he stopped at a village about sixty miles on the Bridgeford side of Wintlebury, at a cottage offering bed, breakfast and supper.
‘A nice old girl said she’d do me some bacon and eggs and a pot of tea, although it was late: getting on for ten.’
‘What time did you push on again?’
‘Not until the next morning after all, as things turned out. I was just finishing the grub when a hullabaloo broke out in the street: someone had spotted smoke coming out of the roof of the cottage opposite. So of course I dashed across to help the locals get the people and furniture out, and do what we could till the fire brigade turned up. Then I helped hump the stuff we’d salvaged to a barn. By the time everything had calmed down again it was getting on for two. The old girl insisted on my staying the night, and gave me a whacking good breakfast the next morning, and refused to take a penny. I got back to Wrilburn in the afternoon.’
Psychologically convincing, thought Pollard, and what looks like a genuine alibi. Moreover, there seems to be absolutely nothing to connect him with the corpse…
‘Were you away from home on other occasions between the spring and autumn of last year?’ he asked.
Derek Wainwright shook his head.
‘Only when I was in hospital after the accident. We hadn’t the cash for a holiday last summer. Ask my wife. And my sister-in-law who came to look after the children while Rachel was ill… Oh, of course, a wife can’t be forced to give evidence against her husband, can she?’ He stared at Pollard with a kind of incredulity. ‘Do you really think I’m a murderer? A chap like me? It’s crazy.’
‘Frankly I don’t,’ replied Pollard, ‘but what a policeman thinks is neither here nor there. One has to have verifiable facts. Could you find the cottage where you stayed again?’
‘Good Lord, yes. It’s on the main road. I had to look out for it on the way down last Monday, although I knew it would bring the whole blasted trip back.’
‘Let’s go, then, and try to get confirmation of all this.’
Old Mrs Hunt of Wisteria Cottage, Clysthead St John, recognized Derek Wainwright at once, saying several times over how real nice it was of him to call in and bring his friend. My, what a night it had been, to be sure, with Mr Hodge’s cottage going on fire… She insisted on producing tea and homemade cake, and without prompting plunged into an account of the fire which bore out Derek’s account in every particular. She also stated that she hadn’t been able to close her eyes for the rest of the night, she’d been that upset, and had got up and gone down twice to make sure she’d turned off the electric.
Eventually they managed to get away.
‘Well?’ asked Derek, as they drove out of the village.
Pollard was silent for a moment.
‘In return for your frankness, however belated,’ he said, ‘I’m prepared to tell you confidentially that at present we’re interested in the night of July 31 last year. You are now right out of the picture, thanks to that fire. If it turns out that we’re barking up the wrong tree, we shall have to start all over again. In that case we might conceivably make routine enquiries to check up your statement about not having been away from home on any other occasion — bar going to hospital — last summer. But I think this is unlikely to happen.’
‘Thank you for telling me: I realize it’s a good deal more than I deserve. You must think me a poor type.’
‘We’ve got to live with our temperaments.’ Pollard was deliberately robust. ‘Besides, there are the obverse sides of people’s qualities and defects. A chap with a lot of punch and drive can go through life like a bulldozer. And circumstances can and do alter cases. Money’s a great giver of confidence.’
‘The trouble is that the wretched money seems to stick in my throat, after that trip to Twiggadon, and never having managed to provide enough off my own bat.’
‘Isn’t that a bit hard on your wife?’ remarked Pollard, with a sudden illuminating memory of Rachel’s lack of enthusiasm on the subject. ‘By the way, do you want a lift back, or would you rather cut across the moor on foot?’
Derek Wainwright decided to walk, saying that he wanted to think things out. Pollard dropped him at a suitable spot without regrets, as he wanted some time for reflection himself before deciding on his next step. There was no proof that the man’s motive in coming down to Twiggadon the first time had been to visit his cousin, he thought. But was this matter really relevant to the case as it stood at the moment? He decided that it was not. The important thing was that it had been established beyond doubt that Derek had not been in Twiggadon during the night of July 31, and it was inconceivable that anyone of his type would have risked putting a dead body into a car boot in broad daylight. Still, to round things off, it would be satisfactory to find a witness of his visit. Nora Pearce was obviously the most hopeful line to follow up. As well as her alleged activities with binoculars there was her agitation when questioned about seeing anything unusual in the lane. Could she have seen Wainwright as well as someone for whom she cherished a secret passion? Pollard resolutely stifled his pangs of hunger, and decided to make another call at Moor View.
His luck was in. Rachel had taken the children out for a picnic, and Nora Pearce was alone. She was looking older and very tired, he thought, but greeted him with a new composure and resolution. Wondering what was coming, he began by asking the now well-worn question about the original ownership of the field containing the car dump. She discounted the idea that it had ever formed part of Bertha Wainwright’s property. She would certainly have mentioned it: she disliked the dump, and not infrequently complained about it.
Pollard thanked her, and there was a pause…
‘I — er — have been looking back over my diary as you requested,’ she said, without looking at him. ‘I find that on one occasion I did notice something rather unusual. Just a little out of the common, shall we say? Although I cannot believe for a moment that the person in question could possibly have anything to do with the — er — unhappy business in the field over there. No, not for a moment. Now, I must explain to you that my bedroom has a very beautiful view right down the valley. I often sit and enjoy it in my free time. Also I am not a very good sleeper.’ She hesitated, and then went on. ‘In the country one notices such little things, you know. They stand out. So it happened that rather late on the night of July 31 last year I noticed that the friendly little light in the window of Farm Cottage — the only light I can see in this very rural neighbourhood — never went on. This was most unusual. Mr Stobart is a great reader, and always stays up very late. Then, just after midnight, I heard footsteps in the lane. That, too, was so unusual that I looked out. It was bright moonlight: quite a beautiful night after the terrible rain we had before the disaster at Dincombe. So I saw him clearly.’
‘Who, Miss Pearce?’
‘Why, Mr Stobart, Superintendent. Then not long afterwards the light went on in his cottage, and almost at the same time I heard more steps, and Mrs Pendine of Watchers Way came up the lane. But that was not really remarkable. I have known her roam about the moor at night on quite a number of occasions.’
‘Miss Pearce,’ Pollard said, ‘I don’t for one moment question your reliability as a person, but can you be absolutely sure that the two people you saw were Mr Stobart and Mrs Pendine? It was, after all, the middle of the night.’
He watched her colour up and struggle with herself.
‘Quite sure,’ she said firmly, regaining her composure. ‘I have a pair of binoculars. Quite good ones, which belonged to my dear father. It is really wonderful how near they seem to bring things. I enjoy watching the moor ponies through them.’
‘You mean that you would be prepared to swear in a court of law that you saw those two persons?’ he persisted.
She nodded, without speaking.
‘Thank you,’ he said, wondering if anything specific had happened to bring about the change in her attitude. For some reason the strong emotion she had shown the day before had given place to a much more characteristic sense of responsibility and public duty. ‘As you say,’ he went on, ‘what you have told me may very well turn out to have nothing to do with my case, but you are absolutely right to report it.’
Nora Pearce bowed her head slightly.
‘Perhaps your diary for that day mentioned Mr Derek Wainwright’s visit, too?’ he asked.
Completely taken by surprise she gave a violent start, and stared at him in undisguised horror.
‘You know, Miss Pearce, it’s far wiser to be frank with the police,’ he told her, not unkindly. ‘Anything else simply draws our attention to the person you’re hoping to shield. Now, for my part, I’m going to break every rule in the book, and take you into my confidence, because I’ve complete faith in your discretion and loyalty, and also because I want every bit of help you can give me. I have had a talk with Mr Wainwright today, and he has told me that he came down here on July 31 last year.’
Towards the end of Pollard’s narrative Nora Pearce unashamedly wiped her eyes.
‘Oh, dear,’ she said, ‘so sad, and so unnecessary. A great deal of unhappiness, in my experience. Miss Wainwright was such a good woman, but so much in the grip of the past. And poor Mr Wainwright is so very sensitive… Really, it’s wonderful to meet someone in these days who isn’t — well — ruthless, and ready to trample over others in order to get on in the world. Of course, it was wrong of him not to be truthful — Not that I am in a position to say so — but it was very understandable. I am quite sure that he has what I think is now called an inferiority complex about success. All on account of his wife and children, you know.’
‘You actually saw him then?’ Pollard asked her.
‘Oh, yes.’ She coloured up again. ‘I happened to be sitting in my window on this occasion, too, and using my binoculars. I noticed a man sitting on the rocks at the bottom of Buttertwist, that’s the tor on the left of the track down here. I remember thinking it was rather unwise — from the health point of view, I mean, after the heavy rain of the past few days —’
‘Can you remember what time this was?’ Pollard interrupted.
‘It must have been about six o’clock, during my free time after washing up the tea things. Then, when I ran up to my room to tidy myself for supper, just before half past seven, I glanced out again, and saw him coming up the lane. He stopped and gazed up at the house so long that I should have been a little uneasy if he hadn’t had such a nice face. I took a good look at him, and of course I recognized Mr Wainwright the moment I saw him last Monday. Naturally, I made no remark, although I thought it rather strange that he did not mention the visit. Then, from something Mrs Wainwright said to me, I realized that he hadn’t told her either. That was the day the dreadful discovery was made, and when the Inspector from Bridgeford said that he understood Mr and Mrs Wainwright had never been to Twiggadon before, I’m afraid I — I let it pass. I knew he couldn’t have had anything to do with it, although it was all so terribly puzzling,’ she concluded rather incoherently.
No one who was trying to dump a body would conceivably draw attention to himself by hanging around like that, Pollard thought. Another important outcome of the day’s work was Nora Pearce’s confirmation of Henry Stobart’s and Sybil Pendine’s presence in the lane that night. He decided that this cut out any urgent need to question Sybil Pendine before returning to Bridgeford: her attempted blackmail could wait. With a clear conscience he tactfully extricated himself, and headed for somewhere to eat.
SEVEN
Sergeant Toye’s approach to his work was less pragmatic than his superior officer’s. Unlike Pollard, who had left for Twiggadon after breakfast on Sunday morning with his plan of campaign relatively fluid, he had drawn up a carefully-planned programme for himself.
He surmised that Mrs Cupple would be enjoying a long Sunday lie-in, and an early call on her was, therefore, out. The milkman who had taken on Steve Mullins as an assistant was a much more suitable proposition, probably being anxious to get his round over and done with as soon as possible. After checking up on the address of the dairy, Toye accordingly borrowed a bicycle from a gratified constable, and pedalled through pleasantly quiet and empty streets towards the poorer quarter of the town.
He found the shop without difficulty, surmounted by a sign announcing A. H. STENTIFORD. Prop. It was small and old-fashioned, but had somehow managed to avoid being swallowed up by one of the milk distributing giants. A brass churn polished to a dazzling brilliance occupied a central position in the window, flanked with glass jars which had been forcibly crammed with asters. The churn was a collector’s piece, engraved with a design of buttercups and the entwined initials of its original owner. Under cover of admiring it Toye took stock of the situation inside the shop, which was open. A steady stream of customers was coming and going, most of them in varying degrees of dishabille, carrying bottles of milk or small basins of cream. A brisk trade in miscellaneous groceries was also in progress. A white-haired woman in a print overall presided at the counter. She seemed personally acquainted with everyone, and there was a cheerful babble of chat and backchat.
As Toye was estimating the sensation which his entry and enquiry for Mr Stentiford would cause, an urchin in grubby khaki shorts squeezed his way out of the shop, a bottle of milk in one hand, and a bilious-green lolly in the other. He eyed Toye curiously, and was just going his way when the latter called him back.
‘Hi!’ he said, jingling the loose coins in his trouser pocket. ‘Know where I can find Mr Stentiford?’
The boy’s eyes brightened hopefully.
‘’E’s on ’is round. You comer longer me, mister. I knows where ’e’ll be, near ’nuff.’
He set off up the road, looking back from time to time to make sure that Toye was following, his tongue exploring the surface of the lolly. At a street corner he stopped and listened. From a distance came the unmistakable clink of bottles.
‘Down the bottom, an’ turn left, mister. Yer can’t miss ’is float. Me Mum’s waitin’ fer the ruddy milk, see?’
Toye produced a sixpence, and coasting down the street as instructed came in sight of a milk float lumbering slowly and asthmatically towards him. It drew up with a rattling shudder, and an elderly man leapt nimbly out, seized a carrier of full bottles and dived into a succession of doorways.
‘Mr Stentiford?’ enquired Toye, arriving on his bicycle in time to intercept him before he re-embarked.
The milkman had a slightly pugnacious expression and grey bristling hair. He looked Toye up and down before replying.
‘That’s my name. What’s the big idea? I take it you’re not chasin’ after me to pick up a pint.’
Toye presented his official card, and briefly stated his business, watching gratification spread slowly over Mr Stentiford’s rosy face as he visualized himself in an important role in a police investigation.
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Worked for me four weeks, Mullins did. Then ’opped it without a blessed word. That’s what you get these days. Look, I’ve gotta finish the round, see? You cut round to the yard back o’ the shop, an’ I’ll be along inside ten minnits. Don’t you go through the shop: ’tis full o’ clackin’ wimmin.’
Toye complied, and duly found himself in the Stentiford kitchen, a haven of solid old-fashioned comfort, smelling appetizingly of fried bacon. Within a few moments there came the sound of the milk float’s arrival in the yard, and Mr Stentiford entered with a pressing invitation to sit down and have a bit of breakfast with him.
The meal was served by Mrs Stentiford, who made a succession of brief darts into the kitchen during temporary lulls in the shop. Her determined efforts to contribute to the conversation led to some confusion, and Toye was thankful when she finally drew up to the table herself, announcing that she had dropped the blind, and latecomers could take themselves somewhere else.
In his usual painstaking way Toye took the Stentifords over the whole period of Steve Mullins’s employment. No, he hadn’t got the job through the Labour Exchange. Mr Stentiford didn’t hold with the place: they’d send along any riff-raff. When he wanted someone he always put a notice in the shop window. So Mullins must have seen it, or been told there was a job going. No, he hadn’t been able to produce any references, but you had to take what you could get these days, and count yourself lucky. Yes, they’d wondered between themselves if the chap was on the run, and kept a sharp look-out for the stores and cash, but there hadn’t been anything amiss, not the whole four weeks he’d been on the round.
