Gin and Murder Read online

  ‘Well?’ said Hollis sharply.

  ‘No, it’s too silly. People don’t murder for that sort of thing.’

  ‘I’m the one to decide that,’ Hollis told her.

  ‘But it’s too silly, really. It’s just that Colonel Clinkerton, the hunt secretary, told me that the Master, that’s Mr Broughton, and Mr. Vickers had had a terrific row. Someone had suggested that if they made Mr. Vickers joint master the hunt would have enough money. The subscriptions keep falling and Mr. Broughton can’t afford to put up any more; they’ve got to economize and the committee don’t like it.’

  ‘And Mr. Broughton didn’t approve of the suggestion?’

  ‘No, not according to Colonel Clinkerton.’

  Hollis asked for the Colonel’s address and then, snapping his notebook shut, thanked her briefly. As he squelched from the yard he reflected that at least he had something to compensate him for shivering in a barn with frozen, mud-soaked feet. Back in the comparative comfort of the car, he turned to Hughes.

  ‘Do you know Hazebrook? We want Captain Robert Bewley.’

  ‘Ah, you want the Captain, do you, sir? Bit of a lad ’e is,’ said Hughes and then, remembering he was offended, added sullenly: ‘It’s ’alfway back to Melborough and turn off left.’

  Bob Bewley was covered in mud. He had taken a purler, he explained, his youngster having failed to stand off a solid post and rails. ‘Still, it learned him,’ said Bewley with a grin. ‘He jumped the next one a treat.’

  Hollis, having no wish to listen to hunting experiences, cut him short with a question about his time of arrival at the Chadwicks’ party, but Bewley did not answer it. ‘Come along inside,’ he said, turning out the saddle-room light. ‘I’ve given the horses some grub so they’ll do for a bit. Let’s get out of this dam’ wind and have a drink.’

  The Inspector followed him through a back door surrounded by overflowing dustbins into a small kitchen where a couple of Jack Russells gave them an enthusiastic welcome. Bewley cleared the table of empty bottles, dirty crockery and an overflowing ashtray which he piled on the floor by the sink.

  ‘Sorry about the mess,’ he said. ‘My wife left me a couple of weeks ago — took the fridge too — since then I’ve been fending for myself.’

  ‘Fending’s about the word,’ remarked Hollis, looking round disapprovingly.

  Bewley laughed. ‘I’m better in the stable,’ he said. ‘Drink? Big Brother isn’t looking. I prefer it pure and undiluted,’ he added as he poured out two tots of whisky, but there’s the tap if you like it that way. Good hunting.’ He drank.

  Hollis smacked his lips. ‘Helps to keep the cold out,’ he said appreciatively, producing his notebook and pencil.

  ‘I heard a rumour that there’d been dirty work at the crossroads last night, I suppose your appearance means it’s true?’ Bewley poured himself out another drink.

  ‘Just a routine inquiry,’ answered Hollis, and began his questions.

  Bewley had been the first of the Chadwicks’ guests to arrive. ‘I’d only a mile to go and I’m always thirsty, Inspector,’ he explained. ‘I suppose I got there about five past six and I talked to the Chadwicks until Vickers and Miss Brockenhurst came. Vickers took Miss Chadwick into a corner. 1 think he thought the rest of us were a bit beneath him. We talked shop — hunting, horses.’

  He knew of no reason why anyone should wish to murder Guy Vickers.

  ‘But who gets the dough?’ he asked. ‘I believe there’s plenty of it. Anyway you can count me out, Inspector. I was all set to sell him a horse — I’ve got the very thing for Badminton and I’d have had a good price out of Vickers too. I’d even got Hilary Chadwick lined up to ride the brute — knew Vickers couldn’t be off seeing it if she was on top.’

  Hollis brought him briskly back to the point with a question about arsenic. ‘No,’ Bewley said, ‘no arsenic. Unless,’ he added flippantly, ‘my old woman bought some to do me in with. But I reckon rat poison was more in her line — she had a very low opinion of hubby. Never mind, she’s happy now with Mother and the fridge.’

  ‘Just one more query,’ said Hollis. ‘You sound as though you were well up in hunt matters — what do you make of this quarrel between Mr. Vickers and Mr. Broughton?’

  ‘Quarrel?’

  ‘You haven’t heard about it, then?’

  ‘Not about a quarrel. I’d heard that some member of the committee had suggested that they might get the hunt finances out of a sticky mess by taking on a joint master with some dough, and that Mark Broughton had said he’d rather cut down expenditure — which of course he’s a perfect right to do.’

  ‘But no quarrel?’ persisted Hollis, about to pocket his notebook.

  ‘No quarrel,’ repeated Bob Bewley. ‘Hellish dark and smells of cheese,’ he added, opening the door for the detective. ‘But perhaps it’s only the dustbins. Come again, Inspector. Any time — always glad to see you.’

  ‘Good night, sir,’ said Hollis, in tones a shade less surly than usual, and getting into the car told Hughes to drive him to Lapworth Manor.

  ’Alfway back to Melborough. Turn again, Whittington,’ said Hughes uppishly, emboldened by the knowledge that his superior had been drinking on duty.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  DUGGIE HOLMES-WATERFORD had lost hounds early in the afternoon. Riding round the countryside with an embarrassing following of some thirty horsemen, he had suffered all the pangs of humiliation in silence and without sign. The surreptitious searching for hoofprints in muddy gateways, the scorn of farm labourers, the mortification of consulting little boys, all the indignities of the lost were heaped upon him and magnified by his scarlet coat and top hat, his magnificent horse, his air and position of authority. With mixed feelings he had watched his field dwindle, shorn of defiant little groups who had decided they would do better without a field master and a trickle of individuals who had given up the day as a bad job and turned for home.

  At three o’clock, Holmes-Waterford decided that he himself had had enough, and having apologized rather stiffly to what remained of his following took the road for Lapworth. Alone, he was able to measure the disaster. He had lost hounds, it was true, but one must not reckon without the contributory factors. Mark was a first class amateur huntsman, but even the best are not without fault and in these great woodland coverts he was too silent, much too silent … As for the country, it was fast becoming unrideable; he had defied anyone to keep with hounds over a country intersected by four-foot-six barbed wire fences. Something would have to be done; a thousand pounds laid out on hunt jumps would be well spent. It was a pity about Vickers. They could have done with some more money in the hunt coffers. Poor old Mark liked to crow on his own dunghill, couldn’t make room for two kings on the castle. Still, it was a pity, for Mark, tactfully handled, might have seen sense.

  He came to Lapworth and turned up the long straight drive to the Manor. Facing him, the triple-gabled house of dark red Elizabethan brick, stood stately among its lawns and yew hedges. It was a sight that always brought him solace and satisfaction, if not happiness.

  Philby was waiting to take the horse in the stableyard. ‘Had a good day, sir?’

  The Colonel shook his head. ‘Rotten,’ he said, ‘but the horse went well. He’s taken nothing out of himself, I may ride him again on Tuesday.’ From the immaculately kept yard he entered the house by a side door. Gold met him in the hall.

  ‘Madam’s not back yet, sir. Will you have tea in the library?’

  ‘Yes, but give me five minutes to get my boots off.’

  The library was officially his particular room. It was true that few of the books either belonged to or had been read by him, that the furniture, even to his desk, had been chosen by Alicia Holmes-Waterford’s pet antique dealer; but the effect was pleasing, if formal, and as a sop to comfort he had been allowed two leather-covered armchairs in which the dogs — two middle-aged Labradors — were now comfortably ensconced. A log fire blazed in the grate and the curtains were d
rawn against the night.

  ‘Come on, Pluto, out of it,’ said Duggie. ‘Where’s master to sit?’ In possession of his chair, he turned to the table beside him. A tea tray, the twelve o’clock post, The Times and Horse and Hound awaited him.

  Arriving some two hours later, Hollis caught only a glimpse of the house and grounds in the car’s headlights, but what he saw told him that the place was well kept. As he waited for a few moments in the panelled hall a glance round confirmed his impression that there was money and to spare. Temporarily overawed, his manner became servile.

  Colonel Holmes-Waterford was reasonably certain that he had got to the Chadwicks’ at six-fifteen. He had looked at his watch before getting out of his car and, finding himself on the early side, had been glad to see that there were already several cars parked in the road. He thought that Miss Brockenhurst, Mr. Vickers, Captain Bewley and, of course, the Chadwicks had been there when he arrived. The Dentons had arrived after him and the Broughtons last of all. He thought that he had spoken to almost everyone — just a word or two to some of them, but with Mr. Broughton and Commander Chadwick he had had quite lengthy conversations, mostly about hunt matters. He’d also had a chat with Mr. Vickers about his Olympic prospects. Having ridden for England himself, he explained to Hollis, he had been able to advise Vickers on several matters.

  ‘Quite so, sir,’ said Hollis. ‘And as far as you know, sir, he had no enemies?’

  ‘None at all, I should say. He always seemed a very likeable sort of lad to me. Of course I know nothing of his private life; the only thing I have heard is that he was a hit of a lady’s man and that there were one or two husbands who didn’t care for him. But that’s only the veriest hearsay.’

  ‘Quite sir,’ said Hollis. ‘And then there was this quarrel between Mr. Broughton and Mr. Vickers. Something to do with the hunt, I believe?’

  Holmes-Waterford’s laugh sounded a little hollow. ‘Well, well, Inspector,’ he said, ‘I see you’ve got your ear to the ground. Still, I recommend you not to set too much store by anything you may have heard about that: the whole thing’s been grossly exaggerated. You know how it is in these country places, precious little happens and so the gossips have to do their best with what little they can find. Broughton’s one of my oldest friends; he’s not perhaps the easiest man in the world to get on with, but you couldn’t have a better fellow at heart. Of course old Colonel Clinkerton, the hunt secretary, went and rubbed him up the wrong way over this joint master business; if only he’d left it to me — still, it wouldn’t be much use now.’

  Hollis, who had been writing rapidly, made polite, agreeing noises and asked about arsenic. The Colonel confessed with a smile that he didn’t take much interest in the garden, but that considering the absence of weeds in the paths he supposed they must use some sort of weedkiller. ‘You’d better have a word with Wilson, Inspector. He has a flat over the garage.’

  Hollis, dispatched across the yard with Gold as a reluctant and shivering guide, found Wilson deeply engrossed in a television programme and none too pleased at being brought back to reality. However, he readily admitted to the possession of a large quantity of arsenical weedkiller.

  ‘I keeps it down in the potting shed,’ he explained. ‘I suppose you can ’ave it if ’e says so; but mind you, it’s ’er who pays the wages ’ere. ’Alf a minute, while I puts on my shoes.’

  *

  Mark Broughton, wearing a white kennel coat over his hunting kit, leaned against the wall of the feed yard and watched his tired hounds at the trough. It had been the hell of a day. Hunting hounds was really no job for the master, he thought. Be an amateur huntsman by all means, but not a sort of unholy duality. It turned you against your subscribers for one thing; men you liked well enough in the ordinary way became bloody fools who overrode your hounds, stood about, got in the way and could do no right. Today, for instance, he could cheerfully have killed old Duggie, who’d been leading the field on those aimless perambulations round the covert which had always coincided with the fox’s attempts to break. His reflections were interrupted by the appearance of Jonathan and Deborah in the feed yard. They had changed from their hunting kit and were wearing corduroy trousers, gumboots and dufflecoats.

  ‘Uncle Mark, Bob’s just rung up,’ Jon told him. ‘He says Guy Vickers was murdered. He said he’d just had a detective to see him, and he thought we’d be having him round here next.’

  ‘Well, he won’t eat us,’ said Mark calmly, for he thought he detected a note of alarm in the boy’s voice.

  ‘Bob says that they think he was murdered by someone at the Chadwicks’ party and …’ Jon looked at his feet ‘and he says someone’s told the police that you kicked up about having Vickers as joint master. Bob said he’d banged down hard on that idea, but that he thought it might help if you knew which way they were running.’

  Mark laughed. ‘It sounds as though I’m suspect number one. Where the devil have Frank and Alan got to? If they don’t hurry up I shall be arrested before I’ve had my tea.’

  *

  The front door of the Broughton’s house at Little Lapworth was opened to Hollis by a small plump woman in her sixties. She eyed him suspiciously and then, hearing his business, showed him to an untidy sitting-room. Hollis, looking round with hard pale eyes, observed that the books had overflowed the bookcase, that the writing-desk could no longer contain its owner’s correspondence, that the chimneypiece was crowded with dusty invitation cards to events long past. Untidy lot, he thought, remembering the unused splendour of the Manor House.

  In the holidays the Broughtons had dining-room tea, which on hunting days was supplemented by boiled eggs. To Jonathan and Deborah’s consternation, Mark insisted on finishing his egg before going to see the Inspector in the sitting-room. He took his cup of tea with him and offered the Inspector one.

  ‘No thank you,’ said Hollis. ‘Not just now, I’ve no time to waste. I want to ask you a few routine questions in connection with the death of Mr. Guy Vickers.’

  At first Mark was a model witness. He answered briefly and briskly that he and his wife had arrived at the Chadwicks’ at about six-thirty. He thought they were the last arrivals. He had seen no one tampering with the glasses. He had talked to his hosts and to Colonel Holmes-Waterford, and he had had a word with Captain Bewley. ‘You didn’t speak to Mr. Vickers?’ asked Hollis.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Talking to all one’s fellow guests isn’t compulsory.’

  ‘Were you on friendly terms with Mr. Vickers?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘On terms of hostility then?’

  ‘No, I just disliked the man.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t need a reason to dislike people, I just dislike them — it happens quite often.’

  ‘I was given to understand that you had a definite reason for disliking Mr. Vickers.’

  ‘Other people always know one’s reasons better than one does oneself,’ said Mark carelessly.

  ‘I understand that you quarrelled with Mr. Vickers over a hunt matter,’ said Hollis. ‘Now when and where did this quarrel take place?’

  ‘It didn’t,’ answered Mark.

  ‘You deny that there was any disagreement between you and Mr. Vickers over the hunt?’

  In weary tones Mark said: ‘Look, Vickers was supposed to have been lobbying members of the hunt committee with a suggestion that I should take him into joint mastership. He certainly went to the hunt secretary with some sort of a proposition, heavily baited with an offer of funds —’

  ‘In fact you did quarrel with him,’ interrupted Hollis.

  ‘No, I limited myself to telling the secretary and various other members of the committee exactly what I thought of the plan. No doubt they passed it on in due course.’

  ‘You expect me to believe that, though you were quarrelling with Mr. Vickers on a matter of importance to you both, you didn’t communicate your views to him either in person or in writin
g?’

  ‘No,’ said Mark. ‘I mean, yes. I do expect you to believe that I didn’t communicate. Look,’ he went on, suddenly exasperated, ‘I’ve told you that I didn’t quarrel with Vickers and that’s that. If you would stop meandering round and round the bloody point and get on with your questions I’d be grateful. You said you had no time to waste. Well, I’ve even less.’

  ‘I should like to see Mrs. Broughton,’ said Hollis stiffly.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Mark told him, ‘but that is impossible.’

  ‘Impossible?’ Hollis raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘That’s a strong word to use. On what grounds is it impossible to see Mrs. Broughton?’

  ‘Well,’ Mark said, more pacifically, ‘if you did see her it wouldn’t do you any good. To be quite frank she wasn’t in very good form when she got to that misbegotten party, and I don’t suppose she remembers anything about it.’

  ‘I should like to form my own opinion on the matter,’ said Hollis coldly.

  Mark flung open the door and yelled ‘Nan,’ into the hall.

  ‘Now what is it?’ The answer seemed to float sourly down from somewhere upstairs. Mark ignored it and soon the grey-haired woman who had let Hollis in, appeared.

  ‘This policeman wants to see Mrs. Broughton,’ Mark told her.

  ‘Well, you know very well he can’t,’ she said fiercely. ‘Not for all the policemen in England will I open her door.’ She turned on Hollis. ‘If you want to talk to her you come back tomorrow. She might be better then — if Mr. Broughton stays at home,’ she added, with a spiteful look at Mark.

  ‘Very well.’ Hollis’s voice was cold. ‘And I’ll trouble you for the name of the lady’s doctor.’