Murder Strikes Pink Read online

  ‘Hmn.’ Jackson managed to look and sound unbelieving. ‘Do you remember Miss Steer putting various objects including a basket into the groom’s compartment of the horse-box?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you handle or open the basket?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you see anyone else handling it?’

  ‘The secretaries appeared and scuffled in it from time to time.’

  ‘No one else?’

  ‘I didn’t see anyone else.’

  ‘Did you see anyone enter the box or standing about near it who had no business to be there?’

  Marion put her hand to her forehead and thought. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ she answered.

  ‘Was the box left unattended at all?’

  ‘Oh yes, we had four horses there and Billy Brown had some of his father’s to jump too, so while he was riding one of them Brenda and I would both be waiting in the collecting ring each holding one of ours. We stayed to watch them jump and then took them away afterwards.’ Jackson pulled his nose and turned to look out of the window. ‘I understand that you and your husband are living apart,’ he said. ‘Is this to be a permanent arrangement?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Marion answered, trying to control the quivering of her face.

  Jackson tugged fiercely at his nose. He particularly disliked women in tears and he felt that this one was very near them. His voice became sharper. ‘How long is it since you parted?’ he demanded.

  ‘About a fortnight,’ answered Marion.

  ‘And have you communicated with each other since then?’

  ‘He sent me his address, so that I could forward any letters.’

  ‘He didn’t tell you about a letter he had from Miss Thistleton?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re sure that you haven’t written or spoken to each other since you parted?’

  ‘Quite sure,’ answered Marion.

  ‘Well now, Mrs. Keswick, if you would just let Sergeant Caley take your fingerprints, it’s a help if we have the prints of everyone who was entitled to be in the horse-box.’

  When Caley had done Jackson said, ‘Just one more thing, can you give me your husband’s address?’

  ‘Yes.’ Marion went to the writing desk and brought out a postcard. ‘You can have this, I can remember it,’ she said. ‘I don’t think he’s actually living there, but the horses are there and he’s using it as a base.’

  ‘The Brookley Riding Stables, Brookley Green, Hamberley,’ read Jackson. ‘He hasn’t gone far then?’

  ‘No. Well, you see the horses are entered for the shows round here so those are the ones he has to jump at. Very few shows will take late entries nowadays and anyway the entry fees are too expensive to waste.’

  ‘Does this mean that Mr. Keswick was at the Upshott Show too?’ asked Jackson sharply.

  ‘Yes, he was there.’

  ‘Both days?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you never spoke to each other?’ Jackson sounded frankly incredulous.

  ‘Not a word,’ answered Marion, struggling for self-control.

  ‘I find that hard to believe.’

  ‘It’s true,’ Marion told him, but her shaky voice did not carry much conviction.

  ‘Well, thank you, Mrs. Keswick.’ Jackson heaved himself out of the chair. ‘I expect we shall be round to see you again in a day or two. You’re not thinking of going away?’

  ‘No,’ said Marion, ‘I can’t. Somebody’s got to feed the pigs and chickens.’

  ‘Stop at the first telephone kiosk,’ Jackson told Caley as soon as they were in the car. ‘There was one on that common,’ and he began to hunt in his pockets. At the kiosk he handed Roper four pennies and the postcard with Keswick’s address. ‘Find out the number,’ he said, ‘ring’em up and ask for Keswick. Tell him that Superintendent Jackson would like to see him at Hamberley Police Station at once. We may get him that way before he has a chance to talk to her.’

  Roper spent a long time in the kiosk and finally returned to report a failure. ‘He’s not there. They say he’s fed his horses and gone and they don’t expect to see him until 8 a.m. tomorrow.’ Jackson swore. ‘Did they know where he’d gone?’ ‘No, I asked but the chap laughed and said Keswick had taken a pretty girl out to dinner and if he did know where he wouldn’t tell me as they wouldn’t want to be disturbed.’

  Back at Hamberley Jackson found to his delight that the Chief Constable had already left so he was able to look through the contents of his ‘In’ tray and read the latest report on the arson case in peace, while Caley worked on the fingerprints. Then he went home. He fed his two enormous neutered tabby cats and ate his supper, put ready by the woman who came in daily to do the housework, before he brought himself to telephone the Chief Constable.

  ‘The most interesting thing we’ve got are the fingerprints on the thermos,’ he told Murray. ‘They belong to the cook and one of the secretaries, she poured out the drink, and to the woman who drove the horse-box.’ ‘What’s so interesting about that?’ asked Murray. ‘Aren’t they precisely the prints you’d expect to find?’ ‘Yes,’ answered Jackson, ‘except for the driver’s. We’ve only got one of hers and it’s not a very good one but Caley’s found his sixteen points of resemblance.’

  ‘Well, and what’s so significant about that?’ asked Murray coldly.

  ‘Only that she said she never handled the basket, much less the thermos, and her husband inherits the best part of a quarter of a million,’ answered Jackson in triumph.

  CHAPTER THREE

  IN THE SMALL HOURS of Tuesday morning the long spell of hot weather broke with a violent thunderstorm that crashed and rumbled round the Hamberley, Upshott and Whittam area until daybreak. The torrential rain, unable to soak into the hard-baked ground, lay everywhere in pools, trees were struck by lightning and in several villages the electricity supply failed, but in the morning the fresh, cool air, the smell of wet earth and the rejoicing plants and trees made all but the most avid sun-worshippers welcome the change.

  Jackson, having despatched Sergeant Caley to interview Miss Thistleton’s daily women and arranged for the appropriate police forces to trace the departed staff and check their whereabouts on Saturday, collected Roper and a car and set off for Brookley Green.

  They found the stables down a side road just outside the village; a large, newly painted sign indicated a square of shabby wooden loose-boxes, but, when they left the car they found that the establishment was evidently more prosperous than it looked, for the stable yard was full of children — mostly girls — and ponies. They were about to depart on a ride and a general tightening of girths was punctuated by the cries of those whose ponies had retaliated with nips. Jackson, looking round for an adult, located a youthful riding instructress and making his way through the ponies asked, ‘Is Mr. Keswick here this morning?’

  ‘Mr. Keswick? Yes, he’s just doing his horses. Look, in that loose-box over there.’ Dodging through the rest of the children, who were now mostly mounted and calling out for help in adjusting their stirrups to the right length, Jackson reached the loose-box.

  Inside was a large bay horse, which with villainous expression and much exposure of huge yellow teeth snapped at the air and the door and almost at Jackson as it submitted to having its stomach groomed.

  ‘Mr. Keswick?’ asked Jackson. The man in the loosebox stopped grooming and straightened up and at once the horse assumed a mild, almost benign expression.

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’ Keswick came to the door.

  ‘Detective-Superintendent Jackson, County Police. I would like to interview you in connection with the death of Miss Thistleton,’ said Jackson. ‘Is there anywhere here where we can talk undisturbed?’

  Keswick scratched his head and looked round the yard. ‘If you can wait a minute or two till this rabble clears off I can find somewhere,’ he answered. ‘I’ll just finish this horse.’ He removed three straws from the horse’s tail and gave it a perfu
nctory brush. Then he threw on a checked summer sheet, buckled it over the horse’s chest, drew up the surcingle and, collecting his tools into a wooden box, he came out into the yard as the ponies clattered away down the road. ‘I’ll just see where we can talk,’ he said, and disappeared round a corner. He returned a moment later. ‘The saddle room’s full of St. Trinian’s girls and Mr. Goff s in the office, so we’ll have to use the forage room, I’m afraid.’ He led the way into a wooden lean-to building with a concrete floor. A row of corn bins stood along one wall. Squat sacks crowded together in a corner. Heath Robinson-looking machines — the oat crusher and chaff cutter — took on a mediaeval air, as they stood among the brightly-coloured paper sacks which held the modern horse nuts.

  ‘Take a pew,’ said Laurence Keswick, seating himself on a corn bin. Jackson, who had observed the white floury dust which covered everything, prudently leaned against the door post. Roper sat down on a bale of hay which awaited conversion into chaff.

  For a moment or two Jackson stood looking at Keswick in silence. The man appeared good-humoured and relaxed. Apart from his height and the long face, which was well-proportioned and pleasant-looking, he did not resemble the dead woman at all. He had rough dark hair, very steady grey eyes, a straight nose and a slightly sardonic mouth.

  ‘Full names?’ asked Jackson suddenly.

  ‘Laurence John Bartholomew Keswick,’ Keswick answered, with a wry look at Roper, who had to write it down.

  ‘You were related to Miss Thistleton?’

  ‘Yes, she was my first cousin once removed; she and my mother were first cousins.’

  ‘Did you know that you were chief beneficiary under her will?’

  ‘Yes, I had a letter from the solicitors this morning.’

  ‘Was that the first you knew about it?’

  ‘It was the first time I knew for certain. My cousin actually announced that I was her heir on my twenty-first birthday, it caused a family row as my parents thought the expectation of so much money would ruin my character, but I never dared to count on it. For one thing at that time, sixteen or seventeen years ago, she might still have married and then she’s always been rather a difficult person and very easy to quarrel with.’

  ‘You were at the Upshott Show on Friday and Saturday, did you have any conversation with Miss Thistleton there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘None at all?’ Jackson sounded disbelieving.

  Keswick said, ‘Well, I suppose this has got to come out sooner or later, but the fact was that we were — well, that she was quarrelling with me. I’d had a letter from her on the Friday morning and I was waiting until I’d cooled off before I answered it and knowing what she’s like — she never hesitated to speak her mind in the most public places — I thought I’d better keep away from her or we’d be having a slanging match in the middle of the show-ground.’

  ‘Have you this letter?’ asked Jackson.

  ‘No,’ Keswick answered, ‘I tore it up.’

  ‘Did she threaten to disinherit you?’

  ‘Oh yes, very melodramatic, all the lot.’

  ‘And it was over your marriage, I believe,’ said Jackson.

  For the first time during the interview Keswick looked uncomfortable. ‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘you seem to know a lot about it.’

  ‘Miss Thistleton disapproved of divorce, I take it, and thought she might dissuade you from contemplating such a step?’ said Jackson.

  ‘We’ll, she’d never shown any sign of holding strong views on the subject before. I think, myself, she liked to wield power, or she may just have been in a bad temper; she had very little control over her temper. Though I do think,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘that in her own way, which was far from demonstrative, she was fond of Marion — my wife — that might possibly have caused her to take sides.’

  ‘So you hadn’t answered Miss Thistleton’s letter and you didn’t speak to her between receiving it and her death,’ said Jackson thoughtfully. ‘Now, what about your wife — I imagine you had some conversation with her at the show?’

  ‘No.’ Keswick looked decidedly uncomfortable. ‘I — er — raised a hand in greeting, but I don’t think she saw me, that was all.’

  ‘Have you communicated with her since you left home?’

  ‘Sent her my address.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you go near Miss Thistleton’s horse-box?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you aware that the thermos containing the poisoned drink was in the horse-box under your wife’s care all day?’ Jackson’s voice was loud and very hard.

  ‘No, I wasn’t aware of that.’ Keswick raised his voice too. ‘I thought the secretaries looked after that sort of thing.’

  Abruptly Jackson changed his tone and the subject.

  ‘You know Miss Christina Scott?’ he asked, and when Keswick agreed that he did, ‘What sort of position did she hold in Miss Thistleton’s establishment?’

  ‘She rode for T.T. She jumped the horses at the shows for a fee and, I believe, a retainer; the same sort of arrangement as a jockey has. She would go over to Whittam and give them a school and sometimes she would train a young horse, but she never did any stable work or anything like that. She’s what’s called a professional in the show-jumping world, and she can’t ride in the Olympics. The whole set-up’s an anomaly though, because the rest of us are amateurs though we all depend on the prize money, and selling the odd horse on the side, to keep going.’

  ‘Yes, I see. Now, Miss Thistleton seems to have made a change, on Saturday a boy called Brown was riding instead.’

  ‘That’s right. There seems to have been a dust-up; I’ve heard a lot of rumours about what happened but I don’t actually know. Anyway T.T. changed her rider in the middle of a show, which is a fairly drastic thing to do.’

  ‘And the Chesterfields?’ asked Jackson. ‘Do you know them?’

  ‘Yes, well,’ Keswick answered. ‘Charity Chesterfield’s rather a splendid person once you’ve penetrated her alarming exterior; her husband died about two years ago and since then she’s brought up the children and coped with everything. Sarah, the daughter, is the one who jumps.’

  ‘Now, do you intend staying here, Mr. Keswick? I shall have to get in touch with you again.’

  ‘I haven’t made any plans yet,’ Keswick answered. ‘As I told you I only heard from the solicitors this morning. I’ve arranged to go to London tomorrow to meet them and the executors; the main problem at the moment is the horses — both my cousin’s and my own.’

  ‘Well, as soon as you decide on a course of action perhaps you’d let me know. Just telephone the Hamberley Police Station and leave a message for me, Detective-Superintendent Jackson.’

  *

  When Jackson and Roper rang the ship’s bell in the thatched porch at Paddock Cottage, Christina Scott had just come in from exercising her one sound youngster. Dressed in blue jeans and a red and white checked shirt, she opened the door to the detectives and, on learning who they were, she invited them in.

  Jackson had to bend almost double to enter the low-beamed sitting-room and when he raised his head he found himself muffled in chintz. The small windows were heavily curtained and pelmeted, the chairs wore flounces down to their feet, the cushions were frilled; observing brass knick-knacks, glossy magazines and no space left in which to put things down, Jackson denounced it to himself as a woman’s room and gingerly lowered himself into the largest and plainest of the armchairs.

  ‘Full names?’ he asked, while Roper was still searching his pockets for his pen.

  ‘Christina Mabel Scott,’ she answered briskly.

  ‘Now, Miss Scott, I understand that until last Friday you rode for the late Miss Thistleton?’

  ‘Yes, that’s so and on Friday we decided — well — to go our own ways, for the moment anyway.’

  ‘What brought that about?’ asked Jackson.

  ‘Well, Miss Thistleton wasn’t satisfied w
ith the way the horses were going; nor was I, for that matter,’ she laughed. It was a hard, scornful little laugh. ‘But we couldn’t agree on a remedy. She wasn’t prepared to accept my suggestions and I wasn’t prepared to take all the blame. So it seemed best to part.’

  ‘Surely it was rather drastic to make a change like that in the middle of the show?’ asked Jackson.

  ‘Well, Miss Thistleton, or T.T. as she was known in the show-jumping world, was like that. I mean if she’d asked me to go on for a day or two I would have done so — for the sake of the horses — but she didn’t.’ Christina made a gesticulation of despair with her hands. ‘What could I do?’

  ‘Mr. Keswick seemed to have heard rumours of a quarrel between you and his cousin,’ said Jackson.

  ‘I don’t know how Laurence Keswick has the face to talk about rumours considering what’s flying round about him.’ Christina spoke energetically and her dark eyes were angry. ‘And three parts of it true. At least he might arrange things better so’s not to have two of his women at the same show.’

  ‘Was that at Upshott?’ asked Jackson.

  ‘Yes, poor Marion Keswick looked as though she were on the verge of a breakdown and there was Laurence with that common little slut Helen Farrell hanging round his neck. She may be Lord Creech’s daughter, but I still say she’s a common little slut — three husbands by the time she was thirty.’ Christina looked at Jackson defiantly.

  ‘Is she the cause of the break-up?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I don’t think so. She’s been abroad and she’s only just come back now that she’s got her divorce; looking for husband number four, I suppose.’ Christina laughed. ‘No,’ she went on, becoming serious again, ‘the Keswicks have been breaking up for a long time. It was money with them. Laurence wanted to show jump. Well, if a man wants to show jump and keep a family he’s either got to have plenty of money, be in the army or turn pro. Laurence came out of the army, bought a rotten little smallholding and tried to make a living out of that and show-jumping. Of course he failed. Marion’s put up with it for a long time. Now, of course, they’ve a quarter of a million, but I think it’s too late. Helen Farrell will use every trick she’s got to hook Laurence — she’s a proper little gold-digger — I don’t think Marion stands a chance.’