Rack, Ruin and Murder Read online

  It stood opposite the old church of St Ambrose, which now had a sadly neglected look. The ex-schoolhouse was a compact building of late Victorian design, probably one of the National Schools built after the education reforms brought in by Gladstone’s government with the Education Act of 1870. Then there would have been plenty of children in the village to fill its classrooms. The number of young families living here had dwindled over the years, driven out by lack of good jobs and shortage of affordable housing as affluent town-dwellers sought holiday homes. The result had been closure of the school and its sale and conversion to private dwelling.

  And an impressive private residence, at that! Carter thought. There was nothing neglected about the schoolhouse. On the contrary, a good deal of money had been spent converting it. Evidence of a garden could be seen to the side and rear, trees and bushes showing darker against the gloaming, but the front area – where infants had once raced noisily about the playground – had been brick-paved to provide plenty of parking spaces. They were needed this evening. The owners must be entertaining. Light beamed from the uncurtained downstairs windows, allowing him glimpses of people within, moving about, drinks in hand. A party was just getting under way. There was a home caterer’s van tucked away in the corner of the parking area. The glimmer of a street light let him see the painted legend Dine in Style. So they’d be sitting down to dinner soon. It reminded him that he was hungry.

  At that moment, the front door was unexpectedly thrown open and a woman was outlined against the hall lights. She came hurrying towards his car.

  ‘Jay!’ she called eagerly. ‘We’d about given you up! What happened? Why are you—’

  Her voice faltered and she stopped, almost right beside the car now, realising that this wasn’t the expected, delayed, guest.

  Carter was embarrassed and cursed his clumsiness in just sitting here, staring at the place. He could see the people inside. They, therefore, could see him – or see his car apparently parked out front. He let down the side window and switched on the interior light so that she could see him.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘You’re not Jay. He’s got that make of car… I thought…’ A touch of panic was entering her voice and her manner changed from uncertain to hostile. Any moment now and she’d ask him what the hell he meant, sitting there, watching them.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘I’ve just been visiting an old friend, Mrs Farrell. She lives in the cottage at the end of this street, near the church. She used to be schoolmistress here when this place was a school. She told me it was a private house now and I was curious enough to stop and take a look at it.’

  ‘Oh, Monica…’ she said slowly, relaxing. ‘Yes, she used to be a schoolteacher here. She’s always talking about it.’ She still wasn’t quite sure, watching him carefully as if memorising his features.

  Probably so that she could describe him to the police if necessary, thought Carter wryly. These were wealthy people; a stranger casing the place would be noted and reported. He could see her better now. She was a buxom blonde in her forties, heavily made up but attractive. Her taste in jewellery was flamboyant and her chandelier earrings trembled, glittering like Christmas tree decorations in the light from his car.

  ‘It’s all right—’ he began. But he was interrupted.

  A man came out of the house, a squat, beefy figure, and strode towards them. ‘Terri? What are you doing out here? They’re all waiting for their grub and the caterers want to serve up. Who’s this bloke?’ He peered angrily at Carter.

  ‘I was just explaining to your wife,’ Carter said, wishing he’d driven straight past this place. It was all getting complicated. ‘Look,’ he said, reaching into his jacket for his police ID, ‘I’m not a suspicious stranger, I’m a police officer…’

  This was worse.

  ‘Police?’ squeaked Terri, jumping back as if he had said he was the Grim Reaper. ‘I thought he was Jay, Billy. He’s driving a Lexus, just like Jay’s…’

  Hurriedly Carter began his explanation about having paid a visit to Mrs Farrell – but he was not allowed finish.

  The man, Billy Hemmings presumably, exploded. ‘What? That old biddy’s reported us to the police? I suppose this is about the ruddy cats!’

  ‘No,’ Carter said patiently. ‘I’ve been paying a purely social visit to Monica Farrell. She’s by way of being a relative.’

  ‘Oh?’ This was plainly disbelieved. ‘She didn’t complain about our dogs, then?’ The tone was sarcastic.

  ‘Well, yes, she did,’ Carter admitted. ‘But only in passing…’

  ‘She wants to keep her ruddy cats indoors!’

  ‘It’s not our fault!’ whined Terri. ‘Ours are lovely dogs, but they’re, well, dogs… Dogs chase cats, don’t they? It’s in their nature. You can’t go against nature, can you?’

  Carter had had enough of the pair of them. ‘Where are the dogs now?’ he asked. Not that he cared twopence, but with so many visitors on the premises, he would have expected the animals to be making a hell of a noise, barking.

  ‘Penned in the shed, round the back,’ snapped Hemmings, ‘just till everyone’s left tonight. My dogs only chase her moggies because they stray on to our property.’

  ‘The law recognises that cats roam,’ Carter said. ‘But I am surprised they come on to your property when you have dogs loose.’

  ‘She’s told you about the time I was walking Benji and Rex in the churchyard, I suppose,’ Terri began, ‘and they spotted her rotten cats, who were doing their business right there among the graves…’

  ‘Shut up, Terri,’ said her dearly beloved brusquely. She shut up.

  ‘I’m keeping you from your guests,’ Carter said, ‘Goodnight.’ He switched off the interior light and pressed the button to raise the window.

  The Hemmingses watched him drive away.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ murmured Carter as he drove back to town through the twisting lanes. ‘I wonder if friend Hemmings is on the police computer? I think I recognise a shady operator when I meet one! Monica’s a shrewd old bird. “Shifty”, she’d called Hemmings. How did you make the money to buy the old schoolhouse and entertain lavishly, Billy, I wonder?’

  Unprompted, a thought suddenly leaped into his head. Where was the missing guest, Jay, who owned a Lexus?

  ‘Is it possible?’ he mused, then shook his head. No, couldn’t be.

  Chapter 5

  ‘He’s not bonkers,’ said Jess firmly. ‘He’s just different.’

  ‘And unwashed, I understand,’ said Ian Carter.

  ‘That’s not altogether his fault. He’s been living on the ground floor of Balaclava House. There is no proper bathroom downstairs, only a cloakroom with a loo attached. It’s a very old loo, incidentally. The pan is probably Victorian, of an age with the house. It’s covered in willow pattern, blue and white. The bathrooms upstairs have cobwebs all over them and rusty taps. But Monty never goes upstairs. He’s got bad knees. He “washes down”, as he puts it, in the kitchen and hasn’t had a bath or shower for years. The grime has sort of – built up.’ Jess gave a rueful smile.

  ‘Charming,’ said Carter. ‘Couldn’t he have had the downstairs cloakroom converted to a shower room?’

  ‘It would have meant having workmen in,’ she explained. ‘Anyway, he likes the house the way it is. He doesn’t want it modernised.’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve got a soft spot for him.’ There was a warning note in his voice.

  ‘It won’t colour my judgement, sir.’

  ‘Good!’

  She tried not to let him see how much that irritated her. She turned her head away so that he shouldn’t see it, and glanced at the window. It was the following morning, promising a mild late summer day. Rain had been forecast within the next twenty-four hours, but there was little sign of it. It was a pity about the spell of dry weather from a detection point of view. It meant they’d found no tyre or footprints on the road past Balaclava House; just some in old, dried mud, recognisably made by a tractor,
presumably from Sneddon’s Farm.

  She turned back to her boss. Now that they’d worked together for a while, he usually called her ‘Jess’, particularly when no one else was around. When he called her by her surname, he really was put out about something but not, usually, anything she’d done. He wasn’t the critical sort. He didn’t breathe down an officer’s neck. On the other hand, he had a way of making you realise you had to get it right. So far, Jess had got things right. But he would expect progress and she hoped she’d make some that afternoon.

  The superintendent was still new here and the truth was, they hadn’t quite got used to him. Not, thought Jess, that he was a person you got ‘used to’ very easily. She always had the feeling there was something going on in his mind he wasn’t saying aloud. On the other hand, he had a way of getting other people to say out loud what was on their minds – even if originally they had not intended to. Jess, having sussed this out, was ready for it and had begun to phrase her answers accordingly. He probably realised that, of course. And this morning he’d sprung another surprise, wrong-footing her again. He was ahead of her in finding out more about Monty Bickerstaffe. He’d just recounted the information learned on his visit the previous evening to Mrs Farrell.

  She knew that Carter was right to warn her about developing ‘a soft spot’ for Monty. She had already begun to feel protective towards the old man and it was a step from that to becoming possessive. It rankled that Carter had been telling her all about the Bickerstaffes and not the other way round. The family fortune had been built and lost, as far as she could gather, on a type of fruit cake. Well, people had made fortunes from equally odd things. She really wished she could have found out all this for herself and been the one to tell Carter. But she couldn’t have done it half so well, because she hadn’t had the necessary contact. He did have, in some old lady who was a mine of information. Would you believe it? He was supposed to be a newcomer to the area and it turned out he’d got a relative here – or rather his ex-wife’s relative. She knew he was unmarried, but had supposed that at some point he’d been in a long-term relationship or a marriage. She’d also assumed, as they all had, that it had ended in breakup or divorce. Now she’d had confirmation of the fact, she had no idea how recently all this had happened. How warily did she need to tread? Was that why he had moved down here from the other end of the country? Making a break, beginning again… didn’t people often try and deal with the situation like that? Presumably he’d no children. She couldn’t even be sure about that.

  Jess met the quizzical gaze of his eyes. Depending on the light, they either looked greenish or brownish. Today, she thought, they were brownish. She had the uneasy feeling he’d been reading her mind. No, she told herself next, that’s just me feeling guilty. Pull yourself together, Jess!

  ‘You believe someone has been using one of the upstairs bedrooms,’ he said with sudden briskness as if he, too, were shrugging off some unwished-for frame of mind. He frowned, drumming his fingertips on the top of his desk. ‘That’s very odd. Bickerstaffe didn’t mention anything about that? You’re sure he doesn’t sleep up there himself?’

  ‘Absolutely. I told you—’ She corrected herself hurriedly. ‘I was explaining to you earlier that he doesn’t go upstairs. I saw a bed of sorts made up on a chaise longue in the corner of the drawing room. That must be what he uses himself. But someone has been up there in that one bedroom, and cleaned surfaces and so on, before Morton and I saw the room. It’s definitely been in use. You can tell just from the atmosphere. It’s not so stuffy as the other rooms; windows have been opened recently. It feels lived in. Scenes of Crime couldn’t lift any usable fingerprints.’

  ‘That thoroughly cleaned, eh?’ Carter murmured.

  ‘Yes, polished to a shine. Makes you think. There is the blanket left on the bed. We don’t know yet if we can get any DNA from that. It’s out of keeping with everything else in the house. Whoever has been using the room brought it in. The thought of any Bickerstaffe buying something synthetic and bright candy pink is just impossible. Anyway, there is a linen cupboard up there full of old sheets and blankets. Why not use one of those?’ Jess answered her own question, ‘Because the person using the room didn’t know about the supply in the linen cupboard. By the way, I checked out the contents of that cupboard. The blankets in the cupboard are all woollen and some of them have Second World War period utility labels in them.’

  ‘I’m surprised you recognised those,’ Carter said with a smile.

  Jess bridled. Why the heck shouldn’t she? ‘I’ve seen the mark before,’ she told him stiffly. ‘My mother’s branch of the Women’s Institute organised an exhibition called the Home Front. You’d be surprised what people dug out of their attics for it. Someone brought in a gas mask. Some families just don’t clear out old stuff. Bickerstaffes are that sort. You can bet your boots they have never thrown anything away or bought anything new, unless it was absolutely necessary. Monty’s always lived in that house. He’s inherited ancestral junk and gone on adding to it. Whatever has been going on in that bedroom, I’m absolutely sure Monty’s blissfully ignorant of the whole thing.’

  ‘Because he claims never to go upstairs.’ Carter sighed. ‘We can’t take everything he says as gospel. He may wander up there occasionally and has just forgotten the last time he did so. It’s his home. Why shouldn’t he take a walk round it now and then?’

  ‘If Monty saw a candy-pink nylon blanket on one of the beds, he’d notice that and he’d remember it!’ Jess argued.

  Carter held up a placating hand. ‘You’re probably right. I just find it very odd. But then, everyone seems agreed Monty is very odd, even if he isn’t, as you describe it, quite bonkers. Well, you’ll have to ask him outright about it. It’s still possible, whatever you feel, that he may just not have been volunteering information he thinks is none of our business. I’ve dealt with the type before. Bickerstaffe isn’t a social animal. He isn’t going to open up to you or anyone else and tell them his innermost thoughts. He probably thinks the less he tells the police, the sooner we’ll go away and leave him in peace. You’ll have to make it clear to him the reverse is true.’

  ‘I plan to drive over to Mrs Harwell’s home and interview him again there this afternoon. But I’ll have to be awfully careful how I tell him he’s had an intruder. I don’t want to frighten him. He is very elderly.’ Jess knew she was sounding stubborn.

  ‘All right, let’s suppose Monty is quite ignorant of his visitor or visitors. The next question is: are they connected with the dead man in the drawing room downstairs? And when did the thorough cleaning of the room take place? If the phantom visitors did put our corpse on that sofa, they would have been keen to get out of the place before Monty came home and found them. So, are we to believe they sought out dusters and brushes and spent anything up to half an hour polishing upstairs?’ Carter shook his head. ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘That definitely doesn’t make sense.’

  This time Jess had to agree. ‘Sergeant Morton thinks the room was used for assignations.’ Feeling for some reason ridiculously embarrassed, she added, ‘Romantic ones. Junkies would have left needles. They always do. Drunks leave beer cans. Schoolkids leave empty cider bottles and sweet wrappers. These visitors didn’t bring booze or drugs. They just brought themselves.’

  ‘Why bother to clean up so thoroughly after themselves and yet leave a bright pink blanket in place to tell the tale?’ he countered.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Jess thought about it. ‘The blanket would be bulky when folded up. Perhaps it wasn’t convenient to remove it each time? This wasn’t a one-off visit, sir. That room has been aired regularly. It’s got a real atmosphere of regular use.’

  ‘They were careful to remove their fingerprints, these regular lovebirds, If that’s indeed what they were up to. They weren’t so carried away by passion they forgot about that.’ Carter drummed his fingers. ‘Yet leaving the blanket tells us they were confident Monty wouldn’t walk upstairs and find it. It suggests
they may have chosen the house because of the assured privacy. They knew the owner’s habits. So why so careful not to leave any prints if there was little risk of discovery?’

  Carter leaned back and folded his hands. For a moment they regarded one another in silence. Then the superintendent asked, ‘Where’s Sergeant Morton now?’

  ‘He’s gone to interview the neighbours. There’s a family called Colley that keeps a small pig farm next door to Balaclava House, although you can’t see it from the house because of a bend in the lane. You can smell it, though.’

  ‘Nice neighbours,’ commented Carter.

  ‘I don’t suppose the smell of the pigs bothers Monty. There is also another, larger, farm further on, belonging to a Pete Sneddon. I don’t think the Colleys will be helpful. If they know anything, they won’t tell us. They’re not the type to cooperate with the law. Morton might have more luck with Sneddon.’

  ‘I’d like to meet Mr Bickerstaffe,’ Carter said.

  Jess opened her mouth but he forestalled her protest. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not proposing to accompany you this afternoon. Bickerstaffe knows you. A stranger turning up with you might upset him. I’ll get a chance to make his acquaintance before too long, I dare say.’

  * * *

  While Jess’s conversation with Superintendent Carter was taking place, Phil Morton was carrying out the job of interviewing the Colley family. He stood at the gate barring the track leading into their property and surveyed the hand-printed notice that read ‘Beware of dogs’. He had parked his car in the road and had intended to walk up to the house, but not if ferocious dogs were on the loose. He could open the gate and drive through. He put out a hand and at once, as if they knew a stranger was about to invade the place, the dogs in question began to bark. They set up a deafening racket, but they didn’t appear.