“That seems to be the general opinion,” I observed mildly to the colonel and Jane. “Not one person I’ve talked with since the murder happened has had anything very positive to say about the late, and definitely unlamented, Miss Abigail Winterton.”
The colonel harrumphed into his tea, while Jane urged me on with one raised eyebrow.
“The question that pops into my mind,” I continued, “quite naturally, I think, is why did everyone dislike the poor soul so much? What did she do that was so offensive?”
The colonel gave me rather a nasty look over his teacup. Perhaps he might not be terribly forthcoming with gardening tips, after all.
Clearing his throat, the colonel said in his surprisingly high voice, “She was a busybody, that’s why. Damned, interfering snoop.” He ducked his head briefly in Jane’s direction. “Pardon the strong language, ma’am. The woman was a sight too interested in everyone else’s affairs. Had this sly way of asking questions.”
“Such as?” I prompted when the colonel fell silent.
In a rumble eerily reminiscent of the late, unlamented’s voice, he said, “ ‘So you’re a widower, Colonel. I suppose your late wife probably succumbed to one of those nasty tropical fevers among those heathens out in India. Such a terrible waste, I’m sure.’ ”
“Oh, dear, Colonel,” Jane said, “that was rather nasty, wasn’t it?”
The colonel laughed grimly. “M’wife was run over by a lorry in Islington, which is what I told the damned idiot woman after she asked me that fool question.” He snorted. “Exactly what she wanted all along. She’d say something outrageous, then tilt her head like a bird waiting for a bug, and you’d end up answering her question, whether you wanted to or not.”
I set my tea aside for the moment. “I couldn’t help but notice, Colonel, even in my brief time in the village, that Miss Winterton seemed inordinately interested in several people.” I had done no such thing, of course, but the colonel didn’t need to know I was lying. “She seemed quite fascinated by the vicar and Mrs. Butler-Melville, for example, not to mention Trevor Chase.”
The colonel looked carefully down at his hands, which trembled slightly. He, too, set down his teacup. “Vicar and his wife are a happily married couple. Abigail Winterton envied that, always trying to wedge herself in somehow. No one had ever seen fit to marry her. Had to get her claws into anyone who was happily married.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” I said; then, struck by some sort of weird inspiration, I went on. “But the odd thing was that she kept going on and on about skiing holidays in one conversation I overheard.” I affected a puzzled look while casting my eyes sideways at the colonel’s face.
The skin seemed to have tightened all across the colonel’s face. Otherwise he gave no sign that he knew what I was talking about. The man had iron control.
“I couldn’t imagine what she was going on about since she didn’t look like the skiing type to me, but you never know. She could have been quite the sports-woman, as far as I knew.” I babbled on for a moment, waiting for further signs of reaction, but none came.
“I don’t imagine that anyone would have called Abigail a sportswoman.” Jane finally entered the conversation again. “I cannot imagine, either, why she would be so interested in skiing. But perhaps she was merely inquiring about someone’s holidays.”
“Certainly likely to do that,” the colonel agreed. He held his cup out to Jane for more tea.
“And then one time,” I went on mendaciously, “I heard her talking to Trevor Chase about his teaching experience. I of course hadn’t known that he had been a teacher, but I suppose it should have been no great surprise to me.”
This time the colonel didn’t seem to react, or else he had schooled himself to hide any further reactions. I kept nattering on about various inconsequential things, slipping in teasers about Samantha Stevens and her husband and the Blitheringtons, but the colonel never batted an eyelash. He was not going to confide in Jane and me about his son’s death, that seemed obvious. Jane and I would have to dig further for the truth of what happened.
The colonel had little to add to the conversation, so Jane and I did our best to fill the void with friendly chatter. At a signal from Jane, I asked the colonel if I might avail myself of his facilities, and rather curtly he directed me upstairs to the first-floor landing.
On the way up the stairs I glanced quickly around for any signs of family photographs, anything that might give a clue to the colonel’s past. There had been nothing in his sitting room, not even a regimental photo. I opened the bathroom door, waited a second, then closed it with a bit of a bang. Then I tiptoed across the hall into what looked to be the colonel’s bedroom, hoping that the floorboards wouldn’t squeak and betray me.
For a moment, I thought this room, like downstairs, was totally devoid of any kind of memorabilia. Then I espied one small frame on the dressing table. I moved quickly and silently over to it and picked it up.
Two faces stared back at me, the colonel’s and his son’s. At least I presumed it was the son, but the young man in the photograph looked nothing like the colonel. Perhaps he favored his mother. I glanced around the room again. There were no other photographs in evidence. Odd. I would have thought that the colonel would display at least one photograph of his late wife.
Time was ticking by much too quickly. I needed to be back downstairs. I glanced at the photo again. The colonel looked much younger in this one. Most likely it was taken not long before the son’s death. His clothes looked vintage for the early 1970s, at least. The face was not handsome but had at least enough character to keep it from being plain. His hair was cut so short, he looked almost bald. His nose was rather big and slightly hooked, I thought. If it weren’t for that, he would have been almost good-looking.
I put the picture down and tiptoed back out onto the landing. I opened the bathroom door silently, shut it behind me, then flushed the toilet I ran water in the basin for a moment, then opened the door again and clumped back downstairs.
Jane had the colonel safely on the subject of gardens, and I chimed in, offering several sincere compliments on his own garden. The colonel thawed enough actually to offer to come and give me some advice on my garden. He even said he could recommend someone to do the work for me if I wished.
I definitely wished. I didn’t want to grub about in the dirt myself. There are times when a vampire wants to cover himself in soil, but this wasn’t one of them.
Jane indicated that it was time to end our little visit. We thanked the colonel for the tea and for his advice, and he accompanied us to the front door. He pointed out several plants in the garden, and I praised their color and vitality.
Then Jane and I were walking down the High Street again toward her cottage.
“So?” Jane said when we were at her gate again. “Did you find anything upstairs?”
“One photograph of the colonel and his son, I assume.” I described it to her. She agreed that it was most likely Lester Clitheroe in the picture.
“There was something familiar about him,” I said. “I can’t quite place it, but I think I’ve seen him somewhere before.”
“But if he’s dead, Simon, how could you have?” Jane asked reasonably.
“I don’t know, Jane,” I looked at her sharply. “But what if he’s not dead?”
“What if he and Neville Butler-Melville faked the accident, you mean?” Jane said.
“Exactly! What if Lester Clitheroe is alive and well and living here in Snupperton Mumsley? Or somewhere nearby?”
“But why?” Jane said. “Why would he have wanted to pretend to die and then take on another identity?”
“That’s what we have to discover,” I said. “This could simply be some wild idea. I don’t know, but it bears a bit of investigation.”
“Yes,” Jane said. “It’s not any more far-fetched, I suppose, than anything else we’ve hit upon. I tell you what, Simon. I have a friend in Oxford who can help us. I’ll ring her this evening, and if I can, I’ll go to see her tomorrow and try to dig up some of the history of Lester Clitheroe and Neville Butler-Melville before the accident.”
“Capital idea, Jane!” I said. “But before I forget, what happened with the detective inspector this afternoon?” The self-satisfaction in Jane’s smile befit a Wimbledon champion. “Everything went according to plan, Simon. We went upstairs to look at Abigail’s books, and I picked one up off the shelf. And for some odd reason, several pieces of paper fell out of them. The detective inspector gathered them up, and I can tell you, I wouldn’t be in the shoes of the men who searched Abigail’s house.”
“Whew,” I said in mock relief. “I’m glad the evidence is found. You’re something else, Jane, you know that.”
“Yes, Simon,” Jane said, “I do.” With that, she turned and went up the walk to her front door.
She definitely knew an exit line when she heard it, I mused as I wandered on to my own front door.
I was a bit disappointed, though I was loath to admit it, that Giles had gone. The scent of him lingered on, and once I was again dressed in my writing duds, I let it settle around me as I got back to writing.
I worked hard until sometime in the morning, pausing only briefly for a quick snack around midnight. Around three, I finally turned off the computer and went up to bed for a slightly extended nap. I was back downstairs, showered and perky, working away, by the time Giles arrived a little after nine o’clock.
“Good morning, Giles,” I greeted him from behind my desk, hands resting idly on the keyboard of my computer.
Giles dropped a small satchel down upon the table where he had been working yesterday. “Simon, you’ll never believe this!”
He paused dramatically. “They’ve arrested Trevor Chase for the murder of Abigail Winterton!”