ELEVEN

It was with the greatest regret that Tennant phoned the director of The Corn is Green and resigned his part as the Squire. This had happened so many times in the past that there were now serious doubts about casting him at all but one or two still had faith, though not for much longer if he continued at this rate, he thought. Nipping into The Great House before the meeting he downed a large vodka, while Potter, who was driving, consumed a St Clements.

‘I don’t like these things,’ he said to his sergeant.

‘Are you referring to the drink or the meeting, sir?’

‘The meeting, of course.’

‘I can’t think why not,’ Potter answered. ‘I would have thought you’d have been in your element. Standing on the stage with dozens of people looking at you. Just your thing.’

‘Well, you’re wrong. It’s very different. In acting you’re creating somebody else’s character. At this sort of meeting you’re seriously warning people to look out for themselves.’

‘It has to be done, sir. There’s obviously a lunatic about. People must take precautions.’

‘I should think they’ve already got the message.’

‘It’s our duty to reiterate it, sir.’

‘Yes, I know you’re right.’

Not altogether to his surprise Tennant saw that the Commemoration Hall was packed. The chairs had been taken out of their stacks and were now arranged in serried rows. He ran his eye over the gathering and saw that it contained several familiar faces. Ceinwen Carruthers was there, sitting amongst a handful of earnest ladies and one or two fey men who the inspector took to be the Pixie Poets. Sonia Tate, dolled up to the nines – as Tennant’s mother used to say – was batting a pair of false eyelashes, one of which had slipped slightly. Mavis Cox, looking businesslike, was sitting near the vicar, who was handsome in a lightweight summer suit and dog collar. Next to him sat Olivia, looking delightful – or so the inspector thought – in an emerald green dress with a scarlet sash. Sitting on her far side was Dr Rudniski, frowning seriously.

‘Who’s that?’ Tennant whispered to Potter, nodding in the direction of a very slim woman with a mass of jet black hair.

‘Cheryl Hamilton-Harty who runs the riding school. You want to watch her.’

As if she knew that someone was talking about her Miss Hamilton-Harty chose that moment to look round and wreathed her face into a daunting smile as she caught the inspector’s eye.

Tennant took his place on the platform along with several uniformed officers, Potter close by his side, and was just about to stand up when the door opened at the back and several latecomers walked in. These were led by Giles Fielding, who had clearly been tanking up before the meeting began, followed by Ivy Bagshot, who had not. She was followed by that beauty of another era, Roseanna Culpepper, who was walking with a man who the inspector took to be her husband.

Tennant cleared his throat and rose, pausing a moment before he spoke.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, good evening, and thank you so much for coming to this meeting which I hope will be of benefit to us all.’

Jack Boggis chose this moment to make an entrance, looking somewhat the worse for wear.

‘Hello, little lady,’ he called out and made a dash to sit close to Olivia but was fended off by the vicar and Dr Rudniski. Looking sour as a sloe he had to take a seat next to Mavis Cox which clearly did not please him at all.

‘Now that we are all here,’ said Tennant pointedly, ‘I’ll say what I have to as briefly as possible.’

‘Hear, hear.’ This from Boggis.

The inspector stared at him coolly, wondering if he could possibly be the man they were after. Jack, feeling several pairs of eyes turned in his direction, did his bluff Yorkshireman act. Nobody took any notice.

Tennant continued. ‘You can all rest assured that the mobile police headquarters will remain in Lakehurst for the foreseeable future. If any of you notice anything suspicious – anything at all – or if you see someone that you know behaving in an unaccustomed manner – ’ his eyes flicked on to Jack Boggis and remained there a second or two – ‘it is your duty to go and report it immediately. The station will be manned night and day so you can go in at any time. Or if you just feel like a chat or are anxious in any way, they are there to help you. Please remember that. Now are there any questions?’

There was the usual silence and then a hand shot up at the back of the hall. ‘Why are there so many police in Lakehurst at the moment? And how long are they going to stay here?’

‘They are here for your protection. I expect you have been visited by people doing house-to-house checks but you must realize that this is an essential part of our enquiries.’

The doctor asked a question. ‘Is it your intention to take a DNA sample from everyone in the village?’

Tennant paused. There had been talk of it but the odd thing was that the killer had left no traces at the various scenes of crime. It was almost as if he had been wearing protective clothing himself and quite definitely had worn disposable gloves. There had been no sperm, no sputum, nothing. The search for fingerprints and hairs had also been in vain.

‘No, not at this time,’ he answered.

‘Why not?’ Kasper persisted.

‘I am afraid I cannot answer that.’

Somebody else asked, ‘What would be your advice to people living on their own?’

‘Simply to lock yourselves in by both day and night. And not to allow anyone into your house until you have checked their ID. While we’re on that subject I notice that you have taken to walking round in pairs and I can’t tell you how sensible that is. And if you would all escort the elderly to and from their homes and check their premises for them, you would be doing a great service.’

Mrs Ivy Bagshot waved a skinny arm. ‘I am volunteering my services by offering a lift to all those who would like to share my car with me.’

Tennant felt he ought to murmur something about being public-spirited but just couldn’t bring himself to do so. He and Potter exchanged a glance bordering on a grin.

There was an ‘ooh’ of gratitude from her fellow WI members and during this Potter murmured, ‘Where’s Mr Bagshot?’

‘I think she “lawst” him,’ Tennant muttered back.

‘Not “lawst” but gone before,’ Potter mouthed silently.

‘Inspector.’ Ceinwen was on her feet.

‘Yes, Miss Carruthers?’

‘We Pixie Poets often wander in the woods at night, communing with nature and all that. I wonder whether you think this a good idea or not?’

‘Definitely not. I don’t know how many of you there are but I would strongly advise you to curtail your activities for the time being.’

Ceinwen neighed a laugh. ‘We usually number about six but if you advise against it we will certainly meet in one another’s houses.’

Boggis chimed in. ‘When are you going to catch this fella, that’s what I want to know?’

There were murmurs of assent from the audience.

Tennant faced them and said, ‘To be honest with you, I don’t know. I can tell you that the killer has left very little evidence for us to go on. But we have one or two clues naturally.’

That was a complete lie. The murderer seemed to know as much about forensic evidence as the experts. Even the notes had been handled with gloves and the familiar red scrawl was written with a plain red biro. At the moment the police had nothing to go on and could only hope that he would make a mistake in future. Yet that thought had the most sinister implications.

‘And what might they be?’ asked Boggis in a truly nasty tone of voice.

‘If you think, sir, that I am about to reveal them to a full public meeting then I am afraid you are extremely naive.’

‘Well, if that’s the best you can do I might as well go back to the pub as waste my time here,’ Boggis answered, and standing up began to clatter down the row.

‘One last thing, ladies and gentlemen,’ said the inspector loudly, drawing all eyes back to him, ‘I must impress on you that though the killer might have struck for the last time, it is possible that even at this very moment he might be somewhere in Lakehurst, or even sitting in this hall, contemplating his next move. I must enjoin you all to take care. Goodnight and thank you.’

He sat down and whispered to Potter, ‘How was that?’

‘Very good, apart from those interruptions by that fellow Boggis. Rude old bastard.’

‘I couldn’t agree more.’

But further conversation was impossible as various people bore down on them. Tennant found himself overwhelmed by the exotic smell of Mitsouko. Roseanna and Richard Culpepper were approaching him, wreathed in smiles.

Tonight she was wearing a slightly more fashionable slouch hat, her hair pulled back within its depths. Studying her, Tennant was overwhelmed by the fact that she must have been as stunning as Garbo in her heyday. Great cheekbones stood out under enormous eyes that even with all the wear of time held enchantment in their depths. Long – and natural – eyelashes drooped down in a face that once must have been quite magical. He almost felt overpowered by her presence but sensed that she hung back with a shyness that surely was not natural to her.

Beside her Richard had the slightly sad air of an actor who was destined to play bit parts all his life. His handsome forehead was sprinkled with a light perspiration and his slicked back hair hung down on his collar. He was trying desperately to look like a West End success and failing wretchedly. He held out his hand.

‘Good evening, sir. I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure of meeting as yet. I’m playing a part in London which includes Sundays, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh yes, Mr Culpepper. How do you do? I’ve already heard about your London engagement. You managed to get away this evening, though?’

‘Yes, and I am so glad I did. I hadn’t realized quite how horrendous things had become in Lakehurst. Roseanna tries to shield me from the grisliest facts, don’t you angel?’

He gave her waist an affectionate squeeze. She smiled up at him and it occurred to the inspector that she was actually in love with this ageing matinee idol.

‘So how come you are with us tonight?’ Tennant asked.

‘Actually the show was cancelled. The leading lady went down with tonsillitis, or some such thing.’

‘And no understudy?’

‘I’m afraid it’s only fringe theatre,’ Richard said with a sheepish grin.

‘I see.’

‘But it is very unlikely to happen again so please keep a special eye out for my wife, Inspector. I can’t bear to think of her living alone and being frightened.’

‘Could she not join you in your hotel in London?’ the inspector enquired.

‘Actually they are theatrical digs and not the sort of place I’d like Roseanna to have to live in.’

‘Well in that case I would advise that she went to stay with friends until this situation has sorted itself out.’

Richard’s expression became extremely earnest. ‘Unfortunately they all live miles away. It would be totally impractical.’

He’s got an answer for everything, thought Tennant. He smiled and said, ‘We’ll do our best to protect her, Mr Culpepper.’

‘Thanks so much,’ said Culpepper, and wrung Tennant’s hand.

He was stopped on the way out by the woman with the tumbling mass of black hair who identified herself immediately.

‘Hello, Mr Inspector. I’ve heard so much about you. I’m Cheryl Hamilton-Harty. I run a riding school out at Speckled Wood.’

Tennant smiled. ‘Any relation to the famous musician?’

She gave him a totally blank glance and said, ‘Was he in Queen?’

He ignored that and went on. ‘I believe my sergeant came to interview you.’

‘Yes. Very sweet. But I like dealing with the top man.’ She leant on him a little and said, ‘Would it be forward of me to invite you for a drink or are you still on duty?’

He wasn’t actually and he was briefly tempted to say no. And then he thought of her reputation and definitely decided to accept.

‘No, I’m not. Shall we go to The Great House?’

She gave him a brilliant glance. ‘No, let’s go to The White Hart. It doesn’t get as crowded.’

She drove him down Arrow Street in a very large four by four with a dog in the back which growled at Tennant suspiciously.

‘Oh shut up, Fern,’ Cheryl shouted at it.

It subsided but Tennant was aware of its eyes boring into his back and felt that on the slightest provocation it would take a bite out of him.

‘Good guard dog,’ he remarked.

‘Yeah. I’ve got another one at home. Mother and daughter. I call the daughter Flora. She’s watching the house while I’m out.’

‘Good idea.’

He was beginning to wish that he had bowed out of the arrangement but some devilish side of him had made him accept the invitation. As they walked into The White Hart somebody let out a low whistle and another hidden voice remarked, ‘Chattin’ up the police now, are we Cheryl?’ She giggled but said nothing and marched through the bar to a small alcove at the back where she plonked herself down. Tennant was left with no alternative but to ask her what she wanted to drink.

‘I’ll have a G and T, thanks.’

A wary-eyed Kylie served him, looking beyond his shoulder to where Ms Hamilton-Harty sat.

‘Gran’s poorly, Mr Tennant,’ she murmured.

‘I’ll look in on her tomorrow,’ he said and smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner.

‘She’d like that,’ she answered, and he thought how ill the poor girl looked.

Cheryl meanwhile had arranged her admirable figure into what she thought of as a provocative pose. The inspector had to admit that she was quite attractive though much older than she would admit to and extremely lined around the eyes, which on close inspection were quite small and hard and a rather insipid shade of blue.

‘Cheers,’ she said, clinking her glass against his.

‘Cheers,’ he replied, wishing he were somewhere else.

‘Well now, tell me everything,’ she said, and under the table he felt one of her feet play round one of his. He sat back, removing it as he did so.

‘What do you want me to say?’

‘Who do you think is behind all these killings for a start.’

‘I don’t know and even if I did I wouldn’t be able to tell you. Who do you think?’

Cheryl gave him a teasing smile and giggled relentlessly. ‘I think it’s old Jack Boggis.’

Tennant hid his look of surprise. ‘Why?’

‘He’s such an oddball. He lives alone, drinks himself stupid, doesn’t have a woman in his life despite his lechy behaviour, and hardly eats a thing.’

‘I wouldn’t have thought those were the characteristics of a typical murderer.’

‘Well I think he’s a dirty old man. He always stops when he drives past the riding stables and comes in for a peer round.’

‘I see. And where does he go when he drives off?’

Cheryl ran her hand through her luxuriant hair and screwed her eyes up in merriment. ‘How would I know? He could be going to Tunbridge Wells, Crowborough, who cares? I think he’s probably snooping round the house of that stuck-up Olivia Beauchamp.’

‘Surely you don’t mean that he burgles it?’

‘No, she’s probably given him a key.’

Tennant actually stopped listening, convinced that he was hearing the ramblings of a mega bitch. But whether his eyes glazed over or his expression became vacant, Cheryl guessed the truth.

‘I think you’re very rude,’ she said, a teasing expression on her face. She bit her lower lip, a habit that Tennant couldn’t abide. ‘You’re not paying me any attention.’

He guessed that this was one of her lines so he simply said, ‘You say that to all the boys.’

She looked fractionally put out and fortunately at that moment there was a welcome interruption. Potter panted in appearing out of breath and very slightly irritable.

‘Oh here you are, sir. I’ve been looking for you everywhere. I got quite panicky. No one seemed to know where you were.’

‘Well, sit down a minute while I finish my drink. Miss Hamilton-Harty this is Sergeant Potter.’

‘Hello,’ she said, looking Potter up and down and then giving him a long, slow smile which meant she preferred him to Tennant. ‘How very nice to see you again.’

The inspector recalled, somewhat late, that Potter had already interviewed her.

‘Oh you two have met,’ he said.

‘Oh yes,’ said Cheryl, giving Potter an upward glance. ‘I promised to take him riding on one of his days off.’

‘Yes,’ answered Tennant, ‘I’m quite sure you did.’