Sergeant Lambert’s landlady managed easily enough to arrange her little tea-party for four o’clock on Sunday afternoon, giving Eunice Sheldrake time, after teaching Sunday School, to drive home and pick up her mother.
Mrs Sheldrake was still handsome enough in her way, a tall, commanding-looking, amply upholstered woman, corseted with elegant restraint, dressed with expensive provincial chic, her white hair beautifully cut and set. Her manner towards the world in general was patronizing and dominating.
Eunice was shorter and several stones lighter, with a face that might at best be called plain. Her clothes were every bit as expensive as her mother’s but succeeded only in appearing dowdy and old-fashioned. With her skinny, slightly stooping, almost bosomless frame, she looked an acidulated spinster.
Lambert was waiting in the sitting room when they arrived. His landlady brought them in and Mrs Sheldrake gave him a lofty nod. ‘Are you working on this horrible case at Overmead?’ she asked as she graciously took her seat. Lambert murmured something non-committal in reply and she at once abandoned the topic and launched into a discussion with his landlady–more of a soliloquy on Mrs Sheldrake’s part than a discussion–about fund-raising events to mark the centenary of a ladies’ guild, the committee of which they both adorned. Eunice sipped her tea and toyed with her food in silence and for several minutes Lambert was able to devote his attention to his landlady’s excellent scones and superb walnut cake. Then his landlady took Mrs Sheldrake off to another room to look over a provisional programme of events she had drawn up.
As soon as the door closed behind them Eunice’s manner underwent a marked change. She looked across at Lambert with a matey, conspiratorial smile. ‘I could see you didn’t want to talk in front of Mother.’ She made a coy little face. ‘I realize you have to be terribly discreet–but you know me, I’d never break a confidence or say anything out of turn. You are working on the Overmead case, aren’t you?’ Lambert admitted as much with a movement of his head.
Now she was off, in full flood, getting it all out before the others could return. ‘I never actually met the poor girl that was killed,’ she said in rapid tones. ‘I knew she’d gone to live with the Wilmots, of course, Ian mentioned it. And I saw her in town once or twice with Christine.’ She leaned forward. ‘I know the Wilmots quite well. Christine often calls in at the office to have a word with Ian. And I’ve been out to Jubilee Cottage a couple of times.’ She gave a mischievous grin. ‘I can’t say I was ever actually invited but I couldn’t resist finding an excuse to call in once or twice at a weekend when I was out that way in the car. I wanted to see what they’d made of the cottage.’
She jerked her head in a knowing fashion. ‘They’ve made a very fair job of it. Of course they got every possible grant from the local authority. Ian knows his way round every nook and cranny of the system, I’ll give him that.’ She raised a hand. ‘Not that I’m for one moment suggesting anything not strictly legal–and no question of any outright queue-jumping, either–but it certainly never hurts to know your way around.’ She paused and gave him a meaningful glance. ‘Do you happen to know how the Wilmots came by the cottage in the first place?’
Lambert shook his head. Eunice put her elbows on the table, linked her hands under her chin and fixed him with her light green eyes.
‘The pair of cottages belonged to an old lady. She lived in one and let the other to an old man, that had been the situation for years. Both the cottages were pretty run-down. The old man got very strange towards the end and wouldn’t let anyone in to do repairs and then the old lady started to let her own place go downhill as well, it all got to be too much of a bother.
‘Then the old man died. She realized something would have to be done or both cottages would fall down. By this time, of course, the cost of repairs, particularly repairs to period dwellings, had shot sky-high. She got a terrible fright when she started making inquiries. One of the builders she went to told her she might qualify for a repair grant, so she came wandering into our office to see if we could help her.
‘Ian Wilmot took her under his wing. He ran her back to the cottages and had a good look round, then he went into her financial situation with her.’ She removed her elbows from the table and sat back in her chair with an air of satisfaction. ‘The upshot was that in no time at all he and Christine moved into the vacant cottage–they’d been living in rented accommodation, no great shakes.’
She raised a hand again. ‘Not that I’m suggesting anything irregular or out of order. Ian arranged for the grant, the repairs, and all the rest of it. And he and Christine kept an eye on the old lady for the rest of her days. She died a year or two later.’ She directed at him a look heavy with significance. ‘She left both cottages to the Wilmots. It seems she had no relatives. She left the Wilmots her savings as well–and they amounted to a good deal more than you might have supposed.’
She pursed her lips. ‘Christine had been working in a supermarket ever since they moved to Cannonbridge. She gave her job up right away and started her mail-order and sales-party business. And Ian lost no time either. He had plans drawn up and passed, further grants applied for and approved. Before you could turn round he had the two cottages knocked into one. And a very comfortable, handsome house they’ve made out of it, worth a small fortune these days.’
She sat regarding him with her green eyes glinting. ‘They’re very well suited, Christine and Ian. It might look on the surface as if she’s the one who wears the trousers but that isn’t the case, believe you me. Underneath all that charm, that hail-fellow, well-met manner, Ian’s as tough as old boots, as hard as nails. He’s got an eye to the main chance all right, just as much as Christine. He means to get on, one way or another, he’s every bit as ambitious as she is.’
She waved a hand. ‘They both came from nothing. Give them their due, they’ve managed to make something of themselves. But the trouble with people like that is they never know when to stop, where to draw the line, they’re compensating all their lives for their humble origins. They’re always in a hurry for money and what it can buy.’
She inclined her head judicially. ‘Christine’s a very good saleswoman. Most of the women and girls at work are customers of hers, quite a few of the men, too. She doesn’t come selling in the office, of course, she’s far too professional for that. She calls on them at home, in the evenings or at weekends.’ She shook her head. ‘Ian hasn’t got the brainpower to get to the top and by this time he knows it. The old boss liked him, he was an easy-going sort of man. But he died six months ago and the new man’s a very different kettle of fish, a good deal younger and sharper–not so easy by a long chalk to pull the wool over his eyes.’
She put a hand up to her face. ‘Ian hasn’t talked about Karen Boland’s death in the office. I don’t know how he’s taken it, he hasn’t said a word to anyone.’ She shook her head again. ‘Terrible times these days, when a young girl can’t walk home without being attacked and murdered by a sex maniac.’
‘We don’t know that,’ Lambert objected. ‘The investigation’s still very open.’ Across the hall he heard a door open and close, voices, returning footsteps.
‘But that’s what it’s sure to turn out to be,’ Eunice declared with total conviction. ‘It’s all sex these days.’ She gave a refined little shudder. ‘Sex and violence.’
Both Karen Boland’s parents had been cremated in a town fifteen miles the far side of Okeshot and the Wilmots elected to have Karen cremated there too. Monday morning was cold and dark, with a lingering, clammy fog. This, together with the distance from Cannonbridge, ensured that there were no mere curiosity-mongers present in the little chapel attached to the crematorium. And the type of case, a young girl brutally done to death, was too common these days to have summoned reporters from the national newspapers to the funeral.
A female member of staff-had driven over from the college, bringing with her a representative party of students, among then Lynn Musgrove; the floral tributes included a handsome wreath from the lecturers and pupils. In a nearby pew the Chief spotted the young woman social worker and her boss. Both the Wilmots were close by, dressed in dark mourning clothes, Ian calm and composed, Christine again looking as if she were under sedation.
Behind them sat the Roscoes, Karen’s former foster parents, neither appearing upset or agitated, Mrs Roscoe glancing freely about with unrestrained interest and curiosity.
Miss Jebb was there, sombrely attired. She had an alert, cheerful air as if determined to relish every moment; it was clear that she dearly loved a funeral, any funeral. There was no sign of her nephew. As she told Sergeant Lambert on her way into the chapel, he couldn’t by any manner of means be persuaded to attend. He couldn’t bear to sit through the ceremony, was sure he would break down. ‘I suppose he felt it would bring back memories of his mother’s funeral,’ Miss Jebb conjectured. In the end he had agreed to drive her over, drop her off at the chapel, meet her again afterwards to run her home. How he intended to pass the interim he wouldn’t say; she guessed it would most probably be spent wandering through the local park.
Neither of the Lorimers was present. And neither of the Claytons. Nor, as far as the Chief could ascertain, had any one of the four of them sent a single flower. From first to last of the proceedings Lambert saw tears shed for Karen Boland by only one person–Lynn Musgrove, a girl Karen had known a bare two months.
Afterwards Sergeant Lambert drove the Chief back to Cannonbridge. A woman was sitting in the reception area of the police station, drinking a cup of coffee, waiting to see the Chief; she had, it seemed, called in twenty minutes earlier, asking to speak to the officer in charge of the case.
Kelsey went over and introduced himself. She was a pleasant-looking, comfortably built countrywoman, fifty or so. She seemed quite at her ease, calmly drinking her coffee, explaining herself to the Chief.
She was a Mrs Dyson, a widow working as resident housekeeper to an aged clergyman, long retired, living in a village a few miles to the north of Cannonbridge. In the late afternoon of Friday, November 13th, having concluded her arrangements for ensuring that the vicar would be well looked after while she was away, she got into her car and set off on holiday. She was driving to the house of a woman friend sixty miles away to the east, where she would spend the night; next morning the two of them were going off on a coach tour of Europe.
Mrs Dyson had got back from her holiday yesterday evening and had heard for the first time of the murder in Overmead Wood. She was told there was a full account of the crime in the regional Sunday paper but she didn’t look at it then; she was tired after her journey and took herself off to bed. This morning, over breakfast, she read the paper and learned of the police appeal to passing motorists. She realized she had been in the Overmead area herself, had actually driven past the wood during the relevant period. And there had been a little incident. She couldn’t see how it could have been in any way connected with the crime, but the timing was pretty exact, so in the end she decided to call in at the station, at the risk of being told she was wasting police time.
Kelsey assured her there was no question of her wasting his time and asked what it was she had seen. Much encouraged, she embarked on her story.
A mile or two after beginning her journey she had entered a side road that would drop her down on to the main thoroughfare running east out of Cannonbridge. This was the same side road which ran past Jubilee Cottage, past the turning off to Hawthorn Lodge, past the eastern edge of Overmead Wood, before joining the main road.
The evening had grown wild and stormy, it was raining heavily as she approached the junction. A short distance before the junction, some twenty yards or so, she saw a stationary car facing her, on the other side of the road, its headlights full on, both nearside doors wide open. The car had halted in the roadway, not on the verge. It was dark, her windscreen wipers were going full blast, the car’s headlights dazzled her–but she did manage a glance in at the car as she drove past, already slackening speed for the junction. Her impression was that there was no one inside the car.
Over on the verge, by the edge of the wood, she caught sight of a woman. In the moment in which she glimpsed her she had the fleeting impression that the woman had just ceased from rapid motion.
Mrs Dyson slowed her car to a crawl, wound down her window and called back to the woman who stood motionless in the drenching rain, looking across at her. ‘Are you all right?’ Mrs Dyson shouted against the gusting wind. ‘Do you need any help?’
In reply the woman gave an energetic shake of her head. She raised both hands, waved them in a vigorous gesture of refusal, and shouted back, ‘No, thanks, I’m all right.’
Reassured, Mrs Dyson set off again for the junction; she didn’t glance back. Within a minute or two the little incident had dropped from her mind.
Kelsey took her along to an interview room and settled down to closely detailed questioning. She was an admirable witness, detached, shrewd, sensible–and, finest quality of all, in no way suggestible.
She had seen no other person anywhere about, had received not the vaguest impression of any other person being there. She had noticed nothing lying on the verge–but that didn’t mean there might not have been objects scattered about. She hadn’t glanced down at the verge, and, even if she had, she very much doubted that she would have been able to make them out, what with the rain, the dark and the dazzle.
The woman she had seen wore a light-coloured jacket, a light-coloured headscarf; whether trousers or a skirt she couldn’t say, but whatever the lower garment was, it was dark in colour. When the woman raised her hands Mrs Dyson saw that she wore dark-coloured gloves.
As to the woman’s age, she would put that in the thirties or forties. Certainly not a young girl and quite definitely not elderly. The woman had not worn spectacles.
The Chief then tackled the matter of the car, getting Mrs Dyson first to give him her recollection of the vehicle and only then showing her silhouettes and outlines in an effort further to prompt her memory.
The final results were neither clear nor sharp but by no means to be despised. She would set the vehicle down as large rather than small, old rather than new; an estate, station-wagon or hatchback type. With a rack on the roof. She was quite certain about the rack. When she slowed and looked back she glimpsed the rack, white or pale in hue, against the dark colour of the car. She couldn’t specify the actual type, whether ladder-rack or roof-rack, though she unhesitatingly dismissed the notion of an octopus-style contraption.
The Chief threw at her an abrupt question: At the time she drove off again, what impression had she formed, what guess had she made, as to what the woman was doing there on the verge in the pouring rain, no one else about, but two, repeat two, of the car doors open?
She gave him a relaxed smile. ‘I was brought up in the country, we always had dogs. And the Vicar I work for has a couple of dogs. It flashed through my mind that she could have been driving along with a dog in the back, that he’d let her know he wanted to get out to relieve himself, wouldn’t take no for an answer, whining and agitated, pouring rain or not. So she pulled up, jumped out, threw open his door, and away he bounded. Afterwards he couldn’t resist the wood, the undergrowth, maybe a rabbit in the brambles. She shouted and called but he wouldn’t come back. She had to jump out herself, run up and down, calling, trying to spot him.’ She grinned. ‘I wish I had a five-pound note for every time that’s happened to me.’ After her brief exchange with the woman she had been perfectly satisfied, she had in no way felt the woman was in any kind of real trouble.
The Chief then took Mrs Dyson very carefully over the matter of the time this encounter had taken place. Mrs Dyson was in no doubt at all about this, could in no way be shaken. She had been a little late in setting out and had therefore particularly noticed the time. The road was one she often used and she knew how long it took to reach the junction, allowing for the rain and the time of evening. But over and above all that, she had actually looked at her watch as she halted for the junction. She had given her friend a definite time of arrival and there would be a hot meal waiting; she never liked to be late.
Her watch had shown six-twenty. ‘It’s an excellent timekeeper,’ she assured the Chief. Kelsey compared the time it gave with that on his own watch which he knew to be reliable beyond question; both were identical.
‘That woman on the grass verge,’ the Chief said to Sergeant Lambert when he returned from escorting Mrs Dyson from the building. ‘What’s the first name that springs to mind?’
‘Mrs Clayton,’ Lambert replied promptly. ‘She could have found out, one way or another, that her husband was still seeing Karen. The first phone call to the college, at lunchtime, could have been made by Clayton, trying–and failing–to get hold of Karen, to tell her he’d better not see her for a while, his wife was growing suspicious. The second call could have been from Mrs Clayton, demanding that Karen meet her after class, or she’d go to the Wilmots and the Social Services. The note Karen scribbled to Lynn Musgrove: “Got to meet someone.” That’s always sounded to me like someone she didn’t want to meet, someone she was forced to meet, rather than a lover or a relative she was on good terms with.’ He grimaced. ‘Only one thing doesn’t square–the car. Mrs Clayton drives a family saloon, cream colour. There’s no way anyone could call that car dark, however bad the light. You couldn’t call it large, and you couldn’t call it old. And it doesn’t carry any kind of rack.’
Kelsey waved a hand. ‘The car’s no problem. Mrs Clayton said she was out collecting jumble that afternoon and early evening. I can’t see her using her own car for that, she’d be much more likely to borrow a vehicle from her husband, one of the firm’s cars. I’ll bet you any money there’s an estate car–or something similar–among them. Oldish, darkish, largish. And with some kind of rack.’