SINCLAIR WATCHED HER RETREATING figure until it had disappeared around a bend in the path on the other side of the stream. Then he walked across on the stepping-stones and made his way carefully downstream through the bushes until he came to the small bay at the side of the stream that he’d spotted earlier.
Something there had caught his eye, but he had waited on purpose for Miss Cruickshank to leave him before setting out to examine it. The bay was a good three feet lower than the bank, but once the chief inspector had made his way to it through the bushes he found he had a close view of the patch of mud and what he saw there brought a grunt of satisfaction from his lips.
He saw he would have to lower himself onto it, and, having removed his shoes and socks and rolled up his trousers, he sat down and carefully levered himself over the edge and down onto the muddy ground below. It was the sort of activity his creaking joints no longer took kindly to, but having managed the manoeuvre without mishap he bent down to examine a small indentation in the mud that had caught his eye earlier.
‘Well, well . . .’
Murmuring the words to himself, he walked around it to the edge of the stream and stepped in.
‘My God!’ The water was freezing.
Gasping from the shock—he had felt a sharp stab of pain in his chest—he made his way slowly upstream, feeling for any sharp pebbles underfoot, until he reached the rock beside the stepping-stones, the one which Vera Cruickshank told him had borne traces of blood. There were none to be seen now on the smooth surface of the object and the chief inspector lost no time in bending down to pick it up. He found he was able to lift it quite easily—it was lying on the surface of the streambed, not embedded in it—and he estimated its weight at no more than a few pounds. Turning, he retraced his steps to the patch of mud.
The imprint he had noticed was less than a foot from the water’s edge and it was the work of a moment to bend down again and carefully place the rock he was carrying into the cavity. It fitted perfectly.
‘If only I had a camera!’ Sir Wilfred’s voice shattered the chief inspector’s quiet moment of triumph.
When he looked round he saw his old chief was standing by the stepping-stones regarding him with an expression of disbelief.
‘What on earth are you doing, Angus?’
‘Something your village bobby should have done if he’d had his wits about him.’ Miffed as any schoolboy at being caught off guard, the chief inspector hastened to plod his way back onto dry land. ‘My God, that water’s cold.’
‘I should think it is. But what are you doing?’
‘Trying to set Miss Cruickshank’s mind at rest. Mind you, now that I think about it I doubt I can do that either way.’
‘Either way?’
‘If I tell her it was an accident after all, she’ll think I’m part of a conspiracy to ignore the facts, and if I say it wasn’t, she won’t rest until she discovers the truth.’
‘Are you saying it’s possible it wasn’t an accident?’ Bennett scowled.
‘I’ll explain in a moment.’ Sinclair shifted unhappily on his cold feet. ‘But let me put my shoes on first.’
A few minutes later, shod once again, and feeling at least some warmth coming back into his extremities, the chief inspector made his way back through the bushes to where Sir Wilfred awaited him by the stepping-stones.
‘What you saw me doing was putting back the rock that the unfortunate Mrs Hartmann struck her head on into the hole in the mud from which it originally came.’
‘How do you know that?’ Bennett flushed angrily.
‘Well, I don’t for certain.’ Sinclair blew on his hands. ‘But it fits like a jigsaw piece and I’ll wager it was lying there once.’
‘Just what do you mean?’
‘I mean before someone plucked it out.’
‘And placed it in the stream? Is that what you’re implying?’
The chief inspector’s wordless grunt seemed to suggest there might be even more to the matter than that.
‘I really can’t see what you’re getting at.’ Bennett was still red in the face. He was clearly unhappy.
Not convinced that the circulation had returned to them yet, Sinclair stamped his feet.
‘One might be tempted to wonder why,’ he suggested mildly. ‘I mean, who would want to pick up a rock lying over there’—he pointed—‘and bring it over here? Can you think of a reason?’
‘I could probably think of several.’ Bennett was growing flustered. ‘What if . . . what if some boys were fooling around and one of them picked up that rock and threw it into the water here so as to splash the others.’
The chief inspector tugged an ear thoughtfully. ‘Ingenious,’ he conceded. His old chief’s failing wits seemed suddenly to have sharpened.
‘What I mean is, there doesn’t need to have been a reason.’ Sir Wilfred paused to let his words sink in. Then another thought struck him. ‘You’re not going to cause trouble, are you? Start some . . . some . . .’
‘. . . hare running?’ The chief inspector completed the sentence. ‘Perish the thought. It’s odds on this was an accident, just as everyone thinks. But there are one or two points I’d like to clear up first, simply to set my mind at rest.’
‘Damn your mind,’ Bennett spluttered. ‘Now see here, Angus, this is a small community and I don’t want you upsetting people. Unless you show me absolutely cast-iron proof that this was no accident—and I don’t believe you can—I would rather you dropped the whole matter here and now. I mean that.’
‘Oh, I agree, sir. I wouldn’t dream of stirring up things for no reason.’ Sinclair’s tone was conciliatory. ‘However, I would like to have a word with the landlord of the Horse and Hounds if that’s possible. He’s the one person who might be able to clear this up.’
Bennett rapped on the door.
‘I can’t think why I let you talk me into this,’ he muttered.
He knocked again.
‘We’ve no business disturbing Hooper at this time of the morning, especially on a Sunday. I just hope you have a good reason for doing so.’
Sinclair looked about him. They were standing in the forecourt of the pub. It was still a good hour and more to opening time and thus far Sir Wilfred’s attempts to rouse the landlord had gone unanswered. Glancing back across the road, he saw Margaret Bennett sitting in their car. She waved to him. Bennett had told his wife firmly that she was not to accompany them when they went to talk to Ted Hooper, the landlord. This after Lady Bennett had shown more interest in Sinclair’s quest than her husband thought fit.
‘An investigation! How wonderful! I could never get Wilfred to tell me anything about his work when he was at the Yard. Now I can observe you both at close hand.’
Lady Bennett had adopted a teasing manner after her husband revealed to her what their guest had been up to while they were in church; possibly she did so in response to his attitude, which was disapproving. Sharp-witted, and with a mischievous air, she had shown a lively spirit on the rare occasions when they had spent time together, and Sinclair was not surprised when she had quickly begun pumping him for information.
‘But what do you hope to learn from Ted? Surely you don’t think he could be involved in poor Greta’s death.’
‘Not for a moment,’ Sinclair had assured her. ‘But it’s too complicated to explain in a few words. It all depends on what he may or may not have seen that day. You’ll understand better when you hear what I have to say to him.’
Margaret Bennett’s evident delight at the prospect of being allowed to witness this interrogation had quickly been quashed by her husband, who had declared that on no account was she to accompany them when they descended on the unsuspecting Mr Hooper.
‘I want to get this over as quickly as possible,’ he had said sternly. ‘And I don’t want him facing a deputation. I’ll tell you all about it afterwards.’
Lady Bennett had accepted this decree with surprising meekness. But catching a glint in her eye, the chief inspector wondered whether his erstwhile superior might not find himself in hot water with his spouse later on.
As Sir Wilfred raised his hand to knock for a third time, the door opened. A middle-aged man with red cheeks and curly fair hair stood before them. Dressed informally in tattered trousers and a sweater that had seen better days, he sported a dishcloth draped over one shoulder.
‘Ted! I’m so sorry to disturb you, but could we trespass on your time for a minute?’ Bennett made no attempt to hide his embarrassment. ‘My friend here—he’s an old colleague, actually—wants a word with you. Do you mind?’
‘An old colleague?’ The landlord’s face lit up. He turned to Sinclair. ‘You came in with Sir Wilfred yesterday for a sandwich, if I recall, sir. I wouldn’t have taken you for a police officer.’
‘Long retired, Mr Hooper.’ The chief inspector grasped the outstretched hand offered him. ‘Sinclair is my name. Sir Wilfred and I worked together at Scotland Yard for years and thanks to his wise leadership many was the villain we laid by the heels.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Angus!’ Bennett had gone red in the face again. ‘Will you stop that? Do be serious. I apologize for this intrusion, Ted. We won’t delay you for long, I promise.’
‘Don’t worry about that, sir. I’ve got young Fred setting the place to rights.’ He jerked his head backwards and Sinclair spied the figure of a young lad at the rear of the bar who was busy wiping the tables clean. ‘Come inside, both of you.’
They followed him into the interior, where they were greeted by the rich, mingled odours of stale beer and cigarette smoke.
‘Would you like something to drink?’ Hooper asked as he seated them at a table in the corner.
‘Goodness me, no. Not out of hours.’ Bennett was scandalised.
‘Oh, it wouldn’t be illegal, sir. It’s not as though I’d be charging you for it.’ The landlord grinned. He appeared to be enjoying the occasion.
‘Thank you, but no. Angus?’ Sir Wilfred turned to his companion.
Sinclair cleared his throat. ‘Could you cast your mind back to the day Mrs Hartmann died?’ he said. ‘It was a Sunday.’
Hooper’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Although there was an empty chair beside him he had remained standing.
‘Is that what this is about, sir?’ He looked from one to the other. ‘But surely it was just an accident.’
‘Ted . . . please . . .’ Bennett broke in. ‘Just answer Mr Sinclair’s question.’
‘Well, I remember the day all right.’ Ted Hooper scratched his head. ‘Though we didn’t hear what had happened to the poor lady until later that evening.’
‘What I want to know is whether anything unusual occurred earlier, anything out of the ordinary,’ the chief inspector resumed. ‘If it happened at all, it would have been here—right in front of the pub, most likely—and just before the church service began.’
‘What are you driving at, Angus?’ Bennett couldn’t restrain himself. His discomfort was evident. ‘I can tell you myself that nothing untoward occurred. Margaret and I were present at the service. We were just across the road.’
‘I was also wondering whether you saw Mrs Hartmann arrive at the church.’ Ignoring the interruption, Sinclair continued to address the landlord.
‘Did I see her arrive?’ Hooper seemed more puzzled than ever. ‘No, I can’t say I did.’
‘She would have come by the path that joins the road right next to your forecourt. I thought you might have seen her.’
‘I’m sorry, sir.’ He shook his head. ‘Most likely I was inside, maybe in the kitchen at the back. It would have been well before opening time. So even if something did happen in front I wouldn’t have seen it.’
A loud cough was heard. Glancing up, Sinclair saw that the boy who was busy at the other end of the pub was looking their way.
‘Yes?’ he called out to him. ‘What is it?’
‘There was that bloke who stopped, Dad.’ The boy addressed his father. ‘The one with the flat tyre . . .’
Ted Hooper slapped his forehead. ‘Of course!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’d clean forgotten. This chap pulled up in the forecourt. I never set eyes on him myself, but Fred here—he was clearing the tables—came to the kitchen to tell me the fellow was asking if I had a jack I could lend him.’
‘A jack?’ Bennett repeated the word with a scowl.
‘It seems he didn’t have one in the car,’ Hooper explained. ‘Fred, come over here . . .’ He beckoned to his son. ‘You’re the one who talked to him. Tell us what happened.’
Apparently eager to join in the conversation, the boy hastily made his way through the tables to where they had gathered in the corner. A skinny lad with straw-coloured hair like his father’s, he looked to be no more than fifteen; but he had an open face and a bright eye in which the chief inspector fancied he saw the gleam of intelligence.
‘I saw the car pull up through the window and I was about to go out to see what the driver wanted when he opened the pub door and stuck his head in.’ Pleased with the role he’d been cast in, the boy launched into his story at once. ‘He asked if we had a jack we could lend him and I told him to wait while I went back into the kitchen where Mum and Dad were having breakfast. Dad said to get the jack out of our car and give the bloke a hand with his tyre, which is what I did.’ He shrugged.
‘Yes, but wait a moment.’ Sinclair held up a hand. ‘Let’s take it slowly. While you were changing the tyre did you happen to notice Mrs Hartmann passing by?’
‘Yes, I did.’ The boy nodded vigorously. ‘I saw her on the path with Mrs Harris while I was jacking up the car. When they got to the road Mrs Harris went off the other way to collect old Miss Potter. She does that every Sunday.’
‘So Mrs Hartmann walked the rest of the way to the church on her own.’ Satisfied, Sinclair grunted. ‘Did anything happen then?’
Fred shook his head. ‘Not really, sir . . .’
‘Not really?’
‘Well, just as she came opposite to us she stopped for a moment and looked this way.’
‘She looked at you?’
The sudden sharp note in Sinclair’s voice made the boy blink. For the first time he seemed to hesitate. ‘I’m not sure.’ He was frowning now. ‘See, I was down on my knees unscrewing the bolts on the wheel when I happened to look up and saw she had stopped and was facing our way.’
The chief inspector was silent for a few seconds. Then he leaned forward as though to lend emphasis to his next question.
‘This is very important, Fred. Was Mrs Hartmann looking at you, or was she looking at the man? Think hard. Take your time.’
The boy swallowed. He glanced at his father, who reached out a hand to pat him on the shoulder.
‘Go ahead, son. See if you can remember.’
Fred sucked in his breath with a whistling sound. His brow was furrowed in concentration. Finally he produced his answer.
‘It was him, not me.’
‘Are you sure of that?’
Transfixed by the look in Sinclair’s eyes, the boy swallowed a second time. Then he nodded.
‘I remember now,’ he said. ‘The bloke was standing behind me, and when I glanced up, I realized it wasn’t me she was looking at. It was him.’
The chief inspector took a long moment to consider what he’d heard. His glance remained fixed on the boy’s face.
‘And did he look at her?’ he asked.
‘I can’t say.’ This time Fred was prompt with his reply. ‘He was behind me, like I said.’
‘And how long did that go on for—her looking at him, I mean?’
‘Just a few seconds. Then she walked on . . . to the church, I suppose.’
‘Did she look back?’
‘I don’t know.’ The boy shook his head. ‘I went back to working on the wheel.’
Sinclair was silent. Bennett stirred restlessly in his chair.
‘Well, if that’s all, Angus . . .’ he began. But the chief inspector cut him off.
‘Can you describe this man?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think so, not really.’ Fred made a face. ‘I hardly looked at him.’
‘Do your best.’
‘Well, I’d say he was in his forties.’ The boy shrugged. ‘And he had brown hair. But there was nothing about him you’d notice especially.’
‘What about his eyes? What colour were they?’
‘I’m sorry, sir, I don’t remember.’ Fred bit his lip.
‘Don’t worry about that.’ The chief inspector’s tone was soothing. ‘You’re doing very well. Tell me, did you talk to him at all?’
‘Oh, yes.’ The boy’s face brightened. ‘We had a bit of a chat while I was changing the tyre. He was friendly enough—and he gave me five bob for doing the job.’
‘That was kind of him. What did you talk about?’
‘His jack, mostly—the one he didn’t have.’ Fred grinned. ‘He said that was the trouble with these car-hire firms. You couldn’t trust them to check on something like that. But he blamed himself, said he ought to have had a look in the boot to make sure there was one before he set off.’
‘So it was a hired car he was driving?’ The chief inspector’s gaze had sharpened.
‘Didn’t I say, sir?’ Realizing he’d presented his inquisitor with a valuable piece of information, Fred’s voice took on a new note. ‘It was an old prewar Hillman.’
‘Did he happen to say where he was going?’
The boy shook his head. ‘But it could have been Oxford.’
The chief inspector cocked his head to one side.
‘I dare say you had good reason for thinking that,’ he said.
The boy’s grin widened. ‘It was on the car-hire sign that was stuck to the windshield. It had an Oxford address and a phone number on it.’
‘And also the name of the firm, I would guess.’ Sinclair kept the faint pulse of excitement he was starting to feel out of his voice. ‘Do you know, Fred, you’re one of the most observant witnesses I’ve ever had the pleasure of questioning. Would it be too much to hope that you remember that as well?’
The lad suppressed a giggle.
‘As a matter of fact I do, sir,’ he said.
‘Now, now . . .’ Spellbound listening to his son’s replies to the chief inspector’s questions, Ted Hooper seemed to feel the moment had come for him to intervene. ‘Don’t go making up something just to please Mr Sinclair. I don’t see how you could have remembered it, son.’
‘But I did, Dad, and that’s a fact.’ He turned to his parent. ‘You see, it was a name I wouldn’t forget: Hutton.’
‘Hutton?’ His father blinked.
‘Same as Len Hutton.’ Thinking perhaps that the chief inspector, with his Scottish accent, might actually be unaware of the existence of England’s stellar opening batsman whose name he’d just uttered, Fred turned to him. ‘He holds the world record for the number of runs scored in a single test match innings: three hundred and sixty-four.’
‘I believe I’ve heard of the gentleman.’ Sinclair smiled. ‘But are you sure that was the name?’
‘Absolutely, sir.’ Fred was in no doubt. ‘It was there on the windshield: Hutton’s Car Hire.’
Sinclair sat down on his bed with a groan. It had been a long day and one far more taxing than he was used to. The first hint that he might be overdoing things had come at the stream when he’d felt that stab of pain in his chest. It had passed, fortunately, and while he and Sir Wilfred had been walking back to the village he had surreptitiously slipped one of his tablets into his mouth and held it under his tongue until it dissolved. Thereafter he had felt better, but later he’d suffered a sudden second attack while sitting quietly in the drawing-room downstairs with Margaret Bennett after dinner. The spasm had lasted only a few seconds, but Lady Bennett’s eagle eye had not missed her guest’s momentary discomfort and she had suggested it might be best if both of them had an early night.
The episode had followed on the heels of a conversation they’d been having during which Sinclair had given her a detailed account of the sequence of events on the day Greta Hartmann died as reported to him by Ted Hooper’s son. He had felt it was the least she was owed, given that her husband had succumbed to a fit of pique following their interview in the Horse and Hounds and refused to discuss the matter further. Lady Bennett had simply bided her time and after dinner, when Sir Wilfred had disappeared into his study on some pretext, leaving them alone, she had pressed the chief inspector to tell her what had happened earlier.
‘It all boils down to one puzzling question,’ he had concluded. ‘What disturbed Mrs Hartmann that day?’
‘Wilfred said he found you at the stream after the service today.’ Margaret Bennett had been paying close attention. ‘He said you were “fooling about” in it. Did Vera take you there? We saw you two together in the churchyard.’
‘She was hostile initially.’ Sinclair frowned. ‘But when she discovered I’d once been a police detective she offered to show me where Mrs Hartmann had died and when we got to the place I couldn’t help wondering how it was her friend had managed to fall in such a way as to crack her head on the only rock that was visible there in the streambed. At that point I’m afraid I became rather overenthusiastic and took off my shoes and socks to examine the spot more closely. Sir Wilfred caught me paddling.’
‘The water must have been freezing.’ Lady Bennett made no attempt to hide her amusement at the picture.
‘It was.’ The chief inspector grimaced. ‘But to cut a long story short, I did feel that the manner of Mrs Hartmann’s death was unusual and could bear further examination. It was then that I decided to have a talk with the landlord of the Horse and Hounds.’
‘Because whatever upset poor Greta that day must have occurred when she walked past the pub on her way to the church?’
‘Precisely.’
‘And . . . ?’
‘Something did happen . . . something very minor. A car had stopped in the forecourt of the pub with a flat tyre and young Fred Hooper was helping the driver to change his wheel. There’s a suggestion—and it’s no more than that—that Mrs Hartmann might have recognized the man. At all events she stared at him for several seconds—or so Fred says—before going on.’
‘Only now she was in a different frame of mind.’ Lady Bennett had grasped the essence of the problem at once. ‘Yes, I see what you mean. She must have recognized him.’
‘Not necessarily.’ Sinclair raised a warning finger. ‘I’m afraid one of the more painful lessons one learns as a policeman is not to jump to conclusions. That way disaster lies—or at least it can, and only too often. Yes, she might have recognized him. But equally he might have reminded her of something or someone; awakened a painful memory. From what I’ve learned of Mrs Hartmann’s past that does seem all too plausible . . .’
‘You’re thinking of her time in Germany . . . what happened to her husband?’
‘That could easily have played a part in her sudden change of mood,’ Sinclair agreed. ‘There must have been things in her life she wanted to forget. It might even have led to her crossing those stepping-stones without due care.’
‘But what if he recognized her as well?’ Lady Bennett had let her words speak for themselves and the chief inspector had grunted in acknowledgement.
‘That would change everything.’
Realizing then that he had gone rather further with his hostess than he meant to, he had quickly appended a cautionary note to what he had said.
‘But all this is pure supposition and I do beg you not to repeat it to anyone. If it gets about, the whole village will start talking and the person who will suffer most from that is Vera Cruickshank. I’ve promised to let her know if I discover anything of interest or importance about her friend’s death. Can we leave it at that for now?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Lady Bennett had reassured him at once. ‘But is there anything you can do?’
‘I’m not sure. As things stand, I doubt the police could be persuaded to open an inquiry. There are no hard facts I can put to them. As I say, it’s all supposition. I shall have to think about it.’
It was then that the chief inspector had felt a renewed stab of pain in his chest and found his breathing grown short. Lady Bennett’s eye was on him.
‘I don’t know about you,’ she had said. ‘But I’m quite exhausted. Shall we call it a day?’
More than ready for bed, in fact, the chief inspector still had a chore to attend to, and before retiring he retrieved a small leather-bound notebook from his suitcase. Aware of his failing memory, he had taken to leaving notes for himself in a book bought for that purpose—reminders to buy this or that for the house or attend to other small business matters—and was in the habit of consulting it every morning to see what he might have forgotten. He had already noted Ann Waites’s name and phone number together with a reminder to order some flowers for Lady Bennett from the florist he had spotted outside Winchester station when he’d arrived.
But now for the first time in many months he had something of real importance to relate, and, having settled at a writing-table beside the window, he spent the next ten minutes jotting down a concise account of what he had learned from both Vera Cruickshank and Fred Hooper.
Even then his day was not quite over yet. In telling Margaret Bennett there was nothing to be done for the moment, he had not been entirely truthful. Ever since hearing the boy’s account of how Greta Hartmann had reacted to the sight of the man whose tyre he was changing, he had been considering a course of action.
While there were all sorts of reasons why she might suddenly have felt unsettled that morning, one in particular had occurred to him almost at once, and as luck would have it, he was in a position to seek an answer to the question it posed without stirring things up.
Having completed his notes, he settled down to compose a carefully worded letter.