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Flick followed Callaway to the station to wait for the arrival of the one o’clock train. They had an hour to wait. She intended to pester him with her presence. She knew better than to harass a policeman with comments. She’d taken enough photos of suffragettes arrested for that very reason. She hoped, though, that he would answer a few questions.
He glared at her, but she didn’t falter.
“Don’t be interfering with my investigation,” he warned.
“Of course not. I want my brother freed before the inquest. When will the inquest be?”
“That’s up to the magistrate once he hears we’ve charged someone.”
“Is my brother charged? He said only that you were holding him.”
“That’s up to the inspector, Miss Sherborne.”
“Then he hasn’t been charged?”
Callaway groaned. “Don’t you be getting your hopes up.”
That groan sounded promising. “What do you want to ask Mrs. Pollard? Do you think she killed Webberly then went to lunch, cool as you please, with the Rev. and Mrs. Leverett? I don’t. She would have needed to know where Webberly was. She would have taken a weapon. That’s premeditation. On Saturday night, it certainly didn’t look as if Mrs. Pollard was considering Mr. Webberly’s murder.”
“What happened Saturday night?”
“They were kissing in the hallway.”
He grunted.
“Could she have killed him?”
“Why do you sound like a newshound?” he retorted.
“Why do you think she did it? Jealousy? A lover’s quarrel? That seems a curious way to kill your lover. Especially since I’ve heard no rumors that she’s wildly emotional. Wouldn’t she need to be? To kiss him Saturday night and kill him Sunday morning? Maybe obsession ... but I’ve never thought she was the obsessive type. Pleased with herself, of course, and very much the lady of the manor air with her help, but obsessive? Emotional? No.”
“You’ve got it all worked out.”
She couldn’t decipher the meaning of Callaway’s comment. He sounded neither pleased nor perturbed. “Why are you questioning her?”
“Right-O, Miss Sherborne, I’ll let you know something. We ask a lot of questions that don’t seem connected to any crime. Why are you still angry with me?”
“I’m not angry.”
“You’re pestering me, for certain. You wouldn’t do that if you weren’t angry.”
“I’m not angry at you. I’m pestering you because His Highness Detective Inspector Michael Wainwright is not available. You didn’t decide to arrest Chauncey. My apologies, hold him in gaol. And you didn’t answer my question. Why are you questioning Mrs. Pollard?”
She didn’t hear what he grumbled. “Look. I’ve things to do more important than answer your questions.”
“You’re going to be standing on this platform with nothing to do until the train comes in. In an hour. Answering my questions can be easily done while you wait.”
“A sergeant doesn’t talk to reporters out of school.”
“I’m not a reporter.”
He grumbled again. This time she caught “sounds like”.
“Who did Wainwright go to interview? I expect that’s what he is doing. Did he go to the school? He drove that way. Is he going to interview Mrs. Filmer? You should talk to Nuala before Mrs. Pollard. I think Mrs. Pollard was a new interest for Mr. Webberly, but Nuala had been with him for weeks. I saw them, you know. Early Sunday morning. He was escorting her back to the pub from wherever their tryst was. My window overlooks the back garden. He helped her climb over the wall.”
“You know it was him and her?”
“See, you’re getting valuable information about the victim’s movements prior to his death. Yes, it was them. I saw them clearly. He had a torch. Did the inspector ever discover the reason that Webberly was on the path to the river? I would have taken the drive to the Rowing Shed and then to gone to the path along the river.” When she paused, Callaway merely grunted, so she answered her own question. “He was meeting someone. But who? I would think he and Mrs. Filmer would meet in the maze. If it was anyone from the school—well, he couldn’t talk to them in the Lodgings or in the Prior’s House.”
“How do you know that?”
Flick hid a triumphant smile. Callaway was opening up to her. Maybe she would get a line to track the killer. “The Lodgings aren’t private. He could hardly meet someone there. Was it blackmail? Have you found any evidence of that? I know he had money to burn.”
“How do you know that?”
“His automobile. It takes money to run it. That I do know. I have a Calcott. The traffic makes it nearly impossible to drive in London, and the garage fees eat up money I don’t have.”
“You could sell it. Hire a cab. Travel by train.”
“I invested in an auto because I kept running into places where cabs and trains do not run. For my articles, you know. Garden features for Modern Woman.”
“Is that a magazine?”
“Yes. Hmm. Webberly had an auto which means he needed ready funds to pay for it. More than what a school master brings in once a month.” She’d seen Chauncey’s pay chit. He didn’t make nearly enough.
“No garage fees at the school,” the sergeant pointed out.
That sentence deflated her musing. “No, that’s true. But he would need petrol and the like. Still, was he blackmailing someone? One of the women he was involved with? Now that would be a reason to kill. Is the inspector asking questions about blackmail?”
Callaway didn’t answer that. He paced a little on the platform then stopped in front of her. “Why wouldn’t Webberly have met someone at the Prior’s House?”
“It’s locked on Sunday. I believe only Dean Filmer and Gilchrist have the keys.”
“How do you know that?”
“This isn’t my first visit to Upper Wellsford, sergeant. Anyone who has visited the school on a Sunday and wishes to use the telephone is out of luck. The only available one is at the manor, and the butler refuses to let anyone use it unless they have specific permission from the Filmers.”
He twinkled at her. Twinkled. “Tried to call your editor, did you?”
Didn’t sergeants have rules about twinkling? “Yes,” she admitted baldly.
The station master emerged. He walked toward them. Sergeant Callaway lifted a hand. “Sir. I’m with with Metropolitan Police. I’ve some questions about the Sunday trains.”
Flick backed off then turned to hurry back to the inn. If the sergeant won’t talk to Nuala, then I will.
Nuala had been with Webberly early Sunday. They’d used the path behind the pub that led to the river. He died on a path to the river, this one behind the manor. Was that a coincidence? Am I clutching at straws?
Or did the river point to his killer?
