The imposing graves of the Holroyd family, going back for four generations, occupied a prominent position in a churchyard not far from Whitethorn Common, but the funeral of Claire Margaret Holroyd took place at a crematorium some distance from Cannonbridge. If by this tactic Edgar Holroyd hoped to keep the ceremony quiet and private, to avoid throngs of sightseers, the attentions of the media, he was to be disappointed.
The small chapel was filled to overflowing on this chill, bright Wednesday morning. There was an impressive array of floral offerings, one of the most beautiful from the men at Mansell’s. A cross of white lilies from Mansell himself, wreaths from the staff at Hartley’s, from York House, various council departments, neighbours from Whitethorn Common, staff and students of the College of Further Education. And residents of the council estate where Harry Lingard had lived.
Outside, after the service, the Chief and Sergeant Lambert stood unobtrusively to one side, casting an eye over the scene. Lester and Diane Holroyd had travelled in the same car as Edgar. They stationed themselves now one on each side of him, over by the chapel entrance, shaking hands, speaking a few words to the mourners as they came out into the open air. Among the faces Kelsey spotted Jill Lingard and Norman Griffin, Robert Ashworth accompanying Claire’s aunt, Mrs Finch; Tom Mansell and his son. Sergeant Lambert pointed out an elderly woman leaving the chapel. ‘That’s Mrs Locke,’ he told the Chief. ‘The woman that worked for the Holroyd family.’ Her face was creased with sorrow and concern as she spoke to Edgar. He took both her hands in his and looked down at her with old affection.
A sizeable band of men and women from the college came over to speak to the Chief. All Claire’s classmates had by now been interviewed, without one single result of any significance. A pleasant, civilized bunch, the college group appeared to the Chief as they approached. They spoke to him with earnest goodwill about the service, they inquired about the progress of the investigation, they expressed hopes for its speedy success, the lifting of the cloud that hung over the town.
‘The last time I saw Claire,’ one of the women said, ‘on the Thursday, the last class she came to, I thought how well and happy she looked, she had a sort of bloom on her.’ Some of the others chimed in, agreeing.
‘She was thinking of branching out with her studies,’ another woman recalled. ‘She was talking about taking a course with the Open University. One of their tutors came to the college to talk to us a few weeks back, Claire was very interested.’
The Chief’s attention slipped for a moment. The sight of Diane Holroyd standing by the chapel door had woken stray recollections in his brain: Diane alone, drawing no attention to herself at the inquest on Harry Lingard; later, at Harry’s funeral; later again, at the inquest on Claire. Had she a taste for such happenings? Or maybe, as a nurse, she took some kind of professional interest. He was roused from his musings by the realization that the college group was about to move off again, they were bidding him goodbye.
On the way back to Cannonbridge Sergeant Lambert suddenly said, ‘That business about the Open University, Claire talking about taking a course. The tutor came to the college a few weeks back, that woman said just now. Robert Ashworth told us he met Claire only once, in the third week of September, he never spoke to her again, not even on the phone. He said she told him about the tutor’s visit. The third week in September’s a good deal more than a few weeks back, it’s more like twelve weeks ago. Ashworth must have spoken to her later than that if she told him about the tutor’s visit.’
They stopped by the college a few minutes later to check when the tutor had visited the college. Tuesday, October 16, they were told. Had there been any earlier visit by one of the university tutors? During a previous term, perhaps? No, there had been nothing earlier. October 16 was the only time any tutor from the Open University had visited the college.
After the funeral Jill Lingard went to work in the afternoon; on her way home in the evening she called in at the police station and asked to speak to Chief Inspector Kelsey. Her manner was tense and brittle as she took her seat facing him across his desk. The Chief made no attempt to get things going but waited for her to reveal why she had come. She had plainly expected him to take command; when she realized he had no such intention she drew a deep breath and plunged in.
‘I’ve been going over things in my mind, trying to remember everything about the last few weeks before Granddad died, seeing if I could come up with anything that might be of use. I did remember something Granddad said on Remembrance Sunday, when Norman and I had supper with him. Granddad mentioned a case he’d read in the paper a few days before, a pensioner who’d been robbed of his savings that he’d kept in the house. I didn’t know at the time that Granddad kept any money in the house himself.’ She looked earnestly at the Chief. ‘Thinking about it now, I believe that could have decided him not to keep money in the house any more. I think you can stop bothering about who stole his money, I don’t think there was any money in the drawer to steal.’ She twisted her hands together. ‘I’m sure Norman would remember Granddad saying that about the pensioner.’
‘I’m sure he would,’ Kelsey returned drily. ‘It would be a handy thing for Norman to remember just now.’
‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ Her voice trembled. ‘You think I believe Norman took the money and I’m just trying to get him off the hook.’ She shook her head fiercely. ‘That isn’t true, I’m not making it up, Granddad did say that.’ She was silent for a moment, then she burst out: ‘Norman had nothing to do with either of those deaths, he’s simply not capable of anything like that.’ Her manner displayed increasing agitation. ‘There was never anything between Norman and Mrs Holroyd, whatever you might think, he’s sworn that to me on the Bible. He was never mixed up in any of it, I’d stake my life on it.’
The Chief gave her a level look. ‘Would he be likely to tell you any different?’ She stared back at him, her features began to dissolve, tears trickled down her cheeks. ‘Why are you crying?’ the Chief demanded. ‘Are you afraid he did have an affair with Claire? He did have a hand in those deaths?’
That stiffened her again. She snatched out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. ‘You’ll never be able to pin any of it on Norman,’ she declared with force, ‘however hard you try. He had nothing to do with any of it. I know that for certain.’
‘You weren’t here that Friday evening,’ the Chief said flatly. ‘You were over at your brother’s. You don’t know first-hand one single fact about anything that happened that night.’
But she wasn’t finished yet. ‘You’ll have to give me my ring back sooner or later. I know now it did belong to Mrs Holroyd. Norman’s told me all about it, how he bought it from her, why he couldn’t tell me that was how he got it. It was all perfectly legal and above board, he didn’t do anything wrong. The ring belongs to me now, I’m entitled to have it back in the end.’ A look of revulsion crossed her face. ‘I could never wear it again, I’d always be reminded of what happened to her. Mr Holroyd can buy it back if he wants to, he can have it for what Norman paid for it. If he doesn’t want it, we’ll sell it to a jeweller and buy another ring with the money.’ She paused for breath.
The Chief looked openly at his watch but she was plainly not disposed to take the hint. As she opened her mouth again he raised a quelling hand. ‘You’ve had your say, I’ve heard you out.’ He stood up. ‘I must ask you to excuse me now, I’m a busy man.’ He crossed to the door and held it open.
She set her lips in a mutinous line but she rose to her feet without another word. As she went past him out into the corridor he saw her eyes were blind with tears.
Downstairs lights showed from Ashworth’s cottage as Sergeant Lambert turned the car into the lane. Ashworth hadn’t long been in, he was glancing through the evening paper over a glass of whisky; his manner as he admitted the two men was subdued as if some of the effects of the funeral were still with him.
The Chief got straight down to business. ‘You told us you met Claire on only one occasion after you came back to Cannonbridge. That meeting took place during the third week in September and you never spoke to her again.’ Ashworth made no response. ‘Do you now confirm that?’ the Chief demanded. ‘I would advise you to think carefully before you answer.’
Ashworth gave the faintest vestige of a smile. ‘I can see you know I did speak to her again,’ he said wryly. ‘We had lunch together once more, on October 18, a Thursday.’ Two days after the tutor’s visit to the college, Sergeant Lambert registered. ‘I’m certain of the date,’ Ashworth added, ‘because I checked it after you called here last time.’ He gave another hint of a smile. ‘I had a notion you might discover I hadn’t told you the whole truth.’
The Chief wanted to know in what circumstances the second lunch date had come about. ‘We met entirely by chance in the street,’ Ashworth told him. ‘It was around eleven one morning. We chatted for a minute or two, then I asked her on the spur of the moment if she’d have lunch with me and she said she would. We arranged to meet at twelve-thirty outside the library. We drove out to the same country pub where we’d had lunch the previous time. It was all very agreeable and friendly.’ He gave the Chief a direct look. ‘But nothing more than that, nothing in the least romantic or lover-like. I ran her home afterwards.’
‘When you ran her home did you go inside the house?’
He shook his head. ‘That wasn’t suggested by either of us. I dropped her by the common, then I went straight on into town, to my next appointment.’
‘It all sounds very innocent. Why didn’t you tell us this before?’
Ashworth exhaled a long breath. ‘I was afraid you might think there was more to it than there was, with me having known Claire before.’
‘You assure me there was no further meeting?’
‘I do.’
The Chief got to his feet. Ashworth visibly relaxed as he realized the interview was at an end. The Chief stood glancing about the room; everything clean and orderly, the furniture polished to a gleaming finish. ‘You seem pretty comfortable here,’ he couldn’t help observing. ‘You keep it a good deal better than I keep my place.’
Ashworth looked pleased at this personal note. ‘I’ve got a first-class cleaning woman, Mrs Jowitt, she never misses a cobweb, eyes like a hawk. She pops in for an hour or two in the mornings, it’s handy for her, she lives in the next cottage. She’s a widow, on her own, it suits her nicely. And I go home every weekend so there isn’t time for the place to get too untidy.’
‘You get off home on Friday evenings?’ the Chief asked idly.
‘No, it’s Saturday morning. The time varies, depends what appointments I have. I get off as soon as I’ve finished. Once or twice it’s been as early as half past ten.’ As he opened the sitting room door the Chief looked down at his outstretched arm. ‘That’s a nice pair of cufflinks you’re wearing,’ he remarked casually. ‘I noticed them earlier.’
Ashworth smiled. ‘Yes, they are rather nice.’ He raised his wrist for the Chief to take a closer look. ‘They were a twenty-first birthday present. I’ve quite a collection of cufflinks.’