CHAPTER TEN

Inside the Old Forge, in a rarely used drawing room, the Inspector had just finished interviewing the dead woman’s niece, who insisted she had seen nothing, heard nothing and knew nothing.

Now it was the turn of the nephew. Murray Phelps entered, looking competent and at ease. The Inspector watched him take a seat with a bland smile, and then began.

As he had with his cousin just minutes before, the Inspector took Murray through the events of the previous evening, the dinner, his aunt’s movements and behaviour, and filled his notebook almost to capacity. By the time they were finished, the Inspector felt as if he’d got a reasonably good idea of the events of last night.

It was only when he said mildly, ‘And now, can you tell me your movements after your aunt retired to bed?’ that the Inspector sensed the other man become warier.

‘Me? Well, as I’m sure the others will have told you, we stayed up for a bit, chatting, playing some cards for a while, you know, how you do. Then I went to bed.’

As he said these words, his eyes left the Inspector’s and vaguely inspected a bookcase. The Inspector coughed gently. ‘I see, sir. Did you sleep the whole night through?’

At this, the other man’s leg jerked a little and, catching the Inspector’s eye, he scowled and uncomfortably pulled at the collar of his jacket. ‘Oh yes, out like a light,’ he assured Gorringe. Who abruptly put a big question mark in his notebook next to his name.

As the policeman moved on to ask him whether he knew if his aunt had fallen out with anyone recently, he began to relax once more and became again his confident self, as he assured Gorringe that his aunt was respected by one and all and that he couldn’t conceive of anyone who would have wanted her dead.

At this, the Inspector nodded placidly. But Murray Phelps wasn’t fooled. He could see that the Inspector wasn’t totally convinced by his performance. Which meant that he was mightily relieved once the Inspector said they were finished and he could go and join his cousin in another part of the house.

‘Oh, would you mind sending in the kitchen maid, please?’ Gorringe asked.

Murray condescended to do just that.

The kitchen maid – who looked all of fourteen years old – was the nervous, tearful sort, who vowed she hardly ever left the kitchen or the protection of Mrs Brockhurst’s skirts. And since she didn’t even live in, she was almost certainly correct in her fearful avowals that she didn’t have anything to do with the family, and that she’d never dream of speaking to the gentry, let alone know anything about their doings. So it was, that Inspector Gorringe spent very little time on her, and when the house received its new visitors, he had re-joined the cousins in the morning room.

Everyone glanced up curiously as Arbie and Val were shown in by the tight-lipped housekeeper. But it was the man who rose from the sofa in front of them that commanded Arbie’s instant attention.

Somewhere in his early fifties, he was heavy-set and beginning to lose his hair, which was a mousey shade of brown/grey. He had a competent but not driven air about him that spoke of many years of solid if undistinguished service. Dressed in an old but well-cut brown suit, he had matching brown eyes which turned to regard Val with a soft look. Arbie’s heart instantly sank. Just his luck if the Inspector turned out to be the doting and indulgent father of any number of daughters. Val would twist him around her little finger in no time, and then there would be no holding her back.

The gaze the Inspector then turned on him was much more razor-like in its appraisal.

‘So this is the famous author,’ he said. They were not, it had to be admitted, the most comforting words Arbie could have wished for on first meeting the officer in charge of the case. ‘Mr Phelps here has just been telling me how you spent the night in the hall watching for ghosts. Apparently.’

Arbie didn’t like that last word. It smacked alarmingly of judiciary scepticism. Exactly what had that blackguard Murray Phelps been saying about him? And what did this Inspector Gorringe think he, Arbie, had been doing, whilst the lady of the house was killed? All his uncle’s dire warnings about the constabulary and their nasty, suspicious natures flooded his mind, and a mental image of himself being led away in handcuffs and charged with murder made his mouth go horribly dry.

Definitely time, Arbie thought, to efface himself. He coughed a little and shuffled pathetically. ‘Well, er, what’s a fellow to do, eh, Inspector?’ he appealed. ‘I mean, when a lady asks for your help, you’re obliged to set off on your white steed, waving your sword aloft, and all that. What?’

Val shot him a disgusted look at this pitiful sally, which Arbie totally ignored. It was all very well for her, Arbie mused moodily. Nobody would ever think of accusing a vicar’s daughter of committing murder. But if this police inspector could be made to regard him as a bit of a buffoon, he’d be happy enough.

‘Yes,’ Inspector Gorringe said, eyeing Arbie thoughtfully. ‘Mr Phelps here was just telling me how his aunt seemed convinced that the family ghost was trying to tell her something.’ His voice couldn’t have been more deadpan and disbelieving. ‘And did you, by any chance, run across this spook in the wee small hours?’

Murray Phelps turned away to hide a grin, but Phyllis looked on disapprovingly.

‘Can’t say I did, no,’ Arbie said vaguely. ‘But then, you so often don’t. Ghosts can be remarkably disobliging, you know. I noticed that when I was writing my book. I could be all set up with a camera ready to capture the formation of ectoplasm or what have you and poof, nothing.’ He spread his hands eloquently. ‘But two days after you leave a place, your host will write to you telling you that he’s being bothered by manifestations galore.’

‘Very annoying I’m sure, sir,’ the Inspector said, lips twitching.

‘Mr Swift is very good at what he does, Inspector, I assure you.’ Val did her best to spoil all Arbie’s good work, by asserting stoutly, ‘He really is the authority on such things. In fact, his publishers have just this second commissioned him to write a follow-up to The Gentleman’s Guide with the Phelps ghost being his first investigation. Isn’t that right, Arbie?’

Arbie groaned.

‘Yes, Inspector, I meant to warn you about that.’ Murray, of all people, chose that moment to come to his rescue. ‘I’m rather afraid I’ve kind of given Mr Swift permission to ghost-watch here whenever he wants.’

The Inspector’s sharp eyes turned to Murray. ‘Indeed, sir? I must say I find that rather surprising.’ Inspector Gorringe, who thought he’d got the measure of his man, wouldn’t have bet a bent brass farthing that the new master of the Old Forge was the kind to be all that free-handed with his largesse.

‘It came about as something of a bet. Or a bit of a dare, if you like,’ Murray muttered in explanation.

‘Ah. I see,’ the Inspector said. Well, boys would be boys, his expression clearly said, raising both Murray and Arbie’s hackles. ‘Well, your, er, ghost-hunting will have to wait for a few days or so, Mr Swift. We’ll be here at the house for some time, questioning people and making our investigations. And we can’t be having you underfoot.’

‘Oh, right-ho,’ Arbie said, with such evident relief that this time it was the Inspector who had to turn his head sharply to hide his grin. ‘In that case, we’d best be off then, Val.’

‘Just a moment, sir, not so fast,’ the Inspector said. ‘Whilst I have you here, I’d like to take your statement about what happened here at the relevant time.’

‘Mine as well then?’ Val put in. ‘I was ghost-watching too.’

‘Yes, miss, yours as well,’ the Inspector agreed indulgently. ‘Miss Thomas,’ he turned to Phyllis, ‘may I commandeer a room again, in order to conduct my interviews?’

‘Oh yes, of course. I think the drawing room again …?’ She raised an eyebrow at her cousin, who merely shrugged. ‘This way,’ she added, rising from her chair and leading the way back out into the hall and into the small but pleasant drawing room.

‘Thank you, Miss Thomas, this is ideal,’ Inspector Gorringe said. ‘I’ll call you and Mr Phelps as and when I need you. It’s nothing to be alarmed about,’ he added as Phyllis gave a little squeak of alarm. ‘We don’t bite, miss,’ he added with an avuncular smile. ‘But we have to know the whereabouts and movements of everyone who was here last night and this morning. I’m sure you’ll appreciate that.’

Phyllis gave a brief but terrified smile. ‘I still can’t believe that Aunty didn’t just have heart failure or something like that. I’m sure there must have been some mistake about all this. Who on earth would want to hurt her?’ she said, and with that shot out of the room, sniffling.

As the door closed behind her, Arbie sent Val a quick, nervous look.

Val, of course, was watching the Inspector with wide, fascinated eyes and a look of intense concentration on her face. She was so evidently enjoying all this, that Arbie, for two pins, could have kicked her.

‘Now then, you two,’ Inspector Gorringe said, turning to face them. ‘Have a seat, and let’s get down to it, shall we?’

Arbie and Val answered the questions Inspector Gorringe put to them as best they could. But really, what did it boil down to? They had dinner – and Arbie was sure the Inspector didn’t miss the significance of all the shared dishes – and afterwards, when he’d come back, Arbie had watched Amy Phelps climb the stairs, empty-handed, as she went off to bed. And to her death. Val and he had then spent the night in the hall and heard and seen nothing out of the ordinary – either ghostly or otherwise.

‘And you heard no odd sounds in the night? No one crying out for instance?’ the Inspector persisted.

‘No, I didn’t,’ Arbie said. ‘And believe me, on a ghost-watch I’m always alert for any noises.’

‘Ghosts?’ the Inspector said with a smile.

‘More likely someone playing the fool and trying to trick me,’ Arbie responded with a grin.

‘But not this time?’

‘No,’ Arbie said sombrely. ‘At least, I didn’t hear anything. Did you, Val?’

But Val shook her head. ‘No, I’d have told you if I did. But it was all quiet.’

Inspector Gorringe sighed. ‘But you must have heard some of the people moving about at the start of the night, when everyone had just retired? The sound of people going to and from the bathrooms for instance? Doors opening and shutting? Running water for a bath perhaps?’ the policeman pressed. When he’d been given the startling information that on the night of the murder two independent witnesses had been ensconced right in the hall all night, he’d thought his luck must surely be in. Now he was not so sure.

Arbie shrugged helplessly. ‘I don’t know if you’ve had time yet to inspect the house at all, sir, but it’s solidly built, let me tell you, and straggles about all over the place. And even if any of the floorboards do creak, it would probably be impossible to tell where the sound comes from. It’s like a maze everywhere – staircases here, there and everywhere, different levels, and dog-leg corners in the corridors at every turn.’

‘Yes, it’s a bit of a mish-mash in styles,’ Val agreed loyally.

‘Now, about this ghost business.’ The Inspector sighed, fixing Arbie with a stern eye. ‘It all sounds a bit pie in the sky to me. Do you really take it seriously?’ he asked the good-looking young man curiously. ‘You went to Oxford, I understand, so you’re an educated fellow. Come on, now, just between you and me?’

But Arbie could only shrug. ‘A lot of people take the occult seriously, Inspector. And not just men of letters, but men of science too.’ He wasn’t about to be caught out quoting something that his publishers might take exception to!

‘I thought a lot of the so-called mediums had been debunked and proved to be frauds many years ago. All that table-tapping and smoke-and-mirrors stuff. We’re not living in the Victorian era now,’ the Inspector said stolidly. ‘Surely, we’re not so gullible nowadays? Your book is all very amusing, I grant you, and the holiday-making aspects of it are, so I’ve been told, genuinely helpful. But just between you and me, when Miss Phelps asked you to help her with her family ghost, you couldn’t have taken her seriously?’

The Inspector looked at his witness carefully and saw him hesitate. He wasn’t surprised when, a moment later, a swift, questioning glance passed between the two young people that made him sit up and take notice.

‘Well, Inspector, to be honest, no, I didn’t,’ Arbie said. ‘But only because I, that is we, Val and I, I mean, well, we sort of came to the conclusion that Miss Phelps probably didn’t believe in the ghost either. Didn’t we, Val?’

As Val nodded, the Inspector frowned, sitting forward a little on his chair. ‘I’m not sure I follow you, sir,’ he said. ‘Can you elaborate on that?’

Arbie nodded and wearily took the Inspector through the times when he and Miss Phelps had talked, explaining about the Phelps family legend, the ghostly smithy and his bell, the so-called warnings that had been left where she could find them, and trying to convey the woman’s vacillating attitude to it all. By the time he’d finished, the Inspector was looking troubled.

‘I didn’t realise it was anything as substantial as all that,’ the older man said grimly. ‘I thought maybe Miss Phelps was simply hearing mice in the wainscotting or what have you, and letting her imagination do the rest. But that sounds rather nasty. Someone was obviously trying to frighten the poor lady.’

Arbie nodded. ‘Yes, that’s what we thought too,’ he agreed. ‘Not that Miss Phelps was the sort to scare easily.’

‘But then there came her accident,’ Val put in.

‘Ah yes. The tumble down the stairs.’ The Inspector nodded. ‘Her niece told us about that. Luckily, her aunt suffered no more than a few bruises. Do you think that she was pushed?’ he shot out.

Arbie jumped in his chair. ‘No,’ he said at once, caught off guard by the suddenness of the question. Then he paused and said, more thoughtfully, ‘No, I don’t see how she could have been. Miss Phelps never said anything about there being a second party involved, anyway,’ he added.

And then he had to wonder. If she had seen her attacker, would she have spoken out? Certainly she would, and most loudly and indignantly, if it had been one of the household staff. But if it had been a member of her family?

Then he had a thought. ‘I say, Inspector, what if someone tied a piece of string or something across …’

‘The top of the stairs? So that it would catch her at ankle level and trip her forward, sir?’ the Inspector asked, eyes twinkling as the young man’s shoulders slumped a little. ‘Yes, I did wonder if that old chestnut might have been used when I was told about it. So I inspected the woodwork at ground level on the stairs very thoroughly, sir.’

‘And?’ Val asked eagerly.

‘I found a lot of woodworm holes,’ the Inspector said flatly. ‘That notwithstanding, I don’t think any cord could have been used. A good solid screw would have had to have been put in place either side of the stairs in order to trip someone over and would have created a bigger hole than woodworm.’

‘Also, whoever had set it up would have had to remove the evidence pretty smartly. And we know that although Miss Phelps was shaken up, she didn’t actually lose consciousness. So she’d have seen anyone acting suspiciously at the site of her accident when she was discovered,’ Arbie pointed out. He could have kicked himself when the policeman turned thoughtful eyes his way.

‘Indeed, sir. That was well thought out,’ the Inspector complimented.

Arbie affected a surprised air. ‘Was it?’ But he sensed it was now too late to play the dunce to any good effect. ‘It was Murray Phelps who was first on the scene, wasn’t it?’ he asked innocently.

The Inspector slowly nodded.

‘That’s one of the reasons we think the nephew must have been behind it all, Inspector,’ he heard Val say clearly, and he shot her a quick, appalled look. ‘Don’t we, Arbie?’ Val said determinedly, meeting his look with a level one of her own.

Arbie ran a harassed hand through his dark hair. One of these days, this girl was going to land them in a mess that not even he could get them out of! ‘Yes, Val, I agree, but you can’t go around making accusations like that! There are such things as slander laws and what have you! And we have absolutely no proof that Murray Phelps, or anyone else for that matter, was involved in Miss Phelps’s death.’

‘I never said he’s the murderer,’ Val responded, a shade sulkily. ‘I mean, Inspector, that we think all the “ghost” stuff was her nephew’s doing. The silly ringing of the bell and leaving the forge’s equipment lying about and all that.’

‘And why do you think that it was Mr Phelps?’ the policeman asked, genuinely curious now.

Val and Arbie exchanged looks again, and Arbie sighed, seeing that Val, after putting them in the soup, was now leaving it to him to explain. ‘Mainly, Inspector, because we think that Miss Phelps herself suspected him,’ he said reluctantly. And went on to explain how she had been careful to mention that the ‘ghostly’ warnings only seemed to happen when her nephew came to visit.

‘Ah,’ the Inspector said. ‘And you think Miss Phelps was right in her deductions?’ he asked, looking from the successful author to his pretty companion with a slightly amused eye.

Arbie shrugged. ‘Well, let’s face it, the other candidates for the role of practical joker don’t look all that promising, do they?’ he challenged. ‘Why would her housekeeper of umpteen years suddenly take to playing the fool? And I can’t see Phyllis lugging around heavy pieces of metal. Cora, I think, is only here for a summer holiday, and Reggie, it seems, has always come here for the summer to live and work in the studio. Why should such old and long-standing friends of Miss Phelps suddenly take to resurrecting the family ghost?’

‘Why should her nephew?’ the Inspector asked inevitably – and reasonably.

To this, Arbie could only offer a shrug. ‘If you’re asking for cut and dried proof, I can’t give it to you, I’m afraid,’ he admitted. ‘Only …’ he hesitated.

‘Yes?’

It was Val who came to the rescue. ‘It’s just that sometimes Miss Phelps seemed to hint … I don’t know … that there had been some sort of … friction, or a little falling-out with her nephew. A difference of opinion perhaps? Oh, it’s hard to put it into words.’

The Inspector nodded and glanced at the handsome youth in his Oxford bags and his misleadingly vacant expression. ‘Was that your impression too, Mr Swift?’

‘Hmmm? Oh yes, rather,’ he agreed, and gave the Inspector a very vague smile. The pretty girl beside him, the policeman noted with amusement, shot him an angry glance.

‘All right. Well, that’s all been very interesting. Now, let’s get down to the nitty-gritty and go through what happened when the housekeeper came back down from trying to raise Miss Phelps, and getting no response to her knocking …’

With a sigh, Val and Arbie settled down to a thorough grilling.