Murder in Advent Page 12

  Mrs Hitt was satisfied she now knew the reason for the call. ‘He’s a very fine musician.’

  ‘I meant his morals. D’you think he has standards? Subscribes to any code of decency?’

  ‘I hardly know him that well.’

  ‘You know he’s an atheist?’

  ‘Agnostic, I thought. So many of us are for periods in our lives. He makes no bones about it.’

  ‘He’s also divorced.’

  The other woman shrugged. ‘That’s not secret, either. An unfortunate marriage, I gather. My husband and the rest of the Chapter knew about it before he was appointed here. It’s not as though he’s in holy orders, after all.’

  ‘Not from a very good background, either. Grammar school, I understand,’ observed the admiral’s daughter stiffly. ‘Young women find him attractive. Small rugged men often have that effect.’

  The Dean’s wife wondered whether Jennifer Bliter also found the organist attractive. She was hardly young but her comments so far could have been inspired by jealousy. ‘I suppose he’s entitled to a love life.’

  ‘You think he should be allowed to seduce the girls in the choir?’

  ‘In principle, no. In practice, it depends on which girls. Two or three of them are young women. Eighteen-year-olds.’ She paused. ‘You meant the older girls?’

  ‘Yes. But it still seems wrong.’

  ‘You have proof?’

  ‘That he has one of them come to his house regularly. At night.’

  ‘Cindy Larks. He gives her singing lessons, I believe. Because she works in the daytime.’

  ‘Anyone in a position of authority who takes personal advantage of that position . . .’ Mrs Bliter snorted but didn’t go on with the sentence. Instead she said: ‘So perhaps that part’s not important. My husband thinks it isn’t. Of course, Percy is careful about criticism. He’s full of Christian charity.’ She didn’t add that Percy was also very aware of his lowly status in the cathedral hierarchy: it accounted for his sense of vulnerability and the pains he took not to make enemies.

  ‘You said that part’s not important. There’s another?’

  ‘That I should have reported to the police. I haven’t. It’s . . . difficult.’

  ‘Can I be of help? It is something Percy knows about?’

  ‘Not yet. We had two policemen round this morning. Percy left for the Chapter House straight after.’ She paused. ‘Then the police went next door. To Donald Welt’s. He didn’t ask them in. They had to interview him on the doorstep. I overheard every word. Couldn’t help it.’

  ‘Presumably he had nothing he minded others knowing.’

  Mrs Bliter arched her over-plucked eyebrows. ‘Just before half past six last night Dr Welt went into the cathedral. By the cloister door. And doing his best not to be seen.’

  ‘But you saw him?’

  ‘By chance, yes. Later he denied it. Not directly to me.’

  ‘To the police?’

  ‘As good as. He told them he left the cathedral after evensong. At a quarter to six.’

  ‘Did he admit to being out at all later?’

  ‘Yes. For three-quarters of an hour from half-six. For dinner in the town. But he said he hadn’t been into the cathedral. I couldn’t believe it.’

  ‘And you think he might have been involved in Mr Pounder’s death?’

  Jennifer Bliter swallowed at the directness of the question. ‘I don’t say that. But why deny being in the cathedral at a critical time? He was known to be rabidly in favour of selling the Magna Carta,’ she added pointedly.

  ‘Is that so? To fund the musical establishment, I expect. Of itself that doesn’t mean . . .’

  ‘I believe Pounder was a strict moralist. If he’d found out about Welt’s philandering with the girl choristers . . .’ Again she stopped in mid-sentence, aware she had gone too far – much too far, judging from the look on the face of her hostess. ‘D’you think it’s my duty to tell the police?’

  ‘Might it not be better to tell Donald Welt – that you saw him go into the cathedral?’

  ‘What if he reacted violently? He has a dreadful temper. I’ve always thought he could be dangerous.’

  The wretched woman possibly had a point there. ‘Would you like me to discuss it with my husband? To have him speak to Dr Welt?’

  ‘Very much so. If it’s not making trouble for him?’ Margaret Hitt had already decided where the potential trouble lay.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘They haven’t arrested your father. Or anything like it.’

  ‘Going to the police station for questioning doesn’t seem far off,’ Glynis Jones answered Treasure uncertainly as they walked across the top of Bridge Street and into Market Square.

  It was twelve-thirty. The girl had kept the arrangement to call for the banker at his hotel after getting back from her morning’s work. They were going to a pub for lunch. The rain had stopped. The sun was shining fitfully, but it had grown colder.

  ‘He’s free to leave any time he chooses. But it makes a lot of sense to clear things up with the police straight away,’ Treasure offered with more confidence than he felt. ‘He’s got his lawyer with him.’

  ‘Only because you insisted.’

  ‘Your father wasn’t crazy about the idea. Just another sensible precaution, I thought.’

  He steered her along the south side of the crowded, ancient square. It was now a paved pedestrian precinct with trees in concrete tubs, benches, and a boarded-up street café closed for the winter but festooned – like the tree – with coloured lights and tinsel decorations supplied by the municipality to mark the Yuletide. There was a group of open market stalls in the centre, the Christmas merchandise displayed making a brave, colourful contrast under the sombre wet roof coverings.

  The buildings surrounding the square were mostly of Tudor and Georgian origin rendered in white or the shade of pink approved by the vigilant Litchester Preservation Group. The shops at ground level carried cheerful adornments involving imitation snow appropriate to the festive season if not entirely to the weather forecast which predicted fog and rain.

  ‘Good thing Mummy’s away for the day. A Mothers’ Union binge somewhere. You sure I shouldn’t be waiting at the police station?’

  ‘Positive. Wouldn’t achieve anything – except bug your father and possibly start rumours. Where did you say this Daras family farm was?’ He had promised her father he would keep her occupied.

  ‘Much Stratton. Small village nine miles from here.’

  ‘On the way to?’

  ‘Nowhere in particular.’

  ‘And you’d never heard of this Daras before?’

  ‘Not till you asked me to enquire. His name’s Joshua. Some people know him. Two of the farmers I’ve seen this morning. But he doesn’t fraternise. Got a reputation as a weirdo. Applies to the whole family. Don’t farm much, either. About fifty acres, and that’s mostly gone to scrub and rough pasture.’

  ‘And is pretty small by any standards?’

  ‘Sure. Seems they used to be important landowners, though. They still own farms leased to other people. You didn’t say why you wanted to know about them.’

  ‘Tell you in a minute.’ He took her arm, motioning her to stop. ‘The man in the bowler coming out of the pub. Remember him?’

  ‘Yes. Last night at the station. He got off your train. In a hurry then as well. But not so furtive.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’ They watched Len Hawker turn a corner out of the square. ‘What’s round there?’

  ‘Public loos and the bus terminus.’

  ‘D’you mind following him?’

  She smirked. ‘So long as he’s catching a bus.’

  The short, bending lane they entered disgorged onto an open area where a dozen or so mostly double-decker red buses were docked or else manoeuvring alongside raised passenger-islands. Overlooking this scene, at their immediate right, was an unprepossessing Victorian building fronted at ground-floor level by a wide, open-sided shelter
with a green glass roof and wrought-iron supports.

  The two were just in time to see their quarry leave the shelter and dodge in front of a moving bus. They also saw the other male figure who had entered the lane just ahead of them quickly follow him when the bus had passed.

  They watched Hawker cross almost the width of the terminus, then consult the conversing driver and conductor of a stationary and quite elderly double-decker, painted yellow and black. Its destination board announced ‘The Strattons’. It was parked at the furthest distance from the terminal building with a group of three others – all with differing and somehow unauthoritative kinds of livery.

  ‘Country bus. Independent operator,’ Glynis announced, unprompted. ‘Goes four times a day to the Strattons.’

  ‘And Much Stratton’s . . . ?’

  ‘One of those Strattons, yes. There’s Much, Middle and Stratton Parva.’ She looked at him quizzically. ‘Is this a coincidence? I mean with Daras living there.’

  ‘Not entirely.’

  ‘Well, if you’re interested, the bus leaves at quarter to. In six minutes. And it looks as if Rory Duggan’s going, too.’ Like Treasure and the girl, the man, she’d just identified had hung back while Hawker had been making enquiries. Now they watched him get on the bus after Hawker. He chose the lower deck after watching the other man climb to the upper. The bus was already half-full.

  ‘Who’s Rory Duggan?’

  ‘The head verger’s awful youngest son. Dropout. His father’s not much better, if you ask me. Who’s the fellow he’s following?’

  He told her – as much as he knew, adding: ‘Could you get your car here in six minutes?’

  ‘Yes, if you’re that interested in Mr Hawker’s movements. You want to follow the bus?’

  ‘I want to know if he’s going to see Daras.’

  ‘If he does, it’ll be more of a coincidence?’

  ‘That, and very revealing.’

  Twenty minutes later the two were sitting in the Suzuki, which was parked in a side-road opposite the bus stop in the centre of Much Stratton. They had both decided that tailing the bus through country lanes was too conspicuous, so they had driven on ahead, risking that Hawker might get off earlier than they expected.

  The dog Jingles was in the car, perched alert if uncomfortable between the two front seats. She had been asleep in the car when Glynis had fetched it.

  ‘Another sandwich?’ Glynis offered.

  They had also had time to pick up food.

  ‘Yes, please. And here’s the bus.’ He pointed to the disembodied yellow top advancing in the middle distance along bare cropped hedgerows, and now just beyond the village outskirts. ‘You reckon he’ll get off at the stop after this one?’

  ‘If he knows exactly where the Daras farm is. And assuming he’s going to it.’ She started the engine.

  ‘Well, at least he’s still aboard. So’s Duggan,’ said Treasure. Neither of the men were amongst the half-dozen passengers who got off, but the conductor had gone up to the top deck and spoken to Hawker, who could be seen nodding in thanks for something. ‘Hawker’s being told he wants the next stop,’ the banker added. ‘So let’s go.’

  Glynis deftly raced the Suzuki ahead. Two minutes later, when the bus stopped again, just beyond a country crossroads and beside a call-box, she had the car pulled into a gate-opening two hundred yards behind.

  ‘Is that Hawker getting off now?’ Treasure’s view was partly obstructed by the hedge.

  ‘And Duggan. Oh, that was clever. Slipped off behind Hawker’s back while Hawker was talking to the conductor. Now he’s belting along this way as if he had some reason.’

  ‘Hope he hasn’t. Does he know you?’

  ‘He might do. Anyway, he’s gone into hiding on our left.’

  After a glance behind to see what Hawker was doing, the young Irishman had ducked down the narrow side road.

  Hawker had meantime walked a little further in the direction the bus had taken. Then he stopped, looked dubiously both ways along the quite empty road before crossing to the farm gate opposite. He tried the gate which wouldn’t budge. Slowly and very gingerly he climbed over, straightened his hat and overcoat on the other side, then set off along whatever path lay beyond and whose nature was obscured from the watchers in the car, except they could see it was tree-lined.

  A moment later Duggan reappeared in the main road, crossed in a hurry, scampered along below the cover of the hedge and, after a brief observation, vaulted the gate.

  ‘Nice to have intentions so clearly defined,’ observed Treasure. ‘That’s definitely the Daras farm gate?’

  ‘According to my directions.’

  ‘Then, shall we join the others?’

  ‘Better give them a decent start.’

  They left the car where it was, the girl pausing to lock it, while Treasure set off briskly along the road. ‘Now we’ve established what they’re up to, I’m quite anxious to meet Mr Joshua Daras,’ he said. ‘Especially in the company of Hawker. I’d guess your Irish friend is just inquisitive.’

  ‘Inquisitive and on the make if he’s running to form,’ the girl replied, hurrying to catch up, with Jingles trotting behind her. ‘That’s not friendly,’ she said when they had crossed the road to the gate. She was pointing to the barbed wire laid along the top bar. ‘No wonder Hawker was careful. Padlocked, too.’

  There was also a painted notice nailed to the gate and bearing the legend ‘Private Property. Trespassers Prosecuted.’

  The farm track they followed when they had safely surmounted the first obstacle was deep in undisturbed beech and horsechestnut leaves. In places it was rutted and waterlogged, but the ruts looked old and not the result of use during the recent rains. The overgrown track progressed in a wide curve, the view on either side obscured by the height of the untamed brambles and scrub that in some places spewed out underfoot.

  ‘Shouldn’t think they go out much,’ said Treasure.

  ‘And they certainly don’t encourage callers,’ remarked the girl. It was as she spoke that the unmistakable sound of a shot rang out, and not far away. It was followed by a short burst of ferocious barking, then the pained shriek of a sharply disciplined dog and the thump of running footsteps coming towards them.

  ‘Quick.’ Treasure pulled her off the path, through the undergrowth and behind a huge tree-trunk. The scrub fell back again behind them. Jingles had come, too, with no prompting.

  Rory Duggan doubled past. His face was ashen, and his expression terrified. He looked over his shoulder, evidently fearing pursuit. Now he turned about, moving backwards on his toes, and listening. It seemed there was no one behind him, but when he resumed normal running he had hardly reduced the pace.

  ‘Want to go back?’ asked Treasure as the Irishman disappeared.

  ‘Not on your life. Not with you and Jingles for protection,’ she insisted, the bravado a bit forced. They waited a few moments before moving off again.

  A hundred yards onwards the path broadened abruptly into a yard set with broken cobbles and decorated by a single stalking, inquisitive cockerel. On the far side was a dilapidated farmhouse, and Treasure was almost sure he saw the front door shut as it came into view. An Alsatian dog was chained to a kennel near the door. The dog whimpered while watching the newcomers. Jingles watched the dog.

  Close by, on the right, were some empty pigsties. Beyond these stood a row of three lurching outhouses, each component seeming to rely on the next for support and to prevent imminent collapse. The centre structure was a barn – two storeys with a gable and loft hoist at the front. It was open-ended at ground level, though whether by design and not deterioration it was difficult to determine. It was also full of ewe sheep.

  One of the sheep was perched on a foot-high plinth at the front looking as conspicuous as the ‘car of the week’ in a showroom window. Seated behind the ewe was an old woman in a fur coat. She had a woollen scarf wrapped round her head and a black patch over one eye. She was milking the sheep into a
metal receptacle let into the plinth: the top was just discernible under the animal’s rear quarters.

  ‘Good afternoon. My name is Treasure.’

  There was no verbal response, only a suspicious one-eyed assessment from both the human addressed and the ewe – the latter’s concern being evidently over Jingles. The little dog had settled in front of the plinth, head on one side, watching the milking process with every appearance of canine incredulity.

  ‘Dorset Horns, are they?’ asked Glynis brightly, nodding at the dozen or so anxious sheep assembled but not penned in the building behind.

  ‘Quite right, Missy,’ replied the woman in a coarse accent.

  ‘They’re the autumn lambers. I expect you keep . . .’

  ‘Freislands for summer milk. Nothing like ’em.’ The speaker smacked the ewe on the rump. It skipped off the plinth and another immediately took its place.

  ‘Expect you make . . .’

  ‘Cheese and yoghurt. Is that what you’ve come for? Only enough for our own needs. And special friends.’ The tone made it clear the two visitors didn’t qualify. ‘You know you be trespassing?’ But the sharp glance at the end was not unkindly.

  ‘Actually, we’ve come to see your brother, Miss Daras . . .’

  ‘Have you now, Missy? Make an appointment, did you? He’s a very busy man. So he says.’ The last remark seemed to fill the speaker with uncontrollable mirth. For a few moments she rocked to and fro on her chair, revealing in the process that it was very probably by Sheraton – just as the coat she had on was undoubtedly mink, if rather old mink. Eventually Miss Daras pulled herself together and went back to milking the sheep.

  ‘I did try to reach you by telephone,’ offered Treasure.

  If her own previous comment had tickled the old woman, this one induced an actually frightening paroxysm of hilarity. ‘Telephone,’ she cackled, wiping her visible eye and again baring her few remaining front teeth. ‘Telephone. Oh, that’s a good one.’

  ‘You mean you’re still pre-electric,’ smiled Glynis.