‘You’re not suggesting that there’s a connection between the murder and the car crash last night, are you?’ said Vic.
‘No. Probably just coincidence. Shit just happens sometimes. But, whichever way you look at it, it’s been a hell of a start to the festival, Vic.’
‘Excuse me. Mr Shunter?’
Molly Wilderspin had appeared at the bar. She looked tense and her whole body was trembling. Shunter offered her his bar stool, which she accepted gratefully.
‘You look like you could do with a stiffener,’ he said. ‘Brandy?’
‘Perhaps a small one, thank you,’ said Miss Wilderspin. Vic poured her a Hennessy and she took a sip of the proffered glass, her hands shaking so badly that the glass tap-tap-tapped against her teeth.
‘I’ve never seen a dead body before,’ she said. ‘Well, not a . . . you know . . . with all that blood and . . . oh dear.’
‘No need to apologise,’ said Shunter. ‘It must have been a shock. It’s been a shock for everyone. I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name earlier.’
‘Wilderspin. Molly Wilderspin.’
‘So how can I help you, Mrs Wilderspin?’
‘Miss. And it’s my friend Esme,’ said Molly. ‘I’m terribly worried that she’s gone and done something silly.’
Pamela Dallimore fumed quietly as she changed out of her Miss Cutter outfit and into something far more suitable for what she had in mind. Bitchy comments, like those she’d overheard coming from the queue outside the hall, were nothing new. They followed her wherever she went and she had to concede, there was some justification for them. She hadn’t read all of Agnes Crabbe’s books – she had read very few, in fact – and she wasn’t the expert on the author that the media seemed to believe she was. She was a journalist, not some obsessive fan, and the Agnes Crabbe biography had been just one of her many projects. Her career had been built upon a string of similar populist books of little merit and dubious accuracy. And if she was being completely honest, she would have to admit that the whole murder-mystery genre struck her as incredibly silly. Remote country houses, hidden passages and deadly poisons being administered in various unlikely ways? It was all complete nonsense. But The Secret Queen of Crime had been, by far, her bestselling book to date and it was the gift that just kept on giving. She was constantly in demand to appear at conventions and on TV shows all over the world, and the kudos of being Agnes Crabbe’s biographer kept her bank balance nicely in the black. If people chose to believe that she was the fount of all knowledge, more fool them. But, for some reason this year, the snide remarks and the bitter asides had really got to her and she wondered why.
She pulled on a pair of heavy walking boots and began lacing them, all the while fulminating on the sneering arrogance of the most fanatical Millies. She had never been concerned by people calling her a fraud; she had never claimed to be an expert in the subjects she wrote about. And it was hardly her fault if the media was daft enough to assume that she was. However, there was a big difference between being labelled a charlatan and being called stupid. She prided herself on her intelligence and, now that she came to think about it, she realised that it was the taunts and comments about her intellect that had ruffled her feathers. She was a shrewd woman, a clever and Oxford-educated woman, and she did not take kindly to being called stupid and ignorant. She had therefore come up with a plan to prove to all of the ridiculous simpering Crabbe fans that she was smarter than the lot of them. She would solve the murder herself.
She certainly had several advantages. Firstly, the Millies might have a century of crime-fiction knowledge to guide them, but they probably knew little about twenty-first-century crime investigation. Theirs was a world of ratiocination and immaculate deduction, while hers had DNA profiling, fingerprint scanners and CCTV. She was also an experienced investigative journalist and had the Internet at her fingertips – when she could get a Wi-Fi signal – and two decades’ worth of contacts that she’d cultivated within a wide range of organisations including the police. Plus, she had written a string of books about notorious crimes and how the killers had been caught, so her knowledge of such things was enviable. But above all else, she had youth on her side; Mrs Dallimore was in her early forties and she was fitter and stronger than most of her detractors. She was convinced that she could discover more about the murder than any Agnes Crabbe fan ever could. And what a joy it would be to actually catch the murderer or, at least, to be instrumental in their capture. That would force the haughty, supercilious Milly hordes to shut their mouths and give her a little more respect.
There was a knock at her door. She looked through the security peephole and saw DS Jaine, unshaven, wild-haired and his pot belly accentuated by the fisheye lens. He was standing outside her room scratching some part of himself thankfully below her field of vision. She opened the door.
‘Mrs Dallimore? If you don’t mind, DI Blount would like to speak to you in the Incident Room,’ said Jaine.
Mrs Dallimore smiled. Perhaps her worth had already been spotted.
‘What do you mean by silly?’ asked Shunter.
Miss Wilderspin sipped her brandy shakily.
‘I don’t think for a minute that Esme was involved in that horrible business at the village hall,’ she said. ‘But she has disappeared and I’m very worried about her. There are all sorts of rumours flying around and I’m sure that some of them will get back to the police.’
‘I see,’ said Shunter. ‘Look . . . have you considered that she might be the—’
‘The victim? No, that’s not her in the hall,’ said Miss Wilderspin firmly. ‘I don’t know who it is but I know Esme very well and that isn’t her.’
‘Could it be Brenda Tradescant?’
‘I’m not sure. I only met her for the first time yesterday evening.’
‘You need to tell the police that,’ said Shunter.
‘What sort of something?’
‘I don’t know. But she was very cross about being accused of writing those books and she mentioned taking legal advice from Andrew Tremens. Then she went down Handcock’s Alley and she didn’t come back.’
‘So you think that she went to see him and may have stumbled upon the crime?’
‘I think it’s possible. They have known each other for years and . . . oh, I don’t know what to think. I didn’t want to bother you but you’re the only policeman I know.’
‘Retired policeman,’ said Shunter. ‘And, to be honest, there’s probably not much that I can do. As I said, you need to speak to the non-retired police officers.’
‘Mr Shunter?’
Shunter turned to find himself face to chest with a very tall, very thin man. His black hair was receding and his nose was long and beak-like. He held a warrant card out in front of him, gripped between a knotty twig-like finger and thumb. ‘Detective Inspector Brian Blount, Bowcester, CID,’ he said simply.
‘Ah! Speak of the devil,’ said Shunter. ‘I’ve just been advising Miss Wilderspin here to come and talk to you. Her friend is missing.’
‘Most unfortunate,’ said Blount, without interest. He folded his long body on to a vacant bar stool. ‘I understand that you were of some use earlier today thanks to your past policing experience. I just wanted to come and thank you in person for that.’
‘You’re welcome. Not that I could do much,’ said Shunter. ‘But I’m happy to help in any way I can. Have any more leads emerged?’
‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to share that kind of information. I’m sure you understand,’ said Blount. He smiled unconvincingly and stood up, narrowly avoiding cracking his head on a low beam. ‘Rest assured we know what we’re doing and we’re following several promising lines of enquiry. So thank you again for your assistance. Much appreciated. And I’m sure you understand that the bigg
est help you can be to us from now on is to stay out of our way and to tell others to do the same. You can leave it to us country coppers now. Good afternoon.’
As the tall detective left the pub, Shunter scratched his head. ‘Am I being paranoid or was he sneering as he left?’
‘Sounded to me like he was warning you off,’ said Vic. ‘Perhaps he’s worried that you’ll solve the crime and rob him of his glory.’
‘Then he’s an idiot,’ said Shunter. ‘I’m retired. And anyway, it’s not a bloody competition. It doesn’t matter who nails the murderer as long as he’s caught.’
‘Or she,’ said Miss Wilderspin, miserably.
‘I’m sure your friend is innocent,’ said Shunter. ‘She didn’t seem like the murderous type to me.’
‘I don’t know what to think any more,’ said Miss Wilderspin.
The library was a hive of activity. The building stood next door to the murder scene and Blount had established his Incident Room in the children’s reading area because it had the best Wi-Fi and phone signal strength. Several desks had been arranged in a square horseshoe and Nicola Banton was feverishly tapping away on a keyboard, searching databases and cross-referencing the known facts. Bookshelves had been cleared for the storage of exhibits and statements, and box files sat incongruously among the boy wizards, cats in hats and very hungry caterpillars. A magnetic whiteboard on castors stood facing the desks covered with photographs of the crime scene, a map of the village, a portrait of Andrew Tremens taken from his company website and a rather grumpy and washed-out photograph of Brenda Tradescant scanned from her driving licence. The year of expiry slashed across her throat like a human ‘use by’ date.
Mrs Dallimore glanced at the whiteboard and seemed suddenly a little unsteady on her feet. ‘That poor woman,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t stand her, but still, what a dreadful way to go.’
‘Mrs Dallimore?’ said Blount, entering the library and extending a hand. ‘DI Brian Blount. Thank you for coming in.’
‘Glad to be involved. I have some thoughts on the crime.’
‘I’m sure you do,’ said Blount. ‘We were wondering if you can shed any light on why Miss Tradescant, if that’s who the victim is, might have been in the hall before the doors were opened?’
‘What? Oh. I have no idea,’ said Mrs Dallimore.
‘You don’t know of any reason why she might have been in there?’
‘No I don’t. No one was allowed in the hall; only Andrew and members of the Festival Committee. And even they weren’t allowed in after three o’clock in case they ruined his big surprise.’
‘And do you know what the big surprise was going to be?’
‘Not a clue. Andrew was playing his cards very close to his chest. That’s why everyone was kept out.’
‘So no one else was involved?’
‘No one, as far as I know. It was a one-man show.’
‘How secure was the hall?’ asked Banton.
‘All the doors and windows were locked and I was on the front door,’ explained Mrs Dallimore. ‘It makes me quite ill to think of what was going on in there when I was standing just outside . . .’
‘Yes, quite. So when was the last time you saw Mr Tremens?’
‘That would have been around three. We locked up and then I went off to get some food. I came back to the hall at half past three to man the doors. I checked all around the outside when I got there and the place was still locked up tight. And it stayed that way until I opened the doors at three forty-five. I suppose Andrew could have let someone in between three and three thirty, but it seems very unlikely.’
‘And who has keys to the building?’
‘The caretaker, Mr Cuckolde. And I had a set for the opening. I still have them, in fact.’ She jangled a small set of keys on a ring.
‘I can track the caretaker down and find out how many keys there are and who has them,’ said Banton.
‘One last thing, Mrs Dallimore,’ said Blount. ‘We’ve had reports of a van leaving the scene just before you opened the doors. Were any deliveries being made to the rear of the hall this afternoon?’
‘Not that I know of. I did see a white van in the car park behind the hall when I did my walk around. It was parked down near the canal towpath so I didn’t think anything of it. There are often cars parked there because it’s free, and people use it when they go for walks along the canal. And I saw it drive away, of course. It nearly knocked down a couple of ladies.’
‘And you don’t know who was driving the van or have a registration number or anything useful like that?’
‘No, sorry. I only saw it from the side, like most of us did. The driver seemed to be a man dressed as Miss Cutter, if that helps.’
‘Yes, well. Thank you for your time,’ said Blount and he walked away.
‘Is that it?’ said Mrs Dallimore, somewhat deflated. ‘I have some ideas you might be interested in.’
‘Thank you for popping by,’ added Blount over his shoulder.
Mrs Dallimore frowned. Not even the police took her seriously.
‘I really think that you should reconsider,’ said the doctor. ‘You’ve had a nasty knock on the head and it’s clear to me that you are suffering the after-effects of a concussion. You can’t even remember the ambulance journey here. I can’t discharge you in your condition.’
‘Then I’ll discharge myself,’ said Savidge. He had been in the process of walking out of the hospital when he’d been spotted and stopped. ‘I can do that, can’t I?’
‘I would strongly advise against it.’
‘But time is of the essence!’
‘Er . . . look, while you are within your rights to discharge yourself—’
‘We must act while we have the advantage of surprise,’ said Savidge. ‘Where do I sign?’
‘What?’
‘We must strike while the viper is in the nest!’
‘I’ll get the forms,’ said the doctor, with a sigh.
Twenty minutes later Savidge was on a bus and heading towards Nasely. As the vehicle trundled through a pretty landscape marred only by the malodorous stench from local pig farms, he removed the bandages from his knees and elbows, and idly wondered where he might be able to get his hands on a gun. It was time for humanity to retaliate against Miss Cutter and her murderous army of drones.
*
Pamela Dallimore left the library and decided to buy herself some sandwiches for the day ahead. The Moore Tea, Vicar? café was as busy as ever with fan-club groups huddled around every table. Every snatch of conversation she overheard related to the murder and it seemed that the most popular theories currently under discussion revolved around Andrew Tremens. Mrs Moore was moving from table to table and suggesting that he had, for reasons unknown, murdered Brenda Tradescant. However, she was forced to concede that the trail of pearls, starting with the victim’s clutched fist and ending at the canal towpath, cast some doubt on the idea. Tremens was unlikely to be wearing pearls unless, of course, he’d disguised himself as Miss Cutter; it was very much part of the fictional detective’s ensemble as she always wore a double string given to her by her beloved ‘Aunt Pie’ – Dr Phyllis Ida Edwin – a brilliant detective in her own right and Miss Cutter’s inspiration.
‘He would know that no Miss Cutter costume is complete without the pearls,’ said Mrs Moore, looking pointedly at Mrs Dallimore. ‘It’s only people who don’t care that much about authenticity and accuracy who would fail to include them as part of their outfit.’
‘And dressing up as Miss Cutter would be the perfect way to escape unnoticed with so many of us about,’ said a Milly dressed all in red. ‘But why would he then make his escape via the rear of the building when he could have simply hidden in plain sight by joining the crowds as they swarmed in through the door? After all, who would spot one more Milly in a village full of Millies?’
‘That’s a good point,’ admitted Mrs Moore.
‘Perhaps the pearls belonged to a female accomplice?’ sugges
ted a Milly in an extraordinary floral hat. ‘Esme Handibode perhaps? After all, she has disappeared. And she and Andrew Tremens are acquaintances.’
‘And it’s common knowledge that she’s had several tiffs with Brenda Tradescant at the festival already,’ added Mrs Moore. ‘I’m not joking. Full-on cat fights, I heard.’
There were also any number of other theories being discussed, some wilder than others.
‘It’s clear to me that Andrew Tremens’s grandfather was having an affair with Agnes Crabbe’s mother and a letter has been found that proves that he . . .’
‘Eight knife wounds! Don’t you see? Eight is a number steeped in lore and mysticism! The Greeks thought it was an all-powerful number. There were eight survivors on Noah’s Ark from which all of humanity sprang. And Christ’s number is 888, the opposition to the Devil’s 666 and . . .’
‘I heard that Esme Handibode’s marriage is in trouble. Perhaps she and Tremens were caught in flagrante delicto . . .?’
‘It’s alphabetical. Andrew Tremens, initials A.T.; Brenda Tradescant, initials B.T. The next person at risk will have the initials C.T. It’s obvious. I would put a guard on Claire Timmins from the Agnes Crabbe Society and Colin Tossel who runs the Nasely Historical Society if I were you . . .’
‘Andrew Tremens and Esme Handibode have eloped together . . .’
‘It’s a clever conspiracy by the publishers of a rival author . . .’
‘Agnes Crabbe is still alive and . . .’
‘It’s aliens.’
Mrs Dallimore took it all in as she bought her provisions. Whatever theory you subscribed to, the fact remained that the trail of pearls stopped near the canal where the mysterious white van had been parked. And most people, including Blount and his staff, seemed to have decided that the van was how the murderer had got away. But Mrs Dallimore wasn’t so sure. It seemed too obvious. To begin with, there had been no attempt to sneak the vehicle away from the scene. Therefore, she reasoned, it was either an innocent driver or the van was a deliberate and carefully staged red herring. Either way, it meant that the murderer could have actually made their getaway on foot via the towpath, or on the canal itself in some kind of boat, while the van was causing a distraction. It was unlikely that they’d waded or swum across the canal because the open fields beyond led on to miles of flat grazing land in all directions. There were no hiding places, especially from the police helicopter. And she’d seen no sign of a boat on her walk around the building earlier. Therefore, she concluded, the most likely explanation was that they’d used the towpath on foot. The question was, in which direction? The logical choice was west towards Dunksbury Locks where there were ample escape routes on to several major roads and where they might have a getaway car parked. Eastwards was a much less likely route as, once beyond the village, the canal moved away from the road making a clean escape problematic. It was also peppered with popular fishing spots, a boat works and a reed bed known as The Rushes where a community of canal people lived, many of them so-called New Age Travellers who had stopped travelling. These places were likely to supply too many pairs of inquisitive eyes for any murderer or kidnapper to risk walking past.