Dead Man's Bluff Page 8

  ‘I gathered you’d be conducting it, sir, so I thought I could get on with some work.’

  ‘And just what work did you get on with?’ demanded Akers.

  ‘Finding out the time of the murder, sir.’

  Clayton met the divisional superintendent in the corridor. ‘How are things, Jim?’ asked the superintendent.

  ‘I suppose they could just be worse, sir.’

  The superintendent smiled.

  ‘Were you at the press conference by any chance?’ asked Clayton.

  ‘No, I wasn’t.’

  ‘Then I suppose you’ve no idea whether any London reporters turned up?’

  ‘I did hear that it was only a couple of the local ones again.’

  ‘Aren’t we a dozy lot of country bumpkins?’ It was Clayton’s turn to smile.

  Chapter 8

  To the North West of Gertfinden was an area which in the Edwardian era had been where the wealthy settled: large houses had been built, each in an extensive garden. In the course of time, most of the original labour-demanding houses had either been turned into flats or had been demolished, to make way for blocks of modern four-and five-storey flats.

  Elizabeth Corrins’s house, in Challock Road, was one of the few Edwardian houses which had survived. It was obvious that either the architect or the first owner had been an impractical romantic, for the house possessed a columned porch, a cupola, and at one end a square tower with crenellated roof-line. The result was both architecturally ugly and — in the bright sunshine which added a feeling of lightness — visually appealing in a cheerfully dotty manner.

  Clayton parked his car behind the rusting Bentley of Mrs Knott. He walked across the gravel to the front porch, which was twelve feet high and wouldn’t have disgraced a mansion. He knocked on the iron-studded, wooden door and waited. On the front lawn, a man was mowing the grass.

  Miss Corrins opened the front door. As soon as she saw him, the expression on her square, heavy face hardened. ‘Well?’

  ‘May I have a word with Mrs Knott?’

  Miss Corrins hesitated, as if about to deny her friend was there, then she looked past him and saw the Bentley. ‘Come in,’ she said ungraciously.

  He stepped into the hall. There was a magnificent Persian carpet on the floor, while above it hung three framed coloured prints which surely must have come from Xmas cards: an early settle with a most beautiful patina stood next to a leprous-looking elephant’s leg in which were half-a-dozen cheap souvenir walking-sticks. Money and no taste, he thought: still, that was surely preferable to a state of taste and no money.

  The large sitting-room ran the length of the house and in this too was the same combination of rich, beautiful furniture and furnishings and cheap, tasteless ones. Mrs Knott sat in a tooled leather arm-chair, while by her side was a stained, scratched, clumsy wooden table.

  ‘I’m very sorry to have to come and trouble you again,’ he said to Mrs Knott.

  ‘She’s very, very upset,’ snapped Miss Corrins.

  ‘Of course.’

  Miss Corrins stared angrily at him, then went across and sat on the arm of Mrs Knott’s chair, overflowing it and looking most precarious. She rested her hand on the other woman’s shoulder and quite suddenly Clayton realized what it was about Miss Corrins he so disliked. He wondered how it could ever have taken him so long to understand.

  No one had asked him to sit down, but he was hot and tired and he sat. ‘Mrs Knott, do you happen to know what system of winter feeding your husband was intending to use this year?’

  She looked surprised, but said nothing, merely shaking her head.

  ‘Did you in fact have much to do with the farm — did you help with the accounts, for instance?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you wouldn’t be able to tell me anything about the farm’s use of fertilizer?’

  ‘No.’ She suddenly looked up and her mouth twisted. ‘Whatever he did it wasn’t right. When we started it was all going to be so wonderful and then … ’

  Miss Corrins interrupted her. ‘His trouble was, he was too stupid: thought he knew everything, but didn’t know anything.’

  ‘It was all going to be so wonderful,’ said Mrs Knott, for the second time. She blinked rapidly. ‘We were the Knotts of Knott Farm. Daniel’s ancestors had owned the estate for centuries. He was Lord of the Manor. Did you know that?’

  ‘Was he really?’ said Clayton.

  She began to speak more rapidly, not really to them but to herself. ‘Daniel’s grandfather refused a title. There used to be family portraits of all the Knotts in the sitting-room of the big house: Daniel told me about them. You could see the family all the way back to the Civil War: there aren’t many families can do that. When we first lived on the farm, Daniel was invited to lots of shoots and the hunt met in the drive. The MFH suggested I learned to ride. But it didn’t last. They were all so snobby. It wasn’t my fault I wasn’t bom into their kind of family: why were they so horrible to me? Some of them couldn’t take their ancestors back two generations.’

  Clayton felt uncomfortably disturbed at witnessing such intense grief over something he had always considered totally irrelevant.

  ‘They first of all stopped inviting us back,’ she said dully, ‘then made weak excuses when we asked them to us. Daniel was rude to some of them — he always had such a hasty temper … ’

  He interrupted her recital of misery. ‘Mrs Knott, can you confirm that the estate is entailed through to your nephew?’

  Tears spilled down her cheeks. ‘It’s not fair. Why should it go to Paul and leave me with almost nothing? What am I going to live on? What am I going to do?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Phyllis,’ said Miss Corrins. She moved her hand along the other’s shoulder until she could stroke her neck. ‘You’ll be all right with me.’

  ‘Paul shouldn’t have it. He’s so crude. He’s no right to be in that position — he’s nothing but a farm labourer.’

  ‘Did you see much of Paul Hulton?’ he asked.

  ‘He was always turning up and telling Daniel that everything he did was wrong. What right had Paul to do that?’

  ‘Did he seem to get worked up about the state of the farm?’

  ‘Sometimes he was so rude. He said that in five years Daniel had mined a good farm and made it almost derelict. He told me that if Daniel had the farm for another two years it would be completely derelict and when he inherited it it wouldn’t be worth a farthing.’ Mrs Knott spoke loudly.

  ‘Daniel was a wonderful farmer and if only he’d had a little more time … ’

  ‘He’d have turned the place into a desert,’ snapped Miss Corrins.

  Mrs Knott turned and faced her. ‘But Liz, you know that’s not very kind. He was a very good farmer and it was only … ’

  ‘Stuff and nonsense. He knew nothing. He was the stupidest, most pig-headed man I’ve ever met.’

  De mortuis nil nisi bonum, thought Clayton, recalling the only Latin he had ever known. ‘Mrs Knott, what was your husband finally intending to do about the wiring in the store-room at the farm?’

  ‘Wiring?’ she said vaguely.

  ‘Didn’t you know an electrician checked it in July and said it was in a critically dangerous state?’ She shook her head.

  ‘Mrs Knott, did your husband have any life insurance?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said dully.

  ‘Then you weren’t aware that he took out a policy for forty thousand pounds?’

  Her surprise was immediate. ‘He … did what?’

  ‘In March of this year, he took out a life insurance for forty thousand pounds.’

  ‘But … Are you sure?’

  ‘I’ve spoken to the insurance company.’

  ‘Then … then there’s all that money for me?’

  ‘I’m afraid you’re not the beneficiary. A Miss Hazel Clews was named in the policy.’

  She closed her eyes and her mouth twisted into lines of deep and bitter hatred.

&nbs
p; ‘I’m sorry to have to ask you this,’ he said, ‘but did you know your husband was acquainted with a young lady of that name?’

  She shook her head, still with closed eyes.

  ‘She lives at Trighton-on-Sea.’

  She said nothing.

  ‘He saw quite a lot of her.’

  She opened her eyes. ‘That’s a lie,’ she shouted, her voice shrill. ‘He wouldn’t have done anything like that: he was a Knott. D’you hear, it’s a lie.’

  ‘Miss Clews admits to the friendship.’

  ‘She just wants to make out she knew him because of who he was.’

  ‘Don’t you think he must have known her, since he named her the beneficiary of his life insurance?’

  ‘It’s all a lie.’

  She’d been tormented by her knowledge of what was going on, he thought.

  ‘He was fool enough to get trapped by any young bitch,’ said Miss Corrins maliciously.

  Clayton stood up. ‘I won’t worry you very much longer, but there’s just one last thing. Will you tell me where you were on Monday afternoon at three?’

  Mrs Knott didn’t answer.

  He put the question to her again.

  ‘I was here,’ she muttered.

  ‘Can anyone substantiate that?’

  ‘She was here all day,’ snapped Miss Corrins. ‘Now if you’ve finished, clear out of my house.’

  With the greatest of pleasure, he thought.

  *

  Clayton hurried up the stairs in the police station and when he reached the top he was perspiring so freely that he stopped and mopped his face with a handkerchief. He must be getting old — one flight of stairs and he was reduced to a grease spot. Margery said he ate too much — but then she was such a rattling good cook.

  He crossed the landing and went into his room. Bodmin was sitting at the second desk and Akers was pacing the floor. ‘Well?’ demanded Akers.

  ‘Mrs Knott obviously knew about the girl, but won’t admit it,’ said Clayton. He went round his desk and sat down. He longed to take off his coat, loosen his tie, and undo the top shirt button, but felt certain that Akers, who looked smoothly cool, would be enraged by such slovenliness.

  ‘Has she any alibi?’ asked Akers.

  ‘She says she was at Challock Road all day and the old bitch confirms that.’

  ‘To whom are you referring?’ asked Akers coldly.

  ‘Miss Corrins,’ replied Clayton, and sighed.

  Akers paced across to the window, turned smartly, paced back to the second desk, turned smartly, paced back to the centre of the room and there stopped. ‘Where are your time correlation, statement time-check, and statement and information cross-check charts, Inspector?’

  Clayton mopped his forehead yet again. ‘I haven’t drawn any up, sir.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve always managed without such things.’

  ‘I suppose you know what I’m talking about?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then I suggest you draw up such charts. This is not the age of the horse and buggy.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Akers crossed to the small mirror on the wall and checked that his tie was neatly tied. ‘Have you been on the phone to Louthy’s?’

  ‘Not yet, sir,’ replied Clayton.

  Akers turned away from the mirror. ‘Time in the country does not seem to be a precious commodity.’ He walked out of the room.

  Detective-Sergeant Bodmin put some papers into one of the folders. He then placed the folder carefully and exactly on top of the others.

  ‘You must lead a very busy life,’ said Clayton.

  ‘It’s different, sir,’ replied Bodmin. He left.

  Clayton used the internal telephone to speak to Morris. ‘George, the superintendent has made a suggestion that we draw up time correlation charts and that sort of thing. How does that strike you as an idea?’

  ‘A jolly good one, sir: as you know, I’ve always said we should go for the modem methods of crime detection.’

  ‘Excellent. Draw them up.’ He replaced the receiver.

  He leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. What was it like to be Mrs Knott, tortured by problems that any reasonable person would laugh at? What agonies had she suffered because people had never accepted her as one of the true Knotts? It was so easy to call her a fool and dismiss all her heartaches as stupidity, but that was to be objective, and when you were dealing with people’s emotions you had to be entirely subjective. It didn’t matter if anyone else considered Mrs Knott a fool to think as she did — that’s how she thought. To leam that her husband had taken up with a chit of a girl must have been gall and wormwood to her.

  He slid down his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. Jersey must be heaven in such weather … He told himself this wasn’t the way to make his fortune and sat upright, picked up the telephone receiver, and asked the switchboard operator to get him Louthy’s head office. When the connection was made, he spoke to the manager.

  ‘We’ve been checking as your man asked us to,’ said the manager, ‘but I’m sorry, we don’t seem to be able to tell you much. We advertised two vacancies for salesmen working on a commission basis, one in the south-east, one in Wales, and Alexander applied for the south-east. In his letter of application, he said he’d been a salesman for a food products firm in the Midlands and knew a little about farming because his father had been a farmer. We had him along for an interview, liked the look of him, and took him on.’

  ‘Did you ask for references?’

  ‘He gave us some from his previous employers.’

  ‘Did you follow them up?’

  ‘Not really, no. You know what it is today — references don’t really mean all that much in the normal course of things, but one still demands ’em. A lot of employers will give first-class ones just to get rid of a bloke. In any case, Alexander said his old firm had been taken over and the personnel had either left or been shifted up to Yorkshire. As a matter of fact, when it comes to taking on a new bloke, we rely almost wholly on the interview. He had a reasonable personality and knew something about farming.’

  ‘How did he make out on the job?’

  ‘He put the sales of our products up almost ten per cent, except for one area.’

  ‘So you were satisfied with him?’

  ‘We’d no cause to be otherwise. Not until you told us about the fertilizer business, that is.’

  ‘And what’s the result of your inquiries into that?’

  ‘I’m afraid it does seem there may have been a swindle going on. All subsidy application forms are stamped by us with the firm’s name stamp and are then signed by either Mr Hatchard or Mr Nathen. I’ve inquired about fertilizer orders Alexander handled and in not one case were the subsidy forms signed by anyone else.’

  ‘What about the amounts that were actually delivered to East, Wright, and Woolcott?’

  ‘Hang on a sec and I’ll find the list … Here we are. Five tons of compound to East, four of high N to Wright, five tons of nitro chalk to Woolcott.’

  ‘Have you supplied fertilizer to any of these farmers before?’

  ‘Only to East. He had five tons of high N in May.’

  ‘Good, I’ve got that … Had any luck in tracing Alexander’s relatives?’

  ‘I’m sorry, but all I can do for you there is give you the notes I made at the interview. Alexander came south from Atherstone after his wife died because he didn’t want to stay in the area and also because his firm had been taken over. He told us he’d stay on at his digs in Relstone if given the job. That’s the lot, really.’

  ‘Many thanks.’

  ‘I say, d’you think our firm’s name is going to come out in all this because of the fertilizer subsidy?’

  ‘I don’t really see how it can be avoided,’ replied Clayton.

  ‘What a hell of a mess,’ said the manager gloomily.

  Chapter 9

  When Clayton arrived home, Marger
y was weeding one of the rose-beds in the back garden. ‘You shouldn’t be doing that in this heat,’ he protested.

  She sat back on the lawn. ‘If I don’t do it now, the bindweed will strangle the roses.’

  ‘I told you I’d cope when I had the time.’

  ‘I can’t quite remember whether that was back in late May or early June.’

  He grinned. ‘You’re a liar.’

  ‘I am not. Now tell me what you’re doing home at such a respectable hour as six in the evening? Has that revolting superintendent calmed down?’

  ‘Far from it. That odious illegitimate has ordered me out to Torrinden to see a farmer. I just thought I’d call in for a cuppa on the way.’

  ‘But this isn’t on the way from the police station to Torrinden.’

  ‘I know that, love, but the superintendent doesn’t.’ They went into the house and she made tea and offered him some newly made scones. He ate five, very liberally buttered, and only refused a sixth with reluctance.

  The farm in Torrinden was set back from the road, along a rough track. The farmhouse was moderately sized and remarkable for two tall, round, period chimneys with spiralled brick-work. East was large, heavily built, red-faced, and he had the bonhomie of a man who set out to be the life and soul of every party he went to. He offered Clayton a beer and poured out two pints into pewter tankards, saying as he did so that half-pints were for boys and invalids. His cheerfulness continued until Clayton mentioned fertilizers.

  ‘Fertilizers?’ he said.

  ‘That’s right. How much did you order?’

  East drank heavily. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I … I ordered ten tons.’

  ‘Has it all been delivered?’

  ‘Aye. And it’s out on the grass.’

  ‘Using that much at this time of the year must mean you’re hoping for a third cut?’

  East again drank heavily. ‘It’s good ground round here. Grass keeps growing and the animals keep on eating it.’

  ‘But if you’ve put on compound, you surely can’t graze the grass?’

  ‘Some people say you have to worry about hypermag if you do, but it’s too late in the year for that and anyway most experts don’t know what in the hell they’re talking about.’ He laughed loudly. ‘Like I’ve always said, Inspector, them as can farm do, them as can’t become agricultural experts.’