Tuesday cont, then
Wednesday
Nigel was late for the impromptu dinner party. The Hurleys,
Dorothy and Vera had started without him after putting the little ones to bed.
“I expect he’s gone to his rehearsal after all.”said Gary.
“I haven’t invited them,” said Dorothy. “Two years on the
run is a bit much exotic entertainment for a village like Upper Grumpsfield.
We’ll just do some carol singing with the church choir.”
“What a bore,” said Charlie.
“It’s too late to organize a pantomime, Charlie, and I’m
sure Nigel has enough to do with the shows he’s aready signed up for.”
***
Nigel’s timing was very good, thought Cleo as she let the
straggler in.
“Can you do a show at short notice,” Charlie piped up before
anyone else could say anything.
“Who’s inviting us?”
“Me,” said Charlie.
“No, she isn’t,” said Gary.
“We’re doing a new show this year,” said Nigel. “That’s why
I had to go to the rehearsal, and that’s why I’m late. Sorry, Cleo.”
“What kind of a show?” Charlie asked.
“Grownup, if it happens. We’re all dressed like characters
from history.”
“Who are you?” Charlie asked.
“Shirley Holmes.”
“You mean Sherlock Holmes,” said Charlie.
I mean Shirley. We dress up as ladies, remember!”
“It sounds awful,” said Dorothy. “Where did you get that
idea?”
“From Wilhemina Shakespeare,” said Nigel.
“That’s stupid,” said Charlie.
“It’s definitely not suitable for Upper Grumpsfield,” said
Dorothy.
“I didn’t think it would be. It’s far too witty for
villagers.”
Dorothy scowled.
“Can we get down to business, you guys,” said Cleo. “I’m
surprised at your bad taste in entertainment, Nigel.”
“So you won’t come and see it, will you?”
“Certainly not,” said Cleo. “Help yourself to casserole.”
“Thank you. I am rather hungry.”
Nigel disappeared into the kitchen to serve himself. He was amused
about the reactions to his idea for a new show. Dorothy had been horrified and
Vera had not looked too happy, either. Gary had not hidden his disapproval. Perhaps
it wasn’t such a good idea, after all. It had only been in its infancy. The
show this year was a touched up repeat of last year’s, but he would not tell
them that.
“Can we have the ice-cream now?” Charlie asked.
“You can, Sweetheart. We’ll wait till Nigel has finished his
casserole.”
“Can I take it to my room?”
“Sure.”
***
Was the grownups’ relief only in my imagination?
***
Dorothy’s report on the visit to Miss Plimsoll met with
approval. Charlie had wanted more ice-cream, so she overheard the story and sat
on the sofa in front of the log fire to finish her ice.
“Is Miss Plimsoll going to prison, Daddy?” Charlie called
over her shoulder.
“No. She’s just a bit bad-tempered with strangers,” said
Gary. “Go to bed.”
“I’m eatiung my ice cream,” Charlie protested.
“Well, hurry,” said Gary.
“But we’re not strangers, Daddy, and she’s always shouting
at us.”
“I know, Sweetheart. She’s too old for her job.”
“I told her to change her attitude,” said Vera. “She was
very rude to us.”
“Forget her,” said Gary.
“I’ll do my best,” said Vera.
“So will I,” said Charlie.
***
Let’s move on to Peel, shall we?” said Cleo. “Charlie – off
to bed and brush your teeth after eating all that sweet stuff.”
“Again?”
“Yes again,” said Cleo.
OK, Mummy,” said Charlie and went round the dining-table
hugging everyone and so dragging out the time she could hang around. But she
did eventually leave them to it.
“I don’t really want Charlie to know all about Peel,” said
Gary in a low voice.
“I can hear you!” shouted Charlie from the bathroom.
“Stop listening!” Gary shouted back.
“Just keep it short,” said Nigel. “You can tell me the whole
tale at HQ and I’ll make it into a report. I’ll do same for your meeting,
Dorothy.”
“So let’s wind up this little conference soon, shallwe?”
said Gary. “I’ve got to talk to Arthur Mills tomorrow, so I need a little break
from crime.”
“Do I know him well enough?” Vera asked.
“Who are we talking about?” Dorothy asked.
“He’s the man who seems to be taking over at the home,” said
Vera.
“So you know him, do you?” said Cleo.
“Slightly, but I think he’d been hanging around Mrs Peel for
days if not weeks.”
“Well, well,” said Gary. “What did you think of him, Vera?”
“Sly. Dishonest. Decadent. Loud-mouthed.”
“Wow. He certainly made an impression on you,” said Cleo.
“He fawned around Mrs Peel, I remember, but he was up to
something and I think she knew what.”
“Did you talk to anyone about him?”
“I wasn’t there very long, was I? But someone said he was
part of Mrs Peel’s past.”
“Who?”
“A funny little guy named Louis,” said Vera. “Smelt of
eau-de-cologne and wore a fob watch like the old days.”
“That ties in,” said Gary.
“How?” said Dorothy.”With what?”
“Some of Mrs Peel’s last words at the hospital.”
“Hospital?”
“You’ll have to wait a day or two, Ladies. We’ve done a
couple of exhumations.”
“Go on. Say why,” said Dorothy.
“Mrs Peel probably murdered all three of her husbands. Two
have been exhumed. We need to know the cause of death. Mrs Peel was accused of
murdering husband number one, but got away with it. When husband number two
died overnight like the first, there was
gossip.”
“That doesn’t come as surprise,” said Vera. “I think she
would have murdered all the home-dwellers if she could get them to leave her
their money.”
“That’s a pretty shocking appraisal,” said Cleo.
“To continue; We know what happened to Barclay, Peel’s third
husband, but she probably helped to kill Barclay’s wife to free Barcley so that
he could marry her and she would then be part owner of the home.”
“That would give her the motive for killing Barclay,” said
Dorothy. “Always look for the motive.”
“So where does Arthur Mills come into all this?” Vera asked.
“That’s one of the questions I hope Mr Mills will answer,”
said Gary, yawning widely.
“I think we’d better go home, Vera. Gary needs his sleep.”
“I’ll let you kow how I get on,” said Gary, jumping to his
feet. “And I’ll walk you home.”
“No need,” said Dorothy.
“I need some fresh air. That Chianti was heavy stuff.”
“I’ll drive the Ladiues home,” said Nigel. “I was going
anyway and I did not drink any Chianti. Do you want me to write notes at
Mills’s questioning tomorrow?”
“That would be good, Nigel, and don’t be offended by my
attitude to your show.”
“I’m not,” said Nigel. “I was having you on.”
“What a relief,” said Cleo. “Even I was shocked.”
“It’s the English black humour,” said Vera. “You Amaricans
never did catch on to it.”
***
Interviewing Arthur Mills was not something Gary was looking
forward to, but as Cleo had pointed out while they were drinking their
traditional nightcap and discussing the ongoing investigation, Mills was
starting to look like a suspect.
“Suspected of what?”
“Ask him,” said Cleo.
“You don’t expect him to tell me, do you?”
“Not really.”
Gary thought it unlikely that Mrs Peel would have offered Mills
accommodation if she hadn’t had a good reason. He had probably stalked her in
the old days when he was looking for his newspaper stories, and turned up recently
to remind her of her past long after she had gone to great pains to forget it.
“What if she invited him?” Cleo suggested.
“Why would she do that?”
“To enlist his help.”
“Is that likely?” Gary asked.
“Peel told us that Barclay was away on vacation when she
probably already knew he was in that wine tank,” said Cleo. “I think she was
ruthless and capable of anything.”
“Then I should make a point of asking Mills what Peel was
really like,” said Gary.
“He’ll know she’s dead before your questioning, Gary, so he
can say what he likes if it exoneraters him.”
“Then I’d better improvise, Cleo. That has worked before.”
“Can you film the interview?”
“Of course. That’s one of the new ways of keeping records of
suspects.”
“So you’ll have footage of Peel, won’t you?”
“Yes, but nothing incriminating him.”
“Are you sure?”
“No, but I’ll get the interview over first.”
“You could tell him that he’ll be thrown out of the home if
he can’t pay,” said Cleo.
“We don’t know if he’s down and out,” said Gary.
“Maybe not. But that threat will alarm him and maybe put him
off his guard.”
***
Two hours later Gary was sitting opposite Arthur Mills
enjoying the coffee he had made for both of them. Nigel was sitting in a corner
from where he could observe Mills but n ot seen by him.
“Who told you about Mrs Peel’s death, Mr Mills?” was Gary’s
opening gambit. Straight to the point. He did not think that pfaffing around
would work.
“The hospital phoned. Someone has to look after things,”
said Mills.
“But you were already looking after things, weren’t you?”
“Nobody else seemed capable.”
“But you are,” said Gary.
“Agnes called me a few weeks ago and asked me to help her
run the home.”
“A few weeks ago? Her husband was still alive then,” said
Gary. “Did you meet him?”
“Briefly. He was going on holiday, he said.”
“But he did not go on holiday, Mr Mills. Do you know where
he went?”
Arthur Mills could not decide in which direction the ‘talk’
was going.
“Think carefully, Mr Mills. We don’t want you contradicting
yourself.”
“I went back to Bristol to collect some more clothes and
when I returned he had gone.”
“So he left in your absence, did he?”
“If that’s where he went, yes?”
“And if he never left the house?”
“Why wold he stay when he had told everyone he was going?”
“Everyone?”
“Everyone knew, so he must have told them,” said Mills, not
sure if he was being logical enough to convince the inquisitive D.I.
“He could have been in the cellar, of course,” said Mills
after due thought.
“Drinking the old wine, Mr Mills?”
“I suppose so.”
“Did Mrs Peel tell you that?”
“There was some fresh wine in the cellar and Mr Barclay was
rather fond of it.”
“So you went down into the cellar and drank with him, did
you?”
Mills nodded. He was cursing himself for mentioning the
cellar.
Gary was aware that Mills had given the game away.
“What did you quarrel about, Mr Mills?” Gary asked. “About
Agnes?”
“We didn’t quarrel,” said Mills.
“You did.”
Mills seemed to be recalling his anger at what Barclay had
said.
“He said some nasty things about her, and I thought she was
his dream woman.”
“So you defended her, did you?”
“Any gentleman would have.”
“Do you know that Agness and Barclay killed Barclay’s first
wife?”
“She got away with it – I mean – Barclay did it.”
“Is that what she told you?”
“We had promised to come together one day. Why would she
kill a wife if she was promised to me?”
“That’s romantic rubbish and you know it, Mills.”
Mills reflected on that. Had he been a fool? Had he fallen
for Agnes’s soft talk? And he a hard-headed journalist. He swept the sinking
feeling away. The D.I. was making it up as he went along.
***
“I knocked him cold with one blow. He was younger than me,
but I was a prize boxer in my youth. I don’t like it when men say bad things
about their wives.”
“Very commendable. Would you like me to finish off the scene
for you?”
“No.”
“I will, anyway… Your ex-lover Agnes listened in to what
Barclay said about her and was furious, though she wanted him out of the way. She
came down the steps into the cellar and told you how she had come to hate him.
You enjoyed that confession. It made you feel powerful and loved. You saw a
chance to be rid of him and telepathy between you and Agness, or simply the
mutual desire to be rid of the man, led to Barclay, who was slowly regaining consciousness,
being dragged up the wine tank rungs and draped over the open tank. Agnes saw
her chance and brought the cellar ladder next to you and climbed up. Together
you tipped Mr Barlay into the wine tank. End of story.”
“He toppled in,” said Mills. “No one pushed him.”
“Are you sure?”
“Agnes might have.”
“And she is conveniently dead.”
“She wanted him out of the way. We were coming together
after 20 long years,” said Mills.
So that was it. Mills, who was a good deal older than Agnes
Peel, had received favours from her in the old days and was building on them.
“I think that’s all we need to know, Mr Mills.”
“Can I go now?”
“Yes…down to our guest apartments.”
Mills looked puzzled.
“I’ve got to get back to Pensioner’s Paradise. They are
having a memorial party for Mrs Peel.”
“You can have a party all of your own in one of the cells,
Mr Mills. I’m charging you with the murder of Mr Barclay.”
“But it was Agnes,” Mills protested. “She did it. It was all
her idea so that we could be together for ever.”
“Tell that to the judge, Mr Mills.”
***
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