those of us who remember what a walk on the common used to be like.
“Also, say what you will about the Yanks, their base has brought an extraordinary degree of prosperity to Fordham. It’s cushioned the local people against the worst excesses of the recession. And that’s not something to be sneezed at.”
He paused for breath, coffee, and thought. Lindsay dived in. “Was it actually Rupert Crabtree who recruited you, then?”
“I don’t know if recruit is quite the word. You make him sound like some spymaster. I was having dinner with my parents at the Old Coach restaurant, and Rupert was there with Emma-Mrs. Crabtree, you know? Anyhow, they joined us for coffee, and Emma was complaining about how ghastly it was to have this bloody camp right on the doorstep, and Rupert was informing anyone who’d care to listen that he was going to do something about it and that anyone with any civic pride left would join this new organization to get rid of the women at the camp for good and all.”
Lindsay looked speculatively at the handsome, broad-shouldered young man. It would be nice to shake that self-assurance to its roots. But not today. “That sounds a bit heavy duty,” she simply said.
“Oh no, nothing like that. No, RABD was all about operating within the law. We used the local press and poster and leaflet campaigns to mobilise public opinion against the camp. And of course, Rupert and a couple of other lawyers developed ways of harassing them through the courts using the by-laws and civil actions. And whenever they staged big demos, we’d aim to mount a token counter-demonstration, making sure the media knew.”
“In other words, peaceful protest within the law?”
“Absolutely.”
“Just like the peace women, in fact?” Avoiding Stanhope’s glance Lindsay screwed out her cigarette in the ashtray. “So, tell me about the infighting at RABD.”
He looked suddenly cautious. “We don’t want all this to become public knowledge.”
Lindsay shrugged. “It already is. All sorts of rumours are flying round,” she exaggerated. “It’s better to be open about these things, especially when the world’s press is nosing about, otherwise people start reading all sorts of things into relatively minor matters. You don’t want people to think you’ve got something to hide, do you?”
Stanhope picked up the coffee jug and gestured towards Lindsay’s cup. “More coffee?” He was buying time. When Lindsay declined the offer he poured coffee into his own cup. “It’s not quite that simple, though, is it?” he demanded. “We’re talking about a murder investigation. Something one would happily have gossiped about in a private sort of way last week can suddenly take on quite extraordinary connotations after a man has been murdered. I know I seem to take everything very lightly, but in fact I feel Rupert’s death strongly. We didn’t always see eye to eye-he could be bloody irritating, he was so arrogant at times-but he was basically an absolutely straight guy, and that’s something I find I have to respect. So I’m wary of pushing something he cared about into an area where it could become the subject of public scorn.”
Lindsay groaned inwardly. Scruples were the last thing she needed. She had to get something out of Stanhope to provide a fresh lead for the next day’s paper, at the very least. And she needed to get it fast, before Duncan could start screaming for copy on Debs. She had foolishly thought that an interview set up by Rigano, with all the force of his authority, would be an easy answer. She set about overcoming Stanhope’s objections. It took less persuasion than she anticipated, and she suspected he had simply put her through the hoops in order to salve his conscience. And she managed to elicit the useful information that he had been alone in the lambing shed at the time of the murder.
“There were two things that might interest you,” he said. “One, a lot of people knew about. The other, only a handful of people. So, while I don’t mind what you do about the first matter, I want to be left well out of anything to do with the second. Okay?”
Lindsay nodded. “Okay.”
“I really don’t want to be brought into this as your source. I mean it,” he added.
He sighed. “The first concerns a man called Paul Warminster. He’s local. He owns a couple of gents’ outfitters in Fordham. He joined RABD shortly after I did and was always mouthing off against the women. He wasn’t happy with the way our campaign was being run.
“He said we should take the fight into the enemy territory instead of simply reacting to them. He always speaks in that sort of jargon. I suspect he must have been in the Pay Corps or something like it in the war. He thought we should be actively banning them from shops, pubs, cinemas, the lot. He thought also that we should be harassing them in the town-insulting them, jostling them, generally making life hard for them.
“Rupert always managed to keep the lid on him till about a month or so ago. Paul stood against him in the election for chair and made the most scurrilous attack on him. He ended up by saying that Rupert was so wishy- washy that he was lucky the motorbike gangs weren’t throwing pigs’ blood on his house. That, I’m afraid, was his big mistake. Our group has always utterly repudiated the thugs who terrorise the women at the camp. But I’d certainly heard mutterings that perhaps Paul wasn’t as quick to condemn as one would expect, if you catch my drift. As I said, this was all common knowledge.
“Well, Rupert was duly re-elected with a thumping majority, and he announced that since Paul’s policies and attitudes had been so soundly defeated at the ballot box, it would seem there was no place for him within the group. It didn’t actually leave Paul any option except resignation. So out he stormed, making sure we all knew he was right and Rupert was wrong. He didn’t actually make any threats, but the inference was there to be taken.”
“Okay, Mr. Stanhope. And the second incident?”
“Call me Carl, please. I’m not old enough yet for Mr. Stanhope.” He radiated charm at her.
She felt like throwing up over his clean jeans. But she didn’t even grind her teeth as she said, “Okay, Carl. The second incident?”
“Look, I really meant what I said about keeping my name out of this. If I thought you’d drop me in it I’d shut up now…”
“No, no,” said Lindsay, “I’ll forget you told me. Just give me the details.”
“I was told this by someone I can’t name. But I’m certain it’s true, because it’s referred to in the agenda for next week’s meeting, though not in any detail that would make clear what it’s about. William. Mallard is the treasurer of RABD. He’s a local estate agent. We’re quite a wealthy organization. We need to be because we try to fight civil court actions, which costs an arm and a leg. But we are a popular cause locally, and all our fund-raising is well supported by the locals. And we’ve had some financial donations from outside the area too.”
“So at any given time, there’s a few hundred in the kitty, is that what you’re trying to say?” Lindsay interjected, frustrated.
“More like a few thousand,” he said. “Rupert was a bit concerned that we weren’t using our money properly- you know, that we should be keeping it in a high interest account instead of a current one. Mallard wouldn’t agree. Now, being an awkward sort of bloke, Rupert thought his reaction was decidedly iffy. So, armed with the latest treasurer’s report, he zapped off to the bank and demanded a chat with the manager. The upshot was that instead of there being about seven thou in the account, as the report stated, there was barely five hundred.
“Rupert blew a fuse. He hared off to see Mallard and confront him. They apparently had a real up and downer. Mallard claimed he’d simply been doing what he always did with large lumps of money in his care, to wit, dumping them in high interest, seven-day accounts. But he couldn’t show Rupert the money then and there. Rupert accused him of speculating with the RABD’s money and pocketing the profits-Mallard’s known for having a taste for the stock market, you see.
“Anyway, Rupert went off breathing fire. Next thing is, the following day, Mallard came to see Rupert, with evidence that the missing six-and-a-half grand was all present and correct. But this didn’t satisfy Rupert once he’d slept on it; he was baying for blood. He’d had time to think things through and realised that at some point Mallard must have forged Rupert’s signature to shift the cash, since a cheque required both signatures. He told Mallard he was going to raise the matter at the next meeting and let the association decide who was in the wrong. Mallard was apparently fizzing with rage and threatening Rupert with everything from libel actions to-” he broke off, then stumbled on, “to you name it.”
“Murder perhaps? Cosy little bunch, aren’t you?” Lindsay remarked. “The wonder of it is that it’s taken so long for someone to get murdered.”
He looked puzzled. “I don’t think that’s quite fair,” he protested.
