‘Do as you’re told or I’ll take my belt to you!’
The motor car and body were slowly winched up out of the Thames.
Philip’s face was red with excitement. ‘Let’s get this back afore anyone sees us,’ he said. ‘Hop in the tractor.’
‘But, Dad, the body.’
‘I’ll tell you about that.’
Philip drove carefully back to his smithy, looking carefully left to right to make sure no one was watching. It was still very early and his smithy was on the outskirts of the village.
Outside the smithy, he unhitched the motor car and pushed it inside. ‘Now, you,’ he said ferociously to his son, ‘not a word of this or I’ll beat the living daylights out of you. Run along. You say one word and I’ll get to hear of it. Poor gentleman probably was drunk and drove straight into the river.’
The boy scampered off. Philip shut the double doors of the smithy and locked and bolted them. Then he stood and stared at the car in delight. It was a Spyker six-cylinder engine, four-wheel drive. Other cars only had rear- wheel brakes. He had seen a photograph of it in the
He was itching to get to work on it, but first he had to get rid of that body. He unlocked the doors of the smithy and peered out. No one around. He went to the stables and hitched up the pony to the trap. Then, with his powerful arms, he lugged the dead and wet body of McWhirter and threw it in the back and covered it with sacking. The river had washed the blood away and swollen the corpse, so he did not, in his excitement, notice the bullet- hole in the back. He relocked the smithy and left a note on the door to say he would be back later.
He set off, driving steadily through the sunny, leafy lanes, his heart singing with gladness. There was a generous God in heaven who had sent him a Spyker.
He made a leisurely journey, stopping often to rest and water the pony. At last he saw a thickly wooded area beside the main road with a sandy track running into it and drove along the track to where the trees and underbrush were dense.
He heaved the body out of the cart and carried it over to a large tree and propped it up against the trunk. The dead man was wearing an expensive watch but he decided not to take it. The beautiful car was enough. He would tell the villagers that a gentleman had left it with him for repairs and had never come back.
The following morning Mr Jerry awoke with a groan. His head ached and he could hear the pounding of the breakfast gong. Normally guests rose when they felt like it, but this was Sunday and Lady Glensheil was determined that all should breakfast early and go to church.
Little flashes of his behaviour at the dinner table came into his mind and he groaned and pulled the quilt up over his ears. No doubt his wife would be in shortly to scream at him. Until then, he would enjoy as much peace and quiet as he could.
His valet entered quietly and said, ‘Wake up, sir. Her ladyship wishes your presence in the dining-room.’
‘Tell her I’m sick,’ he moaned. ‘Tell her I’m dead.’
‘What about Mrs Trumpington? Her lady’s maid says her door is locked and she cannot rouse her.’
‘She’s probably dead as well. Go away!’
He tried to get to sleep again, but, aware of another presence in the room, feebly opened his eyes.
His wife’s maid, Bartlett, was looming over him. She was a powerful woman and he was almost as frightened of her as he was of his wife.
‘What are you doing in my room?’ he demanded, struggling up against the pillows and then groaning and clutching his head.
‘I cannot get into madam’s room. The door is locked and she expressly told me to rouse her in time for the church service.’
‘I’m sure they’ve got spare keys to all the rooms in the servants’ quarters. Now, leave me alone !’
The church was small and old, smelling strongly of essence of villager, because the sun striking in through the stained-glass window was heating up the crowded congregation.
The vicar was frightened of Lady Glensheil, and in an effort to please her had written a very long sermon indeed. And as the sermon had to do with helping the poor and Lady Glensheil firmly believed the poor had brought their poverty on themselves by drink and gambling, she glared at the vicar from under the shadow of an enormous straw hat laden with waxed fruit. Lady Glensheil was often attacked by petty meanness and she had instructed her maid to take the waxed fruit out of the bowl on the dining-room sideboard and attach it to her black straw hat. Although the maid had stitched diligently, attaching the fruit by putting a net over each piece, each item was heavy. A banana detached itself and fell on to Lady Glensheil’s lap, to be followed by an apple.
‘I wish something would happen to make that tiresome man finish his sermon,’ she said.
The door of the church suddenly burst open and Bartlett rushed in, shrieking, ‘She’s dead! My mistress is dead. He killed her!’
That shut the vicar up. The congregation sprang to its feet.
‘Good thing Kerridge is here,’ said Harry, who was next to Rose. ‘I’ll go and fetch him.’
Mr Jerry had risen and locked his own bedroom door. He climbed back into bed and sank down under the covers. Peace at last.
Then he heard a frantic rattling at the doorknob and Bartlett crying, ‘Murderer. I’m getting the police.’
‘Ghastly rotten, rotten creature,’ he muttered. He closed his eyes and blessed sleep came at last.
He awoke half an hour later. Someone was shaking him. He blinked and looked up. Detective Superintendent Kerridge, having obtained the spare key from the servants’ hall and flanked by Captain Cathcart, was staring down at him.
‘What the blazes . . .’ he began.
‘Please get dressed, sir,’ said Kerridge. ‘Your wife is dead.’
‘She is? I mean, how? Choke on some food? Always was a greedy woman.’
‘No, sir. Mrs Trumpington has been strangled.’
‘Good Gad! Here, hand me that dressing-gown. Where’s my man? I must get shaved.’
‘Mr Trumpington, that can wait. We have questions we must ask you immediately.’
Now thoroughly frightened and with his mind racing, Mr Jerry got out of bed and put on his dressing-gown and slippers. What had happened last night? What had he done? He could remember her shouting at him. Then all was blank.
While he sat down in his private sitting-room, Harry went back into the bedroom. Mrs Jerry was lying there, her eyes protruding and her tongue sticking out. He averted his eyes and turned his attention to the bedside table. There was a champagne bottle there. He peered down into it. It was empty. He looked down into the wastepaper basket.
There were several scrunched-up pieces of paper and a champagne cork. He smoothed out the pieces of paper but they were merely notes reminding Mrs Jerry about jobs to give to her maid, like mending a tear in a gown and checking the inventory of the lace box.
Two local policemen entered the room. ‘What are you doing here, sir?’
‘I have the superintendent’s permission.’ Harry was about to turn away, but then he frowned and stooped and picked up the champagne cork. He looked at the dead body again. She hadn’t struggled. Although fat, she had been a powerful woman. Surely she would have thrashed around as she fought for her life.
He produced a magnifying glass from his pocket and studied the cork. There was a little hole in the top. He went quickly into the sitting-room and interrupted Kerridge’s interrogation of Mr Jerry.
‘Come over here to the window,’ said Harry, ‘and look at this. Here, take my magnifying glass.’
Kerridge peered at it. ‘What’s up with it?’
‘That tiny little hole. She didn’t struggle. She may have been drugged. Someone could have taken a hypodermic syringe and injected some sort of drug into the bottle.’
‘But why go to such lengths?’
‘To stop her making a noise.’
‘We’ll need to wait for the results of a full postmortem to find out. I wonder how the door got locked on the inside.’
