such distressing circumstances. Lady Glensheil never went hatless during the day. She was wearing a broad- brimmed felt hat decorated with a stuffed seagull with small ruby eyes.
She turned in the doorway and glared at Harry. ‘Do something,’ she snapped. ‘You’re a detective, so detect!’
After she had gone, Harry turned to Mr Jerry. ‘Have you the slightest idea what your wife could have been up to that would make her the target of blackmail?’
‘Can’t think.’
‘Could she have been having an affair?’
‘I don’t know. I was in India last year for a few months. Maybe then. But who would want her?’
‘It’s the evidence that Freddy had. Did the murderer find it? Or did Freddy have it hidden somewhere?’
‘Blessed if I know. Wait a bit. We put valuables in safe-deposit boxes at the bank.’
‘Surely the police thought of that when they were going through his bank accounts.’
‘Might have come under a different department at the bank.’
‘I’ll use the phone. Blast! There isn’t one, and its Sunday anyway. I’d better see Kerridge.’
Harry nearly collided with Lady Glensheil as she emerged from the estate office.
‘Have you done anything yet?’ she demanded.
‘Give me time,’ said Harry patiently.
He went into the office. Kerridge was seated behind a desk, with Inspector Judd, stationed in a corner, holding a large notebook on his knee.
‘I’ve just had an idea,’ said Harry. ‘Look, Pomfret may have put any blackmail evidence in a safe-deposit box at the bank.’
‘Lady Rose Summer,’ announced the policeman who was on duty outside the door.
‘Come in and sit down, Lady Rose,’ said Kerridge. He thought she looked a picture. She was wearing a white lace blouse with a high boned collar and a dark skirt of some silky material which rustled when she walked.
‘No,’ he said to Harry. ‘We did check that. Mr Pomfret did not have a safe-deposit box.’
‘Now that Mrs Trumpington is dead,’ said Rose, ‘perhaps it might be an idea to check if Mrs Stockton or Lord Alfred have been paying out any large sums of money recently. You see, if whoever murdered Freddy took blackmail material, he might have decided to go into business himself.’
‘Yes,’ said Kerridge, ‘but that assumes that the murderer is someone other than the two of them. But we’ll check anyway. Now, Lady Rose, before I start to question you on this case, you haven’t seen anyone suspicious lurking around?’
‘What other case?’
‘Dr McWhirter.’
‘Oh.’ Rose exchanged a glance with Harry and said quickly, ‘No, not a sight of the man.’
She suddenly remembered McWhirter as he had stood pointing the gun at her and then the sight of his dead body. She turned pale, gave a choked little sound, said, ‘Excuse me,’ and ran from the room.
Kerridge leaned back in his chair and studied Harry’s face. ‘I’ve always known Lady Rose to be exceptionally brave, but when I mention McWhirter she nearly faints.’
‘I think she’s suffering from delayed shock,’ said Harry. ‘The fact that her parents put her in an asylum was a terrible fright. It distressed her no end.’
‘If you say so. Never take the law into your own hands, Captain Cathcart, or I will treat you like a common criminal.’
‘Of course,’ said Harry blandly. ‘Are we all confined to the house?’
‘Yes, until I finish my investigations. Why?’
‘I wanted to go up to my office to see if there are any messages for me.’
‘Got someone there on a Sunday to take them?’
‘No,’ said Harry, defeated. All at once he regretted having told Miss Jubbles about Rose and hoped against hope she would keep her mouth shut. But he was determined to find a way to get back to where he had put the body and the car in the Thames to make absolutely sure no one could see anything from the river bank.
Old Mrs Jubbles lived in a perpetual rage. Her daughter, Dora Jubbles, of whom she had held such high hopes, had announced her engagement to the baker, Mr Jones.
She had proceeded to make her daughter’s life as much of a living hell as she could manage and Miss Jubbles had retaliated by leaving home to live in sin with the baker until the wedding in several weeks’ time.
Miss Jubbles had moved out that very Sunday morning. Mrs Jubbles sat alone, all her hatred turned against Lady Rose Summer. It was that society bitch who had turned the captain against her Dora. If it had not been for her, Dora would never have stooped so low as to marry a mere baker. In her choler, Mrs Jubbles forgot that she had entertained hopes of marrying Mr Jones herself.
And then her anger left her as she saw a plan of action. She would take a hansom down to the
She summoned Elsie, the maid of all work, to help her dress in her best. Despite the warmth of the day, she put on her squirrel fur coat and her new lavender dogskin gloves.
At the newspaper’s front desk, she only told them that she had a society scandal to tell the editor. She was told to take a seat.
Mrs Jubbles waited. It was very warm. She opened her coat and saw to her dismay that there was a milk stain on the front of her best gown and hurriedly closed it again.
At last she was ushered up. The news-room seemed to be hectic with excitement. Mrs Jubbles did not know that one of the villagers had wired the paper about the murder at Farthings.
She was escorted in to see the editor. ‘I believe you have a story for us.’
‘How much?’ she demanded.
‘It depends what you story is . . . Mrs Jubbles,’ added the editor, consulting a slip of paper with her name on it which had been sent up from the front desk. ‘May we offer you some tea and may I take your coat?’
‘I would like tea, yes, but I’ll keep my coat on.’
The sun was streaming in through the windows of the office. Sweat began to trickle down Mrs Jubbles’s face.
The editor waited until tea was brought in and then said, ‘Now, what’s all this about?’
‘It’s about that . . . that . . .’ Mrs Jubbles clutched her throat.
‘Madam, I fear the heart is making you ill. Do let me take your coat.’
‘No, no. It’s that awful girl. My daughter, oh, my daughter.’
And unconsciously echoing Shylock, Mrs Jubbles suffered a massive heart attack and fell from her chair and then lay as dead as the animals which had gone into the making of her best fur coat.
‘Well, that’s that,’ sighed Kerridge when the last interview was over. ‘Unless the servants tell Garret, who’s interviewing them, something interesting, we’re no further forward. All the guests and Lady Glensheil claim they were fast asleep. No one ordered a bottle of champagne. No syringe found in the rooms anywhere. Maybe Cathcart or Lady Rose can come up with something.’
‘If you will forgive me for saying so, sir,’ ventured Judd, ‘it surprises me that you should share the investigation with amateurs.’
‘I’ll tell you why. It’s because amateurs are lucky. I sometimes think they could get away with murder.’
With Becket driving, Harry guided him to the place where they had shoved the car with the body of Mr McWhirter into the river. The grey light of dawn was spreading across the country-side despite the banks of clouds building up over their heads and the dawn chorus was starting up.
Philip had left no tell-tale tracks. Rather, he had returned and driven the tractor up and down the river bank to obscure any motor-car tracks. A stiff wind was blowing, whipping up waves across the river.
They stood on the edge of the bank and looked down. But the water was so turbulent now that they could not see a thing.
‘There you are,’ said Harry with relief. ‘See how black the water is?’
‘It’s going to rain,’ said Becket, looking up at the black clouds. ‘I wonder what it’s like here on a calm, sunny day.’
‘Never mind. I assure you there’s nothing to see. We’ve gotten away with it.’
