Kempston Hardwick Mysteries — Box Set, Books 1-3 Page 11

  ‘Ghost hunters? Oh… yeah, that.’

  ‘Yes. That,’ Hardwick replied.

  ‘Look, I didn’t know they were going to put it on the telly, did I?’ Ellis replied, shifting his weight awkwardly onto his other foot. ‘They asked if there were any spooky locations, so I told them about the Old Rectory.’

  ‘Ellis, the Old Rectory is not spooky. Nor did they ask you. They asked their audience. The sort of people who sit at home, with nothing better to do, phoning up fatuous daytime television shows to… Well, people like you, Ellis. Listen. Meet me at Westerlea House in twenty minutes. I’ll be over as soon as I’ve written and handed out two hundred eviction notices. In Chinese.’

  8

  Ellis Flint arrived full of youthful exuberance. The chance to play detective again was just too good to turn down, and he had raced to Westerlea House as quickly as he possibly could. Then again, the chance to get away from Mrs Flint’s cooking was a particular draw.

  Hardwick greeted Flint and noted the spring in his step, hoping the assembled party-goers wouldn’t take it in any spirit other than that in which it was meant. Although Hardwick often found Flint to be trying, he couldn’t fault his knack for—amongst the daft and downright barmy comments—eventually managing to say or do something which would lead to a resolution. Thoughts of monkeys and typewriters came into Hardwick’s mind.

  ‘Mr Greenlaw, am I right in thinking you discovered the body?’ Hardwick asked the verger.

  ‘That’s right, yes,’ Harry Greenlaw replied, as he bowed his head. ‘I was there with Michael and Eliza.’

  ‘Would you mind if we spoke to you for a few moments in private?’ Hardwick gestured towards the door and Harry Greenlaw assented, leading Hardwick and Flint into the dining room on the opposite side of the hallway.

  ‘Now, in your own words please tell us exactly what happened tonight, Mr Greenlaw.’

  ‘OK, well, I meant to arrive here at the same time as the vicar, Michael, but I got a little waylaid back at the vicarage. You see, I’ve got this new trouser press and it’s got a little knob on the side that controls the amount of steam it produces. Well, obviously a lower setting is meant to produce less steam, but I think someone must have put the knob on incorrectly because when you turn –’

  Hardwick interrupted, ‘I see, so you pressed your trousers and followed the vicar to Westerlea House, yes?’

  ‘That’s correct, yes.’

  ‘So tell me what happened just before Oscar Whitehouse’s body was found.’

  ‘Well, I was sitting in the drawing room with Eliza, Michael, and a few of the others. I distinctly remember admiring the crystal decanter on the drinks cabinet. Wonderful piece, it was. My father used to be a glass blower, you know? Taught me how to spot a decent piece of glassware and I’ve always been a fan of crystal. All homeware, in fact. I once had a turnip peeler, which –’

  ‘Mr Greenlaw!’ Hardwick implored. ‘Please, will you cut to the chase and tell us what happened, briefly, without deviation, precisely from the moment that you realised Oscar Whitehouse was dead.’

  ‘Well,’ the verger thought for a few moments, clearly wanting to get this right. ‘He wasn’t breathing.’

  ‘Oh, for crying out loud…’

  ‘Mr Greenlaw,’ Ellis Flint interrupted, placating Hardwick with a hand on his knee, which stunned the latter into silence. ‘Were you downstairs when you realised that something was wrong?’

  ‘Oh yes. We were in the drawing room and Dolores came running downstairs, shouting something about hearing a struggle in the master bedroom and not being able to open the door. Eliza, Michael and I went upstairs to see what all the fuss was about.’

  Hardwick looked askance at Flint, amazed by Harry Greenlaw’s sudden specificity of conversation.

  ‘I see,’ Flint continued. ‘How long was Dolores Mickelwhite absent from the party downstairs before she called down?’

  ‘I can’t be sure. She said she was going to use the toilet, but that was a good few minutes earlier.’

  ‘And what did you find when you went upstairs?’

  ‘Well, the door was locked. The key wasn’t in the outside of the lock so we barged the door open.’

  ‘And where was Oscar Whitehouse?’

  ‘Sprawled on the bed, dead,’ he replied, wringing his hands so hard that Hardwick could see the pink flesh yellowing.

  ‘I see. And can you be completely sure that no-one other than Oscar Whitehouse was in the room? Did you check everywhere?’

  ‘No, but the police did. And there was... someone in the room the whole time from finding him to them arriving,’ the verger said, reluctantly.

  ‘And who was that person, Mr Greenlaw?’

  Harry Greenlaw paused for a few moments, clearly uncomfortable, before saying, ‘Michael. The vicar.’

  9

  ‘Ah, Mrs Mickelwhite, isn’t it?’ Hardwick asked as he entered the living room to find a solemn but visibly shaking Dolores Mickelwhite. She was clearly no spring chicken, but seemed to be in that awkward forty-five-to-sixty-five age range, in which many women appear to be of completely indeterminate age. Her eyes practically bulged under the thick lenses of her glasses, and her dark but greying hair matted to her head.

  ‘Ms, yes,’ she replied. Hardwick was momentarily taken aback by the woman’s desire to confuse rather than clarify, but continued unabashed.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind, but my colleague and I need to ask you a few questions,’ Hardwick said, gesturing to Ellis as he sat down in the armchair next to the large, ornate fireplace. He took a moment to admire his surroundings: the sort of large country sitting room in which he’d feel very much at home.

  ‘No, I don’t mind at all,’ the woman said, wiping the bottom of her eyes with her index fingers.

  ‘The other partygoers tell me it was you who raised the alarm. Can you tell us a little more about that?’

  ‘Well, yes, it was me. I was outside the bedroom door and I could hear a struggle inside. Oh, God, it was horrible! It sounded like a gurgling drain. Someone was grunting and breathing heavily, the bed was banging, and then all of a sudden it stopped. It’s not a set of sounds I’m familiar with at all.’

  ‘Ms Mickelwhite, did you say anything or make any sort of noise when you were outside the door?’

  ‘I think I probably did. I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard, so I would imagine that I made some sort of noise.’

  ‘Ah. In which case, when you went downstairs to raise the alarm, the killer would have had — what — the best part of a minute to escape?’

  ‘Escape where, though? There were other people downstairs — it was a party — besides, the bedroom door was locked from the inside when we got back up there!’

  ‘Both the police and I searched that room high and low, Ms Mickelwhite. There was no-one else in it.’

  ‘Impossible! I heard someone! I mean, a man can’t strangle himself! Can he…?’

  ‘Technically, yes, although that’s not what happened here. The position and direction of the hand prints show that he was definitely strangled by someone else. Ms Mickelwhite, please enlighten me: what were you actually doing outside Oscar Whitehouse’s bedroom door in the first place?’

  Dolores Mickelwhite went silent for a few moments, having somehow neglected to consider that this question would be asked.

  ‘I just went for a walk, really,’ she said, smiling with over-enthusiastic confidence.

  ‘Ms Mickelwhite, you live in Tollinghill. We’re surrounded by rolling hills and lush woodland. When I quite fancy going for a walk, I tend to take a stroll over the hills, or through one of our many well-kept parks. I don’t tend to do circuits of people’s upstairs landings.’

  Dolores Mickelwhite’s head dropped slightly, realising that her excuse had completely and utterly failed her.

  ‘It was what he said on that television programme,’ she said reluctantly. ‘About having proof of life after death. I’ve always been interested in the paranor
mal and wanted to know what he meant. I was… Well, I guess I was being nosy.’

  ‘You were snooping, Ms Mickelwhite,’ Hardwick affirmed.

  ‘Well, yes. I suppose I was. But is that such a crime? It certainly doesn’t make me a murderer!’

  ‘It does, though, put you at the scene of the crime.’

  ‘Well, yes, but… but why would I kill Oscar Whitehouse, then come downstairs and tell everybody?’ she asked, clearly accepting the understandable suspicion, but keen to clear her name.

  Hardwick was silent for a few moments.

  ‘Well, thank you for your time, Ms Mickelwhite. We’ll be in touch should we need to speak to you further.’

  10

  Major Fulcrupp stood to attention as Hardwick and Flint entered the dining room to speak with him. He was dressed all in tweed, much the former-military man now enjoying a relaxing country retirement.

  ‘Terrible business, this,’ the Major said as he shook hands firmly with Hardwick and Flint. A little too firmly, Ellis thought, as he felt the bones crunch under Major Fulcrupp’s iron grip. ‘Would never have happened in the Army.’

  ‘People never die in the Army, Major?’ Hardwick enquired with a sense of sarcasm.

  ‘Well, no, of course they do. What I mean is that in the Army we all looked out for each other. A loose cannon like that wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in the barracks. If you’ve never been in the Army you wouldn’t understand, lad. It’s a way of life.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Ellis Flint added, smiling audaciously at Hardwick.

  ‘Oh, you were in the Army?’ the Major asked.

  ‘Yes, for a short time. A couple of years back.’

  ‘Ah, I see. Baghdad? Kabul?’

  ‘Pirbright,’ Ellis answered.

  ‘Ah,’ the Major said, with a slight air of condescension. ‘So you didn’t see any action?’

  ‘Not all that much. I was in the Royal Logistics Corps. We weren’t called into action while I was there.’

  ‘He spent two weeks as a cook, Major, now can we get down to business?’ Hardwick interjected, leaving Ellis Flint feeling mightily embarrassed. ‘Where were you exactly when Dolores Mickelwhite sounded the alarm?’

  ‘In the back garden, smoking, it seems. We didn’t actually know anything was going on at the time as the conservatory door was closed, so we didn’t hear the commotion.’

  ‘We?’ Ellis Flint asked.

  ‘Yes, I was outside with Andrew, Oscar and Eliza’s son. He was asking about my old Army days.’

  Hardwick and Flint somehow knew that Andrew Whitehouse hadn’t technically asked about anything, but that the Major had gone off on yet another trip down memory lane.

  ‘I see,’ Hardwick said. ‘So when did you first know that something had happened?’

  ‘Well, I finished smoking my cigar and came back indoors. We realised everyone had disappeared, except Dolores who was in the kitchen. She was in a right old state, arms everywhere. I got the gist of what was going on and told her to stay downstairs with Andrew. By the time I got upstairs it had pretty much all finished. That’s when we called the police.’

  ‘So the door was already unlocked when you got up there?’ Hardwick asked.

  ‘Well, it was open. They’d kicked it open, by all accounts. Dolores said that she’d looked through the keyhole before they did, and that she could clearly see the key still on the inside of the lock.’

  Hardwick paused for a few moments and rested his chin on his hand as Ellis Flint scribbled furiously into his red leather-bound notebook. ‘And did you see anything suspicious while you were outside at all? Any sort of movement? Anyone else in the garden?’

  ‘Nothing at all,’ the Major said. ‘It was still fairly light, so we would’ve seen if someone had come past us. You get a pretty good view of the garden from that decking area, so I can be quite sure no-one else was out there.’

  ‘In which case, Major, the murderer must have still been in the house.’

  11

  Major Fulcrupp backed up Harry Greenlaw’s story to the last word, so Hardwick and Flint turned their energies to interviewing Eliza Whitehouse, Oscar’s wife.

  Eliza sat on a kitchen chair, sipping from a mug of hot cocoa as Hardwick and Flint pulled out two more chairs — Ellis scraped his across the tiled floor with the sound of a dying elephant — before sitting down. Andrew Whitehouse had kindly made Hardwick and Flint a cup of tea each, checked his mother was placated and then left the trio to their conversation.

  ‘Mrs Whitehouse, can you tell me a little bit about what happened earlier tonight?’ Hardwick asked.

  ‘Oscar had been feeling unwell all day, he said, so he went to bed shortly after he came in. I went up to check on him around nine-fifteen and he seemed all right. Very drowsy and not all that well, but I saw no reason to worry too much.’

  ‘And for how long were you out of the drawing room altogether?’

  ‘Not long, I don’t suppose. I came straight up, went in to the bedroom, saw he was resting and came back downstairs.’

  ‘And were you absent from the party at any other time?’

  ‘No, not at all. I was downstairs through the whole evening.’

  ‘Oooh,’ Ellis Flint said.

  ‘Yes? What is it?’ Hardwick replied.

  ‘Do you have any sugar?’ Ellis asked Eliza.

  ‘Erm…Yes, in the little terracotta bowl, there.’

  Ellis stood up, reawakening the dying elephant and heaped four large tablespoons of sugar into his tea.

  ‘Mrs Whitehouse, did anyone else go upstairs at all?’ Hardwick asked.

  ‘Not that I’m aware of, no. Well, except for one person.’

  ‘Go on,’ Hardwick implored.

  ‘His PR girl—Sandy Baker—popped over to see how he was. She wasn’t here for long at all, though, so I very much doubt that she was involved.’

  ‘At what time was this? No-one else seems to have mentioned it.’

  ‘She knocked while I was walking through the hall, so I let her in. Something about signing some contracts or something. As for the time, I didn’t look at the clock. It was after Oscar came downstairs and before he –’

  ‘Yes, I see.’ Hardwick thought for a moment. ‘And did anyone else see Oscar Whitehouse after Ms Baker visited him?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I don’t think so — apart from me — but I wasn’t exactly watching the staircase the whole evening.’

  Hardwick thanked Eliza Whitehouse for her time, told her he’d be in touch and ushered Flint out of the house. Then he turned on his heels and called out to Eliza.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Whitehouse? Who was the doctor who came to visit your husband?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Our usual doctor wasn’t available, so they had to call for a locum. Dr Daniels sticks in my mind, but don’t hold me to that.’

  *

  ‘So we can cross another name off the list, then,’ Flint said as he and Hardwick leant against a low wall next to Westerlea House.

  ‘Hmmm?’ Hardwick murmured, lost deep in thought.

  ‘Well, if Oscar Whitehouse was seen alive after Sandy Baker’s visit then she couldn’t possibly have killed him.’

  ‘And why-ever not?’ Hardwick asked, rummaging in his jacket pockets for the cigars he knew he hadn’t brought.

  ‘Because he was still alive! And before you start on some theory that she must have done something to initiate his death, or that she slipped him some sort of poison, that’s nonsense – he was strangled.’

  ‘Oh, Ellis, really,’ Hardwick said, shaking his head. ‘Why must you always take everything at face value? You really must begin to look at the detail. Yes, Eliza Whitehouse knew that Sandy Baker had visited her husband, because she knocked on the door and announced herself. The difference between you and me is that you take it as implicit proof that Sandy could not have killed Oscar Whitehouse. To me, it says quite the opposite. Friday night was a warm night, and there were guests occasionally smoking at the back of the house. I very
much doubt they would have bothered to keep the patio doors closed for the entire night, when it was still so warm outside. Perhaps when they were smoking in order to keep the smoke outside, but surely not once everyone was indoors. No, it wouldn’t have been at all difficult for Sandy Baker to wait until the coast was clear and slip inside unnoticed. From thereon-in, it’s remarkably easy for her to go upstairs and kill Oscar Whitehouse. And what’s more, she appears to have the perfect cover by having already visited earlier that night. Who would ever assume she would come back, this time silently?’

  ‘It’s not a bad theory, Kempston, but the point still remains that whoever killed Oscar Whitehouse had to somehow get out of a room, which was locked from the inside, with that door as the only means of escape.’

  ‘Yes, that would appear to present a slight problem, but I wouldn’t worry too much about it just now,’ Hardwick replied, pushing himself away from the wall and starting to walk back down Hill Lane.

  ‘But why?’ Ellis asked, following a few paces behind. ‘Surely it’s crucial to the case!’

  ‘Not especially. Let’s not worry ourselves about the means of murder and escape. The means can’t kill again, Ellis. But the murderer can.’

  12

  The next morning, the heavy oak door of the vicarage opened with a slight creak to reveal the looming figure of Reverend Michael Winton, who greeted Hardwick and Flint with a smile and invited them to come inside. The vicar had that strange look that only vicars could have: the one which is both melancholic and reassuring at the same time. A trustworthy face, as Ellis’s mother would have said.

  As Hardwick and the vicar moved into the kitchen, Ellis Flint skulked slowly behind, picking up a few porcelain figures and closely inspecting the vicar’s grandfather clock. ‘Detail…’ he murmured to himself as he noted the size and shape of the figures, as well as the manufacturer’s details on the clock.