Kempston Hardwick Mysteries — Box Set, Books 1-3 Page 12

  ‘What detail, Ellis?’ came the voice of Hardwick, less than six inches from his ear.

  Struggling with all his might to keep the porcelain cow airborne, Ellis quickly regained his composure. ‘Oh, nothing. Just talking to myself.’

  ‘I see. Well this is no time for porcelaneous bovine juggling, Ellis. Just a shame it’s not it a pig.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘A porcelain pig, Ellis. Far more fitting than a cow. The word “porcelain” comes from the Italian porcellana and Latin porcellus, which is the diminutive of porcus – a pig. Technically, “porcelain” means “pig-like”.’

  ‘But it’s a cow,’ Ellis replied.

  ‘Yes, yes. Come on, Ellis. The kitchen!’

  The vicar turned to smile at Hardwick and Flint as they entered the kitchen, and poured the boiling water onto the tea leaves, revealing the musky scent of Darjeeling.

  ‘Cup of tea?’ the vicar asked, having already poured three cups.

  It looks like it, doesn’t it? Hardwick wanted to answer, but settled for ‘Yes please, Father.’

  ‘Please, call me vicar. Even better, just Michael. Father’s such a High Anglican thing. We like to keep things a little less formal in Tollinghill.’

  ‘Got any digestives?’ Ellis Flint asked; always keen to fuel his body wherever possible in order to avoid the culinary nightmares that Mrs Flint tended to concoct for his meal each evening.

  ‘It’s a terrible business, this murder,’ the vicar said as he handed Ellis a packet of biscuits and placed the porcelain lid back on the teapot, thoughts of pigs going through Flint’s mind.

  ‘Yes, it’s rarely jolly,’ Hardwick replied, with more than a hint of sarcasm.

  ‘“Therefore we are always confident and know that as long as we are at home in the body we are away from the Lord. For we live by faith, not by sight. We are confident, I say, and would prefer to be away from the body and at home with the Lord.” 2 Corinthians 5:6-8.’ The vicar smiled and handed Hardwick his cup of tea.

  ‘Indeed,’ Hardwick replied. ‘Although may I say I find it a little callous to suggest that Oscar Whitehouse wanted to be murdered?’

  ‘Oh, I’m not suggesting that for one moment. The quote is intended to give comfort that Oscar is now at peace and at one — at home — with the Lord,’ replied the vicar.

  ‘Well I’m sure he’d rather be at home with his family, personally, but I’m sure we can agree to disagree.’

  ‘So!’ Ellis Flint interjected, sensing the deepening atmosphere. ‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’

  ‘No,’ Hardwick said.

  ‘Raining,’ the vicar added.

  ‘It’s only a small shower, I’m sure,’ said Ellis. ‘The reason we wanted to speak to you, vicar, is that Kempston and I–’ he said, emphasising his name in order to break the death stare between Hardwick and the reverend. ‘Well, we were speaking to a few of the witnesses from last night and it seems that you were in the room from the time that Oscar Whitehouse’s body was discovered, until the point that the police arrived.’

  ‘Well,’ the vicar said, visibly trying to remember. ‘I think you may be right, yes.’

  ‘Does that not strike you as a little suspicious, sir?’ Hardwick asked.

  ‘Well why should it? He was dead before I even got there. Why should it matter how long I spent in the company of a dead body? I spend half of my life in the company of dead bodies.’

  ‘And the other half praying to one,’ Hardwick muttered under his breath.

  ‘Was anything moved or altered between finding Oscar Whitehouse’s body and the police arriving?’ Ellis asked.

  ‘Nothing, other than moving his body slightly, to check he was dead. I explicitly stayed in the room in order to provide continuity and ensure everything was preserved.’

  The vicar’s version of events thereafter ran much the same as those of the other partygoers, so Hardwick and Flint saw little reason to drag the conversation out for any longer than they needed to. Ellis Flint, in particular, was keen to put an end to the tense atmosphere between the vicar and Hardwick.

  During his formative years, Hardwick had spent most of his time travelling around the world as his parents’ work took them from continent to continent. Having lived in places as diverse as Patagonia, Russia and the Horn of Africa, he had come to realise that although the concept and details of religion differed vastly between cultures and regions, its divisive nature and sense of self-importance often seemed to permeate all that was good about their individual message.

  ‘I thought you were a little harsh on him there, Kempston,’ Flint said as they left the vicarage.

  ‘Not especially, Ellis. I can’t stand all the religious hokum.’

  ‘I know, I’ve noticed. But it hardly has any impact on our investigation, does it? A little respect for the man’s beliefs wouldn’t go amiss.’

  ‘On the contrary, Ellis. Detection and religion cannot possibly go hand in hand. They are two opposite sides of the same coin: one uses its head and the other relies on tales.’ As he spoke, he spotted the figure of a Mediterranean man—whom he presumed to be Christos Karagounis—walking past the vicarage wall. ‘Excuse me? Mr Karagounis? I’m Kempston Hardwick, and this is Ellis Flint. Can we have a quick word, please?’

  Christos Karagounis was an odd-looking man, much like a cartoonist or TV impressionist might make a Greek Cypriot out to be; his well-slicked hair clung to his ears in a seemingly random manner, yet unwavering in the Saturday morning breeze. He wore a short-sleeved button-up shirt with a horrendous flowered pattern, and looked as though he were about to die from heat exhaustion.

  ‘Like I tell police, Mr Hardwick. I not particularly surprised,’ Christos Karagounis said, in a heavy accent laden with a surprising contrast of simple grammatical errors yet impressively advanced vocabulary.

  ‘And why would that be, Mr Karagounis?’ Ellis Flint asked, his youthful exuberance belying his forty-something years.

  ‘He have many enemies. In this line of work, he have many people who see him as charlatan and fraudster.’

  ‘I see. And where were you last night?’

  ‘I was at home, in my cottage. I was browsing internet and on telephone to my mother. All night. You can see internet log and phone record,’ Christos said, insistently.

  ‘I’m sure there’s no need. Tell me, how long have you lived in England, Mr Karagounis?’ Hardwick asked, desperate to uncover the riddle of the gardener’s topsy-turvy grasp of the language.

  ‘Five years this autumn. Why you ask?’

  ‘Pure curiosity,’ Hardwick replied. ‘I assure you.’

  Christos Karagounis seemed placated for the moment.

  ‘Do you have much need for advanced English in your work?’ Hardwick asked of the gardener.

  ‘Not especially, no. Of course, I need speak with Mr and Mrs Whitehouse, but in Shafford we have very vibrant Greek community. Many restaurant and social club.’

  Hardwick, being an extremely well-travelled man and an especial fan of Mediterranean cuisine, knew of Shafford’s Greek restaurants all too well.

  ‘Tell me, Κος Καραγκούνης,’ Hardwick offered, in Greek, in an attempt to endear himself to the gardener. ‘Did Oscar and Eliza Whitehouse often argue?’

  ‘Oh, my, my, yes!’ Christos Karagounis replied, his wonderfully Mediterranean gesticulation making Hardwick feel slightly sea-sick, although the gardener did seem to have gained a new level of trust and confidence. ‘Mr and Mrs Whitehouse have many volatile argument.’

  ‘Over what,’ Ellis Flint asked. ‘Do you know?’

  The gardener chuckled a little and leaned in to Hardwick and Flint, as if telling them a cheeky secret. ‘Let me say, Mr Whitehouse have trouble keeping at bay the little panty lizard!’

  Ellis Flint’s eyebrows rose like rockets as he looked at Hardwick, trying to work out what on earth Christos Karagounis was talking about. Without missing a beat, Hardwick wrapped up the conversation and bade the gardener farewell. ‘
And please don’t go anywhere in the next few days,’ he added. ‘We may just need to speak to you again.’

  ‘What the hell...?’ Flint asked as he and Hardwick reached the car, which was parked at the side of the road. ‘Panty lizard?’

  ‘Oh, Ellis. Your knowledge of colloquial idioms fails you. Trouser snake, Ellis. Trouser snake. You really do surprise me sometimes.’

  Ellis stood, dumbfounded, as Hardwick climbed into the driver’s seat.

  ‘You and me both, Hardwick. You and me both.’

  13

  ‘Thank you for taking the time to speak to us, Dr Daniels,’ Hardwick said, his eyes glancing around the kitchen of the modest semi-detached house. ‘I understand you were the locum doctor working in and around Tollinghill last night.’

  ‘That’s right, yes. Would either of you like coffee? Tea?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Tea, please,’ Ellis Flint replied.

  ‘Sugar?’

  ‘Six, please.’

  ‘Dr Daniels, I’ll cut to the chase,’ Hardwick said, in a rare display of the vernacular. ‘A patient of yours died a few hours after your visit on Friday night.’

  The doctor put the kettle down on the work surface with a start and palmed his forehead. ‘Oh dear, oh dear. I knew it. I could see it coming a mile off. Oh, God! Why didn’t I say something at the time?’

  ‘What, Dr Daniels? What is it?’

  ‘I should have just dislodged the Lego brick myself; not sent her to A&E! Oh, God, I’m such an idiot!’

  ‘Sorry, Lego brick?’ Hardwick asked.

  Dr Daniels stopped hyperventilating for a moment. ‘You are here about Mrs Yardley, aren’t you?’

  ‘No, Dr Daniels. We’re here about Oscar Whitehouse.’

  Dr Daniels was visibly calmed. ‘Oh! Well, that is a relief. Well, not a relief. Dead? He only had a virus! At least I think he did… Oh, God! I got it wrong, didn’t I?’

  ‘Oh, it wasn’t the virus that killed him. He was strangled.’

  ‘Christ… And you think I did it? Oh, God!’

  ‘Dr Daniels, will you pull yourself together? Oscar Whitehouse was seen alive a number of times after your visit. We’re here because we’re speaking to everyone who saw him on Friday night. Now, why were you called to Westerlea House that night?’

  ‘The call came from his wife, I think. I was the on-duty locum so I went out and saw him. He was in bed when I got there. Very pale, cold sweats, some vomiting and diarrhoea. Nothing of any major concern — just another case of influenza or rhinovirus. There’s plenty of it going around.’

  ‘And what did you prescribe?’

  ‘For a virus? There’s nothing you can prescribe. Except sleep, orange juice and chicken soup.’

  ‘And how was his wife throughout all of this?’

  ‘She seemed quite worried at first, but calmed down fairly quickly. I seem to recall she said something about a party that night. I told her that she needn’t alter any plans and that Mr Whitehouse would be absolutely fine. Mostly out of action, but fine.’

  ‘And you noticed nothing else of any suspicion?’

  ‘Nothing at all, no. How on earth was he murdered in the middle of a party? Surely that’s impossible!’ the doctor said.

  ‘Not especially. There weren’t all that many people there — only a small handful of friends and neighbours. That will have made the killer’s job somewhat easier,’ Hardwick replied.

  ‘And do you think it was one of the partygoers who killed him?’

  ‘So it would seem.’

  14

  Much of detective work, it seemed to Hardwick, was rather puerile, consisting mostly of ping-ponging back and forth between witnesses, family and friends in a rather crass and insensitive manner – even for Hardwick. So it was that they found themselves once again at Westerlea House, this time in the garden, barely a handful of hours after they had last left it.

  The dawn of a new day could make or break an investigation, and this Saturday afternoon visit would yield the answer as to whether this particular investigation would be made or broken. The fresh rising sun could often cajole a person into revealing new details and subconsciously help to unravel a whole mystery. Conversely, it could provide ample time for a guilty party to take heed and shore up one’s defences.

  Eliza Whitehouse seemed neither defensive nor enlightened that afternoon, instead she had the air of a woman who had rather abruptly come to terms with her bereavement and was intent on dealing with it in a calm, organised and orderly manner.

  The tea was poured, and the biscuits served, so Eliza Whitehouse set her stall for a chat with Hardwick and Flint.

  Hardwick spoke first. ‘How long has your gardener, Mr Karagounis, been working for you, Mrs Whitehouse?’

  ‘Christos?’ she asked, stirring a spoonful of sugar into her china cup. ‘Oh, almost four years now I suppose. Yes, we first hired him after we’d returned from our trip to Canada. It’s a terribly big garden for a practically retired couple to look after, you know, and a six-week break in the height of summer leaves one’s lawns and flowerbeds in a terrible state. We just didn’t have the heart to even know where to begin. That’s when we hired Christos to get on top of things. He did such a good job; we’ve kept him on ever since.’

  ‘Would you say Mr Karagounis is a trustworthy character, Mrs Whitehouse?’ Ellis Flint asked, getting characteristically to the point.

  ‘Oh, yes, absolutely. He can do wonders with a rhododendron, you know. You should see the way he manipulates my clematis!’ Eliza Whitehouse began to fan herself with a nearby leaflet, because, Hardwick hoped, of the heat and humidity of the day.

  Ellis spluttered into the cup of tea which was raised to his lips. He apologised profusely and delicately wiped a small brown stain from Eliza Whitehouse’s blouse.

  Hardwick took up the reins. ‘Mrs Whitehouse, your gardener mentioned that perhaps your marriage was... well, let’s say interesting.’

  ‘Well,’ Eliza said, straightening her shoulders and wriggling in the wicker garden chair, ‘I think it’s safe to say that most marriages go through one or two rough patches. You must know that yourself.’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ Hardwick said, shaking his head. ‘Life’s too short to be shared, if you ask me, Mrs Whitehouse. Now, Mr Karagounis did mention the possibility of the occasional... altercation, regarding... well, fidelity.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Eliza responded, as she immediately stopped fanning herself.

  Ellis Flint was used to having to be a human thesaurus in order to decode Hardwick’s roundabout way of getting, eventually (when all was said and done), to the – let’s say – final point. ‘He mentioned your husband’s trou–’

  Hardwick coughed rather loudly and abruptly, ‘Trout! Trout... recipes,’ he said, glaring at Flint. ‘He mentioned that your husband had a rather good trout recipe.’

  ‘No...’ Eliza replied, now rather confused. ‘I don’t recall Oscar ever having cooked in all the time we were married. He certainly wasn’t a fan of fish, anyway.’

  ‘Ah,’ Hardwick said, once again being forced to think on his feet, whilst placating a live-wire Ellis Flint. ‘Well, a matter of opinion, perhaps. I tend to find it has a rather good taste, don’t you, Ellis? I find fish to be rather sensitive. A rather dignified food.’

  By now, even Ellis had cottoned on to Hardwick’s not-so-hidden meaning.

  ‘Oh yes, absolutely. Fish are very caring, aren’t they, Kempston?’

  ‘Caring? Fish?’ Eliza Whitehouse asked. Hardwick cursed quietly to himself.

  ‘Oh, for… Mrs Whitehouse,’ Hardwick said, staring daggers at Ellis Flint. ‘I hate to ask this, but do you know if your husband had ever been unfaithful to you?’

  Eliza was silent for a few moments, before calmly saying, ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Mrs Whitehouse, we just need to find out whether –’

  ‘Who told you?’ she asked again, this time more forcefully.

  ‘Mr K
aragounis simply mentioned that –’

  ‘Oh, yes, I thought he might! Bloody meddling man…’

  ‘What sort of relationship did your husband have with Sandy Baker, may I ask?’

  Eliza Whitehouse made a noise reminiscent of a Morris Minor failing to start on a cold January morning. ‘Who knows? If you ask me, they were having it off left, right and centre.’

  Hardwick shuffled slightly on his chair, as if swayed by a strong breeze. ‘What… what do you mean, exactly? You have proof that they were having an affair?’

  ‘Oh, not proof, exactly. It’s very difficult to get proof of something like that, other than having him come out and tell me. As a persistent liar, that was never particularly likely. No, call it a woman’s intuition if you will. You get to learn the little signs.’

  ‘So you suspected that he’d been wandering in the past, too?’ Hardwick asked.

  ‘Oh God, yes. I’ve no proof that he and Sandy had anything going on, but if you stack up all the women and all the pieces of circumstantial evidence over the years, then I’m sure it would look pretty conclusive. He revelled in playing with women, you see. Stupid old sod couldn’t even see that they were only interested in him for the money and fame.’

  ‘Do you think it’s possible that one of these women might be in some way responsible for your husband’s death?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised,’ Eliza replied. ‘But I couldn’t even begin to tell you who any of them were.’

  15

  The bells that rang out across Tollinghill to alert the congregation to the sole service at eleven o’clock that Sunday morning seemed somewhat more maudlin than usual. Harry Greenlaw, who was handing out leaflets at the front door, noted that more than a few unfamiliar faces had come along to that particular Sunday service. It was at the most tragic and uncertain of times, he realised, that lapsed Christians tended to flock to church.