No Known Grave (13 page)

Alfie returned, a red notebook in his hand. Same procedure getting by Sister Rebecca. He handed the book to Tyler, opening
it to the last page. It was a book intended for keeping accounts and there were columns of tiny, neatly written numbers.

“See, I put in the date, the flyer’s name, and the time it was let go from Scotland. See, Prince was released on July 14 at eight o’clock in the morning. It was on his band.”

“Did you check him in, Alfie?”

A look of confusion came over the man’s face. “No, I ain’t allowed to be in the coop after hours. I have to be in bed by ten o’clock.” He ducked his head. “Me ma don’t like me to be out when it’s dark.” He cast a sly glance at his mother. “I went walking in me sleep once and she didn’t know where the aitch I was.”

“When was that, Alfie?”

Mrs. Fuller jumped in. “We’d just moved here. He was confused with the new surroundings. And sometimes he sleepwalks.”

“Where had he got to?”

She shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. Just in the grounds somewhere. But I didn’t want him near the river in the dark.” Her eyes met Tyler’s. “Now, I make sure he’s in his room by ten o’clock … I lock the door.”

“And that was the case last night? Alfie was in his room with the door locked from ten o’clock on?”

“That’s right.”

Tyler looked down at the accounting book. “According to this, Alfie has recorded Prince coming in at midnight.”

“That must be a mistake,” said his mother. “He makes mistakes sometimes. Doesn’t know morning from night. Tell him, Alfie. Tell the inspector you got the time wrong for that bird.”

Tyler handed over the book so Alfie could have a look. He stared at the page in bewilderment for several moments, then he smiled. “No, that’s right. Spitfire was back by nine, but Prince didn’t get in until twelve.”

“Could you see them from your window, Alfie?” Tyler asked.

“That’s it. They lands on the ledge and I can see them.”

“Even in the dark?”

Alfie nodded.

At that moment, the clock on the mantle began to chime out eleven o’clock.

“Alfie, what comes next?” Tyler asked. “Would you say it’s noon after this or midnight?”

Alfie told off each chime on his fingers. When the chimes had finished, he hesitated. “There were eleven. And it’s daytime. So next is noon. Midnight means the middle of the night and it ain’t that. The sun is shining.”

“Quite right. And that’s a good way to tell the difference. So did Prince come in at twelve midnight or twelve noon? Was it dark or light?”

Alfie shot a glance at his mother. “I forget.”

Mrs. Fuller glared at Tyler. “He weren’t out last night, I tell you. He checked in that bird at noon.”

“That’s right,” said Alfie. “Spitfire was tired too. He come a long way. He was let go in Wales. That’s far.”

“Do you mind if I hang on to the book for a bit, Alfie?” Tyler asked.

“All right. But I’ll need it back by tonight. There are two birds that haven’t come in yet. I’ve got to keep records properly. Mr. Mac has trusted me.” He looked over at his mother. “Would it be all right if I went into the coop, Ma? Mr. Mac is away in heaven and he won’t get back in time to check on them himself.”

“I don’t see why not,” his mother answered.

Tyler stashed the notebook in his jacket pocket.

“Alfie, I’m going to ask you something and I want you to swear on your honour that you will answer truthfully.”

“We’re not in a court of law,” interjected Mrs. Fuller. “He don’t know what that means.”

“I do, Ma,” said Alfie, and he raised his hand in a half scout, half military salute. “On my honour, sir.”

“Did you put the pigeon in Shirley McHattie’s room?”

Alfie stared at him. “Not me, sir. I’d never do that. Girls don’t like dead things.”

“Okay. Thanks.” Tyler stood up. “I just have one more question. Like your mum told you, a bad person has hurt Mr. McHattie and his son. Do you have any idea who might want to do that?”

“Oh yes. I know who it was,” said Alfie loudly.

“Who?”

“Bleeding Hitler, of course. I bet he dropped in on his parachute. I bet he come in and wrung their necks.”

19.

“W
OULD YOU MIND IF
I
TOOK A LOOK AT
A
LFIE
’
S
room?” Tyler asked Mrs. Fuller.

“Suit yourself,” said Mrs. Fuller. “Do what you have to. Me, I’ve got to get over to the house. Those poor folks will be famished. Alfie helps me.”

Her son beamed. “I peel the potatoes. There’s always mounds and mounds.”

“He sleeps in the back,” said Mrs. Fuller. “He gets wobbly on the stairs, so it’s better if he’s on the ground floor.”

She showed them the room and left them to it, her son docilely trotting after her.

Alfie’s room, also off the kitchen, was a duplicate of Shirley McHattie’s except that it looked more like a child’s room than an adult’s. A narrow bed over which hung a model of a Spitfire, a wall covered with pictures of fighter planes and bombers torn from magazines. The sash window was open, the blackout curtains were pulled well back, and the net curtain billowed in the breeze.

Tyler walked over to take a look. The rear of the house was taken up by a vegetable garden. Behind that, about twenty feet away, was the encircling wall.

“You can’t see the pigeon coop from here,” said Tyler to the almoner. “On the other hand, it would be very easy for Alfie to climb out of the window and walk around to it. And the McHattie cottage. What on earth made Mrs. Fuller think he was safely locked in his room?”

“Maybe she went to check on him periodically.”

“At three in the morning? I doubt that,” said Tyler. “I’m betting she closed and locked the door behind him, gave him a warning, and left it at that. She believes what she wanted to believe.”

“Do you think he did go to the coop later?”

“Of course he did. It was his job to keep the records of the birds’ flights. He’s not confused about that. For sure, he was there at midnight. Question is, did he come back to his room, via this window, or hang about somewhere until three when he entered the McHattie cottage? He could have done both. Gone out and come back, then gone out again. Seems most unlikely, but I can’t totally rule him out yet.” Tyler turned to face the almoner. “All right. I’d better get on with the interviews. Perhaps we can do that right after they’ve had their meal.”

They went outside and met Sister Rachel on the path, hurrying towards them.

“Inspector Tyler. There’s a telephone call for you from Dr. Murnaghan. He’s holding the line.”

“That was fast,” said Tyler as they headed towards the house.

Two residents in wheelchairs were on the gravel path. They both were wearing dark glasses and Tyler couldn’t tell if they were asleep or not. Dai Hughes was seated on an apple box near them.

“I’ll just have a word with Hughes,” said the almoner, and Tyler continued on with the young nun.

Sister Rachel held the door open for him. She lowered her eyes as he brushed by, but not before he’d glimpsed an expression that he could only describe as worldly, as if the hint of sexuality was familiar. Not that a vocation in the church wasn’t most commendable, but she was so attractive, it made him wonder what had brought her to it.

The telephone was waiting for him on the desk.

“Tyler here.”

Dr. Murnaghan’s voice came barrelling over the wire. “Goddamn it to hell, bloody car was in an accident. Nothing serious, just a stupid sheep wandering across the road. But I gave my noggin a hard knock. Saw stars, which is not a good sign. I probably have a concussion. I’m in the hospital wing right now. They’ve got to run a test. Bottom line is I won’t be able to get your post-mortems done as quickly as I’d hoped.”

“That’s too bad, Doctor. When do you think you will be able to?”

“Can’t say till I’ve been checked over. I’ve got a goddamn awful headache. You could try to get somebody else in, but the closest coroner is in Hereford. I wouldn’t recommend him, to be frank.”

“We’ll wait then. Look after yourself.”

“Sorry. I’ll have to hang up before I pass out. Ring tomorrow.”

The telephone clicked off abruptly.

Tyler sighed. An early post-mortem report would have been great, but he’d have to just continue with his own investigation until Murnaghan could get to it. And that meant first and foremost trying to unearth a motive for the killing.

20.

B
Y THE AFTERNOON
, T
YLER COULD DECLARE HIS
interviews had been almost entirely unproductive. He’d started with the massage students and put the same set of questions to each person: “Did you hear anything during the night? Do you know of any reason why someone would want to kill Jock McHattie?”

Neither Prescott nor Bancroft was able to act alone, that was certain. Of the remaining three students, Melrose, now dressed in an elegant navy blazer with a cravat, had admitted to being, as he put it, “cool” towards Jock McHattie. His teacher had it in for him, he said, but he didn’t come up with any convincing examples of Jock’s malevolence. Not a powerful motive for a brutal killing. Daisy Stevens was the most upset. She had really admired Jock, she said. She didn’t know who would have wanted him dead, and she had heard nothing last night. The mute chappie, Clark, wrote his replies on a piece of paper Tyler provided for him. NO and NO IDEA.

Daisy had asked on their behalf if they could go into town for a short while as previously planned, and Tyler agreed. At this moment, he had no good reason to suspect any of them.

The remaining interviews were also quite unproductive.

Unanimous answers. When any were provided, that is. Miss Bowman and Mrs. Broadbent didn’t answer at all and seemed not to have even heard his questions. Graham Coates, obviously once blond and handsome, now no longer so, couldn’t seem to understand the questions at all and lapsed into silence. Isaac Farber shook so badly, Tyler felt like a torturer and cut
the interview short. Everybody else said no. Heard nothing and, no, couldn’t imagine who would want to kill Jock.

The three nuns, Sisters Clarissa, Virginia, and Rachel, although obviously distressed, showed admirable self-control, each seeming to give a lot of thought to his questions. However, they had nothing new to offer. Their quarters were set apart from both the main house and the cottages. They had heard nothing. As for Jock McHattie, all agreed he was liked and respected and they couldn’t imagine anybody wanting to kill him.

Of the resident staff, only the Hughes brothers tweaked Tyler’s curiosity. The older brother, Evan, seemed cautious and wary, but the police often had that effect on people so Tyler didn’t take it too seriously. However, the younger brother, Dai, was fidgety and uncomfortable.

“I was asleep the whole night, sir, truth be told. We’re allowed to do that if we’re not needed on the ward. I can wake at the drop of a hat, look you, so it isn’t a problem.”

“According to the sister on night duty, you and she had a bit of a chat when you came on.”

Hughes’s eyes widened. “Did we?”

“That’s what she said.”

“Oh. Oh, yes, I remember. Nothing much. Just about the weather. That sort of thing.”

That wasn’t what Sister Ivy had said, but Tyler let it ride for now.

“Then you went to spend the rest of the night on your cot, correct?”

“That’s right. Didn’t stir once. No need to, thank goodness.”

Recollecting the magazine that Hughes had taken to bed with him, Tyler was surprised Dai had had any sleep at all. Perhaps it was merely his bedtime reading material that was giving Hughes such a guilty demeanour.

Tyler dismissed him, repeating what he’d said to the others. “If anything comes back to you, let me know at once.”

Hughes gave a salute. “Yes, sir. I will, indeedy. Thank you, sir.”

21.

N
IGEL
M
ELROSE WAS MAKING HIS HANDKERCHIEF
into a sun protector by tying knots into the four corners.

“Well at least none of us has been arrested. I was in doubt for a bit, I can tell you. ‘And where were you about four o’clock last night, Mr. Melrose?’ Where the bloody hell do you think I was? Fast asleep dreaming sexy dreams in my hard, narrow bed, that’s where. What a stupid question.”

“Come on, Melly,” protested Daisy. “He has to ask questions like that.”

“Oh, you’ve got a pash for the man, Daisy. He could do anything and you wouldn’t mind.”

“Steady on, Melrose,” said Bancroft. “She’s quite right. I thought he was decent.”

“I didn’t know what to say when he asked if I had any ideas who might have killed poor old Jock,” said Prescott.

“Some loony did it,” said Melrose. “Present company excluded.”

“Thank God for that,” said Prescott. “Maybe Miss Oakshutt is faking being a live human being. Maybe she’s a ghoul who prowls at night.”

“Eddie!” snapped Daisy. “That is a very cruel thing to say.”

He shrugged. “That’s what I am, Daisy. Being blind as a bleeding bat has turned me into a monster.”

Melrose stepped forward and slapped the handkerchief on top of his head. “I don’t know about you lot, but I’m going into De Greys for a cream bun. Nothing like a cream bun for raising the spirits.”

“You’ll spoil your lunch,” said Daisy.

“Nothing will do that, Daisy dear. A cream bun will only serve to improve my palate.”

Daisy hesitated. “Do you want to go, Jeremy? I’ll push the chair if you like.”

“Sounds like a jolly good idea even coming from Melly. Anybody else? Who’s here?”

“Me,” chimed in Eddie. “Do you want to come, Vic?”

Clark made a noise indicating he did.

“Let’s use one of the tandems,” said Eddie. “It’s faster. I’m not up to the walk in this heat.”

“Do you want to come, Bhatti?” Daisy asked the Gurkha, who had followed them outside.

“It’s useless trying to talk to him,” said Melrose.

“I keep hoping he’ll understand again,” said Daisy. “We can’t give up.”

“Maybe you can’t, but I can,” said the actor. “We have a plethora of deserving cases to concentrate on. And they’re all white.”