The Fox in the Forest (17 page)

He had taken the name Farr had used in his opening jibe and thrown it back at the man. Tommy felt himself on the defensive; he was not quite sure how it had happened. He said, “I’m not going to let any bloody Fox spoil my way of life, see? And anyway, I have Kelly with me when I go in there.”

“Proof against shotgun blasts, is he, Tommy? Remarkable dog, that.” Hook had moved round towards where the door led through to the storeroom behind the shop. There was a low whine from the Doberman in the kitchen as he creaked a board; perhaps the dog had caught his master’s use of the name.

Farr said now, “Kelly would go for anyone who attacked me.” But he knew he had not answered Hook’s point.

“And you take a shotgun with you, as an additional precaution, on occasions,” said Lambert quietly. “One of our problems, of course, is that we haven’t been able to pin down the shotgun used in these killings. Yet.”

“You took mine in and examined it. Eliminated it,” said Farr roughly.

“Not eliminated, Tommy. We can’t do that with shotguns.” Lambert was wondering just how much Farr did know about shotguns and their forensic implications. “We haven’t found a murder weapon for either of these killings. Probably it’s still in this area.”

It sounded like a threat, and at least it succeeded in making Fan cooperative. He sounded almost conciliatory as he said in a low voice, “I saw Charlie Webb going into the forest.”

“When was this?”

“On the morning of the second killing, whenever that was.”

Hook said, “27th December. We knew about Webb, Tommy. We also knew that you had probably seen him. It’s taken you until now to tell us. Not helpful, that.”

Farr was silent, staring sullenly at the counter in front of him. A hundred yards away down the lane, a car pipped its horn. The village was coming to life again after the funeral. Soon there would be other people in the shop. Lambert said quietly, “And was young Webb carrying his shotgun at the time?”

Farr looked up at them then, searching each face in turn in an attempt to follow their thinking. They were professionally inscrutable. He said hesitantly, “I — I don’t think so. He was well past the shop when I saw him; perhaps a hundred yards away. I didn’t see that he had his shotgun with him. But it didn’t seem important at the time, see. I suppose he might have been concealing it. Or it might have been already in the woods.”

It was their turn to watch closely, trying to divine whether this man suddenly so anxious to be helpful was speaking the truth, whether his hesitancy about Webb was assumed, whether his new attitude had anything of his own guilt in it.

Lambert said suddenly, “Do you know why Colonel Davidson was not at the funeral?”

He was rewarded with a tiny start of surprise from his man. Whether this was because of the question or because of his sudden switch away from Charlie Webb it was impossible to say. Farr said, with an attempt to recapture his early surliness, “No. Why should I? He doesn’t tell the likes of me about his plans, you know.”

Lambert studied him coolly for a moment. Then, without taking his eyes off him, he said, “I think we’d better go to see Colonel Davidson right away, Sergeant Hook.”

There was a flash of something in Tommy Farr’s eyes in the instant before he cast them down. Lambert could not for the life of him be sure whether it was alarm or elation.

24

There was not much of the short day’s light left by the time Lambert turned the big Vauxhall between the high wrought-iron gates of the Old Vicarage and drove carefully up the gravelled drive. The lights were on in the high Victorian conservatory, lighting the old glass more brilliantly than ever in its heyday. Inside it, they could see Colonel Harry Davidson, watching the approaching car.

Mary showed them straight into the conservatory to see him when she answered the door. Normally she would have asked visitors to wait until she consulted her employer, but she had no formal instructions in these matters, and in her book the police overrode these social conventions. But if she hoped for a little vicarious excitement from the visit of detectives, she was to be disappointed.

Davidson looked a little put out when they were ushered in, though he must have known they had seen him through the slight distortions of the old glass. He said stiffly to the maid, “You can go home now, Mary, before the dark. We won’t need you again today.” The girl thanked him and withdrew. There was nothing Victorian about the relationship of master and servant; far from bobbing her acceptance, she thanked him almost as though they were equals. Yet Davidson did not seem quite at ease with her. Lambert fancied he had been used in the Army to giving orders only to men. Perhaps it was Mrs Davidson who normally gave Mary her instructions; that would account both for the girl’s lack of servility and Davidson’s awkwardness with her.

Harry Davidson turned to them after the door had closed behind the maid. “What can I do for you, Superintendent?” he said. The genial squirearchal pose which had become habitual to him was no more than skin deep; the caution about his eyes belied the smile he carried beneath them.

“You can answer a few questions for us if you will, that’s all,” said Lambert.

He looked round the conservatory, with its heavy scent of hyacinths and bowls of paperwhite narcissi. “Very pleasant in here, especially when it’s so bitter outside.” He was in no hurry to remove Davidson’s unease.

“Do sit down,” said Davidson, waving his hand towards the comfortable cane armchairs and taking one himself. He sat incongruously on the very edge of a chair designed for lounging, as if he expected that at any moment he would have to spring into action. Bert Hook wondered if this was a military mannerism or whether he was really as much on edge as he looked. He was not a tall man, and his eyes were scarcely level with those of his visitors, even though he sat so determinedly upright.

In this place of ferns, greenery and heavy scent, with its bright white light and its extravagant heat in the depths of winter, it felt strange to be talking of the dark, frozen forest and the darker deeds that had taken place within it. Lambert said, “You are no doubt aware that I am investigating the deaths of Peter Barton and Ian Sharpe.” He caught a little twitch of surprise on the second name, but it might have been no more than a reaction to a name not so far revealed to the public. “I know you have been asked before about your movements at around the time of those deaths, but we now have a more precise time for the second of them, and I should like to review our information. I am doing this with other people as well as you, as you would expect.”

It was a leisured assurance, which he had delivered more times than he cared to recall, but the slow pace of it seemed to put Davidson on edge rather than reassure him. He said, “I am only t-too anxious to help, of course.” His slight speech impediment, which made him struggle for just an instant with his t’s when they came at the beginnings of words ambushed him now, making his bland statement sound less assured.

Lambert said, ostensibly waiting for Hook to turn to a pristine page in his notebook, “We’ve just come from Peter Barton’s funeral.”

Davidson said, “I see. How did it go?”

“As well as these things can. Not a happy occasion. Your wife was doing her best to comfort Mrs Barton after the service and interment.”

“I’m glad about that. Rachel was very fond of young Barton. I’m only sorry I wasn’t able to get there myself. I’ve had a heavy cold, though that’s much better now. But I had to drive over to T-Tewkesbury, on business. Couldn’t get out of it, I’m afraid.”

It had the ring of an apology, though they all knew he had no cause to apologize to them about this. Lambert let the man’s embarrassment hang between them in the humid warmth, but Davidson enlarged no further upon his excuses. Eventually Lambert said, “Well, there were plenty of people there: the church was packed. Probably you weren’t missed by most people.”

It was a conventional white lie, but it hardly comforted Davidson, who looked as though he had been offered an insult. The moment confirmed to Lambert how important his position as a cornerstone of the local community was to the Chairman of the Parish Council. Davidson, apparently feeling a need to offer something, said, “Rachel was going on to the reception at the Bartons’ house afterwards. She will have given my apologies.”

Lambert said, “And I’m sure the family will be glad to have her there. Now, could you tell us exactly where you were at the time of the vicar’s death, Colonel Davidson?”

If he had hoped to throw his man off balance by the sudden switch, he failed. Indeed, Davidson seemed relieved rather than otherwise to be asked to account for himself in this way. He smiled with the confidence of a man who has nothing to hide. “I was here, Superintendent. In the house, I mean. As I told your man a few days ago — Inspector Rushton, I think? If necessary, both my wife and Mrs Graham, who was here that afternoon, could testify to that.”

“Oh, we are not speaking of testimony; not at the moment, certainly. The statements of both your wife and Mrs Graham confirm that you did not leave the house that afternoon. So does that of your maid, Mary Cox.” Harry Davidson looked slightly disconcerted that his innocence should have been investigated so thoroughly by the police. “I have to ask you, though, whether you have any thoughts on who might have killed your unfortunate vicar. You are, after all, probably more familiar with the residents of this neighbourhood than almost anyone else in the area.”

It was a shameless piece of flattery, and Colonel Davidson rose to it. “Oh, I’m not sure that’s t-true, you know. We’ve only been here five years. I’m a local man, in a way, but I was away in the Army for t-twenty years and more. But I suppose it’s fair enough to say that I have a good working knowledge of the people round here, what with the Parish Council and my work as a JP.” At last he relaxed his posture a little, settling back into the wickerwork of the chair. For an instant, he steepled his fingers and looked at them. Then he discarded the gesture, as if he thought it demonstrated his urbanity a little too obviously.

Perhaps he was too concerned with his image of relaxed control, for he apparently forgot the question which had stimulated it, and Lambert had to say, “Quite. That is why I thought you might have some idea who had perpetrated such a shocking crime. There seems to have been nothing quite like it in this district before.”

“No. Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you there. There’s no one I can think of among our local villains who might come up with a killing like that.” His reply came a fraction too quickly, when set against his previous easy assumption of a comprehensive knowledge of the neighbourhood. A man who implied as he did that little escaped him might surely have shown a willingness to offer some suggestions before the matter was abandoned. But perhaps he had thought about the question over the last few days and been forced to acknowledge that he was as helpless as everyone else.

Hook said, “And Mrs Davidson is as baffled as you are?”

Fury passed like a storm cloud across Davidson’s face. For a moment, Hook thought he was going to come out like the military man in a bad play with “You leave my wife out of this, Sergeant!”

They still met that attitude often enough around the small-town world where they operated. But the anger passed as swiftly as an April cloud. Davidson merely said rather woodenly, “She has no idea who killed our vicar. We’ve discussed it, of course. But you must understand that she is not as familiar with this world as you and I are, Sergeant.”

“Murder is abnormal wherever it happens, Colonel. It turns ordinary worlds upside down.” Lambert’s own passion against this darkest of crimes flamed for an instant through his detachment. He had spoken quietly, but his words had come like a reprimand. He recovered his calmness as he said, “Are you suggesting that someone from outside this area perpetrated Peter Barton’s murder?”

Davidson looked suddenly full into his questioner’s face; but found no clue there to his intentions. The grey eyes stared steadily back at him, watchful but neutral. The brow beneath the crinkled iron-grey hair was lined, but not furrowed with puzzlement or hostility. The Superintendent’s wide mouth neither smiled nor grimaced. Yet Davidson felt he knew for the first time what those infantry squaddies must have felt when they stood before him, capless and at attention, on a charge. He said, “I couldn’t really say, Superintendent. You have more idea about these things than I have.” It cost him an effort of control to deliver even so much.

Lambert studied him for a moment, while Hook made an elaborate play of writing down the details of this negative reply. Then he said, “Where were you when the second man was killed, Colonel Davidson?”

Normally, Harry Davidson was glad to hear his title used. It was a reminder of his standing in the community, of the eminence he had achieved in the service career which was a prelude to this, of past military glories which he played down but loved to hear recalled to him. From Lambert, the title came differently. It kept him at a distance when he wanted to be friendly, to be assured that suspicion of him was no more than a formality of police investigation. He wanted the assurance Lambert would not give him that they were on the same side in this. He said hesitantly, “Where was I when this man — Ian Sharpe I think you said just now — was killed?”

Lambert nodded with a fleeting smile. “You have an excellent memory for names, Colonel.” He made it sound as if he was suggesting more than that. He was thinking back over thirty years to his days of National Service, when he had been a gangling youth in an ill-fitting uniform and colonels had held their noses in the air as though he carried a bad smell when they inspected parades. But he knew this was not the moment to indulge himself with retribution. He waited patiently for an answer: he was not going to repeat the question they were both perfectly aware had been asked.

“When Sharpe was killed, I was out in the car.” Davidson smiled at them with what he hoped was disarming frankness.

“Driven by Arthur Comstock?”

“No. I’m afraid I can’t alibi him for you.”

“Nor he you,” said Lambert drily.

“I suppose not!” Davidson laughed uneasily, as though they were playing a game. The silence into which the sound fell only made it more obvious that they were not.

“Was Mrs Davidson with you?”

“No. I was on my own. I like to drive the Rover myself sometimes. Comstock isn’t just a chauffeur, you see. He does all kind of jobs about the place.”

In a curious way, he seemed to be trying to justify his employment of the man. But perhaps he was merely seeking to divert attention from himself to the man who lived in the service cottage. Lambert said, “And where did you go in the car on the morning of 27th December?”

“I took my old aunts to the railway station in Gloucester.” He produced it with a little flourish. Perhaps he had been playing with them, keeping a cast-iron alibi up his sleeve while he enjoyed his fun.

“What was the time of their train?”

“Eight fifty-eight.”

That put him back in the frame. The murder had been mid-morning. “So you returned here at about ten o’clock?”

Davidson took a deep breath, like a man composing himself to steadiness. “No.” Now he stood up suddenly, as though the moment had been forced upon him by some pressure outside his control. He stood for a moment in front of Hook, as though he was studying the Sergeant’s neatly rounded record of his answers. But then he moved across to the shelf by the north window, where a row of cyclamen reared impressive heads of bloom. He began to test the soil surface with his fingers. “I didn’t get back here until late morning. About eleven-thirty, I suppose.”

Lambert watched those fingers as they played around the top of the plant pots, wondering if the brain which activated them could still them if it wished to do so. He asked the question they all knew had to come as though he were delivering a cue in a play. “And where were you during those two hours, Colonel Davidson?”

The fingers never stopped. Lambert could see the reflection of the oval face in the double glazing of the window as Davidson said, “I walked around Gloucester for a while, looking at the shops. Then I had a cup of coffee. The place was crowded, though. It was the first day the shops had been open after the Christmas break. Some of them were already beginning their sales.” It was delivered quite evenly and unemotionally. Too evenly, perhaps; it had the ring of a prepared statement. But perhaps there was nothing sinister in that: an intelligent man would expect to be called on for an account of his movements on that morning.

He gave them the name of the café, a crowded place near the centre of the town. Lambert said, “Did you purchase anything else in Gloucester?”

Davidson was turning to him almost before he had completed the question, holding out the scrap of paper those nervous fingers had twitched from his pocket. “I bought a small electric propagator. I told your colleague about that. I found the receipt today.”