Chapter Three
THREE
As Alec had expected, the most recently buried of the three bodies was the first to be identified.
“This looks like it, Chief,” Tom reported.
“Vincent Halliday, age forty-five. Eldest son and heir of Sir Daniel Halliday, Baronet, of Quigden Manor, Ayot St. Paul, Herts. He runs said Bart’s estate.
Generally popular with tenants—keeps a proper distance but no ‘side’ to him—and local gentry.
Reported missing Sunday the sixth, by his teenaged daughter. ”
“Not his wife? Or is there no wife?”
Tom checked his notes. “There’s a wife, and the missing man’s mother is still alive as well as his father, the Bart.
The sergeant who took the girl’s report checked with the family, of course, and got the impression that they were all annoyed with her for making a fuss about his absence.
They made out that he had gone off for the weekend on private business and forgotten to tell anyone where he could be reached. ”
Alec raised his eyebrows.
“He didn’t see anything in that—Sergeant Lear, I mean.
They’re the stiff-upper-lip sort, he said, that wouldn’t let on if something was wrong.
He reckoned they were afraid Mr. Halliday had gone off to have a bit of a fling, though by all accounts he was a pretty steady chap.
Still, Lear went back a couple of days later.
By then Halliday had been gone for four days, without a word, and the rest of the family were getting anxious. ”
“Though preserving the stiff upper lip?”
“He doesn’t mention that, Chief.”
“Well, I hope they manage to keep it in place if we have to go and tell them we’ve had his body since the sixteenth. Twelve days—Spilsbury said ten to fourteen. Circumstances of the disappearance?”
“He walked to the village pub for a drink before dinner, as was his habit on a Friday. Plenty of witnesses to his arrival, and to his departure about an hour later, but he never arrived home.”
“And the family…?”
“When the dinner gong rang and he hadn’t yet come home to change his clothes, they agreed that it was tiresome of him to have lost track of the time and went ahead without him.”
“‘Like a well-conducted person, went on cutting bread and butter,’” Alec muttered.
“What’s that, Chief?” asked Ernie Piper.
“Oh, nothing. A poetic commentary on the sang-froid of the upper-classes in the face of disaster. But not really fair to the Hallidays, because they couldn’t have known he was in trouble.”
“From a poem, is it?” Tom said indulgently. “Must be catching.”
“Catching?”
“That’s what Mrs. Fletcher does. Things remind her of bits of poetry, and out they pop.” He grinned. “Charming habit, I’ve always thought. Adds a bit of tone to the conversation, wouldn’t you say, Ernie?”
“Couldn’t have put it better myself, Sarge.”
“This is gross insubordination! All right, I apologise, the office is no place for raising the tone of the conversation, however inadvertently. Back to business: what was Halliday wearing?”
“Fawn whipcord breeches and a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows. Shirt, tie, shoes, cap, all match what we’ve got.”
“It’s him,” said Ernie.
“Not much room for doubt,” Alec agreed.
“What you said, about the family couldn’t know he was in trouble, Chief,” said Tom, “you’re counting them out, then?”
“Yes, I think so, don’t you? If it was only Halliday, they’d top the list, of course.”
“But with three corpses littering the case, this isn’t a nice little domestic murder. I’d lay odds on that!”
“Much more complicated. That’s why I’m going to have to leave Ernie here, to collate information as it comes in. We’ve got to find something in common between the three victims.”
“The lad’s got a good eye for details and patterns,” Tom agreed.
“And you’ve got a way with barmaids, so you can deal with the pub end of things while I see what I can find out about him from the family. What was the name of the village?”
“Ayot St. Paul.”
“There’s an Ayot St. Peter and an Ayot Lawrence, too,” Piper observed. “And Ayot Green.” He had already consulted a gazetteer. “Nearest station Welwyn.” He reached for Bradshaw.
“Can’t wait to get rid of us, eh, lad?”
“We’ll drive. If the murderer’s got a little list, as seems probable, I don’t want to be sitting in a train when he strikes again.”
“Wouldn’t look good on your report,” Tom said, mock solemnly.
Alec grinned. “That aspect hadn’t occurred to me, but you’re right, it wouldn’t.
Though I should hope the questions in the House would concern insufficient provision of motor vehicles for the Metropolitan Police.
Ernie, I can’t leave you in charge here, you haven’t the rank.
But tell me who you’d like to work with—sergeant or inspector—and I’ll see if I can get hold of him. ”
“DS Mackinnon got his transfer from S Division. If he’s free…”
“Good choice.” Alec himself, after working with Mackinnon several times at the divisional level, had recommended his transfer to the Yard. “I’ll see what I can do. You’ll have to brief him. Tom, I must see the super right away. He knows what we’re working on so it shouldn’t be a problem.”
Before he finished speaking, Tom was on the telephone. A couple of minutes later, he reported, “The Super’s with the AC, Chief, and they want to see you at once.”
“Damn!”
Alec gave the Assistant Commissioner (Crime) a brief outline of the case and was congratulated on so quickly identifying one of the victims. The AC agreed to contact the Hertfordshire police immediately and arrange for their cooperation.
“I’ll have the chief constable—Sir George Cheriton, if I’m not mistaken—inform the family that you’ll be calling. Unless you’d prefer that he didn’t give them warning?”
“No, thank you, sir, I’d rather they expected me, but I’d prefer that he not give them any further information, not even that the missing man is dead.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” the AC said doubtfully, “but he may well know the family, so … I’ll see what I can do. As regards the press,” he went on, “I’ll deal with them, but tell me what you’d like them to know. They’ve already got on to the triple burial, inevitably.”
“If you’d tell them, sir, that we have the one identification—just to show we’re progressing—but I’d rather you didn’t give the name.
They’ll find out soon enough, no doubt. When we have all three, it’ll be time to publish them and with any luck get helpful citizens suggesting connections between them. ”
“Good thinking, Fletcher, and I’m glad to hear ‘when’ rather than ‘if’. You’ll be wanting a word with Mr. Crane now. Every facility, Crane. The public don’t like mass murder. Thank you.” He nodded dismissal.
They repaired to the superintendent’s office, where Alec provided a little more detail, requested a car and driver, and asked for Mackinnon to work with DC Piper.
“Every facility,” Crane repeated. “I’ll see if he can be spared.”
“We’re relying on Piper for spotting the correlations we’re going to need in this case, sir. I don’t want him distracted by working under someone he doesn’t know as well. He wanted Mackinnon.”
“Bit of a prima donna, is he?”
“Not at all, sir. A very able young man whom I hope to see make sergeant soon. But this sort of detail work, spotting patterns, is his particular strength. I need his full attention on it as information comes in.”
“He shall have Mackinnon, if I can possibly manage it.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“There’s one blessing: Mrs. Fletcher can’t possibly get herself mixed up in this one.” A horrid possibility struck him. “These Hallidays aren’t friends of hers, are they?”
“I sincerely hope not. I don’t remember her ever mentioning them. She won’t hear the name from me.”
“When it comes out in the papers…” Crane said forebodingly.
“I doubt that will be before Saturday at the earliest. She’s going to be away for the weekend, so she won’t be reading the papers.”
“Good! So you’re off to Hertfordshire immediately? Keep in touch and never mind the telephone charges. I don’t need to tell you we’ve got to clear this one up quickly or the press are going to have a field day.”
* * *
Ayot St. Paul did not boast its own resident constable, a single bobby with a bicycle serving for all the Ayots. They picked up PC Pickett in Ayot Lawrence, a tiny village famous—or infamous, depending on one’s political sympathies—for being home to the residence of George Bernard Shaw.
Ayot St. Paul turned out to be even smaller.
It was scarcely a hamlet, with two or three pleasant “gentleman’s residences”; two short rows of cottages, one brick, one white-washed, all tile-roofed; an ancient pub, the Goat and Compasses, that appeared to be crumbling into the ground; and a church so tiny it could surely never have aspired to being served by anyone more important than a neighbouring curate.
The driver stopped at the pub. At a little before noon, the June day was already growing warm, and the door stood hospitably open. An ancient rustic sat basking on a bench against the wall, a pewter half-pint in one gnarled hand.
“It’s all yours, Sergeant,” said Alec. “I expect you’d prefer to work alone?”
“Yes, sir, for a start anyway. Mr. Pickett, you said there’s just the one bar?”
“’Sright, and you’ll not likely find many there at this hour, Sergeant. It mostly serves the farms, and this weather, this time o’ day, they’ll all be hard at work. Fred Wright, the landlord, he’ll be happy to have someone to talk to ’sides the old geezers.”
“Perfect.”
Absent Pickett and the driver, DC Ledbetter, Alec would have chaffed Tom on the apparent lack of a barmaid to chat up. Instead, he said, “You’ll probably be done before I will. Pickett, how far is it to Quigden Manor?”
“A mile or thereabouts by the lanes, sir, but there’s a footpath cuts that by a third.”
“I can see you know your district thoroughly. Tell Mr. Tring how to find the footpath.”
Pickett obliged.
“Come along to the Manor, Sergeant, when you’re finished here. All right, Ledbetter, let’s go.”