“Not exactly a convenient witness,” said Lindsay. “Prosecuting counsel would have a field day with her and Paddy’s preoccupations. And your disappearing footsteps could get the police putting you in the frame as an accomplice. Let’s hope we can clear Paddy without the police ever becoming aware of Miss Jessica Bennett’s evidence.”
“We’re still not much further forward, though are we?”
“I don’t know about that. We’ve got some hard questions to ask Sarah Cartwright, and now it turns out the jilted divorcee was on the scene too. We’ve got a decent list of possible murderers to present to Paddy’s solicitor. But as I’ve said, I would rather tie the whole thing up than leave loose ends and red herrings haunting the lives of a handful of people. Now, it’s alibi-establishing time. We can incorporate finding food with our examination of James Cartwright’s alleged alibi.”
Cordelia smiled and said, “I can’t help feeling that we are mixing rather too much pleasure with our business.”
“That’s what you get for tying yourself up with a journalist. We’re great believers in looking after the comforts of the flesh while we do the business.”
“Okay, okay. I have heard that the Stonemason’s at Wincle does excellent food . . .”
Once in the car, to Cordelia’s bewilderment, they drove straight to the offices of the local paper. Lindsay left her sitting there and reappeared ten minutes later clutching a photograph of Cartwright. She said, “I managed to persuade one of the local lads to let me borrow this picture. We might need it to identify him. I promised the bloke I’d tip him off if there’s any change in the situation that might lead to fresh arrests. Which of course I probably won’t have the chance to do, but he’s not to know that.”
They drove back to the school gates, where Lindsay turned the car round in a spray of gravel. “Show-off,” muttered Cordelia.
“Thank you. Now, I want to check some timings. Bear in mind that that Mercedes of his is faster than my MG, and that he knows these roads like the back of his hand. I want to see if this alibi can be cracked. We’ll have to check timings as far as possible with the pubs, to see if he could have squeezed in enough time for the killing. I’m not convinced by his injured innocence routine. Done any rally driving, Cordelia?”
Cordelia looked aghast. “Certainly not,” she replied.
“Well, you’ll have to try and navigate for me. I’ve marked what looks like the best routes on the map. You study that and the terrain and tell me what’s coming next. Okay?”
“I’ll try. Have you done much rally driving?”
“Not a bit,” said Lindsay blithely. “But I know the theory.”
They set off back toward Buxton in an atmosphere of intense concentration, then turned down the Macclesfield road. Lindsay tore round the tight ascending bends in third, and as soon as they hit the straight stretch where they turned down the Congleton road, she flipped the switch that took the engine into overdrive. They turned off into a succession of country lanes and, after a hair-raising hurtle, they roared to a halt outside the Stonemason’s Arms.
“Can I open my eyes now?” asked Cordelia mockingly. “Fourteen minutes and about five seconds.”
The Stonemason’s Arms was a long low stone building with a roof of heavy slate slabs. They found themselves in a clean, neat public bar, with matching wooden chairs, olde worlde wooden tables, and chintz curtains at the windows. But the beer was real ale on hand pumps, so they perched on bar stools with a pint of best bitter for Lindsay and a dry white wine for Cordelia, having ordered two ploughman’s special lunches. Lindsay wasted no time in eliciting information from the barmaid, a faded woman around forty who turned out to be the landlord’s wife.
“I suppose you don’t get much time off,” she said sympathetically.
“Oh, we always take Tuesdays off,” said the woman. “You have to get away from the place sometimes, or else you’d go mad. It was always my husband’s dream to retire to a country pub. When he was made redundant a couple of years ago, it seemed the obvious thing. Myself, I think it’s a lot of hard work and not as much fun as people seem to think.”
“Well, you certainly know how to please your customers. This is one of the nicest pints I’ve had in a long time. Actually, a friend of mine recommended this place to us. James Cartwright, I suppose you know him?”
“Oh yes, he’s a regular in here. He often pops in for his evening meal. Living alone, with his daughter boarding at that school, I think he enjoys the company and not having to cook for himself. You’d think he’d have a housekeeper, really, but he seems to prefer looking after himself.”
“Yes, he was just saying to me yesterday that it’s just as well he’s a familiar face in here. He was telling me the police had some daft idea he might have had something to do with the murder on Saturday night, but that since he’d been here at the time he was completely in the clear. He said it was a real blessing you knew him.”
The landlady nodded vigorously. “That’s right. We had the police here on Sunday asking about him. He came in about five to eight, I remember, because I’d been watching Go for Gold on the telly. I told the police, don’t be silly, Mr. Cartwright couldn’t have anything to do with a murder! He was just the same as usual, chatty and cheery. He had something to eat—I think it was the grilled local trout—and two or three pints of his usual and then went off about ten.”
“Lucky for him, really,” said Lindsay. She was spared any further conversation by the arrival of their generous lunches, and the two of them retired to a distant table. As they ate, Cordelia talked between mouthfuls of cheese and bread.
“Let me see . . . now if he got here about five to eight . . . it would have taken him about quarter of an hour from the school. Say ten minutes to do what he had to do, give five to get there and get out again, and I’d give about ten to fifteen back to the Woolpack. So if he left the Woolpack before . . . say, about ten past seven, he’s got no alibi and he could just have done it.”
“Precisely. It all depends on what happened at the Woolpack. So eat, don’t talk, and we can buzz over there as soon as possible and suss them out.”
Half an hour later, they were in the bar at the Woolpack. In contrast with the suburban charm of the Stonemason’s, the Woolpack was spartan and cheap. The plastic-covered benches and the chipped laminated table tops fitted well with the smell of stale beer and old tobacco smoke. A couple of farm laborers leaned against a corner of the bar. They fell silent when Cordelia and Lindsay entered and stared blankly at them.
Behind the bar was a bleached blonde in her twenties with too much eye makeup. “Really know how to make you feel welcome, don’t they,” Lindsay muttered to Cordelia as they approached the bar. This time Lindsay decided to drop the subtle approach and went straight to the point after she’d ordered her half pint of indifferent keg beer and a glass of white wine for Cordelia.
“Have one yourself,” she insisted to the barmaid. “I wonder if you can help me? I’m a private investigator and I’ve been hired to look into this murder down the road at Derbyshire House School. I’ve been making inquiries into the movements of everyone connected with the case, and I want you to tell me if this man was in here on Saturday night.” She took the photograph of Cartwright from her bag and handed it over.
“You’re not the first, love,” came the sullen reply. “Police’ve been here before you. But I may as well tell you what I told them. This bloke comes in here occasionally, and he was in on Saturday. We don’t open while seven of a Saturday teatime, and he came in on the dot—same as a couple of hikers. I served him first and he went through the side parlor with a pint. I don’t know how long he stopped; there’s a door in there leads to the toilets and you can get out the back door that way. All I know is he was gone half an hour later when I went in to clear off the glasses. Now, if that’s all, I’ll get on with my work.”
Without waiting for a reply, she disappeared through the door beside the bar. “A real charmer,” said Cordelia. “No
w do I have to finish this disgusting drink or can we push off?”
They left the pub and returned to the car for the second piece of timed driving. Lindsay drove the car to its limits and they shot into the drive a bare seven minutes later.
“I have the beginnings of a theory, thanks to you working out the times,” Lindsay mused, cutting the engine. “Cartwright saw her sorting out strings, he says. Now, suppose she left them lying around in the room. He could fairly assume she’d be back there before she went on stage.
“He could have had a quick one in the Woolpack, raced back to the school, left his car in the trees beyond the houses, got the toggle from Longnor—after all, no one would have thought anything of seeing him there with Sarah doing her Greta Garbo routine. A quick dash through the trees to the main building. In by the side door, up the back stairs, and into Music 2. He’d have had to go back home in the afternoon to pick up the school keys, by the way—I imagine he’s got a set. Then he picks up a string—he’s good with his hands, and strong. Then it’s into the walk-in cupboard till Lorna arrives. As soon as Paddy goes, he’s out and strangling her with one of the strings she’s so conveniently left lying around. Then he’s off, down the back stairs, drives like a madman, and is back in the Stonemason’s by five to eight. It could be done.”
Cordelia looked doubtful. “It has its points. But you’re assuming he has a set of keys. You’re also assuming he could figure out her movements. I mean, it could have happened that Lorna didn’t come into the room until just before she went on—he could have been stuck in the cupboard for over an hour, and where would his alibi have been then? And how the hell do we prove any of it?”
“You forget, we don’t actually have to prove anything. We’re not policemen, having to stand everything up in court. All we really have to do for Paddy’s purposes is to demonstrate that she’s far from being the only person with motive, means, and opportunity.”
“I suppose so. I rather like the thought of Cartwright as First Murderer. He could have given himself a bit more time by making his preparations in the afternoon—making the garrote and all that. He couldn’t be sure he’d get there ahead of Lorna, but it was a reasonable assumption. And the confusion over Margaret Macdonald’s keys could simply be a fortuitous red herring.”
“I don’t know about you, but the more we find out, the more confused I get. We need to sit down and work out the permutations of what we know. What I need is a day off, to put all this to the back of my mind and do something completely different. But I know I can’t walk away from this until we’ve at least got Paddy out of the mess she’s in,” Lindsay replied in a very tired voice.
“I know just what you mean,” sighed Cordelia.
Back at the school, they drew up another of Cordelia’s lists of essential information they’d picked up on their inquiries. As they suspected, the evidence still pointed in too many directions. Nothing had emerged that proved conclusively that Paddy could not have murdered Lorna Smith-Couper. Lindsay phoned Pamela Overton and asked her if Cartwright had a set of keys to the school. She promised to check up and let them know. Lindsay paced up and down Paddy’s sitting-room, a worried frown on her face.
“There’s something at the back of my mind that’s got some bearing on the case. It’s something I saw or heard. I can’t even remember which. But some tiny thing has impressed itself on my mind and I’ve a feeling that it’s the key to the whole damn business. Oh God, I wish I could remember! What a fool I am!” she exclaimed angrily.
“Relax,” soothed Cordelia. “Try not to think about it and perhaps it will spring into your mind when you’re doing something else.”
“I’ve tried that. It hasn’t worked so far. Do you know any good hypnotists?” asked Lindsay with a wry smile. “Now, we’ve still got things to do, you know. Shall we try to get hold of Caroline Barrington or Sarah Cartwright? It’s almost four now, classes must be nearly finished.”
“I suppose Caroline’s the next person we should see,” Cordelia sighed. “She might just know something that will help us put more pressure on Sarah Cartwright.”
“Not until I’ve had another large injection of caffeine,” Lindsay groaned. “Her heart seems to be in the right place, but she talks like a blue streak. I need to be fortified before we grill her, or Caroline will end up grilling us.”
She rose to go through to the kitchen, but before she could get there, Paddy’s phone rang. Cordelia reached across the desk and picked it up. “Hello, Miss Callaghan’s room . . . yes, that’s right . . . Well, slowly at present, though I think we’re making some . . . no, not as yet. No, we haven’t been in contact with the police at all . . . well, I couldn’t actually say. If you insist, we’ll certainly do our best. Yes, four-thirty is fine. Yes, Lindsay knows that. Till then.”
Cordelia put the phone down and muttered, “Damn and blast. That was Gillian. She wants to see us on Monday for a progress report. It looks as if the police are pressing for an early committal hearing and if she can demolish their case in the magistrates’ court, she wants to have a go. So now we’re battling against time, too.”
Lindsay groaned. “That’s all we need. We’d better cancel the coffee and find the garrulous Miss Barrington. Who knows, she might have the answers to the whole sorry business.”
“If you were Hercule Poirot, she certainly would.”
“Ah yes, but if I was Hercule Poirot, you wouldn’t fancy me, would you?”
14
Longnor House seemed eerily silent as the two women climbed the stairs to Caroline’s room on the top floor. Cordelia knocked. There was no reply, so they opened the door and entered. They had already agreed that if Caroline was not there they would wait for her. Lindsay walked over to the window and perched on the radiator beneath the wide sill. Cordelia sat on an upright chair by the desk, her legs propped against the waste-paper bin. They both studied the room as if seeing it for the first time, Lindsay checking off its features as she had not done when she was actually using it as a bedroom.
The basic furniture was institutional: a bed, table, chair, wardrobe, cupboard, and chest of drawers. But Caroline’s personality was everywhere. On the walls were a poster of Lenin, a large photograph of Virginia Woolf, and a poster for a rally of peace women at Greenham Common. On the bookshelves were several textbooks. The rest of the space was taken up by dozens of books on politics, sociology, and feminism. The table was untidy, but three things stood out. One was a desk calendar with photographs of sailing ships. But, as if by arrangement, both women’s eyes reached out at the same moment to the two framed photographs which were also on the desk. Cordelia picked them up. One was a family group, presumably consisting of Anthony Barrington, his ex-wife, and their children. Caroline was between her parents, her brother and sister sitting on a sofa in front of them. The other was a photograph of the same man alone on top of a snow-covered peak, grinning into the camera. He was wearing climbing gear—old, stained clothes, heavy boots, ropes, a small rucksack. His face was lean and tanned, well-lined around the eyes. His eyebrows turned up slightly in the middle of his face, giving it a humorous cast. The rest of his face was unremarkable. But the eyes and their brows spoke of someone who might well be good fun to have around the place. No doubt Caroline thought so.
While Cordelia was studying the pictures more closely, the door opened and Caroline burst in, shouting over her shoulder, “Not tonight, I’ve got too much work to do.” Cordelia started and almost dropped the pictures. Lindsay got to her feet as Caroline stopped in her tracks.
“Good Lord!” the girl exclaimed. “Murderers and burglars in the same week. Altogether too much for me.”
In spite of herself, Lindsay smiled broadly. “Not exactly, no,” she said. “We wanted to be sure of seeing you, and your door was open. I promise we haven’t been reading your letters and sifting through your worldly goods.”
“Didn’t for a minute think you had. Not that you’d find anything of interest if you did. I was just rather taken ab
ack to find the super sleuths waiting to give me the third degree,” Caroline replied, throwing herself down on the bed.
Cordelia remarked to no one in particular. “Good to see the old school grapevine is as efficient as it was in my day.”
“Oh, everyone knows what it is you’re here for. Her Majesty anounced it at assembly. I suppose you want to ask me about that bloody woman. I must say, she caused enough trouble when she was alive without turning the world upside-down now she’s dead. Really and truly, I think whoever put a stop to her should be congratulated, not punished. Still, that’s a pretty antediluvian view, isn’t it? I must say, though, that I think it’s very dim of the police to have arrested The Boss. I mean, there are some pretty primitive people around who might think that killing people is some sort of answer, but really, she’s not that sort at all. Not at all, truly.” Caroline ground to a halt.
“The Boss?” queried Cordelia.
“Ooops! I mean Miss Callaghan,” Caroline replied, blushing furiously.
“Why The Boss?” Lindsay asked.
“Because she lets you know who’s in charge, I suppose. Hey, I hope you don’t imagine I might have had anything to do with the murder? I mean, everyone’s always telling me how hopelessly indiscreet I am, and I suppose I have rather been shooting the old mouth off about the ghastly woman’s death being rather a blessing in extremely thin disguise. But honestly, do I look like a murderer to you?”
Lindsay found herself laughing out loud at the idea. Caroline sprawled on her counterpane, the picture of injured innocence. “Caroline,” said Lindsay, “I can’t honestly say that I think you’re incapable of murder. But from what I’ve seen of you over the past week, I really have to say that if you had killed Lorna, you would have told the entire population of Derbyshire by now. If you’re ever going to commit murder, you really must get laryngitis first.”
Caroline grinned enormously, and suddenly Lindsay was struck by her resemblance to her father. It was her attitude—a sense of joy in risk-taking, a devil-may-care attitude—and at that moment, Lindsay saw that Caroline might indeed have killed Lorna and have managed to keep her mouth firmly shut. What better disguise for discretion than a reputation for logorrhea?