Page 11 of Marriage and Murder (The Casebook of Barnaby Adair #10)

They were within sight of the police station when Madeline checked her watch and halted. “Oh, heavens!”

Henry, Penelope, and Barnaby halted as well, while Stokes, Mallard, and Johnson skirted the group and went on.

“What is it?” Henry asked.

Madeline looked at him and sighed. “I so wanted to hear what Monty has to say, but I must, absolutely must, call on the family solicitor, Mr. Farnham, and advise him of Viola’s death.”

Penelope and Barnaby nodded encouragingly. “You really should,” Barnaby said. “It’s never helpful to let such matters slide.”

“No, indeed,” Penelope said. “There’s been nothing in the news sheets to alert your solicitor, has there?”

Henry snorted. “Ashmore is a tiny village and not that easy to reach. A lady dying in a cottage out there isn’t of much interest to Salisbury’s residents, much less to the reporters, who would have to find some way to get out there and ask their questions.”

“And for such parochialism, I’m sincerely grateful,” Madeline stated, “but it does mean that I need to visit Mr. Farnham’s office and tell him Viola is gone.”

“Definitely,” Barnaby concurred. “Is his office far?”

Madeline waved to the west. “It’s just around the corner in Castle Street. I shouldn’t be long.”

“Well,” Penelope said, “I’m sure Stokes and Mallard will want to interview Johnson first.” She glanced at Barnaby. “We certainly do.” Returning her gaze to Madeline, Penelope concluded, “So if your visit to the solicitor doesn’t take long, you’ll most likely be back before we start interrogating Pincer.”

“That would be ideal,” Madeline said.

“I’ll go with you,” Henry said. “If we’re merely going to Castle Street, we should definitely be back in time.” He glanced at Barnaby. “As the magistrate for the area in which the murder was committed, I would like to be present when the accused is interrogated.”

Barnaby grinned. “If necessary, I’ll use that to delay proceedings.” He nodded westward. “Go, and we’ll hold the fort and wait on your return.”

Relieved, Madeline took Henry’s arm again, and they turned and walked away.

Barnaby offered Penelope his arm, and they continued to the police station.

On entering the foyer, they discovered Stokes and Mallard conferring. The pair reached some decision, and Stokes directed Morgan and Price to escort the defeated-looking Pincer down to the cells.

Stokes beckoned O’Donnell to attend him where he stood with Mallard. As Barnaby and Penelope walked up, the sergeant presented himself, and his voice lowered, Stokes instructed, “Once you have Pincer settled in a cell, go and ask Jacobs to take a look at all the prisoners down there—there are six others, apparently—and see if Jacobs recognizes anyone as his Mr. Farmer.”

O’Donnell grinned and saluted. “Yes, guv.” He turned and strode off after the others, who had disappeared down the stairs to the basement.

Stokes turned to Penelope and Barnaby. “No Madeline or Henry?”

Barnaby explained the pair’s necessary errand. “With any luck, they’ll be back before we’re ready to talk to Pincer.”

Stokes nodded. “Right, then. Let’s see what we can learn from Mr. Johnson. Quite aside from filling in the time until Henry and Madeline return, the more facts we have with which to confront Pincer, the better.”

With that, they all agreed. Mallard had arranged for them to speak with Johnson in an interview room on the ground floor. “Much less off-putting than the interrogation room downstairs. At least for the general public.”

He led them to a good-sized room with windows looking out on an inner courtyard. Johnson was already seated at the rectangular table, about halfway down one long side. The investigators filed in and chose seats while Mallard performed the introductions.

Penelope and Barnaby’s presence caused Johnson’s eyebrows to fleetingly rise, but he merely nodded respectfully to them and returned his gaze to Stokes and Mallard. Penelope and Barnaby chose seats beside each other, across the table from Johnson and a little farther up the room, leaving the places directly opposite the man to Stokes and Mallard.

Penelope sat, clasped her hands on the table, and angled herself so that she could observe Johnson and also Stokes and Mallard.

After the policemen had settled, Stokes nodded to Mallard, inviting him to take the lead.

Mallard clasped his large hands, leaned forward on his forearms, and fixed his gaze on Johnson.

O’Reilly’s man seemed entirely relaxed, quite at ease and even a little amused.

“Just a pleasant conversation here,” Mallard stated, and Johnson inclined his head. “So,” Mallard continued, “what can you tell us about Monty Pincer?”

Johnson considered his answer, then offered, “I can tell you that he’s not a man anyone in their right mind would ever place an ounce of trust in.”

Mallard nodded. “How did he come to be of interest to your master?”

Johnson shrugged. “The usual way. Debts. Pincer’s been running up debts here, there, and everywhere more or less for all of his life. He often plays the game of taking from Peter to pay Paul. That’s how he came to O’Reilly’s attention. He looked into Pincer’s assets and discovered that, lo and behold, the run-down hovel Pincer calls home has a nice parcel of land attached—land Pincer currently agists for next to nothing. He’s no farmer and has no idea of the worth of what he owns.” Johnson smiled like a shark. “The boss looked and saw pretty hills, a spring-fed brook, and nice pastures and decided he wouldn’t mind having a piece of land like that out Bowerchalke way. Sleepy little spot with no nosy neighbors. So he told me to offer Pincer a consolidation loan.”

“Meaning,” Stokes clarified, “a loan to pay off all his other loans, leaving your boss—O’Reilly—as Pincer’s sole creditor.”

Johnson nodded with a touch of respect. “You understand it, then. The way the boss likes to run things is to let them—the punters, like Pincer—run for a while, all the time getting deeper into debt, as they do, so that when the time eventually comes and we call in the loan, there’s no option for them but to hand over whatever they’ve used as collateral as payment. In Pincer’s case, that’s the deed to his cottage and land in Bowerchalke.”

“Let me guess,” Barnaby said. “You feel that Pincer has now run far enough, and you’re ready to foreclose, as it were.”

Johnson grinned. “Right you are, sir.” He looked at Stokes and Mallard. “Especially as it seems that Pincer is going to be spending some time as a guest of Her Majesty.”

“As to that,” Mallard said, “what do you know of Pincer’s recent activities? We’re particularly interested in his pursuit of a lady named Viola Huntingdon.”

Johnson frowned. “If I’ve got this right, then the lady Pincer bailed up today was this Viola’s younger sister?”

“That’s right,” Stokes said and waited.

Johnson sat back. “Well, all I can tell you is what Pincer told me, and if you’ve got any handle on the man at all, you’ll know to take anything that comes out of his mouth with a very large dose of salt.”

“We know,” Penelope said. “So what did he tell you?”

Johnson was about to oblige, but then hesitated. After a moment, he looked at Mallard. “Here. If I tell you what I know—what the blighter told me—I won’t have to appear before any beak, will I?”

It was Stokes who replied, “Unless you have some information that only you know that proves pertinent to our case against Pincer, then it’s highly unlikely you’ll be called on to make an appearance.”

Johnson pondered that qualified response, then huffed. “I figure putting that nincompoop behind bars will be doing the boss—and all of society—a service. So…” He raised his head and ran his gaze over their faces. “Over recent weeks, Pincer’s been feeding me a line about courting some wealthy spinster in some village. Pincer never told me her name, but I looked into it quiet-like, and the village was Ashmore, and the lady lived at Lavender Cottage, and her name was Viola Huntingdon. From what I learned, it seemed like Pincer’s estimation of her worth was more or less on the mark. So I waited to see what would happen. While the boss was hoping Pincer would run fully aground and hand over the deed to the place in Bowerchalke, if Pincer was to pay his debts and all interest in full, well…” Johnson raised his heavy shoulders in a shrug. “That would do, too. Chances are he’d run himself aground again later. His sort always do.

“So I waited, but as Pincer was running close to the time when we’d likely roll him up, I made sure he knew to report to me a few times every week to tell me how matters were progressing.” Johnson met Stokes’s gaze. “With men like Pincer, it doesn’t pay to let up the pressure.”

“I see,” Stokes said. “So from what Pincer told you, you understood that he was attempting to lure Viola Huntingdon into marriage.”

Johnson nodded. “And when we met last Wednesday, he more or less told me that he was about to pop the question to this Viola. He was certain—absolutely bleedin’ confident—that she would agree. He said he’d already broached the subject, and she was eager as could be. He was scheduled to meet with me Saturday—last Saturday—and bring a down payment, but instead, he fronted up with this tale that his pursuit of Viola was off because her younger sister had returned to the village, and she—the younger one—was even more wealthy, so he was now focusing on her, and he expected all to go smoothly because, apparently, this younger sister had always had a soft spot for him.”

Johnson huffed. “I probably should have told him enough was enough and foreclosed then and there. But it was such a strange story, and I was curious as to what the silly beggar was up to, so I told him I’d give him another few days—a week tops—and arranged to meet with him Wednesday.”

“That was the Wednesday just past?” Stokes clarified. “Two days ago?”

Johnson nodded. “After he left—this was on the Saturday—I sent a man down to Ashmore to see what he could learn on the quiet, and he came back and reported that the reason Pincer’s pursuit of Viola Huntingdon had come to naught was that the lady had turned up dead. That was why the sister had returned, but Pincer hadn’t told me any of that.” Johnson sniffed. “Still hasn’t.”

“And did he turn up on Wednesday?” Stokes asked.

“Yes,” Johnson said, “but just with more weaselly words about how everything was on track and that soon, I’d hear wedding bells. As you might imagine, by then, I was running out of patience, so I told him to report back today. Which he did, but he was still spinning the same tale, just with new shiny bits. He told me he’d gone to London and checked, and the younger sister was a lot wealthier than even he’d imagined, and that he would soon ask her to marry him but that he’d had to go slower than he’d hoped, yet he was certain the wait would be worth it.”

Johnson paused, then added, “I almost asked him whether the sister, who must be in mourning, would marry him anytime soon—just to see if he would tell me anything about the older sister dying—but in the end, I held my tongue. I could see Pincer was on his last throw of the dice, and his scheme falling in a heap would suit the boss, so I didn’t say anything more. Just kept the pressure on and let him run.”

Johnson smiled rather smugly. “And that’s when we came out of the park and saw the younger sister—my man had given me a good description—with Lord Glossup. He’s a magistrate in the area, so of course I know him by sight.”

Mallard muttered, “Of course you do.”

Johnson shrugged. “The man I sent to the village had said he thought there was something brewing between his lordship and the sister, and there the pair were, acting like a couple, and Pincer had just told me she was his. I pointed out to Pincer that it appeared he had some serious competition. Of course, the silly beggar had no choice but to try to make it look like all was as he’d said.”

“Ah,” Penelope said. “That was why he was holding on to her in that ridiculous manner.”

“Seemed he wanted to make the point to me, and also to the sister and his lordship, too, how he—Pincer—expected things to be.” Looking at Penelope, Johnson helpfully offered, “Men like Pincer are like that. They think they can make it clear how they want and insist things should be, then smile and charm everyone into falling into line. Deluded, they are, but that’s how they behave.”

Penelope was impressed by the insight.

Stokes stirred, drawing Johnson’s attention. “Would it surprise you to know that we believe it was Pincer who strangled Viola Huntingdon to death?”

Johnson’s expression immediately turned impassive. After a moment, he sat back in the chair, his gaze steady on Stokes’s face. After a full minute and more, slowly, Johnson nodded. “Aye, that would surprise me.”

Penelope, Stokes, and Mallard frowned.

“Why?” Penelope was the first to ask. She went on, “Viola had just discovered that Pincer had arranged to have the aquamarines in her favorite bracelet swapped for paste. We believe she confronted him with that crime, perhaps threatening to have him taken up by the police, and he panicked and strangled her.”

Johnson pressed his lips together and plainly cogitated, then shook his head. “All I can say is you’ve got that wrong. Men like Pincer, they always believe they can talk their way out of damned near anything, any situation. And the younger sister hadn’t come back yet, had she? So at that point, Miss Viola Huntingdon was Pincer’s only available ticket out of his very deep hole.” More definitely, Johnson shook his large head again. “Quite aside from that he’d never have the spine for it—his sort just don’t—I can’t see him killing the lady he saw as his golden goose. Not when killing her would leave him with nothing. Killing her wouldn’t advance his cause, not in any way.”

Penelope, Barnaby, Stokes, and Mallard fell silent, their expressions telegraphing the effective upending of their until-then certainty as to Pincer’s guilt.

After a moment of studying their faces, Johnson shrugged. “Just my take on it, but in my experience, wastrels like Pincer, when desperate, might do something stupid, but they are cowards at heart and weak with it, and I’ve never in all my years known any to resort to violence. In extremis, if the option is there, men like Pincer run.”

Silence engulfed the room.

Eventually, Stokes looked at Mallard, then Stokes turned to Johnson. “Thank you for your frankness. You’ve been a very real help.”

Johnson flashed them all a smile almost as shark-like as Stokes’s. “Pleased to have been of assistance and earned some points with the local plod.”

Stokes returned the smile with a degree of respect, then, sobering, looked at Mallard. “I believe we have all we need from Johnson. It’s time we spoke with Pincer himself.”

Mallard, Barnaby, and Penelope nodded and showered thanks on Johnson, which he accepted with some grace.

At Mallard’s wave, Johnson led the way out and into the foyer, then with a last nod to them all, he continued out of the building’s main door.

Barnaby halted in the foyer with Penelope, Stokes, and Mallard. He looked at the others, and it was patently clear they were juggling and shuffling facts and insights and felt, as he did, rather at sea, no longer as certain as they had been as to who had killed Viola Huntingdon.

Eventually, Mallard broke the weighty silence. “Johnson has known Pincer longer than anyone we know, and through being O’Reilly’s lieutenant for more than a decade, Johnson understands Pincer’s sort, likely better than anyone.”

Penelope looked torn. “Monty being Viola’s murderer seemed to fit so well, but…” She raised her hands, palms up. “I can’t help but agree with Johnson’s reading of Monty’s character. When confronted, cowards rarely act decisively.”

Stokes grimaced. “And by the medical examiner’s account, this murder was a very deliberate and decisive act.”

Barnaby added, “Johnson was correct in saying that Monty had staked everything on getting Viola to marry him. His existence as he knew it was riding on him achieving that goal, and he had no other option at that point in time.” He paused, then added, “If Viola had confronted him over the aquamarines, he would have talked—excused, persuaded, cajoled. Even if she hadn’t accepted his explanation, he would have left and come back later. He wouldn’t have murdered her.” He glanced at the others. “Murdering her wouldn’t have suited Monty’s purposes, not in any way.”

Mallard grunted. “Even I’m finding it harder and harder to see him killing her.”

Footsteps sounded on the basement stairs, and they turned and watched as O’Donnell came up from the cells. He saw them, smiled, and walked across to join them.

O’Donnell nodded to them all, then halted and reported to Stokes, “We put Pincer in the end cell, then got Jacobs out of his and asked him to take a gander at all the other prisoners and tell us if there was anyone he recognized. There were seven other prisoners in total, including Pincer, and some of the others had similar coloring and roughly similar builds to Pincer. Jacobs was happy enough to do what we wanted, and he went around the cells, looking in through the peepholes.”

“And?” Stokes prompted.

O’Donnell grinned. “Jacobs got to Pincer’s cell, and we could tell from Jacobs’s face alone that he knew the bloke. Jacobs called, ‘Farmer!’ and Pincer looked up, and his face, too, said he definitely recognized Jacobs.”

Stokes nodded. “Right, then.” He looked at Mallard. “So at least we’ve got Pincer on the charge of having the aquamarines replaced with paste.”

Mallard bobbed his head. “We can hold him on that while we sort out this business of the murder.”

“Good! You’re still here.”

They turned to see the medical examiner, Carter, come hurrying down the stairs.

All business, Carter bowled up to the group, nodded to all, then stated, “Something’s been bothering me about this case—specifically about the evidence at the scene—and this morning, I woke up, and the clouds had parted, and finally, I could see the issue clearly.”

Greatly interested, they all closed around Carter, and Stokes prompted, “What issue?”

Earnestly, Carter explained, “It was the clock—or rather, where it had supposedly fallen in relation to where the body lay.” He glanced around the circle of faces. “I have a very good visual memory, essential in this line of work, and the position of the clock—the broken clock—kept nagging at me. I just couldn’t quite see how or why it broke and ended up where it was found, on the hearth nearer the kitchen rather than on the same side of the hearth before which the body fell.”

Penelope, clearly intrigued and trying to visualize the point herself, observed, “From what we’ve heard, if we were standing in the parlor and facing the fireplace, the body lay in a crumpled heap in front of the left side of the hearth, and the clock was lying on the hearth, toward the end on the right.” She looked at Carter. “Is that correct?”

“Yes.” Carter looked at Mallard. “You saw the scene, too.”

Frowning slightly, Mallard nodded. “The victim lying on her back in a heap as if the murderer had simply let go once she’d breathed her last, and she’d crumpled to the ground where she’d been standing.”

“Exactly so!” Carter looked at them all eagerly. “Now, put yourself in the victim’s shoes and think of how you would move in response to someone calling at the cottage. If the person came to the front door and the victim admitted them and led them into the parlor, she would almost certainly have positioned herself to the right of the fireplace and turned to face her visitor. That’s the usual way, putting the rest of the house at the victim’s—the houseowner’s—back, as it were. In such a situation, going to the left isn’t something you would naturally do.”

Barnaby was resurveying the scene in his mind. “But she was found to the left of the hearth, with the small table pushed aside…” He focused on Carter and found the man looking at him encouragingly. “The murderer came in through the rear door and walked through the kitchen and dining nook to the parlor, most likely following the victim.”

“Yes!” Carter all but bounced on his toes. “That’s the first thing. The murderer came from that direction. You can see it, can’t you?” He glanced at the others. “The murderer knocked on the rear door, Miss Huntingdon let them in and led them through the kitchen and dining area into the parlor, then she turned to face them, and there she is, more or less standing on the spot where she died.”

Stokes rumbled, “That supports our current thinking. We believe the murderer approached through the rear garden.”

Carter nodded eagerly. “Our murderer certainly did, but that’s not the crucial point. We now have our victim standing to the left of the hearth and the murderer to the right. They aren’t that close to the fireplace—I believe the fire was alight at the time—but are positioned two feet or so in front of the edge of the hearth. The initial placement of the small table that was later pushed aside more or less fixes that distance. “Now”—Carter paused to catch his breath—“there were two ornaments on the mantelpiece.”

Penelope supplied, “A vase with flowers in it was on the left, and presumably, the carriage clock stood on the right.”

Carter beamed at her. “Absolutely right, dear lady. The carriage clock normally stood on the far right of the mantelpiece. If one looks closely, you can see the mark on the mantelpiece’s surface. The clock had stood in exactly the same position for quite some years.”

Mallard was frowning. “So the clock was on the right and fell and broke…”

Carter pounced. “How?” He glanced around the circle of their now-frowning faces. “Think of it—see it in your mind. The murderer was standing on the right. He must have lunged toward the victim, across the hearth and in front of it, and then his hands are locked about the victim’s throat. There’s little evidence of either victim or murderer moving much—just enough to push the small table aside and ruck up the rug, indicating that, if anything, they moved away from the fireplace.”

“Away from the mantelpiece and the clock standing on it,” Penelope murmured.

Everyone was imagining the scene, then Stokes focused on Carter. “Spit it out, Carter. What, exactly, are you trying to tell us?”

His expression turning sober, Carter stated, “I’m saying that for the life of me, I cannot see how the clock could have been accidentally broken during the act of the murder itself. The murderer couldn’t have accidentally knocked it down. His back was to it. And the victim was too far away, with the murderer between her and the clock. Moreover, in looking back over my notes, there were no slivers of glass or indications of breakage where the clock was found. The only slivers of glass I did find were on the edge of the hearthstone and the floor below that edge.” He sighed. “My initial assumption was that the clock got knocked off the mantelpiece during the struggle, only there was no violent struggle or fight, and the mantelpiece is wide as well, so examining the issue in the light of what I now know, it couldn’t have happened that way. Moreover, if somehow the clock did get knocked off the mantelpiece and struck the edge of the hearth where I believe it was damaged, the clock would have fallen on the floor there, not where it was found.”

Barnaby stated the clear conclusion. “You no longer believe the clock got accidentally knocked off the mantelpiece and fell and broke.”

“No.” His expression determined, Carter went on, “I now believe that, after strangling the victim, the murderer noticed the clock and saw the opportunity. They deliberately reset the clock for three-thirty-three, then struck it on the edge of the hearth to break it and left it on the hearth for us to find.”

Stokes was jotting in his notebook. “That’s very cold-blooded calculation.”

“It certainly is.” Carter looked around the circle. “But more, my conclusion suggests that the murder took place significantly earlier in my estimated window for time of death. I would now say that the murder most likely occurred between one o’clock and three o’clock, and if anything, I would tend toward the earlier end of that period.”

“Your current conclusion also means,” Penelope said, “that the murderer most likely has an alibi—a cast-iron alibi—for three-thirty-three.”

Carter half bowed to her. “So I would suppose.” He glanced around at the others. “The murderer entered the cottage through the rear door and most likely left the same way between the hours of one and three o’clock, and whoever they are, they will have an unimpeachable alibi for three-thirty-three.”

Penelope glanced at Stokes and saw him furiously scribbling.

Then Stokes looked at Carter and nodded. “Thank you. That’s excellent work.”

Carter beamed. “My pleasure, Inspector.” He nodded all around. “I’ll leave you now—I have another body to see to.”

The others added their thanks, and with a bounce in his step, Carter headed back up the stairs.

Stokes resumed his jotting, but they’d barely caught their breath when the police station’s main doors burst open, and Madeline and Henry came rushing in, bringing a small, dapperly dressed gentleman with them.