Authors: Anthony Horowitz
He was glad that the detective had turned up in Somerset. The two of them had worked together on that case in Marlborough, a headmaster who had been killed during the performance of a play. This business had many of the same hallmarks: a tangle of suspects and different motives and not one but two deaths that might or might not be related. In the privacy of his own home, Chubb would admit the truth, which was that he couldn’t make head or tail of it. Pünd had a way of seeing things differently. Maybe it was in his nature. Chubb couldn’t help but smile. All his life he’d been brought up to think of the Germans as his enemy. It was strange having one on his side.
It was equally strange that Joy Sanderling had actually brought him here. It had already occurred to Chubb that she and her fiancé, Robert Blakiston, had the most compelling reason for wanting to see Mary Blakiston dead. They were young and in love and she had wanted to stop the wedding for the very worst and most hateful of reasons. For a brief moment he himself had shared their feelings. But if they had planned to kill her, why would they have tried to get Pünd involved? Could it have been an elaborate smokescreen?
Turning these thoughts over in his mind, Raymond Chubb lit a cigarette and went through the pages again.
In his masterwork,
The Landscape of Criminal Investigation
, Atticus Pünd had written:
‘One can think of the truth as
eine vertiefung – a sort of deep valley which may not be visible from a distance but which will come upon you quite suddenly. There are many ways to arrive there. A line of questioning that turns out to be irrelevant still has the power to bring you nearer to your goal. There are no wasted journeys in the detection of a crime.’
In other words, it did not matter that he had not yet seen Mary Blakiston’s diary and had no idea of its contents. Although he and Inspector Chubb were taking two very different approaches, it was inevitable that eventually they would meet.
After they had left the Lodge House, he and Fraser had walked the short distance to the vicarage, following the road rather than using the short cut through Dingle Dell, enjoying the warmth of the afternoon. Fraser had rather taken to Saxby-on-Avon and was a little puzzled that the detective seemed so immune to its charms. Indeed, it struck him that Pünd hadn’t been quite himself since they had left London, lapsing into long silences, lost in his thoughts. The two of them were now sitting in the living room where Henrietta had brought them tea and home-made biscuits. It was a bright, cheerful room with dried flowers in the fireplace and French windows that looked out onto a well-kept garden with woodland beyond. There was an upright piano, several shelves of books, door curtains that would be drawn in the winter. The furniture was comfortable. None of it matched.
Robin and Henrietta Osborne were sitting next to each other on a sofa and could not have looked more awkward or, frankly, more guilty. Pünd had barely started his interrogation but they were already defensive, clearly dreading what might come next. Fraser understood what they were going through. He had seen it before. You could be completely blameless and respectable but the moment you talked to the detective you became a suspect and nothing you said could be taken at face value. It was all part of the game and it seemed to him that the Osbornes weren’t playing it too well.
‘On the night that Sir Magnus Pye was murdered, Mrs Osborne, you left your home. This would have been about eight fifteen.’ Pünd waited for her to deny this and when she didn’t, added: ‘Why?’
‘May I ask who told you that?’ Henrietta countered.
Pünd shrugged. ‘Believe me, it is of no importance, Mrs Osborne. It is my task to establish where everyone was at the time of the death, to piece together the jigsaw you might say. I ask questions and I receive answers. That is all.’
‘It’s just that I don’t like the idea of being spied on. That’s the trouble with living in a village. Everyone is always looking at you.’ The vicar patted her gently on the hand and she continued. ‘Yes. I was out looking for my husband at about that time. The thing is …’ She hesitated. ‘We were both rather upset about some news we’d just heard and he’d gone off on his own. When it was getting dark and he hadn’t come home, I began to wonder where he was.’
‘And where in fact were you, Mr Osborne?’
‘I went to the church. Whenever I need to sort myself out, that’s where I go. I’m sure you understand.’
‘Did you walk or did you go on your bicycle?’
‘The way you ask that question, Mr Pünd, I suspect you already know the answer. I took the bike.’
‘What time did you return home?’
‘I suppose it would have been about half past nine.’
Pünd frowned. According to Brent, he had heard the vicar cycle up past the Ferryman about half an hour after he had arrived. That would have been about nine o’clock or nine fifteen. There was a discrepancy, at least fifteen minutes missing. ‘You are sure of that time?’ he asked.
‘I’m absolutely sure,’ Henrietta cut in. ‘I’ve already told you: I was concerned. I certainly had one eye on the clock and it was exactly half past nine when my husband arrived. I had kept his dinner for him and I sat with him while he ate it.’
Pünd did not pursue the matter. There were three possibilities. The first and most obvious was that the Osbornes were lying. Certainly the woman seemed nervous, as if she were trying to protect her husband. The second was that Brent had been mistaken – although he had seemed surprisingly reliable. And the third …? ‘I would imagine that it was the announcement of the new housing development that had upset you,’ he said.
‘Exactly.’ Osborne pointed at the window, at the view beyond. ‘That’s where it’s going to be. Right there at the end of our garden. Well, of course, this house isn’t ours. It belongs to the church and my wife and I won’t be here for ever. But it seems such a destructive thing to do. So unnecessary.’
‘It may never happen,’ Fraser said. ‘What with Sir Magnus being dead and all that …’
‘Well, I’m not going to celebrate any person’s death. That would be quite wrong. But I will admit to you that when I heard the news I did entertain precisely that thought. It was wrong of me. I shouldn’t allow my personal feelings to poison my judgement.
‘You should take a look at Dingle Dell,’ Henrietta cut in. ‘If you haven’t walked there, you won’t understand why it means so much to us. Would you like me to show you?’
‘I would like that very much,’ Pünd replied.
They had finished the tea. Fraser quietly helped himself to another biscuit and they all went out through the French windows. The vicarage garden extended for about twenty yards, sloping downhill with flower beds on each side of a lawn that became wilder and more unkempt the further they went from the house. It had been deliberately landscaped that way. There was no fence or barrier between the Osbornes’ property and the wood beyond making it impossible to say where one ended and the other began.
Quite suddenly they were in Dingle Dell. The trees – oak, ash and Wych Elm – closed in on them without warning, surrounding them and cutting off the world outside. It was a lovely place. The late afternoon sun, slanting through the leaves and branches, had become a soft green and there were butterflies dancing in the beams … ‘Purple Hairstreak,’ Henrietta muttered. The ground was soft underfoot: grass and patches of moss with clumps of flowers. There was something curious about the wood. It wasn’t a wood at all. It was a dell, much smaller, and yet now they were in it there seemed to be no edges, no obvious way out. Everything was very hushed. Although a few birds were flitting around the trees, they did so without making any sound. Only the drone of a bumblebee disturbed the silence and it was gone as quickly as it had come.
‘Some of these trees have been here for two or three hundred years,’ Osborne said. He looked around him. ‘You know that Sir Magnus found his treasure trove here? Roman coins and jewellery, probably buried to keep them safe. Every time we walk here, it’s different. Wonderful toadstools later in the year. All sorts of different insects, if you’re into that sort of thing …’
They came to a clump of wild garlic, the white flowers bursting out like stars and then beyond it another plant, this one a tangle of spikey leaves that sprawled across the path.
‘Atropa Belladonna,’ Pünd said. ‘Deadly nightshade. I understand, Mrs Osborne, that you unfortunately stepped on a specimen and poisoned yourself.’
‘Yes. It was very stupid of me. And unlucky too – it somehow cut my foot.’ She laughed nervously. ‘I can’t imagine what possessed me to come out without my shoes. I suppose I like the feeling of the moss on the soles of my feet. Anyway, I certainly learned my lesson. I’ll steer clear of it from now on.’
‘Do you want to go on?’ Osborne asked. ‘Pye Hall is just on the other side.’
‘Yes. It would be interesting to see it again,’ Pünd replied.
There was no actual path. They continued through the green haze, arriving at the far edge of the wood as unexpectedly as they had entered it. Suddenly the trees parted and there, in front of them was the lake, still and black, with the lawn easing its way down towards it from Pye Hall. Freddy Pye was outside, kicking a football around and Brent was kneeling in front of a flower bed with a pair of secateurs. Neither of them had noticed the little party as they had arrived. From where they were standing, the Lodge House was completely out of sight, hidden by its own woodland screen.
‘Well, here we are,’ Osborne said. He put his arm around his wife, then thought better of it and let it drop. ‘Pye Hall is quite splendid, really. It was a nunnery at one stage. It’s been in the same family for centuries. At least that’s one thing they can’t do – knock it down!’
‘It is a house that has seen a great deal of death,’ Pünd remarked.
‘Yes. I suppose that’s true of many country houses …’
‘But not quite so recently. You were away when Mary Blakiston died.’
‘I already told you that, when we met outside the church.’
‘You said you were in Devonshire.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Where exactly?’
The vicar seemed nonplussed. He turned his head away and his wife broke in angrily. ‘Why are you asking us these questions, Mr Pünd? Do you really think that Robin and I made it up about being away? Do you think we sneaked back and pushed poor Mrs Blakiston down the stairs? What possible reason could we have? And I suppose we lopped off Sir Magnus’s head to save Dingle Dell even though it may not make a jot of difference. His beastly son might go ahead with it anyway.’
Atticus Pünd spread his hands and sighed. ‘Mrs Osborne, you do not understand the demands of police and detective work. Of course I do not believe the things that you suggest and it gives me no pleasure to ask you these questions. But everything must be in its place. Every statement must be verified, every movement examined. It may be that you do not wish to tell me where you were. Eventually, you will have to tell the Inspector. I am sorry if you consider it an intrusion.’
Robin Osborne glanced at his wife who replied. ‘Of course we don’t mind telling you. It’s just not very nice being treated as suspects. If you talk to the manager of the Sheplegh Court Hotel, he’ll tell you we were there all week. It’s near Dartmouth.’
‘Thank you.
They turned and walked back through Dingle Dell; Pünd and Robin Osborne in front, Henrietta and James Fraser behind. ‘It was of course you who officiated at the funeral of Mrs Blakiston,’ Pünd said.
‘That’s right. It was lucky we were back in time, although I suppose I could always have cut my holiday short.’
‘I wonder if you remarked upon a person who was unknown to the village. He was standing on his own, I believe, separate from the other mourners. I have been told that he was wearing an old-fashioned hat.’
Robin Osborne considered. ‘There was someone there wearing a Fedora, I think,’ he said. ‘They left quite abruptly as I recall. But I’m afraid I can’t tell you very much more than that. As you can imagine, I had my mind on other things. He certainly didn’t come for drinks at the Queen’s Arms.’
‘Did you happen to notice Robert Blakiston during the service? I would be interested to know your impressions of how he behaved.’
‘Robert Blakiston?’ They had reached the clump of belladonna and Osborne was careful to avoid it. ‘I wonder why you’re asking about him,’ he went on. ‘If you must know, I feel rather sorry for him. I heard about the argument he had with his mother. The village was full of gossip after she died. I wasn’t having any of it. I think people can be quite cruel – or thoughtless, anyway. Often it’s the same thing. I can’t say I know Robert very well. He hasn’t had an easy life but he’s found himself a young lady now and I couldn’t be more pleased for him. Miss Sanderling works at the doctor’s surgery and I’m sure she’ll help him settle down. The two of them have asked me to marry them at St Botolph’s. I’m very much looking forward to it.’
He paused, then went on.
‘He and his mother quarrelled. That’s common knowledge. But I was observing him throughout the service – he and Josie were standing quite close to me – and I would have said he was genuinely grieving. When I reached the last paragraph of my address he started crying and covered his eyes to hide the tears and Josie had to take his arm. It’s hard for a boy to lose his mother no matter what the feelings between them and I’m sure he bitterly regretted what he had said. Speak in haste, repent at leisure as the old saying goes.’
‘What was your opinion of Mary Blakiston?’
Osborne didn’t answer at once. He continued walking until they had emerged once again in the vicarage garden. ‘She was very much part of the village. She’ll be missed,’ was all he said.
‘I would be interested to see the funeral address,’ Pünd said. ‘Would you by any chance have a copy?’
‘Really?’ The vicar’s eyes brightened. He had put a lot of work into the speech. ‘As a matter of fact, I did hang on to it. I’ve got it inside. Are you coming back in? Never mind. I’ll get it for you.’
He hurried in through the French windows. Pünd turned in time to see Fraser emerge from Dingle Dell with the vicar’s wife, the light slanting down behind them. It was true, he thought. The wood was a very special place, somewhere worth protecting.