The Oxmarket Aspal Murder Mystery (13 page)

              I ended the call and then I disinterred the local telephone directory from under a pile of paperwork and looked up the telephone number of Lord and Lady Osborne.

              The call was answered by Lady Osborne.

              “Hello, this is John Handful.”

              “I’m sorry.  It’s not really convenient.  Agata has left us in the lurch.”

              “That’s what I’m phoning about,” I interrupted.  “I know of someone looking for a job.  She is not fully trained but she is very enthusiastic.  Her name is Joanne Burton.”

              “That is really kind of you.  Anything is better than nothing.  My husband is so particular and he’s not very patient with Chloe.”

              There was an interruption.  Lady Osborne spoke to someone who had just entered the room, and though she had placed her hand over the receiver I could still hear her slightly muffed words.”

              “It’s that private detective.  He says he’s got someone to replace Agata.  No, English.  Don’t make objections, darling?  I think it’s very kind of him and you know how much Tristan goes on.  I think it will be a great help until we sort out something more permanent.”

              The digression over, Lady Osborne spoke with the utmost graciousness.

              “Thank you very much, Mr Handful.  We are most grateful.”

              I ended the call and glanced at my watch before going into the kitchen.

              “I won’t be here for lunch, I’m afraid.”  I said to Karen Bellagamba almost apologetically.

              “That’s fine,” she said.  “I hadn’t started getting it ready yet.”

              I left the house and half an hour later found Joanne Burton waiting for me In
Duncan’s
restaurant and over a lunch of Veal Shanks with Parma Ham and white wine followed by Polenta cake with oranges and Cointreau I finished outlining my instructions to her.

              “So you understand what it is you are looking for.”

              She nodded.

              “And you arranged everything with
Anglia Meats
?”

              “I basically lied through my teeth,” she laughed holding up a hand as I began to protest.  “You needn’t worry, I’ve got it covered for two weeks maybe three.”

              “Fair enough,” I shrugged.  “But I must warn you, somewhere in Oxmarket Aspal there is a murderer at large.”

              “I can look after myself,” she said.

              “Famous last words,” I exclaimed.

              Joanne Burton laughed, a frank amused laugh.  One or two heads at neighbouring tables turned in our direction.

              I found myself appraising her carefully.  A strong, confident young woman, full of vitality, keyed up and eager to attempt a dangerous task.  Why?  I thought again of Marcus Dye, his gentle defeated voice, his lifeless apathy.

              “Why are you trying to put me off?”  She asked suddenly.

              “I’m just letting you know the facts before you take on this task.”

              “I don’t think I’ll be in any danger,” Joanne Burton said confidently.

              “I don’t think so for the moment,” I agreed nervously.  “Do you know anyone in Oxmarket Aspal?”

              “No, I don’t think so,” she said after some consideration.

              “Have you ever been there before?”

              “A couple of years ago I went out with one of the drivers to help out with deliveries when we were really busy.”

              “Go on.”

              “We went to the pub and the Guest House where you’re staying.”

              “Did you see the Bellagamba’s?”

              “I saw Mrs Bellagamba,” she replied.  “She took the delivery.”

              “Would she recognise you now?”

              “Probably not.  But even if she did it wouldn’t matter, would it?  After all, people change their jobs all the time.”

              “Did you see anyone else in Oxmarket Aspal?”

              “Only Marcus.”  She said, she wriggled a little in her chair.  “We met in the pub a couple of times. There’s not much else in the village is there?”

              “No,” I agreed. “Was that before Faith Roberts’ death?”

              “Yes, but the last time was just before.”

              “Did Marcus ever speak to you about Faith?”

              “I don’t think so.”

              “And you’ve spoken to no one else from the village?”

              “Only Oliver Terret.”

              “Really?”

              “I saw him give a talk on that Crime Writer’s show on one of the satellite channels and he was coming out of his cottage and I recognised him and asked him for his autograph and to pose with me on a selfie on my mobile.”

              “And he agreed to do this?”

              “Oh yes, he was ever so nice about it.”

              “Do you know any of the other villagers by sight?”

              “Well, I know the Brooks-Nunns.  They’ve got a fantastic car and she wears the most gorgeous clothes.  She opened a new book shop in Oxmarket about a month ago.  People are saying she could be the next Mayor.”

              I nodded and then took from my pocket the envelope containing the four photographs.  I removed them from the envelope and spread the four photographs on the table in front of her.

              “Christ, these are old,” she said studying them closely.

              “The oldest is nearly thirty years old.”

              “I thought so by the clothes.”

              “Have you seen any of these before?”

              “The women or the photographs?”

              “Either.”

              “I’m sure that I’ve seen this one before.”  Her finger rested against Kay Kempster.  “In some newspaper or other, but I can’t remember when.  The child looks familiar as well.  But I can’t remember when I’ve seen these.  Some time ago, I think.”

              “All these photographs appeared in the
Oxmarket Sunday Echo
on the Sunday before Faith Roberts died.”

              Joanne Burton looked at me sharply.

              “And they’ve got something to do with it?  That’s why you want me to -”

              She did not finish the sentence.

              “Yes.”  I said with emphasis.  “That is why.”

              I took something else from my pocket and showed it to her.  It was the cutting from the
Oxmarket Sunday Echo.

             
She read it carefully.  Her head bent over the flimsy bit of newsprint.

              Then she looked up.

              “But that’s who they are?  And reading this has given you ideas?”

              “You could not express it any better.”

              “But all the same I don’t see -” She was silent for a moment, thinking. I did not speak.  However pleased I might be with my own ideas, I was always ready to hear other people’s concepts too.

              “You think one or other of these people is in Oxmarket Aspal?”

              “Possibly.”

              “Of course.  Anyone may be anywhere . . . “She went on, placing her finger on Kristen Braun’ pretty simpering face:  “She’d be quite old now – about Mrs Terret’s age.”

              “About that.”

              “What I was thinking was – the sort of woman she was – there must be several people who’d have it in for her.”

              “That is a good point,” I said slowly and then added.  “Do you remember the Michael Porter case?”

              “Who doesn’t?”  She said.  “I was quite young at the time, but the media is always bringing him up and comparing him with other murders.  I don’t suppose he’ll ever be forgotten, do you?”

              I raised my head sharply and wondered what brought that sudden note of bitterness into her voice.

16

              I met Julie Lawes and Oliver Terret for a drink that night.  We met at Clarendon Cottage and I found Lorraine Terret in good humour before we left, speeding our departures with good wishes.  Oliver had been assiduous in making all arrangement for her comfort, running back a couple of times after we were in the car to see that all was as it should be.

              “Everything all right?” I asked, when he re-joined us for the last time.

              “Yes,” Oliver said.  “She’s on the phone.”

              The music from the
8-piece professional function band
Turntable
was pulsating in the
Cellar & Kitchen
, competing with the babble of voices and drink-induced laughter.  I ordered a pint for myself, a large lime and soda for Oliver and a brandy and lemonade for Julie Lawes and we leaned on the bar and waited for the barmaid to finish serving us.

              The place was heaving, all the tables were full and a crowd three or four deep were gathered round the bar.  The windows were all steamed up, like the majority of the locals who had been there from the start of the gig.

              Our drinks arrived, thumped down in a beer puddle on the bar. I dropped my money in the same puddle and caught the look the barmaid threw me.  She swept the money into her hand and returned a moment later with a beer towel to wipe the counter dry. I gave her a winning smile and she replied with a sullen scowl.

              I handed out the drinks and we moved away from the bar near a group of couples gathered round a table by a window, empty glasses accumulating in large numbers.  

              We talked at length about various subjects and I went at great length to avoid talking about Faith Roberts by talking about other cases.  Particularly the most recent one that appeared in the papers

              “Do you remember the murder of actor John Croxton live on stage
.
I
was there with my fiancé Kimberley.  The play was
The Rough with the Smooth
at the little theatre in Oxmarket. It was mediocre but there was a murder! Live on stage!”

              “God!”  Oliver Terret exclaimed.  “How awful and exciting at the same time.”

“Detective Tim Ewart, played by the actor John Croxton, summoned the other characters to the drawing room so he could reveal whodunit. As I'd worked out from Scene One, Lady Farriers, had been killed by her son Tommy, played by the actor Mark Sewell. Mark, playing Tommy, then had to, in a fit of rage, hit Tim, played by John, with his aluminium crutch. The aluminium crutch was meant to be made of rubber so that John wouldn't be injured but during the interval, someone had replaced the rubber aluminium crutch with a real aluminium crutch. Mark playing Tommy struck John playing Tim across the head with the real aluminium crutch and killed him.”

“God, I’m confused,” Julie Lawes giggled.  “I need another drink.”

“I’ll get these,” Oliver said and went off to the bar while
Turntable
were playing there version of Queen’s
Don’t Stop Me Now
and they made an excellent job of it.

Oliver returned with the drinks and I continued with my tale.

“Now, the only person who could have replaced the rubber aluminium crutch with the real aluminium crutch was someone who'd had access to Mark's dressing room during the interval. Mark revealed who had been in there during the interval - the director Fiona Dodman, John Croxton who played Detective Tim Ewart, Jenny Downes who played Sarah Melchester, Christopher Rice who played Eamon Melchester and Anne Lynch who played the maid, Trudi. As could be seen in his performance, Mark clearly liked a drink. At one point, during a tennis court scene that I actually thought would never end, he referred to Jenny instead of Sarah, the character she played and there were bruises on John's arms where, as Tim, he'd been struck by the character Tommy Chapelle in earlier performances, but where the actor Mark had missed the padding stitched into the coat. I hope you're getting all this down? So the killer could have been Fiona Dodman, the director or one of those four actors, five including Mark himself. It had to be someone who could smuggle a real crutch in and replace it without Mark noticing although, obviously, the bottle of gin he was knocking back would have helped.”

I sipped my drink before continuing.

“Fiona Dodman, the director, was wearing tight jeans and a top that was far too pink and far too small so she wouldn't have been able to smuggle in anything larger than a peanut. Which would have been fine if she wanted to kill someone with a nut allergy but she didn't. After some gentle questioning from me, she broke down and admitted that she was in love with Mark but that he wasn't interested. At last, an explanation for why the old drunk had been cast in the play!”