‘Was Sir Magnus popular in the village?’
The question took the vicar by surprise and he struggled to find the right answer. ‘There may have been those who envied him. He had considerable wealth. And then, of course, there was the matter of Dingle Dell. It would be true to say that it aroused strong feelings.’
‘Dingle Dell?’
‘It’s a strip of woodland. He had sold it.’
‘To Larkin Gadwall,’ Fraser interceded.
‘Yes. Those are the developers, I believe.’
‘Would you be surprised to learn, Mr Osborne, that Sir Magnus had received a death threat as a direct result of his intentions?’
‘A death threat?’ The vicar was more flustered than ever. ‘I would be very surprised. I’m sure nobody around here would send such a thing. This is a very peaceful village. The people who live here aren’t like that at all.’
‘And yet you spoke of strong feelings.’
‘People were upset. But that’s not the same thing.’
‘When did you last see Sir Magnus?’
Robin Osborne was keen to be on his way. He was holding his bicycle as if it were an animal, straining at the leash. And this last question offended him. It was clear, in his eyes. Was he being suspected of something? ‘I haven’t seen him for a while,’ he replied. ‘He was unable to attend Mary Blakiston’s burial which was a pity but he was in the south of France. And before that, I was away myself.’
‘Where?’
‘On holiday. With my wife.’ Pünd waited for more and Osborne obligingly filled in the silence. ‘We had a week together in Devonshire. Actually, she’ll be waiting for me right now, so if you don’t mind …’ With a half-smile, he pushed his way between them, the gears of his bicycle grinding.
‘I’d say that he was nervous about something,’ Fraser muttered.
‘Yes, James. He was certainly a man with something to hide.’
As the detective and his assistant made their way towards their car, Robin Osborne was cycling as quickly as he could down to the vicarage. He knew he had not been entirely honest: not lying but omitting certain aspects of the truth. It was true, however, that Henrietta was waiting for him and would have expected him some time ago.
‘Where have you been?’ she asked as he took his place in the kitchen. She served a home-made quiche with a bean salad and sat down next to him.
‘Oh. I was just in the village.’ Osborne mouthed a silent grace. ‘I met that detective,’ he went on, barely leaving time for the amen. ‘Atticus Pünd.’
‘Who?’
‘You must have heard of him. He’s quite famous. A private detective. You remember that school in Marlborough? There was a teacher who was killed during a play. He worked on that.’
‘But why do we need a private detective? I thought it was a burglar.’
‘It seems the police may have been wrong.’ Osborne hesitated. ‘He thinks it has something to do with the Dell.’
‘The Dell!’
‘That’s what he thinks.’
They ate in silence. Neither of them seemed to be enjoying the food. Then Henrietta spoke, quite suddenly. ‘Where did you go last night, Robin?’ she asked.
‘What?’
‘You know what I’m talking about. Sir Magnus being killed.’
‘Why on earth would you ask me such a thing?’ Osborne put down his knife and fork. He took a sip of water. ‘I felt anger,’ he explained. ‘It’s one of the mortal sins. And there were things in my heart that were … that should not have been there. I was upset because of the news but that’s no excuse. I needed to spend time alone so I went up to the church.’
‘But you were gone such a long time.’
‘It wasn’t easy for me, Henrietta. I needed the time.’
She wasn’t going to speak, then thought again. ‘Robin, I was so worried about you. I came out looking for you. As a matter of fact, I bumped into Brent and he said he’d seen someone going up to the hall—’
‘What are you suggesting, Hen? Do you think I went up to Pye Hall and killed him? Took his head off with a sword? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘No. Of course not. It’s just that you were so angry.’
‘You’re being ridiculous. I didn’t go anywhere near the house. I didn’t see anything.’
There was something else Henrietta wanted to say. The bloodstain on her husband’s sleeve. She had seen it with her own eyes. The following morning she had taken the shirt and washed it in boiling water and bleach. It was on the washing line even now, drying in the sun. She wanted to ask him whose blood it was. She wanted to know how it had got there. But she didn’t dare. She couldn’t accuse him. Such a thing was impossible.
The two of them finished their lunch in silence.
3
Sitting in a reproduction captain’s chair with its curved back and swivelling seat, Johnny Whitehead was also thinking about the murder. Indeed, throughout the morning he had thought of little else, blundering around like a bull in his own china shop, rearranging objects for no reason and smoking incessantly. Gemma Whitehead had finally lost her temper with him when he had knocked over and broken a nice little Meissen soap dish, which, though chipped, had still been priced at nine shillings and sixpence.
‘What is the matter with you?’ she demanded. ‘You’re like a bear with a sore head today. And that’s your fourth cigarette. Why don’t you go out and get some fresh air?’
‘I don’t want to go out,’ Johnny said, moodily.
‘What’s wrong?’
Johnny stubbed out his cigarette in a Royal Doulton ashtray shaped like a cow and priced at six shillings. ‘What do you think?’ he snapped.
‘I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you.’
‘Sir Magnus Pye! That’s what’s wrong.’ He stared at the smoke still rising from the twisted cigarette butt. ‘Why did someone have to go and murder him? Now we’ve got the police in the village, knocking on doors, asking questions. They’ll be here soon enough.’
‘What does it matter? They can ask us anything they want.’ There was a fractional pause, long enough to make itself felt. ‘Can’t they?’
‘Of course they can.’
She examined him, a sharp look in her eye. ‘You haven’t been up to anything, have you, Johnny?’