(alphabetically listed)
Dr Richmond Cannington CBE – Gentleman
Inspector George Harris – Police detective
Constable Jack Peters – Police officer
Fredrick Cadburn – Butler to L. and E. Foreblanks, villager
James Cannington – Brother of R. Cannington
Mrs Trisha Cannington – Wife of J. Cannington
Benjamin Cannington – Son of J. and E. Cannington
Colonel Lionel Foreblanks OBE – Army officer, villager
Mrs Elizabeth Foreblanks – Wife of L. Foreblanks, villager
Miss Angie Jones – Cook to L. and E. Foreblanks, villager
General Lombard – Army officer
Miss Margie King – Villager
Horace Maxwell – Tramp
Mrs Harriet Smythe OBE – Villager
Lieutenant-Colonel Henry Stevenson – Army officer, villager
Chapter One The Party"Never liked Delius," called Cannington from the kitchen to his guest. "Can't stand his work. It's all dull and boring, no rhythm. Now Mozart, there's a good composer." He carried his cup of tea in to the drawing room, sat down and addressed his guest once more.
"So, Henry, what did you want to come and see me about?" Cannington's visitor was sitting opposite him, on the edge of his seat, looking rather worried and tense. "Henry?" he called once more.
"Oh, sorry, Richmond, land of my own." Henry (Harry) Stevenson chuckled nervously. "I was wondering if you could do me a little favour. You see it's my niece's eighteenth birthday in a few weeks time and I have had a brilliant idea of what to get her. However, I need your help." He paused and waited for the response.
"I see." replied a sceptic Cannington, whilst sipping his tea. "And what do you want me to do, Henry?"
"Well, it's just, well, we were in the army together weren't we Cannington and we're old chums. And after you left us you joined Oxford as their historian bod, didn't you?" Cannington sat bolt up right in his chair on hearing these words.
"I was their Deputy Head of History, yes." If there was one thing Cannington could not stand was people confusing or de-grading his achievements.
"Well, Louise, my niece, is in to history and all that and all she really wants is to see the Magna Carta. Even if it's just one page, she'd be happy. I was wondering if you would be able to use your contacts…" the sixty year old's voice faded away as Cannington opened his mouth to reply, he wasn't too sure how to reply, was his friend joking or was he really serious.
"Has she seen the page at the House of Lords?" he asked. As much as he liked Harry, he had not enjoyed the three years he spent as Deputy Head of History at Oxford. He wasn't sure if, after his fall out with his superior, that he would be able to complete the request. Regretfully, Cannington brought the casual meeting to a close and both the men, walked to the door.
A solemn farewell was said and Harry departed. He turned to face Cannington who was on the threshold of his front door. Cannington's face held a smile, which shimmered with regret.
"Never mind, Cannington. I'll see you tomorrow at Lionel's and Elizabeth's. Good bye!" He referred to their mutual friends Colonel Lionel and Elizabeth Foreblanks. Harry tottered away, his friendly smile now vanishing. Cannington could see that he was disappointed, usually he could tell when Henry was sad or disenchanted, when his black moustache bristled slightly. Cannington turned to re-enter the house.
"Nice chap, eh, Robert?" A black and white cat had appeared at his feet. Robert, was an intelligent but lazy cat who had only caught one mouse in his life and even that was by accident. The telephone rang. Cannington walked over to answer it.
"Hello, The Elms, Richmond Cannington speaking."
"Oh Hello, Canny! How are you, it's Harriet here."
"Good afternoon Mrs Smythe." He replied. The receiver was five centimetres away from his actual ear, as Mrs Harriet Smythe's voice was loud and shrill and could deafen anyone after a few minutes.
"I was just wondering if you'd be going to that silly party of the Foreblanks's?"
"Yes, indeed I am, are you?" Cannington could guess what the answer would be, as it was commonly known that Mrs Smythe did not get on with Elizabeth Foreblanks.
"As a matter of fact, I am. I was invited!" she exclaimed, with glee. Cannington could not have been more shocked. Mrs Foreblanks had made Mrs Smythe resign as chairman of the Parish council last year, only to take the job on her self.
"Really? Why?" he asked.
"Well, if I was invited, then I suppose it's only good manners isn't it?"
"Yes, I agree."
"Well I'll see you then Cannington."
"Mrs Smythe, wait! Is that all you rang for?"
There was no reply, then the phone went dead.
It was six thirty that evening when Dr Richmond Cannington casually walked across his bedroom to the large oak wardrobe. He took great pride with this particular item of furniture, so much so that he would polish the silver handles after use with his cotton handkerchief. Carefully, he opened the wardrobe and selected his favourite dinner jacket. There was not much variation of colour in the entire wardrobe but, it was organised beyond belief. On the far left were his white shirts, all six of them. After them, his more casual pale pastel coloured ones. Shirts took up a fourth of his wardrobe. His trousers, most of them black followed; they were beautifully hung and all tailored made. So were his jackets. There was a wide range of them on display. Three dinner jackets; two sports jackets; five suit jackets and one lounge jacket.
Near the bottom of the wardrobe were four neat drawers. They held socks, under-garments, accessories and other bits and pieces. Cannington made sure that he was a key sartorial figure in Little Marlow.
"But I was invited! I had an invitation!" shrieked Mrs Smythe, who was trying to match the tall Colonel Lionel Foreblanks by standing on tip toe.
"Look, I'm sorry, without being rude, my wife would never send you an invitation. She didn't tell me she invited you anyway." Colonel Foreblanks was a tall man of just under six foot, his gentle face was screwed up with confusion.
"What's going on Lionel?" Mrs Foreblanks had just arrived on the scene. She saw Mrs Smythe and sighed. "Oh, it's her." Mrs Smythe was secretly enjoying this and now that her arch-enemy was dragged in and missing her party, it couldn't get much better.
"I was invited! He's denying it, look." She pulled out an white invitation, which read in big black letters:
'Colonel and Mrs Foreblanks at Home. This Saturday. RSVP, The Grange, Gate House Drive, Little Marlow.'
"Now don't tell me I was not invited!" she said in her shrill voice.
The husband and wife discussed the issue for several minutes however decided it wasn't worth arguing and let her in. Mrs Smythe's long blue evening dress trailed along the floor. For her age of sixty she looked very elegant in it.
A short stubby woman had just entered the drawing room. Her hair was drawn back in a tight bun and her half-moon glasses perched on her nose. This made her look very old for her age and paid her no compliments.
"Margie!" cried Lionel, "So good of you to come my dear. Drink?"
"Well, go on then Lionel, just a small gin." Lionel went to collect the drink off the bar. "Tell me Lionel, did I see that Harriet Smythe here?" she asked.
"I'm afraid so. It was my wife's idea, she was getting a little upset, didn't want a scene you know." Both Colonel Foreblanks and Miss King's eyes rested upon Harriet Smythe.
"She's probably got a huge knife in that handbag of hers, ready to stab someone in the back and spread rumours!" The Colonel joked.
"Good Evening Colonel, Miss King, how are we?" Cannington had strode into the room. His black diner jacket and top-pocket-handkerchief gave him a certain air of sophistication.
"Well, I'll try of course. Give me a few hours or so. Thank you Elise. Goodbye." Mrs Foreblanks looked worried at the news she had just been told by her aunt's maid. Elizabeth's husband broke away from greeting his guests to see his wife.
"Anything wrong, Liz?" he asked.
"It's aunt Florence, she's been taken ill. I'm going to have to go and see her Lionel. I'll go after the party?" Wiping the tear off her check, she turned and walked to the door. More guests were arriving. The couple welcomed them in turn. Mr and Mrs Horton, Captain Drake, Mr Fort, Lt-Col Stevenson, Miss Smith. Eventually they stopped arriving and the two spouses could get on and mingle with all the guests.
"I'll see you tomorrow darling." Mrs Foreblanks told her husband. She has packed her bag and was going off to see her aunt.
"Send her my love won't you?" He replied. The car door closed and the Colonel waved his wife goodbye. The last few of the guests were now leaving. "Bye!" His wife's Audi drove off down the drive. Only after it had gone, did he turn to go back inside.
"Lovely party Lionel, must dash I want to catch the news. Bye." Margie King kissed both of his cheeks, waved good bye to the remaining guests, got in her car and also drove down the straight drive in to the distance. With that the other two visitors departed, Henry Stevenson and the formidable Harriet Smythe.
"Excuse me sir, would it be alright for me to turn in for the day?" asked the approaching butler, Cadburn. He bore a long and thin ageing head. His white hair almost seemed to glow in the dark night sky, as did his white shirt and cuffs.
"Yes," sighed the Colonel. "I suppose so. Where's Cook?" he asked.
"Ah, she's finishing up the washing in the kitchen, she will lock the house at a quarter past as per usual sir. Goodnight." He gave a polite bow, turned one hundred and eighty degrees and walked back in to the house and Colonel Foreblanks followed. Suddenly, a rustle emanated from a near by tree. Both the butler and the colonel turned to see what it was. But there was nothing. "Probably just a squirrel sir." answered the butler who continued to re-enter the house, leaving his employer outside.
"Yes, it probably was."
Chapter Two One Down"Thank you madam, I will inform the police of your arrival. Goodbye." Cadburn put the receiver down and turned to Inspector Harris and his deputy. "She is leaving her aunt's this moment Inspector." Colonel Foreblanks had been brutally murdered last evening. He was found at nine o'clock by his Butler, Cadburn. Mrs Foreblanks had been telephoned at her aunt's and was driving home immediately. For a loyal butler who had just found his master dead, he seemed extremely relaxed, almost as if he did not care. But inside he did. Cadburn was very professional and had always been taught never to show too many emotions.
"Ok. Thanks. Would you mind answering a few questions for us please sir?" The Police Inspector asked. He was wearing a long, dowdy beige jacket, the edges of which were marked with mud and grass stains. His trilby hat, sat to one side of his head which made him look very comical. Inspector Harris's face was very plain and slightly rounded; a short nose protruded from it.
"I would be only too pleased sir," came the mono-syllabic voice of Cadburn, "However could I undertake interrogation later? I need to feed the animals. Good day." Inspector Harris was just about to reply when Cadburn left, dodging in and out of the white coated men who seemed to monopolise the hall.
"Well I never!" cried the infuriated Inspector Harris. "Feed the animals!" Really. Probably think up an alibi. I know his type, dry and sly butler. In the books it was the butler who always did it!" he snarled at his deputy, Constable Peters. "Like in that Christie novel, Four fifty from Waterloo; it was the butler then."
"It wasn't actually, it was the doctor who committed the murder." Dr Richmond Cannington had just entered the hall of the Foreblanks's. Today he wore a pin striped, black suit with black tie and top-pocket handkerchief. His hat, black obviously, was held in his hand and a small book in the other.
"And you are, who?" cried the indignant Harris.
"Dr Cannington. Dr Richmond Cannington. Private Detective and family friend. I take it that you are the Chief Inspector in charge of this case." A smug grin came over Cannington's face. If there was one thing he hated, that was the pomposity of policemen who dealt with murders.
"No, I'm only an er, inspector. No chief before it, just Inspector, Harris." He added sheepishly. Cannington raised his eyebrows, his smile was now one of sympathy.
"Oh, I see, they have only sent an inspector. Well, I'm sure that you will crack the case just as fast, Inspector Harris." Harris was extremely annoyed with this man. Cannington seemed to get on his nerves in every possible sense.
He took a deep breath to calm himself and continued to address the formidable man standing in the entrance. "Well, Dr Cannington, you may want to know the exact circumstances of his death?" asked the Inspector.
"Not particularly. I know most of them anyway." He replied.
"How? I'd like to know how!" cried Harris. His hands were now clasped behind his back. This was a contrast to the hands of Cannington who was browsing through the pages of his (black) notebook.
"Word travels fast in Little Marlow, Inspector. Anyhow, he is dead and can not be brought back to life, therefore we should not dwell too much on how he died but rather, why he died. Murder obviously, but each murder has a motive. Even psychopaths have their reasons, you know." The Inspector at this point agreed silently with the theorem put forward by Cannington as he currently wanted to commit an act of murder this minute.
"Will it be possible for me to help you in your inquiry Inspector Harris?" he asked. A short, curt reply came, the Inspector needed all the help he could get, should he just throw away an opportunity?
"Yes."
"Well, I am going to snoop around if you don't mind. I wont touch anything I shouldn't." Cannington set his book and hat down on a side table and left.
"Good!" twitched the inspector, silently relived at the prospect. He had just calmed his nerves once more, when Cannington re-appeared "Oh and Inspector Harris?" Whose nerves had returned.
"Yes, what?"
"It was Paddington by the way."
"What?"
"In the Christie novel, with the murderous doctor, it was the four fifty from Paddington, not Waterloo." Cannington beamed and exited. Constable Peters gave a muffled laugh, but was quickly silenced by his superior by a menacing glare.
The Foreblanks's drawing room was a grand area which could hold at least thirty people easily. The wallpaper was a warm orangey-red and the sofas were in-keeping with the theme. The butler was tidying away some paper work when the amateur sleuth entered.
"Cadburn, I was wondering if I might be able to have a quick chat with you?" Cannington said.
"Yes sir, shall this room do ?" replied the Butler. "I am due to talk with the Policeman soon. I would have spoken to him when he asked but he didn't remove his hat when he entered." Cannington chuckled at this.
"Now the post mortem results are coming back later, so I will have to ask you where you were at the time of death then. But until that time, could you please tell me how you discovered the body?" Cannington sat down on a high backed, green chair and began to scribble down the reply he got from a reluctant Cadburn.
"I was going in to serve him his morning coffee, Sir. I walked in and found his body lying next to the door of the bathroom. There was blood on the carpet and a needle, of the knitting type, lying next to him." The butler showed no sign of emotion in his speech or, indeed general character.
"I see." Cannington paused thoughtfully. "And did you like your employer?"
"We got on alright, I suppose. I have, sorry, had been working for him for fifteen years."
"Did he seem nervous at all last night?"
"Not really no. Although after he had said goodbye to all the guests, he did seem rather anxious." Cannington looked up quickly.
"Why?"
"Well, we both heard a rustling of a bush in the grounds somewhere. I dismissed it as a squirrel. We always have them. Anymore sir?"
"Yes, Cadburn, just one more question if you will. Did Mrs Foreblanks seemed surprised to hear of her husband's death?" He asked quizzically.
"Yes. Very much indeed. She began to cry I think."
"Very well, many thanks Cadburn. Please inform me when she arrives back." Cannington got up as Cadburn left the room. The Inspector entered a few moments afterwards. He spied his new colleague (Cannington) and reacted with a disapproving frown.
"Right, Dr Cannington, the post mortem results have just been text to me." The Inspector held his mobile. Cannington rolled his eyes. His reply was sardonic.
"How novel. What with people being fired by text, we can soon expect that murders, rapists and burglars are going to have their sentence sent directly to their mobile phone." If there was one thing that Cannington didn't get on with or understand, then it was technology.
"It was murder."
"Really?" Cannington said sarcastically.
"Yes. And he was killed by the insertion of a knitting needle being inserted up his nose until he bled to death. Time of death, ten o'clock in the evening. "
"Well, I credit the culprit for initiative. I don't even think Conan-Doyle or Christie could have dreamt that one up."
"Now, I'll be back later, I need to go and question the butler." He prepared to leave the lounge.
"Oh, you won't find much from him Inspector. I have already questioned him. Although now we know the time of death we could speak to him again." Cannington smiled. The Inspector was furious that Cannington had already questioned him.
"Well, my hat off to you, that you have already managed to do so."
"Funny you should say that Inspector; your hat was the reason he didn't want to be interviewed there and then. You see, you did not remove it when you entered the building. Shall we re-call him?"
Chapter Three Mrs Foreblanks ReturnsThree chairs were now set out in the lounge. Two of them were at each other's side. Cannington sat in one, Harris in the other. The remaining third chair stood opposite to them and Cadburn sat in it. Constable Peters stood rigidly by the door of the lounge, which connected with the hall.
"Could you tell us, sir, where you were at half past nine?" asked the Inspector briskly.
Cadburn sighed. "I was clearing up empty glasses, left by the guests and taking them, in two journeys to the kitchen. I started off in the hall, then on to the conservatory, then the drawing room, to the kitchen. After giving Angie the glasses I went back to the drawing room, to the lounge and then to the…" At this point the Inspector interrupted him impatiently.
"Alright, alright. We get the point. What time did you stop your clearing?"
"At around five to ten. I went out to see the late Colonel after the guests had gone. It was soon after that, that I heard the noise in the bush." The Inspector looked puzzled at this, Cannington filled him in on the details; then sub-consciously he took over the interview, much to the policeman's annoyance barely suppressed.
"Which guests had just left?" asked Cannington, whilst jotting down the facts.
Cadburn considered. "Miss King, Mrs Smythe and Lieutenant-Colonel Stevenson."
"Ok, well you say, you when straight to bed then. Who locked up the house?"
"Oh, Cook did. By the way her Christian name is Angie" There was a pause while Cannington and the Inspector looked thoughtful. Is that all sir?" the butler inquired.
"For the moment." Replied a thoughtful Cannington. The Inspector was going to ask one more question, but hesitated, deciding that he did not have the right energy.
Cadburn left, accompanied by Constable Peters. The Inspector stood up and paced the room. No word passed between the room's occupants for several minutes. A car flashed by the lounge window. The two men turned to each other and said in unison, "Mrs Foreblanks."
A rather pale and dazed women entered the hall, carrying one small suitcase. As usual, Cadburn went to greet her and relieve the bag from her white hands. Today, she was dressed in a floral skirt that some what contrasted with her undoubted emotions. Cannington and Inspector Harris moved as one to sympathise with her.
"Elizabeth, my condolences. I am helping with the investigation." Cannington kissed her on her cheek. She remained still, staring in deep space.
A short cough emanated from the Inspector who was keen to begin his questioning. "Madam, I am Inspector Harris of Little Marlow Police, I will be heading the investigation. I know this may be a little too soon for you, but would you mind answering a few questions?" he asked hopefully.
"Yes." Came a dreamy, lost, almost mesmerised voice. "In a moment." She walked hesitantly up to the side table (which still held Cannington's book) and picked up a picture frame. It was of her husband. She smiled and wiped away her tears, turned and then almost like she had just been re-charged and her emotions altered, she spoke almost buoyantly, "Right, shall we begin Inspector?" Quite surprised by this sudden change Inspector Harris led her in to her lounge, where they resumed their seats as before.
"First, where were you at ten o'clock last night?" he quizzed.
"At my aunt's house in London, Inspector." Came the precise reply.
"And why were you there, Elizabeth?" interjected Cannington.
"She has arthritis and minor Alzheimer's . She called two nights ago to ask if I could go and visit."
"And was she surprised to see you?" asked a thoughtful Cannington.
"Well, yes she was. She said it was a great surprise and all that. Little loopy now and then, forgets her own name occasionally." For someone who had just lost their husband she seemed remarkably cheerful. A point that Cannington was aware of.
"She rang you to ask if you could come to stay did she?"
"No, no! Her carer did. Never met the woman before, until yesterday. Seemed a nice girl but not quite with it. Rather odd when she opened the door, she gave a kind of muffled shriek. Immediately asked me who I was and then when I told her, let me in."
The Inspector now found his chance to once again take over the interview that he had started.
"Where does your Aunt live Madam? What address?"
"London. 21 Richmond Terrace in Chelsea. Very quaint house and a neat garden too." She adjusted her floral skirt and tidied her hair.
"And one final question, Madam." Wondering how to phrase the ultimate question, the Inspector paused. "Did you get on with your late husband, did you have any problems, quarrels, agro with him recently?" The Inspector could almost guess the reply, but was somewhat surprised with it.
"Well, there was one minor incident. Last month. I rather foolishly," her buoyant tone dropped and went in to one of regretful reconciliation. "I had wanted this new racehorse and it was one bred from the Queen's best horses. It wasn't much, around seven million," she paused as the Inspector choked and spluttered. Cannington gave a disapproving glance at him and once more smoothly took over the reins of the interview.
"Do continue please." He said, still looking at the recovering policeman. The Inspector glared at Cannington.
"Well, he refused, absolutely refused. Said that not even he had that much money at hand. All in a bond or bank savings account for later life or when he died. Something like that. I accepted, rather depressed and continued life as normally as possible." She stopped, stood up, presumed that she was done with and strode out of the room.
The instant the door closed, the Inspector spoke. "It was her." "She did it. I know it. Her husband wouldn't give her the horse, she killed him, all his money would go to her, she gets the horse and voila!" A smug grin had taken over his face.
"Well done Inspector." Smiled Cannington. "You have proved to me that you jump to conclusions. Well, I'm afraid we have many more people to see before I decide 'who-dun-it.' I'd leave her alone and work on others if I were you. I have a bit of probing to do." He stood up, straightened his jacket and began to exit.
"Excuse me Mr Cannington.!" shouted the Inspector.
"Dr!" cringed Cannington.
"Dr Cannington then, I will decide who the culprit is. Not you!" He gave a triumphant gesture.?
"We'll see." He left.
Chapter Four A Matter of TasteThe kitchen was cold today. No cooking had taken place recently but the breakfast plates still remained un-washed. Cook was sobbing away in her chair in the scullery her face in her hands. Her overalls were a dirty brown and her wooden spoon was stuck in her apron. Harris entered the kitchen to find it empty. However after hearing the tears of sorrow from a distance, the Inspector walked slowly to the scullery. The cook, named Angie, looked up, realised who it was and stood to attention at once. Her tears had been turned off like a light bulb yet her face was still red.
"Am I interrupting anything madam?" inquired the Inspector gently.
"No sir." Squeaked the cook nervously.
"You're the cook are you not? Angie Walters I believe." Another squeak emanated from her mouth.
"Yes Sir."
"Sit down madam," ordered the inspector, trying his best to be sympathetic, however that trait was not one of the Harris family's strong points. "How long have you worked here?"
"Nine years." She paused, "Nine years as of yesterday, sir!" once more the waterworks started. Harris's hand comforted her shoulder.
"What did you think of Colonel Foreblanks?"
"He, he was a nice enough man. Nothing special. His wife is so charming. I really admire her. She never criticised my roast pork."
"What?" The Inspector took his hand away and sat up right in anticipation of a confession. But his actions were in vain.
"He did! Colonel Foreblanks told me that my roast pork was disgusting and had never been any good. That was last week it was." Rang her northern accent. Realising what she had just said, she added quickly, "But I never killed him. Never! Not in my nature. I don't even like killing animals."
"But you're a cook. You work with dead animals all time!"
"Yeah, but I don't kill 'em. No. That's Cadburn's job. He is used to killing things. Or so he always says." The Inspector immediately stood up, but then sat down again.
"Where were you at ten o'clock last night madam?" he asked.
"I was, er, in the kitchen. Washing up. Finished that at quarter past I did. Then I locked the place up." She wiped her nose and eyes with her tea-towel. If Cannington had seen that he would have made some comment.
"Did you hear or see anything unusual last night around ten to quarter past ten?"
"No." her answer was short. "Oh there was something, inspector. Last night about quarter to ten, Mrs Foreblanks asked to borrow a knitting needle, so I went to fetch it, but it wasn't there." " Thoughtfully the Inspector thanked her for her time and left, making mental notes of the interview. Needless to say that Cannington would want to know every single word of that interview and went off to lunch.
The vile smell of beer and pork scratchings met Cannington's delicate nose as he entered the town pub, called, appropriately, 'The Nose Inn.' Cannington often joked to friends that no one 'nose' why people stay there. His journey to the pub had not been wasted, Harry Stevenson was sitting in a dull corner of the room. He walked over to this corner, pulled out a chair, wiped off the crumbs and sat down.
"Oh, evening Cannington!" exclaimed Harry.
"Nocturnal Felicitations to you too, Henry." Cannington was never fond of nick-names or abbreviations of people's names. In his view, if you were christened 'Henry' you were called 'Henry' until you officially changed your name. "How are you feeling?"
"Terrible. He didn't deserve to die." He replied whilst munching on a crisp. "Why him? He was such a gentle soul. Couldn't hurt a fly. Even when he was at the barracks," (both Harry and the deceased had worked together in the army for many years,) "he would always think twice about what he did with a gun. Even said sorry when he killed a fish once." He chuckled. Cannington gave a faint smile.
"It was a good party last night wasn't it?" asked Cannington.
"Yes. Very jolly. Although I found it odd that Harriet Smythe was there. Elizabeth and her fell out years ago. Elizabeth supposedly conspired with other parish council members to get Smythe off the chairman's' post. She succeeded too. And then to make Smythe more angry, Elizabeth stood for the vacant post and got it!" After a slight pause to absorb the information, wisely Cannington changed the subject entirely.
"What were you doing for the last half and hour of the party?"
"Why I was talking to Lionel." (Lionel being Colonel Foreblanks.) replied the Lieutenant Colonel Stevenson, still munching on crisps.
"For half an hour?" questioned a surprised Cannington. Anyone would have found talking to Stevenson for fifteen minutes tiresome, but half an hour! The deceased needed a medal for gallantry.
"Yes, I think so. Well, up until we said goodbye to Elizabeth."
"Ok. And finally, when you two were talking, did anyone offer you a drink at all, or food?" Cannington's pencil rested on his lips after asking the question.
"No." he was very sure of his reply. "We already had eaten and we had drinks. I had a sherry and Lionel a tea."
'Tea? At way after half past nine? Not coffee, like normal people?"
"No." he chuckled. "No, old Lionel never liked coffee. Hadn't drunk it for ten years he told me. It was always tea. Never coffee." This recollection had somehow cheered Harry up; however, it nagged away at something that Cannington had previously known. But what? He pondered silently and then, made his excuses and left the pub for his home.
Chapter Five Major Help"And you're sure that nothing else had been said?" said a tentative Cannington who was pacing the room, thinking about the alibi and evidence that Harris had got from the cook.
"For the last time, no!" Inspector Harris was today wearing his own casual clothes, rather than his usual dowdy beige jacket and grey suit. "Have you reached any conclusions yet Dr Cannington?" There was a clear element of sarcasm in his voice, which Cannington noticed.
"Yes. Have you?" the Inspector did not seem to be ready for this, as so far he had not. He made a rather feeble attempt at covering this up; however, Cannington could see right through it and smiled at him and placed a bet.
"Alright then Inspector Harris, I lay a wager that I will solve this crime before you do."
"Dr Cannington, may I remind you that you are only observing and making notes about these cases, nothing else. If you do get an idea in to your head about who it is then I do not have to accept it at all." His hands had moved to his hips triumphantly.
"Inspector, may I remind you that I was not the one who interviewed the second suspect and then jumped to the conclusion that it was her." Slightly mockingly, Cannington had placed his own hands on his hips to match the posture of the enraged Inspector Harris who was speechless. "Touché Inspector! Touché." He nodded and walked out of the room where he found a dozy Constable Peters. "Good Morning Constable!"
"Hi. What a wonderful house this is, sir." He grinned happily at Cannington.
"Yes, I suppose it is in its way. What do you like about it?" Peters had not expected this question, he was very simple which was the reason that at thirty five he was still a constable.
"Erm, they way the rooms are spaced and positioned, sir."
"What do you mean, explain?"
"Well, everything is easy to access. You have your hall, with a stair case then your kitchen, then the lounge. And on the other side, you got your sitting room and conservatory. Oh and your toilet there. Sir?" Cannington had screwed his eyes up in pain when he heard the incorrect usage of the word 'lavatory.'
"Never mind constable, but you have got something there. Something very important which may be one of the answers to this mystery. Good Day." With a quirky nod he turned and strode out of the room and then out of the oak doors of the house.
Today he was wearing his pure black tailored-made suit which gave him an even bigger sartorial perfection. His tie was bright red with neat, diagonal, grey lines passing over the tie in a pattern.
A thin black and blue bicycle leant against the porch. Cannington mounted it and rode off down the drive, observing what he passed. As he shut the gates to the Foreblanks's residence he got off the bike and looked first, to his right, then to his left. When he looked to the latter of the two, he noticed a dark and shady spot where some skid marks lay. At first he thought nothing of it, but in his usual fashion noted it down in his note pad and continued on his short journey to his home.
"Have you heard about that murder?" the Army General asked Cannington, who sat drinking his earl grey tea. He wanted to reply with no modesty what so ever, saying how he was investigating it, but then changed his answered to,
"Yes, awful stuff."
"Couldn't have happened to a nicer man, poor old Foreblanks."
"You liked him I take it?" Cannington put his cup and saucer down on the table beside him. The general sighed his answer,
"Nice man. Nice but not all there, if you get my gist? Bit of a hopeless case really, nice chap, alright at his job, but not the ideal man for promotion I'm afraid." The short, stumpy General Smith boomed. His office was flooded with world war two memorabilia and old bullets lined the edge of the desk. Cannington thought this rather excessive, but an imaginative touch. The general continued, "And I hear that Stevenson is under examination by the police too."
"I think that they are considering the option." He replied carefully, as he had been friends with both Colonel Foreblanks and Lt-Col Stevenson for many years now. "Do you suspect him, General?" Richmond Cannington asked with eyebrows raised.
"No, of course not! Never in a million years."
"Yes, I tend to agree with you on that. Do you have any idea who though?"
"Well, as you're asking, I would happily place a bet on the butler he had. Shifty eyes you see." Cannington was not impressed by the general's attitude to placing money on a murder case and replied curtly with,
"People tend to see with their eyes. Now if you excuse me General I have some business to attend to. Good day." With one swift nod and a quick hand shake, Cannington exited the office The army general was not too sure what to make of this.
Richmond Cannington's house was a very logical place, which was one of the reasons why he had bought it three years ago. The main room was directly in the middle of the cottage, that room being the drawing room. The creamy kitchen was to the top left of the building, the master bedroom directly opposite, in the south eastern corner. Other rooms included the study, hall, bathroom and utility room. Cannington kept a spotless home and everything had its reason to be there. If he didn't want it, then it was not kept. Each month he ritually held an hour long session of throwing unwanted 'rubbish' out.
It was on one quiet Saturday afternoon that the gentleman slept in his green high backed chair, which he had always had in his previous houses. The doorbell rang a precise ring which awoke Cannington with a fright. He rushed to it, in mild anxiety and urgency; however he calmed down when he saw the pointed face of Mrs Harriet Smythe. She was a lady who thought herself more important than what she actually was. Her OBE was her pride and joy and made her feel very authoritative. Although no one knew what she had done to deserve it.
"Good Afternoon." Her voice said. Not in her usual smug tone, but in a worried voice which Cannington addressed at once.
"Are you quite alright Mrs Smythe?"
"Yes, may I come in?" The question was rhetorical as she had already began to mount the threshold. Cannington did not reply, but guided her coat off and hung it up, together with hat, on the stand.
"Drink?" he asked.
"No, not right at the moment. I need to ask you something Dr Cannington." He had never heard her be so formal, usually it was just a 'Cannington' no title to precede it. Dutifully, he led her in to the rectangular room that was the drawing room. Resuming his seat, Cannington asked what her business was. Her reply was somewhat unexpected.
"People. People in Little Marlow are beginning to talk!" she shrilled.
"My dear lady, God gave every soul a mouth, it is not against the law to talk with them," He paused, "yet."
"No, no!" her hand waved in the air as she spoke. "About me, they talk about me. That I killed Colonel Foreblanks. To spite his wife." Cannington smiled to himself and said out loud rather uncharacteristically,
"And did you?" The woman raged at this question, swooping on her interviewer like a prehistoric pterodactyl.
"Never in a million years. I cannot even walk to the post office without people making untrue comments punctuated with bile. I can't stand it anymore. They are all acting as if they should control everyone's life and take over God's reign. I need help, Richmond. I'll kill myself if you don't. Help me," She was by this time on a rather dramatic, one knee and ended her little entr'acte with a timid, "Please?"
"Mrs Smythe, please calm yourself. Get up now, sit down and relax." Cannington could see right through this little performance and knew that she was trying to get 'let off' by playing the emotional blackmail card. "Would you like me to fetch the good Inspector Harris?"
"No!" Cannington presumed that this remark would have been in capitals if there had been someone logging the conversation. The sudden change in her character seemed amazing. "Question me if you must, I have nothing to hide." So, Cannington did as she wished; he was going to have to at some point.
"I'll do this as my colleague Inspector Harris would, if you don't mind. First. Where did you go after the party? You left, I think at five to ten?"
She replied confidently.
"No, quarter to ten. I remember I wanted to see the headlines. So I left the party promptly and hopped in to my car and zoomed off home. More please." She was still determined to be questioned. However Cannington thought it odd that her story did not quite follow with that of the other supposed suspects.
"What did you do in the last half and hour of the party?"
"Why, I was admiring the beautiful epergne in the drawing room. Beautiful thing it was, lots of fully flowered Chrysanthemums. I was in awe." Her eyes had lit up in remembering the plant.
"You admired them for half an hour. A little excessive do you not think Mrs Smythe?" Usually he would have noted the conversation down; however he felt that this little tête-à-tête would be one he wasn't going to forget easily.
"Well, for just under I think. There was practically no one else there. I stayed just to annoy that Foreblanks woman. Beforehand I was speaking to other guests."
After a while Cannington got bored and decided to let her tell him the questions she wanted fired at her. "Anything else you want me to quiz you about?" An unusual question for him to be asking, but he asked it none the less.
"How about if I heard or saw anything strange that night?" her voice rang with excitement so Cannington put the question to her. "Yes, I did! I heard footsteps above, creaking, it must have been just before I left. Probably the murderer going to kill!" Her eyes bulged with glee. Cannington reached immediately for his note pad and wrote 'footsteps' on the paper. Mrs Smythe might just have solved one part of the mystery.
Chapter Six Relative InterludeIt was Sunday and Inspector Harris and Cannington were taking a break from the murder inquiry. The policeman was relaxing at home, whilst Cannington was, as he called it 'doing the rounds' with his family. He sat next to his sister in law, Trisha, at her dining table. The room smelt of beautifully cooked carrots and the sprouts could be seen from the corner of Cannington's eye; much to his delight. A chair lay vacant next to him. Whilst conversing with his hostess, he tried to do a mental calculation of who was missing from the participants of Sunday lunch. His brother, James, sat at the other end of the table with his older sister, Amelia, next to him. Down the left side of the table were his eccentric and wild cousin Jack and his current 'partner.' Then on the right side were Mr and Mrs Roberts who were good friends with the whole Cannington family. It suddenly dawned on him who was missing. The undomesticated teenager, Ben Cannington, who was nephew and worst of all godson to him. He winced. "When is your son, coming to join us, Trisha?" He hoped for the answer 'never' but it did not come. Instead his question was met by a thud from upstairs and then more regular and shorter pounding.
"Now, I think, Richmond." beamed a very proud mother. Proud! Cannington could hardly say that he would be proud to have Ben as his son. His head rotated to the door and Richmond Cannington looked down his nose to his godson who had just entered. For Sunday lunch he seemed to be slightly under-dressed with a large, baggy t-shirt reading 'Skater Boy' embroidered in large red cotton. The emblem of needles and hazy lines were also patterned on to the garment. Around Ben's neck lay a thick silver chain. Cannington could now see how a murder could be achieved, but refrain from testing his theorem out.
"Aright?" said the uncouth teenager. "What's going on with me peeps then?" Dropping his T's at every possible opportunity. Each time Cannington saw his godson his appearance deteriorated and each time he looked more like a terrorist than before. Ben Cannington sat down next to the clearly superior Richmond Cannington. As he did so, Ben gave his godfather an over-friendly thump on the back, forcing Cannington to lurch forward, just avoiding his roast lamb and gravy. "How's it hangin' Unc?" Cannington could just about stand being this oik's godfather, but the fact that he was related to him by blood made it even worse.
"Good Afternoon, Benjamin." replied a disgruntled Cannington who was hoping that a freak thunder storm would tear the house and subsequent party in two.
"What you doin' for dosh now?" The boy's voice was, in Cannington's snobbish opinion, far from eloquent.
"I am currently dealing with a tricky murder case, young," he hesitated to find the right word, "man. I am working with the local Police force to gather and subsequently, reciprocate the appropriate evidence and facts to the populace who hold out the British regulation that is law." Somehow Cannington had minced all his words and made what was quite an easy and simple answer in to that which could be likened to the civil service of great Britain.
"Cool!" said the dumb-struck youth who was presently shovelling two roast potatoes in to his mouth and chewing them for the assembled company to see.
"What have you been doing Ben?" his mother asked politely.
"I was on the phone to Sammy." The reply could only just be heard as the potatoes muffled the sound.
"Sammy?" asked Cannington. As if he cared.
"My girlfriend, der!"
"I see."
"Tell Uncle Richmond what you won at school Ben?" Trisha said encouragingly.
"Nah, you do."
"Impertinent boy." thought Cannington.
"Well, Ben was awarded a trophy for completing the read-a-thon and he was given the school's 'good egg' prize!" It was clear to anyone that she thought the world of these two, minor prizes. If they had been a little more well deserved, then it would be easier to see, but it was not. If this yob was getting the good egg cup, then Cannington could only imagine what the rest of the school were like. The rest of the meal's conversation continued in a similar fashion. Thankfully, Ben did not speak for too long as he had to focus his limited brain cells on keeping his food from falling out of his mouth.
Chapter Seven Time to Review"How was your weekend, Dr?" the ever-enthusiastic Inspector Harris queried?
"It was, shall we say, interesting. I had to visit my family down in Devon, an experience I never look forward to. If only that damned boy were not there I'm sure it wouldn't be that bad, however I struggle on, ever ready to be the caring and doting godfather and uncle of the child." He had stopped walking whilst saying this and stood in the middle of the pavement. The Inspector tapped him on the shoulder and they carried on.
Today the small hamlet of Little Marlow seemed to glow with superiority and warmth, despite it being the a very cold day. The pair, were going to the newsagent to buy a paper and some provisions. Opposite their destination, was a Victorian building which was now a boy's boarding school. Cannington closed his eyes and imagined what 'fun' life would be if his godson and nephew was sent there to school. The sound of distant footsteps could be heard. They grew louder and sounded nearer. Cannington turned around to look who it was. Cadburn, the Foreblanks's butler stood behind them in his dead-pan manner.
Before waiting for an answer he addressed the both of them in his dead-pan voice. "Gentlemen, I must speak urgently with you. It's regarding the murder. That supposed 'squirrel' that I and my late master heard; it was no squirrel. I must go, please meet me tomorrow at the Grange. Good day." He scampered away as the men looked on in amazement.
"Morning!" shouted a delighted Henry Stevenson. He too was going to the newsagent and decided to join the detectives. "How is the investigation going?" he asked. Neither Cannington nor the Inspector knew who the question was directed to, so Cannington decided to answer it for the both of them.
"Fine."
"Anything I can do to help?" he sounded eager.
"No thank you Mr Stevenson." The Inspector replied politely.
"Lieutenant Colonel Stevenson, Inspector!" corrected a pedantic Cannington. The three men arrived at the post office, only to be greeted by a small sign that read 'Shut. Back in ten minutes.' A group decision was reached and they decided it was not worth waiting and left.
"Have you interviewed everyone yet Inspector?" the tag-along asked.
"Nearly, we still have to see that Miss King. In fact I'll go off and find her now. Are you coming Cannington?" the Inspector said desperately trying to get rid of Stevenson and thankfully Cannington gave the answered he wished for.
"No. I'll stay here. Just tell me all that she says." Henry Harry Stevenson stayed back with his friend Cannington.
"I'm sure it wasn't Margie. Not the type to, you know, murder someone." Cannington hummed as he considered the thought of Miss King inserting knitting needle up the nose.
The chair held a woman in a terrible state. Miss Margie King had her hands glued to her face. A black arm-band was attached to her arm. Of all the people that had known the deceased she was the one that was the most distressed.
"Now, now Miss King calm down its not the end of the world." The Inspector continued with his questioning. "Why are you so distressed?"
"I loved him. He was a friend. Always there and now he's gone. Why? Why!" another outburst of emotion followed. Finally Miss King lifted her hands and stared in to the eyes of bewildered police inspector. The door suddenly flew open, Cannington followed. He straightened his clothes, smoothed his grey hair and addressed his colleague and friend.
"Good day to you both. How are we getting along Inspector?"
"Making – steady – progress, thank you Cannington." He rose from the chair, leaving Miss King weeping. "I think we can go now."
"Very well. Goodbye Miss King." Cannington was fully aware that there was something wrong. As soon as they were both well away from the house they had just left, Cannington would ask Harris to recite it, verbatim.
"Well, from nine thirty onwards that night, she was ill on the lavatory. She came out just in time to say farewell to the hostess. Then she left. That's about it for her movements. However it turned out that they had a sort of private passion going on between them." The pair of them were now walking back to Hill Lane, which was where Cannington's house lay.
Cherry Brick house was straight ahead. An eccentric widow Harriet Rose-Bottom resided there. The house was extremely pretty and very welcoming. It was a cottage with a carefully tended garden. Nothing looked over-grown or dead. This was due to the fact that the owner spent most of her life in it. Just as the two were passing, Cannington noticed one of the net curtains twitch; just a second later, the squat lady was striding out her door, ready to converse with the two men.
"Good day gentlemen!" Today's attire for her, was a bright pink dress with an egg-shell blue shawl over it. She was now shutting her gate and standing opposite Cannington.
"Hello, Mrs Rose-Bottom." replied a polite Cannington. The two of them had built up a rapport which was transparently obvious to the Inspector.
"I hope you don't expect us to tell you anything about the murder madam." The Inspector had taken an instant dislike to the precocious woman. Although she tried to hide it, she was clearly disappointed.
"No. Of course not. Just wishing you a pleasant day. Although…" she was stopped mid-sentence by the exasperated Inspector.
"We must be getting along, Madam. Goodbye." The Inspector's reply was short, sharp and straight. It completely deflated the woman, who went to trim her magnolias. Cannington admired his colleague for his audacity.
They continued up the road to the beige house which was Cannington's. Everything about the house showed that the resident loved order and was a 'neat freak.' The garden was perfectly kept, the sweet-williams at the back with the lilies and chrysanthemums in front. A quaint vegetable and herb garden lay opposite the flowers. Potatoes, peas and various herbs grew in precise rows. The Inspector commented on their size and quality on passing, much to his hidden pleasure; Cannington enjoyed other people noticing his work.
The first room they entered was the hall, which was decorated in very traditional décor. An umbrella and coat stand were placed in a neat corner of the room, with a small bookcase next to it. Various photos sat on a wooden table.
"Your family?" inquired Harris.
"Erm, yes." An embarrassed Cannington tried to change the subject before Harris noticed the picture of his nephew, Ben. But his attempts were in vain.
"Who's this then?"
"Th-that's no-one of any major connection to me. Just someone my brother knows. Now, would you like a coffee?" He pushed his guest in to his drawing room with speed.
After they had both been sorted with drinks, the two sleuths sat down to discuss their findings. Harris began the questioning.
"So Cannington, in your eyes, who has committed the murder. ?"
Smiling, he replied confidently. "It's hard to say at the moment. I have a rough idea who, but I want to keep it a secret until I'm positive of the facts and evidence. How about you Inspector?"
In truth, the Inspector had no idea at all who the culprit was, but responded quickly with a vague comment, "Well I still think it's that butler at the Foreblanks, what's his name? Cadburn. Infact, I would stake my career on it." Cannington started to speak but was interrupted by the telephone.
"I'll get it." He left his seat to move to the small thin table on which the black phone shook. "The Elms, Richmond Cannington speaking. May I ask who's calling?" As the caller replied with their name and business, his face dropped. Harris strained his ears to listen to the caller, however his attempts were in vain. The tone in Cannington's voice had become very grave. "Thank you." He put the receiver down looking thoughtful.
At this point the Inspector decided to made an unfortunate joke. "Another murder Cannington?" he said chirpily. With an ironic glance and a patronising tone Cannington spoke.
"I'm afraid so Inspector. You prime suspect has just been found dead."
Chapter Eight Two DownCannington and a subdued inspector, pushing the cups to their side they, collected their coats and rushed out of the house in a half-run. Mrs Rose-Bottom waved at them as they passed; however, she got no reply from either.
"Where have they found him?" asked the troubled Inspector, trying to make a mental picture of the facts.
"That I do not know; all I do know is that he was found an hour ago."
"An hour ago!" said Harris indignantly. "Why did we not get a call earlier? Wasn't Constable Peters there to find me?"
"To be fair," replied a breathless Cannington, "They might have been trying my number for a while. We had only returned."
"They could have left a message on the answering machine." Grumbled the Inspector.
"A what?" came a technologically-ignorant man.
"Never mind."
"So glad you could come sir. I had been trying you for a while, but gave up." Constable Peters had been waiting for the pair of them at the gates of The Grange.
"Ok. What's the condition of the body?" asked Harris.
"It's not pleasant. Strangled with a belt. I found him about an hour ago in the grounds by the chickens. No fingerprints on the belt."
"What were you doing in the grounds Constable?" asked a pensive Cannington. The constable blushed. Cannington had caught him out. After a pause to think, he replied hesitantly.
"W-well I was doing some official business. Then I found the body under the oak tree. Yes, under the oak tree." Cannington thought for a moment, then turned away. Peters waited and then, in a fluster, excused himself from his superiors and left.
"I hope you are not accusing my staff, Dr Cannington!" The Inspector had taken an unexpectedly challenging tone with his colleague.
"Have you asked him for his alibi?" answered Cannington with a cocky nod and without waiting, went to the edge of the taped area to view the body. Low and behold, the gruesome body of Cadburn lay motionless on the brown tinted grass. The two men could see the red marks around the neck. Sighing, Cannington jotted down the facts and walked back to the Inspector.
"Two murders." He spoke with no emotion.
"And they say these things happen in threes don't they." Retorted the inspector, obviously trying to make a joke about it. He nudged his colleague in a jovial fashion.
"This is no laughing matter." A tone of reproach was hidden in the reply.
"Sorry. So, got any ideas who it is yet?"
"Yes. And no. It is certainly not Miss King nor is it the butler (I must say that at one point I had him as a suspect.) And it's not Angie the cook."
"Really?" Harris said eagerly. Cannington decided not to give the answer his colleague was expecting, so instead asked,
"And how about you Inspector. Any luck on your account?" Cannington had thought that Harris would have named the same suspects as he had, but was surprised by the answer.
"To tell the truth, not really. It's all very complicated."
"I admire your honesty."
Three minutes later, after gathering the final requirements for police H.Q, a middle-aged stout man with short ginger hair walked up to the two men. In doing so he had broken the law – Cannington was willing to let it pass but Harris was not. The man had been looking around at the scenery whilst approaching the foreboding sight of Inspector Harris of Little Marlow police. It was clear that he was not welcome, Henry Stevenson and Miss King had tried to deter him at the gates, but their attempts failed and decided to let the detectives deal with him.
"Hullo." The man's voice was very localised and carried a sincerity which took the Inspector by surprise. "I was just wondering how the investigation was going?"
Harris observed the man before answering. "You are trespassing." Harris spoke coldly, Cannington could see that Harris was treating the man as if he did not understand English very well. "This is private land, sir."
"I know but I have good intentions." beamed the man "Anything I can do to help?"
"No! Good-bye." Inspector Harris just stood there, looking down at the man. However neither of them moved.
"In my opinion…" started the man.
"I do not want your opinion sir."
"Well you're getting it. I think that if the police stopped being too aggressive then you'd get much further."
Harris had had enough because of tiredness and stress. "You accuse me of being aggressive and I'll arrest you, take you down the station and kick your head in." He was now inches away from the now timid and retreating man.
Before another murder occurred, Cannington stepped in. "Inspector. Did you mean to say that?" he asked. Realising what he had said, the embarrassed Inspector backed away from the man, who was now looking disturbed, and apologised, more to Cannington, than the man. Cannington moved towards the scared villager and asked him very politely to leave. He turned around to see how the Inspector was feeling and together they walked back in to the house in silence.
Chapter Nine Cannington Lends a Hand"Very well, Elizabeth. I would be," he paused "delighted. Goodbye." He put the phone down in total disbelief. He could think of nothing worse. Parents' evening with his nephew and godson, Ben. His brother and sister, James and Elizabeth had already been invited to a drinks party so Cannington had been called in to hear the assortment of comments from the teachers at St Richard's Grammar school. "Bliss." He thought sarcastically. In his usual organised style, he wrote it in his black leather diary (in pencil, in-case if there was a God, the event was cancelled) and proceeded to finish the crossword.
St Richard's Grammar, stood on the edge of a town, eight miles away from Ben's home, from where Cannington had picked him up and was currently taking him back to. "Don't touch the radio. It's my car and my music." Snapped Cannington in a hostile manner. Ben did not like classical music and was sitting in a slump in the front seat of Cannington's nineteen seventies' Mercedes Benz. Parents' evening had been a mixed cauldron of comments from the teachers. Cannington himself was surprised at the few positive ones.
They arrived home at nine fifteen that evening. After five minutes of them being there, James and Elizabeth Cannington arrived home from their evening event. Elizabeth was wearing a light blue summer evening gown and a beautiful necklace which she had inherited from her mother-in-law. James wore a dinner jacket and black silk bow tie, although he had adjusted it to hang around his neck so that he could undo his top-button. Cannington would have said something if he felt able, but seeing as he wanted to go to bed as soon as possible, he refrained. Tonight he was staying with his family in Devon; next room along from Ben's.
"So tell us about it Richmond." James asked after sitting down around the kitchen table. He looked eager so Cannington chose to start off with a positive subject. Ben, on the other hand, was not looking forward to the reports, especially the religious studies one.
"Well, Maths. He is making better progress than last year, you'll be pleased to hear."
"Oh good. That makes a change. No more incidents with the cleaning fluid and the text book I trust?" Ben's mother inquired hopefully.
"No. History was satisfactory although the teacher would be grateful if he did not break too many of his files in the future. Geography, bit of a let down I'm afraid. He doesn't seem to enjoy doing rocks and Mr Smith would like thirty four pounds for a new window and fifteen pounds for a new demonstration rock please. English, well the teacher said that his essays are never in on time and she would prefer it if he were to curse his classmates with Shakespearean insults instead of his usual ones. In French he has to stop kissing Samantha as if he was on the continent and Drama could he not sit next to Wayne in future as it affects the teacher's chi." The parents did not know quite how to react. Whilst it was better than last year's report; it was not the perfect feedback they had wished.
Similar comments along the same line were made for the duration of the conversation. After which both Ben and Cannington retired to their bedrooms.
"Good night Ben." He turned to see his nephew.
"Oh, Uncle. Thank you." Ben spoke hesitantly.
"Thank you for what Ben?"
"You know, for not mentioning the RS report."
"Oh! Did I forget to mention that! Silly me. Good night!" Cannington waved a hand, smiled a re-assuring smile and entered his room. A huge sigh of relief came over the teenager.
"Thank you Uncle. Thanks." He said to himself.
Chapter Ten Three DownIt was on returning to his home in Sussex, that Cannington realised what had happened in his two days' absence. There had been another murder. Lt Col Henry Stevenson, close friend of Cannington and the late Colonel Foreblanks. It was then that he decided that he would deal with this murder professionally and not let any emotions stand in his way. Maybe then he would solve it quicker.
"Good morning Inspector." Cannington had just found his colleague in the investigation, Inspector Harris looking over the bridge on River Bridge Road. He had his camera out and was taking pictures for the police records.
"Alright Cannington. Have you heard?" He had now stopped taking the photos.
He paused before the reply. "Yes. Sad news. Do we know if he has been definitely been murdered?" asked a worried Cannington. He almost felt that he was responsible for all the murders as he had not acted with enough gusto and speed.
"I am ninety nine point nine percent sure that he has been, yes."
"Well we'll round up shall we? Make it one hundred percent sure. Who found him?" Once more, the trusty note-pad had been whipped out from Cannington's pocket and he was scribbling away what the Inspector told him.
"A passer-by, a Mr Horace Maxwell. Not a resident of Little Marlow. He was down on an errand. However, I have paid for him to stay for a few nights in the room above the pub – to help us with questioning." Harris felt rather pleased at his initiative.
"Good. Well, I will go and begin questioning him. See you later." Cannington strolled off to meet the mysterious Mr Maxwell.
The local pub was not a place that people of Cannington's social and moral standing frequented. The outside looked very warm and friendly; however inside was a different picture. Three small rooms sat above the pub. Each of them was identical. A small single bed was shoved to one corner and a chest of drawers in the other. By the small square window (that did not open) was a cracked basin in which a pair of dirty socks lay festering.
As there was no chair, Cannington took the decision to sit on the edge of the bed and Horace Maxwell stood by the window. Long black hair hung from the standing man's head and a pair of oval glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.
"You saw the body in the water you say?" asked Cannington.
"Yup." replied Maxwell.
"And you went for help?"
"Yup." From the far from eloquent replies he was receiving, the detective decided that his interviewee had been given a progressive education.
"When you came back," continued Cannington, "The body was not there?" The same usual monotonous reply came. Cannington could stand the stench of the room no longer, nor the dis-courteous replies. He stood up, said an official "Good morning." and left for the church.
The afternoon of the funeral for Colonel Lionel Foreblanks had arrived. Everyone was dressed in black. Cannington looked completely normal in his black suit. The Inspector Harris had taken the decision not to attend, but waited outside for the service to end. When it did, he pounced on Cannington, eager to hear what his meeting with Mr Maxwell was like. They had not seen each other for a day.
"A total waste of time." Cannington was furious. He never liked people wasting his precocious time. "Rude, un-couth, yobbish, smelly, dirty, sullied. Probably likes foot ball." He kept walking in his quick pace. The Inspector tried to keep up.
"I like football, Cannington." objected the detective.
"I'm sorry, what did you say?" Cannington pretended not to hear him.
Chapter Eleven The HermitToday, Cannington did not want to see anyone. He had made the choice to shut himself up in his cottage and tell everyone (the day before) that he was going on to visit friends in London. His notebook sat elegantly on his knee, his hand grasped his fore-head desperately trying to think. This was the first murder case he had dealt with where he knew all the suspects and victims.
The invitation, the knitting needle, the drinks. Why had Miss King come to see Cannington suddenly? What did Cadburn and George Stevenson know that led to their deaths? These were only some of the facts and clues that were flying though his mind.
Suddenly after two hours of thinking, a brainwave came over him. Why had he not seen it all along? It was so simple. This was Cannington's eureka moment. He ran towards his front-door, pocketing his notebook and grabbing his coat along the way. Reaching the door, he stopped, pulled back and remembered. He had told everyone that he was away. What would people think if he came flying out of his house? They were bound to notice. Little Marlow boasted the biggest 'net curtain brigade' that Cannington had come across. Even Cheyne Walk in Chelsea had one like his current residence. Justice or reputation? Which one did he want? Something was going to have to be sacrificed. But what? Which one should it be? He walked slowly, as if in a funeral procession, to the telephone, picked up the receiver and lifted it to his ear. His finger moved towards the digits and he pressed, as slowly as he had walked to the phone; 0-2-0-7-1-1-1-3-0-4.
"Inspector Harris please. Richmond Cannington." Loud 'ice-cream van' music played whilst he waited for the voice of Harris.
"Hullo." Finally.
"Inspector Harris. I've done it."
Chapter Twelve Cannington ExplainsNot a word had been said so far. Cannington sat in his high drawing room chair, which had been brought to the head of his dining table for the purpose of grandeur. A glass of water had been placed in front of each of the occupants of the table's surrounding chairs. No one had drunk a sip of anything yet. Two chairs remained un-occupied, those of Horace Maxwell's and Harriet Smythe's. After a while, Horace arrived, his jacket as dowdy and tatty as it had been a few days ago and his hair still needing to be cut. Cannington wondered if Mr Maxwell had bothered to change his clothes since their first meeting.
"Sorry. Begin." Whose speaking?
"We are still waiting for Mrs Smythe, Mr Maxwell. Sit down." replied a polite Cannington, sipping his water. Inspector Harris sat to the right of him with constable Peters by the door. Today, most of the men were wearing black ties in remembrance of Cadburn and Stevenson. Eventually after a long enough wait, Harriet Smythe entered. Her manner seemed very unusual. Her gait was quick and pulsed with urgency and she did not say anything to anyone. But why should she? Most of the room hated her. However she nodded at Cannington who stood up and began his speech.
"Thank you. Ladies and Gentlemen," He was as formal as ever. "We are gathered here today for my humble self," the Inspector coughed, as was his manner when ever he heard someone forget him "to point the police to the real truth of who killed Colonel Lionel Foreblanks, Cadburn and kidnapped Henry Stevenson." He paused for the reaction he had hoped for, a gasp. He wasn't disappointed. No one could quite believe that Henry had been kidnapped. "The Colonel was last seen alive at just before ten o'clock by Cadburn when asking permission to turn in for the day. However we know that someone else saw him at that very moment, when Cadburn was finishing his duties and also, when the murderer committed the crime. Mrs Foreblanks," he gave a dramatic pause and continued "was at her Aunt's on that night. Or was she?"
"I was!" exclaimed the outraged lady.
"My dear woman let me present to you the facts. You were seen leaving the house by many people. You let them all see you in the process of doing so. Before hand, you sneaked in to Cook's room, took her knitting needle, hid it and then asked her to fetch it, therefore clearing you, in her mind, of taking it. After that you left the house, drove away, quickly and parked your car on the road. The car was not seen, because all the guests were not going to pass that way, as they lived in the opposite direction. Then, after you parked your car, you ran up the drive, through the woods, back in to the house, into the bathroom, committed the murder, ran away and stayed in some remote bed and breakfast for the night." Elizabeth, gave the speaker a pleading glare.
"Your aunt has Alzheimer's, I paid her a visit and she can not remember seeing you, but does know your face. So she says. However there is one fact that does not fit, when Cadburn rang you up to tell you the news, you were in London. Maybe you gave a wrong number, an address, in London, that you would be at. However after making some inquiries, the number was your aunt's house and I have known you for many years and you would never had killed your husband." He took another sip of water from his glass. Mrs Foreblanks thought to herself that he would remain a friend no longer if he continued in a similar vain.
"Look, can we get on Dr Cannington please?" said a rather agitated Inspector who was sure that he was being led on a wild goose chase.
"Patience please!" Cannington sounded like a school headmaster and then continued. "When I spoke to Mrs King," he nodded at her, "She told me that she had great affection for the deceased. So much so, that she would die for him. I asked her, if anyone else knew her feelings for the Colonel, his wife perhaps, maybe the Colonel did not know himself? But, alas the Colonel did know. Ten years ago he and Mrs Margie King had an affair." Cannington hated deceit. "In the end, they stopped the affair but last year Mrs King, wanted to restart it. But, the Colonel had realised what he was doing was wrong and turned the offer down, over and over again. But there was one person who guessed that all was not well. That person being the butler Cadburn. So many letters, telephones calls from Mrs King, something surely had to be wrong. And it was. Cadburn tried to warn his employer about the danger, but Colonel Foreblanks would not take advice from, so pretended to ignore him. Could Mrs King have killed the Colonel for love and then murdered Cadburn out of spite? No. I think not." Mrs King, who had been getting very cross and embarrassed during these revelations smiled a sarcastic grin at Cannington, who gave a polite and warm smile back. She could only hope that Mrs Foreblanks did not remember this fresh revelation.
"We know from my talk with Cadburn that he and the Colonel heard a noise from a bush nearby around ten o'clock. What was it that caused this? Was it a squirrel, or an owl? Or a human being? But who was it? Was it Mrs Foreblanks returning from her supposed trip to her aunt's, was it, say Mrs Smythe. But, with all due respect I can not see you," he smiled at the lady "up a tree or in a bush. Maybe it was a man, Perhaps Lt-Col Henry Stevenson? But all that was of course quashed when I heard of his death.
"But it was no death. As I have told you, he was kidnapped. Kidnapped by himself. The perfect way to avoid charges and make sure he got off with the murder. But where would he go? I think Mr Maxwell might be something to do with this ingenious plan." A rather stunned, Mr Maxwell gawped back at him in shock.
"What?" asked the awed man.
Cannington now spoke to him directly. "How long have you been in the army." He paused, "Henry?" add Cannington had dropped the sweet and innocent approach he had previously adopted.
"Swine!" yelled the red-faced Henry who had stood up with such force his wooden chair, had cracked as it hit the stone floor. He took out a gun from his pocket and pointed it at Cannington who had not flinched or panicked once, although on the inside, his heart was pounding wildly. "I thought you were my friend!" said the infuriated man, now holding the gun even closer to Cannington. On seeing the weapon, the ladies of the room had let out a small shriek, but quickly returned to silence.
"I was also the friend of the deceased, Henry. Now don't be stupid. Put the gun down, or shoot and increase your sentence." After a few more words of encouragement, Henry Stevenson dropped the gun. Cannington's words seemed to work. Reluctantly Harry Stevenson sat back with a sigh in another chair which Constable Peters had set out for him. Cannington thought to himself that Peters had done a good job, not to be noticed by the armed man, as he would have thought that the constable was going to stun him. Inspector Harris, was on the edge of his seat in panic and so were the rest of the room. They all watched the culprit helplessly remove the wig and glasses that he had aided his disguise as Mr Maxwell.
"How did you guess Cannington?" he asked nervously.
"I did not guess Inspector." He replied, still staring at the murderer, "I knew." Returning to his seat, the audacious Dr Cannington told the gripped room, how he had done it. "I must admit that I had no suspicion of Lt-Col Stevenson until I paid a visit to my old friend in the army, Major Rose. In conversation with him, I asked why the deceased was never promoted, he said that he was a nice chap but didn't have enough ability. He then added that he was only just better than Lt-Col Stevenson. I then investigated the prospect of the murder being one of revenge, spite and envy. Colonel Foreblanks had been in the army since nineteen eighty five, he joined at age twenty two and Stevenson, joined two years before hand. I deduced that Stevenson did not like this and resented the fact that he was still the one rank below his friend, who had joined after he had. I'm afraid that army does not operate a 'promote the person whose turn it is' policy. I must say here and now, that it was hardly a very good reason for murder." He paused to take in the atmosphere. The women were all shocked and sitting back in their chairs. Mrs Foreblanks had watery eyes and was fanning herself with her hand. The men, on the other hand were half shocked and half surprised that Henry Stevenson could have done it. It was so unlike his character. His head was now hung in shame and despair. He murmured a feeble, "Why me? It's not fair."
Cannington continued and ignored him. "Cadburn had realised that it was Henry up that tree and was going report this. I do not quite know how Stevenson knew this, but he had decided that Cadburn had to go. Then, when he thought that I or the Inspector might have him under our close watch, he made his escape. It might have worked. I noticed that when I interviewed Maxwell, or as it turned out, Henry in disguise, he was facing the window with his back turned to me. I put this down to bad manners; however, then it dawned on me that he could be hiding something from me. On leaving the room above the pub I saw a pair of old dirty socks lying in a basin of water, with mud covered on them. Maybe these were the socks that Henry had used to escape. No shoes; he could not be heard that way." The audience were still as captivated as they had first been. The expression on the sleuth's face was now one of sheer anger and pain. He did not want to turn his friend in to the police at all; however justice must be served.
"Henry Stevenson, I'm arresting you for the murder of Colonel Foreblanks and Fredrick Cadburn." The Inspector, who was now standing, proceeded with the stating of rights for the culprit.
"I think it would be wise for you all to leave." Cannington ushered them all out the dining room, leaving the guilty and police behind. He closed the wooden door quietly. Thank God capital punishment had been removed. He could not bear to think of Henry on the gallows.
"Tragic. I would never have suspected him." Mrs Smythe had held back to speak with him. They had now walked out into the hall.
"Yes. I never suspected him until he was really the only one with the perfect alibi." In a very un-characteristic manner, Cannington took a seat on the second-lowest step. Mrs Smythe remained standing eagerly.
"How did you manage to work it all out?" she pried.
"Well, as I say, on face value he had the perfect alibi. But that was not the case. I soon realised that Miss King claimed to be on the lavatory from nine thirty to five to ten. And Henry also claimed he went to the lavatory at quarter to ten. There is only one lavatory for guest use in the house. The others are connected to bedrooms and were not used. One of them had to be lying. That was what first set me on his case."
"How about my invitation for the party? Was that him?" inquired an eager Mrs Smythe.
"Yes. He wanted everyone to be looked upon with doubt but you were to be the main suspect." Cannington pre-empted the next question. "And it was a knitting needle because it was to hand and it would incriminate a lady."
"Was the murder planned for the party?" she asked eagerly.
"Yes. However if the time had not been right, then he would have waited for another opportunity. Most of it was planned' as any army officer would know, never go in without a strategy."
He drew breath to continue but was cut short when the dining room door opened to reveal Constable Harris and Henry Stevenson. Without a word, they walked out the front entrance.
"Thanks for your help Richmond." The Inspector had now appeared. Cannington was going to reprimand his colleague for addressing him using his Christian name, but he did not have the energy to do so.
"Pleasure. I'm glad to be of assistance." Cannington had now stood up to say this.
"I may one day have the pleasure of working with you again. Who knows!" The Inspector prepared to leave.
"Yes Inspector Harris, who knows." Cannington ushered everyone out of his home, closed and locked the front door and sighed. It was over.
No one had yet recovered from the shock of the past month's events and revelations in Little Marlow. Inspector Harris had returned to the station which was several miles away from the village and Cannington had tried to carry on with his life as normal. This was easier said than done. People had kept coming up to him in the street and asking him how he had worked the culprit out or why Henry Stevenson had done it in the first place – just to check that they knew every last detail. Later that day, he received a letter informing him that Henry Stevenson had confessed in prison. Although he was glad that Stevenson had given himself up, it was not the ideal news that he wanted or needed at the time.
Desperately, he decided to get away from crime and he had taken the decision to visit relatives in London. Hopefully the galleries and theatre would take his mind off things. He knew there was a showing of 'The Mousetrap' somewhere, but knew that he must avoid that. "Cannington," he told himself, "you're going to relax." Unfortunately, he could not have been so wrong.