Chapter Ten
"Morning!" said Tom, breezing into the station at half past nine the next day. "How did you get on?"
"I've found twenty-six articles about Margot Mireille's death," said Ben, who was hunched over a computer, "but they all say the same thing. Margot Mireille was killed by a joy-rider driving an MG Sports car at 60 miles an hour. He got off with a broken leg, but Margot, her chauffeur and the dog she was holding were all killed. If you're thinking this was not an accident, sir, it definitely, definitely was. No possibility of murder at all, sir."
"And who was the driver with the broken leg?" Tom sat casually on the edge of Ben's desk.
"One Victor Rebus, sir. He was convicted of death by dangerous driving but only served six months."
"Shish!" exclaimed Tom.
"Sir, I've been thinking."
"You never cease to amaze me, Jones."
"Perhaps we're on the wrong track. Do you think it's possible that Arleen killed her husband? We only have her word for it that she took a sleeping pill. And they had money problems."
Tom Barnaby rubbed his chin. "She certainly did not seem very concerned about his death when I saw her yesterday. And she suspected that her husband was having an affair with Rose."
"It would also explain the mortar," continued Jones. "Who else could have removed it - after the burglar had paid a visit - and taken it round to Dennis Pigott's place?"
"To incriminate the man who might have been jealous of his wife's indiscretion. And she knew that Pigott was at the lecture when the mortar was valued. I like it, Jones, I like it."
"Thank you, sir."
"But I am not entirely convinced. We have no evidence, Jones. I am going to see Muriel Hardwicke-Scott."
"Well, good luck sir. And be careful of those little dogs."
"I shall be careful of the little dogs - and of Mrs Hardwicke-Scott," said Tom as he sailed out of the police station.
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Above the general cacophony of dogs barking when Tom rang the doorbell of Hardwicke Hall at five past ten could be heard Muriel shouting "Why didn't you use your key, silly girl?"
Tom was duly surrounded by the diminutive pack and hopped from foot to foot much as Ben Jones had done earlier, only more slowly.
"Who are you?" shouted Muriel.
"I'm Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby," shouted Tom, presenting both himself and his warrant card.
"Come in!" Muriel shooed the dogs into the kitchen at the back of the house and firmly shut the door. "They get a bit frisky at this time of day," she explained, returning. "I am really pleased to meet the man in charge at last," she said. "I thought you were the cleaning girl," she added. "She's always late."
"Mrs Hardwicke-Scott - perhaps we could talk somewhere…?" asked Tom, as they were still standing in the hallway.
At this moment the front door opened and Rose walked in. Her face was still swollen and there was still some bruising about her eye. There was a muffled bout of barking from the kitchen, but Rose made for the cupboard under the stairs without a word.
"And what time do you think this is?" asked Muriel indignantly.
"I'm sorry, Mrs Hardwicke-Scott," said Rose, taking off her light summer coat and hanging it on a peg under the stairs.
"Detective Chief Inspector," said Muriel, turning to Barnaby, "what can I do for you? I'm expecting an important visitor from the Kennel Club at ten fifteen, so I shall have to ask you to be brief."
Rose appeared to dawdle as she got the Hoover out of the cupboard.
"I was wondering, Mrs Hardwicke-Scott," said Tom, "if you could let me see the photograph that you have of Margot Mireille?"
"You're not another film buff, are you?" asked Muriel as she opened the door to the best sitting-room. "Your underling appeared to be smitten by her."
Tom walked up to the wall on which hung the photograph of the celebrity and looked at it critically. "So sad," he said, "that she should die so young, and in such a terrible way."
"Yes," said Muriel grudgingly. "It was sad."
"And I believe she was holding one of your chihuahuas at the time?"
"I believe she was," said Muriel. "She bought several dogs from me. The last one was particularly valuable. Detective Chief Inspector, I cannot be expected to be sentimental about my dogs. I have far too many for that. I breed them to the highest possible standards, but once they are sold they are sold. What I expect to get in return is money."
"But you did of course know," said Tom agreeably, "that Margot Mireille was the mother of Philip Reece, whose murder I am investigating?" He watched Muriel for any reaction, but she merely shrugged her shoulders.
"I knew it," she said, "but I hardly knew Philip, or his wife. Chief Inspector, there are people that one knows socially and there are people that one knows commercially. I knew Margot Mireille commercially."
"And on the night that he was killed," continued Barnaby, "could you account for your movements, between, say, ten p.m. and six the next morning?"
Muriel stared at Tom for a moment and then cackled with laughter. "It really is too funny!" she said. "You sound like a policeman in a who-dunnit!"
"Perhaps I am," suggested Tom with half a smile.
"Very well," said Muriel, "I went to bed at eleven o'clock and I got up at seven. Oh, and before that I had words with that publican across the road, he's always parking in front of my house."
"And can any-one verify that you were in bed from eleven until seven?" asked Tom.
"Of course not!" snapped Muriel. "Unlike so many in this village, I am not in the habit of jumping in and out of other people's beds. My husband, who died last year, was quite enough to last me a lifetime. And now, if you will excuse me, Inspector…?" Muriel indicated the front door and Tom complied. "I take it you haven't caught the villain yet," she said at the front door. "Or villains, I should say - I gather there was a burglary as well?"
"Please don't leave the village until our investigations are completed," said Barnaby, handing Muriel his card.
As Tom was walking away from Hardwicke Hall he heard the front door slam and, turning round, saw that Rose was running after him.
"Inspector!" she called. "Don't believe a word of what she says!"
"I'm sorry?"
"That story about the Kennel Club coming to visit - it isn't the Kennel Club, it's somebody from the R.S.P.C.A."
"The Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals?" enunciated Tom in his most Shakespearean tone. "Why are they coming here?"
"I don't know," she said, still slightly out of breath. "You'd best talk to John Coblisson across the road, he's always complaining about the dogs barking. But it ain't a routine visit, that's for sure. They've been here before."
"Rose," said Tom, "did Denny go out at all after you got home from the pub on the night of the murder?"
"Hardly," said Rose, "he was pissed as a newt. Asleep, Inspector. No, he definitely didn't."
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It was only after repeated hammering at the door of the Queen's Arms that John Coblisson, wearing a dressing-gown which barely covered his extensive midriff and tracksuit bottoms, eventually opened up to Tom Barnaby.
"Wha' is it?" he asked. "Can't you see we're not open yet?"
"Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby," said the same, producing identification. "I think my Sergeant visited you the day before yesterday."
"Oh, well," - as John peered at the warrant card - "if it's about tha' murder you'd best come in."
"I understand that you have complained to the R.S.P.C.A. about Muriel Hardwicke-Scott's dogs."
"That I have!" said John. "Twen'y times if I called 'em out once."
"And why was that, sir?"
"Because they's barkin' an' barkin' an' barkin', mornin' noon and night. It's not right. She's complained about the noise from my pub, fair enough. But tha' don' affack little critters, see - I know those animals is not prop'ly provided for. It's well known, her kennels are a disgrace. I reckon they's goin'a close 'em down soon. And not before time! I tol' tha' feller as bin killed 'n all."
"You told Philip Reece? When was that, sir?"
"Oh, a week or two ago, maybe three. Lots o' talk goes on in these pubs, you know how it is."
"Thank you, Mr Coblisson," said Barnaby, "you have been most helpful."