Читать книгу Accident by Design - Edith Caroline Rivett - Страница 17

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“Accidental death. It was the only reasonable verdict they could have brought in, according to the evidence which you and Sergeant Brown collected, Young.”

The Chief Constable spoke thoughtfully. He was very well aware of the fact that Inspector Young and Sergeant Brown felt far from satisfied. They had been commended by the Coroner for the care they had taken in providing every possible item of relevant evidence, and both men had good reason to feel a little complacent, but they both looked glum and nonplussed.

Colonel Waine, the Chief Constable, was a conscientious official; further, he had a real regard for the men in the County Force under his jurisdiction, just as he used to have a regard for every man in his battalion. He knew that Young was a first-rate police officer and that Brown was an intelligent and painstaking sergeant, and Waine wanted to know exactly what was in their minds. Turning to the Sergeant, the Colonel said:

“What’s the trouble, Brown? Let’s have it, as plain as you like. Deceased lived in your district and you have some firsthand knowledge of most of the people concerned, so you can bat first.”

Brown spoke slowly. “There’s something I don’t like about the set-out, sir. This Mr. Gerald Vanstead—well, he wasn’t popular, and that’s putting it mildly. You’d be hard put to it to find anyone hereabouts who really liked him, and there’s a few hated him. His death—well, it’s brought advantages to quite a few, and disadvantages to nobody.”

Brown paused, and the Inspector took up the tale. “That’s all true enough, sir, but the point which worries me is this: it’d have been so easy. As Brown says, everyone in the place knew the way deceased drove that car; everyone knew it was an old car and that he wouldn’t let the chauffeur at Templedean Place touch it, and nobody believed that deceased was to be trusted to look after his car any more than he could be trusted to drive it with reasonable caution.”

“I couldn’t enter hearsay as evidence,” went on Brown, “but I know it’s true that they had a bet on in the bar at The Crown that Mr. Vanstead would have a spill on that hill before the year was out, and when it happened, they all said, ‘Just what we expected.’ ”

“Very good. What both of you feel is this: that if anybody wanted to get rid of Mr. Vanstead, the means was plain—meddle with the brake drums on his car and the result was a foregone conclusion.”

“Yes, sir, but there’s more to it than that,” said Brown, “It was generally known that Mr. Vanstead drove into Stowe every fortnight, always on a Thursday afternoon, and he called in at The Barley Mow for tea coming back. I can’t prove it, but I think he had an arrangement with the licencee to pick up his quota of gin and whisky. Anyway, he always went on the first and third Thursdays in the month, though no one would state that fact in the witness box. Now his brakes failed on a day it was known he would be taking his car out, and the very day when the steam roller got going at the bottom of the hill.”

“In addition to that, Beach, the chauffeur, knew the steam roller would be working there that afternoon, because he saw the thing arrive the previous evening when he was out on his bike,” added Young, “and the verdict was accidental death, and we can’t get beyond it.”

Colonel Waine turned to Brown. “This man, Beach—you know him, Sergeant?”

“To pass the time of day with, sir. I’ve never had any official dealings with him—no need to. He’s got a clean licence, never even been summonsed. He’s a first-rate driver and a very careful one. He’s a teetotaller and goes to Chapel regular—as respectable a chap as you ever saw. He’s not a gossip; in fact, he’s known for keeping his mouth shut, but he’s always polite and got a pleasant word. He’s fifty-five and been with the Vansteads for years, and the aeroplane works manager said he was a tiptop mechanic. And Mr. Gerald Vanstead hated him so much he wouldn’t even let him clean the Stanhall. Never spoke to him.”

Inspector Young spoke meditatively: “Fifty-five, got a soft job, big wages, and lovely quarters. Comfortable’s not the word—and a very nice garden too. When Mr. Gerald Vanstead inherited, he’d have put paid to all that. Beach would have been lucky if he’d had a week’s grace to get his things out. Now a good mechanic of fifty-five could get another job all right—lots of jobs in industry for a tiptop mechanic—but very few cushie jobs as chauffeur with the sort of money and quarters he got at Templedean.”

The Chief Constable faced Young squarely. “You believe that Beach was responsible for the Stanhall brakes failing?”

Young hesitated. “If you’re asking for my opinion, sir, yes, I do. But I’ve no evidence. Also, Beach wasn’t the only one who profits by that accident. There’s several other people sitting pretty who weren’t feeling all that happy a week ago.”

Brown spoke disgustedly. “The Templedean Place party came to the Inquest in the Daimler, Beach driving. Lovely that car looked, fair shining. And Beach all as smart as a Guardee, holding the door open, saluting.... Thank you. Beach. Very good, Beach.... Oh, he’s the cat’s whiskers.”

Colonel Waine chuckled—he couldn’t help it; then he went on: “You say that deceased hated Beach. Now Beach spoke quite frankly in the witness box, and said that he’d taught Gerald Vanstead to drive years ago, and had a lot of trouble over it, ending up with what he called a few plain words when young Gerald wrecked his father’s Mercedes, but you’ve also got to remember that Mr. Walter Vanstead remembered those circumstances and said that Beach was entirely justified, for the boy had taken the Mercedes out without permission.”

“Quite true, sir,” said Young, “but isn’t Mr. Walter Vanstead one of those who’s sitting pretty, if you’ll allow me to put it that way? He came to live at Templedean Place in 1940, when the bombing started. He’s very comfortable there, to put it mildly, and he, at least, made no attempt to disguise the fact that he disliked both deceased and his wife. He also said to me that his nephew was a sullen chap who harboured old grudges, and that he’d never forgiven Beach for the way the latter ticked him off years ago.”

Colonel Waine frowned. “Look here. Young. I’m quite willing to consider a possible case against an individual—Beach, for example. But I am not willing to consider any ideas of a general collaboration in crime unless you have any specific evidence which points to it.”

Young faced the Chief Constable squarely. “As you know, sir, I put in every bit of evidence which could be called evidence. I couldn’t put in hearsay, and I couldn’t put in the sort of gossip which has been going on in the locals, because none of the gossips would come into the open and make a statement in the presence of a reliable witness, but I know that Brown is right when he says that it was common gossip that Gerald Vanstead got up against his family and was on bad terms with his uncle and that secretary chap, Standish. I’m not suggesting that anybody at the house aided or abetted Beach, or that they believe he had anything to do with making that car unsafe, but it is true that Beach seems in favour, and that Mr. Walter Vanstead and Mr. Standish don’t look any too down in the mouth.” Young paused, and then added: “You asked us what the trouble was, sir, straight out. We’ve tried to tell you. We’ve got nothing to add in the way of evidence, it’s just the feel of the thing. And Mr. Gerald Vanstead’s death was advantageous to more people than one.”

The Chief Constable meditated, pinching his ear, a sure sign that he was disturbed. He had asked for it, and he had got it, and these two men were conscientious and reliable officers.

“Very well, Young. You’ve got it off your chest. Any suggestions to make?”

“So far as I can see, sir, there isn’t a thing we can do about it. All the evidence about the lock-up where the Stanhall was kept was indisputable. Mr. Vanstead had the key and he kept the door locked; even when he took the car out, he shut the garage door behind him.”

“That struck me as damned odd,” said the Colonel thoughtfully. “Why give himself all that trouble? I can understand him locking the door when he put the car away, but why lock an empty garage? Was there anything valuable in it?”

“There were some packing cases, mostly filled with old junk, stuff he’d salvaged from his office in Malaya, I believe. It can’t have been valuable, or he’d have had it taken up to the house,” said Young. “There were some tools—the usual sort of thing—a spare tin of oil and a two-gallon tin of petrol.”

“I reckon he locked the door to annoy Beach,” said Brown. “Show everybody he didn’t trust him.”

“And Vanstead kept the key of the garage on the same ring as his ignition key, and always carried them in his pocket,” said Waine. “Was there any other key to that lock-up, Young?”

“Yes, sir. Miss Vanstead found it, with a lot of other spare keys, in her father’s desk. But that lock was put on the door over twenty-five years ago.”

“And you think the probability is that Beach had duplicates to all the garage doors?” asked the Colonel.

Young simply shrugged his shoulders, but his implication was plain enough: was it likely that a chauffeur who had worked in the same place all those years wouldn’t have his own keys to each lock-up? After all, until Gerald Vanstead had appeared on the scene, Beach had had sole control and responsibility in the garage yard.

“It’s difficult, Young, very difficult,” said the Chief Constable. “We don’t want to make a stink unjustifiably, and if it’s once known that we’re still working on this case, it’s going to let loose the hell of a lot of surmise.”

Brown almost snorted. “I don’t reckon you need worry too much about that, sir. The Coroner’s verdict isn’t going to stop the gossip that’s going around. The Inspector and myself aren’t the only ones who’re wondering.”

“Is that so?” enquired the Chief Constable innocently. “Well, there’s no harm in your listening, Brown, and reporting, if there’s anything to report. We can’t have slander in our area.”

Thus encouraged, Brown went on: “I’ve sometimes found that folks are more willing to discuss things, friendly-like, after a verdict’s been given. The chap I’d like a heart to heart with is Mr. Barton, at the Home Farm. He knows the household at Templedean Place, but he’s not part of it, and I’d say he’s got a pretty shrewd judgment.”

“Well, I see no harm in that,” said the Colonel. “You’ve got a head on your shoulders, Brown, and you know your own rules. Provided you stick to them, I’ll back you, but don’t let me hear you’re going beyond your duty.”

“No, sir. Very good, sir,” replied Brown promptly.

Waine turned to Young, a query in his face, and the Inspector replied to the unspoken question. “We’ve got a pretty good record in your area, sir. On the few occasions when we’ve had real criminal work to tackle, I reckon we got at the facts and made a true bill, and I’m proud of it. This is the first time I haven’t been satisfied, and I don’t like it.”

Waine chuckled. “Buttering me up, Young, eh? Well, I’ve had every reason to trust you in the past, and I’ll trust you now. You don’t want any reminders from me that this is the sort of job can break a man if he handles it wrongly.”

“I know that, sir,” rejoined Young ruefully.