southern flank of the Grange Estate hugged the road to East Deller. He checked his watch. It was ten minutes to opening time and he could murder a pint. If there was one thing he loathed, it was door-to-door questioning. With a lighter step he walked up the short drive to Clementine Cottage and-he checked his list-Mrs. Amy Ledbetter. He rang the bell.
After some minutes and the laborious rattle of an anti-burglar chain, the door opened six inches. A pair of bright eyes examined him. "Yes?"
He held out his identification. "Police, Mrs. Ledbetter."
The card was taken by an arthritically deformed hand and disappeared inside. "Wait there, please," said her voice. "I intend to phone the Police Station and make sure you are who you say you are."
"Very well." He leaned against the side of her porch and lit a cigarette. This was the third telephoned check on him in two hours. He wondered if the uniformed constables were having as much trouble as he was.
Three minutes later the door opened wide and Mrs. Ledbetter gestured him into the living-room. She was well into her seventies with a leathery skin and a no-nonsense look about her. She returned his warrant and told him to take a seat. "There's an ashtray on the table. Well, Sergeant, what can I do for you?"
No need to beat about the bush with this old bat, he thought. Not like her twee little neighbour who claimed that to hear about murder on the television gave her palpitations. "The remains of a murdered man were discovered in the garden of the Grange yesterday afternoon," he said baldly. "We're making enquiries to see if anyone in the village knows anything about it."
"Oh, no," said Amy Ledbetter. "Poor Phoebe."
DS Robinson looked at her with interest. This was a reaction he hadn't met with before. The mood of the other villagers he had spoken to had been one of vituperative satisfaction.
"Would it surprise you," he asked the old lady, "if I said you're the only person so far who's expressed any sympathy for Mrs. Maybury?"
She wrinkled her lips into a moue of disgust. "Of course it wouldn't. The lack of intelligence in this community is staggering. I'd have moved away years ago if I wasn't so fond of my garden. I suppose it's David's body?"
"We don't know yet."
"I see." She considered him thoughtfully. "Well, fire away. What do you want to ask me?"
"Do you know Mrs. Maybury well?"
"I've known her all her life. Gerald Gallagher, Phoebe's father, and my husband were old friends. I used to see a lot of her when she was younger and my husband was still alive."
"And now?"
She frowned. "No, I see very little of her now. My fault." She raised one of her gnarled hands. "Arthritis is the devil. It's more comfortable to stay at home and potter than go out paying calls and it makes you irritable. I was very short with her last time she came to see me and she hasn't been back since. That was about twelve months ago. My fault," she said again.
Game old bird, he thought, and probably more reliable than the others he'd talked to who had dealt in innuendo and gossip. "Do you know anything about her two friends, Mrs. Goode and Miss Cattrell?"
"I've met them, knew them quite well at one time. Phoebe used to bring them home from school. Nice girls, interesting, full of character."
Robinson consulted his notebook. "One of the villagers told me-" he looked up briefly-"and I quote: 'Those women are dangerous. They have made several attempts to seduce girls in the village, they even tried to get my daughter to join one of their lesbian orgies.' " He looked up again. "Do you know anything about that?"
She brushed a stray hair from her forehead with the back of her curled hand. "Dilys Barnes, I suppose. She won't thank you for describing her as a villager. She's a shocking snob, likes to think she's one of us."
He was intrigued. "How did you know?"
"That it was Dilys? Because she's a very silly woman who tells lies. It's lack of breeding, of course. That type will do anything to avoid
After some minutes and the laborious rattle of an anti-burglar chain, the door opened six inches. A pair of bright eyes examined him. "Yes?"
He held out his identification. "Police, Mrs. Ledbetter."
The card was taken by an arthritically deformed hand and disappeared inside. "Wait there, please," said her voice. "I intend to phone the Police Station and make sure you are who you say you are."
"Very well." He leaned against the side of her porch and lit a cigarette. This was the third telephoned check on him in two hours. He wondered if the uniformed constables were having as much trouble as he was.
Three minutes later the door opened wide and Mrs. Ledbetter gestured him into the living-room. She was well into her seventies with a leathery skin and a no-nonsense look about her. She returned his warrant and told him to take a seat. "There's an ashtray on the table. Well, Sergeant, what can I do for you?"
No need to beat about the bush with this old bat, he thought. Not like her twee little neighbour who claimed that to hear about murder on the television gave her palpitations. "The remains of a murdered man were discovered in the garden of the Grange yesterday afternoon," he said baldly. "We're making enquiries to see if anyone in the village knows anything about it."
"Oh, no," said Amy Ledbetter. "Poor Phoebe."
DS Robinson looked at her with interest. This was a reaction he hadn't met with before. The mood of the other villagers he had spoken to had been one of vituperative satisfaction.
"Would it surprise you," he asked the old lady, "if I said you're the only person so far who's expressed any sympathy for Mrs. Maybury?"
She wrinkled her lips into a moue of disgust. "Of course it wouldn't. The lack of intelligence in this community is staggering. I'd have moved away years ago if I wasn't so fond of my garden. I suppose it's David's body?"
"We don't know yet."
"I see." She considered him thoughtfully. "Well, fire away. What do you want to ask me?"
"Do you know Mrs. Maybury well?"
"I've known her all her life. Gerald Gallagher, Phoebe's father, and my husband were old friends. I used to see a lot of her when she was younger and my husband was still alive."
"And now?"
She frowned. "No, I see very little of her now. My fault." She raised one of her gnarled hands. "Arthritis is the devil. It's more comfortable to stay at home and potter than go out paying calls and it makes you irritable. I was very short with her last time she came to see me and she hasn't been back since. That was about twelve months ago. My fault," she said again.
Game old bird, he thought, and probably more reliable than the others he'd talked to who had dealt in innuendo and gossip. "Do you know anything about her two friends, Mrs. Goode and Miss Cattrell?"
"I've met them, knew them quite well at one time. Phoebe used to bring them home from school. Nice girls, interesting, full of character."
Robinson consulted his notebook. "One of the villagers told me-" he looked up briefly-"and I quote: 'Those women are dangerous. They have made several attempts to seduce girls in the village, they even tried to get my daughter to join one of their lesbian orgies.' " He looked up again. "Do you know anything about that?"
She brushed a stray hair from her forehead with the back of her curled hand. "Dilys Barnes, I suppose. She won't thank you for describing her as a villager. She's a shocking snob, likes to think she's one of us."
He was intrigued. "How did you know?"
"That it was Dilys? Because she's a very silly woman who tells lies. It's lack of breeding, of course. That type will do anything to avoid
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