‘Good day to you, Mr Ibbotson, how kind of you to come.’
Devereux told him about the murder of Sir Rufus Walcott at the Silkworkers dinner hosted by Sir Peregrine as Prime Warden of the Company.
‘Got the wrong man, didn’t he, our friend the murderer,’ said Ibbotson.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Should have bumped off bloody Sir Peregrine rather than the other fellow, if you ask me. Would have been a public service, don’t you know.’
Inspector Devereux had wondered before now if the intended victim might not have been Sir Peregrine, the death of Sir Rufus a mistake.
‘We believe this murder may be linked to one or two others, one in Buckinghamshire where Sir Peregrine was spotted some time before the killing took place, and the other in Norfolk, near to where Sir Peregrine has a house.’
‘Arrest him then,’ said Ibbotson, with rather a vicious smile. ‘It’s about time the man was put behind bars. One thing’s rather a pity, mind you. If he killed all of them he can still only be hanged once. Three times would have been more satisfactory. No chance of bringing back disembowelling, I suppose?’
‘I take it, Mr Ibbotson, that you are still protesting your innocence about the so-called forgeries at your previous place of employment?’
‘I am indeed, sir. I am as innocent as the newborn babe. I was cheated out of my position, sir, cheated. It’s a scandal.’
‘Forgive me for asking, but what is your occupation now?’
‘You may ask,’ said Ibbotson, ‘indeed in your position you must ask. It took me eighteen months, sir, to obtain a new post. My name had been blackened right across the City of London. I now have connections with the National Trust through my wife’s family. I am employed by them as senior accountant.’
‘I have to ask this question too, Mr Ibbotson. Where were you between ten o’clock at night on the twenty-first of January and nine o’clock the following morning?’
‘I was at home,’ said Ibbotson. ‘We had two friends from the Trust to supper. I suppose they went home about half past ten. My wife and I turned in shortly after that. The following morning I went to work in the usual way. I reached my office about half past eight and was there, or in meetings, all morning.’
‘And your friends and colleagues would support your account?’
‘They would. I shall give you their names.’ The former managing director entered three names into Devereux’s notebook. He turned back at the door. ‘Please let me know when you arrest Sir Peregrine, Inspector. I would be most interested.’
‘What would you do?’ asked Inspector Devereux.
‘Revenge,’ the little man said, ‘is a dish best eaten cold, according to the Spanish. I have spent years with the prospect of revenge getting colder every year. It’s well refrigerated by now, my lust for revenge, it’s practically turned to ice. I would, of course, visit Sir Peregrine in prison. I don’t think I’d bother saying anything. Just looking at him behind bars in prison clothes would be enough, I think. I’m sure I could look at him all day.’
Sergeant Morris wasn’t looking forward to his interview with Mrs Maud Lewis, christened the merry widow by his Inspector. The sergeant wasn’t as hopeless with women as the Inspector, but he thought he might have to ask her a number of very personal questions. As he passed the Farmers’ Arms and set off up the road, he consoled himself with the thought that she might be one of those talkative women only too happy to tell her entire life history once they have a captive listener. The sergeant had met a number of those in his time.
She was all charm as he arrived, showing him into an enormous drawing room lined with paintings and photographs of dogs. Mrs Lewis was about fifty years old and dressed from head to toe in black. She was a nervous woman, forever fidgeting in her chair or clasping and unclasping her hands. The sergeant had an aunt with exactly the same mannerisms. A servant was ordered to bring them tea at once.
‘Sergeant Morris, did you say, you must be all worked off your feet just now with this terrible murder. What a business! And to think that I knew the deceased! I’ve never known a deceased before! My own dear Roderick, cut off in his prime in that dreadful way!’
The sergeant saw that he might have trouble steering the conversation in the direction he wanted it to go.
‘Perhaps you could tell me how you came to be living here in Fakenham, Mrs Lewis? Of course there’s no reason why you shouldn’t be living here, but I don’t think you’ve been with us very long.’
‘You’re quite right, Sergeant, I haven’t been here very long, but I do like to think that Fakenham has taken me to its bosom! Such kind people! We lived in the Midlands before where Horace had his business. He was my late husband, Sergeant, bless him. Horace had a chain of stores, you know, clothing shops, shirts, blouses, undergarments. Horace always said that ladies’ undergarments were his top sellers. Give them the right stuff and the customers will always come back, that was his motto. The shops were in and around Birmingham but we lived in a better sort of neighbourhood, Edgbaston Park. We had a very tasteful residence there. Do you know Edgbaston Park at all, Sergeant?’
The policeman shook his head.
‘It’s rather like one of these Norfolk towns, Edgbaston Park, quite superior people living there. We were so happy in the place, Horace with the shops, the boys off our hands, all our friends.’ Mrs Lewis paused briefly to pour some tea. ‘But then, two years ago to the day next Wednesday, we were struck by tragedy. Well, Horace was, really. He was up a ladder in the back storeroom of the main shop, checking on the supplies of some items of hosiery when he was struck down! Quite what Horace was doing up this ladder when he had all those people on his staff I don’t know. Anyway the young lady with him tried to bring him round on the floor where he’d fallen. No use, no use at all, Horace had had a heart attack up the ladder and that was the end of him. He’d often talked of heaven being like an enormous shop where you could buy everything without paying. Well, now he’d gone there. By express. He’d always been fond of expresses, Horace.’
She took another mouthful of tea. The sergeant wondered how the unfortunate Horace had coped with this very talkative wife. Had she gone on like this all evening in the tasteful residence at Edgbaston Park?
‘It took such a long time to get things straight, Sergeant. The staff in Horace’s shops did ask me on a number of occasions if I would take over the management of the business but I said I would find the memories of Horace too painful. They understood that, bless them. I still own some shares, mind you, so Horace keeps me supplied with dividends from beyond the grave! I’m sure he would be pleased about that. And then I came here. And then I met Roderick. My fiancee, you know. We hadn’t told anybody about it, well, hardly anybody, but you are the law, aren’t you, Sergeant, so it’s only proper I should tell you. Render unto Caesar, Roderick used to say. Do you know, Sergeant, I’ve never known what that meant, and I’ve never liked to ask in case people thought I was stupid. Do you know what it means, Sergeant?’
‘I think, Mrs Lewis, that it’s a quotation from the New Testament. Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, render unto God the things that are God’s. It means you should pay your taxes to the state like a good citizen, and you should go to church and worship God as well.’
‘I think that’s very fair, Sergeant. I expect you have to know things like that in the police force. Come to think of it, you are like Caesar, the law of the land, and the dear vicar is like God.’
‘Could I ask, Mrs Lewis, forgive me if this seems a personal question, how you came to know Mr Gill?’
‘I met him through the church, of course — appropriate now we are talking of rendering unto God. He was often in the church, looking after the accounts, counting the collection money. The Reverend Williamson is a very conscientious man, but I don’t think he knew anything about money. He used to say that Roderick was his right-hand man. Horace had a chap in the shops who did the figures, not a nice man like my Roderick, but he knew all about the taxes and how, sometimes, you could avoid paying them. Dear me, I shouldn’t have told you that, should I! Horace would be so cross with me. If you’ve got one sin, Maud, he used to say, it’s that you open your big mouth without thinking about it!’