Lambert let her words hang in the room for a moment before he said quietly, ‘Where were you last night, Mrs Preston?’
‘I was staying with my daughter. She lives in Oxford.’ Her clipped tone showed that she had expected the question.
‘You do this regularly?’
‘Not in the sense that I go there at set intervals. But yes, I stay with Dell quite often.’
Hook made a note. ‘Your daughter’s name is Dell? Could you give me a home number for her, please?’
‘Her real name is Cordelia. That was Peter, as you might imagine. She doesn’t like it. She was Delia for a while, but that was associated with the woman who writes the cookery books, so she calls herself Dell now.’ The tone of affection gave them a glimpse of the mother behind the composed, mid-forties face. She had obviously given this explanation many times before, but her eyes lit up for a moment when she repeated it here.
‘And what time did you leave home yesterday?’
‘About three o’clock yesterday afternoon, I think. The exact time wasn’t important to me, at the time.’
Lambert was studying her as she spoke, his grey eyes steady, his head a little on one side. ‘I’m sorry you had to find out about your husband’s death as you did.’
‘There was no way that could have been avoided. You weren’t to know where I was.’ She spoke evenly again now, as if she were re-living that moment when she had driven up to the gates of The Willows and found the police scene of crime tapes barring her entrance.
Lambert nodded. ‘You said a few minutes ago that your husband had a lot of enemies. We obviously need to know about them.’
‘Peter gave himself airs and graces, which is irritating. He patronised people, which is worse. People resent that.’
‘Indeed they do. But it’s a big step, probably several big steps, from resentment to killing a man.’
‘Of course it is. And I can’t immediately think of anyone who might have taken those steps. He wasn’t good with young people — no, that isn’t strong enough. He despised most new ideas and most young people. I’m sorry to have to say it, but he did. And they won’t take it, these days. They don’t just accept it meekly when older people are unfair to them. He knew that, but there were times when it only seemed to make him more determined to insult them.’
‘Can you think of any particular young people?’
‘It’s a long way from feeling insulted to shooting a man, as you said.’
‘It is, and we are well aware of that. Nevertheless, we need somewhere to start and at present you are the person who can offer us the most useful initial pointers.’
‘I suppose so. But you should bear in mind that I kept away from Peter and what he was up to, particularly in these last few years.’ She looked for a moment as if she would enlarge on this, but apparently thought better of it. ‘I do know that he’s been much occupied with the Oldford festival of literature and that he didn’t care for the programme that has been set up.’
‘Yes. My wife is on the committee and I gathered that.’ Lambert judged that Preston was the sort of man who wouldn’t approve of much that he hadn’t initiated himself.
Almost as if she read his thoughts, Edwina Preston said, ‘Peter hadn’t much time for anything he hadn’t suggested himself. He liked to be in charge of things. I’m sure he felt he should have been chairman of that committee, controlling the programme for the whole ten days. I would say that he regarded most things which came from younger people to be dumbing down.’
It was said not with real regret but with a sort of relish, as if she enjoyed telling these home truths about him now that he was no longer there to ridicule her thoughts. It was undoubtedly sad, but the men in the room with her were detectives; they considered it significant. This was the woman best placed to plot the removal of a difficult spouse; she was hardly troubling to hide her distaste for him. As she had just almost reminded them, it was a long way from distaste to murder, but marriage wasn’t the best environment for fostering a sense of proportion.
Lambert said, ‘You are confirming the impression we formed when we spoke to Mr Preston on Monday that he hadn’t much time for the younger people on the festival committee.’
‘You’re right there. I’d almost forgotten that you’d spoken to him so recently. Did you find out who’d sent him that threatening letter?’
‘No. And now we’ve been overtaken by a murder investigation.’
‘But surely the two will be connected? Isn’t the person who threatened him with death going to be the one most likely to have killed him?’
‘Perhaps. And I can assure you that we are still investigating the origin of those letters. I should perhaps tell you that other people on the committee as well as Mr Preston have received identical messages.’
‘I see. Then are others also at risk? Are we going to have a series of murders?’
Lambert couldn’t be sure of it, but he thought he caught a certain relish in her tone as she made the suggestions. ‘I do hope not. I should perhaps point out that such a train of events is far more common in Agatha Christie than in real life. We haven’t ruled out the possibility, but we cannot be certain that the person who sent those letters is also the person who shot Mr Preston.’
‘Peter would assume that it was one of the youngsters who was threatening him.’
‘He did just that. He pointed us towards one of the younger members of the committee. We were still investigating the letters when we discovered his death. Have you any reason yourself to suspect anyone?’
‘No. As I say, I kept out of his affairs as much as possible. We didn’t talk as much as we used to. I’m afraid I found his ideas rather repetitive and he was aware of that. And he thought that I was such a philistine that I couldn’t understand aesthetic matters.’
She sounded as if she had made him aware of her own thoughts in very direct language. But John Lambert sympathized. From his single contact with Peter Preston, he judged that he was the sort of tiresome bore who justified trenchant rejection. ‘I must ask you if you have any thoughts yourself on who might have committed this crime. I’m not talking about evidence, just opinion. Your opinions will be treated in the strictest confidence.’
Edwina thought furiously. She would like to suggest someone, to get herself out of their thoughts. Not off the hook; she didn’t consider herself their leading suspect. It would have been nice to steer them elsewhere, but she decided that she had nothing strong enough to do that. ‘No. I can’t conceive of anyone I’ve met as a being a murderer. I should think it was someone younger, but I couldn’t go beyond that.’
They thanked her and asked if she could stay somewhere other than The Willows for a night or two. She considered the matter for a moment, then said. ‘I think I shall go back to Dell’s flat in Oxford, I’ll be better there for the moment.’
They agreed with her on that and showed her out of the station. She rang Dell and arranged to stay immediately. Then she added as casually as she could, ‘And just in case anyone should ask, could you say that I was with you last night, dear?’
THIRTEEN
The phone call took Sam Hilton by surprise. It was not at all the sort of voice he was used to hearing on his mobile.
‘Sam? This is Marjorie Dooks. I need to speak to you.’
He was so surprised by the cut glass elocution that he missed the urgency in the tone. He said rather desperately, ‘I’ll see you at the meeting of the festival committee on Friday. I know I said I wanted to resign, but you convinced me that I should stay on.’