She took a deep breath and said, ‘I wanted to talk to you about these messages. Someone has been threatening people on the committee — telling them that if they don’t resign they are likely to be killed.’
It sounded ridiculous when you voiced it in the cold morning light and in a setting like this. It sounded even more so when the young man who was less than half her age said calmly, ‘Yes. I’ve heard about these letters. They sound quite extraordinary. Someone’s sense of humour is very misplaced, don’t you think?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose I do. But perhaps I also think we should take them rather more seriously than that. The police certainly do. Have you had one yourself?’
‘No. Is that what you came here to find out?’ He was amazed that he should be asking her this, but the words came quite naturally to him.
‘No. Well, er, I suppose it’s part of the reason, if I’m honest.’
‘Much better to be honest, I think. The police convinced me of that, when they talked to me about these letters.’
‘The police have already interviewed you about them?’
‘I suppose you could call it an interview, yes. I spoke to them about those letters, in this very room.’ He looked happily and unhurriedly round the beautifully tidy bedsit. He was positively enjoying himself now. It was almost as if he had old Daggers at a conversational disadvantage. ‘I suppose the CID wanted to satisfy themselves that I hadn’t sent them. They sent two quite senior people.’
‘And did you manage to convince them that those threats hadn’t come from you?’
‘Well, you’d have to ask them about that. They seemed to accept what I said, but they don’t give much away, do they?’
Marjorie said stiffly, ‘I expect they don’t, no. I haven’t much experience of the CID, Sam.’
‘Haven’t you? No, I suppose you wouldn’t have. Well they didn’t haul me in for further questioning and throw me into a cell. And no charges have been preferred, so far.’
Marjorie Dooks’s lips twisted just a little at the corners. ‘I rather think you’re making fun of me, Sam. And I rather think I probably deserve it. I can only say that I came here with your best interests at heart.’
‘I accept that. And perhaps you were also just a little curious to know whether I had sent those letters.’
‘I suppose I was. But my first thought was to warn you that the police might want to speak to you about them, so that you could have time to think what you might want to say to them about the matter. I’m left feeling rather foolish, as I find that they’ve already done that and you’ve already satisfied them of your innocence.’
‘I hope I have, but only they could tell you whether they believed me. So perhaps I should take this opportunity to assure you that I didn’t send them.’
‘I never thought you did, Sam.’
‘Really? But aren’t you now puzzled, when it seems that Christine Lambert and I are the only members of your committee who haven’t received one of these written threats?’
She smiled properly now, knowing that he was enjoying her discomfiture but happily prepared to make the best of it. ‘I confess that the letter scared me. It doesn’t seem anything like as alarming, now that the police have followed it up. I’ve come round to your idea, that it’s someone’s misplaced sense of humour.’
‘But not mine, I hope.’
‘Not yours. Can we now dismiss the matter and talk about happier things?’ Perhaps his face showed a certain reluctance to leave behind what he was now thoroughly enjoying, for she added a plaintive, ‘Please?’
Sam Hilton grinned, the demons of old Daggers banished for ever with the plea of this pleasant woman from his best easy chair. ‘Of course. Bob Crompton is definitely coming. He says he’s looking forward to entertaining a different kind of audience from his normal Lancashire and Yorkshire ones.’ There was a gleam of devilment in his eye and his tone. ‘I presume the literature festival will go ahead, in spite of the death of Peter Preston?’
‘Oh, I’m sure it will. We shall take the decision at the meeting, but I’m sure we shall decide to press ahead with the festival. Please don’t quote me, but I’m sure Peter’s absence will facilitate progress rather than hinder it. Aren’t you?’
They grinned at each other like mischievous children. They were conspirators now, rather than mistress of the establishment and rebel child, as he had anticipated before she came. He said, ‘It will certainly save time if we don’t have to argue fiercely with Peter over anything that is even vaguely modern!’
They hadn’t even discussed who might have killed Preston, and it wasn’t until an hour after Marjorie Dooks had left that Sam began to ponder how deeply delighted she seemed to be to have Peter off the scene.
At Oldford police station, the post-mortem report had been faxed into CID. Lambert reviewed it in his office with DS Hook and DI Rushton, who was coordinating the collection of data on the case. It did little more than confirm what they already knew.
Preston had been killed approximately fifteen hours before the pathologist made his initial examination at the scene. Two bullets had been fired into the heart of the deceased and death had been instantaneous. The powder burns around the wound indicated that the weapon had been fired from very close quarters. Probably, indeed, it had been held against the chest as it was discharged, a likelihood that accounted for the two shots entering the torso at exactly the same point. The second shot and the absence of the fatal weapon at the scene ruled out any possibility of suicide.
The bullets that had dispatched Peter Eric Preston had been found in the corpse. They were.38 calibre and the likeliest weapon was a now defunct Webley revolver. It was not the most efficient or accurate of weapons, but obviously lethal when employed at such close quarters.
Stomach contents indicated that a meal of minced lamb and potatoes had been consumed by the deceased earlier in the evening. The digestive processes suggested that this had been approximately three hours before death. Obviously if they could ascertain when Preston had last eaten, they would have a pretty accurate time for his death.
The scene of crime and the forensic findings so far reported were more interesting for what was not present than for any vital clue. In Preston’s study there were no prints save his, which bore out Mrs Preston’s statement that no one save the deceased was normally allowed access to that room. Lambert said thoughtfully, ‘Edwina Preston didn’t know where the key to his filing cabinet was kept. We now have it; the SOCO team found it on top of the picture rail in the study, which suggests that he secreted it where only he was likely to find it. We’ll let the forensic boys have first go, but I may want to examine the contents of that cabinet myself. I’ve a feeling they might tell us more about the secret thoughts of Peter Preston and his relationships with those around him.’
Prints taken from the external and internal doors of the house were those of the deceased, his wife, and the lady who came in to clean for two hours on Fridays. There were different prints on the side door to the garage and the shed in the garden, but they would no doubt prove to be those of the gardener who came in once a week. There was no sign of a break-in. An intruder would probably have worn gloves, but everything seemed to indicate that the killer had been admitted willingly to the house by the man who had subsequently been shot.
Almost certainly, the killer had been known to his victim.
Something much more revealing came from the computer expert who is now a vital part of any forensic team. Preston’s PC had been easy meat to this man. He had discovered the password within twenty minutes and combed the files stored within the memory for anything which might suggest an acquaintance of Preston’s who had a score to settle with him. It was routine, boring stuff and it ate up an expensive amount of the professional’s time. It revealed nothing of real interest. The implication was that Preston was a novice with computers and their possibilities. This suggested that he preferred not to commit his private thoughts to what he thought of as a new and untrustworthy medium.