‘You are Mrs Lammas’ cook, I believe?’
‘I am too, but my father was in the Force and my brother is a sergeant at Cwmchynledd.’
‘Indeed? Then you will be familiar with the routine of interrogation, Miss Roberts…?’
‘Why should I not, when I was brought up at a Station?’
Gently took her over the same ground as had been already covered with the maid. Her answers were full and to the point, and confirmed what they had heard before. She could add nothing to the maid’s account of the conversation on the phone.
‘And you have been long with the family, Miss Roberts?’
‘Long, you say! They’ve never been without me.’
‘Mrs Lammas engaged you when she got married?’
‘Yess, and the first time. She’s been married twice, though through no fault of hers.’
‘Would you explain…?’
‘Why, first she married Geoffrey Owen of Bangor. A gentleman he was, come of good family, and a Major in the Guards. But he didn’t last long, poor fellow. He went to Aden and died there of cholera. Poor Mrs Phyllis! I thought she would have followed him… so bad she took it.’
‘And after that she married Lammas?’
‘Yess, after that.’ The cook’s face had become melancholy. ‘We went to Torquay — Mrs Phyllis was poorly. She met him at Torquay, right on the rebound, and in a week they’d done it.’
‘It wasn’t too… successful?’
‘No, mun, it wasn’t. Though mark you, Mr Lammas wasn’t all to blame. He did his best at first to make it go. But there, they wasn’t suited, that’s the answer. She couldn’t forget poor Mr Geoffrey and he didn’t like having Mr Geoffrey thrown up at him at every turn. Ah me! It was a bad day when we went to Torquay.’
‘The children… they didn’t improve matters?’
‘No, not a bit. When Mr Paul came he was all his mother’s, and so he still is. Miss Pauline was her father’s.’
‘Would you say there was animosity between father and son?’
‘Oh yess! They had some quarrels, I can tell you.’
‘About anything in particular?’
‘No, not at first. Mr Paul was just obstreperous and above himself — his head is full of poetry and nonsense. He used to say his proper name was Owen.’
‘Would that have been possible?’
‘Not on your life! He knew it wasn’t, too.’
‘What else did they quarrel about?’
‘Oh, Mr Lammas wanted his son in the business, that was the big trouble. And Mr Paul, he wouldn’t hear about it. If you ask me, Mr Paul doesn’t think much of the university either, but then he only went there to spite his father.’
‘That would be somewhere about two years ago?’
‘Indeed it was. You never heard such rows!’
‘And of course, it worsened the relationship between Mr Lammas and his wife?’
‘Oh yess, she took her son’s part, all the way. Some bitter things were said. It was Mrs Phyllis who sent Mr Paul to Cambridge and pays his fees. I don’t think Mr Lammas ever properly got over what happened two years ago.’
Gently paused to criss-cross some lines on his scribbling pad before his next question.
‘You will have heard by now, Miss Roberts, that Mr Lammas was enjoying certain relations with Miss Brent, his secretary. Was there any suspicion of this before the present juncture?’
The cook gave a little giggle. ‘Oh no, I shouldn’t think so. Though Miss Pauline works at the office with him — I wouldn’t put it past her to know what was going on.’
‘But you don’t think it was suspected by Mrs Lammas?’
‘Well there, I couldn’t say. But if she suspected, she didn’t know or there would have been more made of it.’
‘Mr Lammas gave an excuse of business for his absence last week. Had he done so before?’
‘Once or twice he had lately, but only for a day or so.’
‘What do you mean by “lately”?’
‘Why… he didn’t use to go off much. It was only these last two or three months.’
‘And Mrs Lammas accepted the excuse without comment?’
‘If she didn’t, I never heard about it.’
‘Can you remember if these absences occurred at the weekend, or was it during the week?’
‘He was always here at the weekend.’
Gently nodded. ‘And now, Miss Roberts, we should like to hear what you can tell us about the chauffeur, Hicks…’
The cook folded her plump arms and cogitated a moment, as though passing the subject under review. Then she frowned and said:
‘Well, you know… he’s not the person I should have thought of to go and do a thing like that…’
Gently clicked his tongue. ‘Perhaps you could tell us a little more?’
‘Oh yess! I was just saying! But really it came as a surprise when I heard about it. I’ve known Joe to lose his temper, and once for certain Mr Lammas would have sacked him if Mrs Phyllis had permitted. But there wasn’t no spirit in the man, he didn’t have the go in him to up and kill somebody.’
‘He was also a servant of long standing?’
‘Indeed he was. Mrs Phyllis engaged him when she was having Mr Paul and apart from the war, when we got along without a chauffeur, he has been with us ever since. Very attached he has always been to Mrs Phyllis, besides being one of the few people Mr Paul hits it off with. Taught him to drive, he did, and likewise to fish. You could hardly drop on a man less likely to stick his neck out.’
‘Taught him to fish, did he?’ A dreamy expression stole into Gently’s eyes and once more they wandered to the bright-lit expanse of broad with its thousand reedy inlets. He pulled himself up.
‘You couldn’t find a picture of him for Inspector Hansom… have you been able to find one since?’
‘There now — I was forgetting!’
She felt in her wide apron-pocket and produced a postcard print of the sort vended by street photographers. It was taken on a promenade and showed a man of medium build in dark uniform, the maid on one arm and the cook on the other. He had a stolid but far from naive Northshire countenance. His lips were thin and his mouth rather wide.
‘Took last year it was, on the front at Starmouth.’
‘He looks quite presentable. Did he have any girlfriends?’
‘Well, we had our larks, but I never heard of him going steady with a girl.’
‘Did he ever mention Miss Brent?’
‘No, not to me.’
‘Had he any people or special friends in the locality?’
‘Only his aunt, who lives at Upper Wrackstead.’
Gently stowed the photograph away in his wallet. ‘Now we’re on the subject of photographs, I don’t see any of Mr Lammas about.’
The cook cast a quick look towards a bureau at the far end of the room, her eyes rounding in perplexity.
‘That’s funny now… there used to be one here. Perhaps he took it with him.’
‘Are there any others?’
‘Oh yess, no doubt, in Mrs Phyllis’ albums.’
‘But none about the house?’
‘No, certainly. She would not have them there.’
‘Just one more question, Miss Roberts, and then I think we can let you go.’
The cook looked up attentively.
‘Was Hicks a musical man… did he, for instance, play a concertina?’
‘Why yes he did — but very badly, though!’
‘Thank you, Miss Roberts… that’s everything for the moment.’
Hansom watched her thoughtfully as she got up and departed. Then he reached out absently towards the bag of peppermint creams. ‘You’re right…’ he said to Gently, beginning to munch.
Gently cocked an interrogative eyebrow.
‘About Lammas having a point of view. Me, I think I’d have cashed out in twenty months, let alone twenty years!’
CHAPTER FIVE
There were ashtrays about the lounge and as though by tacit consent they all began to smoke. Hansom began it with one of his workaday Dutch whiffs, then Gently produced his weathered sand-blast. Finally the Constable, after many vain attempts to catch someone’s eye, slipped out a small, thin cigarette-case, thus proving beyond doubt that Constables do carry such things about their person.