“Just so.”
“Oh, we should speak with him!”
“We should?” He regarded her quizzically, his face questioning both the suggested course of action and the way in which she had drawn him into it.
“Indeed we should,” she insisted. “The link between the two is yet to be properly explained and yet I am convinced the Essedenes are at the heart of it.” She was already striding across the grass, threading her way between headstones, knowing that he would not be able to resist following.
She introduced herself, hand outstretched.
“Mr. Thurston? My name is Hecate Cavendish, assistant librarian at the cathedral. My father was a friend of Sir Richard’s. My condolences to you. You know Inspector Winter, I understand?”
Desmond Thurston was sufficiently confused by the speed of the introduction not to question its purpose.
“Yes, of course, good morning, Inspector,” he said, letting go of Hecate’s hand to raise his hat.
It was only then that it dawned on her how awkward such a meeting might be for the two men. Sir Richard’s murderer had not yet been caught, and the responsibility for the case lay with Inspector Winter. She was relieved to see there was no tension between them, however. She supposed this was in part due to the fact that Mr. Thurston would be conscious of where he was and why, and would deport himself accordingly, whatever his own grievances. She also knew this meant he might be more easily questioned, his guard temporarily lowered.
“Were you acquainted with the deceased?” she asked.
“I was not, but my father knew the couple well. I am here on his behalf, as it were.”
“An unlikely friendship, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“Joe Colwall grew up in a cottage on my grandfather’s estate. His own father was head gardener there. He and my father would fish together. Later he came to work in the gardens at Hampton, and then moved away when he was offered a position in Mordiford, at Park Farm.”
“I see.” Hecate was determined to press him for more details. “And they continued their friendship even as adults?”
“They did, yes, despite the differences in their social standing. My father had a soft spot for Joe. In fact…” He hesitated and then continued. “After my father’s death, when we were examining his accounts and putting his affairs in order, well, we discovered entries in his ledger that were … surprising.”
“How so?” she asked.
“There were monthly payments, not large, but generous, made by my father to Joe.”
“For work done, perhaps?”
“It appears not, no. The fact was, with Mrs. Colwall’s increasingly poor health, Joe was needed at home and could no longer work. They had fallen on hard times and my father helped them.”
The inspector was surprised. “I would not have considered Mr. Colwall a man eager to take charity.”
“Nor was he. It transpired the payments were given monthly, by my father, in person, apparently in private. According to my mother, he went to the last market of the month without fail, always returning late, in the small hours, in fact. Those were the days the payments were entered into the ledger. All except the last one, on the day of his death. It is a curious business indeed. But an action typical of my father. He was a man given to acts of kindness. As I have said, my father and Joe Colwall were lifelong friends. Now, if you will excuse me.” He raised his hat, the conversation at an end, and moved on to greet another funeral goer who had been trying to attract his attention.
For a moment Hecate and the inspector stood in thoughtful silence and then he spoke.
“In light of this information, Miss Cavendish, I do not doubt you will have a theory.”
“Indeed I do.”
“Let me see, you think Joe turned on his benefactor, demanded more money, perhaps, but Sir Richard refused. His old friend, desperate and rejected, snapped and attacked him. Then later, in despair of their future, he killed his invalid wife.”
“Do you believe that possible?”
“Do I think the sane Joe Colwall who had been a friend to this man all his life, and a devoted husband, capable of such actions? No, I do not. Do I consider the raving madman in my cell might have behaved in such a way? Certainly I do.” He paused then, waiting. When she did not say anything further he prompted her. “Come along then, Miss Cavendish—your theory; let’s have it.”
“I think you know it by now, Inspector.”
“I have a hankering to hear it from you. In the cold light of day. Humor me.”
“Joe Colwall happened upon Sir Richard just at the moment he was being attacked by the Resurgent Spirit. So interrupted, it bungled its attempt to secure a wealthy host, poor Sir Richard expiring in the assault. It was then the spirit took Joe as his host, turning the mild, caring husband into a violent creature who would go on to bludgeon his wife to death. Do you still consider my theory fanciful?”
“Sadly, I do not, Miss Cavendish. I do not.”
“Hecate!” John called to her from the porch of the church.
Taking her leave of the inspector she walked over to him.
“A lovely service, John. Mrs. Tribbet was pleased.”
“I am glad to hear it. May I speak with you for a moment?”
He led her away from the thinning crowd, around the tower of the church to the shady north side where the cold kept people from lingering. He surprised her by taking her hand and drawing her into the privacy of a little doorway.
“I received your note,” he told her. “I will be at your house for two o’clock on Friday for our trip to Brockhampton.”
“I am grateful for your support.”
“And your father? He understands the dangers?”
“Better than anyone else might. Do not be concerned, John. We both feel that His Lordship will be eager to show an acceptable face.”
