Common Murder

Lindsay groaned inwardly. Scruples were the last thing she needed. She had to get something out of Stanhope to provide a fresh lead for the next day’s paper, at the very least. And she needed to get it fast, before Duncan could start screaming for copy on Debs. She had foolishly thought that an interview set up by Rigano, with all the force of his authority, would be an easy answer. She set about overcoming Stanhope’s objections. It took less persuasion than she anticipated, and she suspected he had simply put her through the hoops in order to salve his conscience. And she managed to elicit the useful information that he had been alone in the lambing shed at the time of the murder.

“There were two things that might interest you,” he said. “One, a lot of people knew about. The other, only a handful of people. So, while I don’t mind what you do about the first matter, I want to be left well out of anything to do with the second. Okay?”

Lindsay nodded. “Okay.”

“I really don’t want to be brought into this as your source. I mean it,” he added.

He sighed. “The first concerns a man called Paul Warminster. He’s local. He owns a couple of gents’ outfitters in Fordham. He joined RABD shortly after I did and was always mouthing off against the women. He wasn’t happy with the way our campaign was being run.

“He said we should take the fight into the enemy territory instead of simply reacting to them. He always speaks in that sort of jargon. I suspect he must have been in the Pay Corps or something like it in the war. He thought we should be actively banning them from shops, pubs, cinemas, the lot. He thought also that we should be harassing them in the town-insulting them, jostling them, generally making life hard for them.

“Rupert always managed to keep the lid on him till about a month or so ago. Paul stood against him in the election for chair and made the most scurrilous attack on him. He ended up by saying that Rupert was so wishy-washy that he was lucky the motorbike gangs weren’t throwing pigs’ blood on his house. That, I’m afraid, was his big mistake. Our group has always utterly repudiated the thugs who terrorise the women at the camp. But I’d certainly heard mutterings that perhaps Paul wasn’t as quick to condemn as one would expect, if you catch my drift. As I said, this was all common knowledge.

“Well, Rupert was duly re-elected with a thumping majority, and he announced that since Paul’s policies and attitudes had been so soundly defeated at the ballot box, it would seem there was no place for him within the group. It didn’t actually leave Paul any option except resignation. So out he stormed, making sure we all knew he was right and Rupert was wrong. He didn’t actually make any threats, but the inference was there to be taken.”

“Okay, Mr. Stanhope. And the second incident?”

“Call me Carl, please. I’m not old enough yet for Mr. Stanhope.” He radiated charm at her.

She felt like throwing up over his clean jeans. But she didn’t even grind her teeth as she said, “Okay, Carl. The second incident?”

“Look, I really meant what I said about keeping my name out of this. If I thought you’d drop me in it I’d shut up now…”

“No, no,” said Lindsay, “I’ll forget you told me. Just give me the details.”

“I was told this by someone I can’t name. But I’m certain it’s true, because it’s referred to in the agenda for next week’s meeting, though not in any detail that would make clear what it’s about. William. Mallard is the treasurer of RABD. He’s a local estate agent. We’re quite a wealthy organization. We need to be because we try to fight civil court actions, which costs an arm and a leg. But we are a popular cause locally, and all our fund-raising is well supported by the locals. And we’ve had some financial donations from outside the area too.”

“So at any given time, there’s a few hundred in the kitty, is that what you’re trying to say?” Lindsay interjected, frustrated.

“More like a few thousand,” he said. “Rupert was a bit concerned that we weren’t using our money properly-you know, that we should be keeping it in a high interest account instead of a current one. Mallard wouldn’t agree. Now, being an awkward sort of bloke, Rupert thought his reaction was decidedly iffy. So, armed with the latest treasurer’s report, he zapped off to the bank and demanded a chat with the manager. The upshot was that instead of there being about seven thou in the account, as the report stated, there was barely five hundred.

“Rupert blew a fuse. He hared off to see Mallard and confront him. They apparently had a real up and downer. Mallard claimed he’d simply been doing what he always did with large lumps of money in his care, to wit, dumping them in high interest, seven-day accounts. But he couldn’t show Rupert the money then and there. Rupert accused him of speculating with the RABD’s money and pocketing the profits-Mallard’s known for having a taste for the stock market, you see.