‘She’s dead,’ confirmed Mrs Daws, the whispered tone easily discernible because of the hush that had followed the chilly prophecy.

  Chapter Five

  ‘Seems she left the gas on, unlit. Went to London on the early train this morning. Got back here at eight-fourteen. Opened that door with a cigarette in her mouth, or else she was lighting one, more like. Lighter was on the floor. Then boom! Blast blew her back out against the garage wall. Brick, it is. Died instantly, I’d say. Got her to hospital, of course.’

  The heavily built, close to retirement Police Constable Stock had delivered his summary in a quiet monotone. He was standing with Treasure and Denis Pitty in the scorch-streaked kitchen of The Cottage, Penn Lane, a mile and a half inland from the centre of Tophaven, and effectively part of the village of Colston which began officially a few yards further on.

  It was nearly 10.00 p.m. The banker and the lawyer had stopped on their way to the Trings.

  Seated in a corner of the room was a very fat, bespectacled young man with short-cropped hair and dressed in blue overalls. He was reading a paperback copy of War and Peace. He had been identified by the policeman simply as George, an Emergency Service fitter from the Gas Board. George had acknowledged this fact with a cautious glance at the speaker. He had then continued reading without looking at the others.

  ‘Gas Board Supervisor’s on his way. There’ll be a formal investigation. For the inquest. Not much doubt what happened, George says. Here in minutes, he was. Very sensitive, the gas people. Very touchy about explosions … and fatalities.’ The constable paused.

  George had looked up at the mention of a superior’s expected arrival, and considered the rest of PC Stock’s commentary. ‘Had to make safe, I did. That’s all.’ He went back to his book, then looked up again. ‘Make safe. That’s official procedure. I done it.’ He looked belligerently at the faces of all three listeners as though expecting questions; there being none, he abandoned himself to Tolstoy.

  The policeman sighed. ‘Never did see her Ladyship without a cigarette. Except in the car. “Never smoke when driving,” she said to me more than once. Had a fear of fire. If there was an accident. Fire. Funny.’ He shook his head and stared around the room.

  The kitchen was about nine feet by ten, not counting a short, open passage leading to the outside door. The door, half blown off its hinges, was the side entrance to the small, thatched dwelling. Treasure and Pitty had come in through there. Outside there was a slightly angled covered way that bridged the few feet to the side door of the garage.

  The cooker was on the wall opposite the passage. There was an internal door to the right of it. George was seated close by. What was left of the single window was in the wall to the left. It looked out on to the front drive. The sink was under the window, abutting on to a string of matching units that continued round the room on both sides. There was a small table in the cramped central area with one chair: George had the other.

  ‘I’d have thought gas would have found a way of seeping out,’ said Treasure.

  ‘Before this place was modernized it very likely would have, sir,’ the policeman observed sadly. ‘Four hundred year old, it is. Or so they say. Cavity brick walls, though. She had it done up before she moved in. That would be five years since, wouldn’t it, Mr Pitty?’

  ‘Bit more.’

  ‘You’re right. Year after her husband died. When she gave up the big house. No expense spared here. Double glazing. Cavity insulation. Electric central heating. Wouldn’t have gas. Only for cooking. More expensive, of course. Then everything was draughtproof. She hated cold. American, of course.’ This last was offered to explain a predisposition to hedonistic indulgence.

  ‘What about air-bricks? Ventilators? Aren’t they required by law?’

  George stirred at Treasure’s question, but it was Stock who answered. ‘S’right, sir. And too many people close ’em up or bung something in them this time of year. Her Ladyship did, by the look of it.’

  Despite the burn marks on the walls and other surfaces, the blown-out window and the general signs of disaster, the covered strip light over the window was still functioning.

  To the right of the light was a metal ventilator in the wall. It occupied the space of two bricks — or it would have done if its bottom half had not been bent away from its housing by the blast. It consisted of a standing part and a sliding shutter for moving across to close the ventilating slits. It was a familiar enough piece of equipment. The policeman pointed to it and continued.

  ‘Ventilator’s shut, see?’

  ‘Could have been caused by the bang.’

  ‘Could have, Mr Pitty. I said as much to George here. Not likely, he said. Nearly impossible.’

  ‘S’right,’ George confirmed suddenly and without looking up.

  ‘There’s another one down there,’ said Stock. He pointed to the object just above the skirting-board on the wall opposite the cooker, near the passage. ‘That’s closed too. Undamaged. There’s no accounting with explosions. But George says if the owner closed one vent she’d likely have closed the two. For the winter.’

  All eyes involuntarily turned to George. He swivelled his triple chin, which protruded tightly from the top of his overall, so his gaze could fall directly on the offending ventilator. He removed his steel-rimmed glasses, blinked, then put them on again.

  ‘S’what I told you.’ He nodded at Stock. ‘Not approved,’ he added, surprising the others.

  ‘Meaning they don’t list that kind any more. The ones with shutters,’ the policeman elucidated. ‘These were fitted before they were taken off the Gas Board’s approved list.’

  A lift of the eyebrows indicated the overweight fitter had noted and sanctioned this enlargement on his last imparted intelligence.

  ‘And she left a switch on the cooker turned on, but forgot to light the burner.’

  ‘That’s the likeliest explanation, Mr Treasure. Funny thing with this sort of explosion. Some parts of a place look like a hurricane went through. Other things you’d expect to have gone up are left looking normal. The cooker. It’s like new.’

  Everyone except George considered the gleaming white enamelled cooker.

  ‘Would the explosion have ignited any burner switched on?’ asked Treasure. There was no movement or word from George.

  ‘That’s a good question, sir. We think we’ve got the answer. Pretty definite,’ replied the constable. ‘Like Mrs Tring told Mr Pitty on the phone, old Mr Fairfax and one of his sons from Longacre Farm, they heard the blast. Reckoned it came from here or hereabouts. Came down in their Land-Rover straight off. It’s a tidy half-mile. Young Terry Fairfax had the bits of fire out while his Dad did what he could about Lady Brasset. Rang for the ambulance and fire brigade within five minutes of the bang. They’d noted the time. It was the thatch they were worried about, of course. After her Ladyship, that is.’

  ‘And the cooker?’ Treasure pressed.

  ‘Ah. First thing Terry did was pull down the curtains. They were burning. He didn’t try the lights in case of sparks. Well, you can’t be too careful. So he was working nearly in the dark. He remembers a newspaper burning on top of the cooker. Come off that shelf there, I expect. He pulled it away. Stamped it out with the curtains. He didn’t check the burners. Not specially, but he’s pretty certain one was on. Lit, I mean. Thinks he switched it off.’

  ‘So an unlit burner would have been lit by the explosion? That could happen?’ Treasure was more surprised than querulous.

  ‘It could do, sir. It could do, George said.’

  There was a more than momentary silence while George indicated he did not intend affirming this alleged but unwitnessed and perhaps now regretted speculation.

  ‘It still seems to me that turning on a gas tap, not lighting it, and leaving the house with it still on is so unlikely as to be …’

  ‘Unbelievable,’ put in Pitty flatly. ‘I absolutely agree. And Louella was no dimwit. You met her today, Mark. One of the most intelligent women I’ve ever known. And pretty alert still. For her age.’ He paused. ‘But what other explanation is there?’

  ‘An ordinary gas leak?’ hazarded the banker.

  ‘There’s no leak,’ came the firm voice of George from the corner. ‘Test’ll show.’

  ‘She left in a hurry, sir. Without her breakfast.’ Stock broke the lull in the exchanges that seemed always to follow George’s rationed pronouncements. ‘It was laid for but not eaten. There’s some smashed crockery that went over with the table. Clean, it was. I’ve put the bits on one side.’ He looked towards Pitty. ‘She’d have caught the seven thirty-four to London.’

  ‘That’s what she told them when she phoned the college. Mrs Tring mentioned it.’

  ‘Right, sir. That’s an early rise for Lady Brasset, I’m thinking. Perhaps she overslept. Came down late. Started to make breakfast. Reckoned she didn’t have time. She’d filled the electric kettle. Maybe in the rush she turned the gas on under her egg saucepan, thought she’d lit it, hadn’t, and didn’t notice when she left.’

  ‘What egg saucepan?’ asked Treasure.

  ‘That one, sir, on the draining-board. It was on the floor by the table. Water all round it.

  ‘No egg?’

  ‘Perhaps that was it, Mark,’ put in Pitty. ‘She fills the saucepan. Puts it on the cooker. Turns on the gas. Thinks she’s lit it. Goes to the fridge for an egg. At that point decides there’s no time after all …’

  ‘Comes back later to a gas-filled room. Steps inside. Lights a cigarette …’

  ‘Outside.’ George had spoken. He looked from Treasure to Pitty, then at the constable. ‘She’d have lit up outside.’ This time he nodded before returning to his book.

  ‘He was telling me before you came, sir. A room full of gas wouldn’t have blown up. You need five to fifteen per cent of gas in the air for it to be dangerous, like. Less or more than that is actually safe. Funny thing.’

  ‘So once she opened the door …?’

  ‘Even a crack, sir, concentrated gas from inside …’

  ‘Pours out to join clean air outside. So in a split second there’s the right volume of the two constituents for ignition.’ Treasure was dimly recalling an elementary rule of physics. ‘That’s assuming she’s smoking or lighting a cigarette.’

  ‘Which she would be, sir. Once she was out of the garage. She keeps petrol in there for the machines. Once at the back door she’d be lighting up.’

  ‘Well, we can’t be absolutely certain …’ Pitty began.

  ‘But the constable said they found a lighter on the floor,’ said Treasure, mildly surprised the lawyer needed the point repeated.

  ‘Of course, of course. Makes it all pretty clear, I’d say.’

  ‘Mmm. And it’s not likely anyone entered the house while Lady Brasset was away, Mr Stock? Daily help?’

  ‘Comes Tuesdays and Thursdays, sir. Happens to be my missus. Very cut up about this, she is, and that’s a fact. Her Ladyship was a true friend. To both of us.’ The policeman shook his head. ‘Gardener comes Saturday afternoons only. Not much ground here. Lot of hedging, though, for privacy. Eddie Jacks does it. He’s the postman. They have half days Saturdays now. Regular.’ There was no envy in the voice, there being benefits and drawbacks in every job.

  ‘This is Colston village proper. The Trings live here in the old vicarage. It’s just up on the right. Oh, that’s the police house where the admirable Stock abides.’

  ‘Being the village bobby?’ asked Treasure.

  ‘That’s right. Damn this rain.’ Pitty slowed the Porsche and peered through the windscreen, looking for a gate opening. ‘Colston’s under two miles from Tophaven. Natives very conscious of the separation, though. It’s not much of a village, even so. Back way to Chichester, really. Louella regarded herself as Colston, not Tophaven.’

  ‘Except her civic pride …’

  ‘Extended to both places. Yes. Here we are then.’

  He had stopped the car at the end of a short drive. Treasure took in only a glimpse of the house as he dashed for cover. The outline was of a small Georgian building, two-storeyed and stuccoed. There was a projecting central porch supported by columns. An illuminated bell push was the only sign of occupation.

  ‘Blast! Left my side lights on,’ cried Pitty, going back to the car after pressing the bell.

  When the door swung open there was only a dim, reflected light from an inner doorway. The woman’s arms went around Treasure’s neck. ‘My dear, what took you so long? … Oh!’

  ‘Cynthia, this is Mark Treasure,’ said Pitty, appearing from behind the banker. ‘Saving electricity, are you?’ He reached inside and snapped on some switches. The porch and hall were now brightly illuminated.

  Tony Quaint had described the lady as ‘a bit of all right’. Treasure thought this, if anything, an understatement: but then Quaint had not enjoyed benefit of warm, anxious embrace.

  ‘And you think those gas people will leave the place secured? Louella has —’ Cynthia Tring gave an impatient jerk of the head — ‘I mean had — such lovely things. It’s all so awful. I still can’t believe … accept what’s happened.’

  The movements of her body were quite as expressive as the emphasis in her naturally husky voice.

  She was not a flawless beauty, and she was too nervous to be serene, but she owned a presence Treasure found wholly engaging. She had a developed talent for gently emphasizing her best features. The tapered hands stroked the softly waved, ash blonde hair. The slim fingers caressed the outstretched chin and long bare neck — or absently explored the cleavage that showed above the V of the low-cut sweater.

  While she spoke, her shoulders were restlessly declaratory. Her legs, which were rivetingly good, she crossed and recrossed frequently — but again without the suggestion that these were conscious movements.

  Altogether Mrs Tring appeared to be hardly type-cast as wife for a long retired clergyman.

  ‘We left the workers at it. Doing the window. Re-hanging the door,’ Pitty volunteered. ‘Old Stock was absolutely committed to stay till they’re done.’

  ‘A Supervisor brought a whole team of able-looking chaps. Heaven knows where they came from at this time of night. Anyway, they seemed competent.’ Treasure added assurance.

  ‘Seemed competent.’ The Reverend Canon Algernon Tring was given to repeating the last words of others. ‘More whisky, Treasure?’

  He was the only one of the four standing. He was tall, about six foot three, but stooped, with the preoccupied demeanour of a scholar. His dark suit hung about him loosely. His neck was several sizes too small for his clerical collar. The flesh on his face and head clung to the skeletal shapes beneath. He was a gangling, spectral image of a man.

  ‘No more, thanks. Doing very well,’ replied the banker, nursing his glass.

  ‘Doing very well … Sad business.’ The Canon continued to hover.

  The atmosphere reminded one of living-rooms in country parsonages circa 1930 — all chintz covers, rugs over polished boards, some nearly good pieces of mahogany, a few unremarkable still-lifes, a log fire burning, but no central heating.

  ‘Can’t be too careful with cigarettes,’ the clergyman added absently while producing a silver cigarette case from a side pocket. ‘Smoke, anyone?’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t, Algy.’

  ‘Wouldn’t?’

  ‘Smoke. You know what the doctors said. It’ll shorten your life.’

  He considered his wife’s comment for a moment, then took out a box of matches. ‘Top you up, my dear?’ His question was punctuated by a hideous cough following the first deep inhalation on the cigarette.

  ‘You see? Yes, please. Not so much tonic. And Denis needs a refill.’ She turned to Treasure. ‘Louella was a dear friend, Mark. I may call you Mark?’ She paused for approval.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It was ghastly at the hospital. Nothing to be done, of course. I just couldn’t go back to the cottage. You do understand, my dear?’ The question was directed at Pitty. The endearment was put casually enough. Treasure wondered if it had been meant to disarm others: notably himself.

  The embarrassing greeting on the doorstep had been lightly dismissed at the time — so lightly as to have put in doubt its special intimacy. The two men were the same height and build. Only Pitty had been expected. How easy it had been to mistake Treasure for him. And that had been that.

  ‘You saw her this afternoon, Mark. She looked well? Of course she did.’ The eyes opened wider. ‘So dedicated to ideals. A lovely, lovely person. Mr Stock rang me straight away. Knew how close we were. That was thoughtful.’

  ‘Very,’ Treasure agreed.

  ‘Very,’ echoed the Canon.

  ‘She’d complained about the cooker. The pilot lights weren’t working properly.’

  ‘She’d complained?’ Pitty leaned forward in his armchair.

  ‘When I was there.’ Cynthia went on. ‘Lunch on Sunday. Algy went to Chichester. For the High Mass in the cathedral. A friend took him. They had lunch there. Louella and I were snacking in her kitchen. She got angry when two of the pilot lights didn’t work. Angrier still when she rang the gas people. They said it was Sunday and pilot lights weren’t an emergency. Could she ring Monday. Quite right, of course. But it didn’t please Louella.’

  ‘I wonder if she did ring again?’ Treasure asked pointedly.

  ‘Being Louella, almost certainly.’ It was Pitty who answered.

  ‘Almost certainly,’ said the Canon. ‘Very determined woman. Remember once …’

  ‘You think it would make a difference? If a repair was ordered and hadn’t been done. In terms of liability?’ Cynthia interrupted her husband.

  ‘No. It’d help explain how the accident could have happened,’ the lawyer replied.

  ‘… Question of extending licensing hours for the pub in the village. Coronation. Or was it one of the Royal weddings?’ The Canon was continuing with his own subject.

 

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