The Fifth Identity. Ray CW Scott
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the French windows isn’t latched … look!” he placed his finger against the door and it slowly slid back.
“Shit!!” ejaculated Ruddock. “We’d best touch nothing. This is a job for the police.”
They returned to Accrington’s study, Ruddock took out his mobile telephone and looked around.
“Hand me that directory, Richard,” he said. “I’ll phone the local police.”
“No need, the number of the local cop shop is on his Teledex on the desk,” said Richard. He flicked it open at the letter “P” and pushed it across to Ruddock.
After making the call they retired from the premises and sat in the porch while they awaited the arrival of the police. They expected a fairly long wait but were pleasantly surprised to see, within about fifteen minutes, a squad car pass by the entry to the driveway, travel a short distance up the lane and then do a “U” turn and return and enter through the gate. It came slowly up the drive and parked next to Richard Bilston’s vehicle.
Two uniformed constables got out and advanced towards them.
“Sir?’ one of them asked, so Richard stepped forward and introduced himself.
“My name is Richard Bilston, this is Norman Ruddock from Fell, Pelham & Drysdale, a firm of London solicitors. We have authorisation to enter these premises from the Administrators of the Estate of John Accrington, who used to be the owner of these premises.”
“What’s the trouble, sir?” said the constable. “I understand you said there’s been a break-in?”
“Yes, at the rear of the premises there’s a French window that seems to have been left unlocked, we had no trouble in opening it. As soon as we realised something was amiss we left the premises and gave you a call.”
“Very good, sir,” said the constable. “Is this door open?”
He indicated the front door.
“Yes. We entered through it, we have a key.”
“OK. We’ll have a look. Can you both stay here for the present please.”
The two policemen entered the house, and they could hear them moving around within. Then they heard one of them climbing the stairs and then moving around on the upper floor. Then they heard the sound of descending footsteps and the constable appeared in the doorway and beckoned to them to come in.
“All clear, sir,” he said. “You can come in, but don’t touch anything.”
“I’m afraid we already have,” said Bilston. “We’d already looked at the safe and that desk in the study before we realised that anything was wrong. It was the chairs standing at the rear end of the hallway that alerted us to the fact that something was amiss. I’m afraid our finger prints could be on them.”
“Why exactly were you here, sir?”
Richard Bilston explained why they were there and their connection with John Accrington. He reached into his wallet and produced his card, Norman Ruddock did the same.
“I represent Mr Accrington’s lawyers,” Ruddock said as the constable examined the cards. “We are also the solicitors for the company of which he was a director. Mr Bilston is also a director of that company.”
“Alright sir. We’ve alerted the local CID, they should be here within the hour.”
“Good! In the meantime, can we have a look around?”
“Sorry sir, no sir,” the constable shook his head. “You’ll have to wait until CID and the finger print people have been down here, shouldn’t take long.”
Ruddock and Bilston looked at each other and Bilston shrugged.
“Looks as if we’re stymied for the present, Norman,” he said. “We may as well have a look at the local hostelry.”
The constable grinned.
“Sounds like a good idea, sir,” he said. “Wish we could join you. I suggest you try the Cromwell Arms, their draught beer is worth a try. Come back here in about an hour or so, or maybe two. CID should be here by then.”
They took the constable’s advice and tried the beer at the Cromwell Arms. The hostelry was a most impressive building, of Tudor appearance and from a date that they could just make out over the frontage of the building its vintage was 1564. As for the draught beer, they fully agreed with the constable’s assessment. As they stood at the bar they talked to the landlord.
“Mr Accrington?” the grizzled landlord pondered and scratched his chin. “Yes, he came in here occasionally, usually by himself, though he came in a few times with Walter Rushden. Sad business him dying like that. Are you investigating his death?”
“Who’s Walter Rushden?” asked Ruddock, ignoring the question. “Is he a local?”
“He’s almost part of the scenery,” the landlord responded with a chuckle. “He’s in here most week ends, he works on one of the farms around here. He played for the local cricket club for years, used to be a big hitter. He broke two of our windows at the back when they played on their old ground before it was sold over their heads.”
“How was he friendly with John Accrington?”
“Cricket in the main as I recall it, Walt was a member of the cricket club committee when they were looking for a new ground some sixteen years or so back. Mr Accrington offered them his western meadow and Walt was involved in the negotiations. Generous offer that, it saved the cricket club. Mr Accrington also purchased the materials for their new pavilion.”
He jerked his thumb at a chart on the wall to the right, it had a logo on the top and a list of fixtures below it.
“I’m a vice-president, I post their fixture card up there every year,” he said. “Pays me too, after the matches they come in here with the opposition and knock off a few pints.”
“Where does Walter Rushden work now?”
“Hancocks’s farm, that’s just up the road from here. He looked after Mr Accrington’s garden as well, Mr Accrington gave him an allotment on the northern end of the property where he grows his vegetables. Guess he’ll probably lose that now.”
“Do you know a Mrs Salmon?”
“Edna Salmon?” the landlord pursed his lips and screwed up his eyes. “What about Edna Salmon?”
“Wasn’t she John Accrington’s housekeeper?”
“So I’ve heard,” said the landlord. “…Yes…half a mo, Jim, with you in a minute…!” he waved his hand at another man at the far end of the bar. “She’s lived here many years.”
“What sort of a woman is she?’ asked Ruddock.
The landlord wiped an offending beer puddle from the bar, and looked up.
“She’s lived here for many a year,” he repeated and inclined his head downwards but kept his eyes focussed on them. “You’ll have to excuse me, gents. Duty calls.”
They returned to the house about two hours later, there were two cars in the driveway outside the front door. A man was talking to two women on the doorstep as they approached and he looked up quizzically. He was a thick set man, with close cropped hair and was wearing sunglasses, which he removed as the two men approached. He finished his conversation with the two women, who were dressed in white overalls, and came over to them.
“Good afternoon! Can we assist you?”
Richard Bilston patiently explained who they were, the man consulted his clip board.
“Ah yes, you’re the two gentlemen who reported a suspected break-in…right?” he extended his hand and shook hands with them both. “Detective Sergeant Eddington, I’m from the Moorfield CID. We’ve had a look around, someone has definitely been in here by the