Common Murder

The head office of Mallard and Martin, Estate Agents, Auctioneers and Valuers, was at the far end of the main street in Fordham. The retail developers who have turned every British high street into undistinguished and indistinguishable shopping malls had not yet penetrated that far down the street, and the double-fronted office looked old-fashioned enough to appeal to the most conservative in the district. Lindsay, dressed to match the office in her new outfit, studied the properties in the window with curiosity. She noticed several houses in the vicinity of Brownlow Common were up for sale. But their prices didn’t seem to be significantly lower than comparable houses in other areas. She pushed open the door, and as she entered, a sleek young woman in a fashionably sharp suit rose and came over to the high wooden counter.

“Can I help you?” she enquired.

“I’m due to see Mr. Mallard,” Lindsay explained. “My name’s Lindsay Gordon.”

“Oh yes, he’s expecting you. Do come through.” The woman raised a flap in the counter and showed Lindsay through into Mallard’s own office. He got up as Lindsay was ushered in and genially indicated a chair. Mallard was a short, chubby man in his fifties, almost completely bald. He wore large, gold-rimmed spectacles and tufts of grey hair stuck out above his ears, making him look like a rather cherubic owl. He smiled winningly at Lindsay. “Now, young lady,” he said cheerfully, “you’re a reporter, I think you said?”

“That’s right. But I’m not just looking for stories. I believe Carlton Stanhope rang to pass on Superintendent Rigano’s request?”

“He did indeed.” He smiled. “Always delighted to help an attractive young lady like yourself. Mr. Stanhope tells me you’ve been able to give the police some assistance concerning dear Rupert’s death? A dreadful tragedy, quite, quite dreadful.”

Lindsay decided she did not care for this bouncing chauvinist piglet. But his seeming garrulity might be something she could turn to her advantage. She smiled at him. “Absolutely. I have been able to come up with some quite useful information so far. And of course, not all of it is passed directly to the police. I mean, a lot emerges in these affairs that has no bearing on the main issue. It would be a pity to cloud matters with irrelevant information, wouldn’t it? So if people are open with me, I can often get to the bottom of things that would otherwise cause a lot of wasted police time. If you see what I mean?” She let the question hang in the air.

“So you want to find out how well I knew Rupert, who his friends were, if he made enemies through RABD, that sort of thing? That’s what Mr. Stanhope said,” Mallard replied hastily.

“Not exactly,” Lindsay replied. “Though I would like to look through the RABD records. I think Mr. Stanhope arranged that with you?”

Mallard nodded vigorously. “They’re all upstairs in a little office I put at the disposal of the organisation. You can take as long as you want, you’ll have the place to yourself. We’ve got nothing to hide, you know, though obviously we don’t want our future plans made public. That would put an end to our strategies against those… those harpies down there,” he said, geniality slipping as he referred to the peace women.

“I rather thought there were one or two matters you’d prefer to keep to yourself, Mr. Mallard,” Lindsay remarked idly.

“No, no we’re not at all secretive. We’re perfectly open, no conspiracies here.”

An odd thing to say, Lindsay thought. “No conspiracies, perhaps, but one or two disagreements.”

“Disagreements?” He looked apprehensive.

“Paul Warminster?”

“Oh, that,” he muttered, looking uncomfortable. “Yes, that was a little unfortunate. But then, it only supports what I was saying to you about being open. We’re not extremists in RABD, just people concerned about our local community and the environment our families live in. We don’t want to be involved in anything at all violent. That’s what Paul Warminster felt we should be doing. He wanted us to be some kind of vigilante band, driving these awful women away by force. We were glad Rupert had the strength to stand up to him. That sort of woman isn’t going to go away because you throw them out physically. If we’d gone ahead and taken violent action, the next day there would have been twice as many of them. No, Rupert was right.”

“And do you think Paul Warminster resented what he did?”

“No question about that, young lady. He was furious.”

“Furious enough for murder?”

Mallard’s smile this time was sickly. “I’m sure nobody in our circle, not even someone with Paul Warminster’s views, would resort to murder.” He made it sound like a social solecism.

“But someone in Rupert Crabtree’s circle did just that.”

Mallard shook his head. “No. Those women are to blame. It certainly wasn’t Paul Warminster. He had nothing to gain. Even with Rupert out of the way, he’ll never win control of RABD and its membership. He must know that. He’s not a fool.”