Murder at Midnight

By Alex Binney

Jealous lovers, a crooked solicitor, trouble with gypsies, illegal liquor, feuds between farmers, unrequited love and more, but did any of it lead to the murder of the beautiful young woman at midnight in a Cornish lane? More importantly, as the identity of the murderer seemed obvious, too obvious, could the Murder Squad unravel the loose ends and follow them back to find the true culprit? And, if they could, would they do it in time to save the accused from the hangman? Worse, from the point of view of the local policeman, would the fearsome Mrs. Trimb, widow of the parish, succeed in snaring him as her next husband?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Strict Publishing International
• Release date: Dec 4, 2013
• ISBN: 9780857793218

Alex Binney

Alex is a well established English author of murder mystery novels. He took early retirement as a manager from a major UK bank to pursue his first love of writing murder mysteries. Over the years he has devised numerous plots which he did not have chance to bring to his readership whilst pursuing his bank career. Divorced, he lives in Plymouth, Devon, UK, and you can correspond with him on Facebook.

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Murder at Midnight

by Alex Binney

Second Edition

for Smashwords

Copyright 2013 Alex Binney

Cover art by Sarah Binney

Published by Strict Publishing International

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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CHAPTER ONE: Provocation

There was a bee on Constable Peter Pluckett’s nose. It had settled there while the policeman had been in a deep state of meditation. Having now recovered from this self-imposed condition, the constable became aware of his fearful dilemma and shook with trepidation and anticipation. The bee had evidently found some similarity between this facial protrusion and a flower, and seemed to be eagerly searching for the source of the nectar.

Any normal person would have reacted instantly to rid himself of this troublesome insect, but not so Constable Pluckett. He had been conditioned by fifteen years on the beat into taking his time in reaching such momentous decisions. His duties being in the main perfunctory, he seldom had a use for his brain – such as it was – but when he did, the mental processes involved were so cumbersome and tortuous that any resulting thoughts were confused and dilatory. A slow deliberation on how to tackle the problem, however, convinced him that the best form of defence was attack; and so, pursing his lips, he blew an upward jet of air towards the insect.

The bee stung him.

Emitting a loud shriek – not exemplary of the bravest of policemen – Pluckett vehemently cursed all God’s six-legged creatures from the face of the Earth. The bee, having now brought about its own destruction, plummeted to the ground, buzzing madly. In a great deal of pain and in a state of extreme agitation, the constable displayed his wrath by vigorously stamping on the offending insect and by uttering some terrible oaths under his breath.

Holding his nose and wiping the tears from his eyes, Pluckett meditated sorrowfully on his total incapacity to cope with the crisis that had arisen. But he need not have despaired, for help was at hand in the shape of Mrs. Elizabeth Harriet Trimb, widow, who was making great strides towards him.

The lady was a superb athlete (a fact which she frequently confirmed when in pursuit of her favourite hobby – Manhunting) and a great friend (so she thought) of the wounded constable. She was short and obese; hard of face, broad of shoulder. Her hair, a dishevelled mop, radiated a bright ginger which, coupled with a ruddy complexion, projected the aggressive side of her character. Dominant and extrovert, she put fear and admiration into all who met her.

Poor Pluckett visibly shrank as he observed this confident, yet sympathetic, tank of a woman approaching him.

Oh, you poor man! she declared. What has happened to you?

A bee stung me, ma’am, the constable replied, ruefully.

Tch! You’ll need some ointment on that, Peter. Come down to the house and let me treat it for you.

Bless you, ma’am, but it’ll be all right. Besides, I’m still on duty. The constable’s voice wavered audibly as he spoke.

Mrs Trimb was not to be put off by such flimsy excuses.

Don’t be silly, Peter. It won’t take a minute. In any case, you’re your own boss. And I’ve heard that these insects’ stings can be fatal, you know.

The widow, whose attitude was permanently morose, had been prone to looking on the black side of things ever since the late Mr Trimb had been carried off with a mere cold.

Constable Pluckett reluctantly succumbed to Mrs Trimb’s insistence. He could see it was useless arguing with her. When that Christian lady had made her mind up to do a thing, it was done – and no one was allowed to stand in her way.

The widow smiled reassuringly at the policeman. He certainly needed reassurance, for he had the same look of fear on his face that can be seen on the average person visiting a dentist. He trembled slightly, and perspiration was beginning to collect on his brow.

Notwithstanding the constable’s misgivings, the portly pair made their way down the winding country lane that led eventually to Mrs Trimb’s residence.

The house, which was situated at the bottom of a small field, was pleasantly bedecked with ivy that had spread out in all directions and now threatened to choke the very sparrows who were singing from the rooftop. The walls of the building were in a bad state of disrepair, and it was surely one of the world’s greatest mysteries as to how they managed to support an equally disordinate roof. The gardens – back and front – were completely overgrown with a wide variety of weeds. So much so, in fact, that were competitions held for the best cultivated of these species, Mrs. Trimb would surely have walked off with first prize. The house itself, although never really structurally sound, had become increasingly dilapidated since the demise of Mr. Trimb. The extent of the deterioration was reflected in the musty odour that greeted the couple as they entered the house.

Pluckett’s immediate reaction was to make a run for the door, but that exit was cut off by Mrs Trimb who had a somewhat delighted expression on her face and looked, to all intents and purposes, like a spider that had just caught a fly in its web.

Sit yourself down, Peter, commanded the widow. I’ll soon stop that swelling.

The constable was apprehensive and asserted weakly, I can’t stay long, ma’am. The pub will be closin’ soon and I must get down there to make sure there’ll be no more trouble like there was yesterday.

Trouble? What trouble? The widow’s ears pricked up to display her interest.

A fight broke out down The Feathers last night. Old Ben Terber and Gerald Sintac were ’aving a go at one another. The constable looked nervously at Mrs Trimb as she approached him with a bottle of all-curing potion in her hand.

Why? What started it?

The constable’s eyes were still on the bottle. Err... ’e – Gerald that be – reckoned Ben said somethin’ offensive about ’is sister.

Oh, Carol Sintac. Well I’m not surprised. She’s up to no good, that girl.

I don’t know ’ow you can say that, ma’am. She seems quite a nice girl to me – owww! The constable was taken aback by the pain that surged through his nose as Mrs. Trimb applied her ointment.

You men are all the same, the widow replied angrily, oblivious to Pluckett’s writhings. You can’t see anything wrong with a pretty face. Mark my words, that Carol will get herself into serious trouble one of these days, leading those village lads on like she does. I think it’s disgusting. And I think you ought to do something about it.

The obvious prejudice in Mrs Trimb’s words eluded the slow-thinking policeman.

I don’t see what I can do about it, ma’am, he protested. She’s done nothin’ illegal. Besides, it’s more’n my job’s worth to say anythin’. You know ’er father’s one of the biggest farmers round these ’ere parts. ’E’s only got to say a word to my superiors…

Ah, phooey! retorted the widow. Old man Sintac is on his death bed. He couldn’t say boo to a goose right now. It’s only a matter of time before he joins Mr Trimb in that other place.

Whatever that other place was, was left entirely to Pluckett’s imagination. He attempted to formulate some sort of reply when the widow interrupted him, saying, And I’ll tell you another thing – she’s always at home nowadays waiting for the old boy to pop his clogs. Her brother Gerald had better watch out. I wouldn’t put it past her to try and get old man Sintac to change his will – to the detriment of Gerald.

Change ’is will? Pluckett looked enquiringly at Mrs Trimb. I don’t know what you mean, ma’am. ’Ow do you know she wants it changed? It could be that ’er father’s will – if there be one – is already satisfactory to ’er!

My dear man!

Pluckett blinked nervously as he caught sight of the widow’s face. She was staring reprovingly at him. You must have heard the rumours that are going around. No smoke without fire, you know.

As Mrs Trimb was usually instrumental in starting any rumour that circulated the village it was difficult for the policeman to comprehend her meaning. He knew, however, that she would continue to argue the point with him no matter how good his case was, so he decided it would be prudent to say no more on the subject.

The widow, having completed the treatment of Pluckett’s injury, looked at the policeman in analytical fashion. She was considering whether or not the constable would make a good husband.

He was very fat. His chin had so many folds in it that he could have easily passed for a bulldog. He was honest, but dull-witted; friendly, but short-tempered; stubborn, yet easily manageable. In the village, he was liked by all and laughed at by all. His rotund appearance and amiable disposition, coupled with his unique claim of being the village’s only law enforcement officer, made him a prominent figure in the life of that community. In short, whatever his faults, he was the man for Mrs Trimb.

Although inept in many ways, Plucket was not slow to perceive that there was more in Mrs Trimb’s attentions than mere friendship. Visions of a matrimonial net, closing round him, wielded by the widow, and followed by a ceremonious enslavement in that blessed unity we all know as marriage, instilled an unreasoning fear in his breast. Analogous to a condemned man awaiting the inevitable drop, he secretly prayed for some miraculous deliverance from his predicament.

Well, I’d best be goin’ now, ma’am, the constable began, conscious of the fact that Mrs Trimb still stood between him and the door, otherwise those lads might start a fight in the pub again.

Oh, very well, Peter, capitulated the widow, flattering herself that the policeman only wished to leave because of his strong sense of duty. No doubt I shall see you at the village fete on Saturday.

Ah, yes, ma’am. But only in an official capacity, of course.

Of course, replied Mrs Trimb, a strange smile on her lips.

The constable, having triumphantly reached the exit to the house, hurriedly thanked the widow for her help, adjusted his helmet, and eagerly set as many paces between himself and that good lady as his podgy legs could manage, without appearing to be running.

Mrs Trimb sighed a deep sigh and closed the door. Her fluttering heart told her she must devise even more subtle schemes to entrap the reluctant Pluckett.

* * * * *

The road to Trelarro, steep and winding, typified the average Cornish highway of the day with its uneven surface (full of cracks and hollows and bordered at its edges by high-trimmed hedgerows) and its generous endowment of odorous deposits that a herd of cows had thoughtfully placed at regular intervals – only a few hours before – on their way to milking.

The hedgesparrows twittered merrily in the spring sunshine and lambs romped playfully in the fields as the trickle of a nearby stream reverberated between the attendant trees. The beauty of the season was captured in the invigorating scent of blossom and in the sight of the first butterflies fluttering their tremulous wings against a bright blue sky.

Such sights passed by unnoticed as far as Constable Pluckett was concerned (being accustomed to such scenic beauty) as he trudged his weary way to the village. After what seemed to be an eternity to him the sight of Trelarro’s only public house, The Feathers, caught his eye.

A thatched roof overhanging whitewashed walls, heavily buttressed, provided a great tourist attraction in the summer. Lead-lined windows glistened in the sun and the doors to the public bar and lounge (carved out of heavy oak) beckoned one, temptingly, to enter in and sample the local brew. Or at least, that is how it seemed to Constable Pluckett.

It did not take him long to reach the door to the public bar, which he opened with great vigour and, forcing his huge girth through the limited opening thus provided, was greeted by the landlord, Horace Hopper.

Hulloa, Peter. Pint o’ bitter?

The smile that creased the constable’s bulbous cheeks grew in intensity with this suggestion.

If you please, ’Orace, purred the policeman.

Responding to this affirmative, the landlord proceeded to pull a pint of the local brew, the action of which was eagerly scrutinised by the prodigious Pluckett. Horace became quite red in the face from pulling at the pump. The two hairs remaining on his otherwise bald head bristled in anticipation of being bathed in hot perspiration – while at the same time, two bloodshot eyes threatened to pop out of their sockets.

There y’are Peter, gasped Horace at length. A pint o’ the best poison. Good God! What ’ave you done to that nose o’ yourn? It’s swole up like a bloody balloon!

A bee stung me, replied the constable, somewhat abashed. Anyways, I got me own back on the darned thing!

Yup, dangerous things, them bees. Can be fatal, y’know. Horace spoke authoritatively.

So Mrs Trimb was tellin’ me, confirmed Pluckett. She doctored me up a little. Mind you, ’er doctorin’ hurt more than the sting!

This last remark brought a roar of laughter from the two men. Pluckett picked up his pint of beer and drank deeply. To see the landlord and the constable together, one could hardly tell one from the other – such was the extent of their obesity. Indeed, it was a constant argument among the villagers as to who had the greater proportions. Not that the argument ever reached the ears of the two men concerned: if it had, they would certainly have been greatly offended.

’Ave Ben and Gerald been in? asked Pluckett, eyebrows raised.

Yup, as a matter of fact, they ’ave. They are in the lounge. To see ’em now you’d think they was long lost friends compared with yesterday. Horace gave Pluckett a knowing wink.

Hmm. Just the same, I’d better check, ’Orace. No sense in lettin’ trouble start when it can be avoided.

With this reassuring comment to the landlord, the constable proceeded to launch himself into the lounge, taking his drink with him.

Well, look who it is – Rudolph the Red-Nosed Policeman and Drink up, lads, the Law ’as arrived were two of the mocking comments that greeted the constable as he made his entrance.

Hello, Ben, Gerald. I see you two chaps ’ave made it up, then, observed the policeman, a huge smile masking his countenance.

The two men, thus addressed, looked at one another.

Ben Terber, a man of about thirty years of age and sporting a black, bushy beard, smiled back at the officer. Gerald Sintac, about five years younger and fresh of face with blond hair contrasting sharply to that of his companion’s – as did his temperament – smiled back at the constable too, and said, Yes, we ’ave. Any objections?

Why, no. It’s just that after last night I wasn’t sure…

Ha! Weren’t nothin’ to it. Just a slight disagreement after we’d ’ad a bit too much to drink. If Ben, ’ere, hadn’t provoked me, none of it would ’ave ’appened.

Provoked you! screamed Ben Terber. All I did was to tell ’e a few ’ome truths about that sister o’ yourn. She’s making a monkey out of you and all the men in the village. Ben Terber’s features tightened as he spoke. His eyes rolled around his head like marbles. His black beard bristled, and his jaw was set in an aggressive fashion with an exposure of white, flashing teeth.

There you go, provoking’ me again, accused Gerald Sintac.

Huh! The sooner you face up to the fact that that sister o’ yourn is a tart, the better for you! Again the flashing white teeth snarled ominously.

Why, you…

Sintac was about to throw a punch at Terber when the constable intervened.

Pack it in, you two, he said firmly. If you’re going to fight, do it outside the pub. And if you’re going to do it outside the pub, make sure I’m not around. Now – get out, both o’ you!

Despite the constable’s official air, it had not occurred to him that on this occasion it was he who had been responsible for setting the two men at each other’s throats.

Yeh, well... you wait and see. His sister’s goin’ to get ’er just desserts one of these days... Ben Terber continued.

Shut your filthy mouth! retorted Sintac. Or, so ’elp me, I’ll break your bloody neck!

I said pack it in, you two! Pluckett was doing his best to assert such authority as his uniform could muster (which was very little). I thought the peace was too good to last. Now, get out and stay out!

The two men continued to snarl at one another, and at Pluckett, as they slowly left the pub.

The constable gave a little chuckle, lifted his glass of beer to his lips, and slurped away at the contents.

CHAPTER TWO: Last Request

As Ben and Gerald walked away from The Feathers, they continued their argument. Ben was throwing his arms in the air and shouting at the top of his voice, while Gerald was retaliating with even louder oaths and by punching a fist into the palm of his other hand in a repetitive and most threatening manner.

Now look ’ere, Sintac, seethed Terber, if you don’t want the same treatment you got last night, I suggests you shuts up!

Well, don’t call me sister names, then!

Ha! I don’t know what you’re getting’ so upset about. It’s not as though she’s been a sister to ’e. And like I says, she’s a tart. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was in the club already.

This last remark was more than Gerald could stand. Without warning, he threw a vicious punch that caught Ben Terber on the point of his bushy chin, sending him sprawling to the ground. Letting out a horrific shout – akin to the bellow of an angry bull – Gerald threw himself onto his prostrate companion. The two men rolled over in the dirt, fists flailing.

Punch and counter-punch were accompanied by grunts and curses from either side as each man tried to hammer the other into oblivion. After several sickening thuds, which sounded more like hammers falling on anvils than blows to the body, Gerald staggered to his feet, apparently the victor.

That’ll learn ya, he coughed. That’ll teach ’e to call me sister names.

Ben Terber wiped a sleeve across his bloodstained beard.

You bastard! he cried. I’ll get even with ’e and that bitchy sister o’ yourn.

Gerald was too exhausted to take umbrage again, so he ignored Ben’s shouts and walked away.

Ben picked himself off the ground and brushed the dust from his clothes. He continued to throw abuse after Gerald as he faded into the distance. Such was Ben’s rage that his eyes had swollen with the tears that had trickled involuntarily down his cheeks, making weird patterns in the dried-up blood on the exposed part of his face.

Although he would not admit it to himself, Terber’s dislike for the Sintacs stemmed from the fact that he was a rejected suitor of the voluptuous Carol, and his pride had been hurt beyond the bounds from which he could reconcile himself to his sudden solitude. For Ben was indeed a lonely man. His stubbornness and egotistical tendencies did not lend themselves easily to friendship, and his volatility and prejudices frequently involved him in brawls with other men in the village. Were it not for the fact that social and business pressures of his farm life led him into contact with his fellows, he would surely have become a recluse. Such was Ben Terber’s lot, and a most unhappy man he was for it.

Scratching his beard in an agitated fashion, he started the short walk back to his farm.

For Gerald, it was a longer walk back to the Sintac farmhouse, but it would help to cool his temper.

After a few minutes the incident had almost gone from his mind and was replaced by considerations that were of more immediate importance to him.

He thought of his dangerously ill father. It would not be long before that sick gentleman passed away and the farm became his. There was no doubt in Gerald’s mind that the farm would be left to him, as his father was unlikely to leave it to the other member of the family – Carol, his sister. She was a woman, after all. And in any case, he had worked hard on the farm all his life while Carol had just gallivanted around. Still, he loved his sister, for all her faults, and would have no one besmirch her name – especially the likes of Ben Terber.

Gerald stopped as he reached the top of the hill. Behind him and below him lay the picturesque village of Trelarro, and in front of him – as far as the eye could see – lay the farmland of the Sintacs, and in the heart of that land stood a rather engaging farmhouse. His parents had had the house built to celebrate their Silver Wedding anniversary, and no expense had been spared to make it the most impressive in the county. The walls of the building were constructed from imported marble and were partially covered in ivy; the windows were of the popular lead-lined variety, the frames of which were painted in a bright primrose colour; the rooms were lavishly furnished and the internal decor breathtaking. The pity of it all was that Gerald’s mother had died shortly after the house had been built and had not had long to enjoy her new home. Such was the extent of his father’s grief that his health deteriorated, leading to his present illness.

The immediate surroundings of the farmhouse were spoilt by the large collection of outhouses: chicken coops, pig sties, stables, shippens and the like had all fallen foul of that mysterious agent, the weather, and bore a forlorn and dilapidated look that reflected the lack of care their owners had taken in their maintenance.

Gerald still looked thoughtful as he started down the hill towards the farmhouse. Charlie the sheepdog had seen his approach and gaily barked his welcome as he sprinted up to see his master.

Whoa, boy, said Gerald, trying to curb the dog’s exuberance. You been behavin’ yourself while I’ve been away?

Charlie’s response to this rhetorical question was a series of excited barks. Gerald gave the dog a playful pat on the head and then continued his walk towards the house. On approaching the front door, Gerald noticed that there was a car parked in the yard by the side of the building. It was a bright red Volkswagen Beetle, hardly a year old. He recognised it at once. Only one person in the area owned a car such as this – and it belonged to the family solicitor.

Gerald scratched his head and looked confused. Wondering why that honourable gentleman had called, he opened the door only to come face to face with the same – Joseph Clutter.

Joseph was gaunt and extremely tall. He was all of six feet eight inches, Gerald gauged, and would have been two or three inches taller were it not for his permanent stoop. Immaculately dressed in a charcoal-grey suit and carrying a bulging briefcase, he looked every inch the articulate and meticulous solicitor his contemporaries envied. At this moment, however, his brow was creased in a heavy frown, which was so untypical of his normal outward appearance of joviality that Gerald gave him a look of apprehension and concern.

Oh, hello, Gerald, was the greeting from that gentleman, the tone of his voice encapsulating his mood of depression. I was just going. Terrible business, this. You know, sometimes I wish I had taken up my father’s trade when I left school. Far less worrying. Daresay I would have made a good plumber, too.

Shaking his head in a deliberate manner, Mr Clutter gave Gerald a look of despondency and passed by to make his exit. As he did so, the farmer caught hold of him by the arm.

Just a minute, Mr Clutter. What are you doin’ ’ere? Did me father send for ’e? What did ’e want you for? Gerald’s face was flushed, his eyes penetrating.

The solicitor seemed alarmed by these questions. He looked down on the strong hand that gripped his arm and, staring at Gerald in a reproving fashion (whereupon Gerald released his grip), said in a stern voice: I’m sorry Gerald but I cannot discuss it with you. You’ll have to ask your father yourself. He may be your close relative, but that does not give you the right to know the nature of his business with me. Unless, of course, he decides to tell you himself. Your sister is with him at the moment, by the way.

He gave Gerald a knowing wink, shook his head two or three times more, and departed. He walked over to his Volkswagen and climbed laboriously in – for it was indeed an effort for Mr Clutter to manoeuvre his lanky frame into the confined space provided by the opened car door. He started the engine and drove off.

Gerald watched the car disappear into the distance before closing the front door. The furrows on the young farmer’s face deepened with anxiety. It was obvious to him now that the solicitor must have called in respect of his father’s will. His father had wanted to change it in some way. But from what to what? And Carol, his sister, what had she to do with it all? Certainly, in recent weeks she had spent a great deal of time by their father’s sickbed, but he had presumed that her attentions arose out of concern for her father’s rapid deterioration in health; that she had realised it would not be long before he died and that she wanted to spend as much time with him as possible. But apart from this supposed affection she had for her father, could the reasons for her increased vigilance be devious? God, no! What was he thinking – that Carol, lovely Carol, was up to some shady trickery? He felt ashamed of himself for even considering it.

His thoughts were disturbed by the arrival of another car outside the house. He walked over to the window and looked out.

A rather scruffily dressed individual was climbing out of an equally scruffy Ford Anglia saloon. The car had seen better days, and so had the individual concerned. The man wore a rather battered hat, which had all the appearance of having been trounced on before it had been put on his head. A shabby sports coat, baggy corduroy trousers and a pair of heavy gum boots – together with a monocle held precariously between a bushy eyebrow and an aquiline nose – gave this gentleman the unmistakable air of eccentricity. The collars of his shirt were turned up at their ends, which gave vent to the repetitive urge of trying to press them down with his chin. In his hand he carried a small black bag.

Gerald despaired to see him. For the sight of Dr Cecil Potts could mean only one thing – his father had taken a turn for the worse. He walked over to, and opened, the door.

Dr Potts looked breathless as he entered the room.

I came as soon as I could, he panted. Has Mr Clutter been?

Gerald nodded. You must ’ave passed ‘im on your way ’ere. But why…?

Sorry, can’t stop to talk now. I’d better get up to see to your father before it’s too late.

And with this remark, the doctor flew up the stairs with all the agility of a man thirty years younger.

Gerald followed in hot pursuit, but was hard put to keep pace.

The two men entered his father’s bedroom to find Carol Sintac at the foot of the bed, in a kneeling position with her head on the cover, sobbing uncontrollably.

Carol… Gerald began, but he stopped short as he watched Dr Potts make a hurried examination of his father.