David Dickinson - Death of a wine merchant

The police brought trouble with them when they arrived. Or rather, it wasn’t the police that brought the trouble, but the attitude of the guests to the police. For in apparent charge of the investigation was the Norfolk Constabulary’s youngest Detective Inspector, Albert Cooper, aged thirty-two years, and still in the first week of his new promotion. Cooper’s problem was that he looked much younger still, possibly in his mid to late twenties. Only a couple of years past people often asked him if he had started shaving yet, or if he had stopped growing. Detective Inspector Cooper took it all in his stride. He was almost certainly the cleverest policeman in Norfolk. His father had died when he was in his teens and it became important for him to start earning money to support his mother and the younger brothers. The teachers at his school thought he was very intelligent and wished he could continue with his education but bowed to the inevitable as they had with so many like Albert in the past. Accountancy, they suggested to him, the maths teacher was sure he could secure him a post at a firm in Aylsham. Newspapers, his English teacher suggested, the school could find him a position on the staff of the local paper in Norwich. From there all things might be possible. It was the headmaster who suggested the police force, one of the few institutions that was not totally in thrall to the class system and tried to promote on merit rather than by birth.

As he rose to address the wedding guests, flanked by a sergeant and a constable, he realized that this was the most distinguished company he had ever been part of, and that he was attending on the first blue-blooded murder of his career. He knew what they were thinking, most of these guests. And while Willoughby Nash had been politeness itself, Inspector Albert Cooper did not expect all the rest to be as well behaved. He had scarcely finished his opening sentence when he was interrupted by a choleric-looking gentleman in military uniform.

‘Nash,’ spluttered the man with the medals, ‘this is preposter ous. Can’t you get us a proper policeman, for God’s sake? We can’t have an incident like this looked into by some babe in arms in uniform, it’s absurd.’

Nash was about to rise to his feet when the Inspector waved him down. ‘I can’t help looking whatever age you think I am, any more than you can help looking whatever age I think you are, sir,’ he said, before he was interrupted.

‘Impertinent young pup!’ roared the red jacket. ‘Nash, can’t you do something? I have some influence with the Lord Lieutenant. We need a proper policeman here, for heaven’s sake. I for one am not going to co-operate until we do. I suggest we take a vote.’

Inspector Cooper had already sent for reinforcements but he was not going to tell his audience here that. Not yet at any rate. Once more he made a gesture to Willoughby Nash to remain in his chair. He motioned to his sergeant and his constable to take up their positions on either side of the military gentleman.

‘General,’ he said firmly, ‘we have had enough of your comments. For everybody here this has been a terrible day, for many, no doubt, the worst day of their lives. You are now making things worse. If you utter one more word, you will be arrested. You are obstructing the police in their inquiries, a most serious offence. The County Jail in Norwich has accommodated all sorts of distinguished prisoners over the years. What a tragedy it would be if such a distinguished career were to end in those circumstances.’ Cooper realized that it might be time for an olive branch. Sending distinguished former generals off for a spell in the cells might not look good on his record. ‘I understand, of course, General,’ he went on, ‘that you, like everybody else, must be very upset by what has gone on here. And I have already sent a request for reinforcements. My superior officer, Detective Chief Inspector Weir, should be with us later this afternoon. You will be pleased to hear, General, that he is a lot older than me.’

Inspector Cooper waited for any reaction and then pressed on with his plans. Two tables at the front would be taken over by the constabulary and one at the back. After people were interviewed they would be free to go provided they left an address where they could be contacted. The police would be maintaining a presence at Brympton Hall for some days, if people remembered something that slipped their mind during the first interview.

Who sat next to you in the church? Who else was in your pew? Who was in front of you? Who was behind you? Who was sitting in the pew across the nave? Did you see anybody acting suspiciously?

Some of the wedding guests whispered quietly among themselves. Some closed their eyes and prayed or tried to fall asleep. Outside the sun still shone on the Brympton gardens. Water spouted erratically from the Brympton fountain and a peacock in full glory took possession of the gravel walk nearest to the house.

Who were you talking to during the champagne session in the garden? How far along the east front of the house were you standing? Who was standing close to you?

The hosts, Willoughby and Georgina Nash, could not believe what was happening. Surely this must all be a dream. Their daughter’s new father-in-law couldn’t be lying on their grand carpet with blood dripping from his head. Surely his brother wasn’t sitting in what appeared to be a catatonic trance, refusing to speak, the gun but recently removed from his hand. These weren’t real policemen licking their pens and writing everything down in their notebooks. Were they?

Going into the Long Gallery, who was in front of you? Who was behind you? Who else was sitting at your table? How far up the room was your table? Do you remember seeing anybody or anything suspicious?

The shadows were lying across the gardens when the last guest departed. Randolph Colville had been removed to the morgue for a post-mortem report. Cosmo Colville still refused to speak to anybody and was taken away to spend the night in the local jail. The bride and groom had to change their plans and booked themselves into a local hotel where they partook of an indifferent supper and slept on a lumpy bed. Inspector Albert Cooper looked forward to collating all the interviews about people’s whereabouts into a single document which would virtually be a seating plan for the church and the Long Gallery. His superior officer still had not appeared. Chief Inspector Weir was not known for speed of movement either mental or physical. Maybe he wouldn’t appear at all on this day.

‘I tell you one thing, Tom,’ Cooper said to his sergeant as they set off for the nearest town of Aylsham.

‘What’s that, sir?’ said Tom.

‘I hope that bloke with the gun starts talking soon.’

‘Why is that, sir?’

‘Well, I don’t think he did it, if you see what I mean. Nobody who’s just killed somebody is going to sit there holding on to the bloody weapon, even if it is his brother, are they?’

‘You could have a point there, sir. But why do you hope he starts talking?’

‘Think about it, Tom. You know what the Chief is like. Here’s a corpse. Here’s a man with a gun in his hand. The man with the gun won’t speak. Man must be guilty. Nearly certain to get a conviction with those attendant circumstances. “The sentence of this court upon you is that you be taken from hence to the place from which you came,”’ Albert Cooper had heard these words over half a dozen times in court and they still chilled him to the bone, ‘“and thence to a place of execution, and you be there hanged by the neck until you be dead and your body shall be buried in the precincts of the prison in which you shall have last been confined, and may the Lord have mercy upon your soul.” Our silent friend, Tom, could be pushing up the daisies within a month.’