Page 40 of Marriage and Murder
They approached the young constable on the desk, and he greeted them with the news that the medical examiner was ready to release Viola Huntingdon’s body to her family for burial.
“I’ll let Miss Huntingdon—the sister—know,” Stokes said. “Meanwhile, we’re here to speak with Superintending Constable Mallard.”
The constable went to check with Mallard, then returned and showed them to his office.
They entered to find Mallard behind his desk, and as they claimed the chairs before it, he directed an inquiring and rather hopeful look their way. “Any advance?” he asked. “Did Swithin identify the man involved?”
“He did,” Stokes confirmed. “But it seems all is not as it appeared at first glance.” Briefly, he explained what they’d learned from Billy Gilroy. “And as that was verified by Reverend Foswell, we’re treating Viola hiding the jewelry as fact.”
Mallard was frowning. “But why on earth would she do such a thing?”
Barnaby outlined their current hypothesis. “Her sister believed Viola was quite capable of such reasoning, and it does fit with her being furious about being deceived and wanting to ensure H got his comeuppance, which is entirely understandable.”
“Hmm, yes. I see.” Mallard shrewdly eyed Stokes. “Are you after tracing the jeweler, then?”
Stokes grinned. “That’s why we’re here—to pick your brains as to dodgy jewelers in Salisbury.”
Barnaby put in, “They have to be skilled to have copied the bracelet so well.”
Mallard sucked his teeth, his gaze growing distant as he trawled his memory. Eventually, he admitted, “There are all sorts of jewelers in this town. There are two well-established firms—Swithin’s and Carlsbrook’s. I’ve never heard a whisper about either. Straight as a die with reputations to protect, so I doubt it would be either of them. Next, there are four smaller outfits with shops in the streets around the square, but all of those are trying to make their mark, and getting taken up for shady doings isn’t going to help them with that.” Mallard straightened. “I’d say your best bet will be one of the five who have stalls at the market. Each have workshops outside town—out in the villages—and they’re the ones we keep our eyes on asthe most likely outlets for stolen items.” He grimaced and looked at Stokes. “Hard to catch them, though. They see us coming and spirit away anything incriminating long before we can get close enough to nab them.”
Stokes nodded understandingly. “Markets are always difficult. So”—he glanced at Barnaby—“we have five possibilities.”
Leaning forward on his forearms, Mallard said, “I honestly can’t see it being anyone else, so the stallholders you want are Hatchard, Jacobs, Kimble, Millbank, and Conrad.”
Stokes jotted down the names, and Barnaby asked, “When’s the next market day?”
“Tomorrow.” Mallard leaned back. “All five should be in the square by eight in the morning. All five stalls are scattered along the central row.”
Stokes had been consulting his notebook. “While we’re here”—he looked at Mallard—“and I ask purely to be thorough, have you had any reports or concerns regarding a Jim Swinson or William—Billy—Gilroy, both of Ashmore village?”
Mallard thought, then shook his head. “Can’t say either name rings any bells, and I don’t know as we’ve ever had any reason to suspect anyone from that tiny place of anything. But I’ll check.”
“Thank you,” Stokes said.
“What about a Pincer?” Barnaby asked. “Montgomery—Monty—Pincer, apparently a Salisbury native believed to have spent the past several years out of the country, but now recently returned.”
Mallard frowned. “Pincer? How far back was it that he was living here?”
Barnaby calculated, then grimaced. “Possibly as many as ten or even fifteen years ago.”
“Ah. That explains why the name doesn’t register,” Mallard said. “I moved up here from Southampton five years ago. ButI’ll ask around. There are some old hands still about who might remember if we’ve ever had cause to look sideways at this Pincer.”
Barnaby inclined his head. “Thank you. It might be nothing or not connected with the case, but he seems to have turned up at a curious time. That might just be coincidence, but…”
“Coincidences are suspicious,” Mallard darkly opined.
Barnaby grinned. “Indeed.”
Stokes tucked away his notebook and nodded to Mallard. “Thank you for the help. We might see which of the local jewelers we can cross off our list today, and we’ll be back tomorrow to investigate the stallholders at the market.”
Mallard pushed away from the desk as Stokes and Barnaby rose. “If you need any help taking anyone up,” Mallard said, “we’ll be happy to assist.”
With nods and smiles all around, Barnaby and Stokes left Mallard to his day and headed out to the front desk. There, Stokes requested a list of the names and addresses of the four minor jewelers in the town. The young constable was happy to help and even sketched a crude map of the center of the town, showing the relevant locations.
Thus armed, Barnaby and Stokes walked out of the police station. They halted on the pavement and looked toward the market square, presently empty of stalls. “Now,” Barnaby said, “to find the ladies and combine our information with whatever they’ve learned.”
Barnaby and Stokes walked down Endless Street and reached the square to see Morgan striding their way.
