Page 54 of Marriage and Murder
“I see.” Stokes exchanged a look with Barnaby, then asked, “Where does Pincer live?”
“I was told,” Mallard said, “that the old Pincers had a big house in town, but they sold up and moved out to a cottage in Bowerchalke. Tiny little village, that is, and the oldies say that now the senior Pincers have passed on, the cottage is a run-down wreck of a place, Pincer the younger never being one to spend money on repairs.”
Eyes narrowing, Penelope said, “During the drive here, Madeline told us that she unexpectedly ran across Pincer last evening near her cottage, and Stokes had asked her to inquire where he lived, so she did, and he told her he was living in a house outside Bowerchalke. Note, house and outside the village.”
Mallard shook his head. “The old-timers are very sure Pincer’s home is a ramshackle, falling-down hovel of a place at the heart of the village.”
Barnaby added, “Pincer didn’t exactly lie to Madeline—he led her to think something other than the truth. But even more telling, he’s been here, in and around Salisbury, the whole time.”
Stokes looked grim. “He hasn’t spent the past decade overseas, and even more interestingly, he fits the description of Viola’s secret admirer,H.”
Penelope looked distinctly troubled. “After his history with Madeline—and it sounds as if she had a lucky escape—surely Pincer wouldn’t have set his sights on Viola. More to the point, Madeline said Viola knew about the association between Madeline and Pincer and why it ended, so Viola must have known better than to get involved with him.”
“Although his name doesn’t begin withH,” Barnaby said, “it’s possible that if he’s also Jacobs’s Mr. Farmer, using aliases comes naturally to him.” He paused, then straightened. “We need to speak with Madeline. There are too many inconsistencies in Pincer’s stories—the several it seems he’s told.”
Stokes had been consulting his notebook. He snapped it shut and turned toward the door. “We also shouldn’t forget that based on physical description, Jacobs’s Mr. Farmer could easily be Monty Pincer, who might also be masquerading as our mysteriousH. The descriptions are all the same.”
Barnaby and Penelope led the way to the door. Stokes strode at their heels, and Mallard fell in beside him.
Mallard glanced at Stokes. “You think Pincer’s the murderer?”
“Other than the name,” Stokes replied, “and with a man who commonly uses aliases, who knows what weight we should attach to that, there’s a case to be made that he is our man.” Pushing through the door behind Penelope and Barnaby, Stokes stated, “We need to speak with Madeline. Then we should find and interview Monty Pincer.”
Mallard hurried to keep up. “Laying hands on Pincer might not be straightforward, but where’s Miss Huntingdon?”
Penelope and Barnaby had already turned right along Endless Street. Over her shoulder, Penelope said, “Madeline went to St. Edmund’s Church to organize her sister’s funeral.”
Madeline came out of the church door, paused just outside, and closing her eyes, turned her face up to the weak sunshine.
In the wake of arranging for her sister’s funeral, she felt in need of warmth, of a reminder of life.
And then there was what the deacon—an older man who had known both sisters for many years—had told her.
Apparently, Viola had visited St. Edmund’s on Wednesday afternoon, the afternoon before she died.
The deacon hadn’t spoken to Viola, and Madeline couldn’t fathom what purpose had brought her sister there. Not on that day.
Frowning slightly, she opened her eyes and looked around and spotted Henry sitting on a gravestone and watching her. His expression was stern and rather somber.
Puzzled, for when she’d left him, he’d been quite relaxed and at ease, Madeline walked across the grass and halted before him. “What is it?”
Wordlessly, he rose and pointed to the grave opposite the one on which he’d been sitting.
Madeline turned, then bent to read the name inscribed on the headstone. “Harold Montgomery Pincer.” She checked the dates, then straightened. “That must be old Mr. Pincer, Monty’s father.”
“Indeed. Now look at that one.” Henry pointed to a grave two plots on.
Madeline walked across, crouched, and peered to read the headstone. It was older, more worn, and more difficult to make out. Then the words came into focus.
She sucked in a breath, rose, and stared at the grave as understanding dawned. “Montgomery Harold Pincer,” she slowly enunciated, “who must have been Monty’s grandfather.”
Henry had come to stand beside her. “And what are the odds that Monty’s full name is Montgomery Harold Pincer, like his grandfather?”
“If the family made a habit of alternating the names…” Eyes widening, Madeline turned to Henry. “I never knew his middle name.”
Henry held her gaze. “Do you think that, if he decided to approach your sister, he might have taken to using his middle name? Perhaps to distance himself from his previous association with you and emphasize that he was now a different man, a reformed character rather than a scoundrel she needed to keep at a distance.”
“To underscore that the past was finished and done with…” Madeline’s features firmed. “Oh yes. That’s exactly the sort of thing Monty would do. He was always remarkably effective in glossing over anything he didn’t want you to focus on.”
