She blanched. ‘Do you mean that someone else will try to kill him?’ she cried. ‘Please – you must stop them!’
‘Inspector Colbeck is at the hospital now. One of his main concerns will be Mr Follis’s safety. He’ll organise protection for him. But what I want to ask you is this,’ he went on. ‘Someone was waiting to ambush the rector outside the town hall. How many people knew that Mr Follis would be going to that meeting?’
‘Lots of them,’ she said. ‘At one point, he was due to replace Mr Thornhill as the speaker. People would have seen his name on the posters. When he was told that he wasn’t needed, he insisted on going even though I felt that he should rest. He usually goes to any meeting that Mr Thornhill addresses. Mr Follis can’t resist an argument.’
‘So people who know the rector would expect him to be there.’
‘Yes, they would.’
‘Let me ask another question – did you see anything recently that aroused your suspicion?’
‘Well, I did see something odd yesterday,’ she recalled, ‘but I thought nothing of it at the time. There was a man in the churchyard. People come in regularly to leave flowers by a grave or simply to pay their respects. Over the years, I’ve got to know them by sight. This man was a stranger,’ she said. ‘When he saw me looking, he bent down as if he was reading the inscription on a headstone.’
‘Can you describe him in any way, Mrs Ashmore?’
‘I only had a glimpse of him.’
‘Was he big or little, old or young?’
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘he was a big man and near your age, I suppose. And there was something else about him,’ she added. ‘I remember seeing his eyes. He had a squint.’
‘It must have been Dick Chiffney,’ said Leeming. ‘He was the man who shot Mr Follis.’
She was scandalised. ‘He was here in the churchyard?’
‘So it appears.’
‘I should have warned Mr Follis. He’ll never forgive me.’
‘You weren’t to know who the man was or what he had in mind.’
‘I feel dreadful.’
‘There’s no need for you to get upset, Mrs Ashmore,’ he told her. ‘Nobody could accuse you of putting the rector’s life in jeopardy. Inspector Colbeck has told me how well you look after Mr Follis.’
‘That’s all I want to do,’ she said.
‘Then let’s see if you can help to identify the man who hired Chiffney.’ He took a piece of paper from his pocket. ‘This is a list of names I’d like you to look at. The Inspector has a copy and will be showing it to Mr Follis. Since you’ve been here so long,’ he continued, handing her the list, ‘I’d like you to look at the names as well.’
‘Who are these people, Sergeant?’
‘They’re officers from HMS Grampus. It docked in Portsmouth for repair recently so these men are on leave. We think that one of them may have a connection with St Dunstan’s. Do you recognise any of those gentlemen?’
‘Let me see.’ She ran her eye down the list and stopped at the last name. ‘This one,’ she said, pointing to it. ‘Alexander Jamieson.’
‘And is Mr Jamieson a parishioner?’
‘It’s Captain Jamieson and he’s away at sea a great deal. But his wife used to worship at St Dunstan’s regularly.’ She looked up. ‘We haven’t seen her for some time.’
Dorothea Jamieson could not believe what had happened to her. Ten days earlier, she had been living in a large house with servants at her beck and call. She was a handsome woman in her late thirties, noted for her elegance and widely respected in the community. All that now seemed like a dream. Instead of enjoying the comforts of her home, she was locked in a filthy, evil-smelling outhouse with only mice and spiders for company. An old mattress had been dragged in, a rickety chair had been provided and – the greatest humiliation of all – a wooden bucket stood in a corner for when she had to answer the calls of nature.
There was no hope of escape. The door was securely locked, and the narrow windows, set high in the wall, were barred. Even with the help of the various implements stored there, she could not force a way out. The only saving grace was that it had not rained during the time of her incarceration or the holes in the roof would have let in the water. As it was, she had had to endure stifling heat on most days. Nights alone in the dark had been terrifying.
Hearing footsteps approach in the courtyard, she stood up and waited tremulously. A key turned in the lock and the heavy door swung open. Dorothea shielded her eyes against the bright sunlight that poured in. Her husband stepped into the outhouse and shut the door behind him. He looked at her with disgust. The beautiful young woman he had married almost twenty years ago looked haggard and unappealing. Her hair was tousled, her skin blotched and her dress crumpled from having been slept in.
‘How much longer is this going to go on, Alexander?’ she asked.
‘As long as I choose,’ he replied.
‘I’ll do anything to win back your good favour.’
‘You’re doing it, Dorothea – by suffering.’
‘You can’t keep me here forever.’
‘I can do whatever I like with you.’
‘But I’m your wife,’ she pleaded.
‘Oh, you’ve remembered that, have you?’ he said with sarcasm. ‘You always do when I come ashore. It’s a pity you don’t remember it when I’m away at sea.’
‘But I do – I’m proud that Captain Jamieson is my husband.’
‘My name is simply a shield behind which you hide.’
She spread her arms. ‘What am I supposed to have done?’
‘You know quite well what you did and, until you confess it, you’ll stay locked up here like an animal. I want to hear you tell me the truth, Dorothea. I want to know what happened.’
‘Nothing happened!’ she wailed.
‘Don’t lie to me!’
He raised his hand to strike her then held back at the last moment. Dorothea cringed in front of him. She looked wretched. Her time in the outhouse had robbed her of her good looks, her dignity and her confidence. Jamieson felt no compassion for her. As he stroked his beard and gazed down at her, his only emotion was a deep hatred. He would keep her locked up indefinitely.
‘I prayed that you’d come home safely from your voyage,’ she said, ‘but, when you did, you flew into such a rage. I’ve been trapped in here for over a week now. It’s cruel, Alexander. My only sustenance has been bread and water.’
‘That’s all you deserve.’
‘Do you despise your wife so much?’
‘What I despise,’ he said, ‘is the woman who’s been posing as my wife while acting as someone else’s mistress.’
Dorothea backed away. She knew that he had a temper but she had never been its victim before. She still had the bruises on her arms where he had grabbed her before pulling her across the courtyard to the outhouse. Confronted with his accusations, she had thought it best to say nothing for fear of stoking his rage. Dorothea had hoped that her husband might calm down as the days passed and even allow her back into the house. If anything, his fury had intensified.
‘I suspected something the last time I was home,’ he said, ‘but I was unable to prove anything. Before I sailed, I engaged a private detective to keep an eye on you.’
‘That was an appalling thing to do,’ she said with as much indignation as she could gather. ‘What sort of husband stoops to spying on his wife?’
‘One who fears that he’s being cuckolded, Dorothea. It was, alas, no groundless fear. When I saw the report about you, I refused to accept it at first. Then I read the damning evidence.’