Capable of Murder

by Brian Kavanagh

  The door opened reluctantly with heavy creaks from unoiled hinges. Belinda grimaced. Aunt Jane obviously never used the front of the house.

  The smell strengthened as she stepped into the long room and she fumbled for her handkerchief to hold over her nose. The shuttered window filtered a weak light into the musty chamber and Belinda moved tentatively towards it.

  A small table crashed to the floor as she bumped into it but she reached the window, flung back the shutters and opened the window, gulping in the fresh air as she did so. Feeling a little refreshed, she inspected the room. The chill air infiltrated even her heavy winter coat and she turned to the fireplace to stir the ashes. They did not respond to the probing of the poker and Belinda realised that the fire had been dead for some time.

  ‘Surely she’d have a fire in the middle of winter.’

  But the dank air declared this was not so.

  The room appeared much as she remembered it. Against the wall there was a divan that looked as though it had been used as a bed. The chairs that she and her aunt sat in when they first met were in their place and a cup and saucer stood on a small table next to her aunt’s chair. Belinda took the cup and inspected it. The dregs of the milky tea were covered with a layer of dust.

  The shiver of fear returned and Belinda sensed that there might be an unpleasant reason for her aunt’s unexplained absence.

  ‘She may be ill in bed,’ thought Belinda, glancing up to the ceiling.

  She had never been upstairs, and a tremor of dread made her shiver more violently. Belinda crossed the long room to a door that she remembered led into the back hall and the staircase. The stench increased as she pulled the door towards her and she heard tiny sounds of scattering feet.

  ‘Rats!’

  The stench and the prospect of vermin made Belinda hesitate but she was determined to find her aunt. She moved tentatively across the hall, her hands held searchingly before her. Her foot caught on something solid and she stumbled and felt herself falling.

  With a scream she plummeted onto the grimy floor.

  Her hand slid in a sticky substance. Stunned, she fought to catch her breath. She lay dazed for a moment, her head on the floor.

  As her eyes grew accustomed to the imperceptible light from the other room Belinda realised that only inches away, her aunt Jane’s deathly glazed eyes stared accusingly out of her decaying face.

  ***

  Two

  The police carried aunt Jane’s body bag to the waiting police van, and the coffee, percolated by a young constable to mask the smell of death, had warmed Belinda and helped overcome her shock. It was to be some days before she remembered clearly the hours between finding the body of her aunt and Inspector Jordan questioning her. She had answered automatically those questions – how little she knew of her aunt – the letter requesting her presence – her arrival and discovery of the body. A police doctor had recommended a sedative and Belinda, when eventually free of the police questions, checked into a hotel in Bath and spent a disturbed night with vague nightmares of rodents and giant birds tearing at flesh.

  Still bewildered the next morning, she called at the police station as requested before returning to London.

  ‘It appears your aunt had been dead for over a week. The doctor puts the time of death as no later than last Saturday.’

  Belinda shuddered. The thought of the rats violating her aunt’s body filled her with revulsion. She turned pale and Inspector Jordan hurriedly poured her a glass of water.

  ‘It must have been a shock to you, Miss.’

  Belinda’s glance to him indicated that she felt this to be an understatement. She took a tentative sip of the water and wondered if the medicine chest attached to the police station wall would stretch to a stiff brandy.

  ‘Have you any idea … how she …?’

  Jordan shrugged. ‘Tripped on the stairs most likely. At that age, you know?’ He splayed his hands before him. ‘There is a nasty gash on the head and a few broken bones, so it’s almost certain that’s how it happened. There are paint marks on her walking stick and corresponding dents on the balustrade where it struck the wood as she fell. Mind you, we’ll carry out further tests, however I think you’ll find it was a simple fall on the stairs.’

  Tears sprang to Belinda’s eyes. She was suddenly overcome by the reality of the lonely death her aunt had endured. She fumbled for her handkerchief and wiped her eyes. Jordan watched dispassionately. He had seen too many grieving victims to be affected by the tears of this slip of a girl. Besides, she was a relative of the old girl and she had found the body. For all he knew she could have pushed the old duck down the stairs herself. He’d known stranger things to happen to enable relatives to get Granny’s life savings. Still, it did look like an accident. The old bird had probably had one too many and took a tumble. The autopsy would clear up any doubts.

  ‘It seems such an awful thing to have happened.’ Belinda stuffed her soggy handkerchief into her pocket. ‘How long? I mean … would she …?’

  ‘Would she have suffered? No, probably not. A fall like that at her age … she probably didn’t know what hit her.’

  Belinda looked up, startled.

  ‘Hit her?’

  The Inspector gave a half-chuckle. ‘A figure of speech, Miss. I don’t mean to imply that she was struck a blow.’

  That we know about, he thought to himself.

  Belinda mulled over this “figure of speech” on her way back to London on the Sunday morning but as the train pulled into Paddington station she shook herself out of her reverie and decided that the police were probably right; it was a fall down the stairs that caused her aunt’s death.

  On the tube home to South Kensington Belinda realised that she had not discovered what it was that her aunt had wanted to tell her.

  ‘I’ll never know now, I suppose,’ Belinda sighed to herself. She remembered her aunt’s letter, and took it out of her handbag to read it once again. Her eyes misted over as she imagined her aunt eager to pass on some exciting news and then meeting her death in that terrible way. As Belinda put the note back into the envelope she glanced at the postmark.

  It was dated the previous Tuesday. It was not until she was putting the key into the door of her flat that Belinda realised the significance of the date.

  ‘But the police said she died the weekend before!’ she cried aloud.

  Without bothering to close the door Belinda hurried into the apartment, switched on a desk lamp and under the bright light inspected the envelope once again.

  It was true. The stamp bore the previous Tuesday’s date.

  The following Tuesday Belinda received a letter that bore the inscription Munro, Munro & Clarke, Solicitors, BATH. Filled with curiosity, Belinda slit the envelope open then sat down at the table to read the contents.

  Dear Miss Lawrence,

  Re: the estate of Miss Jane Lawrence.

  We are handling the estate of the late Miss Lawrence and would be pleased if you would make contact with our office in Bath to arrange a meeting at a suitably agreeable time.

  A funeral service has been arranged for the late Miss Lawrence to take place at 2:00 p.m. Friday next at the village church at Milford.

  Other than adding condolences the letter revealed little more than the name of the sender, one of the above-mentioned Munros.

  The following Friday saw Belinda once again boarding the train at Paddington bound for Bath. This time she did fall asleep, almost as soon as the train pulled away from the platform. The events of the weekend and another fight with David about time off from work had unsettled her and she had slept badly all week.

  The rhythm of the train quickly lulled her into a restful sleep and she dreamed of her schooldays in Australia and golden summers on the beaches.

  An abrupt jolt of the carriage stirred her into consciousness and she sleepily opened her eyes, aware of a kink in the neck and suddenly aware also that her head rested on the shoulder of the person next to her. Mortified,
she hastily sat up and turned to her neighbour to apologise.

  Her embarrassment turned to surprise and then hostility. Smiling back at her was her coffee-dispensing companion of the previous week.

  ‘Sorry,’ he shrugged, ‘this really was the only seat available.’

  Belinda could not trust herself to reply and shrank away from his presence, feigning interest in the passing fields. His closeness and the warmth of the carriage made Belinda feel over-heated and she struggled forward in her seat to remove her coat. The young man was suddenly attentive.

  ‘Do you want to get past?’ he queried, somehow managing to make his legs disappear.

  ‘No, thank you. It’s just getting rather hot,’ Belinda replied tersely as she fumbled with the buttons of the coat. She managed to slip it from her shoulders but was then trapped in what looked like a Bond Street version of a straitjacket.

  ‘Here, let me help you,’ her companion offered, and before she could reply, he had taken hold of the coat collar and pulled. The coat came away from Belinda’s body and as it did so she heard the undeniable sound of fabric tearing.

  The young man gasped and turned a bright red.

  Belinda looked down to see the lining of her coat rent from collar to hem. The coat had caught in the armrest and her companion’s strength had done the rest.

  ‘Oh!’ she cried. ‘My new coat.’

  ‘I’m terribly sorry, Miss. I can’t think how it happened. Can it be mended?’

  His blue eyes pleaded forgiveness. The soft burr of his West Country accent tamed Belinda’s initial anger.

  ‘Oh, well,’ she said inspecting the lining, ‘I expect it won’t show. I can get it repaired when I return to London.’

  ‘You must allow me to pay for it,’ he said, and plunged his hand into the pocket of his jacket.

  ‘No, really. Please, just forget about it.’

  He shook his head and his blond hair fell down over his brow. ‘That I can’t do. You must think me a great fool. I insist that you let me pay for repairs.’

  Belinda began to feel annoyed. An apology was one thing but to keep insisting upon compensation was another. She took a deep breath.

  ‘Look. I said just forget about it. It was an accident, besides it can easily be repaired. Now if you don’t mind, let’s drop the subject.’

  The young man looked doubtful.

  ‘Well, if you insist, but I really think that you should let me …’

  Belinda turned her angry eyes upon him. Honestly. He was becoming a bore.

  ‘And I really think you should forget it. Please! Just let me alone. Forget it ever happened.’

  She flung her coat over her knees and turned so that she faced the window. Slowly she brought her breathing under control. There was a formidable silence and the young man shrugged, glanced at Belinda and put his money away in his pocket.

  ‘I’m going to move to another carriage, Miss. I think it wiser. Again, I offer my apologies.’

  Belinda gave him a curt nod. He smiled back at her, a smile full of charm. However, all the charm in the world would not have won Belinda over at that moment and she turned her attention to the passing scenery. He reached over to take his canvas bag from the overhead rack and Belinda suddenly felt as though she was in a snow storm, for what appeared to be flakes drifted down around her, softly at first and then heavily.

  Belinda was deluged with thousands of flower seeds.

  Speechless with rage she turned to look up to her tormentor. He stood gaping down at her as she brushed countless seeds from her hair. His face flushed red and with a gesture of hopelessness he grasped his open bag and hurried away to vanish into the next compartment.

  A cold wind blew across the tiny churchyard as the coffin was lowered into the soggy earth. Doleful chimes from the ancient church tower sounded tenuously across the valley and Belinda shuddered involuntarily at the sight of a worm slowly threading through the freshly dug soil. Belinda was the lone mourner, except for a representative of the legal firm of Munro, Munro & Clarke, a rather spotty-faced young man who appeared to suffer from rampageous adenoids, and Inspector Jordan who had investigated aunt Jane’s death. The latter joined Belinda as she slowly made her way back to the solicitor’s car, which had met her at the train station, transported her to the graveyard and was waiting now to convey her to Bath and a meeting with a senior member of the legal firm.

  ‘It’s almost certain that the old lady died as a result of a fall, Miss,’ mumbled Inspector Jordan, and blew his nose loudly. ‘Excuse me. Rotten cold.’ He coughed by way of explanation.

  ‘Almost certain?’ queried Belinda.

  Jordan nodded and began to suck noisily on a cough lozenge. ‘One can never be quite certain, but there appears to be no break-in, nothing stolen and no motive for any attack. The autopsy revealed wounds equivalent to a fall of that distance, so …’ Again, he splayed his hands out before him as though protecting himself from a fall. Belinda walked on in silence and surveyed the deserted churchyard.

  ‘Don’t you think it odd that no one from the village attended the funeral?’ she said eventually. Her companion shrugged and wiped his nose.

  ‘You forget, Miss, your aunt was a bit a of recluse and didn’t welcome any contact with her neighbours.’

  ‘Yes, but after living here all her life, I mean, it seems a bit peculiar. I’m sure there must have been someone in the village or nearby who knew her, saw her from time to time. Aren’t country people supposed to know everything that’s going on around them?’ Belinda stopped by a large monument that tilted at a precarious angle. Jordan stamped his feet and rubbed his hands together briskly.

  ‘I hear that she made herself unpopular with the locals, Miss. Gave them short shrift. People have long memories around here. They don’t like their attempts at friendship thrown back in their face.’

  ‘Will there be any further enquiries into her death?’

  ‘No,’ replied the man firmly, ‘the coroner’s report has gone to her solicitor, “death by accidental causes”. The case is closed.’ He put his hands rigidly into his coat pockets and rocked gently back on his feet as though to emphasise the finality of the matter. Belinda nodded uncertainly, a hundred questions still seething through her mind.

  ‘But there is the letter.’

  A faint look of annoyance crossed the Inspector Jordan’s face.

  ‘Letter, Miss?’

  ‘You said she died at the weekend, or no later than Saturday,’ said Belinda tenaciously, ‘yet the letter she sent to me was mailed on the following Tuesday.’

  Jordan glanced at his watch. Afternoon tea would now be served at the station. He was feeling peckish – “feed a cold”.

  ‘Probably held up in the post. It can happen you know. Or maybe she got a neighbour to post it and they forgot to do it straight away.’

  ‘But you said she wouldn’t talk to the neighbours.’

  There was a brief and resentful silence. ‘As I said, probably held up in the post,’ repeated Jordan testily. He glanced at his watch. ‘Must be on my way now, Miss. You all right for a lift?’ He didn’t look as though he much cared one way or the other. Belinda nodded and indicated the waiting solicitor’s car. The hungry Inspector bade her farewell and, with a caution to accept the coroner’s report and not fret, he set off eagerly for his tea.

  Belinda walked slowly to the car. As she was about to step into it she glanced back to the churchyard where the gravediggers were completing their cheerless task.

  Shaded by the protection of the tombs encircling the church was a dark figure.

  She straightened up to get a clearer view. The figure, as though sensing her inquisitive gaze, moved sharply into the gloomy shroud of the surrounding foliage and vanished. Belinda’s heart beat faster. The mysterious visitor sent a tingle of apprehension through her. If it was a genuine mourner, why had they not taken their place beside the grave?

  From her vantage point beneath the shadowy trees, the woman in black muttered a prof
anity that was entirely out of place in the churchyard.

  She sank down onto a long neglected tomb and cursed again when she saw the state of her new shoes. Her jaw set firmly in passionate ill will, she clamped a cigarette between scarlet lips, lit it, and exhaled disenchanted smoke from her long slender nose.

  A gust of arctic air made the woman shiver and tuck wispy tinted hair back beneath her sleek fur hat.

  The thud, thud of earth shovelled onto the wooden coffin only added to her exasperation, as the gravediggers committed Jane Victoria Lawrence’s body to eternity.

  ‘If the old bitch had only listened to reason.’ The violent mute words echoed in the woman’s brain. But there was no use crying over spilt blood.

  It seemed there was an heir to the property and that could present either a help or a hindrance.

  With an inquisitive eye she observed Belinda entering the car and being driven away.

  ‘And we have Inspector Jordan on the case. Thinks he’s Somerset’s version of Hercule Poirot. More like a deficient Jane Marple,’ muttered the woman in derisive tones as the Inspector’s car vanished over the hill.

  The woman rose a little unsteadily to her feet. The chill of the graveyard was entering her bones and she needed a warming brandy. Lurking around graveyards at her time of life was a little like tempting fate.

  As she ground the half-smoked cigarette into the mud, she watched the Vicar, as he headed towards the church.

  The Vicar hummed fragments of a hymn to himself. He’d not only despatched Miss Jane Lawrence from this life but also from his mind. His attention was now firmly fixed on Sunday’s sermon and he was oblivious to everything around him. “Our life with its temptations and struggles is often similar to a voyage on a stormy sea” was the text, but how to put it into language that his largely geriatric land-bound parishioners would relate to?

  The ancient church door swung shut, there was a moment’s silence, and another figure emerged from behind the building. The woman pulled her elegant coat tightly about her, burying her chin into the gratifying warmth of the fur collar. Screwing up her eyes to focus on the man, for it was a man, a well-built athletic man, she watched as he made his way through the tombstones. For a moment, a desirable feeling of sexual anticipation warmed her, allowing her features to relax into a coquettish smile. But as the man drew nearer a frown of uneasy recognition creased her brow, adding lines to that face that had cost her dearly in cosmetic additives. Rather than confront him she turned and hurried away in the opposite direction, her black coat gradually blending into the gloomy environment.