Goosey Goosey Gander

by Frank Edwards

  Then he noticed the blood. Cut himself? He decided not to touch the body. He called up to the still panting reporter to go at once and phone for an ambulance.

  “And”, he added, “the police.”

  It did not take the paramedic any time to declare Den Bracegirt dead. Very dead.

  “Must have been instantaneous,” he said to Henshaw. “Didn’t know what hit him as it were.”

  That he had been hit was also beyond doubt after the briefest of examinations. Exactly what by, the ambulance man couldn’t know, but that it was a bullet of some sort didn’t take a forensic expert to decide. The detailed information would come later. As it was, it was clear that the vicar had done the right thing to call the police at once. No need to move the victim. He may as well lie where he was a little longer until they had a look.

  By the time Hole and Maitland got there, separately but at almost the same moment, the scene of crime team had done their important preliminary work. By, what seemed to him on arrival, an odd coincidence, Hole had called on Ma Olive in her railway carriage first thing that morning. The former GWR third class coach, of the corridor type otherwise it would have been quite awkward to get from room to room, had been her home for as long as local legend had it. There she lived with Den, ‘doing’ for him. What their relationship was Hole did not know, nor had Annie ever heard. Together they were, and seemingly always had been.

  Wanting to, as he had put it to his Chief Super, bump into Den, and learning from Annie of his volunteer work in the churchyard, Hole considered at breakfast to make a first call. Bound up in his train of thought, when Annie told him that she had things on, was busy, up and about, he decided to go and ask when Den might be at his digging. He knew this wouldn’t lead to a ‘meeting by accident’ exactly, but engineered though it be, it was necessary to arrange. He needed to ask questions. He couldn’t avoid that. So he felt it better to be open about wanting to have a chat. It would be better still, he felt, that Ma Olive knew of it in order to avoid any misunderstanding. Den was somewhat liable to police enquiry. Unusually, on this occasion, the police were requesting his co-operation. Hole wanted to know if he had been anywhere in the vicinity when Alan Tewkes had been killed. He, Den, was under no suspicion. This he wanted to make clear to the old lady.

  Old she was. How old he could only guess. Whilst Den was late thirties, maybe just early forties, he calculated that Olive was twice that age or more. Small. No more than five foot, and seemed even smaller as she opened the carriage door that acted as the main entrance to the small street of rooms in which they lived. What, if any, planning permission had been needed, or asked for, had been lost in time and more than one local authority reorganisation. The coach, complete now with access to the main cesspit of the farm on which land it unobtrusively stood, and supplied by bottled gas, so far as he could see, but not mains electricity, was outwardly in good order. Den, apparently, was too good a handyman to let it rot. Unless it was Ma who did the work. Looking at her, he wouldn’t put it past her.

  Ma Olive was alert. Alert and suspicious. She knew Hole. She did not dislike him, but wanted little truck with the police. She stood there, almost defiant, in her usual shapeless, well-worn, cardigan and trousers that seemed two sizes too large for her frail frame. Thinning grey hair and a well-lined face, but alive. Keen eyes. Alert. On guard. ‘She won’t miss much,’ thought Hole. ‘Wonder if she needs glasses for reading?’ She had vigour, and still moved with a purpose although now, with age, somewhat stiffly. She said nothing. She made no attempt to ask Hole’s reason for the visit. She made no gesture of welcome or any invitation to come in.

  “I wanted a few words with Den.”

  How often had she heard words of that sort? They lived quietly enough and wished to keep it that way. What were a few rabbits here and there to those whose land they happened to breed on? Or a duck or two, come to that. She could have written a book of menus for these delicacies had she the inclination. Still she stood, making no reply.

  “Is he in? Or at the churchyard already, by any chance? Nothing wrong, I assure you. He may be able to help me. He may know something that could lead to my finding out who killed Alan Tewkes. And,” the Inspector hastily but firmly added, “there is absolutely no thought, none whatsoever, that he had anything to do with it. But he does get around. He does see things. He may be able to help me”, he repeated, in as warm a voice as he could.

  Ma Olive gave him a cool look. Her voice was as firm as her stance at the open carriage door.“If you say so. Never tells me where he’s going. Or what for. Chary that way is Den. Always was. Today? Now? You might find him digging that grave. I expect. I wouldn’t know for sure. Had his breakfast and was off again. But that’s where he may be. Later.”

  That was that. She waited as if to allow Hole chance to add to his request. The policeman had nothing more to say. He knew that Den’s early-morning outing would have been to do with his traditional profession. His second outing, if to the churchyard, would be more leisurely. There was no need for the policeman to rush. It would be best wait awhile before chancing on him. He turned away with a ‘thank you for your help’ as she closed the door, and began thinking how best to approach the poacher. He settled on taking an hour to ‘think things through’, as he put it to himself. To read the paper that Annie would have brought home by now, before going off to wherever it was she had said she was going, would suffice just as well. He was deep into the concerns of the Middle East – he never read the crime stories, considering them to be journalised beyond his patience – when his phone rang.

  Once at the grave side, ‘How appropriate’ was the silly thought that came into his mind. When he saw what and who it was, he observed all he could from the top of the excavation, not at once risking a descent. If only he hadn’t dawdled away that hour! Not only would Den most probably be alive, but might have provided a lead. Possibly something he saw or heard on the morning of Alan’s murder. No chance of anything now.

  The grave was deep. He could see why the chap who found him thought Den had no more than lost his footing on the uncertain, mud-caked steps. The Vicar had briefly described the sequence of events first to Hole and then to Maitland as they arrived in quick succession. Hole then quizzed the medic who had been down the pit, and got what he could from the first police officers on the scene, all known to him.

  “I’ll avoid making more marks down there for the moment”, he said. Maitland took this to mean that when his boss decided otherwise, it would be his task to risk his neck clambering below. Yet, if a Vicar could… !

  Hole turned to the now more evenly breathing if still upset churchwarden.

  “And you, sir. It was you who found the body?”

  “Indeed. I didn’t know then that he was dead, of course. I thought he might have slipped and knocked himself out, as he didn’t reply to my call.” Before Hole’s next question, he added. “I couldn’t go down myself. Not with my leg.”

  Hole had not seen the man walking. He wondered, as oddly as his inner phrase about the grave, whether the leg might be the result of a war wound. The warden had something of the stamp of a military man about him.

  “And your name, Mr?”

  “Enderby. Eustace Enderby. Eustace Edward in fact. My parents were fond of alliteration.” He gave a long-practised little gurgle together with a bashful tug at his firm, white moustache.

  ’That moustache’ thought Hole. ‘That’s why the idea of a war wound came into my mind. Quite the cartoon Major’. If true, it would be to his advantage. Military men, on the whole, were trained to observe, and could present their thoughts clearly and succinctly. In this he was to be satisfied, but he did not pursue the military background.

  “Why did you come over here? Saw something, did you?”

  “No. It was the sound. I was on my way to the church, the churchyard makes a handy short cut for me, and I heard a bang. As though one of the old tombstones had fallen over. We have to be so careful these days. what with all this Health
and Safety nonsense. I mean to say, who in their right mind is going to go playing around old graves? No one alive left to visit any of these.”

  “Except the Warburtons, I suppose.”

  “You have me there, Inspector. Yes, indeed. Over all these years they remained very faithful to their daughter’s grave. The only one in this section kept well. That won’t last now, I don’t suppose. That will upset Mr Thornley even more.”

  “Thornley? DeLacey Thornley, of the Grange?”

  “The same. He was here with me only yesterday. ‘Spying out the land’ as he put it. He meant that he wanted to keep an eye on what Den Bracegirt in particular was getting up to. Not over keen on the man. Was afraid that by barging about too roughly, however much the digging might be required and appreciated by the Vicar, he and Farmer would disturb the foundations of some of the other gravestones. That’s why, when I heard the bang I thought it was one of those falling over.”

  “And then? When you got over here. Did you hear or see anything else? Any movement? Any sign of disturbance? What time would this be, by the way?”

  Enderby paused in the face of this barrage of questions to gather his thoughts.

  “Let me think, now. It would be about nine-thirty. The Service was at ten and I left the house at quarter past nine as near as makes no difference. So. About half past nine.”

  “And you heard? Apart from the bang?”

  “Something or someone. On the embankment. I was afraid that it was those kids again. Off school once more this week – when they ever learn anything is a puzzlement to me. If they are not on holiday they are off on some safari or other; anything to get them out of the classroom.”

  Hole didn’t want a diatribe on the benefits or otherwise of modern educational methods; he got enough of that at home.

  “And were they? Kids, as you put it?”

  “I’m always afraid it will be. Apart from any damage to the graves, and that does really upset me, it’s the thought that they will soon be in one themselves if they continue to play on the line. We do our best to work with the railway police, but this part of the ground seems to hold a special attraction for them.”

  “Was it, this time? Kids? Or drug takers, perhaps?”

  “Oh dear! No. I don’t think so, Inspector. Not drug users. They prefer the shelter of the bus station. Those that we’ve got around here. You would know more about that than I do. It’s children, with their silly games on the bank, that worry me. Rolling down. Mock fighting each other. Worst of all is that suicidal game of chicken, when they dash across the line in front of a coming train. Gives me white hairs to think of it.” Hole didn’t want a digression on this theme either at this stage.

  “And were there boys? I take it you refer to boys.”

  “Mostly. We do see some girls, but it’s not really their thing, as they put it these days. Boys usually. But no. I saw no one. Mind you, when I got over here, and as I couldn’t see any stone toppled over, and saw what I saw in the Warburton excavation, I really didn’t look any further around.”

  “Yet you are sure you heard someone. Nearby.”

  “Someone or something moved. I think backwards, away from me, down the bank away from the gravestones. Again, I can’t be too sure. I’m sorry. I didn’t actually see anyone. Or thing.”

  “You don’t want to commit yourself. I can see that. But you are not in the witness box here. So. Would you put your money on a person or an animal?”

  “You mean I almost saw the killer?”

  “If it was a person, yes.”

  “I’d put my money on it being a human being. My money but, alas for you, not my oath.” Hole smiled at the nice distinction. It was something to go on.

  “To be clear on this. At the time of your discovery, and your hearing movement, you were the only person here?”

  “Just so.”

  Hole turned to the Vicar.

  “When you came, Mr Henshaw, did you go over to the bank at all?”

  “No. I came just ahead of Mr Enderby, to the edge of the grave, and then decided that I had to go down to see to the poor man.”

  “Absolutely right. You couldn’t have done otherwise. But not anywhere near the bank?”

  “No.”

  For confirmation, rather than with any expectation of other than a negative answer, the Inspector asked the same question of the remaining medic. No. He turned to Maitland.

  “As a first priority, get a fingertip search of the ground around here and the embankment, and then down the bank to the line. Oh, and find out what trains might have been passing between, say, eight-thirty and ten. A passenger or, in the case of a goods train, a driver might have seen someone lurking around. Any crew member would be sure to have noted a trespasser on the line.”

  His sergeant set about his business, relieved that it was not to be him, after all, who had to make a gingerly descent into the depth of the grave.

  Chapter Seventeen

  resham Reed had just about given up on the Tewkes site. The whole damned business was getting too messy, and the police investigation, dragging on as it was, meant time and money. Especially money. The thing was becoming not worth the candle. There was that flat piece of land near Lincoln he was in with a shout for, but that was more money again. And, thinking of money, there was that which lay with the curvaceous form of Galina Foxley. The merry widow’s attractions remained. Reed was a man of more than the business world.

  Mainly for that reason he had come back down for one last fish. Or a stab. He wasn’t going to waste any more time, but he still hated to lose, and in Galina there was that extra chance of a gain. Not that she had in any way given him, as they used to say so deliciously, expectations, but there was a kindred business soul. Of that he was sure. Especially over this land. She had played her cards well. She could become the outright owner given the right shakings of a lawyer’s tail but, again, that was going to take time. And back to money!

  He had stayed at the best that Gloucester had to offer, driving down to Talbot in his run-around cheap Jag the next morning, early. He hesitated which to call at first, Fox Lea or the wetland. Having driven around a while aimlessly listening to the radio, the background music of Classic FM he found soothing, and stopping from time to time to check for emails and texts, replying with passion to three of them – when the cat is away, even for a day! – he settled on neither. Not long before ten he parked outside the front door of Wickton. There was a servant to open it. He was ushered, in not too polished a way, to the presence of the lady of the house. Marcia had some inculcation still to do. Jeremy had not yet returned.

  “Out shooting? Not over the reserve I trust?”

  “I see no reason why he should not”, was his hostess’s reply, “but I understand that he is going up river with some friends from the County Wildfowlers. They own well over twenty miles of the estuary banks you know.” Reed didn’t know, and had no interest so long as their reach had not yet taken in the Tewkes land.

  “I didn’t know. Being a foreigner hereabouts. Also, not my sport.”

  “If you buy the land surely there will still be room for some sport?”

  “I’m sure of it.” He wasn’t, but what he said had no legal standing. Still, steady Gresham!

  “Any news of a settlement yet? I understood that your husband hoped to have had possession confirmed by now.” He knew he had hit upon a problem. This was not, however, a time to pussyfoot around. That time was that money. Seeing Marcia’s face, he pressed on just as he thought he heard the front door go. The master may well have returned.

  “Is there a problem? With the succession? Jeremy’s inheritance? For,” he drove home, “if there is, then I fear I must either do swift business with the new owner or cut and run. My time on this project has expired.”

  Before Marcia could speak, Jeremy entered.

  “Jeremy! Your boots! What… ” Marcia broke off. Not the thing in front of the guest.

  “Sorry! Saw the car. Guessed who it was even thoug
h it wasn’t the Roller. Have you told him?”

  Marcia wanted to put a brake on things. How she would like a few minutes alone with her husband, but no such chance was available. She, for her, weakly said: “I left it to you, dear,” and saved her ammunition for when it might have greater effect.

  Jeremy slumped down in one of the easy chairs, his boots dropping a little of their residual mud in front of him. The girl would clean it. With a Hoover no doubt, not a brush and pan.

  “It’s a bugger”, he opened. Marcia waited her turn.

  “A real bugger. That bloody sister of mine has put her oar in and for a moment, but only a short moment I’m convinced, I am not quite certain where I am with the land.” He went on to tell Reed of Macintosh’s letter and then after a ‘what the hell; why not’ got up, got the document, and gave it to the visitor. It didn’t take Gresham two readings to understand the import. He had the advantage over Jeremy; he knew pretty well what his sister had been engineering behind his back. He had had enough of these particular Tewkes. They were bunglers. He couldn’t stand bunglers. He didn’t put it that way. Who knows what twists fate might have in store for this story, but he made it clear that his time was up. He would have to be off. He left them his ‘calling’ card – all his electronic contact details by the full range of mediums – and said that, with regret, he was about to call it a day. If they were to get outright and undisputed ownership by the last day of the month, then let him know. Midnight on that day was the absolute deadline. He would be off. And with no more apologies or small talk the magnate of the cooped chicken world took his leave.