by Amy Myers
‘I can’t. Olly’s had to go to the shop, and the police said they’d be coming to look at his room. They told Oily to lock it, so I’ll have to be here.’
Georgia grimaced at Peter. Too much to hope for! ‘Look, we’ll rouse you if they come within the next hour or so. Then we’ll be going out –’ She made it deliberately vague – ‘so we’ll rouse you then.’
‘But your breakfast,’ Lucy wailed. ‘Won’t you want your full English, Georgia? And Mr Marsh?’
‘Thank you, no,’ Peter said in lordly manner. ‘The use of your loo would oblige however.’ Between the two of them, this was accomplished fairly easily, since the Country Stop toilet was a reasonable-sized room on the ground floor, and once they were on their own Georgia replenished the coffee and produced some cereal.
‘Now,’ Peter said, ‘that sanity reigns, kindly tell me more about this Terence Scraggs. Everything.’
Georgia obeyed. ‘It seems to have been a stab in a general fight,’ she reminded him, as she finished, ‘so I still don’t see why Mike was summoned here.’
‘Even in drunken brawls, one would be fairly careful whom you fought and Scraggs was an outsider. Odd, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but he was an outsider who was the power behind the appeal.’
‘An appeal over a contract that you say is being signed today. A trifle belated.’
‘No one knew till the meeting that the contract was to be signed so quickly. And it wouldn’t invalidate their claim anyway, it would merely change the point of attack from the Bloomfields to the new owners.’
‘Ah, yes, the Bloomfields. That, I deduce, is why the SIO thought Mike would be interested in joining the Darenth team, though it’s fair to say it could simply be revenge for his hassling them on our behalf over the Wickenham denehole. This particular SIO has, so Mike informs me, a warped sense of humour.’
‘Unlike Mike, who has none at all,’ Georgia observed.
‘Chief Inspector Lockhart,’ Peter continued oblivious, ‘pointed out that the crimes both happened on Bloomfield land.’
‘What crimes?’ Georgia asked blankly.
‘Last night’s and the denehole man. The coroner has decided to hold an inquest on him, since it’s possible he died a violent death in the absence of evidence either way. Lockhart picked up that the denehole is on the Bloomfield estate.’
Was it indeed? Remiss of her not to have followed through on that after the possibility occurred to her. And then she thought further. ‘Does the SIO know that the denehole is close to the public footpath right through the estate? Or,’ she added sweetly, ‘that these crimes – if indeed the first one was – would be over seventy years apart?’
‘You told me Ada Proctor was found on the same footpath, heading towards the woods.’
‘True, and it’s also true the coroner’s report suggested she was moved from a point nearer to the wood.’
Peter gloated in silence. Only for a moment, however. ‘Don’t you think it odd that this fellow announced he was an artist—’
‘He had a portfolio. I saw him carrying it once,’ she interrupted. Be blowed if she would let Peter’s theories get ahead of evidence again.
‘But he obviously wanted to fight on the Todd front, thus stirring up the feud. Why have two reasons for coming to Wickenham?’
‘People don’t have to conform to reason.’
‘Not even you, Georgia.’
She ceded victory.
*
‘Wickenham – ah, I remember it well.’ Peter looked round complacently as Georgia pushed him along The Street towards the Green. He was self-mobile in his chair, but relished the occasional lordliness of her pushing him, so she stifled her complaints. He had chosen this method of going to the scene of crime rather than by car in order to ‘sniff’. One can’t sniff through car windows, he pointed out. He had already sniffed once this morning. As they emerged from Country Stop he had spotted Terence’s car parked there, a Citroën Deux Chevaux.
‘That his?’ he asked, and, when she nodded, added, ‘Thought so. Wanted to be different, to make a point. That would figure. Anorak man aiming at power.’
His second sniff was at Georgia’s suggestion, as she stopped outside what had once been Mary Beaumont’s tearoom.
He was silent for a moment, as he regarded the house. ‘Nothing here, is there?’ He didn’t seem perturbed. ‘But of course she’s no longer here.’
‘Do you want to meet her?’
‘Naturally. This afternoon?’
‘What about Margaret?’ Peter had a habit of going off and giving Margaret the fright of her life when she arrived to silence in the house.
‘I left her a note. Don’t fuss. I’ll be back tomorrow.’
‘Lucy only has two rooms so—’
He twisted round indignantly in his chair. ‘My dear girl, if you think I’m going to stay with that maniac of a woman, you are vastly mistaken. I’ll book into the Manor of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘I take it it’s well thought of as a hotel?’
‘Jim Hardbent says so.’
‘You seem to place reliance on his word. I see no such need. Remember there is power in being the only historian in a village, and all power corrupts. Is he a Todd or an Elgin?’
‘Neither. He’s for Wickenham.’
‘I’ll reserve judgement until I meet him.’
Wickenham today, Georgia realized, would have no time for fingerprints from the past. The suppressed excitement and tension over the present were almost tangible, as even on this chilly autumn day groups outside pubs and shops buzzed with discussion. Georgia recognized Todd groups and now the lesser-known Elgins. She had wondered whether the murder would unite them, but from the look of things there was little chance of that. The Todds would be all too anxious to distance themselves from the more obvious culprits, the drunken Elgins, and they would be all for blaming the Todds or maybe even the Bloomfields.
Autumn leaves were scampering over the grass, still damp from overnight rain. The crime scene examiners must have had their work cut out recording and logging the scene of crime before rain overtook it, she thought, perhaps obliterating some forensic evidence for good. Mud could be a good companion before a crime but a hindrance after it, and not the whole crime scene could be protected from rain, especially when there were questions of access concerned, as here. Doubtless the Bloomfields were making the most of that.
As they drew near the Bloomfields’ home she could see the incident van established a little way up the main road that ran past the house. With Elgins and Todds present in large numbers last night, the scene of crime to be taped could be enormous, but she could see that as they reached the house that reason had had to prevail and only the immediate pavement outside and the forecourt to the house were taped off.
‘Typical,’ Peter grunted as they reached the van. ‘No access for us poor sods in wheelchairs.’
As he rapped with his stick on the van door, Mike came grumpily to meet him.
‘No need for that. We’ve got a ramp. I’ll come down though. Morning, Georgia.’
Mike’s lugubriousness hid his quick mind and eye. He might not possess humour, but Georgia felt if she were a villain and saw his lanky figure descending upon her, she’d give herself up on the spot. At one time she and Peter had used a private nickname for him, ‘Squash’, which had nothing to do with his physical appearance but sprang from Peter’s observation that you could bounce balls off Mike with impunity, but if you ran up against him yourself, you’d land up floored. Then Mike had overheard this one day, instantly diagnosed its rationale – and they never used it again.
‘So what’s the story, Mike?’ Peter asked as he came down the steps.
‘Presumed story. Death by sharp instrument in the chest either deliberate or accidental. More like the former, since the sharp instrument was a kitchen knife left in the wound. No pulling it out in panic and covering yourself in blood for this villain. It’s with the lab now.’<
br />
‘Suspects?’
‘Very funny. A couple of hundred or so at a guess. That –’ he cast a mournful look at Peter – ‘is why I’m here. They need legwork to get round these blasted Elgins and Todds.’
‘And the Bloomfields?’ Georgia asked.
‘Them too. The SIO’s taking them on.’
‘Other forensic evidence?’
‘Nicely packaged up and on its way to the lab. A few circular splashes of blood lifted from the brick paving and several others spattered around, which could be Scraggs’s, could be others’, and plenty of broken glass around. There are signs the body was pushed further into the bushes where it was darker and no one could fall over it too soon. One damaged placard found in the bushes, obviously used as a weapon at some point to bash someone good and proper.’
‘When can I see the scene video?’ Peter demanded. ‘You must have it in there.’ He glanced enviously at the van. Not ‘can I’ but ‘when’ with Peter, Georgia knew all too well.
‘You don’t. Not unless you have a valid reason.’
‘I’ll find one,’ Peter assured him confidently.
‘Don’t you mean you’ll give me evidence of one?’ Mike suggested.
‘Easy with Georgia’s help. She knew him.’
‘You’ll have your work cut out with Lockhart as SIO. Wait till I can bring you in as some kind of expert witness. See?’
‘Yes, Mike,’ Peter said meekly. ‘By the way, I presume Darenth Area will be paying for DNA samples?’
Mike eyed him suspiciously. ‘One sample at the moment, Peter. Of Terence Scraggs. Not the several hundred possible suspects yet. Or,’ he added scathingly, ‘getting excited about the man in the denehole. The lab got a profile for him and there it stays.’
Georgia groaned to herself. Mike had given Peter the perfect opening. ‘What’s happened to him, by the way? All seems to have gone quiet. You said you’d let me know when the inquest report came in.’ Peter sounded aggrieved.
‘It hasn’t. You’ll be pleased to know it’s been adjourned, thanks to you getting me to badger Darenth with questions about that skeleton. It’s pending enquiries. Satisfied?’
‘Yes.’ Peter glowed.
‘And, before you ask,’ Mike added dourly, ‘no doubt you’ll be asking to see the artefacts collected with Denehole Man. They’re back with Darenth.’
‘That’s very good of you, Mike. If you’ll just arrange it . . .’
*
Peter transferred from his Alfa Romeo to wheelchair outside the Manor, leaving Georgia to drive it to the official car park.
‘Proper ramp, I see. Nice wide door,’ he remarked of the hotel before them, when she returned.
‘That’s as well. You’d complain about Traitor’s Gate not being wide enough.’
‘Nonsense. I’m eminently reasonable in such matters.’ Unfortunately the nice wide door was closed, and the stick was raised to be brought into play again just as a uniformed doorman swept it open.
The park had looked magnificent, and in the October sunlight Wickenham Manor itself looked a brighter place than Georgia remembered from her earlier visit. Part of the park had been turned into a golf course, but there were also formal gardens, woodland and lawns. She wondered whether the contract had gone through yet, and whether the murder would have any effect on that. Even more important: was the sports fields’ sale still going through today? Certainly if the appeal went ahead, that must affect the supermarket deal; she hoped it would scupper it completely, if only for Terence Scraggs’s sake.
The calm of the Manor seemed a world away from what was happening in the village today. It appeared unassailable, and she supposed that was and always had been its strength. Whatever happened in the village, the Manor went on for ever. Or perhaps that was a mere illusion. The fingerprints on Time might be covered by silken gloves here, but that wouldn’t eradicate them.
Ada would have known this place so well. Quite apart from delivering medicines here, either by pony cart or by footpath to cut off the corner, she must have attended countless social occasions too. The doctor, the schoolmaster, the vicar, all had status in a village, and Ada must have known the Bloomfields, just as she knew the Randolphs. Matthew, who became Squire the year she died, would have been, she calculated, four years younger than her. There would, to Georgia’s knowledge alone, have been quite a youthful circle here in the years before the First World War, with Matthew and Jack, their sister Anne, who was Ada’s age, and Guy and Gwendolen Randolph. By the 1920s, only Matthew and the women were left; what had happened to Anne and Gwendolen? she wondered.
When Peter emerged from his room, on the whole approvingly, they made their way to the bar for a drink and bar snack. Since the hotel had a conference centre, the bar was crowded and – not altogether to her surprise – she saw Trevor and Julia Bloomfield. The contract was presumably being signed here, and they would undoubtedly wish to escape the presence of the police van at their home as much as possible. They looked strained, whether through lack of sleep, or because the business meeting had not yet taken place. Nevertheless Georgia seized the opportunity to push their company upon them. She had as little liking for the couple as they seemed to have for her, and saw no reason to be tactful. Introducing Peter, she promptly took advantage of their lacklustre invitation to join them. There wasn’t any choice, in fact, since the bar was so crowded.
Georgia made all the right noises: she was so very sorry to hear about the tragedy last evening, how upset they must be, particularly with such an important day today, and how violent today’s society was. Peter remained silent, only because, she knew full well, he was busy summing them up. Outwardly he was doing his impression of an old man only interested in digging up the past.
‘It makes your 1929 murder seem positively attractive,’ Julia remarked bitterly. ‘One on one’s own doorstep doesn’t carry the same interest.’ She must have seen Georgia blink for she scowled and then added, ‘Of course we’re deeply involved because we live so close to it. A 1929 murder doesn’t seem so real.’
It did to Georgia, and it surely did to anyone with imagination. It only required concentration. Take away Nefertiti’s Egyptian headdress – and there you had a fashion-conscious teenager of today. Take away Ada’s cloche hat and there stood today’s smart professional. Take away Sir Philip Sydney’s ruff and doublet, give him a sweater, jeans and anorak and there might stand Terence Scraggs.
Nevertheless Georgia did her best to murmur something that could be taken for sympathy.
‘It was all quite ridiculous and scaring,’ Trevor took over angrily and with a speed that made Georgia suspect he was eager to put their side of the story. His grievance must be real from his viewpoint, she supposed, trying to be charitable. ‘My sons came back from the meeting to warn us that a march was on its way with this ridiculous appeal, so I went out with them to collect it, thank them and ask them to disperse. But as soon as we were outside, all hell descended as that other scrum pitched in and we were caught in the middle. Fortunately Julia saw what was happening and rang the police – though it turned out they were already on their way. Our village policeman had summoned them too. They took their time, I must say, and look what happened.’
‘Typical of today,’ Peter said earnestly. ‘Did you see this Terence Scraggs in the scrimmage?’ he continued with bland innocence.
‘It was chiefly Oliver Todd I went out to see. Scraggs isn’t local. He came to see me some ten days ago, wanting to paint my house. I’d have told him where to put his blessed paints if I’d known he was behind this appeal.’
‘Did he get the commission?’ Georgia asked.
‘I told him there was no point, we were selling up. As a goodwill gesture though I said he could paint Wickenham Manor and I’d pay for that. The stuff he showed me looked quite good. Look what he did to me. Talk about a stab in the back.’
There was an awkward silence as he realized the inappropriateness of the comment, and Georgia turned quickly to Julia, na
useated by this farce, and the need for it. Here they were, sitting in an upmarket hotel, with drinks in their hands, discussing a murder that had taken place only last night a few hundred yards away. How useful it would be if forensic science could strip away the layers of speech to reveal the thoughts underneath. Instead, they were doomed to seek truth the hard way, sifting the dross of everyday words in the hope of infinitesimal nuggets. ‘A terrible shock for you when the body was found,’ Georgia said earnestly, though she doubted whether anything other than a blow to her purse could shock Julia from her detachment.
Julia obviously thought it was time for a shudder. ‘I was watching from the window when the policeman found him, and everyone started shouting and rushing around. I didn’t know what was happening, till Trevor came to tell me. After that it went on for hours, police and doctors and ambulances, men and women in white suits, and lights being put up. And those ghastly powerful torches they have. Quite dreadful.’
‘For Scraggs too,’ Peter remarked, shaking his head sadly.
Trevor looked at him sharply, but didn’t comment.
‘And then the police must have wanted to talk to you,’ Georgia persevered.
‘Endlessly,’ Julia replied. ‘We didn’t get to bed until four, and then it started again at seven.’
Peter took up the conversation seamlessly – one of the benefits of their working together. ‘Dreadful to have the police sniffing around just when you don’t need it.’
‘Sniffing?’ Trevor stiffened.
‘They must see you as a suspect after Scraggs’s campaign against you.’
Georgia waited with interest for his reply to this, but Trevor actually laughed. ‘What on earth would I want to kill him for?’
‘It could be argued you did it to ease the sale of the land for the supermarket.’
He shrugged, still apparently amused. ‘You’ve been reading too many Agatha Christies. Stick to Ada Proctor, that’s more your forte. I live in today’s world. What good would it do me to kill Scraggs? The appeal won’t stop just because Scraggs is dead, even if the sale for the two sports fields did go through. In fact, it won’t. I know that already. We’re meeting this afternoon, but it’s a lost cause. They had an alternative bid they were urgently considering, and they were already concerned at talk of this appeal. They need to build quickly and the last thing they want is to begin pouring money into something with a possible sword of Damocles hanging over it. The alternative site was a last-minute hope. With that given the thumbs down, we knew it was all over well before Scraggs died. The cash from the sale of two piffling fields would be jolly nice, but it won’t make or break us fortunately and the main deal won’t be affected. So there’d hardly be any point in any of the Bloomfields sticking a knife in the chap. It would simply make one more reason for the sale not to go through.’