by Ann Cleeves
They found it just as they were planning to give up the search for the evening – a small patch of freshly dug earth, the size of a pet’s grave. It was covered with twigs, impossible to see unless you bent down close. It was under the live oaks at the edge of the garden, in the woodland which Mary Ann intended for a wildlife refuge.
Then they had to bring lights because the lieutenant wanted to come from Galveston and by the time he arrived it was nearly dark. Benson heard about the find at home. He stood like a big grizzly, silhouetted against the floodlights, glaring down at them. They crouched, moving the soil and the leaf mould with small trowels, archaeologists on a dig, looking for buried treasure.
First out of the hole came a short-handled shovel which had been used to dig the pit and also, it turned out later, to hit the back of Esme Lovegrove’s skull hard enough to kill her. Then there was a plastic carrier bag. It had come from Gatwick airport’s duty free shop and would have held a bottle of spirits – it was too big for perfume or even for packets of cigarettes. Now it contained a chisel with a sharp point and a fat wooden handle, a wood carver’s chisel said Benson, who knew about tools. Lovely and old and just right for the job.
‘For sticking through a victim’s ribs?’ said one of the officers but nobody laughed and Benson did not consider that worth answering.
All this George saw from the edge of the gathering. He stood apart from the officers like an uncertain guest at a funeral. He had spent the afternoon sitting on the veranda, listening to the conversations going on around him, asking questions. Esme Lovegrove had been much on his mind.
He had even sought an audience with Joan, the sister. He had offered to go up to her room but she had come to him. They had taken tea together, sitting side by side on an uncomfortable wrought iron bench, and had chatted for half an hour before tiredness or the medication she’d been prescribed had overtaken her.
He had begun to feel a little cold – there was still a cool breeze in the evenings, a remnant of the storm – and was about to go to the bar before preparing for dinner when he recognized the excitement of the officers searching the wood. He sauntered over and stood unobtrusively, watching, tolerated because they knew he was a friend of Benson’s. He saw the exhumation of the shovel and the carrier bag. Although the lieutenant was there it was Benson who carried the bag right under the floodlight and opened it, a fist through each handle. He did not see inside but he knew what it contained because Benson described it, lovingly: ‘A wood carver’s chisel.’ And immediately that triggered a memory of his visit to Laurie’s house.
It meant nothing to Mary Ann. She was sure it had not been taken from Oaklands. It was the sort of thing a craftsman would own. For as long as she could remember Oaklands Hotel had been run by women and they had no time for wood carving. It was old enough to have belonged to her grandfather but she did not remember seeing it around as a child. Wouldn’t it have come as part of a set?
This was what she had told the detective. She repeated the conversation to George when she invited him to her flat after dinner for coffee and brandy.
‘Wouldn’t it have come as part of a set?’ she said again, asking George’s advice.
‘I think it would.’
He was more interested in the shovel. That must have come from the hotel. He asked her about it.
‘Sure. I recognized that. It’s been here for ever. I mixed mud pies with it when I was a kid. But I haven’t seen it for years. It’ll have been in the storeroom with all the other junk.’
Then George said he would have to go.
‘That’s fine George,’ Mary Ann said. ‘We’re real busy. It’s the Birdathon reception tomorrow night. I’ll be in the kitchen until dawn.’
‘That’s still taking place?’ he thought the discovery of the murder weapon might have made a difference.
‘Mr Benson said it should. It’s too late to cancel, he said.’
‘I bet he did.’
‘I asked Miss Lovegrove if she’d mind. She had no objections. Really, George, she wanted the race to go ahead.’ Mary Ann paused. ‘And I spoke to Laurie. She’s agreed to come over tomorrow night to present the trophy to the winning team. I thought it was time we patched things up.’
‘A nice gesture,’ George said bitterly. He still considered the bird race an appalling idea.
‘Yeah!’ Mary Ann said, pleased. ‘I thought it was.’
The rest of the bird race team was in the bar, planning its strategy for the following day assisted by the birdwatchers in Rob’s group. George saw them from the door but he did not go in. He spent the evening prowling round Oaklands Hotel.
He began outside in the paved yard beyond the kitchen where the residents parked their cars. He crossed the yard and looked up at the house trying to place the window which had been lit on the night of Esme’s murder. Through the uncurtained windows of the kitchen he saw that a chef was still working, presumably preparing the next night’s feast. He was chopping, hitting the palm of his hand on the wooden handle of a wedge shaped knife, a knife which would have been a more effective weapon than a wood carver’s chisel. Mary Ann was there too, and a couple of women stacking a dishwasher but outside it was dark and no one saw him.
The old stables which formed two sides of the yard had been turned into storerooms. The doors were unlocked, there was nothing of value inside. The shovel would have been here with the car spares, a rusting lawn mower, and the piles of cans and bottles waiting for recycling. The storeroom had an electric light, a neon tube which flickered and left the corners in shadow. When George switched it on he had left the door open and a rectangle of light would have been visible from the kitchen, but the people there were so engrossed in their work that they did not notice. Would they have seen a visitor, crossing the yard in daylight, poking around the storeroom? Probably not.
Inside, everyone was in the bar. Even the sleepy old man had deserted his seat in the lounge to watch the preparation for the bird race. It was something special to focus on. They needed that. And a few beers. From the bar came shouts and bursts of laughter. George ignored the noise and continued his tour of the hotel. He walked through the restaurant where the tables were already set for breakfast. He stood for a moment at reception. A pale young man was answering the phone. George hoped briefly that it might be Molly with news which could finish the matter tonight, but in Britain it was four in the morning. If she had news she would have called before. He climbed the stairs and wandered round the corridors, finding his bearings, occasionally bumping into a couple of chambermaids who were turning down the beds. Eventually he talked to them though they would not stop work. He stood in bedroom doorways while they changed damp towels, rinsed out cups, replaced sachets of coffee and sugar with the speed and mechanical efficiency of robots.
Then he let them move on down the corridor while he considered what he had learned and what he should do with the information. He could not face talking to the stone-faced sergeant or the deputies who had been left in charge of the taped off area where the murder weapon had been found. Joe Benson had gone home. George had learned from Mary Ann that Benson had married just a year ago. They had all thought he was a confirmed bachelor, then he had married a Mexican girl a third of his age. There was a baby. Before the murders Joe Benson’s romance had been the talk of High Island. It would be easy enough to find out where they lived and George did not even think Joe would mind the intrusion. The constable had invited him home sometime for a beer. He probably wanted to show off his lovely wife and baby. But what would George say to him? I know who killed these people but I’ve no idea why. Better to let Benson spend the evening with his family in peace.
The bar was quieter. People had started to drift away to bed. Rob, Oliver and Russell May sat at one table. They had enjoyed being the centre of attention. Russell looked every now and again at his wife who was sitting with other women from the party, clasping her orange juice, apparently as proud as punch of him.
‘George!’ Rob said. ‘
We could have done with you here. Where have you been?’
Trying to save your skin, George thought. He said nothing.
‘The essence of a bird race is in the planning,’ Oliver said primly. ‘Especially when we’re working in such a small area.’
‘I’m sure I can safely leave that to you.’
‘We need to be at the Bolivar Ferry at dawn, George. That’s where we intend to start. Meet for breakfast in the restaurant an hour before that. Mary Ann will leave out cereal and thermos flasks of coffee.’
‘I’ll be there.’ Because although the thought of the race depressed him he felt, like Connie, that they needed looking after. Playing nurse-maid to a bunch of birders, he thought: Has it come to this?
Chapter Thirty-Two
It took Molly longer than she had expected to trace Paul Butterworth. His name was not in the telephone directory. She thought he had probably been a young teacher when he had befriended Mick Brownscombe more than twenty years before. It was possible he was still working in the area. Even if he had changed schools someone might remember him, have an address for him.
She parked in the town centre and enquired at the public library.
‘The Grammar School? Well it’s comprehensive now, but it’s still there.’ The librarian was elderly. She had views on the demise of the grammar schools. Molly interrupted and asked for directions. The librarian was offended and gave them, sniffily.
There was a walk through a Victorian park along the River Taw. The tide was out leaving expanses of glutinous mud. In the park the daffodils had been battered by the heavy rain. The school was at the end of a lane of substantial houses with large gardens.
Molly had timed her visit carefully. Ten forty-five. She had thought that would be break-time. All the teachers would be in the staffroom and she might be offered coffee. But when she arrived the playground was empty and she wondered if these days they worked straight through until lunch.
The first building she came to was red brick mock medieval. It had cloisters and quadrangles. She walked round, trying to find a way in. All the classrooms were empty. In some, chairs had been set upon desks. She swore under her breath. She should have realized the school would be closed for Easter. Paul Butterworth, even if he still worked there, might have rented a gite in France or be birdwatching in Nepal. She presumed he was still interested in birds. She hoped so. It would make things easier. There would be less to explain.
‘Can I help you?’ It was a small woman dressed in a tweed skirt and suede boots. She approached Molly carefully across the playground. As if, Molly thought, I’m about to attack her. She probably thinks I’m one of the mentally ill let out unsupervised into the community. It’s my clothes. I should have tidied up.
‘Can I help you?’ the woman said again.
‘I’m trying to trace a member of staff,’ Molly said. ‘For an old boy.’
Her voice, educated and southern, must have reassured the woman. She came closer.
‘I’m afraid there’s no one here,’ she said. ‘It’s the holidays. I’ve only come in to open the head’s mail.’
‘You’re a secretary?’ This was better than Molly could have hoped for. In her experience secretaries knew far more about what was going on in a school than the teaching staff.
‘The head teacher’s secretary.’ This was obviously a position of status.
‘Then perhaps you could help me. Does Mr Butterworth still teach at the school? I believe he’s a biologist.’
The woman looked at her. ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t pass on information about any of our staff,’ she said piously.
Trust me, Molly thought, to get one who can hold her tongue.
‘Then I’d like to speak to the head,’ she said.
‘She’s away!’ The woman’s tone was almost gleeful. ‘In Tuscany. We’re not expecting her back until the day before term starts. It won’t give us a lot of time, I’m afraid, to get things straight.’ Her disapproval at the head’s lack of consideration was compensated for by her delight at Molly’s inconvenience. ‘If you tell me what it’s about…’
‘No,’ Molly said. ‘I’d prefer to talk to Mr Butterworth.’
She found a scrap of paper in her anorak pocket. On it she wrote her name and the phone number of the pub where she was staying.
‘If Mr Butterworth does work here you’ll have access to his home number. Perhaps you could telephone him. Tell him that I was asking for him. It’s about Michael Brownscombe, an old boy of the school. I’ll write that name down too. If he’s prepared to meet me I’ll be at that number. I’m only in the area for another day. I think he would be very interested to see me and he would be disappointed if you didn’t give him the opportunity.’
She turned and walked away, ignoring the twittering questions of the woman in the suede boots. She drove back to the pub, though she would have enjoyed the chance to explore the town. The landlord was surprised to see her so soon.
‘Nose to the grindstone, is it?’ he asked.
He still seemed to believe the fiction that she was writing a book.
Butterworth phoned in the evening, just as she was giving up hope. He spoke softly but without accent. He was very nervous and she wondered how he faced a classroom of children.
‘Mrs Tiddy said you were trying to trace me.’ Before she had a chance to reply he added: ‘ I can’t tell you anything about Michael. I’ve not seen him for years. I don’t know where he is, even.’ There was a panic in his voice.
‘I know where he is.’
‘Well then. You don’t need my help to hound him.’
‘It’s not a question of hounding. I’ve news about Michael. I’d like to see you.’
‘I’m sorry. It’s not convenient.’
She spoke quickly before he could replace the receiver. ‘My husband’s George Palmer-Jones. If you’re a birdwatcher you’ll have heard of him.’
There was a pause.
‘Of course.’
‘May I visit you. This is really very awkward over the phone.’
He made up his mind very quickly, took a deep breath. She thought he was not used to committing himself to anything.
‘Tomorrow then,’ he said. ‘But not too early. I care for my mother. She needs my help in the mornings.’ Then briskly he gave her details of how to find him.
He lived in the Taw valley, seven or eight miles inland from Barnstaple. There was a lane with overgrown hedgerows, late catkins and primroses. Where five-bar gates blocked gaps in the hedge she had a view over water meadows to the river, to grey herons standing one-legged in the water and buzzards sailing over beech woods. The sun was shining.
It was a white stucco house with a grey slate roof, not very big or even very old, only impressive because of the garden. It stood side on to the lane. There was a white gate with enough of a lay-by beside it for her to park and still just allow room for a vehicle to pass. The garden was terraced, not tidy but already full of colour. There were no other houses. The sounds were of farmland; lambs and lapwings and the distant hum of a tractor.
She walked through the gate to the front door. There was no reply to her knock and she thought he had lost his nerve and run away. Then he came hurrying around the house to greet her. She thought she had been right and he must just have qualified when he knew Michael. He had the sort of ageless face which hardly changes between adolescence and senility, but the shock of fair hair hanging over his forehead made him seem young to her. He was wearing cord trousers and a thick, checked shirt. In his hand he carried a plaid rug.
‘Come down,’ he said, without introducing himself. ‘I was just settling mother out of the wind. She likes to be out and the rain’s kept her indoors for days. The sun’s pleasant but this breeze is still very cool.’ The voice was concerned.
Molly followed him down stone steps to a path through a shrubbery.
‘She’s blind,’ he said. ‘Almost entirely now. Diabetes. Nothing they can do. We have help during term time but in the hol
idays I like to spend as much time as I can with her.’
They came to a paved terrace cut into the slope of the hill, sheltered on three sides. In the centre there was a pond with irises and marigolds. To the side of the pond stood a large frog roughly carved from stone. It was two feet high and grinning.
Butterworth saw Molly looking at it. ‘Fun isn’t it?’ he said. ‘ It was given to me by a pupil. We like it, don’t we, Mother? The frog.’
‘Very much.’
He gave all his attention to his mother. She wasn’t much older than Molly. Certainly she was a great deal more elegant. Her white hair was immaculately cut and styled. She wore tailored trousers and a thick mohair jacket. Her face was made up. Molly caught herself wondering if Paul put on the make up for her and why the idea shocked her. Mrs Butterworth sat very upright on a wooden garden chair and allowed her son to tuck the rug around her.
‘I created this garden, Mrs Palmer-Jones,’ she said. ‘I don’t need to see it to enjoy it. Paul can’t give it the time it deserves but he keeps on top of it.’
‘I try,’ he said. He fussed around her like a hair stylist round a favourite customer.
So he’s told her about me, Molly thought. At least she knows my name.
‘You mustn’t bully Paul, Mrs Palmer-Jones. He’s always been a frail boy. He has trouble with his nerves. He takes after his father. She stared unseeing over the garden. ‘ My husband killed himself when Paul was three years old.’
She spoke in a matter-of-fact tone but it was a startling revelation to make to a stranger.
‘I hope I never bully anyone, Mrs Butterworth,’ Molly said quietly.
Paul’s mother smiled.
‘Nor do I,’ she said. ‘But I like people to know how things stand.’ She stretched out her hand and touched Paul’s arm. ‘ Take Mrs Palmer-Jones into the house,’ she said. ‘She won’t want me to hear what she has to say. Make her coffee. You can bring me some later.’
‘We won’t be long,’ he said. He was reluctant to leave her.