Candles for the Dead

by Frank Smith

  Stern sighed heavily. ‘Like you said, Bernie, there’s good days and bad days.’ He seemed suddenly to tire of the conversation. ‘No need to bring it round, Bernie. The boys will be in to collect it,’ he said as he moved toward the door. ‘Have it here by Friday. No excuses. You’ve got a nice little business going here. I’d hate to see anything happen to it – or to you.’

  * * *

  Superintendent Alcott was on the phone when Paget knocked and stuck his head round the door. Alcott motioned for him to come in and sit down. Paget dropped into a seat and stared blankly out of the window.

  Alcott finished his conversation and hung up. ‘Hell of a way to spend a Saturday,’ he growled. ‘So what have we got?’

  Paget remained silent for several seconds. ‘Jane Whitby just rang from the hospital,’ he said quietly. ‘Helen Beecham has been admitted for treatment and further examination, but it appears that she is the victim of systematic physical and mental abuse. The Casualty officer won’t commit himself as to the cause, but he did say that Helen Beecham’s body has been subjected to, and I quote, “severe trauma over an extended period of time”.

  ‘Jane became suspicious just after we left. She said she could see that Mrs Beecham was in pain, but the woman denied it; said it was nothing. She became quite agitated when Jane tried to pursue it.

  ‘The long and the short of it is that Jane persisted. Mrs Beecham became more and more agitated, then collapsed without warning. Jane loosened the woman’s clothing and found bruises and welts all over the upper body, and she thought that one of the ribs might be fractured by the way Helen Beecham reacted when the area was touched. Jane rang for an ambulance, and while they waited for it to arrive, she questioned Mrs Beecham about the bruises.

  ‘At first, Helen Beecham insisted that the bruises were caused by her falling, but when Jane persisted, she admitted that her husband was responsible.’ Paget shook his head in a bewildered sort of way because what he was about to say was barely comprehensible to him. ‘But Helen Beecham also kept insisting that Beecham had only punished her because she deserved it. She told Jane that she’d always been a bad wife; that she’d never been able to live up to Harry’s standards. She said she’d let him down at the very beginning when they were first married, and when Jane asked her why she thought that, she said it was because she had been selfish in wanting to pursue a career rather than look after her husband’s needs.

  ‘There was more, but I think you get the picture. Even now, Jane says, the woman is terrified that Harry will find out that she’s left the house without his permission.’

  ‘Have you confronted Beecham with this?’

  ‘No. Jane Whitby only informed us a few minutes ago, so I haven’t had a chance.’

  ‘What about the rest of it? The murder of Mrs Smallwood and the beating of Amy Thomson.’

  ‘He’s denying everything, but we found an anorak and a pair of trousers with what appear to be bloodstains on them in the house. Someone has tried to wash the stains out, but they didn’t get everything out of the lining. We also found a pair of shoes with the clothes, so they’ve been sent along to the lab for comparison with soil samples taken from the area around the railway sheds, and with scrapings from the floor of the church. If we can prove that the blood on the clothing matches Amy Thomson’s, then we’ve got him.’

  Paget drew a deep breath and let it out again. ‘And, if that’s the case, then we have to assume that Rudge was telling the truth, and Beecham was in the church the night Beth Smallwood was killed; otherwise, why would he have responded to Rudge’s threat of blackmail? Beecham himself swears he was never in the church; that he knows nothing about bloodstained clothing; nothing about blackmail; and nothing about the attack on Amy Thomson.

  ‘The circumstantial evidence ties Beecham to the attack on Amy, but we still lack solid evidence that he actually killed Beth Smallwood. I’ve sent his prints over to be checked against those we found inside the church, but if we can’t come up with a match, then we have nothing but Tony Rudge’s word for it that Beecham was ever there. And a good brief could make mincemeat out of anything Rudge has to say.’

  ‘What about the girl? Amy Thomson. Can she back up Rudge’s statement about Beecham being in the church?’

  ‘No. Rudge says she didn’t see Beecham because she was still asleep in the belfry when he went downstairs to find out what was going on. He says he heard the main door bang shut, so he crept down the stairs to find out who was there. He opened the door at the bottom of the belfry steps, saw the light on in the nave, then saw Beecham come running out. Rudge says he waited until he heard a car start up outside before he ventured into the nave. That’s when he says he first saw the body of Beth Smallwood.’

  Alcott squinted at Paget through a haze of smoke. ‘You said earlier that Rudge claims he recognized Beecham as the man his father had dealt with when he was negotiating a loan from the bank. Do you think that’s the truth? Or is there some other connection he’s not telling us about?’

  Paget shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Rudge says he was with his father when he got the loan from the bank, and he met Beecham briefly then. That can be checked easily enough. But he couldn’t remember Beecham’s name, so he dug out the papers from his father’s desk to find the name, then looked up Beecham’s address in the telephone book. It could be true. There’s only one H. Beecham listed.’

  Alcott scowled and drew heavily on his cigarette. ‘And on that flimsy bit of information, he shoves a blackmail note through Beecham’s front door,’ he said ruminatively. ‘I find that hard to believe.’

  ‘So did I,’ said Paget, ‘but once he realized we were serious about charging him with the murder of Beth Smallwood, he couldn’t get the words out fast enough, even to the point of admitting to attempted blackmail. You’ve heard the tape. Tony Rudge is not the brightest lad in the world, and I think he was so blinded by the prospect of money and his own brilliance that he just charged ahead.’

  ‘He was bright enough to have his girlfriend go along to pick up the money,’ Alcott pointed out. ‘How is she, by the way?’

  ‘Doing remarkably well, considering she came within a hair of being killed.’

  Alcott nodded. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘What do you plan to do with Beecham?’

  Paget glanced at the clock. ‘We won’t get anything out of Forensic until at least Monday afternoon,’ he said, ‘and if we can’t come up with more than we have by this evening, we’ll have to let him go. I hate to do it, but on the other hand I don’t think he’s likely to run.’

  Alcott grimaced. He didn’t like the idea of having to let Beecham go either, but they wouldn’t be able to hold him without more evidence against him. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Keep me informed.’

  ‘There is one other thing,’ said Paget as he rose to leave. ‘Tregalles has been checking on Beecham’s background. Helen Beecham is his second wife. His first wife died as a result of a fall down the stairs. There was an inquest, but no blame was attached to Beecham. In fact, he came out of it with the sympathy of the court. Her death was attributed to a weakened condition brought about by chronic anorexia. According to Beecham, she was unsteady on her feet and prone to falling, and there were bruises on her body confirming that. Unfortunately, the last time she fell she happened to be at the top of the stairs.’

  Alcott stared. ‘Two of them?’ he breathed.

  ‘Two of them,’ said Paget quietly, ‘but we may never prove it.’

  * * *

  Before leaving for the night, Paget went over the results of the day’s enquiries in the incident room. Tania Costello seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth; not that Paget found that surprising. Probably gone to one of the larger cities where she could lose herself until all this had blown over; Birmingham or London, most likely. Not that he believed that she had been involved in the murder of her boyfriend’s mother, but she might have shed some light on what had happened in the house that night before Beth Smallwood went along to th
e church.

  As for Lenny himself, Paget felt confident that he had not known his mother was dead, and as a consequence, he had ordered the constable in the boy’s room to be withdrawn. The shock in Lenny’s eyes when Paget had told him of his mother’s death had been genuine, though whether because of some affection for her, or because he realized that he would have to fend for himself from now on was open to conjecture.

  Being Saturday, nothing had come in from Forensic, neither had there been anything further from the hospital regarding Helen Beecham’s condition. Paget read the latest notes on the status board with a growing sense of frustration. The most galling thing of all was having to release Harry Beecham. Paget had argued passionately that Beecham should at least be charged with the abuse of his wife, but the CPS refused to touch it. The fact, they said, that Helen Beecham had collapsed while in the sole charge of WPC Whitby could be construed as due to pressure applied by Whitby to force Mrs Beecham to testify against her husband. There were no witnesses to back up WPC Whitby’s statement, and given the fact that Helen Beecham was insisting that she deserved to be punished, there was every chance that she would deny or retract in court any previous statements she was alleged to have made.

  Besides, they said, it was after all, merely a domestic affair.

  Paget’s reply to that observation was unprintable.

  * * *

  It was late but there was still light in the sky when Paget garaged his car for the night. A broad band of red covered the western sky, and the breeze felt soft and warm against his face as he walked to the front door. About time, he thought; here it was almost the end of May and it seemed as if winter had never ended.

  He was tired. He felt as if he hadn’t slept for a week, but his mind refused to let him rest even as he prepared for bed. There had to be some evidence, other than Tony Rudge’s word for it, that would tie Beecham convincingly to the death of Beth Smallwood. Always assuming, he reminded himself, that Beecham was in fact guilty.

  Rudge might be a dodgy witness, but Paget didn’t doubt his story about seeing Beecham at the church, but what had really happened there? After spending the day drinking and brooding over his abrupt dismissal, would Beecham just charge into the church, seize a candlestick, and strike Beth Smallwood down without a word? Without argument? Without recriminations?

  But Rudge had insisted he had heard nothing. No voices raised; no cry from Beth. Nothing.

  Paget had questioned him closely about that, but Rudge had stuck to his story. He said he’d gone down the belfry steps after hearing the front door bang shut. ‘I was half awake and it sounded like a bloody cannon,’ he said.

  That made sense. Mrs Turvey had said Beecham had been pounding on Beth’s door, and he’d been belligerent when she spoke to him. Paget didn’t believe for a moment that Beecham would not have gone to the church. And he’d be even more angry by that time, so he wouldn’t care how much noise he made. He was going to have it out with the woman he thought had betrayed him.

  But there was something wrong with what followed. Rudge claimed that he was at the bottom of the belfry steps in a matter of seconds. He opened the door a crack and stood there listening. He could see the light on in the nave, but couldn’t see what was happening down by the chancel.

  And he’d heard nothing!

  Rudge had gone on to say that he was about to step out to take a closer look when Beecham came running out and left the church.

  ‘How did he look?’ Tregalles had asked.

  ‘Like he’d just committed murder. Chalk white, he was.’

  A few seconds later, Rudge said, he heard a car start up and take off in a hurry. Charlie’s people had scoured the area thoroughly immediately following the murder, but they’d found nothing to prove that Beecham’s car was ever there. The rains had seen to that.

  Rudge had gone on to say that it was only then that he ventured out and found Beth Smallwood’s body. He said he’d panicked because he knew that people might think that he had killed Beth because of what she had done to him in court.

  It all sounded very plausible, Paget thought as he made his way to bed. But what if it had happened the other way round? What if Rudge had known that Beth was down there that evening; perhaps seen her come in? Then, while Amy was asleep, he’d crept down and killed her? But just as he was about to leave, Beecham had come storming into the church, angry and all set to have it out with Beth. Rudge could have concealed himself, watched while Beecham discovered the body then ran from the church. Beecham would of course deny all knowledge of ever having been there for fear of being accused of killing Beth Smallwood, and Rudge, having recognized Beecham, would consider the idea of blackmailing him a bonus.

  Paget stared into the darkness. Was Tony Rudge clever enough to have lied convincingly to them about what had happened that night? Possibly. Anyone facing the prospect of being charged with murder might well become exceedingly inventive.

  But one big question still remained: why would Rudge insist there had been no noise? Surely, if only to make his story more convincing, he would have spoken of hearing a struggle; a cry from Beth – anything but complete silence.

  So what about Amy? All the hard evidence pointed to Beecham. If Beecham had killed Beth Smallwood, he might not hesitate to kill his blackmailer to protect himself. But if he was being blackmailed for something he did not do, would he go there prepared to kill?

  He might, especially if he feared an investigation into his private life. He might go to any lengths to avoid that. Anyone who could do what Beecham had done to his wife was capable of anything in Paget’s estimation.

  He slid into bed and was about to switch off the light when his eyes were drawn to the framed photograph of Jill. He picked it up and studied it as he had so many times before. Thoughts of Beecham vanished as he allowed his mind to drift, remembering.

  Her dark eyes met his solemnly, and suddenly he heard her voice inside his head as clearly as if she were in the room.

  ‘I’m all right. Really, I’m all right. Please let me go, Neil. You’re suffocating me.’

  He remembered the scene vividly. It was a Sunday and they had gone down to Eastbourne for the day. The weather had been perfect, and they were enjoying a final walk along the cliffs before returning home when Jill suddenly turned her ankle and stumbled toward the edge. The ground had started to give way. The sea pounded on the rocks below. He’d reached out and grabbed her arm as she started to go down. The grass was torn apart as the earth beneath it crumbled and began its long slow plunge toward the waiting sea and rocks below.

  He’d pulled her clear and clutched her to him, his own heart beating wildly as he fought for breath himself. He remembered vividly the terror of that moment; remembered how he’d held her in such a fierce embrace that she’d cried out to be released.

  He set the picture down and turned out the light, but Jill’s breathless words still echoed in the darkness. ‘You’re suffocating me, Neil. Please let me go.’

  Chapter 23

  Sunday – 19 May

  The sound of distant drums dragged Paget back to consciousness. He lay with his eyes closed, trying to get his mind to work, trying to identify the sound.

  Rain. He groaned aloud. So much for ‘red sky at night’, he thought gloomily. The bloody shepherd had got it wrong again.

  He made breakfast and sat down to read the paper, but his thoughts from the night before kept intruding. Jill’s words still echoed in his head, and he was troubled by their insistence. Why should he think of that particular incident now? He wandered disconsolately from room to room, growing more irritable by the minute.

  By ten o’clock he could stand it no longer. He left the house and drove into town.

  His original intention was to go to the office, but once in town he changed his mind and drove to the hospital instead.

  Paget stopped at the desk to speak to the senior nurse on duty, a short, stout, grey-haired woman of about fifty. Her face was round; her skin was the colour of
polished mahogany, and her eyes were the liveliest Paget had ever seen. Originally from Jamaica, Rose Tremonte had been at the Royal Broadminster hospital for much of her working life.

  ‘Good morning, Rose,’ Paget greeted her. ‘Still working the weekends, I see. Don’t you ever get tired of it?’

  Rose glanced around as if afraid of being overheard, and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘No bosses on the weekends,’ she confided. Her face broke into a broad smile, and a deep chuckle rumbled in her ample throat.

  They chatted for a few minutes, and Paget asked about Amy.

  ‘She’s coming along just fine,’ said Rose. ‘She’s a nice kid. She’s going to be all right.’

  ‘Can I talk to her?’

  ‘No reason why not,’ Rose told him agreeably.

  Amy looked very young and vulnerable as she lay there against the pillows. Even at fifteen, she was a very pretty girl; in two or three more years she would an extremely attractive young woman. Paget only hoped that her recent brush with death would make her more cautious about whom she trusted in the future.

  He led her through her story once more, but learned nothing new. Her memory seemed clear, and she was extremely frank about her relationship with Tony Rudge, although she came close to tears when she described how she had been attacked in the railway shed.

  ‘You seem quite convinced that it was Tony who attacked you,’ he said. ‘What makes you so certain?’

  Amy’s face clouded. ‘It had to be him, didn’t it?’ she said. ‘I mean it had to be Tony who killed that woman in the church. Lenny’s mum. See, I didn’t know it was her at the time, so I believed Tony when he said he’d heard something and gone down to have a look round and found her dead. But he’d told me a bit about Lenny Smallwood, and I knew he hated him and his mum, so when I heard who she was, I did wonder.’

  The girl plucked at the sheet and kept her eyes lowered. ‘But I didn’t want to believe that, because … Well, you know.’ She fell silent for a long moment, then looked up at Paget and shrugged. ‘It’s just that it all fits together,’ she said, ‘and I must have been daft to have believed all that rubbish about this bloke owing him money and being afraid to show his face and all that. I mean, where would Tony get that sort of money in prison anyway? And he’s not really the lending sort.’