Hand of Death

by Margaret Yorke

  Lynn picked up the pencils and pens from the floor and looked at the key in her hand, about to replace it. She turned it round, glancing at the desk. Did it belong to the locked drawer? If so, it was private. Perhaps there were valuables locked inside – silver or jewels. She went on eating her sandwiches, the key before her.

  Then she opened the drawer.

  Just newspapers. That was all there was. How dull. She lifted one out, and another. They were faded, old. Then she saw the magazines. She opened one.

  Lynn knew about pornography, of course; people were always on about it. It was what you saw in the centre of some of the papers, girls photographed nude. Perhaps there were fellows, too, with their backs turned. Just rude. She’d never dreamed that women would allow themselves to be pictured in attitudes like this. She stared in fascinated horror, turning over several pages before snapping the magazine shut and pushing it back in the drawer. She piled the newspapers on top, and closed the drawer, her cheeks flaming, feeling rather sick. It was nasty, vulgar. Uncle Ron couldn’t know what was in the drawer.

  But who else had locked it?

  Lynn replaced the key in the mug, and put the pens and pencils on top of it. She had not seen the newspapers beneath the magazines, the ones bought the day before, reporting the murder.

  Uncle Ron couldn’t have bought that magazine, and the others that lay beneath it which she hadn’t examined. He just couldn’t have. They must have got into the drawer by accident. Probably he thought he’d lost the key.

  She tried not to think about it but, when he laid his hand on her knee before she got out of van that evening, bidding her farewell, she shrank back from him, reaching out for the door handle and letting herself out as fast as she could.

  Whatever was wrong with her, Ronald wondered, as she hurried away. Got her period suddenly, perhaps, he thought, and smiled. Dear little Lynn.

  16

  Daniel consulted the telephone directory in order to discover the number of Tellingford police station. Then, in the midst of dialling, the difficulty of expressing his concern over the telephone occurred to him. He mentally rehearsed the conversation.

  ‘I wish to report my father missing.’

  ‘Missing from where?’

  Details would follow.

  ‘When did you last see your father?’

  The dialogue seemed fraught. It would be better to do the thing in person, here in Fletcham, speaking to the policeman man-to-man, lest they think it some sort of hoax. The Fletcham police would ask the ones at Tellingford to search discreetly. Wouldn’t they?

  Because he made this decision, Daniel learned very quickly where his father was, though not the reason, and he was not allowed to see him. Totally bewildered, he importuned the sergeant at the desk,

  ‘Helping with inquiries into an incident,’ was the sergeant’s answer.

  ‘But what incident?’

  Everyone in Fletcham knew about the murder. It had been headline news in the Fletcham Gazette, conveniently happening just before the paper went to press. Daniel, not particularly interested, though appropriately shocked that such a serious crime should happen in what was not, on the whole, an area noted for its violence, knew that the woman’s body had been found some time after his disastrous evening with his parents. But it was the failure of that evening that concerned him, not the death, tragic though it was, of some unknown person. He saw no connection.

  Because of his persistence, the sergeant at last was moved to action. Daniel was taken down a passage and into a small, bleak room. There were a table and two upright chairs in the centre – no other furnishings. For a panic-stricken few minutes he wondered if he had been arrested; it was no more lunatic a thought than that his father should be here, somewhere in the building. Then a man came in, one not in uniform, burly, with very pale blue eyes and thick, dark hair cut very short. He introduced himself as Detective Sergeant Dunn.

  ‘You met your father here at the Ristorante Sorrento on Wednesday evening,’ he stated.

  Daniel nodded.

  ‘A woman was killed that night,’ said Dunn. He made no allegations; no charges had been brought against George Fortescue and at the moment it looked as though none could be, unless he cracked. It was too soon for forensic to come up with any proof.

  ‘But my father went straight home,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘He must have done. Why not?’

  ‘He was upset. A constable spoke to him and he said he was returning to the restaurant, but he didn’t go back there. Did he?’

  ‘No.’ This was puzzling. The sergeant must have misunderstood.

  ‘He can’t account satisfactorily for his immediate actions,’ Dunn remarked.

  ‘But you can’t think he—’ Suddenly the gravity of his father’s position became clear to Daniel. ‘No! You’re mad! He didn’t know her. He wouldn’t! He couldn’t! Where is he? Surely he can explain?’ Daniel looked round wildly as if expecting his father to peer through bars in the adjacent wall.

  ‘He hasn’t yet,’ said Dunn.

  Police harassment. Daniel had read about it, heard fellow students mention it, but not experienced it. Here it was.

  ‘A woman was killed,’ said Dunn. ‘Violently. Left bound and gagged, terrified, bleeding to death. Whoever did that is going to pay for it, lad.’

  But it couldn’t be his father!

  Daniel blundered out of the station, his one idea to find Vivian quickly. Something must be done. But he realised, himself, what it should be before he found her, and telephoned Bill Kyle, his father’s solicitor.

  It took some time to track him down, in fact, since he was on the golf course, and even longer before he was able to rescue George. He drove straight over to Fletcham and at last persuaded the police to let him take George home.

  They left the police station by the back entrance to avoid press photographers and journalists who were clustered at the front. At the moment George was a man unnamed, and his best hope of peace lay in remaining so, but Bill feared he was far from out of the wood.

  They dropped Daniel at his digs; he would come over to Crowbury the next day. Bill would let Dorothea know that George was all right, but would conceal from her what had happened; the fewer people to know about it the better. He telephoned his wife, warning her that he would be bringing George back for a meal.

  While they ate, Bill and Eileen Kyle urged George to spend the night with them, but he insisted on returning to Orchard House. There was no one about when Bill delivered him to his door and he slunk in, like a dog with its tail between its legs, Bill thought, as he turned the car to drive away. He’d come round in the morning. After a night’s rest, George would be able to explain himself more clearly than he’d managed so far; there were huge holes in the tale he had told that must be filled.

  At nine o’clock on Sunday morning a policeman called at Orchard House. He was a plain clothes officer, driving his own car, but George recognised him when he opened the door; he had been in the background during the horrors of the previous twenty-four hours.

  George had just woken from a heavy sleep. He’d dropped off quite soon after going to bed, for Bill had plied him with several whiskies, though he’d refused to drink any wine; he’d felt slightly sick and hadn’t done justice to Eileen Kyle’s grilled steak. Then, during the night, he’d started awake with his pulse racing and sweat streaming from him, mindless with terror. When he’d at last calmed down, he’d lain there in the big bed, brooding about Angela, filled with bitter resentment. If she’d been here, in her proper place, looking after him and the house, none of this would have happened. Even if she’d behaved well on Wednesday evening, he’d have been safe; it was because she had laughed at him that he’d left the restaurant. It was all her fault. He’d lain sleepless for a long time; then, when at last he’d relaxed, he’d fallen into a torpor, not refreshing at all, and he woke feeling dull and stupid.

  The detective constable at the door wanted to go through his
clothes.

  ‘But why? You’ve taken some already,’ protested George. ‘Besides, you know you made a great mistake; I can’t help you at all. I’ve told you over and over again.’ What redress was there for him, an innocent citizen? He thought about threatening the young man with a complaint to the chief constable. But he felt too weary.

  ‘I want to have a look at your clothes,’ persisted the detective constable.

  They’d win in the end, George knew. He took the young man upstairs and left him there, while he went down to make coffee. His mouth tasted sour and his head ached; he wouldn’t be able to eat a thing.

  The policeman did not stay long. He went away taking a dark pullover George often wore for golf; it was one Angela had knitted some years earlier, made in an intricate arran pattern from dark purplish wool, almost black. She was a good knitter. He took some gloves and socks, too.

  Daniel and Vivian arrived soon after he had gone, while George was having a shower. Despite feeling dirty and sticky the night before, he’d been too tired to do more than pull off his clothes and fall into bed. When he came downstairs he wore well-pressed dark grey slacks and a pale grey sweater over a checked shirt. The skin on his bald head shone, the surrounding hair neatly trimmed. He always looked smart, thought Vivian.

  As soon as Bill Kyle arrived, Vivian made coffee for everyone. She could, at least, be useful in the kitchen.

  George told Bill about the policeman’s call and the removal of the sweater.

  ‘I didn’t do it, Bill. But they don’t believe me,’ said George. ‘I thought they did, at last, and that was why they let me go, but now this!’

  ‘They’ve got to eliminate you. It’s just routine, George,’ said Bill. ‘Try to be patient.’

  Bill’s expertise lay in conveyancing and probate, and alas, today, in the murky depths of divorce suits. He had never before had a client questioned in connection with murder and he was worried; George’s account of his movements on the relevant evening, after he left the restaurant, was far from satisfactory. ‘Have you really no idea what pub it was you went to, that night?’ he asked.

  ‘No. I just drove about, and there it was,’ said George wretchedly. ‘It was your usual country pub. Oak beams and so on. Not very big.’

  ‘We’ll have to find it. It’ll give you an alibi,’ said Bill. But would it? When was the woman attacked? While George was blundering about in the abbey grounds?

  ‘Oh Dad, this is all my fault,’ said Daniel. ‘If I hadn’t planned that evening, you wouldn’t have been in Fletcham and it wouldn’t have happened.’

  ‘But Dan, you can’t blame yourself,’ said Vivian. He’d been doing it ever since he discovered what had happened to his father. ‘No one can foretell what’s going to be the result of some action they may take.’ She’d thought of this to comfort herself for her own feelings of guilt.

  ‘Quite right, my dear,’ said Bill. What a sensible girl. He sighed. George was his friend as well as his client. It was inconceivable that he should have killed that unfortunate woman. A punch on someone’s nose, perhaps, stretching the imagination wildly, in a brawl started by another, but rape – never. On the other hand, who would have imagined Dr Crippen to be such a monster? And there was Haigh. The names of notorious murderers passed through the solicitor’s mind. But not George. Where would he get hold of a knife? And why this particular woman? Yet there were knives in every kitchen drawer.

  Why had the police taken his sweater? It was one he often wore; Bill knew it well.

  ‘Let’s go and look for that pub,’ he said. ‘We must find it.’ The hunt would keep them all occupied, too; otherwise George and those youngsters would sit about all day thrashing it over. ‘Eileen’s expecting you all to lunch. We’ll look for it afterwards.’

  They found it, late in the evening, rather by chance, just as George had done. It was the Fox and Hounds at Braycote, well away from any main road, similar to several others George had thought might be the right one, at which they’d stopped earlier. All were closed during the afternoon and they’d had to prowl round them, wondering about them, uncertain.

  But by the time they reached Braycote, the law allowed you to buy a drink, and the Fox and Hounds was open. George was sure it was the place.

  The landlord, though, was vague. He thought he remembered George, but could not be definite. They did not tell him why they were asking about it, and he thought it must be some trouble at home – a suspicious, wife, perhaps.

  ‘We get so many in, you see,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t swear to it. It’s not as if you were a regular.’

  ‘Don’t worry, George,’ said Bill robustly, when they left.

  ‘If necessary we can follow this up. Some of the customers there that night will remember you. Sure to.’

  But George wasn’t a man you’d really remember, unless for some special reason. He was an excellent example of your Mr Average. And he’d said that, beyond buying his drinks, he’d talked to no one.

  Bill dropped them back at Orchard House and went home to his wife. He agreed that George might as well go to the office next day; with luck it would all blow over. The police might have a lead, by now, in the right direction. Bill spoke confidently, but already the names of leading counsel were coming into his mind.

  Before Daniel and Vivian returned to Fletcham, George ground out his thanks for what his son had done.

  ‘I’d be locked up by now, if you hadn’t got Bill,’ he said. ‘Thanks, Daniel. And—er—for wondering where I was, in the first place.’

  ‘It’ll be all right, Dad,’ said Daniel. It was odd to be cast in a paternal role towards one’s own father, but this was how he felt.

  ‘Oh yes . . . certainly,’ said George. ‘Don’t let your mother know about it, will you?’

  Daniel had been wondering about this very point.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  George did not want Angela feeling sorry for him, in addition to everything else. Perhaps she wouldn’t be sorry; perhaps it would make her laugh.

  By the time the young people had gone it was too late, he told himself, to go jogging, though he’d missed exercise now for three whole days. He’d get back to routine tomorrow, when he caught his normal train. Routine was what mattered. With every moment in the day planned for and occupied, there was no time to brood.

  All was peaceful at Number 15, Sycamore Road, that 142 Sunday. Ronald cleaned out the garden shed, so that everything would be spruce when it was time for the spring sowing. He sorted through old seed packets, and checked his hose connections; he cleaned all his tools, which were always well kept but could benefit from a wipe down with an oily rag. Not for Ronald the earth-encrusted fork or spade; even his trowel gleamed like new.

  The black sweater he had worn at Fletcham was still in the van, hidden under the driver’s seat with the knife and the balaclava helmet. He’d washed the knife but there might be blood on the sweater.

  Nancy had the radio on as she prepared lunch – roast lamb with mint jelly, and steamed syrup pudding. Ronald loved a steamed pudding and, as long as this taste was not indulged too often, it could do him no harm. He was still the same weight as when they married; gardening and heaving furniture around kept him fit.

  She heard the announcer say that the man who had been helping the police with inquiries in Fletcham had been allowed to leave.

  ‘They’ve let him go,’ she said, as Ronald made ready to carve the lamb.

  ‘Let who go, dear?’ Ronald was sharpening the knife; he ran his finger along the blade to test it.

  ‘That brute who killed Mrs Cartwright,’ said Nancy.

  Ronald’s hands were steady as he made the first incision in the meat. The juices ran the palest pink.

  ‘Oh?’ he said, and lifted out a succulent slice.

  ‘There were no details,’ said Nancy. ‘Just that he’d gone home and inquiries were going on. Talked himself out of it, I suppose. They don’t often pick up the wrong man.’

 
; ‘No,’ said Ronald.

  He felt no concern at all about an innocent person being in trouble for what he had done. It was as though a different being, not Ronald Trimm of Sycamore Road, Tellingford, at all, had made the assault on Felicity Cartwright. That man, in his hood and black sweater, was charged with physical energy and sexual drive, capable of amazing feats; Ronald Trimm, now carving lamb, was a mild man, a dutiful husband who loved his wife and was blessed in his home life. Nevertheless, good Ronald Trimm had, in middle age, discovered that he could experience bliss, and it was not too late to pursue it. Other men did it all the time – with ease, it seemed. Now Ronald would seek opportunities for finding ecstasy himself, if necessary by force. But he had better wait and see what happened over this Fletcham business; allow the hue and cry to die down.

  If someone else was blamed, it would make the next time much easier.

  Savouring the lamb, he thought about Lynn. He would be sorry to scare her, yet in a way there was excitement in arousing fear. She’d be much easier to subdue than Felicity Cartwright, because she would be more frightened. She would be soft and warm, not fighting and hostile. He smiled, imagining her young, untried body. But was it? That Peter might have been there. Well, he’d find out. Her youth would not protect her for much longer.

  ‘Excellent lamb, my dear,’ he said to Nancy. ‘Done to perfection.’

  17

  Ronald, going to the paper shop on Monday morning to buy the Sun and the Daily Mirror, felt he must explain his action. He was doing a competition in one, he said, and wanted to read some memoirs in the other.

  ‘Go on, Mr Trimm, it’s the cheesecake you’re after,’ quipped the newsagent. ‘We all like a bit of that, don’t we?’ and he winked.

  Ronald, a man of the world, grinned.

  ‘Well . . .’ he said, and let his sentence trail off. How easy some people found it to joke about that sort of thing.

  ‘Terrible about Mr Fortescue, isn’t it?’ said a woman in the shop, paying for her Daily Mail.