He went downstairs again. What he had thought was the radio seemed very loud, and as reached the hall he heard a familiar jingle; it was the television. He went into the sitting room. In the corner, the screen flickered. Seeming to watch it, Dorothea lay on the sofa, but where her head should be there was a sickening mess of blood – and more than blood.
He put his hand to his mouth to hold the cry that rose in his throat, that hand which Valerie had noticed in the butcher’s shop, a large, well-shaped and apparently hairless hand.
George made himself look at her closely, to confirm that she was dead; she had to be, with a wound like that.
She was cold.
He went straight to the telephone.
While he waited for the police, he realised with dread that he would be asked a lot of questions.
He’d walked all round the house, touching things. He might even have blood on his clothes.
George sat in the room with Dorothea. The damage was done now, and he would not leave her alone, his poor, unfortunate friend. But he did not look at her.
Before taking George away to Tellingford police station, Detective Sergeant Gower found out from him about Dorothea’s next of kin. It wouldn’t take the press and the rest of the media long to discover that a violent crime had occurred in Crowbury and to tell the news to the nation; the relatives must be informed before this could happen.
George mentioned Dorothea’s son Mark up in Yorkshire, and Susan, her daughter, in London. Their telephone numbers might be in Dorothea’s book.
The news could not be telephoned, he was told. A police officer must call.
Dorothea’s address book, in her walnut desk, disclosed the necessary details, and arrangements were made for the news to be broken by local police.
‘The girl – Susan – has a boyfriend. Leo something-or-other,’ said George. ‘A sensible sort of fellow. Works in a merchant bank. It might be as well to get hold of him.’
However, Dorothea’s records did not disclose Leo’s surname or address, or not in a manner easily found. The Metropolitan Police, who would be seeing Susan, were told of his existence.
After performing this final service for Dorothea, George was driven away. He concentrated on the knowledge that Daniel would be arriving in the village at any time now, and would, for the second time, do what he could for his father. A feeling of inescapable doom filled George as he got into the back of the police car. He had not killed Dorothea, but he knew that he could be suspected of it just because he was found with her, and after what had happened at Fletcham. He was a marked man.
This time, they took away his car.
Mark Wyatt was out when a constable called. Charlotte, his wife, preparing a dinner party for ten people that evening, saw that he had come with bad news, and at first was afraid that Mark had had an accident on the way to get the drink for the evening. She bundled the children out of the sitting room and sat down to listen.
In a way, when the constable told her what had happened, the news that Dorothea had died came as an anti-climax, but she felt shock; her mother-in-law was not old, and seemed healthy. What had happened?
The officer broke the news gradually. There had been an accident, he said. What sort of accident? Well . . . she’d been attacked. In the end Charlotte knew the bare facts.
She was horrified. How dreadful! Poor Dorothea! She had found her difficult, though she could not say quite why; since Harry’s death, Charlotte had felt guilty about not pressing her to visit them more often, easily accepting the excuse of distance, which was silly, since Dorothea had a good car and drove well.
She said she would tell Mark when he returned, but the officer said he must be present and he’d wait in the car. This was quite a hard nut, the young man thought, walking back across the gravel, cap in hand. He’d expected tears, even hysterics. But shock took different forms and it wasn’t Mrs Wyatt’s own mother, after all. She was a pretty woman, young Mrs Wyatt, and the house was nice – quite large.
He could have done with a cup of tea, while waiting. Maybe she’d get round to it, if the husband was some time.
But Charlotte was busy returning to the freezer her dinner-party ingredients; it would have to be cancelled now. She could not start telephoning the guests until Mark had come back and heard what had happened. He was sure to be very upset. Dorothea must have surprised a burglar; she’d got rather sloppy, she’d probably left a window open or something. Mark would have to go down there. She’d better tell him bluntly; there was no sense in trying to cushion him. Luckily, the children were young enough to be told simply that granny had gone to heaven.
20
Leo drove Susan down to Crowbury. She was numb with shock. You read about such things in the paper, but they didn’t happen to people that you knew, least of all your mother. The police officer who had called to tell her what had happened had telephoned Leo from her flat, and he had come round at once, abandoning instantly a plan to go motor-racing that day. In the midst of her incredulous reaction to what she had been told, Susan had registered this single fact.
‘You needn’t—I’ll manage—Mark will come,’ she said, when he arrived, and added, ‘What can we do? Nothing, really.’ But Leo swept such protests aside.
‘You’ll want to go down, and I’m taking you,’ he stated. ‘It’s dreadful.’ He was as shocked as Susan, though attempting to conceal it. Nice middle-aged ladies like Dorothea Wyatt simply didn’t get attacked and killed in their homes, though they might be mugged in the streets. He had liked Dorothea and thought her an attractive woman, though a bit over the top. ‘There will be things to arrange,’ he went on. ‘It was a robbery, I suppose. She surprised a thief. You may have to tell the police what’s missing.’
As soon as they reached the village, it was obvious that news of some drama had leaked out. People were standing about in groups, murmuring together; a police motor cyclist was at the crossroads. There was a row of cars outside the Plough, but that was often the case on a Saturday morning. The road to the Manor House, however, was cordoned off. When Leo told the policeman on guard who Susan was, they were allowed through, but were asked to park outside the gates of the house, where several other cars, including two police cars, were drawn up. And a plain, dark van.
A police officer led them through the gates towards the house, and a man of about forty, in a raincoat, came out to meet them. He introduced himself as Detective Chief Inspector Hemmings, head of CID for the division, and told Susan he was very sorry to meet her under such circumstances. He led them quickly through the hall, where Leo noticed a man in a black leather jacket using what looked like a paintbrush on the sitting-room doorpost, to the room that had been Susan’s father’s study. Here, he asked them to sit down, sat down himself, and then said there was very little he could tell them so far. There appeared to have been no robbery; at any rate, there were no signs of that sort of disturbance.
‘Who found her? Mrs Simmons?’ asked Susan.
‘Who is Mrs Simmons, Miss Wyatt?’ asked the detective chief inspector.
‘Mother’s cleaning lady,’ said Susan. ‘She sometimes comes on Saturdays, if there’s been a party or anything the night before.’
‘No, it wasn’t Mrs Simmons. It was a Mr Fortescue,’ said Hemmings. ‘It seems he telephoned Mrs Wyatt, and could get no answer, so he came round, found the door unlocked and walked straight in.’
‘But Mummy always locked the door! She was rather nervous on her own – locked everything, and bolted it, once she was inside and it was dark,’ said Susan. ‘She wasn’t so fussy before Daddy died.’
‘I see,’ said the chief inspector.
‘Oh, poor George,’ said Susan, who had been thinking what a dreadful experience it would have been for Mrs Simmons. ‘Mr Fortescue,’ she added, in explanation. ‘Where is he? Is he still here?’ But he wouldn’t be, after all this time. He’d have gone home.
‘No. He’s at the station,’ said the chief inspector.
‘The sta
tion?’
‘Tellingford police station,’ said Hemmings.
Susan looked puzzled.
‘Why?’
‘He’s just answering a few questions, Miss Wyatt,’ said Hemmings.
‘Oh,’ said Susan. ‘I suppose he had to tell you about—about finding her.’
‘That’s it,’ agreed Hemmings. It seemed the girl did not know that Fortescue had been questioned about the Fletcham murder, or she would have referred to it.
‘It must have been awful for him, finding her,’ said Susan. ‘They’d known each other for years. More than twenty, I should think.’
She appeared calm – calm enough to be helpful.
‘Your mother might not have been quite herself last night,’ Hemmings suggested gently.
‘You mean she may have been at the gin?’ said Susan bluntly. It was no good pussyfooting about at a time like this.
Hemmings’ men had already discovered a great many empty bottles in the house, and there was a strong smell of alcohol around the mouth of the dead woman.
‘Perhaps a few drinks,’ Hemmings acknowledged.
‘She was drinking too much,’ said Susan. ‘It worried me, and my brother, but we didn’t see what we could do about it. We hoped she’d get over it, after a while. It’s only been since my father died.’
‘Suppose she’d had a little too much last night?’ hazarded Hemmings, relieved that he did not have to spell it out.
‘And?’
‘Got into an argument of some kind,’ Hemmings said cautiously.
‘You don’t mean with George? Oh no, inspector. That’s quite impossible,’ said Susan. She hesitated, and then said, ‘How did she—what killed her?’
‘A blow on the head, Miss Wyatt. Done with a table lamp, we think. Death would have been instantaneous.’ Hemmings said.
‘Not—?’ Susan could not bring herself to utter the word when the victim had been her mother. She tensed, waiting for the inspector to answer.
‘She hadn’t been sexually assaulted, no,’ said Hemmings. The pattern differed here from the Fletcham murder. Fortescue, though, knew Dorothea Wyatt. Fletcham CID had been unable to prove that he had ever met Felicity Cartwright before she was killed. ‘Suppose Mr Fortescue made certain suggestions to your mother which she’d found unacceptable,’ Hemmings went on primly. ‘What do you think would have happened?’
‘You mean, if George made a pass?’ Susan’s eyebrows rose. ‘Not old George,’ she said. ‘He wouldn’t. And if he did, Mummy would have hooted with laughter.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Hemmings. ‘I mean, that Mr Fortescue wouldn’t?’ The girl’s brave and honest response made it easy to pursue this line.
‘Well, I suppose it’s not impossible,’ said Susan slowly. How did you know about such things among older people? ‘But I can’t imagine it. George isn’t exactly . . . I don’t know how to put it. I suppose I mean sexy.’ She frowned, looking thoughtfully at the inspector. ‘I don’t quite see what you’re getting at. You can’t think George may have done this.’
‘Mrs Wyatt was a very good-looking woman,’ interposed Leo, holding the chief inspector’s eye. He remembered meeting Fortescue, and he could understand any man who thought he had a chance trying to make it with Dorothea.
‘Whatever you say, I’m sure George wouldn’t hurt Mummy,’ said Susan stoutly. ‘I don’t believe he’d hurt anybody, not physically.’
‘Well, we’ll get it all cleared up as quickly as we can,’ said Hemmings. ‘Your mother’s solicitor has been here, and he left a message to say that he and his wife would be glad to put you up for the night. I’m afraid we can’t let you stay here until we’ve finished, and we’ll be some time. I’ll just ask you to check your mother’s jewellery, to see if anything’s missing. If you’d wait a moment.’ He went to the door and spoke to someone in the hall. A few minutes later another man appeared carrying Susan’s mother’s leather jewel case. Susan looked inside. Her eyes blurred with tears as she saw the familiar pieces she had loved to play with as a child, decking herself in rings and necklaces and her mother’s clothes.
‘I don’t see her engagement ring,’ she said. ‘A big sapphire with little diamonds all round.’
‘She was wearing that, Miss Wyatt,’ said Hemmings. ‘And some necklaces – silver chains. They will be returned.’
‘I see.’ Susan closed the box and handed it back to the chief inspector. ‘You haven’t arrested George, have you?’ she asked.
‘No. He’s just helping us,’ said Hemmings. ‘You want whoever did this caught, don’t you?’ he added, in a sterner tone.
‘Yes, I do. But it can’t be George,’ she insisted. ‘Does Daniel know about it? Daniel Fortescue? He’s at Fletcham University. George’s son.’
‘Yes. He’s at Orchard House,’ said Hemmings.
‘We’d better go and see him,’ Susan said to Leo. ‘Poor Daniel. He’ll be pretty upset.’ She turned to the chief inspector. ‘I suppose my brother’s coming? I couldn’t get hold of him on the telephone before I left London.’
‘He’s on his way,’ Hemmings confirmed. ‘I’ll let him know you’re at Orchard House when he gets here.’
‘I suppose, with police all over the village, we’re none of us likely to get mislaid,’ said Susan. ‘I still think it must have been a burglar, Mr Hemmings. Mother surprised him. Had she been out?’
‘Yes.’ Door-to-door inquiries had already revealed that the dead woman had been to the Plough that evening.
‘Well, then,’ said Susan. ‘There you are. She caught him before he’d taken anything. She was quite gutsy, you know. She might go for him with a handy poker or something.’
‘We’ll bear that in mind, of course,’ said Hemmings, glad she had not asked where her mother had been. In time she’d learn that Mrs Wyatt had visited the Plough, alone, the night she died. Would she take that information in her stride?
‘She’s still in there,’ Susan said to Leo as they went back to the car. She glanced at the dark van, its significance now clear to her.
‘Yes.’ Leo knew that someone would have to identify the dead woman officially, although there could be no doubt, in fact, about who she was. He had been afraid that Susan would be shown the body. But not here, where it had happened, surely?
It was certainly not a job for Susan. Her brother, who had managed to shuffle off so much of the worry about their mother on to Susan, should be the one to deal with that side of things and Leo determined to see that he did.
It all seemed unreal. So short a time ago he had been here, washing the car for Dorothea, eating her excellent food, taking it all for granted. Never again.
He took Susan’s hand and pressed it.
‘Let’s go and find Daniel,’ he said.
Daniel and Vivian were in the kitchen at Orchard House when Susan and Leo arrived. Several photographers had taken pictures of them driving away from the Manor House in the Porsche, but the press were not in Crowbury in force so far, and there were no reporters at Orchard House. There were some policemen, though, and Daniel and Vivian were not allowed to leave the kitchen.
‘They’re searching Dad’s things,’ said Daniel. ‘Looking through his clothes. Oh Susan, it’s awful. Your poor mother. I am so sorry. She was great.’
Susan put her arms round Daniel and gave him a hug.
‘Dan, your father couldn’t have . . . it’s just not on. It’s quite impossible,’ said Susan.
‘I know. Thank God you see it that way,’ said Daniel. ‘But there was that other business, you see, in Fletcham.’
‘What business?’ asked Susan.
As Daniel explained, Susan stared at him in amazement.
‘It’s not possible,’ she said. ‘He didn’t even know that woman. How on earth did he get mixed up in it?’
‘Well, he was upset, you see, and this policeman saw him behaving a bit oddly,’ said Daniel wretchedly.
Leo glanced at Vivian, whom he had never met before, in her Indian dress
and hairy sweater. They exchanged embarrassed grins. What did she think about all this? There were plenty of cases where murders had been committed by apparently kindly men.
Vivian had her hand on the kettle.
‘What about some coffee?’ she said.
‘We could do with something stronger,’ said Leo. ‘There must be something in the house, isn’t there, Daniel? Your father wouldn’t mind, in the circumstances, would he?’
‘No, but it’s in the dining room and we’ve got to stay in here,’ said Daniel.
‘Unless we want the loo,’ said Vivian, and she giggled. ‘We ask the constable in the hall, then. We’ve had to because of the coffee.’
‘I’m sure they’ll let us have some whisky,’ said Leo, the confident merchant banker. ‘I’ll ask them.’
He went to the door and a mutter of voices was heard as he approached the officer in the hall. Soon he reappeared with a bottle of brandy and a bottle of whisky, one in each hand, and some small bottles of ginger ale poking out of his pockets.
‘Well done,’ said Susan.
The sausages that George had bought earlier were on the kitchen table, still wrapped up. Vivian, who had examined the parcel, turned back a piece of the wrapping and showed them surreptitiously to Leo. She was getting hungry, and he, the other outsider, might be too, though possibly Daniel and Susan were beyond noticing such mundane things at the moment.
She was right. Leo, having doled out drinks in tumblers from the kitchen cupboard, rallied them. They’d need their strength, he said, and suggested searching for some chips in the freezer.
‘We can’t go out,’ he said bluntly. ‘The press will be in the pub. Luckily your father had got provisions in, Daniel. When we’ve eaten, we’ll see if there’s anything useful to be done.’
There must be relatives to tell, and so on, but that could wait. How dreadful if it turned out that Daniel’s father was responsible for what had happened. Surely a burglar was the more likely answer? But what about the murder in Fletcham? There had been no arrest.
Hand of Death Page 18