Late of This Parish

by Marjorie Eccles

  ‘If you mean we came on the spur of the moment, yes. I hadn’t seen my parents for months and thought it was time I made the effort.’

  A few spots of rain fell and suddenly the cat, lightly for one of its weight and age, leaped on to her knee and draped itself against her shoulder. She held it to her, looking at him from over its head, running her hands through the thick fur. ‘Florence doesn’t like rain,’ she said. ‘Me neither,’ and stood up.

  The drops came slowly at first, then in a drenching downpour that had them running for the house, scrambling up steps, brushing against the purple and white lilacs that overhung the hedge from the Rectory garden next door and releasing their heavy, cloying scent on the air.

  CHAPTER 13

  By the time he finished what he had to do in Wyvering, however, the downpour had eased off and finally stopped.

  Following a train of thought set up when standing near the badger sett, Mayo made the decision on his way home to turn off the main road and have a look at Stapley, the village a few miles along the river from Castle Wyvering. He discovered it to be little more than a hamlet: a few houses clustered round the bridge over the river, a pub, a shop-cum-post office and the church whose steeple could be seen from Wyvering. He drew to a halt at the far side of the river, wide at this point, and walked to the ancient packhorse bridge, so narrow that foot travellers in days gone by had been obliged to take refuge from a single coach or cart by pressing themselves into recessed bays at either side.

  Standing in one of these, looking at the water, he felt the wind, stronger now, with a colder edge to it. Rain threatened again. It was an altogether unpleasant late afternoon, grown dark too early, and the fortunate inhabitants of Stapley were all indoors before the fire, lights from their houses already glowing, while outside the air smelt of woodsmoke and wet grass and drenched May blossom. Mayo leaned over the parapet, looked upriver and thought about possibilities. Nothing very interesting occurred to him. Alongside the river the footpath was indeed as bad as Thorne had suggested and seemingly disappeared altogether a few hundred yards further along in a sea of mud. The river certainly wasn’t navigable, either: the water at the edges was clear and as shallow as it had been near the badgers’ sett. Only in the middle was it deeper, but there it was choked by a thick growth of rank weed.

  He saw the map of the area clearly before his mind’s eye: the country road off the bypass winding up to Castle Wyvering, past the school, along the crest of the hill through the village and down the other side where it rejoined the bypass. And another narrow road off, leading eventually through Stapley, arriving at the point where he was now standing, thus completing the circle.

  Having found nothing profitable after all in his diversion, he was turning back to his car when he heard children’s voices and a gaggle of small boys appeared down this same road, clad in running gear, their faces hot, red and sweaty. Straggling untidily in twos and threes, they staggered to the bridge, collapsing against it in attitudes of exaggerated exhaustion, with many dramatic utterances to the same effect. Mayo, who regarded this type of exercise as a form of masochism anyone could do without, watched them with every sympathy from the shelter of a large chestnut tree. He began to be less worried for their survival when one lad, tiring of the histrionics and looking round for some more interesting way to pass the time, presently descended to the path and began chucking boulders into the water, so starting a general movement towards the bank. Competition to see who could make the biggest splash soon became fierce, water and mud flew, until down the road came the rest of the contingent, Jon Reece in his blue tracksuit jollying along the forlorn hope.

  Not wishing to be seen, Mayo drew back further into the shadows, while a clamour of voices immediately assailed the schoolmaster, the gist of which seemed to be a plea to be allowed to return to Wyvering via the river bank.

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Reece.

  ‘Oh, sir!’ twenty boys chorused. Additional pleas to the effect that they were soaking already, that it would wash the mud off, that it was boring going the same way back fell on deaf ears. The enterprising one added, ‘I think I’ve sprained my ankle, sir.’

  ‘Tough,’ Reece returned. ‘And bored you’ll have to be, the lot of you. Hungry too, if you don’t get a move on. It’s bangers and beans tonight.’

  A few token groans, some sotto voce grumbles, but Reece’s bracing strictures and the promise of supper soon had them starting at a brisk trot back up the road whence they had come, sprained ankles and faint hearts miraculously mended.

  As he watched Reece sprinting after them, Mayo reflected that Holden seemed to have been correct in his judgement of Reece’s popularity with the boys – whether or not this was a necessary or even a desirable trait in a headmaster. He walked back to his car and slid thoughtfully behind the wheel again. An idea had come to him as he had stood there unobserved, watching the stones being thrown into the water, seeing Reece and hearing his voice call to the children, and seeing something else he’d seen before, without knowing he’d seen it. He understood now what had puzzled him about Reece. Why the hell didn’t I make the connection before? he asked himself. And what does it mean, anyway?

  ‘If you want to know about the bomb at the Fricker, it’s DCI Uttley you want to see at Hurstfield. Fred Uttley,’ Kite was informing him over the telephone half an hour later. ‘He’s not in for the next couple of days but he says if it’s convenient to you, he’ll be there first thing Wednesday morning. I okayed that, but I can change it if it’s not suitable.’

  ‘No, don’t do that. I want to see him as soon as possible.’ Mayo spoke absently, thinking that if Kite, who had left Wyvering before him to return to the station, was still there, they could take the opportunity to discuss the day’s proceedings and compare notes. Kite, however, was not.

  ‘Matter of fact, I got a move on and finished sooner than I expected and I’m at home now,’ he said. ‘In Sheila’s good books for once. But look, if you want us to talk, why don’t you come around here and have something to eat with us first? There’ll be more than enough. Sheila always cooks enough for the five thousand.’

  ‘I shan’t be in her good books if I butt in on your one and only evening together.’

  Mayo could imagine the frantic gesticulating going on at the other end, Sheila wondering how she could spin out the meal to include an extra one and cursing him for ruining their evening. The thought he imputed to her reflected his own disinclinations. Being sociable with Kite’s wife, much as he liked her, and talking to his boys, was the last thing he wanted tonight, but he’d warded off enough similar invitations to make him feel he was being boorish and standoffish by refusing yet again. It was all very kindly meant – they imagined he must be miserable, alone in his flat, preparing and eating a solitary meal – and suddenly, seeing it that way, the thought of company other than his own appealed. Kite then clinched it by adding, ‘Farrar handed me his report just before I left and I think you’d like to see it.’

  Mayo gave in. ‘Thank you very much, I will come round, but I’ll eat first and join you for coffee afterwards, if that’s all right with you.’

  It was a compromise, and Kite recognized it as such. The kids would be in bed by then, he said, and they could go and talk in the conservatory afterwards, dignifying with the name his latest DIY project, an extension to the back of the house which he’d recently managed to finish against all the odds, and which he was anxious to show off.

  It was a very creditable job, Mayo had to admit when he saw it. And agree that it hadn’t taken too much off the garden, had extended the scope of the house. And admire Kite’s plants, one or two already large and handsome, most as yet immature but hopeful. And approve the furnishings Sheila had chosen. And pay her the deserved compliment of having as light a touch with the décor of her house as with the delicious cake he was sampling with his coffee. Sheila, not being one of those women who see every man living on his own as being liable to go to the dogs without a woman’s tender
loving care, and not susceptible to flattery either, regarded the slice of walnut cake reposing on her own plate with surprise. ‘It’s not bad, is it? Afraid my cakes are a matter of luck. I’m much better with casseroles and things like that, where you just bung everything in.’

  ‘I’ll second that,’ Kite teased, offering another slice to Mayo and helping himself to one.

  She made a face, but laughed and poured more coffee. They had an easy, natural, uncomplicated partnership that Mayo sometimes envied. She was an uncomplicated and cheerful woman, Sheila, coping without fuss with a responsible job of her own, her home and family. Putting up with Kite’s unsocial hours with only the routine amount of complaining, as far as Mayo could gather. Contrary to what Mayo had thought, she was evidently delighted that he had consented to drop in and he felt ungracious in hoping he hadn’t started something he didn’t want to continue. Never a man to socialize much with his colleagues, he preferred to keep his private and professional life in separate compartments, though he knew this gave rise to speculations about him down at the station, and no doubt about Alex, too. He knew his reticence helped to fuel their curiosity, but he couldn’t help that, it was the way he was made.

  With commendable tact, Sheila found an excuse to leave them alone when the coffee was drunk. Kite produced whisky.

  ‘Well,’ Mayo said, as a glass was set at his elbow and Kite had poured one for himself, ‘what did you get from Tracey’s mum?’

  ‘She’s fed up to the back teeth with Tracey, landing the baby on her. But I reckon she thought the poor little beggar would stand a better chance with her than with a daughter who doesn’t want it. Tracey’s living here in Lavenstock and her mum thinks it’s ten to one Lampeter is with her – or at any rate that she’ll know where he is. Seems the landlord at the Drum and Monkey was nearer the mark than her grandad, whether Danny’s the kid’s father or not. It wasn’t just Danny refusing to marry her, the feeling was apparently mutual, though they’re still good friends.’

  ‘And what did Farrar have to say?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Kite. ‘This is interesting. He couldn’t find anybody at the conference centre who remembers speaking to Illingworth before nine o’clock Saturday night.’

  ‘Nobody?’

  ‘Which, of course, doesn’t rule out that he was there. Place is like a rabbit warren, Farrar says, an old converted country house with five or six acres of grounds. Apparently there’s about two hundred delegates milling around this weekend, and Illingworth may or may not have been among them.’

  Anyone, it appeared, could arrive at Thornaby and not be noticed, possibly not for some considerable time. All the necessary papers, with room allocations, were sent out by post beforehand, cutting out the requirement for a registration desk and the need to book in. No occasion to pick up one’s room key even, since there were no locks on the doors. ‘It’s owned by a religious organization and all run on communal lines – self-service meals, make your own beds, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Sounds like one big security headache to me,’ Mayo commented.

  ‘They don’t seem to think so. Mutual trust seems to be the order of the day.’

  ‘Trust my backside! Still, that’s their pigeon.’

  Kite now threw a copy of Farrar’s report down on the coffee table. 'It’s all there. Chap by the name of Peter Collins had a drink in the bar with him at nine, and after that one or two folks either saw or spoke to him – but nobody before then.’

  ‘Well,’ Mayo reflected, ‘if he did decide to do for Willard, he could have got himself down to Brighton by nine, easily. There’s also a way he could have made his way into the church without being seen. I called in at Stapley on my way home, that’s about four miles downstream from Wyvering. Nothing to stop him walking up the river from there.’

  ‘Jesus!’ said Kite, not inappropriately.

  ‘You look at the river and you’ll see how shallow it is at the edges. If it’s like that all the way to Wyvering, and I suspect it is, all he’d need would be a pair of gumboots or waders with him. Anybody saw him, he could’ve made out he was fishing, though it’s unlikely anybody else would be wallowing through all that mud. Then up that path that comes out in Parson’s Place.’

  It took a few minutes to convince Kite that it was possible, but when he saw that it was he agreed to have a man try it out the following day. ‘I’ll put Spalding on to it, he’s the athletic type, that slope’ll be nothing to him. He’ll need to have a pair of trainers or something in his pocket, though, never get up it in gumboots.’

  Kite was convincing himself of the feasibility of the idea as he spoke. Yes, he agreed, it would have taken no time at all for the killer to dodge from the entry and through the back gate of the churchyard, after which he’d have had cover from the trees. Much less likelihood of him being seen than if he’d entered Parson’s Place from either Dobbs Lane or St Kenelm’s Walk. ‘It’s possible,’ he admitted. ‘Mind you, he was still taking some risk of being seen, but as we’ve already said, that applies to whoever followed Willard into the church, that way or any other.’

  ‘Better not get too sold on Illingworth, all the same. Not at this stage.’

  ‘Well, yes, there’s still time for someone to turn up at Thornaby who remembers seeing him earlier in the day. Some of the delegates had already left for home when Farrar got there. He got names and addresses,’ Kite added, though Farrar, of all people, wouldn’t have forgotten.

  ‘Well, leaving aside Illingworth for the moment,’ Mayo said, ‘let’s look at it another way. At Willard himself. We’ve been concentrating on who he saw on Friday, but what about yesterday? He was supposed to have spent it alone, but did he in fact? Did something happen during the day that sparked off the murder? What have we got? It was the day for the nurse who used to attend to him. She calls early, about half past eight according to Laura Willard, who waited until the nurse had gone before she went out herself, leaving her father a ham salad which he ate for his lunch. At some time during the afternoon he had some tea and a piece of fruit cake. Laura Willard feels that if anyone had called – anyone he knew, that is – he’d have made them a cup of tea. But there was no sign of that – only one cup, saucer and plate. He left the house, presumably at six. At any rate Mrs Oliver says that it was just after six when he arrived at the church and went in, and it could only have taken a few minutes to get his chair round there. Mrs Holden had locked the church door at five-thirty and no one else had keys, apart from the churchwardens, Brigadier Finlay and George Washburn.’

  Kite agreed with this. ‘Washburn took his wife shopping in Lavenstock and afterwards to a meal at that Italian place, Gino’s, in Sheep Street, and they didn’t get back until about nine. Brigadier Finlay’s daughter and her family were visiting him, so he was in all day but nobody approached him for the key.’

  ‘What do Willard’s neighbours say? Did they notice anyone coming or going at the house?’

  ‘There’s that high brick wall opposite, the backyards of the houses on Main Street, so it’s not surprising nobody saw or heard anything. The people at the first house in St Kenelm’s Walk are away on holiday and his next-door neighbour on the other side, an elderly woman called Mrs Crawshaw, is in Lavenstock General with a suspected thrombosis. I’ll have a WPC go and see her, if you think it’s necessary.’

  ‘That was the woman I saw being taken away in the ambulance when I went round with Wainwright to Willard’s house. If she’s feeling up to it, you can send Jenny along, but don’t let anyone bother the old girl if not,’ he said. ‘She’s had enough to put up with, and if she was feeling that bad, she wouldn’t have been peering through the lace curtains at Willard’s visitors anyway.’

  Mayo swished the ice round in his glass, leaning back and following the progress of an enormous cheese plant, apparently on its way to heaven. ‘We’ve rather lost sight of Sara in all this, haven’t we? Nobody turned up of that name, I suppose?’

  ‘There’s a baby called Sarah – with an ait
ch – in Elm Tree Crescent, but that’s all. Who the devil is she?’

  ‘I’ll swear young Oliver knows, for one, but he’s not saying. I don’t trust him, still less that girlfriend of his, any further than I can throw either of them.’

  ‘You think he might’ve had a problem with someone called Sara and gone to Willard to ask his advice?’

  ‘Martin, I haven’t one damn clue what to think.’ He shook his head regretfully at the offer of another drink and moved to the edge of his chair, saying, ‘Had my limit, thanks. Must be off anyway, and say my goodbyes to Sheila. Thank you for everything, Martin.’ But he didn’t move.

  ‘You know who it is, don’t you?’ Kite asked abruptly. It depressed him slightly how quickly Mayo, an unimaginative man – or so he professed himself – could make a quantum leap and reach a point way ahead of Kite, who knew himself to be sharp and intuitive.

  ‘No,’ Mayo said after a moment. ‘I don’t know. It’s just a vague idea I’ve had. Something that occurred to me that probably has nothing to do with anything. I’m not holding out on you – it’s just so nebulous I haven’t been able to form it in my own mind yet. You know what it’s like, Martin,’ he added, conscious of not being fair to Kite but feeling that the various threads he was trying to knit together were as yet insubstantial as the threads of a spider’s web, ‘talk an idea over too soon and it disappears like smoke up a chimney.’

  CHAPTER 14

  Uplands House School was a former country house, once-prosperous but fallen upon evil times until being bought and renovated as a school in the nineteen-twenties. Built of warm sandstone in the Strawberry Hill Gothick tradition, it was an imposing pile, castellated and pinnacled, with a great mullioned window in the centre of the creeper-covered south front and towers terminating each end. Little had been done to alter the original structure, apart from the building of a chapel which had been tacked on as an afterthought to the side. The science block was another addition but was housed in a series of Terrapin huts round the back of the school, out of sight.