Deadly Errand

by Christine Green

  ’ ‘You should take up sewing, it's more constructive,’ Margaret said.

  ‘I'd better be off, Olwen will think I've—’ I stopped myself just in time.

  ‘I'll come halfway with you,’ said Margaret. She picked up one of the cloaks from a hook on the back of the door. ‘Here, wear this one,’ she said. ‘I'll wear Claudette's cloak.’

  ‘I'll be fine on my own,’ I protested.

  ‘That's what Jacky thought,’ she said grimly.

  Chapter Six

  I gave the office a miss for the day. Hubert seemed a bit peeved when I phoned, but as there were no messages it seemed sensible to sleep in a proper bed for once. Not that I slept well. In my dreams Claudette had grown fangs and was chasing me. Her outspread cloak, billowing like huge black wings, threatened to engulf me. She gained on me, moving closer and closer until the cloak was over my head and I could see the lining was not black but red. And the red was blood. Blood that dripped over my hair, my forehead, my face. Trickling in slow motion over my body like treacle from a spoon.

  When I woke to find myself merely steaming under the duvet, I felt quite cheerful, even though I had the funeral to attend. And nothing suitably funereal to wear. I prefer loose, colourful clothes. Clothes that I can sag into and not worry about the odd bulge. In the end I decided to wear the only straight skirt I own, a dark mauve, and a black silk shirt of Dave's. Seemed appropriate really – a dead man's shirt. I rang Pauline Berkerly to arrange more work at St Dymphna's. All she could offer me was a single night on Melba Ward and a night nursing a tetraplegic. I turned down the tetraplegic.

  Pauline did promise, though, to check on the names of any agency staff working around the time of the murder. Perhaps they wouldn't be so cagey. Who was I kidding? The staff at St Dymph's weren't cagey, they were just lying. But why? Who were they trying to protect and would they protect a murderer? What troubled me most of all, though, was Jacky's unpopularity. Once I found the reason for that, there could be a motive. Motive plus circumstances equals murder, I told myself – twice – but it didn't help.

  I sat at the kitchen table so that I wouldn't crease my newly ironed clothes, watching the clock and wishing the funeral time would arrive. Was Jacky wearing a cloak that night, I wondered, and was the wound very bloody? Stab wounds can be very deceptive. A minor-looking slit with hardly any outward bleeding can be internally devastating. The fact that Jacky had dodgy heart valves seemed academic. The murderer couldn't have known that, no one had, but he or she did know where to thrust the knife with deadly accuracy.

  The Church of the Second Coming, opposite a derelict shoe factory, stood squat and ugly against a dark sky. The tin roof, a shade of cabbage green, boasted a wooden cross with the message ‘Jesus Saves' and a poster on the door promised ‘He will return'. I sat in my car watching people arrive.

  The mourners met each other outside in groups of twos and threes – nodding, patting arms, occasionally hugging each other. Funerals seem to bring out the need for physical reassurance, as if by touching each other people are saying, ‘I'm not dead, see, touch me, I'm still here.’ I'm not an expert on funerals, though; I've only been to two – Dave's and my father's. And then of course I didn't take much notice of the other mourners or the place. I do remember the weather, though – both in May, both sunny days, with the flowers wilting in the heat.

  The hearse arrived, followed by the chief mourners. I managed to glimpse Nina Marburg's side view and the woman I presumed to be her sister didn't turn her face. A tall, youngish-looking man walked between them. The coffin had already been carried in. Hubert, I was surprised to see, acted as front pall-bearer. Humberstones must have been short of staff as Hubert usually delegated such jobs. His expression remained as blank as the wooden coffin he helped to carry.

  I waited a few minutes to make sure I saw as many faces as possible and then I planned to slip in at the back of the church. I'd just decided I'd better make a move when a group of four youths approached the church, stood outside jostling each other, began laughing, pushed each other around in a good-natured fashion and then walked in. But after a few yards they stopped, the tallest one throwing an empty beer can over a hedge and then shouting to the others, ‘Carm on!’

  They turned back then and, keeping well together, walked through the church door.

  I'd crossed the road when the Range Rover drew up and parked on the double yellows and I couldn't avoid falling into step with Dr Hiding.

  ‘Ah, Miss Kinsella, we meet again.’

  His tone suggested he knew I'd registered with Dr Benfleet. I smiled.

  ‘A sad occasion,’ he said, taking me firmly by the arm and guiding me into the church. ‘But we must remember that Jacky is, at last, happy in heaven.’

  He made it sound as if someone had done some difficult conveyancing and Jacky had finally settled down in a mansion by the Thames.

  The interior of the church glowed with the light of imitation candles ranged along the window-sills. And at regular intervals between each bulbous candle sat jam jars of dried leaves and flowers that cast spidery shadows against the windows. The seating was wooden and separate and the coffin had been placed on a trestle table behind the lectern. There didn't seem to be an altar and generally it all seemed very sparse. The congregation too was sparse. I counted about thirty, mostly old ladies.

  Dr Hiding sat beside me and gave me a nudge. ‘The hymns,’ he whispered, handing me a two-page leaflet. Their pastor, I noted from the heading, was Edward Cable.

  ‘Brothers and sisters,’ he began. ‘Brothers and sisters,’ he repeated more loudly, more warmly, ‘we are gathered here today not just to mourn the passing of our sister Jacky Byfield but to celebrate her return to the loving arms of Jesus.’

  He paused and someone shouted ‘Praise be' and ‘Jesus saves'.

  ‘Let us join in our special hymn for the dead, “Safe in Our Saviour's Arms”.’

  It was an almost jolly hymn, sung to the tune of ‘When the Saints Go Marching In.’

  After that, Edward Cable welcomed those who had never been to the church before. ‘I welcome you,’ he boomed, ‘all the brothers and sisters welcome you, but, most of all' – he paused and in the silence there was a ripple of anticipation, like a football match just before a goal is scored – ‘Our Lord welcomes you.’

  ‘Hallelujah' and ‘Praise be' and ‘Amen' circulated around the congregation.

  ‘Let us pray.’

  I lowered my head but didn't close my eyes. I was too busy looking at the backs of heads. All the women, except me, wore a hat. Very dull hats too, berets and scarfs and felts. The four boys weren't praying either, but whispering amongst themselves. They gave the impression of tight, teenage restraint, about to be unleashed at any moment. I noticed the seemingly young shoulders of a man in the second row. His dark grey suit and short haircut spelt the ‘smart, quite posh' description of Jacky's boyfriend, ex-boyfriend. I looked round for Ada Hellidon but couldn't see her. One elderly lady sat head forward in a wheelchair on the end of my row in the corner. She seemed to have been parked there alone.

  The pastor continued with his rambling prayer which by now had turned into a sermon. He was getting quite emotional about forgiveness.

  ‘Forgive them, Lord. O, Lord Jesus, sweet Jesus. When our time comes, O Lord, let us come with hearts unsullied by thoughts of vengeance. Let us look to your return to save us – we the chosen ones. We will forgive all those who trespass against us. Our sister Jacky would be the first to forgive her enemies – today and for ever, she is with you in paradise.’

  ‘Praise the Lord.’ ‘Amen.’

  ‘Amen. And, as we follow the coffin let us sing “Come Back to the Fold of Jesus”.’

  Slowly we followed the coffin to the cemetery outside. Why, I thought, did the pastor refer to ‘them' and her ‘enemies'? Why should Jacky have enemies in the plural?

  The graveyard contained about six fairly recent stone crosses. Artificial roses and daffodils graced one or two
graves. In the others, the vases were gloomily empty. There was nothing to suggest age or permanence. Once we were all assembled Pastor Edward Cable didn't waste the drama of the moment. This burial contained no ‘dust to dust' eulogy but a loud ‘Into thy hands, O Lord,’ then a pause.

  ‘Amen.’

  ‘Hallelujah.’

  After that, one or two voices rose up in spontaneous prayer, most of it unintelligible.

  No one had cried until this point but as the coffin was lowered I noticed Nina Marburg stumble at the graveside. The woman in black next to her moved forward and held out her hand. They were obviously family, both sharing the same slight body, the small face. But my client was years older than her sister. And her sister, Jacky's mother, was extremely pretty. They each threw a red rose on the coffin and then hugged each other. The other mourners were silent. Tears filled my eyes, remembering. Hubert must have seen, because he smiled at me, a reassuring sort of smile. It seemed strange to think that he was the one person in Longborough whom I could call a real friend.

  Post-funeral depression had set in and I wanted to rush away from the church but Dr Hiding blocked my exit to offer me a lift. I pointed across the road to my car. He looked so disgusted when I refused, it did at least make me smile. As I walked to the car I noticed the back view of a tall, thin woman pushing the old lady in the wheelchair. She looked vaguely familiar. Stopping a few yards on, she rearranged the grey felt hat that had flopped over her charge's eyes and bent over to say something. There seemed to be no response.

  It was cold and I shivered. I wanted to go home but the funeral tea had to be endured and I was after all on an investigation. I couldn't afford to get morose and disinterested. I had to meet people, be inquisitive, ask pertinent questions. My mind, though, remained calm and blank. If religion was the opium of the people I could understand why. It had stultified me.

  Even Leonard Cohen failed to cheer me and it rained in irritating stops and starts. Dr Hiding's Range Rover followed me all the way to Short Brampton. I drove very slowly, giving him every opportunity to overtake. He didn't even attempt it. He had taken hostages, though, for I caught a glimpse of the boys in the back seat. Had they been bribed, I wondered, or was Dr Hiding's chilling presence enough to coerce them to the funeral tea?

  The house was indeed only four doors up from Ada Hellidon but what a difference four doors can make. This was the end house in the cul-de-sac, stone-built, detached and impressive. A house with interesting outbuildings and plants that crept up walls. The sort of house that proclaims ‘No Hawkers or Circulars'. A house where, no doubt, preserves were made and eggs pickled. The well-ruched cream curtains hadn't yet been pulled and inside I could see people moving around. I hoped there would be sherry or better still scotch. I needed a drink. It seemed doubtful though, amongst such company. I suspected the boys had brought their own.

  Clare Byfield met me at the door and seemed as pleased to see me as if I'd been an old friend. ‘I don't expect we'll get much chance to talk about your progress but I'm glad you're here.’

  I wondered what progress she thought I'd made but I murmured my condolences.

  ‘At least I've had a few weeks for the initial shock to wear off and of course Alan has been such a comfort to me. Poor Nina, though, has had to weather everything alone. But we're trying to be strong; Jacky would have liked us to be strong.’

  I nodded. ‘Perhaps we could meet soon,’ I suggested, ‘on our own?’

  ‘Yes, yes of course. I'm used to being questioned. The police didn't leave us alone at first. But of course now they seem satisfied it was a stranger …’ She paused and stared into space for a moment. I wondered if she thought her sister was wasting her money employing me.

  ‘I really meant just a chat about Jacky, her likes and dislikes.’

  She stopped staring then and her grey eyes focused on me. ‘Oh, I see,’ she murmured. ‘I'm here most days. Alan is too. He works from home mainly.’

  I was about to ask what he did exactly at home when he turned up, tall, dark and much younger than Clare.

  ‘Darling,’ he said. ‘I wondered where you'd got to. Are you feeling okay?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Alan. I was just coming to find you. This is Kate Kinsella – I told you about her. This is Alan Westone.’

  He smiled at me then and at her, gratified. Then, holding out his hand, she took his hand in hers as though receiving a precious gift. Don't be cynical, I told myself. I wondered if Jacky had felt like me – invisible.

  I wandered through into the lounge and although it was crowded I could smell alcohol. People grouped together in huddles, but the room still had a large and spacious feel. The walls were covered in a magnolia paper with a silver regency stripe. Two matching sofas in palest blue were arranged opposite each other in front of a gas fire with artificial logs. The older ladies had been ranged in threes on the sofas, as if the seating arrangements had been made in advance and now they were obliged not to move. Each of them sat silently concentrating on holding glasses of sherry in one hand and a plate of nibbles in the other. Younger guests left their groups occasionally to make little sorties to mingle or collect food and drink, but after a short time they would return to the safety of their original group.

  I decided to eat and drink before I spoke to anyone, and I made my way to a table in the corner that was covered with a white lace tablecloth and laden with the usual buffet fare: vol-au-vents and quiche and bridge rolls and salad. Not imaginative, but it was a funeral tea. Near the food stood a drinks cabinet, dark oak with lighting behind the bottles so that the drinks seemed to glow invitingly. I helped myself to a sherry when I saw other people doing the same.

  After two sherries and several vol-au-vents I began to circulate. I wanted to talk to the boys and Jacky's ex.

  The boys stood in a huddle, drinks and cigarettes in hand, occasionally laughing in loud nervous bursts. As I approached they eyed me suspiciously.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘I'm a reporter with the Longborough Echo and I wondered if you'd contribute a few words about Jacky.’

  There was a long silence as if they were trying to read each other's minds or work out who should be spokesman. Eventually the tallest one spoke. He gave the impression of being Corporal, partly because of his sharp crew cut but also because the others seemed to look towards him for a response.

  ‘Yeah, okay,’ he said. ‘What about her?’

  ‘Well, how did you first meet? How well did you know her?’

  He laughed loudly, his friends joining in. They stopped when he stopped. And the low chatter in the room stopped too. People paused mid vol-au-vent to stare at us. Glaring at them he said in an aggressive whisper, ‘I didn't bleedin' fancy her, you know. We didn't hardly know her at all – did we?’

  His eyes caught his mates for confirmation. They nodded.

  ‘It wasn't like that. She was okay but not tasty. If you know what I mean.’

  The others sniggered.

  ‘We're homeless, you see, bin chucked out. We get let back in by our mums, though – don't we?’

  Again the others nodded in unison.

  ‘Jacky used to let us stay the odd night. Gave us breakfast in the morning too. Dead religious she was. Used to try and get us to church. She was on to a loser there – wouldn't get us going to church – you know what I mean.’

  ‘But you came to the funeral – why?’

  ‘Bloke from the Volunteer Bureau said if we didn't he wouldn't get anyone else to put us up. We 'ad to come. See, we get chucked out quite often.’

  ‘All of you?’ I asked in amazement.

  ‘Yeah. He's me brother, see,’ he said, indicating with his thumb the boy beside him. ‘He's Damian, I'm Duncan – Dixon. That's Steve and Jace.’

  Steve and Jace smiled at being mentioned.

  ‘We going in the papers then?’ asked Damian.

  I nodded.

  ‘You ain't taking notes, are you?’

  ‘I remember everything.’

  ‘
Get 'er,’ murmured one.

  Duncan swigged at a can of lager and offered cigarettes around. They were becoming bored with me, their eyes roaming over the guests in a bid to find something or someone of interest. Finding none, their attention reverted to me.

  ‘So the Volunteer Bureau sent you to Jacky whenever your parents threw you out?’

  ‘Yeah. That's it,’ said Duncan, blowing smoke directly into my face.

  ‘And you get thrown out regularly. What for?’

  ‘Nothing really. Drinking, being late – all the usual.’

  ‘Do you still come to the house now?’

  He grinned, the others looked from one to the other, waiting for Duncan's wisdom. ‘Nah. Jacky's mum won't have us. Says we're dirty pigs. We are, though, ain't we?’

  They all laughed then, on cue at Duncan's little joke.

  These then were ‘the men' Ada had seen entering the house. What a disappointment. But I persevered. ‘Did the police tell you about Jacky's death?’ I asked the group, trying not to look at Duncan.

  But he answered just the same. ‘Well, they didn't exactly talk to us,’ he said, smirking. ‘They questioned us. Wanted to know where we were that night.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, we all had alibis, didn't we? We were all together at a mate's house until about two in the morning. Then his mum came home – she'd had a row with her boyfriend and we got chucked out.’

  ‘Occupational hazard,’ I murmured.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. Thanks for your help.’

  I moved away from the boys and went over to the ‘bar' for another sherry. Duncan had glowered at me as I left; perhaps he'd been expecting payment. Theirs seemed a solid enough alibi and no doubt they had been interviewed separately. Without Duncan beside them, the others would have been reduced to telling the truth.

  I spent the next few minutes looking for the ‘posh' young man. I found him, ill at ease, talking to an elderly lady who kept snatching nervously at her own knee – probably her rug was missing. He agreed to talk to me in the utility room which was the only place I could think of. His name was Kevin Stirling, and his body was of normal size but his face and head seemed small in comparison. The thin nose and brown eyes that darted nervously away when I looked at him made me think of ferrets. I told him I'd met Jacky at the hospital.