Come Death and High Water (George & Molly Palmer-Jones)

by Ann Cleeves

  “Hello,” he said. “I didn’t expect you to be here. You’re staying on at the obs, aren’t you?” He was friendly. There was no indication of his previous anger.

  “Yes, I decided to stay on for a few days. Molly, my wife, is joining me.”

  The boy did not seem disconcerted to see George. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, making no move to go up to the office.

  “What are you doing here?” George asked.

  “I live in Gillicombe. I don’t go back to college until the end of the month.”

  “Here. In the Todds’ office.”

  “Oh, I’ve come to see Charlie’s brother, Laurence. His son, Jonathan, is one of my mates. I’d lent him a load of records and I wanted to ask when I could go to the house to collect them.”

  “Couldn’t you ask Jonathan?”

  “No. He’s at college in London, and he went back suddenly without telling me that he was going. His mum says it’s to do some work, but I know that he gets fed up very quickly at home. I expect that he had to escape.”

  “Laurence Todd has just gone out. Didn’t you see him?”

  “No.”

  Mark looked at his watch. “The pubs are open,” he said. “Come on. I know all about civil servants’ index-linked pensions. You can buy me a drink.”

  Mark took him to a tiny, decaying pub in a road behind the High Street. The bar was like the parlour of a small terraced house. There were family pictures on the walls, and two fireside chairs with threadbare upholstery and crocheted runners faced an unlit electric fire. Only the high stools in the corner turned it into a public house. The landlady, who sat behind the bar drinking stout, was small too. She had a cockney accent and bright, acquisitive eyes. She acknowledged Mark as a friend. George Palmer-Jones felt a sense of unreality. All the protagonists were linked by more than their membership of the Observatory Trust. There was a web of relationships, and he felt that he was in danger of being trapped in it. He was afraid of being stuck with the tangle of small emotions and of losing the true perspective of the case. But how could he tell what was the true perspective if he did not explore the relationships? He settled, with his drink, in one of the chairs.

  “Did you know that Jonathan benefited from Charlie’s will?”

  “Did he?” Mark was hardly interested. “He’ll be pleased. He’s got a very expensive taste in girlfriends.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “Oh, very respectable. A chip off the old block. Ambitious in his own quiet way. But independent too. He wants to make his own way, without the help of the family.”

  “But he’s got expensive tastes?”

  “Only in girlfriends.”

  “Will you tell me now, where you were when Pamela was murdered?”

  “Yes,” Mark said. “ I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you yesterday.”

  He went to the bar, bought himself and George a drink.

  “I was in the common room.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  Mark seemed sheepish, embarrassed. “ Brooding, I suppose … Grieving.”

  George Palmer-Jones marvelled at young people’s interest in their own emotions. Mark was so concerned to describe his feelings accurately.

  “Grieving for Charlie?”

  “Oh no, not for Charlie.”

  He paused.

  “It seems ridiculous now.” He looked resolutely at George. “ It was Elizabeth. I always had a thing about her. I kept coming back to the island because of her. There was nothing in it. I never said anything to her. I knew, I suppose, that it was hopeless, but I was always desperately attracted to her. I’ve had girlfriends at college, girls of my own age, but Elizabeth was different, special. I like John very much, but they always seemed to be arguing. I suppose I dreamed that eventually they might separate, and I wanted to be there if they did. Then John told us that she was pregnant, and I realized that I’d been daft to consider anything like that. I saw the whole thing for what it was—just an infatuation.”

  He smiled at George, inviting understanding.

  “I see,” George said. “ How long were you in the common room … brooding?”

  “I don’t know. Half an hour. Not more. It started getting cold and I felt a bit silly and melodramatic.”

  “Where were you when you heard Nicholas screaming?”

  “On the stairs.”

  “Did you hear anyone moving about in the ringing room, while you were in the common room?”

  “No. But someone could have been there. I was preoccupied.”

  “Did you ever meet Elizabeth on the mainland?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “I’m interested.”

  “I never did meet her. I wish that I had done.”

  “Did Elizabeth have anything to do with Ernest Todd?”

  Mark looked disgusted. “I hope not. Ernest has quite a reputation, but I should think that she had better taste than that. Besides, I don’t believe that there’s anyone else. She’s really very fond of John.”

  They sat without speaking. It was very quiet in the room. Then they collected the glasses and walked out into the sunshine. As he went through the door the old lady behind the bar gave George a drunken, lopsided wink.

  They stood together on the pavement.

  George asked: “Do you think that Nicholas killed Pamela?”

  Mark hesitated.

  “On Saturday I would have said that it was impossible. But I saw him there, in that room, covered in blood, and I just don’t know. I don’t know what to think.”

  “He’s a remand prisoner. It should be possible for you to visit him. He’d appreciate that.”

  “Yes,” Mark said. “I could do that, couldn’t I? Thank you.” And he hurried away.

  Chapter Twelve

  George knew where Jasmine Carson lived. He had given her a lift home once, after one of the Gillibry weekends. He had time still before meeting Molly. He was haunted by the image of Jasmine Carson bending painfully over the wastepaper basket in Paul Derbyshire’s room on the island. What could she have been doing there? He rang the bell at the front door of her flat and waited while she came to open it. She welcomed very few visitors to her flat and at first felt a rush of panic. She had never entertained a gentleman there.

  She invited him in, then left him almost immediately in her living room, while she went to the kitchen to make coffee. He stood by the large window and admired the view of the island. He was intrigued by the different perspective.

  “How strange it looks from here!” he said as she came in, awkwardly carrying the coffee tray. “What a wonderful view.”

  She was proud, as if he had complimented her skill at interior design. The flat was bare and impersonal. Much of the furniture had been provided by the developer. Only the view expressed any individuality. It was as if she owned the view and the island.

  “Would you pour the coffee?” she said. “I’m afraid that I might make a mess of it. My hands are very stiff this morning.” She had set the tray on a dining table, and sat on a high, hard-backed chair.

  “Do take a more comfortable chair, if you prefer. I find it so much easier to stand up from here.”

  He sat with her by the table by the big window. The tide was beginning to come in. The sandbanks beyond the island were covered. He poured coffee for her. Her hand shook as she was adding sugar and she spilled it over the table and floor. He sensed her anger and frustration. He had not realized how disabled she was.

  “I have come,” he said, “to take up your offer of help.”

  “How can I help you?” She seemed surprised, but very pleased.

  “What did you find in Paul Derbyshire’s room yesterday?”

  She did not speak. He could not tell at all what she was thinking.

  “You did take something from his room?”

  She seemed to make up her mind. “Yes,” she said. “I don’t know how you know, but I did take something from his room. I’m sure that it has nothin
g to do with the murder, but I felt that if it were to be found by someone else, it might be misinterpreted. Especially by the police. I am sure that Superintendent Savage has many qualities which would suit him to his profession, but he did not seem to me to be an intelligent man.”

  She levered herself carefully to her feet, walked to a wall unit of veneered plywood which had obviously come with the flat, and from a drawer took a piece of paper. It had previously been torn and had been stuck back together with Sellotape.

  “Before I leave the island,” she said, “ I check that the bedrooms are tidy. Elizabeth is a good worker. I do not believe that she is adequately paid for what she does, nor sufficiently appreciated by the residents. We should not presume on her good nature, especially now that she is expecting a child. So I go into every bedroom, once the guests have finished, and fold the blankets neatly, empty the waste-paper basket. I repeated this procedure on Sunday. I saw no reason to behave differently because of the outrages which have occurred. In the doctor’s bedroom I found these scraps of paper in the waste bin.”

  The paper was a letter or, George thought, the draft of a letter, because certain parts had been rewritten, words had been crossed out.

  “My dearest Sian,” it began. “ You will never receive this letter. None of the letters I write will ever reach you. I know better than to hurt you like that, especially now. You must not miss your mother too much. When you are older you will realize that she was not worthy of you. But I am writing, my dear, to tell you that we are safe. Charlie Todd is dead, and I have retrieved from him that which he would have used against us. So remember, my dear, that I will always be your fond friend, Paul.”

  “I knew of course about his affection for young girls,” Jasmine Carson said. “I have seen it before. I worked with children for forty years. Before he went into general practice he worked in the hospital in Gillicombe. He made a fool of himself with some of the younger nurses, but they were able to look after themselves. Sian Marshall is only a child. I had not realized, I admit, how deeply he cared for her.”

  “Sian is Pamela Marshall’s daughter?”

  “Yes. Her youngest child.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Thirteen, fourteen perhaps, but rather immature for her age. Pamela always said that she worried about the girl, but I saw no evidence of her concern. She was always happy enough to leave her alone to go off on her conferences and committee meetings.”

  “What made you look at the pieces when you were emptying the basket?”

  “One of the larger pieces included the words ‘Todd is dead’. I was curious and put the pieces in my pocket. It’s a habit. From my schoolmistress days, I suppose, when it was my duty to take an unnatural interest in my charges’ behaviour. When I got home and saw Sian’s name on the paper I felt no guilt in piecing the thing together.”

  “Why didn’t he burn it? It would have been safer.”

  “The only fire was in the common room. He may have been reluctant to take it there.”

  “Do you think that the doctor had actually made any advances towards Sian? Did Pamela know about his infatuation?”

  “I’m sure that she did not. She was supposed to leave her children with anyone who would look after them. Sian went occasionally to spend an afternoon with Paul Derbyshire and his wife. I doubt whether he has done or said anything at all improper. He’s a weak and foolish man, and that nonsense …” she pointed at the letter “… is nothing but fantasy.”

  “You know that you must tell the police,” George said.

  “What would they do? Take him to the police station for questioning. They might frighten him into saying something, but I doubt it. He’s stubborn.”

  “He could not deny the letter.”

  “It could all be quite innocent.”

  “Yes. It could be.”

  “While we’ve been talking, I have been thinking,” she said. She was unused to asking for help. “It has occurred to me that you might see him, talk to him, make up your own mind about it. Then, if you think that there is anything suspicious, take the letter to the police. But find out first. The police will not get to the truth of the matter. If he is innocent all the publicity would destroy him, and his wife. If he is guilty, I have no faith in the police’s ability to bring him to justice.”

  George did not answer directly. “ I wonder,” he said, “ what it is that Charlie would have used against him. Do you have any idea?”

  “I thought perhaps another letter. Paul Derbyshire doesn’t seem to have taken great care to destroy the evidence.”

  “Charlie would hardly have been in a position to check through the waste-paper bins in the observatory bedrooms.”

  “You obviously did not know Charlie.”

  He changed the subject quite suddenly. “Did you know that there was chloroform in the ringing-room cupboard?”

  “Yes. Everyone must have seen it there. Some of the teachers who bring school groups to the island seem to be extremely careless about equipment. It would not have happened in my school.”

  He stood up and looked again out of the window.

  “I’ll do as you say,” he said. “ I’ll go and talk to Derbyshire. It won’t be an easy interview. Then, if I feel that it’s necessary, I’ll go to the police.”

  She smiled. “Thank you,” she said. “That will do very well.”

  “I want to get everyone on to the island again,” he said. “ Perhaps on Friday. Do you think that they will come?”

  “I will come,” she said. “You must ask the others.”

  “I’ll ask John to meet you with the Land Rover.” “And I’ll be hoping for a north-westerly gale.”

  George was late for the meeting with Molly at the quay, but he was still there before her. Usually he was irritated by her lack of punctuality, but now he was glad of the opportunity to be alone. Besides, he had waited for her so often that he would have been disappointed if she had been on time. The late-afternoon sun was warm. He sat, like a boy, on the edge of the quay with his legs dangling over the mud. Waders were feeding on the shore in huge numbers, and as he watched them through his binoculars, he emptied his mind of the island and of questions and suspicion and fear. It had always been the only way he could force himself to unwind. While he was counting the birds there was a movement across the mud. The birds started to call, rose in a group in alarm. A peregrine dropped from the sun, took one of the foolish, flapping creatures and flew with it across the estuary to the hills. The incident was over in seconds, but for George it was a joy, a reward to sustain him.

  Then Molly arrived. He recognized the engine sound of her car, the erratic gear changes, the violent braking, before he turned to see it stop, next to his van, by the quay. She climbed out easily and quickly. She did not seem to him to be old. She was grey now of course, and a little plumper, but not very different from when they had married. She had the same energy.

  She could tell that he was disturbed because he allowed himself to show that he was pleased to see her. He even kissed her, briefly. They had led self-contained working lives long before such partnerships were common, and his telephone call the night before had been unusually demanding and uninformative.

  “Can you come down to stay for a few days?” he had said. “ Do try to come.”

  “I am pleased to see you,” he said.

  She looked surprised, but did not say anything. It was one of her qualities, he thought, that she knew when there was nothing to say.

  She had been wearing a pair of old plimsolls for driving. She dressed in baggy trousers and strange, loose jerseys, but for comfort, not for effect. Her appearance had never bothered him, even when he had had to mix socially with men whose wives were smart and sophisticated. Now he did not notice it. She changed into a pair of wellingtons, put on a plastic mac, and they began to walk.

  “You didn’t say much last night.”

  “No, I was using the observatory phone. There’s an extension in the warden’s flat. I
was afraid of being overheard.”

  “I heard about it all on the radio,” she said. “It said that someone was helping the police with their inquiries. Does that mean that the police know who committed the murders?”

  “They think that they know.” He had spoken more sharply than he intended, and added: “I suppose it’s inevitable that they should have arrested the boy. But the policeman in charge of the case, Savage, is unimaginative, stubborn. I believe that there’s more to the investigation than he realizes, but I can’t convince him. I worked with him once before when I was with the Home Office, so he asked for my help. Now, because I can’t agree with him, he doesn’t want me involved at all.”

  “Tell me what happened,” she said. “The man was already dead when you arrived on Saturday?”

  “Charlie Todd. Yes.”

  So he described the events of the weekend to her. As he answered her questions, tried to help her to understand what it was like to be there, he brought some order to the chaos of his memory. He remembered important details, unconnected snatches of conversation.

  “Tell me about the people,” she said. “What were they like? How did they all get on?”

  “I don’t think that they have anything in common, except the observatory. John, the warden, is quiet, conscientious, a bit weak. I should think that Elizabeth is the stronger. You’ll meet them on the island. You’ll be able to judge for yourself.”

  “What about the boy they arrested?”

  “Nick Mardle. He seems lonely, a bit disturbed. Perhaps a little immature. I don’t think he has many friends, except Mark, who was there too. Mark Taylor. He seems quite harmless. You’d like him. He’s a student. He had a crush on Elizabeth, but I think her pregnancy brought him to his senses … I don’t know how to describe Jerry Packham. I always liked him, but now I think perhaps I didn’t know him very well. He was having an affair with Pamela Marshall.”

  “Charlie Todd’s niece?”

  “Yes. And that has confused the case. Because they were both members of the same family, Savage has the theory that it was some sort of psychopathic revenge killing. I’ll tell you why I don’t believe that, later.”