Deadly Thyme

by R. L. Nolen

  “I’ll see to it she’s safe.”

  “Thank you. I can’t help but think that if I’d only reached out to whoever was sending those emails …”

  Jon Graham said, “He wouldn’t have been stopped.”

  “But he might tell me where Annie is.” Her voice caught. She willed herself to be stronger. “That’s the real reason I go walking at night. I know I’m being watched, but he is the only one who can tell me where my daughter is. I was trying to follow him. She is still alive. No one believes me, so no one will help me.”

  There was silence. She looked at him. His face had gone pale except for two splotches of color on his cheeks. “What is it?” Her breath caught and held. “What else has happened?”

  He said, “You are not the only one who believes the way you do.”

  Ruth’s breath whooshed out of her. “What are you saying?”

  Allison Craig cleared her throat. “We better be on our way.”

  Jon Graham edged toward the door. “Look, I’ve said too much. I have an appointment to keep.”

  Ruth struggled to sit up. This man may be her only hope to start a new search for her daughter. “Tell me what you know.”

  He paused at the door. “I’ll come back to talk with you after I’ve kept my appointment and made sure your mother is well.”

  She strained against the tangled IV tubes. “Wait!”

  “Please don’t move, Mrs. Butler.”

  “Mr. Graham, my feet aren’t hurt. I’m getting out of here.”

  After seeing her settled, the doctors explained to Jon that agitation was a symptom of her head injury. They gave her a mild sedative to help her relax. He and WPC Craig stayed a short time longer to make sure she wouldn’t try to follow him from the hospital.

  According to the uniformed officer guarding the door, Detective Chief Inspector Trewe had taken Mrs. Thompson home earlier. That must have been an interesting ride; he wished he could have witnessed it.

  Like every other cottage on her street, Mrs. Butler’s cottage had been constructed with locally quarried granite, but she had painted red shutters and a red door. He could tell a true gardener lived here, not like his pretension to the title. Miniature azaleas bloomed in decorative pots beside the stoop. Forsythia branches draped in graceful yellow over the low stone wall that lined her front garden. Primula had been planted along the top of the wall.

  Near the front path, in a rusting toy wagon full of potted flowers, toy bears and dolls had been placed amongst the cards and flower bouquets, a bright memorial to the child who had lived here.

  Ruth’s mother opened the door and ushered him inside. “I’d say ‘Howdy’ because that’s a cheery hello we say in Texas, but it sounds strange to say it here—like a shoe that doesn’t fit. And I’m not cheery.” She jerked and put her hand to her mouth. “I shouldn’t have said ‘shoe.’ When I think about those little black shoes of Annie’s …”

  “It’s hard not to think of them, Mrs. Thompson. You can feel free to speak with us,” Allison Craig said as they entered.

  The room was warm to the point of hot. A large window opened onto the front garden and gave a clear view of the street. The white ceiling was not so low that Jon had to duck around door frames and beams to get around, which was unusual for a cottage as old as this one must be. The walls were a muted peach color. It was furnished with comfortable-looking sofas and chairs, with bookcases full of books on the far wall. Soft guitar notes strummed from a speaker nearby. A laptop was open on a tiny table in a corner opposite the book wall and next to a door that led, presumably, to the back of the house. There were canvasses everywhere, some on the walls and some leaning against the walls. Jars of paint lined narrow shelves; the colorful effect was very artistic. Some of the canvasses on the walls were paintings of Annie in various locations at the beach, sitting in the churchyard among the flowers, or holding a white cat.

  Jon took special note of the watercolors of herbs haphazardly placed across a work table near an easel. The area would be a dining room for most people, but this was obviously where Mrs. Butler worked. Her herb illustrations must be a work in progress.

  Upon the sofa table sat an opened bottle of Madeira, and there were several empty wine glasses around the room. On top of a drinks cabinet sat a nearly empty bottle of Glenlivet. Judging from the neatness of the rest of the room, Jon figured the incongruous bottles and glasses must be a new development, possibly from Mrs. Thompson, as she had a glass in her hand.

  He said, “I hope you’re able to stay in England for a time, Mrs. Thompson.”

  “I’ll stay as long as Ruth wants me.”

  “I wanted to let you know that your daughter is awake and speaking.”

  She raised her hands to the ceiling and whispered, “Praise be!” She rubbed a hand against the sofa’s back, straightened a pillow. “I just got off the phone with the doctor. He told me he thought she was out of the woods.”

  The stout woman’s American accent was like something out of a Clint Eastwood movie. Jon was very glad indeed that Ruth had a loved one to care for her, albeit the loved one was a mother who seemed drunk. He said, “She is very awake and aware. I left there with assurances to her that we would keep you safe. Be sure to lock everything and keep a careful eye out.”

  “I’m fine. Say, with you being a policeman and all, I’ve got something worrisome to talk to you about.”

  “Anything I can do to help.”

  “The phone calls are frightening!”

  “Phone calls?”

  “The horrid, whispering ones.”

  He was taken aback. “I didn’t realize.”

  “They say things like, “wish I had done you.” Horrid. What does that mean? What in tarnation is happening, I ask you.” She poured herself a generous drink from the bottle of Madeira. “Want one?”

  “No, thank you.” He didn’t care for fortified wines. This business with the calls was worrisome.

  She paused and stared hard at him. “A policeman? Where is your uniform?”

  “I lost my things in the fire. And I don’t wear a uniform.”

  “Oh my gracious! You’re the one from London? Are you a Scotland Yard detective, Mr. Graham? Aren’t they the ones who investigate murders?”

  “Scotland Yard is a part of the Metropolitan Police, Mrs. Thompson. The Criminal Investigation Department investigates murder. Any officer with the designation ‘detective’ in his title is with CID. Of course, in my case, I happened to be here for other reasons when the crime took place, so I’m only an observer with the murder investigation, offering any help I can.”

  “Well, I’ve always been a fan of those BBB police shows on TV, but I didn’t know all that. The distinctions—tricky. I have to tell you, love the accent.” She raised her glass to him.

  She must mean the BBC. He handed her a card. “We want to keep you safe whilst you visit. Ring my mobile anytime, for any reason. We want to know about the calls as soon as they happen.” He pulled out another card. “This is DCI Trewe’s number. Have you mentioned these calls to him?”

  “Oh! I have his card. He gave it to me this morning. He’s the good-looking man with the baby blues.”

  Baby blues? “So you’ve spoken to him about the calls?”

  “Yes, but I wanted to know what you think.”

  If Trewe had charge here, Jon didn’t need to interfere with tracking down malicious pranksters. “I think these types of calls are horrid. Probably the result of someone’s torrid imagination. I must not interfere with what DCI Trewe is doing. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we must be off. It was a pleasure—”

  She practically jumped at him. “Ruth told me the top detective on the case wasn’t married. That would be Mr. Trewe. I didn’t realize he would turn out to be such a handsome devil, too.” Mrs. Thompson studied the card Jon had handed her.

  The devil part is correct, anyway. “I don’t know anything about Mr. Trewe’s private life.” Wish I did, is the ironic part.

  “We
met yesterday, the first time. And then this morning he offered to bring me here from the hospital. Said he lives at the top of the lane—at a farm? Is he a farmer? I would not have imagined that!”

  “I believe his son-in-law runs a dairy farm.”

  “A dairy farm! It’s all just so quaint. And tell me, which is higher, Detective Chief Inspector or Detective Inspector?”

  “Chief Inspector is a higher rank.”

  “So he is your boss?”

  “If I worked under his jurisdiction, he would be.”

  “A tongue twister, getting that ‘detective’ in front of saying the rest of the title.” Mrs. Thompson turned to WPC Craig who had been standing near the door looking distinctly uncomfortable. “Are you a detective, also?”

  “No, I’m a Woman Police Constable. A WPC for short.”

  “Seems a bit sexist. But that’s just me being American. They’re a good-looking bunch over here, aren’t they?”

  “If you say so, Mrs. Thompson,” Allison murmured. Jon could see her face turn red beneath the hair wisping from under her hat.

  Clearly this conversation was uncomfortable. Jon stepped away from Mrs. Thompson. “We really must be going now.”

  But Mrs. Thompson wasn’t letting up. “I had hoped to go to my daughter, but I have to find a way to get to the hospital. You see, I could drive her car, but I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to get the hang of driving on the wrong side of the road. It would scare the living daylights out of me. A car accident would be more trouble than I’m worth.”

  She needed help. He hadn’t the heart to run away. He leaned over and patted her arm. “After my appointment, I could offer you a ride.”

  “That is kind of you, Mr. Graham. You’re a good-looking one, too. Are you married?”

  Jon drew back and looked away. “No.”

  “Now, don’t go getting the wrong idea. I’m asking for Ruth’s sake.” Chuckling, Mrs. Thompson took her drink and trounced toward the door that led to the back of the house, talking the whole way. “My daughter thinks I’m as old as dirt, like I’ve got one foot in the grave. But there’s still an ounce or two of piss and vinegar in this bucket!” Ruth’s mother raised her voice to be heard. “I took the liberty of thawing fish.”

  The WPC did not leave her advantageous getaway spot near the door, but urged Jon to follow Mrs. Thompson. He stepped through the door and past a pantry area and found himself in a well-appointed kitchen. The stone counters were clear of anything and sparkling.

  “Mrs. Thompson—”

  “Call me Samantha Jane.” She pulled out a chair for him at the kitchen table. “Look at this kitchen. Can you believe anyplace this old could look this good? Of course, since I’ve been here I’ve rearranged things. Ruth doesn’t seem to mind. I’m adding decorative embroidery to the bottom of the curtains. And I’ve alphabetized the cupboards. Wouldn’t you and Allison like to stay for lunch?”

  Twenty feet away Jon could hear Constable Craig clear her throat and say, “Thank you for the invitation, Mrs. Thompson, but I’m very much afraid we must decline.”

  It was as if all the air went out of the woman. She plopped down at the table, looking lost and disconcerted. “I understand from my daughter, and Annie’s friends, and everyone who knew her that my granddaughter had a mind of her own. I wish that I’d known her. I nursed Ruth’s father through his last illness and found I had time on my hands. But I was afraid—afraid of my own shadow, if you must know. I never held my own granddaughter. Have you ever heard of anything worse than that?”

  “I’m certain you did what you could,” Jon soothed. The poor woman was lost with the future prospect of no one to care for. The drink, the banter, and her bonhomie were all covers for a terribly broken heart.

  “My sister keeps up with the latest video communication devices, but I couldn’t have it on my computer with the police looking for her, ’n’ all. So I’ve been able over the years to see and talk to her on the computer at my sister’s. But I should have come—snuck over here, despite the ex-son-in-law. What a human disaster he was. When he died, I thought, ‘now I can go over there and give her a hug.’ It’s all I ever wanted to do. Now it’s too late.” Mrs. Thompson gulped the rest of her Madeira and then wagged a finger in his direction. “I don’t want anyone else giving my daughter false hope. She is under the impression that the dead girl isn’t Annie. Don’t fan the flames, mister. Don’t go leading her down some bunny trail with that notion. She has to face facts.” Her voice broke. She looked away.

  But what if? If Annie was still alive, they could not wait for this killer to kill her. It would be like having two funerals for the same person. He thought of what he’d read of the other girls, the fact they were found dead months after they were taken. He reached to pat the woman’s shaking shoulder. “But what if she’s right?”

  27

  Jon drove east away from Perrin’s Point the eighteen miles to Treborwick and found Trewe in his office. Despite the clutter of computer, printer, wire bins with stacks of papers, stacks of paper on the floor and along the walls, and the jumble of file cabinets, his office was much more spacious than Sergeant Perstow’s cramped police cell of an office.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Graham.”

  “Thank you.”

  Trewe held up the envelope he’d been carrying. “This was found on the ground outside your caravan. Your name’s on it.” He dropped the envelope on the desk where Jon had to reach for it.

  Jon examined the outside of the envelope. It was a large brown clasp-type envelope. Where the stamp would have been a picture of a stamp had been drawn with colored chalk. His name had been scrawled by someone trying to disguise their handwriting by using their non-dominant hand. It was addressed to “Jon Graham, nosey police.” He looked up and met Trewe’s eyes. “Do you have something I can open it with?”

  Trewe handed him a letter opener.

  Jon carefully slit the envelope wide and turned it upside down. A single piece of paper slid out, heavy with pasted newsprint. What he read chilled him to the core. He read it aloud:

  Little Johnny Snooks was fond of his books

  And loved by his super and master;

  But naughty Mrs. Butler has broken her hand,

  And now carries her arm in a plaster.

  p.s. I would have done more but for your interference. You

  will regret it.

  This was from the person who had set fire to his books. It was getting personal. The words had been cut from newsprint and pasted to cheap copy paper.

  “He has a thing about Mother Goose.” Jon glanced at Trewe. “I was the intended victim.”

  “What about Mrs. Butler?”

  “I asked Mrs. Butler why she was near my caravan. She said she went to look at the sea from Perstow’s shed. There is a clear view of the sea from there.”

  “Had you met Mrs. Butler before you came here?”

  “No.”

  “But the man targets you? For what reason?”

  “Several reasons come to mind.” He told him how he had possibly thwarted the killer doing harm to Mrs. Butler on the cliffs.

  Trewe exploded, shouting, “And why the devil did you think to follow her?”

  “To see her safely home.”

  “Bakewell in no way gave you permission to have any contact with the victim’s mother.” Trewe was breathing hard.

  “Granted, it was against regulations but …”

  “I would rather you continued in your role as observer, Mr. Graham, but circumstances have involved you much deeper in this investigation. I understand you have had your own job to do, but now whatever it is that brought you here can wait.”

  “Sir—”

  Trewe held up a hand. “Let me finish. Superintendent Bakewell has charged me with the task of instructing you in these things. If you have questions or concerns, call your office.” Trewe leaned against the wall as if he were overcome with exhaustion. “I want you to meet with the team for a daily briefing first thing tomo
rrow morning. I’ll try not to let the fact you came from Bakewell’s office interfere with how I feel about you.”

  “I thought you were friends.”

  “I said we went way back; I never told you as what.”

  Jon swallowed. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “You’ve met his wife, Neena?”

  “I’ve met her.”

  “Yes, well …” Trewe paused, his sharp eyes studying Jon’s face. “Neena used to be my wife.”

  THE CAR PARK ACROSS FROM THE SPIDER’S WEB

  Sunday, 10:32 p.m.

  Dark was good, a perfect time. Charles watched the comings and goings of stupid people. The pub had a busy clientele. Quitting time was in less than half an hour. He had nothing else to do but sit here and wait for people to clear out and settle down.

  Time stole everything. He was determined to retrieve what time, and his mother, had taken from him.

  Everything began with Cecilia. He had been only twenty years old and had worked his way up to head gardener on a decent estate just north of London—never took any classes—but he knew his onions. He had lost weight with the work, slimmed down, and muscled up; he looked completely different from when he lived in the council flat with his mother in London. Cecilia, a children’s tutor, had loved him and told him so on more than one occasion. He had taken her to visit his mother. That’s when the trouble started. His mother hadn’t approved and began detailing Cecil's shortcomings—nothing the girl said made sense, she was foreign, nobody foreign would make a good wife for her Charles, she was too tall, too broad, too talkative, too blond.

  He had ignored his mother as best he could, but her accusations haunted him.

  The nights, the dark nights when Cecil had brought him fresh linens from the big house, and everything had smelled so clean in the dark, felt so smooth and firm in the dark. He had declared his undying love forevermore, for her and her alone. It was in the daylight that she had informed him she was pregnant, and she was a good girl, and he must do something! He had been torn. He loved her, but he had a lot of living to do. He couldn’t settle down yet. He had begged, he had pleaded, without result. She wouldn’t stop insisting that he marry her and take her away from the house where she worked as a glorified au pair under the guise of children’s tutor. It was her long weekend, so they had time, she had said. She wanted to visit his mother in London again and get her blessing.