Deadly Thyme

by R. L. Nolen

  “Second, it may be—though it is not supposed to be—common knowledge or even a matter for discussion, and though there is no official word, I believe that the body found in the surf was not that of Annie Butler.”

  The room buzzed with exclamations of shock. The officers stood or sat up straighter, their eyes suddenly sharp.

  Jon continued. “There is no official word on this line of thinking as yet, so it’s hush-hush. I want each of you to be more diligent than ever in discovering places where a child could be kept alive, hidden, fed, etcetera. Think—along the cliffs, whatever. We won’t call out the troops until the DNA is conclusive. Most importantly, this is not to be discussed with residents or even other police teams. I do not want the killer to be aware that we suspect such a thing. It would put him on his guard and possibly cause more harm to the girl, if she is still alive. Any questions?”

  After fielding several questions and seeing that each man had his assignment, Jon reviewed what notes there were and studied the china board’s scribbling and diagrams. He noted the photos that were there—one photo in particular. Half an hour later, he was still at it when Perstow interrupted, “Sar, we’ve got the interview room ready.”

  “What have you found out so far from the interviews?”

  “Some villagers are working themselves up to hysteria because of Tavy’s death. He seemed to have lived a peaceful life. No conflict.”

  “Not a bit?” Jon asked. In a village where everyone knew each other and everything, conflict was inevitably the main course on the everyday menu.

  “A true gentleman was the general opinion—considered Tavy polite but not talkative, kept himself to himself but always ready with kindnesses. He was a regular evening fixture at the Spider’s Web. The regulars at the Nap saw him for the occasional lunch.”

  “Yes, they knew him, treated him like one of the regular lads.”

  Perstow nodded. “He apparently always ordered the same thing. And he attended their weekly music fest. He really went in for the music, did Tavy.”

  Perstow continued with a recap of interviews with the regulars at the Spider’s Web. Two ancient fishermen came in every afternoon as Tavy did, rain or shine. Tavy would share a table with them and listen to them tell their stories of life on the sea.

  “That fits in with what we saw of his interests when we were in his house,” Jon said.

  Perstow went on, “As for the irregulars—that is, people who fancied an hour or two at the pub four days out of seven—there were several. Those who knew Tavy included one woman, of dubious past and present reputation, and four old pensioners who claimed he never said much to them. But then, according to the dubious woman, ‘Them four never said much to nobody, so what would they know?’

  “According to Mr. Sonders, the pub’s regulars were DCI Trewe, his son the dairy farmer, and myself. There was the magistrate, along with his wife; two local gentlemen farmers escaping the late afternoon tedium (or the wife); the postmistress and her erstwhile live-in, both carrying the local gossip; and the librarian, a single lady who kept herself to herself. The librarian would read a book while having a pint or two. She seemed to take special care to say a word to Tavy every day.”

  Jon noted the first person to be interviewed today was the person who would have had the most contact with Tavy—Harold Sonders from the Spider’s Web.

  Obviously ill at ease, the Spider’s Web’s sonorous, flame-topped publican stepped into the portioned cubicle farthest away from the computers and phone lines. He looked different without his apron. His polyester yellow-and-brown-checked suit looked as new as the eighties, the material having acquired an oily sheen of age.

  Sonders shook hands all around before Jon asked him to have a seat. “This is not an interview, Mr. Sonders, so I won’t take up your time with the list of dos and don’ts. If you’ll be sure and sign the paper acknowledging you understand you were taped, that will be all of the formality we’ll go through. Remind me if I forget, won’t you?”

  “I’ll do it, Mr. Graham. Find the killer an’ ye’ll be needin’ ta remind me to keep from doin’ the same to ’im as he done to my friend.” Mr. Sonders wiped his eyes, his voice slowed to a low growl. “I’m that spun out.”

  “We understand. Tell me about Mr. Tavish.”

  Mr. Sonders suddenly rallied. “Tavy—’is name has auways been Tavy to his friends an’ acquaintances.” He snuffled, wiping his sleeve across his nose.

  “I’ll remember. Did you ever witness trouble between Tavy and anyone else?”

  “Nae. Quiet, but took guff off no one.”

  “Did anyone give him trouble then?” Jon asked.

  “He was a humble man, kept himself to himself.” The poor man’s florid face appeared as though it would disengage like a space shuttle from his thick stump of a neck. His white shirt collar was obviously buttoned too tight as he kept tugging at it.

  Jon believed there was something he was holding back. He would reword the same question and ask it again later. He wondered how to put the man at his ease. Perhaps he should tell him to take his tie off, but to do so would call attention to the fact he’d noticed, thus putting the man in a more awkward position of admitting he might have been wrong to dress up. This might be the most exciting and out-of-the-ordinary thing ever to happen to him. One could always hope.

  “Any gossip around about him?” Jon asked.

  “Never.”

  “You knew him well?”

  The man almost burst a seam. “What do you think?”

  Jon wasn’t having it. “Just answer the question.”

  Mr. Sonders took a deep breath. “I knowed ’im. I loiked ’im.”

  “Had you noticed anything out of the ordinary before you saw the dog coming to the pub Saturday last?”

  The man shifted in his chair, pulling at his crotch. “Could not say. Tavy auways come round about four o’clock. I can juse imagine ’im now, in the corner.” He rubbed his eyes. He might have been crying, Jon couldn’t tell.

  Perstow leaned forward, “Had you noticed him talking privately with anyone the week before he stopped coming?”

  “Ace … Thursday last, over by the window.” Mr. Sonders tried to wave his thick arms, but the coat wouldn’t allow it. “Fellow’s back ’us turned. Don’t remember anythin’ sketchy, nor who it may ’uv been.”

  “You didn’t overhear anything?” Jon asked.

  “Nae.”

  “Do you think he was aware he had terminal cancer?”

  “Cancer?” Mr. Sonders sat back as if he’d been slapped. “Cancer? What cancer? I didn’t know.”

  “Would he have told you?”

  “If he didn’t tell me, he wouldn’t ’uv tol’ anyone.” Mr. Sonders’s eyes grew shiny. “Poor, poor Tavy.”

  “What did he talk about … lately, I mean?” Jon asked.

  “He auways had a tale about ’is dog—trained to save drownin’ volk was Chelsea. Once, I saw ’er leap in to grab a chile an’ pull ’er to shore. ’Cept the chile wasn’t drownin’, was she? She an’ her mum were not well pleased. Tavy had the dog trained professional. So ’er would know not to go after a chile havin’ a dip in the surf.” Mr. Sonders leaned forward rubbing his round chin. “Don’t know who’ll be taking Chelsea?”

  Jon shook his head. He could see the man wanted the dog. And now he knew why Chelsea’d gone to check the body in the surf. The dog could sense the body’s presence. And she had been trying to get his attention to save her master when he’d gone to the library that day. More fool he. “Perhaps the great-nephew will be looking for a home for the dog.”

  The publican brightened up and nodded. Any brighter and he would glow. “Would ’e let ’im know I do want the dog?”

  “He’ll be told.” Jon leaned forward. “Before you go, one more question. Did anyone bring up any disagreement with Tavy that you were privy to? Or was he worried about something having to do with anyone else?”

  “’E were auncy since the girl … er … since t
he girl went and …”

  “You mean anxious—since the body was discovered?”

  “Since she disappeared.”

  “In what way anxious?”

  “Not like ’im to wander round, like ’e were lookin’ fer ’er himself.”

  “I see. And do you know if he found something out?”

  The man shrugged. “Why else did ’e get chopped?”

  Mr. Sonders had been watching too many gangster movies, Jon thought. “If you think of anything you’d like to add, would you get back to us right away?”

  “Yes, sar.” Mr. Sonders signed his statement and went on his way.

  41

  Sunday afternoon

  Jon put both hands to his face and tried to rub his weariness away. He stretched his legs under the table. The cubicle held a lingering sour fug. He stared at the ticking clock. “Only one interview in and I can hardly keep my thoughts in order.”

  Perstow placed a hand against his forehead, closing his eyes.

  “Not you, too?” Jon asked, suddenly worried.

  “I'm fine. Not much in the way o’ sleep.”

  “Time for lunch,” Jon announced.

  A bright expression flushed across Perstow’s face, as if Jon had offered him a raise in pay. “Sure!”

  Out of doors, the gray sky glowered. The wind carried a biting chill. Puddles of rainwater dotted the pavement. Before they had made it past the pottery on their way to the Spider’s Web, rain burst from the leaded sky. Inside the pub it was a little less dreary than the weather outside, but not by much. Jon ran his fingers across cigarette-burned pits along his chair’s arm. “They all say ‘Tavy kept himself to himself,’ do you think they decided together what to say?”

  “I’d say the same of Tavy,” Perstow offered. “I heard you went to visit Mr. Trewe? How did you find him?”

  “He can’t stand lying abed while the world is ‘up to something.’ Says it is like an electric current under the skin.”

  “Holdin’ still won’t be good for him, I reckon.” Perstow smiled.

  Jon wondered if, with Trewe in hospital, Perstow would feel more talkative. “He does like to be in the thick of things doesn’t he?”

  “Yes, sar. He was always one for being active.” Perstow rubbed his stubby-fingered hands around his glass. “He is a good man, the DCI.”

  “He seems well respected.”

  “I mean sar. Beggin’ yer pardon.”

  “What?”

  “He’s a good man.” Perstow looked uncomfortable.

  Jon watched the man’s expression. “You’re referring to our surveillance. We still know nothing. Surely he isn’t always so explosive. Don’t you agree, he seems on edge?”

  “P’r’aps here lately. Worried about his health. But that isn’t him really,” Perstow continued. “No matter what comes, he’s the type who wouldn’t let anyone down.”

  “Let’s order lunch.” Jon studied the Pub’s blackboard. The chalk markings were the same as yesterday and the day before. Jon supposed the special of the day was in reality the special of the month: plaice or cod, jacket potatoes, ploughman’s, homemade biscuits, coffee or tea.

  After a brief discussion on the offerings, Perstow insisted it was his shout and went to the bar to order.

  Settled again, Jon asked Perstow, “What have you gleaned from the interviews so far?”

  “One of the farmers is suspicious of the death of his prized racehorse. Colic, the vet told him. The farmer thinks it was poison. Another farmer says an arson fire destroyed one of his barns the same week.”

  “When was this?”

  “Just a few weeks ago.”

  “Who haven’t you interviewed?”

  “The magistrate, his wife, the librarian.”

  “They are next.”

  Back at the incident room, Jon called Mr. Malone in for his interview. He was anxious to see how he reacted to Jon’s presence and the absence of Trewe. Mr. Malone seemed unperturbed. The man had a jaunty, energetic walk.

  Just inside the door, Malone turned to Jon. “Is this a formal interview? Formal?”

  “It is a customary visit to talk to anyone who might have known Mr. Tavish.”

  “Then I’m not necessarily helping the police with their inquiries?” Malone made the motion with his hands indicating quotation marks as if to underscore the meaning of “helping” in a sarcastic way.

  “Just a friendly interview.” Jon already saw this interview starting on the wrong foot.

  Malone started forward when he saw Perstow in the interview room. He turned back to Jon. “Then you are taking over for Peter Trewe? Poor man. I hope he is well.”

  “He’s better,” Jon said.

  “DI Graham is not taking over, Mr. Malone,” Perstow growled. “He is only filling in.”

  A raw undercurrent of wariness flashed between these two men. Perstow didn’t like Malone—or was it the other way round? Even with no door, the cubical had an airless feel.

  Mr. Malone sat, elegant in his lightly pinstriped wool suit, cut to fit perfectly, a colorful, woolen scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. He didn’t skimp on fine clothing. Jon had seen his Bentley. Where did a public servant and local tour guide find the money for such amenities?

  “Ye know me. And you’ve met Detective Inspector Jon Graham.” Perstow nodded toward Jon.

  “Yes,” Malone gruffed.

  Perstow pressed forward with a surprising air of authority. “Mr. Malone, you’re a regular at the Spider’s Web?”

  “Yes, my wife and I do try to go every day. Every day. Keeps us in touch with the people, you understand.”

  “Where is your wife?”

  “She is coming just after me.” The man looked down his sloping beak of a nose as if such a question was far below standard in his book.

  Jon didn’t appreciate the man’s condescending attitude. “Tavy did not seem very sociable.”

  “Oh my! No, no! He was quite friendly. Quite.”

  “Did you talk to him very much?”

  “Not really. No, no. Mr. Tavish and I were not really what you might call friends. He kept himself to himself. I am sure we spoke occasionally. Only occasionally. There have been many times when I go to the pub alone. Those are times I might have spoken to him. If alone, I usually watch the TV or the darts—or the characters at the pub—the characters! You understand what I mean? The regulars at that pub are characters, some quite sinister, actually, and some colorful, but all very interestin’. Listening to the talk, you can pick up all kinds of information.”

  He’s trying to tell me my business. “Did you have something in particular you would like to tell us about these characters? Who would you say is sinister?”

  “Well, there are the farmers who put on airs, but are no better than they should be.”

  Jon didn’t want to pursue a self-righteous diatribe. “Do you believe any of these characters had anything to do with Annie Butler’s or Tavy’s murder?”

  “I don’t know anything about that.”

  Perstow pushed a clipboard toward him. “Then if you’ll sign here, you may go.”

  Malone’s mouth opened and closed a few times, his bow tie bobbing up and down, with no sound forthcoming. He finally managed to sputter, “That’s it? Didn’t you want to know if I had seen anything suspicious?”

  “Have you seen anything suspicious?” Jon asked.

  Mr. Malone sat back primly. “Well, now that you mention it, and I’m glad you have, I did see something. I saw a man talking to Mr. Tavish on Friday afternoon.” He leaned forward. He whispered and nodded like he was telling dirty secrets. “Friday. I was there on Saturday when the dog showed up and everyone remarked about the fact the dog was alone. So the day before?” He pointed to his head. “It sticks!”

  “What did this man you saw talking to Mr. Tavish look like?”

  “I only remember the beat-up, old hat the other man wore, pulled down. Suspicious.”

  Perstow leaned forward. “Where did yo
u see them?”

  Mr. Malone seemed to swell with the importance of what he was saying, “On the cliff side. I was walking to my car; it was parked up the lane from the pub. I like to walk sometimes. Walking—good for the back.”

  “Can you describe him?” Jon asked.

  “A young man. Young. The man waved his arms around. I noticed. I noticed.” Mr. Malone watched Jon for a few moments, eyes sparkling.

  Jon did not normally feel any animosity toward anyone, but this man irritated him. And he wasn’t forthcoming. Rather, he seemed to take pleasure in forcing them to ask him more questions. “Could you hear them talking?”

  “I could hear them shouting.”

  “What were they shouting?” Jon asked.

  “I could not hear specifics.” Malone pointed to his ears, shaking his head.

  Jon glanced at Perstow. Could he tell if Malone was lying? Or had the great-nephew been lying?

  Perstow said, “Mr. Malone, if you think of anything else will you get in touch with us?”

  “Of course. More than pleased, of course!”

  “One more thing.” Jon leaned forward. “Before you leave, do you mind telling me how a public servant, lecturing tourists and volunteering as village magistrate, can afford a Bentley?”

  Mr. Malone gasped. “As if that is any of your business. I acquired my car in probably much the same manner Mr. Perstow afforded his, Mr. Graham. My wife bought it for me.”

  42

  Jon Graham watched the obviously offended man stomp out of the cubicle and across the room to where his wife was sitting.

  “Ne’er liked that one so much.” Perstow glowered.

  Jon glanced at Perstow. “I didn’t know you had a car.”

  “I do keep a car in the old lean-to, but there’s not much need for driving it about except on holidays. I’d rather make use of my trusty push bike. But what he says is bothersome. I had always believed Liz Malone came from humble circumstances and came up in the world marrying that one.”