by R. L. Nolen
“I was hoping to bring a package in early,” Charles said, “as I haven’t much time later in the day. Won’t you humor me this one time?”
“I may be deaf, but blind I’m not, sar. Ye ’aven’t any package. I know what’s what,” she raised her voice as she pointed at the computer, “and I stick to schedule even if no one else does! That’s the way things are, like it ’r not. What are ye up to? Yer not comin’ back here!”
“You know my name. No one gets that privilege any longer.” He pushed the rag he had prepared into her mouth, forcing it open. She choked, then gasped and took a step back, grabbing at the rag. He shoved her. She ricocheted off a cabinet to the floor, slamming the back of her head against the flagstone. Between the chemical on the rag and the force of her landing, she was senseless to the world. Her dress had flown up.
He looked down, shocked.
“She is such a liar!”
Sin upon sin, as you would say, Mother!
Ruth looked out the kitchen window to the back of her home where the thyme cascaded over its pot. It was a partly cloudy day, and much too humid. Annie is alive and I must keep my mouth shut.
Dear God in heaven! she wanted to shriek.
Crepuscular sunlight strained through the haze in the west. She stared out across the next cottage’s roof below her window. A wide stone wall divided the properties. Movement caught her attention—a single gray feather, weightlessness on stone. She looked again. It was gone.
It had been two weeks and three days.
Her stomach churned. She paced across the kitchen and back to the window. Was Annie cold? Hungry? What would she do if they couldn’t find her? What if they couldn’t find her for six months, like the girl in the surf? She rubbed her hands up to her shoulders. She bent and stretched her lower back. She readied her stance and kicked out with her heel. She swung around, jumped away, and kicked with the other leg, back kick, push kick, evasive side kick. She then paced back to the window, turned, and repeated her kicks, imagining the hurt she could do if she only knew who to hurt.
Somewhere there was another mother going through what she had gone through already. Perhaps for six months this mother went through this not knowing and wondering. That would make the death so much more horrible. Not knowing is worse than knowing, really.
She paced the length of the kitchen again and glanced at the clock on the wall—past twelve—an excruciatingly long day. It was amazing how long a minute took. At exactly this time tomorrow the second inquest would take place.
And Annie may still be alive and will stay that way as long as I sit in my house and keep quiet about it.
She had been experimenting with paper, wadding it up and tossing it into the little pool at the center of the cave. How long did the wadded up paper take to sink? The paper floated better if it was less tightly wadded. She had been writing notes and wadding them into a ball and sending them down the hole.
The first time Annie wrote anything it sounded crazy:
Mom, I’m in a cave. I need you. Please help me.
He wouldn’t let her mother see that. No, it would be worse than writing nothing. That one went down the hole.
This is Annie Butler. I’m in a cave.
Which cave? No one will know which cave. Tears turned her cheeks to ice. She rubbed them to revive some warmth. The heater’s tick, the dripping water, and the waves outside worked together in a sort of weird orchestra of a thrumming music that never ended.
She had thought so hard about what to write, but when she put it to paper her words sounded so stupid.
Mom, don’t worry. Follow the man’s instruction and you’ll find me.
Less frantic, but no, that was bad because she didn’t want her mother to follow the man’s instructions. The creeper was crazy. The creeper would hurt her. She crushed the note up and tried again:
Mom, I’m well. I will let you know soon what to do. Do not worry meanwhile.
That wasn’t bad but she did wish she knew the man’s name or something so she could slip clues into the words. How could she slip clues into words?
The first letter of each sentence—she could code it like the kind of messages they texted. What would it say? How could she hide it well enough?
She had nothing else to do but think. The cut on her leg was oozing. The skin around it was red and painful to touch. It was hard to think when her leg felt like it was going to burst open.
Jon had a good, strong cup of coffee in front of him. He and Trewe were on a sort of truce, sitting across from each other at Trewe’s desk. He and Perstow were at the Treborwick station to see Trewe, who was still not working a full schedule.
Trewe nodded. “It’s wonderful the body was not Annie Butler. But that still leaves Annie out there somewhere, and we’re back on square one. How is Mrs. Butler taking this?”
“As well as,” Jon said. “I told her we have to be discreet. Don’t want the fox to know the hounds are after him. The second inquest is still on, public notices up. We’ll stage it as if it were Annie’s. Mr. and Mrs. Benton, the real dead girl’s parents, will be coming later to make arrangements for the remains so they can bury their daughter. We’ve asked them to remain incognito so the alarm is not raised. They’ve been more than cooperative because they want this as much as anyone. We want to flush this person. There has to be a reason for taking a child and keeping her alive.”
“He drains their blood. Maybe he needs it fresh.”
Jon leaned back. “Surely this one is different. He grabbed her so near her own home.”
There was a soft knock at the door.
Trewe murmured, “What fresh hell is this?”
Perstow got up and when the door opened, he nodded at whoever had interrupted.
The door cracked wider. Trewe thundered, “What? Speak up!”
Perstow turned to him. “Another body, at the Perrin’s Point post office.”
47
On the way to his car Jon listened intently as Perstow told what he knew.
“Old Mrs. Davies went to the post office at a quarter past the hour. When she entered she saw the one counter overturned and came over scary. Found the postmistress on the floor behind the counter, ’n’ she turned and stumbled out. Someone noticed her about the time she began to scream. It had just happened, I reckon. The blood was still flowing when the first unit arrived. There was no helpin’, though.”
They were thirty minutes away, but they hardly spoke as Jon took curves at full speed, honking before each turn. As their car drew closer to the old post office, they pulled to the side of the roadway and walked through the thick crowd of villagers gathered around the door of the combined county courthouse where the post office was. A white-haired lady was at the center of the most attention. Several people bent over her as Jon and his colleagues drew closer. A constable barred the door to keep the curious out of the building. SOCO had arrived at the scene.
“Is that Mrs. Davies?” Jon asked.
“That’s her, poor dear,” Perstow said. “Bad heart. Wonder we didn’t have another body.”
Trewe told Perstow, “Call for reinforcements from Devon. You need to work as liaison between the teams. I’ll contact you later.”
Perstow left with Constable Stark. Trewe motioned for Jon to join him. “We need to see the body, but let me talk to Mrs. Davies first.”
Trewe walked over to where Mr. Malone sat next to the tiny Mrs. Davies. Malone moved aside to make a space for Trewe to sit. Jon stared at Malone, but the man ignored him.
“I’m sorry, Olivia,” Trewe said. “Not a nice thing to happen.”
“The blood. The blood!” Olivia Davies wailed. Jon saw the lady was trembling. “Oh! I can’t get it out of my mind. I never imagined anything so horrible could happen. What with that little girl, and our Tavy, and now this! In broad daylight! What are we coming to, Peter?” She sobbed.
“There, there, dear.” Trewe put an arm around her. “Nothing you could do. You’ll be right as roses soon enough. Mrs
. Jeffers is going to take you to your house and sit you down and give you a lovely cup of sweet tea. Aren’t you, Mrs. Jeffers?”
Jon noticed another lady nod emphatically. She was not quite as elderly as Mrs. Davies.
“I’ll see she gets home and comfortable, Peter,” Mrs. Jeffers said.
These people really like Trewe, Jon thought. They looked up to him, yet called him by his given name.
Trewe stood as Mrs. Davis was helped away. The crowd parted to make way for Jon and Trewe to get to the door. The pathologist, Roger Penberthy, beckoned from just inside the post office’s doorway.
Trewe exclaimed, “You’ve arrived soon enough for once!”
“I was in the area when the call came through.”
They filed after him into the building. The metallic odor of blood overpowered the smell of postal supplies lining the walls. Lying face-up behind the counter, the postmistress was very dead. Blood had pooled beneath her. She was outlined in the dark liquid like a large pudding in raspberry sauce.
“What have you got for us, Roger?” Trewe asked.
The doctor moved behind the counter, careful to avoid stepping in the blood. “At first glance, I surmised massive brain hemorrhaging had killed her.”
Jon pointed at the bloody shoeprint near the body. “Do you know who did that?”
“No.”
“Hold up,” Trewe said. “Is the wound consistent with being hit on the head with a blunt instrument?”
“You can see for yourself.”
The three police officers leaned over the body. There was an obvious dent in the side of her skull and a large bruise on her forehead.
The pathologist continued, “At first, I would have said it is a very straightforward case of blunt trauma.”
“Would have?” Jon asked.
“Yes.”
“How long would you say she’s been dead?”
“After a preliminary examination, about an hour. I would put a guesstimate at around one o’clock. The post office would have been empty for only a small frame of time.” The doctor gave a little choking cough and smoothed his generous mustache with one hand. “The postmistress was very strict about her break. She took a regular tea at midday sharp every day, rain or shine. Wouldn’t let anyone else touch her mails during that time. Wouldn’t allow Postie Pauline in. Not even her companion, Thomas, came round then—she was that particular.” The doctor shook his head. “She said that was the way of it and anyone can wait half an hour to buy their stamps.” He looked from Jon to Trewe. “But, what with the method of killing used, a thorough autopsy will better determine the time.”
Jon noticed the sweat beaded on the doctor’s forehead and wondered what had so perturbed the unflappable man. He couldn’t help musing aloud, “Well, this lets her off the short list.”
“Go on about cause of death,” Trewe demanded.
Jon moved closer. A heavy, partitioned shelf had been ripped away from the wall and now lay next to the postmistress’s skull. As if she had just stepped out of them, her large shoes sat neatly to one side.
“There is the shelf edge here,” the doctor pointed.
“Killed her?” Trewe snapped.
“I’m getting to that. First thought: she fell into that shelf, knocked it from the wall, fell forward, hit her head a second time on the counter, and fell backward. I would have said that was it.”
Tiredness eked out of Trewe’s voice. “I know you’re dying to tell us how she really died.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say dying.” The pathologist took out a handkerchief and blotted his forehead. “At first I thought the shelf was the instrument of death. There’s the dent at the front of the cranium and blood on the counter here.” He pointed to the edge of the counter. It seemed obvious.
“But wait, there’s more,” Trewe said with a touch of sarcasm.
“He’ll get to it given time,” Jon muttered.
“Well,” the pathologist explained, “I examined the body a little closer, and Peter—” the doctor gave a long sigh, whistling through his great white mustache. “I’ve been the doctor here for many years. She never registered with my surgery. I understood she went to a doctor in Port Isaac. I never questioned … wasn’t my place. I actually had never thought much about it.”
Trewe slammed a palm against the counter. “Roger, we’d like to get on with our jobs.”
“Well, Peter, if you’d only be patient. I’ve just received the shock of my life. You’re not being very sensitive.”
Jon wondered why death would be so shocking to a pathologist.
“I’ve never been accused of being sensitive, so tell!” Trewe bellowed.
“The cause of death wasn’t blunt trauma at all, though I’ve no doubt the injury to the brain was serious enough to cause eventual death.”
“Make short work of it!”
“You see, gentlemen, with the amount of blood around the body, we can surmise that the body has lost a lot of blood. There are only a few places where a cut can be made to cause this kind of serious blood loss in a relatively short period of time: the neck, of course, then the main arteries under the arms and legs—a deep puncture wound in the chest area could pierce an artery around the heart, which would cause blood to pool in the chest cavity. Then there is this, if you’ll just have a careful look here.” The doctor pulled the postmistress’s skirt. The cloth came away with a soft, suctioning noise.
So much blood.
The doctor yanked her blooded knickers away from a red gaping hole in her flesh.
The other men gasped.
The doctor said matter-of-factly, “The postmistress was a mister. With a deliberate stroke of a very sharp knife … sexual organ deleted. That is where the loss of blood took place. Then it was conveniently covered with the clothing.”
“Oh God!” Jon saw black specs in the blood and leaned forward for a better look. Plant leaves of some sort were intermixed into the deep, red liquid. “He’s becoming more violent.”
Perhaps because Trewe hadn’t moved, Jon glanced at him. Trewe’s face had turned as white from loss of blood as the floor was red with it.
Jon motioned for the pathologist to help. Together they gently tugged Trewe toward the door.
Trewe jerked away from them and turned back to the doctor.
“Where is it?”
The doctor looked at him with question in his eyes.
“His Tom, Dick, and Harry! What do you think I mean?” Trewe spit the words out, as distasteful as they sounded.
The doctor glanced down at the body. “Sorry. Haven’t found it.”
Trewe swayed.
“I’m taking you home, Peter.” Roger Penberthy grabbed his arm.
As Jon helped get Trewe out the door, he said to the pathologist, “Have the lab discover what kind of leaves those are mixed with the blood, and see the shoes are handled with care.”
48
HASTEN INN
Wednesday afternoon
Day eighteen
Mrs. McFarland had provided an impromptu lunch. She didn’t normally provide lunch to her guests, much less guests of guests, so Jon was grateful for the cold meats and toast that she had set out with her usual, unflappable energy. Trewe and Perstow were eating as Jon pushed his untouched lunch away. They had spent the evening and night garnering forces, comparing notes, and assigning tasks. After four hours of sleep they were ready to start again.
It had been three weeks since Jon had stumbled after Tavy on the coastal path, when Chelsea led them to Victoria Benton’s body dressed in Annie’s clothes. Today was another inquest. The condiment jars rattled when Jon’s fist hit the table.
Perstow stopped munching to stare at him. “Sar?”
“Do policemen go mad with inactivity?”
“No,” Trewe growled.
“How is it,” Jon demanded, “someone like the postmistress could get away with keeping such a thing quiet for so long?”
“Wouldn’t have been easy, keeping that secret,�
�� Trewe cleared his throat. “Lived with about twenty cats and a couple of canaries and Thomas. Such a secret—don’t you know the villagers are going to look a bit askance at that fellow? The postmistress didn’t garden, didn’t attend church, didn’t socialize at the pub. Didn’t, didn’t, didn’t.” Trewe blew air through pursed lips and kept his voice low, “Question is: why was she killed?”
Jon took a sip of tea—good, strong stuff. “Seemed to me she was a professional busybody. She must have found out something she wasn’t supposed to know.”
Perstow nodded. “Snooped into everything. She could tell when Uncle Elmer last wrote from Australia, or when Joe’s sister in Sidmouth would have her eightieth birthday.”
“As to the ‘why now?’ …” Jon pulled his chair closer to the table. “That isn’t so hard. It was because of the computer!”
“Her computer?” Perstow said, sounding surprised. “Why is that?”
“There’s a public-access, for-pay computer in the post office. She would notice who uses it. The killer likely intended to knock her on the head hard enough to kill. When she fell, the dress went up. The murderer, perhaps as surprised as we were, went mad and whacked it for the lie. That would put a self-righteous spin on this character if it were true.”
Trewe nodded. “But do we know yet what the leaves in with her blood were?”
“Dried parsley flakes,” Perstow said.
“I thought so,” Jon said. “Makes sense the killer had them with him.”
Trewe looked pointedly at Jon. “He planned to do the murder, all right. But what does it mean, dear expert-of-all-things-herbal?”
“Well, parsley used to be called the Devil’s herb, because it takes so long for the seed to germinate that it was said it would go down to hell seven times before reaching for heaven. Honored as a plant of death, the customary thing to do was put the leaves on the corpse or to make them into wreaths for decorating tombs.”
Perstow whistled through his teeth. “You’re sayin’ he was honoring the dead?”