‘And then there is always the problem of Markham,’ said Dhani, looking at Ian.
‘My own feeling would be,’ Theodora said crisply, ‘that it might help us to find out in more detail what Paul’s movements were immediately before his death. The best lead we have here is the one given by his wife. She thought that the day he was murdered he received a letter which, she guessed from his reaction to it, was from Canon Wheeler. A fact, by the way, she had not communicated to the police. We need to know whether Paul got to the Cathedral under his own steam and at what time. And where he went.’
‘How do you propose to find that out?’ asked Ian. ‘Interrogate Wheeler?’ The edge of hatred showed in his tone.
‘No,’ said Theodora. ‘I’m inclined to think that we need to break into the Cathedral’s conspiracy of silence, since the police clearly won’t be able to. I shall approach the Archdeacon’s wife, Moira Baggley. There’s such a good view from her window.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Pastoral Pleasures
‘What you’re telling me, Tallboy,’ said the Superintendent with practised distaste, ‘is that the sum total of knowledge gleaned by almost the entire Medewich police force, continuously engaged over the last ten days comes to this: Paul Gray was murdered on Thursday or Friday July first or second, somewhere between Markham cum Cumbermound and Medewich, by persons unknown, at a time not yet established, at a place not yet identified, for an as yet undiscovered reason. Not, if I may say so, a very riveting tale to tell the coroner.’
Inspector Tallboy didn’t know the precise meaning of the word ‘gleaned’, but he caught the general tone. He’d always admired his superior and never more so than when a victim of his contempt. He looked forward to practising it himself on others in due course. He could, however, think of better ways of spending a fine Sunday morning. ‘We’ve got the murder weapon, sir,’ he said humbly.
‘Yes, and thanks to the Dean’s beagle bitch, we know where the body was hidden.’
‘Labrador, sir,’ said Tallboy accurately, ‘black labrador.’
‘What?’
‘Black labrador bitch, sir.’
‘Well, perhaps you’d better enrol her. She certainly seems to have done a lot more than your lot.’
‘It’d be handy if we could question her, sir.’
‘Don’t be flippant, Tallboy.’
The Superintendent leant back in the chair in the diocesan office conference room, Tallboy sitting opposite. Superintendent Frost was a small, dapper, acute little man, with the trace of a Scottish accent and a grey moustache which his subordinates said he was able, when angry, to make bristle like a dog’s hackles.
‘Let’s go over it again, Inspector,’ said the Superintendent with summoned kindliness. ‘On Thursday the first of July, after Evensong in his church at Markham cum Cumbermound for a congregation of two, at about five fifteen, Paul Gray stepped back to the Vicarage for a sandwich and a glass of milk before going into Medewich to fetch Mr Jefferson of Markham Terrace who, as was his practice, was going to help Gray with his youth club in Markham cum Cumbermound. According to Mr Jefferson, he did not turn up in Medewich.’
‘Our inquiries,’ interposed Tallboy unwisely, ‘at Markham Terrace have suggested that no one saw him arrive. I think it is safe to assume …’ His voice trailed off as he caught the Superintendent’s eye.
‘Do go on,’ said the Superintendent dangerously.
‘Well, we haven’t found his car either,’ concluded Tallboy.
‘Just so. Perhaps the beagle, sorry, labrador, could help you.’
Tallboy felt he’d had enough of that one.
‘What about the weapon?’ invited the Superintendent.
‘Well, sir, the forensic people say there are traces of blood of the same group as Gray’s, rhesus negative’ – he consulted his notes – ‘A, on the inside of the scabbard and on the hilt. Not much, but enough to be sure. The sword itself is the ceremonial sword of Major the Honourable Clement Braithwaite, who was killed at Peshawar. In India, sir,’ he added earnestly.
The Superintendent shuddered, ‘In 1840, while serving with the Medewich and Markham Light Infantry. The sword was presented by the family to the Cathedral chapel when it was dedicated in 1927. And are you able to tell me, Inspector, how a hundred and fifty year old dress sword came to be sharp enough to sever a man’s head?’
‘Well, the difficulty is we don’t know when the sword was taken. Though, if Caretaker is right, we do know when it was returned. Our only witness is the Cathedral cleaner, Mrs Thrigg, who thinks, but isn’t sure, that it was in its place on the Tuesday before the murder when she cleaned round the pews in the infantry chapel.’
‘Vergers?’
‘Couldn’t say for sure.’
‘Clergy?’
‘The chapel isn’t used for any regular services and they aren’t a terribly observant body of men, if you see what I mean.’
‘So, sometime before or during the course of Thursday evening, a ceremonial sword is taken from its place in the Infantry chapel, sharpened and applied to the head of a priest. On Friday, at approximately quarter past three in the afternoon, the head is found in the font of the Cathedral by Mrs Miranda Thrigg and Miss Julia Smith. The sword is returned to the Cathedral the following Thursday at about two o’clock in the morning. Why?’
‘Why what, sir?’
‘Why was the sword returned? I mean, it was a lot of trouble to return it. Why do it?’
‘Quite frankly, sir, I haven’t got the foggiest idea.’
The Superintendent didn’t look as though this came as a surprise to him. ‘It smacks of ritual, wouldn’t you say, Inspector? It is a flourish, the action of someone with sense of style, of form. It suggests the gesture was a symbolic one. But what would it be symbolising, I wonder, and to whom?’
‘You mean like a soldier’s salute, sir?’
The Superintendent eyed the Inspector speculatively. ‘You surprise me, Inspector, with your acumen.’
The Inspector was fairly sure acumen was a good thing to have.
‘Let’s think about the body, Inspector. The body, too, may have its symbolic significance. It was placed in the compost heap of the Dean’s house, when?’
‘Well, that’s difficult, sir. Apparently forensic want to argue that the head was severed from the body after death. The neck was probably broken first. They say the body was probably in the compost for about a week. That makes sense, but they can’t be accurate because compost heaps generate heat which might accelerate decomposition. So we don’t know whether the body was put into the compost at the same time as the head was put into the font or before it or after.’
‘Dating problems are always complex, Inspector. So, we lack both a time and a place for the murder. Was anything found on the body, papers of any kind?’
‘No papers. A wallet with about seven pounds in it.’
‘Car keys?’
‘No.’
‘So someone took his keys but not his wallet. Did his wife or anyone actually see Gray start out in his car?’
‘His little lad, his son, Paul, did. He’s a bit young of course, but a bright boy. Quite coherent and certain he saw his dad make a phone call from the instrument in the hall and then drive off in the car. He’s not sure of the time but he says it was after he’d eaten his sandwich, say six in the evening. The only other sighting we’ve had was a farm worker who thought he saw the car up towards Cumbermound about nine. But he wasn’t sure and we’ve searched every inch of the ground with no result.’
‘Do we know who Gray made the phone call to?’
‘No. The boy doesn’t know. Gray ought to have been cancelling his youth club, which he usually held on a Thursday evening. But he didn’t do that. Some of the lads turned up.’
‘So he went off in such a hurry or so worried that he forgot to cancel. Did he receive any phone calls that day?’
‘Mrs Gray thinks he had a number in the morning but doesn’t know who they were fro
m. Trade in that direction for a parish priest is fairly brisk, arrangements for christenings, funerals, marriages, that sort of thing,’ Tallboy said offhandedly, as though he himself regularly joined couples in wedlock.
‘So he went out in a hurry. Where did he go?’
‘The Cathedral.’
‘You deduce this on the grounds that his head and body ended up there?’
‘I suppose he could have been done in somewhere else and then carted up there.’
‘Forensics?’
‘They don’t show us that he’d been anywhere he might not be expected to have been, if you see what I mean. For example, there was an oil smear on his jacket of the same type as that he used in his car. Gravel on the shoes that could have come from the Cathedral. There’s only one odd thing.’
The Superintendent raised an eyebrow.
‘There are splinters of polished mahogany under the fingernails of the right hand.’
‘From his own house?’
‘Impossible to say for certain, sir. Though I did notice that there was pine and oak in his house and not mahogany.’
‘You’re very observant, Inspector.’
‘My dad was a boat builder, sir,’ said Tallboy modestly.
‘But we don’t know where he went to get his splinters?’
Tallboy shook his head.
‘And that, of course, leaves us with the problem of motive. Have we turned up any, Inspector?’
‘It’s tricky. We’ve taken statements from both ends, Cathedral and village. Frankly, the Cathedral’s a night–mare. The clergy either notice nothing or they aren’t telling. They seem to think they’re special in some way, almost as though they had the right to choose whether they’ll cooperate or not.’ Tallboy’s baffled resentment at their attitude showed in his tone.
Frost smiled grimly. ‘Think before they answer your questions, do they?’ He could imagine the unfamiliarity of such an approach to a policeman used to witnesses who worked on the fairly simple patterns of response found on the Cumbermound council estate.
‘You could say that, sir. It’s almost like a club and we’re not members. I don’t get the feeling that they particularly care whether this murder is solved or not; anyway they want it solved on their terms and if it’s going to muddy a lot of their holy bloody waters they’d like us to go away. The general attitude seems to be that it must have been a madman and the Church doesn’t have to deal with madmen. Only nice ordinary sane ones.’
‘What about the village?’
‘The difficulty there is that absolutely everyone wants to talk – a great deal. I’d no idea that the parson was so visible, if you see what I mean.’
Frost did.
‘Everyone, whether they go to church or not, seems to have some knowledge of Reverend Gray’s character and circumstances. Him and his wife both. The villagers seem to be half for, half against him. The main criticism seems to be that he wanted to change things, forms of service and such like. The other half were in favour of him because he wanted to change things.’ Tallboy thought about what he had said but then battled on. ‘Of course he was a bit young, only twenty–nine. And it was his first parish. Apparently they’re supposed to do two curacies before they get one of their own, but this chap was a bit of a favourite of the Bishop and the Bishop is patron of the living.’
‘Quite a dab hand at the clerical jargon, aren’t you, Tallboy?’
‘I try to be accurate, sir,’ said the Inspector modestly. ‘Actually the Archdeacon was kind enough to fill me in on that aspect of things. He, Gray, that is, not the Archdeacon, came originally from Wolverhampton. Ordinary family. Father an accountant. Father and mother both dead. Started to train as an accountant after leaving the local comprehensive. Gave it up for ordination training at Salisbury. Married at twentytwo a woman eleven years older than himself, with one son by a previous marriage. Widow not divorced. One son of seven by her. Did his first and only curacy at Narborough in the port area.’
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ the Superintendent muttered.
‘Well, sir, it’s not so irrelevant because while he was in that curacy there was some sort of row about a boy in the youth club. Quite what, I’m not certain. I started by assuming it was the usual sort of thing but I’ve made inquiries with our people in Narborough and I’m not sure it was anything sexual. Or anyway not straightforwardly so.’
The Inspector was a local boy, not a sophisticated metropolitan cop, and he liked his vice straightforward. He wasn’t sure what he’d found out or how to phrase it. He was red and sweating slightly as he went on.
‘We haven’t been able to get hold of the boy concerned since he and his family moved away soon after the incident, whatever it was. There were no police statements taken and the thing never even looked like coming to court. The Church, the vicar and the Archdeacon and the Bishop all weighed in on Gray’s side so it was quietly dropped and he got his parish here a year later. However, the tale seems to have followed him, because I gather some of his parishioners certainly thought he had deviant tendencies in spite of his having a wife and son. On the other hand, no parent that we questioned voiced any suspicions with regard to their own children and they all seemed quite happy for them to attend his youth club. Very popular it was and the parents glad to have their kids taken off their hands. Especially in a village like Markham cum Cumbermound with nothing to do for kids in the evening.’
‘And what do you suppose,’ said the Superintendent heavily, ‘is the connection between the man’s sexual deviance, if he had one, and his severed head?’
‘I honestly don’t know, sir, unless one of the parents …?’
‘I thought you said none of them did.’
‘They could be concealing it. But I don’t know that actually killing a man because he’s been touching up the boys would altogether hang together as a motive.’
‘How about the head?’
‘How about it, sir?’
‘Given that an angry parent might just conceivably break Gray’s neck for, as you put it, touching up his youngster, why should he go to the trouble of severing the head, and then putting it in the Cathedral font? Why should he be farsighted enough to steal and sharpen a ceremonial sword to do it with? And why should he take the trouble to return the said sword to the Cathedral afterwards?’
‘A nutter, sir,’ said Tallboy readily.
The Superintendent sighed. ‘That, of course, obviates the need for us even to attempt to detect or frame coherent theories of motivation. Dammit, Tallboy, even given the poverty of your mind and the inadequacy of police training nowadays, surely they must have taught you that madmen, nutters, as you call them, follow a pattern? Their actions are meaningful to themselves and therefore to us. All we need to do is to widen – or invert – our normal frames of reference.’
Tallboy continued to sweat. There was quite a lot he didn’t follow in his Superintendent’s speech starting with ‘obviate’. Still, he caught the general tone.
‘Well, I don’t know why anyone should go to that trouble. Too fancy as you say, sir,’ he said placatorily.
‘Orpheus, of course, lost his head,’ said the Superintendent ruminatively, the Scottish accent now quite discernible.
Tallboy scanned the list of people from whom statements had been taken. It ran from ‘Caretaker I’ to ‘Williams J’. ‘Who, sir?’ he asked desperately.
‘Orpheus rejected women so they tore him to pieces and threw his head into the River Hebrus. It wasn’t that he didn’t like women, you understand, he simply stayed faithful to one who was dead. He became a cult figure in which notions of salvation by innocent suffering have a place. An interesting pagan anticipation of later Christian teaching. Would that make sense in a Cathedral setting, eh Tallboy?’
Tallboy played safe. ‘It might, sir, it might indeed,’ he added. God knew what the Superintendent was on about.
‘And then perhaps,’ conceded the Superintendent, ‘there was our own St Manicus, killed, as legend has it, by a
madman who thought himself an executioner.’
‘That’s quite right, sir,’ said Tallboy with relief. He’d heard about St Manicus: they’d done a project on him at school.
‘On the other hand,’ said Frost, ‘rather more straight–forwardly, down to the end of the seventeenth century, severing the head was the penalty for treachery. Would any of that make sense to a twentieth–century madman, a nutter, eh, Tallboy?’
‘It might, sir, it might indeed.’ Personally, he just hoped it was some headcase from the funny farm up the hill who’d been let out on parole too early with a meat axe. No dammit, they knew the weapon. With the sword, then. The dress sword of Major the Honourable etc. Him of India.
‘We’re checking the asylum people, of course,’ he said, ‘to see if they’ve got anyone in who might have these sort of’ – he hesitated – ‘propensities.’ It seemed to go down all right so he cleared his throat. ‘These sort of propensities,’ he reiterated more confidently. ‘Or alternatively anyone who they released recently with similar ones. They’ll let us know when they’ve checked their records.’ Or, he added privately, when the little Indian gentleman who was the only one who could access the records on the computer returned from sick leave.
‘A sound move, Inspector.’
Tallboy wasn’t sure how to judge his superior’s tone but he needed a fillip to his esteem right now so he looked on the bright side. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘And now,’ said the Superintendent carefully, ‘I’d like you to get out your notebook, and make a list of the things I want you to do. First, Mrs Thrigg and then Mr Jefferson …’
‘Four faults,’ crackled the public address system as the little brightbay mare failed to tuck her hind feet up quite high enough at the last bar of the treble.
‘Jolly well ridden, Dolly,’ said Georgina Landsdown to Laura Medaware, her cousin by marriage.
‘She’s really come on quite a lot this season with the help of Alison Midsummer,’ said Dolly’s mother with modest pride. A desultory round of applause marked the end of the jump–off.
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