if ever holy.’
Charmian noted that all this time Winifred had been silent, and
she remembered thinking that Win had not felt the holiness of their
hermit as fervently as had Birdie. She might not have believed in
it at all.
‘What do you want me to do?’
Winifred spoke then, ‘She wants you to find him.’
Charmian swung round to look at Birdie. ‘ But what is worrying
you? He is a big strong fellow, perfectly capable of taking care of
himself.’
There was a bark.
‘He’s left the dog.’ Birdie was very nervous.
Another bark. ‘He’s down in the garden,’ said Winifred. ‘Right
at the end. Won’t come in.’
Charmian looked at Humphrey. ‘That is a bit odd,’ he said. ‘Let’s
have a look.’
The dog barked again. As they approached, he growled.
‘He’s guarding something,’ said Birdie. She was good on animal
noises.
Charmian looked at what lay between the dog’s feet.
It was a hand, a bloodstained hand.
Chapter Two
Charmian stared at the hand, then she put out a foot to touch it delicately. The dog growled, but in a muted way, and made no effort to attack Charmian.
‘Oh, be careful,’ breathed Birdie. Her voice trembled. She still did not like the way the dog growled. It was a warning.
‘Watch yourself, Birdie,’ commanded Winifred. ‘You know blood makes you faint.’
‘I can’t bear to look.’ She did look, though, peeping through her fingers.
Winifred put her arm round her friend while looking pleadingly at Humphrey. He hurried forward to support Birdie.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Charmian crisply. ‘Can’t you see? It’s not a real hand.’ She poked it again with her foot. ‘It’s china. A good facsimile. Well done. A model used to promote nail varnish, I should think.’
There was a moment of silence.
‘The blood,’ said Birdie.
‘That may be real.’ The hand was a bit earth stained also, and the earth was certainly real.
‘Are you telling us the hermit had a false hand?’ Winifred’s tone was firm.
Birdie moaned. ‘No, no, I’d have noticed. I am not entirely stupid. And you would have noticed. Think of all the St John’s Ambulance work we have both done. We would know a false hand.’
The picture of Birdie and Winifred acting as emergency nurses although unexpected to Charmian was also convincing: they were capable ladies.
‘You used to do Ascot, didn’t you? I saw you there once or twice,’ put in Humphrey.
‘Yes, and the Notting Hill Carnival and also Covent Garden on occasion, but only to oblige – we don’t care for opera.’ This was Winifred. ‘ We haven’t done much lately with the bookshop taking off so well and the white witches keeping us busy. And, of course, maintaining the shed … well, we kept it tidy at least.’ She looked at Birdie for support who stretched out her hand to her friend.
Not usual in their relationship, Winifred is usually the bossy, strong one, Charmian observed to herself, so what’s up?
Winifred took a deep breath, then said, ‘My father died there, one night, when the moon was full. So it has always been kept as something of a holy place.’
‘Haunted even, you know,’ observed Birdie.
‘There has been a sense of habitation,’ said Winifred hesitantly. ‘Perhaps by Papa and his friends, perhaps not.’
Birdie nodded at her friend. ‘We thought that the shed was used by …’ she hesitated. ‘Other than the usual wandering visitors, just occasional travelling visitors, you know, and we respected their privacy. Just as we did Dr Eagle’s.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Humphrey. ‘I knew Dr Eagle, of course. I am sorry he had such a lonely death.’
‘Not quite alone,’ said Winifred sadly, ‘there was a lady with him when he died. No one knew but us, and she had gone by the time we found him.’
‘She sent flowers to the funeral, though,’ Birdie hurried to say. ‘With love from Lady Mary.’
‘Although what sort of a lady,’ said Winifred, even more sadly, ‘we never knew.’
Humphrey was silent. Well, good luck to the late Dr Eagle, he was thinking. Wouldn’t mind going that way myself. He kept his eyes away from his wife, however, Charmian was good at reading his thoughts.
Then he found he could read hers at this minute and he didn’t like what he read.
‘There’s something else,’ said Charmian. ‘Take a closer look … It’s a woman’s hand.’
Without waiting for them to say anything, she advanced towards the shed where the hermit had taken up his quarters. The dog let her pass. Whatever orders he had been given it did not include keeping visitors out of the hut.
Inside it was tidy. A sleeping bag lay across a simple camp bed. A table set out with a looking glass was in one corner, a washbasin and a flush lavatory in the other. The floor was unpolished wood. Light poured through the great window in the roof. It was simple but comfortable enough.
‘Papa used to sleep down here when he was watching the skies,’ said Winifred. ‘Didn’t want to miss anything.’ She sounded neutral on the subject of the Martians or any aliens. Ladies were different, no neutrality there. Winifred coughed. ‘ I have a small confession to make: I did just take a tiny look round when the hermit was out … well, we are two women on our own … And I found a card with Dr Harrie written on it. The hermit’s name, I think. It interested me.’
‘Dr Harrie?’ Humphrey was frowning. ‘I knew a Harrie once, he wasn’t a doctor then. Unusual name, though.’
The hermit had hung a loose rough tweed overcoat on a peg on the wall. Along this wall, which was opposite the bed, was a shelf with several small books on it. Underneath was a water bowl for the dog, and a length of rug for him to sleep on.
The dog came in carrying the hand, and settled down on his rug. Not to sleep however, his eyes remained alert.
‘I think the hand is his toy,’ said Charmian, regretfully. ‘He seemed such a nice dog, too.’
There was a noise outside, just a cough and a footfall.
Humphrey was the first to speak.
‘Good evening, Dr Harrie.’ He held out his hand. ‘Humphrey Kent. Weren’t we at school together?’
The hermit said nothing, staring at Humphrey. Then he nodded. ‘Humphrey Kent? Didn’t know you at first. We’ve both changed.’
He turned to Charmian, studying her face carefully. ‘ I know you, ma’am.’
‘My wife,’ Humphrey murmured.
Harrie bowed to Charmian. ‘And you are also the distinguished policewoman. I am Dr Harrie.’
Birdie and Winifred had been watching silently. Now Winifred said bluntly, ‘ Why are you going round like this?’
Dr Harrie looked down at his clothes.
‘Pretending to be a hermit and living in our garden?’ This time it was Birdie who spoke.
‘I wasn’t pretending. I have been living on my own, speaking to no one and living like a hermit for some months.’
‘At Pinckney Heath?’ This time it was Charmian.
‘Yes. I had a purpose. My granddaughter, Felicity, was found murdered there. I thought I might find her killer.’
It had not been Charmian’s case, but she knew the name. ‘The Harrie girl was your grandchild?’
He nodded. ‘I wanted to find out who killed her. The police didn’t seem to be doing much good.’
‘They haven’t given up,’ said Charmian.
‘I thought if I hung around Pinckney Heath like a tramp … I thought I might find something, see something. Or perhaps someone would speak to me. Let out something that I could hang on to.’
‘And did you?’
Slowly he said no, he hadn’t, but Charmian thought his expression was interesting. ‘So why did you come here?’ asked Birdie. ‘
How did you know where to come? A hermit might have heard about it, but you aren’t a real hermit.’
‘I knew Dr Eagle.’ He turned to Winifred. ‘I worked for him once or twice for a few months. He brought me here once and we spent a night studying the heavens.’
‘I don’t remember you coming,’ said Winifred, her tone was sceptical.
‘You were away at school. But your mother was here. Betty.’
Winifred nodded. Betty had been her mother’s name. Slowly, reluctantly, she was beginning to believe him.
‘So you decided to take refuge here? Why?’
‘I remembered its atmosphere of peace. Also, of course, I did not think you were living here now. I believed you had moved away and the house was empty.’
‘We did move away. We opened a bookshop where we lived for a short while before moving back here.’ Because of two bodies in the garden. Nothing to do with us, of course, but we felt happier back here. But she did not say this aloud.
‘Did you call yourself a hermit?’ asked Birdie. ‘Or was it the ladies?’
He smiled at her, a gentle smile. ‘I have been a sort of hermit since my wife died.’ He added, ‘The murder of my granddaughter made things worse: my son had died leaving her with only a mother. Alison has gone to live in Canada. Can’t blame her.’
‘Why did you leave Pinckney Heath?’ Charmian asked.
‘I had to move on. It’s a public park, even the wildish bit where I was dossing down, and after a bit I was noticed.’ He paused. ‘I thought it best, in the circumstances, to leave. I shall have to get in touch with the police.’
‘What do you mean?’ Charmian demanded. She was beginning to wonder about the sanity of this fellow.
The dog appeared, he was still carrying the hand in his mouth.
‘You’ve seen the hand, of course.’
‘Yes,’ said Charmian, ‘it seems to be the sort of thing you see in a beautician’s salon or something like that. Hairdresser’s maybe.’ She found herself remembering Baby’s establishment. ‘The nails are very pretty.’ Each one was painted a different colour.
She still didn’t know what to make of the apparent blood.
‘Where did the dog find it?’ she asked.
‘He dug it up.’
‘Where did he dig?’
There was silence then he said, ‘ I am not sure; he came back with it in his mouth.’
‘But you know where you were, where he was likely to have been digging?’
Dr Harrie said that he had been wandering for some days, thinking about life and death. He was not quite sure where he had been. The Great Park, you know, was large and wild. And of course, the dog ranged far and wide.’
He knows pretty exactly, I am sure, thought the knowledgeable Charmian. And I shall find out. He is not a good liar, not enough practise, I suspect, and perhaps not really trying either.
She looked down at the hand which the dog was snuffling at. ‘He finds it interesting.’
‘It smells of death,’ said Dr Harrie.
Charmian’s mobile phone and pager were always with her and, at this moment, the phone rang in her bag.
To her surprise, it was Inspector Dolly Barstow. ‘Dolly … I thought you were away.’
‘No, back,’ said Dolly tersely, ‘holiday complete frost.’ Charmian suspected this meant a quarrel with her current young man – not all that young either – he was a high-ranking, married, police officer from the Met with two marriages already behind him. Met his match in Dolly, though, no doubt. ‘Just as well.’
‘Oh?’ No need to say more, Dolly was going to tell her. Charmian moved to the door of the hut, leaving her husband, Birdie and Winifred to talk to Dr Harrie. Tether him too, they weren’t going to let him get away.
‘A girl’s body has been found on a bit of rough ground close to Threadneedle Alley. She’s been strangled. Possibly raped as well. Anyway, damage to the vaginal area.’
Charmian was surprised. ‘ I’m not involved in a local case like that, Dolly. Doesn’t concern SRADIC, goes to the local CID boys. You know that. Why have you been called?’
‘You’ll want to see this one.’ Dolly had an unusually clear and carrying voice.
Out of the corner of her eye, Charmian could see that she had an attentive audience in the four in the hut. Humphrey was preserving the most discretion but then he had had the most practice.
‘It seems likely the victim is Dr Greenham’s daughter. Remember him? He’s on his way down from Ascot where he lives. If you hurry you will be here before him.’ Dolly added, in a quieter tone of voice, ‘And of course the local boys are here. In some numbers. Likewise the press. Parker’s here too. He called me. Bit wary of calling you.’
‘I don’t bite.’
Don’t you just, she could almost read Dolly’s thoughts.
‘I am on my way.’
She turned to face her expectant audience. Even the dog was looking at her.
‘I have to go, I am afraid.’
Humphrey spoke up at once. ‘Shall I drive you?’
‘No, I can call a police car. And, anyway, I don’t know when I’ll be back.’
‘One of those, eh?’
‘Might be. But I’ll try to keep it short.’
Dolly Barstow was waiting for her. By her side stood Inspector Parker.
Parker muttered that Chief Inspector Webley had just arrived and Inspector Round, also of the local CID, was following. ‘ Been at some CID binge,’ was his comment. The two officers, close friends and rivals, had been drinking with friends in the Willow Tree pub on the Oxford road when the message got through along with word of what Webley called ‘SRADIC’s sticky fingers’ already being attached to the case.
‘You can’t ignore her, Ron,’ Chief Inspector Webley had said to Round. ‘Charmian’s got influence and she sits in the middle of everything and knows everything. Probably knows more about you than you do yourself.’
‘Not much about me to know,’ said Ron Round, much married and famously faithful to a working wife, also CID.
‘You’re lucky,’ muttered Webley, whose case was different.
Charmian knew both Webley and Round and knew that, as she both outranked them and was a woman, she was not popular with them. But she had learnt to work with them.
She nodded at Parker. ‘I know them. Now show me the body.’
Across from them, the usual dejected-looking young figure stood by a canvas-shrouded form. First year detective constables always got the worst jobs, and no one liked standing guard by a dead body, especially if it was a child, and especially if they had seen what it looked like first.
There was also, as Dolly had said, a growing group of reporters to whom a television crew had been added. Uniformed constables were keeping them back behind the cordoned off area. There were also onlookers: locals come to see what the trouble was.
It was a scrubby bit of land with some shrubs and a desolate trio of small trees. It was destined to be developed into a small shopping centre, but litigation of one sort or another had stayed the developers’ hand.
Two young people, presumably those who had found the body, were standing together. Amy Fraser and Peter Robb.
‘That’s Miss Daniels, Lady Whatsername,’ whispered Peter to Amy. ‘I deliver the papers there, it’s my weekend job.’
Amy stared. ‘Do you think she knows us?’
‘Might do, if she looks. She hasn’t looked.’
‘I wish we’d just gone away and let someone else find the body.’
Peter wished this himself, but unlike his companion, he had a conscience and a sense of duty.
Amy answered his unspoken question, ‘My dad says when in trouble, say nothing.’ Her father was a distinguished barrister.
‘If you can manage it,’ returned Peter. ‘ My dad says, run!’ His father had started out driving a bus and now owned a fleet.
The pair looked at each other. It so happened that both sets of parents, being friends, were on a Nile cruise tog
ether and out of touch.
‘Has your father ever run?’ asked Amy.
‘Several times, I should think,’ said Peter. ‘But I don’t believe your pa has ever been silent.’
They grinned at each other. If ever they did marry, and the matter had come up once or twice lately, then it would be a good match, but Amy had to get Cambridge over first. And it was a long haul to becoming a brain surgeon.
Charmian made her way across to where the dead girl lay. The detective constable saluted. ‘ DC Bob Dodd, ma’am.’ He knew Charmian.
‘Let me have a look, please.’
Bob Dodd peeled back the canvas from the head, wishing he could drag his eyes away.
A young girl with pretty dark hair, and a much made-up face, with heavy eyeshadow, lashes melded together into clumps with mascara and thick red lipstick. A very young girl for all the make-up, thirteen or fourteen at most. The mascara had run down her face, perhaps she had been crying. There was a great blue bruise on her forehead and down one cheek. The right eye had been hit, so that there was blood, and Charmian thought she saw the gleam of bone.
‘Show me the rest,’ she ordered.
Slowly young Dodd rolled back the covering, and then she understood his reluctance.
Not what you’d want to see twice.
Her jeans were drawn down to her ankles, the underpants torn, bloodstained and muddy. That was bad enough, but the thighs and lower abdomen were bruised and bloody and torn too.
Ravaged, that was the word.
Charmian leant forward to help the young constable cover up the girl. Neither of them spoke.
For a moment she stood there silently, then she walked up to where the two inspectors stood.
‘The police surgeon has seen her and pronounced her dead,’ said Dolly, ‘ and the pathologist and forensics are on their way.’ She turned her head as a plain black van and a car arrived. ‘In fact, that’s them now.’
‘How do you know it’s the Greenham girl?’
‘We found an envelope addressed to her, Fiona Greenham, in the pocket of the jeans.’
‘She’s loaded with make-up, more than I would have expected.’
Parker shrugged. ‘They all do it. Family probably don’t know she has the stuff. Most likely she keeps it hidden and puts it on when she goes out.’ He had a young daughter himself and had often felt like conducting an inspection when she went out, but he had never been able to bring himself to do it.
Dead Again Page 3