by Rachel Green
“You’re the parish priest.” White played with his pen. “You’re in a unique position to spot if someone is unexpectedly flashing the lucre about.”
“No one comes to mind, Inspector. Perhaps it wasn’t a churchgoer. If someone had confessed to me I would have been hard pressed to offer absolution.”
“It’s an avenue of enquiry, anyway.” White smiled. “I don’t really know much about confession, I’m afraid. I’m Church of England myself.”
Simon smiled back. “I won’t hold that against you.”
White looked down at his notes. “So let me get this clear. Grace Peters killed her husband, someone found out about it and blackmailed her, so she eventually confesses it to Robert Markhew and kills herself. Then last night, after dinner with you and your sister, Robert has an argument with someone who asks him for money and is murdered.” He looked up. “Have I missed anything?”
“The letter.” Simon leaned forward. “Just before I left he received a letter from Grace, sent before she committed suicide, obviously. He read it but said it was nothing pertaining to the blackmail. I’m sure he was covering it up. Someone in this house, perhaps.”
“Then we must find this letter,” said White. “It must be the key to the murderer.” He got up from his chair and crossed to the door. “Davies!” he called.
The younger man came running. “Yes, sir?”
“Tell them to look for a letter,” he said. “It’s important.”
“It was delivered by hand,” Simon added.
Sergeant Davies nodded. “Yes, sir.” He headed toward the forensic experts in the murder room.
White returned to the chair. “What about the maid, Amanda James? She looks a bit suspicious, don’t you think?”
“In what way, Inspector?” Simon sat back again and crossed his legs. “She hasn’t been here long, I understand. I hardly know her. You’re surely not going to declare ‘the maid did it’ are you? That’s almost as clichéd as the butler.”
“She tried to get in the study to see Mr. Markhew at least twice during the evening. Mary told her that Robert was not to be disturbed, yet found Amanda trying to see him again after that.”
“It’s possible.” Simon made a steeple with his fingers. “Do you think she’s the blackmailer?”
“If she’d gone in again after Mary went upstairs to watch her film, she could have killed Robert, left through the window and come back in through the side door.”
“Perhaps,” Simon agreed, “but that could be true of anyone in the house.”
“It could.” White stood. “Let’s go and have a look.” He led Simon back to the study, where the forensic team were just finishing. “Any sign of that letter?” he asked.
“No guv,” replied the older of the pair. “Not a trace.”
The other snorted with suppressed laughter.
“What’s so funny?” asked White. “This is a murder you’re laughing about.”
“Sorry, sir.” The man composed himself. “It was just the pun on ‘not a trace.’” He paused, seeing the blank look on White’s face. “Being forensics, you see.”
“I do.” White sighed. “Look, can you give me any details of the killer? Man or woman? Big? Short? Have you found any prints?”
“A few, sir.” The second technician indicated a line of numbered cones. “We’ve got a spatter pattern here, indicating that the knife was inserted, removed and re-inserted.” He stood behind the body and mimed stabbing the victim. “The murderer was right-handed and between five-feet-four and five-feet-ten. That’s all I can say at the moment.”
“What about the footprints outside?” White asked.
“We’ve got an impression of them,” the first said. A man’s size eights. I couldn’t tell you what, though, until we can do a comparison check.”
“All right.” White nodded toward the evidence bags. “Let’s have a little look.”
“Yes, sir.” The second technician handed over the cast.
White held the footprints under the light. “It’s a lead, I suppose,” he said, running his finger across the treads. “You don’t think it’s a tad convenient, though? The killer leaves so little evidence in the room yet plants his feet carefully in a damp patch of earth underneath the window.”
“Perhaps it didn’t occur to him, sir.”
“These are high-quality shoes.” White pointed at the pattern. “Now, if they were work boots or Doc Martens like the gardener’s, you might not notice stepping in mud but this fine footwear? You feel every drop shift under your weight.”
“Drop, sir? Shouldn’t that be blob? Blob of mud?”
“Don’t be facetious, Constable.”
“Even if this is a genuine lead, it doesn’t rule out any suspects.”
“No.” Simon stared at the corpse. “Average height, average shoe size.”
“Give me a couple of photographs of the weapon,” he said to the technicians. “Let’s see what I can find out about it.”
They handed him a pair of Polaroid photographs. “It’s quite distinctive,” said the first. “It’s a fantasy weapon rather than a practical one.”
White glanced at the trails of blood. “It looks practical enough from here.”
* * * *
“Nicole Fielding, please?” White looked into the living room where the secretary was now fully dressed, her hair tucked up into an efficient loop at the back of her head.
She stood and followed them to the dining room. “I’ve already told you everything I know.”
“That may be so, Miss Fielding.” White treated her to a rare smile. “We want to ask you about this, though.” He gave her the two pictures of the knife.
“That’s Mas–” she corrected herself. “Mr. Markhew’s. It was a gift from Peter.”
“Was Peter in the habit of giving his employer gifts?”
“Not often,” Nicole said. “This was special, though. He got it from an exhibition he went to. Mr. Markhew kept it in the glass case in his study.”
White looked at Simon. “Give Mr. Numan a shout, would you? Let’s ask him as well.”
Simon left the room, returning moments later with the gardener-handyman.
“What can you tell me about this knife?” asked White, taking the photographs from Nicole and giving them to Peter.
“It’s the one I gave to Mr. Markhew.” Peter tapped the photograph. “It’s only for show, though. It wasn’t meant to be used.”
“I’m sure Mr. Markhew would agree with you, sir.” White took the pictures back. “Are you in the habit of giving deadly weapons as gifts? Has your aunt received an Uzi, perhaps, or your grandmother a Gatling gun?”
Peter laughed. “Heaven forbid. This was a special gift. Robert…Mr. Markhew…and I were supposed to go to an exhibition together. Something came up at the last minute and I went on my own. I brought him this back as a souvenir.”
“What exhibition would this be?”
“The Star Trek exhibition in London a couple of years ago.” Peter smiled. “It’s a Klingon Daqtagh. We were both really into it see, though we used to argue who made the best captain.” He faltered. “Nothing serious, you understand, nothing I would have killed him about.”
“Miss Fielding here tells me that it was kept in the glass case in the study.” White collected the photographs again. “Is that correct?”
“That’s right.” Peter nodded. “It has a drawer thing that slides out. It makes a terrible racket, though. I keep meaning to oil it.”
“Is it a high-pitched shriek?” asked Simon. “As if someone trod on a cat’s paw?”
“Sort of,” agreed Peter. “Though I’ve never trodden on a cat.”
“I heard that noise,” said Simon, his face lit with excitement. “When Jennifer and I came to dinner.”
“What time would this have been?” Peters asked, making a note in his book.
“Seven o’clock?” Simon suggested. “Give or take five minutes. No later than ten past, certainly. I was studying the
crucifixion painting at the time. Jennifer was talking to Mary in the sitting room.”
“That could be helpful,” said White.
“It couldn’t have been Robert, though,” Simon said. “He wasn’t in the study. He was with me admiring the Pieta and made a point of telling me he had the key in his pocket.”
* * * *
White watched the coroner, Dr. Eric Chambers, and his assistant remove the corpse of Robert Markhew on a gurney then turned to the people in the sitting room. “Right then, ladies and gentlemen. One last task and we’ll let you rest in peace.” He frowned. “Er, in a manner of speaking.” He called to the forensic technicians. “This way if you please, gentlemen.”
“What’s going on now?” Mary had managed, with the aid of a coffee and a small glass of something medicinal, to come downstairs.
“We just need to take everyone’s fingerprints. For elimination purposes.”
She pulled her dressing gown more tightly around her. “What if I refuse?”
White raised his eyebrows. “Why should you if you’re innocent? I could get a warrant for them tomorrow if you prefer.”
“I was just asking.” She sat again. “I don’t mind, really.”
White looked at the two technicians setting up a piece of glass attached to a laptop. “What are you doing? Get the dabs kit out.”
The second technician grinned, polishing the glass with an alcohol wipe. “This is it, sir. The latest thing. There’s no need for all the purple ink and dab sheets any more, this does it all for you and no mess for the people being tested.”
White grunted. “I don’t trust these modern gimmicks.”
“You’re just behind the times, sir.” The first technician pulled on latex gloves. “You’ve got to get with the groove.”
White scowled. “I’ll give you a groove if you’re not careful.” He looked around the room. “Father Brande? You and your sister can go now, if you like. I know where to find you if I need to ask you anything further.”
Simon looked disappointed. “Are you sure there’s nothing else I can do, Inspector? Give solace to the bereaved, perhaps?”
White shook his head. “Get off to bed, sir. We can handle it from here. Good night.” He turned back to the room. At least the list of interviewees was almost finished. “Susan Pargeter?”
* * * *
Jennifer slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine, switching the interior heat to full and setting the windows to demist. “Come on, Simon,” she said aloud as she watched her brother pause to say something to a policeman on the doorstep. She switched on her headlights to hurry him. It worked. He waved goodbye and trotted across the gravel.
He opened the passenger door and leaned inside. “You go on, Jennifer. I’m going to walk back.”
“At this time of night? You’ll freeze.”
He laughed, causing the policemen to glance over. “I’ll be fine. I need to clear my head and talk to the boss for a while.”
“You’re mad, Simon.” Jennifer’s smile betrayed the lie. “Very well. See you at home.”
* * * *
“So what happened?” Jennifer stood by the kettle, waiting for it to boil. “You were with the inspector for hours and then you took twice as long to get home as you should have done. Have they any idea who did it?”
Simon lowered himself into the kitchen chair. “Not yet. Can you believe it? A knife in the back, no less.” He glanced at the clock. “Will you look at the time! I’ve got to be up in four hours!”
“Never mind that.” Jennifer made two cups of tea. “Who do you think murdered him?”
Simon took his drink, holding it in cupped hands. “I’ve no idea. Amanda seems the favorite suspect. She tried to get into Robert’s study several times, even after she was told Sir Robert wasn’t to be disturbed. She’s also the right height to have killed him and the right-sized feet to have left the footprints they found.”
“Pfft.” Jennifer snorted. “It wasn’t Amanda. She’s far too nice to be a killer. Even if she did want to kill Robert, she’s too much of a lady to use a dagger. She’d have poisoned him or strangled him. Something that doesn’t leave a mess.”
Simon laughed. “Because she’d be the one cleaning up afterward? What makes you so sure she didn’t do it? Not that I think she did, mind. My bet is on the chap that stopped us for directions.”
“I just know her too well, that’s all.”
Simon frowned. “How could you know her? We hadn’t met her before last night.”
“You hadn’t, anyway.” Jennifer smiled into her tea.
Simon twigged. “She’s one of your gossip cronies, isn’t she?”
“So what if she is?” she said through pursed lips. “I was right about Grace Peters, wasn’t I?”
Simon nodded, lost in thought. “You were indeed.” He was silent for a moment then looked up, his forehead creased. “That’s how you knew about the dagger as well! I never mentioned it.”
* * * *
With the police gone, the household had a chance to look over the scene of the crime, despite the yellow police tape over the door and Inspector White’s warning not to disturb anything.
Amanda pointed at the spatter markers and the red stain. “How am I supposed to get that out of the carpet? That’s the stain from Hell that is.”
Nicole loosened her hair from its tight pins. She couldn’t help herself. “How about Jesus soap-on-a-rope and holy water?” She grinned at the expression on Amanda’s face as she crossed herself. “And don’t give me that Catholic girl rot. I’ve known you too long.”
Peter grinned. “Don’t let our esteemed police confidant Father Brande hear you say that. He’d have you excommunicated.”
Chapter 12
Mary watched the priest pull up at the side of the White Art and jump out of his car, leaving it running on a double yellow line. With a perverse and somewhat guilty hope, she wondered if a policeman would come along and give him a ticket. She didn’t like Simon Brande much. He was too much the ladies’ man to be a proper priest.
He tried the door handle several times and resorted to banging on it. Was he really that much of an alcoholic that he was so desperate? She tucked herself behind a tree and took her phone out, opening the lens cover and setting it to video. At the very least an irate priest should earn her some page views on YouTube.
Simon pulled on the handle again, giving it one twist too much for tolerance. Mary had to clamp her hand over her mouth to stifle the laugh as the brass broke and, with the force of Simon’s tugging, flew back and banged him on the head. She’d never heard a priest swear before.
The door opened from the inside to reveal Mike Chapman the landlord, wearing grease-stained butcher’s apron. “Don’t you know what time it is?” He snatched the handle from the priest’s hand. “We’re closed. I haven’t even begun to serve breakfast yet.”
“I need to speak to Richard Godwin urgently.” Mary was gratified to see Simon’s attempt to just push his way into the hotel was met by an immovable landlord. “It’s about his stepfather.”
Mike shook his head. “No can do.” He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and yawned. “He checked out last night. You could try his phone.”
Simon pulled out his phone and dialed. He waited a minute and scowled. “Straight to voicemail.”
Mike’s face creased into a frown. “I thought you were friends with him?”
“I am.” Simon put the phone back in his pocket. “What time did he leave?”
“Sometime in the early hours, I think. I didn’t see him go.” Mike glanced into the bar behind him. “Is there anything else? I am busy, you know.”
Simon took a step backward “No, I suppose not. Thanks for your time, Mike.”
“Any time, Father.” Mike grinned. “If it wasn’t for your sermons I’d lose half of my Sunday trade.”
Simon returned to his car with a face like thunder. He glanced once more at the hotel as the door closed and roared off.
Mary ended the recording and played it back. The camera on her phone wasn’t brilliant and lent the audio a booming quality but it was clear enough to make out every word of the exchange. She tried Richard’s number on her own phone again. Just as it had done four times already, it dropped her straight to voicemail. Richard was not taking calls.
“Arse.” Mary stuffed the phone back into her pocket and turned away. It seemed Richard really wasn’t here after all. Mike might cover for his residents but he would never lie to a priest.
* * * *
Jean Markhew opened her eye at the slight rattle of china and raised herself onto one arm. “I’m the mistress by default now, am I?” she asked, looking at the bowed head of the semi-naked girl at the side of her bed. Amanda made a slight inclination of her head sufficient to answer the question.
Jean looked at the cup of steaming tea, plate of toast and copy of the morning’s Laverstone Times on a silver tray. She made no indication Amanda should put the tray down. “Hmm?”
“You are, ma’am.” The maid bowed her head in acknowledgement and respect. “Though I wish it were in better circumstances.”
Jean reached out with her free hand to stroke Amanda’s hair. “As do I,” she said with a chuckle, “though beggars can’t be choosers and I’m sure he’ll have left me very comfortable. I shall be happy when all this business is done with and they catch whoever did it.” She sat up, pulling the pillows vertical so she could lean against the headboard. “Pass the tea, there’s a dear.”
She took the proffered cup, leaving the saucer on the tray, and flicked open the paper. “Murder at The Larches” proclaimed the headline with a shot of the outside of the house, obviously taken early this morning for there was a policeman standing at the gate but no vehicles other that Robert’s Jaguar on the drive. “Have you seen this?” she said. “How do they get the news so quickly?”
“I really couldn’t say, ma’am.” Amanda still stood bolt upright and Jean glanced up.
“I appreciate the formality but do relax, dear. Massage my feet while I breakfast, would you? Your other duties can spare you a few minutes, surely?”
“Of course.” Amanda put the tray on the side table and sat on the bottom of the bed, raising the covers until Jean’s feet were exposed. She began to massage them, her thumbs kneading the pressure points on her new mistress’s soles.