Murder by Suicide

by Veronica Heley

  It would be a nine-day wonder in the parish, of course, and everyone would know. However would Mrs Dawes hold up her head again, once everyone knew that she had been sheltering a criminal? And punishing Neil wouldn’t bring Nora back, or salve the hurts of those he had written to or about. But was there any alternative to putting the matter in the hands of the police?

  Ellie walked on to the park, noting where the daffodil spears were rising out of the ground, and the willows beginning to turn a pinkish green.

  There was also the small matter of proof. Ellie could point to Mrs Dawes’s front door and declare that this was the very same paint which had been thrown at Nora’s door. ‘Oh yeah?’ Neil might say. ‘Prove it.’ She couldn’t, because the door had now been cleaned and repainted a decent, boring, gingery brown. No proof existed now.

  There were the letters, of course. They could take samples of his handwriting and compare them with the letters. It would have been easy for Mrs Dawes to get hold of a pad of that brightly coloured paper, since she often popped into the charity shop.

  Poor Mrs Dawes. A totally innocent accomplice, who had all unwittingly delivered her grandson into the hands of the police. Chloe’s policeman boyfriend was away on a course. He might have helped.

  What was needed was for Neil to be questioned by some authority figure, persuaded to admit his guilt, be brought to realize the harm he had done, and be made to promise not to do it again under threat of exposure to the police.

  Yes, that might do. But who could play the part of Inquisitor General?

  The obvious person was the Reverend Gilbert Adams. No, he was no longer part of the parish and it wouldn’t be right to bring him back again for this, or any other matter. Also, he had been mentioned in the letters, and it would be best to have someone who was completely independent.

  Timothy the curate? Ellie laughed aloud. No way, José.

  Then who? Bill, her solicitor, would be perfect, but he was never available when she wanted him. Aunt Drusilla would be marvellous, if she could be persuaded to interfere. Which she would not. She was too old, anyway.

  John at the charity shop? Mm, yes, possible.

  Kate would be good, but would it be safe to have just two women alone confronting this Neil, who looked like a brawny six-footer with muscles out to here?

  Armand, Kate’s husband? He might do. Smart, sarcastic, head-ofdepartment teacher. Yes, he might very well do.

  Ellie turned her steps towards home. Problem solved. Perhaps.

  She was eating her supper while reading the paper when she dropped her fork on the floor. Neil might well have created the handwritten notes. Yes. She thought he probably had.

  But did he have the necessary background to produce the typed note that Aunt Drusilla had received?

  She stared at the newspaper without seeing it. Then she did see it. The typeface used on that note was not at all like the typeface she was looking at in her newspaper. It was an unusual typeface, rather square and spiky. She had seen it somewhere before, but for the moment she couldn’t place it.

  Kate had said, ‘Never assume anything.’ It was one of Ellie’s faults, and she knew it. She had assumed that there was only one letter-writer, and that it was the same person who had thrown the paint and killed the cat. But suppose there was more than one?

  Of course there must be more than one.

  Neil had thrown the paint and killed the cat. Probably. He had handwritten those brightly coloured letters of hate. But he wasn’t computer literate, was he? His advertisements proved that.

  She ought to have seen it before. There were two people writing those letters, one of whom was computer literate, the other not. The second one was Neil, yes. But the other …? Was someone quite different. They must be working together, though, sharing information, getting inside knowledge about Nora’s flat and habits. And Ellie’s.

  Two people happily playing the spy and the torturer. Murdering people by driving them to commit suicide.

  Ellie pushed her almost empty plate aside. Real fish was tasty, but the bones were a pain.

  Think, Ellie! Think!

  9

  The doorbell interrupted Ellie’s thoughts. The hooting of a child’s trumpet outside presaged not her neighbour Tod – whom Ellie would have been delighted to see – but the curate’s pregnant wife and her six-year-old son. They had clearly just come from a children’s party, for the boy was holding two inflated balloons, plus one that had been burst. On his head he wore a gilt paper mask, all the while blowing on a crude roll-out cardboard trumpet.

  His mother looked frayed at the edges. Bottle-blonde, an uneasy compromise between out-worn girlish charm and worn-out motherhood.

  The boy trumpeted into Ellie’s face. Despite herself, she blenched.

  ‘Stop it, there’s a good boy,’ said his mother, holding out an A4-sized envelope to Ellie. ‘Timmy asked me to drop these in to you a couple of days ago, but they must have slipped under some other papers and I’ve only just found them. It’s the notices for church this Sunday. He said you’d offered to do them. It’ll be too late to have them run off in the parish office, so I suppose you’d better get them photocopied in the Avenue, ready for Sunday.’

  Ellie blinked. She’d forgotten all about her promise to see what could be done about the weekly church notices. ‘Heavens, I’ll never be able to get them done in time! I suppose you don’t know how to use a computer, do you?’

  ‘Me? I wasn’t a typist. I worked at the BBC before I got married.’

  Which puts me neatly in my place, thought Ellie.

  The boy’s trumpet shot out and hit Ellie on the cheek as she took the envelope from his mother. He screeched with laughter, while his mother ineffectually pulled on his arm. ‘Now, now! You know that’s naughty!’

  A bright green envelope was also handed over to Ellie. ‘Found this on the doorstep. Looks like another of those poison-pen letters. Timmy had one this morning, too.’

  Ellie’s hand did not tremble as she took it. ‘Yes, it does look like it, doesn’t it? Will you come in for a minute?’

  ‘No, thanks. Got to get back. My little lovey-boy’s tired, aren’t you, dear?’

  ‘No, I’m not!’ shouted lovey-boy, trying his best to kick Midge, who had appeared in the doorway to see what all the fuss was about. Midge doubled in size, his tail bristling like a lavatory brush. Ellie thought: I’d back Midge on this one.

  ‘Come away, now!’ the boy’s mother pulled on his arm. Reluctantly giving way, he allowed himself to be drawn up the path to the main road.

  I ought to be sorry for her, thought Ellie, but I’m not. That boy is a toad! I wonder what was in the poison-pen letter Timothy received this morning? It would have been about me, wouldn’t it?

  What will he do about it? Denounce me from the pulpit? Take it to the bishop? No, taking it to the bishop wouldn’t get him anywhere, would it

  – not like when he was trying to get rid of Gilbert. Besides, Timothy needs my help with the church notices. Now, what on earth am I going to do about them?

  Kate wasn’t back from work yet. Ellie decided she must try to do something about the notices herself. Bother that girl for losing them all week. It was probably an unworthy thought, but if the curate’s wife had heard the gossip about Ellie, she might subconsciously have ‘forgotten’ about handing over the notices, in order to put Ellie on the spot, make her look bad.

  Ellie switched on Frank’s computer and waited for it to settle down and let her into its works. Think clearly, girl. This is no time for panicking.

  Timid Timothy had sent some handwritten notes about the Sunday services, which were reasonably easy to read. Then there were lists of people who needed to be prayed for and notices about events in the parish for the following week. He had included a couple of past weeks’ notices as samples for Ellie to copy. These were decorated with flowery borders and looked as if they had been done in different typefaces.

  Ellie had been attending the church ever since she
was married and must have had hundreds of these notices pass through her hands, but never until that moment had she thought about the mechanics of how they were produced. Now she must. She pushed the green envelope to one side. She would deal with that later.

  Manual in hand, she asked the mouse to oblige with a clean page. It did. Now the name of the church must go at the top, in large letters and a sort of Gothic-looking type.

  Typefaces. Odd that she’d been thinking about typefaces earlier. Perhaps she could learn something while she tried to do Timothy’s notices. Mouse on the tiny slot which said ‘Times Roman’. Click. Hmm. A lot of choices. Goodness, what on earth did they all look like?

  She selected one called ‘Century Gothic’, just for fun. It came out as . This was a weird typeface, not at all Gothic, really, and quite unlike the typeface which was normally used for the notices. Suppose she made it larger – how did you make it larger? She used the mouse on the next slot along and got a baffling series of numbers. Presumably this was the size of the type to be used? She tried twenty-six, but for some reason she could not get the words she had typed to become larger.

  Frustration!

  Oh well. Try to put a border round the page. Borders, where are you? Ah, they’re under ‘Format’. Select and press ‘OK’. Mm. A border had appeared, but it was not very interesting. Time being what it was, it would have to do. Now to put in the details of the Sunday service.

  No, the date went first. What was the date? Somewhere in the computer there was a facility for putting in the date. But would that be today’s date, or tomorrow’s, or Sunday’s? And what was the date today, anyway?

  She pressed this and that, and the border went haywire.

  More frustration and heavy breathing.

  Stab, stab with the mouse, and … Ellie shrieked. The toolbar had completely disappeared. It simply was not there any more. She stared at the screen, feeling half-guilty and half-angry.

  She switched the thing off. Then she remembered that she ought to have gone through ‘Start’ before she switched off.

  Hysteria.

  What the heck! Why should she care what happened to the church notices? Timothy ought to have brought them round to her earlier if he wanted her to tackle them. The job was beyond her. The church would just have to do without notices this week. It wouldn’t cause the spire to fall down. If people were cross, well, so be it. Amen and all that.

  She picked up the green envelope, slit it open, and read without much surprise that her evil ways with her ‘criminal lover’ would soon be frontpage news.

  Anger carried you over such things nicely. It was only half-past three in the afternoon, but she tipped the note into the bin and went to find the sherry bottle.

  Only after she had downed a large sherry did the message hit home. The writer was saying that Roy – presumably he or she meant Roy – had a criminal record.

  The doorbell rang. What time was it? It wasn’t dark yet, though beginning to gloam, and there she was, caught with an empty glass of sherry in her hand at half-past three of an afternoon. She hid the glass under her newspaper and peered out of the front window.

  A young man in sweatshirt and jeans, with a baseball cap back to front, was just about to ring the bell again. Neil? Mrs Dawes’s grandson?

  Ellie’s pulse rate accelerated. She hadn’t envisaged facing him alone, but here he was. She could pretend she was not at home. No, that was silly. What could he do to her in daylight in this built-up neighbourhood? She stifled the thought that no one was in next door.

  ‘Mrs Flick? Gran said you wanted some gardening done. I had a quick look around, back and front, and if you like I can start tomorrow.’

  Ellie relaxed. ‘It’s Mrs Quicke, actually, not Flick. Quite a lot needs doing. Could you give me the name of someone you’ve worked for before?’ It occurred to her to wonder if he had done the cutting-back of the laurel bushes at Aunt Drusilla’s. But no, that was too far-fetched.

  ‘I’ve only been down here six weeks, but I’ve been clearing gardens up north and I can see what needs doing. You want all that shrubby stuff clearing away, and make it all look neat, right?’ He waved his hand towards the shrubs which bordered the front garden. The winter-flowering viburnum and the winter jasmine were just finishing, but the kerria and forsythia were about to burst into flower, and heavy buds were forming on the laburnum by the gate.

  ‘You mean, cut down all the shrubs just as they’re beginning to flower?’

  ‘Cut down, dig out, take away. Make it all neat, innit?’

  Ellie took a deep breath. ‘No, it is not! Young man, I don’t know where you’ve been trained, but it is clear you are no gardener.’

  He shifted in his trainers. ‘Odd jobs, that’s me. Tell me what you want, and it’s as good as done. Start tomorrow morning early. Finished by lunchtime out here, and then at the back, that might take longer’ cause there’s a lot of stuff there. And I’ll take the stuff away and dump it, all in with the price, right?’

  ‘Wrong! If I had the time – which I haven’t – I’d give you a few lessons in gardening. You lay one finger on my garden, and I’ll sue you.’

  He drooped. ‘Gran said you needed some gardening done …’

  She saw he was very young still, possibly only just left school. Six foot tall and broad with it. Heavy eyebrows, big boned, awkward. Minimal education, couldn’t possibly have worked a word processor.

  ‘It’s my neighbour who wants some gardening done.’

  He looked where she pointed. Concrete slabs covered Kate’s garden at the front, the only sign of plants being two wooden tubs containing dead conifers.

  Sounding more confident, he said, ‘Sweep it up, get rid of them tubs, right? Take me an hour only, maybe. Two to dump them tubs.’

  ‘Come in, and we’ll talk about it.’

  She sat him down in the sitting room, where he looked around with frowning interest. His jeans were spotted with various shades of paint, lilac among them.

  ‘Nice place,’ he said, leaning back, trying to appear at ease.

  ‘Lilac paint,’ she said.

  His eyes fixed themselves on a picture over her head.

  ‘Doors,’ said Ellie. ‘Front doors. One for your Gran and one for … someone else. Right?’

  He shrugged. Half-grinned. Stretched his legs out. He hadn’t taken his cap off, of course. ‘So?’

  ‘You admit throwing lilac paint at the front door of our late organist?’

  ‘So?’

  Ellie sighed. This was hard going. ‘You did the handwritten notes about her as well?’

  He sat upright. ‘No way!’

  ‘But you do know about them.’

  A grin. ‘Sure. Gran talks about them all the time.’

  ‘But you didn’t write them, any of them?’

  A twist of the lips. ‘Why would I?’

  Why indeed? He had a point there. ‘But you did throw the paint.’

  A wriggle. ‘Weren’t no harm in it. Stupid cow, ruining everything. Whyn’t she just leave, like everyone said?’

  ‘Like your Gran said?’

  ‘Sure. And all her friends. They come round to Gran’s and yak, yak, yak. Nora this and Nora that, and dear Gilbert this, and did he or didn’t he. I seen some of the letters, too. A right old scrubber, that Nora. Time she took off.’

  ‘So you thought you’d help frighten her away?’

  Big shoulders shifted. ‘Not frighten. Give her the word. A warning.’

  ‘And if she hadn’t gone?’

  A shrug. He hadn’t thought as far as that.

  No, thought Ellie, he hasn’t the brains for thinking things through. ‘So how did you feel when she committed suicide? You were partly responsible for that, you know.’

  Another wriggle. ‘Not me. She did it to herself.’

  ‘With a little help from her friends.’

  ‘What friends?’ He was perking up now. ‘She din’t have no friends. Everyone said she were rubbish.’ />
  ‘I see it differently. I see a vulnerable, sensitive woman who was in great distress at losing her beloved father, who was in danger of losing her home, had no job and was in debt.’

  ‘And she bonked the vicar, right?’

  ‘No, she didn’t. She loved him, that’s all.’

  Silence. He got to his feet. ‘I’ll go then, shall I? Seeing as you got me here under false pretences.’

  ‘Sit down.’ Ellie pressed her fingers to her forehead. She retrieved the last letter from the bin and held it out to him. ‘Nora isn’t the only one who gets letters.’

  He read it, and whistled. Looked at her with assessing eyes in which there was now a hint of sexual speculation.

  With heightened colour, Ellie said, ‘Did you write that?’

  He shook his head. ‘I like capitals with curly bits. You seen my writing, on my adverts. Gran said she showed you one.’

  He took a sheaf of them out of his back pocket, and handed one over. What he said was true. Bother!

  ‘You got a boyfriend, then?’ He was finding it hard to understand that oldies like her might still be capable of sex, but, on giving her the once-over, was generously prepared to admit that she might not be quite past it.

  ‘There is someone who takes me out occasionally, yes.’

  ‘Criminal type?’ Now that he did find difficult to believe.

  ‘No. Architect, retired.’

  He frowned. ‘Speeding fine, wouldn’t you fink?’

  ‘Yes, very possibly.’ She laughed, easing the atmosphere. ‘Thank you, Neil. I expect that’s what it is. You see, the person – or persons – who writes these letters has a little knowledge about the victim, but twists things to make them seem worse. As they did with poor Nora, and as they are doing with me. This is the third handwritten letter I’ve had.’

  ‘You been to the police?’

  ‘Yes. They asked if I’d been annoying someone recently. Now you know what goes on at your Gran’s, people dropping in, chatting all the time. Have you heard them talk about me?’

  ‘Don’t think so.’ Frowning. ‘I keep out their way mostly. When it’s fine, I’m out, working. Not enough room to swing a cat at Gran’s. I only heard about that Nora ‘cause I hadn’t any work and the weather was so bad I was stuck indoors.’