Murder at the Old Vicarage

by Jill McGown

  ‘But self-defence might work?’

  Freddie shook his head slowly. ‘No,’ he said. ‘That could just conceivably have been what happened. But he must have let go. And she didn’t stop hitting him. Two blows were after he was dead, remember.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Lloyd. ‘That’s what puzzles me.’ He got up. ‘Thanks, Freddie,’ he said. ‘See you in court.’

  ‘Are you going to charge her?’ Judy asked, as they got back to the car.

  ‘Not tonight,’ he said. ‘I’m not happy with any of this. Why would she hit him twice after he was dead? And why wouldn’t she tell us that she had?’

  ‘Do you still think she just tried to tidy up after someone else?’

  Lloyd looked tired, as he shook his head. ‘I can’t see when,’ he said.

  Judy frowned. ‘So what do you think?’ she asked, puzzled.

  Lloyd smiled. ‘You’ll give me one of your looks if I tell you,’ he said.

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘Well,’ he began a little sheepishly. ‘I’m beginning to think she wasn’t there at all.’

  Judy stared at him, giving him one of her looks. ‘Someone else burned her dress?’ she said incredulously. ‘Someone else put blood on her shoe?’

  He nodded.

  ‘And she’s letting them?’ Judy shook her head. ‘What about the prints on the poker?’ she said.

  ‘Ah, yes. There are those.’

  Judy smiled, and started the car, and there was silence then, as though leaving the lab was a signal that the working day had ended, and now she and Lloyd were back to being just two people who didn’t know what to say to one another.

  The headlights lit the snow-covered verges as the car sped along a country road now dry and cold, and it was the first time they had been alone together, out of working hours, since Christmas morning. It seemed to Judy that Lloyd had engineered their lack of privacy; perhaps it was because she hadn’t responded to what she assumed had been a proposal of marriage, or perhaps because he was regretting it already, and wanted to avoid any discussion on the matter.

  Judy thought of several things she should be saying, but she didn’t voice them. A minute and painful examination of her position had forced her to see things from Lloyd’s point of view. She did want everything her own way. She did want to run back to the safety of her marriage, and it wasn’t a marriage, not really. It never had been. But where she and Michael bickered and complained at one another, she and Lloyd had rows. Real rows, where feelings were involved. Lloyd, with his quick Celtic temper, could forget them five minutes later. Judy couldn’t. It was all too raw and emotional for her, and the rows would haunt her for days. But this one, despite having ended in the odd way that it had, seemed to have left its mark on Lloyd too, and she knew why.

  ‘I didn’t know I was hurting you,’ she said.

  ‘You’re not,’ Lloyd said, his voice surprised. But Lloyd could do that. Surprise, sorrow, anger. Whatever was needed.

  ‘You said you felt like a bottle of aspirin,’ she said.

  ‘That’s irritating,’ he said, as she slowed the car down, and signalled left. ‘It doesn’t hurt.’

  ‘Then why have you been avoiding me?’

  He didn’t answer for a moment, and Judy affected deep concentration on her negotiation of the turn into the old village, where Lloyd had his flat. Stansfield, town of supermarkets and light industrial estates, of civic theatres and car showrooms like the one she was passing, had once just been a farming village, like Byford.

  She could abandon the decision she had come to in the path lab; she could drop Lloyd off by the alleyway. But she drove on, turning through the entrance to the garages, parking beside Lloyd’s car.

  ‘I had no right to say these things,’ Lloyd almost muttered.

  ‘But they’re true,’ Judy said gloomily, stopping the engine. She looked out at the blackness of the garage area, only marginally relieved by stray beams from a failing street-lamp, and not at all in the shadow of the ornamental wall. She was surprised as always that the place wasn’t littered with the unconscious bodies of muggees. But throwing empty bottles at the garage doors seemed to be the most popular pastime in this particular back alley.

  ‘No,’ Lloyd protested, ‘I knew the position all along. You were right.’

  This wasn’t helping, thought Judy. Trust Lloyd, who could always be relied upon to defend himself, to turn sweetly reasonable on her.

  ‘I am being selfish,’ she said, ‘I know I am. But—’ She stopped. How could she explain it to Lloyd? She and Michael didn’t need one another; they needed the marriage. That was why Michael had thought up his ridiculous notion of starting a family – it was one way to keep the marriage going. A marriage they both needed because it was safe, and predictable, and pleasantly boring, like a cricket match which will inevitably end in a draw.

  ‘So what if you are?’ said Lloyd. He gave a short, unamused laugh. ‘If you’d given in to my lustful advances in the first place, you’d have the bachelor flat, and I’d be the one hanging on to my marriage.’

  It was a joke, of sorts. But it wasn’t true.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘You’re braver than me.’

  ‘Why won’t you tell him about us, Judy?’ he asked.

  She didn’t reply.

  ‘I can’t believe he hasn’t guessed,’ Lloyd went on.

  He may have guessed, thought Judy. But she didn’t think so. And guessing wasn’t the same as finding out for certain. And it certainly wasn’t the same as being told.

  ‘Why?’ he asked again.

  Judy tried to explain. ‘There’s only ever been Michael and you,’ she said. ‘And you could come from different planets.’

  ‘The trouble is,’ said Lloyd, ‘we’re on the same planet.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. Worse; they were in the same town. But she had to run some risks for Lloyd, or it was all too selfish for words. ‘I’m here now,’ she said. ‘But I can’t stay long – you do understand that.’

  It had been a hard decision to make; she hadn’t reckoned on Lloyd’s reaction.

  ‘What?’ he said, taking his arm away.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked. It was an innocent question.

  ‘What’s wrong? What’s wrong?’ His voice grew louder. ‘You can’t see, can you? You still don’t understand!’

  He was shouting so loudly that Judy glanced fearfully up at the flats in case someone might hear.

  ‘I told you what was wrong on Christmas morning,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to share you any more, Judy. Do you understand? I don’t want to share you any more!’ And he got out and slammed the door so hard that the car rocked.

  Chapter Six

  Marian Wheeler had been awake when they brought her breakfast. The girl, an uncompromising young woman with sensible legs – though, Marian supposed, you didn’t have much option but to have sensible legs in uniform – seemed almost apologetic. But there was nothing wrong with the food. She had sampled the canteen cooking in her YOC days; she had never imagined she would be eating it in a cell. She was by herself, because the others being detained were men. It gave her time to think.

  By the time lunch had arrived, she had worked out what she was going to do. The solicitor had come, but she had refused to see him. Once she knew he was gone, she told the policewoman that she wanted to change her statement.

  And now a sergeant was here; not the desk sergeant from last night, but it wouldn’t be. He’d be on a different shift. This one had grey hair, and a kind, bored expression. Last night’s had been a little surly, she thought. This one said his name was Woodford. Did she want someone to take down her new statement?

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ll write it myself, if that’s all right.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s fine.’

  The girl gave her a form, and the sergeant told her what to write at the beginning.

  I make this statement of my own free will. I have been told that I need not say anything unless I
wish to do so and that whatever I say may be given in evidence.

  She signed that, and the sergeant left, leaving the girl with her. That inhibited her a little, like the invigilator in an exam, when he walks between the desks. But in the end, it was finished.

  ‘Read it through,’ said the girl. ‘Make sure it says what you want it to say. Then sign it.’

  Marian read it through.

  In my statement dated 27th December, I said that I had killed my son-in-law Graham Elstow in self-defence. This was untrue. I was about to leave the house at about ten minutes to eight, but I did not want to leave him alone in the house, and I decided to try making him leave. I only intended speaking to him, but when I went up and told him to leave, he wouldn’t answer, and he wouldn’t turn round. He pretended to be asleep, and that made me angry. I suppose I just wanted to hurt him because he had hurt Joanna. I picked up the poker, and hit him. He sort of sat up, and fell off the bed. I kept on hitting him. I knew I had killed him. I had blood on my dress, and I burned it. I left the house at approximately eight twenty-five.

  Marian signed it.

  ‘I thought you didn’t believe in it?’

  Eleanor’s voice, quiet, as befitted someone speaking in church, made George start.

  ‘I’m used to doing my thinking in here,’ he said.

  He had behaved like someone about to steal the poor-box when he had arrived to do his thinking, making sure that his emergency stand-in had gone.

  ‘What did Marian say?’ she asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘About your decision?’

  She didn’t know. Of course she didn’t. How could she? It had only happened yesterday evening, and Eleanor, up in the castle, wasn’t on the village grapevine. He tried to tell her. It was simple. The words were simple. They’ve arrested Marian. But he couldn’t say them. He stuck on ‘they’ as if he had a stammer.

  ‘They what? What’s wrong?’ She made an impatient noise at her own lack of tact. ‘Sorry. But you know what I mean – has something else happened?’

  George stood up, and walked into the aisle, where the stained-glass sunlight cast colours on to the floor. ‘When I got engaged to Marian,’ he said, ‘Rosalind Anthony – do you know her?’ He carried on as Eleanor shook her head. ‘Rosalind Anthony told me that since she didn’t know who gave vicars good advice when they were about to marry, she’d do it. She’d been married three times,’ he told Eleanor. ‘She’d be about . . . about Marian’s age then, I suppose. She’d divorced two and buried one.’

  Eleanor looked puzzled, and sat down.

  ‘She was quite a girl in her youth, I believe,’ he said. He paced along a few feet, turned and paced back, as he spoke. ‘She said Marian would never let me down, and that I might find that hard to take.’

  He looked across at Eleanor, who sat still, her hair touched by the soft colours from the window. She frowned slightly, not understanding.

  ‘And I said something pompous about that being what marriage was about,’ he went on. ‘But she said that I might not want to be protected and shielded all my life.’ He sank down on to a pew. ‘She was right,’ he said. ‘She was right.’

  ‘Has something happened with you and Marian?’ Eleanor asked. ‘Was it when you told her?’

  ‘Told her?’ He blinked. ‘Oh – no.’ He ran his hand over his face. He hadn’t shaved. He hadn’t slept. He must look awful. ‘Rosalind said that if I married Marian, I’d have to go on pretending to be a vicar. She was right about that, too.’

  Eleanor made sense of one thing. ‘You haven’t told Marian you’re leaving the Church, have you?’ she said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who have you told?’

  ‘Only you.’

  ‘And now you’re not going to do it?’

  George shook his head. ‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘I can’t leave.’ How could he leave? He was in prison. A prison that Marian had knitted for him. He dropped his eyes from Eleanor’s. ‘And now—’

  ‘Now?’ she asked, when he didn’t continue.

  ‘She’s told the police that she killed Elstow,’ he said, and he could practically hear the snowflakes fall outside. He looked up. ‘She didn’t!’ he shouted. ‘She didn’t – don’t you see?’

  Eleanor shook her head, as if to rid it of confusion. ‘But you said everyone was out all evening,’ she said.

  ‘We were. But – but Marian . . .’ He sighed, and tried to tell her rationally. ‘At first, she said she left the house at ten to eight, but now she says she didn’t. And then, well – there was the dress, and I don’t know – there must have been more. But she’s confessed – don’t you see?’ He buried his head in his hands.

  ‘Dress?’ said Eleanor, uncomprehendingly. ‘What dress? What has a—?’ She broke off. ‘George?’ she said. ‘What did you say? What time did Marian say she’d left the house?’

  He lifted his hands away, and held them up helplessly. ‘She says she didn’t leave until later,’ he said. ‘I don’t know. What difference does it make?’

  ‘It’s important, George.’ She sounded impatient, almost angry. ‘She’s made up some story to protect you, hasn’t she?’

  George looked up slowly. ‘Me?’ he said.

  ‘I thought that’s what you meant. When you told me about this Rosalind person. That Marian thought you’d done it.’

  ‘What?’ he said. Did she? No. Perhaps. He didn’t know.

  ‘Whatever her reason,’ Eleanor said. ‘Did you say eight?’

  He frowned. ‘Ten to,’ he said. ‘She said she left at ten to eight. They say she couldn’t have, and it’s got something to do with Ros Anthony. That’s why I was telling you. She’s always had a down on Marian – I wouldn’t put it past her—’

  ‘George.’ Eleanor broke into his illogical accusations. ‘George. We have to go to the police,’ she said.

  ‘You shouldn’t have let her make statements!’ Joanna said firmly.

  Mr Barrington, a young, dark man with a worried expression, pulled papers from his briefcase, and laid them out on the kitchen table. ‘I’ve made some notes,’ he said. ‘Some odds and ends that might help us.’

  ‘Why didn’t you stop her?’

  ‘I can’t tell your mother what to do, Mrs Elstow,’ he said. ‘I can only give advice.’

  ‘Once you get there!’

  ‘I have apologised for that – I couldn’t get to a phone. And I did advise Mrs Wheeler not to sign the first statement, but she did. She wouldn’t see me either of the times I called there today. And I wasn’t there when she made the second statement.’

  Joanna was making coffee for her visitor; it was like saying thank you to an automatic door, or apologising for bumping into a lamp-post. Making coffee for vicarage visitors was second nature, even if they’d come to tell you that your mother had confessed to the deliberate murder of your husband.

  ‘But she can’t have said she did it deliberately!’ Joanna filled the coffee pot with water, and banged the kettle down.

  ‘I’m afraid she has,’ said Mr Barrington. ‘And it ties in with the medical evidence.’

  ‘I don’t care!’ Joanna tried to calm down. Deep breaths. ‘Of course it does,’ she said. ‘Maybe they dictated it for all I know – maybe they made her sign it!’

  Mr Barrington coughed. ‘I doubt that very much, Mrs Elstow,’ he said.

  ‘Oh – I suppose you think the police are whiter than white?’

  ‘No,’ he said, his reasonable tones beginning to strain just a little. ‘I’m sure some police officers are not above bullying known criminals, or convincing teenage boys that it’ll be better if they confess. But I don’t think they’d be likely to do it to someone like your mother.’

  ‘It would be easier with her,’ Joanna said, noisily removing mugs from the cupboard. ‘She’s not used to being arrested – being questioned.’

  ‘She could certainly have been confused,’ said Mr Barrington, clearing away some papers for her to put the coffee things down.
‘That is one of the points I’ve made.’ He pointed to his handwritten notes. ‘She must have been alarmed, and tired – and perhaps she just told them what they wanted to hear. It does happen. But I know the inspector, and I’m sure that he would do nothing . . . nothing underhand.’

  ‘You’re chums with the inspector. Great.’

  ‘I didn’t say that, Mrs Elstow. I—’

  But Joanna felt the tears coming again.

  ‘Oh – Mrs Elstow. Er – please. Look – have some coffee, a glass of water?’ He searched his pockets fruitlessly, and then pulled some kitchen paper from the roll. ‘Mrs Elstow?’ he said, pushing the wad of paper into her hands. ‘I’m sorry. But I—’

  This time, at least, she was under control. She blew her nose. ‘Graham’s dead,’ she said. ‘And they’re accusing my mother, and I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘There isn’t a great deal you can do at the moment, Mrs Elstow,’ he said. ‘But there are things I can do – look. I’ve made notes on them. I really came to talk to your father – I should have waited for him. I shouldn’t have bothered you.’

  Her father. Whose answer to the situation last night had been to disappear into his study until it was time to go to bed. Who had spent most of the night in the loo, and stayed in his room all morning. Who had eaten lunch in silence, and left without a word.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘He’s not very well. I’m all right now,’ she assured him, sitting up straight. ‘What happens next?’

  ‘Well,’ he said helplessly, ‘I take it you mean what happens to your mother?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She’ll be charged, and go before the magistrates. That doesn’t take more than a few minutes. I can’t promise anything, but there’s a possibility that she’ll be released on bail.’

  ‘And if she isn’t?’ Joanna couldn’t take it all in.

  ‘Once she’s been committed for trial,’ Mr Barrington went on briskly, as though she hadn’t spoken, ‘I’ll be able to brief counsel.’

  Joanna pulled at the screwed-up paper towel in her hands. ‘And he’ll have all the answers?’ she asked bleakly.