by Jill McGown
Lloyd nodded. ‘If you ask me, Joanna left the pub, and went home. She could and did get in. She put on the overalls, went upstairs and killed her husband. She burned the overalls in the back bedroom, because the fire in her room would practically be out by then. And she knew that she’d be the first person we’d suspect, so she locked up the house, went to Dr Lomax, then came home and waited, saying that she had been locked out. But she wasn’t to know that her father had his own reasons for keeping quiet about where he’d been, and before she knew it, he was giving her a different alibi. One that hopefully covered him too, as far as his wife was concerned.’
He tipped his chair back, as the scenario presented itself. ‘I don’t believe Marian Wheeler did go home to change her dress,’ he said suddenly. ‘That’s why she doesn’t know when the doors were locked. Why would she go home? She was wearing a coat, and she wasn’t going to stay anywhere else long enough to take it off. She finished her rounds of the old folk, and then came home. That’s when she went up to change her dress – that’s when she found Elstow.’ Oh yes, he thought, it was all coming clear now. ‘She thought Joanna had killed him that afternoon. That’s when she burned the dress and put her own prints on the poker.’
He let the chair fall forward. ‘I think that when we got there, she was as mystified about the doors as anyone. She denied locking them, remember. But then she finds out that Joanna and George weren’t at the pub all the time, and she begins to put two and two together. She realises what must have happened, and why the place was locked up. And that’s why she was so keen to point out that she had locked the doors – check your notebook,’ he said, ‘if you don’t remember. I saw you underline it.’
‘I remember,’ Judy said dispiritedly. But she still didn’t quite give in. ‘Why did Joanna tell us about the overalls, in that case?’ she asked.
‘Someone would, eventually. She thought it might be better if it came from her. So that you would say just what you are saying.’
‘Forensic can’t tell us very much,’ said Judy.
‘No,’ agreed Lloyd. ‘But if we can tell the Wheelers something they don’t think we know, that might just do the trick.’
‘That they burned the overalls,’ said Judy. ‘Does that mean you still think the whole family’s involved?’
‘I think Wheeler’s stomach is very involved,’ said Lloyd. ‘He knew when Joanna left the pub, at least.’ He got up. ‘Home time,’ he said. ‘Hours past home time.’ He smiled. ‘At least you won’t get into trouble with your mother-in-law tonight.’
‘No, thank God,’ said Judy.
‘Tell you what. Why don’t you come back to the flat for something to eat?’ Lloyd asked. ‘Make up for lunch time.’
She hesitated, but she accepted. He was winning.
Seven o’clock. Where on earth had Joanna got to? Marian laid the table, still determined that she would go on as normal. At least she could dig George out of the study, to which he had retreated immediately after lunch. He seemed to spend all his time in there. All the time that he wasn’t spending in the bathroom, she thought worriedly. It was going on too long. She walked into the study, and stopped dead.
‘What are you doing with that?’ she asked.
George sighed. ‘It was my father’s,’ he said, a faraway look in his eye. The gun rested on his arm, pointing towards her.
‘I know that,’ said Marian. ‘George – please put it down,’ she added nervously, as his inexpert finger strayed towards the trigger.
‘What?’ he said vaguely. ‘Oh.’ He laid it on the desk. ‘It’s not loaded,’ he said.
‘Good,’ she said, walking slowly over to the desk. ‘Why have you got it?’
‘He killed things with it,’ George said.
Marian sat down. ‘What were you going to do with it?’ she asked gently.
George’s shoulders hunched a little, like a child’s. He reminded Marian of Joanna when she didn’t want to go to bed. ‘I was just . . . looking at it,’ he said.
Marian looked at it. Oh God, what was happening? ‘Why, George?’ she asked.
He didn’t answer; didn’t even seem to hear her, or see her. She glanced round the room, and saw the open cupboard, a pile of things on the floor beside it. ‘Did you find it in there?’ she asked, startled.
He still didn’t answer, and she got up to look in the cupboard, as though it could give her some answers. She always kept the gun in the sitting room, locked up. ‘George? Where did you get it?’
His eyes seemed to focus slowly as he looked at her. ‘The usual place,’ he said.
‘And you brought it in here?’ She looked again at George’s cupboard. Normality. Pretend that this is all normal. ‘Were you thinking of keeping it in there?’ she said, striving to make her voice sound unconcerned. ‘Because I don’t think it’s a very good idea,’ she said. ‘That lock’s very flimsy.’
He’d picked the damn thing up again. Marian carried on gamely. ‘After all,’ she said, ‘if someone broke in, they could get hold of it. We have to keep it secure.’
‘It was my father’s,’ he said.
Was that it? It was his father’s, so he wanted it? Anything was worth a try. ‘Would you rather I didn’t use it?’ she asked.
‘What?’ George looked puzzled. ‘Good Lord, no. You use it whenever you like.’ He put it down again.
Marian sat opposite him. ‘George – don’t you think you should see a doctor?’ she asked gently.
He looked faintly surprised. ‘The stomach?’ he said. ‘No. It’ll pass.’
Marian dragged her eyes away from the gun to look at George himself, ‘I think . . .’ she said hesitantly, afraid that the wrong word would spark the quick temper that seemed to have died. Marian wanted to see it back, see George back to his old self. But not while he was like this. ‘I think you’re a bit run down,’ she said. ‘Depressed.’
‘A nervous breakdown?’ he asked. ‘Is that what you think it is?’
‘It could be,’ said Marian carefully.
‘I think it is,’ George said, disconcertingly.
Marian’s mouth was dry. This frightened her; George had always just been George. But now, his eyes held an almost accusing look, and she didn’t know why. ‘What is wrong?’ she asked.
Suddenly, he came to life. ‘You ask me that? Joanna’s husband is murdered in this very house, and you ask me what’s wrong?’
At least bluster was something she understood. ‘This started long before Graham Elstow turned up here,’ she said. ‘You’ve been . . .’ She plunged in. ‘You’ve been acting very oddly for a long time,’ she said. ‘Since before that.’
‘Before that I had to bring my daughter home from hospital. That’s when I was sick before,’ he said.
‘It’s not just being sick,’ said Marian. She wouldn’t be swayed. ‘All that stuff about breaking commandments,’ she said. ‘What was all that about?’
He didn’t answer.
‘It started when Eleanor Langton came here, didn’t it?’ she said.
‘Ah.’ George sat back. ‘My mid-life fantasy,’ he said.
‘Well isn’t she?’ Marian asked.
‘Probably,’ said George, his voice tired.
‘Don’t let her make you ill,’ she said. ‘Whatever you’ve done – whatever you do, I’ll be here.’
‘I know,’ said George, and his eyes went to the gun.
Marian stiffened. ‘George,’ she said, alarmed that she had said the wrong thing. ‘Are you in love with her? Or do you just want to kick over the traces?’ She paused. ‘Break a commandment?’
He gave her a half smile. ‘I’ve broken lots of commandments, Marian,’ he said.
Marian stared at him, perplexed. ‘Diana Lomax,’ she said, bringing common sense to the rescue. ‘Go and see her, please, George.’
‘She’ll cheer me up, will she?’
‘She’ll recommend someone who can help,’ said Marian. ‘It would help, you know. If you could talk to someone.’
‘It does,’ said George. ‘It helps when I talk to Eleanor.’
‘What about?’ asked Marian.
‘Anything,’ George said. ‘She’s spent a long time just watching people, you know. Listening to them. Not joining in, so she had time to take stock of them, to assess them. She understands people.’ He smiled, the strange, faraway smile that he’d had when he was holding the gun. ‘A lot of the other play-group mothers don’t like her. That’s because she understands them, sees through them. It makes them feel uncomfortable.’
‘But she helps you?’ Marian asked, frowning.
‘Yes. She understands.’
‘Don’t I?’
He shook his head. ‘On Christmas Eve,’ he said, ‘she helped me write my sermon. She suggested it.’
Marian felt a little numb. ‘It was her idea, was it?’ she asked. ‘Shakespeare?’
‘Yes. Not the Bible. To thine own self be true. I’m not true to myself.’
‘Aren’t you?’
‘No!’ he said, with disgust. ‘I’m not a vicar, Marian. I’m pretending to be one. I don’t believe in any of this. You do,’ he said.
‘That’s why you’re breaking commandments?’
He smiled, and Marian didn’t recognise this man. ‘It’s a start,’ he said.
Marian shook her head, the sturdy common sense rising again. ‘Don’t you see?’ she said. ‘All this is because of how you feel about her. You want to go to bed with her, it’s as simple as that. And you think you’ve got to throw everything up because of it.’
‘The Church wouldn’t take too kindly to it,’ George said.
‘The Church wouldn’t know,’ said Marian. ‘Unless she told them. Is that what’s worrying you?’
George didn’t speak for a long time. Then he sat back, and looked at her. ‘I have never heard of any other man sitting down and discussing his potential adultery with his wife,’ he said.
‘She’s making you ill, George. And if I thought telling you to forget her would work, that’s what I’d be saying.’
‘But you think that indulging my fantasy will do the trick?’
‘What?’ said Marian, guardedly.
‘You think if you give me permission, you’ll put me off the whole idea,’ he said.
Marian didn’t answer. Yes, that was the hope at the back of her mind. It had certainly been her hope when she had suggested it before. But now . . . now she didn’t care what George did as long as it helped. And there was no way that Eleanor Langton could live up to George’s fantasy. He’d find out what a ridiculous waste of energy it had been. She didn’t even blame him. Eleanor Langton was blonde, and beautiful, and young. She was lonely and vulnerable, and she had sought reassurance from George. He was flattered, of course he was. But she wasn’t worth all this soul-searching, and he’d find that out if he turned his fantasy into reality.
‘I just don’t want you to feel like this,’ Marian said.
George sighed. ‘That’s not why I’m sick,’ he said.
‘Of course it is,’ said Marian. ‘You’ve been sick ever since you started spending half your time over there. Is that where you were this morning?’
He nodded.
‘Why? What do you find to say to her?’
‘We’ve a lot in common,’ he replied. ‘Graham Elstow, for one thing.’
Marian stared at him, speechless.
‘Elstow was responsible for her husband’s death.’
She couldn’t have heard him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘He was driving the car that hit her husband,’ George said. ‘He was in a coma for almost three years.’ He shivered. ‘Three years,’ he repeated.
‘Have you told the police?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘What do you mean, of course not? They should know.’ Marian’s head was spinning. Eleanor Langton?
‘It’s up to Eleanor whether she tells them or not,’ said George. ‘For all you know she has.’
That’s what was making him sick. Marian couldn’t take it in. George thought that Eleanor Langton had killed Graham Elstow, and he was keeping information from the police. Her mind wouldn’t cope with the rest. Faint, vague feelings of betrayal; none that she could put into words. He’d watched her being arrested – practically forced them to arrest her . . . She looked at the gun, at George, his face ashen.
‘She didn’t do it, Marian,’ he said. ‘She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t.’
‘What difference does it make?’ asked Marian, her voice weak.
‘None.’ He clasped his hands, laying his forehead on them, and he looked as if he was praying. Marian hoped that he was.
She stood up slowly. ‘Will you let me have the gun back?’ she asked.
‘Take it,’ he said. ‘I don’t want it. Throw it away.’
Marian took it, and left the study. She was on her way to the sitting room, when she realised that she couldn’t keep it in the house. She didn’t know this George. She didn’t know what he’d do. She walked out to the car, and opened the boot, automatically checking the gun before putting it in.
The cartridges stared back at her, two eyes gleaming in the light from the door.
Chapter Ten
Joanna glanced at her watch as she got out of the car. Almost nine o’clock. She crunched over the ashes to the front door, gloomily aware that her mother wouldn’t be pleased. She hadn’t even told her where she was. She had been at the house all day; cleaning, dusting, tidying, until it looked like her house again. She felt better, now. But it would be difficult, telling them she was going back there to live. Still, she would do it. Tonight.
The vicarage seemed strange; normally, she could hear her parents talking, or movement, at least. Had the car been there? She opened the door again. No. That was odd; her parents were creatures of habit. Her mother, at any rate. Her father’s behaviour over the last few days was far from normal. She went into the kitchen, and stood for a moment at the doorway, a frown forming. This wasn’t right. The table was set, but no one had eaten; she could smell the food. She opened the oven door to find a dried up casserole, and she switched it off, beginning to feel panicky. Had there been an accident? She should have rung them, told them where she was. She ran out of the kitchen, and through to her father’s study.
He sat at his desk, staring at a lined pad, his pen in his hand. He had written nothing. He didn’t look up, or speak. Joanna swallowed, and went over to him, almost afraid to make a noise.
‘Daddy?’
He looked up, his eyes not really taking her in. ‘Yes?’ he said.
‘Where’s Mummy?’
‘Isn’t she here?’ he said, but there was no interest in the question. Just an automatic response.
Joanna shivered. ‘Did she say she was going out? Did you forget to eat?’
He shook his head.
‘What’s going on?’ Joanna cried. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Nothing,’ he said mildly.
‘It’s freezing in here,’ Joanna said. ‘Come into the kitchen. I’ll make you something to eat.’
He stood up, and followed her.
‘She must have told you to get your own dinner,’ Joanna said. ‘You must have forgotten.’
‘No,’ he said.
‘Where’s she gone?’ Joanna asked again. ‘What’s wrong? What’s the matter with you?’
He looked at her then, for the first time. ‘Your mother thinks it’s a nervous breakdown,’ he said.
Joanna stared at him. ‘Has she gone for Diana?’ she asked.
Her father smiled. ‘They can’t listen to your chest for a nervous breakdown,’ he said.
‘Are you ill?’ Joanna asked, bewildered, slightly suspicious.
‘Your mother thought I wanted to kill myself,’ he said, and his voice was calm now. Rational; conversational, almost.
‘Why?’ demanded Joanna. ‘Why did she think that?’
‘Because of the gun,’ he said.
‘Gun?’ The word chill
ed her. ‘What gun?’
‘My father’s shotgun.’
‘Were you going to kill yourself?’ Joanna still wasn’t sure that she was dealing with a breakdown.
‘I’m not sure,’ he said.
‘Where is she?’ Joanna looked round helplessly, as though her mother might materialise.
‘She might have gone to Diana’s,’ he said, as though she had never mentioned it.
‘Did she say that was where she was going?’
He frowned slightly. ‘Where have you been?’ he asked mildly. ‘It’s late, isn’t it?’
Oh, God. He couldn’t stay on one subject for two seconds; it was hopeless. ‘Have you taken something?’ she asked, alarmed by the thought.
‘A couple of pills.’
‘What pills? How many?’
‘The ones you got after you came home from hospital. Just a couple. I thought they might help.’
Joanna ran to the medicine chest, and the bottle was there, still with a good supply of pills. She let out her breath, and took the bottle out, putting it in her pocket.
‘Where’ve you been?’ he asked again.
‘At home,’ she said with a sigh.
‘Were you?’ He sounded puzzled. ‘Were you in your room? I thought you were out.’
Joanna closed the medicine chest, and turned to look at him. ‘My home,’ she said.
He stared at her uncertainly, then mumbled something, and fled.
She listened to the now familiar sound of her father’s feet pounding upstairs, and sank down at the table. The table set for dinner. The dinner which was dried up and ruined in the oven. Something had happened. Something terrible. Slowly, she rose and went into the hall, but she arrested her hand as it reached for the phone.
She was being silly. Her mother wasn’t here, that was all. She had told her father to serve himself, but he had forgotten, mixed up by the pills. It wasn’t late, not yet. Not really. She had just heard the clock chime the half hour. Half past nine wasn’t late. She mustn’t let her father’s nervous state get to her. She heard him walking about upstairs; he wasn’t well. Her mother had probably gone to get Diana. But she would have phoned Diana, said a voice in her head.
She looked at her watch. Quarter to ten. That wasn’t late, no matter how you looked at it. So what was late? Eleven, she decided. She would give her mother until eleven. Then she would start ringing round. There was no need to panic. She must be somewhere. Joanna glanced anxiously upstairs. She must be somewhere, she told herself sternly.