by Granger, Ann
They had reached the landing and the stained-glass window loomed over them. It appeared to show a biblical subject with robed figures. Jess and Morton stood side by side and studied it. It was an action-packed scene. A crowd milled angrily outside a building, looking up at it. Above their heads, vengeful faces grimaced from a window aperture as a female form, with long yellow hair, plummeted earthward. Her braceleted arms were flung out in a mix of entreaty, despair and a doomed effort to save herself. At the very bottom of the window, a pair of hounds looked up expectantly.
Facing it, across the landing, was another window. It had probably been a companion piece with another Bible story depicted, but it had apparently suffered some accident and was partly boarded up in a rough job using sections of plank. Only a few pieces of coloured glass at the top remained visible.
‘What do you reckon’s going on here?’ asked Morton, gazing up at the undamaged window.
‘The death of Jezebel,’ said Jess promptly. ‘I’ve seen pictures of it before and when I was at school, our RI teacher was very keen on the story. Jezebel was the queen of King Ahab and under her bad influence he committed all kinds of crimes. He was killed in battle by a stray arrow.’
‘Like that chap, King Harold, at the Battle of Hastings,’ said Morton, not to be outdone in general knowledge.
‘Right. When people got news of his death, they took their revenge on wicked Jezebel and threw her from a palace window, as you can see there.’ She pointed up. ‘And the stray dogs ate her body. You can see a couple of dogs at the bottom there.’
‘Nice,’ said Morton, ‘just the sort of thing to have in your home. Now, who in his right mind would want to get up every morning and walk past that on his way down to breakfast?’
‘The Victorians liked stories with a strong moral,’ Jess offered. ‘It encouraged people to do the right thing. They saw it as uplifting.’
Morton wasn’t accepting that argument. ‘It’s about violent murder and there’s nothing very uplifting about that, just the usual blood and guts. If that blonde female is anything to go by, a good dollop of sex as well. People have always liked that kind of story; but not because it makes them feel better. Because it gives them a kick.’
The upstairs landing formed the short crossbar of a letter H. On either side corridors ran towards the back of the house and also towards the front.
‘I’ll take this side, you take that,’ Jess suggested.
Morton, with another mistrustful glance up at Jezebel’s death plunge, set off along the corridor leading towards the front of the house on the left-hand side. Jess took a parallel route on the right. Doors opened on to a depressing line of abandoned bedrooms with dust sheets thrown over the beds and some pieces of furniture also shrouded. Unshrouded pieces had their own powdery veil of dust. The damp had got in everywhere. Once-fine curtains hung in mouldering shreds. The remains of jackdaw nests littered the fireplaces. In a bathroom taps had rusted; and a huge Victorian iron bath on claw feet held part of the ceiling above it that had fallen down.
She turned back and began to make her way down the corridor to the rear. She had only opened the first door, discovering a large linen cupboard with yellowed sheets still stacked inside, when she heard Morton call.
He, too, had begun to investigate the rear corridor on his side. He was standing in an open doorway at the very end of the corridor, waiting. Jess joined him.
‘What do you think of this?’ Morton asked her. He gestured into the room.
Jess drew in a sharp breath of surprise. Then she stepped forward into the room and stood, looking around her.
In startling contrast to the rest of the house, this room showed signs of having been cleaned recently. There was not a speck of dust anywhere. All the wood surfaces gleamed. The bed had no dust sheet on it but the mattress was covered with a blanket of synthetic material, garish pink in colour. Its newness shrieked and its presence in this room with its antiquated fittings jarred as a false note.
There was something else, too, not something visible but she felt it powerfully. It was human presence. She sniffed. The air was fresher than elsewhere on the upper floor.
Slowly Jess said. ‘Someone has been using this room. It’s been aired out. That blanket was never put there by any Bickerstaffe. In any case, Monty says he never comes up here. So who’s been in here, what for and when?’
‘And does old Bickerstaffe know?’ Morton added. He was prowling about the room, peering into corners.
‘I’d guess he doesn’t. We’ll have to be careful how we ask him. Think about it, Phil. Here’s a huge, empty rambling house with an owner who never comes upstairs and habitually leaves it unlocked. Local druggies, tramps, schoolkids, travellers, anyone familiar with the area might know about it. It might provide the ideal hideaway for someone. Monty would never find out. It’s making more and more sense that someone left the body in this house. We need a fingerprint team up here.’
‘No drugs paraphernalia,’ pointed out Morton, completing his tour. ‘No empty beer cans, food wrappers or other rubbish, like you’d expect.’
‘Someone’s cleared it all out. Let’s suppose,’ Jess went on, ‘whoever left the dead man downstairs knew about this room, came up here and had a lightning tidy-up. But whoever it was couldn’t have had much time. Call in and request a Scenes of Crime crew to come out. I want them here before the body’s moved.’
Morton shuffled his feet unhappily. ‘You’re sure about this?’
‘I’ll justify my decision and the expense!’ Jess said sharply. ‘And it is my decision.’
Phil flushed and looked mulish but accepted that argument was pointless. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘with luck, Scenes of Crime will be able to pick up a fingerprint or two here, as you say. Maybe we’ll get really lucky and there will be some DNA on that blanket. There should be if it’s been used for what I think it has.’
They went back downstairs and outside. One of the two constables came across to them.
‘Inspector Campbell, perhaps you ought to look at this, ma’am.’ The young constable’s voice was excited and they hurried towards the spot. He was pointing into the overgrown shrubbery.
On their way they passed a long furrow scored in the gravel drive.
‘New, that,’ said Morton, indicating it.
A short distance further on another similar mark showed in the disturbed gravel, ending at the edge of the shrubbery.
The constable pointed at the jungle of overgrown bushes and unpruned trees. ‘There are some broken branches and trampled grass, Inspector, making a trail or a path. I didn’t want to disturb it any more but it seems to lead to a gap in the perimeter wall, on the road side.’
‘Good work!’ Jess exclaimed. ‘We’ll need a search team in there, too.’
‘No expense spared,’ muttered the unhappy Morton.
‘I know all about budgets, Phil, thank you. They are the detective’s ball and chain! But I don’t think Superintendent Carter will argue over this one. Quite apart from an unidentified body where no body should be found, this whole scene bristles with unexplained oddities.’
Morton nodded reluctant agreement. ‘What do you think?’ he asked, as they made their way back to the main gates. ‘Do you think someone brought chummy in that way? Not via those gates, but through the gap in the wall, dragged or carried him through the shrubbery, on to the drive and up to the front door, his heels dragging along in the gravel?’
‘Well, to get him through those would have been nearly impossible.’ Jess pointed at the rusted front gates. ‘They haven’t been opened properly in years and must be stuck in that position. One or two people, encumbered with a corpse or a dying man, couldn’t have done it. There has to be a different way in. Yes, almost certainly they came through the shrubbery. I doubt one person could have carried him so far. I reckon we have a murder scene here and we’re looking for either two murderers or one murderer and an accomplice.’
Morton opened his mouth to answer but before he coul
d, a blue two-seater roadster, driven by a woman, came bouncing along the uneven surface of Toby’s Gutter Lane. The constable at the gates stepped forward and flagged it down. The woman driver had already braked. She came to a halt and called out, ‘Who’s in charge? My name is Harwell.’
Jess hadn’t expected Bridget Harwell to turn up in a sports car. It seemed too carefree for the occasion. The constable was bending down and explaining, Jess knew, that Mrs Harwell couldn’t bring her car on to the property because more tracks would confuse the scene and, in any case, the gates didn’t open. The driver got out and began to walk briskly towards Jess.
‘You can’t go in at the gates on foot, either! You can’t go on to the property!’ the constable said loudly, intercepting her.
‘I know, I know! You’ve made it clear.’ Bridget Harwell waved him aside.
From inside the police car where he still waited, Jess saw Monty gesticulating wildly. The contortions of his mouth suggested he was uttering curses. His niece hadn’t noticed him. Jess hurried down to the gates and slipped through the gap to meet the newcomer. She couldn’t help but feel curious.
‘I’m Bridget Harwell,’ the new arrival said again for Jess’s benefit. She spoke courteously but her eyes assessed Jess at the same time as Jess was assessing her, and she kept her no-nonsense manner. ‘Where’s my uncle? Is he OK?’
She had a nervous, brittle way of speaking and Jess didn’t know whether this was due to the unusual circumstances or just a habit. Bridget Harwell was in her mid forties with a slightly faded prettiness. She was a small woman, neatly built, with thick, expertly bobbed ash-blond hair. Standing before her, Jess felt gawky and unfeminine. She pulled herself together and told herself she was here as a police officer and this wasn’t the moment to worry that she couldn’t have afforded the designer jeans and cherry-red sweater that looked like, and probably was, cashmere.
‘I’m Inspector Campbell!’ The words reminded both herself and the newcomer that she was, here, in charge. ‘Your uncle is over there, in the police car.’ She walked up to it and opened the door. ‘Come on, Monty, you can get out now. Your niece is here.’
‘Thank you, I am perfectly all right where I am,’ retorted Monty, arms folded.
Bridget Harwell descended on the police car and took effortless control. ‘Now, stop that, Uncle Monty! Be sensible for once. How are you feeling?’
‘Feeling?’ Monty gaped at her, speechless for the moment. ‘Bloody furious, if you want to know. Some bugger has dumped a corpse in my house. The cops are crawling all over the place. You’ve turned up to kidnap me and you ask me how I feel?’
Bridget turned to Jess. ‘He seems to be OK,’ she said with relief. ‘Just the same as usual, anyway.’
Her exasperation bubbled beneath the surface of her practical manner but, thought Jess, she’s controlling it well.
Bridget continued briskly, ‘He’s always a cantankerous old horror. Still he is getting on in years and I don’t think he ought to hang about here in the circumstances. I’ll take him with me, all right?’ She fixed Jess with an enquiring look.
Jess found herself annoyingly distracted by the thought that either Mrs Harwell had taken a couple of minutes before coming here to fix her mascara, or she always walked round all day immaculately made up like that. Why, Jess asked herself, does mascara invariably run when I apply it? Is it because I buy the cheap stuff?
‘Don’t want to go with you,’ yelled Monty to his niece, from within the police car. ‘I want to go back in my own house.’
‘We’ve been through all that, Mr Bickerstaffe,’ Jess called patiently. ‘Come on, you know you can’t go back indoors.’
‘What about his things?’ Bridget asked. ‘He’ll need at least an overnight bag.’
Jess grimaced. ‘Sorry, we’ve got experts coming out to look the place over. We can’t remove anything until they’ve been.’
Mrs Harwell accepted that with a sigh, putting up her hand to one wing of bobbed hair and patting it absently. ‘I suppose I can drive him into Cheltenham and fix him up with some togs.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with the clothes I’ve got on!’ argued Monty but there was a note of defeat in his voice.
‘You can’t sleep in them, Uncle Monty, and you’ll need soap and a razor and so on. It’s all right, leave it to me.’ To Jess she added confidingly, ‘He’s been a bit of a worry to us for years. It’s a good thing this didn’t happen yesterday. I was up in London all day and wouldn’t have been here to help.’
Monty’s features had twisted in distress at the mention of the soap and razor. He opened his mouth to protest but then surrendered and hauled himself, muttering, from the police car.
‘I’ve written down my address, my home phone and my mobile numbers,’ Bridget went on to Jess, producing a sheet of paper. ‘So, if it’s OK with you, I’ll just put my uncle into my car, and then nip back for a word, is that all right?’
Jess was beginning to understand how Monty felt. She watched him being led away and chivvied into the little sports car where he sat wedged in the passenger seat, scowling. Bridget secured his safety strap, rather as she might have buckled a toddler into a buggy. She returned at the same businesslike pace.
‘You can’t tell me exactly what’s going on, I suppose,’ she said to Jess, ‘and I quite understand. But who is the stiff in there?’ She pointed at the house.
‘We don’t know, Mrs Harwell, and your uncle says he doesn’t know him. I have to be honest and say that it’s difficult to believe the dead man could be a complete stranger, apparently dropped from the sky. Why in this house? There must be some connection, surely?’ She hesitated. ‘I suppose you wouldn’t oblige us by taking a look?’
‘I shouldn’t think I know him!’ objected Bridget Harwell at once.
It seemed that was going to be the cry from the whole Bickerstaffe clan. Jess felt herself growing obstinate and less sensitive to any delicate feelings Mrs Harwell might have.
‘Someone has to know who he is. He might be a passing acquaintance and Mr Bickerstaffe may have forgotten him. It could be someone he hasn’t seen for a while. That and the shock . . .’ Jess hoped she sounded persuasive.
‘Uncle Monty isn’t forgetful but he is contrary. He may have decided to be awkward.’ Bridget sighed. ‘You’re in a fix. You have to put a name to – to the dead man, I understand that. I admit I’d like to know who he is and why he’s in my uncle’s home. Lead on, then, I’ll take a look – a brief look, mind! I’m not hanging about in there.’
On their way indoors Jess apologised for the request. ‘I know it’s not a pleasant thing to ask you to do.’
Bridget only waved the apology away. In the living room, she looked down at the dead man and murmured, ‘Cripes!’ She studied him a further moment, and shook her head.
‘Can’t help you. I don’t know him from Adam. How did he get there?’ She wrinkled her nose fastidiously. ‘He whiffs a bit. Can we go outside before I throw up, too?’
‘Of course, thank you for trying to help. We appreciate it.’
‘Fair enough.’ Bridget was already heading for the door.
Outside she drew a deep breath of air. ‘I hope no one is going to ask me to do anything like that again. You’ll be in touch, I dare say?’
They watched the little blue car roar away.
‘Poor old fellow,’ said the constable sympathetically.
Jess agreed but couldn’t say so aloud. In any case, there was a distraction.
‘Someone else coming,’ observed the constable.
A red car was making stately progress along Toby’s Gutter Lane towards Balaclava House. It had just passed Bridget Harwell’s two-seater and now drew up outside the gates. The new vehicle wasn’t unfamiliar.
‘It’s the pathologist,’ Jess informed the constable, and went to greet the newcomer.
A stocky young man with a shock of black hair had clambered out of the car and made his way to the boot, where he stooped, head down beneath th
e opened lid, to rummage among the contents.
‘Hello, Tom,’ Jess called. ‘You got here quickly.’
Tom Palmer emerged backwards from the boot, clasping a disposable protective suit. ‘As it happened, Inspector Campbell, I got a call from your boss telling me you had a suspicious death. I was just settling down to a well-earned mug of tea, too. He said you were out here and you’d requested SOCO and a pathologist. His tone of voice indicated some urgency. ‘Well, I’m here – though I see no sign yet of the scenes of crime officers . . .’ He glanced around.
‘They’ll be on their way,’ Jess said. ‘To be honest, Tom, I don’t know how urgent it is. All I know is, it looks a very suspicious set-up. There’s a dead man in there . . .’ She pointed towards the house. ‘And nobody knows who he is. The elderly owner of the house found him on returning from a trip into town. He says he’s never seen him before.’