A Restless Evil

by Ann Granger

  She made her way into the kitchen and began to look around for the necessary utensils and plates. Ruth called out to ask if she needed help and she called back that she didn’t. After a moment she could hear Ruth and Alan talking again. The door stood open and their voices floated through.

  ‘Why?’ Alan was asking. ‘Why did you tell me you thought you’d committed a criminal offence?’

  ‘Because shortly after that, Simon went missing. Well, he went missing that day, didn’t he, the twenty-fourth? It was in the local press and on the news. I should have come forward and told the police I’d seen him, but I didn’t want to. I was afraid I’d have to make explanations. Anyway, I told myself, it wouldn’t have helped.’ There was a pause. Ruth added, ‘Would it?’

  ‘It might have done. We should have been able to pinpoint the exact spot he was last seen and narrowed our search to that area. Is that what you meant by your criminal offence?’

  ‘It’s half of it. When the bones were found, I had another chance to come forward and tell about that day, but I still didn’t. There was an outside chance you wouldn’t be able to establish whose bones they were. So instead of coming forward, I burned his letters, destroying evidence, if you like. I hoped and prayed you wouldn’t identify him. But you did find out who he was.’

  ‘It was by the purest good fortune,’ Markby interrupted. ‘Because he’d had distinctive dental work and the jaw was one of the bones found.’

  ‘See? It was meant. So then I knew I really ought to come forward because what I knew was relevant to the inquest. But I didn’t want to testify at the inquest. I just couldn’t do it. Later, when I met his mother in that café and heard her talking about him, I felt so guilty. Poor woman, all those years wondering what had happened. Perhaps I could have shortened her agony if I’d come forward years ago. Morally, I shouldn’t have withheld my evidence and in practical terms I probably broke the law, did I?’

  Meredith heard Alan say soothingly, ‘I’m not going to arrest you! I think you should have spoken up when he disappeared and we were appealing for any sightings of him. But as we didn’t then, nor have we now, evidence that any crime had been committed connected with his disappearance, you weren’t technically withholding evidence in a criminal matter. You were being unhelpful, that’s all, and possibly caused some waste of police time as the wrong areas were searched. I’m not saying we would have found Simon, mind you, had you given us your information. We don’t know the circumstances in which he died. The inquest is a little different. Strictly speaking, a lawyer would argue your evidence wasn’t relevant since the identity of the bones wasn’t in dispute. We had forensic evidence they belonged to Simon Hastings. The fact that you saw Simon in the woods is circumstantial. It wouldn’t, in itself, have meant the bones were his, though it would’ve raised the possibility. But given the forensic report, we didn’t need it. In any case, don’t worry about it. Nothing you say now adds significantly to what we already knew, that he was walking the old way when he disappeared.’

  Meredith heard Ruth heave a sigh of relief. ‘Thank you. I’ve been so worried and my conscience has been troubling me.’

  It was at that point Meredith realised that the eggs were sticking to the bottom of the pan. Her eavesdropping had distracted her from attending to stirring. She scraped the mixture off as best she could, leaving the brown burnt bits. The toast popped up obligingly from the toaster. She set it all out on the kitchen table and went to call the others.

  She thought Alan looked a bit relieved when he saw the eggs, though he did glance towards the pan soaking in cold water. Ruth had disappeared into her larder and came out with a bottle of white wine. That a weight had been lifted from her shoulders was obvious. She looked quite cheerful.

  ‘This is the wine I mentioned earlier. We’ll have it with the eggs, shall we? Can you open it, Alan?’

  After they’d eaten and had carried the remaining wine back into the sitting room, they settled themselves around the log fire. Meredith thought Ruth looked peaceful. It had been a relief, Meredith realised, for Ruth to have been able to speak at long last of something that had been a secret for so many years.

  She heard herself asking, ‘Looking back, do you think now that perhaps you could have told your parents about the baby? That they might have understood? Your father was a parish priest, he must have had people confide all kinds of things to him.’

  ‘Oh, he’d have understood. He knew about human frailty,’ Ruth returned. ‘But he’d have been deeply disappointed and worse, he’d have felt guilty.’

  ‘Why on earth should he do that?’

  ‘For failing to bring me up so that I could resist temptation!’ Ruth gave her a wry smile. ‘I don’t think he’d have coped very well, not with a scandal in his own family. Dealing with other people’s problems is so much easier than dealing with your own, I always think. That was my experience as a teacher. I was always ready with good advice for my pupils. But look what a mess I made of my own life!’

  Markby, who’d been staring at the whispering logs, leaned forward and picked up the poker to push to safety a piece of charred wood which was threatening to topple from the grate. ‘You had one unsuccessful relationship. That wasn’t entirely your fault. It’s certainly hardly making a disaster of your life. You had a successful teaching career. You married later, someone else.’

  ‘And here I sit,’ said Ruth, ‘with nothing. All I had in the end, you see, was Hester.’

  Meredith started to ask, ‘Have you never—?’ but broke off in embarrassment.

  ‘Never what?’ Ruth asked calmly.

  ‘None of my business, sorry.’

  ‘Let me guess.’ Ruth smoothed a wrinkle in her skirt. ‘Have I never tried to trace my child? Is that it?’

  ‘It was, yes.’

  ‘And what would I say to him, if ever I found him? No, I like to think he’s happy and successful somewhere.’

  There was a long silence. It was broken by Markby, who asked suddenly, ‘What arrangement did you eventually come to about your father, Ruth?’

  ‘Oh, my father, yes, that was another problem I didn’t know how to solve. But then I had a bit of luck. I saw Mr Jones a few days after – after that business with Simon. That’s old Mr Martin Jones who farmed Greenjack Farm then, not young Kevin who farms it now. Only Kevin isn’t so young now and back then, Martin himself wasn’t so ancient. We were chatting and he told me he had a niece who’d just been widowed young and left in very difficult circumstances. No money, he meant. “She’ll have to get a job,” he said. “And find herself somewhere cheap to live.”

  ‘Do you know,’ Ruth said earnestly, ‘it was like being in one of those baroque ceiling paintings where a ray of sunlight streams out of clouds and strikes some kneeling saint. I said, “Mr Jones, if things could be worked out, do you think your niece would be interested in coming to live at the vicarage and keep house for my father?” He said, yes, he was sure she would. So I went to meet his niece and she was a good, practical sort with no children and very keen on coming to Lower Stovey to be near her uncle. So she did. She stayed with my father until he died and it made the world of difference to him. He got regular meals. She supervised his laundry. She kept a check on his diary and made sure he was where he ought to be. He was able to carry on being the vicar here until he died, entirely because of her.’

  Ruth sighed. ‘In the meantime, though, the parish had dwindled. The school had closed. To leave my father in situ looking after the remaining inhabitants had been all right. They knew him and he’d been so long here it would’ve been unreasonable to uproot him. But there was really so little for him to do. After he’d gone, the decision was taken not to replace him here but to join St Barnabas to Bamford church. In view of this, the church commissioners decided to sell the vicarage. As the housekeeper had remained living in it until a decision was made on its future, they decided that she could have it, if she wanted, on very generous terms. A knock-down price, in fact. They wanted rid of
the place. It was a white elephant and in need of a lot of renovation. She’d been living there, bed and board supplied plus her wages, for some time and she’d been saving up so she was able to buy it. I think her Uncle Martin may have helped her out a bit with the asking price, too.’

  Markby set down his wine. ‘Just a sec. The housekeeper bought the old vicarage? When was this?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ruth. ‘It was in 1982 or early 1983 and she’s still there, Muriel Scott.’

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘Come on, Henry!’ urged Pearce.

  He’d enjoy walking the dog this nice mild morning in the normal way of it but present circumstances were working against him in every department of his life. The tooth, which he’d been trying to treat with a course of mind over matter, hadn’t responded and was undeniably worse. Moreover, he was well aware that they were getting to that stage of a murder case when the trail starts to go cold, at first imperceptibly but with growing obviousness. ‘Three days,’ many of the old hands said. ‘You’ve got three days to come up with a really good lead or you’re in trouble.’ But twice that number of days had passed since Hester Millar’s murder. As time went by, possible evidence was damaged or lost. People forgot. Worse, they began to remember differently. In many cases the murderer had skipped out and could be anywhere in the world.

  Pearce didn’t think this murderer had left the scene. He, with Markby, felt sure he or she was still there, in or around Lower Stovey. An absence from the small community would be missed, especially one which came about suddenly. But no one had unexpectedly upped and left, thought Pearce. They were all still there and among them …

  ‘Henry!’ he repeated with growing impatience. Some mornings Henry could be very obliging and they made their circuit of the playing field in record time. Sometimes, however, Henry seemed to go into a meditative phase. He would stop for no clear reason and stand, staring into the far distance (where Pearce could distinguish nothing), deaf to entreaty. He appeared, or so Pearce fancied, to have quite a glazed look in his eyes on these occasions. He was doing it now, still as a statue, communing with something unseen or unheard by man.

  ‘Ruddy dog!’ grumbled Pearce. ‘I’ll be late.’

  And he had wanted to be early. He’d told Tessa so, arguing that with such an important case he needed to put in the extra time. ‘Just think, love, if I can crack it without the old man’s help, it’ll do me a power of good career-wise.’ The ‘old man’ – Markby – fortunately wasn’t there to hear this unkind description of himself.

  Tessa, who had heard it, had gone straight to the heart of the matter, saying briskly, ‘I’m not walking Henry again this morning. It’s your turn.’

  So Pearce had set out, plastic bag in pocket, dog on leash. So far they’d met no one else, which was unusual. There were generally a few other dog walkers around. Both Pearce and Tessa kept an eagle eye open for those who hadn’t equipped themselves with the necessary plastic bag. Pearce had once drawn a man’s attention to the notice at the entry to the field, reminding people that allowing dogs to foul the area was an offence. The fellow, a weedy little chap with a pointed nose who had borne a marked resemblance to the dog he was walking, had proved stroppy. ‘Mind your own business, mate!’ he’d told Pearce. ‘It is my business, I am a police officer,’ had retorted Pearce, gaining the withering reply, ‘Then why aren’t you out investigating things? No wonder the crime rate is what it is. Wasting your time following people who are walking their dogs when other people are being burgled!’

  The observation, that he was wasting his time when he ought to be investigating things, had come back to haunt Pearce this morning. Fortunately Henry had decided to move on but before they’d got much further there was a rustle in the hedgerow beside which they walked. Henry’s somewhat blunted hunting instincts were aroused. He leapt towards the noise. The extendible lead ran out full length before Pearce could prevent it. Henry wriggled through a small gap in the tangled hedge, got the lead wrapped round a projecting branch, and was brought up abruptly, stuck. He whimpered pathetically.

  ‘Serves you right,’ muttered his unsympathetic owner. He joggled the lead but it didn’t come loose. Pearce was obliged to scramble over the ditch, up the low bank and, twigs and thorns catching at his clothing and hair, extricate Henry backwards. During this operation, Pearce put one foot down in the ditch which was full of cold muddy water and Henry, who objected to being hauled away from something interesting, had to be dragged, still backwards, down the bank leaving scored tracks where his paws had scrabbled for a hold.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Pearce to the dog. ‘We’re going home, right now.’

  He set off uncomfortably for his house. At the gate of his house he unclipped the lead from Henry’s collar to allow him to run ahead, and took off his wet shoe. He’d have to change both his shoes and his socks now before he went to work. Sodden shoe in hand, Pearce limped towards the back door. As he reached it, a shrill cry broke the air.

  ‘Dave Pearce! What do you mean letting the dog run in with muddy paws? He’s gone all over my clean kitchen floor!’

  Pearce paused at the door and cast his eyes heavenward. ‘Please,’ he muttered. ‘Please let something go right today.’

  His plea had been heard. When he eventually got into work, fifteen minutes late, he was greeted by Ginny Holding.

  ‘We’ve got a response,’ she said. ‘To that appeal we put out on the local news. A woman’s rung in to say she saw Hester Millar the morning she was murdered.’

  ‘Who? Where?’ demanded Pearce eagerly, reaching for the sheet of paper Ginny was waving at him.

  ‘In the village, Lower Stovey, at about twenty minutes to ten. The woman is a Mrs Linda Jones. She and her husband farm just by Stovey Woods at a place called Greenjack Farm. She’s got a thirteen-year-old daughter she drives to school every morning and she was on her way back. She passed Hester walking along the main street.’ Ginny rolled her eyes. ‘She says she’s only just remembered.’

  Pearce’s grip closed triumphantly on the sheet. ‘I’ll go out and talk to her right away.’

  Greenjack Farm lay at the end of a track leading off the rough roadway which itself led from Lower Stovey to the edge of Stovey Woods. The farm buildings nestled in a dip, a collection of grey stone and wooden structures. The house itself was a low, unpretentious, rambling place. It formed three sides of a square with an open shed with a corrugated roof to the left and old stables to the right. There was no one in the yard.

  Pearce got out of his car. Rooks wheeled overhead and he could hear a tractor in the distance as he made his way to the front door of the house. It stood ajar. He tapped on it and called through the gap, ‘Hello? Anyone at home?’

  The footsteps which approached in response were slow and cautious. The door creaked open and he found himself looking into the faded blue eyes of an elderly man wearing an ancient-looking brown suit over a green pullover and shirt. His hair was thin and white and his complexion pink.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked the man, not aggressively but with a childlike curiosity.

  ‘Inspector Pearce.’ Pearce held up his ID. The old man took no notice of it, only stared at Pearce as if something about his appearance amused him. ‘I was hoping to speak to Mrs Linda Jones,’ Pearce said more loudly. He didn’t know if the old chap was deaf. He might be.

  ‘Linda’s my daughter-in-law.’ The old man, having bestowed this information, seemed to think that was enough and Pearce wanted to know no more. ‘Nice to see you, lad,’ he said and made to shut the door.

  Pearce stuck his foot in it. ‘Can I see Mrs Jones?’ Not deaf, just daft, if you asked him.

  The old man looked down at Pearce’s foot and frowned. ‘You got your foot in my door.’

  ‘I know, I want to speak to Mrs Jones!’ Pearce said desperately.

  ‘You didn’t say that.’

  ‘Yes, I did. I said – look, is she at home?’

  Fortunately, at that moment, a woman’s voice was hea
rd asking, ‘What are you up to there, Dad?’ The door was pulled open and Pearce saw a weather-beaten woman in jeans, check shirt and a sleeveless jacket. Her fair hair, streaked with grey, was coiled on top of her head and pegged in place with a couple of large hairpins. Strands of hair had escaped and hung round her face which was devoid of make-up. She was, despite this, an attractive woman. Pearce thought she was probably in her early forties.

  ‘Mrs Jones?’ he asked hopefully. ‘I’m Inspector Pearce. You rang us and said—’

  She interrupted him. ‘I didn’t expect you’d come all the way out here.’

  ‘I’m really keen to talk to you, Mrs Jones.’

  She looked undecided. ‘I don’t know. I told the person who answered the phone all I know. I saw Hester Millar the morning she was killed. A dreadful business it is, too.’

  ‘He wants to talk to you, Linda,’ said the old man, catching up on the conversation a little late in the day.

  ‘Yes, Dad. You go on back indoors and sit down. I’ll make a cup of tea directly.’

  The promise of tea seemed to do the trick. He turned and disappeared back inside the house.

  ‘Come through to the kitchen,’ Linda Jones said. ‘Though there’s nothing more I can tell you.’

  A little later, settled at the kitchen table with a mug of strong tea and a slab of solid cake, Pearce was able to ask his hostess, ‘Did you know Hester Millar well?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, not well. I knew her to talk to, just to exchange the time of day. She was always pleasant. I knew she lived with Ruth Aston and she and Ruth took care of the church between them. It’s a crying shame the way we’ve got no vicar now. Ruth’s father was the last vicar here. You know that?’ She fixed Pearce with an interrogatory look.