The Wychford Murders

by Paula Gosling

  ‘Mark is sensitive,’ Jennifer said, automatically.

  Luke smiled. ‘So am I,’ he said.

  ‘And the next minute, he asked me to have dinner with him, tonight.’ Jennifer gazed at her aunt, having presented her with a rather full platter of information over the luncheon table.

  ‘Some doctors do have them,’ David said, wryly.

  ‘Have what?’ Jennifer demanded.

  ‘Crazy friends and ardent suitors by the dozen,’ he answered, reaching for the coffee pot.

  ‘I don’t . . . ’ Jennifer began, hotly, but her aunt’s cool voice intervened.

  ‘Are you going to have dinner with him?’

  Jennifer gave David a last glare, but his amused expression remained. ‘Yes. I called Mark, but Basil said he’s still too upset to see anyone.’

  ‘I went over this morning.’ David said. ‘He may be shaken, but he was up and dressed. Mr Taubman is being over-protective, in my opinion. Maybe if he’d had a little more reality in his life, Mark wouldn’t be such a jelly-fish now. First his mother bossed him around, now Taubman is stepping in.’

  ‘That’s not fair,’ Jennifer flared. ‘It’s a terrible shock to find anyone murdered, much more your own mother.’

  ‘I agree. As it happens, Mark didn’t look shocked.’ David said. ‘He just looked . . . relieved. They were going over plans for the conversion. They were really very absorbed.’

  ‘Basil’s lost his wife, you seem to forget. He’s not a man who shows much emotion in public, I gather. He’s probably just trying to keep occupied, and to keep Mark occupied, too,’ Jennifer said. Gregson’s silence was a kind of comment. After a moment, she cleared her throat. ‘I . . . happened to look through Mark’s record folder this morning.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I didn’t realise he’d had a nervous breakdown.’ Jennifer watched her aunt and David exchange a glance.

  ‘It was when his father died,’ Aunt Clodie said. ‘It was more nervous exhaustion and grief than a breakdown.’

  ‘Not according to the psychiatrists’ reports,’ Jennifer said, her eyes on David. ‘They wrote to Uncle Wally that they found acute mania, delusions, and paranoia. I see he’s been on a maintenance dose of Serenace ever since.’ She turned to her aunt. ‘You might have mentioned it.’

  ‘I thought it was just grief,’ Aunt Clodie said, in some confusion. ‘I thought it was just temporary. Wally never said otherwise. Mark was only hospitalised for a short time. I didn’t think he was crazy’

  ‘He’s not,’ David said, sharply. ‘There is a family tendency towards schizophrenia, it’s true, but nothing more than that.’

  ‘But if Jennifer married him, if there were children . . . ’ Aunt Clodie was deeply dismayed.

  ‘I never intended marrying Mark,’ Jennifer said. ‘But I can see now why he was so malleable and mother-dominated. The drugs took away his aggression.’

  ‘Fortunately,’ David said, drily. ‘And as for the rest, there’s no problem as long as he keeps taking the drug, of course.’ He looked pointedly at Jennifer. ‘And he has been taking the drug regularly. I checked.’

  Jennifer felt herself flushing, knowing he had read her mind and her fears clearly. ‘Well . . . good,’ she said, lamely.

  ‘Dear me,’ Aunt Clodie murmured.

  David finished his coffee and stood up. ‘I have some notes to update before rounds. Your list is on your desk, Jennifer – Kay pulled the records for you.’ He smiled at Clodie and went out. They could hear his voice in the kitchen, thanking Mrs Louis for the lunch, on his way through to the surgery.

  ‘He never forgets to thank her,’ Clodie murmured. ‘He has nice manners.’

  ‘Oh, really? I hadn’t noticed particularly,’ Jennifer said, crossly.

  Clodie sighed. ‘I wish you two would try to get along, it would make things so much easier in this house.’ She poured herself a second cup of coffee. ‘Now, tell me everything Luke said about the murders.’

  ‘I did.’

  Clodie looked disappointed. ‘You mean there wasn’t anything else? Anything at all?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Oh, dear. I wonder what Hercule Poirot would say,’ Clodie murmured. ‘Or Henry Merrivale? Or Maud Silver?’

  ‘I’ll ask Luke if he’d like their assistance, shall I?’

  ‘Don’t be flippant,’ Clodie advised.

  Jennifer grinned. ‘Why, will it give me sciatica?’

  ‘No, but it will give you indigestion. You’ve just poured custard into your coffee instead of cream.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Annabel Leigh reached up to silence the bell over the door as she entered the shop she shared with her partner. She crossed the room, her bright hair flaming briefly in a shaft of sunlight that managed to penetrate from outside. In the cluttered rear of the shop she found Mary Straker carding wool. ‘My God, I am heartily sick and tired of talking about Win Frenholm,’ Annabel said, lighting a forbidden cigarette and tossing her coat into the corner. ‘I’ve just stopped at Sam’s to get these and been waylaid by yet another reporter. They hang around, take up your time, and never buy anything. They just want more scandal to put in their rotten papers.’

  Mary looked sympathetic. ‘I know. Poor Hannah has had it worst – they latched on to her right away, once they’d wrung Barry and Gordon dry. But I understand Ray Moss gave one reporter a black eye and threw him out bodily, yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘Really?’ Annabel was amused. ‘I hadn’t heard that. Maybe Ray has some good points after all. Is Barry back?’

  Mary’s face clouded. ‘No. I asked Gordon, and he said he had the flu and wasn’t up to working yet.’

  ‘Did you believe him?’

  ‘Yes, funnily enough, I did. I don’t know whether it’s flu exactly, but I’m certain that dear little Barry would have to be really ill to miss this chance to be the centre of attention.’

  ‘Oh, bitchy, bitchy,’ Annabel laughed.

  Mary smiled. ‘Sorry. I wouldn’t blame him for skiving if he wanted to, though. I feel like getting flu myself at the moment. Damn.’ The bell in the shop had rung, and she stood up to go. ‘I never thought I’d complain about being too busy, but really . . . ’

  ‘We’ve sold a lot of sweaters,’ Annabel pointed out, reluctantly. ‘Whatever Win did or didn’t do for this place in life, she’s more than made up for it in death. People are coming from miles away, just to have a look. She’s put us on the map at last. Sam’s happy as a sandboy over there, selling pies and doughnuts like a madman.’

  Mary nodded, and went through to the front of the shop. Annabel listened for a moment, and sighed. They sounded like browsers rather than buyers. She got up to put the kettle on and, as she did so, there was a tapping at the back door. She opened it to find Hannah Putnam standing there.

  ‘I’ve closed the studio,’ Hannah said, her voice harsh. ‘I can’t stand any more today.’

  ‘My God, you look ghastly. Come on in and have some coffee or something.’ Annabel swept her friend in and closed the door behind her.

  ‘Oh, you’ve got customers,’ Hannah said, pausing on her way to a chair.

  ‘Never mind, Mary’s out there. They’re only looking,’ Annabel said, negligently. ‘Sit down, for heaven’s sake.’

  Hannah sank down gratefully into the rocking chair by the back door. She looked on the verge of collapse. Her fine-boned face was haggard, and there were shadows under her eyes. Her silvery cap of hair looked dull and lay flat against her scalp, as if she hadn’t washed it for days. Her hands plucked restlessly at the big black shawl she wore wrapped around her against the chill of the afternoon. ‘I’m so tired,’ she whispered.

  ‘You should have closed the studio days ago, right after Win . . . died.’

  ‘Was murdered, you mean,’ Hannah said, gratingly. ‘She was murder
ed, Annabel. Her throat cut . . . ’

  ‘Stop that!’ Annabel ordered, horrified at the defeated sound of Hannah’s voice. It was as if she were dead herself, kept upright by habit, blind and deaf to life. ‘Drink this coffee instantly.’ She thrust a steaming cup into the older woman’s hands. Its scalding heat seemed to jolt Hannah out of her self-absorbed misery.

  ‘Ouch, dammit! That’s hot!’ she said, in a reproachful tone.

  Annabel was relieved to hear this normal response. For a moment she had thought Hannah had become numb in every way. ‘Then it will do you good,’ she said, firmly, and poured out cups for Mary and herself. ‘Get it down you.’

  Hannah sipped gingerly, and spots of colour appeared in her pale cheeks. After a moment, she smiled. ‘Thank you. This is a really nasty cup of coffee, Annabel. May I have some milk and sugar in it, please?’

  ‘Only if you behave yourself and stop moping,’ Annabel said, in a tone she usually reserved for her schoolboy sons.

  ‘I shall try,’ Hannah said, austerely. ‘I have not your resilience, my dear.’ She loosened her shawl and sat back as Mary Straker returned from the front of the shop waving a handful of notes.

  ‘They bought the black and white bat-wing pullover,’ she said, gleefully. ‘I told you that would go quickly.’

  ‘Only because you’ve been pushing it shamelessly,’ Annabel grinned. ‘Well done.’

  Mary caught sight of Hannah and her smile faded. ‘Hi, Hannah. What’s wrong, lovey? Are you ill?’

  All of Annabel’s efforts at bucking up her friend came to nothing, for at the warm sympathy in Mary’s voice, Hannah broke down completely and began to cry like a child.

  ‘Not well done,’ Annabel said in a flat tone, scowling at Mary. She went over and put an arm around Hannah’s shaking shoulders. ‘Maybe you’d better have a good cry and let it all out, after all,’ she suggested, kindly. This had the almost instant effect of stopping Hannah’s tears. She took some deep breaths and got herself in hand, glancing at Mary through wet lashes.

  ‘I can take anything but sympathy,’ she said to the horrified girl. ‘Next time you see me looking miserable, kick me in the shins. It’s the only way.’ She smiled tremulously, took another deep breath, and firmed the smile into something resembling the real thing. ‘There, I’ve hit bottom now. I shall be better in moments.’ Occasionally Hannah’s European origin betrayed itself in her precision of speech. She had married an English soldier after the war, but, like the tattoo on her arm, her heritage was indelible. Another part of that heritage manifested itself as she sat upright and squared her shoulders. ‘I shall finish my coffee,’ she said, and did so.

  The other two women picked up their cups, constrained, now, by Hannah’s impressive powers of recovery. They glanced at one another and sat silent, hiding behind their respective mugs. Hannah put hers down and leaned her head against the high back of the rocking chair. In this position, they could see that she had lost weight over the past few days, for the bony lines of her jaw were delineated clearly beneath the translucent skin. Her habit of dressing in black only emphasised her pallor.

  ‘I have a secret,’ she said, after a moment. ‘It is a heavy secret, and is weighing upon me. I do not know what to do.’

  Annabel and Mary exchanged another glance. ‘Is it about Win?’ Annabel asked, finally.

  ‘It is. In a way, it is. You see, I know who she was going to meet the night she was murdered.’

  ‘Good lord, Hannah! You should have told the police that immediately!’ Annabel said, astonished. ‘Why didn’t you?’

  Hannah lowered her head from its resting place and gazed down at her thin, clever hands. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps because I didn’t think there could be any connection. I assumed she had been murdered by this Cotswold Butcher person the papers talk of so much now. Like the other woman, up near the factory. I thought he killed her on her way to meet her friend. Or afterwards. But not that the friend killed her. Not her “woolly lamb”. From what she said, he was not like that.’

  ‘Someone from here?’ Mary asked.

  ‘No. Oh, no. Someone from the town. Not like the others, not the rich one or the rough one. This one she . . . cared for, in some odd way. She only met him in the dark, she said. Walking, by the river. He didn’t know she was beautiful, only that she listened to him talk and was kind to him. She seemed surprised herself that she could be kind to anyone. But perhaps it was a new game she played. Perhaps the cruelty would have come later. I wonder now if it maybe came that night. But even so, even if he killed Win because she was cruel to him or rejected him, I do not think he could have killed these other women, so therefore I do not know what to think, what to do.’

  ‘Tell the police,’ Mary said, promptly.

  But Annabel was not so quick. ‘Have you a reason for wanting to protect him?’ she asked. Hannah nodded.

  ‘He has a certain position, and I think also a wife,’ she said. ‘This I know, and his first name, and some other small things about him that would be sufficient, I believe, for the police to identify him. Some of the things Win told me would not be of help, of course, but were only spoken of to hurt me.’ A muscle flickered momentarily in her cheek. ‘Which they did.’

  Mary spoke angrily. ‘The thing that has amazed me is why Win wasn’t murdered long ago. She hurt everyone she knew, one way or another.’

  Hannah smiled, sadly. ‘Yes, now it is more easy to see her weaknesses clearly with . . . hindsight, is it? But when she was here, alive and vital and so lovely . . . one forgave her. One kept forgiving her. Perhaps that was what made her cruel, perhaps she didn’t know it was cruelty . . . ’

  ‘She knew,’ Annabel said, uncompromisingly. ‘Just as you know you must go to the police, Hannah. If this man is innocent, as you hope, he still may be able to help them. Perhaps he saw or heard something.’

  Hannah looked at her. ‘Then why has he not come forward himself?’ she asked. ‘This is what I do not understand. This is what worries me and makes me think perhaps he is, after all, the killer.’

  ‘Perhaps he has,’ Annabel said, reasonably. ‘Perhaps he has talked to the police, and been cleared. Or even called them anonymously. But you won’t know, you can’t know, unless you go to them yourself.’

  ‘Yes,’ Hannah nodded. ‘I see you are right, of course.’ Her normally clear eyes clouded with other memories, as she absently rubbed her wrist. ‘But betrayal of another human being is not something that comes easily to me. It never will.’ She smiled almost apologetically. ‘It is . . . very difficult to condemn weakness, when one is so weak oneself, you see.’

  ‘But you must.’

  Hannah sighed. ‘Yes. I must.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Jennifer and Luke dined on roast beef and memories, with local crime forgotten in the pleasure of catching up on the life of someone who mattered – on both sides. However they had come to be what they were, what roads taken, what joys and sadnesses encountered on the way, they were pleased with the result and the moment they were sharing, too jealous of the time to waste it.

  Carefully, they juggled the silences, keeping them high and light so neither could tilt them with a wrong reference, an unfortunate allusion, and drop reality back into their evening.

  They were clever people. They managed the trick for quite a while. But Luke faltered, in the end, his duty too much a part of the man he was to be ignored. Their after-dinner walk in the crisp autumn evening inevitably led down the High Street and on to the river path. At first Jennifer didn’t notice, too enchanted was she with Luke’s soft laughter and tall elegant presence. Alone, and away from the investigation, she found he had retained his wicked sense of humour, as well as the athletic grace of his adolescence, so he moved easily beside her, gesturing widely to outline the shadowy figure of a pickpocket he’d encountered in his first months on the force.

  ‘He said I was inter
fering with his right to work,’ Luke chuckled. ‘Said I was an example of the Establishment’s determination to stamp out the liberties of the common man. It was quite a speech.’

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘I said, “I agree with you totally, but you’re still nicked, because that’s my work, and I have a right to pursue it.” He suggested that we had reached a stalemate and wondered if we could perhaps come to some amicable arrangement.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘I’ve always been a reasonable man. I said I’d let him escort me back to the station, and then he could let me book him. Seemed a fair division of labour. He took exception. And about four inches of skin off my left shin. I still have the scar.’

  ‘You’re a hard man,’ Jennifer laughed.

  ‘So they say. I don’t think so, myself, but then I wouldn’t. Paddy says I’m like a steam-roller, full of hot air and inexorable, so I flatten them all in the end,’

  ‘And do you still cry at sad movies?’

  He stopped and looked at her, smiling in the faint light that came over the rail of Martyr’s Bridge on to the towpath where they stood. ‘Yes,’ he said, softly. ‘I still do. Know where to stick the pin, don’t you?’ He lifted her chin with a finger and kissed her, once for yesterday, and again for today, and then, harder, for tomorrow. ‘Damn you, Jenny,’ he whispered into her hair. ‘Why couldn’t you have grown up ugly like you promised?’

  Stunned by the warmth and sudden hunger of his mouth, she could only stammer, ‘Did I promise that?’

  ‘Yes. Up on the hill, one summer afternoon, the week before your family moved away. I said I was going to find you and marry you when we grew up and you said you were going to be fat and ugly and would never get married. I kissed you and you ran away.’