The Wychford Murders

by Paula Gosling

  Jennifer took a last look at Frances, who was pale but breathing evenly, her eyes closed. She went out of her office into reception, drawing the door shut behind her. After a moment’s hesitation, she went as quietly as she could into David’s office, put on the desk lamp, and approached the glass-fronted cabinet.

  The antique scalpel she’d been looking at earlier was gone.

  David Gregson returned about half an hour later, and had trouble getting his car in through the gate, which was blocked by one of the police vehicles. Eventually he scraped past and came in, half-running.

  ‘What’s happened? Why are the police here?’

  Luke, who was conferring with Paddy at the rear of the hall, turned and came towards him. ‘Ah, Dr Gregson. I’m afraid Miss Murphy was attacked about an hour ago.’

  ‘Frances? Attacked? My God – do you mean by this Butcher person?’

  ‘It would appear so,’ Luke said. ‘Fortunately, the surgical collar she was wearing deflected the blade from doing any real harm. She got a nasty cut along the jaw and lost rather a lot of blood, but other than that – and shock, of course – she’s all right. We’ve just taken her upstairs to bed. Dr Eames is with her.’

  ‘I’d better go up,’ David said, shedding coat and bag in a practised single movement and heading towards the stairs.

  They watched him run up the stairs and exchanged a glance. ‘We’ll have a list of his calls, I think, when the moment is right,’ Luke said, quietly. ‘And someone to time the distances.’

  ‘Right,’ Paddy said.

  ‘Now, what have you heard from PC Whitney up at the photo-processing plant?’

  ‘I think she may be on to something,’ Paddy said. ‘I just wish we hadn’t had to go through Personnel to place her.’

  ‘We couldn’t be certain of her getting the job otherwise,’ Luke said. ‘And what about the men we have on Sam Ashforth, Barry Treat, Gordon Sinclair and the others?’

  ‘Bennett is checking with them now. So far, they were all well away from here. Ashforth is still at the craft centre café, baking pies for tomorrow, and Treat and Sinclair are at home.’

  ‘What about Ray Moss?’

  ‘Nothing on him, yet.’

  ‘And Baldwin?’

  Paddy looked grim. ‘He was home for about half an hour, then went out for a walk. Betts lost him on the towpath.’

  Luke stared at him. ‘You’re joking.’

  Paddy shook his head. ‘Wish I were. Bennett swears Betts is sharp – so Baldwin may have done it on purpose.’

  ‘Issue a general pick-up . . . ’

  ‘Already done.’

  Luke nodded. ‘Good.’ Hearing footsteps above, he glanced up and saw Jennifer coming slowly down the stairs. ‘How is she?’

  ‘Fine. Nearly asleep.’ She reached the bottom and faced them, her features set. ‘I think I have something you might find useful.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Reluctantly but dutifully, she brought her hand out of her skirt pocket and produced the bloodstained scarf, which she had wrapped in a plastic bag. ‘There’s a tiny piece of metal in there, which came from her wound. I think the blade of the weapon must have struck the surgical collar and got broken, or chipped. Can’t your laboratory people tell a lot from something like that?’

  ‘A great deal, sometimes,’ Luke agreed, accepting it. ‘Thank you.’ They were back on a formal footing, and he was aware of some distance between them. It didn’t worry him as much as it had before – possibly because he had more urgent concerns relating to her. ‘I think you should go to bed and get some sleep yourself, Jen.’ He used her old nickname deliberately, reminding her who he was, giving her a line to cling to, if only temporarily.

  She sighed. ‘I can’t. I have to see Mark, remember? Although I doubt he’s still waiting at the Woolsack – he must think I’ve stood him up or something.’

  ‘He’s gone home,’ Luke said.

  ‘How do you know?’ She looked at him for a moment, and then her face went quite lax. ‘Are you having him followed?’

  ‘Yes.’ He said no more than that, the bare affirmative.

  ‘You still suspect Mark? Of killing his own mother – and the other women, too?’

  ‘I suspect everyone,’ Luke said. ‘It’s my job. We’ve been over this before, Jen. I wish you’d accept it.’

  ‘I do,’ she said, fretfully, pushing her hair back from her forehead. ‘I do, it’s just that it keeps . . . coming up, like those things that jump out at you in the dark when you go on one of those tunnel rides at the fair.’

  ‘The Tunnel of Love?’ Their eyes met.

  ‘So it is,’ she said. ‘How apt.’

  ‘Go to bed, Jen,’ he said, softly.

  ‘Go to bed and let the men look after things?’ she asked.

  ‘I have a good reason for asking it,’ Luke said. ‘I think whoever attacked Frances thought she was you.’ He deliberately kept his voice calm and objective. ‘And if that’s the case . . . ’

  Jennifer stared at him. After a moment’s thought, she spoke tonelessly. ‘She was wearing my mac, and getting into my car.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Paddy said.

  ‘What would you say to going to bed and staying there tomorrow?’ Luke asked.

  She looked at him and her mouth quirked. ‘Alone, presumably?’ It amused her to see he was a little shocked by this.

  ‘Jennifer, we’re talking about murder and attempted murder here,’ he said, irritably.

  ‘I’m sorry, Luke. Put it down to tiredness. You want me to pretend I’m the victim, is that it? What good will that do?’

  ‘Perhaps none, if, in fact, it was a random attack. But, if not, it will give us time to work.’

  ‘But a lot of people know it was Frances and not me,’ Jennifer protested. ‘Uncle Wally, Clodie, Mrs Louis.’ She took a breath. ‘David.’

  ‘Yes, well they can all keep their mouths shut, can’t they?’ Luke said. ‘I’m only talking about one day, Jen. Couldn’t you use the rest?’

  She looked down at the floor. ‘What about my patients?’

  ‘Can’t you get in a locum?’

  ‘Not at such short notice . . . ’

  ‘I can take morning surgery,’ came Wally’s voice from the surgery doorway. He rolled his chair forward. ‘I may not be up to much, but I can still tell a sore throat from a sprained ankle. For a morning, anyway.’

  ‘But . . . ’

  Uncle Wally looked at her with fond patience. ‘Jennifer, I’m still a good enough doctor to diagnose my own case, as well. I know I’ll never work full-time again, despite all the balderdash you and David and Frances keep dishing out. I’ve come to accept it, sitting up there in my damned room, watching all those old movies. But I can listen, dammit, and listening is a good fifty per cent of what a doctor has to do. If anybody needs examining on the table, I’ll send them through to David. Anyway, Kay’s sharp enough to sort out the customers. I’ll bet you anything you like she won’t trot in a single case that requires more than an open mouth or an open shirt. Go to bed, girl, listen to what this monster says. The more we help the quicker he’ll do his job and stop hanging around here.’

  Luke looked hurt. ‘I have a job to do,’ he said, tightly.

  Dr Wally didn’t look at him. ‘And you don’t care who knows it, do you? Bully you used to be, bully you’ve stayed.’

  ‘That’s not fair, Uncle Wally!’ Jennifer flared.

  The old man looked at her. ‘Oh? Sticking up for him, are you? At teatime you were sticking up for David, as I recall. Well, all right, I take back the bully part, but not the rest. You’ve upset things, coming back here, Luke. Upset them badly.’

  ‘It’s the murderer who’s upset things,’ Paddy said, defensively. ‘Not us.’

  ‘Used to be a quiet place, Wychford,’ the old man grumbled, w
heeling himself toward the sitting room. ‘Used to be beautiful, and slow, and peaceful. Go to bed, Jennifer. And send David down to me – I want to have a talk with him.’ The chair and its grumpy burden disappeared into the sitting room. After a moment, the blare of the television was heard.

  Jennifer spoke, as if the words were heavy in her mouth. ‘Luke, can your laboratory tell the kind of blade that bit of metal came from?’

  ‘With luck, they’ll be able to tell us the kind of blade, the kind of knife, and where it was purchased, among other things.’

  ‘Oh,’ Jennifer said and, turning wearily, she went up the stairs. At the top she looked down at him for a moment, then disappeared down the hall.

  Luke looked down at the bloody scarf in his hand. ‘We’d better get this over to Cyril in the morning,’ he said. He glanced up at the empty hall, a puzzled expression on his face. ‘You’d almost think she didn’t want us to have it, wouldn’t you?’

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  ‘That bit of metal is on its way,’ Paddy said, coming back into the office. ‘Cyril should have it before lunch. Did you get through to him?’

  Luke nodded, and tapped his fingers beside the phone. ‘He’s confirmed his theories about the wounds. Or rather, his microscope has.’

  ‘Damn,’ Paddy said. ‘That means we’ll have to keep going in separate directions. What about Frances’ wound? If he could have examined that, we’d know . . . ’ He made a face. ‘She’d have bled to death, waiting for him.’

  ‘Not quite,’ Luke said. ‘But she might have complained a bit about police brutality.’

  ‘Has PC Whitney come in yet?’

  ‘Yes. She brought some interesting items – care to take a look?’ He produced a large buff envelope, with an expression of distaste. Luke raised an eyebrow, and took it from him. He opened it and glanced down inside before drawing out the contents.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ he said, in a sickened voice. ‘Kids.’

  ‘You got it,’ Paddy said. ‘She found them in a locker – along with a big file of negatives.’

  ‘Whose locker?’

  Paddy scowled. ‘Guess.’

  Jennifer knocked gently on the bedroom door, and went in after Frances answered. ‘Good morning. How do you feel this morning?’

  ‘Now how would you feel if you were me?’ Frances said, trying not to smile. ‘Gone, and never called me mummy – although I look like one.’

  ‘Paddy?’

  Frances nodded. ‘He just sat here, held my hand, and looked at me.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I looked at him.’

  ‘Poignant.’

  ‘Well, it was, actually.’ Frances looked self-conscious and rather pleased. ‘He feels terrible about what happened.’

  ‘So do I,’ Jennifer said, sitting on the edge of the bed. ‘Did he tell you Luke thinks it was meant for me – if it was meant for anyone?’

  Frances nodded, not without difficulty. ‘That will teach me to borrow people’s coats without asking. Is that why you’ve not gone down to morning surgery?’

  ‘Yes. Luke wants me to lie low and say nothing – for today, at least. Whoever it was must have realised he hadn’t killed you.’

  ‘I hope so. I gave him a healthy kick in the shins for his trouble.’

  ‘Oh?’ Did you tell Paddy about that?’

  ‘I did. He was very pleased with the information. All he has to do now, he says, is to ask every man he encounters to roll up his trouser legs. Should have someone behind bars by teatime.’ She sighed. ‘Don’t I wish.’

  ‘Don’t we all.’ Jennifer reached out and prodded the sides of the bandage. ‘Any inflammation?’

  ‘Ouch. Only of the spirit.’ Frances pulled her head back. ‘Will there be a terrible great scar?’

  ‘Not if I remembered my lessons,’ Jennifer said. ‘That’s why I took so long over it. Fortunately I had some very fine sutures in my bag. I was quite brilliant, as a matter of fact. Even Uncle Wally approved, and he’s a hard taskmaster.’

  ‘So pleased to give you the practice,’ Frances said, wryly. She looked at her friend and saw the shadows under her eyes. ‘You didn’t get much sleep last night, did you?’

  ‘No.’ Jennifer stood up and went over to the window, which overlooked the side garden. The storm had blown itself out in the early hours, and the lawn was scattered with leaves and small twigs. The trees, barer now, looked bleak against the grey sky. Winter was on the way.

  ‘I’d like to think it was worry over me,’ Frances said, ‘but I won’t flatter myself. What’s wrong?’

  ‘Why me?’ Jennifer asked, abruptly. ‘Why would . . . anyone want to kill me?’

  ‘I don’t know. You can be very aggravating,’ Frances said. ‘Lovely to look at, of course, intelligent, witty . . . ’

  ‘I don’t feel witty this morning.’

  ‘No, well, thank heaven for that,’ Frances smiled, then winced. ‘Come along, tell all. I’m just lying here, wishing for amusement. Obviously the Fates have had it in for me lately, and listening is as brave a performance as I’m willing to give.’

  Jennifer turned and looked at her friend. ‘Was it David?’ she blurted.

  Frances looked as dumbfounded as her bandaged face would allow. ‘David? DAVID? Who attacked me, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’ Jennifer’s voice trembled. ‘Oh, God . . . was it?’

  ‘No. Good Lord, no, I’m sure it wasn’t. Why, in the name of mercy, would you have thought that?’ Frances didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, Jennifer looked so ghastly, as if her own question had horrified her, been a stowaway in her throat that had found its own violent release against her will.

  Jennifer sank down on to the window seat, her legs as shaky as her voice. She told Frances about the antique surgical instruments – and the one that was missing. ‘Where is it?’ she asked. ‘What did he do with it?’

  ‘Ask him,’ Frances said, promptly. ‘I’m as certain as I can be that it was never David who did this. He’d have to be crazy to do it.’

  ‘I know,’ Jennifer said, miserably. ‘But I can make out a good case for that, too. His wife leaving him, his antagonism towards me . . . ’

  ‘Piffle,’ Frances said. ‘That’s probably because he fancies you and doesn’t want to admit it.’

  ‘No,’ Jennifer disagreed. ‘What if it’s part of a hidden antagonism towards all women? He was out on calls every night there was a killing. Luke said whoever did it knew what they were doing, how and where to cut. He keeps goading Luke, insisting that there’s one killer, that it’s a serial killer – what if he wants to be caught? That’s just what he’d do, isn’t it? Compelled by some inner madness to kill, yet, with his conscience and training, crying out to be stopped . . . ’

  ‘I think you’d better start writing the stories and ‘I’ll stick to the physiotherapy,’ Frances said. ‘Good lord, Jennifer, you know the man, see him, work beside him every day. Wouldn’t you have seen more signs of this “inner madness”? You’re trained to observe . . . ’

  ‘Six months on a psychiatric ward isn’t exactly sufficient unto this particular day,’ Jennifer said. ‘And I don’t see that much of David, you know, except over meals, and a quick daily discussion about the practice which he keeps strictly business. Hardly opportunities to announce his new and fascinating hobby of murder and mutilation.’

  ‘Have you mentioned this to Luke?’

  ‘You know I haven’t.’

  ‘If you really believed it were true, you would have,’ Frances said, with conviction. Then, after a moment, she asked, ‘Wouldn’t you?’

  Jennifer waited until morning surgery was over. When she was certain her uncle had gone up to his room to rest and David had departed on house calls, she went into the surgery. Kay looked up from her desk.

  ‘Gawd! You scared the life out of m
e! I thought you were confined to bed with what might be termed a sore throat.’ The relief in her face and voice was palpable. ‘David said

  ‘It was Frances who was attacked, not me, but it’s a secret,’ Jennifer said. ‘Luke thinks it may have been meant for me.’

  Kay looked more puzzled than anything else. ‘Why?’

  ‘Why does he think that, or why me?’

  ‘Take your pick.’

  Jennifer shrugged, and told her about Frances wearing her coat. ‘If he came up behind her, he might not have known. She wears her hair shorter than I do, but it’s more or less the same colour. We’re also about the same height, although she is a bit heavier than I am – but he wouldn’t have been measuring waistlines, would he?’

  ‘I suppose not. But who would want to kill you?’

  ‘I don’t know. Luke seems to have some idea, but . . . he’s not exactly forthcoming. I think he suspects Mark Peacock.’

  ‘That one never had enough nerve to cut his losses, much less anyone’s throat,’ Kay said, sceptically. ‘Doesn’t make sense, anyway.’

  ‘Does murder ever make sense?’ Jennifer asked.

  Kay shrugged her thin shoulders. ‘I should have thought he’d have more than enough candidates out at that craft place, without sniffing around the manor,’ she said. ‘Mrs Taubman wasn’t exactly beloved at Monkswell, for a start-off. She was trying to get the place closed down, you know.’

  ‘Was she?’ Jennifer asked, surprised. ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Oh yes, she was,’ Kay said, nodding. ‘My brother’s on the Council, and he says she put on a lot of pressure to have the place shut down – if it wasn’t one thing it was another. Health regulations, trespass, people parking on her land . . . all sorts, she came up with. Seems her last prod was at the Zoning Committee and the Ancient Monuments bunch. Trying for sacrilege or something, Fred said. Daft old bat. Money was behind it, though. Always was. She fought it being put up, and she fought to have it brought down. She came down, instead, in a manner of speaking.’