by Bill Kitson
Eve began to giggle. This was a bad sign. Hysterical laughter was in the offing, so I had to quell it fast. ‘So far, Johnny, very little has made any sense whatsoever. What on earth has the game of cricket got to do with a deer park?’
‘Part of the deer park is a cricket ground, the base for Studley Royal Cricket Club,’ he explained. ‘The dead man was found by the cricket pavilion.’
Discarding the idea of various cricketing puns such as ‘how was he out,’ ‘it was over for him’, or even ‘his innings was closed,’ I asked, ‘Who was the victim, and how come you’re involved when Studley Royal is more than fifteen miles away?’
‘His name is – or was – Mark Bennett. He used to be curator of Dinsdale Museum and Art Gallery.’
‘I thought that place was closed,’ Eve interjected.
‘The place was closed two years ago while they build an extension to house the collection of sculptures and paintings; Bennett took early retirement. The rumour is that Bennett wasn’t too happy about the way the plans were pushed through, which is why he took his bat home. Oh, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Because he was discovered at the cricket ground, I mean.’
Eve looked at him severely. ‘I should warn you that Adam is in charge of the bad jokes round here.’
I ignored the insult, concentrating instead on what Johnny had revealed thus far. Something still didn’t add up. Dinsdale was much nearer than Studley Royal, but it still wasn’t on Johnny’s patch, so why was he involved in what must surely be a criminal investigation, and therefore a matter for CID. No way was an out of area murder part of Johnny’s terms of reference. I asked him point blank, and noticed his hesitation before replying, and the care with which he chose his words.
‘As you know, Detective Inspector Hardy is still on sick leave after that car crash, and so the chief constable has asked me to lend Detective Sergeant Holmes a hand. Probably because we’ve worked together before, and he’s still a bit wet behind the ears – that, plus I know the area better than most, and the people involved. Without the DI, he’s floundering a bit.’
Mention of Hardy caused me to ask, ‘How is the DI, have you heard?’
Johnny smiled. ‘He’s been out of hospital a while and hobbling around at home on crutches. My missus bumped into his wife when she was shopping in town the other day. Mrs Hardy told her that she hadn’t really needed anything, she’d only gone into Dinsdale to get out of his way. Apparently he’s like a bear with a sore head, and she told my wife that if he doesn’t go back to work soon the police will have another murder to investigate – because she’ll kill him.’
‘Oh dear, poor woman,’ Eve said sympathetically. ‘That does sound bad, I can understand how she feels. I think men are often like that when they are ill – or imagine they are. They either become bad-tempered or very sorry for themselves, as if nobody had suffered as much as that before.’ She glared at me as if defying me to argue. I didn’t.
What Johnny had said about knowing the area was probably true, but I felt sure there was more to it than that, and I couldn’t at that stage work out what he meant by ‘the people involved’. My thoughts returned to Eve’s phone conversation with Mrs Phillips. Given that North Yorkshire was nothing like Chicago during Prohibition, I couldn’t imagine there having been too many murders during our week’s absence. ‘If you’re closely involved in the inquiry, Johnny, would you care to tell us how the Reverend Phillips fits into the picture. Is he a suspect?’
Johnny’s jaw dropped with astonishment. I’ve never seen his mouth so wide, except perhaps when he’s about to take a drink of tea – or beer. He eyed us suspiciously. ‘I thought you said you didn’t know anything about a murder,’ he retorted. His tone implied an accusation I hastened to refute.
‘We don’t, but we met Rev. Phillips’ mother on the train when we were returning from honeymoon in January; we gave her a lift from the station to the rectory. She phoned this morning just before you arrived and she mentioned a murder. I find it difficult to imagine there being a large body count round here – not since the Vikings left, anyway.’
‘Ah. Actually, we believe the vicar isn’t involved, or at least not directly. However, he is engaged to Chloe Kershaw and her uncle is definitely a suspect. In fact, he’s been arrested on suspicion of murder.’
I whistled with surprise. ‘Did you say Kershaw, as in the family that owns Elmfield Grange?’
I noticed Eve looking baffled and added for her benefit, ‘There have been Kershaws living and farming in this area for generations; they’re one of the biggest landowners in the district.’
‘Adam’s right,’ Johnny confirmed, ‘and it’s David Kershaw who we believe killed Bennett.’
Eve still seemed puzzled. ‘Why? I fail to see the connection between a farmer and the curator of an art gallery. I don’t want to sound like a snob but most of the farmers I’ve met wouldn’t know which way up to hang a painting – particularly one by Picasso.’
Johnny’s derisive snort suggested he was no fan of the Spanish master as he continued, ‘To be fair, I might have trouble with one of them myself, but art isn’t the connection. It’s far more personal than that. We think Mrs Kershaw’s interest in art drew her and Bennett together, and one thing led to another. It seems that happened quite often. Bennett has ... had a bit of a reputation where ladies were concerned. We believe Kershaw found out that Bennett was carrying on with his wife. Jealousy got the better of him and he did for Bennett. It’s an old tale, but just as true nowadays.’
That sounded odd to me. Perhaps Johnny getting philosophical gave me a clue that all wasn’t as it seemed. For one thing, if Rev. Phillips had got engaged to the Kershaws’ niece, then that suggested that her uncle and his wife were older, and so would Bennett be if he was forced into early retirement. ‘They can’t exactly be spring chickens, any of them. Or is it a case of sex for the over-sixties?’
‘Kershaw is only forty-five and his wife is a couple of years younger. Their niece is the son of Kershaw’s older brother, which explains the age gap. Mark Bennett would have been fifty-eight next month, had he survived.’
‘Has Kershaw confessed?’ Eve asked, ‘and for that matter has Mrs Kershaw admitted to the affair?’
Johnny grimaced; an expression of frustration that his reply underlined. ‘Neither of them has admitted anything. To be honest, neither of them has said a word about anything. We’ve questioned them, but it was like talking to ourselves. In fact, nobody’s talking. Not just them, we can’t get a word out of any of the family members or the people who work for them. Clams would make better conversationalists than that lot.’
‘If that’s true, what evidence have you got? Or is all this simply theoretical?’
I saw Johnny wince and realised my guess was closer to the truth than he would be prepared to acknowledge. ‘I can’t divulge what evidence we’ve got at this stage of the investigation, not even to you two,’ he told us stiffly.
I turned to Eve. ‘Allow me to translate that for you. What Johnny actually means is that the police have no evidence worth mentioning. All they do have is a collection of rumours, gossip, hearsay and innuendo. They have taken all those titbits and carefully weaved them together into some sort of a theory. In other words they have absolutely no idea who murdered this man Bennett, or even what the motive for the killing was, and they are clinging onto this one possible theory like a drowning man clings to a life-raft.’
Although Johnny would not confirm or deny that what I’d said was true, I found the fact that he left immediately, even refusing a second mug of tea, to be highly significant. Before departing he told us that the only reason for his call had been to ensure we were OK after our week away, not to have police work put under a microscope. Had I needed confirmation, that last sentence would have convinced me.
Chapter Three
Johnny’s visit that morning came as no surprise, but the ones that followed certainly were. I was about to suggest we go for our morning walk when the
doorbell rang again. This time Eve answered it. It proved to be our fellow-passenger from the train journey and it was obvious from the woman’s harassed expression that something was wrong. We invited her inside and, once we were seated in the lounge, Mrs Phillips said, ‘Thank you for agreeing to see me, I hope I haven’t come at an inopportune time? Michael doesn’t know I’ve come to see you. In fact, he told me not to bother you with our troubles. You won’t tell anyone what I’m about to say, will you?’
We assured her of our discretion, but even so, Mrs Phillips now seemed reluctant to explain the reason for her visit. Eve obviously decided she needed prompting. ‘We know about the connection of Michael’s girlfriend to the recent murder. Is it that, or is there something else?’
‘It isn’t only the murder – I mean, it is, but there are other things as well. I extended my stay to see if I could help, there was no reason for me to rush home, you see. Oh dear, I’m not explaining myself very well. The murder is the worst thing, what with Chloe’s uncle being arrested and all that, but there is also the haunting that’s causing my son a lot of distress, and then there’s the other problem with finding out about Chloe as well.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m not really sure why I came here, except that I needed to talk to someone who isn’t involved. Does that make sense?’
It was incomprehensible enough to make me to wonder if she was related to Johnny, or if I had lost the ability to understand English.
‘Why don’t I make us a cup of tea and you can tell us about it,’ Eve suggested, ‘just talking it through might help.’
I was intrigued by something else. When Eve returned from the kitchen I asked Mrs Phillips, ‘Why did you choose to come here?’
‘I don’t know really, except that Michael has told me a lot about the things you’ve done and the mysteries you’ve solved, and I thought if anyone might know ways and means of finding things out, you’d be the ones.’
Eve and I exchanged glances before she said, ‘That sounds like a bit of a tall order. You mentioned three different things in one sentence. Perhaps it would be better to separate them and tell us one bit at a time.’
‘Eve’s right,’ I told her. ‘Why don’t you start with the haunting, Mrs Phillips?’
‘Please, call me Marjorie,’ she replied. ‘Very well, it’s the church that is haunted. Well, not so much the church, more the chapel.’
Her opening had me baffled, which was more the fault of my upbringing. In my mind ‘church’ indicated an Anglican establishment, whereas I associated ‘chapel’ with Nonconformists such as Methodists. My puzzled expression was mirrored by Eve’s. Seeing this, Marjorie hastened to clarify her statement. ‘Dinsdale Parish Church is dedicated to St Mary Magdalene. It’s a cruciform church, with one of the transepts made into a Lady chapel. It’s the Lady chapel that is haunted, has been for years.’
‘When you say haunted, what form does the apparition take?’ Eve asked.
I had a vision of a monk clad in robe and cowl pacing the cloisters of what might once have been a monastery. Either that, or a vicar wearing the frock coat, knee britches, and gaiters of a bygone age. Well – you can’t blame me, because it was hardly likely to be a headless horseman or Bluebeard. Not in a country church.
‘The vision is that of a woman wearing a grey gown. She has been seen several times, but only briefly. She appears for a second or two, standing in the entrance, not moving, and then vanishes. Naturally the rumours of the sightings have got out, and some of Michael’s parishioners won’t go near the church. Others can’t keep away. Trying to hold their attention during a service when they are staring sideways hoping to catch a glimpse of a ghost is taxing Michael’s patience. He can’t explain it, and neither can anyone else.’
‘I agree it must be difficult for him, but I hardly think you need to worry if that’s all there is to it,’ Eve reassured her. ‘Or is there more that you haven’t told us?’
As a prompt her final remark worked a treat. ‘Michael’s been told that the ghost only started to appear to people after the painting vanished. The problem now is some folk have started putting two and two together. They seem to imply something sensational and Michael is really concerned that if it got into the media it might cause hordes of people to descend on the church. The sort of folk who are fascinated by the supernatural, I mean.’
‘Sorry,’ I admitted, ‘but somewhere in the middle of that you lost me. What painting are you referring to? One that vanished, I think you said.’
‘There was a painting that used to hang in the Lady chapel. One edge of it was fixed to the wall of the chapel but it was on hinges so that it was also visible from the nave of the church. The painting was very old. In fact it was one of those double-sided paintings. There’s a name for them but I can’t remember it.’
‘You mean a diptych?’
‘That’s it. One side is said to represent Mary Magdalene fleeing for her life following the Crucifixion and the other is when she’s seen Christ after the Resurrection. I don’t think the painting was exceptionally valuable as a work of art, except possibly as a church artefact. I mean it wasn’t by Leonardo da Vinci or Michelangelo, or anything like that. I admit I’m no expert but from what I could judge I understand it was little better than something an enthusiastic amateur could produce. However, someone mentioned that the apparitions only started after the painting was taken. Can you imagine the throng of gawping sightseers a rumour like that would provoke? Michael doesn’t want his church to be “turned into a circus”, as he puts it.’ She smiled fondly. ‘He can get a little fanciful at times.’
‘That’s OK, we do fanciful very well here. I can understand how he feels, though, it must be a worry for him, but I’m not sure how we can help. Except if perhaps we were able to recover the painting. When exactly was it stolen?’
‘We can’t actually be sure it was stolen. I can’t tell you the exact date, but it was somewhere around twenty years ago, before the church repairs were completed. Certainly a long time before Michael was appointed to the parish. He would only have been about six or seven then.’
‘That would make it far more difficult to trace. After so many years the painting could have gone anywhere.’
Eve winced at my blunt assessment of the problem, but asked, ‘Why can’t you be sure it was stolen?’
‘When the church had to have a new roof the building was stripped of its contents. It is possible the vicar at the time removed the painting. Unfortunately he died before the church was ready to be reopened. The painting wasn’t amongst his belongings at the rectory, but he might have given it to someone else to store and it hasn’t been returned.’
That seemed unlikely to me but I didn’t have the leisure to ponder it, because Eve, it seemed, was ready to move on. ‘Let’s leave that on one side for the moment. You mentioned something connected to Chloe. That’s the girl your son is engaged to.’
‘That’s correct, her name is Chloe Kershaw. Or at least that’s what everyone believed, but now we can’t be sure. The problem arose because she and Michael wanted to visit Italy for their honeymoon. That meant she had to apply for a passport. She sent in her birth certificate months ago and that was when the trouble started.’
‘What trouble?’
‘The passport people told her that the birth certificate was a forgery. They refused her passport application, and now the poor girl is in a terrible state. Apart from everything else, they’ve had to call the wedding off, which has made things even worse.’
‘Surely her family can confirm that she is who she believes herself to be, can’t they?’
Far from cheering Marjorie up, my statement seemed to make her even more perturbed. ‘That’s just the point; there is no one who can vouch for her. Both her parents are dead, and her uncle David and his wife Valerie can’t help.’
‘That sounds very odd. Why is that?’ Eve got the question out in a split second before I could ask.
‘David was the younger brother and he lived and worked
in London. I understand Chloe’s mother and father were abroad when they married. Her father was in the Diplomatic Service and posted to various different countries, rarely returning to England, so they never saw each other. Chloe was only a baby when her parents came to Elmfield Grange and lived with her grandfather. I believe she has no other living relatives apart from her aunt and uncle, so she turned to them for help with the birth certificate problem, but they could tell her very little. Her uncle said he believes her father was in Europe during that time, but that’s all he can say.’
‘When was Chloe born – or rather when does she think she was born?’
Marjorie responded instantly. ‘The date given on the birth certificate was tenth of November 1961. The reason I know it by heart is that’s also my birthday. I teased Michael about it, telling him he had no excuse for forgetting either of us now.’
I was still dwelling on this when I realised the topic of conversation had moved on.
‘As if all that wasn’t bad enough, now there’s this horrid murder on top of everything else.’
‘Yes, we’ve heard something about it,’ Eve responded. ‘Our village policeman is involved in the inquiry. He popped in to see us this morning. Naturally, he told us a quite a bit about it, or as much as they seem to know, which admittedly doesn’t seem a lot. He said they were holding Mr Kershaw on suspicion.’
To be fair, what Marjorie had been able to tell us added nothing to what we had already learned from Johnny. I returned to my original statement. ‘I don’t think we can help, certainly not where the murder is concerned. That’s a job for the police and I’m fairly sure they wouldn’t be happy for amateur sleuths to go blundering around poking their noses into the investigation. As for the haunting, no matter what you might have heard about previous events, we are not ghost hunters. About the only thing we might be able to assist with is in helping to find out something regarding Michael’s fiancée, but there again we would need them to give us permission before we start asking questions.’