“Apparently so. Sister Rebecca said McHattie was wounded in the Great War.”
“What a shame to end his days like this.” Murnaghan straightened up. “He was caught completely unawares. The assailant got right up to him without his waking up. But the boy came into the room.”
“His brother said Ben heard something and went to investigate. That’s why he’s got a cricket bat.”
“But what I’m puzzled about, Tyler, is why he didn’t turn and run as soon as he realized what had happened?”
“I wondered the same thing. It was dark in here, but there’s a night light in the hall that would have given off some light.”
“The killer obviously reached him because he fired at close range. Perhaps he was already on his way out of the room.”
“Let’s try it,” said Tyler.
He walked back towards the door and stood next to where Ben lay. The coroner was by the head of the bed, left side.
“Approach me, would you, Doctor. From where you are.”
Murnaghan did as he asked, moving quickly. In a fraction of a second he was within a foot of Tyler. He raised an imaginary gun and pulled the trigger.
“You’re quite right,” said Tyler. “Unless he practically bumped into the killer, Ben would’ve had time to at least turn his head. In which case the bullet would have hit him much more to the side, near the temple. As it was, it hit him directly in the middle of his forehead. Let’s do that move again.”
Again the coroner did as he asked and went to the door, meeting Tyler more or less at the same spot.
“According to the account I’ve got from the younger boy, there was a short space of time between when Ben woke up, got his cricket bat, and went out to see what was happening. We don’t know for sure what woke him. The stairs creak. Maybe it was that. It’s also possible he heard the first shot. He enters his parents’ room. He doesn’t call out for his father – perhaps doesn’t have time. The killer is on him right away. There is a soft phuft sound, then Ben falls to the floor. The assassin goes across the landing to Charlie’s door, where he stands. If the boy’s perception is to be trusted, it took him about twelve seconds to reach the boys’ room. Why so long?”
Dr. Murnaghan blinked. “I’m sure you are making an important point, Inspector, but I don’t quite follow you.”
“It would take a matter of three or four seconds at the most to step over the body, exit the room, and cross the landing to the room opposite. Apparently, it took him almost twelve seconds. It suggests to me the murderer lingered after he shot Ben and before he crossed the landing. Why? Did he stand and look down at the boy for a few moments? Contemplating the horror of what he had just done?”
Murnaghan frowned. “I suppose we can’t rule out robbery. Perhaps the killer intended to go in search of loot, although God knows what he’d find in an ordinary household like this.”
“I don’t think so. There’s absolutely no sign that he disturbed anything downstairs. He seems to have come in, gone directly upstairs to Jock’s room, walked over to the bed, and shot him. Then he’s surprised by the young lad and he shoots him too.”
“Why do that?” said Murnaghan. “Ben wasn’t big. Even with a bat, he couldn’t have been much of a threat. Surely it would have been easy to knock him down and make a getaway? Do we know if our assassin was masked?”
“From Charlie’s description, I’d say he most likely was.”
“No real need to kill Ben then. He couldn’t be a witness.”
“He also didn’t need to go and stand in the other boy’s doorway, but he did.”
Murnaghan shook his head. “I don’t understand it.”
Tyler looked at the two bodies again.
“Can we go back to Ben’s entrance for a moment? Would you mind re-enacting the possible scenario? Mime firing down at the sleeping man. Phuft. Somewhere in here, Ben enters the room. You see me and come towards me.”
Murnaghan came forward swiftly until there were only a few inches separating them.
“Why don’t I turn?” asked Tyler. “I still have time to try to make a run for it.”
He suited his actions to his words.
Suddenly Murnaghan hissed. “Tom!”
Instinctively, Tyler halted at the sound of his own name. It was a split second but quite long enough for the doctor to raise his imaginary gun and aim it straight into the middle of Tyler’s forehead.
“Well, well,” exclaimed Dr. Murnaghan. “Looks like the killer knew the boy.”
“It’s one possibility. Not conclusive, but a possibility.”
16.
THE POLICE AMBULANCE, TOGETHER WITH FIVE MORE constables, had arrived by the time they emerged from the cottage. Dr. Murnaghan supervised the photographing of the crime scene before the bodies were removed to the morgue in Whitchurch, where he had all his paraphernalia “at the ready,” as he put it.
Tyler made sure the carcass of the pigeon went with him. He dropped it into a brown bag he’d found in the McHattie kitchen and handed it to the coroner.
“Please find out everything you can about how this bird died, Doctor.”
Dr. Murnaghan grimaced. “I’ve done post-mortems on cows and sheep and a number of dogs. A pigeon will be my first avian. I presume you will enlighten me later as to why you want this?”
“I will.”
Each body had to be carried out to where the ambulance was parked. Ben’s body went first, a small mound underneath the covering sheet.
Tyler walked with the doctor to his car.
Murnaghan cleared his throat. “Always sad when a young life is taken so cruelly. I, for one, never get used to it.”
“Nor do I,” said Tyler. “I hope for that matter I never do. Get used to it, I mean.”
The doctor nodded. “You’re right there, Tyler. Glad to see you’re bearing up.” He got into his car. “I’ll get on the job right away.”
Tyler set the constables to work in the cottage. They were all men past conscription age, but they seemed capable enough. Not tottering anyway. There was a vampire-ish quality to the war. It was gobbling up all the young men.
“Eaves, do you think you can handle the fingerprinting kit?”
The grey-haired constable was close to retirement but looked spry and fit.
“I’m not sure, sir. Never had much call to use it, to tell the truth.”
“Thieves just up and confessed, did they?”
“Summat like that, sir. They was turned in mostly. Everybody knows everybody else in these parts.”
“Do what you can. Pay particular attention to the door jambs front and back and the outside of the windowsill of the downstairs bedroom. I’m highly doubtful you’ll get anything, but we’ve got to rule it out. It’s likely the killer didn’t touch anything once he was inside the house, but you should give the door to the main bedroom a good going over. Constable Stanton, go with him and take photographs.”
This constable was younger but rotund and red-faced. The man had better watch his pressure, thought Tyler. One of the only good things you could say about rationing was that it was forcing the Brits to cut back on beer and roasts and slim down.
“When you’ve done that, you’ll have to get fingerprints from the residents. I warn you, some don’t have fingers and there are several who are blind. Use common sense. The almoner or one of the sisters will help you.”
The remaining four officers he directed to search the grounds.
“Are we looking for anything in particular, sir?” asked one of them whose name Tyler thought was Swindell. Or was it Swinfell? Another Shropshire man.
“Anything out of the ordinary that might give us a clue. Monogrammed hankies, foreign fag ends, an identity card.”
By the expression on the men’s faces, he thought his bit of sarcasm had gone completely over their heads. We’re still getting to know each other, don’t forget. Serve him right if they did find something that obvious.
“We’re getting reinforcements soon. They’ll
join you.”
He was heading back to the main house to see if he could start his questioning when he met Sister Rebecca coming towards him.
“I’ve set up the order of your interviews, Inspector. We can start whenever you’re ready.”
Before he could reply, there was a sudden horrendous screeching. A black cat came dashing from the direction of the pigeon coop. A man was close behind it, an air gun in his hands. He paused briefly to take aim at the unfortunate creature, which, Tyler could see, was spurting blood from one of its rear legs. The pellet hit the ground a few feet away, and with another yowl, the cat turned and dived into the vegetable plot, where it disappeared.
Tyler yelled at the shooter. “Hey! Stop that. Stop that at once.”
Sister Rebecca called out as well.
“Alfie. What are you doing?”
Alfie swung the gun, and for a moment Tyler feared he was going to fire at him. He didn’t wait to hear the answer. In one swift move, he snatched the gun out of Alfie’s hands. The man staggered briefly, fell to the ground, and then began to wail. “He killed Prince. He killed my pigeon.”
Tyler quickly unloaded the remaining pellets to the ground. The almoner crouched down beside the crying man.
“Calm down, Alfie. Please get hold of yourself.”
Alfie continued to sob. “Prince has gone. Blackie killed him.” He went to stand up. “I’ll get him for that.”
Tyler put his hand on his shoulder and shoved him back down. “No you won’t. You will sit right there and tell me what’s going on.”
Alfie Fuller had a rather squashed face, as if the force of the explosion that had damaged his brain had squeezed everything together. Tufts of pale, downy hair sprang every which way on his head, giving the impression of an unformed chick. The rest of his body was normal, short and wiry. Before Alfie had a chance to respond, Mrs. Fuller came running out of the main house.
“Alfie, my Lord. What are you doing?”
“Ma, Blackie killed Prince.” Alfie’s cheek was deeply scratched and bleeding. He dabbed at it. “He hurt me.”
Mrs. Fuller put her hand to her chest, gasping for breath. She addressed Tyler and Sister Rebecca.
“I tried to explain to him what happened to Jock and Ben. Why the policemen are here. I didn’t know if he understood or not. Then the next thing I know he’s taken off on me, saying he has to check on the pigeons.” She swivelled to face her son. “Alfie Fuller, you are a bad boy. You know you’re not supposed to have anything to do with those birds.”
Alfie looked up at her, his eyes filled with tears. “But I had to, Ma. Mr. Mac has gone. Somebody has to tend to them. And Ma, Prince ain’t in the coop and he should be. If Blackie didn’t get to him, where is he?”
“I don’t know, son.” She noticed the pellet gun that Tyler was holding. “I hid it from him.” She grimaced. “At least, I thought I’d hid it.”
“He can’t go firing off pellet guns at random,” said Tyler. “They can be bloody dangerous. I’m going to have to confiscate it.”
“Please do. You’d be doing us a favour,” said Mrs. Fuller. “Mr. McHattie gave it to him to hunt rabbits, but he never should have.” She looked back at her son. “Come on, Alfie. You’re supposed to be helping me get the lunch ready.”
“I’ll have to have a talk with him,” said Tyler.
Mrs. Fuller scowled. “He won’t understand. He’s not quite right in his head is our Alfie.”
Tyler turned to the almoner. “Perhaps you could be present, Sister?”
The man got to his feet and his mother immediately grabbed him by the arm, giving him a little shake. “You’ll be the death of me, Alfred Fuller. One more speck of trouble from you and you’re going to the institution. Now come and get cleaned up.”
Alfie looked chastened. “I’m sorry, Ma. I won’t be any trouble again.”
They went off and Tyler turned back to Sister Rebecca. “You didn’t tell me the whole story about Alfie.”
“I was about to, but other things took over.”
Tyler beckoned to the constable who was stationed at the front door of the McHattie cottage.
“Mady. There’s an injured cat in the potato patch. See if you can lure it in. We’ll have to get it seen to.”
“There’s a net in the pigeon shed,” said the almoner. “I’ve seen Alfie use it with Jock’s birds. That might help.”
Tyler handed the constable the pellet gun and pellets. “Store these in a safe place, Constable.”
“Take them to my office. I’ll lock them in the cabinet later,” said Sister Rebecca.
Mady hurried off.
Tyler indicated a wrought-iron bench between the Fuller cottage and the nuns’ quarters.
“Why don’t we sit there and talk for a minute, Sister. I think there’s more I should know about Alfie Fuller.”
17.
“HE’S A SAD CASE,” SAID THE ALMONER AS THEY SAT down. “As I mentioned, he served in the Great War. He was one of the Lost Generation, just twenty years old when he was blown sky-high at the Somme. Shook his brain like a sponge in a bottle. He’s all right most of the time, but every so often, he gets frustrated and he’ll go off the deep end. Nothing serious. He throws a few pots and pans around the kitchen. Kicks at the bushes. His mother keeps a close eye on him and he’s never done any harm to a person. Most of the time, he’s cheerful and affectionate, works well as directed. His mother knows how to keep him within his limits.”
Tyler leaned back against the bench. It was more ornamental than functional and not very comfortable, but in spite of that, and despite what had happened, there was a tranquility to the surroundings, a soft, sweet perfume on the air, a light breeze. This part of the grounds, too, was kept in shadow by the wall, and it was pleasantly cool.
“His social development is childlike, but the problem is that he’s an adult physically,” continued the almoner. She paused, and Tyler sensed she was choosing her words carefully. “He can get overly focused on women. This is mostly where his frustration comes from.”
Tyler raised his eyebrows. “How does ‘overly focused’ manifest itself?”
“He just wants to be around them all the time.”
“Did that happen with somebody here?”
“Yes. For a while Alfie was totally obsessed with Sister Rachel. She is the youngest of our community and she is most attractive.” She gave a bit of a smile. “As you have probably noticed.”
She was right about that, thought Tyler. Even in her plain frock, Sister Rachel was a looker. He hoped he hadn’t been gawking.
“Unfortunately, one day he behaved quite inappropriately.” Another pause.
“How so?” Tyler prompted her.
“He exposed his genitals.”
“Good Lord. What did she do?”
The almoner allowed herself a wan smile. “Sister Rachel is young but not unworldly. She was quite matter of fact. She told him in no uncertain terms that it wasn’t good manners.”
Tyler whistled. “That’s one way to put it.”
“His mother rides him hard, but needless to say she is very protective of him. She denies that he was exhibiting himself. Says he was caught short, as she put it, and was relieving himself in the bushes when the sister happened to come by.”
“Do you think that’s true?”
“It could be.”
Again the almoner hesitated. Tyler sensed the real meat of the story was coming.
“Shortly afterwards there was a similar incident involving Shirley McHattie.”
“Oh dear. What happened?”
“She was returning to their cottage and Alfie was in the garden. She claims he deliberately exposed himself. She told her parents and they were both incensed. Mrs. McHattie ordered Mrs. Fuller to keep Alfie on a leash as if he were a randy dog. Created very bad feelings between the two families.”
“I’m not surprised. I wouldn’t be too happy about a grown man showing himself to my daughter, mind of a child or not.”
/>
“Indeed so. But we don’t know if it was deliberate or not.”
“He was just ‘caught short’?”
“That is not unlikely.”
“But Jock didn’t see it that way?”
“No. There is no father in the Fuller family. Hasn’t been since Alfie was a boy. Desertion, according to Mrs. Fuller. Jock seemed to fill that role for Alfie. He had him help with the pigeons. Alfie kept all the records; he knows the name of each bird. But Jock sent him packing after the incident with Shirley.”
“When was all this happening?” Tyler asked.
“Not long ago. About three weeks.”
“Is he known to have done this before? Have there been other complaints?”
“Not that I am aware of.”
Tyler wondered if Alfie’s habits were the real reason behind his mother taking the job at St. Anne’s.
“Please continue, Sister. What was the state of affairs with the McHatties as of yesterday?”
“Not good. No reconciliation, I’m afraid. Very sad, really. Alfie was skulking around like a kicked dog.”
Tyler swivelled to look at her. “Let me get this straight, Sister. You’re telling me about an adult man with the mind of a seven-year-old, who shows grossly inappropriate behaviour and is known to go off the deep end if frustrated. Yet unless I am mistaken, you do not seem unduly alarmed about him. Do you think he is capable of killing Jock McHattie, a man who had deeply hurt his feelings?”
She blinked. “No, I really don’t. For one thing, he is quite clumsy. The brain injury has affected his balance. I don’t see him walking about the McHattie cottage in the dark without knocking into something. And you saw the poor cat. He missed wildly.”
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