[DCI Neil Paget 01] - Fatal Flaw

by Frank Smith

  Her version of what happened when Monica burst into the cottage tallied closely with that of Sally Pritchard. She said she thought Sally would be able to calm Monica down and get her out, but suddenly the door flew open and there stood Monica.

  ‘I’ll never forget the look on her face.’ Lady Tyndall shivered despite the fact that she was surrounded by warm, humid air. ‘I’ve never seen such despair, such utter desolation as was on that child’s face that night.’

  She went on to say that she and Sally had talked and talked about what they should do. Wondering what Monica would do. They both knew how unpredictable the girl could be, but it never occurred to either of them that she might kill herself.

  Sally was in such a state that it was Lady Tyndall who finally took matters into her own hands. She took the Range Rover and drove over to the school. She had, she insisted, no plan in mind. She just wanted to talk to Monica, to try to persuade her to say nothing.

  ‘If it was a matter of money, I was prepared to pay her,’ she said flatly.

  Having attended Thornton Hill herself, she knew all about the back way into the school. She went up the back stairs and had no trouble finding Monica’s room.

  Lady Tyndall had raised her head at this point and looked Paget directly in the eye. ‘She was dead when I entered the room,’ she said. ‘In fact, she was already cold. It wasn’t hard to see what had happened. The syringes were there - and then, of course, there was the picture.’

  Paget pulled a rolled polythene bag from his pocket. ‘This picture?’ he asked her.

  She glanced at what once had been a photograph of herself, disfigured now beyond recognition. Savage scars criss-crossed the face, leaving it in shreds. Lady Tyndall shuddered and turned away.

  ‘She must have gone straight into the hall and taken the picture up to her room when she came in,’ she said. ‘She’d smashed the frame and stuck the picture on her mirror with Sellotape, and she’d scrawled words across it in lipstick. Obscene, horrible words. I can’t repeat them. I’m sorry.’

  Lady Tyndall drew in a deep breath. There was nothing I could do for her. Absolutely nothing. So, I pulled what was left of the picture off the mirror, cleaned the lipstick off, and swept all the bits and pieces into the pillowcase.’

  Then I left. I drove back to Sally’s and told her what happened. I asked her to get rid of the pillowcase and its contents because I thought it would be easier for her to get rid of it than it would for me.’

  ‘But Sally didn’t believe you, did she?’ Paget had said.

  ‘No. She went to pieces. She was sure I’d killed Monica to keep her quiet. I tried to tell her the girl had committed suicide, but it was useless. Finally, I just had to leave her. I’ve tried several times since then to talk to her, but...’

  ‘Do you have any idea what time it was when you went up to Monica’s room?’ Paget had asked her.

  Lady Tyndall frowned in concentration. ‘I’m sure Sally and I talked for at least a couple of hours before I went over there,’ she said. ‘Sally was in such a state that I didn’t want to leave her before that. I’d say it was somewhere between three and four o’clock. I know it was almost five when I got back home.’

  Which tallied closely to what Sally had told them. Unless there was a much deeper collusion between the two of them than he believed to be the case, then Lady Tyndall was probably telling the truth. Monica had been dead for some time before she got there.

  Was there anyone other than Sally Pritchard who could confirm any of this? he’d asked her. Had she passed anyone on the road, for example?

  Of course, the answer had been no.

  At least her story dovetailed neatly with the evidence. Perhaps he had been wrong. Perhaps Monica’s death had nothing to do with the murders that followed. Perhaps it was simply a matter of coincidence.

  Perhaps.

  Sally Pritchard sat huddled in a chair beside the dying fire. It was almost midnight, but she made no move to go to bed, her thoughts too chaotic to even think of sleep.

  The chief inspector had said that Monica had died no later than two on Christmas morning, so Maria couldn’t have been responsible for her death. Sally closed her eyes. Maria had been telling the truth all along. Why hadn’t she believed her? She had accused Maria of killing Monica to save her reputation. She’d been so certain.

  And now she’d ruined everything. Destroyed the love, the trust, the passion because of her suspicion. It could never be the same again between them. It was over. Finished. There was nothing she could do to change that. She choked back a sob. Oh, why had she not believed Maria? Why? Why? Why?

  At least there was one thing she could do. It wouldn’t bring Maria back to her, and it wouldn’t bring Monica back, but it had to be done, painful as that might be. In fact it must be done. She must set things right.

  27

  Friday, 8 January

  Between writing up their respective reports, and a lengthy discussion with Alcott and Cooper that took up the rest of the morning, Paget and Tregalles didn’t get out to Glenacres until after lunch. They had gone over and over the statements made by the two women the day before, but as Alcott had pointed out with such acerbity, there was nothing to tie what had taken place early Christmas morning to the killing of Palmer or Blake.

  They were back, it seemed, to two suspects: Andrea McMillan and Jack Lucas. But which one?

  ‘We’ll go over the ground again,’ said Paget. ‘Go back to Glenacres and see if there is anything we’ve missed.’

  Tregalles groaned. ‘We’ve been over everything out there with a microscope already,’ he complained. But it was token resistance at best. There was no other choice, and he knew it.

  They had just missed Sally, according to Penny Wakefield. She hadn’t come in to work until after lunch, and she’d just left again, saying there was something she must do over at the school. She said Lucas had just been in looking for Sally, and he was anything but pleased when she told him Sally wasn’t there.

  ‘He went straight up the wall,’ said Penny. ‘What with being so short-handed, and everything to get ready for the weekend riders tomorrow. I’m not sure what we’ll do. At least the girls at Thornton Hill won’t be back until next week, so we’ll have a bit of a breather there.’ She grinned wryly. ‘Mr Lucas even offered me a rise if I’d stay on.’

  ‘Will you?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. Too much aggro around here. I’ll be much better off where I’m going.’

  ‘How was Sally?’ Paget asked.

  Penny shook her head. ‘I don’t know why she didn’t stay home in bed,’ she said. ‘She looked ill. She looked like death warmed over. Whatever it is she’s got, I hope it isn’t catching. That’s all we need around here right now.’

  They left her to her work in the office, and went out into the body of the barn where they went over every detail of the Palmer killing, item by item. They searched the barn again but found nothing new.

  They were on the point of leaving when the door opened and James came in. Tregalles looked at him in surprise.

  ‘Hello?’ he said. ‘And why aren’t you in school today, young James?’

  ‘We’re going away,’ the boy said solemnly. ‘Mummy said I could come down here for a swing before we go.’ He climbed aboard the swing, stood up and began to pump.

  ‘Going away, are you?’ said Tregalles. ‘Just you and your mum?’

  ‘Yes. We’re going to my grandma’s to live. She says we might be there for ever such a long time. I don’t like staying at grandma’s house.’

  ‘Oh, why’s that, James?’

  ‘It’s all houses and shops stuck together,’ said the boy. ‘There aren’t any fields, and she doesn’t have a swing.’

  The boy had allowed the swing to slow down until it had almost stopped. It was as if all the pleasure had gone out of it But suddenly he seized the ropes and began to swing from side to side instead of back and forth. His mouth was set determinedly, but he looked very close to tear
s. His thin legs bent like twigs as he forced the swing to go higher. It paused at the top of the arc above the bench, then swung back again, gathering speed...

  The barn door opened suddenly and Bob Tillman stood there in the doorway, peering in. The swing flashed across the barn - and stopped within inches of the startled stableman as it reached its apogee. If he hadn’t paused before stepping over the sill, the swing would have slammed into Tillman’s chest.

  ‘Look out!’ Tregalles shouted, far too late. He darted forward and grabbed the boy on the downward arc as Tillman stood there, frozen. The sergeant lifted the boy bodily from the swing and set him on the ground. James backed away, his eyes large and round, fearful of what might come.

  But Tregalles wasn’t looking at the boy at all. He and Paget were looking at each other as understanding dawned.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said James fearfully as Tillman, now recovered from his initial fright, stepped inside. The stableman wagged a warning finger at the boy.

  ‘You damned near had me that time, boy,’ he said good-naturedly, and with a nod towards the two detectives he moved off towards the office.

  Penny, having heard Tregalles’s shouted warning, came running out. ‘What happened?’ she wanted to know, looking from one to the other.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Paget assured her. ‘The swing got away on James, that’s all. No damage done.’

  He turned to the boy. ‘I think you’d better go back to the house, now, James, don’t you?’

  James didn’t hesitate. Relief flooded into the small face as he realized he wasn’t going to be scolded. He shot out of the door and was gone. Penny, still looking faintly puzzled, looked at both of them in turn, then returned to the office to see what Tillman wanted.

  Paget moved over to the door and closed it. He ran his fingers over the inside surface about chest height. Tregalles joined him and they inspected the door together.

  ‘There they are,’ the sergeant said. He pointed to several marks where something had dug into the wood. They were all but lost among the scars and pock-marks that had accumulated over the years, but now they knew what to look for, they were plain enough to see.

  ‘We’ll have to get the pitchfork back,’ said Paget, ‘but I don’t think there can be much doubt the tines will match the holes. Someone has been practising.’

  He moved over to the swing, lifting the seat to examine it more closely. It consisted of a single piece of wood, ten or twelve inches wide by a couple of feet long. It was thick and sturdy and worn smooth by constant use.

  But his keen eyes sought and found what they were looking for. Marks in two places on the edges of the wood where something had been bound beneath the seat. With twine, no doubt. He could see the score marks where it had been pulled tight.

  ‘No wonder the pitchfork damned nearly went right through Palmer,’ said Tregalles soberly.

  Paget nodded. ‘The pitchfork was tied along the bottom of the swing, with the tines pointing towards the door. All the killer would have to do was pull the swing sideways, climb up on the chairs to the bench, hold it there and wait. When Palmer came through the door he or she just let it go - or gave it an extra shove. The weight of the thing alone would carry it down. If they gave it a push...’

  ‘Lucas?’ said Tregalles. ‘He’d have the opportunity to test it out. I doubt if the doctor would have the same opportunity.’

  But Paget didn’t appear to be listening. Instead he went over to the place where the swing was normally tied up out of the way. He ran his hand gently over the jagged edge of metal on which he’d cut his hand, then peered down behind it to where he’d found the missing ball of twine. Tregalles watched, curious, as Paget removed his coat, examined it closely, then put it on again.

  ‘Staring me in the face,’ he said as he turned back to Tregalles. ‘Dammit, I should have known. The answer was literally staring me in the face and I didn’t see it.’

  Sally went in the back way. She wasn’t anxious to run into Miss Crowther. She mounted the long flight of narrow stairs and stepped out into the corridor. With only two small windows to illuminate its entire length, it was a gloomy place smelling faintly of disinfectant. There was no one about. The girls wouldn’t be back until the beginning of next week, so there was no need to worry on that score. She made her way down the corridor and knocked gently on Jane Wolsey’s door.

  The housemistress opened the door. ‘Why, Sally, what a nice surprise,’ she said. Unconsciously she pulled the sleeve of her cardigan down over her left hand. The smile of welcome faded as she looked closer at Sally’s face. ‘Is there anything wrong?’ she asked anxiously.

  ‘I must talk to you,’ the young woman said. She sounded nervous; ill at ease. Jane had never seen her like this before.

  Jane Wolsey opened the door wider. ‘You’d better come in and tell me about it, then,’ she said. ‘I’ll make a cup of tea.’

  Paget gave a peremptory knock on the open door as he stuck his head inside the office. ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he told Penny, ‘but did you say Sally had gone over to the school?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Did she say why? Did she say who it was she was going to see? It’s important.’

  The girl caught his sense of urgency. ‘She said something about seeing Miss Wolsey to set things straight.’

  ‘Did she walk or take her car?’

  ‘She took the car.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said and was gone.

  The light was fading as the school came into view. ‘I don’t see her car,’ said Paget. ‘Drop me here, and I’ll go round the back. You go in the front. Try Miss Wolsey’s room first.’

  Paget was out of the car before it had stopped. He slammed the door and began to run down the side of Braden Hall.

  Tregalles shot forward and brought the car to a halt outside the main entrance.

  He dashed up the steps and across the main hall towards the stairs.

  ‘Sergeant Tregalles!’

  Tregalles swung round. ‘Miss Crowther. Have you seen Sally Pritchard or Miss Wolsey?’

  The headmistress ignored the question. ‘Just what do you think you are doing?’ she demanded. ‘Dashing in here like that. I will not tolerate such behaviour, especially from the police. You should be setting an example instead of...’

  Tregalles cut her off. ‘Have-you-seen-Sally-Pritchard-or-Miss-Wolsey?’ he said brusquely.

  Miss Crowther bristled. ‘No, I have not, and I don’t know...’

  ‘Thank you,’ he called back as he took the marble stairs three at a time. Behind him, he was conscious of Miss Crowther saying: ‘Really!’

  He reached the top and crossed the corridor to Miss Wolsey’s room. His hand was raised to knock when he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye.

  Far down the corridor.

  He turned to see the door leading to the back stairs slowly closing. He opened his mouth to shout, but knew no one would hear him through that heavy door. He raced the length of the corridor.

  Paget came round the corner of the building and saw Sally Pritchard’s car. So she had gone in the back. He made his way to the back door, found it open, and went inside. The corridor ahead was deserted.

  There was a sound. The heavy thud of a door closing somewhere above him. He moved swiftly to the bottom of the back stairs and looked up.

  Sally Pritchard and Miss Wolsey stood on the landing at the top of the long flight of narrow stairs. Sally had her foot out over the first step. Behind her, he saw Jane Wolsey’s arm come up; reach out...

  ‘Sally! Behind you!’ he bellowed as loud and hard as he could.

  The girl half turned, but not soon enough to avoid the violent thrust of a hand between her shoulder blades. She left the top step and hung suspended in space for what seemed like an eternity. Her hand flew out, grabbing frantically for the metal rail that served as a banister. Her fingers touched; curled around...

  Behind her, her face contorted with frustrated rage, Jane Wolsey reache
d out to thrust again.

  The door behind her crashed open. Off balance, she half turned, lost her footing, and fell...

  She hurtled past Sally, now lying head downward on the stairs, and clinging with all her strength to the rail. The small body turned over in the air and crashed with sickening force half-way down. Slowly, as in slow motion, it tumbled over and over again until it landed at Paget’s feet.

  Paget dropped to his knees. Jane Wolsey’s eyes were open. She stared up at him. ‘I think - I think my back is broken,’ she said faintly, and closed her eyes.

  Above him, Tregalles was pulling Sally Pritchard to her feet.

  28

  They sat in one of the hospital day rooms, Paget, Tregalles and Sally Pritchard. Sally’s right arm was bandaged and taped from wrist to elbow, but she was able to use her fingers. She shifted uncomfortably in the chair. Her back was bruised and sore, but she had been lucky. No bones were broken, but she’d pulled most of the ligaments in her arm. It would be painful for a few days, the doctor had told her.

  ‘If you’re not feeling up to it, we can let this wait until morning,’ said Paget, but Sally shook her head.

  ‘I’d rather get it over with now,’ she said. ‘Then I can go home and not have to think about it any more.’

  Not think about it any more. How could she not think about it? she wondered. Jane, of all people, trying to kill her? The very idea was insane. Yet even now the surgeons were working feverishly to save her life right here in the hospital. In spite of everything, Sally couldn’t help but feel sorry for her.

  ‘Poor Jane,’ she said.

  ‘If “poor Jane” had had her way, you wouldn’t be talking to us now,’ Tregalles pointed out.

  Sally shook her head sadly. ‘You’re right, of course,’ she said. ‘It’s just that it’s so hard to think of her as being capable of doing something like that. And yet...’