The Dead Girl's Shoes

by Arney, Angela

  Lizzie couldn’t decipher the signature on the bottom but suddenly worried. Supposing her patient really was ill and had collapsed, or worse, died. She sat in the car uncertain of what to do next, when a young man came out of the gatehouse.

  ‘We’re not open,’ he said, indicating the notice.

  ‘I know. I’m a doctor. I’ve come to see Mrs Villiers.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right then,’ he said, unlocking the gates and swinging them open. ‘Just go straight on up to the house. The front door will be open.’

  ‘Do you know if Mrs Villiers is very ill?’ asked Lizzie.

  The boy scoffed. ‘Of course not. Just got an attack of the vapours, so Janet Hastings told me. Like they used to have in Victorian days. Mind you, I suppose a murder is enough to give anyone the vapours.’

  ‘A murder!’

  ‘Janet told me they’ve found a body in the icehouse.’

  ‘Whose body?’

  ‘I don’t know. Janet wasn’t allowed to say. Nobody tells me details like that. I’m only a hired hand from the village. I’ve been asked to open and shut the gate for the police today, and to stop anyone else from entering. Except you, of course. I was expecting a doctor. But I thought it would be Dr Jamieson, the old one.’

  ‘Well, it’s not. It’s me. Dr Browne,’ said Lizzie, then couldn’t resist adding, ‘the young one.’ She started the car, ready to drive through, then stopped and wound down her window. ‘And what is your name may I ask?’

  ‘Derek Thompson. Not of this parish these days, I’m just down from London visiting my Gran, and earning a bit of cash in hand. £5 an hour they’re paying me. Pretty stingy these Villiers.’ Then he saluted in a cheeky fashion.

  Lizzie grinned and drove on up the drive towards the Hall, which she could see in the distance. She parked outside the front of the house before the door, which was wide open as Derek Thompson had said it would be. However, to the side of the house she could see that there were about half a dozen cars, and one of them she recognized as Adam Maguire’s. Much as she would have liked to have gone and found out what was happening, she didn’t. Instead, she walked up the shallow stone steps and in through the front door of the Hall. The door, an enormous oak affair studded with iron nails, was tied back to a cast iron umbrella stand just inside the hallway. Here, Lizzie waited a moment. No one came. So she stepped further inside the stone flagged hall and called out.

  ‘Hello. Anyone about?’

  There was no answer, so venturing further in, she looked into the rooms either side of the hall. One was obviously a library and an office. The walls were lined with leather bound books and looked very grand, but the desks and filing cabinets were the usual office type, grey metal, and there were a couple of rather old-fashioned looking computers. The room on the opposite side looked like a family room. There were settees and armchairs, all a bit shabby, spindly tables and faded Persian rugs on the parquet flooring. A carved stone fireplace was on one side, and in the grate was an enormous arrangement of cherry blossom, and daffodils, mixed with sprigs of white may. The flower arrangement was unusual and very beautiful. Lying before the flowers, on a rug, was a large red setter, who regarded Lizzie with limpid eyes. If he’s supposed to be on guard he’s not doing a very good job, thought Lizzie.

  She walked back into the middle of the hall, and as she did so, a very elegant woman, wearing a black knitted silk suit, rushed up the steps. ‘You must be Doctor Browne,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I’m so glad you’ve come at last.’

  Lizzie decided to ignore the bit about coming at last, and said, ‘now that I’m here perhaps you will take me to the patient.’

  ‘I am the patient. I’m Mrs Villiers, and I can’t tell you how long I’ve been waiting.’ She sailed into the room with the dog on the rug and collapsed on to the nearest settee, putting a hand dramatically to her forehead.

  ‘I have had a lot of patients to see today,’ said Lizzie abruptly. She followed her, and put her bag on to one of the spindly tables, with an intricately worked brass top. It wobbled perilously. ‘Now I’m here, what can I do for you?’ she added.

  ‘My niece has been murdered,’ she said in a quavering voice.

  Lizzie immediately felt guilty for being impatient. ‘I am so very sorry,’ she said. ‘I was told there’d been a murder when I arrived, but I had no idea it was one of the family.’

  Strangely enough what Mrs Villiers wanted was a “good going over” to use her expression. A medical in other words. So Lizzie duly listened to her chest, took her blood pressure, her pulse, and told her that everything was normal. Which it was. She tried to reassure her, but Mrs Villiers was obsessed about her blood pressure, which was perfectly normal. To keep her happy, Lizzie obliged and was taking her blood pressure yet again, when Adam Maguire walked in. To Lizzie’s surprise her BP shot up to 240 over 120. Dangerously high.

  ‘What is it?’ demanded Mrs Villiers, leaning forward and trying to look over at the blood pressure dial. ‘I’ve usually got very good blood pressure. Dr Burton always said so, although I do worry about it. My mother had a stroke you know. What is it?’ she repeated.

  ‘Just a little on the high side,’ lied Lizzie, ‘nothing to worry about. Now, I think you should take it easy. Is there someone here who can make a cup of tea so that you can relax, and then I can take it again?’

  ‘Janet Hastings, my PA and general dogsbody is here. She can do it.’ Leaning forward Mrs Villiers picked up a silver bell from the nearby table and rang it.

  Adam Maguire caught Lizzie’s gaze. Something was up. It was very unlike her to suggest that anyone should relax! ‘I could do with a cup of tea myself,’ he said, sitting down in one of the other armchairs. ‘That would be very nice. We’ve all had a long and worrying day.’ He bent down and stroked the red setter’s head. It rewarded him by rolling over on its back. ‘Nice dog,’ he said.

  ‘His name is Hector, and he belongs to Simon,’ said Mrs Villiers.

  ‘Ah yes, Simon,’ said Adam looking up at her. ‘I haven’t yet managed to speak to him. Do you know of his whereabouts?’

  Mrs Villiers drew in a short, sharp breath and her cheeks flushed and then went pale. Lizzie sensed her blood pressure was probably shooting up again. She certainly seemed agitated beneath her haughty air. Was she worried about her son? Was he connected to the murder?

  Then Janet Hastings arrived. She was small, rotund, and very efficient, and Lizzie sensed that she didn’t like Mrs Villiers much. However, who would, she thought, having an employer who referred to her as a general dogsbody! But on the other hand Janet seemed quite adept at handling her employer.

  Lizzie was glad of the interruption.

  ‘Janet,’ said Mrs Villiers in an imperious tone, ‘I want tea and cakes for everyone here. As soon as possible.’

  No please or thank you, noted Lizzie, and wondered whether Adam had picked up the arrogant vibes as well.

  ‘Certainly,’ replied Janet briskly. ‘I’ll bring a tray out here as soon as possible.

  Mrs Villiers sank back in her chair and closed her eyes. Lizzie and Adam looked at each other. Lizzie wondered yet again whether it was Simon who was causing his mother some concern.

  Later, after they had finished with the tea and cakes, Lizzie left Adam Maguire with Amelia Villiers. Before she left, she wrote a prescription for a very mild sedative to be taken that night.

  ‘I’ll drop this in at the pharmacy on my way home,’ said Lizzie. ‘Is there someone from Avon Hall who can pick it up for you?’

  ‘Janet Hastings can do it. Must I really speak into that thing?’ This last remark was addressed to Adam Maguire, who had put his recorder out on the table ready for use.

  Lizzie left wondering how he would get on with Amelia Villiers. Somehow, she didn’t think she’d be very co-operative. Although there was no reason why she should not be, for it was surely in the family’s best interest to find out who had murdered one of their own. Lizzie knew her name now.

  It was Jemima V
illiers. One of the girls who had been pointed out to her the night before. Of that much she was certain, but she’d been so tired at the time, that she couldn’t remember which one was which. Only that both were blonde, one was pretty and the other fairly ordinary. Which one had been murdered?

  Chapter 4

  Later that evening Lizzie had a call from Adam Maguire.

  ‘How do you fancy trying out The Ship Inn? It’s under new management, and they tell me the food is excellent now.’

  Lizzie accepted immediately. She was dying to know about the murder at Avon Hall, and hoped Adam would tell her more. Adam, for his part, knew Lizzie would be curious; she always was. The Ship Inn’s new management was an excuse to ask her out to supper that Friday evening as he didn’t feel like eating a micro waved supper alone. Since her move to Stibbington from London the previous year, he and Lizzie had formed a cautious friendship. They were both alone, she divorced and he widowed, and quite by accident, she had become involved with one of his cases the previous winter. It had involved her daughter and her friends. At the time, he thought Lizzie had rushed in where angels would fear to tread, but had had to admit later that without her it would have taken him and his team much longer to solve that particular case.

  Now they knew each other a little better, it was pleasant to share a meal together occasionally, and talk over their work. Although Adam did think, sometimes, that Lizzie was much too interested in crime, whereas he was not that interested in medicine. The years spent with his wife dying from cancer had put him off most things medical. But neither Lizzie nor Adam knew many people in Stibbington to socialise with, except, of course, Phineas Merryweather, the forensic pathologist, who was a good friend to them both.

  This evening Adam did not intended to go into any great detail of his latest murder case, but as he’d met Lizzie at Avon Hall that afternoon, where the murder victim was found earlier that day, he knew she was sure to be interested. Adam, himself, had an open mind about where the actual murder had been committed, as had Phineas, the forensic pathologist. He hadn’t given him a detailed report yet, but once Maguire had found out that the girl in question was a student living in Salisbury, the location of her body puzzled him.

  ‘So how come,’ he said now to Lizzie as they sat with their drinks waiting for their food, ‘she got herself murdered in Avinton, just outside of Stibbington? That’s miles away from Salisbury.’

  Lizzie wasn’t listening properly, she was intent on telling Maguire of his affect on Amelia Villiers. ‘And how come you had such an effect on Mrs Villiers?’ said Lizzie, whose mind was still lingering on her patient. ‘It was really strange, the way she reacted to you.’

  ‘I always have that effect on women,’ joked Adam.

  Lizzie looked cross. ‘I’m being serious,’ she said.

  ‘So am I where it concerns the dead girl,’ replied Adam. ‘It doesn’t make sense that she should be found dead so far from Salisbury. It must be mixed up somehow with that perfume launch, because, apparently, she was there.’

  Lizzie switched her mind on to Adam’s problems. ‘Well, you know that I was at the perfume launch, and so was Phineas. It was one of Louise’s ventures with her new company.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Adam slowly. ‘So I understand. Originally Jemima lived at Avon Hall where the icehouse is. She is one of the Villiers’ family, and was brought up as a daughter by Harold Villiers and his wife Amelia. Both her parents are dead. Killed in a car crash when she was young. Her father was Harold’s younger brother, and her mother, apparently a beauty, was a model. Jemima lived in Salisbury for the last two years since starting university, and apparently didn’t come back very often, after she became a student. Then the daughter of the Villiers, Ruth, also moved to Salisbury a year ago when she started university and shared a flat with Jemima, or rather I should say, did share a flat.’

  Suddenly Lizzie had a cold shiver down her spine. It wasn’t just any murder. It was a girl Amelia Villiers had brought up as her own daughter. The blonde waitress had certainly had that touch of elegance from gracious living. Could it be? ‘Have you got a photo of the dead girl?’ she asked.

  Half of her did not want to see it, but the other half did, because the girl was working at the launch as a waitress. And, of course, she’d be young, near to Louise’s age, and she always worried about Louise. She supposed all mothers did. But now she worried about the young waitress, and couldn’t get the picture out of her mind of a young girl, in the uniform of a waitress, climbing into a small red car in the darkness of the deer park. Could that have been the girl who’d been murdered?

  ‘I haven’t got one with me,’ said Maguire, scrolling down through his iPhone. ‘Grayson is organizing one ready to be released to the press tomorrow. Normally I’d wait until I’d got more forensic details before I released anything, but because it’s the Villiers family, the Super wants us to fast track it. Or at least to look as if we are fast tracking. In my experience it doesn’t usually make that much difference, and too often early appeals in the press can muddy the waters.’

  The waitress arrived with their orders. Maguire had his usual, steak and chips plus a side salad, and Lizzie had a prawn risotto, which she found disappointing. It was soggy and the prawns were overcooked. Maguire watched Lizzie toying with the food on her plate.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, the risotto is not great,’ replied Lizzie, giving up on it and laying down her fork, ‘but there is something else. It’s your murdered girl. I think I may have seen her last night in the park after the launch. Moreover, if she is the girl I think she is, then I may very well be the last person who saw her alive. Apart from the murderer of course.’

  Maguire didn’t reply. He finished the last piece of his steak, and the remaining chips, pushed the plate aside and stood up, draining his beer as he did so. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’m taking you down to the station. I need you to take a look at Jemima’s photo right now.’

  *

  Lizzie’s gut feeling was right. It was the girl who’d served Simon and who the other young man called Jem. There she was. Jem/Jemima, smiling up at her from the photo which had obviously been taken at a party. She was wearing a pink jacket, and a very short summer dress, which showed off her lovely long legs. On her feet she was wearing black pumps decorated with pink daisies on the front; Lizzie remembered them, and remembered Phineas remarking on them at the time. “Pretty Girl, pretty shoes.” In the photo her head was thrown back, her blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, and she was laughing.

  Lizzie felt like bursting into tears. ‘She looks as if she hasn’t a care in the world,’ she said softly. She was thinking of Louise.

  ‘She didn’t have then,’ said Adam slowly. He put his hands on Lizzie’s shoulders and gently made her sit her down on the chair at the side of his desk. Then he sat down himself. ‘Now, you know I need to know everything about this girl. As much as you can remember. Everything you saw and heard. Even if you think it’s an unimportant detail.’

  ‘I don’t know where to start,’ said Lizzie. She’d always thought of herself as tough, but now she was trembling. All she could think of was that it could so easily have been Louise. A girl at the beginning of her life, unafraid, adventurous, galloping through life. Too adventurous.

  ‘Start at the beginning,’ said Adam, pulling a sheet of paper before him on the desk, ‘and carry on until you get to the end. I know you are thinking of your daughter, but don’t. This is a different girl, in a different place, with different friends and acquaintances. This has nothing to do with Louise.’

  Lizzie took a deep breath and began to tell Adam about the Thursday night, beginning with the launch of the Black Velvet perfume at the Country House Hotel, and ending with Jemima discarding her bicycle, and accepting a lift in the small red car.

  *

  Long after Lizzie had signed her statement and gone home, Maguire sat in the office and looked at his notes. Eventually parcelling them up,
he shoved the lot into a folder and went back to the cold dark house in the quiet street on the edge of Stibbington that he called home. Tess was waiting patiently for him by the kitchen door, and the moment he opened it she shot out into the darkness of the garden. ‘Good girl,’ he said when she came back in. ‘I’m sorry to have left you for so long.’

  Then he poured himself a single malt, a Laphraig. He held it up against the light from the lamp beside his chair. The amber liquid sparkled through the prism of the cut glass tumbler. A good whisky deserves a beautiful glass, his father always said that. It was a long time since he’d thought of his father. Why now? Maybe he was feeling a little maudlin, because although his work brought him into contact with violence and death, he had never really got used to it. Especially not the deaths of young people.

  Tess nudged her cold wet nose against his leg, reminding him she’d not been fed. He gave her a small bowl of her dog biscuits, a special mix for elderly dogs, then affectionately ruffled her ears and refilled the tumbler of whisky before opening the folder he’d brought with him from the station. He started reading, but it was too late, and he was too tired to concentrate properly. Eventually he gave up trying and parcelled up the pages again, put them back in the folder then switched on the television news.

  *

  Lizzie went straight back to Silver Cottage once she’d left Adam. She felt shattered. Having to relive the night before, trying to remember every little detail, had been stressful, and she was hungry now because she’d not eaten much of the risotto at the pub. That’ll teach me, she thought, never order risotto in a busy restaurant, because it will have been partially cooked and have hung around to go stodgy and horrible. I should have known better.

  However, there was not much in her larder or fridge, as she hadn’t had time to go shopping that week. In the end, she settled for a Horlicks drink and some biscuits and cheese, took them to bed and watched the TV news.

  The world news was depressing. A suicide bomber in an Arab country, a train derailment in India, and yet another British MP accused of fiddling his taxes. Lizzie was on the point of switching it off when the local Southern News came on. It caught her attention, as it was Danny Bayley, the Editor of the Stibbington Times being interviewed. It was the weekly paper review, and somehow, Danny had managed to get the information about the murder in it. Lizzie sat up and listened. She knew Adam had not yet passed on any information to the press, but also knew Stibbington was a small place, and people gossiped. The interviewer passed from Danny Bayley to Bert Grayer. So that’s where the information came from, she thought. Well, you couldn’t blame the old man. He was obviously very upset, and kept saying ‘she was the best of the bunch, the best of the bunch.’