The Dead Girl's Shoes

by Arney, Angela

  ‘Doing her visits, I suppose,’ replied Maguire, ‘or going to try and sweet-talk Spud Murphy about the wretched trout Mrs Armitage pilfered.’ He finished his sandwich and put the wrapper in the glove box. Steve, still hungry, wondered when he’d get the chance to eat his lunch. If he’d been alone he would have eaten the sandwich by now, even though driving and eating was considered to be dangerous and forbidden to officers when driving.

  Maguire didn’t give Lizzie’s journey a second thought; he was concentrating on getting to the woodland path, and hoping that Dave Harvey and his team had found something useful. Something that would really give them some decent clues, and put them on the path to finding a solution.

  Steve drove around the bend in the narrow country road, and parked on the verge by the broken stump of the wooden finger post. Dave Harvey and his team were waiting for them, and Dave was bending over the ground by the entrance to the overgrown path. A junior member of his team was busy making plaster casts of something in the earth.

  ‘Bit of luck, here, sir,’ he said, as Maguire and Steve approached. ‘We had a shower last night, and sun today, and it’s hardened up the mud of these tyre tracks nicely. Well done, sir,’ he added. ‘You didn’t tread all over them when you came this way, most people would have done.’

  Maguire didn’t answer but walked across to the spot and looked down. It was pure luck that he hadn’t trodden on the tracks, or even driven his car over them, but he wasn’t going to admit that. He remembered he’d been so pre-occupied with reining Tess back, because she’d been pulling excitedly, that he hadn’t even thought about where his feet were. Now he bent down and took a closer look. ‘Yes, tyre tracks, good ones,’ he said. ‘And a small car by the look of it.’ Maguire stood up and looked up along the path. ‘It didn’t go into the wood though.’

  ‘Too big for the path, but a small car.’

  ‘The red car,’ said Steve. ‘It must be. The red car we haven’t traced yet.’

  ‘It’s a step in the right direction though,’ said Maguire.

  ‘We’ve got good casts, and should be able to identify the tyre make fairly easily; maybe even the make of car that uses them most. But there’s more.’ Dave stood up and led the way along the path. ‘See here, two sets of wheel marks. It’s a wheelbarrow or something like that. The lad,’ he nodded his head back towards the young man in a white suit still crouching over the tyre cast, ‘has already done these and they’re in the bag.’ He bent down and put his fingers beside the marks. ‘See here, there is quite a light indentation, and then here, a much deeper one. I think someone brought along an empty barrow, light indentations there, and then loaded the body into it, see deeper ones here, then wheeled it along the path towards the garden and the icehouse.’

  ‘Do the tracks go as far as the ice house?’ asked Steve.

  ‘Unfortunately not. As the path gets nearer the icehouse, it’s wider and more stony, so the rain has washed the evidence away. In some places, the earth was so hard and stony that the rain formed a small stream washing everything away.’

  ‘No chance of finding any human DNA on anything?’

  ‘Forlorn hope there I’m afraid. But we might have some luck when we find the barrow, or whatever it was that was wheeled along here. There would almost certainly be some blood and DNA on that.’

  Maguire walked a little further along the path. ‘No pieces of torn clothing, or anything?’ he asked hopefully.

  Dave shook his head. ‘No. Anyway, we’ve been over her clothes and apart from being very bloody from her head wound, plus the unidentified spots, they weren’t damaged. No, I don’t think we’re going to find anything else here.’

  Maguire made a decision. ‘OK, you clear up your stuff.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Can you be ready in an hour to go out to Salisbury? I want you to go over Jemima’s room with a fine toothcomb.’

  *

  Lizzie, with the aid of her sat nav, found Spud Murphy’s cottage. It was in an idyllic position by the side of the River Avon, not far from Avon Hall itself. The cottage garden sloped down to the river’s edge, and because it was a chalk stream, the water was clear, clear as gin; Lizzie remembered reading that once in a book about the rivers of southern England. She paused and looked down from the narrow bridge that led across the river to the front door of the cottage. Long green fronds of riverweed waved in the current of the fast flowing water, and she could see a large trout lurking in the shadows between the weeds. It reminded her of the reason for her visit; Mrs Armitage who had stolen two such trout. She smiled at the thought. How uncomfortable it must have been having such slippery customers down the front of her jumper!

  Spud Murphy opened the front door of the cottage while she was still looking down into the water. ‘Come in,’ he shouted in a broad Hampshire accent. ‘I’ve just put the kettle on.’ He had a tweed hat on she noticed, with a turned up brim around which dangled small feathers.

  Lizzie did as he bid and entered the cottage. It was quite dark inside because the windows were small and almost covered in the honeysuckle that scrambled all over the front of the house. It was also very untidy; fishing rods and catch nets everywhere, and against the far wall several guns of various sizes. Lizzie didn’t know much about guns and the law, but was pretty sure that they should have been locked away somewhere. Surely it wasn’t safe to leave guns lying around? Some of them were quite large, and she supposed they were rifles or shotguns, but didn’t know the difference. Spud Murphy was a widower. Lizzie knew that much, and she also knew he had one grown-up daughter who was away at University.

  The table was covered in feathers, reels of dark brown cotton and silvery hooks of various sizes. ‘I’m making some flies,’ said Spud, noticing Lizzie looking at them. ‘I like to give the trout something different to go after. They don’t want the same old fly all the time.’

  ‘I’ve always thought that trout liked mayfly. But I’ve only read that, I don’t actually know anything about fishing.’

  ‘Ah, so they do like the mayfly. But ‘tisn’t May all the year, and anyway you can’t catch ‘em easily with a rod and a living mayfly. Certainly not the anglers I have here on my stretch of the river, as most of them can’t cast well enough. But they can catch ‘em with these little beauties.’ He touched the brim of his hat before picking a feather from the table. ‘This is my special for this year. The fish love it. I call it Murphy’s Flasher, because it flashes in the light. My customers love it too; I can’t make enough of ‘em.’

  He held up a hook to which was attached some tiny red and gold feathers, and twisted it in the light from the window. ‘I see what you mean,’ said Lizzie.

  Their conversation was interrupted by the kettle emitting a piecing whistle. ‘Tea,’ said Spud, and replaced the feather fly on the table. He filled a brown enamel teapot and put it on the table, then retrieved two china mugs from the dresser at the far side of the kitchen. He stirred the tea and then started to pour. ‘Moved here when my wife passed on,’ he said. ‘Suits me, although me daughter Margaret don’t like it, but then she don’t come home often now, so that’s no problem, and she only lives out at Salisbury, so she’s not far.’

  He pushed a mug of dark brown tea across to Lizzie, who took it and sat down on one of the chairs at the side of the table. Spud sat on the other one and waited. Or so it seemed to Lizzie, so she said, ‘I take it you know why I’ve come today.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose you’ve come to plead for bloody old Mrs Armitage.’ He made a face and slurped his tea.

  Lizzie laughed. ‘I’ve not come to plead. Well, not really. But to tell you that although I know she drives everyone mad with her kleptomaniac ways, she really can’t help it.’

  ‘I know that. Of course, I’m not going to prosecute. I only said it to frighten the old bat.’

  ‘It’s her husband you frightened. She doesn’t even understand. But why didn’t you tell the police that you had no intention of prosecuting?’

  Spud drank some more tea. ‘Let
‘em stew for a bit. Huh! And as for that young Turpin, Dick as they call him, he would do better keeping an eye on the river to stop the poachers taking the trout and salmon when they’re in season. He shouldn’t be hassling old ladies.’

  ‘Then I can tell the police and Mr Armitage that you are not going to prosecute,’ said Lizzie. ‘The police will be pleased. They’ve got enough to do without worrying about eccentric old ladies.’

  Spud nodded his head. ‘True,’ he said, looking solemn. ‘They’ve got the job of finding young Jem’s murderer.’ He sat again in silence for a moment, before saying, ‘of course I got me own ideas where that’s concerned.

  Maguire’s words, ‘for goodness sake try and keep out of this’ rang through Lizzie’s head. He wouldn’t want her making enquiries, but she was dying to ask Spud what he thought. Village gossip was useful; any information, especially such as the interesting background stuff she’d got from Steve’s wife, was of help. Maguire had even admitted that, albeit reluctantly. Now Spud Murphy had his own ideas. She decided to try a little careful digging. ‘I understand that your daughter was a good friend of Jemima.’

  The man opposite her drank some more tea. Lizzie waited. She knew he was thinking, wondering perhaps if he could trust her. Then he spoke. ‘You’re a doctor. You must meet all sorts of folk.’

  Lizzie paused a moment, she didn’t want to hurry him. ‘I do,’ she said slowly. ‘And if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s not to judge people. The saying that there’s nowt as queer as folk is very true. We are all driven by many kinds of emotions. Love, hate, jealousy to name but a few.’

  Spud nodded. ‘Yes, that true enough. And that family up at the Hall are driven by all of those.’ He leaned forward, picked up some of the feathered flies, and let them fall through his gnarled fingers. ‘Years ago, Jemima used to come here with my daughter Margaret when she was little and the two of them would help me make these flies ready for the fishing season. Then later Ruth came as well, I watched ‘em all grow up.’

  He paused, Lizzie waited again.

  ‘I didn’t live here then,’ he continued slowly. ‘This cottage was just used as a fishing lodge and Harold used to come down and stay the night as well as fish. Still does come down and stay over when he wants to get away, only now he stays up river at the eel trap lodge.’ He paused again, and sighed. ‘I’ve known him since he was a boy; he’s the same age as me. Those were the days. We ‘ad no cares then, we was the same as each other. Just boys, mad on fishing. But then he inherited the Hall and went to Oxford, and then went into business, but he really changed after he married.’

  There was another long silence eventually broken by Lizzie who said, ‘I suppose he changed because he grew up, the same as you. We all change when we grow up.’

  Spud carried on slowly, telling Lizzie all the gossip about the Villiers family. How they’d been very good to him, employing him as the river keeper for the whole beat. A good job and well paid. The beat, he explained, was the stretch of river that belonged to the Villiers family. His job was to make sure it was well stocked with trout and salmon, which he bred in his fish farm up near the eel trap, and later at the end of the fishing season, he cleared the predatory pike if they were too abundant.

  Lizzie also learned that Jemima’s mother, Fiona, had been a very beautiful actress, and her husband Alexander, Harold’s brother, had been a theatre director and was often away either in London or New York. The whole Villiers family had all lived at Avon Hall in those days, and there were parties galore. Although apparently Harold, according to Spud, hadn’t been so keen on the parties, it was his wife who was. ‘Used to dress up to the nines,’ he said. ‘Always looked as if she’d just stepped off the page of one of those County Magazines.’

  Still does, thought Lizzie, but remained silent.

  Spud sounded very disapproving as he told Lizzie, ‘I knew no good would come of it. All that drinking. All those affairs. And all the rows. Terrible rows there were, no wonder Harold used to come down here to the river. Even Simon, who was only a teenager, drank to excess, and they never tried to stop him. He wouldn’t have been so stupid with that damned tractor if he hadn’t been drinking.’ Spud paused again, lost in his thoughts.

  Although dying for him to get a move on, Lizzie kept her impatience at bay. ‘After the accident, the parties stopped. Instead of rowing, Harold and Amelia hardly spoke. Still don’t.’

  ‘You don’t like Amelia, do you,’ Lizzie said. ‘Maybe you are doing her a disservice. She can’t be all bad.’

  ‘Hah!’ snorted Spud. Lizzie almost expected him to spit on the floor, the Hah! was delivered with such venom. ‘Now if Harold was murdered,’ he said, ‘I’d know who to go looking for.’

  By the time Lizzie left the riverside cottage her head was bursting with information about the Villiers family. But strangely enough, Spud was not so certain as other people that Jemima was Harold’s daughter. ‘Possibly,’ he said, ‘possibly. But there’s no proof.’ Neither did he have an opinion on whom, nor why, anyone would want to kill Jemima. Lizzie was quite surprised that he didn’t blame Amelia Villiers, as he blamed her for practically everything else. She ended up feeling quite sorry for the poor woman.

  *

  It was early evening by the time she reached the home of Mr and Mrs Armitage. Her patient was sitting in an armchair by the front window of the bungalow she shared with her long-suffering husband, a large handbag on her lap. She smiled sweetly when she saw Lizzie.

  ‘Do come in,’ she said. ‘I’ll get Arthur to make us some tea.’

  Tea was the last thing Lizzie wanted, or indeed needed. She was still full to the brim with Spud’s strong dark brew, but it had been difficult to say no to him, as it was now. So she said, ‘thank you, perhaps a very small cup,’ and Arthur scuttled out towards the kitchen.

  ‘And some cakes. There should be cakes, dear,’ called Mrs Armitage. ‘I think I got some the last time I went shopping.’

  Arthur put his head through the hatch from the kitchen. ‘No dear,’ he said, raising his eyebrows at Lizzie. ‘You didn’t get cakes, you got fish.’

  ‘Did I? Oh well, never mind. You can always make fishcakes.’ She opened her handbag and rummaged about for a moment, and then brought out two very large flesh coloured bras and held one up against herself. ‘What do you think?’ she asked Lizzie. ‘They were on special offer. An absolute bargain.’

  Arthur, coming back in, very nearly dropped the tray he was carrying in. ‘Oh Cecily dear, you’ve been into Bradleys again. You promised me you wouldn’t.’

  ‘But I need these. I do need new things sometimes, Arthur. You never let me get any new things.’ She began to get tearful.

  Lizzie stepped into the breach quickly. ‘They look a little bit large to me,’ she said, taking the bras from her and holding them up against Mrs Armitage’s frail, bony body. ‘How about if I take them back for you and change them for a size smaller. What do you think?’

  ‘That’s very good of you. Thank you.’ Mrs Armitage relinquished the garments and settled back down. ‘I’ll have my tea now, Arthur dear.’

  It’s very good of you to come, Dr Browne,’ said the old man. ‘When she was arrested this morning, I was hoping that she’d be put in prison for a week or two. That way I would get some peace.’

  Lizzie thought his remarks might upset the old lady, but she continued to sit there smiling sweetly and looking out of the window. ‘She’s not going to be put in prison,’ Lizzie told him. ‘But I think I’ll make an appointment for her to see an Elderly Care Specialist at the hospital. Someone who can help her, and you.’

  ‘That will be good,’ said Arthur.

  Lizzie left with the two bras and the promise to take them back to Bradleys, as well as the promise to make an appointment for Cecily Armitage to see a Specialist. Although whether or not that would help Mrs Armitage, she had her doubts. She remembered Dick Jamieson’s words the last time Cecily Armitage had had a larceny spree. ‘Unfortunately t
here is no such thing as an anti-shoplifting pill for old ladies,’ he’d said. ‘And it is always old ladies.’

  ‘That’s because all the old men have died off,’ Steven Walters had replied cynically. ‘Women are the stronger sex.’

  Chapter 11

  It was quite late in the evening by the time Maguire and the SOCO team, plus Steve, arrived at the house in Salisbury. Steve had already warned Maguire that he thought the older students renting the flat upstairs were not telling the whole truth. ‘But it’s just a feeling I have,’ he admitted ‘Kevin didn’t agree with me.’

  ‘Kevin hasn’t got your experience,’ said Maguire, surprising Steve by agreeing with him. ‘You’ve been in this game long enough now,’ he said, ‘to know when to follow your nose. So let’s see what more we can find between the two of us.’

  ‘Five of us, sir,’ said Steve with a grin, pointing to the SOCO team tumbling out of their van lugging their equipment with them. ‘I wonder if they like their job,’ he added. ‘They never talk to anybody.’

  ‘They talk to each other and to us when they spot something interesting.’

  Dave Harvey and his team trundled their equipment up the stairs towards Jemima’s bedroom, and Maguire and Steve carried on past them to the flat upstairs occupied by the two post grad students. But they were out of luck. There was no one in.

  ‘They did say something about going back into their lab to finish off some experiments,’ said Steve.

  ‘And you didn’t think to ask them when they’d be finished?’

  ‘I didn’t know that we’d be coming back here again today,’ said Steve.

  Maguire looked disgruntled, but whatever he’d been about to say was interrupted by sounds of footsteps on the stairs, and the two young doctors appeared solving the problem. ‘Good,’ Maguire said briskly. ‘I’m glad you’ve arrived. I need a few moments of your time.’