The Woods Murder

by Roy Lewis

  ‘We’ll see, we’ll see. You hanging on with Enson?’

  ‘I’ve not finished with him yet.’

  ‘Well, maybe I’ll see you later. Good night, Inspector.’

  Crow wondered what it had cost the burly superintendent to swallow his pride. It couldn’t have been easy for the man. Crow shivered. It was cold. He went back into the room to join Wilson and Enson; the coffee had arrived. Crow took his cup and stared at the dark brown liquid despondently.

  ‘Why did you type that letter?’

  ‘I tell you—’

  ‘I said why did you type it, instead of writing it in longhand?’

  Enson began to continue his denial but caught the gleam in Crow’s eye and stopped. In an edgy tone he said, ‘I never type personal letters. I have no typewriter at home. The only letters that I get typed are office letters, typed over my signature.’

  ‘That’s what I was wondering about. Why should you have typed this one? Could it have been because your hand was shaky? Or was it simply because you couldn’t produce Mike Enson’s handwriting?’

  Enson was staring at him. ‘Inspector—’

  ‘No. Let me think out loud for a moment. You couldn’t reproduce your own writing, so you type it. But you write your own signature. What does Miss Tennant call you?’

  ‘Mike.’

  ‘Yet you signed your name, Michael. Do you always write it in full like that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Even to Miss Tennant?’

  ‘I’ve never written to Miss Tennant.’

  ‘Mmm. So you say. Strange, that letter . . . I mean, why did you ask her to meet you at the Mill? You both live alone, you have a car, you could have picked her up. Instead you send a typed letter . . . and you sign your full name . . .’

  Crow sipped at his coffee, his eyes brooding on Enson’s attentive face. It was a nice face really, wide mouth, pleasant slate-grey eyes, but those eyes could be hard and angry, Crow knew.

  ‘Tell me about Cathy Tennant. Tell me where you met her, how you met her, the circumstances. Tell me all about her and your relationship with her.’

  Enson looked doubtful; there was a hint of suspicion in his face as though he were aware of Crow’s more relaxed, diffident approach.

  ‘I met her in January. We became friendly, were attracted to each other . . . I asked her to marry me.’

  ‘And you quarrelled.’

  ‘That was nothing.’

  ‘But you didn’t make it up.’

  ‘Well, she started acting strangely, refused to see me after Lendon died. I couldn’t understand why.’

  ‘We know why now. The letter.’

  ‘But I didn’t write it! When we quarrelled at the pub I thought she was upset because she’d discovered about my father from Lendon’s papers. That angered me. I didn’t see why she should cool towards me because Dad went to prison. But I was angry too, especially at the thought of the way your probing would drag it all out again.’

  ‘She ran off from you that night.’

  ‘That’s right. Through the woods.’

  ‘You frightened her, chasing her like that.’

  ‘I didn’t chase her!’ Enson’s tone was harsh. ‘When she left me at the pub I was so angry I said to hell with it all and I went back to the car and I drove home. Let her walk home, I thought to myself! But chase her . . .’

  His voice died away. He sat upright. Suddenly he was staring at Crow like a rabbit hypnotized by the glare of headlights.

  Crow knew that the young man’s thoughts were beginning to drift along the lines that Crow had already moved along; Mike Enson was just beginning to visualise the picture that Crow was already seeing dimly, hazily and yet with a certain conviction.

  ‘That same evening, earlier,’ Crow said with a massive calm, ‘you were waiting for Miss Tennant outside her office. You followed her home. We followed you.’

  ‘There was a policeman? Following me?’ Crow smiled hesitantly.

  ‘I thought it was necessary to keep an eye on her. I guessed that something was worrying her, and I wanted to know what it was. It was you.’

  Enson made no reply. His mouth was set in a grim line, his eyes fixed on Crow. The inspector leaned forward, speaking softly.

  ‘That same evening you called on her and you took her out. You went to the public house above Kenton Wood and you quarrelled again, so she left you and went down through Kenton Wood . . . and she was frightened by someone. I also had occasion to be in the vicinity of the wood that night, I picked her up, as I told you.’

  Crow paused.

  ‘After I drove her home that night, a car nosed into the road behind me, You?’

  Enson shook his head. He thought for a moment. ‘But there was a car parked outside the pub when I left her. Someone was sitting in it: he’d have seen Cathy run into the wood.’

  ‘He?’

  Enson shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know, I paid little attention. He, she, seemed unimportant.’

  ‘But you’re sure there was a car there? And its occupant could have seen Cathy go down into the woods?’

  ‘And me going back to my car and driving off. Hell, if only I’d realized that she might . . .’

  ‘That letter.’ Crow rose to his feet to tower gauntly above the man in the chair. Wilson rose with him.

  Crow grimaced. ‘The letter. You say you did not write it. If you did not, someone did, someone who knew your signature—’

  ‘It could be anyone who had received a letter from my office over my signature! Anyone with whom the firm had had dealings!’

  ‘Whoever wrote that letter obviously didn’t intend it for Lendon. That man, or woman, wrote it to entice Cathy Tennant to the Old Mill. But Lendon got it, and Lendon went, and Lendon died. What would have happened if Cathy had gone? Would she have died?’

  Enson rose in anxious haste. His glance darted from one policeman to the other as though seeking reassurance, ‘But who would want to . . . why would—’

  ‘Cathy didn’t go to the Mill, and Lendon died. Then Cathy goes into Kenton Woods and—’ The silence grew unbearably heavy, ‘It could, of course, have been the same person,’ Crow said quietly, ‘at the Mill and in the woods. Each time hoping to reach Cathy.’

  ‘Miss Tennant has gone to see Mrs Bell this evening.’ Sergeant Wilson spoke for almost the first time that evening.

  For a moment Crow hesitated, then he picked up the telephone,

  ‘Squad car, immediately!’ Then, replacing the receiver, he added to the two men facing him, ‘I wonder whether Mrs Bell did in fact know that Cathy was Charles Lendon’s beneficiary? Or if she did not, whether she does now?’

  Chapter 21

  The car swept through the town with its blue light flashing and klaxon sounding. Crow sat huddled in the back seat beside Enson, who quivered with an impatient nervous energy. Perhaps it had been unwise to allow the young man along, but when he’d agreed to it Crow had glanced at Wilson and seen the message in the sergeant’s eyes. He’d handle Enson if there were any angry outbursts. Crow was satisfied; Wilson was reliable.

  His palms were sweating in spite of the coldness of the night air. Nervous reaction. Cathy Tennant. How could he have seen that her life was in danger? Was there any time previously when he should have suspected it?

  The car hurtled around the corner on screaming tyres.

  They swung into Woodrow Lane and the flashing light lit the trees eerily in a bluish white glow; the frost threw back a myriad twinkling blue lights.

  Dark marks scarred the frost on the track. A car had come down ahead of them.

  When the police car stopped Enson got out quickly and ran for the house, shouting Cathy’s name. Crow dragged at the car door; Wilson was already hurrying after Enson.

  As Crow came up to the front door Wilson was restraining Enson as the man pressed angrily at the bell push. The klaxon died whiningly and the impassive house remained silent and disapproving.

  ‘Cathy!’


  Enson’s call was unanswered. Crow gnawed at his lower lip. The house seemed to be empty.

  ‘We’ll try the back of the house. Constable . . .?’

  ‘Here, sir,’ came the reply at Crow’s irritable tone and the driver materialized at Crow’s elbow.

  ‘Around to the side, to the garage. See if the car that made those marks is there. And check, if it isn’t, to see whether it’s been driven into the wood. If it has, you can—’

  Crow never finished, and Wilson, heading for the back of the house, stopped dead in his tracks.

  ‘Cathy!’ Enson’s voice was agonized, for there was no mistaking the scream: wild and tearing, it was the scream of a woman in terror.

  Enson was already racing across the frosted garden towards the trees bordering Kenton Wood. Crow shouted and went after him, but even as he did so he caught a flicker of light from the house. He hesitated, then ignoring it, stretched his long legs in pursuit of Enson and Wilson who were already plunging through the trees ahead of him. Above the crashing of their progress came the screaming, again, but this time the panic was shut off, suddenly, brutally.

  Hands upon a woman’s throat could do that.

  Tree branches rimed with frost scrabbled at Crow’s shoulders as he forced his way onwards in the direction of the screams. It was intensely dark among the trees in spite of the star-reflecting frost, but just ahead of him was the noise of Wilson’s progress. And Enson’s. Crow knew now that it had been a mistake to bring that young man. If anything had happened to Cathy and if they caught the person responsible, Crow knew that Enson would tear the assailant to pieces, given the opportunity.

  The sounds of crashing progress were changed suddenly; there was only the sound of Wilson’s body momentarily, and a cry of absolute rage from Enson. Almost at the same time a light flickered strongly ahead: Wilson. The only one with sense to carry a regulation issue torch from the car. Crow thrust his way forward in time to see the torchlight whirling in wild parabola as Wilson struggled with a thrusting, angry figure. It was Enson. Crow forced his way forward to see a dark, inert mass on the ground and a shapeless form crouched above it. Over them struggled Wilson and Enson.

  ‘Enson!’ shouted Crow in a furious tone. The two men stopped struggling as though whipped by a lash and Crow came up to them, to look down at the forms at their feet. There was a curious moaning whimper drifting up to the trees, a dying sound, but Crow could not make out its source. He took the flashlight from Wilson and directed it downwards.

  The dark grass and frosty leaves were trampled and black. The inert form on the ground was still, the face white except for the darkness of blood at her throat. Crow felt a freezing coldness in his stomach and flicked the beam towards the man kneeling at Cathy’s side.

  It picked out with a harsh precision the gasping, fear-torn features of James Carson.

  Chapter 22

  All she could remember was the stabbing light on her face and the slithering sound; then there was the running, just like that other night in Kenton Wood . . . But now her throat was sore and her head ached and a finger of sunshine was picking its way across the pale coverlet and two men faced her. One was tall, stooping, with a predatory nose and bald skull. His deep-set eyes were friendly. Chief Inspector Crow. And beside him, Michael Enson.

  ‘Don’t look so worried, Cathy. He’s not in custody.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Explanations can wait until later, You need to rest now.’

  ‘I’ll be here when you wake again,’ Mike said quietly and smiled at her. The expression on his face caused a warm glow to arise in her. Then he squeezed her hand, and she was drifting again into a warm sunlit sleep.

  Quietly, Crow walked out of the room. There were a few more questions he’d want to ask the girl yet, but they could wait. He’d more or less got it all now. He looked up to see Wilson approaching.

  ‘Mr Tennant has arrived, sir.’

  ‘He’ll be wanting to see Cathy. She’s asleep now, and Enson’s with her. I’ll have a word with Tennant.’

  In the waiting-room Arthur Tennant rose to greet him. There were still lines of anxiety around his pouched eyes. ‘Has she come round?’

  ‘Yes, but she’s asleep again now, and young Enson’s with her. If you have a word with the doctor I’m sure he’ll allow you in there. But she’ll be all right . . . shock is the problem, mainly.’

  Tennant sat down and shook his head in quiet relief.

  His yellow-stained fingers trembled slightly as he took out his pipe. Crow felt a surge of compassion for the man.

  ‘When I saw you last night,’ Tennant said, ‘you weren’t inclined to tell me much about what happened.’

  ‘I can tell you now.’

  ‘John Barnes was badly injured?’

  ‘A broken nose and jaw; his cheekbone may be fractured too. But he’ll stand trial for the murder of Jenny Carson and the attempted murder of Cathy.’

  ‘And Charles Lendon?’ ‘And Charles Lendon.’

  ‘But I don’t understand how it all happened.’

  Crow sat down beside Tennant and leaned back in the chair.

  ‘It all began for John Barnes some years ago. He was brought up in the society of women and I suppose the ‘head-shrinkers’ will have something to say about that, and sexual repression and so on, but the fact is he had an unhappy love affair which scared him off women sexually. Until he caught Jenny in the woods, there was nothing to suggest that he was abnormal, however.’

  ‘He assaulted her, and killed her.’

  ‘I don’t know how often he wandered those woods; I don’t know whether he intended what happened. It may have been sudden impulse, but that night Lendon was away in Silchester, Barnes stayed with Mrs Bell, and in the morning walked in the woods — and found Jenny. There’s an old porter at Linwood who’ll swear that Barnes was there that night, but he’s so doddery he’d swear to anything Barnes fed him. And Mrs Bell . . . she’s always been overprotective as far as her brother is concerned.’

  ‘You mean she knew he’d killed Jenny.’

  ‘Suspected, at least, but probably knew, yes. She covered for him, certainly.’

  ‘But why did Barnes go after Lendon — and Cathy?’

  ‘For Barnes, I suspect, the floodgates were down once he had attacked Jenny. He wanted a woman, and Cathy became his target. His sister spoke to him of Lendon’s interest in Cathy, he was curious, watched for her, and she became the focus for his attention. He wanted her. But it couldn’t be like Jenny. He’d have to entice her to a lonely place, perhaps a lovers’ tryst. He knew she was seeing Enson. The Old Mill seemed ideal.’

  ‘Did Mrs Bell know what was on his mind?’

  ‘I think she might have guessed later. I suspect he might have come to her after killing Jenny and she told him to go to the nursing home and arrange an alibi with the porter. Easily done; a mention of the time later and the old man at once agreed.’

  ‘How did Barnes think he could get Cathy to the mill?’

  ‘We’ve been through his room. He’s got a dozen sheets of stationery from Enson’s firm — and Enson’s stencilled signature on some publicity material. He must have visited the firm and lifted some. Anyway, he sent a note to Cathy by leaving it at reception when no one was there . . . from across the street he’d be able to see when the reception office was empty. It was an assignation and purported to come from Enson, though it was signed Michael, since it was copied from the stencilled signature, instead of just Mike. But his luck was out.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Lendon had been out that afternoon with . . . a certain lady. He came in, saw the letter and ripped open the envelope. Barnes couldn’t know that Lendon would be interested in Cathy’s association with Enson, couldn’t know he’d see the letter and intercept it, suspecting it might be from Enson. And he couldn’t know that Lendon would then turn up in her place at the Old Mill, to warn Enson away from Cathy. Barnes was already keyed up, bordering on nervous panic at
the thought of Cathy coming to him. He was geared to a violent sexual act; the appearance of Lendon must have terrified him, and he’s not a strong specimen. Barnes must have panicked. He would have fled, I’m sure, but there was no egress so he hid. Lendon came in, perhaps called, then came forward. Under Barnes’s hand was a rusty skewer and as Lendon came in through the inner doorway Barnes stepped forward and with one nervous, terrified blow drove it into Lendon’s heart.’

  Tennant slowly expelled his breath and sat staring at the pipe in his hand. ‘But he still . . . wanted Cathy.’

  ‘Lendon’s death solved nothing for him. He still felt a strong, unnatural desire for Cathy, and he burned to assuage it. He watched her, followed her . . . in a perverted sense I suppose he loved her. In the meanwhile Cathy was in a daze. Lendon had stuffed the letter in a file and she’d found it.’

  ‘And assumed Enson had sent it?’

  ‘That’s right. In spite of her doubts and fears she went out once more with Enson, however, to the Bear Inn. Barnes followed them. He saw her quarrel with Enson in the car park, he followed Cathy into the woods, and he tried to attack her then. He was almost caught. His sexual frustration was mounting and at last he threw caution aside. He watched her take the bus to Lendon’s house, followed in his car. When she spoke to Mrs Bell he entered the house with the key Alex Bell had given him. He hid on the stairs and listened.’

  Crow hesitated; he was somewhat reluctant to go on.

  ‘I think Mrs Bell must have heard her brother on the stairs. I suspect that, hearing him, she then sent Cathy out through the back door, and while she sat alone in the house with the lights turned off she must have heard John Barnes leave through the front door. She . . . she must have known what was to happen; she made no attempt to stop it.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘She was bitter and disappointed. She felt cheated; she’d expected more from Lendon’s will. Cathy would have given her the house, but Alex Bell didn’t give her a chance to say it.

  She left Cathy to Barnes . . . you’d have thought she’d want to protect her brother from such an action, but her desire for revenge against Lendon and Cathy must have overridden her protective instincts. She stayed quietly in the house, even when we came knocking. Barnes went for Cathy when she left the house, shone a torch in her face and went for her. But he must have slipped on the frosty ground for he didn’t catch her until she reached the edge of the woods. He struck her with his torch and began to drag her, unconscious, into the cover of the trees. His intention was to rape her and then kill her quietly. But his progress was slow and noisy and he was frightened and excited. He was not too far in before he stopped, and tore open her coat. She began to come to herself, she struggled, she screamed, and Barnes lost control, his sexual motive was overcome by fear. She was a strong young woman, not a child, and he panicked. He began to strangle her; in a few minutes she would have died.’