The Devil's Chair

by Priscilla Masters

  ‘Probably about as much as most people,’ she said cautiously, ‘roses for love and all that. Although Shropshire does have a bit of a reputation for horticulture thanks to good old Percy Thrower.’ She couldn’t resist smiling as she wondered where all this was leading.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, his tone lightening so she knew he was smiling too, ‘though, as I said, this is more about the language of flowers than how much manure to put on the roses.’

  ‘I’m intrigued.’

  ‘Look,’ he said awkwardly. ‘I’m just heading back up the A49 from Church Stretton now. I’ll be passing through Bayston Hill in about half an hour. Is there any chance I could pop in and we could discuss this? I want to show you something.’

  ‘I’ll ask Jericho to put the kettle on,’ she said lightly. She hadn’t seen Alex Randall for a couple of weeks and, quite apart from looking forward to seeing him, she was dying to know how the investigation was progressing. Was there any news of Daisy?

  She also felt some sympathy for Alex Randall. As senior investigating officer he had come under intense scrutiny and criticism at his handling of the initial investigation. The newspapers had been increasingly critical of the police: how thorough had the initial search of the Long Mynd been?

  Was it absolutely certain, beyond all doubt, that Daisy Walsh had been in the doomed car? What explanation did they have for Tracy screeching to a halt on a remote road at two a.m. when no one had come forward to say they had seen her or collided with her?

  Had there been a collision between two cars on the the Burway that night or had the dent been made on another occasion?

  How thorough had the initial search been of Charity Ignatio’s house?

  And again and again they came back to the same question: why had they failed to find the child?

  The questions had gone on and on. With no response from the police, the word failure was increasingly prominent in the editorials. It was at times like these that Martha felt most sympathy for the police. They were doing their best, for pity’s sake. But how on earth did DI Randall think she could help?

  And the language of flowers? What was that all about? Intrigued hardly described her manic curiosity. The thirty minutes between the phone call and Alex Randall’s revelations dragged. To try and stop herself from nibbling her nails in impatience she focused on upcoming events.

  She had set a date for the inquest to be opened. She already anticipated that the case would be opened and adjourned pending police enquiries. In her heart she could already hear her pronouncement, open verdict or death by misadventure. No one had murdered Tracy. No one had pushed the car off the Burway. She had died by her own drunken hand. Had Daisy’s body been found alongside her mother’s Martha would have had a joint inquest, mother and daughter together – if Daisy was dead it was fitting that they should be buried together. She had not needed to attend Tracy’s post-mortem but Mark Sullivan had rung her with the results. Tracy had died of major organ failure following multiple injuries sustained during a road traffic accident. Already half of her bits and pieces had been sewn into other bodies, hopefully to relieve them of a lifetime’s ill health.

  Martha had read through the reports with an odd sense of the futility of life but not necessarily of death. Tracy Walsh had achieved something in her death that perhaps she had not managed in life: she had helped and benefited someone.

  Alex Randall was actually with her twenty-five minutes later. She heard him climb the stairs, his long legs taking them two at a time, greet Jericho and a moment later his brisk knock rapped on her door. She pulled it open herself and couldn’t smother the broad smile that displayed her pleasure at seeing him again. ‘Good to see you, Alex,’ she said warmly.

  He entered the room and stood still, his face close to hers, smiling into her eyes, breathing in her air. Had this been a cocktail party they would have been close enough to kiss. At least a mwah mwah social kiss. It would only have taken one of them to move forward less than one inch. They were that near. She was very aware of him as a man: the scent of him, the sound of his breathing, the rise and fall of his chest, the angles of face and body, the energetic vibes he emitted. They both froze, neither moving a muscle.

  Then the spell was broken. He took a step back, still facing her, still smiling but unmistakably backing off. He looked glad to see her but there was a tangible cooling in the atmosphere. The happy light in his eyes dimmed. Perhaps her welcome had been a little too warm. Too intimate. Too open. She was a woman who found it hard to conceal her emotions. She had been overly glad to see him and now she had embarrassed him with her warmth.

  He broke the silence with a dry laugh. ‘I do bother you with some things, don’t I, Martha.’

  ‘I love the intrigue,’ she confessed. ‘It makes life interesting. Besides, as coroner, I’m involved in the case now. With Tracy’s death it comes under my jurisdiction. Tell me first, Alex, have you found Daisy?’

  He shook his head. ‘Regretfully, no.’

  ‘Not a sign of her? No clue as to her whereabouts?’

  Again he shook his head and gave her a rueful smile. ‘No. But let’s look on the bright side: at least we haven’t found her body. Whatever’s happened to her she isn’t lying somewhere on the Long Mynd, injured or dead, missed by a careless police search. We’ve combed the entire area thoroughly.’ A shadow fleeted across his face. ‘And while she’s still missing there is, at least, a chance that she will be found safe and well.’ His hazel eyes looked hopefully at her.

  Not much of a chance as time goes by, Martha wanted to say but desisted, substituting it for, ‘So where do you think she is?’

  ‘I’ll be honest, Martha, I don’t have a clue.’ His eyes looked frankly into hers. ‘I have no idea,’ he said simply. ‘Absolutely no idea whatsoever. I’m stumped.’

  ‘What about your mystery caller? Have you tracked her down?’

  He gave a deep sigh. ‘She’s vanished. We’ve had officers calling on practically every isolated cottage, farm and homestead within a ten-mile radius. We’ve nearly finished. We haven’t come across anyone who fits the bill. We’ve broadcast the nine-nine-nine call over and over again on TV. No one’s come forward to say they recognize the voice. If our mystery caller is a real person and not a fantasy, she must lead a life practically without human contact.’

  ‘Hmm. And what about the possible collision?’

  ‘Again, no one’s come forward,’ Alex said wearily.

  ‘Surely you have identification on the paint?’

  Alex blew out a frustrated breath. ‘We think it’s a Honda or a Chevrolet,’ he said. ‘But we’re not absolutely certain that the collision happened on the Saturday night of Tracy’s accident.’

  ‘What about your forensic linguist,’ Martha asked. ‘The Shropshire Star said you’d involved someone from Birmingham. Did she help?’

  ‘Yes and no. Some of what she said was plain odd. Mumbo jumbo, I suspect, but as I’ve said I’m clutching at straws here. She mentioned some stuff about the mystery caller being a country woman who was socially isolated; someone whose speech wasn’t polluted by contemporary phrases. She said she sounded as though she came from another era. She suggested a farmer’s wife, a country dweller.’ He frowned and said in a spooky voice and a wriggle of his bony fingers: ‘From the past.’

  In spite of the gravity of the situation, Martha couldn’t prevent a smile.

  He looked embarrassed. ‘She said something about superstition, folklore, pagan beliefs. Black magic, white magic. All that stuff.’

  Had the situation not been so serious, Martha would have laughed out loud. ‘I thought forensic linguistics was meant to be a scientific study, Alex.’

  ‘I know,’ he said, suddenly looking weary. ‘We know we’re clutching at straws. But what else can I do with so little to go on and the possibility that the life of a four-year-old is at stake?’ He leaned in so close she could read his troubled eyes. ‘At night I dream I’ve found her body and she’s freshly dead, so i
f we’d found her sooner she would still be alive.’

  She reached for his hand in sympathy and for once he didn’t draw back, seeming happy at her touch.

  He continued, ‘No one has come forward who knows of someone who might have had a prang at two a.m. in the early hours of Sunday the seventh of April on the Burway, and no one appears to recognize the voice of our mystery caller. And that is the sum total of everything we know about the whereabouts of Daisy Walsh. Nothing. Quite honestly,’ he said despairingly, ‘we may as well say she’s been spirited away by fairies or taken by the Devil. We haven’t got any better ideas.’

  ‘Are all cases like this, Alex? So confusing?’

  ‘Mostly.’

  ‘But she exists,’ Martha pointed out. ‘She’s not some wood nymph to disappear into nothing. She’s a real child.’ Even as she spoke the words something pricked at her consciousness, causing her to frown.

  ‘Yes. She exists,’ Randall responded a little testily, not noticing. ‘And I believe our caller is a local woman but we can’t seem to find her. The team have been all over the place, knocking on doors, asking questions. We’ve covered everywhere.’

  Martha searched his face for the slightest beam of hope. It wasn’t there. Only grey depression as heavy as lead. She tried to encourage him. ‘She’s out there somewhere, Alex,’ but the words had the opposite effect. He tightened his lips.

  ‘Usually I find it helpful talking to you about a case,’ he said frankly. ‘It gives me a different perspective.’ Then he grinned even wider, almost apologetically, and met her eyes. The gleam was back. ‘Don’t take offence, Martha, but this is really not one of those instances.’

  ‘No offence taken, Alex,’ she said briskly, responding to the warmth in his eyes. ‘I’m just sorry I can’t inspire you.’ She couldn’t resist glancing down at the newspaper on her desk and tacking on, ‘It must be very frustrating having your shortcomings pointed out so graphically.’

  ‘Yeah, but you’ve got enough to do. I really shouldn’t keep bothering you.’

  She cut him short and sat down at her desk, her mind a swirl of emotion. ‘My life would be an awful lot duller if you didn’t, Alex. You know you’re welcome at any time.’ She met his eyes. ‘You must know that.’

  He simply nodded. ‘But it would be only too easy to take advantage of that, Martha.’

  And like a pubescent girl she felt her face flush. It was all she could do not to cover what she knew would be flaming red cheeks with her hands. Alex Randall sat and watched her, the glint of humour dancing in his eyes. She waited until they were drinking the coffee that Jericho had brought before prompting him. ‘So what is all this about? Flowers? Gardening?’

  ‘We-ell,’ he began, ‘you know how people leave flowers when there’s been a tragedy?’

  ‘Yes.’ She couldn’t work out where this was leading.

  ‘Some were left on the Burway, just at the point where the car left the road.’

  ‘But Tracy died in hospital. Not there. And Daisy – well, we just don’t know.’

  ‘Perhaps someone does.’

  They had returned to the circle.

  ‘Then why conceal her body?’

  He shrugged. ‘I wish I knew.’

  ‘Don’t we all? It would bring some relief.’

  ‘Well,’ he said gloomily, ‘we’re never going to get Tracy’s side of the story now, are we?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There were quite a lot of flowers.’

  Martha couldn’t work out where all this was heading. ‘So? I expect a few people felt sympathy. It’s generally done.’

  ‘Not like this.’ He produced a bedraggled bouquet tied up with blue ribbon. She stared at it. It was hardly decorative; not the usual wrapped bouquet. In fact, they weren’t really flowers at all. They looked more like a bunch of herbs. She looked across at Alex, a question in her eyes. He shrugged and she picked the bunch up, frowning and sniffing them.

  ‘Well, as to flowers being left at the site,’ she ruminated, ‘as Tracy didn’t die there, and Daisy’s fate is a mystery, it may just be a token. Or …’ Her voice tailed away.

  ‘That’s not all,’ Alex said and produced the forensic bag. Like him she read the message. Read the meaning of the plants. Follow the message and find the child.

  ‘So there’s some significance in the plants,’ she said and began to identify them, then looked up. ‘You said the meaning of plants. A hidden message.’

  He leaned forward, hands on his knees. Curious. ‘Go on,’ he urged.

  Her fingers lingered over the sprig of lavender. ‘So these flowers are not the usual message of love, sympathy or hope but something a little more subtle. Something we need to interpret.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I meant,’ he said eagerly, ‘when I used the phrase language of flowers. Can you imagine what the papers would make of these?’

  ‘Yes,’ she responded, lifting her eyes from the plants to his face. ‘Nothing good.’

  His eyes were bright and hopeful. ‘I don’t suppose you could have a go at interpreting the message for me?’ He leaned far back in his chair, relaxing now, half closing his eyes but watching her from lowered lids, hawk-like.

  ‘I’ll have a go,’ she said, ‘though I worry I might misinterpret the message.’

  ‘It’s a possibility,’ he agreed, ‘but …’ After a brief pause, he continued, ‘I wasn’t sure what your horticultural identification skills were so,’ he took a list out from his pocket, ‘I got one of the people at the Percy Thrower Garden Centre to identify them all.’ He read from the list. ‘Lobelia, azalea, lavender, mint, rosemary, myrtle.’

  Had it not been for Alex’s face earnestly searching for help and the gravity of the situation, Martha would have giggled. ‘Sounds more like a recipe for a casserole to me.’

  ‘We-ell, it certainly looked different from the other floral tributes, which is why I picked it up and brought it here. It was left a little apart,’ he added. ‘And then I read the message.’

  She studied the list then fingered the sprigs. It did look more like a bouquet garni than a decorative flower arrangement, and there was no mistaking the direction: Read the meaning of the plants. Follow the message and find the child.

  It didn’t say whether the child was alive or dead, but it was a clear challenge.

  Martha looked at Alex’s list, then at the plants again. Without another word, she stood up and crossed the room.

  She took a book down from the shelf and turned to face Alex Randall. ‘Luckily for you, one year, when my mother didn’t know what to buy me for Christmas, she bought me this.’ It was a heavy tome with plenty of pictures of plants. She laid it on her desk, leafed through the pages, found the plants and made a few notes.

  Ten minutes later, she met Alex’s eyes. ‘The message,’ she said, ‘is a very negative one. Lobelia stands for malevolence. Azalea’s a warning to take care; it also stands for temperance and fragility.’ She looked up. ‘That could possibly refer to Daisy. Tracy certainly wasn’t temperate though she was ultimately fragile.’

  Randall nodded, listening hard as she continued.

  ‘Lavender stands for devotion but also for distrust. Mint for suspicion. And rosemary for remembrance or to look at it another way to make sure you never forget.’ She leaned back in her chair, thoughtful. ‘Myrtle doesn’t quite fit in – not according to this, anyway. Myrtle stands for love, Alex. Apparently it’s the Hebrew emblem of marriage, used under the canopy or chuppah. Perhaps it stands for the love Tracy surely must have felt for her daughter?’ She wished she could have taken the questioning upward inflection from the end of the sentence but she was not sure what Tracy Walsh’s feelings had really been towards her little girl; certainly not at the point when she had snatched her from her bed and driven her, drunk as a skunk, up such a dangerous road.

  ‘If I’m reading the message correctly,’ she said, ‘there is love, a warning never to forget, distrust, suspicion and malevolence. At a guess the per
son who is sending us this message knows a little more about Tracy Walsh and her daughter than we do.’

  ‘And the message is meant for?’

  She met his eyes. ‘I think it’s meant for you, Alex, as senior investigating officer.’

  Randall looked troubled. Then he spoke quietly. ‘Hidden messages? So we probably have the same person who made the phone call, the very same person that we’re assuming removed Daisy alive, dead or injured from the scene of the accident, and this person is sending me an indirect and deliberately obscure message of malevolence, distrust, a warning we must never forget and suspicion, together with an ancient Jewish message of love and commitment, and in the centre is a four-year-old girl who should take care and who is fragile, temperate and currently missing. It’s as bad as those awful people who are addicted to crossword puzzles and talk in riddles. That’s what this is, Martha. Talking in riddles.’ His expression was strained. ‘And I suppose the negative messages all relate to Tracy?’

  ‘Or Neil,’ she added softly. ‘I take it the grandmother and aunt are not in the picture?’

  ‘I hadn’t even considered that possibility,’ he said, heaving a great sigh. ‘Why on earth would they abduct a child whose future would almost certainly lie with them?’

  ‘I can only think of one reason,’ she said, ‘and it’s not a very good one. Chequebook journalism?’

  ‘A very risky strategy,’ he said.

  ‘I met them today,’ she said, ‘and was fairly unimpressed. They appeared to be fake. I don’t think they really cared at all about Tracy’s death – or Daisy’s disappearance, for that matter. I just got the impression they …’ She stopped. ‘They were talking about speaking to the press. They seemed a pair who only thought of themselves. There wasn’t any real grief or concern over the plight of Daisy but, you know, I can’t see them abducting the child and hanging on to her, hoping to make a bit of money out of it. They didn’t seem that conniving.’

  Then another thought struck her and she touched the sprig of myrtle. ‘Does anyone actually love this little girl or has she been a pawn in a relationship, a way for Tracy to get back at Neil for his perceived infidelities? Is that why she grabbed her that night instead of leaving her safely in her bed?’