by Faith Martin
Beatrice then sighed sadly, and she carried on talking quietly. ‘My daughter became progressively more and more possessive and jealous as their relationship progressed. Always asking where he’d been, and whether he’d been speaking to other girls. Then she’d swing the other way and apologise, and beg him to forgive her. She would buy him gifts…’ Beatrice flushed a little at this. ‘Inappropriate and expensive gifts. A gold cigarette lighter and case. An onyx signet ring. Things like that. I could tell that Jon—Mr McGillicuddy… was embarrassed by them. I mean, he was just a jobbing gardener then – it wasn’t as if he could wear fancy jewellery to work! And in his social circles… well, bringing out a gold cigarette case at his local pub…’ Beatrice shrugged. ‘It annoyed my husband too. More than once he stopped her allowance so she couldn’t spend money on him.’
Beatrice paused and looked down at her hands. With some effort she seemed to lever them off the armrests and force them into her lap. ‘He gave them back, you know. After she… died. He gave them back to me – the cigarette case and ring. I have them still, in a drawer upstairs. Well…’ She shrugged hopelessly. ‘I didn’t know what else to do with them.’
She glanced across at them both and smiled. The young girl looked sad, and she could tell that nearly all of her earlier antagonism had died away. The older man, though, the man who had introduced himself as a coroner – she couldn’t tell what he was thinking.
‘Do you have any idea who might have killed him?’ Beatrice asked pensively. ‘I feel so sorry for his mother! I know, you see, what it’s like to lose a child. And if you were close to making an arrest, it would help her, I think.’
Trudy put on a professional smile and ignored the blatant fishing for information. ‘Inquires are ongoing, Mrs Fleet-Wright. I can assure you we’re following up all available leads.’ The policewoman in her recited the trite phrases primly.
Beatrice nodded dutifully, hiding an inner sigh. ‘Yes, of course,’ she murmured. Clearly, they weren’t going to tell her anything useful.
‘Mr McGillicuddy first met your daughter when you hired him to work on your garden?’ Trudy asked her softly.
‘Yes. At that point he was working for a gardening firm I’d been using for years. It was only a little while later that he struck out on his own,’ Beatrice confirmed.
‘And he and Gisela quickly became an item?’
‘Yes.’
‘You said your husband wasn’t happy about it,’ Trudy reminded her gently. ‘But how did you feel about it?’
‘Oh, I was worried too, but not for the same reasons as Reginald,’ Beatrice responded. ‘I knew Gisela would become even more emotional and intense. I was worried it would make her mood swings worse, and bring back the awful bouts of depression. And I was right. When they broke up, her depression became almost uncontrollable. Her medication was increased so much… I worried for her.’
Sometimes, Beatrice had worried for her daughter’s very sanity, but of course she couldn’t say that. Not out loud. Not now and not to these people. She’d not even spoken the words out loud to her own husband.
‘But you must have blamed Mr McGillicuddy to some extent for all this?’ Trudy persisted firmly.
‘No, not really,’ Beatrice said helplessly.
In discussing their strategy at length, Clement had made it clear Trudy’s job was to push the witness as far as she could. He would then watch and listen as Beatrice was put under pressure and try to spot any telltale signs she was lying. And although Trudy didn’t particularly like the idea of doing it, she had seen the sense in that.
And so now, in spite of the fact that her more tender instincts were telling her she shouldn’t be badgering this woman, a mother who must, even nearly five years after the event, still be grieving the loss of her child, Trudy tensed to do her duty.
If she was ever to make anything of herself in this job, she knew she had to get used to questioning witnesses, and sometimes, if the occasion warranted it, even be ruthless about it. And if that meant growing a slightly thicker skin, then so be it.
Even so, as she formed her next question, she felt a little bit sick inside. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Fleet-Wright, but I simply don’t understand how you can say that. It’s all right, you know, to admit that you didn’t like the victim. I know Mr McGillicuddy’s just been murdered, and that you may not feel comfortable speaking ill of the dead, but I assure you… we’d rather you spoke the truth. Don’t you feel even a little bit of satisfaction that the man who caused your family so much grief is now dead himself?’
There! She’d done it!
But Beatrice Fleet-Wright didn’t look angry or defiant – or even guilty. She looked, in fact, shocked. Genuinely shocked.
‘No! Oh, no, how can you say that?’ Beatrice said, appalled. ‘Of course I’m not glad he’s dead!’ Her voice had risen a full octave, and as the sound of her suddenly strident voice echoed back at her in that sterile room, she suddenly seemed to become aware of it.
Beatrice caught a breath, and got a rein on her scattered wits. No, you mustn’t lose control, she told herself. Keep calm. Don’t let them provoke you. Don’t give yourself away.
‘All right, Mrs Fleet-Wright,’ Clement now interposed smoothly. Clearly, despite a valiant effort, his young companion had failed to pierce the woman’s armour. So now a different approach was needed. ‘Can you tell us what you remember most about Jonathan? He worked for you for some time, after all. And then he was your daughter’s young man. Did you like him – as a person, I mean, as opposed to the individual your daughter was seeing?’
Trudy, now that Dr Ryder had stepped in and taken over, took the opportunity to take stock and do some observing of her own. Leaning slowly back against the sofa and letting some of the tension ease out of her painfully tight shoulders, she watched the older woman carefully.
Beatrice had turned to the coroner and looked instantly more at ease. Was that because he was a man, and she was used to appeasing men? Or was it because the interview had now veered away from the topic of her daughter and her tragic death?
‘Well, I always felt sorry for him, of course, losing his wife so young and being left with a child to raise,’ Beatrice admitted. ‘And I admired his hard work and ambition in wanting to start his own company.’
Clement sighed inwardly. That was all very polite and non-committal but he couldn’t let her continue with such nonsense.
‘He was a good-looking young chap too, I think.’ Clement smiled. And then wondered. A middle-aged woman, still attractive and trapped in a dry, unsatisfying marriage; perhaps she’d had her head turned by a young, attractive, available man? It wasn’t exactly unheard of.
But if she suspected the way her visitor’s thoughts were going, Beatrice made no sign of it and instead laughed lightly. ‘Yes, that too,’ she admitted simply. ‘But he was also kind, uncomplicated and sometimes he could be very funny. I wasn’t surprised Gisela loved him so.’
‘Did he ever mention any enemies he might have had?’ Clement went on perfunctorily. Like Trudy, he doubted that McGillicuddy had died through any fault of his own; he had simply been unlucky enough to be fathered by Sir Marcus Deering, who had acquired a very deadly enemy indeed. But to keep up the pretence that it was Jonathan’s murder they were investigating, and not the circumstances surrounding the death of her daughter, it was necessary he ask questions like these.
‘Oh, no. I’m sure he didn’t. Either have an enemy, or tell me about having crossed someone, I mean, he wasn’t that kind of man. He was just… ordinary.’ Beatrice shrugged helplessly.
Clement glanced at Trudy. And it was a measure of how well they were beginning to work together that she was able to interpret the message in that casual glance so easily.
Time for her to take over again.
‘Naturally, Mrs Fleet-Wright, we, the police, are anxious to explore all elements of Mr McGillicuddy’s life, to see if we can find a motive for his murder,’ Trudy took up the baton smoothly. ‘And, if I may sa
y so, the only things of significance that happened to him, that we can ascertain, were the death of his wife, and the death of your daughter. It strikes me that he was very unlucky in love, wasn’t he?’
Beatrice nodded wordlessly, refusing to be drawn.
‘Can you tell me where your husband was on the day Mr McGillicuddy died?’ Trudy asked flatly.
Again, this strategy had been decided between them beforehand. It was all part and parcel of putting the pressure on her.
‘Reginald?’ Beatrice looked astonished. ‘He was at work, of course, where he always is. And Rex was at college. And I was here, at home,’ she offered, before she could be asked. ‘I can assure you that none of my family had anything to do with Jonathan’s murder. It’s ridiculous to even think so! It’s been almost five years since Gisela died!’
Again her voice was rising, and again, she forced herself to calm down. It was becoming more and more clear to her now that these people had no clue as to what had happened all those years ago. Or anything else about Gisela and Jonathan, or that awful, awful day. And all she had to do to keep it that way was to keep her wits about her, watch what she said and, above all, hold on to her self-control. If she could do that, all would be well.
It would all be over soon anyway, Beatrice told herself. It had to be. They’d find out who had killed Jonathan, and it would turn out to be nothing to do with her, or her family, and everything would go back to normal.
Dull, safe, dead, normal.
‘I see,’ Trudy said flatly. ‘And you have nothing else you’d like to tell us?’ she asked gently. ‘Nothing about your daughter, and what really happened the day she died?’
It was to be their last shot, that final question, and posed at the end of the interview, when Mrs Fleet-Wright was at her most upset and vulnerable.
Clement had been adamant that the woman be given the opportunity to confess, or at least amend her previous testimony. The human instinct to unburden itself, he’d told her, was a very strong one indeed. And it might just turn out that all Beatrice needed to take that final step would be to have a pair of sympathetic ears ready to listen to her.
Now, Trudy felt herself tense as the older woman fixed her with startled, suddenly terrified, green eyes. ‘What do you mean?’ Beatrice managed to whisper. ‘You already know what happened that day. Gisela took too many pills. By accident. It was my fault…’
Her voice trailed off as Trudy gently shook her head.
‘But that’s not true, is it?’ the young policewoman said softly.
Beatrice felt the blood drain from her face. She felt, suddenly, cold. Desperately cold. Was it possible that she was wrong? That far from not having a clue, these people really already knew everything?
‘Gisela didn’t forget to take her pills, did she?’ Trudy persisted. ‘You weren’t confused about whether or not she’d taken the right dose. You didn’t accidentally give her more.’ Trudy, despite trembling with tension, kept her voice soft and gentle and coaxing. ‘You lied at the inquest, didn’t you? You can tell us the truth, Mrs Fleet-Wright,’ she encouraged gently.
And for a moment, for just one magical, split second, she could feel something in the room shift – something change. Beatrice’s lips fell apart. Her eyes went huge and round.
‘Lie?’ Beatrice said desperately, her voice so thin it hardly sounded human. ‘No… no…’
‘Yes, you did,’ Trudy all but whispered back. She could feel that the coroner, on the other end of the sofa, was as tense and expectant as she was. ‘You can tell us,’ Trudy urged, trying not to sound as desperate as she felt. ‘You’ll feel better if you do,’ she promised.
Would I? Beatrice Fleet-Wright thought, and for one, insane moment her heart lifted at the thought. After so many years of misery and guilt, was that possible?
‘Your daughter killed herself, didn’t she?’ Trudy finally spoke the words.
And Beatrice Fleet-Wright blinked.
‘And you covered it up, didn’t you?’ Trudy added softly.
And then something totally shockingly happened.
Beatrice Fleet-Wright began to laugh.
She laughed, and laughed, and laughed, and laughed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Upstairs, in his large bedroom – part of which had been given over to a model railway – Rex Fleet-Wright stood at the window and watched as the woman police constable and the tall man with white hair left the house.
He wondered, vaguely, what lies his mother had been telling them now.
His mother, as Rex well knew, was very good at telling lies.
He sighed and, after their car had driven away, turned and went back to his bed, throwing himself down on it so heavily he actually bounced.
Or perhaps his mother hadn’t lied, but had managed to distract them in some other way instead. She was good at that too.
He turned on his side and gazed at the large photograph resting on his bedside table. It was of his sister, of course. Gisela, when she was nineteen, her long dark hair covering one green eye, her mouth wide open and laughing.
It was funny, Rex thought, how, even after nearly five years of being dead, his sister still seemed the most alive person left in the house.
‘So, what do you think?’ Trudy asked ten minutes later, as they sat in Clement’s car in the courtyard at Floyds Row. ‘It was hysteria, wasn’t it? All that insane laughing at the end? She was in shock?’
‘Yes,’ Clement agreed thoughtfully.
After her initial burst of spontaneous laughter, Mrs Fleet-Wright had seemed unable to stop. She’d apologised, or tried to, around her guffaws.
‘I’m so s-s-sorry,’ she’d gasped, mopping her streaming eyes with a handkerchief. ‘It’s just so…so… s-s-silly of me.’ But even then, she’d simply carried on laughing helplessly.
Eventually, she’d managed to get a grip on herself, but after that it was impossible to continue the interview. Apart from the fact that the lady of the house had simply risen to her feet and offered to show them out, it was clear they would get nothing more from her after such a shocking lapse of self-control. Because of the shame of her breakdown, she had rapidly built a frigidly cold wall of politeness around herself that would take a battering ram to knock down.
And, if she was honest, Trudy was feeling so emotionally spent herself by that point that she just wanted to get out in the fresh air and try and clear her own head.
‘So, what do you think?’ she demanded again now.
‘I think,’ Clement Ryder said slowly, ‘that Mrs Fleet-Wright is a lady with a lot of secrets.’
Trudy sighed heavily. A fat lot of help that was! Sometimes the old vulture could be so annoyingly enigmatic. But she knew the sense of anger she felt wasn’t really directed at him.
‘I made a right mess of it, didn’t I?’ she said miserably.
Clement smiled. ‘No, you didn’t,’ he said honestly. ‘And I doubt anyone else could have done better. So cheer up – next time, things might be different.’
Trudy nodded. They would, of course, have to question Mrs Fleet-Wright again. But it wasn’t, if she was honest, something she was particularly looking forward to. ‘So, what now?’
‘Don’t you have surveillance duty to do?’
‘Yes,’ Trudy said with a heavy sigh. She’d spent six hours yesterday watching Clive Greaves’s lodgings in the company of PC Rodney Broadstairs, who’d bored her silly, talking about football all the time.
Just as DI Jennings had warned her, it was cold, tedious work indeed. And, she was honest enough to acknowledge wryly, her enthusiasm at learning a new skill hadn’t taken very long to wane.
‘But I’m free tomorrow afternoon,’ she added brightly. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘What do you think you should do?’ he asked curiously, interested to see how logically the girl could think.
Trudy, blissfully unaware she was being tested, merely thought about it for a moment, then nodded. ‘I think I should go and see Mrs
Gordon, when her husband’s not around.’
Clement smiled. Good. ‘You think she might tell you anything, though?’ he asked, a shade sceptically. ‘She’s hardly likely to want to admit that her husband’s been up to no good – always supposing he has been.’
Trudy sighed. ‘We won’t know that if I don’t try,’ she pointed out.
‘Can’t argue with logic like that,’ Clement said cheerfully. ‘Right then, off you go. And have a nice night with the pheasants.’
Trudy groaned. One of her fellow PCs had told her that their prime suspect in the Deering/McGillicuddy case often spent several hours at night with his game birds. And tonight was going to be bloody freezing!
Inside her house, Beatrice Fleet-Wright helped herself to a third glass of sherry, finding she was still prone to intermittently breaking out in compulsive giggles.
But she couldn’t help it. It was just so funny!
And to think, she’d almost been on the verge of confessing it all. Every dirty, grubby little thing.
But then, like a lifesaver, that young policewoman had accused her of trying to covering up Gisela’s suicide. And… oh! If only they knew how truly hilarious that actually was!
Again, Beatrice began to giggle and slapped a hand over her mouth in case the maid should hear her. Then, very carefully making sure she didn’t spill a single drop, she finished the sherry in her glass and went to pour herself another.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Anthony Deering was glad to get out of the hospital. Although the doctors and nurses had been great, there was something about the clean white lines and antiseptic smell of places like that that always made him feel uneasy.
Now he was back home again, he was already feeling much better. Although he still felt stiff and sore from his bruises and was prone to sudden lightning strikes of unexpected pain when he made certain movements, he was hopeful that soon he’d be able to get back on his horse and ride around the estate. Just a gentle trot, to fill his lungs with clean, cold, country air.