Murderer's Fen

by Andrew Garve

  “What did she do?” Nield asked.

  “Well, she began to talk rather wildly—in fact, she got me quite worried. She said she couldn’t face it, and that she’d be better off dead. I said that was nonsense—there were thousands of girls who had fatherless babies and most of them got by somehow. Then she said she supposed she’d have to lose herself, hide herself away, and she started talking about changing her name, pretending her husband had died, starting life over again where she wasn’t known. It seemed an extraordinary attitude for these days. I said she’d do much better to go back to her parents—and then she told me about them. Apparently they’re very strait-laced, and she was scared stiff of them knowing.… Well, I talked to her like a Dutch uncle then. I said that whatever her parents were like, they’d look after her, and no one else would, and that however angry they were to start with they’d get over it and probably finish up proud grandparents—all the obvious things. I must have talked for hours, and I had a hell of a job convincing her—but I managed it. In the end, she said she would go back and tell them. I gave her a bite to eat, and she rang up the people at St. Neots and said she’d changed her mind about coming to them, and around seven-thirty I drove her back to Peterborough.”

  “You took her home?”

  “Well, I thought I’d better—it’s an awkward, cross-country journey, and she’d done it once already that day. Besides, I wanted to make sure she got there. She was a nice girl—I felt really sorry for her … And that’s about all I can tell you … You can see now why I said it was her affair.”

  Nield nodded … For a few seconds there was silence in the caravan. Then the inspector got briskly to his feet. “Well, Mr. Hunt, it sounds to me as though you did a good job in a very trying situation. I congratulate you.”

  “Thank you,” Hunt said.

  “And you’ve certainly helped me with my inquiries.”

  “I’m glad of that … Even though I don’t know what they’re about!”

  Nield smiled. “I’m sorry I can’t be more forthcoming.”

  “Don’t worry, Inspector … I hope the girl’s not got into any more trouble, that’s all … Give her my regards if you see her.”

  “I will,” Nield said. “Good-bye, Mr. Hunt—and thank you.”

  “Well, that was a rum story,” Dyson said, as they drove away.

  “It was,” Nield agreed. “So rum that I can’t see him making it up. I think our letter writer must have been imagining things.”

  Dyson grunted. “I noticed he didn’t ask us how we got on to him. Bit odd, don’t you think?”

  “Well, he wasn’t exactly encouraged to ask questions, was he …? I’d say he’s on the level … He certainly wasn’t at all scared when he saw the car, and he couldn’t have been more straightforward about the girl.… Did he strike you as a man who’d just got rid of someone in the fen?”

  “No, sir, he didn’t.…”

  “Anyway,” Nield said, “if the girl’s at home, that’s the end of it … Better head for Peterborough, Sergeant.”

  Chapter Two

  They reached Everton Road shortly before one o’ clock. It was a new road on the southern outskirts of the city—part of an estate of superior semis, a black-coated area. Number 19 was the last house but one before a corner. It had the usual neat front garden, with a paved drive leading to a garage.

  Nield rang the bell. He could hear voices inside the house, and after a moment a white-haired, pleasant-faced woman came to the door.

  “Mrs. Nicholls?” Nield asked, in his best benign-grandfather manner.

  “That’s, right.”

  “I believe you have a daughter … Gwenda Nicholls?”

  “Yes.”

  “I rather wanted a word with her. Is she at home, by any chance?”

  “No,” Mrs. Nicholls said, “She’s not living here any more. She’s working at St Neots.… What’s it about?”

  Nield’s face was suddenly grave. Dyson moved a little nearer the door. Far from coming to an end, the case was evidently about to begin.

  “I was given to understand that she came back here on Saturday night,” Nield said.

  Oh, no … Who are you?”

  “We’re police officers … I wonder if we might …”

  She broke in anxiously. “What’s happened?”

  “Now don’t alarm yourself, Mrs. Nicholls—it may turn out to be nothing very much … May we come in?”

  She stepped back to let them pass. “My husband’s at home,” she said, “you’d better see him …” She showed them through the little hall into an empty sitting-room, very clean and neat. A strong smell of friar’s balsam hung in the air. “He’s been a bit poorly …” She went off to fetch him.

  Nield and Dyson exchanged bleak glances. “Who’d be a policeman?” Nield said. He braced himself for the inevitable ordeal. Dyson studied the title on a well-filled bookshelf. Rating and Valuation, The History of Local Government, Livingstone the Pathfinder, The Temperance Movement in the 19th Century, Sermons. …

  Mrs. Nicholls was back almost at once with her husband. A grey, spare, austere-looking man, Dyson noted, matching the book titles. Nicholls gave the policeman a brief nod. “What’s this about our daughter …? What’s happened?”

  It was a question that Nield couldn’t answer—not with certainty. But what he did know—or a part of it—he would now have to tell. The parents had a right to hear it—and must hear it. On the very best interpretation, their daughter was “missing” … But he would spare them all he could.

  He told them, broadly, what Hunt had told him—making it plain that everything came from Hunt, that he himself took no responsibility for the story. He didn’t mention the anonymous letter—that could wait at least till he’d seen Hunt again. One heavy blow at a time was enough.

  To Dyson, listening and watching, there was a horrible familiarity about the interview. The homely faces, suddenly strained and grey. The shock, the incredulity, the indignation … He’d seen it all before, so many times.… Of course Johnny wouldn’t have carried a knife—not Johnny . . . Of course Jane wouldn’t have stolen from the shop—not Jane … Trusting parents, trusting spouses, full of faith and empty of knowledge … And now these two … Gwenda made drunk by a strange man—impossible! Gwenda seduced—unthinkable! Gwenda pregnant—unbelievable! Gwenda going off to St. Neots so deceitfully, afraid to tell her own parents the truth—she’d never have done that.…

  Then, with tears flowing and anxiety rising, the painful adjustment to the facts. Well, yes—looking back now, Mrs. Nicholls could see that Gwenda might have been pregnant. She hadn’t been well one morning. She’d been so unhappy, too, the last few days. She’d been quite desperate to get away … But how could it have happened—especially at that hotel …? And she’d always been such a good girl. Watched over so carefully, always guarded from evil … It was the very last thing anyone would have expected.…

  After the acceptance, the worry about what could have happened to her.… Bewilderment that she’d returned to Peterborough but hadn’t come home—that at the last moment she’d apparently changed her mind again. The unspoken fear roused by that phrase “better off dead” .… Nicholls’s hand going out to his wife’s in attempted reassurance.…

  Yes, it was all familiar—the self-deception and the suffering. But Dyson’s sympathy was more than ordinarily aroused. At least these two had dignity. There’d been no outbursts, no hysteria, no anger. They were facing up to unbearable facts with courage. They were doing pretty well.…

  Now came the police questions. Nield put the hopeful-sounding ones first. Whatever his fears, there was routine ground to cover—and he might be wrong.

  “Assuming,” he said, “that your daughter changed her mind again on the very doorstep, is there anyone you can think of whom she might have gone to.… Has she any close friends in Peterborough?”

  “There’s Sally,” Mrs. Nicholls said. “Sally Thomas … She’s Gwenda’s best friend—they’ve known each
other since they were children … But Sally lives with her mother, and Gwenda never has stayed with them. I shouldn’t think she’d be there.”

  “No,” Nield agreed. “Still, we’ll take Sally’s address, if you don’t mind—we might want to talk to her.…”

  “It’s 13, Alport Street—not very far from here.… She works in the Central Library—that’s where she’d be now.”

  Nield nodded. Dyson made a note of the address.

  “What about other friends?” Nield asked. “Does Gwenda know anyone who lives alone? Or shares a place with other girls?”

  “Oh, no.”

  “How about relatives? Is there anyone she was particularly close to? Anyone she might have taken into her confidence?”

  Mrs. Nicholls shook her head. “I’ve got a brother in Manchester but we hardly ever see him … There’s no one else, really.”

  Out of the depressed silence, Nicholls came up with a suggestion. “If she changed her mind about coming here, Inspector, mightn’t she have changed her mind again about the Bakers—the family at St Neots …? And gone to them after all?”

  Nield looked at him doubtfully. “She’d have had a job getting back there at that time in the evening. Still, we’d better check … Are the Bakers on the telephone?”

  “Yes—I can give you their number.… “Nicholls consulted his diary. “St. Neots 85438.”

  “Have you a telephone here?”

  “I’m afraid not …”

  “There’s a box just round the corner,” Dyson said. “Shall I try them?”

  Nield nodded. Dyson went off. Nicholls said, “I think she might just have managed it. And it would have been the obvious thing for her to do.” Mrs. Nicholls said, “I know there’s a train to Cambridge about nine.” They waited, hopefully,

  Dyson had no hope at all. But he welcomed the opportunity to confirm the facts they had, and perhaps glean a few more.

  He got through to St. Neots without trouble. A man’s voice answered.

  “Mr. Baker?” Dyson said.

  “Yes.…”

  “This is the Cambridge County Police, sir. I understand you engaged a Miss Gwenda Nicholls to come to you last Saturday evening. Could I have a word with her?”

  “I’m afraid not,” the man said. “She didn’t come.”

  “Oh?—how was that?”

  “She rang up and called it off.… She was supposed to be coming to look after our small son. It was very annoying, actually.”

  “Who spoke to her, sir—you or your wife?”

  “I did.”

  “And what exactly did she say?”

  “Only that she’d changed her mind and was sorry … I asked her what had happened, but she merely repeated that she was sorry, and hung up. She seemed in a great hurry—we only exchanged a few words.”

  “What time was this call?” Dyson asked.

  “Just before half past seven in the evening.… Is the girl in trouble, Officer?”

  “I’m afraid she may be, “Dyson said. “Anyway, I’m much obliged to you … Good-bye, sir—and thank you.”

  He walked quickly back to the house and reported.

  Mrs. Nicholls dabbed her eyes. Nield pressed on with his unpromising routine. “Of course,” he said, “we must bear in mind what your daughter said about ‘losing’ herself … She could have gone back to that idea.”

  “If she did,” Nicholls said, “she could be anywhere.”

  “Well, within limits … Do you know how much money she had with her?”

  “About ten pounds,” Mrs. Nicholls said.

  “H’m—she could certainly have gone quite a way with that. Still, wherever she is, she’s not out of reach … I think you’d better let me have a description of her.”

  Dyson took down the particulars.… Aged twenty, five feet three, chestnut hair worn shoulder length, dark blue eyes. Wearing an off-white woollen coat, a pale blue jumper and pleated grey skirt, a blue-flowered head scarf, navy blue shoes. Carrying a navy blue handbag and a small white suitcase. Initials G.L.N. printed in black letters close to the handle, and a green label of the Vistasund Hotel still stuck on the side …

  “Have you a photograph of her?” Nield asked.

  “Yes—we had one done last Christmas. I’ll get it.…” Nicholls left the room, and returned almost at once with a frame. He took the photograph out and gave it to Nield. “You can keep it if you want to—we’ve got another one.…”

  Nield studied the picture. “What a pretty girl!” he said. He passed it to Dyson. The sergeant sat staring at it, his face grim. The girl in the photograph wasn’t just pretty. He was seeing her in colour, as her mother described her, with the long chestnut hair and the deep blue eyes. She must have been beautiful. The dimpled smile was charming, the expression vivacious.… A face full of hope and promise. Promise, Dyson feared, that would never now be fulfilled. Such a waste … The Nichollses’ misery seemed to echo his own loss.…

  The sergeant had been waiting for an opportunity to ask a few questions himself. There was a point that seemed to him to have great bearing on the next stage of the inquiry—and one that so far had only been touched on.… The nature of the relationship between Gwenda and her parents. Had Hunt accurately reported it …? Now, with an acquiescent nod from Nield, he put his questions bluntly to both of them.

  “If your daughter had come to you,” he said, “and told you that she was going to have a baby, what would your attitude to her have been?”

  Mrs. Nicholls looked at her husband. “Well—we’d have been deeply shocked—of course … Mr. Nicholls and I have strong principles about that sort of thing … We’d have been very upset indeed.”

  “I can understand that,” Dyson said. “But what would you have done? Would you have rejected her? Would you have turned her out?”

  “Turned her out!” Nicholls said. “Good gracious, no.… She’s our daughter, after all.… We’d have been shocked, as Mrs. Nicholls has said. There’d have been some very straight talking.… But we’re none of us free from sin, and sin has to be forgiven—as we hope for forgiveness ourselves.…”

  “So you’d have helped her?” Dyson said.

  “Naturally we’d have helped her. We’d have done, I suppose, what other parents do when they find themselves in this dreadful situation. We’d have tried to get her married to the man, if it was possible.… If not, we’d have looked after her.”

  “Surely your daughter knew you well enough to realise this?”

  “I would have thought so … We’ve been stern with her sometimes, I’ll admit, but never unkind.”

  “Yet she seems to have been so afraid of you that she didn’t dare to face you.”

  “I don’t understand that,” Nicholls said. “We’ve had our ups and downs with her, our disagreements and arguments—but I can’t believe she was ever frightened of us … Most of the time we all got on very well together.”

  “Did you part on friendly terms?”

  “Yes, indeed … Her mother and I hadn’t wanted her to leave home yet—we’d often had words about that—but last week she worked herself into such a state that in the end we gave our permission. And once we’d done that, we did everything we could for her. Mrs. Nicholls helped her with her clothes and I looked up the trains and saw her off, and she was going to write … We parted on the best of terms, I would have said.”

  “M’m.… Well, in the light of all this, Mr. Nicholls, your daughter’s talk of going off and ‘losing’ herself does seem surprisingly extreme.”

  “It’s unbelievable.… I can’t imagine what could have come over her.”

  “And that other talk of hers—about not being able to face life, about being better off dead.… That sounds even more extreme.”

  “Unless she was seriously ill in her mind,” Nicholls said solemnly, “I’m sure she would never have thought of harming herself—not for a moment.… Apart from anything else, she’d have known it wouldn’t be right.”

  Dyson looked at Nield.
“That’s all from me, sir.…”

  The inspector gave him a little nod of approval.

  Nield turned finally to the questions he’d had most in his mind all the time. “Before we go,” he said, “I’d like to ask you something about your stay at the hotel in Norway … Can you remember if there was any man your daughter seemed specially friendly with?”

  “There wasn’t,” Mrs. Nicholls said emphatically. “That’s what makes it so extraordinary … Most of the time, the three of us were on our own together.”

  “In the evenings, too?”

  “Well, naturally, we talked to people in the evenings—it was like a big party then. And Gwenda had a dance or two … But she always came back to sit with us—she didn’t go off on her own. I can’t see how she could possibly have got to know anyone.”

  “Of course,” Nield said, “the young do have a way of getting together sometimes without their elders knowing … I assume she had a room of her own in the hotel?”

  “Well, yes …”

  There was a little pause. Then Nield said, “By the way, do you remember anything of this Alan Hunt that your daughter saw on Saturday?”

  “I seem to remember the name,” Mrs. Nicholls said. “That’s all.…”

  “He’s a tall man, well set-up, very good-looking. About thirty. Fair curly hair and a rather fetching grin.”

  “Oh, yes—I do remember him now. He was one of the men Gwenda danced with.”

  “Did she dance with him often?”

  “No—only once or twice.”

  “He didn’t become friendly with you as a family—join you in outings—that sort of thing?”

  “Oh, no—we hardly knew him. We only saw him at meals, and in the evenings.”

  “Do you remember when he left?”

  “I do,” Nicholls said. “It was a day or two. before we did … I remember seeing him in the launch, the morning he went off.”

  “Was your daughter there, do you recall?”

  “I don’t think she was …” Nicholls looked hard at Nield. “Inspector, are you suggesting.…”