Murderer's Fen

by Andrew Garve

  After lunch, Hunt faced a new problem—though one he’d already foreseen.

  “I think,” Gwenda said, looking slightly worried, “I ought to send a line to Mum and Dad. They’ll be expecting a letter …”

  “I suppose so.”

  “The thing is, what am I going to say?”

  “If I were you,” Hunt said, “I’d settle for a postcard at the moment, and keep it vague … Just say everything’s fine, and you’re enjoying yourself, and you’ll be writing again soon … That’ll keep them happy—and in a few days, we’ll probably be able to go and see them.”

  “But they’ll wonder why it doesn’t come from St. Neots.”

  “That’s true.…” Hunt appeared to consider. “Look, I really ought to pop over to Cambridge this afternoon—and St. Neots isn’t much farther on … I could post it for you.”

  “That’s a good idea … What are you going to do in Cambridge?”

  “There’s a big garage there that’s open on Sunday—it’s run by a man named Joe Crawford whom I used to know in Brighton. He’s got a big sales department and I think he might give me a decent job.… Anyway, it’s a chance—don’t you agree?”

  “Oh, yes,” Gwenda said quickly.

  “If it came off, I could tell my boss I was leaving and get a testimonial from him and we might be away in a few days.… Cambridge wouldn’t be a bad place to live, either. Have you ever been there?”

  “No.…”

  “I’m sure you’d like it. It’s a very lively city, because of all the undergraduates milling around; and of course the colleges are beautiful and there are nice walks along the Cam … Just the place to stroll with a pram … And there are quite a lot of new houses on the outskirts. We could borrow some money from a building society.”

  “You have to put something down,” Gwenda said.

  Hunt smiled. “I’ll let you into a little secret, my love—I’ve saved up a bit … Not much, but enough for that.”

  “It’s a nice secret,” Gwenda said. “Have you got any more?”

  “A few,” Hunt said. “You’ll know about them all in time … Now what about writing that postcard while I do the washing up?”

  In the afternoon he drove a few miles out of the village, parked in a field gateway, tore up the postcard and threw the pieces into a ditch. Then, for a little over an hour, he sat and read the Sunday papers. Having used up the necessary amount of time, he returned to the caravan site.

  Gwenda was resting in the boat when he got back. “Did you have any luck?” she asked.

  “Yes, I think there’s quite a good chance,” Hunt, said cheerfully. “Crawford’s looking into the possibilities —I’ll be seeing him again in a day or two … Anyway, I’ve got several more ideas if that one falls through. Trust me!”

  “I do,” Gwenda said. “Did you post my card?”

  “Yes, at St. Neots … Now everything’s taken care of.”

  “Do you write much to your own mother?” Gwenda asked.

  For a second, Hunt was caught off balance. He was about to say that his mother was dead—then he remembered that in Norway he’d told Gwenda he was writing to her. A near thing.…!

  “Oh, I write about once a fortnight,” he said; “She likes to hear from me fairly often—she’s a widow, and she finds life a bit lonely. She’ll be tickled to death when I tell her about you.… That’s one of the first things I want you to do—meet her.”

  “I shall love to, Alan … Where does she live?”

  “Near Salisbury,” Hunt said. “She’s got a little cottage—you’ll like it. Roses round the windows, and all that …” He turned nonchalantly away, glanced at the barometer, gave it a tap. “Steady as a rock … We’ll have a nice moonlight walk after supper.”

  The moonlight walk was a little more taxing than Hunt had expected. As they strolled through the fen, arms twined round each other and heads close together, Gwenda said, “What’s Lesley like, darling?”

  For a blank moment, Hunt couldn’t think who Lesley was … Then he remembered. Susan, of course … “Oh,” he said, “She’s tall—slim—quite a nice face.”

  “Is she pretty?”

  “No, not really … She’s jolly.”

  “I expect she’s clever.”

  “Not particularly … Just ordinary.”

  Gwenda laughed. “I bet you say that about all the girls.… Did she meet your mother?”

  “Good gracious, no. It hadn’t reached that stage.”

  “Did you tell your mother about her?”

  “No, I didn’t, as a matter of fact. Perhaps I had a feeling it wouldn’t come to anything.… Why this sudden interest?”

  “I just wondered about her … When did you say she was coming back, darling?”

  “It should be about next Sunday. She’s on a small cargo boat in the Mediterranean, so the date isn’t quite certain.”

  “I suppose her father’s well off?”

  “He must be—he owns Cosy Caravans and it’s quite a big company. I don’t much like him, actually—he’s very curt and short-tempered. I’ll be glad to get away from him.”

  There was a little pause. Then Gwenda said, “Lesley won’t be coming here, will she?”

  “Oh, no—I’ll go and see her directly I hear she’s back. You needn’t worry—I won’t let anything embarrassing happen. Just leave it all to me—I’ll fix it.… Anyway, we may not be here by then.”

  “You’re sure you won’t be sorry about her?”

  “Of course not, my sweet … I told you—it never amounted to anything much.”

  “I expect I’m silly,” Gwenda said. “I won’t ask you any more questions.”

  “I don’t mind.…” Hunt released himself, and gently dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief. The night had begun to feel quite warm.

  Monday was the crucial day—the day the letter card would reach the police, the day they were pretty sure to come. Hunt had prepared for it with meticulous care, going over every detail of the story he would tell, trying to foresee the likely order of events. He expected a police car and plain-clothes men, rather than P.C. Blake. Probably they’d come in the morning. He must show mild surprise at seeing them. If they produced the letter, he must be astonished and indignant. If, as seemed more likely, they preferred to probe first, he must be forthcoming about Gwenda’s visit. He must tell his story in a straightforward, natural way, taking acceptance for granted. The chances were that they would then leave. They’d hardly bother to look around the place until they’d checked whether Gwenda was in Peterborough. All the same, it would be a time of exceptional risk. A time when Gwenda must on no account be seen.…

  “I’m expecting some trade customers to-day, darling,” he told her over breakfast. “Friends of the boss—rather tricky … Do you feel like lying low, or will you go for a walk?”

  “Oh, I’ll go into the fen,” Gwenda said. “I’ve found a a nice grassy spot next to a pool—I’ll lie there and sunbathe.”

  “Good—then I should make an early start.… And be specially careful how you come back to-day, won’t you? If you see anyone around, stay on the other side of the lode till they’ve gone. Okay.…?”

  “Yes, darling.”

  “You can take the newspaper—I’ll be too busy to read it. I’ve got to get through some letters before the customer come … See you around lunch-time.”

  He strolled along to the office, made a couple of business calls, and then settled down to his papers. He felt slightly keyed up, but very confident. About eleven, he heard a car approaching. He glanced through the window. A car with a police sign over the roof. He went out, looking mildly surprised.…

  Gwenda lay beside the pool, her head pillowed on her folded windcheater, her chin tilted so that the sun shone full on her face, her eyes closed. Enjoying the scents and sounds of the fen. Basking … But also thinking …

  Thinking about the baby she was going to have. Hers and Alan’s. It was a delicious thought—now. With a little smile playing a
bout her lips, she marvelled at the change that these last few days had brought. She had been so abysmally wretched, so alone and friendless. And now she was so happy. She was in love with Alan—and she was sure he was in love with her. He showed it all the time. He was so tender, so considerate and kind … And so reassuring, too, in his confidence. A man she felt she could rely on.… Of course, she didn’t know him very well—but she soon would. Once they were married.…

  It would be marvellous, she thought, when she could tell someone about it. No doubt Alan was quite right to want to keep everything secret for a few days, and she didn’t really mind going off on her own—in fact, she was having a wonderful holiday. But she didn’t much care for secrecy—she’d really hated deceiving her parents. It was one thing to feel independent and want to leave home, and quite another to be cut off by the lies you’d told.…

  Still, it wouldn’t last much longer.…

  So that was the first hurdle taken, Hunt thought, as he watched the two policemen drive away.… He felt very satisfied with the show he’d put on. He’d been cool, candid, completely master of the situation. And they’d believed his story. He’d impressed them. They’d probably thought he was rather a decent fellow.… But the real test was still ahead. About three hours ahead, Hunt guessed. Just long enough for the two-way journey to Peterborough and a few inquiries there. They’d be back like a shot when they found Gwenda hadn’t come home. This time, brandishing the letter … The second hurdle was going to be a lot higher than the first.…

  It was just before one o’ clock when Gwenda returned to the site—so inconspicuously that Hunt himself didn’t know she was around until he heard her dinghy bump against Flavia’s hull. She climbed quickly aboard, with a conspiratorial smile. Hunt remembered to kiss her. Kissing her was like an entrance fee for the next lap.…

  “I believe you’ve caught the sun,” he said.

  “I know.… It was almost too hot out there—but lovely …” She got herself a drink of squash and flopped on the cabin seat. “Did you have a good morning?”

  “Yes, everything went very well,” Hunt said. “I’m afraid the men are coming back this afternoon, though—they’re interested in the Midget vans and want to go over one with a fine comb.… I’m sorry about this, darling—it must be an awful bore for you, having to keep clearing off—and I’m sure you’re tired.… Shall we not bother about it any more—just risk the boss finding out about you … Money isn’t every thing.…”

  “Oh, no, Alan, we mustn’t do that—not just to save a little trouble.… Perhaps I needn’t go so far this time?”

  “I should think it would be all right if you just popped over the lode,” Hunt said. “I know—I’ll give you my camera to sling over your shoulder, and a notebook, and you can sit in the shade somewhere and pretend you’re studying nature.… Then I’ll give you a shout when the coast’s clear. How about that?”

  “Yes, that’s better.…” Gwenda looked relieved. “Did you get the bread and extra milk, darling?”

  “No, I didn’t have time.… I’ll dash into the village after lunch—the customers won’t be back for a little while.”

  “I hate you having to bother with the shopping,”

  Gwenda said. “I feel it’s my job now.” Hunt grinned. “You’ll have plenty of it later, sweetie. Make the most of your leisure while you can.”

  “You’re spoiling me,” Gwenda said.

  He saw her safely across the lode at two o’clock. As soon as she’d gone, he set to work to remove the more obvious signs of her sojourn at the site. There was no need, he decided, for extreme precautions—merely for ordinary care.

  First, Flavia.… Hunt emptied the drawers and lockers that Gwenda had been using, put her things in an orderly pile between sheets of newspaper, and hid them away in the forepeak under a coil of rope. In the galley, he stowed away the cooking utensils. In the cabin, he rolled up the bedding, pulled out the bunk cushions and up-ended them, took out some floorboards.… To the casual eye, the boat really did look now as though it was being cleared out for the winter.…

  Second, Gwenda’s suitcase.… A thorough search would lead to its discovery wherever it was, of course—but anything short of that shouldn’t be dangerous.… Hunt slid it under the tarpaulin cover of one of the cruisers.…

  Third, footprints.… It didn’t matter that the marks of Gwenda’s shoes should be around the site, since she was known to have visited the place. But a concentration of female gumboot marks around Flavia might not be a good thing.… Hunt did a quick job of obliteration at the approaches.… ,

  He still had time, he reckoned, to do his shopping before the police returned. He drove into the village and bought the food supplies he needed and a large bunch of chrysanthemums for Gwenda—which he’d say were for Susan if anyone asked. A pleasantly impudent touch, that—it appealed to him.… Then, at the T-junction on the way back, he narrowly avoided hitting a lorry. As he braked and swerved, he caught sight of the approaching police car. He guessed they’d noticed him. A close thing—and not good for his image. He wondered if they’d say anything about it—but, with murder on their minds, they didn’t …

  The interview was tough—but never for a moment out of Hunt’s control. It had been easy to foresee the questions—and it was easy now to produce the planned explanation and reactions. To account for the fact that he hadn’t seen Gwenda to her door. To show astonishment at the suggestion of murder—the more convincingly, since he knew that she was alive. To resent the letter, and the police suspicions. To show anger when it seemed that his future would be threatened … But, above all, to build up his motive and his opportunity. To seize the moment for disclosing that he had a fiancée. To demonstrate how keen he’d been to marry her. To make sure the police were handed every scrap of evidence against him—so that, if they eventually admitted error, it would be the strongest possible case they had rejected.…

  The walk round the site with them afterwards had its tensions. Not because of Gwenda, whom he could see fifty yards downstream apparently sketching something in the reeds and looking exactly like a young field worker. It was when the hostile police sergeant put his head inside Flavia that Hunt momentarily held his breath. Any close inspection would produce evidence of recent double occupation.… But the slight danger quickly passed, as he’d guessed it would. The disorder had an authentic look. Besides, the very last thing the police could be thinking at that moment was that Gwenda might still be at the site. From their point of view, she was either dead and buried in the fen, as the letter had suggested, or hiding away in some place of her own.…

  All the same, he felt relieved when they’d gone. The afternoon had been quite a strain. No one could say he was earning his prospective fortune easily.…

  As soon as the police were well clear of the site he made the boat ship-shape again, put Gwenda’s belongings back in the locker and drawers in the order in which he’d taken them out, and returned the suitcase to the caravan. He waited till an angler along the lode had decided to call it a day, and a picnicking couple had departed, and then signalled to Gwenda that it was safe to cross.

  “They bought four Midgets,” he told her jubilantly, as she joined him. “Enough commission to buy us a three-piece.…”

  The pattern of his juggling act took on a new complexity that evening. Susan was due back from London and would expect attention. While Gwenda prepared supper, Hunt slipped along to his office and telephoned her.

  “Hallo, my sweet,” he said. “It’s been such a long week-end without you.… How did the trip go?”

  “Very well, darling.…”

  “Was the Excelsior comfortable?”

  “Oh, yes.…”

  “And you saw the Cromptons?”

  “Yes …”

  “What about the shopping?”

  “Well, we didn’t get as much done as we hoped—but I’ve got a perfectly marvellous dress.…”

  “Good … When can I see it?”

  “Oh,
not yet—it’s being altered … But I’ve got some other things to show you. Can you come over this evening?”

  “I don’t think I can, darling—I’m supposed to be seeing a bloke.… What about to-morrow?”

  “Yes, all right.…” There was a pause, the sound of voices at Susan’s end. “Mummy says come and have dinner with us.”

  “Fine—it’s a date.… Who else did you see yesterday.…?”

  They chatted for several minutes, exchanging news and the usual sweet nothings. Then, with a loud kiss into the telephone, Hunt rang off.

  That was all right, he thought. He wouldn’t be able to keep the date—but his unfolding plan would take care of that.… Now back to Gwenda.…

  He was a bit perturbed to see the thick mist over the fen on Tuesday morning—a break in the weather would make it much more difficult to keep Gwenda contented during his necessary absences. But the forecast was reassuring, and presently the sun began to peep through.

  They had a quiet morning—Gwenda happily doing the chores in the boat, “playing at houses,” as Hunt teasingly said—while he retired to the caravan to “work” and watch for anyone approaching the site. From the window, he kept a close eye on the fen and the lifting mist. He wasn’t at all surprised when, shortly after midday, he saw through his binoculars the police sergeant enter Stoker’s Drove and the inspector join him soon afterwards. It was the obvious next move. Well, he wished them joy of their digging.…

  He lunched with Gwenda in the boat, in an atmosphere brightened by the glow of chrysanthemums. Over the meal, he talked cheerfully of his job prospects. He’d spoken to Crawford again on the telephone that morning, he said—and it now seemed to be a question mainly of salary. He might have to drop a little in basic pay if he took the job, but it would only be for a short time, and he was good at selling cars. He’d have to pop over to Cambridge again that evening, he said—but he wouldn’t be away any longer than he could help.…