The Night She Died

by Dorothy Simpson

  The front door, he discovered, led directly into a small living room which was spotlessly clean but depressingly furnished in indeterminate shades of brown and beige. It was dominated by a large colour television set and in the most comfortable corner of the room, away from draughts and next to the gas fire, stood an upright armchair with padded seat and back and wooden arms, flanked by all the impedimenta of an invalid’s day: footstool with neatly folded rug, round table cluttered with pill bottles, women’s magazines, water jug covered with a folded tissue, jar of boiled sweets.

  Behind the living room was old Mrs Birch’s bedroom. An ancient iron range and built-in dresser testified to the fact that this had once been the kitchen. Now, the cooker, kitchen sink and cupboards were crammed into what was little more than a narrow passage leading to the new bathroom which had been built on behind.

  Thanet did little more than glance at all this. What he was really interested in was Carrie’s bedroom. The staircase, he discovered, was hidden away behind a door beside the head of the bed in the former kitchen. The stairs were steep and narrow and led to a minute landing with two doors. Thanet pushed open the one on his left. This bedroom was at the back of the house and had no doubt once belonged to Mrs Birch. A dressing table still stood under the window, its mirror spotted with age and clouded by neglect. The overflow from the cramped scullery appeared to have crept up here; vacuum cleaner, aluminium stepladder, sweeping brush and mop stood against the wall just inside the door.

  The front bedroom, then, must have been Carrie’s. Thanet opened the door with keen anticipation. What had she been like, that little mouse of a woman? Disappointingly, her room appeared to offer little enlightenment. It was clean and neat, drably furnished with brown linoleum and a threadbare rug beside the bed. The green candlewick bedspread was bald in places, neatly darned in others.

  Thanet crossed to the bedside table. The alarm clock had stopped at twelve fifteen, presumably because its owner had not returned to wind it last night. There was also a small round biscuit tin painted blue, a pair of spectacles and a paperback book. Thanet inspected the latter. Victory For Love, it was called, and the cover depicted an extravagantly beautiful girl gazing up adoringly into the face of a suitably square-jawed hero. So he had been right. Little Miss Birch had indeed had her daydreams, her escape-hatch from the narrow confines of her life. There was a small cupboard in the bedside table and Thanet opened it, peered in. It was crammed to the top with similar books.

  The only incongruous feature of the room was a full-length mirror composed of mirror tiles stuck on to the wall beside the window. Thanet frowned, crossed to run his fingers over the satin-smooth surface. Why should Carrie Birch have taken the trouble to put up such a thing? She certainly hadn’t struck him as being the sort of person to spend much time gazing at her own reflection.

  Beside the fireplace there was a curtained alcove which presumably served as a wardrobe and Thanet went now to examine it. Yes, here hung Carrie’s clothes, a much-mended and indescribably dreary collection. Just looking at them made Thanet feel depressed. What a miserable life the woman must have had, with only her paperback romances to relieve its tedium. What, then, could have singled her out for murder? Pure chance? No, he still couldn’t believe that.

  So, there must have been something.

  He glanced again around the comfortless little room, his gaze lingering on the mirror. If Carrie had had a secret, it was not hidden here, it seemed. Unless …

  He went back to the bed, lifted the mattress and ran his hand along the springs. His fingers encountered something hard and flat. With a surge of excitement he pulled it out. It was an oblong packet wrapped in brown paper and secured with an elastic band.

  Fumbling in his eagerness he removed the band, unfolded the wrapping. Then he stared in disbelief at its contents.

  It was a bundle of pound notes. Fifty at least, at a guess.

  Carrie’s savings, hoarded for a rainy day … or for some long-desired treat?

  He put the bundle on the floor, grasped the edge of the mattress and heaved it aside.

  Neatly arranged in a row right down the centre of the bed were many more similar packets. A swift examination confirmed that their contents were identical to those of the first and a rapid calculation produced an astonishing answer.

  Little Carrie Birch had had almost a thousand pounds hidden under her mattress.

  3

  “Where the hell did she get it from?” Lineham’s language, like his face, proclaimed his amazement; his mother did not approve of swearing.

  “Your guess is as good as mine. Interesting, though, isn’t it?”

  “I’ll say.” Lineham grinned. “I bet her mother didn’t know about this little lot.” The idea obviously gave him pleasure.

  “No. But the point, as you say, is, where did she get it?”

  “Saved it?”

  “It would have taken her years,” said Thanet. “Cleaning isn’t exactly the most lucrative occupation in the world. Besides, I should think her mother would have known what she earned down to the last penny, from what you say of her.”

  “She won it, then.”

  “How?”

  “Football pools, sweepstake, lottery, premium bonds?”

  “She’d have had to have some sort of written notification of a win on any of those. I can’t see her keeping it from her mother.”

  “Stole it?” suggested Lineham.

  “From whom? It’s a sizeable sum not to have been missed. If she did, its loss would surely have been reported. You’d better check, I suppose. The only other possibility, it seems to me, is.…”

  “Blackmail!” said Lineham, triumphantly.

  Thanet nodded. “And in that case, of course, the question is, who was the victim?” Thanet walked across to the window and looked out across the fields. The red tractor was working in the distance and over to the left he could just catch a glimpse of the farm buildings, half hidden behind a clump of tall trees.

  “Who owns the farm?”

  “Man called Martin.”

  “Do these cottages belong to him?”

  “I don’t know. I could find out.”

  “Do that.” Thanet turned away from the window. “Well, we’d better get on with it. You go and see what the neighbours have got to tell you about last night, if you can find any of them at home. And find out all you can about Miss Birch—what she was like, where she went, who she talked to, the usual sort of thing. Not a word about the money at the moment, though. I’ll go across and have a word with Miss Pitman. She should have finished seeing to her father by now.”

  “What shall we do with all this?” Lineham nodded at the packages of pound notes.

  “Leave it where we found it for the moment. We don’t really want to cart it around with us all day and I should think it’s most unlikely that the place’ll be burgled, with the area crawling with coppers.”

  The two men replaced the mattress and left the house, Thanet locking the door behind him and pocketing the key.

  “What happened to the key Jenny Gamble let herself in with this morning?” he said.

  “That’s it, I think. Miss Pitman kept it.”

  The two men looked at each other. “My God,” Thanet said. “I’m slipping. Miss Birch’s bag! Where is it? She wasn’t wearing a coat, so I didn’t think … For that matter, where is her coat, if she’d been out?”

  “Perhaps she came back?” said Lineham.

  “Better check,” Thanet said. The two men went back into the house and made a quick but thorough search. Lineham found two empty handbags on the floor of Carrie’s makeshift wardrobe, but there was no sign of one in use. A worn brown coat hung on the back of the scullery door.

  “Looks as though this was the one she used most,” said Thanet. He would have to ask Miss Pitman. “I’d give a lot to know where that bag is now,” he said.

  Outside again, “I’ll start with Mrs Davies,” Lineham said. “I’m pretty certain she’s in.”
>
  As they set off down the lane Thanet experienced a prickle of unease between his shoulder blades. He turned around, expecting to see that there was someone coming along the road behind them, but the lane was deserted. He frowned, scanned the windows of number five. Had he seen one of the net curtains move? He couldn’t be sure. The movement, if there had been one, had been very slight, glimpsed only on the very periphery of his vision. It would not, of course, be surprising if old Miss Cox was watching them. She must be aware that they would want to see her, would probably be looking out for their visit. Well, Lineham would be along shortly.

  “What’s the matter?” said Lineham.

  “Nothing,” Thanet said, walking on.

  He and Lineham parted and Thanet crossed the road to the Pitmans’ house, which was uncompromisingly called The Bungalow. Miss Pitman had obviously been looking out for him; the front door opened as he walked up the path.

  “Do come in, Inspector. I’m sorry I was in a bit of a state, earlier.” She stood back to let him pass. She had tidied her hair, put on a little discreet make-up and looked altogether more composed.

  “Not at all. It must have been a very distressing morning for you.”

  The room into which she led the way overlooked the garden at the back and was light and airy, with large windows on both outside walls. The colours echoed the view outside. There was a grass-green carpet, a settee and armchair with loose covers in an attractive design of sprays of green leaves on an off-white background. The floor-length curtains were made of the same material and there were a couple of Victorian button-back chairs, one covered in cream, the other in a deep, muted blue. The large stone fireplace was flanked by ceiling-high bookshelves and the general effect was comfortable, attractive and unpretentious. Thanet felt immediately at home.

  “Your father’s all right?” he said politely.

  “Oh yes, fine. He’s eighty-two, you know, and needs quite a lot of care. He is badly crippled with arthritis and can do very little for himself now. I don’t know what I’m going to do without Carrie, I really don’t. Oh, I’m sorry, that sounds so selfish.…”

  “Understandable, though, if you relied on her.” Briefly, Thanet verified the information Lineham had given’ him: Marion Pitman had arranged for Carrie to come in at about nine the previous evening to check that all was well with her father. He also learned that Carrie had never bothered to put on a coat to cross the road unless it was bitterly cold or pouring with rain, and that she had invariably carried an old black handbag. Marion herself had attended the PCC meeting at the vicarage, leaving the house at seven twenty-five and returning at ten fifteen.

  “That was when the meeting ended?”

  “No. It ended at ten, but I stayed on for a few minutes to discuss something with the vicar. I’m treasurer, you see.”

  “So most people would have left at ten?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And on your way home, did you see or hear anything suspicious?”

  “I’m sorry, no. Since … since Carrie was found, I’ve thought and thought about it, just in case there could be anything relevant. But there was nothing.”

  “A pity. Miss Birch worked here every morning, I believe?”

  “That’s right. I teach part-time, you see, in a school for handicapped children in Sturrenden. Carrie’s coming made that possible. It’s not that my father needs constant attention, it’s just that she was here if he needed anything. I don’t like leaving him alone for long periods.”

  “Had she worked for you long?”

  “Oh yes, for years. She first came when I was teaching full-time, it must be, oh, fifteen years ago now. She cleaned the house for me, two mornings a week. Then, as my father’s health deteriorated, she came more often until eventually it was every morning. As I say, I don’t know what I shall do without her.”

  “You got on well with her?”

  “Oh yes. Of course.”

  Thanet detected some slight reservation in her voice. “But …?” he said.

  “Nothing.” She gave a little, nervous laugh. “Really. I didn’t see very much of her, of course, I was always out when she was here.”

  “Except in the school holidays.”

  “Well, yes.”

  Her reluctance intrigued him. “What was she like?”

  “Carrie?” Miss Pitman looked away, out of the window, as if trying to catch a distant glimpse of the dead woman. “Quiet. Unobtrusive. Got on with the job. Undemanding. She didn’t say very much, really.”

  “What did you talk about? On the odd occasion when you must have had a cup of coffee together, for example?”

  “Nothing much. The weather. Village affairs.”

  “Nothing personal?”

  “Not that I can remember.”

  “She never, for example, said anything about her relationships with other people?”

  Miss Pitman looked startled. “Who, for example?”

  “I don’t know. I’m hoping you’ll tell me.”

  “I don’t think she knew many people, other than very casually. She worked for the Selbys two afternoons a week. They live in the Old Vicarage.”

  “Had she been with them long?”

  “Ever since the Selbys came to live here, about five years ago. Irene Selby asked me if I could recommend a cleaning woman and although … I suggested she approach Carrie.”

  “Although?”

  Miss Pitman shook her head. “Nothing.”

  “The Selbys are a big family?”

  “No, just the three of them. Susan, their daughter, is seventeen and still at school. But it’s a big, rambling house to manage alone.”

  “And Mr Selby?”

  “Major. He’s managing director of Stavely’s.”

  Stavely’s was a thriving timber yard in Sturrenden.

  “He’s standing for the County Council elections next month,” she added.

  “And how did Mrs Selby get on with Miss Birch?”

  “All right, I believe. I’m afraid I couldn’t really say. We’ve never discussed the matter.”

  “Can you tell me anything else about what Miss Birch used to do with her time?”

  “She used to clean the church. But apart from that, nothing much. Her mother was very demanding.”

  “Did she ever complain about her mother?”

  “No, never. But no one could help noticing how Mrs Birch treated her.”

  “Didn’t she belong to any village organisations? WI for example?”

  “No.”

  “You make her sound a pathetic little creature.”

  “Well I suppose she was, rather,”

  “And yet,” Thanet said softly, “I have the feeling that you had reservations about her.”

  “Reservations?”

  Thanet said nothing, simply waited. But Miss Pitman merely gave that nervous little laugh again and shook her head.

  “I can’t imagine what you mean, Inspector.”

  Thanet could see that it was pointless to pursue the subject at the moment.

  “Do you think I could have a word with your father now?”

  Her laugh was a little too loud, explosive with relief. But there was genuine amusement in it. “You don’t think I’d get away with keeping you from him, do you? He’d be furious. He may be frail but believe me he has all his wits about him and he’s been looking forward to your visit all morning!”

  Thanet grinned, stood up. “Then we’d better not keep him waiting any longer, had we?”

  Old Mr Pitman was sitting up in bed, looking expectantly towards the door. This, too, was an invalid’s room, but very different from Mrs Birch’s. There was colour, light and evidence of much activity. The bedspread was scattered with books and newspapers and beside the bed there was a large Victorian mahogany tea-trolley, its three tiers laden with many more books, a radio, tape-recorder and rack of cassettes, boxes of slides, viewer, stamp catalogues and albums, magnifying glass, tweezers, scissors and a jar of felt-tipped pens.
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  The owner of all this ordered clutter looked alarmingly frail, the skin stretched taut over nose and cheekbones, hanging in loose folds about the neck. He had once, Thanet guessed, been a tall, strong man but now he was merely gaunt, shrunken and twisted sideways against the mound of pillows, as though it was impossible for him to sit upright. His hands, resting one on top of the other on the neatly folded counterpane, were blotched with the brown spots of old age, swollen and misshapen with his disease. The eyes which twinkled out at Thanet beneath the quiff of white hair, however, were piercingly alive and brilliant, a clear periwinkle blue. It was as though all the old man’s life and energy were now concentrated in his mind, visible only through those penetrating blue orbs.

  “Come in, come in,” he said. “Sit down.” And he nodded at an armchair set beside the bed. “Where I can see you properly.”

  “This is Inspector Thanet, father.” Marion Pitman approached the bed and, in a ritual that was clearly so familiar as to be second nature to them, she put her arm around his shoulders and helped him to lean forward, plumped up his pillows and eased him back against them.

  “Thank you, my dear,” he said. “Now, off you go. The Inspector and I will do very well without you.” But there was no sting to the words and he watched her fondly as she left the room. “She’s a good girl, Marion,” he said, when the door had closed behind her. “I don’t know where I’d be without her. Well, I do, of course. In hospital. Though I sometimes think it would be much better for her if I could persuade her to let me go. It’s not much of a life for her, you know, looking after an old wreck like me. However,” he said briskly, “you haven’t come here to talk about us. How can I help you?”

  “I believe Miss Birch came here last night?” Thanet said. “Do you by any chance remember exactly what time she arrived and left?”

  “Certainly. I’ve had plenty of time to lie here and think about it this morning,” said the old man. “She came in bang on nine o’clock—I’m sure of that because the news was starting.” He nodded at a portable television set on a table pushed against the wall. “And she left a few minutes after it ended, say at nine thirty. I know that’s so because I always like to listen to the news and it used to annoy me that she came just then—she always did, when Marion was out.”