A Trio of Murders: A Perfect Match, Redemption, Death of a Dancer

by Jill McGown

  ‘I have a marginally higher opinion of them than Herod,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, for—’ He flopped on to his back. ‘You agreed we’d talk about it one day,’ he said.

  ‘Did I?’ She couldn’t imagine under what circumstances. ‘So, we’re talking about it.’ Now, she really was on automatic pilot. Suitable words were filling up the spaces, while her mind raced through the impossibility of it all.

  ‘I’m talking about it,’ Michael said. ‘You’re doing one-liners.’

  ‘When did I?’ she asked, suddenly galvanised into life. ‘You’ve never shown the slightest interest in starting a family.’ Her eyes widened as she realised. ‘It’s your mother, isn’t it?’ she said angrily. ‘It’s your mother who wants us to have a baby!’

  ‘Not so loud,’ he said again. ‘Yes, all right, she’s mentioned it. She wants a grandchild – that’s not unnatural either.’

  ‘Well, tell her I’m sorry, but it just isn’t convenient.’

  ‘We can’t wait for ever.’

  ‘What’s this wait? I’m not waiting for anything.’

  Michael sat up. ‘But this is when we should start a family,’ he said. ‘I’m not flying half-way round the world any more. We’ve got this house. It’s time we put down roots.’

  Judy’s mouth fell open. ‘You and me?’ she said. ‘Roots?’

  ‘Why not you and me?’

  ‘Because we live separate lives,’ she said.

  ‘But we’ve been apart,’ Michael argued. ‘We’re not apart now.’ He lay back. ‘People expect someone in my position to be a family man,’ he said.

  ‘I thought I’d heard it all, Michael,’ Judy said wearily.

  ‘Will you think about it?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘But that’s what marriage is for,’ he protested.

  ‘Not our marriage.’

  ‘What’s wrong with our marriage? We’ve stayed together ten years,’ Michael persisted.

  Judy sat back. ‘We’ve stayed together,’ she said, ‘because it’s convenient. You married me because I had a career of my own, and I wouldn’t be hanging on to your coat-tails. Because I wouldn’t complain about your being away half the year, and I wouldn’t ask too many questions when you got back. Because being married was a desirable plus on your CV – like children, presumably. That’s why you married me.’

  He didn’t deny it. ‘Why did you marry me, Judy?’ he asked.

  Because she couldn’t have Lloyd. ‘For all the wrong reasons,’ she said.

  The bedside phone rang, making them both jump.

  ‘Half past one,’ Michael said. ‘I expect it’s for you.’

  Judy picked it up.

  ‘Judy?’ Lloyd said. ‘Sorry, but you’re needed; we’ve got a murder.’

  Chapter Three

  Lloyd waved back as Judy appeared at the window. A few moments later she came down the path, stopping at her own car and taking something out. Then she joined him, bringing with her a blast of freezing air.

  ‘Happy Christmas,’ he said.

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘I wasn’t being funny.’

  She looked apologetic. ‘Happy Christmas,’ she responded belatedly, handing him a heavy, rectangular parcel. ‘I was going to come in this morning,’ she said. ‘But I couldn’t.’

  He smiled, and put it on the back seat. ‘Yours is at home,’ he said, as the car bumped over snow already freezing now that the wind had dropped.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Judy asked, her voice flat and uninterested.

  ‘Byford village.’

  ‘I thought the road was still blocked,’ she said.

  He smiled. ‘We’ve got our own personal snow-plough.’ Judy didn’t seem as impressed as he had been.

  ‘Are we going to be first there?’ she asked, with a sigh in her voice.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘There’s a village bobby these days. I expect he’s coping.’ He glanced at her, but it was too dark to see.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked.

  ‘What sort of murder is it?’ she asked, ignoring him.

  ‘Domestic.’

  She groaned.

  ‘They have their advantages,’ he pointed out. ‘No incident rooms, no house-to-house – no breaking it to the relatives since they were probably all there at the time.’ Still no reaction. ‘That’s why I had to get you,’ he said wickedly. ‘Domestics need a woman’s touch.’

  But not even that elicited a response from Judy. There was something wrong. But then, he thought, she had been dragged out at two o’clock on Christmas morning. ‘Sorry,’ he said.

  She hadn’t even asked for details, and he had been looking forward to imparting them.

  ‘One man dead,’ he said. ‘That’s all I know. But you’ll never guess where it happened.’

  No response. Not even irritation. He soldiered on. ‘The vicarage, would you believe? Our very own Murder at the Vicarage.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Murder at the Vic—’ He sighed. ‘Of course, you’re not an Agatha Christie fan, are you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Vicarages, snow-bound villages,’ he said, with a grin. ‘With any luck we’ll find a retired Indian Army colonel, a gigolo, a faintly sinister Austrian professor, and an old lady who’ll sort it all out for us.’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘Are you listening to anything I’m saying?’

  ‘I didn’t think you were saying anything important,’ she said, then immediately repented. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Don’t take any notice of me.’

  Ahead, Lloyd could see the yellow flashes from the snow-plough. ‘We’d better let him get further away,’ he said, pulling the car up. He waited to see if she would talk to him, but she didn’t.

  ‘Someone is head-hunting you, if my little bird’s got it right,’ he said.

  She turned to look at him, at least. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Moves afoot in Barton. Coming up in the new year, I’m told. But – there’s a but.’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘But your relationship with me could rock the boat.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked. ‘What’s it got to do with anyone else? We wouldn’t even be working together any more.’

  ‘It shouldn’t matter,’ he said. ‘Unless Michael complains about me.’ Despite his dismissal of the consequences, Lloyd knew that Jack was right.

  ‘Michael doesn’t know,’ she said.

  ‘Can you be sure?’ Lloyd asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘If he did, he’d have packed his bags by now.’ She gave a sigh. ‘Or mine,’ she added.

  ‘Suppose he finds out?’

  ‘Michael won’t complain,’ she said. ‘That would be regarded as making an exhibition of himself. Michael doesn’t do that.’

  ‘So you’ll go after it?’

  ‘Let’s wait until it’s officially there to be gone after, shall we?’ she said.

  The yellow light had slowly moved over Lloyd’s horizon, and he set off again, through the moonscape. Following yonder star. He smiled, remembering how he used to long for it to snow at Christmas, and it never did. Christmas used to be fun. ‘I can never remember,’ he quoted, ‘if it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve, or twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.’

  ‘Dylan Thomas,’ she said.

  ‘See?’ he said. ‘I’ve taught you something.’ Judy’s lack of soul was something about which he complained, but which pleased him, really. It gave him something to work on. ‘Unless it was a guess,’ he added.

  ‘A Child’s Christmas in Wales,’ she said, and he could tell that she was smiling at last.

  He wound down the window as they approached the all-conquering snow-plough.

  ‘All clear ahead,’ a voice shouted. ‘For now. You might not get out again, though.’

  ‘And a merry Christmas to you,’ Lloyd shouted back, and his voice sounded dead, in all that high-piled insulation.

  A chorus of unsuspected v
oices called season’s greetings. Judy behaved as though they weren’t there. Lloyd frowned. No point in asking what was wrong, not while she was in this mood.

  A lone police car sat outside the vicarage, and a young constable approached as they got out of the car.

  ‘Chief Inspector Lloyd?’

  ‘Yes – this is Sergeant Hill,’ he said, waving a hand at Judy.

  The constable nodded. ‘Parks, sir,’ he said. He stamped his feet.

  Lloyd smiled. ‘Parky by name . . .?’ he said.

  The constable smiled, and Lloyd was truly grateful to him, after the hard time Judy was giving him. ‘So,’ he said. ‘What’s gone on here, then?’

  Constable Parks led them up on to the porch steps, where he seemed to regard it as warmer. ‘The dead man’s called Graham Elstow,’ he said. ‘He’s been battered to death with a poker.’

  Lloyd groaned, and exchanged glances with Judy, who looked a little apprehensive.

  ‘It’s not too bad,’ said Parks, sympathetically. ‘There are three other people in the house. George Wheeler – he’s the vicar, sir. His wife Marian, and daughter Joanna – that’s Elstow’s wife. She identified the body, sir.’ He rubbed cold hands together. ‘They reckon it happened while they were out, and Elstow was in the house on his own.’

  ‘But you don’t?’ Lloyd asked, hearing the disparagement.

  ‘The daughter’s been beaten quite badly, sir. By her husband, I believe.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ said Judy.

  ‘It’s not my fault, Sergeant.’ His breath streamed out as he turned to her, the vapour caught in the light from the door.

  ‘Right, thanks. Let’s go and have a look,’ Lloyd said. ‘Do you know the family?’

  ‘I’ve passed the time of day with Mr Wheeler,’ he said. ‘And I know Mrs Wheeler and the daughter by sight – but I’ve not been here long.’ He pulled the door to, in case he was over-heard. ‘The daughter’s been staying with them since October,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know she was married until tonight.’

  Lloyd nodded, and pushed open the door again.

  They trooped into a long, wide, Christmas-decorated hallway, where there was a tree surrounded by presents.

  ‘The body’s upstairs in one of the bedrooms,’ the constable said. ‘The family are in the kitchen, and no one’s been in the other rooms since I arrived. They say it must have been an intruder, so I thought you would probably want to check the rest of the house, just in case.’

  ‘Quite right,’ Lloyd said. ‘Good lad.’ As he spoke, another car appeared in the driveway. ‘Freddie,’ said Lloyd to Judy. ‘It’s the doctor, constable – show him upstairs, and ID the body. OK?’

  ‘Sir.’

  Lloyd briefly introduced himself and Judy to the family, who sat round the kitchen table, rather as though they were at a board meeting. A big, well-built man who looked slightly out of place in a clerical collar. A pretty wife – wearing a trouser suit, which rather surprised Lloyd. He still expected the wives of clergy to wear twinsets and pearls, but it had been about thirty years since he’d had anything to do with that sort of thing. A daughter who was probably pretty when she hadn’t been beaten up. No tears, no hysterics. Mr Wheeler stood up to shake hands.

  The courtesies completed, Lloyd apologised. ‘I’m afraid the snow’s caught us all on the hop,’ he said. ‘We’re a bit shorthanded here. We’ll be back in a few moments, if you’d excuse us.’

  ‘You’d better go and say hello to Freddie,’ he said to Judy, once they were out in the hallway. ‘Send Parks down, will you?’

  So it wasn’t straightforward, and he would have to bring forensic in. Lloyd glanced up as Parks came downstairs. ‘What’s it like up there?’ he asked.

  ‘Well,’ said the constable, ‘I wouldn’t want my mum to see it.’

  Poor Judy. Lloyd left Parks phoning for back-up, and went back in to the silent group in the kitchen.

  ‘Are you all right, Mrs Elstow?’ he asked. ‘Do you want a doctor?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m all right, thank you.’

  Her face, pale beneath the discoloured skin, belied the polite answer.

  ‘Well,’ he said gently. ‘Let’s start with what happened to you.’

  She glanced quickly at her mother, who took a preparatory breath.

  ‘I’d rather hear it from Mrs Elstow herself,’ said Lloyd quickly.

  ‘I – that is . . .’ the girl began, then stopped. ‘Graham – that’s my husband – he . . .’

  Lloyd sat down at the table. ‘You’d left him,’ he said, hoping his guess was right.

  She nodded.

  ‘And why was he here?’ asked Lloyd.

  ‘He came to ask me to go back with him,’ she said, dully. ‘I wouldn’t.’

  Lloyd put his chin on his hands and looked at her. ‘And that was how he hoped to persuade you?’ he said.

  Her eyes met his defiantly. ‘He got angry,’ she said, and it was said in her husband’s defence.

  Lloyd sat back, and nodded slowly. ‘And when was this, Mrs Elstow?’

  Again, a glance at her mother, who looked down at her hands.

  ‘This afternoon. Evening. I don’t know.’ Then she added, in a low voice, ‘About five.’

  ‘Mr – Lloyd, is it?’ said Wheeler, ‘I don’t quite see what this has to do with what happened.’

  Lloyd raised his eyebrows at him.

  ‘We were all out,’ he said. ‘Someone must have—’

  ‘So when was he found?’ asked Lloyd, talking through him. ‘Just before one o’clock,’ said Mrs Wheeler. ‘I found him. We’d been to the midnight service.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Lloyd. ‘Which of you saw him last?’

  They all looked at one another; no one looked at him.

  ‘I did,’ said Joanna Elstow. ‘At five.’

  Slowly, painfully, the story emerged. Lloyd didn’t ask for detail, or for clarification. He made a mental note of the points that puzzled him, but he didn’t ask about them. He just listened. George Wheeler and his daughter had left the house at seven. Mrs Wheeler had gone out at about ten to eight. Wheeler and his daughter had returned first, to find themselves locked out. Mrs Wheeler had let them in when she got home, and they had all left again at eleven for the midnight service.

  Lloyd had heard the others arrive during his patient questioning of the family. When Marian Wheeler completed the story with her account of finding Elstow, he thanked them, giving every indication that he accepted their story as gospel. Which was appropriate, he thought, as he stood up. ‘Excuse me again, please,’ he said, and went upstairs, where Judy was directing the activities of the photographer. The fingerprint lad was whistling quietly, as he carefully stepped over the body; the photographer impassively snapped away, the doctor was making interested noises, and Judy looked green.

  ‘What do you think?’ Lloyd said.

  ‘I think I want to go home and let Miss Marple get on with it,’ she said.

  So she had been listening to his one-sided conversation in the car, he thought. She was just being bloody-minded, which at least was in character. ‘You go down and see what you can get,’ he said, having given her the bare bones.

  Judy escaped, and Lloyd looked round the room. The poker lay on the floor by the body; he peered at it before it was bagged up, then squatted down beside the doctor. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘How long?’

  ‘Under twelve hours. Anything between five and eleven hours. That’s very rough – I’ll be able to narrow it down.’

  Lloyd checked the time. ‘Between four-thirty and ten-thirty p.m.?’

  ‘Well – my guess is eight to ten hours. The PM will probably confirm that.’

  ‘Could a woman have done it?’ Lloyd asked.

  ‘Oh, yes. They’re heavy blows, but a woman with a good double-handed backhand could have done it.’ He grinned, altering his thin, serious face. ‘Judging from that,’ he said, nodding at the decanter which was being dusted for prints, ‘and the smell, I’d say
he made it easy for whoever did it. I’ll confirm that at the lab.’

  ‘His wife says he’d had a lot to drink before he got here.’

  Freddie nodded. ‘I expect so,’ he said. ‘And he’d been hitting someone.’ He smiled broadly again. ‘If that’s any help.’

  ‘His wife,’ said Lloyd.

  ‘Ah. The Case of the Turning Worm?’ asked Freddie.

  ‘They were all out when it happened,’ said Lloyd, his eyes wide, his hands held out in helpless innocence.

  ‘Of course they were,’ said Freddie. ‘Can you give me a photograph from this angle, please?’ he asked the photographer, indicating what he meant. ‘Looks like a woman’s prints on the poker.’

  The flash made Lloyd blink. ‘How long between the attack and death?’ he asked.

  ‘Not long. Look.’

  Lloyd didn’t really. He’d developed a trick of making his eyes blur.

  ‘Not all that much blood.’

  ‘What?’ Lloyd looked at the bed.

  ‘Oh, there’s a lot splashed about,’ Freddie said. ‘But he didn’t lie bleeding on the floor for long. I’ll know better when I’ve had the chance to make a proper examination. I can do it today, if you want to arrange for someone to be present,’ he said. ‘Spoil someone’s Christmas dinner.’

  ‘It had better be mine,’ said Lloyd.

  ‘Pity,’ said the doctor. ‘I thought I might get a couple of hours in Sergeant Hill’s company.’

  Lloyd smiled. ‘I’m not that cruel,’ he said.

  ‘Is it the blood, or me?’ asked Freddie.

  ‘Sir!’

  Lloyd went to the fireplace, where it was just possible to see the charred remains of clothing.

  Freddie bent down to take a closer look. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘Enough left to identify it, I’m sure.’ He straightened up. ‘You’re home and dry this time, Lloyd.’

  Joanna sat at the table, her mother on one side, and Sergeant Hill on the other. Her father was over by the fire.

  Sergeant Hill was very attractive, Joanna thought absently. Good clothes.

  ‘Can you tell me why he hit you?’ she was asking.

  ‘He came to see if I would go back with him, and I wouldn’t,’ Joanna said, her voice light. She wasn’t going to cry.