by Jill McGown
Marian signed it.
‘I thought you didn’t believe in it?’
Eleanor’s voice, quiet, as befitted someone speaking in church, made George start.
‘I’m used to doing my thinking in here,’ he said.
He had behaved like someone about to steal the poor-box when he had arrived to do his thinking, making sure that his emergency stand-in had gone.
‘What did Marian say?’ she asked.
‘What?’
‘About your decision?’
She didn’t know. Of course she didn’t. How could she? It had only happened yesterday evening, and Eleanor, up in the castle, wasn’t on the village grapevine. He tried to tell her. It was simple. The words were simple. They’ve arrested Marian. But he couldn’t say them. He stuck on ‘they’ as if he had a stammer.
‘They what? What’s wrong?’ She made an impatient noise at her own lack of tact. ‘Sorry. But you know what I mean – has something else happened?’
George stood up, and walked into the aisle, where the stained-glass sunlight cast colours on to the floor. ‘When I got engaged to Marian,’ he said, ‘Rosalind Anthony – do you know her?’ He carried on as Eleanor shook her head. ‘Rosalind Anthony told me that since she didn’t know who gave vicars good advice when they were about to marry, she’d do it. She’d been married three times,’ he told Eleanor. ‘She’d be about . . . about Marian’s age then, I suppose. She’d divorced two and buried one.’
Eleanor looked puzzled, and sat down.
‘She was quite a girl in her youth, I believe,’ he said. He paced along a few feet, turned and paced back, as he spoke. ‘She said Marian would never let me down, and that I might find that hard to take.’
He looked across at Eleanor, who sat still, her hair touched by the soft colours from the window. She frowned slightly, not understanding.
‘And I said something pompous about that being what marriage was about,’ he went on. ‘But she said that I might not want to be protected and shielded all my life.’ He sank down on to a pew. ‘She was right,’ he said. ‘She was right.’
‘Has something happened with you and Marian?’ Eleanor asked. ‘Was it when you told her?’
‘Told her?’ He blinked. ‘Oh – no.’ He ran his hand over his face. He hadn’t shaved. He hadn’t slept. He must look awful. ‘Rosalind said that if I married Marian, I’d have to go on pretending to be a vicar. She was right about that, too.’
Eleanor made sense of one thing. ‘You haven’t told Marian you’re leaving the Church, have you?’ she said.
‘No.’
‘Who have you told?’
‘Only you.’
‘And now you’re not going to do it?’
George shook his head. ‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘I can’t leave.’ How could he leave? He was in prison. A prison that Marian had knitted for him. He dropped his eyes from Eleanor’s. ‘And now—’
‘Now?’ she asked, when he didn’t continue.
‘She’s told the police that she killed Elstow,’ he said, and he could practically hear the snowflakes fall outside. He looked up. ‘She didn’t!’ he shouted. ‘She didn’t – don’t you see?’
Eleanor shook her head, as if to rid it of confusion. ‘But you said everyone was out all evening,’ she said.
‘We were. But – but Marian . . .’ He sighed, and tried to tell her rationally. ‘At first, she said she left the house at ten to eight, but now she says she didn’t. And then, well – there was the dress, and I don’t know – there must have been more. But she’s confessed – don’t you see?’ He buried his head in his hands.
‘Dress?’ said Eleanor, uncomprehendingly. ‘What dress? What has a—?’ She broke off. ‘George?’ she said. ‘What did you say? What time did Marian say she’d left the house?’
He lifted his hands away, and held them up helplessly. ‘She says she didn’t leave until later,’ he said. ‘I don’t know. What difference does it make?’
‘It’s important, George.’ She sounded impatient, almost angry. ‘She’s made up some story to protect you, hasn’t she?’
George looked up slowly. ‘Me?’ he said.
‘I thought that’s what you meant. When you told me about this Rosalind person. That Marian thought you’d done it.’
‘What?’ he said. Did she? No. Perhaps. He didn’t know.
‘Whatever her reason,’ Eleanor said. ‘Did you say eight?’
He frowned. ‘Ten to,’ he said. ‘She said she left at ten to eight. They say she couldn’t have, and it’s got something to do with Ros Anthony. That’s why I was telling you. She’s always had a down on Marian – I wouldn’t put it past her—’
‘George.’ Eleanor broke into his illogical accusations. ‘George. We have to go to the police,’ she said.
‘You shouldn’t have let her make statements!’ Joanna said firmly.
Mr Barrington, a young, dark man with a worried expression, pulled papers from his briefcase, and laid them out on the kitchen table. ‘I’ve made some notes,’ he said. ‘Some odds and ends that might help us.’
‘Why didn’t you stop her?’
‘I can’t tell your mother what to do, Mrs Elstow,’ he said. ‘I can only give advice.’
‘Once you get there!’
‘I have apologised for that – I couldn’t get to a phone. And I did advise Mrs Wheeler not to sign the first statement, but she did. She wouldn’t see me either of the times I called there today. And I wasn’t there when she made the second statement.’
Joanna was making coffee for her visitor; it was like saying thank you to an automatic door, or apologising for bumping into a lamp-post. Making coffee for vicarage visitors was second nature, even if they’d come to tell you that your mother had confessed to the deliberate murder of your husband.
‘But she can’t have said she did it deliberately!’ Joanna filled the coffee pot with water, and banged the kettle down.
‘I’m afraid she has,’ said Mr Barrington. ‘And it ties in with the medical evidence.’
‘I don’t care!’ Joanna tried to calm down. Deep breaths. ‘Of course it does,’ she said. ‘Maybe they dictated it for all I know – maybe they made her sign it!’
Mr Barrington coughed. ‘I doubt that very much, Mrs Elstow,’ he said.
‘Oh – I suppose you think the police are whiter than white?’
‘No,’ he said, his reasonable tones beginning to strain just a little. ‘I’m sure some police officers are not above bullying known criminals, or convincing teenage boys that it’ll be better if they confess. But I don’t think they’d be likely to do it to someone like your mother.’
‘It would be easier with her,’ Joanna said, noisily removing mugs from the cupboard. ‘She’s not used to being arrested – being questioned.’
‘She could certainly have been confused,’ said Mr Barrington, clearing away some papers for her to put the coffee things down. ‘That is one of the points I’ve made.’ He pointed to his handwritten notes. ‘She must have been alarmed, and tired – and perhaps she just told them what they wanted to hear. It does happen. But I know the inspector, and I’m sure that he would do nothing . . . nothing underhand.’
‘You’re chums with the inspector. Great.’
‘I didn’t say that, Mrs Elstow. I—’
But Joanna felt the tears coming again.
‘Oh – Mrs Elstow. Er – please. Look – have some coffee, a glass of water?’ He searched his pockets fruitlessly, and then pulled some kitchen paper from the roll. ‘Mrs Elstow?’ he said, pushing the wad of paper into her hands. ‘I’m sorry. But I—’
This time, at least, she was under control. She blew her nose. ‘Graham’s dead,’ she said. ‘And they’re accusing my mother, and I don’t know what to do.’
‘There isn’t a great deal you can do at the moment, Mrs Elstow,’ he said. ‘But there are things I can do – look. I’ve made notes on them. I really came to talk to your father – I should have waited for him. I
shouldn’t have bothered you.’
Her father. Whose answer to the situation last night had been to disappear into his study until it was time to go to bed. Who had spent most of the night in the loo, and stayed in his room all morning. Who had eaten lunch in silence, and left without a word.
‘No,’ she said. ‘He’s not very well. I’m all right now,’ she assured him, sitting up straight. ‘What happens next?’
‘Well,’ he said helplessly, ‘I take it you mean what happens to your mother?’
‘Yes.’
‘She’ll be charged, and go before the magistrates. That doesn’t take more than a few minutes. I can’t promise anything, but there’s a possibility that she’ll be released on bail.’
‘And if she isn’t?’ Joanna couldn’t take it all in.
‘Once she’s been committed for trial,’ Mr Barrington went on briskly, as though she hadn’t spoken, ‘I’ll be able to brief counsel.’
Joanna pulled at the screwed-up paper towel in her hands. ‘And he’ll have all the answers?’ she asked bleakly.
‘She,’ Mr Barrington said. ‘She may have some. It’s what she’s paid for. It does rather depend on your mother.’
‘My mother didn’t kill Graham.’ There was no response to her words, and she looked up to find Mr Barrington watching her closely.
‘Then someone else did,’ he said. ‘So she must be protecting someone.’
Of course she was, thought Joanna, as she shredded the paper towel. ‘It was someone who came in,’ she said obstinately. ‘A burglar.’
‘There’s no evidence of a burglar,’ he said gently. ‘And your mother – if she is protecting someone – doesn’t believe it was a burglar.’ He looked away from her. ‘Mrs Elstow,’ he said. ‘It is a very serious situation.’
Joanna frowned. ‘Do you think I don’t know that?’ she asked, and then her brow cleared. ‘You think she’s protecting me, don’t you?’
‘Is she?’
‘Probably,’ said Joanna. ‘But she’s wrong.’
He wasn’t convinced. Or perhaps he just believed her mother’s confession. Joanna didn’t know, but she wished her father had found someone older, more experienced.
‘Mrs Elstow – is there anyone else who might have felt that violently about your husband?’
Joanna didn’t answer.
‘I mean someone he might have admitted to the house.’
Joanna shook her head. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said.
‘You see—’ He cleared his throat, a little embarrassed. ‘It’s possible that – in view of the fact that you had left him – your husband took up with someone else. It’s just possible, since there is no evidence of an actual intruder, that someone was invited into the house, and subsequently—’ He opened and shut his mouth a few times.
‘Up to my bedroom?’ Joanna supplied.
‘That’s where it happened,’ he said, almost defensively. ‘Whoever did it was in the bedroom with him.’
Joanna wiped the tears away. ‘You think Graham could have had another woman? But why should she be here?’
Mr Barrington sighed. ‘It isn’t at all likely,’ he said. ‘But I understand that he may have met someone here – at the pub, I think your father said.’
‘Yes,’ said Joanna doubtfully.
‘It’s worth investigation,’ he said. ‘If there was someone else, she may be the person he met in the pub. It’s a very long shot,’ he stressed. ‘But I’ll put an enquiry agent on to it, if you think it’s worth it. In my experience, men who show violence towards their wives do so towards other women with whom they have relationships. If someone else was here, it could have turned violent.’
‘But he didn’t have anyone else here, did he?’ said Joanna. ‘The police didn’t find any other fingerprints, or anything. And Graham wouldn’t have done that anyway,’ she added.
‘It’s . . . well, I won’t pretend I’m not clutching at straws, because unless your mother co-operates, that’s all I can do, other than to set out the mitigating circumstances. And I gather your father doesn’t want that. Not yet.’ He began to put away the papers that Joanna hadn’t even looked at. ‘I could wait, and talk to him,’ he said. ‘When will he be back?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, then – I’ll ring later. Do you think he’ll agree to an enquiry agent?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’
Eleanor finished her story, and glanced at George, who sat tight-lipped, not looking at her. She looked back at the inspector.
He ran his hand over his hair, and drew in a slow breath. ‘Well, well, well,’ he said. ‘An alibi.’
Eleanor frowned.
‘Well, I mean,’ he said, and he sounded much more Welsh than he had to start with. ‘Convenient, isn’t it?’
‘Do you think I’m making it up?’ she asked, startled.
He picked up the file that he had brought in with him, stood up and walked to the window.
Eleanor exchanged glances with George, but all George’s bluster seemed to have gone. He looked almost furtively away again.
‘Langton, Langton,’ the inspector said, consulting the file, murmuring her name. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No Langton on Mrs Wheeler’s list of visits.’ He looked out of the window, his back to her.
‘Mrs Wheeler was at my house at five past eight on Christmas Eve,’ Eleanor repeated, her voice firm.
‘Was anyone else there?’ He didn’t turn round.
‘Only my daughter. She’s two and a half years old, and she was sound asleep.’
‘Not much good, then,’ he said.
He still hadn’t turned round, which was beginning to irritate Eleanor.
‘Friend of the family, are you?’ he asked.
She said no, just as George said yes.
Then Lloyd turned. Of course he turned. ‘Shall I go out?’ he asked. ‘Give you a bit more rehearsal time?’
‘I help out with the church play-group,’ Eleanor said, aware that she was going pink, as she did with unsophisticated ease. ‘I know Mr Wheeler. I’ve only met Mrs Wheeler a couple of times.’
‘One of those times being five past eight on Christmas Eve?’
‘Yes.’
The door opened and Eleanor turned to see a young woman come in, glancing over at George, who just looked through her.
‘Well, then, let’s see,’ said the inspector. ‘If you saw her, perhaps you can give me some sort of proof. What was she wearing, for instance?’
‘I never notice what people are wearing.’
Eleanor had only been aware of what she herself had been wearing. George’s tie.
Inspector Lloyd sat down again. ‘Definitely under-rehearsed,’ he said.
Eleanor refused to take the bait. ‘Someone like him could have had enemies,’ she tried. ‘Why don’t you look for them?’
‘Someone like what?’
‘Like Graham Elstow. Someone who beats up women, for a start.’
‘Wouldn’t that make his wife’s mother an enemy?’
‘She was with me.’
He leant forward. ‘And why do you suppose Mrs Wheeler didn’t tell us that?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Eleanor said.
‘Perhaps,’ said Lloyd, ‘it’s because she doesn’t know that that’s suddenly where she was. She was out making certain that old people were keeping warm enough, according to her original story. Where do you fit in?’
‘That isn’t why she came to see me,’ Eleanor said. ‘She wanted to confirm Mr Wheeler’s invitation for Christmas lunch. And I’m not on the phone,’ she added. ‘So she had to call personally.’
‘Why?’ asked Lloyd. ‘It was hardly necessary.’
Eleanor frowned. She had never thought about it.
‘Going out on a night like that just to repeat an invitation?’ He shook his head. ‘That sounds very weak, Mrs Langton.’ He leaned forward. ‘Even weaker, if I may say so, with Mrs Wheeler’s husband sitting beside you,’ he
added.
He thought they’d made it up. Or he wanted them to think that was what he thought.
‘That’s why she came,’ she repeated stubbornly.
‘How long would it take her to get from the vicarage to the castle?’ Lloyd asked.
‘About fifteen minutes,’ Eleanor said. ‘By road.’
‘By road?’
‘There’s a shortcut,’ she said. ‘Across the fields. But Mrs Wheeler was in the car.’
‘Quarter of an hour,’ Lloyd said, and sat back tipping his chair up. ‘Imagine you are Mrs Wheeler,’ he said, then flicked his eyes at George and back to her. He raised an eyebrow.
Eleanor wished that George would at least react.
‘And you are going to call on about half a dozen people in the village,’ Lloyd went on. ‘Would you start with someone who lived . . . what? Three miles away? Then go on to someone who lived at the bottom of the drive? Then off somewhere else altogether?’ He opened the file again. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You’d start or finish with the person closest, wouldn’t you? Which is what Mrs Wheeler did, Mrs Langton.’ He tapped the list of names. ‘She started with Mrs Anthony. And she didn’t call on you.’
‘Why would I make it up?’ she asked.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Lloyd said. ‘Misguided loyalty.’ He looked at George again. ‘Or perhaps it’s just women sticking together. Women against this, that and the other. Especially the other. Wife-batterers deserve all they get.’
Eleanor refused to let him get to her. She stood up. ‘Look, Inspector. I don’t know what she was wearing, and I don’t know why she didn’t tell you, but Mrs Wheeler was at my house at five past eight. I put Tessa to bed at seven. I decided to wait an hour before doing her stocking. I checked on her at eight, and I started to assemble the pedal car. About five minutes after that, Mrs Wheeler arrived. I want to make a formal statement to that effect.’