Untimely Graves

by Marjorie Eccles

  ‘Please don’t go just yet. Give me a minute or two of your time. It’s about that poor woman who was drowned. Somebody, somewhere, must be wondering what’s happened to her, and we have to find out who she was and let them know. We’ve very recently learnt that what was probably her car was parked several times in the passing space in the lane below your farm –’

  ‘No! You’re wrong!’

  Abigail gave her a steady look. ‘I don’t think so. Your husband may have been busy about the farm, and not noticed it –’ and she could believe that if she wished! – ‘but I think the spot is probably quite visible from the farm windows, and you may have seen it there.’

  ‘No,’ Vera insisted, but didn’t raise her voice at all. As if keeping her voice down was another way of obliterating her personality, making herself even more invisible. The hushed whispering was irritating, Abigail had to strain to hear her. But perhaps the poor woman had come to be afraid even of the sound of her own voice.

  A waitress, clearing the next table, smiled in a friendly manner, unaware of their tension. Automatically, Vera smiled back. A weary, defeated smile, but a smile, all the same. She’d once been pretty, perhaps very pretty. Why didn’t she make more of herself, darken her eyebrows and lashes, put a bit of colour on her face? Stupid question. If she had the ability to think that way, she’d be able to break through the inertia and resolve her hopeless situation.

  ‘If you know anything, you really should tell me.’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Vera insisted wanly. For don’t, read can’t. If what Abigail had been told of Bysouth’s previous history was true, his wife was obviously still terrified of him, of being hit if she spoke out of turn, but she was probably even more terrified of losing him. It was something Abigail had seen, time and time again, during her stint with Domestic Violence, an attitude against which you battled, but could do little. But she had to try.

  ‘Mrs Bysouth, Vera, I know this is a painful subject for you, but you have in the past come to us when you’ve been in trouble –’

  ‘It’s not like that now! You don’t realise! He’s different.’

  That, too, Abigail had heard. Ad nauseam. And knew how little it meant. ‘We can help. You don’t have to stay with him, you know.’

  ‘You don’t understand, do you? He – all right, yes, he’s inclined to lose his temper a bit, especially when he’s had a drink or two, but he’s not always like that … he can be a real charmer, you know.’

  Abigail nearly choked on a mouthful of coffee. Reuben. Well, you had to believe her. If she said so.

  Vera stood up, gathered her things together. ‘I have to go. And you mustn’t tell him I’ve spoken to you – you must promise!’ Her voice was still barely above a whisper, even in her extreme distress.

  ‘Not a thing you should say to a lady, but you look tired,’ Ted announced bluntly. He wasn’t looking good himself yet, or anything like it, but a whole lot better than he had, considering he’d been pushed three storeys down a fire escape when struggling with the toerag he was apprehending. His leg was still in traction, but some of the bruises on his face were healing.

  ‘Well, I’m no lady, so I don’t mind. But tired isn’t in it. Knackered, more like it.’

  ‘Case going badly?’

  It wasn’t that. For the first time in her life, she was sleeping badly, worried about Ben. Worried about the promotion board, too, though she wasn’t going public on that. She was beginning to feel superstitious, talking about it, even to Ted Carmody, whom she’d trust with her life. Especially Ted. The big Liverpudlian, a stolid, salt of the earth detective sergeant, had been her mentor when she’d first come here to Lavenstock and could read her like a book.

  She smiled. ‘Cases, Ted, cases, in the plural. You’ve heard there’s been another one? And neither of them exactly spinning along … But never mind that, you know what they’ve said: no shop talk or they’ll ban all police personnel from the ward.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘Don’t be difficult. Here you are. Only grapes and chocs, but they might take your mind off the hospital food. Oh, and Deeley’s sent you a couple of westerns.’

  ‘The food’s not all that bad. Bloody marvellous after Maureen’s – but don’t tell her that.’ He’d asked his wife for a photo of her to keep on his locker, and Maureen had been so surprised by this evidence of tenderness in her laconic spouse she’d brought three. One childood one of their two daughters and their son, another a holiday snap, Carmody towering above his chirpy little wife, and one of herself when she was seventeen. Not much resemblance to her now, but it showed why Carmody had fallen in love with her. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘my stitches.’

  ‘Do they hurt?’

  ‘Only when I eat.’

  Along with his fractured femur, he’d suffered a broken collarbone and several cuts to his face, which hadn’t improved his long, doleful countenance, but he’d been assured the scars were only temporary. ‘Come on, blossom,’ he pleaded, ‘bring me up to speed on this latest, that’ll make me feel better than chocolate gingers. Bored bloody rigid in here, I am. Homicide at Lavenstock College, and I have to miss it – I don’t believe it!’

  ‘You’d better.’ Seeing he wasn’t going to be deflected, she put it briefly together for him, and then told him of the latest developments, the possibility of the same gun having been used in the two cases, and Cleo Atkins’s sighting of a gun in Mrs Osborne’s house. ‘She only caught a glimpse – she may well have been mistaken, but the whole set-up around there’s a bit peculiar: that woman was found in the river just below Kyneford, and a woman who might fit her description was seen parked in the lane between the farm and the cottage several times the same week.’ She stopped, seeing the odd expression on his face. ‘What have I said?’

  ‘There’s no such thing as coincidence, right? Bloody wrong, and this proves it!’ He achieved a smug expression, despite his stitches, boredom forgotten.

  ‘What coincidence? What proves it?’

  ‘Well, there’s this lovely old girl in here, name of Eileen Totterbridge, works for Dorrie Lockett. Seventy-odd and spry as a cricket –’

  ‘Dorrie Lockett? You mean Sam Leadbetter’s aunt? Sorry, go on.’

  ‘She had a hip replacement only two days ago, and she’s taking’em at their word when they say she has to exercise it.’

  ‘I know,’ Abigail said. ‘My aunt’s just had one. They get them to walk around in a few days. She won’t be in long.’

  ‘That’s just the point. This one’s already on her feet. Any road, they wheeled my bed down to X-ray this morning and while she was waiting for her turn in the unit, she came up and started chatting. A right old rattle-can she is, jaws never stop, but she’s OK. I’ve been down to X-ray before and I know how long it can take, so I’d taken the Advertiser with me. She sees Wetherby’s photo on the front page and we get talking about the murder – and it turns out she works for Mrs Wetherby as well as Dorrie Lockett. But soon as she knew I was a policeman she shut up like a clam. As they do,’ he added with resignation. ‘But you get her talking and you might learn a lot. Worth a try, any rate.’

  ‘Thanks, Ted. I’ll pop along and see her now,’ Abigail said, looking at her watch, standing up as the sound of a trolley was heard in the corridor. ‘Mustn’t get told off for tiring you out. Look after yourself. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’

  ‘Fat chance of that in here. More to the point, you look after yourself, love. And remember, if you can’t be good, at least enjoy it.’

  When Abigail called to see Eileen Totterbridge on her way out, she found her bed empty, and when she asked to see her, the ward sister informed her that she had just been taken home.

  After leaving Abigail, Vera Bysouth had pushed the heavily laden shopping trolley over to the van which she’d parked, as she always did, right over at the far side of the car-park. It was so far away from the entrance there were nearly always plenty of empty spaces, so the van was less likely to get damaged: if she
went home with so much as another scratch on the already battered paintwork, he’d know, and he’d kill her.

  She faced with dull acceptance that one day it might come to that. She’d been used as a punchbag so often, she took it as a matter of course now: she’d had more black eyes than she could count, she’d been hit and kicked in the stomach when she was pregnant, lost the child and could never have any more … once, he’d hit her on the side of the head with such force that she’d staggered right across the kitchen and fallen unconscious. The fact that he’d happened to have a heavy iron frying pan in his hand at the time had made it worse; she had terrible headaches now. and she’d been deaf in that ear ever since.

  But all that was nothing to what he’d do if she talked. Somehow, she hadn’t been able to make that woman detective understand. She’d spoken as if it was simple, just to leave him. Given her a number to ring if she decided the time had come when she’d had enough. A safe house where she could stay. Vera smiled bitterly. She knew all about safe houses. She’d tried that several times, but he always found her.

  But things were a bit better now, since they’d gone to live at the farm. Jared was roughly kind to her, and Reuben never hit her when he was around. And there were times, in between … also, the farm was a nicer home than any they’d had before in their married lives. Jared’s wife had always kept it beautiful before she died, and Vera took great pride in maintaining the tradition.

  Yet she knew she had a duty to tell what she’d seen. She crossed her arms over the steering wheel and for a moment laid her head down on them. How wonderful it would be just to let go – for an hour or two. For ever.

  Then she heard the parish church clock chime. Its lovely musical cadences sounded right across the town, and she realised with horror that it was two o’clock. Switching on the ignition, she prayed there would be no traffic snarl-up on the bypass.

  It was felt by the board of governors, said the Headmaster, carefully using the passive voice to distance himself from personal responsibility for the decision, that the position of Bursar of Lavenstock College should be nationally advertised, in the spirit of fair and open competition, you understand. Mustn’t be accused of nepotism. Of course, your application, after all your years of experience here, will be extremely favourably considered, there is every prospect you will be successful. But have you never thought of moving on to a higher post in university administration? No? Well, one mustn’t stagnate, however happy one is … A sherry, my dear Riach, before you go?

  John Riach walked back to his office, concentrating on keeping his shoulders back, a swing in his stride, just in case he should meet anyone. He prayed that he wouldn’t encounter even one of the boys before reaching the safety of his own set of rooms, a small, private dominion, high above the quadrangle, to which he invited no one. Small, but quite adequate for one. Furnished with taste, even a little restrained luxury, it offered the warm, deep comfort of privacy, soft sofas and cushioned chairs, glowing lamps, music, and thick carpets. He thought he might need to throw himself down on the Indian rug and howl like a dog.

  His mood was not improved when he saw Hannah in the distance, heading towards the house he’d just left, with Sam Leadbetter beside her, his hand proprietorially under her elbow. For a moment, he almost regretted the tentative suggestion he had put forward to the Head in the social skirmishing before they had come down to the nitty-gritty of their meeting. A nice gesture, wouldn’t it be, Headmaster? To let Mrs Wetherby, a sitting tenant, have first refusal to buy the house? The school’s policy now being not to provide houses for staff?

  He didn’t think he could bear it if Hannah did buy the house, and Sam Leadbetter, not he, moved in with her.

  14

  Daphne said nice things about the newly decorated room, though Cleo thought they might have been said more in the spirit of encouragement than actual admiration, given Daphne’s own tastes. She’d even kindly refrained from pointing out that the work hadn’t really been bottomed, though it was obvious to anybody. The trompe l’oeil window, however, received the Atkins seal of approval.

  They’d eaten takeaway pizza, and a salad Cleo had successfully made. George had brought along a bottle of red wine, and Daphne one of her famous lemon tarts as dessert, and now they were drinking coffee in the front room.

  Daphne said, ‘You don’t want to sit in here when you’re on your own with the curtains not pulled, Cleo. Anybody can see in.’

  ‘But I love to be able to see the lights.’ Beyond the darkened window they twinkled and spread like the Milky Way, a band of stars stretching down and across the town, lighting the night sky and fading into the distance.

  ‘Those curtains of Phoebe’s have passed their sell-by date,’ Daphne announced, ignoring this. ‘I’ll make you a present of the fabric for some new ones, some new cushion covers, and make them up for you.’

  It was no use arguing with her. ‘Well, thanks, but haven’t you enough to do?’

  ‘Rubbish. I can finish them in a couple of evenings. Who did you say did the decorating for you?’

  ‘I didn’t, but his name’s Tone. Well, Tony, actually. Tony Gilchrist.’

  Daphne put her cup down very precisely on the saucer. ‘Tony Gilchrist?’

  ‘Don’t say you know him?’

  ‘Not to say know, not someone like that!’ Daphne pressed her lips together.

  ‘Oh come on, you can’t leave me in suspense! What do you mean, someone like that?’ Though of course, Cleo knew very well what Daphne meant.

  Her mother peeled the foil very carefully from one of the chocolate mints on the coffee table. She put it into her mouth and ate it slowly. ‘I’m surprised he’s had anything to do with you, knowing who you are,’ she said. ‘And if you’ve any sense, you’ll have nothing more to do with him.’

  ‘Not until I know a good reason why.’

  Cleo looked to George for support, but George was evidently determined to let Daphne get on with it. Daphne smoothed her skirt. She looked as smart this evening as she did when visiting classy friends, as if this venture of Cleo’s into normality should be encouraged. Or perhaps she just needed to cheer herself up after the traumas of the last few days. Her outfit was new, consisting of a long, straight black skirt, a cream silk T-shirt and a silk jacket in post office red.

  What could she have meant about Tone? A sort of sinking feeling, beginning around Cleo’s midriff, warned her that her mother might have a point. She’d always known there was something about Tone that didn’t ring true, however much she liked him. And then it came to her, that conversation which she’d buried, consciously or not, until now.

  He’d turned up at MO again, and she’d spoken to him about the murder of the Bursar as they’d walked home together. ‘Yes, well, it’s easy enough to get into his office via that corridor from the porter’s lodge,’ he’d said absently.

  A little, humming silence ensued while Cleo digested this. Eventually, it got through to him. He realised what he’d said, but the silence went on.

  ‘Tone?’ she’d said, at last. ‘Tone? How do you know about that?’

  After a moment, he recovered himself. ‘Once did a bit of work there, didn’t I?’ He grinned. ‘When I was going through me window-cleaning period, like. After I left school. We was carrying some ladders and they let us through that way, didn’t they?’

  It sounded implausible. You could have cut his accent with a knife.

  George said suddenly, ‘Daph, Cleo should know about this, it’s not fair to keep it from her.’

  ‘How well do you know him, Cleo?’ There was more than a hint of apprehension in Daphne’s question.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing like that!’ Cleo said impatiently. ‘He’s a friend, that’s all, just somebody I work with! He’s only eighteen!’ Then she heard herself say suddenly, quite beyond her own volition, ‘What’s the school motto, Mum?’

  She had no idea why the question had come to her, or from what unsuspected depths. Unless it had arisen from intuitive
suspicions she’d had for a while which were now crystallising into certainty But it encompassed a lot that had puzzled her: Tone’s sudden stillness when she’d told him that her mother worked for the Bursar at the school; that curious variation in his accent. She’d known all along he’d either been deliberately putting on the Black Country, or deliberately suppressing the middle-class one. That the standard of his education was much higher than he liked to pretend. As when he’d used that Latin quotation …

  ‘The school motto?’ Daphne repeated, momentarily diverted.

  ‘Is it Semper sursum?’

  ‘Why, yes, it is. Ever upwards. Ever on high. Or something like that.’ Daphne stared, then bit her lip. ‘You know, don’t you?’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘You know Tony Gilchrist was a pupil at Lavenstock College.’

  ‘It seems I might have guessed.’

  ‘He was a scholarship boy. Very bright, really, until he was sacked – expelled.’

  ‘Oh!’ Cleo was stumped, momentarily lost for words.

  Daphne rolled the gold foil she was playing with into a tiny, hard pellet, and took another mint. She never ate more than one chocolate.

  ‘It’s hard for boys like him,’ she said, struggling to be fair. ‘Coming from that sort of background. I’m not sure it does them any favours in the long run, either, they end up being neither one thing nor another. Their parents haven’t got the wherewithal to back them up, not like the other boys’ parents have, and the result is they feel different, fishes out of water. Some of them do manage to integrate and lose their rough edges … and since most of them are very bright, they go on to university. But some get a chip on their shoulder, and can’t rid themselves. Like Tony Gilchrist.’