Death of an Ordinary Guy

by Jo A. Hiestand

  “With that ruddy knife in him?” Graham exploded, his eyes mirroring his astonishment. Shaking his head, Graham said, ‘Ora pro nobis’ to the universe.

  I agreed that we needed all the help we could get, but inwardly doubted God would send a flaming chariot of avenging angels, no matter how diligently Graham had served his collar. And, from the office gossip, he had, even if he had been Chapel and not C of E.

  In the silence following his vocal plea, I could hear two constables complaining about the evening’s cold. Their voices must have jarred Graham, for he said, “Sorry, TC. Go on.”

  I hesitated momentarily, altering a few words from my previous statement. Best to make this exact and succinct. Save our blood pressures. “Well, they lowered him to the ground, hoping he was still breathing. He wasn’t.”

  “Another body moved before we can examine it. Bloody helpful.” Graham snorted, his eyes back on the disarray of the corpse.

  “Can’t really fault them, Sir. Natural reaction.”

  “I suppose. But I don’t suppose Ahrens will do the dance of joy over it. When’s he going to get here?” He looked at his watch. “Two hours, if he makes good time.”

  “We can’t get a measurement of the height of the body from the ground, no, sir. But we can estimate it fairly accurately. We know his height, and the rope should show signs of—”

  “Bloody helpful,” he repeated. “Who actually lowered the body? Do we know that?”

  “Talbot Tanner. Village odd-jobs man, sixty-two years old—”

  “Fine.” Graham waved aside the rest of my rendition.

  Thinking he would find it interesting as well as pertinent, I mentioned Talbot had been in charge of constructing the bonfire, but that Ramona VanDyke had overseen the straw dummy.

  “Were either Talbot or Ramona responsible for the knife?” said Graham when I had finished.

  “Haven’t gotten that far, sir.” I hesitated, wanting to recite some fact about them or the bonfire or the lack of firecrackers, but they would be taken for what they obviously were—a feeble display of non-essential knowledge. I didn’t know what to say to regain his respect.

  “Of course not. Early days yet.” Graham bent over the body, the knife fascinating him. It seemed to whisper to him, taunt him. “Looks incredibly familiar, but I can’t place it. Do you know, Taylor?” He stepped aside, motioning me to join him at the body.

  I squatted, peered at the knife from several angles, then stood up and said that it seemed like a scout knife. “Found in many homes, scout-aged children or not residing. Could just as easily be a remnant from a current university student or a jumble sale. Doesn’t get us anywhere.”

  “Probably won’t find any dabs on it, either,” mused Graham half aloud, taking in the knife’s short blade, the metallic rivets pimpling the wooden handle. “Well, one of the SOCOs will have to deal with it. And I hope whoever does it won’t make a bloody mess of it this time.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, uncertain it was a joke, sympathetic to the as yet unchosen Scenes-of-Crime Officer.

  Shielding his eyes from the brilliance of the working lights, Graham looked around, as if to see whom he could trust.

  Unfortunately, I knew what he meant. An eager constable attached to a previous case had packaged a blood-stained knife in a paper bag, remembering the bit about allowing it to dry first, but forgetting the bit about tying the knife to the interior of a cardboard box, which prevented movement—and removal of blood—during transport. I swallowed, pitying the SOCO if he mucked up this one.

  Evidently giving up for the moment, Graham said, “All the fun of a fair for Hargreaves.”

  “Murderers are a bit more clever these days,” I agreed. “Unless done on the spur of the moment, they plan ahead about the fingerprints.”

  “Gloves were never one of my favorite bits of wearing apparel. Well, if we’re not told otherwise, I don’t think Steve Pedersen was stabbed to death. Has Karol expounded anything yet, do you know?”

  I replied that Karol hadn’t said anything to me, but she was still there if Graham wanted to talk to her.

  “Wouldn’t dream of disturbing her work.” Graham held his hand out to me and I, as though a sister in an operating theater, placed the pen in his palm. With a nearly inaudible ‘thanks,’ he carefully lifted the left edge of the deceased’s plaid jacket. As though addressing Pedersen’s chest, Graham muttered, “I’ll give you three guesses, Taylor. Three’s the magic number. Associated with all sorts of things, so you can take your pick and invoke the Trinity, shamrock, musketeers, or whatever. But if you don’t get it in one, I’ll be quite disappointed with you, and strongly suggest a refresher course in Elementary Detection.”

  Even though I assumed he was joking, I wanted to shine, to win back my top-of-the-class status. Of course I wasn’t expected to solve this case single-handedly—I mean, that’s why I was partnered with him. To learn as well as to complement his skills. But I wanted him to think I had promise. I nervously pulled all police schooling from somewhere deep within me, afraid to speak, as he gestured toward the light blue sweatshirt front that was bunched up slightly where the knife blade had pulled bits of it into the wounded flesh. Aside from a strand of straw and a bit of blood—hardly noticeable—on the knife, there was nothing unusual about the shirt or jacket.

  “Well, Taylor?” he said. “What about it? Does this lack of abundant blood speak to you?” I must have made some sort of face, for he said, “Should I be worried about your dinner?”

  I could delay it no longer. Praying that I wasn’t about to demote myself or look like an idiot, I said, “Bit of a giveaway, yes. Stabbed after death.”

  I must have answered satisfactorily, for there was a hint of a smile in his eyes. He let the jacket edge fall back into place, got to his feet, and gave me the pen. “Can Ramona VanDyke talk now?” He turned toward the area where she, her fiancée and the vicar had been moments before. The grassy spot was empty.

  I let Graham swear under his breath after I explained that Karol had given Miss VanDyke a sedative just before he had arrived. “She needed it. Fearful shock, this whole thing.”

  He stood, clenching his fingers, staring at them as though they had held the knife. Hands were important to him, I knew from office chatter. He was a serious amateur musician. Some sort of keyboard instrument, I vaguely recalled. What was there besides piano or organ? Neither sounded quite right, and I stood there, trying to recall what the chatter had said. I had just decided to ask him when Graham sighed. “Well, there’s nothing for it but to proceed with Plan B, Taylor. You can let Hargreaves and the Clan have their fun. Murder makes their jobs so much more interesting.” He muttered a hurried apology and stepped out of Hargreaves’ way. “Evening, Hargreaves. Sorry about the hour.”

  Dean Hargreaves, a short, thirty-something-year-old who excelled in still photography, maneuvered around one of his own tripods, and replied that he didn’t mind the time. “The Cop apologized earlier.” Even though I had now made sergeant grade, my mates still called me The Cop, or TC. I reveled in the nickname that doubled as a Rite of Passage in a male-dominated occupation and as a trophy of a once-vicious taunt. The only woman in my police class, I had endured the course and my colleagues’ snide remarks, finally proving myself worthy of being a cop and working with them. Dean continued. “I’ve just had a cuppa, so I’m in good shape.”

  Graham nodded, taking in my nickname without a second thought. “Hot tea sounds awfully good. As soon as TC and I sort things out, we’ll have to find some.”

  Hargreaves stepped in front of a floodlight, eclipsing the deceased and silhouetting himself at the same time. From my position at the side of the forensic activity, Hargreaves’ features stood out with the boldness of a relief map. The more his black hair thinned, the fuller Hargreaves wore his mustache. I wondered if the mustache would mature into a beard if the photographer turned bald.

  I exited the crime scene and took off my work clothing as Graham and Hargreaves talked.
From the darkness of the eastern woods I could hear Rams Dyke Creek rushing downstream to join the River Dove. I silently thanked the saint or Olympian god who ruled such things that we weren’t dealing with a drowning. I had seen enough water-eaten corpses to fill the rest of my career. Which I hoped would be long, if I didn’t do something stupid in front of Graham. He could be your best friend or as cold, hard-hearted, and unyielding as the police manual if he was crossed.

  I shook off the water-bloated image that claimed my mind and wondered what had pulled Graham into the Force. I had progressed to fantasizing about revenge for a murdered sister when I saw him approach. His step was light and quick, full of self-assurance; his tall, lean body silhouetted against Hargreaves’ work lights.

  All this time I had been patiently waiting beyond the police tape, and lifted it as Graham joined me. His footprints were dark smears on the frosted grass, a straight trail that spoke of his completion with the scene and his determination to begin the next phase. I collected my purse from where I had stashed it near a straw bundle and asked, “You suppose the knife will be all that difficult to trace?”

  Graham disrobed quickly and handed the paper apparel over to a constable, who promptly stuffed it into a paper bag. The evening’s chill had gripped him, and although he did his best to ignore it, he looked as though he was cold. And hungry. He tugged up the zipper of his suede jacket and pulled on his gloves, which were of the same color leather. I hugged my arms to my chest, glad of my down-filled jacket. We watched the frozen breaths of the constabulary team shrouding the scene, white against the glare of the police lamps. He turned back to me. “No one will own it, Taylor. You’ve been a copper long enough to know that. I suppose you better phone up the video team from Chesterfield. Or…” Graham stopped in his directive to study my face. My expression must have told Graham what he had suspected. “Should know better than to tell you something so obvious. They’re enroute, are they? Add another kewpie doll to your collection.”

  In spite of my wish to bottle my feelings, I smiled. It passed unnoticed, for he was concentrating on the job.

  “Now, whom should we talk to first? Who’s not overcome with grief or drugged beyond sensibility? I don’t mean that as cruelly as it might sound. I’m just tired. What time is it?” He consulted his watch, saw that it was 9:00, and swore. ”Not particularly late, but it will be before we unpack our pajamas.”

  “Well, since you asked for my vote, I suggest Arthur Catchpool. He’s something of the local lord, though there’s no claim to a peerage. More of a lord-of-the-manor thing.”

  “Great benefactor of the village, then?” Graham stared absentmindedly ahead of him into the dark village. A few lighted-up windows spoke of the houses’ occupants still awake. Probably chattering on about the murder over hot cups of tea, Graham acquiesced, and murmured something about slices of jam-covered bread, fat rascals, and blazing fires. He spoke of it as one would of a loving memory.

  “Couldn’t be more of a benefactor than if he guided each villager through life, to hear some of them talk. Pays for half the drinks at the bonfire, for starters.”

  “And who provides the potatoes?” replied Graham, kicking one of the tubers that had rolled out from the fire area.

  I felt suddenly sad, knowing these villagers had been cheated out of their evening revelry. Maybe not such a disappointment to an adult, but to a child it was probably an earth-shaking tragedy. I heard a chestnut pop as I stepped on it. “You will ask embarrassing questions, sir.”

  He smiled slightly, the skin over his jaw tightening so that the scar was more visible. It was the only flaw in his otherwise lead-actor looks. “Nasty habit of mine. Sorry. Continue with your most interesting discourse.”

  “Well, Arthur is a likely place to start our investigation. He’s converted a section of the venerable pile into a bed-and-breakfast, so we might find some of the tourists who were here at the bonfire getting ready to nest for the night. Save on returning tomorrow to question them.”

  “I applaud your efficiency, Taylor.”

  “Thank you. Anyway, even if the tourists are soothing their frayed nerves at the Broken Loaf—that’s the local pub—Arthur is still the key player. He emceed the pre-fire program, handed out laurels to workers, oversaw the straw bundle delivery, paid for the chestnuts…”

  “Busy man,” Graham added. “And apart from observing village hierarchy…” His voice trailed off. Was he envisioning the bonfire, the light-streaked faces of the villagers eagerly anticipating the food and fueling of the Guy? “Very well, Taylor. Let’s see if Mr. Arthur Catchpool is still awake and, if so, if his benefaction will extend to two cups of tea.”

  FOUR

  Arthur Catchpool was indeed awake, and so were the others beneath his roof—family, house staff and tourists. And true to Graham’s hope, Arthur did offer us tea after he settled us in his study. I grasped the cup in both hands, feeling the warmth from the china invade my cold-stiffened fingers. The tea smelt of hot lemon, and there was an aroma of fried pork and apples hanging in the air. I inhaled deeply, as though the fragrance would appease my growing hunger. It didn’t, and I drank deeply of the tea. It nearly scalded my throat, but the temperature shocked me awake.

  The room was what I had expected of a country great house—wood paneling, walls of books, accessories and portraits that went back generations. But Arthur was entirely unexpected. Instead of a robust, rotund country squire, we found a slight man in his early forties, soft-spoken and dogless. I hoped my astonishment wasn’t noticeable.

  I reluctantly traded my cup for pen and paper when Arthur began his narrative.

  “I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you, Mr. Graham.” Arthur sat opposite us, his legs crossed, his elbow on the edge of a small table. He was dressed in wool slacks and patch-elbow tweed jacket. The knees of Arthur’s slacks were still wet from where he had knelt on the damp earth, aiding Ramona VanDyke during her faint. Lord knows it was understandable—finding a corpse instead of a straw dummy staring at you. A wisp of straw, just discernible, had lodged under the tassel of his loafer. Probably even now not aware of it. Arthur’s voice, though high from apprehension, filled the room.

  “The vicar lit the fire, then handed the torch over to Ramona. Of course, we had no inkling that the dummy wasn’t— Well…” He paused to swallow, looking quite uncomfortable. “For all that went on here tonight, Mr. Graham, Upper Kingleigh’s still quieter than Lewes.” He offered the village comparison with pride, as though he had to find something good in the night’s horror. I could envision the Sussex town, the lighted dummy dangling from a noose, the noise swelling until every corner of the town seemed filled with the bedlam. Arthur abruptly abandoned his speech, grabbed his shirt collar, and pulled at his tie. Was his imagery too graphic, inducing the feeling of the noose that had strangled Steve Pedersen? He looked definitely paler than a few minutes ago. I was about to find him some water or brandy when he spoke again. His statement now was embellished with the bulwark of village safety statistics.

  I watched the man’s fidgeting, the clasping and unclasping of his hands.

  Arthur swallowed loudly, his fingers intertwined and squeezed together as though he was in earnest prayer. Somewhere within the bowels of the mansion a grandfather clock erupted in a deep-voice to announce the hour. The chime echoed faintly from the opposite end of the hall.

  “How could we know? It was dark. Seven o’clock. We weren’t particularly interested in it. Well, why should we be, having seen all the other dummies Ramona had made? That’s Ramona VanDyke,” he explained, his eyes watching my note-taking. I smiled, thanking him.

  Graham asked, “You didn’t know the deceased, then.”

  Arthur seemed to relax somewhat, now that the focus had shifted from him. The flesh of his fingers returned to its normal hue, the top leg ceased its agitated bounce.

  “No, I didn’t,” he confessed rather too quickly, I thought. I glanced at Graham, but his face revealed no hint of emotion or opinion.
Arthur continued. “That is, I knew he had been a guest here. Part of the house is a B-and-B. It brings in a few bob a year, so it helps with the household accounts. Plus, there’s no other larger accommodation close by. Buxton’s a good half hour away.”

  He seemed to need to justify his commercial venture to us, as though we would find it illegal or ethically immoral.

  Graham agreed that every little bit of income was handy these days.

  “You’re so right. This place costs a bloody fortune to run. That’s why I started taking in paying guests. The house has way too many rooms for our current lifestyle. Who can afford nanny and governess and all the rest of the frou-frous our forebears enjoyed?”

  I ventured that even if I could afford them, I would feel uneasy about employing others for what I could do myself. Graham winked at me while Arthur counted himself lucky in only having an uncle to support. And in being childless. “But it’s home, and I wouldn’t let it out of the family if I could.”

  “So while you lodged Steve Pedersen…” Graham prompted, guiding the questioning back to the murder.

  “Other than greeting him as I do everyone when they arrive, and inviting them to tea the first night… Well, why should I know he was going to—” He stuttered and looked at the carpet. “Anyway,” he said when he had calmed somewhat, “Byron knew who Pedersen was, of course, and told me after it— Well, just before you arrived. That’s Byron MacKinnon, my bookkeeper and secretary—personal as well as social. My private life’s not that demanding, so Byron fills a portion of his 40 hours by keeping the books for Evan Greene, the publican, and the Conways, owners of the gift shop. Met them yet? Grand folks. Anyway, Byron had a business 10, 15 years ago. Then came to work for me.”

  I asked why a man enjoying the freedom of his own business would trade that to be someone’s employee.

  Arthur shrugged and slowly answered, “I hate to gloat over another’s misfortunes, but it wasn’t until his own business failed that he came here.”