Death of an Ordinary Guy

by Jo A. Hiestand

  I stood up, turning red. Shoving the chair into the dresser, I said, “You’ve got a mind like a cesspool. Been in the Porno Unit too long?”

  “Round Two goes to Brenna Taylor,” he said, flipping me a casual salute. “Never say I didn’t try.” He leaned against the doorjamb, his gray eyes traveling the length of my body. “You know, Bren, this is a compliment. A lot of women would love to be in your shoes. Or out of them,” he added, staring at the bed.

  I slammed the door, distrusting my voice.

  But he was right. Margo would like to be asked, if not have the actual sack time. Well, I wasn’t going to tell her about this.

  The sun wandered over the village, peeking from rifts in the graying clouds, throwing the lower valley into gold, orange and ochre hues. The church spire of St. Michael’s caught and held the light, the yellow rays nearly igniting the brass cross. I averted my eyes, not so much from the painful splendor as to keep my footing along the uneven cinder pathway. I walked slowly, quietly, as I imagined a native American walking, so as not to make a sound. I started out resolutely enough, but as I entered the shady path, my determination quavered. Partway up the path I turned suddenly, thinking someone lurked behind me. No one. Only waving tree branches and a frightened grey squirrel. A twig snapped and I froze. No one appeared. I walked as noiselessly as I could, determined to hear my prankster approach if he was following me. I emerged from the shady path, having met no one, and having succeeded in fraying my already tense nerves.

  I found the vicar seated on a wooden bench, his black shirt silhouetted against the near-whiteness of the old tombstones. Lyle smiled at my approach and stood up. Assuring the clergyman that I was only there for a few minutes, I suggested he resume his seat.

  “It’s a peaceful time of day,” Lyle observed, his eyes on the western horizon. “Lovely to take a breath and review where one’s been. The Journey’s rough at times, don’t you think?” The vicar, speaking in ecclesiastical terms, took my affirmation of my cinder-strewn stroll as relating to something higher. “I assume you didn’t climb this hill to listen to the wrens, Sergeant. Although a police officer puts in as many and as unorthodox hours as a clergyman, you don’t impress me as the sort who’d pause in a murder investigation to drink in the natural splendors. To what do I owe this visit?”

  I explained that we needed a timetable of everyone’s whereabouts from 3:30 to 6:00 on Sunday.

  “Ah, the Fateful Day. I was in my study, doing a few odds and ends. Straightening my desk, dashing off a few letters. Nothing very interesting or that gives me an alibi. I assume that’s what you meant. Do I need something public, something shared that proves where I was?” His cheeks bulged slightly as he grinned, the sunlight tinting the rosy flesh a pale yellow.

  I nodded.

  “Thought so. Pity it wasn’t Saturday, because I was with Ramona and Arthur. We could confirm each other’s schedules. But you’ll have to take my word about Sunday afternoon.”

  “And what were you and the betrothed couple doing?”

  “Redressing the effigy.” He spoke like an actor making his entrance and stating that the theater was on fire. “Though I overstate my role somewhat. In all honesty, I wasn’t physically with them. I’d just walked down to the green. They were at the edge of the fire circle, back by Talbot’s pile of wood. I only saw it from across the road. Is it important?”

  I thanked the vicar and walked with as much dignity as I could down the lane.

  Ramona hadn’t much to add to the effigy-dressing narration. I’d found her on her day off, so was spared the drive into Buxton. I sat at her fireside, fortified with strong tea and a new felt-tip pen, adding notes to my growing collection, taking in the Victorian surroundings.

  The front room of her vine-smothered cottage was itself nearly smothered. Plant cuttings in glass jars and mugs dotted window stills. Mementos of holidays, plays and concerts consumed every available space—miniature frying pans brightly inscribed with ‘Crete’ or ‘Wales’ or ‘Gibraltar,’ ceramic birds, salt and pepper sets, framed tea towels and calendar pages, a post card of a gilt-haired Lady Godiva, stacks of picture travel books, a black vase from Blackpool, a tartan-draped Highlander doll, several toy sheep, a too-yellow stuffed canary holding a limp ribboned ‘Souvenir of the Canary Islands’ from its beak, and a mirror elaborately bordered in painted flowers. No doubt to make the beholder assume she’s still in the springtime of her life. The Antipodes were equally well represented with a wooden kiwi bird, a Maori tiki and mere of greenstone, a boomerang, an Indian pearl-handled knife, and a Chinese folding fan. Normally, I was Discretion itself. But the display demanded inspecting. And while not museum quality, it was certainly museum quantity. She needs Arthur’s large manor for her display, I thought. The woman must spend half her life dusting this lot.

  I abandoned my tussles with a fringed pillow on the sofa as Ramona asked if my tea was all right.

  “Fine, thanks, but I wish you’d let me get it. How’s the arm?”

  She patted the sling and said, “More inconvenience than pain, right now. But I’ll survive.”

  I said I was glad to hear it. “You had it seen to professionally? I ask because those injuries can swell if not properly looked to, and cause no amount of pain and trouble later on.”

  “Local physician saw to it, thanks. Evan phoned him up. I felt a right fool, all the fuss everyone made over me, but…” She shrugged and positioned her arm on a pillow. I repeated my joy at hearing it, then asked about the effigy.

  “I normally make it. But Arthur volunteered this year although it wasn’t the norm for him. He had a bit of extra straw from some landscaping he’s doing at the manor. You know, from seeding the lawn. He said he’d do it, save me the expense and trip to get the straw.”

  “That was thoughtful of him. Lucky for you he was seeding.”

  Ramona nodded. “He feels an obligation—to the manor, to his father, bless his soul, and to his guests. Wants everything as posh as possible. Says it’s worth the extra work if he gets the extra quid from it. I don’t know about that, though. I must be thick as a plank. Spend money to make money… Daft. Bit of a vicious circle, isn’t it?

  I agreed it was like treading water to keep solvent these days, then asked about the Guy’s clothing.

  “What Lyle saw us doing Saturday was exchanging jackets. I did it there at the fire circle so I wouldn’t track straw into my car or the house. It was a bit of a wrestle, but I did it.”

  “Anyone see you or help?”

  “You’re thinking of alibi, Sergeant?” She squinted at me, as though trying to discern if she was about to be carted off to Hollowy. “No one stood around and watched, if that’s what you’re suggesting. Arthur left. I suppose I can’t ask why you’re asking. Not even as girl to girl?”

  “Did you have to rehang it yourself?”

  “No. I was going to try to rig it up again, but I didn’t want to fool with it. I left it, wanted to get home. I assume Talbot hung it since he’s always down there fussing over his woodpile. When I got to the circle Sunday around bonfire time, I saw the rope around the thing’s waist and neck. Someone restrung it, that’s evident.”

  “Does it just lie there, until 7:00 or so when the program begins?”

  “Talbot lets it down around lunchtime so we can raise it and torch it. You’ll have to ask him exactly when. I only know it’s down again for the hoisting. So, Sergeant, that’s about it. Other than Arthur changing jackets because he’d given me the wrong one—”

  “What jacket had he meant to give you?”

  “That tan plaid thing it’s wearing now. He’d originally given me a tweed, but had meant to give it to Oxfam, I think. It was still quite good, so he rescued it from the dummy. I didn’t mind. Might as well give away the better clothing instead of watching it go to waste by the torch.”

  I thanked her and went to enlighten Graham.

  As it turned out, Graham enlightened me. He had seen Tom Oldendorf but got nothing more than
an earful of anger. “His point being,” Graham said, “that he’d be an idiot to try killing Pedersen over here. He told me Scotland Yard has a 97% success rate solving their crimes.”

  “We don’t do too badly either,” I said, my pride of Derbyshire B Division rising.

  “And Arthur gave us another date to figure in.”

  “Lovely. I should have read mathematics at university.”

  Graham ignored me. “Talbot first appeared in the village in 1942, though he wasn’t a permanent resident. At first he just came for the summers. On the invitation of Derek’s dad. That was before the senior Halford had any children of his own. Four years later, Derek was born.”

  “Make any difference to anyone?”

  “Not to hear Arthur tell it. Mr. Halford loved both boys equally, treated them the same. And Talbot needed a home when his aunt died, so Derek’s dad took him in in 1951.”

  “Adopted him?”

  “There’s that pesky question again, Taylor. Anyway, Talbot didn’t catch on to the dole business until some of the local lads explained it to him. He thought it was a bit of play-acting at first, like an outdoor pageant or charade.”

  “Three cheers for the local lads.”

  “Many people would echo your sentiments, I’m afraid. And how did you get on with your supply of thumb screws?”

  I told him of my interviews with the vicar and Ramona, and we spent the rest of the day interviewing the other players, however minor in this game.

  * * * *

  That evening, we relinquished our usual late-night routine and went to bed early. It was just as well, for somewhat later my bedroom clock simultaneously announced the hour and the arrival of the rain. Midnight clattered in with a storm that threatened to peel the bark off the trees. Rain thundered along the pine-thick ridge, through the hills, down the dales. Along the pond’s shoreline, wave and rain slapped the reed-wrapped rocks and cratered the smooth sand. Hat-holding blasts of wind scythed through the thickets, gleaning the pungency of moss and pine. Rain, heavier than chilled syrup, planed down plants. A cloud-splitting crack of thunder shook the pub, jolting me from my sleep.

  Outside my window, the inn sign swung crazily in the wind, its screeching keeping time with an annoying banging shutter.

  It was impossible to sleep. I sat up in bed, my knees drawn up to my chest, the skirt of my nightgown pulled down tightly. I stared into the darkness, cringing when lightning splintered the dark.

  From the room next to mine a name, sharp as the thunder, jumped out of the silence. “Rachel.” I listened, aware I was eavesdropping, but wondering if Graham was entertaining a woman. None of my business, of course. But if he was indeed sharing his bed, I was more than astonished. I was disappointed. Never mind I had secret desires to be in Rachel’s place. Until I actually was there, I wanted him celibate, waiting for me—whether he knew it or not—because I was the love of his life. Of course it was ridiculous. But the emotions of love don’t always allow clear thinking. I hugged my nightgown around me, remembering the ardor in his voice, and all of a sudden I wanted it to be my name instead of ‘Rachel’ on his lips.

  I could hear the name again, more muffled this time, then several seconds of silence, followed by a chair scraping across the floor, and a book or something similarly heavy thudding, as if it had fallen off the night stand. I did not even attempt to visualize what Graham and Rachel were doing. When I heard another crash and an oath, I threw off the quilt, shrugged into my jacket, and opened the door.

  The hallway was dark except for a feeble lamp at the end of the passage, marking the staircase landing. From the adjacent room, light streaked from beneath the ill-fitted door and across the floor. It was Graham’s room.

  I hesitated. The hall embraced the scents of wax and spent candles and winterberry. Comforting, ancestral fragrances. Had this been Graham’s world, these aromas of altar trimmings and cleaning supplies? I inhaled deeply, and once again imagined him in his black robe. He had quit the pulpit, office scuttlebutt whispered, by as to why… Shrugged shoulders answered my questions. Jokes and fabricated innuendoes stung my ears. Affair with a parishioner. Rudeness to the bishop. Struggle with his conscience over church doctrine. I could believe almost any reason, for I was learning how explosive Graham’s temper was, how intolerant he was of bureaucracy and pedantic superiors. And for Graham, that was stifling.

  A crack of thunder exploded overhead, and I ducked, thinking the building had exploded. There was no response from Graham’s room.

  I left my doorway. The floor, silent during the day, now groaned and popped with all the uproar of a 1930s gangster turf war. Tiptoeing, though lessening the cacophony, increased the coldness biting into my bare feet. I paused just outside his door, wondering if he had fallen and needed help. It seemed plausible enough, for the sounds and following curses indicated a small clash within those four walls. Yet, I was hesitant to knock. I might embarrass him if he knew I could hear him. I also wondered at the protocol of a single woman, dressed in nightgown, entering a man’s room. Maybe my concerns seem quaint or prudish, but Graham—no matter how long ago—remained a minister. And I didn’t want to ruin my career over an indiscretion. Or confront Rachel.

  Within his room it was as silent as the grave. I was about to return to my bed when a movement at the bottom of the stairs drew my attention. A whispered “Brenna” made me turn to the figure—it was Margo, cringing at the cracks of thunder. I went over to her, silently amused at her death grip on the staircase’s newel post.

  “Is this how you keep surveillance?”

  “So it’s not subtle,” she said, ducking in the lightning flash. “At least I can see your room.”

  As much as I wanted to, I refrained from asking what Rachel looked like. Margo must have seen her enter Graham’s room. Better not add fuel to office rumors by suggesting I was interested in Graham’s private life. Instead, I said, “Why not hide under my bed?”

  “My mum was frightened by a chamber pot. Let’s go to your room.” We ran down the hall, hoping the building would survive the attack. Once inside, I lit the dresser light. I should have left us sitting in the dark. The photos of me parading as the Guy sat on the dresser, and Margo immediately saw them.

  After my brief explanation, Margo said, “This is beyond a joke, Bren. Anyone could be wandering about in the day, sure, but who would have a key to your room?”

  “Take your choice. I don’t think our suspect list has changed any since Monday morning. I thought it was Mark, but after talking with him today—”

  “You talked to him again? When?”

  I told her the bare bones of the afternoon’s encounter, leaving out the gory details. “Now that you’ve got something to dream about, how about returning to your bed so I can get into mine?”

  “Fine. Refuse my help. But I still say the key to all this is who has the key.”

  As I listened to Margo shut the door behind her, I wondered if we had a pick-pocket among us.

  I emerged from my room the next morning looking as ragged and tired as if I had endured an all-night work session with Graham. I was used to lack of sleep, but every now and then I do like to augment my usual five hours to eight.

  I clumped downstairs to the luring aromas of fried bacon, baked scones and warm cinnamon. Mark was just leaving the pub and hadn’t seen me. Good. Better for my digestion. Graham, I was relieved to see, was alone, Rachel either slipping out at dawn or eating at another table. I looked around the room, trying to surmise which of the several single women might be Rachel. None of them fit my idea. Perhaps I was wrong about the entire incident. After all, wouldn’t Margo have said something? Cheered by Graham’s restoration to his pedestal, I walked noiselessly up to the table and chirped, “Praying for strength or guidance?”

  His head jerked up, revealing eyes that might have stared at poker cards until the wee hours. He motioned to the vacant chair, groaned that I should know better than to do that, and said the coffee had certainly perked him right
up.

  Good thing I hadn’t seen him half an hour ago. “I assume you’ve finished your porridge, kippers and eggs, and are now on to your second pot of coffee.”

  “Had everything but the porridge, kippers and eggs,” he muttered, kneading his eyes. “Shall I make it a double order, then?” Graham looked up as Evan came up to our table. “Perfect timing. How about poached eggs and haddock, Taylor?”

  “Haddock? You know anything remotely connected with the sea—”

  “Cure all, Taylor. Evan—” He stopped as Evan’s face lapsed into a sickly grimace.

  “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Graham.”

  “Bother?”

  “Telephone, Sir. In my office. Byron says it sounds urgent.” Stepping aside, he let Graham stand up before motioning toward the phone.

  “Thank you, Evan. You might give the sergeant some tea, if you would. I’m afraid we didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  I had barely drunk half my tea when Graham was back, extracting the car key from his pocket. “’Fraid we won’t get that glorious breakfast after all, Taylor. It was Arthur Catchpool. He’s at Ramona’s. She’s dead.”

  NINETEEN

  Graham related the skeletal facts during the drive to the cottage. His words came haltingly as he tried to concentrate on both the road and the death. Gravel splayed onto road-hugging plants, dusting the frosted vegetation a dull brown as he executed a sharp corner. It wasn’t until he braked the car several meters from the cottage that I relinquished my life-preserving grip on the door’s armrest. He was out of the car before I could unbuckle my seat belt.

  We remained approximately 25 meters away from Ramona’s body so as not to contaminate the scene, yet close enough to get a preliminary view. The paper suits we needed to wear to allow up close and personal contact with Ramona would arrive with the rest of the crime team. Until then, we would have to be content with examining from afar.