Death of an Ordinary Guy

by Jo A. Hiestand

  “You thinking of donating it?” Byron prompted.

  “Worried about the cost, are you?”

  “Not more than the next. It’s just that, with Christmas coming…”

  Evan frowned. “Might’ve known you’d let a few quid come between you and our anniversary. Never seen anyone so fretful over a penny.”

  “What were you thinking, then?” Byron leaned across the bar, eyeing the man. “I can’t see you parting with that kind of lolly. Must be talking of fifty quid or so, with the engraving—if we do it up right. Nothing cheap.”

  “If you’re so money shy, what say we all contribute toward the cost?”

  Murmurs bordering on consent greeted Evan’s suggestion.

  “You can always grab a spare job washing windows or making beds up at the Manor,” someone joked from the back of the room. “Maybe earn a few pence washing Arthur’s jaguar. ’Course, you’d have to sign away the remainder of your salary in precaution of your scratching it.”

  “Better yet,” Evan declared, grinning at Byron, “get your boss to donate the plaque. Save us poor working chaps doling out our own meager savings. Then we could have a proper party.”

  Talbot, the lone occupant at a table, coughed loudly, drawing the carolers’ attention to him. He drew his handkerchief across his mouth. “You can have your party if you want. I’m not the man to stop any of you. But it’s kind of silly, if you ask me.”

  “Well,” Byron said, kicking a nearby chair and sending it crashing into its neighbor, “nobody’s asking you, then.”

  Evan shook his head slightly at the man, as if silencing him, and asked Talbot what he meant.

  Talbot stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket, picked up his glass and stared at it. “It may be twenty-five years for you, Evan Greene, and most of your others, but Mr. Derek Halford, here, has only been out carolin’ with the lot of you for twenty-four years. Wasn’t here in ’73, or don’t any of you have the intelligence to remember that?” He finished with a sort of flurry, dramatically draining his glass.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” demanded one of the men.

  Evan’s hand went out to the man’s arm. “It’s true. I’d forgotten. It’s not the sort of thing you normally make it a point to recall each year, is it? Derek was back by the following spring, but anyway, it’s the group that’s been going for twenty-five years, and that’s what‘s being celebrated, not the individual members.”

  Talbot stood up, pushing back the chair with his leg. He remained at the table, staring at the men. “You can give out whatever the hell you like. Might as well do it. Next milestone’s fifty years. That’s another twenty-five years, Evan, and you’re in your sixties now. You probably won’t be ’round then to enjoy it. Didn’t you learn your sum tables at school?”

  Ray of sunshine, I thought.

  “Thanks for your permission, Talbot.”

  “Lot of nonsense, all this time spent on singin’. The telly's got whackin’ good programs on. So’s the radio. I can hear better on recordings any day of the week than I can from you lot. Who needs you?” He grabbed his coat, struggling into it as he stomped out of the pub amidst an array of angry protests.

  Graham murmured, “What an extraordinary exhibition.”

  I nodded and emptied my glass. “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”

  “Truer words, Taylor. Come on.” We followed Talbot at a more leisurely pace.

  We were several yards behind Talbot when the connecting door to the vestibule banged open, revealing Vernon Wroe. Upon seeing Talbot, Wroe grasped the handyman’s arms in affection.

  “My boy!” gurgled Wroe, all excitement. “I was going to drop by later this evening, but you’ve saved an old man a trip. How are—”

  Talbot shrugged off the unwelcome hands and stepped backwards. “I’ll save you a trip anytime, then, for I won’t let you in. And I’m not your son. I wish to hell you’d stop natterin’ on like that. I asked my dad once ’bout you and him. Know what he told me?” Talbot squinted through the smoke of his cigarette, studying the man before him. “He said he never knew you. You were in the same regiment, all right, that you and Kris’s dad was mates, but that was it. So bugger off afore I get good an’ mad.” Talbot brushed past the colonel and slammed the outer pub door in his exit.

  Embarrassed at being caught in a melodramatic pronouncement, Wroe averted his eyes from us, mumbled something noncommittal, and slowly entered the public bar.

  “Amazing,” Graham said as we walked to the stairs leading to our bedrooms. “What’s it mean?”

  “What’ll come of it is my question.”

  A chatter of raised voices inside the public bar turned our attention to the commotion. Peering through the door’s glass panel, we could see Wroe getting friendly with a group of women seated at a table.

  “Amazing,” repeated Graham. “Rebounds from rebuke by his pseudo son and transforms to amorous octopus in less than five minutes.”

  “The man’s got stamina.”

  “Or hope. Ooh, that hurt!” Graham said, referring to a slap the older man just received from a middle-aged blonde. Wroe’s back was towards us but the woman’s face told us her attitude to the colonel’s strategy and attack. Graham grimaced, but for whom he was feeling sympathy, I didn’t know. “Serves him right, I don’t doubt. They don’t look very happy with his technique.”

  “As good as a Buster Keaton movie,” I said, pressing my nose against the glass, trying to hear.

  “Don’t insult Keaton. He had class and dignity while being funny. Wroe’s just funny, in a pathetic manner.”

  We watched Wroe approach another member of the group, only to receive the same answer, though delivered differently. Wroe finally seated himself at a lone table and occupied himself in studying the fire.

  It was my turn. “Amazing.”

  “You can dream about the second reel. Good night, Taylor.”

  “’Night, Sir.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  I like to walk in the early morning, and while in Upper Kingsleigh I saw no reason to discontinue my habit. The walk not only focuses my mind on the day’s activities but it also gives me a chance to bird watch.

  I followed a much-used trail, entering the woods by Arthur’s estate. The quiet, cool blend of sanctuary and November morning enveloped me. Old leaves and pine scented the air. I zipped up my jacket against the cold.

  Several yards away a green woodpecker hopped among the branches of a dead tree. Despite the bird’s large size, he had been difficult to see at first, for the sunlight had not fully penetrated this section of the woods. He was resplendent with red crown and nape that magnificently offset his practically all-green body. I watched him pursue his breakfast until a noise eventually disturbed him. He rose in a flurry of flapping wings and loud laughing call, settling somewhere out of my sight. The tree seemed oddly vacant without him.

  Farther along the trail I came upon several nuthatches. A bit of fluff on the wind, this small bird—half the size of the green woodpecker. But size did not diminish its beauty: it was equally as striking with its subtle blue-gray back and orangish belly. Neither bird was on the endangered list, but I was thrilled to see them.

  I crossed Rams Dyke Creek. In the village the stream announced its presence by vociferously clambering over moss-slick rocks and gurgling around half-submerged logs. Here in the midst of the woods it slowed. Perhaps it had no reason to impress the villagers with its frantic pace. Perhaps the land lay flatter here. The channel widened and filled with leaves. The stream, it seemed, needed the earlier white water rush to clear itself of strangling vegetation. I stopped, dipping my hand into the water. Pure liquid ice. I wiped my hand on my slacks and crossed the stream. A growth of burdock, withered by frost, clung to the bank and brushed against me as I reclaimed the forest floor. Beneath my feet, fallen leaves and twigs crunched, scaring the birds into loftier branches.

  As I came to the farther edge of the wood I saw the noose.

&nbs
p; It hung from a tree limb, barely stirring in the slight breeze. I stopped abruptly. My heart beat racing, I glanced around the area, waiting for a cry of “Surprise!” or a laugh or a rush of kidnapping hands. When nothing happened, I finally approached it. There was nothing to indicate a connection with me or the Pedersen case. Yet, why was it here?

  It was a new rope, still smelling of hemp fiber. Was it another warning? Or some local kids playing at their own Guy Fawkes hoisting? Perhaps Mark was joking with me, having somehow learned of the other episodes in my room. Perhaps he had been the original instigator all along and this was just Chapter 4 in his bag of pranks. I stared at it, wondering what he had waiting for me at the pub when I returned. Another dead bird? It would be like him to do this, I thought, grabbing the noose and savagely tugging it from the tree. Some strange trial to see if I was on a level with the boys. I peered at the rope’s cut end. Of course without the lab’s help I couldn’t determine how long it had been weathering here. And a call for their expertise would raise questions. And I was still determined to keep all such incidents quiet. So, I was stuck. Damn! as Graham often said.

  I threw the rope onto the ground and kicked it against a tree. The dull ‘thud’ did nothing to lessen my anger. I picked it up, hit it against the trunk, then flung it onto an open patch of ground where I stamped on it. After burying it beneath armfuls of leaves and rocks, I emerged from the woods near Talbot’s cottage considerably happier.

  The village was also in the midst of its early morning routine. There was the usual clank of bottles as Evan set out the empties for pick-up, and a car acceleration as someone left for their job. A voice called out a last-minute message to someone. A door slammed and two dogs barked. But it was quiet on the whole. Much quieter than the morning rush at Buxton.

  The Conways and Talbot stood near the edge of the lane at Conway’s Gift Shop. Eleanor was leaning on her broom, evidently taking a break in her morning chore. Talbot turned as I approached and, for some reason known only to him and God, called out ‘good morning’ and tipped his cap to me.

  “If the murder hasn’t scared them away, we’ll have tourists,” Mason said, his face flushed. The first rays of morning sun fell upon his features, revealing his paper-white complexion.

  “Christmas brings many folks out,” Eleanor said. “You’ll see. They like a piece of the past—connect with ancestors, see how our customs evolved. It’s too soon to worry, dear.”

  He rubbed his nose so vigorously that I was half expecting to see blood when he stopped. I tried not to stare as I approached.

  “Lot of folks do like the pageantry. Kind of puts a spark in their ordinary days, I agree. And in ordinary years we do all right. We get— What would you say, Ell? Half our profit for the year?”

  “I’d have to look at the books to see.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Something close to that, anyhow. The point is—”

  “The point is,” Talbot said, his index finger poking Mason’s chest, “we can build up the trade here, ’stead of seein’ it die. With a little education from the right people, in the right spot, we’ll be put on the map and have nothin’ to fear. And they’ll take us serious—you’ll see.”

  “What are you talking about? Who’s doing this education, as you put it, and where?”

  “Never you mind that.” Talbot took a cigarette from his jacket pocket and lit it. He was about to throw away the match when he held it toward Mason. “Like this match, now. Unlit it’s no good. Just a bit of useless wood, for all its potential. But strike it at the right time and apply its flame to the right place—” He imitated an explosion. “Whoosh! You got somethin’ movin’ and dramatic, and all from a bit of education. Same thing here in the village. Trust us, lad.”

  I glanced at the Conways as I passed. Evidently they were as nonplused as I was. Mason opened his mouth but Talbot said, “You’ll see. Once we get goin’ you won’t have to worry no more.”

  Without appearing obvious, I couldn’t slow my walk. I was out of listening range in seconds, wondering, along with Mason, what Talbot was planning.

  * * * *

  I had just entered the incident room when Fordyce called me to the phone. “The Vicar, Sergeant. He asked for you or Mr. Graham, and since Mr. Graham’s not here…”

  I nodded and took the receiver. Lyle’s voice shot over the phone and bore into my ear. “I know it’s dreadfully early. I hope they haven’t pulled you out of bed.” He paused, as if expecting me to reveal my schedule. I assured him I was fully dressed and had breakfasted. “Really? I suppose I could have waited, but I wanted to catch you up before you left for the day. I didn’t know if you’d be about, if I’d see you—”

  “Has something happened, sir?”

  “What? Oh, no. At least, not to me. I suppose I’m an alarmist, but there was that poor American, you know… Well, there’s always the doubt if one keeps quiet.”

  “It’s always best to tell the police anything connected with a case, sir, no matter how trivial you may think it.”

  “Yes? Well, that’s good to hear. Perhaps I shouldn’t say anything, but in light of what happened with Ramona…”

  I nodded my head, took a few notes, and hung up assuring Lyle that I did not consider the call a waste of time.

  “A witness to Steve Pedersen’s murder?” asked Graham, who had strolled into the room mid-way through my non-cipherable grunts, and who was now searching for his pen among the papers on the table.

  “We should be so lucky.”

  “My fantasy,” Graham said rather dreamily. “Just once. Just one time before I retire, I’d like a witness who was at the scene, who took a video, whose word won’t be doubted, who—”

  “I think you’re wanting Moses again.”

  “And what’s wrong with him?”

  “Nothing. Just a little hard to get a hold of right now. Unless you’re not telling me something.”

  “Taylor, I tell you absolutely everything. That’s the only way a good police team can work.”

  I must have eyed him rather dubiously, for he said, “I had porridge, toast and tea for breakfast. Now, what say we deal with something a little less palatable. In case you’ve forgotten, we were working on that wonderful year 1973. We have Byron stating that because he had that tragic car accident in December, he left the village. Talbot spouts off last night about Derek’s absence from the village during the winter of 1973. Doesn’t that do something to your curiosity, Taylor?”

  “To tell the truth, sir,” I replied, suppressing a yawn, “it didn’t keep me up last night.”

  “And you call yourself a detective. You have something for us, Salt?”

  Mark nodded, handing the page to Graham. While Graham skimmed the paper, Mark moved slightly so he stood behind Graham. He raised his eyebrows, pointed upstairs and to his watch. Not only could I read his pantomime, I could read his mind. I made a face at him and shook my head. Mark tossed out a dazzling smile before returning to his computer. I breathed deeply, hoping to cool my anger, and looked at Graham.

  The vehicle accident records for the area around Upper Kingsleigh in 1973 showed a fatal accident in December, attributable to the extremely hazardous conditions of the roads. Two people were named as occupants of the car: the driver, Byron MacKinnon, and a passenger, George Alton. “Well, well,” Graham said. “Here’s something unexpected. A Good Samaritan stopped by. Care to venture a guess?” He smiled at me from over the top of the printout.

  “Derek Halford.”

  “First rate, Taylor.” He tossed the paper onto the table. “How’d—”

  “I didn’t guess, if that’s what you’re accusing me of. He doesn’t say what he was doing out in the wilds of Derbyshire, I take it. Though it was a few weeks after the pomp and ceremony of the dole. Suppose he was coming home from Christmas shopping?”

  “More likely blew his wad in a Buxton pub. He was a bright, young bachelor in those days.”

  “Don’t think he spent his loot on anything for his pla
ce. Could do with a new coat of paint and a few slipcovers on the chairs. What’s he been doing with the money all these years? Three hundred quid is a nice bit of change. Not only that, does his wife question what happens to the money?”

  “Maybe she’s the one who’s been running foot loose through his wallet. You know—equality in marriage. He works hard to earn it, she spends it.”

  I ignored his sexist statement. “How long have they been getting the benefits from that dole? Since the 1960s or ’70s, isn’t it? Over twenty years, at any rate. Twenty times £300…” I stopped to calculate the total. “Six thousand pounds!”

  Graham suggested that Derek might have used the money in a different way.

  “Such as?”

  “Such as a new car, telly or fridge, lessons at the Open University, bill at the dentist, get the dog spayed—”

  “Doesn’t have a dog.”

  “Maybe he did twenty-five years ago. Anyway, if Kris doesn’t question the suspicious dwindling of their fortune, why should you? Evidently Derek is of a philanthropic bent.”

  “Charity starts at home.”

  “He can give some of it to charities and still have some left over for his dog. What now?” Graham groaned as I snapped my fingers.

  “Remember our first interview Sunday night? Arthur Catchpool, when he was telling us about how he had to turn part of his mansion into the B-and-B establishment? Well,” I said, hurrying on after Graham nodded, “he mentioned in passing, though I’ve my idea he was rather proud in a one-up-manship sort of way, that he’d made Derek a loan. Remember? Arthur tossed it out when he told us Pedersen stayed Friday night at the house and left Saturday to stay with the Halfords.”

  “He didn’t let drop the generous amount of his loan, did he? No, I don’t recall it either. But I do recall Arthur mentioned the Halfords had enlarged their home. Something about it able to accommodate several guests, now. But if that’s not it, I don’t know what he’s using his money for.”

  “I thought you liked his dentist. Or vet.” I picked up the phone, dialed the Constabulary, and asked the obliging listener at the other end to fax us information on any planning applications made by Derek since 1973. When I’d hung up, I said, ”She’ll phone the planning board and let us know.”