“Your idea being…”
“We’ll at least know the extent of any alterations or whatever in his house, and make a fair deduction of the amount of the loan. If it’s a whole extra room, it probably set Derek back a bit. I don’t expect he makes all that much at his present position. And, inheritance aside, he can’t have paid back the loan all that quickly if it was a nice, fat sum. At least it gives us something to go on.”
“A simple coat of paint and those slip covers wouldn’t have warranted Arthur’s pocket-dipping.”
“You don’t suppose,” I said, “that Derek used the loan money to help Kris with her dad’s funeral. If she was financially strapped, it’d be one way to win a hesitant maiden’s heart.” The background noises of ringing phones, computer printings, and convivial conversations receded into a whisper as I waited for Graham’s Judgment.
“But she was engaged at the beginning of November to Byron. Why wouldn’t Byron do the funeral favors?”
“Couldn’t afford it?”
“I wonder...” Graham gazed at the report before saying, “Do you think it just a little too pat for Derek to be present at the car accident?”
“Unusual, perhaps, but it’s a main thoroughfare. Be more strange if they happened to meet in the middle of the A838 in Scotland.”
“Damn it, Taylor, this thing just doesn’t smell right. Kris’ father dies, and Derek steps into Kris’s life as her husband, supplanting Byron, who’d been engaged to her up to that point.”
“Byron said he didn’t feel he could marry her after the accident.”
“That’s it. Byron said. We have no witnesses. The obliging statement given to our man-in-blue at the time of the accident says that Derek was passing by and stopped to take up his Good Samaritan role. He was there before our boys were.”
“You think it was planned, then?”
“I don’t know if it was planned, but something’s sticking in my throat. Pedersen, as former fiancée, turns up here in Upper Kingsleigh, and two days later he’s dead.”
“You think Kris is responsible for both deaths? Why should she want to kill her father? And Pedersen—”
“I don’t think it’s Kris we have to focus on, TC. I think it’s Derek.”
“Derek? Why him?”
“Nothing concrete, I’m afraid. That’s the problem with the entire supposition.”
“Usually your instincts are correct, sir.”
“I was wondering if Derek could be unsure of his wife’s love, maybe even jealous of Pedersen,”
“Wonder what it feels like to know you’re third best.”
“Exactly. Can’t do much for anyone’s ego.”
“So you’re thinking Derek eliminated his old rival?”
Graham rubbed his forehead, the strains of putting motive to action starting to tell. He eventually looked at me, his dark eyes serious as he explained. “Derek planned his conquest, if you want to call it that. First he eliminated Byron—probably slipped him a hefty check to get him out of the running. Then Derek gets rid of Pedersen by coaxing him into taking the effigy’s place. Neat, succinct. He’s taken care of both rivals, and feels relatively secure with his wife’s affections.”
“Absit invidia.”
“‘Let there be no envy,’ indeed,” Graham muttered, his mouth tightening.
“We can’t prove it, though. You said it was your instinct. I’ve worked with you on enough nebulous cases to trust you, but what set you off?”
Graham tapped the case notebook. “What your friend Talbot said last night at the pub.”
“His ranting about the caroling? What’s a bit of caroling got to do with—”
“Not the caroling per se. The expounding about the group’s gala anniversary. Or, one of the group who isn’t entitled to the silver loving cup.”
“Derek?” I said. “Evan said he’d only been with them for two dozen years.”
“Derek was absent from Upper Kingsleigh from December ’73 until the spring of ’74. Three months. What did he do in that time? Where did he go? I need to find out. There’s no such thing as coincidence in a murder investigation, Taylor.”
“That soul of discretion should be able to tell you, sir.”
Graham grabbed the phone and dialed the vicarage number. Almost immediately he was speaking to Lyle. “My day will be much better, thank you, sir, if you can give me a bit of information. I know I’ve bothered you enough with this dreadful affair, but if you have a moment—”
As they talked, I had an image of the vicar sitting at his desk, his bald head warmed by and throwing back the yellowish light of his desk lamp, his round cheeks expanded like air-filled balloons as he held his breath in expectation.
After several minutes, Graham whistled, a slow, low tone, and thanked the vicar before hanging up the phone.
“What’s up? Did the vicar remember Derek’s absence?”
“Derek left them rather abruptly. Just phoned the vicar one day to tell him he’d be leaving.”
“And where did he go?”
“Derek told the vicar he was going to do some hiking and skiing in Germany.”
“Nothing so unusual in that,” I said, feeling let down. “My cousin’s wife has been to—”
“The point is, Taylor,” Graham said, rather abruptly, “when Derek returned he brought Lyle a Bavarian stein.”
“Wonder if it’s the kind with the hinged lid. I always think they’re good for—”
“There are other places than Germany in which to buy German gifts, Taylor. A stein doesn’t prove he was there in ’74.”
“And your idea of his hideout is…”
“I’m going to find out. He had to have been somewhere for those three months.”
“Just because a man lies about a trip, whether to impress his neighbors or the girl he loves, doesn’t mean he’s guilty of murder. You can’t take him in charge for Pedersen’s murder on your suspicions of a twenty-five-year-old unsubstantiated holiday.”
“Maybe not, but I can find out what our efficient government records show about his passport.”
Inwardly I groaned. I knew Graham’s bulldog tenacity, the way he set his jaw once his teeth were into a case, the way his back stiffened as though protecting his soft, vulnerable belly. He wouldn’t release his bite or drop his shoulders until either he had his suspect in charge or had been declared dead by a qualified physician. And even then, I mused, listening to Graham’s tackling of the poor official on the other end of the phone, I wouldn’t put it past the man to haunt the guilty party into insanity or confession. A real Holy Terror.
The minutes ticked away as Graham stayed on the phone, waiting for anything the computers could find.
“No Derek.” Graham slammed down the receiver and glared at me. “So where the hell was he?”
TWENTY-THREE
“Why make such an obvious lie when it could be checked so easily? Why not just say he wintered at Brighton or some place?”
Graham groaned, running both hands through his chestnut-colored hair and down the back of his neck. He kept them there, clasped, and leaned his elbows on the table top, speaking more to the pile of papers in front of him than to me. “1973 will take a bit of research, I agree. Not like a crime committed last year, say, and the information easily accessed via computer.”
“I doubt if the villagers really cared that much where he went. We’ll have to employ that army to look through boxes of old files.”
Mark came up to us again, this time all Police Officer. “Excuse me, sir, but Fordyce is on his way over with a post card. Said you’d most likely want to see it right away.”
“What’s so important about a post card, Salt? Is it the only post card unread by a postal employee?”
Mark glanced at me, probably unsure if Graham wanted a response. I just smiled. Just figure it out yourself, Mr. Superior Being, if you’re so sure of yourself… Seeing I wasn’t going to help him, Mark addressed Graham. “The card, sir, was displayed rather prominently in
Ramona’s front room.”
I swallowed slowly, feeling my heart rate increase. “If it’s a gilt card,” I said rather quietly, “I remember seeing it when I talked to her.”
“That’s it,” Mark said. “Fordyce said that during his examination of the room he found it and thought it a bit strange. It’s from Coventry.” He turned smartly on his heel, leaving me to bear Graham’s reproach.
I nodded. Would Graham demote me for overlooking the clue? I could feel my throat closing. I wiped my palms against my slacks and said, “Home of Lady Godiva’s infamous cold-catching ride.”
He didn’t seem to consider the post card rank-breaking. “Though not in the same stature and certainly not as provocative, it’s also the boyhood home of Talbot Tanner. The place where his adoption proof resided.”
“You think there’s some link in all this?” I said, feeling a bit better.
Graham tossed his pen at the stack of papers obscuring the edges of the table. Silence closed around us while we considered it.
“So where’s the motive in all this—Pedersen or Ramona? In all these happy villagers and tourists, someone hated either Pedersen or Derek, if you want the mistaken identity theory. And enough to do something about it.”
As though the Olympian gods were directing the affairs of humans below, Fordyce entered at that precise moment. There was something in his face—a glint of triumph in his eye—that suggested to me that this was not a normal report. He strode over to Graham, stood stiffly by the chair, and handed over a sealed plastic bag.
“It’s been printed, sir,” Fordyce said. “Hargreaves figured it was useless after all these years, but…”
“No doubt we’ll have your dabs on this, Taylor.” Graham said.
I felt like throwing up.
Fordyce frowned, then said, “Found it in the front room. Propped up on a small wooden plate rack. Almost tossed the thing aside, there was so much in that room.”
Graham muttered that he had heard about it.
“Yes, sir. But if you’ll look at the message—”
“Thank you, Fordyce.”
The man’s shoulders inched backwards slightly as a blush of pride colored his cheeks. He answered Graham’s remaining questions, then left.
“No expense spared,” Graham said, angling the card so its band of gilt edging caught the light. This same brilliance had been applied to the subject’s hair, for the card showed a romanticized rendition of Lady Godiva, sitting quite ladylike on a white horse.
“Nearly as good as a French post card.”
Graham turned it over to the message area. “You read Conan Doyle as a child, Taylor?” He leaned forward, positioning the card between us.
“I was reading them when most kids were reading Pooh Bear, sir.”
“I bet you were.” He read aloud, “‘My month’s nearly up. I’d like to stay longer, but I need to leg it at the end of the week. Been hunting in all the antique shops for that pre-war tie, but I can’t find it. Beginning to think it’s been bombed out of existence. Could Cain have felt happier?’” Graham looked up, slightly amused by the apparent code.
“Who’s Cain?” I said.
“Cain and Able, Taylor. Surely you know enough bible to know those two.”
“What’s he mean about Cain feeling happier?”
“The obvious thing that comes to mind is murder.”
A silence settled over us as we studied the card’s possible meaning. “Who sent it?” I picked up the card, scrutinizing the postmark. “March, 1974. Long time to keep a post card. No signature. Ramona supposed to know who was in Coventry in March, 1974?”
“That’s why I hoped you were up on your Conan Doyle.”
“And this bit about a tie…”
“Not a silk one, if that’s got you confused. My guess is a family one—that adoptive tie Derek’s so hot over. Look, TC, it all fits. Antique shops are just Derek’s clever way of telling Ramona he’s been hunting for Talbot’s adoption papers—the ‘antique’ part referring to old business or Talbot’s age or something. I’m assuming for the moment it is Derek who sent the card, yes. Don’t know anyone else interested in disproving Talbot’s adoption.”
“Arthur? He provides the dole money.”
“Can’t see Arthur particularly interested. So what if Talbot proves he’s the rightful heir? According to the will, Arthur still has to fork over the money. Either way, he’s out his yearly £300. No, it’s got to be Derek who sent this.”
“But the reference to Cain, sir. Why talk about Cain if Derek hadn’t committed murder? And he obviously didn’t. 1974 was twenty-four years ago. Talbot’s walking around, healthy as can be. Same with Derek and Arthur. Why Cain?”
“Perhaps,” Graham said slowly, “Derek meant it symbolically. Since he could find no trace of Talbot’s adoption, Talbot has no legal or family ties to the money. He’s dead. Gone. Buried. Derek had nothing to fear from Talbot.”
“Good riddance to a potential brother.”
“Like Abel. No more brother. Or… Perhaps Esau and Jacob would have been a better comparison than Cain and Able.”
“Pardon?”
“The two sons of Isaac,” Graham reminded me. “Jacob stole his older brother’s birthright. Old Testament.”
“Never was too strong on the bible. Sir, if Jacob stole his older brother’s birthright, do you think—”
“Talbot is older… I don’t know, Taylor. We’re getting into more speculation than we should. It’s so easy, so tempting to build a case this way.”
“The Super will have your guts for garters if you do, sir.”
The expression was not lost on Graham. He sighed. “Unfortunately, he doesn’t need much provocation.”
“So, if Derek was the original driver, he no doubt got his game leg from the car accident, wouldn’t you say?”
Graham nodded and patted my hand. It was in a careless manner, as though praising a dog for correctly executing a trick. I wish it had been more heart-felt.
Graham’s voice heightened as he vocally talked through the scenario. “If he got his limp from the accident, he couldn’t let the villagers see it. It would take a bit of explaining how he ended up with a limp by playing the Good Samaritan.”
“So he ducks out of Upper Kingsleigh, holes up to rest, thinking Germany’s as good an alibi as any. No one’d be looking for him on the continent. And the skiing accident would sound logical.”
“But he goes to Coventry—that town that keeps popping up in Derek’s and Talbot’s pasts like a thorn in the foot.”
“The dates, fit, sir. March, 1974.”
“And Lyle said that Derek returned in the spring.”
Like pigeons to roost. Or a wren to a waste can, I thought. Bedecked with homecoming flowers to mark the errant loved one’s welcome and to speed the dead to heaven. Home to spend your final days. I looked out the window, at Evan waving to the Conways, at Colonel Wroe talking to the American tourists. How many final days did any of us have? The chirping of the wrens on the window sill broke my reverie and I asked, “You think Kris knows anything about all this?”
“Derek’s Coventry holiday?” Graham shook his head and picked up the post card, staring again at Lady Godiva. “That was before he had married her, Taylor. Even if the 1973 dole went straight into Byron’s pocket, Kris wouldn’t know. What’s his wouldn’t be hers until the wedding.”
I was about to remark that money didn’t necessarily have to be communal property after a joining of two households when P.C. Byrd hurried into the incident room. He came directly to Graham and handed him an impressive assortment of official documents, each one consigned to constabulary paper.
“Lab report on the rope fiber found beneath Ramona VanDyke,” Byrd said, his voice as even and emotionless as if he were choosing a piece of cod from the fishmonger’s. Graham looked up and took the papers held out to him. “And the p.m. report. They’ve found something slightly unusual at the deceased’s cottage. A small glass jar. Might have been
for marmalade or some such. Found near the back door, under a bush, sir.”
“And what is this jar holding, or have the contents washed away in the rain?”
“Not completely, no, Sir. Diluted somewhat, but the smell’s still there, and we’re about to take it to the lab. Turpentine. Smells like it, anyhow.” Byrd allowed himself a slight smile when Graham praised their work. “And Sergeant,” Byrd said, almost as an after thought, “here’s the information you asked for.”
I thanked him and opened the envelope, not bothering Graham, who was occupied in his own pursuit of knowledge. It was a report of the Halford’s bank account. Even with the generous handout of the dole money, it was little better than mine. I scanned through the pages, back through a decade of deposits and withdrawals. It was all fairly steady. No drastic money juggling anywhere. I thanked Byrd again and laid the paper on the table. Byrd turned smartly and made for a paper-laden table, whistling under his breath.
“Would you have expected turpentine, Taylor?” Graham was reading the reports as he talked to me, yet relinquished their fascinating hold when I replied it was common enough in most households. “Could have been cleaning something.”
“Or Talbot may have done. He is the odd jobs man for the village.”
“May have been a very odd job,” Graham grunted, handing me the reports. “What does one use turpentine for? Removing paint, cleaning off grease, asphyxiating Ramona.”
“Damage to kidneys, intense congestion and swelling in the lungs and brain…” I turned briefly back to the report to make certain of the facts. “Died within minutes, from Karol’s estimate. Got to be murder, sir. No one, even the most determined suicide, would use turpentine. It’d be far too painful to swallow, and more than one sniff…”
“Aside from the fact that she was intensely happy with her forthcoming marriage, why commit suicide? It was murder. The killer no doubt doused a rag, clamped it over her nose…”
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