“That whitish skin around her nose. That was the area where he held the rag.”
I could envision the struggle. The man—for it had to be a man. Who else would have the muscular strength to hold a turpentine-soaked rag to a struggling woman for minutes while she inhaled lungful after lungful of this odor? Ramona, whether inside or outside her house, would have clawed at his hands, trying to break his hold. He had worn gloves, for no one I had seen in the village had scratches on his hands. And he had been callous. A swift gunshot in a heated argument is one thing, but to deliberately hold a kicking, struggling woman for minutes… I shuddered. Graham hadn’t noticed. He was intent on the post mortem report. Facts were what solved murder cases. Not emotions. And I had started to get as emotional about Ramona’s struggle as I had about my dead wren.
“No doubt, Taylor. Karol also suggests the body was moved sometime prior to its discovery. The blood is stagnant in the upper body cavity, not along the back as we would expect since she was found lying on her back.”
“The blood settled in her chest area,” I said, standing up and reading aloud over Graham’s shoulder. “And fixed lividity generally occurs six to eight hours after death.” I looked at him, a long, emotionless stare. He returned it, unblinking. “Fits our time table, since we know she was lying there during the midnight storm and found at seven the next morning.”
“So sometime during those seven hours her position, if not her entire body, was shifted. Why, Taylor?”
“To place her outside, or to extract something damning?” I tried to voice my nebulous thoughts. “Something incriminating from the struggle, perhaps. Something like a button or whatever that could point to the murderer.”
“You think she was killed inside, then, and her body arranged in the back yard?”
“Karol’s report pushes me in that direction, yes.” I tried to convince him. “And her slippers were free of mud. Even if it rained like all hell—which it did—it wouldn’t have washed her slippers completely clean of her stroll outside. Something would have clung, no matter how miniscule.”
“And our ever-efficient though underpaid lab boys would have found it.” Though he had jested, he looked serious. We were nearing the wrap-up of the case and he was anxious to end it. He may have joked with Byron at the pub, but for all his near-nonsensical verbiage, his emotions had been poured into his statement. Being close to naming the murderer propelled him ever faster in his work. I tried to understand him, tried to read the man within. His eyes gave me no information other than his solemnity. Yet, there was something else in their depths that I couldn’t read. A second later, it had vanished and he sighed. “If not carried outside, Taylor, we at least know she was moved, though why…”
“Could it have to do with her hand behind her back?”
“The rope fiber?”
I nodded while he assessed the possibility.
“We have no proof, Taylor. Although I hate coincidences—”
“Perhaps we should go about this as to who could have killed her, which might lead us to the reason for the body shift.”
“So whom do you favor as the murderer?”
The incident room was quiet this morning. Most of the officers were either at the scene or on errands. In the silence, the sounds of the village sifted through the pub’s walls: a dog barked, people talked, an occasional car horn honked. Common, everyday sounds. Sounds far removed from murder on a cool, tranquil evening.
“Well,” I said, a bit too eagerly to show Graham I could put two and two together as perfectly as he could, “it occurs to me we have focused on Derek due to the dole money.”
“And you are suggesting we are off track, then.” Graham’s eyebrow was cocked slightly, his head tilted to one side as he studied my face.
“Yes, sir, I think we are. He loves his wife. Of course, no one can decipher the inner emotions of another,” I said, coloring. I averted my eyes from Graham, pretending to refer to the bank account statement. When the blush had subsided, I continued. “I think we can take his love as real.”
“Even with Pedersen, the ex-fiancé showing up?”
“Kris made no move to go with him,” I reminded Graham. “She could have said something to Derek, granted, but she’s still here. And Derek is devoted to her. And if you’re thinking that Derek paid off Byron annually with the dole money so he could slip the wedding ring on Kris’s finger, that’s another dead end.” I handed him the bank statement and waited until he had read it before I said, “The £300 is deposited in November or December for the past dozen or so years.”
“So he wasn’t keeping it out for Christmas gifts,” Graham said, tossing the report onto the table.
“If Derek was paying for Kris, as I said, why suddenly quit? We have to focus on a different motive.”
“Then, if you don’t like the love rival elimination—”
“There’s money involved, yes, sir,” I said, watching Byrd as he took out his wallet to make change for Mark. When I began again, my voice cracked. I coughed, covering up my anger, and said, “It’s the money of tourism.”
TWENTY-FOUR
“The foremost tourist enticer is Arthur. You saying he killed Pedersen?” Graham said, a note of disbelief in his voice. “Motive, Taylor. Why? He didn’t even know the man.”
“Not Arthur. He’s involved in tourism, yes. So are Byron, Eleanor and Mason Conway, and Evan. They all have a lot to lose if tourists side step this village.”
Byrd had replaced his wallet and was again tackling the computer. Mark, I was glad to see, had taken his change and left the room. The door hadn’t closed completely and I could hear his loud laugh in the pub’s entryway. He was busy flattering Paula, one of Evan’s staff. Either he got a quick ‘yes’ or was just passing the time of day for once, for his voice faded as he left the building. I saw him pause just outside the front door and consult his watch. Calculating how much time he’d have to kill before his bedroom rendezvous, or seeing if he could rig up Surprise Number Five before I finished up with Graham? I grabbed the bank statement, crumbling it in my hand.
“And there are others,” I said, “indirectly, whose livelihood would be threatened by the loss of tourists.”
Graham said, “Ramona, by marrying Arthur, would have had her fortune linked to his. And Uncle Gilbert, who clings to Arthur’s wallet tighter than any barnacle ever did to a ship.”
“Arthur admitted he needs the B-&-B business to keep his head and hall above water. Byron also needs the B-&-B, for as Arthur’s fortunes go, so does Byron’s living.”
“The Conways have their gift shop, which depends 100% on tourism.”
“And Evan, though not totally dependent on the tourists, certainly gets a strong percent of his yearly income from them.”
“Seven people whose lives hang on the whims of tourists,” Graham said, staring at the names he had scribbled down. “But why eliminate a tourist? We just agreed these seven people needed tourists.”
“They do. And Pedersen’s murder is coincidentally connected to tourism.”
“Guy Fawkes Day, yes, since he was dressed as the Guy. So who among this chummy list committed the great faux pas?”
He asked it as one colleague to another. There was no mockery in his voice, as Mark would have done, taunting me to explain, to lay open my heart and then shred it with laughter and ridicule. Graham wanted to know my reasoning, to see if I had thought logically and applied the clues and facts of the case to my choice. He was writing something opposite one name on the list. Probably writing down his own deduction, I thought, for he finally raised his head and looked at me, ready for me to continue. As student looking at teacher.
“Byron.” I had said it louder and more forcefully than I had intended. One word, so simple, crashed into the silence of the room like a pistol shot. There had been no derisive laugh, no mocking rhyme. Graham angled his head, interested in my logic, and waited patiently for more, knowing I would explain when I felt ready.
“Yes, s
ir. Arthur told us during our first interview Sunday evening that Byron had been near to bankruptcy about 15 years ago.”
“His business had failed,” Graham recalled. “And Arthur was extolling Byron’s virtue in repaying his friends who had lent him the business money.”
I nodded and smoothed out the wrinkled bank statement. “This confirms it. Derek was probably paying Byron the dole money for those 15 years—there’s no sign of it in the account. But after that, the Halfords suddenly become richer by £300 each year.”
“Byron had repaid everyone and, being the virtuous fellow Arthur insists he is, refused anymore of Derek’s dole money. Fits.” He chewed on a pencil, waiting to see if I had pieced together the rest of the scenario.
“So, if Byron’s money need is legitimate and verifiable—which it is—we turn to a different angle. If Pedersen wasn’t killed for himself—”
“We’d be daft to say he was,” Graham concluded. “No one except the Halfords and the American couple knew him. And we’ve eliminated them.”
“Then perhaps he was killed—not so much as a symbol proper—but as result of a symbol. As a result of loving that symbol and depending on it to bring guests to Arthur’s B-and-B so he could be assured of employment.”
Graham was drawing the effigy along a margin of the bank statement, rendering a remarkably lifelike face. He decorated Pedersen’s shirt in the stripes of the Union Jack flag. “This whole weekend was peppered in symbolism, Taylor. The Guy itself, Derek with the symbolic crutches at the dole…” He threw down his pencil. “So what’s the motive, if you’re going along with this reasoning?”
“I was on bonfire duty Sunday,” I reminded him. “Early afternoon Byron, with considerable pride, was explaining the history of Guy Fawkes to the Americans, who—I’m sad to say—didn’t quite take it seriously. Pedersen was the worst of the lot. Byron got offended. Probably got into a fight with him later that day. As we worked out earlier, Sir, the bruising on the jaw indicates Byron probably KO’d Pedersen with his fist. Once on the ground, he kicked him. Doesn’t know his strength, if you remember him kicking the chair in the pub. Anyway, if Pedersen had merely stumbled, there would be more general bruising, as on hip, knee, palm, places where he’d break his fall. But the concentrated area of bruises, plus the cracked ribs, led me to conclude he was assaulted as he lay on the ground. Byron probably then hit him with a stone or stick. There were a lot of nice-sized pieces of wood about. One correctly-placed hit…” I shut my eyes, sickened by the imagine before me. Of Byron, overcome with anger, striking out in a moment of patriotism, pushing Pedersen, perhaps a little too hard, picking up a stone, not meaning to kill…
Graham was staring at me when I opened my eyes. His voice was soft, as though not wanting to frighten me. “Some people have more homeland love than others, I agree.”
Like Colonel Wroe, I wanted to say, but I knew Graham was thinking of the man. “There’s also one other bit of evidence. The hoisting itself.”
“Byron and Ramona switched jobs this year.”
“Normally Ramona raises the effigy and Byron lights it. But Byron couldn’t let her raise it.”
Graham nodded. “She would have discovered immediately the difference in weight between a straw effigy and a man. But why dress Pedersen as the Guy? Why not leave him on the ground, say?”
I nodded. That had thrown me for quite a while. “Byron probably viewed Pedersen as a sort of defiler, an uncouth, ignorant bloke who didn’t even try to see another point of view, who ridiculed the other fellow’s beliefs.”
“Rather like our original cast of characters in 1605, I assume.”
“For someone like Byron, who loved the village and was struggling out of debt, the Guy was the perfect symbol of a traitor, a fitting shroud for such a despoiler.”
Graham sat, just looking at me, studying my face. There was no hint of mirth or ridicule or puzzlement in his eyes. I wondered what he was thinking, what he was going to say. We had no proof of Byron’s part in this, other than the conflicting weight of effigy and corpse. But it was common sense to anyone’s logic. And it certainly made sense to clothe the object of Byron’s anger in that handy shroud. Graham finally leaned forward, put his hand on mine, and squeezed it. He said in an even, warm voice, “Well, Taylor, first class bit of reasoning. It all fits—motive, opportunity. Byron knew everyone’s time table and jobs… And he would lose just as much as Arthur would if the B-and-B guests stop coming.”
“I don’t think he thought of that at the time. I think it was a crime of passion originally. He just struck out at Pedersen in anger for ridiculing the ceremony.”
“Remember, remember…” Graham began, then let his voice die away as though he was remembering something dim and past and painful. “Since you’ve done so well, Ray—” He colored, hearing his mistake, and coughed as though to hide it. I pretended not to notice. Graham said, his voice forcibly brighter, “You’ve done a first-class job, Taylor, with Pedersen. What are your views on Ramona?”
I dismissed the possibility of an amorous Wroe; even if he had come for a fling and been thwarted, he wouldn’t have come prepared for murder. And Arthur didn’t make sense, for he was engaged to her. And a ‘Sorry, old girl’ would be a more sensible way to break the engagement, if he had wished it, than murder. And Talbot, though the rope fiber and ropes tying the twig bundles in her yard were the same, anyone could have cut a piece from the rope… I bent my head, massaging the back of my neck. I was tired of thinking about the two murders and about my own dilemma. I wanted a good night’s sleep and a holiday in Jamaica. Instead, I said, “I really haven’t thought that far, Sir.”
“Yes, you have, Taylor. You’re just not using your head. Mind if I give you a hint? The body wasn’t as we’re used to seeing it.” He folded his arms, leaned against the back of his chair, and waited for me to continue the reasoning.
Again I could see the scene at Ramona’s. Although it had been the darkest of nights, I could see it clearly in my mind. The man with the limp body in his arms placing it on the ground, then coming back much later to shift it, placing something beneath it. My voice was barely audible as I said, “Ramona’s sprained wrist. She wore no sling. She had been ready for bed.”
“And?”
“And we know that she was pretty helpless, that Arthur or Byron brought her meals, looked in on her.”
“Bingo! Our player and logical house access.”
“Good so far?”
“First rate, TC. What else?”
“Byron stumbled into her Sunday, causing the sprain so she couldn’t raise the Guy—I checked with Evan and the local physician. Anyway, he would have had to somehow keep her from raising the dummy, else the weight difference would be obvious.”
“And who do you favor for her murderer?”
“Has to be Byron, sir.”
“Why?”
“Ramona must have known about the ’73 accident. Of course! In the pub, when she and Derek were talking… We didn’t catch much, but she said at the end something about ‘your secrets’ being safe. Could be singular ‘your,’ but I don’t think so. Not when, in the same breath, she wished him and Byron—”
“—a good evening,” Graham finished, his voice taking on a hard edge. “She knew about the role reversals from the accident. Only reason that makes sense. But Byron, like most amateur killers, got scared.”
“Probably thought he couldn’t trust her in light of the Pedersen murder investigation and all the questioning, though I agree that if she hadn’t said anything in all this time she was probably good to retain her silence. Still, murderers get scared.”
Graham added a crutch to his effigy sketch. “It’s easy to let loose a bit of information you intend to keep secret. If Byron was afraid she’d say something, he very easily would have killed her.”
“He has his own quarters at Arthur’s. He could easily slip out. He’d stick to the edge of the woods. It’s unlikely anyone would see him at midnight. Arthur, the only
one to ask embarrassing questions, had just returned from dinner and was bunked down for the rest of the night.”
“All the little birds to their nests,” Graham murmured. He had wandered to the window during my speech. We had been asking questions and dealing with possible motives and suspects for hours, unaware that morning had slipped into afternoon, impervious to the waning of precious autumnal daylight. Graham now stood looking out the eastern window, staring at the saffron-tinted light of late afternoon, stretching his chair-weary muscles. I bet he could sit by the hour and watch the changing light. He loved the late afternoon, the early evening when the growing darkness creeps into sunlight-splashed regions. At the light-flecked fringes of the fire area, giant, bare arms of the oak stretched out, canopying the burnt wood beneath it, scratching at the lilac-hued clouds above. Graham’s voice came slowly, as though drugged from sleep. “Ever notice how dark it is in these villages with no street lights, Taylor? Dark as the grave.” He turned from the window—rather reluctantly, I thought—and looked straight through me. His eyes were vacant, as if he saw something other than the pub room.
He’d rather be out there, I mused, wondering what captured his attention, what private world held him. Was it his broken engagement, some ministerial tie or past trouble, boyhood memory? I wished he would tell me, include me in his world, let me hold him. He seemed so alone, so vulnerable, so melancholy. Twilight does something to him, pulls at his soul or memory. Perhaps it’s the link with something ancestral to all of us, of Homo sapiens huddled protectively around the midnight fire. Or something whispering to him of holy things. It’s as though all the sadness since the world began had poured upon him. And he feels every tragedy: lost loves, betrayals, conspiracies. He’s feeling this tragedy, too—as cop and as minister—as valiantly as he’s trying to detach himself from it. He can’t rid himself of compassion. And really, that’s not so bad. I focused on his face, and tried like so many other times to envision Graham in clerical garb. I was never happy with the image. Not that he wouldn’t have lent a sympathetic ear, but there had to have been more restraints in the church—even if it had been the more radical Methodist religion—than he’s been subjected to with the Force. And for the impatient, incautious Graham, the dogma and rules of religion must have been frustrating.
Death of an Ordinary Guy Page 23