“Byron would have known Ramona wouldn’t put up much of a fight.” I was talking again to Graham’s back. He didn’t turn around. I continued. “He knew she was taking Mogadon. She might have been groggy enough not to put up much resistance when he—” I couldn’t finish the sentence, the image of Ramona struggling against Byron’s assault too nauseating.
I closed my eyes. Sunday evening’s scene burst into my mind. I was back at the village green. Evening spread across the sky. A cloud momentarily masked the moon. From somewhere in the darkness, a match scraped against something rough. The smell of sulfur filtered downwind, and a small blue and ochre flame flared in the blackness. A stronger scent of kerosene as the batting ignited, and the vicar’s face leapt out of the dark, bathed in crimson, gold and yellow. He ignited the torch and handed it to Ramona. Byron smiled at her, kissed her on the cheek in condolence, and pulled the dummy off the ground, stepping back into the blackness beyond the fire so his effort wouldn’t be noticed… I shuddered, opening my eyes to find Graham gazing at me, back to being all cop, all concerned that something was wrong with someone else. I smiled weakly.
“Byron and the effigy. It was so easy. He had the woods close by. He could drag Pedersen into the woods, redress him there, then easily drag him out when no one was looking.”
Giving me a final appraising look, Graham said, “If anyone happened to see him, he could say he came upon Pedersen and had stopped to render help. It wouldn’t matter if Pedersen was dressed, half dressed or nude. It’s his word against anyone else’s.”
“It was dark, probably near tea time.” I suddenly trembled, imagining the clothing switch that had happened in the woods a few hundred yards in front of me that late afternoon. Like a damned, incompetent first-day constable on the job I had let him get away with murder.
“Anger is a strong force in murder, Taylor. Nearly as powerful and prevalent as love and lust.”
I was afraid to respond, afraid my voice might betray my burgeoning feelings. Instead, I asked about the knife.
“Byron, you don’t need reminding, is virtuous. On the way from delivering meals to Ramona, he stopped in to console Kris. And while he was fixing her a cup of tea perhaps, he got the idea and the implement. Sitting somewhere, I’m sure, was the box of goodies Pedersen had brought with him from Kris’s mother.
“The opal ring,” I volunteered, “and her dad’s scout knife. Looks about that vintage.”
The telephone rang as Graham uttered a complimentary remark about my reasoning. I let it pass, assuming I would soon hear an uncomplimentary remark about letting Byron redress Pedersen. One emotion at a time.
Graham picked up the receiver, listened for a minute or so, made vague, responsive sounds, then said, “Meet us there, will you? I’ll phone you up,” and hung up. As he dialed, he said, “That was Tom Oldendorf. He said— Oh, Vicar,” Graham declared as the phone was evidently answered. During Lyle’s response, Graham mouthed ‘I’ll tell you in a minute’ to me, then spoke a few sparse sentences to the vicar before ringing off. He angled his body so he could look around the room. Byrd was still there, lingering over a report. As soon as Graham called him, Byrd dropped the papers and came over. Graham consulted his watch before saying, “Byrd, hate to ask, but would you mind running back to Buxton for a search warrant?” He jotted down the particulars, handed the note to the constable, then turned back to me.
Graham leaned back in his chair, his eyes closed as though he was concentrating. He was silent for such a long time that I thought he had fallen asleep. I was about to cough when he said, “Yes, Taylor, a jug of wine, a loaf of bread, and a terror-inducing warrant beside me in the wilderness. My apologies to ole Edward Fitzgerald, wherever he may be.”
“Pardon, sir?”
“Fitzgerald. The poet of The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám—that piece I just mauled. Whatever happened to Fitz?”
“Dead, isn’t he, sir?” I smiled as Graham opened his eyes and cocked an eyebrow.
“We’d best fortify ourselves, Taylor—physically as well as legally—before we pick up the vicar and see what our muscleman has to say.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Hours later our prime suspect looked vaguely uneasy and surprised at seeing us at his door, but he welcomed us. A batch of posters—freshly printed in vibrant graphics—leaned against a wall opposite the doorway. A mockup of a brochure, along with architectural sketches for display cases and room arrangements lay scattered across his desk. Paints, brushes and mat board leaned against a battered easel. An electric teakettle whistled madly on the counter, and Byron asked if we would like something.
“I was just going to have a cuppa,” he said, pouring the water into the teapot. “Sure I can’t get you anything? Beer?”
Graham, I thought, sighed. It was just discernable above Byron’s chatter. His jaw muscle was tensing, for the scar shone prominently against his skin. He wants to get on with the arrest, not play at Suzy Homemaker.
As though sensing Graham’s impatience, Byron said, his voice faltering slightly, “Guess that’s the wrong thing to suggest, isn’t it? This has to be an official visit. Forgive the mess.” He blushed, obviously embarrassed by the paper and books stacked around the room. “Kind of caught me behind my chores. I’ve got a little project on. I and— Well, we want to develop a visitor’s center.” He caught me staring at an unwashed mug, the interior of which was ringed with tea leaves, a section of the exterior rim stained by a lipstick mark. Gesturing toward the table he asked if we’d like to have a seat.
Graham shook his head, saying we’d only be a minute or so. He let Byron finish his tea making, then asked where he had been Tuesday night.
The spoon rattled suddenly against the sides of the cup. He gently removed it, set it on the countertop, took a sip of too-hot tea, and tried to smile. It was forced, the kind that is used in awkward situations and accompanied by a quick change in subject. This time Byron could not change the subject. He coughed lightly before replying, “Tuesday night? Why, here, I should think. Or in the office. Wait just a bit… Yes. Here. I had been to Ramona’s to deliver lunch, and Arthur went down for dinner. Even if she could had faired for herself, what with Pedersen’s—” He flinched at the subject, stared at his cup, then said rather softly, “I just sat around, read and listened to music. Why? Because of Ramona?” Graham nodded and Byron gushed on. “Well, you would ask, wouldn’t you, seeing as how it was probably someone in the village. I suppose you want to know if I saw anything. Can’t say I did. The Manor’s too far away to see anything. Sorry I can’t help.” He waited, probably hoping we’d gathered what we wanted and would leave.
We didn’t. Instead, Graham delivered the murder theory. The hot tea splashed onto the tabletop as Byron jerked sideways. He stood open-mouthed, his eyes bulging, his cheeks flooding with color. “You’re— You can’t mean it!”
Graham issued the usual warning. “You do not have to say anything—”
“Nice to know the individual has some rights left to him in this country,” Byron muttered.
“You do not have to say anything,” Graham repeated, as though forcing Byron to listen.
Byron’s eyes fixed on Graham’s face, his fingertips attempting to dig into the cup. “You’re damned right I don’t. And if you think I’m going to say anything without my solicitor—”
“—but it may harm your defense,” Graham continued, rolling over Byron’s bluster, “if you do not mention now something which you later rely on in court.”
“Not bloody likely to, am I?” Byron said, his anger stronger than his discretion. “You’ve got it all thought out—the howdunit, the wheredunit, the whendunit. Mighty clever cops you two are, aren’t you? Watch a lot of ‘The Bill’ on the telly? It’s obvious, you two are so adept at this fictionalization of my completely innocent actions. Should have spent your time watching ‘Police Action Live,’ see how reputable, responsible coppers work, instead of slandering us innocent chaps.”
“Anything you do s
ay,” Graham went on, “may be given in evidence.”
“You two wired, then?” Byron gestured with his free hand toward Graham’s jacket. “Your cronies back at the station, or perhaps parked outside the gate, listening to all this over a mike, jotting it all down? That how you use my words in evidence against me? Hold on!” He snapped his fingers as though the truth exploded before his eyes. “You have a tape recorder in your pocket. Perhaps secreted inside your pen. Or fashioned to look like a warrant card. Your lab boys are so ingenious these days. Bloody marvelous!” He laughed, his voice full of irony and resignation at his situation.
“You have a right to legal advice, should you choose,” Graham added, although it was unnecessary. ”I suggest you send for him, Mr. MacKinnon. Your situation is very grave. This really is not a laughing matter. Murder isn’t. I’m confident we have a water-tight case against you.”
The laughter died abruptly. His eyes widened as he mumbled, “Well, you would say that. It’s all part of the plan. Scare me into confessing. Make me think things will go easier if I own up. It just won’t go, Lads. So, unless the heavy gang is lingering about and ready to beat a confession out of me, I’ll take my chances with the judge. Unless you’ve already got to him and bribed—”
“You’re probably safe with a trial, Mr. MacKinnon,” Graham said, his words sharp in his anger. “Though I can’t guarantee it. I couldn’t afford much of a bribe. Just the minimum acceptable.”
Byron’s gaze shifted between Graham and I, as though judging which of us would be the more sympathetic. He focused on me. He whispered, “You can’t really think I killed Pedersen and Ramona.”
“I’m sorry,” I replied, “but we do.”
“We don’t rank this as fun and games,” Graham said, his voice full of the hardness that claimed him when about to make an arrest.
“But—” Byron fumbled for the back of a chair. A laugh, tinted with the rudiments of hysteria, burst from his throat.
I handed him the cup of tea. “Perhaps you’d feel better, sir, if you had a sip of this. Need to sit down?” I pulled out the chair nearest to him, offering him the physical support and emotional breath-catching he needed.
Murmuring something that might have been ‘no,’ Byron ignored both offers. He turned his gaze from my outstretched hand to Graham’s eyes. The hardness that lay in his voice also lay behind his unwavering look. Byron swept a none too steady hand across his lips, letting his teeth nibble slowly at his knuckles before responding. “You haven’t any proof. You can’t have.”
“Why can’t we?” My lower, quieter voice contrasted greatly with Byron’s rising pitch. I turned to Graham, wondering what would happen if Byron demanded to see our evidence. “You know of any reason why we can’t have any proof, sir?”
“I can’t come up with any, no.”
“What’s my motive for these murders?” Byron said. “Isn’t that a usual consideration? My motive is damned thin if not nonexistent. The man was a stranger. I didn’t even know he was going to be here. He arrived with the Oldendorfs. Two separate rooms booked. Under their names. And you’re insisting I planned this whole thing and killed him? A bit thick, Graham. You’re clutching at straws.” Having recovered from his shock, he delivered his first defense.
“Strange you should mention straw,” returned Graham, pulling the unencumbered scout knife from his pocket and holding it in front of Byron. “This whole case wallows in straw, you might say. Seen this before?”
Byron barely glanced at the knife before replying smugly, “Yes. In the corpse.”
Carefully laying the knife on the table, Graham asked if Byron was certain he hadn’t seen it elsewhere, prior to the murder, and urged him to look at it again. The rivets, dotting the wooden handle like eyes in a potato, stared at him. Blood had dried to a brownish smear and imprinted the brass section separating the blade proper from the handle. The corroded release mechanism faced Byron as though silently urging him to close the blade and obliterate the revolting spectacle.
Shaking his head, Byron denied he’d seen it in any other setting. Once he’d glanced at it, however, it mysteriously held him.
“Murder motives take many forms, Mr. MacKinnon. It can be triggered by many things, too. In your instance,” Graham said, forcing patience into his voice, “perhaps Pedersen’s rude scoffing about the Guy was the last straw in a stressful week. National pride is a powerful motivation. Especially when foreigners do the ridiculing.” He paused, studying Byron’s face, the hand still crammed into his pocket.
Byron lifted his head and returned Graham’s gaze. The initial fright was gone; his voice was steady when he spoke. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Graham reached for the folded piece of paper. Holding it out to Byron, he said, “This is a search warrant, Mr. MacKinnon. If you read it, you will see it gives me full authority to search your home and remove just this sort of thing.” He gestured toward the can of turpentine sitting on the floor beneath the easel. Then, tapping lightly on the warrant, he said, “You want to change your story about Tuesday night?”
Though visibly shaken, Byron managed to keep his voice calm. He sniffed, drawing in his upper lip as though he was smelling something rotten. “You arresting me because I’ve got turpentine? I bet most houses in Upper Kingsleigh have turpentine. I use it to clean my paint brushes—or haven’t you noticed? I’m in the middle of a project, as I said. And anyway, I was home, like I said. All night. You think I’d go out in that hell of a storm?”
I excused myself and exited the office area by the front door. A few moments later, I reentered. Byron’s fingers gripped the edge of the countertop as Tom Oldendorf came into the room.
Tom glanced at Byron, then took a deep breath as Graham asked him to relay what he had seen Tuesday around midnight.
“I saw,” Tom began haltingly, “a man at Ramona’s house a little after 11:30.”
He took another breath, as though to finish in a rush of facts, when Byron’s tirade stopped him, “You saw a man at Ramona’s. Big bloody deal. I suppose I’m that man. That’s why you’re here, right? How could you see any man, how could you identify me as this man if it was as late as you say? Ramona doesn’t have a driveway lamp. How you going to beat that, Inspector?” Byron turned to Graham, his eyes enlarged by his anger.
Graham quickly asked Tom to continue. “I was standing on the main road. It was just after eleven. I had a flashlight with me, but I’d turned it off because I wanted absolute darkness for my photos. I do nature photography,” he explained to Byron. “That’s why I’d chosen that spot. I’d driven down, parked in the pub’s lot, then walked about the village for a bit, glancing at the sky, noting where the lightning flashes were. I liked the looks of the road Ramona lives one. It’s quite dark—no street lights, no driveway lights. I walked down the lane, then stopped opposite Ramona’s driveway because the Halford’s have that marvelous old tree in their front yard. I thought it‘d make a great photo if I could get the bare branches of the tree with the lightning flash behind it. So I waited there in the dark, my camera set up on the tripod. I’m a very patient man. Well,” he grinned slightly, glancing apologetically at Graham, who remained straight-faced, “you have to be patient if you do nature photography. Anyway, I saw the lights go on and off twice in Ramona’s house. Ordinarily I wouldn’t think a thing of a light going on or off, but twice in rapid succession? That sort of drew my attention. I looked to see what was going on. I thought maybe something had happened and someone was signaling. When the lights went out for the last time I saw a man slip out of the front door and practically run up the road.”
“And if I’m that man,” Byron said, “how come I didn’t see you?”
“I was farther down the road. Angled toward the tree but farther past her front door.”
Byron grumbled something about this sounding rehearsed and everyone but he having a ready-made answer.
Graham nodded for Tom to continue. “Well, I got my lightning flash phot
o. Two of them, in fact. By that time, it was just beginning to rain, so I scrambled back to my car. Carla, my wife, knows I came back around midnight because I woke her up and she heard the rain start.” He waited, watching Graham, who still remained rooted near the table.
Byron broke the silence, his voice high and his words rapid. “You saw someone slip out of Ramona’s house. Doesn’t prove it was me. It could have been—” He fumbled for another defense. “It doesn’t mean a thing. Dark shapes—Jesus Christ! You’ve all met to concoct this, because you can’t think of anyone else to pin it on. If I’d suspected what was going on, I’d have invented some iron-clad alibi. Else why am I the only one—”
This time my movement to the door and signal to someone outside stopped him. The door swung open and Lyle walked in.
TWENTY-SIX
Lyle began in his usual haphazard way, saying he hoped he wasn’t inconveniencing anyone and apologizing for his duty as he phrased it, but eventually told of his errand of mercy Tuesday evening. “Arthur rang me up close to 11:30. Worried about Gilbert. The man had been drinking all day, evidently, and was now hallucinating. You know how he gets.”
I mumbled that I did indeed know, even after knowing the man for so short a time.
Lyle grimaced, as though reliving the scene. “Screaming that he saw the devil and was scared to death of going to hell. He kept calling for a vicar to save him. So Arthur phoned me up. It was the only way to calm the dear man.” Lyle’s fingers stroked the edge of his jacket as he paused in thought. “I went, had a talk with Gilbert—well, trying as hard as I could to make him understand God’s love and that he should forsake his drinking. I finally got him calmed down a few minutes before midnight. As I was leaving the manor, I saw Byron.”
Death of an Ordinary Guy Page 24