In The Shadow of Evil

by Frank Smith

  ‘Deep thoughts, Forsythe?’ Molly looked up to see Paget regarding her intently. ‘You’ve hardly touched your sandwich. Come to any conclusions?’

  Startled, she could feel the sudden rush of colour to her face. ‘Afraid not, sir,’ she replied. She pushed her plate away. ‘I’m just not as hungry as I thought.’ She could feel his eyes on her, probing gently, but probing nevertheless.

  ‘Right,’ he said abruptly, and shoved his chair back. ‘In that case, let’s go and see what Sergeant Ormside has for us.’

  ‘Good thing you sent Thorsen down,’ Ormside said, ‘because we’d no sooner started when he remembered who the boy was. Name of Ridgeway. He lives on a farm over Sefton way, and someone is on their way there now to talk to him. And I’ve just taken a statement from a man who may have seen Gwyneth on the night of the Halliday murder. If it was Gwyneth he saw, then she was lying to you when she said she went home by way of Manor Lane that night.’

  ‘I did wonder,’ Paget said. ‘So who is this man and what did he have to say?’

  ‘His name is Alex Woolgard,’ Ormside said. ‘He lives across the border in Newtown. He came in Thursday night to see his dad, who’s got a bit of a farm about a mile up the Clunbridge Road. He says he’d just turned down the Hallows End road when a girl dashed across the road in front of him. He said she was running and pushing a bike.’

  Ormside got up and went over to the large-scale map of the area taped to the wall.

  ‘See, there’s this footpath that runs from behind the barn, past the field where Vanessa King has her caravan, to come out here on the Hallows End road.’ He jabbed a stubby finger at a point on the map where the path met the road. ‘Woolgard says it was about here when he saw her. He says it was raining hard and she ran right in front of him. He managed to avoid hitting her, but she scared the hell out of him. He stopped and got out to see if she was all right, and to offer her a lift, but she wouldn’t take it. He drives a small truck and he told her he could put her bike in the back, but she just kept backing away from him and shaking her head. He said she looked scared to death. Wouldn’t even look at him properly, but he’d seen her face in the headlights when she first dashed out, and when I showed him Gwyneth’s picture, he said it was definitely the same girl. He said she seemed to be all right, and he was getting soaked, so he gave up trying to help her and went on his way. Never thought any more about it until he was talking to his dad on the telephone last night, and his dad said we’d been round asking questions.’

  ‘Did he say what time it was when he saw the girl?’

  ‘He reckons it was somewhere between nine and nine thirty. He says his dad watches the nine o’clock news, and the news was well on by the time he got there.’

  ‘Well, that certainly fits,’ Paget said. ‘There was never any doubt in my mind that Gwyneth was there inside the barn at the time of the murder, but whether she actually saw the killer, I don’t know. Personally, I’m inclined to doubt it. But the very fact that she was there was enough to make her a threat to the killer, and once he found that out she was finished. The question is, how did the killer find out?’

  TWENTY-THREE

  Elizabeth Etherton’s van was parked in the stable yard, and Paget pulled in beside it. He got out and put his hand on the snub-nosed bonnet. ‘Still warm,’ he said, ‘so let’s see if we can get to Mrs Bromley before she and Paul have a chance to talk to each other.’

  ‘If we’re to believe the things Paul told us this morning,’ said Molly, ‘I’d be surprised if he and Mrs Bromley are even on speaking terms by now.’

  ‘If we believe what he told us,’ Paget cautioned. ‘I’m certainly not prepared to take anything that man says at face value until I’ve checked it up, down, and sideways.’

  Mrs Lodge answered the door as usual, and took them along to the kitchen, where they found Mrs Bromley and Mrs Etherton sitting at the kitchen table drinking tea from stoneware mugs. It was a warm day, but Margaret Bromley had her hands wrapped around the mug as if drawing warmth from it. She looked tired and there were deep shadows under her eyes.

  She looked up as Paget approached, eyes suddenly bright as they searched his face. ‘Mrs Lodge says Gwyneth—’ The word caught in her throat. ‘Why . . .?’ she finally managed after several tries.

  ‘We believe she was in the barn the night your daughter was killed,’ said Paget. ‘Somehow the killer found out and . . .’

  ‘In the barn?’ Margaret Bromley stared at him. ‘What was she doing there?’ The words were sharp and brittle.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that at the moment,’ Paget said.

  Her hands slowly tightened into fists. ‘But if she saw who did it, why . . .?’

  ‘I don’t think she did actually see—’ Paget began, but Margaret Bromley wasn’t listening. ‘She knew!’ she burst out. ‘She saw him! So why didn’t she do something for Christ’s sake? Why didn’t she tell someone? That stupid, stupid girl!’ She slumped back in her chair. ‘And now she’s dead!’ She started to cry.

  Mrs Etherton came round the table to put her hands on her friend’s shoulders. She looked up at Paget and shook her head. ‘This is not a good time,’ she said quietly. ‘I’ll take her up to her room.’

  ‘I know how hard this must be for everyone,’ Paget replied, ‘but I’m afraid there are still questions to be answered.’

  ‘But not now,’ Mrs Etherton said tightly. ‘Margaret has not been well, as I’m sure you know, so—’

  ‘No, Beth,’ Margaret said. ‘If the chief inspector has more questions, then let’s get it over with before someone else is murdered. Though God knows what I can tell him.’ She spoke as if Paget wasn’t there. She pushed her chair back and stood up.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said contritely. ‘I shouldn’t have said that about Gwyneth. I didn’t mean it. She was a good girl, and she must have been out of her mind with worry. But, as I’ve already told you, I know so little about the girl, so I don’t know how I can help you.’

  ‘We do have other questions relating to the death of your daughter as well,’ Paget said gently, ‘and I wouldn’t be troubling you at this time if I didn’t think it important.’

  Margaret Bromley’s eyes flicked to Mrs Lodge and back again. ‘Then let’s go along to Charles’s study,’ she said. ‘He won’t be back for a while.’

  Paget turned to Mrs Etherton. ‘I will need to talk to you as well,’ he said. ‘Will you be here?’

  Mrs Etherton looked at the kitchen clock, and made a face. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘but I’m afraid I have to leave in a few minutes. My van is loaded with stuff I’ve collected around the district, and I promised to get it to the shop this afternoon. In any case, I don’t know how much help I can be regarding Gwyneth’s death, poor girl. But . . .’ She paused, frowning slightly as if trying to decide whether to go on or not.

  ‘Was there something else?’ he prompted hopefully.

  ‘There is something I would like to talk to you about,’ she said hesitantly. ‘That is if you are still here when I get back. I shouldn’t be gone long.’ She looked at the time again, then scooped up her handbag from the table and started for the door. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ she called over her shoulder, and then she was gone.

  ‘Don’t know what that was all about,’ Margaret Bromley muttered as she made her way out of the kitchen. She was unsteady on her feet, but she wasn’t limping as much as she had been before. In fact, it seemed to Molly that she was having more trouble with her balance than with the swollen ankle. She moved up beside Mrs Bromley to offer her arm for support, but Margaret looked straight ahead and pretended not to see it. Even so, it was clear that she was more than happy to sit down when they reached the study.

  Paget took the chair facing her, while Molly sat by the window.

  Mrs Bromley closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again and looked around the room almost as if it were the first time she’d been in it. Her eyes settled on Paget. ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ sh
e said in a thin wisp of a voice, ‘but I seem to have forgotten your name.’

  Paget and Molly exchanged glances. ‘It’s Paget, Mrs Bromley,’ he said. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Paget. And this is Detective Constable Forsythe.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course. Chief Inspector Paget,’ Margaret repeated as if mentally filing it away. ‘I remember now; you wanted to ask me some questions about Toni?’

  ‘About her father, actually,’ Paget said quietly. ‘Your brother-in-law, Paul Bromley tells us that he, not Bernard Halliday, is Toni’s real father. Is that true, Mrs Bromley?’

  The lines around Margaret Bromley’s mouth hardened. ‘Yes,’ she said tightly, ‘that is true, but I fail to see what business it is of yours or what it has to do with the death of my daughter.’

  ‘It might help explain some of the things we’ve encountered during our investigation.’

  ‘Such as?’ she demanded. The words were sharp and brittle once again.

  ‘For one thing, Paul’s behaviour last Friday evening when he returned to the manor,’ Paget said. ‘I take it Toni didn’t know that Paul Bromley was her father?’

  ‘Certainly not!’

  ‘Did anyone else know?’

  ‘I never told anyone, and, as far as I know, neither did Paul – at least until now.’

  ‘But he did threaten to tell Toni when he came to see you in your room last Thursday evening?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What was your reaction to that?’

  ‘I told him to get out.’

  ‘He says you struck him with a belt.’

  Margaret Bromley said nothing, but her look confirmed his words.

  ‘Tell me what happened after that. Paul says he left your room and went down to his car, and you followed him, but not for something like another fifteen or twenty minutes. What happened during that time, Mrs Bromley? What changed? I need to know because I have the feeling it could be important.’

  Margaret eyed him for a long moment. ‘I blame myself,’ she said abruptly. ‘The truth is, I might have saved Toni if I’d acted sooner, but I just sat there in my room and did nothing!’ She drew a deep breath, then slowly, quietly, she told them what had happened after Paul had left her room that night. She said she’d felt as if her whole world was collapsing around her. ‘Toni’s accident; Tracy Nash in hospital; Toni’s announcement at dinner; saying she was pregnant, then Tracy’s father bursting in, and Toni’s refusal to talk to me – I was at my wit’s end,’ she said. ‘And then, to top it all, as if none of that mattered, Paul came along babbling about needing money. He must have it right away, he said. Charles wouldn’t give it to him. What was he going to do? My head felt as if it was about to explode!

  ‘Then, when he threatened to tell Toni that Bernard wasn’t her father if I didn’t lend him the money, I lost my temper. I had the belt in my hand, and I lashed out at him. He was lucky it only caught him on the side of the head. Typical Paul, he hurled some obscenities at me and ran out of the room. It was too much,’ she said wearily. ‘I couldn’t take it any more, so I just sat there, crying and feeling sorry for myself.’

  She raised her eyes to meet those of Paget. ‘When I finally did pull myself together, I realized that Paul was quite capable of carrying out his threat, even if it meant he would never see the money he so desperately needed. I’ve known Paul from the time we were children, and charming as he can be when he puts his mind to it, he’s quite capable of doing something like that out of sheer spite.

  ‘I couldn’t take the chance, so I went after him. I couldn’t allow him to do that to Toni. I decided I had to find him, pay him the money and be rid of him. Toni had to believe she was Bernard Halliday’s daughter. She adored Bernard. It was the one thing in life she had to hold on to. He meant everything to her. I had to find Paul and stop him at any cost.’

  ‘And did you find him?’ Paget asked.

  ‘No, I did not,’ she said sharply. ‘I told you before what happened. I was part way down the lane when it started to rain and I turned my ankle, so I had to come back.’

  ‘With the help of Dr Lockwood?’ Paget said quietly. ‘Something you forgot to mention last time we spoke to you. Was there a reason why you didn’t tell us?’

  Colour rose in Margaret’s face, startling in its contrast to her previously colourless skin. ‘I didn’t consider it any of your business,’ she said tartly. ‘Dr Lockwood happened to be on his way back from the village when he saw me limping up the lane, so he stopped and gave me a lift. It was kind of him and I was grateful for his help.’

  ‘Dropping you by the entrance leading to the stables,’ Paget said, ‘rather than taking you to the side gate and much closer to the house. Why was that, Mrs Bromley?’

  Her lips tightened into a thin line as if to stop herself from saying something she might regret. ‘Because,’ she said with deliberate calm, ‘I did not want to be seen getting out of Steven’s car. And before you ask, no, Steven and I are not having an affair or anything close to it. He is a good doctor and a good friend, and that’s all! I know there have been whispers by some in this house about our relationship, but they are not true.’

  ‘Tell me, Mrs Bromley, what time was it when you next saw Paul?’

  ‘I don’t know, exactly,’ she said slowly. ‘Nine thirty, ten o’clock, perhaps? He came to my room – to apologize, he said, and to ask for the money again, of course. I was so relieved that he hadn’t told Toni that I wrote him a cheque and gave it to him on the condition that he leave immediately. I wanted him out of the house and as far away from Toni as possible.’

  She took another deep breath to steady her voice. ‘You see, I didn’t know then that Toni was dead.’

  Paget gave her a moment to recover, and to give himself time to think about what she had just told him. Paul had said nothing about her giving him the money. He’d let them continue to think he had found it in London, although, as Tregalles had pointed out at the time, they’d found that hard to believe as well. The man lied even when there seemed to be no need.

  ‘I’d like to ask you now about Friday evening,’ he said. ‘Do you recall what you were doing, say from seven or seven thirty on, Mrs Bromley?’

  She frowned in concentration. ‘Friday evening,’ she repeated slowly. ‘Oh, yes. I had a headache. I’m afraid the stress of the day had been too much for me, and my ankle was playing me up as well, so I didn’t go down to dinner. Charles came up with a tray – I have no idea what time that was – but I couldn’t eat anything, so he gave me a tablet and stayed with me until I went to sleep.’

  ‘And you didn’t leave your room again that night?’

  ‘No. But why are you asking about Friday?’

  ‘Because,’ said Paget, ‘we believe Gwyneth was killed shortly after she left here that evening.’

  ‘And you think it was . . .?’ she began, then stopped. ‘I’m tired,’ she said abruptly, ‘and I would like to go to my room and rest. So if you will excuse me, Chief Inspector . . .?’ She didn’t wait for an answer, but got to her feet and left the room.

  ‘DS Tregalles told me she was acting strangely,’ Molly said quietly, having made sure the door was closed. ‘“There one minute, and off with the fairies the next”, was the way he put it.’

  Paget smiled. ‘Sounds like Tregalles,’ he said, ‘but that pretty well sums up her behaviour. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. Did you notice the way she walked in compared to the way she walked out?’

  ‘I didn’t think she would make it on her own coming in,’ said Molly, ‘and then not remembering your name? It doesn’t make sense. Do you think she’s putting it on, sir?’

  ‘If so, to what end, Forsythe? That’s what I keep asking myself. Of course, she may—’

  Whatever he was about to say was cut short by a peremptory knock on the study door before it opened and Mrs Lodge stuck her head inside. ‘Excuse me, Chief Inspector,’ she said, ‘but I think there is something you ought to see.’ She opened the door wider and they sa
w Thorsen standing in the hall behind her. He was holding something up with both hands.

  ‘It’s Thorsen, sir. He found it in the garden under some rubbish. You were asking about a mac. He’s found one along with a hat.’

  The mackintosh was so creased and rumpled it was barely recognizable as a coat at all. Mud and bits of yellowed leaves still clung to it, and it smelled of rotting vegetation.

  ‘It was all wrapped up with the hat inside,’ Thorsen explained. ‘It’s still a bit damp, like.’

  The mac was more than a bit damp. It was soaking wet, and the hat was in a sorry state, a shapeless lump, still sodden from the rain of almost a week ago. Wrapped tightly inside the mac, it had had no chance to dry.

  Thorsen said he’d found them under a pile of garden refuse piled against the kitchen garden wall. ‘Tom Houghton and his boy are coming on Friday to do the wall,’ he explained. ‘The wet’s got in under the foundation, and part of it came down in the storm the other week, so Mr Bromley asked Tom to come and see to it. I reckoned Tom wouldn’t be too pleased if he had to shift that pile of rubbish when he got here, so that’s what I was doing.’

  ‘I saw him waving it about on the end of his fork from the kitchen window,’ Mrs Lodge broke in, ‘so I went out to see what it was he’d found. You and the sergeant were asking about a mac, so when I saw what it was, I told him to bring it in and show it to you. It’s a good job I did, or he’d’ve chucked it.’ The housekeeper stood back and folded her arms.

  Thorsen glared at her.

  Paget examined the coat. The inside of the coat was relatively dry, but most interesting of all were the streaks of green paint on the lining. He checked the pockets and found them empty.

  Paget pushed and pulled the hat into some semblance of its original shape and looked inside. The maker’s name had all but worn away, but there were initials imprinted in the leather sweatband. He pulled it out and turned it toward the light.

  ‘PGB,’ he read aloud.

  ‘Paul Grafton Bromley,’ said Mrs Lodge. ‘Grafton was his mother’s name.’