In The Shadow of Evil

by Frank Smith

  Her body shook; her vision blurred, and suddenly a seething rage consumed her as she wrenched herself away. The chair went back so violently that it caught Paul across the knees. Cursing, he staggered back. Margaret’s hand swept across the surface of the table; her fingers closed on the first thing she touched, and with a newfound strength born of desperation, she rounded on him and struck! Struck hard!

  They stood there, facing each other as if frozen in time. A sluggish bubble of saliva dripped from Paul’s open mouth as he pulled back to stare down at the scissors protruding from his stomach. His knees began to buckle; he grabbed at Margaret for support. His clawing fingers caught her shoulder, digging into her flesh as he sank slowly to the floor and pulled her off her feet. She screamed as she went down and fell on top of him.

  Paul cursed and gasped obscenities as she tried to pull herself free. His grasping fingers held her tight, her face inches from his own distorted features. Her hands kept slipping as she tried to push herself away. She felt the heat of his blood against her own body and screamed again and again. The room began to spin. Sobbing, gasping for breath, she wrenched herself free to scramble crabwise on all fours across the floor.

  The bedroom door banged open. ‘Margaret! Oh, my God! What . . .?’

  Elizabeth Etherton’s words made almost no impression on Margaret’s battered senses. Now on hands and knees, and gasping hard for breath, she felt as if the room were spinning out of control. She dug her nails into the carpet with every ounce of strength she had to stop herself from being thrown off into space. The frenzied thumping of her heart pounded in her ears, and the acid taste of bile rose in her throat.

  ‘Margaret! Answer me! Are you hurt?’

  She raised her head, her vision blurred. Beth was standing over her, saying something she couldn’t hear for the roaring in her ears. ‘Not me,’ she managed between gasps. ‘It’s Paul. He . . .’

  She vomited.

  Beth hesitated only long enough to make sure that the blood on Margaret’s clothes was not her own before turning her attention to Paul. He lay with knees half drawn up, moaning and muttering but barely conscious. The scissors protruded from the flesh below the ribs, their handles ringed with blood. Instinctively, Beth reached to pull them out, then paused, afraid of making matters worse; perhaps it would accelerate the bleeding.

  Feet pounded down the corridor. ‘For Christ’s sake, what the hell is all the screaming about?’ Julian stopped dead in the open doorway. His face turned pale. ‘Bloody hell!’ he croaked hoarsely. ‘What happened?’

  Paul groaned in pain, opened his eyes and tried to speak, gulping, choking on the word. His head fell back, his eyes closed and more saliva dribbled from his mouth.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Julian, you can see what happened,’ Beth snapped. ‘Don’t just stand there. Go and get your father up here fast! Then call an ambulance.’

  Julian looked at Margaret, then back at Paul. ‘Did she . . .?’ he began, but stopped when he saw the look on his aunt’s face, and set off running down the corridor.

  Beth felt Paul’s brow. His face was damp with sweat. His lips moved, but there were no words, just muttered sounds. Margaret had managed to prop herself against the bed, where she sat moaning softly and rocking back and forth, head bowed between her bloodied hands.

  Beth heard the heavy tread of footsteps in the corridor. Charles. ‘Help’s on the way, Paul,’ she said quietly, but even as she was speaking his body arched in a sudden, violent spasm, then crumpled and fell back. His head lolled to one side and a long, slow sigh drifted into silence.

  Charles came through the door, bag in hand. His eyes met those of Beth. Lips compressed and blinking hard, she shook her head. ‘I think he’s gone,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry Charles. There was nothing I could do.’

  Charles knelt beside his brother’s body. He felt for a pulse, lifted an eyelid, then studied his brother’s face for a long moment before turning his attention to the blood-soaked weapon protruding from the body. He opened his bag and took out a pair of thin plastic gloves and put them on. Slowly, carefully, he pulled the scissors out and set them to one side. The bleeding slowed, then stopped.

  ‘Margaret did this?’ he asked as if he couldn’t quite believe it. Beth nodded silently. He got to his feet. ‘Do you know what happened?’

  She shook her head. ‘I heard her scream and this is what I found when I came in.’

  He stood there, looking down on Margaret, who sat rocking back and forth and sobbing quietly. ‘What’s happening, Beth?’ he asked, but it was clear he didn’t expect an answer. ‘First Toni, then Gwyneth, now this?’ He stripped off his gloves and dropped them beside his brother’s body. ‘God knows what this will do to Margaret.’ He sighed. ‘But first things first, I suppose. Let’s get her out of those clothes, then get her out of here. We’ll have to sort out what happened later.’

  Julian, panting hard, appeared once more. ‘Ambulance is on its way,’ he announced. ‘Should be here in twenty minutes.’

  ‘Paul’s dead,’ Charles said cryptically as he got to his feet, ‘so call them back and let them know they don’t have to hurry.’ He helped Beth to her feet, and as she stood there facing him she thought he had never looked so old, so gaunt, and so utterly tired, and her heart went out to him.

  ‘Julian, wait!’ he called after his son. ‘Better call the police as well,’ he said.

  ‘Right, Dad.’ Julian set off once more. Funny, Beth thought, but she hadn’t heard Julian call his father ‘Dad’ in years.

  For the second time in less than a week, Paget found himself travelling the lanes across country from Ashton Prior to Bromley Manor late at night, but at least the weather was better, and the moon was almost full.

  A police car and two white vans bearing the SOCO logo were parked close to the front door of the manor, and, as Paget pulled in beside the police car and got out, Tregalles arrived and parked on the other side of the vans.

  ‘Looks like Charlie’s lot got here fast,’ the sergeant observed as he joined Paget. ‘Is it Charles or Paul?’ Tregalles asked. ‘The bloke who called me out didn’t sound too sure.’

  ‘It’s Paul, and the information I have is it was Mrs Bromley who stabbed him – with scissors.’

  Tregalles blew out his cheeks. ‘You have to give ’em points for being innovative if nothing else,’ he said, then shrugged apologetically and said, ‘Sorry, boss, but you must admit it is a bit bizarre. First a sickle, then a metal bar, and now a pair of scissors? Does this make Mrs Bromley prime suspect in the other killings? Or is Paul still in the frame?’

  ‘Take your pick at this point,’ Paget told him. He led the way up the steps to the front door where a uniformed constable stood guard.

  ‘Top of the stairs, turn right, sir,’ the constable said as he opened the door for them. ‘Inspector Dobbs’ lot just went up.’

  ‘Believe me, Tom, we know the way,’ Tregalles said, recognizing the man. ‘In fact if this keeps up we’re thinking of moving HQ out here.’

  Charlie wasn’t there himself, but three of his men were already in the room. Geoff Kirkpatrick, a senior member of the scenes-of-crime team greeted them at the door. He eyed the two detectives critically. ‘It looks pretty straightforward to me,’ he said, ‘so you could probably come in as you are, but I’d prefer it if you’d suit up. I have extra suits.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we came prepared,’ Paget told him. Apart from the fact that it was standard procedure, he knew he’d be in trouble with Grace if he didn’t observe procedure. As part of the SOCO team, she taught courses on crime-scene contamination.

  Properly attired, the two men entered the room. Paget, as always, had to pause to breathe deeply before looking closely at the body of Paul Bromley, who, in death, seemed smaller than in life. His cheeks were sunken and his mouth was slack, and his face was almost grey.

  ‘Not much doubt about what killed him,’ Kirkpatrick observed, pointing to a bloodied pair of scissors on the floor beside t
he body. ‘Or who did it, so this should be an easy one for you. Mr Bromley told us it was his wife. He said she stabbed his brother in self-defence.’

  ‘He actually told you that? Volunteered the information?’

  Kirkpatrick shrugged. ‘I was surprised myself,’ he said, ‘but, yes, that’s what he told me when we got here.’

  ‘Long, thin, and sharp by the look of them,’ Paget observed, pointing to the scissors. ‘Not the sort of thing you’d expect to find in the average bedroom.’

  ‘Looks like she might have been mending something,’ Kirkpatrick said. ‘There’s a nightdress or slip or some such thing on the floor, and a sewing basket beside the dressing table.’

  ‘Gutted,’ Tregalles said soberly as he bent to take a closer look at the slit in the blood-soaked shirt. ‘If he hadn’t worn his belt so low, it might have saved his life. Were the scissors there beside him when you got here?’

  Kirkpatrick nodded. ‘Mr Bromley said he removed them after the victim died.’

  ‘Did he say anything else?’ asked Paget.

  ‘Not really, but he said he’d wait for you in –’ he pulled a notebook from his pocket and flipped it open – ‘a Mrs Etherton’s room. It’s at the far end of the corridor.’

  ‘We know where it is,’ Paget told him. ‘And Mrs Bromley . . .?’

  ‘She’s there as well. In bed, apparently. Mr Bromley said she was in such a state he had to sedate her, and she’ll be out of it at least until tomorrow morning.’

  Dr Starkie entered the room. Already suited up, he’d come prepared. ‘Ah, there you are, Paget,’ he said tersely. ‘I knew this would be one of yours. You seem to prefer the nocturnal ones.’ He set his bag on the floor. ‘The body been photographed yet?’

  ‘We only just got here ourselves,’ Kirkpatrick told him, ‘so—’

  ‘So what are you waiting for?’ Starkie demanded. ‘Get on with it man. I don’t know about you, but I prefer my bed at this time of night, so the sooner we get this done and I’m on my way, the better. And let’s have some light in here!’

  It was Charles Bromley himself who came to the door when Paget knocked. He stepped out into the corridor and closed the door behind him.

  ‘It’s late and I realize how distressing this must be for you,’ said Paget, ‘so if you could give me a brief account of what happened here tonight, we can come back in the morning to take more detailed statements.’

  Charles gave a curt nod and moved a few steps away down the corridor. ‘I appreciate that, Chief Inspector,’ he said tiredly, ‘but all I can tell you is what I found when I went upstairs. I know nothing about what happened before that. Margaret was in a state of shock, but the only thing she did manage to say before she collapsed was that Paul had attacked her. Beth got there ahead of me, but from what she’s said, I don’t think she knows what happened any more than I do.’

  ‘I’m told that Mrs Bromley is still here,’ Paget said. ‘Shouldn’t she be in hospital under observation?’

  Charles drew back. The muscles around his mouth tightened, and the look he gave Paget bordered on the hostile. ‘I appreciate your concern, Chief Inspector,’ he said coldly, ‘but my wife is under observation – by me. She was in a state of considerable agitation and distress, so I gave her something to calm her down and help her to sleep, and I intend to remain with her throughout the night. Strictly speaking, of course, I am not her family doctor; Steven Lockwood is, and I have apprised him of the situation and he will be here first thing tomorrow morning. All right?’

  ‘I wasn’t questioning your judgement or capability,’ said Paget quietly. ‘I was thinking more in terms of the availability of assistance and resources in hospital, should there be a need. You say Paul attacked her. Are any of her injuries serious?’

  ‘Lacerations and bruising around the neck and shoulders for the most part,’ Charles said tersely. ‘Nothing life-threatening, and nothing that couldn’t be attended to here at home.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Paget told him. ‘So, now, if you would tell me what you found when you came upstairs . . .?’

  In clipped tones, Charles described the scene, concluding with ‘. . . and then I had Julian ring you while Beth and I got Margaret out of the room and brought her along here to Beth’s room, where she will be staying for the rest of the night.’

  ‘About the scissors, sir,’ said Paget. ‘You say they were still in the body when you arrived?’

  ‘That’s right. Beth was afraid to remove them for fear of accelerating the bleeding, which it would have done.’

  ‘But you removed them. Why was that, sir?’

  ‘Because Paul was dead and I couldn’t stand the sight of them sticking out of his stomach, so I pulled the damned things out,’ Charles said. ‘Carefully, of course,’ he added with just a trace of sarcasm, ‘so it won’t be a problem for the doctor who performs the autopsy, if that’s what you’re worried about.’ He looked pointedly at his watch, and said, ‘So, if that is all, Chief Inspector, I would like to get back to my wife. I’ll send Beth out.’

  He turned and went back into the room.

  ‘He didn’t like that very much, did he?’ Tregalles said in hushed tones. ‘I wonder why?’

  ‘I don’t think he’s used to his decisions being questioned,’ Paget replied. ‘He . . .’

  Whatever he’s been about to say was kept to himself as Mrs Etherton emerged from her room. She looked extremely tired, so Paget suggested they move to the landing overlooking the front entrance, where she could sit down on an antique wooden bench. The wood was dark and very old and cracked in places, and the padded velvet top was worn and faded. ‘They didn’t go in for comfort much in the days when this was made,’ Mrs Etherton said as she sat down, ‘but it’s not quite as bad as it looks. It’s solidly built.’ She patted the seat beside her, but Paget remained standing, and Tregalles propped himself against the wall and flipped to a new page in his notebook.

  Paget led Mrs Etherton through the events of the evening. She spoke softly, pausing now and then as if to make sure that what she was about to say was accurate, but all in all, a very credible witness if it should ever come to that.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘apart from the trauma and shock of it all, how would you describe Mrs Bromley’s physical condition? Did she suffer any serious injuries?’

  ‘She has some bruising and scratches on her neck and shoulders, some deep enough to draw blood, but, no, I wouldn’t describe her injuries as serious. Charles saw to them and put a couple of dressings on, but I think that was more to keep them from becoming infected than for any other reason. No, I’d say the physical injuries are the least of her problems; it’s her mind I’m worried about. She was in a terrible state when I found her.’

  ‘Which is why I can’t help wondering why Mr Bromley seems to be so reluctant to get her to the hospital where she can be properly monitored day and night,’ Paget said. ‘Even before this happened, Mrs Bromley seems to have resisted all attempts to get her into hospital or a clinic for a full range of tests to find the cause of her blackouts, or whatever they are. Do you know why that is?’

  Elizabeth Etherton’s eyes held those of Paget for several seconds before she spoke. ‘I can tell you what I think is the reason,’ she said at last. ‘I think it’s because of what happened to her mother. You see, when Margaret was about twenty, her mother began to act strangely, forgetting things, wandering off, that sort of thing. Nothing too serious at first, but her condition deteriorated rapidly and when she was arrested for causing a disturbance in the street, she became violent and had to be restrained. In the end she was sectioned, and three weeks later she committed suicide. Margaret is roughly the same age now as her mother was then, and I think she is afraid that if she goes into hospital, they’ll put her in the psychiatric ward and she’ll end up the same way her mother did.’

  ‘Did Mrs Bromley tell you this?’

  ‘Oh, no. Margaret has never said a word of this to me. In fact, she never talks about
her mother at all. No, Charles told me in confidence when I tried to get him to persuade Margaret to go for tests.’

  ‘There must have been an autopsy on her mother,’ Paget said. ‘Do you know if they established the cause of her illness?’

  ‘According to Charles, that was the troubling part, because nothing abnormal was found. I know he and Steven have tried to point out that diagnostic techniques have advanced a lot in the past twenty-five years, but Margaret refuses to listen.’

  ‘Couldn’t she be sectioned under the Mental Health Act?’ Tregalles asked. ‘I mean it would be for her own good, wouldn’t it?’

  Mrs Etherton shook her head. ‘I think Steven would like to do that if he had Charles’s backing,’ she said, ‘but as Charles says, Margaret isn’t acting irrationally, and they can’t say in all honesty that she is a danger to herself or other people, besides which, he refuses to force Margaret to do anything against her will.’

  ‘If she won’t go to them, what about getting specialists or whatever to come here?’ Tregalles suggested. ‘I know they wouldn’t do that for you or me under the NHS, but with Mr Bromley in the business, so to speak, he must know some of the top people, and they would probably come if he asked them.’

  ‘I believe something like that has been suggested, Sergeant,’ Mrs Etherton said, ‘but it’s not happening, so I assume Margaret has vetoed that idea as well. She keeps saying, “it will pass, it will pass”.’

  ‘Getting back to what happened this evening,’ Paget said, ‘Did Mrs Bromley say why Paul attacked her?’

  Mrs Etherton shook her head. ‘All she said was, “Paul tried to kill me”, and that was it. She could barely talk at all. She was in shock; she was hysterical.’

  ‘You said Paul was trying to speak when you first got there? Were you able to understand anything he said?’

  Once again, Mrs Etherton shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, but they weren’t really words at all, just jumbled sounds. I’m sure he must have been in a lot of pain.’