In The Shadow of Evil

by Frank Smith

  Panting now, Beth bent to pull Margaret up and wrap her arms around her upper body. ‘Well, don’t just stand there, help me for God’s sake!’ she grated. Groaning, she strained to lift Margaret’s limp body and drag her across the floor. ‘It’s got to look like suicide,’ she panted, ‘so get over here and take her legs!’

  ‘Starkie hasn’t completed the autopsy on Paul, but he thought it important to let us know that what he found is not consistent with the information I gave him. He says that when Paul was first stabbed, the scissors penetrated the stomach area and nicked the colon. The wound was serious, and there was a lot of blood, but Paul was still conscious and trying to talk. That was confirmed by Mrs Bromley and Julian, and in fact Mrs Etherton herself. But what killed him was a second thrust to the heart. He says the scissors were partly withdrawn, then thrust upward into the heart, at which point Paul would have died within seconds.’

  Tregalles stared at Paget. ‘And Mrs Etherton was the only one near him when he died,’ he said softly. ‘By God, Molly, you could be right.’

  ‘And if she is, then Mrs Bromley could be in danger now,’ said Paget, already up and on the move.

  They raced down the hall, Paget leading the way, taking the stairs three at a time. Down the hall to the door.

  Locked!

  Paget stepped back and booted it. The door jamb splintered and the door crashed back against the wall.

  Elizabeth Etherton was at the open window, panting hard, struggling to lift Margaret Bromley’s limp body onto the railing. But Margaret’s arms were flailing wildly as she tried to free herself, and Charles was trying to catch and pin them down.

  ‘Oh, thank God you’ve come,’ Beth gasped. ‘Margaret was going to commit suicide, and we were trying to stop her.’

  ‘Let go of her,’ Paget commanded as he and the others crossed the room. ‘Now!’

  Mrs Etherton released her grip and Margaret slid to the floor. Molly knelt beside her. ‘Mrs Bromley, can you hear me?’ she asked in a loud, clear voice. ‘Mrs Bromley . . .?’ Margaret Bromley opened her eyes. ‘Beth and Charles,’ she whispered hoarsely, ‘they were trying to kill me.’

  ‘She doesn’t know what she’s saying,’ Beth said quickly. ‘You can see she’s barely conscious. She—’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Beth, give it up,’ Charles broke in harshly. ‘It’s over. Finished. Let it go.’

  Beth’s eyes blazed. ‘You pathetic bastard!’ she grated. ‘You’d turn on me after all I’ve done for you? You’d have lost everything if it hadn’t been for me. You were happy enough to take the money when I took care of Helen for you.’

  THIRTY

  The house was quiet. It was as if a cloak of silence had settled over the manor after Elizabeth Etherton and Charles Bromley were led from the house and taken away in separate cars. The ambulance, followed closely by Steven Lockwood, had taken Margaret Bromley off to hospital, and SOCO had been called in once again.

  Grace Lovett and John Rider, a junior colleague, were searching Elizabeth Etherton’s room, while two other members of the scenes-of-crime team were searching Charles’s room.

  Apart from Mrs Lodge, Grace and the rest of the team were the only people in the house. When Molly was sent to tell Julian that his father and his aunt had been arrested, she was told by Mrs Lodge that Julian had left the house for Birmingham.

  ‘I reminded him that we’d all been told not to leave the house after what happened last night,’ the housekeeper said, ‘but he said he had to be there for rehearsals, and he left.’

  That Mrs Etherton was something of a packrat was well established by the time John started on the cupboards in the tiny bathroom, and found a shoebox packed with outdated prescription and non-prescription drugs. ‘Is there any point in logging all this stuff?’ he asked Grace, ‘or should I just put them back?’ He picked up a vial at random and peered at the label. ‘This one is almost ten years old,’ he exclaimed. ‘It should have been disposed of years ago.’

  Grace picked out a several more and examined them. ‘She probably intended to one day, but never got around to it. Some of these are so old.’ She frowned. ‘Triazolam . . .?’ she said on a rising note. ‘I thought that was banned in this country years ago.’ She squinted at the label as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing. ‘You think some of the others are old, John. Take a look at the date on this! And there must be twenty or thirty tablets left.’

  He tilted his head back to read the label through his bifocals, then whistled softly. ‘This woman didn’t like to throw anything away, did she? Why were they banned?’

  ‘Too many serious side effects, at least for some people,’ Grace told him. ‘Headaches, nausea, disorientation, bouts of amnesia . . . In fact,’ she continued slowly, ‘very much like the symptoms displayed by Mrs Bromley, if I’m not mistaken. I think I’d better give Neil a call.’

  Charles Bromley sat slumped in his chair facing Paget and Tregalles across the table. His face was drawn and he looked very much older than he had a week ago. The tape was running and Paget reminded Charles once again that he was under caution, and he was entitled to legal representation if he wished.

  ‘I’m aware of the procedure,’ Charles said wearily, ‘and I probably know more about the law than our solicitor, so let’s get on with it, shall we?’

  ‘Very well. So, tell me, Mr Bromley, when, exactly, did you and Mrs Etherton decide to kill your wife, Margaret? We all heard your sister-in-law confess to killing your first wife.’

  Charles shook his head. ‘Beth couldn’t . . . You misunderstood. You’ve got it all wrong,’ he said. ‘I can see how you might think that, but I went up to see how Margaret was before going into town this morning, and it’s a good job I did, because Beth was trying to stop Margaret from committing suicide. She was pulling her away from the railing, and I went to help her when you came in.’

  ‘Broke in,’ Paget corrected. ‘The door was locked if you remember, sir? Who locked the door?’

  Charles eyed him stonily. ‘I must have done,’ he said. ‘Yes, I remember now. I locked it because I didn’t want anyone to come in and see Margaret in such a state.’

  ‘So, you opened the door, you saw Mrs Etherton struggling with your wife, but instead of rushing over to help her, you shut the door and locked it, then went over to help. Is that right, sir?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. It only took a couple of seconds, but as I said—’

  ‘I know what you said, Mr Bromley,’ Paget cut in, ‘but if you are going to lie to me I’d prefer you put a little thought into it. Now tell me this: if, as you say, your wife was already at the window when Mrs Etherton tried to save her, why were there drag marks across the carpet from the bed to the window? And while you’re thinking about that, would you like to explain what you meant when you said, “For Christ’s sake, give it up, Beth. It’s over. Let it go?” We all heard those words, Mr Bromley, and we all heard Mrs Etherton’s reply. About all that she’d done for you, including ridding you of your first wife? And she was about to do it again, wasn’t she, Mr Bromley? And you were there to help her.’

  ‘No! Well . . . All right, yes, perhaps Beth was trying to kill Margaret and make it look like suicide, but I was trying to save Margaret. I was fighting Beth. You have to believe that.’

  ‘Then why lock the door?’ asked Paget once again.

  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ Paget said perfunctorily as he and Tregalles entered the second interview room, ‘but we’ve been talking to your brother-in-law, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say he has been talking to us.’

  Mrs Etherton remained silent as Paget sat down. Looking at her across the table, he found it hard to believe that this woman could be a cold-blooded killer. She looked like someone’s aunt, which of course she was, a benign, middle-aged lady who loved gardening and gave generously of her spare time travelling around the countryside collecting things for Oxfam. Hard to believe until one remembered how the mask had slipped when she had vented h
er frustration on Charles earlier in the day.

  Tregalles switched on the tape recorder and entered the required information, then sat down himself while Paget repeated the caution and advised Mrs Etherton of her right to legal counsel.

  Mrs Etherton brushed his words aside. ‘What I would like to know,’ she said acidly, ‘is why I’ve been arrested on suspicion of murder. Margaret wasn’t murdered.’

  ‘If we’d been five minutes later, she would have been,’ Tregalles said caustically.

  ‘We were trying to save her. I should have thought that was obvious. Margaret’s daughter was brutally murdered, then there was Gwyneth, and having you and your people tramping all over the place day after day didn’t help. And then to be attacked by Paul, and the stabbing . . . My God, can you blame her for wanting to end it all?’

  Paget shook his head. ‘I’m afraid you are wasting your breath on that argument,’ he said. ‘First of all, the door was locked on your instructions, according to Charles Bromley. Secondly, the drag marks on the carpet clearly show that you were dragging Mrs Bromley from the bed to the window. And thirdly, Mrs Bromley herself told us that you and Charles were trying to kill her.’

  Mrs Etherton shook her head. ‘She didn’t know what she was saying, and those marks could have been made when she was trying to drag herself to the window. I was in the bathroom, and when I came out she was on the floor and trying desperately to get to the window. As for the door being locked, I told Charles to do that when he came in because I didn’t want anyone else to see her like that. Margaret was my friend. I looked after her—’

  ‘By feeding her Triazolam?’ Paget cut in sharply.

  She flinched. Elizabeth Etherton recovered in an instant, but too late. Nor could she stop the colour draining from her weathered cheeks, and for the first time, she looked shaken. ‘They were found in your cupboard,’ Paget told her, ‘and the hospital has been notified. In fact, they are testing for Triazolam in Mrs Bromley’s system as we speak.’

  Mrs Etherton tilted her head and looked away.

  ‘However,’ Paget continued, ‘as you say, Margaret Bromley is not dead . . . but Paul Bromley is, so let me tell you how he died. According to the pathologist who performed the autopsy, the first wound, admittedly, was serious when it penetrated the stomach and nicked the colon, but Paul would have survived if he’d been taken to hospital in time. But someone pulled the scissors part way out, then redirected them in what the pathologist calls a “savage thrust into the heart”, which killed Paul instantly. And you, Mrs Etherton, were the only one near him when that happened.’

  Mrs Etherton closed her eyes and sighed heavily. ‘That was a mistake,’ she said softly. ‘I realized that later, but what was done was done. I tried to convince myself that it wouldn’t be noticed during the autopsy, but I had the feeling then that things were going wrong.’

  Paget and Tregalles exchanged glances, startled by the admission. ‘You are under caution, Mrs Etherton,’ Paget reminded her, but she just waved a hand as if brushing away a fly.

  ‘I know,’ she said wearily, ‘and I don’t think I care any more. I’m tired of fighting his battles for him. Everything I have ever done has been for Charles, yet now . . .’ She lifted her head to look at Paget. ‘I should have known it would come to this one day,’ she whispered. ‘Should have known I would be alone.’

  ‘So why did you kill Paul? Was he blackmailing you?’

  ‘No,’ she said with a sigh, ‘but I was afraid he might. I couldn’t take a chance after I overheard him tell Margaret that he’d withheld information from you about what he’d seen the night Toni was killed. I was afraid I might not get another chance. It wasn’t part of the original plan.’

  ‘The original plan?’ Paget repeated. ‘When did you start planning all this, Mrs Etherton?’ She smiled. It was the sort of smile one might expect from a child nursing a secret, watchful and guarded.

  ‘Was it before or after you killed your sister?’ Paget asked. He eyed her shrewdly. ‘I would be inclined to say after. Once you know you can do it . . . Am I right, Mrs Etherton?’

  The look she gave him was one of grudging admiration. ‘I knew that Helen’s money, even with the insurance and everything, wouldn’t last more than a few years,’ she said, ‘so when Bernard Halliday died, I encouraged Charles to marry Margaret. I mean, what better chance would he have of getting his hands on that kind of money? But he needed a push. It never occurred to him until I started to nudge him in the right direction. It wasn’t hard. They’d known each other since they were children; Bernard had treated Margaret badly throughout their marriage; Toni was a bitch, and Margaret needed a shoulder to cry on. It only took a little effort on his part.

  ‘Of course, we ran into the same sort of problem we’d had with Helen. No interest in putting money into keeping the manor up, so it was up to me to keep her here, to jolly her along until it was time. We couldn’t act too soon, or all the things that Toni had been saying about Charles allowing Bernard to die on the operating table, so he could marry Margaret for her money, would be dredged up again.’

  Mrs Etherton’s face clouded. ‘Toni coming back when she did was a nuisance. It delayed things, and then, when she ran down young Tracy Nash, and was about to run away, I had to act quickly. I must admit, I did have a bit of luck there, but it all worked out in the end. Oh, and speaking of Tracy, I spoke to her doctor yesterday and he says she is doing much better than expected. She still has a long way to go, but she’s going to be all right. I was so pleased.’

  The church clock in Ashton Prior was striking ten as Paget drove past on his way home, and the echo of its toneless notes were still there inside his head when he turned into the driveway. He stopped in front of the garage door and switched the engine off, too tired to put the car inside.

  He got out and stood for a moment to stretch and breathe in the cool night air. The sky was clear and there was a hint of frost in the air. Summer was definitely coming to a close.

  Grace was waiting for him inside. She greeted him with a kiss, then stood back and held him at arms’ length to look at him. ‘You look so tired,’ she said, ‘and you must be hungry, so come into the kitchen and I’ll brew a fresh pot of tea and get you something. What would you like?’

  He sat down on one of the kitchen chairs and leaned his head back against the wall. ‘Cheese on toast with Branston Pickle,’ he said. ‘Something with a bit of bite to it. The air is so dry and stuffy in those interview rooms. Tregalles claims they bring it in by the bucketful from bar rooms and swamps to lower a suspect’s resistance, and I’m beginning to think there’s something to that. So never mind the tea, Grace. I think I’ll have a beer instead.’

  Grace turned on the toaster oven, then took a beer from the fridge, and poured it into a tall glass. ‘Mrs Etherton,’ she said with a shake of the head as she handed it to him. ‘I still can’t believe it. Has she been charged?’

  ‘With Paul’s murder, yes, she has. But she talked quite freely about the other murders as well. In fact it became more of an unburdening than an interview. Although, even then, she still wanted to impress us with the way she had planned things down to the last detail. Which reminds me, thanks for letting me know about the tablets you found in her room. That helped enormously.’

  Grace held up two wedges of cheese. ‘Cheddar or Lancashire?’ she asked. He nodded in the direction of the cheddar, and Grace put the other wedge back in the fridge and began grating the Cheddar.

  He picked up the glass and drank deeply, then set it aside. ‘She told us it was when Margaret Bromley had the mild stroke, or whatever it was, some months ago, that she remembered the symptoms she’d experienced from the side effects of Triazolam many years ago, because they were so very similar. So she decided to use it on Margaret to make it appear that she was losing her mind, and no one would question it when Margaret committed suicide.

  ‘She had just started to do that when Toni Halliday turned up at the manor, and with Margaret so intent
on bonding with her daughter, Mrs Etherton didn’t have as many opportunities to introduce the drug into her food or drink on a regular basis, which is why the memory lapses were so random and erratic.’

  ‘Did Charles know what she was doing?’

  ‘Mrs Etherton says she didn’t tell him because she was afraid of what his reaction might be, so he was just as baffled by the symptoms as was Lockwood. Her exact words were: “Charles didn’t always know what was best for him, so I had to make those decisions for him.” Unquote.’

  Grace put a jar of Branston Pickle on the table, then slid the toast and bubbling cheese onto a plate and set it in front of him. ‘But why kill Toni? I’m assuming she did kill Toni?’

  Paget scooped a generous portion of pickles onto his plate. ‘She did. She said that after Toni had been at the manor for a while, she realized that the girl could be a problem if her mother died. Regardless of the will leaving the bulk of her estate to Charles, Toni would fight him tooth and nail through the courts for more of the money. Charles, already deep in debt, would be swamped with legal bills and Margaret’s estate could be tied up for years, and Charles would probably lose everything in the process. So, when Toni decided to make a run for it rather than face the prospect of going to jail after hitting Tracy Nash, it was her bad luck to run into Mrs Etherton on the stairs as she was leaving. Mrs Etherton grabbed Paul’s coat and hat off the peg in the hall to conceal her identity in case anyone should see her, and followed Toni to the barn, where she pretended to try to talk her out of leaving, then picked up the sickle and killed her.’

  ‘And Gwyneth . . .?’

  Paget shook his head. ‘Of all the choices that poor girl could have made,’ he said sorrowfully, ‘that had to be the worst. It seems that when Gwyneth met WPC Short and learned that Farnsworth was dead, she realized she was on her own, and could be in a lot of trouble if we found her prints in the barn. She needed to talk to someone who would believe her, someone she could trust for advice, so she went back to the manor and went upstairs and knocked on Mrs Etherton’s door.