Deliver Us from Evil hay-20

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Deliver Us from Evil hay-20 Page 9

by Peter Turnbull


  ‘I am sorry,’ Webster offered. ‘That is tragic.’

  ‘Thank you, but life has to go on and I think of her as lucky dead, rather than dead lucky.’

  ‘Yes,’ Yellich spoke softly. ‘I know what you mean.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yes, I think I do. We see life. . police officers see life, it’s the nature of the beast. . and I think I fear permanent severe disability more than I fear death. As you say, sir, there has to be a certain quality of life, a certain minimum quality to make life bearable.’

  ‘Yes,’ Tony Rigall smiled, ‘that’s a very good way of putting it. So there was, overnight, a huge gap in the house and it was shortly after that occurring that that woman arrived. That damned Canadian. No one could have replaced Amelia. . no one. . and I didn’t want to replace her on an emotional level, no one could have done that, as I said, but I did need someone to organize the house. We. . I had a cook. . I didn’t want her to cook in the kitchen and we had maids to clean, so I advertised for. . for I don’t know what. . a house manager, someone to run the place on a day-to-day basis in the way my lovely wife had done. Someone to keep the overview.’ Rigall leaned back in his chair and glanced upwards. ‘Big mistake. . that was the story of Julia arriving. . she had no references but no one else wanted the job and she impressed well at the interview.’

  ‘Where did she come from? Did she say?’ Yellich glanced upwards at the ornate ceiling.

  ‘Canada. She was newly arrived from Canada. She said that she was looking for a new start in life.’ Rigall drew heavily on the cigarette. ‘She seemed to settle in, seemed to be pleasant at first. Then our cook left without saying why she was leaving, and then the maids. I knew the maids would leave when cook left because the maids were. . well, I don’t want to sound patronizing but by means of explanation I’ll describe them as “simple-minded”, and cook kept an eye on them. She was very protective towards them, motherly almost. She wouldn’t let anyone put upon them. . but cook leaving was a shock, cook was really in with the bricks. It turned out that the Canadian female just irritated her; she just wouldn’t stay out of the kitchen, always interfering. In any house of this size the kitchen belongs to the cook and if you don’t know that, or don’t accept that, then you are in trouble. That’s the rule. It’s the cook’s kitchen. That’s it. So, it came to the point that cook had just had enough; she took off her apron, left it on the kitchen table and cycled home, never to return. The maids followed her. At that time I was out of the house most of the day attending to business. I never saw any of the friction developing, and eventually it was the head gardener who tipped me off. “I’d be off as well”, he said, “but I’m in the garden all day and I have my hut to go to when it’s wet, so I am away from the house, away from the Canadian female”.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘So I let her go. I let the Canadian female go. I had to. Wretched woman. I gave her a reference that would get her started somewhere else, so that was unfair of me but I wasn’t inclined to defend a case for unfair dismissal in the county court. That could have been very costly.’

  Yellich and Webster remained silent. Webster, who with Yellich had visited the Canadian woman’s next employer in his stone cold home, thought that ‘unfair’ did not adequately describe Rigall’s act of dumping his troubles on another unsuspecting person as a means of solving said troubles. Edith Hemmings, as she became, had left Rigall’s household to work for Alexander Beattie and whilst there had emptied the elderly man’s bank account and stolen his meagre possessions. ‘Unfair’ just wasn’t the word, thought Webster, just not the word at all. Then Rigall said something which made Webster’s attitude towards him soften.

  ‘Only when she had gone did I realize what she had done,’ he explained. ‘I gave her access to the money to buy food and fuel and found out later that the account had been cleared out. Not all my money. . that is separate and safe. . but the money I put into the account to run the house. The household budget account. Then I found out she had stolen my wife’s jewellery. I called the police but we didn’t know where she had gone; the cheques she had written were made out to cash. The jewels would have been sold for hard cash. I have now replaced my domestic staff and have appointed Lionel, the butler who opened the door to you, and he costs an arm and a leg. But the sense of loss remains.’

  ‘So what sort of woman was Julia, apart from being dishonest? Apart from rubbing people up the wrong way?’ Yellich asked.

  Rigall smiled. ‘Well, what else can there be after that?’ He paused. ‘But I really can’t answer your question, she never let me get close to her, and I never wanted to, and so any conversation we had was always short and to the point.’

  ‘Did she tell you much about herself? Her background?’

  ‘No. . no. . she didn’t. She was quite private in that sense, quite a private person. She was recently arrived from Canada, that I did find out, but she never spoke about her family. She came from Quebec province, I believe, she did tell me that and also that she then moved to Ontario. . lived near Toronto for a while, just before coming to the UK.’

  ‘Would you say she was hiding, or running from something?’

  ‘Yes. . yes,’ Rigall smiled briefly and nodded. ‘You know you could say that, yes, you could. In fact, come to think of it, someone did come to look for her. A Canadian man — it’s all coming back now. I was a man obsessed with the theft of my money and of my wife’s jewellery and with the driving away of excellent staff. . but yes, she was a person in hiding. She had strange hiding away habits now that you mention it. . stayed indoors, in the house and the garden. She’d walk in the rear garden to take the air but never the front. Very infrequently she’d leave the house, just once a week perhaps, even once every two weeks, to buy provisions and cash cheques and sell Amelia’s jewellery. So, yes, in hiding, a woman in hiding. A very unpleasant character, and I am so pleased she has gone. . it was a big mistake to hire her. So why all the interest?’

  ‘She was murdered,’ Yellich explained, in a matter-of-fact tone of voice.

  ‘Now why doesn’t that surprise me?’ Rigall leaned forward and, resting his elbows on his knees, shook his head slowly. ‘Why doesn’t that surprise me at all? I can understand that, I can really understand why someone would want to do her in. When was this?’

  ‘Recently, a few days ago.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Not too far from here.’

  ‘There’s been no mention of it in the media. . that’s something I would have noticed.’

  ‘We decided on a news blackout. . for now.’

  ‘I see.’ Rigall reclined in his chair. ‘Murdered you say? Well, well, well. . why am I not at all surprised. .?’

  ‘Tell us more about the Canadian.’

  ‘The man you mean. . the man who came looking for her?’

  ‘Yes, that man.’

  Rigall paused. ‘He came very recently. . a few months ago. He was on her trail though, he had her scent.’

  ‘What did he want. . do you know? Did he say?’

  ‘Her. . madam. He wanted her. I told him that she had left two years ago but that didn’t seem to disappoint him, in fact he smiled and said, “Getting closer. I am getting closer”.’

  ‘He came here?’

  ‘Yes. Walked up to the door and knocked on it. He was as bold as brass and as calm as you please. He spoke to Lionel who was unsure of him and asked him to wait outside. . it was a little cold that day but Lionel did the right thing. He is very good like that. He came to find me. . I was in here, in this very room, and so I went to the door and he was every inch a Canadian. To look at him you’d think “lumberjack”, broad-chested, powerfully built, trimmed dark beard, patterned jacket and a fur hat, a man’s fur hat. . you know the type.’

  ‘Yes. . yes.’

  ‘He asked for Julia Avrille. It was then I told him she had left a few years ago. He asked where she had gone and I told him I didn’t know but I believed she had remained in the vicinity. . she
was somewhere in the Vale of York.’

  ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘I saw her, saw her a few times driving an old car. It was the car that caught my eye, a mid 1960s saloon, a Wolseley or a Riley, white with a red flash down the side, a real classic. Lovely car. It’s the only one of its kind hereabouts, damn few left in all England and that is the only one in the Vale, of that I am certain. I have an interest in classic cars you see. So she drove past and then I saw it was her at the wheel, wearing her wig but it was her. Did I mention she always wore a wig when she went out?’

  ‘It’s all right, we know about the wig.’

  ‘Very well. The Canadian hung around for a few days, and unlike his quarry he made no attempt to hide himself. He seemed to base himself in Malton. . that was his operational base. He became a bit of a local figure and he liked his English beer, which is strange for a Canadian or an American. When they are over here they seem to prefer lager because that is very similar to American beer. . served chilled like American beer. . and the same colour, but English beer, brown coloured and served at room temperature, is not to their taste. You know I once saw a group of American sailors, first time in the UK, that was obvious, they came into a pub and ordered beer. The way they looked at it, absolutely aghast, then the way their faces screwed up when they tasted it. . it really was so very funny. Anyway, someone in the pub realized what had happened and told them that he’d been in the States and knew how they liked their beer to be served and he suggested that they try the lager, which they did and were very happy campers after that. . but the Canadian. . he liked his English beer. He had acquired the taste. So the point being that a publican in Malton might remember him.’

  ‘You’ll be the police?’ The man leaned against the back of the bar of the Jolly Waggoner in Malton, dressed in a neatly pressed white shirt and black trousers with a black clip-on tie. He wiped a glass with a starched white towel. ‘You have just visited Mr Rigall, the fox hunting man.’

  ‘He hunts?’ Yellich replied, observing a clean and neatly kept pub.

  ‘Rides to hounds is the correct term but yes, he hunts the fox in his hunting pink and white breeches and black hat. He has some status in the hunt. He’s not the master but has some significant position. He is a very and a most proper gentleman, is the good Mr Rigall.’

  Webster and Yellich noticed a note of sarcasm in the publican’s voice.

  ‘You don’t like the hunt?’ Webster probed.

  The barman shrugged, ‘I wouldn’t protest against it, but I wouldn’t protest for it. I dare say I am what is known as a camp follower. I support the hunt without being part of it.’

  ‘Interesting position to put yourself in,’ Yellich smiled.

  ‘Well, this is rural England. It’s about as rural as it can get and in here you pick up the local attitude and the local attitude is “leave the hunt alone”. I am not local myself. I came down from “the boro”, but I have to make this pub work.’

  ‘The “boro”?’

  ‘Middlesbrough, Teesside. . which is about as urban and industrial as you can get.’

  ‘Ah. .’

  ‘Well, folk round here haven’t a good word to say for the fox, it’s an “animal of an animal” they say. If the fox just took what it needed it wouldn’t be so bad but you see I am told that if a fox gets into a chicken run and there are twenty chickens in the run, it will kill all of them, then make its way home taking just the one chicken it needs to feed himself and his litter. But you see, for some smallholders and agricultural labourers, the loss of all their chickens to wantonness is a lot to bear. . it’s a big loss for them. No fresh eggs. . no poultry. . have to buy it all until they can restock with more chickens.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘And the hunt also brings in big money and keeps traditional rural crafts alive. We have a blacksmith and he’s only here because the hunt keeps him in work. He can walk down the main street holding his head up as a proud man but without the hunt he’d be nothing. . a man on the dole, looking for work, any work, no matter how menial.’

  ‘Interesting point of view.’

  ‘So I say, keep the hunt, it keeps the money coming in and we need it, trade is slow but we are still afloat.’

  Webster glanced round the pub. A few elderly men, four he counted, sitting silently, apart from each other and in front of glasses of beer. Slow trade as the publican said, but, Webster pondered, he is at least still open midweek which is more than the lot of the publican of The Hunter’s Moon in Stillington.

  ‘So how can I help you, gentlemen?’

  ‘Yes, we have visited Mr Rigall. .’

  ‘One of his estate workers drinks in here,’ the publican smiled. ‘Called in for one on his way home for his lunch, he is a bit of a daytime drinker but he can handle it, and he told me to expect you.’

  ‘Yes, he was correct to tell you to expect us. We are looking for a Canadian gentleman; we believe he might have been in here enjoying a beer, some months ago now.’

  ‘Piers?’ The publican smiled broadly. ‘Piers, the Canadian?’

  ‘Is that Piers?’ Webster showed the computer E-FIT to the publican.

  ‘Yes. . well, it could be Piers, there is a likeness, Piers was the only Canadian to hang round here. Went away, then came back to see us a few days ago. . nice bloke, he said he had done what he came to do. . job done, he said. He looked more satisfied than pleased; he said he was shortly to be going back to Canada. He bought a beer and put one in the pump for me. We shook hands and he walked out the door. . and that’s the last I saw of him.’

  ‘A few days ago?’ Yellich could not conceal his excitement.

  ‘Yes, Tuesday of this week, day before yesterday. It would be mid evening when he called in, seven, eight p.m., that sort of time. He used to stay with Mrs Stand.’

  ‘Mrs Stand?’

  ‘Next door but one. . that way,’ the publican pointed to his left. ‘Double fronted house, Broomfield Hotel to give it its proper name, but it’s a guest house. . bed and breakfast, not a proper hotel. He stayed there.’

  Yellich smiled. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Thanks a lot.’

  George Hennessey spent that morning at his desk addressing necessary paperwork. He was all too aware of the gripes of police officers about the mountain of forms they have to complete and reports they have to write, but he found that he enjoyed paperwork and he gave a lot of care to the task, knowing as he did the necessity of accurate and up-to-the-minute recording. At midday, and noticing the sleet-laden rain had eased, although the cloud cover remained at ten tenths in RAF speak, he stood and clambered into his woollen coat, wound a scarf round his neck and screwed his brown fedora on his head. He walked casually from his office and signed as being ‘out’ at the front desk and, after exchanging a word with the cheery police constable who was on duty there, he stepped out of the building into a grimy Micklegate Bar. He glanced up, as he often did, drawn with horrific fascination, at the spikes on the wall above the arch where the heads of traitors to the Crown were impaled and then left for three years as a warning to any other would-be renegade, the last such impaling taking place during the mid eighteenth century. Hennessey crossed the road and climbed the steps on to the wall and turned to his right to walk the wall from the Bar to Baile Hill, knowing, as every York resident knows, that walking the walls is by far the speediest and most efficient means of crossing the city. The stretch of wall he walked that day was, he always found, the most pleasing, affording good views of the neat and desirable terraced houses of Lower Priory Street and Fairfax and Hampden Streets which stood snugly and smugly ‘within the walls’, and to his right the much less expensive, the less desirable, less cared-for houses of the streets joining Nunnery Lane, being ‘without the walls’. The last few feet of that stretch of wall ended in a small copse which Hennessey always thought had a certain mystical quality about it. He left the wall at Baile Hill, as indeed he had to, and crossed the road bridge over the cold and deceptively sluggish loo
king River Ouse, turning right on to Tower Street and, exploiting an infrequent gap in the traffic, jogged hurriedly across the road. Once over the River Foss at Castle Mills Bridge, he was, as he always thought, in ‘any town — UK’.

  It was an area of small terraced housing with inexpensive cars parked at the kerb. He glimpsed a motorcycle chained to a lamp post, the unexpected sight of which caused a shaft of pain to pierce his chest. He continued, walking up quiet Hope Street, crossing Walmgate and entering Navigation Road. He was by then deeply within the part of the city which could have been anywhere in England. All round him were the same type of small terraced houses with only the light grey colour of the brick suggesting that he was in the Vale of York. Hennessey strolled on and turned into Speculation Street and at the end of the street he walked through the low doorway of The Speculation Inn. He turned immediately to his left and entered the taproom. In the corner, on the hard bench which ran round the corner of the room, in front of a small circular table, sat a slightly built, smartly dressed middle-aged man. The man smiled at Hennessey; Hennessey nodded to the man and walked to the serving hatch, there being no bar in the taproom of The Speculation. Hennessey bought a whisky and soda and a glass of tonic water with lime from the jovial young woman who served him. He carried the drinks across to where the middle-aged man sat and he placed the whisky in front of him. Hennessey then sat on a highly polished stool in front of the man and raised the glass of tonic water, ‘Your health, Shored-Up.’

 

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