by Joyce Cato
She read the letter again, but its contents didn’t change. And the enormity of her daughter’s guilt and folly still remained, right there in her hands. Evidence of… . And there, Joan’s mind screeched to a halt and the numbness of shock suddenly shattered with that single thought.
Evidence.
The police had been searching the corridors, stairs and foyers of the house all afternoon. What they expected to find, or did find, she wasn’t sure. But if they found these! The pieces of paper in hands shook. For a moment, tears of panic flooded her eyes. Oh Julie, Julie, what have you done?
She rose quickly and crossed over into the living room, which had a working fireplace. Without hesitating, she lit a match to the envelope and pieces of paper, then knelt by the grate to watch them burn. When it was over, and only black ashes remained on the pristine grate, she took the poker to them and ruthlessly crushed even the ashes into dust.
She didn’t want anyone, anyone to know what was in that letter. And it made her wonder what had been in the other, missing letters. At least Julie had had the sense to get rid of those. Hadn’t she?
Feverishly, Joan searched her daughter’s room from top to bottom, but found nothing further that was incriminating. That done, Joan sat back numbly on the sofa and waited for her daughter to return.
They needed to talk. Julie was young and wild, and she might have some silly youthful idea of doing what was right, or being open and honest with the police. And Joan would have to squash any such stupid desires right now. Her daughter, for all her intelligence, wasn’t as wise to the ways of the world as Joan.
And Joan would fight tooth and nail to protect her daughter from the consequences of her actions.
Next door, in flat 11, Pauline Weeks mixed herself a stiff scotch on the rocks and took it with her into the living room. There she sat down on a black leather settee and kicked off her shoes. She was smiling. She went to take a sip of the raw liquor, and paused.
‘To you, Margaret,’ she said softly, giving the empty room a mock salute. ‘Cheers.’
All in all, she supposed that she could congratulate herself on getting away with things. No one had seen what she’d done when she came back into the house during the party, otherwise the police would be breathing down her neck by now. So that was one worry off her mind. Of course, the way things had turned out, it had all been for nothing anyway. Trust Margaret to ruin things, even when she was dead.
In the shrubbery at the back of the house, John’s supple back served him well as he crouched up and down the flowerbeds, adding to the growing pile of weeds he was accumulating in his wheelbarrow. There was nothing like a mindless task to help you relax, he mused. To take away the tension and keep you calm and clear-headed. Besides, now that the worst was over, it was time to get on with life. If only he hadn’t been witness to that clandestine meeting last night! He bent and pulled up a thistle. So what if Sean and Julie were involved? It was none of his business. For all he knew, Sean had simply been giving Julie a lift somewhere.
He sighed, knowing that he must speak to Vera about it. She’d know what to do. He tracked her down to her kitchen and once seated at the table, allowed her to cut him a piece of seed cake. As she poured coffee into thick ceramic mugs, she turned to glance at him, her eyes soft.
‘So, what’s bothering you?’ she asked quietly, an amused and indulgent look on her face.
‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ he mumbled.
Vera nodded. ‘I thought you might,’ she said comfortably. ‘As it happens, I’ve got something to tell you, too. About Pauline.’
John sighed. ‘Mine’s about Julie.’ He pushed a piece of the excellent, old-fashioned cake about on his plate with a finger that wasn’t quite clean. Then he looked up at her. ‘Are we in the soup, old gal?’ he asked gruffly.
Vera sighed. ‘We might be. What do you know?’
In one of the three big, prestigious flats, Maurice was beginning to celebrate. He was free at last! He could hardly believe it. Now he could call his life his own again. His money was his once more to spend just how he liked – on himself. Of course, he’d gone to all that expense, but even so, he could hardly grumble.
He sat at his desk and began to type into his computer vigorously. His tome on the Father of the Metaphysical Poets had once again re-captured his imagination. He almost managed to forget that Margaret had ever existed.
In the back of his mind, though, he was still afraid. If the police ever found out who killed her, and why, he’d be in deep trouble once more. But why should they? As far as he knew, they didn’t even have a clue.
Sean Franklyn wasn’t at the vicarage. Although he’d been given permission to go on living in the flat, when Dury had given him the go ahead to leave the village, he’d jumped at the opportunity. Now he was sitting in a noisy and smoke-filled pub in a back street in Cirencester, getting steadily drunk.
He wasn’t sure whether he was glad or sorry that his wife was dead. He was, however, very sorry indeed that he’d ever met Julie Dix. From a young bit of exciting stuff, she’d turned into a potential albatross around his neck.
Paul Waring was at home, doing press-ups in a spare bedroom that had long since been converted into a personal gym. His brawny arms, broad shoulders and deep chest were bathed in sweat. His sandy hair lay damply on his forehead.
‘Sixty-one, sixty-two, sixty-three—’ he muttered, keeping count religiously.
He worked without stopping until he reached the magical century, then leapt lithely to his feet and walked to the shower, whistling as he soaped himself under the cooling spray.
He didn’t have a care in the world. Well, he was a bit worried, because if the police started digging around in his past they might come up with some embarrassing facts. But he could cope with that, if he had to.
Alone now in her high-tech, professional’s kitchen, Vera sipped some of the experimental cold soup that she hoped to perfect in time for next year’s cookbook, and sighed. It just didn’t work. Even if she added a bit more coriander, she didn’t think that would rescue it. So it was back to the old drawing board. Oh well.
She poured the mixture down the sink. Luckily, she had other ideas to try. Ideas were her thing – that, and planning.
She and John had thrashed things out once and for all, and had come to the conclusion that silence and vigilance was the best answer. She only hoped they weren’t going to regret it.
Darkness came, and brought with it a modicum of coolness to relieve the restless sleep of the vicarage residents. And, as if in answer to one of Graham Noble’s prayers, Monday morning dawned with an early splash of rain and a marked drop in temperature, but by the time nine o’clock arrived, bringing a van load of agog decorators with it, the sun was once more relentlessly shining.
The constable on the gate told the foreman to go up to the house and see Chief Inspector Dury in flat 2. The rest were to stay in the van. They were all to be fingerprinted, and a man would be down with a kit in a few minutes. This produced some uneasy murmurs. Everyone knew about the murder, of course. But what they didn’t know, because the papers hadn’t got the information themselves yet, was that the murder had been committed in the very flat they were currently decorating.
Consequently the foreman, a beefy and perpetually cheerful man called Len Biggs, walked up to the house to tap on the closed door of flat 2, which was quickly answered by Jim Greer.
‘Come in. You must be Mr Biggs? We’ve been waiting to talk to you.’
Len, not at all sure that he liked the sound of that, followed the policeman into a room crammed with office equipment, and gaped about at the hive of activity. He quickly snapped his jaw shut, however, when a blond-haired man who had authority written all over him, rose from behind a chair and pointed to a seat.
He sat down gingerly in the chair indicated, as if expecting it to collapse under his weight.
‘We ‘eard about the murder,’ he stated flatly.
Jason nodded. ‘Well then,
Mr Biggs, just a few questions. You and your men were working here last Friday? What time did you leave?’
Len hesitated. Technically they hadn’t been due to leave till five, just like any other day, and the boss would have a fit if he found out they’d skived off nearly an hour and a half early. But after he’d taken a long look at the glittering blue eyes of the policeman opposite, he heaved a sigh, and said reluctantly, ‘3.30, or thereabouts.’
‘Did you notice anybody hanging around who shouldn’t be there?’
‘Nah. Don’t think so. I’ll ask the lads if they’ve seen anybody, but when you’re plastering and painting, you don’t do much looking outta the windows.’
‘You were working in the biggest room on the left side of the flat, weren’t you? The one that’s been painted on the ceiling?’
Len nodded. ‘That silly bugger Ron Jessup had already done the walls though. I told him to do the rooms on the right first. But would he listen?’
Jim, taking notes, grinned. ‘So that’s why the tarpaulins had been tacked up, to protect the walls from spatter?’ he asked.
‘Yup.’
‘Did you ever see Mr or Mrs Franklyn around whilst you were working?’ Jason asked next.
‘Dunno,’ Len said. ‘What do they look like?’
Patiently, Jason described the Franklyns.
‘Seen him about a few times,’ Len said judiciously, after some thought. ‘Pleasant enough chap to speak to. But not her, I reckon.’
‘Did you see either of them hanging around the flat on Friday?’ Jason persisted, but as expected, Len shook his head.
‘Nah. Didn’t see anybody much Friday.’
Jason sighed and nodded to him that he could go.
Len hauled himself to his feet, then looked around. ‘When can we come back in then?’ he asked. ‘To finish the place off, like?’
‘Not for a while. You got any other flats here to work on?’
‘Yup, number 12. Right up on the top floor. It’s the last one still to do.’
‘I don’t see why you can’t start work on that one in a few days’ time. You’ll just have to tell your boss to reassign you until then.’
‘Righto,’ Len said agreeably, and left.
As he walked slowly across the garden, he paused every now and then to look back at the house. It was a funny old world, he thought to himself morosely. You weren’t safe anywhere anymore. But you’d think that a little country place like Heyford Bassett, and in a vicarage too, you’d be safe enough, though.
‘Hello, Len.’ A cheerful voice broke into his thoughts, and he looked up to see the vicar’s wife walking towards him, a bunch of newly cut flowers in her hand. Going to tend to the neglected graves in the churchyard no doubt, he thought and smiled broadly. He liked Mrs Noble. She was the only one in the place to offer them fresh cups of tea and cold drinks.
‘Sorry for your trouble, Mrs Noble,’ he said simply.
Monica sighed. ‘Yes. I hope the Chief Inspector didn’t keep you long?’
‘Nah, not long. He seemed interested in the room we were decorating.’
If his voice had risen a little at the end, to make it more of question, Monica couldn’t really blame him. She was curious herself about how the investigation was proceeding. After all, she had Carol-Ann’s welfare to think about. Surely it couldn’t hurt to ask the odd question or two, and use some brainpower on the problem herself?
‘Yes, well, that’s where she was killed,’ she confirmed briskly. ‘I found her. It was horrible. All the blood splashed about on those tarpaulins on the walls. And the body covered by one of them.’
She shuddered, and Len quickly put out a meaty hand and laid it on her shoulder. ‘You just forget about all that, missus,’ he advised gently. ‘You don’t want to go givin’ yerself nightmares. ‘Ere, hang on, what did you mean, the tarpaulins on the walls?’ he asked. ‘We took all them tarpaulins down at lunchtime, when Kevin finished his painting.’
Monica looked at him curiously.
‘No, Len, that’s not right. The tarpaulins were still up on the walls. Well, all except for one wall, and that one was only uncovered because whoever killed Margaret pulled it down to cover her up with it.’
Len scratched his head and scowled down at his boots. ‘Queer. I coulda sworn they’d been taken down….’
‘Perhaps one of the others put them back up again,’ Monica hazarded. ‘Why don’t you ask around?’
‘I’ll do that,’ Len said. ‘It was probably that Ron. He doesn’t know his arse from his elbow. Oh, sorry for the language, like,’ he said with an embarrassed mumble, and Monica laughed and said that it didn’t matter, and thus reassured, the foreman lumbered off to rejoin his colleagues in the van.
Monica watched him go, but her amused smile slowly turned to a frown. She’d have to try and remember to tell Jason what Len had said about the tarpaulins the next time she saw him.
It might be important.
Jason looked up as Jim tossed a small plastic bag containing two sparkling items on the desk in front of his superior. The sergeant stood there, arms akimbo and looking disgusted.
‘The team that searched the Franklyns’ place found these behind the dressing table in the bedroom. They’d fallen down between the carpet and the skirting board. The carpet’s a bit loose in there, apparently.’
Jason reached forward and peered at the diamond earrings encased in the evidence bag.
‘So much for Carol-Ann Clancy being a potential lady Raffles,’ he drawled – and promptly forgot all about them.
CHAPTER 10
Clem Jarvis hung up the telephone, and turned, grave-faced, to his anxiously hovering wife.
‘Well, Clem?’ she asked quickly, although after listening in to his side of the telephone conversation she already had a pretty fair idea of what he was going to say.
‘Bill says he ain’t got it,’ Clem said flatly. ‘And that’s the last of ’em.’
They were in the hall of their old farmhouse, and Clem sighed heavily, sinking down in the chair beside the small occasional table.
‘It’s no use, Bess. It’s gone. I’d best take a walk on down to the vicarage and see somebody about it, I reckon. Not that I’m looking forward to it. I feel a right idiot. And I don’t know if they might not charge me with something, even. Carelessness like, or failing to do something or other.’
Bess bit her lip nervously. Nothing in her hard-working, honest, and rather sheltered life, had prepared her for this.
‘Clem, it’s not your fault. And I really can’t believe it’s been stolen,’ she wailed. ‘You’ve had it years,’ she added, as if this made any difference.
The farmer shook his head. ‘Well, old girl, I ‘ad it when I went into the pub with the others after the pigeon shoot that time, and it were gone when we left. And if none of the others borrowed it, then it’s been stolen.’ He delivered this piece of logical reasoning in a calm, fatalistic voice, but inside his stomach was churning. Would he have to go to court?
He walked outside, looking the epitome of misery, and cast a glance down into the valley, his eyes easily picking out the church tower, and the big vicarage next to it.
‘The coppers ain’t gonna be any too happy with me, I reckon,’ he murmured, in massive understatement.
Then, sighing heavily, he set off towards the village where he’d lived all his life, deciding to walk instead of taking the old Land Rover. It would give him more time to get it clear in his head just what he was going to say. But one thing was for certain – if it did turn out that his gun had been used to kill that woman, well, he’d never pick up a shotgun again.
Let the pigeons eat his crops.
Carol-Ann stormed into the living room.
‘Right, that’s it!’ she hissed, slinging herself with teenage fury onto the nearest armchair. ‘This afternoon I’m going into Cheltenham and I’m going to get a job in a shop.’
Monica blinked. Her daughter, volunteering to work! She must be coming down with
something that made you delirious. Fighting the urge to go over and lay the back of her hand on her daughter’s forehead to check for a temperature, she smiled instead.
‘Why’s that, honeybunch?’ she asked mildly, looking up from the e-mail she was writing to her old boss.
Sue Phelps, a forty-something, unmarried dedicated career woman, was also one of her best friends. And after Monica had totally flummoxed Sue by resigning to marry her lovely vicar, they’d made a determined effort to keep in touch and not let their friendship lapse. Of course, Sue kept hinting that Monica’s old job was still there if ever she wanted it. So far, though, Monica hadn’t been the least bit tempted.
‘That Vivienne Goring, the toe rag!’ Carol-Ann, still hissing like a steam kettle, glowered back at her mother ferociously. ‘Jenny said she saw her going into the cinema with my Clive.’
Monica felt a twinge of nervousness. ‘Your Clive?’ she asked, managing not to gulp too much, and Carol-Ann heaved a sigh and shot her mother a fulminating look.
‘My boyfriend!’ she said scornfully. ‘Duh!’
‘I thought you were going out with Steve Crawford?’ Monica managed faintly.
She’d always rather liked Steve Crawford. Mainly because he was football mad and still gauche and awkward around the opposite sex.
‘Oh, Steve’s old news,’ Carol-Ann huffed, then smiled alarmingly. ‘Clive’s a love-machine on legs.’
Monica blinked again, gave herself a quick lecture on the perils of panicking, and said nonchalantly, ‘Why haven’t I met him then? He sounds….’ gulp, ‘interesting.’
Carol-Ann snorted. ‘Hah! Bring him here to meet the Rev? You must be kidding. I’d never see him for dust!’
Carol-Ann had this fixed idea that any boyfriend, on finding out that his beloved actually had a vicar for a stepfather, was bound to run screaming off into the hills and never be seen again.