“Yes, sir.” I was back to automatically answering just as I had when Graham previously brought up the subject. I tried not to think of the things that could happen to Sam, tried not to envision Roper giving the job of settling of scores to one of his mates. I had to stay strong for Sam, had to stay focused on our case.
As if searching for some safer topic, Graham cleared his throat and said, “By the way, congratulations again for finding that shirt. And, if I might add, those were excellent points you brought up about the flowers, Brenna.”
“Pardon?” I blinked, uncertain as to where I was at the moment. Sam’s face seemed so real, grinning at me from a shaft of moonlight. “Oh. Yes. The flowers. Thank you, sir. It—that just struck me odd, you know, that the killer took precious time and the effort to apply flower petals and clay to Reed Harper’s body. You don’t do that without a reason.”
“What do you think that reason is?”
“That’s part of my insomnia problem.”
He laughed, a light, gentle touch of friendliness. “So, what have you decided on while tramping over hill and dale tonight?”
“The killer knows Reed through the well dressing festival. If it were anything else, there would be a totally different object buried with Reed. The killer needs this link to the well dressing. It’s very important to him…or her. If it weren’t, he would have just dumped Reed’s unadorned body in the wood.”
“So, it’s not really the daisy itself that you think is the key.”
“Well, sir, I don’t know yet, of course. We just started exploring this angle. But that’s what I think right now, and I’m certainly losing sleep over it.”
He laughed again, not unkindly, and I said, “I wish the killer had chosen a flower that doesn’t have so many connotations associated with it, if that is the way we’re supposed to think. Innocence, purity, faith, cheer, friendship, loyal love.” I exhaled deeply, feeling the frustration mounting within me again. “It would be simpler if someone named Daisy is part of this case.” I leaned against the gatepost, aware he was walking away, but not ready to go back to my room.
Graham’s voice floated back to me as he strolled down the road. “Remember, Brenna, that daisy petals also count for ‘He loves me, he loves me not.’ Think about it. Night.”
* * * *
I had time to think about the daisy petals an hour later when I was called to Jenny Millington’s house. If I had continued my walk around the village I might have seen something, prevented it. But that was daft, and deep within me I knew it. I sounded like Jenny talking to Harding, blaming myself for something that evidently I could not control.
Harding had found her. He stood on the front porch of the house, talking with Graham and me while the medical people examined her and bandaged her wrists. Harding’s face looked ghostly white in the light of the porch fixture. His eyes seemed to be no more than cavernous sockets, devoid of expression, and he turned those dark hollows toward Graham and me as he tried to talk. “I-I was worried about her, you see. That’s why I came over.”
“What caused your concern?” Graham asked, the tone of his voice hardened by the tragedy. “Has Jenny tried suicide before? Or did she hint she would attempt it?”
Harding nodded, looking miserable. “She tried to kill herself before, yes.”
“When?”
“I can’t remember. A year ago, perhaps? Two?”
“Recently, then.”
“Yes. She was distraught over her boyfriend…she said.”
“She said? You didn’t believe her, evidently.”
“I believe that she is broken hearted, that she thinks she will never find happiness again. But I don’t believe her about the boyfriend.”
“Do you have a suspicion as to the real reason?”
“No. But I think it might involve Reed Harper.”
Graham shook his head and I wondered what person Reed had not been involved with one way or the other in this village. Graham asked, “Did he and Jenny have an affair, do you know?”
“I don’t think so. Nothing physical. If there was anything it would be an emotional affair on Jenny’s part. She was in love with someone, and I just assumed it to be Reed.”
“Why? Because she worked with him?”
“That might have fanned the flames. I think it was a complicated mix of father figure, yearning for a sweetheart, and best friend.”
“She not have a father, then?”
“Yes, she had one, but only until she was six or seven, I believe. Then he abandoned Jenny and her mother, so she never had a father’s love growing up.” He rubbed the back of his neck, looking remarkably tired. “It’s one of the necessities of life, isn’t it? If you don’t get a parent’s love during the developmental stage, you continue to seek it in other relationships. How many of us marry someone because she reminds us of our mother, or father?”
“Same holds true for the best friend and sweetheart, I take it.”
“Yes, poor girl. Jenny is pathetically shy. Oh, she has friends, but never anyone she can talk to. She chats with me at times, but it’s not the same, is it? She never really confides in me.”
I felt sorry for Jenny, never having a relationship like Margo and I shared. A great friend was more than an agony aunt to help solve life’s problems; she was a conscience and a mirror.
“Has Jenny seemed unduly depressed recently? Is that why you came over tonight?”
“We’d had a talk…recently. She was distraught. I kept calling her house tonight to check up on her, but when she didn’t answer her phone, I had the most awful feeling something had happened, so I rushed over.”
“And that’s when you saw her and rang up the police.”
“Yes. Luckily I saw her on the floor, where the ambulance attendants found her. She, uh, blamed herself for a recent event. I told her it had not been her fault, that she should forgive herself, but obviously she didn’t heed my advice.”
“And this event?”
“Again, I think it was a mixture of Reed’s death and breaking off with her boyfriend. Not that he was a steady companion, or even a close one.”
“Not what we usually associate a boyfriend to be,” Graham added.
“No. Just a chap she knew…and liked rather well. And perhaps had hopes that it could become more. Become a future.”
“Do you know his name?”
“No. I’m afraid I don’t. She never confided in me.”
“But you know she went out with this person on a fairly steady basis.”
“Yes. I saw them several times through the year.”
“You were never introduced, though.”
“’Fraid not. Jenny’s sister may know, however.”
“Clarice.”
Harding nodded, sighing heavily. “Yes. But I think most of Jenny’s depression in the last few weeks, stemmed from Reed’s disappearance, and now from his death. She left a suicide note when she jumped from Lovers Leap last year or whenever it was, and even though she didn’t name a specific person, the police seemed content at that time to link it to Reed and the fact that he was…out of bounds, shall we phrase it?”
“Did Reed or this pseudo boyfriend show any concern at that time over Jenny’s attempt?”
“I’m not aware of it, if either did. Maybe Reed expressed his concern at work. You know.” Harding glanced at me before returning his attention to Graham. “Privately, in the office, where Marian couldn’t overhear. Not that I am implying there was a physical affair—no! But if there’s anything personal to say, it’s safer and easier to say it when no one is around.”
“Did Jenny recover quickly from that suicide attempt?”
“Outwardly, yes. I don’t think most people remembered it after a while. She went about her work as a writer and volunteering for the village fete with her usual dedication to her job. But work is a balm many times and masks a multitude of problems.”
“So she never said anything more about this to you, other than just recently, when she wa
s concerned about something.”
“Not a word. I didn’t know she was depressed until our chat yesterday. If I had known how deeply she was bothered—”
Harding stepped aside as Graham held the door open for the ambulance attendants. Jenny lay on the stretcher, the bandages of her wrists startlingly white even in the light from the porch light. She raised her hand and called out to me as the attendants carried her toward the ambulance. I moved toward her, asking if she wanted to say something. She nodded and I asked the attendants to wait for a moment.
“I-I need to tell you something, miss,” Jenny said, each word seeming to be a struggle.
“Can’t it wait until you’ve recovered?” I asked, glancing at Graham to see if it was acceptable to talk briefly with Jenny. He didn’t object, perhaps feeling it helped Jenny’s emotional healing if she could tell me whatever she had to.
“Please, miss, I want to tell you.” She reached for my hand and I grasped hers in a warm embrace.
“Tell me what?”
“Don’t go looking for anyone.”
I frowned and looked at Harding for interpretation. He looked as confused as I did, so I asked Jenny what she meant.
“No one did this to me,” she said, moving her wrist slightly. “No one attacked me or coerced me to do this. I-I’m ashamed to say I did it myself; I tried to kill myself. No one else is to blame. Just me. I swear.” Her gaze shifted to Harding, as though she conveyed a mute message to him.
Harding stepped forward slightly and murmured that he was deeply sorry he had failed to help her.
“No need to do,” Jenny said. “You couldn’t have known.”
“I should have. A true friend should have.”
“I know I’ve done wrong in God’s eyes. But I’m a changed person.” She glanced at her wrist and then at me. “You don’t have to worry about me; no one has to worry. I’ll be fine, I’ll be stronger now that I realize my mistake.”
The attendants made noises of wanting to get her into the ambulance and I told Jenny she needed to go to hospital, that we could continue our talk later.
She nodded, dropping my hand. As she headed toward the ambulance, she called, “It was me. Only me. You’ll find my note.” Her voice dwindled into silence as the men placed her into the ambulance and closed the back doors.
As though cued by Jenny’s statement, a constable came out of the house and handed Graham a piece of paper that was encased in a plastic evidence bag. Graham read it, thanked the officer, and returned it.
“Her note?” Harding asked. “I wondered…” He paused and we watched the ambulance drive off, its blue lights flashing into the dark night and illuminating the underneath sides of the tree boughs and leaves overhead. We watched until the blue light became a speck traveling north on Minders Road, watched until the light vanished in the distance. The mesmerizing object gone and the spell broken, Harding appeared to regain consciousness. He blinked, concentrated on Graham’s face, and said, “I hope there is never another instance of her writing another one.”
We talked a minute more with Harding before he bid us good night and we entered Jenny’s house. On looking around we found no signs of forced entry, no signs of a struggle with a possible attacker. Everything was neat, clean, and apparently in their usual places: books in the bookcase, cushions on the sofa, contents in desk drawers. Except for the pillow on the living room floor and the photo of she and Reed Harper propped up beside the pillow. And, of course, the small kitchen knife on the coffee table, and the bloodstained towel and carpet. It looked to be a classic scene of a suicide. I had no doubt Jenny had tried to kill herself and voiced my opinion to Graham.
“In case you’re wondering,” he said as we walked into the kitchen, “she stated in her note that last year’s attempt and tonight’s act are due to her boyfriend leaving her. Of course, seeing Reed’s photo by her pillow, I don’t believe that bit of her note. Anyway, she wrote the word ‘boyfriend’ evidently as a late addition, after scratching out the capital letter R. Sad, isn’t it, Taylor?”
It was more than sad. Was that the sin she and Harding had been discussing…the sin of suicide? Or had she meant her sin of desiring a married man? That was no sin as I understood it; we all have people and objects and ambitions we long to acquire but can’t. Obviously I was no theologian, but I thought Jenny’s misery resulted from her love of a man she could not be with. And it didn’t matter whether that man was Reed Harper or the sporadic boyfriend. It mattered that Jenny could not emotionally leave that man to find love and happiness with someone else.
Graham and I were there for a while longer, going over the scene and satisfying ourselves that no one else had been involved in Jenny’s suicide attempt. He finally bid me good night and left, leaving me with a handful of constables in the house. I rang up Harding and Mark to ask if they would notify Clarice of her sister’s admittance to the hospital. Of course both men said they’d go to Clarice’s immediately. Before ringing off, I asked Mark if he’d tell Clarice we’d make a family liaison officer available to her if she wanted.
“Sure, Bren,” Mark’s sleep-tinged voice came back. “Attempted suicide’s horribly stressful for the family members. Don’t worry. I’ll let her know.”
I rang off and walked outside. There would be no big investigation here—we just look for a note, search the house, make sure it really was Jenny who attempted suicide by looking at the wound or the method, and write a report. This was not a crime; nothing illegal had happened. No case would develop from this. It was just a sorry affair that should never have happened.
The constables left and I secured the front door. I walked halfway down the front path before turning slightly to gaze at the house. Maybe the village was hexed—someone had suggested that. Clayton had, when he handed in the lock of Vera’s hair. I was beginning to believe it, for Jenny had been Vera’s closest neighbor. Though in the village proper, sitting at the junction of Miners Road and Old Church Lane, Jenny’s house backed up to the wood where the bones and body had been found. The structure didn’t differ much from the other homes in Cauldham—stone façade, brightly painted wooden door and window frames, flowers in the front garden. Some of them daisies, I realized, watching their white petals bob in the breeze. Did someone—even Jenny, perhaps—pick them to dress Reed’s body, or was it merely another common variety of flower that grew well?
I shuddered as one of the flower heads bent beneath the buffeting, brushing against my arm as though urging me to stay with them, or take a silent clue from them. Wiping the sensation of the contact from my arm, I concentrated on the front of the house. Poor, pathetic Jenny, nearly killing herself for the love of a man who, in all probability, might have used her and thrown her away as he had all the others. A near case of Jenny wanting to die for love…or lack of it. Daisy petals…daisy, tell me true. I walked back to my room at the pub, thinking maybe everything in the village boiled down to the daisy petals after all. ‘He loves me, he loves me not’ was, in my opinion, the real crime.
THIRTY-ONE
I wish I had had a full night’s sleep last night—I might have been able to help the team figure out what had happened.
Between the time Graham finished with his research project and left the church around half past eleven, and the time he unlocked the door to our work area this morning, someone broke into the church basement and rifled through our case notes. It was an unsettling sensation, a police room being burgled. I had more empathy than usual for the violated homeowner.
Graham asked one of the computer gurus if anything had been compromised. After clicking and mousing and logging into and out of, she pronounced our security unbreeched and nothing read or emailed.
“That’s one good thing,” Graham said as I rearranged the stack of computer paper. “Though it still disturbs me. What was the person looking for?”
“Something we mentioned when we talked to people yesterday?” Margo ventured.
“That narrows it down.” Graham exhaled heav
ily. “The church break-in and the timing of it are not the super hero feats you might first assume, either,” he added. “Jenny Millington’s house is a mile from the church. All our focus and activity was there as we concentrated on her, leaving the church sitting in the dark. So, the field is fairly wide open for our culprit.”
“’Course, it could be anyone connected with the case, but if we frightened someone earlier on, I would think that person would make a move before this. Why wait until we’ve had a chance to consider guilt?”
“Thanks, Lynch. I was afraid we’d have to consider the entire village population.” He picked up a pile of photos and set them on the table. “Anyone you favor as getting his feathers ruffled beyond comfort?”
“Not really, sir. Mark and I walked to—” I stopped abruptly. Graham didn’t know that Mark and I had entered Vera’s house, that we had trespassed. This wasn’t the time to tell him; he was upset already with the incident room event. He waited, perhaps not so patiently, for me to continue, so I pretended to have a small coughing spell, then said, “I mean Mark and I talked to Chad Styles and Kevin Harper, stopped them from laying into each other with their fists. But I don’t think that was connected with this.”
“Oh? Why not?”
I told him about Chad wanting to locate a photograph. “But all he had to do was ask the vicar or Marian Harper or someone working on the well panels. He wouldn’t have had to resort to all this rummaging about.”
“Does sound logical. I hope Chad thought as logically. Anything else?”
“We did some research on the computer—Mark and I. We thought we could find a relative of Vera or her grandmother that we’d get someone else to talk to. But we came up with that information about them not being related. The rest of the day we worked at the computer and you held the briefing.”
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