Six Feet Under

by Dorothy Simpson

  She stared at him for a moment, eyes dilated and then, with a little choking sound of distress, she got up and ran from the room.

  Thanet half rose to follow her and then sat down again. What was the point? He’d been honest with her, hadn’t he? Told her how he felt? And told her to go ahead when it was the last thing in the world he wanted. What more did she expect?

  Scowling he rose, began to clear the table. He carried some of the dishes into the kitchen, put them down on the table and then, with a sigh, started up the stairs.

  As he had expected, she was lying face down on the bed, still in tears. Suppressing a sigh of exasperation he sat down beside her, put his arm across her shoulders. “Joan,” he said. “Come on, love, cheer up. It’s not the end of the world, you know. I’m sure we’ll work something out.” He thrust a handkerchief into her clenched fist. “Here, blow,” he said.

  Obediently she raised herself on her elbows, mopped at the tears, blew her nose. Then she rolled over on to her back. She avoided looking at him, however, covering her swollen eyes with the back of one hand.

  “That’s better,” he said, smiling.

  “It doesn’t solve anything, though,” she muttered.

  “But honey, what do you want me to do? I can’t change my feelings, can I?”

  “Nor can I,” she said, with a touch of defiance.

  “I know.”

  “There you are,” she said.

  “What?”

  “It’s going to be a barrier between us.” And to his dismay, the tears began again.

  “Darling,” he said, putting his arms around her and lifting her up to hold her close against him. “Don’t. It’ll only be a barrier if we let it.”

  “But how can we prevent it?” she murmured into his shoulder.

  “There’ll be a way,” he said, with a confidence he did not feel. “You’ll see.”

  She pulled away from him then, tried to smile. “I only hope you’re right,” she said. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, stood up and walked to the dressing table. “What a mess!” she said, peering into the mirror. She picked up her hairbrush, began to tug it through her mass of fair curls. “What time do you have to go?”

  “Now, I’m afraid,” he said, glancing at his watch. It was almost half past seven. “I’ve got three calls to make this evening.” He crossed the room to stand behind her, put his arms around her. “Feeling better?” he said, dropping a kiss on the nape of her neck where the hair curled softly into a little point.

  She put down the brush, turned. “Yes,” she said. “Sorry.”

  They kissed with the ardour of a sincere desire for reconciliation, but Thanet was aware that underneath nothing was resolved. The problem would rear its ugly head again and again until … what? Mentally he shrugged. Time would no doubt bring some sort of resolution, some compromise equally unacceptable to both. Shocked at his own cynicism he released her. “I’d better be off, then,” he said. “I shan’t be too late, I hope.”

  It was equally shocking to experience a sense of relief as he shut the front door behind him. Usually, if he had to go out in the evening, he left Joan with reluctance. As he drove back to Nettleton, however, he managed, with an effort, to slough off his domestic problems and focus his mind on the evening ahead. He found that he was looking forward to it, and particularly to the interview with the Ingrams. True, there was no reason whatsoever to show that either of them had been involved with the murder, but Mrs Ingram’s lie had somehow made him feel fractionally more optimistic. It was only a tiny lever, but if he could wield it correctly, he might just manage to open up a crack in the wall of silence which he felt these people were building around Carrie Birch.

  There were already several cars parked in front of the church and the lights were on in the building itself. It was a clear but moonless night and after locking the car Thanet stood quite still for a few minutes, adjusting to the darkness. There was a dim light on in the lychgate and a little street lamp in front of the Pitmans’ bungalow, but to Thanet’s town-orientated gaze it was practically pitch dark. Across the road the footpath at the rear of Church Cottages was in total darkness. Had there been a moon last night? He ought to check.

  Pausing only to note with satisfaction that the lights were on in number three, where he hoped later to see the Gambles, Thanet picked his way carefully up the drive of Latchetts. He wanted to tackle the Ingrams first.

  The curtains were drawn across the huge front windows but as Thanet approached the front door he could hear the sound of angry voices. He soon traced their source: a tiny window set into the wall at eye level in the shallow portion of wall which projected forward at right angles to the front door. It was obviously used for ventilation and someone had forgotten to close it. Thankful now for the concealing darkness Thanet pressed himself against the house wall and listened.

  “… bloody stupid!” That must be Ingram. And furious, by the sound of it.

  His wife’s response was only a murmur, her words, muffled probably by thick curtains, indistinguishable. By her tone of voice, though, she was on the defensive.

  “Well of course they’re bound to find out,” said Ingram angrily. “This is a murder investigation, isn’t it? And in a murder investigation everyone but everyone even remotely connected with the victim is put under the microscope.”

  Mrs Ingram obviously protested, for her husband went on, “I know there wasn’t any bloody connection, you know there wasn’t, but they don’t, do they? And you can be damned sure they’ll try to find out. And if anyone’s caught lying—don’t you see? Even if they’re innocent, it looks bad. Why the hell couldn’t you simply have told him the truth?”

  “How could I, when I didn’t know what it was?” This time Mrs Ingram’s voice was audible. She, too, was getting angry.

  “And just what the hell do you mean by that?”

  “What I said!” she snapped. “That I didn’t know what the truth was. All I know is that we had a row, you stamped out of here at about a quarter to ten and you didn’t come back until about half past. Oh, I know you said you’d been to the pub …”

  “And what the devil do you think I’d been doing? Bumping off that poor little woman across the way?”

  Her reply was inaudible, but he was obviously dissatisfied with it.

  “No, come on, tell me. Just tell me, will you? Precisely what do you think I was doing in that three quarters of an hour?” His anger had reached its zenith now and inevitably his wife’s flared up to match it.

  “How should I know?” she screamed at him. “Having it off with that cow Marion Pitman, probably!”

  From the dead silence which followed Thanet deduced that Ingram’s astonishment matched his own.

  Then, unexpectedly, came laughter. “Marion Pitman …” Ingram spluttered. “Marion Pitman …”

  “I’ve been watching the pair of you for months,” Mrs Ingram went on, her voice still raised to make herself heard over his continuing laughter. “Don’t think I didn’t know what you were up to!”

  The laughter stopped abruptly. “Look, Joy,” said Ingram, his voice suddenly very cold, “you’d better stop this nonsense at once. There never has been, is not and never will be anything between Marion Pitman and myself.”

  “Amen,” mocked his wife. “You expect me to believe that?”

  “Believe it or not,” he said. “It’s true. I like Marion well enough, she’s a very nice woman, but that’s as far as it goes.”

  “What about all the little trips next door?”

  “What little trips?”

  Thanet had heard enough. He wasn’t interested in a purely domestic quarrel and it was all too obvious now where it was leading. By the sound of it Mrs Ingram, despite her beauty, suffered badly from the disease of jealousy.

  He rang the bell. At once the voices stopped and a moment or two later the light went on in the hall and Ingram opened the door.

  “Yes?” He had himself well under control, Thanet was interes
ted to note. A cool customer, then. He was tall, well built and as fair as his wife was dark. One lock of hair flopped boyishly over his forehead and he brushed it away with what was clearly an habitual gesture as he absorbed Thanet’s self-introduction. At once he was all affability.

  “Derek Ingram,” he said, holding out his hand and shaking Thanet’s vigorously. “Come in, come in, Inspector. This way.”

  The room into which he shepherded his visitor was all glass and stainless steel, angles and geometric patterns in pale, bleached shades of cream, off-white and beige. Mrs Ingram, intentionally no doubt, was a stunning contrast in a flame-coloured floor-length dress in some soft, clinging fabric which moulded itself to her beautiful body as she stood up and held out her hand. Her smile was dazzling.

  “Inspector,” she said, with an emphasis on the second syllable, as if he were the one person in the world above all others that she wanted to see. “What a surprise! Do sit down.”

  Having overheard their earlier conversation it was easy for Thanet to interpret the looks which flashed between them. What do we do now? said hers. Leave it to me, his responded.

  Mrs Ingram subsided gracefully on to the long, low couch of blond leather and Ingram sat down beside her. The curious-looking contraption of tubular steel and strapped leather into which Thanet gingerly lowered himself was, he found, surprisingly comfortable.

  “I’m afraid,” said Ingram, taking the initiative with a deprecating little laugh, “that first of all I must clear up a slight misunderstanding. When you saw my wife this morning she rather misguidedly, perhaps, but understandably, I’m sure you will agree, misled you.”

  “So I gathered,” said Thanet dryly. “The window’s open,” he went on, inwardly amused at their blank faces. “And I’m afraid you were talking rather loudly.…” There was a moment’s silence while they assimilated this and he could see that they were frantically trying to recall exactly what had been said.

  “I gather you went down to the pub last night?”

  Ingram nodded eagerly, clearly relieved, now that the initial shock was over, to be saved the trouble of explaining. “That’s right.”

  “And—correct me if I’m wrong—you left here at about a quarter to ten, returned at about half past.”

  “Yes.”

  “So, I would be most grateful if you could cast your mind back and try to recall if you saw anyone or heard anything on the way there, or on the way back.”

  “Inspector,” broke in Mrs Ingram. “May I just ask a question?”

  “By all means.”

  “What … do you know what time Miss Birch was … killed?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you precisely, but the period in which we are particularly interested is between nine thirty and eleven o’clock last night. I really must stress how vital it is that people should be frank with us. If you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear.”

  The rebuke was gentle but she bit her lip, flushed, glanced at her husband.

  He, however, ignored her. Clearly, he was thinking. Eventually, “I’m sorry, Inspector, but I simply don’t remember seeing anybody either on the way down or on the way back. It wasn’t a very nice night, if you remember, blustery and rather chilly. Needless to say, I wish I had seen somebody, if only because they would presumably be able to vouch for me.”

  “Quite,” said Thanet. “But you’re sure?”

  Ingram shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry.”

  “Can you by any chance remember if there was a moon?”

  “Intermittently, yes. At times it was quite bright, then the clouds would blot it out completely.”

  “Any cars parked in front of the church?”

  “Oh yes, a number. I assumed there was a meeting at the vicarage.”

  “The PCC, I believe,” said Thanet. “What about when you came back?”

  “None. I remember thinking that the meeting must be over.”

  A sudden clamour of bells made Thanet start. Joy Ingram rose and reached behind the curtain to shut the little window and at once the sound receded to a distant tintinnabulation.

  “Bellringing night,” she said with a grimace.

  Thanet rather liked it but refrained from saying so. Perhaps, if he lived next door to the church and had to put up with it once a week as the Ingrams did, he would feel the same as she.

  “Well,” he said, rising, “I think that’s all for the moment. I’d be grateful though, Mr Ingram, if you would try very hard to think back to last night, see if you can remember anything which might be useful to us.”

  “Certainly,” said Ingram, leading the way to the door.

  Outside the air vibrated with the clangour of the bells pealing out into the night. Thanet walked down the path to the Ingrams’ front gate and then stood listening, his face turned up to the stars which out here in the country shone with an unfamiliar clarity. He felt strangely uplifted, exhilarated by the cascades of sound rippling through the darkness. The bell-ringers, whoever they were, were very good indeed.

  Enjoyable though the experience was, however, it would not advance him in his task and reluctantly he dragged his attention back to the matter in hand. Could there be any truth in Mrs Ingram’s astonishing accusation? Could her husband be having an affair with Marion Pitman? Thanet tried to visualise the two together, but somehow they didn’t match up. In any case, it was a pointless exercise. The attraction of one person for another is frequently, to the outsider, a mystery. But if it was true …

  Could Carrie Birch have found out, have threatened either Marion or Ingram with exposure? Say, for instance, that she had approached Marion first and that Marion had given her money to keep quiet, but had said nothing to Ingram for fear that he would react violently. And that Carrie had become greedy, that Marion had been unable to step up the payments, that Carrie had then decided to approach Ingram. Say that she had done so last night, had perhaps lurked outside the Ingrams’ house in the hope that he might come out. Ingram had a temper, as Thanet had heard for himself this evening. He might well have lashed out at the blackmailer and then have been forced to finish her off in order to prevent exposure.…

  There was a streak of brightness across the sky, so swiftly gone as to have been almost invisible. A shooting star! Thanet had never seen one before and he blinked, his concentration broken, trying to recall the superstitions attached to seeing one. If he made a wish, would it be granted? Or had it marked someone’s death?

  He shook his head impatiently. What on earth was he doing, mooning over church bells and shooting stars! He must find some way, he told himself briskly as he set off across the road towards the Gambles’ cottage, to check this story about Ingram and Marion Pitman. But how, without starting a rumour which might be completely false? He needed someone with absolute discretion.

  It was at this moment, as if Fate had for once decided to give him exactly what he needed at the precise moment he needed it, that he became aware that someone was crossing the road parallel to him some ten yards away to his left. Dim though the light was Thanet could see that this person was wearing some sort of long dress which flapped about its ankles. The figure marched purposefully up to the vicarage gate and pushed it open and at once Thanet realised: not a dress, but a cassock.

  “Excuse me.…”

  The figure turned, waited as Thanet approached.

  “Yes?”

  “We’ve not met before, Mr …”

  “Ennerby.”

  “… Mr Ennerby. Inspector Thanet of Sturrenden CID.”

  “Of course. Poor Miss Birch. A terrible thing.…”

  Thanet found himself shaking the warm, strong hand which was extended to him.

  “There is a rather delicate point on which I would very much appreciate your help, Mr Ennerby.”

  “By all means. Come along in, won’t you?”

  Thanet followed the tall figure with its billowing robe to the front door. A light had been left on in the shallow, open porch and as they reached it Mr E
nnerby stooped, picked something up. The front door, the policeman in Thanet noted disapprovingly, was not locked—was not even latched, for the vicar pushed it open with his foot before leading the way inside.

  “We’ll go into the kitchen,” Ennerby said. “It’s warmer in there.”

  He was right. The room was bright, modern, well-equipped, with a Raeburn cooker which gave forth a comforting heat. Thanet had not realised just how chilled he had become standing out there by the Ingrams’ gate and he moved towards the stove, extending his hands to the warmth.

  “My parishioners are convinced that if I’m left to my own devices I shall starve,” Ennerby said, carefully setting down on the table the object which he had collected from the porch. It was, Thanet now saw, a large earthenware casserole. Ennerby, then, must be either a bachelor or a widower. An unmarried parson was no doubt the object of much solicitude, particularly from the unattached women of the parish, a perfect focus for the attentions of romantic and maternal alike.

  “Do sit down, Inspector,” Ennerby said, removing his cassock and flinging it over the back of a chair.

  The two men seated themselves on opposite sides of the formica table.

  “Now,’ said the vicar. “How can I help?”

  Thanet looked at him carefully before broaching the subject, for vicars after all are only human and although confidentiality is supposed to be their strong point he would like to be sure of this one’s discretion before continuing.

  He liked what he saw. Ennerby was not good-looking in the conventional sense but there was strength in the lines of face and jaw and his steady grey eyes evoked a sense of confidence. Here, one felt, was a man who would listen and understand without judging, one who looked as though he himself had suffered. He was, Thanet guessed, in his early fifties.

  “As I said, it’s rather a delicate matter. That is why I wanted to approach someone who would respect a confidence.”

  “Don’t worry, Inspector, I can keep my mouth shut, I assure you.” The man’s grin showed that he had appreciated the hint.

  “As you can imagine, in an investigation of this kind one turns up all sorts of rumours and naturally one has to look into them. The one I am concerned with at the moment concerns Miss Pitman and Mr Ingram.”