Six Feet Under

by Dorothy Simpson

  Surely, though, this would have been rather a thin motive for murder? But people had been killed for far less, he reminded himself. In any case, if the thief had killed her, or even if he had simply seen the murderer, he would surely have gone away empty-handed, if he had any common sense at all. He would not have risked drawing attention to himself.

  At this point Thanet had a strong feeling that there was something he should be remembering. Not that elusive fact or insight which had been floating around last night, no, but something which had been triggered off by this most recent train of thought. What was it? He shook his head, scowled. He was losing his grip.

  And where was the vicar?

  Lurid thoughts flashed through his mind, born of detective novels in which those with interesting information to impart invariably met a sticky end before they could disclose it. He pushed the door wider, stepped into the hall.

  “Mr Ennerby?” he called.

  No reply.

  He went to the foot of the stairs, called again.

  A door banged at the back of the house, making him start.

  “Is that you, Inspector?” The vicar appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Sorry, have you been here long? I just popped out to the greenhouse while I was waiting.” He extended grubby hands. “I’ll just wash these. Come on in, won’t you?”

  The kitchen was just as hospitable by day as by night. Sunshine streamed in through the window and a kettle was hissing on the Raeburn.

  “Cup of coffee, Inspector? Do sit down.”

  Thanet shook his head and took one of the chairs at the formica table. The room was neat and tidy, breakfast dishes cleared away, work surfaces uncluttered. The Reverend Paul Ennerby obviously coped very well without a wife.

  “I hope you didn’t mind my asking you to call,” the vicar began, seating himself opposite Thanet.

  “Not at all.”

  “It’s just that … oh, dear, I really do find it extraordinarily difficult to.…” He was gazing fixedly at his hands, which were clasped on the table in front of him, and now he glanced up at Thanet. The grey eyes were—what were they? thought Thanet. Embarrassed? Shamefaced? Pleading? He began to wonder what was coming.

  “You might think,” said the vicar, having apparently decided on an approach to the subject, “that I am a bachelor, or a widower, perhaps.” And he glanced around the kitchen, as if to underline the absence of a wife in this most feminine of provinces.

  “Well I had …” began Thanet.

  “Well you’d be wrong. I am married, but my wife isn’t here. She’s … she’s in a mental hpspital. I won’t go into the details, but she’s been there now for ten years or more, and they say there’s no hope of a recovery.”

  Ennerby paused, but he wasn’t asking for sympathy. He was simply sketching in the background of what he had to say. Thanet simply sat and waited. It was evident that the difficult part was coming next. The vicar’s knuckles were now white with tension, and he moistened his lips before managing to summon up the resolution to continue.

  “Forgive me, Inspector,” he said, with a nervous little laugh, “but as you will see.… The fact of the matter is,” he went on, his voice suddenly much stronger, “that after you came to me the night before last with that absurd rumour about Miss Pitman and Mr Ingram, I … Well, I know that in a murder investigation all sorts of things turn up, are uncovered, so to speak, that have no relevance to it. And I am well aware that those who have something to hide can quite easily fall under suspicion even though what they are hiding might have no connection whatever with the case.… In short, for Miss Pitman’s sake, I felt I had to explain to you that if you feel she is holding anything back she is, in fact, trying to protect … me.” His voice tailed away and he bowed his head.

  Thanet still wasn’t sure what the vicar was trying to tell him, but the man’s embarrassment seemed to point to only one explanation. He remembered the note of relief in old Mr Pitman’s laughter at the suggestion of a liaison between Marion and Ingram. “You mean,” he said slowly, hoping that he hadn’t got it wrong, “that you and Miss Pitman …”

  “Yes,” said Mr Ennerby. And then, quickly, “Oh, not in the conventional sense, Inspector. I mean, we haven’t … it hasn’t been an affair, so to speak. But we are in love, yes, although we know that the situation is hopeless. My wife … although her mind has gone, she is physically healthy and is expected to live for very many years.”

  What a miserable, miserable situation, Thanet thought. No doubt, for a vicar, divorce and remarriage would be out of the question. He would probably have to leave the church. All very well if his religion was hollow, but if it was not.… He looked at the Reverend Paul Ennerby’s fine, strong face and knew that his was not.

  “The point is, you see, that no one knows about this. Even though we have nothing to hide in the conventional sense, if it came out there would be a great deal of talk and inevitably Miss Pitman would suffer. She has a difficult enough life as it is, though she never complains. And I know that out of a sense of loyalty to me, she would say nothing to you about our … relationship. Vicars, as you no doubt realise, are especially vulnerable to gossip. I felt I must explain all this to you myself so that you wouldn’t misinterpret any evasiveness on Miss Pitman’s part. I hope you don’t feel that I am insulting you when I add that all this really is in the strictest confidence.”

  “It won’t leak out in the parish through me, I can assure you,” Thanet said. “Unless, of course, it has some bearing on the case.”

  “It hasn’t,” said the vicar eagerly. “The very fact of my having been frank with you shows how confident I am that it hasn’t.”

  Thanet hoped that he was right. “Did Miss Birch have any inkling of this?”

  “No, certainly not. I told you, I’m one-hundred-per-cent certain that nobody has. Except Miss Pitman’s father, of course, and he is absolutely to be trusted. If they had, there would have been whispers, glances, innuendoes—you know the sort of thing—and I would have been bound to be aware of it. I just felt that it would be better to get in first with the truth than have you suspicious of Miss Pitman for the wrong reasons.”

  “I can see that,” Thanet said, rising and holding out his hand, “and I appreciate your confidence.”

  “There was one other thing,” Ennerby said quickly.

  Thanet sat down again.

  “I should have remembered before, I suppose, but it wasn’t until last night that it came back to me. My study is at the front of the house and when I have phone calls at night I tend not to bother to switch the light on. I know the study like the back of my hand and in any case I usually leave the study door open so that the light from the hall shines in. I never draw the curtains. It wasn’t until last night, when I answered the phone about nine thirty, that I remembered having had a phone call towards the end of the PCC meeting on Monday night. I think it was because the circumstances were exactly reproduced—I was standing there, gazing absentmindedly out of the window into the darkness and it suddenly came back to me. Just before that call ended, the one on Monday night I mean, I saw Miss Birch coming along the pavement on the other side of the road.”

  Thanet’s stomach clenched with excitement. It was almost as though he had caught a glimpse of her himself.

  “Where was she, exactly?”

  “On the far side of the Pitmans’ bungalow, walking this way. I assumed she’d been to the Selbys’, but I may be quite wrong.”

  But he probably wasn’t, thought Thanet. The old vicarage was the last house in the village. Where else would Carrie have been coming from, at that time of night? Here was confirmation that Mrs Selby had lied. “You’re sure it was she?”

  “Absolutely. I know it’s some distance along the road, but when I saw her she was just coming into the light of that street lamp which is outside the Pitmans’ gate. I saw her pretty clearly, and besides, she was a very individual figure, you know.”

  “And you’re sure she was on the far side of the Pitma
ns’ house?”

  “Certain.”

  “She couldn’t simply have been letting herself out of the Pitmans’ drive?”

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  “And this was just before the end of the PCC meeting, you say?”

  “Yes, at about, let me see, say ten to ten?”

  “Did you see where she went?”

  “I’m sorry. I just caught this glimpse of her at the very moment when I was putting the phone down. And of course, I didn’t think anything of it at the time. The next second I’d turned away. I was anxious to get back to the meeting.”

  A pity, but it couldn’t be helped. Ennerby could be lying, of course, but Thanet didn’t think so.

  “Thank you for suggesting Mrs Gamble as a substitute for Miss Birch, by the way,” the vicar said as he preceded Thanet to the front door. “Miss Pitman spoke to her about it and she’s agreed. Miss Pitman’s over the moon about it.”

  Thanet made self-deprecatory noises but couldn’t help feeling distinctly smug.

  Lineham was sitting on the churchyard wall. When he saw Thanet emerge from the vicarage he jumped down and crossed the road to meet him.

  “Anything interesting?” he said.

  “Could be.” Thanet gave him a brief summary of the interview.

  “So Mrs Selby was lying,” said Lineham.

  “If we believe Mr Ennerby’s story, yes.”

  “Don’t you believe him?”

  “I don’t think he’s lying,” Thanet said, “but he could be mistaken. There’s only a few yards in it, and it was some distance away, and in the dark. I’ve been here at night, and that lamp outside the Pitmans’ isn’t all that bright.”

  They had walked rather aimlessly a few paces along the road while they were talking and were now at the entrance to Church Lane. As they waited to cross to the old vicarage a blue van with BARRET’S on it in bold white lettering turned into the lane and pulled up in front of old Miss Cox’s cottage.

  “Just a minute,” Thanet said, putting a hand on Lineham’s arm to restrain him from setting off across the road, and the two men watched as the driver jumped out of the van, went up to the door of number five and knocked.

  Barret’s, Thanet remembered, was the store for which Miss Cox made loose covers, a skill presumably learned years ago before she became a recluse. Aware that he was wasting time, but driven by sheer curiosity to see how she handled this sole contact with the outside world, Thanet began to stroll along the lane. With a puzzled glance Lineham fell into step beside him.

  “I forgot to tell you,” Thanet said, as they passed number two, where sounds of vigorous hammering could be heard. And he recounted Arnold’s information about the sneak thief. “After we’ve seen the Selbys, scrape together as many men as you can and put them all on to going through the village with a fine-toothed comb. We’ll see if we can find any of Arnold’s marked materials, flush this character out.”

  Miss Cox’s door had opened and she and the driver exchanged a few words. Then Miss Cox went back into the house, leaving the man standing on the doorstep. As Thanet and Lineham approached the cottage Miss Cox reappeared, slowly backing towards the front door in a half-stooped position. The van driver said something, bent to touch her on the shoulder and she stood aside for him. He leant forward, swung the large, plastic-wrapped bundle she had been dragging on to his shoulder and set off briskly down the path to the van. Thanet caught a glimpse of swathes of floral material through the plastic covering before the driver closed the double doors of the van. Miss Cox, he was aware, had seen himself and Lineham approaching.

  “Morning, Miss Cox,” he said, raising a hand in salute. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

  She croaked something, presumably a greeting, then began to hobble down towards the front gate. She was using her stick again today. The crutches, yesterday, had presumably steadied her for sweeping the path.

  Thanet and Lineham pressed themselves back against the picket fence as the van reversed down the lane. Then they turned to the old woman. There was something infinitely pathetic about that combination of masculine garb and vulnerability, Thanet thought.

  “Have you made any progress?” she said in that rusty voice of hers.

  “Oh yes, we’re coming on, aren’t we?” said Thanet, looking to Lineham for confirmation. “Definitely.”

  “Definitely,” echoed Lineham, nodding like a mechanical toy.

  “How much longer?” she asked. Her face was screwed up with anxiety.

  “Oh, it’ll be soon now, I hope,” Thanet said, with what he hoped was hearty reassurance. “Very soon.”

  She peered into his face and then, apparently satisfied, gave a tight little nod, turned and lurched awkwardly back towards the house.

  “Extraordinary, the unspoken pressure that woman puts on one, have you noticed?” Thanet remarked as they returned to the main road.

  Lineham nodded. “You really think it will be soon?”

  Thanet shrugged. “I repeat: I hope. But strangely, in a way, yes. I feel that the pattern’s begining to emerge, that any minute now I’ll see it. All last night I felt that it was there, waiting to be understood.…” He shook his head. “D’you know what I mean?”

  “Not really. It all seems a mess to me, a jumble of people and motives, little mysteries that don’t seem to have any relevance …”

  “Yes, but don’t you see?” said Thanet. “The fact of the matter is, that there is a pattern, there is an explanation, it’s simply a matter of uncovering it. And we’re getting closer all the time, if only we could see it. It’s like a view that’s just around the bend in the lane. You know it’s there, it’s just a question of waiting until you’ve turned the corner.”

  Lineham said nothing. It was obvious that he did not share Thanet’s optimism.

  16

  It was again necessary to knock several times before Irene Selby opened the door. When she saw who it was she stood back without speaking, then led the way once more to the conservatory.

  Now that he was aware of the nature of her sickness, Thanet wondered how he could have failed to recognise its symptoms, so obvious were they to the enlightened observer. His attitude towards her had, he found, changed considerably since his conversation with Susan yesterday afternoon. Mrs Selby was no longer a middle-class housewife with a drink problem but a frustrated concert pianist denied the natural expression of her gift by a repressive husband.

  Nevertheless this was a murder enquiry and Irene Selby had lied. The effort which Thanet had to make to suppress his newly-awakened feelings of compassion for her made him sound unusually brusque and he was aware that when he spoke Lineham glanced at him in some surprise.

  “Mrs Selby, when I came to see you yesterday I asked you if Miss Birch had called here after leaving Mr Pitman on Monday evening. You told me that she hadn’t, because your husband was expected back that evening and a visit was therefore unnecessary.”

  “That’s right, yes.”

  “I have since learned that he was not due back until Tuesday.”

  Silence for a moment, while Irene Selby stared down at her tightly clasped hands. Thanet could almost feel her willing herself not to look at the bottle, which she had hidden in the same place as yesterday; he could just see the tip of it projecting above its screen of leaves.

  Mrs Selby put up her hand to brush away that tic again. “Originally that was so. But he got through his business much more quickly than he expected, so he rang me early on Monday evening to say that he would be arriving home around ten o’clock that night, instead of next day. He asked me to let Carrie know that it wouldn’t be necessary for her to call in.”

  “So you went across to see her?”

  “No. I knew that there was a PCC meeting that evening and that she would be looking in on Mr Pitman during Miss Pitman’s absence, so I went out to the front gate at a few minutes before nine and caught her as she went in. She was always as regular as clockwork. It was easy enough to time it exactly.” />
  What a pity it wasn’t summer time, Thanet thought. Old Mr Pitman’s mirror would no doubt have reflected this encounter, if it had taken place. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  She shrugged. “You didn’t ask. And it didn’t seem important.”

  “What time did your husband ring?”

  “I’m not sure. Between six and seven, I think.”

  And if this story had not already been agreed between them, there was no doubt that Irene Selby would be ringing her husband the moment Thanet and Lineham left, to make sure that Major Selby knew of this phone call he was supposed to have made.

  Had made?

  Could Susan’s assumption that Carrie had called to see Mrs Selby that evening be wrong? Could the vicar have been mistaken? Or lying?

  No, Thanet thought, as he and Lineham returned to the car and set off for Major Selby’s place of work, he was convinced that it was Irene Selby who had been lying. He said so, to Lineham. “What do you think, Mike?”

  Lineham didn’t hesitate. “I agree, sir.”

  “So, why?”

  Lineham considered. “Protecting her husband, I should think. He could have got back earlier than he says he did. Like you said, when Susan heard him he could have been coming back into the house for the second time. Say he got home first between nine thirty and nine fifty, when Carrie was still there—and found his wife dead drunk. He could have lost his temper with Carrie, lashed out at her … he looks just the type to have a nasty temper, don’t you think?”

  “He does, I agree.”

  “Or,” said Lineham eagerly, getting into his stride, “Mrs Selby herself could have killed her. Say Carrie tried to take her last bottle of drink away and Mrs Selby tried to get it back, struggled with her. They could have toppled over and Carrie could have hit her head as they fell.”