Guilty Parties

by Martin Edwards

  Eric picked up the letter and began reading the unfamiliar handwriting, yet hearing his dear Cecily’s voice in the way it was expressed.

  ‘The words of a guilty woman on her deathbed,’ Geoff continued, watching as Eric read. ‘Dates, times, sordid little hotels, it’s all there. Addressed to me, in order to clear her wretched guilty conscience. And before you try to deny it, Eric, let me remind you, Cecily thought she was going to die. Why the hell would anyone make this kind of thing up, eh? And in such detail, too?’

  Eric rubbed the corner of one eye, took a deep breath and passed the letter back. ‘Guilty,’ he whispered.

  Geoff waited a moment, then suddenly switched to a full-beamed smile. ‘Indeed, Mr Trimble! Guilty as charged of having a long-standing affair with my wife! And I sentence you to … go get the next round in at the bar! Off you go, Trimble. Methinks there are lifelong reparations to be made up!’

  Eric took a breath. ‘If it’s all the same to you …’

  ‘You’d rather be going, wouldn’t you?’ Geoff sneered. ‘Rather be toddling off in your cheap little car to mourn your “dearest Cecily”?’

  ‘I’m going to leave, yes.’

  ‘Except, if you do,’ Geoff explained, folding his arms, ‘then you’ll never discover those precious final few words that dropped from her disloyal lips, will you?’ He waited a moment, then said with sarcasm, ‘I assume they were meant for you.’

  ‘What were they?’

  Geoff gestured to his empty glass.

  ‘What were the damn words?’ Eric begged.

  Again, Geoff simply gestured to the glass. ‘And I’ll also tell you how she died, too. Quite pleasantly, really. They’d probably have hanged her in the Middle Ages.’

  ‘Well, we’re not in the Middle Ages, now, Geoff.’

  The large man laughed. ‘Indeed not! Definitely not middle-aged, either of us. Old, sagging. Look at us both. But here’s the difference, Eric. I’m happy. Led a happy life. Pulled strings, enjoyed the party. Still do.’ He grinned, pointed at Eric. ‘Have you enjoyed your time on the planet? Made the most of everything, did you? Or did you simply live for those times you could spend with my wife?’

  ‘You hated her.’

  ‘True. But you were just as disloyal as she was. Now get some drinks, for Christ’s sake. A man’s dying of thirst here.’

  Eric did as asked, his mind almost in the same state of utter turmoil as when he’d finally plucked up the courage to tell Cecily of his love for her, and – joy of joys – she’d returned it. He paid for the drinks, hands shaking, and returned to the table.

  ‘Tell me what she said and I’ll leave.’

  Geoff took a moment, looking around the bar, then drained his drink in one go, wincing slightly. He eventually whispered, ‘You’ve got to understand it was difficult to hear precisely, as I was smothering her with a pillow at the time.’

  Eric stuttered, ‘You were … what?’

  ‘I believe the correct medical term is “assisting”. Bit frowned upon these days, apparently. Controversial, you know, Daily Mail outrage sort of stuff.’

  ‘You killed her?’

  ‘Not according to the coroner,’ Geoff replied. ‘Had to pull a few strings, mind. Leaves me conveniently old, free and single like you, eh Eric? Except, of course, I’m the lucky one. The luckiest guilty party of the lot.’

  Most murder pre-trial hearings warrant precious few lines of press coverage. Reporters tend to wait for the actual trial before devoting valuable column inches to whatever events led to the calamitous act. But the pre-trial hearing for Eric Trimble, 72, a widower from Dorking, Surrey, accused of strangling one of his oldest friends to death in the lounge-bar of a seafront hotel using the victim’s own silk tie – was quite different.

  Police and sources acting for the defendant had leaked enough details to the press prior to the hearing regarding the full confession, the bizarre Guilty Party reunions and the various entanglements of these two unassuming pensioners, that the gallery was full.

  True to expectations, their hopes weren’t diminished, as the neatly dressed defendant stood in the dock, listening as the charge against him was read out. For a moment he said nothing, then slowly he turned to all in the gallery and bowed slightly, before turning back to the presiding judge and announcing, in a clear voice that all could hear, and would always remember:

  ‘Never, in all my years, your honour, have I had as much pleasure in saying this one, most despicable word that has dogged me for almost an entire lifetime. Guilty.’

  WHAT’S THE TIME, MR WOLF?

  Christine Poulson

  Christine Poulson has a PhD in History of Art, and has written widely on nineteenth-century art and literature. She worked as a curator of ceramics at Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery, has taught for the Open University and was a lecturer in Art History at Cambridge. Her latest novel is Invisible.

  ‘Soon be over,’ Frank said.

  ‘Thank God.’ Sheila exchanged a wry glance with her husband.

  Before the party he hadn’t seen the need to hire an entertainer. ‘How hard can it be to keep a few kids occupied for a couple of hours,’ he’d said. Sheila knew better. It had to be planned like a military campaign, every minute accounted for.

  The woman had those kids in the palm of her hand. She was a passable ventriloquist and the fluffy white toy rabbit under her arm was singing, ‘Happy Birthday to you, Squashed tomatoes and stew.’

  Shrieks of mirth went up from the four-year-olds sitting cross-legged on the floor.

  ‘Whatever we’re paying her it’s not enough,’ Frank conceded.

  Sheila taught Year 6 at primary school, a job-share since she’d had Harry, but controlling a bunch of four-year-olds was a very different matter. And perhaps because she was an older parent – she and Frank had been over forty when Harry was born – she did find it a strain being responsible for so many little ones. Once again she counted heads. Yes, all present and correct. She could relax. Everything was under control. The birthday tea was over. Frank’s mum was in the kitchen, putting slices of birthday cake in the party bags. No one had been sick, no one had hurt themselves, hardly anyone had cried. And looking at Harry, who was actually holding his sides laughing, she knew it had all been worthwhile. But thank God she wouldn’t have to organise another children’s party for a whole year.

  After the entertainer there was time for two more games, pass the parcel with Frank carefully manipulating the breaks in the music so that everyone would get a little gift, and then ‘What’s the Time, Mr Wolf?’ That was Harry’s favourite. He adored being the wolf and shouting ‘Dinner-time’. There was lots of shrieking and everyone got thoroughly over-excited, but it didn’t matter, because by then the parents were beginning to arrive. One by one, prompted by mums and dads, the children said, ‘Thank you for having me,’ and off they went. The party dwindled until there was only Harry left and one other child.

  ‘Where’s Evan’s mummy?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Oh, she’ll be here in a minute,’ Sheila said.

  It was odd all the same. It was half an hour past pick-up time and it was parental etiquette to be prompt on these occasions. She settled the children down in front of a DVD of Shaun the Sheep. Evan wasn’t making a fuss. He was a serious little boy, rather pale, with shadows under his eyes as if he didn’t get enough sleep.

  ‘Shall I ring her mobile?’ Frank asked.

  She nodded. Thank goodness he had thought to take contact numbers.

  She watched him tap in Jennifer’s mobile number. He listened and shook his head. No one was answering.

  ‘Do you know where she lives?’ he said.

  ‘Somewhere out towards Ely?’ she hazarded. Jennifer and her husband had only recently moved into the area and she didn’t know her that well. ‘She’s probably got muddled up about the time, that’s all. There’s sure to be a simple explanation.’

  ‘Of course. Wires crossed somewhere. Bound to be.’

  But half an
hour later Jennifer still hadn’t arrived and she still wasn’t answering her mobile. She hadn’t left a landline number. Sheila rang round the other mothers and managed to find out where she lived.

  ‘We’d better drive over,’ Frank decided.

  ‘Shall we take Evan?’ Sheila asked.

  ‘Better leave him here with Mum. Jennifer or her husband might arrive while we’re gone. If they do, Mum can ring us.’

  They looked up Jennifer’s address on Googlemaps. Sheila printed out the map on the other side of the sheet of paper with the phone numbers.

  Frank got the car out and they set off.

  They drove in silence on long straight roads that cut across ploughed fields, ready for their winter crops. Pigeons pecked the dark, chocolately earth.

  Sheila pieced together what she knew about Jennifer. Not much; they’d only exchanged the odd ‘hello’ at the nursery gate. Jennifer was always dauntingly well turned out, always carefully made-up in contrast to Sheila’s old jeans and barely brushed hair. And though Sheila knew she shouldn’t judge, she felt a bit sorry for Evan who seemed to be at the nursery all day every day.

  ‘Maybe Jennifer thought her husband was collecting Evan,’ Sheila said.

  ‘And he thought she was. Very likely,’ Frank agreed.

  It wasn’t only dusk that was darkening the vast Fenland sky. Grey cumulus clouds were advancing, dragging curtains of rain.

  Sheila shivered and leaned forward to switch on the car heater. She looked at her watch. Six o’clock and the party had finished at four.

  ‘Or maybe she’s had an accident. She could be lying injured somewhere. Maybe we should ring the police.’

  ‘We’ll try the house first.’

  It was a nineteenth-century farmhouse, some way from the nearest village, and set back from the road behind a windbreak of trees. As Sheila got out of the car a gust of wind lifted her hair. Dry leaves rattled on the trees and it was suddenly colder. Even before they reached the door, big drops of rain began to fall and they ran to shelter in the porch. Sheila was looking round for a bell, when she noticed that the door was ajar. Frank saw it at the same time and they exchanged glances.

  Frank ran the bell and they waited in silence. When no one came, he pushed open the door and called out, ‘Hello?’

  There was still no answer.

  ‘Should we go in?’ Sheila asked.

  Frank nodded.

  Inside it was very quiet and darkness was gathering in the corners of the hall. When Sheila saw the bloodstains on the wall she gasped and grabbed Frank’s arm. He reached for the light and switched it on. The stain wasn’t red, but brown, and there was a sweet, pungent smell. It triggered off a memory, something elusive that slipped away before she could grasp it. It was something unpleasant that she’d rather not remember, she knew that.

  Frank said, ‘That’s cough medicine. Look, there are bits of glass, too, on the floor.’

  They moved on further into the house, glancing in at rooms as they passed. The place was immaculate, all chintz and pale, thick carpets. It was exactly the kind of place where Sheila would have expected Jennifer to live. But how did she manage to keep it like this with a four-year-old? At the end of the hall they found themselves in a kitchen that was all of a piece with the rest of the house: exposed beams and gleaming copper pans. Frank went across and pushed open a door that led into the conservatory. Sheila looked around. There wasn’t a thing out of place except … on the scrubbed oak table lay the body of little tabby cat. Sheila exclaimed and moved towards it, placed a hand on the furry flank. It was cold. A dent on the side of the head suggested a fractured skull.

  Sheila was startled when Jennifer appeared from the hall, pushing back wet hair with one hand. The rain drumming on the glass roof of the conservatory must have masked the sound of a car driving up.

  Jennifer looked amazed to see Sheila.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.

  ‘You didn’t come to collect Evan, so—’

  ‘Didn’t I say? Barry was coming for him.’ Realisation was dawning and with it, alarm. ‘You mean – he didn’t?’

  Sheila hastened to reassure her. ‘Evan’s fine. Frank’s mum—’

  ‘Sheila.’ Frank’s voice was hoarse.

  She turned to see him standing in the doorway of the conservatory. His face was white.

  ‘Better call the police. And an ambulance.’

  It’s a strange experience, reading about yourself in the news, actually more like reading about someone else, Sheila thought, as she scanned the headlines on the BBC website.

  ‘Yesterday the body of banker Barry Brunswick’ – no wonder they could afford that house – ‘was discovered by Sheila Cumming, 45’ – how on earth had they managed to get hold of her age? – ‘and her husband Frank after Mr Brunswick failed to collect his four-year-old son from a birthday party at their home.’ There was a photo of Jennifer, looking haggard under her make-up, carrying Evan who had his arms around her neck. The article reported that she had been out walking with a friend and had returned home to find her husband dead from a single stab wound to the heart.

  Sheila was supposed to be teaching today, but Frank had persuaded her to call in sick. She had scarcely slept the previous night. She couldn’t stop thinking of Cluedo: Colonel Mustard and a dagger in the conservatory. It was one of those awful inappropriate mental tics. She must be suffering from shock.

  The phone rang yet again, another journalist probably. Sheila waited for Frank to pick up the phone on the extension. He was screening their calls.

  A few moments later he put his head round the door. ‘Elaine.’

  Sheila picked up the phone. Elaine was one of her oldest and best friends. They’d been at school together. It was one of those friendships that survives against the odds. Sheila was quiet and reflective. Elaine, who had become a leading theatrical designer, was not. But that was what Sheila liked about her. There was no pussy-footing around. With Elaine what you saw was what you got.

  ‘Sweetie! I’ve just seen the news, you poor darling. How are you? Tell me all about it.’

  Sheila told her.

  ‘Now, you won’t believe this,’ Elaine said, ‘but I know Jennifer too. They used to live a few doors down.’

  ‘No, really?’

  ‘Well, that might be pitching it a bit high. They kept themselves to themselves. I didn’t like her at first, thought she was a stuck-up bitch, then I realised that she was just terribly shy.’

  Sheila couldn’t help smiling. She could just imagine. Conversations with Elaine tended to be overwhelming until you learned just to sit back and let it wash over you.

  Elaine went on: ‘She was such a mouse of a woman. You know, brown hair, brown clothes … But judging from this photo that I’m looking at on the screen, she must have bucked up her ideas a bit. I wonder …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He was so good-looking. You know, one of those men who’s almost too good-looking? I took against him after I saw him in a restaurant looking into another woman’s eyes. I’m sure he was having an affair. I wondered, when they moved to the country – maybe a new start and all that? Oh Lord, is that the time? I’ve got to be at the theatre. See you very soon, my sweet. Kiss kiss. Big hug.’

  And she was gone. Sheila always felt better for a phone call from Elaine: perhaps it was the sheer energy she exuded. But she was perceptive too. She might be right and Jennifer’s aloofness was really shyness, her reliance on make-up and smart clothes, a sign of insecurity.

  ‘Are you alright, love?’ She looked up to see Frank hovering over her anxiously.

  ‘I just can’t help thinking about that poor woman. And they’d just moved in, too, she hardly knows anybody.’

  The doorbell rang.

  ‘That’s them, now, the police,’ Frank said.

  The police inspector was overweight, his belly straining the buttons on his shirt and his tie was slightly crooked. For all that Sheila got a sense of a keen intelligence as
he took them through the events that had led up to the discovery of the body. Just when she thought he’d finished and was about to leave, he flipped back through the pages of his notebook.

  ‘If we could just go back to when Mrs Brunswick arrived to drop off her little boy. Three o’clock, you said? Pretty hard to be certain about the exact time when you were busy getting ready for a party. Could it have been somewhat after three? Or even before?’

  ‘Do you have children, inspector?’

  ‘A boy and a girl.’

  ‘Then you’ll know that a children’s party isn’t like a cocktail party. People don’t arrive fashionably late. They arrive on the dot. I looked at my watch at ten to three, wondering when the first one was going to arrive. And by five past they were all there, including Evan. I remember thinking we’d better get going on the first game. I’d got it all organised more or less down to the minute.’

  ‘So how did that go, exactly? Mrs Brunswick drove up …’

  ‘A whole load of them arrived at once, and she was one of them. The kids ran in together, and Frank’s mother took them off to join the others. The parents handed over birthday presents, we took their mobile numbers, including hers, and off they went.’

  ‘So she definitely dropped her son between ten to three and five minutes past?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘How did she seem? Did she say or do anything out of the ordinary?’

  Sheila tried to picture the scene. ‘I’m not sure that she said anything at all. I wasn’t really noticing.’ All the same something was tugging at her memory. She appealed to Frank. ‘Can you remember, love?’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s all a bit of a blur to be honest.’

  The inspector nodded and shut up his notebook.

  After he’d gone, Frank said, ‘I suppose he was eliminating her from their enquiries. The husband or wife’s always the first to be suspected.’

  ‘As if it wasn’t bad enough for her to have lost her husband!’

  Frank put his arm around her shoulders and squeezed. She leaned into him. Darling Frank. With the almost-telepathy of a happy marriage, she knew that he was thinking about her first husband and his death in a climbing accident.