The Nursery Rhyme Murders

by Anthony Litton

  ‘Emily!’ remonstrated Eleanor, laughing at a slightly risqué remark of the elderly spinster. ‘Not in front of the children!’ she added, gesturing to her son, who was convulsed with laughter.

  ‘It’s a while since he could be called that!’ the feisty little woman shot back. ‘It’s nice to see you back in the village, though, Desmond, the pair of you,’ she added. ‘Make sure you stay this time!’

  ‘We will,’ he assured her, ‘we’re happy here.’

  ‘Good. Though I suspect Gwilym isn’t as happy as he could be if he wasn’t so thick,’ she added very quietly, trenchantly, and also very acutely, thought Desmond, thankful when the conversation became general again. She had been one of the first in the village to realise not only the road the boys would travel in life, but that they would, in all probability, travel it together. She’d also observed Gwilym’s inability, whilst very happy with his life with Desmond, to publicly acknowledge that happiness and that life.

  ‘So tell me what shows are you working on at the moment’ she asked, in a louder voice, tactfully changing the subject.

  He told them of one or two that he knew would interest them, aware that, as often with his and Gwilym’s shows, a coach-load or two full with villagers and other local friends would travel down to London to see one or more of them. Most remained blithely unaware that he and his partner heavily and quietly subsidised their expensive tickets, on the vague grounds that they were either part of a bloc booking, or that the show they were attending was an early preview one. Both men knew that otherwise few, if any of them, could afford to come.

  Later, when he reluctantly stood up to go and do some work, he paused and looked at them for a moment and realised how glad he really was to be back home. All the half dozen or so elderly women had in some way played a part in his growing up. More importantly, looking round, he realised how they were all essentially good people, in a way most of his slick, sophisticated city friends could never understand, let alone come anywhere near to achieving.

  It was a picture that he would never forget. It would probably have stayed in his mind anyway, so pleasant had been the afternoon, but in view of what was to happen very shortly, it became embedded and totally unforgettable, as did an unquenchable fury and an aching sadness.

  Chapter 14

  Desmond and Gwilym accepting the inevitable, after her usual pressure, had given in and were walking Huffny. Both had decided sooner was better than later as that way they were sure that they would be safe from the threatened rain.

  They were wrong. The result was that they were utterly soaked as they trudged home through the cloudburst, along one of the little lanes that led back into the village.

  Their discomfiture increased when a passing car, travelling too fast, sent sprays of cold water over them, wetting any bits that had managed to stay relatively dry. Their united curses were cut short as it suddenly came to a halt only yards ahead of them.

  ‘Desmond! Yoo hoo! Gwilym! Hello boys!’ shouted a patrician voice, it’s owner leaning out of the rear window, of what they could now see was a vintage Rolls Royce.

  ‘Good Lord! It’s Aunt Mollie!’ gasped Desmond, his good humour on the way to being restored as he recognised his favourite honorary aunt.

  ‘Get in darlings before you get soaked,’ she said hospitably, holding open the door as they reached the car.

  ‘We’re soaked already and the dog is a muddy mess!’ protested Gwilym, eyeing the vintage but immaculate interior of the old car.

  ‘A bit of rain won’t harm the seats and Evelyn can hold the dog on her lap,’ replied the dowager without missing a beat.

  ‘I would indeed, Madam, if that is your wish,’ calmly responded the elderly lady sitting next to her, ‘if you could be persuaded to share the car rug you’ve been monopolising since we left home.’

  Desmond and Gwilym smiled, amused as always at the verbal exchanges between the elderly gentlewoman and her companion of thirty or more years.

  ‘What are you doing over this way?’ Desmond asked as, having exchanged greetings with Bernard, his aunt’s chauffeur, who, they swore, but couldn’t prove, was even older than she was, the two men settled thankfully into the dry warmth of the large car.

  ‘Oh just felt like a drive, that’s all,’ she responded vaguely, her round, wrinkled face smiling.

  ‘A drive? You’ve not driven all the way over from Bath!’ he exclaimed in surprise.

  ‘Why not? Gives that lazy old sod something to do,’ she replied, raising her voice to be sure the gentleman concerned heard it. ‘Anyway, it’s not that far,’ she said. ‘No trouble really, is it, Bernard?’ she asked.

  ‘No, Madam, the drive itself isn’t,’ he agreed, deadpan, bringing a snort of delighted laughter from his employer.

  Gwilym and Desmond said nothing as they listened to the verbal by-play of the elderly trio.

  Mollie had been a firm favourite of both from the moment as boys, she’d caught them smoking in the churchyard and, demanded a cigarette, banned by her doctors, even then, as the price of her silence. Neither knew how old she was, but they both doubted she’d see eighty again. Whatever her true age, her two servants were certainly no younger than she was, so how they managed between them nobody knew. Desmond certainly, sensing the slightly erratic movement of the old car, was heartily glad that they had only a mile or so to go.

  ‘Does Mum know you’re coming?’ he asked.

  ‘No. I’ve tried phoning her on this thing,’ she said, rummaging in her capacious hand-bag, a rare scowl on her plump, usually good-natured features. “This thing” turned out to be a mobile phone, clearly expensive and of a design startlingly more modern than items they usually associated with her household.

  Desmond reached over and took it from her. ‘Ah! there’s no signal, that’s why,’ he replied, having surreptitiously checked that the battery itself was actually charged.

  ‘Blast it! I can’t see how a thing’s progress if you can’t use it like you do the proper telephone,’ Mollie muttered, dumping it back in her bag. Correctly taking the phrase to refer to a landline, both Desmond and his partner wisely refrained from comment.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Mum will be delighted to see you. Will you stay over?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, no; it’s just a flying visit. It’s such a lovely day, or it was,’ she said glancing out of the window at the rain which still poured down, ‘and I just had a hankering to see the village, again,’ she replied. ‘We’ll just cadge lunch off your mother, if she’s around. If not, we’ll eat at the pub; that’s if you’ve not run it into the ground yet,’ she added, with a mischievous look at Gwilym.’

  Mollie had been born Mollie Besson, the eldest and prettiest of the three daughters of Geoffrey Besson a retired military man. The family had lived in ‘Cedar Lodge,’ a large house on the edge of the village when he, already in his forties, had bought it. The purchase had occurred after, and was made possible by, his sudden marriage to a cousin of Eleanor’s, the twenty-something daughter of a rich tea-planter he’d met when he was stationed in Malaya. The lady was rich enough to enable him to retire early from a career which, he had reluctantly realised, was going nowhere at all.

  Mollie had always loved the village and visited frequently. Gwilym and Desmond knew that had her own children and grandchildren not been largely settled in the West country, she would have happily moved back when her husband died some years previously. A retired diplomat who’s successful career had ended in both a key ambassadorship and a knighthood, he’d left his widow a comfortable fortune and an honorific she rarely used.

  ‘Oh look!’ she said, breaking into their thoughts, as they drove past the church, ‘Goodness, that boy is even larger than when I saw him last!’ she exclaimed, peering out of the window as they passed Dolly who, despite the rain, still falling heavily, was walking slowly to keep in step with the slow, shambling steps of Timothy. ‘Poor Mary, she deserves better,’ she murmured sadly. ‘Oh, I forgot she always insisted on bei
ng called Dolly!’ she replied, seeing the blank look on their faces. ‘Hey! Watch out!’ she yelled, as a car, being driven dangerously fast, over-took the Rolls and raced ahead!’ ‘Silly bugger!’ she shouted, opening the window and giving them the finger.

  ‘That was Marcia,’ said Desmond, equally annoyed. ‘She’s been asked, warned even, about her driving, but she always drives like that.’

  ‘She’s in a mood probably,’ Gwilym smiled.

  ‘Anything that puts that dreadful woman in a mood must be good for us humans,’ remarked the elderly lady unusually trenchantly. ‘Anyway, she’s always been in a mood over something or other. What’s it this time, do you know?’

  Gwilym shook his head; ‘Rumour only, well gossip really, and I know you hate that, so I’d best say nothing,’ he murmured, earning him appreciative cackles from the lady’s loyal staff and a smack across the head from the lady herself.

  ‘Alright! Alright!’ Gwilym laughed, dodging a second clout. ‘It’s only that the rumour is going about that she’s one of those without an alibi for the time of Doc Rutherford’s murder, so she and the others are to be interviewed again! Thinks it’s below her dignity, apparently’

  ‘Good! Though I’d not realised she was in the village at the time,’ said Mollie.

  ‘Only just. She’d got back late the night before, apparently. And the day of the murder was one of the mornings she went riding,’ replied Gwilym.

  ‘Riding?’ repeated his elderly listener. A curious look stole across her features and she burst out laughing.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ asked Gwilym, puzzled.

  ‘It’s only gossip darling and I know you hate it, so I’d best say nothing!’ she retorted.

  ‘Quite right. I’d expect nothing less,’ responded Gwilym, nodding.

  ‘Touché, damn you!’ she laughed. ‘You know I’m dying to tell you!’

  ‘And I’m dying to hear it, so get on with it!’ laughed Desmond, for whom gossip ranked high amongst life’s pleasures.

  ‘Seb Bartholomew,’ responded the old lady succinctly

  ‘Seb who?’ The two men said in unison, equally blank looks on their faces.

  ‘Seb Bartholomew; a lumberjack would you believe. Or something to do with trees, anyway,’ she added vaguely. ‘Most days Marcia’s out riding she’ll meet up with him and they’ll have it off somewhere – more than once per meeting, actually, I’m reliably informed,’ she added deadpan, very gratified at the effect her disclosure had had on her two younger friends.

  ‘Bloody hell! No wonder she’s in a foul mood. She’s not likely to want that to come out,’ chortled Desmond, entranced, and wondering if he could trust himself not to disclose it.

  ‘How come you know about it, anyway?’ he asked suddenly.

  ‘Oh a number of people do, it’s a sort of open secret,’ she replied airily

  ‘Does Ian?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but he’d not care anyway,’

  ‘Does Mum know?’ Desmond asked, deflected from thoughts of his cousin, as something occurred to him.

  ‘I should think so. There’s not a lot goes on, on or around the estate, that she isn’t aware of,’ Mollie replied. ‘Oh here we are, she said as the car pulled up outside “the Plovers”. ‘You can ask her yourself!’ she added.

  *

  ‘It could be worse, much worse, I suppose,’ Bulmer remarked as he looked down at the preliminary list his team had prepared.

  Calderwood nodded. ‘Yes, we’re lucky that it was originally only twenty odd. Mind you,’ he grinned, pointing at a name on the list. ‘I don’t envy you talking to that one again!’

  Bulmer grimaced, knowing full well his boss was pointing at the name “Dennis Hickwell”.

  ‘We couldn’t frame him could we, get him out of the bloody way?’ he asked hopefully. ‘No, perhaps not – not like the good old days,’ he added with a grin. ‘I’ll take Cerian with me. It’ll do her good, and she’s well up to not taking any crap from the old fool,’ he added. ‘With luck we can have the whole list done in a day or so.’

  Calderwood nodded. Colin was right, he thought, with an interview list several hundred strong that they should end up with only some twenty six people without an alibi for the hour in question was extremely fortunate. As they’d looked in more detail, they had seen they were even luckier. Of the twenty six names, seven were in their seventies and a further five were disabled to some extent. None, they knew, would have either the necessary physical strength or the agility to clamber up the old castle wall, both of which would certainly have been needed by whoever killed the old man.

  ‘Pity I can’t come with you when you speak to her High and Mightiness, though’ Bulmer said regretfully. ‘I’d really, really love to see her face when you ask her about that rumour Cerian’s picked up!’

  ‘I’ll give you a blow-by-blow account, I promise,’ Calderwood smiled. ‘Have you arranged who’s doing who?’ he queried, as he looked up from the list. Cerian had broken down the final fourteen remaining names, all of whom either had no back-up for their alibi or those whose details they wanted to recheck:

  Marcia Blaine

  Douglas Betterton

  Hermione Betterton

  Dolly Blake

  Timothy Blake

  Abel Bulstead

  Lily Bulstead

  Dennis Hickwell

  Bethan Linklater

  Andrew Linklater

  Robert Parry

  Moira Parry

  Dotty Smith

  Joe Smith

  Bulmer nodded. ‘Yes, and also a rough time-table. With the fête being on, there’s no point in trying to reach people tomorrow, so we’ll start the next day and should be done by the evening,’ he added.

  But… he was wrong. They weren’t finished by then, primarily because they didn’t start. Something happened, which besides, making their timetable, and list, irrelevant, rocked and sickened the whole village to a depth that few living could ever remember.

  Chapter 15

  ‘Bloody hell! What has she got on,’ murmured Desmond to Gwilym as they and Eleanor went down the shallow steps of the Dower House to greet their guests, on the morning of the fête.

  Gwilym didn’t reply, not because he didn’t share his partner’s shock, but more because he knew that if he did open his mouth he wouldn’t be able to hold back his laughter. Tessa had dressed with her visit to the country obviously very much in mind. Her body, kept, despite her age and generous size, in a shape that would shame many half her age, by a ferocious regime of exercise and dieting, was swathed in a summery dress with the largest of flowery prints plastered all over it. Brilliant reds of outlandish poppies clashed with the harsh, vibrant yellows of gigantic sunflowers. The vivid, almost psychedelic, greens of their imaginary foliage did nothing at all to lessen the impact of a sartorial disaster zone. With its floating lines swirling about her, it looked, to Gwilym’s unimpressed but appreciative gaze, like a demented mobile garden. For some reason, she’d covered her head of vibrant red hair – ‘still its natural colour, darling!’ she lied on a regular basis – with what, to Desmond’s stunned eyes, seemed like a melted turban, of the same frenetic pattern as the dress.

  Mind you, give her her due, he thought, watching as, despite her considerable girth and being well into middle-age, the lady in question managed to extricate herself from the low-slung body of the pillar-box-red sports car, with at least some of her dignity still intact.

  ‘Darlings! How lovely to see you! It’s been an age, an absolute age,’ she cried, as she swept across to them, her dangerously high-heels sinking into the gravel of the house’s short driveway. Her voice, as always projected as if she were on-stage, easily carried across the entire village green.

  Eleanor’s breeding ensured that her own shock at both Tessa’s choice of car and outfit, was, other than the slightest of lifts of her left eyebrow as she exchanged a brief glance with her son, in no way present on her features, as she waited to be introduced.


  Desmond, disentangling himself from the star’s perfume-drenched embrace, started to introduce her, but was forestalled.

  ‘And this must be Eleanor! I’ve heard so much about you from the boys and am just dying to see your little shop!’ Tessa gushed, as she started forward to embrace her, before some primeval survival mechanism kicked in and she took the hand Eleanor outstretched to her instead.

  The “boys” were saved from having to look Eleanor in the eye, by their need to greet Edwina, who was standing quietly behind the force of nature that fate had made her partner. Both men were very fond of the quiet, solid woman who was a very senior and highly regarded civil servant in her own right. Despite Edwina’s shock at the antics and mind-set of both the theatrical world and, at times, of Tessa herself, she cared enough about her to stay by her side and provide the anchor the volatile star very much needed. In her neat white dress and sensible, low-heeled shoes, with her greying hair in a neat helmet framing her face, she was the complete opposite to the exotic singer. Her quiet, almost unassuming personality had led many to predict she would be trampled under the steamroller of Tessa’s personality, and be little more than human jelly within three months. They’d been proved wrong and the couple were now entering the fourth year of their lively, but immensely happy, relationship.

  Despite Desmond and Gwilym’s worries, Tessa and his mother struck up an immediate rapport, so both they, and Edwina, were able to relax and enjoy the light luncheon Eleanor had prepared in ‘The Plovers’. Afterwards, leaving the two guests to briefly relax back at the Dower House, she, along with the two men, went to man their various posts for the last chaotic few minutes, before the fête opened.

  Apart from the time taken out to welcome Tessa and Edwina, all three had spent most of the morning in helping set out the stalls, hang the bunting, rope off the various small enclosures and, as ever, doubting that they’d be ready in time, as the long-planned event took shape.