At the window, Alistair turned round, looking interested.
“Saxby… you know, that rings a bell. Enormous fellow, curly hair, good-natured as the day is long?”
Adrien was surprised. “That sounds like William. From where do you know him?”
“I think I may have run across him during the War. If so, that will be to our benefit. Now, anyone in town you can think of that moved away?”
Adrien paused and thought about that.
“Nothing that would interest you. A couple of the younger men. Decided to break away from the fishing and move inland. One or two girls got married and moved away. Damaris took up nursing. And Gwenna Black ran away to London. But I don’t think she and Juliana knew each other. Gwenna’s parents farm out past Hendra.”
Alistair nodded, his eyes keen. He pondered his next words.
“There’s another thing we can do. You told me about the body that was found. It brought the whole conclusion to a neat ending. I’d like to take another look at her. It all seems very pat. How would you feel about an exhumation, so I can get someone in to take another look?”
“There was a PM done,” Adrien replied, scandalised. “What more can be done?”
“I know. But at that point, they were looking for proof that it was her. Perhaps we need to go at it a different way. Look for proof that it wasn’t her.”
Adrien’s eyes were wide with panic. “I don’t know how everyone will take that, Alistair. It seems extreme.”
Alistair was soothing. “Let me work it out. I’ll be as discreet as possible.”
With that, Adrien went to check on his wife, and Alistair took himself off and walked down the hill into the town. It had been a while since he had spent time in the countryside, in England at least. He set a slow pace and made the most of the soft wind and the bracing sea air. He ambled along the harbour side, noting the various shops and establishments. Even if Adrien hadn’t told him, he would have known that Sancreed had barely changed in a hundred years. It was the quintessential small English town, lived and worked in by the same families for centuries.
When he reached Vickery House, the door was opened with some effort by a harassed-looking parlourmaid who hurriedly conversed with someone inside and showed Alistair into a well-worn and comfortable room, papered in a dark Morris print that could only been seen with difficulty around a number of sturdy shelves, each groaning with stacked tomes. The room was dominated by the most enormous desk he had ever seen, and sitting behind it was William Saxby, possibly the only man Alistair knew who could have done so and not looked ridiculous.
“Reverend Saxby, I presume,” said Alistair, watching the other man’s face carefully as they shook hands. “Alistair Carr. I’m staying with the Creeds at Trevennen.”
“Mr Collins,” replied William, grinning back. He motioned Alistair to a chair. “Or Mr Carr, as you shall henceforth be called.”
“I rather wondered if you would recognise me,” said Alistair.
“I have a good memory for faces. That sad affair with the Dawson brothers, was it not?”
Alistair nodded. “Nasty business.”
“Indeed it was. One of the nastiest I encountered, and for someone who spent three years in the trenches, that really is saying something.”
He paused, and sighed.
“Those poor boys. I dread to think of how the family coped. Anyway, sad times they undoubtedly were for more than Paul and Stephen Dawson and their family. How can I help you today, Mr Carr?”
“Alistair, please. I feel that this business will be easier with a little less formality.”
“Then call me William,” said the vicar, raising his eyebrows at the other man’s words.
There was a knock at the door, and the maid appeared with a tray.
“Mrs Saxby sent me with this, sir,” she said, her manner clearly indicating that if she’d been left to her own devices, they could have died of thirst before she would have brought them so much as a glass of water. William rose and took the tray, sending her on her way with grave thanks.
“Edna is having a trying day,” he said. “And when Edna has a bad day, the best thing to do is ignore it and wait for tomorrow.”
He poured them both coffee and then sat back expectantly.
“What can I do for you, Alistair? Although I could hazard a strong guess, I bet.”
“I need your help, William. I need to have a body exhumed from your churchyard. The one that was buried in error, thinking it was Juliana Creed.”
William leaned over the desk. “That will be less of a problem than you might imagine. I take it you are worried about how my flock will take it?”
“It had crossed my mind that people might take offence.”
The vicar shook his head.
“I have already heard talk that she needs to be moved from the Creed plot, whoever the poor soul was. I don’t think there will be much talk over it. I’ll have a new grave dug immediately, and she can be put to rest as soon as you have finished with her. The only thing I ask is that you truly believe it is necessary.”
“I do. Since Adrien told me that Mrs Creed had been found, I have found myself wondering about that body. It all seems odd to me.”
He paused. “There is something else that you should know. It will be common knowledge soon enough, I think. Juliana says that she remembers being pushed off that cliff. She says that someone tried to kill her.”
William sat for a moment, his eyes wide with shock.
“Dear Lord,” he said finally. “Do you believe her?”
Alistair looked directly at him.
“I think that Juliana believes it. There is another thing, connected with the body, and I am hoping to verify it with the police after. If that is proved correct, her memory may well turn out to be true. At the least, it would indicate that someone interfered after the fact.”
William was disturbed.
“You really think that the body in my churchyard may be connected in some way?”
“There is a chance,” replied Alistair. “I would like to find out for sure.”
The other man pursed his lips. “Can you get someone down here to look at her discreetly?” he asked.
Alistair nodded. “Of course. If the local man is unwilling, I have someone in Bristol who will help. I don’t want to go over the heads of the local police, but I’m not sure how they are going to view this.”
“Joe Vercoe is our sergeant, but he won’t be making decisions about this. It’s likely to be the new man from Mawnaccan. Willett is his name.”
“Know anything about him?”
“Only hearsay. I have not met the man myself. But judging from what I have heard, you may have some trouble there.”
“I hope not. But if he won’t cooperate, I’ll need to go above his head. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
Chapter 13
After his visit to the vicarage, Alistair made his second call of the morning. The steps of the Sancreed Police Station had been freshly scrubbed when Alistair arrived, the pail of sudsy water still alongside, and he instinctively wiped the soles of his feet on the grass edging before stepping up.
“Good morning, Sergeant,” he said to the man inside. “My name is Alistair Carr. I’m staying at Trevennen.”
The policeman looked interested. “Joe Vercoe,” he replied. “So you’re staying up at the big house, then?”
“Mr Creed and I are old friends. He asked me down for a short holiday.”
Joe nodded, then looked at his guest expectantly. “Is there something I can help you with, Mr Carr?” he asked.
“May I sit down? I would like to talk with you for a moment, Sergeant Vercoe. It concerns Mrs Creed and what happened three years ago.”
Joe looked surprised at this. After a moment, he got to his feet and walked stiffly to the wall behind him, producing an ancient oak chair which he brought round to the desk and set smartly on the floor. The hard wood made a brisk cracking sound as it hit the slate fl
oor. Alistair thanked him and sat, aware of the mixture of suspicion and interest emanating from the policeman.
“Mrs Creed has recovered her memory,” he said. “Two nights ago.”
“I didn’t know that,” Joe said, surprised. “I did hear that she had taken a turn and was unwell, but I didn’t hear that she had remembered herself.”
He paused, then his brow creased. “Why have you come to me, to tell me this? More a matter for Dr Cundy if anyone, I would have thought,” he said.
Joe shifted in his chair. Alistair noted that his left leg appeared very stiff; the man appeared unable to bend it completely.
“She says that she did not fall from the cliff by accident. Mrs Creed says that she was pushed.”
Whatever Joe Vercoe had been anticipating, it had obviously not been this. Alistair watched as his ruddy face paled, his Adam’s apple bulging against the stiff starch of his collar. He looked anxiously across the desk, as if he was hoping for a smile and an admission of a joke. When it did not come, he sat back.
“Someone pushed Mrs Creed off the Roscarrock?” he repeated.
“That is what she says,” Alistair replied.
“But she can’t have fallen the whole way. She’d never have survived it,” said Joe.
Alistair briefly outlined the story that Juliana had told him about that night. Joe’s eyes grew bigger and bigger as he listened, but at the end he sat back with a hint of scorn on his face.
“Are you sure you can trust her story?” he said. “Not that I’m saying she is lying, mind. But if she was hit that hard, and ended up so ill, how can you be sure? Powerful strange things, knocks on the head.”
“I checked out part of her story myself,” Alistair said. “I spoke with the doctor who first treated her. Everything she said about her physical condition is true. She had a very serious head injury and concussion, and the extended length of time she was in wet clothing in the cold led to pleurisy. She was lucky she survived.”
“You’ve only been here less than a day…” Joe began, and then fell silent as he realised what that meant. If Alistair had gained access to records in that short amount of time, then there was influence and experience behind him. Joe cleared his throat.
“I am surprised that Mr Creed himself isn’t down here to tell me,” he said.
“I offered to come down and have a talk with you,” Alistair replied. “Adrien… Mr Creed is extremely worried about his wife. He did not want to leave her at the moment. She is still unwell.”
Joe went back to his previous job of collating papers. He punched the various bundles and threaded red string ties though the holes, knotting them neatly on the front covers.
“That I can believe,” he said slowly. “And I know for myself how much Mr Creed thinks of his lady.”
He looked over.
“Can you tell me, sir, what Mr Creed truly thinks of his wife’s story? I don’t want to seem disbelieving or nothing, but this is all very odd.”
“One of his reasons for not coming down himself was that he felt that you—the police in general—may not be inclined to take this as seriously as he does. He admits that he refused to believe in her death until he was forced to do so.”
Joe gave a rueful nod. “He was right upset about it, that’s for sure. Thought at one point he was going barmy.”
“He admits this himself. And he is wary that if you believe that Mrs Creed has made up her story, either wilfully or not, you may now think that he is also allowing his own imagination to run away with him.”
Joe said nothing, but thought this over.
“The thing is, Sergeant, that something else happened this week that strengthened his belief. It is to do with the clothing that was on the body when it was found.”
Joe flushed a little.
“I still don’t see what business it is of yours, Mr Carr?” He paused, conscious that the man opposite him was a gentleman, as well as having mysterious influence, and had also so far proved very amiable. “No offence meant, sir.”
Alistair gave him a frank look. “None taken, Sergeant. I do understand your concerns,” he said.
Joe was curious, though.
“And you believe yourself what Mr Creed said, about this new information?” he asked, a keen look in his eye.
“I have not formed an opinion either way yet. That is why I was keen to talk to you. Mr Creed told me that there was a tear in the garment worn by the corpse.”
Joe looked surprised. “It was in a terrible state!” he replied. “It had been in the sea for weeks!”
“Well, he says that there was a particular tear that he is of the opinion was made in the house, on a rough piece of wood in Mrs Creed’s bedroom. Something similar happened this week, when Mrs Creed was dressing, and he says the marks were identical. If that is so…”
Joe looked shocked, then his face cleared.
“He thinks the clothing may have been Mrs Creed’s all along? Now, Mr Carr, I don’t doubt that he thinks he saw something, but really, I don’t think…”
Alistair interrupted him. He was not going to jump to conclusions himself over any of this, but he believed it had to be looked into.
“It all seems most peculiar, I know, but I think it has to be investigated, Sergeant. Look, I know you think I am being a busybody, but I assure you that this is not the case. I have been involved with Scotland Yard before. I’m more of a general investigator now.”
He offered his card as he spoke, and Joe Vercoe took it in silence and read it carefully.
“I think it would be beneficial if you could spare the time to come up to the house and speak to Mrs Creed yourself, Sergeant Vercoe. It may be that nothing comes of this. That it’s a mare’s nest built on an accident and grief. But I think you need to get a statement from her. It would give Mr Creed some peace of mind.”
Joe got to his feet. “I reckon you’re right, sir. It would be best to get it all written down. Let me finish with this paperwork, and I’ll come up to the house straight away after. I will pass the report to Inspector Willett, and he can decide what to do next.”
With this, the two men parted on good terms. Alistair could see that the sergeant did not believe the story being told, but he was obviously conscientious in his work, as well as being alive to the local esteem in which the Trevennen household was held. He would take down a statement, pass it on, and then the decision would be out of his hands. At the very least, the statement would be on file, and that would be no bad thing.
Joe arrived at the house just ten minutes after Alistair himself walked in, and spent the best part of an hour in the study with Juliana, and Adrien, who refused to leave her. They were five minutes late for luncheon, and Alistair missed seeing the departure of the policeman, who could be heard crunching over the gravel on his bicycle as the soup was being served. Adrien gave his friend a shrug of his shoulders as he pulled out Juliana’s chair, then turned to apologise to the rest of the table.
The meal was simple, and comforting. The creamy vegetable soup was followed by shepherd’s pie, with baked apples for pudding. All simple to serve and eat. Even Juliana managed to eat a little of everything served to her, although afterwards she claimed a headache and went upstairs to lie down.
Alistair and Adrien were finishing their coffee in his study when Ada arrived with the news that there was a policeman here to see them. He followed Adrien into the hall, expecting that Sergeant Vercoe had come back with some more questions, although he had apparently been very thorough earlier.
Instead of Vercoe, a square, grey-haired man stood in front of the fireplace. He was examining the pieces of china there, a mixture of local stoneware and Chinese porcelain. Adrien introduced himself, and Alistair. The man looked at them closely, then gave a quirk of his mouth that was intended, Alistair thought, to be a smile.
“Inspector Willett, of Mawnaccan Police Station.”
Alistair was surprised to see him there so soon, and saw from Adrien’s face that he felt the same way.
“It’s about the statement your wife gave to Vercoe this morning,” the inspector continued. “Vercoe called me after your visit, Mr Carr, and again after he had been up to the house. I came over as soon as I could.”
There was a trace of resentment in his voice, and Alistair suspected that this was his modus operandi. Called from whatever he had planned because a local landowner had problems, he would do his duty, but he would not be pleased about it.
They went into the study.
“You have read the statement, Inspector?” asked Adrien, after offering coffee and being rebuffed.
“I have. I read it just before I came up here. And Sergeant Vercoe has brought me up to date on the events of three years ago,” he replied.
Alistair waited for a moment, seeing the pugnacious jaw square as its owner took his time, making sure the two men knew that power lay in the law. Member of the gentry Adrien Creed might be, but there was a limit to the amount of time he was willing to waste.
“And what do you think?” Alistair asked, after a reasonable time had passed.
“I think that Mrs Creed suffered a terrible accident,” replied the inspector, without the inflection that might have rendered his words more sympathetic. “She states that she had a serious head injury, resulting in infection and concussion, both of which contributed to her illness when she turned up in Kent. You yourself verified that information, Mr Carr. Such an accident leaves its mark. I feel it probable that as a result of the trauma, she imagined the confrontation on the clifftop. It might make more sense to her, that way. Women sometimes have a tendency to exaggerate.”
“But she dreamed about it, before she came back here,” said Adrien hotly. “The nightmares terrified her.”
“I have no doubt that Mrs Creed had a dreadful time,” said the inspector, “but it is far more likely that her illness and then the uncertainty she has been living under for the last couple of years have created this illusion. It might make more sense to her that way, rather than she went out to the cliffs in a bad storm and fell over. Less embarrassing that way, perhaps.”
The Dead Woman Who Lived Page 21