Alistair smiled. The inspector’s tone was markedly more genial than previously.
“I understand, Inspector. Better safe than sorry,” he replied. “That was quick work, I must say.”
Willett looked over.
“I spoke to the chief constable. He says that you are to be trusted fully. Said to give you any help you needed. And Dr Sinclair has just arrived from Penzance. Someone started the ball rolling very quickly!”
He looked at Alistair shrewdly. He was not going to go against anything the chief constable said. He gave a final stuff to his pipe and unbent enough to give another nod of his greying head.
“I don’t know that you’ll find anything, but go ahead. Vercoe’ll let you have whatever you need. And keep you up to date on any further developments, if there are any. I don’t think there will be; Mrs Creed is a very nice lady, but one with a powerful imagination, I don’t doubt. This will blow over, mark my words. Good afternoon, sir.”
With that he put his pipe, stuffed but unlit, back into his pocket and, with a nod of farewell, trotted back down the hill towards his car.
Keen to find out what Dr Sinclair might find, Alistair walked slowly back to the police station, pausing on the way for a short moment to watch the fishing boats begin to come in again after their day at sea. The quay was busy and noisy, the smell of fresh fish overwhelming as the catch was unloaded. Giving the harbour a wide berth to avoid getting entangled with the men and carts and great slippery boxes of what looked like megrim, he made for the police station.
The body had already arrived and had been taken to the small slip of a room that served as a cell when needed. Joe Vercoe didn’t look happy about its presence but kept his mouth shut.
“You won’t be needing me, sir, I hope. Dr Sinclair is through the back. He knows what’s what,” he said, white-faced, and waved Alistair through.
In the back room was William Saxby and a small sandy-haired man who solemnly introduced himself as Daniel Sinclair. He had a round, serious face made more serious by the pair of lugubrious pale blue eyes that stared mournfully out above his fat pink cheeks.
“Pleasure to meet you, Mr Carr,” he said, slipping off his jacket and producing a lab coat from his bag. He shook hands gravely, but Alistair could see that he was very much interested in what was going on. He supposed that it wouldn’t be often that he was called upon to examine a corpse that had been respectably buried for three years.
William gave them a grave nod; his eyes were concerned.
“I felt that someone should accompany her, poor soul,” was all he said.
“Well, I’m going to get started. Anyone want to join me?” asked Dr Sinclair, with the air of someone proposing a quick game of tennis before tea.
Alistair wondered again about pathologists. What would be stomach-churning in the extreme for most people was to them as natural as breathing. He had watched them suck peppermints and hum Christmas carols under their breath as they dissected and weighed and prodded their way round the mortal remains of some poor soul or other. He shook his head. William did the same.
“We will await your findings here,” said Alistair. “Thank you.”
Dr Sinclair gave them a sudden boyish grin that completely changed his appearance.
“Thought you might,” he replied cheerfully. “Right, let’s see what we have here.”
He disappeared behind the door. They could hear him start to whistle and for the next twenty minutes were regaled with “Alexander’s Ragtime Band” in all possible variations and keys. It was enough to raise a smile on the lips of William Saxby.
“It seems wrong to smile at such a time, but his good spirits are somewhat uplifting,” he said. “In uncertain times, I have always found music and positive thinking to be most beneficial.”
“Peculiar bunch, pathologists, though,” Alistair replied. “On the whole.”
“I would imagine so. I can’t say I’ve known many.” William nodded. “Only Jamie, really, and he’s not quite so involved as this chap, is he?”
Alistair took the opportunity to ask some further questions. “Given what I know of Jamie Evans,” he said, “I’m a little surprised that he chose to do what he does.”
William looked at him, and his mouth thinned a little.
“He didn’t have much choice, I fear. He needed employment, and his godfather got him in with Mr Abbott. Luckily for him the boy has a strong stomach.”
Alistair was curious.
“You say he needed employment. Why was that?”
There was a silence. From the look on William’s face, Alistair could see the struggle within him.
“I’m a man of the cloth,” William said finally. “I try my hardest to live as I exhort others to do. And that includes loving my neighbours and looking for the best, not suspecting the worst. However, I find it most difficult to love Fancy Evans. She is cold and calculating. I suspect she has never loved anyone as she does herself. And both of her children have ended up working for a living, of necessity, when there was no need. There is plenty of money, but it is in Fancy’s control. She would only provide for them if they did what she wanted.”
He looked a little ashamed.
“In confidence, Alistair, there are undercurrents at that house, and I suspect that Fancy has been the source of some of them. The troubles that beset the Creeds during their marriage, before Juliana disappeared, were caused in good part by gossip and malicious chatter. Fancy Evans excels at those.”
“Is she capable of more?” asked Alistair.
“More?” replied William in confusion, then his face changed. “Good God, do you mean…?”
He fell silent, his eyes wide as he considered how far Fancy might go.
“You believe that Juliana was pushed, then? Deliberately?”
“I know that she believes so. And I think that Adrien does too. It seems to me that it is possible, at the least.”
William whistled softly.
“I suppose that would solve a great many problems, if it were true,” he said, frowning. “Fancy was on the spot and did not get on with the new mistress of Trevennen. Of course there was Belinda. Adrien’s behaviour, however innocent it may all have been, angered Fancy greatly.”
“I’ve heard that name from a number of people,” said Alistair. “She was the woman that was widely expected to marry Adrien.”
“She was. It was thought to be a good match.”
“What do you mean that Fancy was angry when Adrien married someone else? Why should that have been her business?”
“Belinda is Fancy’s god-daughter,” replied William. “Charles Mayfield was one of Fancy’s oldest friends. I have heard before that she was in love with him herself, but he was already betrothed, a family arrangement that could not be broken. Strangely, Fancy took a great liking to his daughter. I said to you earlier that Fancy is cold and unloving. I think the person that she feels most affection for is not her own daughter, but Charles Mayfield’s. And Belinda in her turn holds great affection for Fancy, one of the few people around here who does.”
Alistair considered this.
“No,” said William, interrupting his train of thought. “I simply cannot see Fancy as a murderer. Or attempted murderer, I suppose I should say. She is not a physical person at all, you understand, and she likes her home comforts. To follow Juliana out into the night, on such a night, and then actually use her own hands to push her over the cliff edge… it is not in her nature.”
“I am of the same opinion,” replied Alistair. “I will bear what you have told me in mind—in complete confidence, you may be sure—but unless something else comes to light, I fear Mrs Evans must linger at the tail end of my list.”
William gave a snort.
“Pity,” he mused, then looked ashamed. “You know, you should talk to Geoffrey Clevedon. He knows a lot about the people involved. Being as ill as he has been has not meant that he has been cut off. He’s a smart man. He may be able to help you.”
Before Alistair cou
ld reply, the whistling ceased. Dr Sinclair emerged and went to scrub his hands in the small lavatory next door. When he emerged, he looked solemn.
“Most of the previous PM was spot-on, but I am concerned with a couple of things. The break in the ulna was not a straight fracture as noted—it was a spiral fracture.”
William looked interested.
“How does that change things?” he asked.
Dr Sinclair explained further. “A spiral fracture usually means that some kind of torsion was present when the fracture occurred.”
“So, not the same as one would receive falling from a horse?” William asked, frowning.
Dr Sinclair pulled out a cigarette case, withdrew a cigarette and lit it. He considered his reply.
“It would depend on how the patient had landed, I suppose. But this is also the sort of break you get from violence. I’ve seen it before in victims who were subjected to physical abuse. In addition, there were a couple of old breaks that were not listed. The left wrist had been fractured at some point and had set poorly. And two ribs had been cracked. Perhaps an accident that was not followed up?”
The pathologist looked at his audience and allowed a pause. Alastair felt a spark of intrigue. Whatever was coming next was important. Dr Sinclair cleared his throat.
“The hyoid bone was crushed in our young lady next door. That was not noted in the previous report.”
Alistair and William both looked at him in astonishment.
“Yes,” he said with a hint of a smile. “I thought that would be your reaction.”
Alistair whistled. “Strangulation, then,” he said.
Dr Sinclair shrugged warily. “It’s too late now to tell for sure. I can’t say for certain, but it certainly points that way.”
William looked outraged.
“Are you saying that this was murder?” he asked with some force. “That this girl was killed deliberately?”
Alastair sighed. “It appears likely,” he replied. “It certainly has to be taken into consideration.”
William’s face darkened as he thought over the ramifications. “To cover up Mrs Creed’s non-appearance?” he asked woodenly, not wanting to believe it, but unable to avoid it.
“Perhaps. It may not be linked at all, though,” replied Alistair, not wanting to divulge Adrien’s concern about the undergarment at this moment. “This may simply be some horrible coincidence.”
William looked rather disbelieving at this but forbore from taking the conversation further as he saw the look in Alistair’s eyes. It seemed he had other work to occupy him, anyway.
“May I take her back now, Dr Sinclair?” he asked.
Dr Sinclair looked a little startled.
“I have a fresh grave being prepared for her,” William continued. “If you are finished with your work, then I will see her laid to rest again.”
The pathologist looked at him curiously, then gave another of his charming smiles. “That is good of you, Padre,” he said. “Not all of my charges get such decent treatment.”
William shrugged. “Whoever she was, poor girl, she deserves peace.”
He looked over at Alastair, who was looking out of the window, thinking furiously.
“And a name.”
Alastair turned around. “I hope that we will be able to give her one, William. I’ll walk back with you, if I may. Dr Sinclair, thank you for your assistance. I appreciate your coming out here.”
“It’s my job, Mr Carr,” Dr Sinclair replied. “And frankly, it’s rather exciting to have a mystery on hand. Not much mystery in my work. Not when I’ve finished with it, anyway.”
He gathered his things together and shook hands all round, then departed for his car, whistling cheerfully as he went. Alistair checked the front room, but Joe Vercoe had departed; his wife was there, a fair young woman in the advanced stages of pregnancy, dusting the desk.
“Joe’s gone up Crowan way, sir,” she said when questioned as to her husband’s movements. “Got a call about some stolen sheep. Most probably trouble between the Pascoes and the Morgans—those boys are always at loggerheads. He’ll be back for his tea, most like. Shall I tell him you want to speak to him?”
“No, that won’t be necessary,” Alistair replied, pained to think of Joe having to give up his tea with this nice little wife of his. “I’ll get hold of him myself. Thank you, though.”
William called his men from outside, where they were pulling at pint pots from the Lugger, and between them all and with a great deal of luck, they got the mystery woman back to the churchyard in relative secrecy. William stayed to direct proceedings and say a prayer over her, and Alastair went to the vicarage to ask for a cup of tea from Jean, parched after his wait at the station. He found her with Daphne, talking over a plate of biscuits and a fresh pot. The children were nowhere to be seen.
Jean looked up at his knock and welcomed him inside. They had met briefly during his visit to her husband the previous day and he was cheered to see her smiling face again.
“Mr Carr, I was hoping that you would come back,” she said. “William overseeing matters in the churchyard? Oh, and this is Daphne Cundy, wife of our doctor.”
Alistair shook hands with Daphne, noting as Juliana had the strength in her slim fingers. She lit another cigarette and passed the biscuit plate to him just as Jean put a cup of tea in front of him.
“He is doing exactly that, Mrs Saxby,” he said, taking a welcome sip and selecting a ginger nut from the plate. He was suddenly ravenous.
“Anything you can tell us,” asked Daphne, “or is it all a secret? I guessed something was up. You may not know what living in a small place is like, but secrets are rarely that for long. Your visit, for example, has already been noted and discussed in all quarters.”
Alistair grinned at her frankness, then paused.
“Nothing I can say at the moment,” he said finally. “The report will be back soon.”
Both women looked at him and he saw something in their eyes that made him alert. He wondered what they might know. Adrien had suggested that they might be able to help.
“I am wondering where she might have come from,” he said. “Difficult to follow old trails. The scent is gone.”
Daphne exhaled a smoke ring.
“There’s the problem,” she rasped. “We’ve been thinking about it ever since Juliana was found. I can’t think of anyone else missing from round here.”
“The police checked up on missing persons as a matter of course when the body was discovered,” Jean said. “Of course, we were all certain that it was Juliana. The only other person who could have been described as being missing was young Gwenna, and that was only for a few days.”
Daphne looked thoughtful, stubbing out her cigarette with one hand and taking a digestive in her other.
“That’s right,” she said. “Ran off with some chap, didn’t she? Gwenna Black—fancy that, Jean, I haven’t thought of her in ages. Flighty piece, she was. Pretty, but a high opinion of herself.”
Jean refilled their cups.
“So this Gwenna Black was the only other young woman around here who might have fit the bill?” Alistair asked.
Both women nodded.
“You can talk to Joe Vercoe about her. They were cousins,” answered Daphne.
He looked interested at this.
“I’ll ask him when I next see him. Perhaps you can give me a little background. For example, what did she look like?”
Daphne considered this.
“As I said, she was attractive enough. A bit cheap, I always thought,” she said. “Fair hair. Average height. Big, pale blue eyes. Good figure, and knew how to set it off properly. Fancied her chances with Jamie, I always suspected.”
Jean looked uncomfortable with this diatribe, which was delivered with a cold look in Daphne’s eyes that told Alistair more than her words just how Daphne herself had felt about Gwenna Black.
“Was it reciprocated?” he asked.
Both women looked sur
prised.
“No, I wouldn’t have said so,” said Jean.
“It wouldn’t have done at all!” Daphne interrupted. “Fancy would have thrown a fit. As would the Blacks, actually. Jamie knew it, too. He liked Gwenna well enough. They really were great chums when they were younger. But he would never have considered marrying her.”
Jean nodded.
“It was a pity, in some ways,” she said. “Gwenna really was awfully good when he came home from the Front. Both with him and with Simon. She was one of the few who helped with Jamie, when he was ill at home. She was working at the Hall, but she would come over on her day off. I know Damaris was grateful.”
Alistair changed the subject. “What do you remember of the people who were at Trevennen at that point?”
Jean looked thoughtful. Daphne frowned.
“You are thinking that Juliana’s recollection of what happened is true, then?” asked Jean. “William mentioned it earlier.”
Daphne looked over at her. “Of course it is,” she said in exasperation. “The alternative is that Juliana imagined it, made a drama out of a simple fall. That will be the first thing the police would have thought. That dimwit Willett has such a jaundiced view of women in general. I’ve met him before, unfortunately. He sees us all as neurasthenics, giddy with imagination and melodrama. He probably thinks she imagined the whole thing as a way to get some excitement into her life.”
This was so close to how Alistair had judged Willett’s summation that he almost betrayed his surprise. Daphne Cundy was a deeper thinker than he had realized.
“But Mrs Creed is not that kind of woman?” he asked.
“Not at all,” replied Jean. “There was never any hysteria or nervousness about her. She was always pleasant company. A bit sure of herself, perhaps. But that was youth and inexperience. Once she settled down with Adrien, she lost that.”
Daphne finished her biscuit with an appreciative crunch. Taking a man’s handkerchief from her pocket, she wiped her lips, then blew her nose lustily, apologising after the action.
“Sorry, I’m always like this in the spring,” she said. “Awful hay fever. I do agree with Jean, though. Juliana is not the sort of woman to produce a taradiddle like that out of nothing.”
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