The railway line clearly swung around to the north at some point; it had been out of sight for a while before crossing the road. There was a cottage close by, and the crossing gates were worked this morning by a young girl, who did so whilst munching on an apple and reading a comic paper. She was clearly stronger than her youth implied—when the train had steamed past, she swung the barrier up with an ease that belied her slender frame, displaying a pair of strong brown arms under her frock sleeves. She smiled briefly at the sixpence Alistair tossed to her, giving an awkward curtsey before tucking it carefully up her knicker leg, then returned to her eating and reading, swinging on the sturdy legs of her wooden chair.
Mawnaccan appeared about twenty minutes further on, spread out in a steeply wooded valley, cut in two by the sweep of the river, the two sides joined by a fine stone bridge. Having grown up around the intensive mining of copper and then tin, with the decline of the industry, the town was becoming more residential in nature. Alistair had been given directions by Joe Vercoe, and by applying himself occasionally to his pencilled notes, he found the police station with only two wrong turns. He parked outside the post office and looked around him. It was of course quiet, with services being conducted in most churches, but he imagined that during the week the town would be busy.
Conscious of time ebbing, he pushed open the door to the police station and found the ubiquitous linoleum floor squeaking under his shoes. He had to wait for ten minutes while Inspector Willett finished a phone call, but the desk sergeant offered him last week’s edition of the Cornishman, and he enjoyed himself with it until he was called to step into the inspector’s office.
Willett was seated behind a mahogany desk, the surface polished to a high sheen and as neat as a new pin, pen and inkpot and blotting paper laid out in order before him. Willett himself looked stern and puffed up under his suit jacket. He deflated a little when he saw who it was and cast a brief glance at the paper in front of him.
“Mr Carr, I suppose I should have been expecting you, even given this is the Sabbath,” he said, and Alistair detected a grain of suffering in there. He could understand it. Far from being an easy enquiry, the extra body had now thrown up the prospect of deliberate murder with the intent of muddying the waters. He knew Willett had wanted to be able to add another sheet of paper to the files and set it all back on the shelf. Now he had been forced into the office when he should have been enjoying the day back home.
“I thought I should come over and see you, Inspector Willett. Has Dr Sinclair sent his report in yet?”
Willett gave a grunt of assent and ran a finger under his collar. He had red ring around his neck and from the unyielding nature of the collar itself, it looked to Alistair that someone had an excessively heavy hand with the starch. It had to be the work of a wife. No laundry service would get away with such overuse.
“He has. Very prompt with it, he was.”
He stopped here and glared at the offending document, prodding it with a finger as if it was a soap bubble that he could burst at will. When it did not either burst or move in any way, he looked back up at his guest.
“It may very well be accidental,” he said, folding his arms as though he didn’t really believe what he was saying and expected a rebuttal.
Alistair paused for a moment, as if considering this. Willett looked uneasy at the silence and broke it with a forced cough.
“Of course, it is going to be well nigh impossible to prove anything now,” he continued, looking marginally happier as he said the words. “Dr Sinclair himself said that the damage couldn’t be categorically attributed to a violent end. Not after being in the water for so long.”
Alistair listened to him and waited. “It might also be murder,” he said bluntly. “In my experience, the hyoid bone being crushed like that means that death was intentional.”
This set the inspector off again. Alistair listened to Willett’s expostulations calmly and let his vituperation wind down by itself before speaking again.
“I understand what you are saying, Inspector,” he replied. “You are right, of course. It would have been hard enough to trace the body three years ago. It has only been made more difficult by the passage of time. I don’t expect you to reopen the case. I know you don’t have sufficient manpower. All I ask is that you cooperate with me, and help me out where you can.”
“Who said anything about leaving it?” asked Willett sharply. “I’ll look into it, as is my duty.”
He looked very prim as he said this, and then a gleam appeared in his eyes. Alistair was wary. Willett’s next words proved him correct.
“And the first thing I’m going to do is ask Jamie Evans why the original autopsy missed that bone being broken, accident or no!”
“We did speak of it yesterday. He implied that Dr Medbury was past his best. Fond of a dram as well.”
Willett’s eye’s narrowed.
“Did he indeed? Well, I’ll make a point of asking Mr Evans to explain himself when I see him. This very day.”
Alistair opened his mouth to suggest caution, but shut it again. He had met Willett’s type before. Like a bull in a china shop, when he got the bit between his teeth he thought of little else but the race. Alistair knew he was mixing his metaphors, but the inspector was proving every bit as difficult to deal with as he had initially thought.
“He’ll be back from church later, and available this afternoon,” was all he said. “May I see the report now?”
Willett handed it over and started to scratch out some notes on a block of paper with such deliberation that Alistair feared for the life of the pen nib. Taking the report, he sat back in his chair and read it through. There was little there that was new; Daniel Sinclair had been concise in his summation yesterday afternoon. The characterisation of the arm injury as a straight fracture worried Alistair most, that and the omission of the crushing of the hyoid bone. And he could not in honesty pass it off as collateral damage wrought by the sea. That body had not turned up by accident. Someone had arranged for the body to be mistaken for Juliana. The question most bothering him now was whether that person had also been responsible for attempting to kill her, or whether for some reason use had simply been made of the circumstances.
Having read the report over several times to ensure he had not missed anything, he handed it back over the desk.
“Thoughts, Mr Carr?” asked Willett casually.
“I don’t think it was an accidental death, Inspector. That body was put in the water for a reason. We need to find out why.”
Willett nodded non-committally, then checked his pocket watch and reminded Alistair that he would be out at the house after lunch.
“Please make sure that Mr Evans is free to talk with me,” he requested.
Alistair nodded.
“I will, Inspector. See you this afternoon.”
Chapter 17
By the time Alistair reached Trevennen after his drive to Mawnaccan, the rest of the household had finished lunch. Juliana greeted him in the hall, her eyes still tired but with a twinkle of greeting in them.
“We’ve all finished, I’m afraid. I put a plate aside for you, it’s on the sideboard. I even managed to save you some treacle tart, though not without some trouble!”
The twins followed her from the dining room, both grinning at this, and Alistair stepped forward.
“Thank you, Juliana. I appreciate that. Jamie, can I have a quick word? Inspector Willett is coming out this afternoon. He wants to talk to you about the original autopsy.”
Jamie’s face lost its animation.
“I suppose I should have expected that,” he said sourly.
Damaris jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow, and he gave a thin smile.
“Sorry, Alistair, it’s not your fault, I know. It’s just… damn it!”
Jamie raced off upstairs at this. Damaris gave Alistair an apologetic glance, then followed her brother at a more leisurely pace. Alistair made haste to the dining room, but even so he
barely had time to enjoy the roast beef and salad that Juliana had served him before he heard the police car pull up outside. He bolted his pudding, and was still wiping his mouth clean when he heard Willett being shown into the room.
“Thank you, Ada. Would you mind going to fetch Mr Evans and tell him Inspector Willett is here?” he said, and poured out some coffee for himself and the inspector.
“May I sit in, Inspector Willett?” he asked.
Willett appeared in a genial mood and agreed straight away, although Alistair had the odd impression that he was looking forward to the conversation rather more than he ought. Jamie appeared soon afterwards and refused any more coffee, sitting down opposite the inspector. Alistair could see that he was holding himself tightly wound, breathing deeply. Willett took his time, regarding the slim figure opposite him with a deadpan expression. Finally he sat back, his large square hands relaxed on his stomach, the tips of his forefingers touching.
“There was a further examination made yesterday of the body that was originally decided was that of Juliana Creed. You were part of the original examination, Mr Evans. There were inconsistencies. The most important being that the hyoid bone was crushed, a fact that was not included in the original report.”
Jamie nodded. “Alistair…Mr Carr told me yesterday.”
The frown on Willett’s face told Alistair that this news was not particularly pleasing. The policeman then seemed to recall that he had made no request for silence, and returned to Jamie.
“Any idea why that was reported erroneously?”
The inspector’s voice was soft, but unpleasantly so. He seemed to think that wrapping a brick in a silk scarf would hide the blow when it was thrown; there was a nasty undercurrent beneath the smooth surface.
“No,” snapped Jamie, recognizing the sneer behind the words. “Yesterday was the first I had heard of it.”
Alistair shook his head behind Willett’s back. The man had a positive talent for antagonizing people.
“You did the post-mortem,” continued Willett.
“No, I didn’t,” said Jamie angrily. “Dr Medbury did the PM, and I wrote it up. That what I do. Take notes and make the report.”
“So you did not try to check his work?”
Jamie gave a laugh that was entirely devoid of humour. His eyes had lost the warm sparkle they usually carried and were cold as they raked the fat figure in front of him. Willett did not seem to notice the insolence that flared in Jamie; Alistair wondered if he was always so obtuse.
“You obviously didn’t know him. I’m a lowly path assistant, Inspector. He’d have had me flayed if I had suggested he was doing something wrong. But believe me, I would have said something if I had seen him mess up as badly as you are suggesting.”
Willett tapped his fingers on the tabletop. “You didn’t have much confidence in him, I hear,” he asked smoothly.
Jamie looked daggers at Alistair, then turned back to the policeman, who had picked up his cup and was looking at Jamie over the top of it.
“I thought he was past his best, certainly,” answered Jamie. “But it was nothing to do with me. Talk to whoever kept him in the job.”
Willett drank his coffee slowly, staring at Jamie across the table until the younger man flushed and dropped his eyes. When he spoke again, his voice was rough.
“It was a nightmare, Inspector,” said Jamie with some agitation. “I had to stand there and watch him cut up what I thought was the body of my cousin’s wife. You have no idea what I went through that day.”
The inspector seemed unconcerned by any disquiet he was causing. He merely put the cup back on the table, turned it ninety degrees to the left, and then poured out some more coffee.
“But in the end the wrong decision was made,” he said as he set the pot back on the tray.
“Yes, it was. But not by me!” replied Jamie. “I wrote out the report exactly as Medbury dictated. I wasn’t standing over the man, double-checking his work!”
Willett nodded slowly, seeming to savour Jamie’s discomfort.
“There were a couple of other points. An old fracture of the wrist that wasn’t mentioned; a rib injury, similarly not mentioned. And the fracture of the arm seems to have been the sort of injury more likely to occur from deliberate violence. What do you say to that?”
Jamie sighed, his shoulders sagging.
“He mentioned the old break. He said it was ancient and had mended badly, probably the girl hadn’t even had medical attention. I wasn’t to bother noting it.”
“And the arm?”
“That was trickier. I do remember wondering about it. There was a lot of damage around it—there often is on bodies that are carried around rocks for a while. Nothing to protect the limbs.”
Alistair was listening closely. He asked Willett if he could interject.
“May I ask something, Inspector?”
He received a cold nod.
“But there was a break that was in the same place as Juliana’s fracture?” he asked.
Jamie looked up in relief at the quiet interest in Alistair’s voice. He nodded.
“Medbury just said that it was recent and it was in the exact place that Juliana had injured herself. He thought Julie’s original fracture had perhaps not healed as well as expected and had been weaker. If the arm got caught between rocks…”
He looked a little sick. Willett ignored him, re-reading the report and finally nodding.
“That seems to be roughly what you wrote,” was all he said.
“Roughly? I took down exactly what he said!”
Finally Willett decided that he could get nothing more from Jamie and departed, looking satisfied. Jamie turned on Alistair in a fury.
“What the hell did you tell him? I thought you were on our side!”
“Jamie, I am trying to find out the truth. There are no sides for me. The misdiagnosis of the body was important. I can’t withhold information that might be useful. This is too important.”
Jamie deflated so suddenly that Alistair felt like he had personally stuck a pin in his arm.
“Sorry, Alistair,” he muttered. “I just can’t bear the whole thing being dug up again.”
There was a pause before he realized what he had said, and looked suitably horrified. Alistair clapped a hand on his shoulder. There was tension there; the man was a mass of nerves.
“I understand how trying this is.”
“Do you? I wonder.”
Alistair sat down and offered Jamie a cigarette. It was accepted gratefully.
“I deal with this sort of thing a lot,” Alistair began. “What you should remember is that despite the pain you all felt, time has passed and the pain has receded. It doesn’t mean that you don’t care any more, just that the act of living is impossible if you remain continually burdened by grief. This whole affair has brought a great many memories back to the surface for all of you. It will pass.”
He walked to the windows and stood for a moment, looking out onto the north side of the house. There was a pathway outside, the lines between the stones blurred with moss and creeping thyme.
“I hope so,” said Jamie, staring at the carpet. He traced the pattern with the toe of his shoe. “I feel like I’m raw again. Like the old scars have opened up.”
Alistair paused. He wished he had something of substance to offer but there was nothing he could give to take the pain away. There never was. It was just a question of time.
“They will close again. They always do,” he said, a little sadly.
Jamie caught the inflection and looked up. He recognised that Alistair both understood him and knew what he was talking about. He gave what was almost a smile.
“I suppose you are right.”
They sat in silence for a while, each thinking back to unhappier times. Alistair remembered what else he had to ask and debated leaving it until later. Then he decided to go ahead.
“There was something else I wanted to ask. Is this a good time?”
Jami
e waved his cigarette wearily.
“As good a time as any, I suppose,” he said shortly, then blushed. “Sorry, Alistair, that sounded rude. I don’t mean to be, really.”
Alistair nodded his thanks, hoping he would still understand after he had asked it.
“Mrs Creed left you a sizeable sum under the terms of her will,” said Alistair. “Both you and Damaris. Were either of you aware of the bequest before her disappearance?”
Jamie paled.
“No! At least I wasn’t,” he said. “I doubt Damaris was either. She certainly didn’t say anything to me about it.”
He frowned. “That’s a rotten question to ask, you know. We loved Julie! Frankly, if I had wanted money, I’d have killed my mother, not Juliana!” he said angrily.
“What do you mean?” Alistair asked, somewhat taken aback.
His companion sat back and folded his arms tightly in front of him, glaring. In the silence, Alistair glanced past Jamie and looked again through the wide lattice windows that opened from every room on this floor of the house. There was an old tree outside, its broad boughs still bare after the winter, but showing the tiny leaf buds that would shortly unfurl. Its longest branches ran under the upper floor windows and far out to the other side, almost to the moss cap that ran along the top of the garden walls. He came back to find Jamie breaking his silence.
“My father, in an act of insanity, left everything to my mother,” he said with a bitter undertone. “After her death, it will all revert to Didi and me, and we can do what we like with it. I know I’m not particularly flush at the moment, but I have enough. I don’t need to kill for it. And as far as I knew, Juliana’s will didn’t contain anything for me. She’d only known us a year or so, and I wasn’t even living here during that time.”
Alistair took a breath. Jamie was being uncharacteristically open—even in his short time in the house he had learned of his unwillingness to talk ill of his mother—and he did not want the tap to stop pouring too soon. Perhaps Willett’s questioning technique had loosened the man’s tongue after all.
The Dead Woman Who Lived Page 27