The Dead Woman Who Lived

by Endellion Palmer

  “He is. I spoke to your uncle at breakfast. So you needn’t worry unduly,” she said. She peered at the tub curiously. “What are you up to?”

  “Good drying day today,” he said. “I was trying to keep my mind off… things.”

  She gazed around. The air was warm, and the breeze was definite. Hobbs gave a bark of delight as he caught an interesting scent on the wind, and scampered off into the heather.

  “It certainly is a good laundry day. Can I help?” she asked.

  He looked absurdly pleased with the offer and tipped out the suds as she took off her coat, rolling up her sleeves to keep them dry. Between them they filled the tub again from the spring, then rinsed out the linens until the water ran clear. Juliana helped him to wring them out and peg them onto the line, where they started to move sluggishly with a damp moribund sound as they filled with the soft thyme-scented air.

  Simon hung the tub back up on its hook, and Juliana opened her rucksack, producing the packets of food. Simon’s eyes lit up.

  “For me?”

  “I’ve already had breakfast,” she said with a laugh. “Here, start with this.”

  She took out the packages she had made, pulling the string off and winding it round her fingers.

  “Are you trying to fatten me up?” he asked, wolfing down the square of pie she handed him. For the moment his eyes were amused, but Juliana had seen the worry in them earlier.

  She poured milk from the flask she had brought up.

  “You could do with it,” she replied. “You need feeding up. You and Jamie both.”

  Simon drank without taking his eyes off her, and she wondered what it was he wanted to say to her. There was something on his mind, that was certain. Since Fancy had died, every time she had seen him he had seemed frailer than before, and distracted, as though his mind was keeping him busier than usual.

  “How is he, really?” he asked. “I’ve been going mad up here, not knowing.”

  “He’s completely out of danger, Simon, I promise. He wants to see you. I thought we could go back together. You can sit with him for a while. Bob has threatened to lynch anyone who lets him get out of bed.”

  Simon nodded, looking away. “Do they know… how it happened yet?” he asked, without looking at her directly.

  She shook her head, watching him closely. “I don’t think so. Alistair’s been asking a lot of questions, but he’s not saying much. He’s a positive sphinx about it. It seems obvious that Fancy’s death and Jamie being poisoned are linked—it is too much to think that they could be separate incidents. But I cannot think why.”

  She picked up a corner of the pastry that had broken off and nibbled at it. Simon made short work of the jam tarts. She poured him more milk and bade him finish it. Although he looked amused at her giving him orders, he obeyed.

  “Alistair thinks that it was me they were aiming for, with the brandy,” she said slowly. “I suspect he’s right. If that is the case, then perhaps Jamie saw something. Perhaps he knows who it was. But in that case, why would he not tell someone?”

  “You? It was supposed to be you that drank the poison?” He stared at her, looking horrified. “Juliana, you have to go away!” he said. “Go back to London. Go somewhere safe, please!”

  “That’s what Adrien said to me, several times. I am not leaving Trevennen and everyone in it. Besides, Inspector Willett has forbidden anyone to leave the town, so where can I go? Over to stay with Jean and William? Or your aunt?”

  She tried to make light of it all, but Simon’s eyes did not clear. He started to say something, then broke off, and instead took the cup again and finished the milk in one long swallow. He did not look at her as he wiped his mouth, turning his head away. Juliana watched him, waiting for him to speak, but he said nothing. After he had cleared away the greaseproof paper and rinsed the cup in the spring, he found his guernsey. They called to the dog and began to make their way back down to the house. Along the way, Simon was strangely quiet. Juliana stole peeks at him, worried. Once he caught her looking and flushed.

  “I’m sorry, Juliana. I’ve got a lot on my mind. I’m not being rude, really.” He bit at his thumbnail. “It wasn’t me,” he said finally. “You do believe me, don’t you?”

  “I know you had nothing to do with it,” she said, her hand on his shoulder. “I trust you, Simon.”

  He was still worried; she could feel the tension in him under her palm.

  “Promise me you’ll take care, Juliana. I don’t suppose you can go, not if that policeman won’t let you. But you must be careful. Until I… until they find out what happened.”

  “I know you are worried, Simon,” she replied, a little startled at his vehemence. “I promise I’ll be careful.”

  As she tried to smile reassuringly, he caught at her arm and squeezed it, hard, looking at her intently. She had that feeling again, that he was looking right through her head. For a moment she thought he was trying to tell her something. It was as if he were trying to imprint his thoughts straight onto her mind. He looked incredibly lonely, and it was with difficulty that she kept the confusion from her face. Finally he sighed and looked away and they walked on, arm in arm, but in silence again. It was not until they reached the garden walls and the sunlight shone through the clouds for a moment, flashing on the upper windows of the house, that he shook off whatever black dog had been on his shoulder. Juliana saw him to Jamie’s room and left him there, but she was still worried. There was something amiss with him.

  ***

  Alistair had been waiting impatiently for a phone call in Adrien’s study, mulling over what Juliana had said. Once again, Simon’s name had come up, and each time it did, it set an alarm ringing in Alistair’s head.

  Now that the call had come through, he wished it had not. He was going to have to drive to Torquay for an identification, something he would rather not have done. Leaving a note for Adrien propped on the desk, he went upstairs to collect his old case notebook and change his shoes. Before walking out to the garage and his car, he had a thought, and ran upstairs and popped his head into Jamie’s room. He was lying in bed, a book open by his side, but he was not reading and his eyes looked heavy. His face had grown thin over the past days, and he had not managed to shave yet, so he looked rather dissolute, but he summoned a smile as the door opened.

  “Come to cheer me up?” he asked slowly, his voice still scratchy. “I’m bored to sobs. I want to get up but they won’t let me!”

  “Sorry, I can’t stay,” Alistair explained. “I have to go over to Torquay. Shouldn’t take long, just some identification and paperwork to finish. You’ve been kept here longer than you planned—do you need anything from your home? I can detour that way.”

  Jamie looked relieved at the proposition. “Really? You could bring me some more clothes,” he said eagerly. “I suspect I’ll be here for a while.”

  “Give me directions,” said Alistair. “Will your landlady mind?”

  “Not Dottie,” Jamie said with a faint smile. “Here, this is my address.” He scribbled out a couple of lines on the pad by his bed. “Just bring whatever is there. There’s a canvas bag in the wardrobe.”

  Alistair turned to go, recalled by an urgent tug on his sleeve.

  “Do you know anything more?” he questioned, eyes huge in his gaunt face. “What happened to Mother? To me?”

  Alistair shook his head.

  “I don’t know yet, Jamie. I wish I did. Listen.” He stopped, and pointed to the door. There were rapid footsteps ascending the stairs, and he could hear voices. “I’ll be back later on this afternoon, and I will bring your things.”

  He passed the two visitors on the stairs, noting the relief that was evident on Simon’s face, then went out to his car. The first part of the drive was fine, the roads clear and dry, but once past Launceston, the clouds lowered and there was intermittent drizzle. The rest of the journey to Torquay was damp and miserable, and the resulting interview, with a recalcitrant, angry suspect, was not any
better. Alistair left the police station there with a grim sense of relief that that particular case was complete, or it would be once the trial was held. It was in the Yard’s hands now, and ultimately, he thought, those of the hangman.

  With the realisation that his part was over, he cheered up and set off back towards Cornwall, a straight run across the southern bulge of Devon. The fields along the way were fresh with spring greenery and flowers. The rain had brought out the smell of ploughed earth, strong and sweet. He ate a hasty lunch near to Dartmoor, then set off for Plymouth. With the directions scribbled out and given to him that morning, he found the address of Jamie’s digs quite easily.

  It was a tall, narrow terraced house, with a patch of garden in front, filled with pansies. On the step he met a young woman in an ugly cloth coat and felt hat, carrying a basket on one arm and a newspaper under the other. She smiled, revealing a rather charming gap between her front teeth.

  “Looking for rooms? I’m sorry, but we are full at the moment.”

  He explained his mission, and she shook her head with regret.

  “Poor Mr Evans. He’s had a bad time of it, hasn’t he?”

  Alistair took the basket from her and held it as she searched for her key. She smiled her thanks at him; she was a thin, plain girl, but her smile was genuine and it lit up her face.

  “Were you here three years ago?” Alistair asked. “When his cousin disappeared.”

  “Oh, yes.” She nodded. “That was a dreadful time for him.”

  “And you remember Mr Evans returning home that evening?”

  “No, not me. I was at the church—they run a dance on Saturday evenings at St Mary’s, round the corner. I don’t get back until past ten. It was Auntie Dorothy who saw him come in.”

  “And did you see him that evening at all?”

  “About eleven. He came down for a cup of cocoa. We always make a pot in the evening, and leave it on the stove, so the boys can help themselves. Strange hours they keep, all of them. And I know Mr Evans has trouble with sleeping. He wanders around at all hours.”

  Her basket unpacked, she led him upstairs and showed him to Jamie’s room. As she left him to go and start preparing supper, he went through the wardrobe, finding the canvas holdall Jamie had mentioned and filling it with what he found hanging up. There was not a huge amount. He added to it the various piles of linen he found in the chest of drawers, and two clean pairs of pyjamas, which he judged would be of more use than anything else. There was little else around.

  He went to the window and lit a cigarette, leaning on the broad sill as he smoked it. Below him was the flat roof of some kind of outhouse, and behind that was a small garden, currently planted with a variety of winter greens, probably the source of the smell that permeated the entire building.

  In the room opposite, a mirror image of Jamie’s bedroom, a small boy of around ten years was being scolded by a harassed-looking woman in an apron and cap. As soon as she left, the boy made for the window, where he swung his legs over the sill and shimmied down the pipe. Alistair was amused by his cheek and finished his cigarette to the thoughts of uncaring childhood.

  Alistair made his way carefully downstairs and let Lucy know he was leaving. As she ushered him through the house, he noticed that the parlour door was open. Asleep in her chair, her head back against the ancient velvet, was a fat middle-aged woman, her mouth open and snoring like a steam train in a tunnel. Her left leg was propped on a moquette cushion, swathed in bandages. An empty cup and brown bottle alongside her gave evidence of the source of her snooze.

  Lucy gave a shrug of her shoulders.

  “She suffers terribly with that leg,” she said in excuse. “Got caught in a zeppelin raid during the War.”

  “I’m sure you are a great comfort to her,” Alistair replied. “Thank you for your assistance, Miss Lucy.”

  Alistair barely noticed the rest of the drive home. He reached Sancreed almost without realising it and instinctively pulled up outside the police station. Venturing inside, he found Inspector Willett installed in the inner office, reading through a report, the door pulled almost shut. Joe Vercoe was at his own desk, looking upset. Alistair pulled up a chair.

  “What’s up, Vercoe? Trouble somewhere?” he asked quietly.

  “You could say that,” replied Joe, tension evident in his gritted teeth. “The inspector thinks Simon Cundy is involved. That report he’s reading is one I had to type for him this afternoon. Spoke to a couple of doctors at the hospitals Simon was at, before they managed to cure him. It was not pretty listening, I can tell you.”

  Alistair whistled under his breath. Joe nodded.

  “He’s really got his monkey up now!” he said, the twist of his mouth belying the light-hearted words, then got to his feet and started to make tea.

  Alistair knocked gently on the door, ready to be kicked out if the inspector was in a bad mood, but Willett was uncomfortably pleased with himself and the world around him and invited Alistair to take a seat.

  “Tea, Vercoe!” he shouted. “Two cups.” He turned back to Alistair. “I’ve been thinking about Simon Cundy,” he said, with a hiss of breath through his teeth like a snake eyeing up a plump vole.

  Alistair sat back, keeping his face still. “In which respect?” he asked politely.

  “For our poisoner, Mr Carr,” came the reply, and Alistair bit back a sigh.

  “Simon has his problems, I agree,” he replied, choosing his words carefully. “But I can’t see him being behind these poisonings. He’s a gentle soul. He simply needs a great deal of solitude. Nothing wrong with that. And he’s very fond of the family at Trevennen. He’s known Jamie and Damaris for years.”

  Willett snorted. “I’ve been talking to the townsfolk. He’s a strange one, all right. By all accounts he wanders around at all times of the day and night. He’s withdrawn and irritable, and he’s well-known for outbursts of anger.”

  Alistair was alarmed at the conviction he heard in Willett’s voice. He was determined to make a quick arrest and settle the matter for good, and Alistair was worried that his determination would mask any common sense that might still be rattling around in his bullet head.

  “Simon’s a Quaker. He abhors violence,” he replied. “He was a stretcher bearer during the War, RAMC, because he wouldn’t kill.”

  “A conchie, eh?” snapped Willett. “Who knows what goes on in a coward’s mind?”

  “I don’t believe him to be a coward,” replied Alistair sharply, the other man’s condescension irking him at last. “He risked his life to save other soldiers, nearly died for some of them. I was at the Front myself. I met other COs. None of them cowards, just standing up for something they really believed in.”

  Willett listened unwillingly. “He had access to the house,” he shot back. “He’s been seen there, late at night, early in the morning, skulking around. Easy for him to get into the library and poison that brandy.”

  “How would he know about the window?” Alistair asked.

  “That Florence girl, probably. I know what she said, but she’s a young girl, and young girls like nothing better than gossiping.”

  Alistair sighed. “Simon Cundy wouldn’t recognise Florence if he fell over her!”

  “Oho? But she knows him, Mr Carr.”

  “Really? I wouldn’t have said they would have come across each other much.”

  “Said she’d seen him about the place. Odd times.”

  “He’s a friend of Jamie Evans,” replied Alistair, trying to remain calm. Florence had said something similar to him yesterday. “Probably visiting. I’d be surprised if she didn’t know him.”

  There was a snort. “Odd times for going to see a friend. Early in the morning. In the dark. He’s been skulking around, not natural to my mind.”

  Alistair looked over the desk at him. “But why the attempt with the strychnine?”

  “Scared that Mrs Creed would remember that it was him. And”—he paused here, his eyes glittering—“he had a woo
l coat that matched the description. Bought it before Mrs Creed’s disappearance, by all accounts, but hasn’t been seen in it recently.”

  Alistair shook his head. “I know. I talked to him about it. It’s still at the hut, but it was ruined during a lambing at one of the farms nearby. He hasn’t worn it because it stained badly.”

  Willett took the cup that Joe was holding out to him and sniffed as if a bad smell was emanating from the cup. Joe turned and handed the other to Alistair, rolling his eyes as he did so. Alistair recognised the gesture and moved on.

  “He would never have tried to kill Jamie,” he said firmly. “They have been best friends since Simon arrived here years ago.”

  Willett looked sceptical. “You can’t ever tell, can you, though? Shell shock, whatever they call it, can make a man do strange things. He had a doctor in London, he was up there regular at one point, around the time of Mrs Creed’s disappearance. Easy for him to post those letters back. He knew his way around the coast. Who better to know where to hide a corpse and then dispose of it at the right time?”

  Thinking of what had been done to Gwenna Black’s body, Alistair felt sickened. “You are saying that it was Simon who faked that corpse?” he asked. The thought was difficult to imagine, although he remembered the calm way Simon had dealt with the rabbit the other day.

  Willett looked condescending. “It would have been easy for him to lure her somewhere quiet and strangle her.” He broke off and bellowed into the next room, “Vercoe!”

  Joe appeared in the doorway in such haste that his leg brace caught the door with a ringing sound. He winced, but Willett did not appear to notice.

  “Sir?”

  “Get that Cundy lad down here. I need to interview him.”

  An hour later Simon sat in the office of the police station, huddled on the wooden chair he had been given, his hands clasped in his lap. He looked around with suspicion and refused the sweetened tea that Joe Vercoe tried to offer him.

  “Why am I here?” he asked again.

  Alistair turned from the doorway and sat down beside him. “Inspector Willett wants to talk to you,” he began.