“So, when you run the train slow along the bank, how easy would it be to get off and on?”
Gerry considered this.
“Not too difficult to get off, I suppose. Getting on would be more difficult, but that’s not to say I haven’t seen it done.”
Alistair looked at him questioningly. Gerry gave him a smile.
“Simon Cundy used to get on there, back in the days before he settled down. We knew he never had the money for a ticket, so we used to ignore him. Poor soul. After what he went through, I reckoned the least he was owed was the odd train ticket.”
“What about ticket checks?”
“Depends on where you went, I suppose. But if you kept an eye open, it wouldn’t be too difficult to make sure you missed the inspector.”
He flushed red here.
“Did it myself when I was younger. In and out the lavatories, changing seats, nipping into different carriages. Not really difficult if you keep an eye open. Got to Exeter and back once, on a dare. Didn’t pay a penny, and didn’t get caught, until I got home and Dad found out. I couldn’t sit down for a week after that!”
Alistair laughed. “I could tell you similar stories of my misspent youth, too,” he replied.
The beer was finished with some general chatter, then Alistair left the cottages with thanks for the beer and the conversation, and Gerry Roskelly went back to his digging.
Back at the house, he met Adrien and told him of his conversation with Gerry Roskelly. Adrien looked at him.
“Why are you so interested in the trains?”
Alistair was still thinking it through. “Those letters that purported to be from Gwenna Black were all posted in London. It would be too dangerous to ask anyone local to post them.”
He sighed. “I was wondering about Simon. He admitted himself that he tramped about a great deal around that time. I wondered if he posted those letters himself. And getting on and off the train without being seen, or having to pay for a ticket, would be much easier if he could do so away from the actual station. Roskelly knew Simon did so; he admitted as much.”
Adrien groaned. “Simon again. Do you really believe that he had something to do with all this?”
“I don’t want to, Adrien. But he’s involved, somehow. I’m going to try and talk to him now. I’m convinced he knows something. Juliana says he is worried about something, and not simply the fact that Jamie nearly died. I need to know what it is.”
Chapter 30
Alistair decided that he needed to see Simon immediately and drove the car back down into the town and to the vicarage. The back door at Vickery House was open, and he rapped it with his knuckles before poking his head around. Jean looked up from the table where she was sticking stamps on envelopes.
“Is Simon still here?” he asked peremptorily.
“No, he is not!” she replied, looking worried. “He slept for a while and then insisted on going back to the hut. Refused outright to stay the night. I should have brought him inside and locked the damned door!”
Alistair put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently. “It’s not your fault, Jean. He’s just made that way. You can’t lock him up.”
“Did you need him for something?” she asked, looking at him gratefully.
“I want to talk to him rather urgently. I’ll head up to the hut myself.”
“Good. Try and get him to talk, Alistair. Something has been bothering him, and whatever it is, he is worrying about it tremendously,” Jean said, her nose wrinkling with anxiety. “This doesn’t feel like one of his usual episodes. No, this started a couple of days ago with Fancy’s death. It’s connected, I’m sure of it.”
“Anything in particular you noticed?” he asked, trying not to sound too concerned. This was very similar to what Juliana had said.
She shook her head and rapped her nails on the tabletop. “More a sense of uneasiness,” she replied. “Oh, and he has been drinking. That is unlike him. A beer at The Sloop, perhaps. David Roskelly takes him when he helps out with the boats. But a couple of times lately I thought I smelled spirits on him. I was going to ask him about it today.”
“You were expecting him?”
“Yes, he promised he’d be back this morning, to help me in the garden. I tried to get him to stay longer last night, he was in such a poor state after that damned inspector’s questions, but he insisted on going home. Perhaps I should run up and check on him.”
“You have plenty to be doing here, Jean,” said Alistair, looking at the pile of mending in the basket on the table, and the equally large pile of correspondence at the other side. There was a loud thump from upstairs, and someone began to howl. “I will go up and check on him. If I feel he needs your attention, I’ll bring him back down myself.”
After finishing his tea and a couple of buttered scones, Alistair set out on his quest. He drove to the Gallows Tree, then turned right, as per Jean’s directions. The road was narrow and became not much more than a track after half a mile or so. He finally left it, realising he would have to walk the rest, and pleased that he had worn his boots. The countryside round Sancreed had proved every bit as rough as round his home in the Highlands; he was too experienced to expect good things to come of wearing city shoes on a moor.
He was convinced that Simon Cundy held at least one of the threads that would help unravel the mystery. Juliana thought there was some message he had tried to impart, but that he had been unable to do so. Jean had seen that he was worried about something, and that worry had begun recently. It was hard to see Simon as a poisoner, but the investigation had veered rather suddenly in his direction.
Despite his anxiety, Alistair walked steadily along, enjoying the occasional shade of the trees when it was available. For once the breeze had died down completely, and the sense of peace that descended over the rocky tor was both unexpected and delightful. Bees buzzed in the heather; the cry of the curlews echoed across the expanse.
He met no one on the path, and there was no sign of life as he traversed the last stony passage towards the hut and Simon’s demesne. He called out, but there was no reply, and with a vague sense of panic, he realised that there was no smoke spiralling to the blue overhead. He ran the last hundred feet or so to the campsite. As he reached the wooden hut, Alistair gagged. Even before he rounded the corner, he knew what he would find.
He could smell it. The crows had smelled it too. They were gathering, watching, sitting in silence along the ridge on the hut roof. The tin bath was on the flat green, full to the brim, the bucket tipped over next to it. Water had spilled from the end of the bath with the notch, leaving a slick trail running downhill. There had been an animal here, nosing around. There were paw prints in the soft earth; a fox, Alistair thought, from the size. Slumped on the grass next to the bath was Simon Cundy, his arms in the water up to his elbows, his head lolling on his left shoulder.
He was shirtless, his undervest and trousers soaked through. The water was haematic, displaying his end to the elements, even if the very air had not proclaimed it, redolent with that unmistakeable metallic tang. Simon’s black eyes stared out across the clearing. Alistair swore under his breath before gently pressing his fingers to the man’s neck. There was no pulse, and Simon’s pale skin was cold.
He stepped back, realising that he should touch nothing else. The police would want to see the scene in its original state. But there was nothing stopping him from looking, and that he did. Simon had done the job properly. Several long vertical cuts on each wrist, clean and deep; each had bled freely. Not cut across the wrists, but along the path of the veins. He had known just what to do to be more than effective enough. Something else he had learned in hospital, perhaps. The instrument was no secret; a rust-coloured straight razor was caught on a clump of grass just beyond his knees. Next to it was a half-bottle of whisky, empty. Standing over the body, the smell of spirits and blood were intermingled.
Alistair rarely cried any more. The War had done that to him, as surely as if the te
ar ducts in his eyes had been branded shut. But he felt tears fill his eyes now as he looked down at Simon’s dead body.
An hour later he stood on the same spot, watching Joe Vercoe take stock of the scene. Alistair checked his wristwatch again. Only just noon.
“Did you touch anything, sir?” asked Joe.
Alistair shook his head.
“I checked for a pulse, that is all,” he answered. “After I established that he was dead, I came straight to you. Can I help in any way? At least before the inspector arrives.”
Joe looked at him with some relief.
“I reckon your credentials have been proven, Mr Carr. Have a look around and let me know if you see anything you think might be interesting. I have my camera here. I’ll try to get some pictures, just in case we need them.”
Alistair nodded, then left him to his work. He tried not to look at the body slumped there, instead walking around the site. He circled several times, then climbed up the stairs into the hut and stood uncertainly in the doorway. Simon had not been dead long. It felt too soon to be poking around in his life, but he knew that death took away all rights to privacy. He looked around. The place was neat, but the bed was not made. He stood and looked at it and thought about times.
He had arrived around eleven o’clock that morning and guessed that Simon had been dead for at least four hours. Rigor had not set in, but he didn’t think it was far off. Say seven o’clock that morning at the latest. So Simon had returned here and gone to bed, for part of the night anyway. The sheets and pillow were creased badly, as if he had twisted and turned upon them. By the bed was a glass that held water, and a book of poetry, the spine creased, the cover worn and thumbed. Christina Rossetti, one of Alistair’s own favourites.
On the table, next to the window, was a sheet of paper, held down by a pot of ink. Alistair sat down on the stool and looked at it. It did not take long to read. It was not dated, or addressed, or numbered. Just the single sheet, with three words written on it at the top, slightly smudged. The pen was discarded, the top lying alongside.
I’m sorry, Jamie
That was it. Three small words. He checked the name written in the front of the poetry book—the fist appeared to be the same, or at least very similar. Alistair’s heart sank as he read it. How would Jamie take this confession from his friend? It seemed too much to hope that it was related to anything else, given all that had happened at Trevennen recently. It was most likely that this was an apology for Jamie’s near-death poisoning, for the fact that Fancy lay in the mortuary. Did it stretch back to Juliana’s experience? Had it been Simon all along?
Alistair called to Joe, who followed him into the hut and pointed to the note. Joe stumbled over to the table and read it, and Alistair was surprised by the painful sigh that emanated from the policeman.
“Looks like your case has been solved, Vercoe,” he said quietly.
Joe looked at him, his brow creased.
“I reckon so, Mr Carr. I just… I didn’t want it to be Simon. I know he was an odd sort, but I didn’t want him to be a killer. I liked him!”
Alistair understood and was about to say so when a noise from outside indicated that the inspector had arrived. He looked extremely pleased with himself, even more so when Joe told him of the note.
“Well, not much of a mystery here for you, Mr Carr,” he said jovially. “It all got too much for him and he took his own life. And there you have it. We have our murderer, and he’s saved the hangman a job.”
Alistair wondered what he was thinking. That Simon had been a coward all along and had taken the coward’s way out? From all he had heard, he could not see that as Simon’s path. And yet there was Simon, dead by his own hand, and a note asking for forgiveness.
Realising, however, that nothing he could say was going to change Willett’s mind, Alistair stepped back and watched sombrely as Simon’s body was put onto the narrow canvas stretcher. Alistair was touched at Joe’s care as he closed the dead eyes and gently covered the body with a blanket, tucking it around with concern, even though there was no one there to see it. Willett’s pug-like face sneered, but he said nothing, seeing perhaps something in the sergeant’s eyes that warned him not to go too far.
Just as Joe stood up again from his work, Bob Cundy came racing along the narrow track. He stopped dead when he saw the stretcher and its cover.
“Dr Cundy, I’m so sorry, sir,” began Joe tentatively. “There’s nothing you can do. Don’t—”
“He’s dead, sir. Slashed his own wrists,” Inspector Willett interrupted, his voice flat and direct.
Joe Vercoe’s face darkened with anger, and Alistair watched as his great fists started to ball. Perhaps the inspector saw it too, as he stepped back and took on a more conciliatory tone.
“I’m sorry, Dr Cundy,” repeated Willett. “But your nephew has taken his own life. Best leave him to us now.”
Alistair and Joe exchanged a glance. Alistair wondered if Willett had ever experienced a genuine emotion in his life that involved love, or the hurt that accrued from loss. Bob Cundy stood stock-still, staring at the stretcher, immobile as incredulity took over. Then he walked over to it, squatting next to the blanket-covered figure lying there, and turned down the blanket to show Simon’s face, bloodless and inert against the green canvas.
He gave a low moan of distress, then touched his nephew’s cheek gently, stroking the skin as a parent does to a much-loved child while watching them sleep. He repeated the gesture as if hoping that somehow it was untrue, his fingers warm against the cold skin beneath them, then began to sob.
Joe and Alistair moved as one and helped him to his feet. At Joe’s silent plea, Alistair stepped forward and led the man away from the body and to the steps of the hut. He sat Bob down and waited alongside him in silence while the man wept for his nephew.
“This is horrendous, Alistair,” said Bob finally, dabbing at his reddened eyes with a crumpled pocket handkerchief, his voice rough. “That poor boy. We should have seen this coming, helped him.”
“I am not sure that you could, Bob,” replied Alistair. “I don’t think anyone could have foreseen this. No one at all has mentioned that he might be a danger to himself.”
He thought back to Juliana the previous evening. Her worries had been echoed by Jean Saxby that morning, but neither had mentioned that he might harm himself. He replayed Juliana’s words, saw again her unease.
“There is something bothering him. I don’t know what it is. But he’s worried about something. You should go up and talk to him,” Juliana had said. “He knows something. He wants to tell me, he tried. He doesn’t seem to be able to find the words. But it is there. Behind his eyes.”
And now Simon Cundy’s eyes were closed forever. He had silenced whatever thoughts were behind them by slicing his wrists and letting himself bleed out into the clear spring water of his beloved moor top. He was forever part of the hills, and at the same time lost to them for good.
“Daphne is going to take this hard,” Bob Cundy said with a groan. “She took Simon in, when my brother and his wife died. Not a question, not a qualm. Loved him every bit as much as our own boys.”
“I know that, Bob. I’ve heard the others talk about it. This was the place he chose to come back to, to make his home. I’ve no doubt that your family was important to him.”
“But why did he do this?” Bob asked. “He was better. If it had been earlier, before the clinic—well, I could have understood it then. He was in a dreadful state. But not now.”
Alistair knew that sooner or later Willett would be there at the door to Vickery House, telling them that worse was to come, that it had not simply been the suicide of a disturbed young man.
He leant over and placed his hand on the other man’s shoulder.
“I should not say this, Bob,” he said quietly. “Willett will be infuriated, but I don’t want you to be blindsided by him. He thinks that Simon was responsible for the death of Fancy Evans, and the poisoning of Jamie. And b
efore that, the attempted murder of Juliana three years ago.”
Bob looked astounded, and Alistair saw the look of complete surprise that crossed the man’s face. Bob shook himself, as if irritated.
“Fancy? Simon had no interest in Fancy dying! And why on earth would he want to kill Jamie? For the love of God, the two of them grew up together. They went to war together. Why would he turn on Jamie now? Whatever is going on at that house, I would bet my life that Simon was not involved.”
The spurt of anger over, he began to cry again, more softly now.
“Just a couple of days ago I said how terrible it would be to have to tell Simon that Jamie had died. It’s no less terrible now, the other way around.”
Alistair offered to take the news to the house, not without some qualms, and Bob accepted gratefully.
“I need to get back and tell Daphne,” he said. “She needs to hear it before anyone else. I would appreciate your help in telling the people at Trevennen. God only knows the best way to do it. Watch out for Jamie, Alistair. He had a narrow escape and he is still weak.”
“I don’t know how to do it myself, but I’ll find a way,” Alistair replied. “I shall go there first, and then head down to the police station. Simon… Simon’s body is being taken there, and Daniel Sinclair has been called. Stay with Daphne, Bob. Let us take care of things at the moment.”
Alistair left the scene, driving behind Bob until the doctor’s car turned off towards Visick House, and he himself drove up through the town, conscious that he was slowing down as the car eased up the hill towards Trevennen. He stood for a moment in the hallway, his head bowed under the weight of what he had undertaken. His throat closed as he thought of what he had to do.
He was interrupted in his pensive state by Juliana, who was coming out of the library. She saw him and looked surprised.
“Alistair! You’ve missed all the drama. Didi slept in this morning, and instead of waking her Jamie got up on his own. He took a dizzy turn and toppled down the stairs. Luckily it’s only a short flight. He…”
The Dead Woman Who Lived Page 45