False Accusations_Nothing to fear if you have nothing to hide...

by Cora Harrison

  ‘What I think,’ Flora said slowly, sipping her wine and then putting down the glass, ‘is that she saw this as an opportunity of getting rid of Rosie. Obviously, from what Sergeant Dawkins found out, she was trying to find some solution to the Rosie problem. She didn’t want her around her neck for the rest of her life. She probably decided to have a chat with Benjamin, either hinted or outright said that she had seen him and then brought the conversation around to Rosie.’

  ‘Mind you, she is a lovely girl; he wouldn’t have been doing too badly.’ Ted speared three chips, dipped them into a pile of salt and bit them off the fork.

  ‘He’s only nineteen! He may well have a girlfriend of his own. In any case, he would know Rosie for what she was. He had gone right through primary school with her. Would you want your son to marry Rosie?’

  ‘Do you think that he murdered the mother to escape marrying the daughter?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘And perhaps he is bright enough to know that Mrs Trevor would have been able to hold this over his head for the rest of his life, so there would have been no escape through divorce.’

  Flora nodded. Suddenly she felt sickened by her own thoughts and wished heartily that Rosie had kept her silly mouth shut, or at least dialled 999 and then screamed and yelled down the phone that she had just found her mother and she couldn’t wake her up, instead of going back to bed and then dreaming up the whole scenario. Now she was in a position where she was gathering evidence against people whom she would hate to hurt. Murder was a very serious accusation. And she would never forgive herself if she made a false accusation. She put aside the wine. It was no good pretending to like it. It was sour and it was giving her indigestion. And the same went for the chips. She’d leave them to get cold and decided to feed them to some pretty little mallards that had come sailing near to the edge of the water, looking hopefully at them with their bright eyes.

  ‘Is it likely though, that he found the opportunity to kill her; that he was just passing beside her house and was overcome with a sudden impulse? Why not just run her down in his car on a dark night, when he was sober and then call the police?’ Ted still looked sceptical.

  ‘I can’t imagine Mrs Trevor being in the middle of the road on a dark night. Whenever I saw her she was wearing a reflective vest and keeping well in by the hedge to allow cars to pass her and,’ she said with difficulty, ‘all the young people of the village were at an all-night party on that island over there in the middle of the river.’

  ‘He might have decided not to go to bed, but go around to the house and say goodbye to Jenny,’ suggested Ted and she nodded agreement. It was a possible scenario. Perhaps one to be encouraged for the moment while she thought of another suspect, nearer and dearer to her.

  ‘He arrived a bit too late, but saw a door open, went to it, tapped probably, but Mrs Trevor may have fallen heavily asleep again and perhaps he thought he heard her say something …’

  ‘And he walked into the bedroom in order to have it out with Mrs Trevor?’ She said the words mechanically.

  ‘Possibly or he might have planned the whole murder beforehand. The taking of the pearls and of the money from beside her bed could work either way. It was obviously an attempt to make it look like a burglary that went wrong — that might possibly have been premeditated, but was more likely to have been a spur of the moment decision. The thing about the pearls and the money that sticks in my craw,’ said Ted, ‘is this business of putting them in the Wendy House and inside a plastic kettle, for goodness sake. That was either Rosie, or else someone trying to point the suspicions towards her.’

  Flora’s heart sank. Perhaps he was right. The theory was a good one and if true it placed the murderer in an indefensible position. For the sake of Rosie she would have to go to the police once her suspicions were confirmed.

  Chapter 29

  Flora didn’t often bother going to church on Sunday morning, but something had occurred to her now and she wanted to verify her suspicions.

  She walked into the pew beside Paula.

  ‘Look at the crowd that’s here?’ Paula whispered teasingly. ‘Of course, you’re not the only one who’s new on the scene. There are usually just a few old ladies like myself.’

  Funny the way that women went to church much more than men, Flora mused as she sat down on the hard wooden bench and glanced around. Paula, she knew, always went: her husband, Dave, never. He played golf on Sunday mornings. Mrs Rice was here, but not Mr Rice, Mrs Osmotherley, but not Mr Osmotherley.

  ‘Was Mrs Trevor a regular attender?’ she whispered to Paula.

  Paula gave a severe look and then rose to her feet as the vicar came in. Rightly snubbed, supposed Flora. Paula took her religion seriously. Any questions would have to be saved for afterwards if Flora could get her alone for a moment. She guessed that Paula would rush off straight after the service; the cooking of Dave’s Sunday lunch was a sacrosanct duty for her.

  ‘Mrs Morgan!’ Mrs Rice caught up with her as they went down the aisle after the service had finished. ‘I wanted to have a word with you. I was thinking of calling up to see you, but then I spotted you.’

  ‘Of course,’ Flora said with an affable smile. Had Benjamin taken his troubles to Mummy, she wondered. If Benjamin were completely innocent of the hit-and-run crime, and of course of the murder of Mrs Trevor, then he would have dismissed her words as the garrulous rambling of the old bat. Beneath the broad rim of Mrs Rice’s hat; her face wore its usual pleasant, slightly vacuous expression and there had been no hint of stiffness in the words.

  ‘Thank you, Vicar, lovely service,’ they said in unison. Mr Grey looked as if he wanted to detain Flora; no doubt to hint that it would be nice to see her more often, but she swept on. This accidental meeting with Mrs Rice suited her fine and she wasn’t going to give up her position at the woman’s side for any member of the clergy. The days when she had to smile and slightly flatter vicars, as inevitable chairmen of the board of school governors, had, fortunately, gone by, thought Flora with satisfaction.

  ‘I’m so pleased to have bumped into you, Mrs Morgan.’ They had now moved beyond the crowd around the vicar, but Mrs Rice kept her voice low.

  ‘You were thinking of coming to see me?’ The sentence was proffered in an effort to get her to hurry up. Still, from her placid expression, she wanted Flora to open some fête, or even worse, judge a children’s fancy dress competition. It was unlikely to be anything about Benjamin.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. I was worrying about poor little Rosie Trevor. It’s terrible. Everyone in the village knows that girl wouldn’t hurt a fly. I was thinking that we should get up a petition, bring it to the home office. I’m sure that Edward Keith — you know Mr Keith, don’t you, our local Conservative member? I’m sure that he would take it for us. James knows him very well.’

  ‘I think that’s a very good idea, Mrs Rice.’ Flora made her voice sound enthusiastic. It could do no harm anyway. With a bit of luck it would keep everyone busy and keep the name of Rosie in the news. The chances are that it might never be used; but it would give everyone a warm feeling to be involved and would ensure that Rosie had a good welcome home.

  If she came home...

  ‘Will you have a word with Jenny about it, Mrs Morgan? I didn’t like to say anything to her yesterday, poor child. What a terrible time for her, with her sister in jail.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll do that; she’ll be very touched and pleased.’ And immediately get on to the local newspaper, no doubt. It would be good to have this talented photographer friend of hers to come along and take a picture of the villagers signing. Jenny would arrange all this with her customary efficiency.

  ‘That’s excellent; I think I might try and nab as many people as possible this morning.’ Mrs Rice was a great organiser of village affairs. She looked over towards Mrs Osmotherley laughing raucously in one corner and Mrs Turner from the post office, now shaking hands with the vicar. ‘One sheet in every shop, I think,’ she sai
d thoughtfully.

  ‘Benjamin’s turned into a very fine young man, hasn’t he?’ Flora said quickly to stop her leaving immediately. No mother, in her experience, can ever resist admiration of her offspring.

  Mrs Rice beamed happily. ‘Yes, isn’t he? Such a big fellow these days, but do you know, Mrs Morgan, he’s still the same sensitive child inside.’

  Flora smiled gently. ‘Any girlfriends?’ she enquired lightly. Mrs Rice would see nothing strange in this query. After all, she would expect a former teacher to be as interested in Benjamin as she was herself.

  ‘No one special, yet.’ She gave a fond smile, but stopped short of saying that he was still mummy’s little boy.

  ‘I just thought I saw him and Jenny, together.’ Would Mrs Rice consider Jenny a suitable girlfriend for Benjamin? Better than Rosie, perhaps, but probably not of a high enough status.

  Mrs Rice gave an indulgent laugh. ‘Well, of course, we know Jenny, she’s always got a boy in tow, but there’s nothing special between them; Benjamin would have told me.’

  ‘Well, Jenny will be delighted to hear what you are planning and I’ll ring her as soon as I get in.’ Flora heaved a huge sigh. ‘Well, well, poor Mrs Trevor, wasn’t that a terrible affair?’

  ‘Dreadful,’ agreed Mrs Rice. ‘She’ll be a sad loss to the village.’ And with that, she went, teetering precariously on the cobbled surface, across to Mrs Osmotherley.

  Flora gazed after her thoughtfully. Mrs Rice would be one for a conventional cliché; she didn’t suppose for a minute that she thought Mrs Trevor would truly be a loss to Willowgrove; however, it was an unlikely thing to say that if she knew that the woman had been blackmailing Benjamin.

  Mr Rice might have been in Benjamin’s confidence, but obviously his mother wasn’t.

  Chapter 30

  Flora went to bed early that night. Simon had been animated and convivial for once. He had had a good time with Alf and Piper had been really well-behaved. Flora listened and applauded and expressed mother-like fears when Simon told her he’d been allowed to operate the bucket, but she felt as though it was all a bit remote from her.

  She felt rather strange, her limbs ached and her legs felt weak as she climbed the stairs. Stress, she told herself firmly: I’m never ill. Even when the whole school, staff and children, started going down with flu she was always still on her feet. Years could go by without her missing a single day of school.

  But she woke in the middle of the night, feeling absolutely terrible, chilled to the bone, though she knew that the night was a hot one. She suddenly seemed to have acquired a terrible cough, each racking spasm almost tearing her chest apart. Her head ached and hands trembled as she tried to lift a glass of water to her lips.

  The water didn’t make her feel any better. She was shivering violently. I’ve got a temperature, Flora thought resignedly. She lay there for a long time, visualising where the thermometer was — in the bathroom cabinet; and desperate for a spare blanket — on the top shelf of her wardrobe, but feeling quite unable to move to fetch either. She dozed a little at this point; then suddenly woke and sat bolt upright in bed. What day was it, she thought? She switched on the bedside light and peered at her watch. It was one-thirty in the morning and the day was Tuesday. That was all right, then, Rosie was not due to be released until after midday on Wednesday. She would have time to get over this cold, or whatever it was.

  The thought of Rosie spurred Flora on, so she forced herself to get out of bed. She went into the bathroom. She was still shivering violently. She opened the bathroom cabinet and stared at it blankly for a minute. What was she looking for? Then she remembered. She took out the thermometer, stuck it in her mouth and perched uncomfortably on the edge of the bath. The shrill pip went almost immediately. She took it out and held it close to her face. 104 degrees. Flora stared at it. That was quite a temperature for someone of her age, was her first thought. In a fuzzy sort of way, she felt almost proud of herself. But what should she do? No doctor would thank you for calling him out for a simple case of flu. Luckily she had plenty of remedies in the house. She swallowed two Solpadeine with a glass of water from the bathroom tap and called up to Simon.

  ‘Take Piper to work with you again, Simon. I’ve got the flu.’

  Then she went back into the bedroom and sat on the bed, wrapped in her dressing gown. Flora thought about the pink kettle in the little Wendy House and of Mrs Trevor and her grey dressing gown and suddenly the pink kettle seemed to be the key to everything. She stood up, felt dizzy and sick, stumbled back into the bathroom and then for the first time for probably about forty years, she violently vomited into the toilet bowl. She sat on the floor for a while and then forced herself to get up. That Solpadeine wasn’t going to work now, was her first thought. She staggered to the bathroom cabinet, turned on the tap, dropped in two tablets, watched them fizz and then swallowed the dose down.

  After a few minutes she began to feel a little better. She would bring everything upstairs and just stay in bed for the whole of Tuesday then by Wednesday she would be fine. She had to be. On Wednesday she would have to drive into Brocklehurst, or get a taxi if she did not feel like driving, collect poor little Rosie and bring her home and cosset her until the terrible experience of the police station began to fade from her mind and she was restored to normality.

  ‘Telephone-answering machine, kettle, lemon barley, spare packet of Solpadeine.’ She said the words aloud as she stumbled down the stairs, holding tightly to the banister rail. She rummaged in a cupboard until she found a spare kettle. One by one she found the other things in the kitchen and placed them on the first stair. Everything seemed to be a huge effort.

  The pain in her left side was almost unbearable and she found the steps of her stairs to be far steeper than she remembered them as she toiled up, answering machine in one hand and the bottle of lemon barley in the other. It took a great effort of will not to allow herself to lie on the bed for five minutes before returning to the bottom of the stairs once more to collect the kettle and the Solpadeine.

  How could she have strained her side like that, she wondered? It really hurt her, even to draw a breath. Of course: she suddenly remembered, she had been in an accident. That Monday morning when her car crashed into the barrier; that was it! It seemed a long time ago now. Whiplash, she thought knowledgeably. She forced herself to fill up the kettle and switch it on. She would make a hot water bottle. That would ease the pain.

  Chapter 31

  ‘I mustn’t take too much Solpadeine.’ That thought came to Flora early on Tuesday morning. She felt terrible. She hoped that she hadn’t overdosed. She peered at the packet. There were only four left. She couldn’t remember how many there had been originally, but hoped that the packet had not been a full one. Flora looked at her watch. Ten o’clock. Her hot water bottle was cold and she was shivering. She must still have a temperature. The sunlight was pouring in through the window, Flora could see a streak of it across the floor where she had not drawn the curtains completely. It was another hot day, so how could she feel so cold?

  I mustn’t let anyone know that I’m ill, was Flora’s thought. If she were ill, then Rosie may not be released.

  Open the curtains! Flora had dozed; then suddenly woke with a start with those words in her mind. The curtains drawn at ten o’clock in the morning might make people concerned, but it was eleven by the time she forced herself out of bed. Her legs trembled and she felt very weak. She had been sick again in the night; she remembered that now. There was a faint smell of vomit from the bathroom. Flora rummaged in the cupboard, took out a bottle of Dettol and started to pour it around the W.C. pan. Then the telephone rang. She started guiltily and went to answer it. Then stopped herself. She was coughing so badly than she wouldn’t be able to talk. Luckily she had thought of the answer machine. It was Paula, wondering if she would like to go for a walk.

  Then the telephone rang again. Again she stopped herself answering it. She wondered whether she had a cough bottle an
d rummaged in the bathroom cabinet. There was half of bottle of something so old that the label was unreadable with streaks of something sticky blotting out any words. Better than nothing. The telephone had switched to answering machine; it was Ted Bradley — just ringing for a chat, nothing important.

  Flora made a hot water bottle and took a couple of Solpadeine. They fizzed to an unusual degree and she hoped that it had only been two. They cleared her head a little. She would have to ring back Paula. She could ignore Ted; he would assume that she was out, but Paula might walk along the lane at the back of the house and see the car there and know that she was indoors.

  She made a good job of the phone call, she thought. She managed to suppress the cough, told Paula that she had a lot of paper work to catch up with — the continual excuse of the last twenty years came quickly and easily to her lips — and Paula accepted it unquestioningly.

  Then the phone rang again and with her heart racing she listened to the message. This time it was Inspector O’Reilly. Rosie would not be released until five-thirty tomorrow evening. The psychiatrist had said that he would not be able to sanction release until he had time to assess his results and had the report typed up. She was so relieved to have a few extra hours that she didn’t, as usual, fume at the stupidity of these people.

  She would have to phone him back, Flora thought. Once again she forced herself out of bed. Surely she had some Strepsils or something in an old handbag, she thought, as she stood in the middle of the floor wondering where to look. And then black dots danced in front of her eyes and she barely made it to the bathroom before being sick again. She would just have to stop drinking, Flora thought. Every time she drank, she vomited.

  However, for the moment she felt a little better. She phoned Inspector O’Reilly to tell him that would suit her fine. ‘You sound as if you have a cold,’ he said as the sharp, hard cough reached him even through her muffling hand.