by Wonny Lea
The CPS needed to be put completely in the picture before they could decide what crime had been committed and what the appropriate charges should be. In this case whether it was murder or manslaughter would make not one iota of difference to the perpetrator, Frederick Lefevre – he had decided on his own punishment.
This morning, with the help of his recently formed French alliance, Martin had learned a great deal about Lefevre’s financial situation, and in particular about the sort of punishment that could have been dealt him by the criminal fraternity with whom he had become involved. He probably was better off dead!
Quite legitimately, the Lefevre home had been used as equity to cover his gambling debts and feed his insatiable habit, but the property was no longer an asset and the loans secured against it had spiralled out of all control. As Martin had seen for himself, anything of any value was systematically being used instead of money to satisfy the creditors.
From what he was hearing, Charlotte Lefevre was going to be left without a roof over her head – and her possessions would also be seized as most of her husband’s financial wheeling and dealing had been done in their joint names. Martin was finding it difficult to see how she could avoid the serious charge of attempting to pervert the cause of justice but was sure that if the case got to court there would be a mountain of mitigation in her favour.
Martin did believe that the death of Daphne Mansfield had been an accident, and if her daughter had subsequently treated her mother with just a shred of human decency he would possibly be feeling sorry for her predicament. However, remembering how the poor woman had been dumped, naked and stripped of her identity, made him relieved that the method of dealing with one of the people involved with that act was not for him to decide,
The public had the right to know that the Coopers Field body had been identified along with the identity of the people who put her there. Together Martin and Matt put together all the facts that were needed for a comprehensive press statement to be released. The Press would have a field day with the Lefevre side of the story, and Martin could see some potential headlines: ‘KILLER OF THE COOPERS FIELD BODY BLOWS HEAD OFF IN FRANCE’ or ‘GRUESOME END FOR THE COOPERS FIELD KILLER’.
Now that the crime had been solved, the media would quickly lose interest, but there was one thing in particular that Martin had to deal with before the news broke – breaking the news to Elsie Forrester.
Helen Cook-Watts had the day off, but as Matt had briefly met Elsie when he had gone to the house to collect the books and the drinking glass, Martin decided that they should go together.
‘How do you think she’ll take the news?’ asked Matt as they pulled in near the curb outside her house.
‘I think she’ll be relieved to know the truth,’ Martin said. ‘I’ve had the feeling all along that immediately she heard about the body in Coopers Field she knew it was her sister Daphne.’
Elsie Forrester had seen the car pull up and even as Matt raised his arm to ring the bell, the door opened. ‘I’ve been expecting you gentlemen,’ she said. ‘Don’t stand there, please come in.’
Martin tried without success to read her body language but as soon as they had all sat down in the lounge she quickly put him in the picture. ‘I was expecting you because Charlotte has been on the phone. She has told me everything that happened yesterday, and how Frederick committed suicide.’
Martin could have kicked himself for not realising the possibility of that phone call, but he had not envisaged Madame Lefevre being prepared to tell her aunt the full story. But had she told her the full story, or just the part about Frederick Lefevre shooting himself?
‘What exactly did she say?’ prompted Martin gently.
‘She told me that when they were last here Frederick became very angry with Daphne because she was refusing to go back to France with them. He picked up my sister’s walking cane and waved it around. According to Charlotte he had no intention of striking her mother, but the round silver globe thing flew off the end and struck her on the side of the head.’
She looked at Martin as if waiting for his views but he just nodded his head and so Elsie continued. ‘I believe her, you know, Inspector. Frederick was a weak, stupid, and I now believe a very selfish man, but he was never violent. Charlotte still has the walking stick – did you know that? Even with the damage to it and with the knowledge that it had caused Daphne’s death Frederick apparently thought it to be too valuable to just dump. Can you believe that?’
Martin could believe anything, and he made a mental note to ring Lieutenant Beaumont regarding the cane. He listened as Elsie went on. ‘It’s such a relief to know that my sister wasn’t deliberately murdered, and that she died instantly without suffering. When I heard of the body that was found in Coopers Field I knew it was Daphne, but of course I bowed to your scientific knowledge when you said the DNA was not a match. Charlotte told me about the issue of the hairbrush and if my eyesight was better I would have been able to see for myself that the brush wasn’t Daphne’s.’
‘I have imagined all sorts of terrible ways in which she could have got to Coopers Field, and I have even envisaged her being brutally beaten and left barely alive, tormented by foxes and other vermin. The truth, although tragic, is a relief compared with the black places my mind has taken me since I found her missing.’
Tears welled up in the old lady’s eyes and she resolutely pushed them aside with the back of her hand. ‘One thing leads to another, doesn’t it? I can’t help but think that if I hadn’t been such a headstrong old fool Daphne would still be alive and safe in Maison de Retraite.’ More tears filled her eyes, and this time there was no stopping them as they tumbled down the wrinkled cheeks.
Martin got to his feet, located a box of tissues, and placed a couple of sheets in Elsie’s trembling hands. ‘From what you previously told us about that place, it was little better than a nightmare, and your rescue enabled your sister to spend the last days of her life here with you. We don’t have to go over this now unless you want to,’ he said kindly. ‘Our only real concern was to ensure you knew exactly what had happened before reading or hearing the media’s interpretation of events.’
‘I appreciate that, Chief Inspector,’ said Elsie quietly, and then with the greatest of efforts she forced herself to sit upright and continued. ‘I didn’t ask Charlotte why they took her mother’s body to Coopers Field, and perhaps I never will – it’s time to lay her to rest and think about the future. What will happen to her?’
Assuming she was talking about her sister, Martin told her that the body would now be released and that arrangements for her burial or cremation could go ahead.
‘No, Inspector, I know what will happen to Daphne. I meant what will happen to Charlotte? She and I have never been close, but she is still my sister’s daughter and Daphne would not want me to turn my back on her now.’
Martin briefly explained the complexity of the criminal justice system and how he would no longer be directly involved with the process. ‘It is likely she will be brought to the UK to face charges relating to the death of her mother but I can’t tell you exactly what those charges will be – that’s for others to decide.’
‘There will be no requirement for her to be brought from France,’ said Elsie, now showing the sort of Dunkirk spirit that had taken her on that epic journey to Maison Retraite. ‘She will be living here. When I spoke to Madame Elise Sheldon, the housekeeper, this morning, she told me the creditors were already stripping the house and I have told both of them that for as long as they wish they can have a home here in Cardiff. Will that be a problem with the authorities?’
‘I’m sure it will be nothing that can’t be sorted,’ replied Martin. Secretly he hoped that Miss Forrester was not making a mistake. His own, honest opinion of Charlotte was that she was an out-and-out bitch. He could only hope that with the influence of her aunt and Elise Sheldon, both strong-willed women, Charlotte might even turn into a half-decent human being.
There was a kn
ock on the door and Matt got the signal of approval from Elsie before getting to his feet and answering it. At the door, struggling with two overflowing ‘bags for life’ in each hand, was a tall skinny youth who introduced himself as Darren from next door.
‘It’s OK,’ said Darren as Matt offered to help. ‘I can manage this lot, but don’t close the door because my mother is getting the rest of the shopping from the car boot.’
A few minutes later Darren and his mother were emptying the six carrier bags into the fridge and the kitchen cupboards under Elsie’s supervision. It was an ideal opportunity for the detectives to take their leave, and they did so, in the comforting knowledge that Elsie was not going to be left on her own.
On the way back to Goleudy, both men marvelled at Elsie Forrester’s resilience and her seemingly forgiving nature.
‘As you know,’ said Matt ‘I have four sisters and each of them has three daughters. I can’t imagine a scenario whereby one of my nieces, after being complicit in the killing of one of my sisters, would be welcomed into my home. Maybe we become more accepting of things as we get older and learn to live with whatever life throws at us, because we know that life itself may not be around much longer … or maybe it’s just that Elsie Forrester is an amazing old lady.’
‘I’ll go for the latter,’ responded Martin. ‘All I really want to do now is get some lunch. The sight of all that food they were unpacking has made me hungry.’
As they walked into the staff dining room they were met by a sea of Welsh flags and red, white, and green garlands. The catering staff wore either Welsh rugby shirts or national costume, and as Matt turned to Martin he echoed what they were both thinking. ‘Has someone moved St David’s Day? Tell me we’re at the end of July and haven’t slipped back to the first of March.’
All the tables were covered with paper Welsh flags and there were matching napkins, but best of all there was the Welsh food.
Whoever had arranged the menu had gone to a lot of trouble. There was something to suit everyone and Martin’s eyes went straight to the Celtic crab and Cardigan Bay prawn risotto. ‘What’s all this about?’ he asked Iris, whose hair was tucked into a Welsh bonnet.
‘We plan on doing a ‘Cuisine of the Country’ day once a month,’ she replied. ‘It makes life more interesting for us who do the cooking and serving, and hopefully for those of you who do the eating. It’s got nothing to do with actual National Days, it’s just a rolling programme – and where better to start than Wales? Hope you like it!’
Matt had made a beeline for the cawl and Iris told him it had been made following a recipe that had been in her family for years. She said the secret was to trim any excess fat from the neck of lamb and to cook it with the potatoes, leeks, carrots, and any other seasonal vegetables available, but never to eat it on the same day. ‘I cooked that yesterday and let it infuse overnight,’ she told him. ‘This morning I skimmed the fat off the surface and boiled everything together, seasoned it, and it’s been simmering ever since. The meat has fallen off the bone and I think you’ll enjoy it.’
Matt said he was sure he would, and then both men headed off to join Alex and Charlie who had been trying to attract their attention.
‘Bet this even beats the French cuisine,’ Charlie said. ‘Alex had the cawl and he is now finishing off his second slice of bara brith, so no prizes for guessing he’s been won over by this initiative.’
‘This is so good! You really must get the recipe from Iris,’ said Alex to Charlie. ‘She says the secret is soaking the dried fruit for as long as possible in very strong black tea – all I know is that it’s delicious.’
‘We heard all about your adventures in France,’ said Charlie. ‘So the man who murdered the woman that was found on Monday ended up shooting himself – is that right? What about you two, were you in serious danger of losing your lives?’
Charlie always bordered on the theatrical and all three men laughed in spite of the potential truth in her words.
‘So come on,’ insisted Alex. ‘Explain the DNA mismatch or are you going to tell me that scientists all over the world have got it wrong.’
Martin told him about the hairbrush.
‘As simple as that!’ laughed Alex. ‘Who would have thought that the hairbrush on someone’s dressing table would belong to someone else? Who would have thought that?’
‘Well, obviously none of us did,’ replied Martin. ‘We live and learn and fortunately it didn’t stop us following things up, thanks mainly to a very determined and plucky old lady.’
‘You should try this as a dessert,’ said Charlie. ‘It’s Peri Las and pear salad and it is absolutely delicious.’
‘Since when has a salad been a dessert?’ asked Matt.
‘Well, it’s not exactly a dessert, more like something you could have instead of a cheeseboard – but you’ve got the pears as well, so it’s a bit like a dessert.’
‘Sounds a bit schizophrenic to me,’ laughed Matt. ‘What is Peri Las anyway?’
‘It’s a soft creamy blue cheese, and it’s made by Caws Cenarth – they’ve won awards for their cheeses. Alex and I get it from our local deli and eat it with walnut bread, it’s heavenly!’
‘If I lived with you two for any length of time I would really be struggling with my weight! The pounds are already piling on since I gave up the rugby. I have no intention of dieting so I’ll have to think of another form of exercise.’
‘You need a good woman to give you the runaround,’ suggested Charlie, as she reversed her wheelchair, swung it around, and headed for the door.
It surprised Matt that, when at the mention of a good woman, the image of Sarah Thomas came into his mind, but he soon convinced himself that it was because of the phone call he had received from her earlier. Nothing whatsoever to do with her being just the right height for his perfect woman, and he could see she had a brilliant figure even in that shapeless uniform. But he was most struck by her very dark green eyes, and it was with those eyes, as much as with her mouth, that she smiled …
Matt made up his mind. He would spend some time with her later and after convincing her that all was well at Parkland Nursing Home he would ask her out – please don’t let her be married with half a dozen kids!
When Sarah had switched off her phone after speaking for a good ten minutes to Matt she was feeling a lot calmer. Her shift didn’t finish until eight thirty and so he had promised to call in at Parkland for a chat on his way home. What time did detectives finish work? She hadn’t thought to ask him, but he’d told her that the Coopers Field mystery had been solved so maybe he was back in a nine-to-five routine.
It had been a long time since Sarah had even thought of the possibility of a man in her life, but she had to admit there had been an instant spark between her and Matt and she felt somewhat excited by it.
Did this mean she was finally over Hugh Keats? It was two years now since she had discovered that the paediatric cardiac surgeon she had practically lived with for a year hadn’t been going home to his elderly mother every other weekend. Sarah realised now that she had probably been the last person in the hospital to find out that, in Essex, he had a wife and two sons waiting for him to finish his secondment to Cardiff.
Where was he now, she wondered? Maybe on secondment in Bristol, shacked up with another eager-to-please ward sister helping him while away the hours between his work and his family. Hugh Keats was a charmer and, without doubt, a bastard, and someday his wife would find out – or maybe she already knew that she was just helping him pass the time between his work and his lovers. Some women would put up with anything for the sake of a luxurious home and a husband who brought in the money to provide the matching lifestyle.
Sarah felt good that she was now able to think of him, and with the contempt that those thoughts deserved. At the end of the day it was her pride that had been most hurt and it was high time she moved on.
Matt had eased her worries with his logical explanations for some of the facts she and Mari
a had found puzzling, and Sarah vowed to put the whole topic to one side until she met with him later. But not without first checking on Enid Prosser.
The lady was not in her room, but within minutes of Sarah reaching the dining room she had located Enid, alive and well and sitting at the piano. It was once again tea and biscuits time, and the room was full. The conversation was equally full, of the antics of the previous evening. Enid could play the piano, but seemingly not very well, and after listening for a few minutes Sarah was almost certain that some of the wrong notes were being struck deliberately.
‘Oh, I can’t remember my notes,’ Enid said. ‘It’s hopeless! I’m getting them all confused.’
There was no response from anyone to her apparent distress and she continued making the same mistakes in an effort to play, what sounded a bit like Brahms’ Lullaby – but with so many hesitations and wrong notes it was difficult to tell.
Eventually her determination paid off, and Eric Mills got slowly to his feet and walked over to the piano. Sarah watched with amusement as she could see that, although Enid had spotted his approach, she had chosen not to greet him and had just continued with the murder of one of Brahms’ best-known works.
‘I think you are getting your sharps and flats confused, if you don’t mind me saying,’ said Eric at the end of a particularly painful but thankfully short movement.
‘I don’t mind you saying at all,’ responded Enid. ‘I used to be able to play this piece with my eyes shut but now I just wish it were my ears that were closed.’
They both laughed. ‘Do you play at all?’ asked Enid.
‘I used to,’ came the reply, ‘but not for some time.’
Not wanting to lose the moment, Enid slid off the piano stool and patted it as if to welcome her new friend on board. ‘Well, you can’t do any worse than me,’ she laughed, and gave him a pleading look that was impossible for him to ignore.