A Murder to Die For

by Stevyn Colgan

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked Stough.

  ‘I have a public announcement to make,’ said Blount, walking towards his car and hoping he’d be able to see well enough to drive back to Nasely.

  The cruiser, a zippy little thirty-footer decorated with psychedelic whorls and patterns, chugged up alongside the towpath and, to the man in the balaclava’s horror, it appeared to be slowing down to stop. His prisoners were not even close to the van and so, in a desperate effort to conceal them, he pushed them bodily behind one of the few large shrubs nearby and forced them to lie down. Leaving them with the threat that he would kill them if they uttered a sound, he pulled off his headwear and ran to his van. He was pretending to be examining one of its tyres when the cruiser came to a stop and a man jumped to the bank with a rope and tied it to a mooring ring. The kidnapper cursed again. This meant that he’d have to find another location to do what he had to do.

  ‘Hello there!’ shouted the man from the boat. He was middle-aged, portly, with a clipped grey moustache. He was wearing a tie-dyed T-shirt, a dreamcatcher around his neck and a panama hat. He walked towards the van, smiling. ‘Could you help us, please?’

  ‘Actually, I’m just leaving,’ said the kidnapper.

  ‘I shan’t keep you a moment,’ said Shunter. ‘It’s just that we need a strong pair of hands to help us open the door to our cabin. The wood has swollen and it’s got stuck. I have a bad back and I’m afraid that my wife’s arthritis is just too bad these days.’ He waved to the stout lady behind the steering wheel of the boat. She puffed on an e-pipe and scowled.

  ‘This nice strong young man is going to help us!’ shouted Shunter.

  Her scowl became slightly less of a scowl.

  ‘Now wait . . . I didn’t say that I—’

  ‘It’ll take just a minute of your time and we’d be ever so grateful,’ said Shunter, taking the kidnapper by the elbow. ‘Then we can be on our way.’

  Begrudgingly, the kidnapper allowed the old hippy to lead him back to his boat. He could hardly kill him in cold blood in front of his formidable-looking wife. She looked to be quite a bit older than her husband and had a face like thunder. Her eyes never left him as he climbed aboard.

  ‘That’s the door there,’ said Shunter. ‘Can you see if you can open it?’

  The kidnapper took hold of the handle and braced himself. As he prepared to pull, the man in the panama hat suddenly whistled and the cabin doors were flung open by someone inside. The kidnapper was planted firmly on his backside.

  ‘What the fu—’

  From inside the boat came a crowd of aggressive-looking canal folk armed with cricket bats, motorcycle chains, tyre irons and other assorted weapons. The kidnapper backed away, realising that he was hopelessly outnumbered and that escape was his only option. He turned and found himself suddenly face to face with Quisty, Woon and four uniformed police officers who had appeared on the towpath carrying long riot batons and handcuffs. From somewhere in the distance came the sound of the police helicopter approaching at speed.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said Quisty. ‘You are, as they say, nicked.’

  ‘Bloody duck murderer,’ spat Pipe Lady.

  Helen Greeley had watched the entire police operation through Quisty’s binoculars. It had all been very exciting. But now she handed them to Savidge and checked her watch.

  ‘Shit!’ she exclaimed. ‘Doors open in quarter of an hour and I haven’t even done my make-up yet. Can one of you lovely boys take us back to Nasely?’

  ‘No problem, Miss Greeley,’ said a blushing young police officer. ‘I’ll just clear it with the guv’nor and I can have you there in ten minutes.’

  ‘Thank you. You coming, Troy?’

  Savidge dropped the binoculars and his face looked pale and drawn.

  ‘What?’ said Greeley, concerned.

  ‘I just saw who they’ve arrested,’ said Savidge.

  A police van and several cars had now arrived by the canal side and the prisoners had been located. As she was helped to her feet, Miss Tradescant saw the kidnapper in handcuffs and began whimpering. It was the first noise that she had made in hours. A police officer worked at untying Esme Handibode’s and Andrew Tremens’s bonds.

  ‘Are you all unharmed?’ asked Quisty.

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ said Tremens. ‘What a nightmare that was!’

  ‘These officers will take you back to the Incident Room where we’ll take your statements. If you’re up to it, that is,’ he said.

  ‘I am,’ said Mrs Handibode. ‘I’m not sure I can say the same for Brenda, though.’

  Brenda Tradescant had dropped to the ground once again and had curled herself into a ball. She was wailing like a fire siren.

  Frank Shunter watched as the suspect was loaded into the police van.

  ‘Like peas in a pod,’ he said.

  Blount emerged from his car and waved to the handful of Crabbe fans that were still lingering around outside Nasely Village Hall.

  ‘I’ve caught the murderer,’ he said simply. ‘Press conference here in ten minutes. Spread the word.’

  The Millies ran away in excitement to tell everyone they knew.

  It was 7.30 p.m. and the doors had opened at the Masonic Hall for the evening’s all-star performance of Evil Company Corrupts. The play and the subsequent Helen Greeley talk marked the end of the festival, and most of the Millies would be heading off home immediately afterwards, which was why most of them were now dressed in their everyday clothes. There were still a few camera crews and interviewers roaming about, recording vox pops and people’s reactions, and caching some useful pieces for later inclusion in documentaries and tribute shows about Shirley Pomerance. But it was clear that the extraordinary events of the weekend were coming to a close.

  The play’s director looked at his watch. Where was Helen Greeley? And where, for that matter, was his audience? As the doors had opened, he’d expected a flood. Instead there was barely a trickle.

  *

  Blount smiled the widest smile his swollen face could manage as he walked into his Incident Room. Dangerously sleep-deprived, pumped full of coffee and energy drinks, and still suffering the after-effects of CS gas exposure, he sounded and acted like a man on some kind of drug trip.

  ‘Press conference! Ten minutes!’ he shouted.

  ‘Jesus, what’s up with your face?’ said Jaine.

  ‘We were starting to worry about you, guv,’ said Banton. ‘DCI Quisty has made some—’

  ‘Sod Quisty,’ said Blount. ‘I have caught the murderer. Me. Not the twat in the cravat. Me.’

  ‘You have? But I thought that—’

  ‘I caught him! Me! Ha ha!’ said Blount. ‘You didn’t think that I could do it, did you? You thought that I wasn’t as smart as him.’

  ‘I never said—’

  ‘He’s a genius, is he? Like some kind of Sherlock Holmes? Ha ha! Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you but I’m the better detective in this case, Nicola. I figured it out. Ha ha! And I made the arrest. Me!’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Press conference! In ten, no, nine minutes. Next door in the village hall. Inform the media, will you?’

  ‘Listen, guv, I really think that—’

  ‘That’s an order, Banton.’

  ‘Whatever you say, guv.’

  ‘What’s up with your face?’ said Jaine again, but Blount was already out of the door.

  Helen Greeley and Savidge arrived at the Masonic Hall to find the play’s director in a very nervous state.

  ‘Something terrible has happened,’ he said, wringing his hands. ‘They’ve arrested the man who killed Shirley Pomerance.’

  ‘I know. We were there,’ said Savidge morosely.

  ‘How is that terrible?’ said Greeley.

  ‘Look!’ said the director.

  Helen Greeley looked out from behind the curtains and into the main hall. Row upon row of empty seats faced her, peppered every so often with fans who, somehow, hadn’t heard yet
of developments in the Pomerance murder case.

  ‘Is it normally this bad?’ asked radio actor Maggie Woodbead, emerging from a changing room. ‘I’ve come all the way out from London for this.’

  ‘We could have sold every ticket five times over,’ said the director. ‘It’s this bloody murder business. It’s stolen our audience.’

  ‘They’ll come back when the initial excitement passes,’ said Greeley. ‘What you do is hold off curtain-up until nine o’clock and you’ll probably have a full house by then. It’ll be fine. Now, where can we get a drink in this place? I’m not on until the second act so there’s time for a snifter or two. Troy, you could do with one as well, I expect.’

  She held on to Savidge’s arm as the director led them all to the bar.

  ‘Fictional murder is so much less stressful than the real thing,’ said the director. ‘At least you can schedule it.’

  Inside the village hall, Blount was ensuring that everything was perfect for his press conference. This was his hour of glory at last, his defining moment, the single event that would see him elevated to Detective Chief Inspector at the next round of promotions. He alone had caught the murderer, despite his Chief Superintendent’s lack of confidence in him and despite Quisty usurping him as lead investigator. He couldn’t stop himself tittering with glee.

  The news of the arrest had spread like wildfire and the hall was soon full to capacity. Those reporters who had decided to stay on until the bitter end of the festival were gloating among themselves and thanking their lucky stars for the opportunity of such a great scoop.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, if you could all either take a seat or find somewhere to stand that doesn’t obstruct anyone else’s view, we will kick off in a few minutes,’ said Blount.

  Jaine’s phone buzzed and he read the screen. ‘Guv? It’s a text from DCI Quisty. He says that he hasn’t been able to get hold of you and that he’s on his way here.’

  ‘Oh no. Oh no no no. He’s not going to take this away from me,’ said Blount, suddenly very serious. He looked at his own phone and at the long list of missed calls and unread texts. ‘We have to do this now.’

  ‘But shouldn’t we—’

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming,’ said Blount as he stepped out in front of his surprised audience and took a seat behind a table. Camera flashes popped and an expectant hush fell upon the crowd. With the rampant boar of the South Herewardshire Constabulary helmet badge proudly rearing up on a display board behind him, Blount allowed a small smile of triumph to flicker across his horribly inflated face.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen. As you all know, yesterday the brutal murder of prize-winning author Shirley Pomerance took place here, in this very hall,’ he began. ‘It was an event that shocked not only us, but the entire literary world. However, in the past twenty-four hours, I have tracked down the perpetrator of this crime and he is now under arrest. Me. I did that. Ha ha!’

  There was a round of applause and a few cheers. Blount smiled painfully and applauded himself.

  ‘I am delighted to report that this evening I took into custody a male who I know to be responsible for this terrible crime,’ said Blount. ‘He is the Reverend Thunderbirds Savidge, Vicar of St Cunigunde’s Church in Spradbarrow.’

  The room was suddenly full of murmurs.

  The arrival of another police car, this one containing DCI Quisty, DS Woon, Esme Handibode and Andrew Tremens, was greeted with excited cheers by the Millies in the street who hadn’t been quick enough to get a spot inside the village hall. The officers shouldered their way through the crowd and into the building.

  ‘So why did he kill her?’ asked a reporter from the South Herewardshire Bugle.

  ‘That is something I’m still in the process of investigating,’ said Blount, suddenly spotting Quisty coming in through the door. ‘But this is my arrest – Detective Inspector Brian Blount, spelled B-L-O-U-N-T. I arrested him. Me. No one else. Just me.’

  ‘What’s up with your face?’ said a reporter from the Sun.

  Quisty indicated with his head for Blount to join him in the kitchen area.

  ‘Two minutes, ladies and gents,’ said Blount, rising to his feet. The room erupted in excited conversation.

  ‘I messaged you to say that I was on my way,’ said Quisty.

  ‘I must have missed it,’ lied Blount. ‘And I didn’t see any problem in pushing ahead with a press conference.’

  ‘The problem, Brian,’ said Quisty, ‘is that you aren’t in possession of all the facts. And without all of the facts, you can’t know the whole story.’

  ‘I don’t need another lecture about gravity and plates!’ snapped Blount. ‘I know exactly what I’m doing!’

  ‘Maybe you should listen to DCI Quisty,’ said Banton.

  ‘Et tu, Banton?’ said Blount as, once more, he stepped out in front of the crowd. ‘I will take a few more questions now,’ he announced.

  Quisty shook his head sadly. ‘Will you tell him or shall I?’

  ‘It’s one of the golden rules of murder mystery that you never suddenly introduce an identical sibling as the murderer,’ said Miss Wilderspin.

  ‘Quite right, Molly. It’s a cheap cop-out and it destroys the illusion of reality,’ added Mrs Handibode. ‘That’s why it was one of the great Ronald Knox’s “Ten Commandments for Detective Fiction”, the bible for all crime writers.’

  ‘Yes, but crime fiction operates to a set of rules. Real life doesn’t,’ said Shunter. ‘I saw a lecturer make that exact point yesterday.’

  ‘But triplets, for goodness’ sake! Who’d have guessed?’ said Miss Wilderspin.

  ‘Truth is invariably stranger than fiction,’ said Shunter.

  The play, eventually staged at 9.15 p.m., had been a huge success and, following a series of curtain calls with Maggie Woodbead and a deliciously euphoric Helen Greeley, the coaches had started to arrive to take the faithful home. Frank Shunter, Miss Wilderspin, Mrs Handibode and Andrew Tremens had gathered in the Happy Onion for a drink together.

  ‘I love the fact that you used a speedboat to catch him!’ said a beaming Miss Wilderspin. ‘A good story always ends with a thrilling chase.’

  ‘Not so much a chase as a sneaky way to get close enough,’ said Shunter. ‘Thankfully, he’d parked the van just a few minutes’ drive from The Rushes. I got over there as fast as I could and, as soon as I told the boat people what was happening, a chap called Merlin offered us the use of his cruiser and brought a few of his scariest friends along for the ride. We broke a few canal speed limits I can tell you. And I nearly blew it when I saw who the kidnapper was. So like his brother. The rest you know.’

  ‘Not everything,’ said Miss Wilderspin. ‘Esme, will you please tell us what happened to you? I’ve heard all sorts of versions of events but you must tell us in your own words.’

  ‘Andrew should start,’ said Mrs Handibode. ‘If you want the story in the right order, that is.’

  ‘Well, it all began with the discovery earlier this year of the Gobbelin diaries,’ began Tremens.

  ‘Do you mean Iris Gobbelin? Agnes Crabbe’s best friend?’ said Shunter.

  ‘Yes indeed,’ said Tremens. ‘Her diaries changed everything.’

  At the library, the process of decommissioning the Incident Room had begun. But, first, the team was opening a few bottles of Prosecco; police budgets didn’t run to Champagne. DI Blount was having to miss the celebrations as he’d been admitted to hospital with suspected anaphylactic shock. Once discharged, he was due at Divisional HQ for a serious debriefing with his Chief Superintendent.

  ‘So how the hell did you make that leap?’ asked Banton. ‘I mean from some random historical marriage data to Agnes Crabbe having had a secret baby?’

  ‘As I’ve always said, it all comes down to connections; finding the facts between the facts,’ said Quisty. ‘Once we’d added the Welter/Falk/Tradescant family tree to our web of information, it simply jumped out at me. A child called Millicent who was ado
pted by the Falk family in 1916, almost eleven months to the day after Daniel Crabbe’s last visit home from the war. It had to be Agnes and Daniel Crabbe’s daughter.’

  ‘But how could you be sure?’ said Banton.

  ‘I couldn’t be totally sure but the probability was very high,’ explained Quisty. ‘Nasely is a small village – it was even smaller back then – and nearly all of the men were at the front. Babies were in short supply. And, as you know, Millicent wasn’t a common name and I just happened to know, because I once foolishly read Pamela Dallimore’s execrable biography of her, that Agnes Crabbe’s mother was called Millicent. Connect those facts together and we have a strong likelihood that baby Millicent was Agnes’s daughter. But even without those particular facts, the evidence of a secret child was there in front of us in Agnes Crabbe’s own writing.’

  ‘Swords into Ploughshares,’ said Banton.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Quisty. ‘As the title suggests, the book is about a group of soldiers returning to Little Hogley, a predominantly farming community, after being demobbed from the Great War. When someone starts to kill them off one by one, Miss Cutter finds herself embroiled in the investigation. It’s Agnes Crabbe’s best whodunnit by far but it is an unusually melancholic book for her. It dwells on personal tragedy much more than in any of her other books. But that makes sense if you imagine that you’re Agnes at that time, a young woman suddenly left widowed, alone, scared and pregnant. The story becomes one giant allegory for how she must have felt. All of the soldiers’ deaths are tragic and pointless, reflecting what she saw as the senseless loss of life in the trenches, particularly the loss of her own husband, father and brother. That’s a lot of grief for a young woman to bear when she’s already having to deal with the stress of being pregnant. And then there’s that poignant moment with the empty crib on page 103 where the widowed Primrose Pengelly breaks down in tears because she knows that she cannot cope with her newborn baby alone and has to give it away. It’s Agnes Crabbe exorcising her demons on paper. The clues were all there in the book.’