A Cure for Dying

by Jennie Melville

  ‘I must study the cases. Similar cases of child violence.’

  ‘Are there any?’

  ‘I do not know of many. There was the case of Mary Bell. But that was different. I must think.’

  Charmian hoped that events would wait upon Ulrika’s steady progress. She wondered if it would.

  ‘And there is the case of Saul Paul.’

  ‘I don’t know that one.’

  ‘It did not come to court. Anyway, a boy was involved. You are interested in females.’

  ‘I’ll take anything you’ve got.’

  ‘My advice now is to look at the family. The real trouble may be there. Simply transferred. Taken up by the child like a parcel.’

  Or a kind of infection, Charmian thought.

  ‘I will telephone,’ said Ulrika. ‘The weekend approaches.’

  ‘Not Sunday.’ Charmian remembered Humphrey and polo. ‘I have an engagement.’ Suddenly she knew she wanted to see Humphrey.

  ‘Why are we tramping around like this?’

  A fine Sunday afternoon in the Great Park at Windsor, that ancient hunting ground of English kings, now a gentle wooded space enclosing a great lake named after the Virgin Queen, Elizabeth, where people took picnics, walked dogs, and rode horses.

  And played polo.

  Charmian and her escort, Humphrey Kent, an eminent public servant, so high-ranking as to be anonymous, but exuding the unmistakable air of power which Charmian found at once attractive and exasperating, were on the flat piece of grass known as Smith’s Lawn. Cars were parked on the margins, horse-boxes behind them, with even the odd bicycle. And of course horses. They seemed everywhere, attracting almost as much attention, only not quite, as those of the Royals who were there in force. In sight was the pink and white marquee where a large party had lunched and drunk champagne.

  Now the whole crowd of spectators had swarmed on to the pitch and were walking all over it with firm feet. Charmian was puzzled. You didn’t walk on lawns. Or did you?

  ‘Everyone always comes out on the pitch between chukkas to tread down the turf. Makes it smoother. Helps the players.’

  It seemed a popular spectator sport. She had already caught sight of her friend Anny Cooper, and surely that was Flora with Emmy, her twin? No mistaking them, they were both dressed in yellow with matching hats. Now she came to think of it, she would put Flora down as a devoted, if secret, royal watcher, and it was probably to see them rather than the horses that she was here today. Emmy just went along. Anny’s motives were more doubtful. It might just be that she had some new clothes to show off. Anny wore a smart trouser-suit that looked like Jasper Conran, but Anny had both money and taste. She was also tall and thin. Charmian who had started having trouble with her weight again wondered if her friend was anorexic. If so, she rather envied her, she was too greedy herself. The lunch today had been delicious. A kind of chicken dish with curry, almonds and cream, then strawberries, the first of the season, and more cream. She had eaten far too much.

  ‘I’m getting mud on my shoes.’

  Humphrey laughed. ‘You look very nice in that blue and white thing. Well chosen. What do you make of polo?’

  ‘Not sure yet.’ Charmian was looking around. It was a smartly dressed and prosperous looking crowd. Not the sort of people she usually mixed with. They seemed friendly enough, though, and she had found plenty to talk about with both her neighbours at lunch. ‘Seems energetic. And I didn’t understand it altogether.’ Not at all, really, but she was not going to say so. Surely they could not be trying to knock each other off their mounts? Occasionally it had seemed so. Humphrey said it was called ‘riding-off’ but it looked like something much nastier.

  ‘I’ll get you a book on the subject.’

  The group trudging next to them was made up of a mother with two young children, a boy and a girl. They were treading down the turf, silently but efficiently. The girl, in particular, was working with a fierce concentration. Charmian observed her with amusement. A tough, muscular figure, she was doing a good job. Those booted feet were grimly grinding away at the sods as if she really hated them. A pretty girl, though, with long blonde hair and big blue eyes.

  ‘Don’t overdo it, Joanna,’ her mother, an older version of the girl, called. ‘Let’s go across and talk to Daddy.’ She started to sneeze. ‘Damn these horses.’

  The trio made their way towards the players. So father was in one of the teams? And Joanna? Charmian took in the name, watching the girl, as Joanna trailed behind her still-sneezing mother.

  They began to move that way themselves, because Humphrey wanted to talk to a friend who had a polo string. They got close to the area where the horses and grooms were parked. Ponies were being walked by young women. Most of the grooms seemed to be girls.

  ‘I know that face.’ She did indeed, and the faces holding the next two animals. ‘It’s Lesley. And there is Johnny. Gillian and Freda behind. So that’s what they do.’ Not acrobats or a pop group, but work with ponies.

  Humphrey looked across. ‘Oh, that’s Tommy Bingham’s string.’

  Next day, while Charmian was preparing to go to work in London, she had a telephone call from Sergeant Wimpey. He said what he had to say without preamble.

  ‘We’ve got a body. Young woman. Reported missing earlier. Now she’s turned up. Or what’s left of her. In some bushes in the Princess Louise Park.’

  ‘But that’s where—’

  ‘Yes, where you were attacked. Want to come and have a look?’

  It was a request with its own built-in imperative.

  There was only one possible response and she made it: ‘Give me a minute to make a ’phone call and I’ll be right there.’

  She had no idea then that she was going to see the Frisian beard. She had not thought of the thing for decades.

  But the idea of it must have been there all the time in her mind, ready to pop out as a comment. That was an interesting thought in itself.

  Chapter Three

  The Princess Louise Park is small, but not as small as it looks, it narrows towards the river where there are hidden, secret places, the occasional haunt of lovers, drunks and vagrants. Beyond the tennis-courts which are bordered by the path where Charmian had been attacked, is a rough, undulating area of trees and shrubs containing a small pond where hardly anyone goes. Apparently not even the park-keepers.

  The body of the woman was lying in a hollow, hidden by an overgrown clump of rhododendrons and azaleas, now in full flower.

  She had been resting there for some time. Her body, so long exposed to the sun and rain, was at the moment covered with a plastic sheet. The whole area around had been taped off so that it could be searched. As Charmian arrived the photographic group was still at work. Later teams of searchers would go over the grass with intense care. Every scrap of paper, threads of fabric, shreds of wood, pieces of plastic, dog hairs, and birds’ feathers, the detritus of everyday living would be rescued and examined to sec what they could add to the picture of how this woman had died and at whose hands.

  ‘It’s your sort of murder,’ said Sergeant Wimpey.

  ‘Thanks.’ But she knew what he meant. Here was a woman violently assaulted and killed.

  The scene-of-the-crime officer with his bag had already arrived. No one she knew, but a figure easy to recognise. There was a peculiar worried look that those chaps had. A civilian specialist, this one, like the photographer. The divisional surgeon whom she did know was talking to a man she knew to be Detective Chief Inspector Merry. Behind them was the specially equipped police van.

  And further behind them still, in the nearest police station, the major incident room would be assembling itself, ready to take on this new investigation.

  There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that this was a major criminal investigation. She could see it on Sergeant Wimpey’s face, even if her own instincts had not informed her.

  ‘She is lying so close to where you were attacked that we thought it was worth bringing you in to
have a look. Just in case you saw anything or thought of anything that related to the attack on you.’

  It was a tribute to Sergeant Wimpey’s standing that he seemed to have got a foothold in this new case, although he had started out investigating the slain horse. Of course, they might be short staffed.

  ‘How long has she been dead?’

  ‘Long enough.’ His face was thoughtful. ‘ Don’t really know yet until the scientific boys make an estimate, but I saw her and I’d say soon after she was reported missing.’

  ‘And that was?’

  ‘Soon after the attack on you. Reported missing that next morning. Might have been killed the night before.’

  So that would place the death only hours after the attack on Charmian. It might even have taken place before. Only a check on the last time the victim was seen would make that clear.

  I could have been lying there, Charmian thought. My kind of murder, indeed.

  ‘And in the same space of time, roughly, when the pony was killed,’ said Wimpey.

  ‘You aren’t associating this killing with that?’

  Wimpey paused. ‘Perhaps you should see the body before I say any more.’

  As they approached the body, Charmian was conscious of a sweet, sick smell and the lazy movement of a cloud of flies in the bushes as if not too long disturbed.

  Wimpey brushed angrily at the bushes. ‘Makes me sick.’

  The young woman lay spread-eagled on her back, arms flung above her head. She had worn jeans and a cotton shirt with a pale blue cardigan. Or it had been pale once, now it was dirty and bloodstained.

  Her throat had been cut and there was one great slash from the navel downwards.

  Charmian, experienced officer that she was, turned her head aside, from the swollen, discoloured face.

  ‘Who found her?’

  ‘A tramp who drops in here around Ascot time. Just a bit early this year. He’s at present crying in the local nick and saying he’s innocent.’

  ‘You don’t suspect him?’

  Wimpey shook his head. ‘He’s a known figure. No violence. Used to be a groom before he took to drink.’

  ‘Identity?’

  ‘Well, I agree you couldn’t do it on her face the way it is, but there are the clothes, and she had her bag. Mrs Irene Colman, twenty-three, reported missing on the morning of 23 May by her husband.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘As suspect? Well, I agree that a look close at home is a sound rule, but in this case, perhaps not. Mr Colman has multiple sclerosis and has been bedridden for some months. He can’t even walk to the front door, he can just about pick up a telephone. His wife worked as a shop assistant in Baileys selling stockings during the day, and at night she worked in the Buzz night-club. That way they paid their bills. Makes you sick, doesn’t it?’

  ‘So she would always have had a late walk home.’

  ‘No, not always. Usually she drove. She had an old car, because she was nervous of the walk, but that night it broke down. Or she was out of petrol or some such. The car is still outside the Buzz.’ He spoke as if he knew the night-club, as indeed he did, although not as a patron. The Buzz had known fights with knives, had had a death on the premises, and found itself under suspicion of selling drugs. The Buzz had survived unclosed and unchanged, but it was always of interest to the police.

  ‘Remind you of anything?’

  Charmian looked down again at the body. There certainly was something familiar about those wounds.

  ‘Are you relating this to the mare’s killing?’

  ‘The knife work looks the same.’

  ‘You think the other was a practice run?’

  He shrugged. ‘Who knows?’

  ‘The pathologist may be able to tell if the same knife, or the same hand used the knife. Be a bit speculative. But it would be worth advising a look at the mare.’

  Tentatively, he said, ‘If both killings are by the same hand, this would rule out the child, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘One would certainly hope so. I may have seen her yesterday, by the way. Blonde girl, pretty fair hair, tall. Out in the park watching polo with her mother and brother.’

  ‘Sounds like her.’

  ‘Let’s be content to call this killer a man, shall we?’ said Charmian. ‘For the time being.’

  As she turned away, she thought, If the two killings prove to be connected, it may not be that the first was a rehearsal, it might be that the killer wanted to kill but drew back at first from a human victim.

  Now something had driven him over the edge. It was a chilling thought.

  ‘We might be at the beginning of a Ripper-style murder series.’

  ‘My thought exactly.’

  Chief Inspector Merry had started to move in their direction. He had kept an eye on Charmian ever since she arrived. Knew the woman, of course. Wasn’t sure if he approved of her, but he had colleagues that did. Also she had influential backing. One had to watch one’s step. He was not a man for watching his step, preferring to step heavily on whatever was in his way, but life had taught him that this was not always the way to go on.

  He greeted Charmian cheerfully and politely. He liked women and she was attractive enough. ‘Good of you to come.’

  ‘I’m interested.’

  ‘So what do you make of it?’

  ‘So far?’ asked Charmian cautiously. ‘Alarming. Whoever did this killing is almost out of control.’

  ‘I hate these “met-by-chance” killings, if that is what it was. You know where you are if it’s a straightforward domestic crime. In the family.’

  ‘She may have known her killer.’

  ‘Doesn’t look like it. Not how I see it. He was just hanging around in this area and she walked into him.’ He did not say, ‘Just like you did,’ but it was in his mind. He turned to Charmian. ‘Anything you see here that ties in with the attack on you?’ His eye strayed briefly to the bruise still staining her cheek-bone.

  ‘Nothing except the place.’

  ‘We’ll be moving the body soon. Stay around and watch. You may see something.’

  The removal got under way with the usual slow care. The body, still covered, was lifted onto a metal stretcher and carried to a waiting mortuary ambulance which moved off across the grass.

  As the body had been raised, a piece of paper which had been caught underneath fluttered in the breeze.

  Wimpey bent down quickly to pick it up.

  A cheap sheet of plain white writing-paper. On it, drawn in thick, hasty pencil, was a rough shape.

  A kind of squared circle, not quite a square, not quite a circle, somewhat oblong towards one end and the other end not completely joined, although it might have been meant to.

  Charmian took a look. ‘A Frisian beard,’ she said spontaneously.

  Years ago, while an undergraduate, she had had a boyfriend who was studying early Anglo-Saxon society. He took her to museums and archaeological digs to see their remains. He had taught her to recognise a Frisian beard. A line of sturdy stone warriors on an ancient church porch, busily laying about them with axes and staves, and each wearing a short spadelike beard had been his teaching ground. ‘That’s a Frisian beard,’ he said.

  It was all she recalled about the episode, she hardly remembered him now except that he had had red hair, but the image of the beards seemed to have stayed.

  The two men looked at her in surprise.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why I said that.’

  After a day of routine work in London, plus two committees, one of which she chaired, Charmian returned to her home in Windsor. It already felt like home. There was a card on the doormat from Kate, she was no longer in Venice but had moved on to Florence. More than that could not be read since Muff had chewed and clawed at the card, apparently giving it the rôle of supermouse.

  There was also a parcel, delivered by hand, which felt like a book. She put that aside to look at after she had fed Muff, who was making angry but hopeful n
oises of welcome and hunger.

  She opened the packet while she ate an omelette. A book on polo by Marco.

  ‘Oh good, a joke.’

  It was a battered old green volume, obviously much studied and much loved. A note from Humphrey came with it.

  ‘I’m getting a chum to drop this in.’ (Humphrey always had a chum to do useful chores.) ‘Look after the book. It belonged to my father. Hope you enjoy it, should tell you a lot about polo.’

  She looked at the pictures while she drank some coffee. There was something called a ‘wooden horse’ that was useful to have, which you kept in a polo pit which was not a pit but looked more like a hen-run.

  Noises of music and happy shouts from next door suggested that her neighbours were having a party. At least she now knew where they worked and that they were grooms to a rich man’s string of polo ponies.

  As she finished her coffee, she watched the television news. The Windsor murder was briefly reported, with pictures of the Princess Louise Park, together with a flash of the castle in the background for no known reason except local colour. There were no fresh, details. She got up, dislodging Muff from her lap, to turn off the set.

  The Frisian Beard episode had opened a kind of hole inside her, stirring up memories, not oddly enough of the archaeologist or the young girl she had been, but of an affair she had worked on in Windsor.

  She had lost touch with most of the characters in that story. Life itself had drawn them apart. Death, imprisonment, in some cases promotion and ambition had separated them. She still kept up with a clever, young policewoman, Dolly Barstow, whom she had met then, because she saw in her a mirror image of herself when young.

  But not the group of women criminals she had been studying. (With the exception of the one called Baby. Baby was always an exception and might pop up in her life any day.)

  Her friend Anny Cooper had taken her to task.

  ‘Do you still keep up with those women?’

  ‘No,’ she had answered slowly. ‘No, life does not work like that.’ She had had other tasks, other responsibilities. They represented a job done. But in a sense, they had never left her, walked with her still, far from silent ghosts, reminding her that she was a woman. ‘I know what became of them. But I don’t see them.’ Except for Baby, Beryl Andrea Barker, who seemed a permanent element in her life.