A Cure for Dying

by Jennie Melville

  Wimpey said, ‘If we get any closer to the girl, then we’re going to have to take on the father.’ His tone suggested this was not something to be undertaken lightly.

  Charmian bent down, removed Muff’s empty dish and replaced it with a bowl of milk. Not wanting milk, Muff stalked away with the angry gait of a cat engaged in keeping its owner in her place.

  ‘Shouldn’t your outfit be here by now?’ she asked Wimpey.

  ‘Yes, they are slow. About the Gaynors, ever met the father?’ Charmian shook her head. ‘I have once. Came to a community meeting we had, police and the neighbourhood, that sort of thing.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Lot of charm. But something cold and hard inside.’

  How could he really know from one meeting, Charmian thought. Ulrika had taught her that people were harder to know than that.

  ‘Let’s have a cup of tea while we wait,’ said Wimpey. ‘ I’ll put the kettle on.’ He was a domesticated animal, well able to find his way around other people’s kitchens. A strong relationship was growing up between them, not entirely professional. He admired her, and she liked him. They worked well together, they could be a team. Age didn’t come into it, but intellectual sympathy did.

  The teapot was next to the book on polo. He moved it carefully aside.

  ‘Hello, you interested in polo?’

  ‘Don’t say you play it?’

  ‘Never. You have to be a millionaire to do that. But I watch it. I love to see them shoving away at each other. Mind you, it’s the ponies you really admire.’ All the time he was putting in the tea, pouring water, with quiet expertise. The kettle seemed to have boiled faster for him than it ever did for Charmian. ‘Tea’s made.’

  The telephone rang loudly in the quiet room.

  Charmian bent to answer it. With a sudden flash of precognition, she said to Wimpey, ‘Did you leave the number here with anyone?’

  He nodded. ‘My wife. Always do.’

  It wasn’t his wife. She recognised the voice of an assistant to Chief Inspector Merry without being able to put a name to him. ‘It’s for you,’ and she handed the receiver over.

  She knew from the way his face changed as he listened that something had happened. Something over and beyond her little episode on the doorstep, nasty as it was.

  He listened carefully, saying little beyond ‘ Yes’ at intervals, and finally, ‘OK. I’ve got the message.’ He put the receiver down with a gentle hand as if it was both hot and explosive.

  ‘A car is on its way over. DC Oliver and a photographer will be in it. You can talk to him. But the stuff on your doorstep wasn’t chummy’s only activity tonight. Or it may have been just a curtain-raiser. There’s been another murder. Copy of the first.’

  ‘Where?’

  With real pain in his voice, he said, ‘In the garden of the Gaynor house.’

  ‘And the victim? Is it Mrs Gaynor?’

  ‘Funny we should both think that first? No, it’s a girl who was baby-sitting for them. The daughter of a neighbour, Millicent Ward.’

  He was getting himself out of the house and away with the same skill he had shown at the tea-making. He looked regretfully at the steaming pot. ‘ Won’t have time for that. Still, it’s all yours. And you’d better have it.’ To his eyes, she looked as though she needed it. Sweet hot tea, that was what you gave women in shock. Always had and always would.

  ‘I’ll be following,’ said Charmian. ‘Don’t think I won’t.’

  He was gone and the second police car had arrived before the tea was cold.

  DC Oliver eyed the teapot with appreciation. ‘Milk and two sugars, please.’ He looked round hoping for a biscuit as well, and not seeing any, drank his tea with a wide mouth. ‘We’ll get your bunny measured and photographed. It’s being done now, if you want to look.’ Charmian shook her head. ‘Then you can fill me in on the details. Is that the bit of paper?’ He took it carefully between tweezers, inserting it into a plastic bag which he labelled. All between big gulps of tea. ‘Got your prints on it, I suppose?’ He pushed his cup forward again. Unlike Wimpey he was one who naturally thought tea was a woman’s job. You were a man and thirsty, they poured out the tea. It was the way things worked.

  ‘Yes.’ Charmian filled his cup and, weakening, opened the tin of biscuits and offered him one. ‘Shortbread?’ He couldn’t help being young, hungry and brash.

  ‘They won’t be long with the photographs.’ He helped himself from the tin. ‘Then we’ll get your doorstep tidied up and be out of your way, ma’am,’ he added, as if remembering for the first time who and what she was. No doubt he was marvellous with lost dogs and old ladies. ‘I’ll just get out there to check.’

  While he was gone, Charmian tidied the kitchen. In a short whhile DC Oliver was back, Muff hanging from his arm like a fur boa.

  ‘Found her out there trying to get at the rabbit, ma’am. Better shut her up.’

  Muff looked sour, but dangled there limply, determined to co-operate in no way.

  ‘Something out there you missed, ma’am,’ Oliver said, as he handed Muff over. ‘Well, when I say missed, you couldn’t have seen it without moving Brer Rabbit because it was underneath.’ He held out a small brown label. ‘Tied round one leg. Got the butcher’s name on it. Came from a local shop.’

  Charmian read the name. ‘Fisher and Brown, Windlesham Street.’ She knew the name, occasionally shopped there herself. ‘About the best butcher in Windsor.’

  ‘Right, ma’am.’ He was still looking pleased with himself. ‘And there’s a bit more. Underneath, a bit blood-stained and mucky, you can read where it was meant to be delivered.’

  Handling it carefully, although any fingerprints were unlikely to have survived, Charmian made out the letters:

  The Housekeeper,

  WINDSOR CASTLE

  She stared at Oliver in surprise. ‘The Castle?’

  Oliver laughed. ‘ Never got there, of course. I reckon the Queen’s had her lunch nicked.’

  Still laughing, he took a brief statement from Charmian and then departed. Charmian shut Muff in her bedroom, collected her handbag and keys, preparatory to departing for the Gaynor house. No one had invited her to this murder, but she meant to be there.

  The police party had left her garden, it was dark outside, but she had put lights on inside the house.

  Slowly she walked down the path, she paused at her own gate for a moment. Finding a label on the rabbit was a valuable pointer. Possibly, just possibly, it might be a way to identify the thief.

  The thief might not be the person who had left the rabbit and the threatening note on her doorstep, and that person might not be the murderer. Nothing could be taken for granted. You were balancing one probability against another. But the finding of the piece of paper with the open circle on it, made it very likely. It was a kind of signature. She had had anonymous messages before in her time, but nothing like this.

  Why me, she thought again, why me?

  Because you are Chief Superintendent Charmian Daniels and somehow or other you are a threat to the killer.

  The moon had come up, but there were clouds scudding across the sky, so that the scene was sometimes brightly lit, then at other times clothed in darkness.

  As she closed the gate behind her, the moon came out from behind a cloud, shone brightly for a second, then disappeared again. Just for that second, she thought she saw a figure standing in the shadows of the garden across the road.

  She believed she had made out a shape. Tall, slender and still.

  She stood looking, wondering what to do. Then the moon came out again, and she saw nothing remarkable, just bushes and a lime tree.

  With resolution, she turned down the road towards her garage, and stepped out.

  A dark figure detached itself from the shadows, crossed the road, and padded behind her.

  Further down the street Marigold Marshall, a middle-aged widow, was walking her dog, a tall Irish wolfhound which she had inherited from a dead aunt tog
ether with a large sum of money and a house in Maid of Honour Row, a valuable freehold. There was not much love lost between Fergus and Marigold, but she did her duty on account of the inheritance. Also, she had loved her aunt.

  She saw the figure ueep out of the shadows like a dark stain and start to walk behind Charmian. For a moment she stood still and watched.

  ‘Fergus,’ she said. ‘That man is following that woman.’ She quickened her pace. Fergus gave a yelp of joy. He saw the chance of action. It was a long time since he had bitten anyone. He lifted up his head and made a delicious moan.

  The figure in front heard, looked round and saw the dog. He seemed to hesitate, and then ran back across the road and down a side street.

  Charmian walking fast, turned the corner towards her garage.

  Marigold moved more slowly. Should she tell the woman? She knew where she lived, having watched Charmian move in. Tomorrow perhaps.

  She turned round and plodded off home. Not a very nice night to be out, felt like rain. She did not listen to the television news that night, she never did, it was always so full of unpleasant things better avoided. For the same reason she did not take a newspaper. She relied on the milkman and her neighbours for news of importance. They would certainly tell her if the Queen was dead. Or if the Princess of Wales had another baby. But they had not bothered her with the murder in the Princess Louise Park.

  She went to bed and read the diary of Noel Coward. Much more her style.

  Chapter Eight

  Since Merrywick, although crowded by Windsor, Eton and Slough, regarded itself as a village and behaved like one, soon many people knew that there was trouble in the Gaynor house.

  Flora Trust and her sister Emmy were among the first to know. They had gone back with Nancy Waters and her dog to drink the coffee they had so badly missed at the Sesame Club meeting. As they were now in mufti, as it were, not representing the club or anything else, all three ladies, Emmy silently assenting, decided to take a little whisky with it. It was the sort of night, Flora said, when you needed a nip, and then they would be off home.

  From the sitting-room of Nancy’s house you could see the lights of the Gaynor house. Nancy, who was a keen neighbour watcher, knew how to read the signs.

  ‘Something’s up there,’ she said, sipping her whisky. It was a double enjoyment to have something to drink and something to watch. She was a woman who knew how to appreciate her pleasures.

  Flora got up to take a look. Emmy followed. It was she who saw the flashing blue lights, just discernible over the hedge. She looked at her sister, then pointed at them.

  ‘A police car.’ Flora’s eyes went wide. ‘Or an ambulance.’

  ‘Or both,’ said Nancy, being taller she could see the lights better than Flora could. Besides, it was her garden, she knew what to look for. ‘I think there is more than one light.’ Anxiously, but happily too because it was so interesting, she said, ‘Do you think we ought to go round to see if we can help?’

  Flora rightly interpreted this as meaning to see what was going on. ‘I’d like to.’ It was an honest answer and got an honest response from her hostess.

  ‘I won’t sleep a wink if we don’t.’

  No one asked Emmy, but she was moving before they were.

  ‘What about Bruce?’

  Nancy considered. ‘I think we’d better leave him behind.’

  Flora thought she would like to leave Emmy but of that, of course, there was no hope. She had nourished a vision of Mr Pilgrim somehow being her saviour but this golden dream was fading fast with his prolonged absence from their scene. Had he ever really been interested in them at all? Perhaps, as Miriam had been ready to hint, it was no more than a female fantasy. Did women have such fantasies? More pertinently, did this woman? It was something you wanted to know about yourself.

  By crossing the road to stand on the opposite pavement, the trio of women could see the Gaynors’ house. Not only were there three police cars lining the kerb, but an ambulance was drawn up behind them. A uniformed police constable stood on guard. The significance of this was not lost on the three women.

  ‘Oh, my goodness,’ said Flora. ‘ It’s bad all right. What can have happened?’

  ‘Let’s go a bit closer.’ For a better look, Nancy meant.

  As they moved down the road, they were joined by two other people and then by a man who had been watching from behind his hedge. There were muttered greetings as the group formed.

  ‘See that ambulance?’ said the man who had emerged from the hedge. ‘Look at the black windows. That’s the police mortuary ambulance.’ He added lugubriously, if there’s more than one body they will bring up another ambulance.’

  In silence, they stood watching. They were all there in time to see Charmian drive up, park her car, and walk in through the gate.

  ‘Do you think that means it is Annabel?’ whispered Flora. She didn’t expect an answer, nor did she get one. But the hedge-watcher said, ‘ There’s another police car round the corner. I could see it from my bedroom window. The third house round the bend, the one with the tulip tree.’

  ‘Who lives there?’ said Nancy Waters.

  He didn’t know, said the hedge-watcher. Hadn’t lived there long

  himself, he said. Hardly knew anybody.

  Emmy nudged her sister. She knew that tree. Say so, she was

  urging her sister.

  Flora spoke, ‘The tulip tree? The Wards have a tulip tree. Milly

  Ward sits in for the Gaynors when they go out.’

  ‘Oh well, there you are then,’ said the hedge-watcher. ‘ Looks as

  if something happened to her.’

  In a village you always get to know things about your neighbours.

  You have valuable source material from which you work it all out.

  Charmian Daniels made her way straight to where her friend Sergeant Wimpey stood in the garden of the Gaynor house. A canvas blanket like a black pall had been thrown across Millicent’s body. An assembled cast of police and lay technicians were performing their customary tasks. All the lights were on in the house, but none of the family was visible. Through the sitting-room window she thought she caught sight of Annabel. There was no sign of Chief Inspector Merry.

  ‘Where’s your boss?’

  ‘In there talking to the family. I’m in temporary charge out here.’

  ‘What about the girl’s family? Who’s talking to them?’

  ‘Jack Fraser.’ Jack Fraser was Inspector CID, based on the Alexandria Road Station. ‘As you can guess, we are a bit stretched.’

  Charmian looked across to the black shrouded figure. Then her eyes went to the jeans hanging from the tree. ‘Same MO as before?’

  ‘Exactly the same. Same sort of knife wounds as we have seen before.’

  Twice, if you counted the mare.

  ‘Before you do anything else,’ said Charmian, ‘I have something to tell you. I was followed to my car. I was just about to confront the follower when a dog made a racket behind and the fellow ran off. I lost him.’

  ‘It was a man?’

  ‘Of that I can’t be sure. It’s possible. I thought so at the time, but I only caught a flash. A figure wearing jeans and dark shirt and woolly hat pulled down low.’

  So she’d seen that much, Wimpey thought. ‘Right.’ Without another word, Wimpey was off, and she heard him talking on the telephone in the front police car.

  While she waited, she considered the scene before her. She walked towards the tree where she could see the jeans. They were hanging, legs apart, suspended from two branches at eye level. Her eye level, she was a tall woman. Draped across the top were a tiny pair of white bikini-style knickers. It was a macabre sight, as if the murderer had a sense of humour but did not know how to express it.

  She removed herself a few yards, leaning against a tree and thinking. Now would be the time to smoke a cigarette, except that she had given up smoking several years ago. She was still here, thinking, when Wimpey returned.
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  ‘That’s fixed. A search of the area is under way. Probably too late, but if he surfaces, we’ll get him.’

  ‘Fine. Thank you.’ Then she said, ‘Has anyone spoken to Joanna?’

  ‘I presume that Merry has done. He’s in there with one of the WPCs. But I don’t think anyone is going to be able to speak to her easily.’

  ‘Not even me?’

  ‘Especially you. If he knew you were in the garden, he’d have you out. Your name has been mentioned.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘By the mother. The father is busy erecting a stockade around the whole family. When he gets them all inside, he might come out himself and say a few words.’

  ‘You’re joking, of course.’

  ‘Not altogether. We’re dealing with a chap who knows the ropes.’

  He took her arm and turned her towards the gate. ‘I’d go, if I were you. You won’t do any good.’

  And might do some harm, he meant.

  Charmian moved her arm, gently but decisively. She wasn’t going. Or not yet. The male establishment was firming up against her.

  ‘There’s one thing I can tell you. No note. No scrawl on a bit of paper. That way this case is different.’

  You think so?’

  What do you mean? I assure you no paper has been found.’

  ‘May I take a look?’

  The covering on Millicent’s body had just been drawn back to allow a final photograph as they approached. Charmian knelt down beside the body to make, without touching, a concentrated survey.

  She had been looking at dead bodies for over twenty years now, and specialising in violent attacks on women and by women for the last eight years, but this death and the other that had gone before it had a special quality.