by Joyce Cato
‘I hope someone’s called the police?’ it was John Clarke who spoke, for the first time since entering the tent.
‘Yes, someone’s gone to call them,’ Sir Hugh answered.
John nodded, and got ponderously to his feet.
‘Just routine, I suppose,’ Sir Hugh added, and became unusually flustered when John’s big round eyes looked at him levelly. ‘I mean, in a case of sudden death and all that,’ Sir Hugh mumbled.
‘Nothing routine about this,’ John Clarke said quietly, looking down at his patient with a very odd expression on his face. ‘Nothing natural about it, either, I’m thinking,’ he added, even more quietly. The crowd, even though they’d been ushered by Sir Hugh to the top end of the tent and thus were well out of the way, nevertheless, heard this last comment. Not surprisingly, it caused a bit of a stir.
Monica heard him too, and abruptly decided to keep quiet about the glass capsule in the flower until the police arrived. It would serve little purpose in telling Graham now, especially if others might overhear and start speculating, perhaps alerting the killer to the fact that someone was already on to the truth of the matter. No, she had to secure the evidence and stop any possible contamination of the crime scene.
Pure fortitude made her take up her position again beside the vase of Peace. If somebody thought they were going to retrieve the little glass killer lodged in its petals, and thus remove all evidence of foul play, Monica thought grimly, they’d better think again.
A little less than half an hour later, Chief Inspector Jason Dury unsnapped his seat belt and climbed from the passenger seat of his unmarked police car.
It was nearly four o’clock now, and the afternoon was sweltering. It reminded him of another hot day last year, when he’d come to a village not far from here to investigate another suspicious death at a newly converted vicarage. For a second, the vision of a dark-haired, blue-eyed woman swam into his mind, but he quickly thrust it back out again.
He shut the car door behind him and looked around. He was wearing a dark blue suit, white shirt, and maroon tie. His corn-coloured blond hair had been recently cut, and the two wings from a centre parting tapered neatly to the nape of his neck. His pale blue eyes narrowed as they took in the two police cars and the constable on duty at the gate. In the unlikely event that this should turn out to be a murder case and not death from natural causes, he only hoped that someone had had the brains to put some uniforms at the other, less obvious, exits as well. Not that anyone who had wanted to leave hadn’t probably already left, long before the police showed up at the scene.
It was going to be one hell of a job trying to find out who might have been present earlier, but wasn’t now. He only hoped the fete-goers all had good memories for faces and names.
He nodded at the man on the gate, who nodded back very respectfully. By his side, Sergeant Flora Glenn smiled at the young copper and waited for her superior to step into the playing field.
Once inside, Jason looked over the scene carefully. It was an odd mixture of carry-on-as-usual, and stop-and-gawp. Somebody was bowling for a pig on the stall just to his right, but others were staring at him openly. An old lady bought the last of the fairy cakes from the WI stall, but the woman who absently handed them over gave out the wrong change, her gaze avidly fixed on the smart-looking couple who’d just entered the playing field. A uniformed copper, a tall, ginger-haired man with freckles and a hang-dog look, approached Jason and Flora and nodded smartly.
‘Sir. The victim is in the big tent over there.’ He didn’t point, and unknowingly earned himself brownie points with the chief inspector for his discretion. ‘It’s the vicar, sir. Just dropped dead, apparently.’
Flora stirred restlessly at his side, sensing a mere routine investigation stretching ahead of them. Flora Glenn was thirty-two, divorced, with a cap of black hair and deep green eyes. Many of her fellow policemen had made advances and been rejected since her divorce, and speculation was running rife as to whether or not Jason, who had a bit of reputation as a ladies’ man, was more than just her superior officer. Nobody, as yet, was daring to offer odds.
‘Hot in the tent, is it?’ Jason asked quietly.
‘Yes, sir. Boiling.’
‘The vicar, an oldish man, is he?’
‘In his fifties, I believe, sir.’
‘And you’ve called us in … why?’
The constable, who was called Brian Gilwiddy and had been in uniform for over five years, flushed nervously. ‘The local doctor …’ he lowered his voice carefully, ‘is unhappy. Very unhappy, and quite insistent about it.’
Jason looked at him with a clear gaze. ‘A GP?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Brian took a deep breath and looked his superior in the eye. ‘But one that I believe should be listened to.’
It was Brian, as the oldest and most experienced of the men at the scene, who had taken the decision to call in a senior man. And if it turned out that James Davies had indeed died of nothing more sinister than a heart attack, he knew that it wouldn’t be forgotten that it had been he who’d wasted the chief inspector’s valuable time.
But Jason merely nodded. He was a good judge of people, and he found himself respecting young Gilwiddy’s own instincts. Besides, if a doctor raised a question about a death, it simply had to be investigated, so there was no point giving anyone a rough time over it. ‘Right then, let’s see what we’ve got,’ he said mildly, and Flora noticed Gilwiddy’s shoulders relax as the tension suddenly left him.
‘Yes, sir,’ he said and quickly led the way.
Flora was aware of the many eyes boring into her back as they made their way to the tent.
Inside, because the constable had taken the decision to allow no one to leave, the interior was getting uncomfortably hot despite the open tent flaps. The scent of human sweat and fear competed with the more sickly sweetness being given off by the flowers, fruit, veg, and baked goods. Flora, dressed in a knee-length black skirt, a smart white blouse and black blazer, felt the heat prickle her skin the moment she stepped inside.
Jason, looking as cool and elegant as a male model, didn’t seem to notice. He looked around at the scene with a jaundiced eye, his gaze instantly falling upon the body on the flat, trampled grass, then moved on. The bright splashes of cheerful flowers contrasted jarringly with the funereal atmosphere of the people, who all turned to look at him with hopeful, curious eyes.
‘Well the crime scene’s well and truly contaminated,’ Jason said quietly to Flora.
‘Yes, sir. I think Gilwiddy did the right thing in keeping them all in here, though,’ Flora said.
Jason nodded. Since the damage was already done, he agreed with Flora’s assessment. Even so, the SOCO and forensics boys weren’t going to be happy.
‘Harrumph.’ A throat being cleared drew Jason’s attention, just as it was meant to. A tall, silver-haired gentleman, complete with moustache and a military way of walking, detached himself from the edge of the crowd and approached. From the way Gilwiddy made no demure, Jason assumed that the man had made himself spokesman. And, for the moment, Jason didn’t mind that. There were so many people in the tent that, until he’d got a team assembled to interview them all, it would be much easier to get the full story from only one of them.
‘Sir Hugh Featherstone, sir,’ Gilwiddy said quietly as the man approached. ‘Local squire and lord of the manor.’ There was just a touch of warning in his voice, and Jason was careful to take note of it. Sir Hugh had influence, and Jason was no idealistic tyro who thought that he could buck the system. Like it or not, it was always a good policy to treat the local bigwigs with respect, since most of them knew your boss, or were friends of the chief constable.
But it was also necessary to make sure that you never let them get the upper hand.
Sir Hugh held out a hand. ‘Good … er afternoon, Inspector…?’
‘Chief Inspector Dury, Sir Hugh,’ Jason introduced himself smoothly, and from somewhere in the crowd he heard a small, sharply
indrawn breath.
It came from Monica who, still standing by the rose table and a little behind the doctor, hadn’t yet seen Jason, but recognized his voice immediately. Alarmingly, her heart rate picked up a beat.
Jason, who’d instinctively glanced in the direction of the small, give-away sound, found his eyes running around the tables and then crashing to a halt. Over the shoulder of the rounded man standing in front of her, Jason saw the familiar dark head and big blue eyes of Monica Noble.
‘Er, yes. Quite,’ Sir Hugh said.
But Jason wasn’t looking at him now. Instead, a nasty feeling was creeping up his spine, and his eyes swivelled once more to the body on the floor. From where he was standing he couldn’t see the corpse’s face, only the clerical garb.
‘Did you say it was the vicar who was dead?’ Jason suddenly asked Gilwiddy, his voice sharp with anxiety and something else the constable wasn’t quite able to pinpoint.
Flora Glenn looked at Jason sharply, also hearing something unfathomable in her superior’s voice.
‘Yes, sir,’ Gilwiddy said smartly.
Instantly, Jason’s eyes went back to Monica, but she looked back at him steadily, her eyes bright but dry. She didn’t look overly grief-stricken or in shock. Then he looked back at the corpse on the ground and felt his shoulders slowly slump. Graham Noble was tall and lean, but the man on the ground looked fairly short and bulky. But for one awful moment there… .
He found himself letting out a long, low breath, even as Sir Hugh cleared his throat again and said, ‘James Davies. Our vicar here.’ And he gave a quick glance at the prone body before hastily looking away again. ‘Glad you came so promptly, er, Chief Inspector,’ he carried on, beginning to visibly swell as he sought to take charge. ‘We thought—’
‘Yes, thank you, Sir Hugh,’ Jason cut in smoothly but firmly. ‘Your local doctor is here, I believe?’ It totally took the wind out of the old soldier’s sails, and a look approaching respect appeared in his eye. If nothing else, Sir Hugh recognized command when he saw it.
Accepting his cue, John Clarke stepped forward. ‘Yes, I’m Dr Clarke.’ At first introduction he was not overly impressive, but then Jason met the level, wide-eyed gaze and suddenly understood why Brian Gilwiddy had listened to him.
‘Chief Inspector,’ John Clarke said. ‘If you’ll come with me?’
Jason followed him the short distance to the body, eyeing the trampled ground around it with more despair; but at least it meant that he could do no more harm in getting as close as he wanted. John Clarke knelt beside the body and leaned forward. ‘Note the blue tinge to the face?’ he asked, keeping his voice deliberately low-pitched.
Jason nodded.
‘The man’s eyes were open at the time of death,’ he added.
‘Who closed them?’ Jason asked sharply, but still quietly.
‘The dead man’s friend and fellow cleric, I believe, a Reverend Noble,’ John said calmly, his voice non-judgemental.
So Graham’s here too, Jason thought. He hadn’t spotted him, but then the tent was crowded. ‘I see,’ he said, his voice also totally lacking in censure. It had been a respectful and understandable gesture on the part of Graham Noble, but both professional men silently wished that he hadn’t done it.
‘So, why did you ask Gilwiddy to send for someone senior?’ Jason asked.
To the others watching this gruesome, low-voiced conference, it seemed as if secrets were being traded and that made all of them feel uncomfortable.
Monica, who’d had previous experience of this feeling of guilt-cum-anger, understood what was happening, and was therefore able to feel more patient about it than the others, who suddenly all wanted to be allowed out of the tent. They probably felt the first stirrings of fear and unease now that the forces of law and order had arrived. But someone, somewhere, wasn’t innocent, Monica thought grimly. Someone, one of us, she added to herself silently, was very much guilty.
Over the body of James Davies, John Clarke said quietly, ‘You might not be able to smell it now, but put your nose close to the victim’s mouth.’
Jason blinked, but did as he was told.
He had to sniff several times before he picked it up. When he did so, he felt himself stiffen incredulously. He straightened, staring at the doctor with disbelieving eyes. ‘Surely not?’ he said his voice more of a croak now than a whisper.
Flora Glenn, who knew her boss well, even though she’d only been working with him for a few months, felt her pulse quicken. Something was up. Jason Dury was one of the coolest, most professional coppers she’d ever met, and if something could surprise him, she wanted in on it.
‘Yes, I know how you feel,’ John Clarke said. ‘Incredible isn’t it. But true, I think.’
Jason continued to stare at him. In all his years as a serving officer, he’d investigated many kinds of murders – from brutal beatings by a husband resulting in a wife’s unexpected death, to the mess caused by a shotgun blast. From street killings with a knife – usually gang or drugs related – to arson.
But this … this belonged on a television programme. Or in an Agatha Christie book.
‘But people just don’t kill other people in this way any more,’ Jason said, sounding, even to his own ears, almost comically petulant.
John Clarke nodded knowingly. ‘I understand, all too well. In all my years as a doctor, I’ve never come across anything like it either. But that smell is unmistakable, and it was still quite strong when I first got here.’
‘Bitter almonds,’ Jason said.
‘Yes,’ John Clarke agreed flatly. ‘I had them send for you because I think this man was killed. With cyanide. Probably in a gas form, since I’ve had a quiet word, and nobody saw the victim eat or drink anything just prior to his collapse. And as you know, cyanide – or any of its close derivatives – works very quickly indeed.’
For a long moment the two men merely stared at one another, then Jason nodded curtly.
He rose, walked to his sergeant, and said quietly, ‘Call in SOCO and the pathologist. Get some more uniforms in here to cordon off the body and make sure nobody leaves.’
Flora nodded gravely, but was quivering with excitement. Her first murder case with Jason Dury! And something spectacular too, by the looks of it. ‘Yes, sir,’ she said crisply, and turned to walk quickly back to the car and its ever-present radio.
Murder, and fantastic murder at that, had definitely come to Caulcott Green flower show.
CHAPTER 10
‘Right, I need an overall picture of events,’ Jason said, still looking at John Clarke as he spoke. He knew it wouldn’t take SOCO long to arrive, so he thought he might as well make good use of the brief lull.
‘Don’t look at me,’ the GP said evenly. ‘When I got here, the poor sod was already dead.’
Jason, if surprised by the doctor’s rather abrupt and seeming irreverent manner, certainly didn’t show it, but glanced around instead, openly considering Sir Hugh. If he knew the type (and he did) he was bound to be chairman of the show and would have seen the whole thing, and be more than willing to tell his story. The only trouble was, Jason was sure that it would be just that – his story. Most witnesses, of necessity, tended to give very biased viewpoints.
What he needed was … Graham Noble, he thought suddenly.
It had been to the vicar of Heyford Bassett that he had turned, during the murder at his vicarage last year. The massive old building had been recently renovated into very elegant and sought-after flats, and when one of the new residents had been killed, both of the Nobles had been very useful to him in helping him to close the case. Both had kept their heads, and eyes and ears open. He’d be a fool, he told himself flatly, not to take advantage of their presence at a crime scene once again.
He nodded at John, turned to Gilwiddy, ordering him to make sure that nobody moved or touched anything near the body, then moved away. He glanced towards the back of the tent at the group of silent and shocked judges, most of whom found
it hard to meet his eyes, but Jason was too experienced to read anything into that; even the most innocent and innocuous member of the public could feel nervous and guilty when confronted by a full-scale police investigation. Also, it was obvious that James had been a popular man, and that his death had come as quite a blow to the small community.
And then he saw Graham. The vicar was a tall man, and had the kind of face that tended to stand out in a crowd. He looked like a Victorian poet, or an artistic academic, with that kind of fine-drawn elegant handsomeness that you didn’t see much of nowadays.
As Jason approached him, he saw the man begin to smile a warm welcome and felt the usual ambivalence begin to creep over him. He liked Graham Noble a lot, but he sometimes wished that he didn’t. More than that, he wished above all else that the man wasn’t married to Monica Noble.
Quickly, he caught the direction of his thoughts and rapidly applied his internal brakes. Even so, he was aware of feeling slightly uneasy as he halted in front of Graham and held out his hand in greeting. He’d thought that when he’d left Heyford Bassett after arresting the culprit in what had turned out to be a particularly nasty murder case, that he’d never see the Nobles again. Either one of them. And that that would probably be for the best. Now, just a year later, here they all were, back at the scene of another murder.
Talk about a bad case of déjà vu.
‘Chief Inspector,’ Graham said pleasantly, unknowingly interrupting the policeman’s grim line of thought.
‘Reverend,’ Jason acknowledged, a shade more curtly than he’d meant to. Because of that, a slightly puzzled expression creased Graham’s brows above his chocolate-coloured eyes. Instantly feeling guilty, and just a little foolish, Jason nodded vaguely towards the corpse. ‘We seem doomed to meet in tragic circumstances,’ he said quickly, by way of apology and explanation.
Graham’s face clouded. ‘Yes. James was a good friend of mine,’ he said simply.
Jason sighed with genuine sympathy. He’d thought that might be the case, of course, and he could only hope that Monica wasn’t too upset by what had happened to their friend. ‘I was wondering if you could give me an idea of what happened, sir, but if you would rather do it later, I quite understand.’