Murder for Good

by Veronica Heley

  Ellie said, ‘That’s a good idea. I’ll tell them.’

  Mrs Jermyn’s eyes lost their focus. ‘You can tell the soaps by the accents, whether it’s on the telly or the radio. There’s always a mix of old and young, men and women, and you can hear the difference. Mrs Pullin was addicted to The Archers. Seven p.m. to seven fifteen. You could set your clock by it. I have my tea about half six, so that I can watch the cookery programmes on the telly later. When I’ve finished, I take my tray back into the kitchen and set the dirty dishes in a bowl of water in the sink, ready to wash up in the morning after breakfast. Then I make myself a nice pot of tea, and I’ll be brewing up when The Archers started. Sometimes I’d bang on the wall when I heard that dratted music come on and she’d bang back, just for the hell of it. Not meaning anything serious. Then I’d take my tea into the front room, put the telly on, and that would be that for the evening.’

  Mrs Jermyn sipped more coffee. ‘You don’t expect The Archers to come on at half past nine at night when you’re filling your hot water bottle ready to take up to bed with you. I’ve got an electric blanket, but the switch is fiddly and I can put a hot water bottle just where it does most good under my bad leg, and that sees me through the night. I can’t be doing with those switches that you turn this and you press that and I can never find the instructions. Plus, the hot water bottle is better for the environment, isn’t it?’

  Ellie picked up on the important point. ‘The night she died, you heard The Archers come on at half past nine? No, that’s not what you said. You heard shouting from her kitchen at half past nine?’

  ‘Might have started earlier, but I heard it when I went out to the kitchen to put the kettle on. It might have been going on for a while before. It wasn’t The Archers, like those numbskulls from the police said it was. It wasn’t the radio. It was two women screaming at one another. Or rather, her, Mrs Pullin, shouting. I know her shout. Been living with it for years. The other one screamed, and it was a woman, yes. High-pitched. Screeching, rather than screaming. It went right through me. I nearly dropped the kettle. Then I banged on the wall. You can see the dent where I’ve been banging for years.’

  They both looked at the wall, and yes, there was a dent in the plaster next to where the radio stood.

  Mrs Jermyn said, ‘I banged and I shouted, but they were going at it too hard to hear me. I thought that she was having a row with someone in her family so I didn’t do nothing about it. I feel guilty about that. Someone stuck a knife in her that night. Or maybe it was an accident and she did it to herself, like the police said. I don’t know which it was. But if I had gone round, I could have got help for her and she might not have bled out.’

  ‘Did you have a key?’

  ‘No, but you can’t help thinking what if, can you? Anyway, while I was stood there, with the kettle in one hand and the hot water bottle in the other, wondering if I ought to do something or not, the screaming stopped and her wireless was switched on. So I thought, well, her visitor’s gone and she didn’t yell for help, so that’s all right. I went up to bed and didn’t think anything of it till the next morning when I came down and her wireless was still on, which it didn’t ought to have been as she never got up as early as me. So I went round there and rang the bell and couldn’t get no answer. I came back in and the radio was still playing. That’s when I called the police. I’ve never had to call the police before. I kept thinking I was doing the wrong thing, that there’d be some mistake and Mrs Pullin would be annoyed with me for bringing the police in when there was nothing the matter with her. Only, there was. She was dead. Bled to death, they said. If I’d only gone round there.’ Mrs Jermyn finished off her coffee and put the mug down on the table. ‘But I didn’t.’

  ‘If you had gone round and she’d been stabbed by someone else, you might have been killed, too.’

  ‘I know, I know. Nor I didn’t have keys.’

  ‘Who did have keys?’

  ‘Her stepson and stepdaughter, though they didn’t come round often. The cleaner must have had a set because I’ve seen her coming out and locking up behind her when she leaves. And there was some woman come from the social, or the church, was it? I think they used to let themselves in when they came. I’ve been thinking about it a lot. If I ever get so’s I can’t get to the front door to let someone in, then I’ll have one of those boxes for keys put in the porch that you can only open if you have the combination.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Ellie. ‘It was definitely a woman you heard screeching?’

  ‘It’s that high, hysterical note you can’t mistake. Not the radio.’

  ‘The police didn’t believe you heard people. They thought you heard the radio, right?’

  ‘It was easier for them not to believe me, wasn’t it? They said Mrs Pullin must have been listening to the radio and cutting something up for the cats when the knife slipped and she couldn’t stop the bleeding. End of story. They looked at me and thought I was some old dear who’d slipped her cogs and mistook the time that The Archers come on. I told them and told them: the radio come on after the screeching stopped.’

  Ellie tried to think it through. ‘They proved it wasn’t a member of the family with Mrs Pullin that night. They all had alibis. Who else would she have let in at that hour? Surely a cleaner wouldn’t have called at that time, would she?’

  ‘The cleaner could be on her way back from some other job, calling in to collect her wages, or dropping back some stuff that Mrs Pullin wanted from the supermarket. That’s more likely than it being someone from the social because they don’t work that late, do they?’

  ‘Did the police talk to her cleaner, or enquire about someone visiting from the social?’

  ‘If so, they didn’t tell me. I got back to them a couple of times, and they said enquires were proceeding but that the family were out of it, and would I please shove off and plant some daisies. Or words to that effect.’

  There was a tingle starting at the back of Ellie’s neck. ‘You think that she had a visitor who got into a fight and stabbed her? Or that Mrs Pullin stabbed herself by accident while her visitor was there? You think that when the visitor saw what had happened she panicked and, instead of calling for help, made herself scarce?’

  ‘Mrs Pullin wouldn’t have opened the door to anyone who didn’t have a key after dark, unless she knew them. I asked the police if there was a bunch of keys missing, but they said they had everything in hand and I should have a sit down with a cup of tea.’

  Ellie inched forward in her chair. ‘The cleaner. What did she look like?’

  A shrug. ‘I only saw her once or twice, coming or going. She had keys. She was fiftyish maybe, all pepper and salt, fuzzy hair, dress and shoes. Not dirty, but not good clothing. Handbag by charity shop. Large shopping bag from the Co-op.’ She inhaled sharply. ‘You know her?’

  Ellie rubbed her eyes. ‘I might do. I knew someone like that once, and yes, I do think that person might well have got into a fight about something and lashed out, but I might be quite wrong. Did you hear her name, by any chance?’

  ‘No. I weren’t on visiting terms with Mrs Pullin, so she never told me, neither. You’ll tell the police?’

  ‘I would do if I were sure of the facts. I did tell the police that someone who answers to your description and whom I know as Hetty, played some tricks on me and my husband, and they’ve made enquiries, but she’s moved on somewhere, no one seems to know where. The police have given up looking for her. She didn’t actually murder anyone …’ Ellie’s voice died away. ‘Or … you think she killed Mrs Pullin? Your neighbour might have cut herself after her visitor had gone.’

  ‘I thought of that. I thought of a dozen different ways it could have happened. That she cut or stabbed herself, that this woman – whoever she was – and Mrs Pullin had a struggle over the knife for some reason and Mrs Pullin stabbed herself by accident. All I know is that they were both shouting at one another. Then the shouting stopped and the radio came on. Nothing more till
I heard the front door shut with a bang as the visitor left. I’ve told myself a dozen times that if you’re alone and you hurt yourself badly, you do something about it. You scream. You reach for the phone. You bang on the party wall and yell for your neighbour to help you.’

  ‘Unless you lose consciousness too quickly to do anything. It depends if you’ve cut an artery or not. Could you make out the words they were shouting at one another?’

  ‘No. But if someone shouts “Help!” that’s different from shouting in anger, isn’t it? What I heard was anger. The thing is, if Mrs Pullin cut herself by accident, why didn’t her visitor call for an ambulance?’

  Ellie said, ‘You’ve described the woman I know as Hetty to a T. If it is her, then that isn’t the only time she’s been faced with a dying person and then run away. She’s never been caught, never been interviewed by the police. If only we had some idea where she went when she left me!’

  TWENTY

  Friday, noon, continued

  Mrs Jermyn looked at her fingers. ‘My cleaner said … but she might be quite wrong. She’s a dreadful gossip.’

  ‘Your cleaner knows Mrs Pullin’s cleaner?’

  ‘Not to speak to, but she noticed her coming and going. She says, but she may be mistaken, she says that she thought she saw Mrs Pullin’s cleaner go into the care home on the main road. The Cedars, it’s called, though there’s not a tree in sight. It’s like my calling this house Oak Place, or Mansion or whatever. Someone had a flight of fancy, calling it that.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Yesterday. I’ve been thinking about it, not sure what to do since the police took no notice of what I said. Now you turn up looking for her, and it looks like it was meant.’

  ‘The Cedars,’ said Ellie. ‘Got it. You want me to go and have a look? And then what? Make a citizen’s arrest?’

  A grin. ‘I’ve always wanted to do that, but I’m too old, now. I can’t go chasing criminals down the road, yelling “Stop, Thief!” I don’t own a pepper spray or a car so that I can tail villains to their lair like the detectives on the telly. I can only sit in my chair and think what I might have done if I were twenty years younger. I’ll see you to the door, shall I? And you’ll let me know what happens? I hate to miss the end of a good story.’

  Ellie got to her feet and reached for her handbag. ‘Life’s not as tidy as that, but I promise to let you know if I find her.’

  Ellie set off down the road, keeping her eyes open for Hetty. The houses in this street were all like Mrs Jermyn’s and Mrs Pullin’s. Each had its own small but usually well-tended front garden. It was a neighbourhood in which the occupants took pride in their property, had their weekly food shopping delivered from Waitrose or Tesco, sent their smallest children to nurseries, saw that their primary school offspring did their homework more or less, and considered recycling to be important.

  Following Mrs Jermyn’s instructions, Ellie came to a main road which boasted a small parade of shops. There was a deli, a Co-op, a dry cleaners, a hairdressers and a coffee shop. The Cedars stood some way along on the opposite side of the road. It was a modern, three-storey, purpose-built affair, with ample parking space in front. This would be a privately-run property and the residents would expect a sherry with their evening meal. It was exactly the sort of place in which Ellie might have expected Hetty to work. Wealthy people would pay to live there, ending their days in comfort.

  Hetty was attracted to wealthy old people, wasn’t she?

  Could she have passed herself off as a qualified carer? No. She would be there as a cleaner, perhaps? Or as a cook on a minimum wage?

  Ellie crossed the busy road and approached The Cedars. The front door was locked. Of course. Ellie tried the intercom and a disembodied voice asked who she wished to speak to.

  Ellie said, ‘I’m trying to track down my old housekeeper, Hetty, who left without her last week’s pay. Someone said they thought she was now working here.’

  ‘Oh. Hetty. Yes. Well. She’s cleaning on the top floor at the moment but will be free in half an hour at the end of her shift. Who shall I say wants to speak to her?’

  Bingo! Hetty was still using her own name.

  Ellie thought it wouldn’t do any good to identify herself as Mrs Quicke, considering the circumstances under which Hetty had left. Well, why not say she was the widow of a man who had died under slightly suspect circumstances? Why not give Ellie’s old friend Gwen Harris’s name? Ellie didn’t think Gwen would mind. An added benefit was that Gwen had said Hetty had only been employed after she, Gwen, had left the house, so Hetty would not know what Mrs Harris looked like.

  Ellie bent closer to the intercom. ‘Harris. Hetty looked after my husband, Harold, that was. I don’t think Hetty was given her last week’s wages. Also, I believe he meant to leave her something in his will. I’d like to check up that she got the money all right.’

  ‘I’ll tell her to ring you when she comes off duty, shall I?’

  ‘I’m in the neighbourhood at the moment and I did rather want to see her. There’s a coffee shop just down the road. Perhaps she’d like to join me for a cuppa when she comes off work?’

  ‘I’ll tell her.’ The intercom clicked off. Ellie found her way to the coffee shop and took a seat at the back of the cafe so that Hetty wouldn’t spot her immediately when she came in.

  Ellie treated herself to a latte and a big wodge of Victoria sponge, home-made and beautifully light as well as tasty.

  The main road was busy. Ellie amused herself by noting how busy it was. Two different bus services used the route. The pavements were thronged with shoppers. The cafe was popular with a mix of young mums and older, retired men and women. A nice little earner, clean and quiet. The musak wasn’t intrusive, either.

  Ellie pulled out her mobile phone and after a struggle with the technology – why did they have to keep ‘improving’ these gadgets? – managed to get through to her old friend, Gwen Harris.

  ‘Gwen, it’s Ellie. How are you doing?’

  ‘A bit better, I suppose. I make myself walk around the block twice a day. Are you coming round for a cuppa this afternoon?’

  ‘Can’t today. I’ll ring you tomorrow. Just one quick question. What’s the name of your cleaner, the one who looked after Harold while you were away?’

  ‘Um, dunno. Never met her. Hang on a mo. It was Henry. At least, I think that’s what Harold called her. No, that’s not right, is it? He got her from an agency, don’t know which one. He said she had some poncey name that he couldn’t pronounce, so he called her Henry.’

  ‘Henrietta? Hetty for short?’

  ‘Mm. Yes. That sounds about right. He said she cleaned better than me, and it’s true the house was spotless when I got back. You know what he was like, had to have things just so. Did you want to contact her? I’m afraid I don’t have the address. I gave all the bills to the solicitor and he dealt with them for me. I suppose I could ask him for her details, if it’s important.’

  ‘You don’t remember whether or not Harold left Hetty some money in his will?’

  ‘I didn’t pay much attention. I remember there were lots of small legacies to charities and such. Surprising, really, as he never had much time for them in his life. Salvation Army, Cancer Research. You know the sort of thing.’

  ‘Thanks, Gwen. It was just a thought. I’ll be in touch tomorrow.’

  Ellie considered a possible scenario. Hetty gets job with an elderly gent – Harold Harris – through an agency. Elderly gent complains that his wife, Gwen, has deserted him. He makes a will.

  Why does he make a will? Because he realizes he’s not immortal? Perhaps he’s been prompted to do it by a friend … or by his cleaner?

  Harold mentions he’s making a will to Hetty, who suggests he might leave a little something to Thomas and herself along with other worthy causes. Harold is in a lot of pain, feeling sorry for himself. Hetty offers him some of her stash of tablets to ease his suffering. Elderly gent dies. Hetty loses her job but ge
ts a windfall from his estate.

  In this scenario, Hetty is not guilty of anything except passing on some medication which she had acquired legally.

  The same might well have applied to other cases in which she’d been involved. It wasn’t a criminal offence to get herself and Thomas mentioned in various people’s wills. True, she ought not to have passed on tablets prescribed for someone else and yes, she ought not to have kept tablets which she’d been asked to dispose of. But none of that amounted to murder.

  Ellie wondered if Hetty had ever done anything which could be classed as murder.

  Well, she’d fed tablets to Thomas which had put him in hospital. That was a criminal offence, surely … although a clever person could argue that Hetty had had no idea that Thomas had a susceptibility for the tablets he’d been given, and that they wouldn’t have affected anyone else so badly.

  Yes, Hetty had drugged Ellie and locked her in. That had been naughty but there had been no ill effects. Yes, Hetty might get a slap on the wrist for that if taken to court, but … murder? No.

  Mrs Pullin? What had happened there? What had all the shouting been about? A knife had ended Mrs Pullin’s life, but there was no proof that Hetty had been within five miles of the woman at the time. It had probably just been an accident.

  Yet Ellie had a horrid feeling that Hetty and murder went together like sage and onion, or Darby and Joan. Only, there was no proof.

  Ellie thought she might as well abandon her projected meeting with Hetty and go home, where there was plenty to do.

  But here came Hetty, peering into the window of the cafe to see if she could spot Mrs Gwen Harris, whom she’d never met. There was no other older woman in the cafe sitting by herself, so with any luck Hetty would assume that Ellie was the unknown Mrs Harris. Ellie held the menu up before her face, so that Hetty couldn’t immediately identify her.