The Games People Play Box Set

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “We know where Carol was first grabbed,” Sylvia said at once, “and we can see from those footprints where he tried to grab the next one. We could probably work out Pam’s place, knowing she was travelling by car between her mother’s house and Rochester Manor. Somewhere halfway between, I’d guess. And we could go for a long walk along that route and see if we could find anything.”

  “Tyre prints would have been washed away weeks ago.”

  “But there might be something else.” Sylvia still stood at her door and tapped the map. “But from this alone, I think we know he must live somewhere in the neighbourhood.”

  Harry turned, thinking of something. “And did the police ever find Pam’s car?”

  Sylvia shook her head. That was another of the puzzles.

  They walked often through the trees and along those roads, the narrow country lanes and the alleys leading between villages. They explored the banks of the trickling Torr, peering into grass and water, but found only large beetles, worms, slugs, small garden spiders, and a roost of little squeaking black bats in a barn. There were ducks on the water and the ripples showing where tiny fish swam, but as winter matured there was less to see. The wildlife hid or hibernated, the trees were stark and leafless, and the gales whined through the valleys.

  Neither Harry nor Sylvia saw anything of their principal goal. Where they discovered small barns and the old tin roofed sheds clustered on farmland, they sneaked in to see if any place had been used by a depraved madman, abducting and torturing women. But all they discovered were bales of straw and hay, stored grain and barrels of homemade wine. Harry had his nose to one barrel, admiring the scent of fermenting blackberries when the farmer, huge pronged rake in hand, marched in and demanded to know who was trespassing on his property, and to show what they had stolen.

  “I’d steal that barrel of blackberry wine if only I could carry it,” said Harry, somewhat unwisely.

  “We are – private detectives,” Sylvia told the irate farmer. “I do apologise for not having previously asked permission, but that might give some killer a chance to getaway.”

  The farmer stared at Sylvia’s and Harry’s aged legs and sighed. “So you’d be running after the killer, I’d guess, if he run away? And you reckons you’d catch the bugger?”

  “Perhaps not,” said Harry, grinning, “but we’d get a good look at him before he disappeared.”

  “Well, you sees him, you can have him,” grumbled the farmer. “In the meantime, you gets off me land.”

  On only one other occasion were they discovered by the land-owner but were immediately invited into the kitchen for tea by the farmer’s wife, who was fascinated by the current news of slaughter in the area and wanted to know more. “After all,” she conceded, “t’won’t be me the bastard’s after, will it. He likes ‘em young and pretty, and that ain’t me.”

  After a week, they had ruined their second-best boots in the mud and icy water, and wore holes in the knees of their woolly tights and jeans.

  “A waste of time,” sighed Sylvia, chucking her tights in the bag of crumpled paper and empty chocolate wrappers.

  “It’s not,” said Harry, lying flat out on the bed after kicking off his boots. “At least we know where this place isn’t. O.K. finding out where it is would have felt more like success, but this isn’t actually failure.”

  “So we go again tomorrow.”

  “No, we go shopping tomorrow,” said Harry. “It’s nearly Christmas. There’s presents to buy.”

  “And send cards to all our friends and family in gaol.”

  “It’s beginning to feel like that. We visit Cavendish House in the morning and Fletcher in Blackhurst Prison during the afternoon.” Harry grinned. “At least that’s variety.”

  They wandered the shops with far more interest than previous years, for buying something interestingly delightful for each other seemed far more attractive than the usual slog for perfumed candles, socks or sweets for people they didn’t actually care about. Sylvia shopped for Harry and Ruby and no one else, but decided she’d give money to Fletcher and Walter Rankling, unless the wretched boy had done something too vile.

  Cheltenham greeted them fully decorated, the fountain playing and the carol singers from two of the local schools in musical exuberance.

  But when they bustled back to the manor with secret parcels, ready for a quick lunch before visiting the inmate of Blackhurst, they received their own visitors. Both Carol Knight and her mother were at the door. “Sod Fletcher,” said Sylvia, and invited her guests into the small salon. With the curtains pulled open to a cloudy sky, with the remainder of the space glowing in the firelight, it was a richly welcoming room, and extremely warm. Ralph Tammy had set a huge log on the hearth over the usual twigs and twiglets, and this was now alight in flaming reds and golds. Two mirrors also echoed the colours and the heat.

  “This place is glorious,” said Carol, whirling, arms outstretched.

  “You must be feeling better,” noticed Harry.

  Carol collapsed on the smaller couch, her mother beside her. “Well, it was over a month ago. I still have to be careful with some things, but I’m not too bad. I can eat real food. Well, not apples or steak, but most things. And you were so nice to me in the hospital, and I went to see the police but they wouldn’t tell me a single thing, so here I am.”

  “And it certainly is the most luxurious home I’ve ever seen,” nodded Mrs. Knight. “Those grounds, and the trees, and it’s all so big and grand. And inside I think it’s even better.”

  “Not all mine, I should point out,” said Sylvia. “There’s more than fifteen of us live here, but we own our little flats and we have some staff. I’m afraid we’ve just finished lunch, but I can get you tea or coffee.”

  “Just water, please,” said Carol. “But Mum loves strong tea. And all these gorgeous clocks. There’s a grandfather in the hall. Sofas and tables and wonderful rugs.”

  “Regency architecture,” nodded Sylvia, “So we all tried to bring some furniture that fits when we bought the place and had it refurbished. It was a leaking dump but we put together for the overhaul. Of course, many of the original residents have left, died or otherwise, since we’re all ancient creatures. But everyone here has tried to donate some furniture that belongs to the same period. Not that it really does. This couch is 20s and the one you’re sitting on is Edwardian. That table is modern, but the little hard chairs are Victorian. The books, of course, are a mixed bunch.”

  She opened the door and called for Lavender, who didn’t answer. It was Ralph Tanner who appeared, and took the order – tea for three, and a glass of water, but who rushed off so quickly that she stood a moment, surprised.

  And Carol, who could see through the open door from where she was sitting, said with a small gulp, “You have policemen making the tea?”

  Harry stared. “He’s the kitchen assistant.” And then realised what it meant. “You know him? So Morrison’s sent one of his detectives here undercover to find out what dreadful things we’re all up to?”

  She thought a moment, and then Carol said, “Looks like it.”

  Sylvia giggled. “I bet he’s bored stiff. Though he does make good coffee.” She stared a moment. “You’re sure you know him as the police?”

  Hugging her knees and nodding vigorously, Carol said, “He came a couple of times to the hospital. He came once with Morrison. It’s definitely him.”

  It was Lavender who brought the tray of tea and the jug of water, and Sylvia told her that she was employing a detective constable to wash her dishes.

  “I always thought he was a rotten cook,” Lavender sighed. “And I knew our reputation had gone down the drain for aiding and abetting killers. But I didn’t realise it had got this bad. I shall complain to D.I. Morrison.”

  Harry grinned at Carol. “See? We look grand, but really it’s just a hot-bed of conspiracies and trouble.”

  “He doesn’t mean that,” said Sylvia. “I must admit I’m wondering why you’
ve come.” She passed the glass of water and began to pour the tea. “Indeed, you’re most welcome, but is there something special you’ve remembered?”

  “You’ll think I’m mad,” Carol said through sips of water.

  “They won’t,” said her mother. “Tell them. Come on. We’re here now so we can’t just drink tea and then go home.”

  Carol looked up, but blushed. “I honestly didn’t forget anything about the attack. I hated having it go over and over in my mind and I tried to block it out, but I couldn’t. So then I thought maybe hypnosis might help. Yes, I know, you’ll think I’m loony. But I decided there might be more about his face or those huge disgusting hands that I could remember under hypnosis. But even more, I wanted to get it all out one last time, and then forget. This woman down the road from here does all those things. Helps people stop smoking and come off drugs.” She was talking into her now empty glass, but again she looked up. “I’m not on ice or anything, honestly, I’m not an addict. I don’t even smoke. But I went to see the woman and it was so interesting. I thought I ought to tell you. Well – actually, it was Mum who said I should.”

  “This,” murmured Sylvia putting down her own empty mug, “sounds fascinating. Tell us more.”

  “Does it sound even more stupid if I say his feet?” She pulled both her feet up a little, as though showing them off. She wore black leather boots to her knees, the zip at the back slightly undone. “They think everyone’s so skinny these days, they make boots to fit women with calves like twigs. I’m a slim person, but these boots are still tight.” She thumped her feet back on the Persian rug. “So what would you do if you had feet the size of elephants? Would you have to get them specially made?”

  “I imagine you would.” Harry sat forwards, extremely interested. “So this monster didn’t just have large feet. He had unusually enormous feet?”

  “They must have been four times the size of yours,” Carol told Harry, peering at his shoes. “Wide too, and heavy. The monster started by pretending a limp. So I looked at his feet right off, thinking he was lame. A prosthetic leg or something.”

  “Do cobblers still make shoes for the rich or the extra-large?”

  “Yes, they do,” Sylvia answered him. She asked Carol, “What sort of boots did he have?”

  “Well, they weren’t posh. But huge. Brown leather with tufts of brown fur poking out the top. So well lined. Well worn, as if he’d had them for years. But real leather, not imitation I don’t think. I mean, I was running and fighting so I wasn’t staring at his horrible feet, but with the hypnotist I saw it clearly.”

  “So we can question every private cobbler in the country.” Sylvia was smiling. “It’s a wonderful help. And was there anything else? Even something that seems unimportant?” Both Harry and Mrs. Knight were on their second cups of tea. Sylvia refilled Carol’s glass with water. Passing it across, she added, “But he wasn’t wearing gloves?”

  Carol shook her head. “His hands were like a giant’s and his fingers were huge stubby things like fat knobbly carvings – you know, like they show trolls and stuff. He could strangle some poor girl and break her neck one handed. He punched me, and immediately fractured my jaw in two places.”

  “When hands and feet go on growing too much, I’ve heard of a medical condition a little like this,” Mrs. Knight interrupted. “I feel sorry for kids who can’t stop their feet getting bigger and bigger. But of course, I don’t feel sorry for this vile lunatic. I’m surprised he doesn’t wear gloves to hide his hands. I mean, people like my Carol can describe him, because it’s so unusual.”

  “He doesn’t expect anyone to get away from him, Mrs. Knight,” Harry told her. “Once seen, there’s no describing him, because the poor girls are dead. Your Carol is a brave heroine. The only one to get away.”

  “Thank the good Lord.”

  Harry had remembered the very large glove left behind on the coach when the first girl had been murdered. It had been so large, they had all assumed it was a trick, or something used to disguise the truth. But the police had practically torn it apart looking for prints, DNA, or anything else that could give a clue. They had found nothing. He said, “The madman had gloves. But he lost one. And getting more that size must be damned difficult.”

  Sylvia looked up. “Yes, that’s right. We need to check the shops.”

  Carol and her mother were now both standing. “We should leave,” Mrs. Knight said. “Carol still gets tired and I need to get her home. I don’t want her catching cold in this weather.”

  “But there’s one more thing,” Carol added as they turned towards the door. “I don’t think this will help, but I feel I ought to say everything I can remember. It’s his fingernails. They were all wonky and lop-sided, and some were short, and some were long, and all the long ones were filthy with muck under them. Like I said, he really stank. And I suppose he’s so used to that stink, he doesn’t realise what he smells like. Because offering me a lift and everything, you wouldn’t say yes if the driver stank like sewerage.”

  They had just said goodbye to each other when Ralph Tammy appeared in the corridor, ushered forwards by Lavender. They all trooped back into the smaller living room where Lavender, Sylvia and Harry sat, and Ralph stood solemnly in front of the fire, looking silently grim, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “Now then,” said Lavender, “I dislike being deceived. And had D.I. Morrison told me the truth from the beginning, I would have agreed anyway. And needn’t have paid your wages.”

  Tammy managed a small tucked smile. “I did my work, madam. Or at least, tried to.”

  “And have you discovered anything?” asked Sylvia.

  “As it happens, no,” said the detective. “I really couldn’t report any suspicious behaviour to you anyway, Mrs. Greene. But I can admit, no. I’ve nothing to tell the D.I. at all. Except how to make decent garlic and cheese mashed potatoes.

  Leaning back against the cushions, Sylvia sighed. “None of us seems to be getting anywhere. And I should be visiting a prison.”

  Lavender raised an eyebrow, but Ralph said, “Fletcher Rankling, I believe.”

  “Yes. So you really do know everything. But he’s in for arson, the creep.” Sylvia remained where she was. “And I think I’ll give him up anyway, at least for today. Horrid creature. But he’s not the murderer, is he! Clearly you know about the giant hands and feet?”

  He did. “Miss Knight reported to the station this morning before coming here”

  “And you eavesdropped while she was here talking to us,” decided Harry.

  Ralph Tammy smiled faintly. “I can tell you, Mr. Joyce, we’ve been in contact with every personal shoe-maker across the entire country, and no one has reported such a customer.”

  “Crazy.”

  “Unless he made them himself.”

  The detective looked down at Sylvia. “Now that’s an interesting thought, Mrs. Greene. At the moment we have someone scouring Monaco and the southern coast of France for boot-makers. But as for this man being the cobbler himself, I confess that hadn’t occurred to me,.

  “She’s her father’s daughter,” Lavender interjected.

  “And about to be Harry’s wife,” said the detective, changing the subject. “I wish you both great happiness.”

  “Well, I suppose you’d better come to the wedding too, if you’re still here then,” muttered Harry. “If we’ve found this monster by then, we can all celebrate. But we haven’t set a date yet.”

  Lavender brightened. “A Saturday? And here? I shall raid the funds and fill the place with flowers.”

  “In January?”

  “I’ll bake a cake,” said Lavender. “And Ralph can make his special rhubarb crumble. One of his few successes.”

  “And the coffee.”

  The detective sighed. “I doubt I shall still be here by then,” he said, “But the 13th is D.I. Morrison’s birthday and it’s a Saturday this coming year..”

  “That’s it,” smiled Sylvia. “We’ll upset
everyone by having it on the 13th, and everyone will predict a disaster and imminent divorce, but we can invite Morrison and get all the latest gossip.”

  “But it’s still December,” Harry said, “and we have Christmas first. I simply hope there are no more murders before then.”

  “I might murder Fletcher,” muttered Sylvia. “No, sorry, that’s not funny. But he is obnoxious. I’ll visit him in the morning, Harry, if you want to come. You don’t have to.”

  “I wonder,” said Harry softly as detective Tammy left the room and Lavender followed and closed the door behind her, “if there’s the slightest point in chasing all over the place questioning funny old shoe-makers shops, when the police have already done it. They can do it better than we could.”

  “Anybody can miss something.” Sylvia sat forwards, stretching her feet to the fire. The large log had shrunk to ashes, but the fire had been topped up and continued to burn gently, like a simmering kettle. Sylvia pointed to her own feet, warm in their fluffy black slippers. “And what about doctors and hospitals. This man must have seen a specialist when he was a kid if not later. The early murders were in Leicestershire so perhaps that’s where he was born. And maybe there’s a glove-maker who doesn’t have a shop anymore, because this monster hasn’t been able to replace his lost glove.”

  “Alright.” Harry lay back against the deep cushions, clasped his hands behind his head, and closed his eyes. “Let me think. So we’ve got five days before the 25th, and we could drive up to the Midlands, check on the old notifications in the police station, and the library, and the newspapers, and visit the hospitals. Will we fit all that in by Christmas? I presume you want to be back here for that?”

  She didn’t really mind, though supposed it would be better amongst friends. “But some of this investigating stuff can be done first on the telephone. We can start tomorrow morning.”

  “No Fletcher?”

  “Your favourite pyromaniac? I suppose we can squeeze him in.”

  22