The Vicarage Murder

by Faith Martin

He’d just put in a late night reading through the reports again, but this time with his eyes peeled for any signs of blackmail. But if Margaret had been bleeding dry any of the others living at the vicarage, there’d been no outward signs of it.

  The proceeds of Vera’s lucrative career had gone straight into her savings account and various canny stocks and bonds. John lived as well as any cartoonist, and Pauline Weeks’s alimony seemed to be spent invariably on clothes, make-up and other such necessities. Joan Dix’s salary was barely adequate for her needs and left no room for a blackmailer, and her daughter, naturally, wasn’t yet earning a penny.

  The poorest of the residents by far were the Nobles. Jason had been surprised to learn of Monica’s previous high-paid and high-powered job in advertising, and he’d wondered what on earth could have made a woman like that leave London and her career for a fifty-year-old vicar with only a small village parish. Then he’d promptly reminded himself that that was none of his business. He’d found no signs that either Monica or Graham were paying out money where it shouldn’t go, and that was all that need concern him.

  The most interesting of the bunch, as far as he was concerned, was Paul Waring. His gyms weren’t doing all that well, and yet he seemed to live very high on the hog.

  ‘I’ve got some of the financial whizzes looking over Waring’s empire,’ Jason said, following his eager sergeant out the door. ‘His records are such a cleverly complicated mess that it’s going to take an accountant to sort them out.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Jim said, patently not interested. He was forging ahead towards the centre of the big house, reminding Jason of an eager spaniel sighting rabbits. ‘When the search party came up empty Saturday, sir, I—’

  ‘This is the search of the public places in the building you’re talking about, yes?’ Jason asked, getting it clear.

  ‘Yes, sir. The halls, lifts, stairs, corridors, car park, rubbish bin and utilities area and every other stick and stone that wasn’t somebody’s private residence.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, there seemed to be nothing to my naked eye,’ Jim said, mounting the main concrete staircase and taking the steps two at a time. ‘But forensics have just gone over everywhere with luminol to show up even the faintest of bloodstains.’ They’d just turned the corner on the second staircase and there, gathered in the far, dim corner, was a little knot of excited constables.

  ‘And they’ve picked up this.’

  As Jim spoke, a place opened up for them, and the forensic photographer showed them her viewscreen.

  ‘Are you sure it’s blood?’ he asked, and she nodded emphatically.

  ‘They’ve already taken a sample to the lab, sir,’ Jim said. ‘If it’s Mrs Franklyn’s blood then it’s almost sure that the killer was standing here at some point on Saturday after killing her.’

  Jason straightened, congratulated everyone on their diligence, and slowly walked back down the stairs, Jim following. Back in the incident room, he got the map of the house and studied it. Then, with a little ‘x’ he marked the spot where the bloodstains had been discovered.

  ‘Well, if it is Margaret’s blood,’ he said, thinking out loud, ‘and it’s fresh enough to have been there only since Saturday, then that quashes our outside killer theory.’

  Jim looked puzzled for a moment, then suddenly twigged. ‘Right. Because what would he be doing one flight up?’

  ‘Exactly. Margaret was killed on the ground floor, so his next logical move would be to scarper quickly out the back door and leg it. Not to take a hike upstairs.’

  ‘So it’s someone who lives here returning to their flat to clean up after him or herself?’ Jim said flatly. ‘That means someone who lives on either the second or third floor?’

  ‘It’s looking more and more like it.’

  ‘Which lets out the vicar and his family, John Lerwick and Sean Franklyn?’ Jim added tentatively.

  ‘Hmm,’ Jason said, a little more cautiously now. ‘Let’s reconstruct it as we think it happened, OK?’

  Jim quickly dragged his chair over and they both looked over the map. ‘Margaret was the type that blackmailed. No matter how much Maurice might squirm and deny it, he was paying out money to her and, what’s more, had been doing so for years. The financial boys have been going over his records and reckon she was squeezing him for at least £3,000 a month, maybe more.’

  ‘Ouch,’ Jim said. ‘Not even retired Oxford dons can afford to lose that much, not when they don’t have a source of income anymore.’

  ‘Quite,’ Jason said dryly. ‘So let’s just suppose that Maurice is our killer. He’s fed up of paying blackmail. Then, as luck would have it, fate hands him out a big bonus. His blackmailer comes to live in the same building.’

  ‘Yippee,’ Jim said dryly. ‘It must have been driving him wild. It also explains why Mrs Franklyn was so mad at her husband for buying a flat here. No wonder she was unhappy.’

  ‘But of the two of them, I imagine it was Maurice who was the most dismayed,’ Jason mused. ‘It must have been more than flesh and blood could bear, to have to live with the fact that he might accidentally bump into his tormentor at any time. His nerves must have been shot to pieces. So he decides to get rid of her. He knows the house like the back of his hand, and he can observe her movements, and over time he formulates a clever plan.’

  ‘Fine so far,’ Jim agreed encouragingly.

  ‘Now. We know, or at least it’s reasonable to assume, that the only reason Margaret went willingly to the empty flat on the other side of the house from her own was to meet someone. We’ve got no evidence that she was forced to go inside, and she certainly left the party of her own volition.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Now, let’s say she went to the empty flat to meet her blackmail victim. Suppose our professor had promised her one big payoff, once and for all, for the letter. He might have risked a bluff, saying that he’d had enough and that if she wouldn’t hand over the letter, she could do her worst. That might have tempted her to go for one last big payment and relinquish the letter.’

  ‘And for that, she’d have to go to the bank and pick up the letter,’ Jim said.

  ‘And yet we know that, although she did go to the bank, she left Marilyn Wass’s letter in the safety deposit box,’ Jason put in quickly.

  ‘So just why did she go to the bank?’ Jim asked.

  Jason sighed. ‘Perhaps she went there for a reason totally unconnected to her blackmailing activities. Anyway, that’s just hitch number one,’ he said gloomily. ‘I’ve got a feeling we’ll run across more. Still, let’s continue, just for the sake of argument. She goes to the flat, where she finds Maurice waiting for her with a shotgun. What would she do?’

  ‘Run? Scream? Or try and talk him out of it? Those are the only options she’s got, as far as I can see,’ Jim said grimly.

  ‘Right. And running or screaming would almost certainly get her killed. Even someone who doesn’t know anything about guns would understand that a blast from a shotgun at a short distance will get you very dead, very quickly.’

  ‘So she tries to talk him around?’ Jim agreed.

  ‘But she hasn’t got the letter, which is all that Maurice wants.’

  ‘So, in a rage, he kills her?’

  ‘Hmm. And right there is hitch number two,’ Jason pointed out. ‘How can he be sure that her husband doesn’t know about the letter also? What’s to stop him from being in on it too, and just carrying on where Margaret left off? In which case, by killing Margaret, he’ll be in an even worse spot than before because now Sean would have something even more terrible to hold over him. No, if you’re going to murder someone, Jim, you make damned sure you get what you came for first.’

  ‘Unless you’re just so mad that you want to kill anyway,’ Jim pointed out. ‘Out of sheer frustration?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Jason said, patently unconvinced. ‘But I’ve got a feeling, you know, that this killer was as cold as ice. That everything was thoroughly thou
ght out and planned and executed well in advance.’

  Jim sighed. ‘Well, let’s just say for argument’s sake that our Maurice killed her in a fit of rage. What next?’

  ‘He stops to cover her body with a tarpaulin,’ Jason said softly. ‘But why? He must know that the shot has been heard, and that a search will be made.’

  ‘Hitch three,’ Jim said drolly.

  ‘Especially when he must have been in one hell of a hurry to get out of there,’ Jason added thoughtfully. ‘Why waste time on something so futile? Anyway, he goes back to his flat and changes his bloodstained clothes—’ Jason paused. ‘Except, we know that his flat is clean. And if those bloodstains on the stairs do turn out to be Margaret’s, maybe our killer doesn’t change in his or her room after all, but changes right there on the stairs. Which brings anyone living on the ground floor back into contention. The killer could, at a pinch I suppose, have used wet wipes to clean up any blood on their face and hands. But why? Unless it was just to make sure that no physical evidence would be left in their own flat.’

  ‘Maurice . . . or whoever, could have just dripped a bit of blood there on the way to their flat, sir,’ Jim objected.

  Jason sighed. ‘Jim, think a bit. Were those bloodstains found in the middle of the stairs, where someone running up to their flat would be likely to drip the odd stain? Or were they tucked well back against the angle of the wall, in the darkest corner and out of sight?’

  Jim stared at him with renewed respect. ‘They were in the corner, sir.’

  ‘So why should anyone stop just there and go and stand in the corner of the stairs for no particular reason?’

  ‘They wouldn’t, sir,’ Jim said flatly.

  ‘Not unless the killer did so expressly in order to change out of bloodstained clothes and into fresh ones. Right there on the stairs.’

  Jim scratched his head. ‘Taking a bit of a risk, wasn’t he, sir? I mean, he might have been seen.’

  ‘By whom? Those down in the garden at the party couldn’t see him. And anyone who just happened to be on the top floor would be more likely to use the lift to return to the party.’

  Jim nodded. ‘You’re right. The chances of him or her changing unseen were pretty good. But, still, he was a cool customer to do it that way.’

  ‘Yes. Tell me, Jim, does Maurice strike you as being a particularly cool customer?’

  Jim thought it over. ‘No. Not cool. But he’s clever. He’d know that if he changed his clothes in his own flat, we’d be able to find even microscopic evidence of blood on the carpet or wherever. What with CSI on the telly, and all the latest forensic crime novels, everyone knows about trace evidence. That would tie in with your theory as to why the killer changed on the stairs.’

  ‘Yes, I think we take it as read that that’s why the killer changed where he did,’ Jason said. ‘Our killer isn’t giving anything away, is he? Or is it really a she we’re after? You know, I can’t help but see this as a male crime, somehow.’

  Jim nodded. ‘Well, I see what you mean about this being carefully thought out, sir.’

  ‘And the killer had probably stashed a set of fresh clothes in the stairwell that he could change into. So what next? The killer’s just changed clothes and he’s there on the stairs. We’ll keep on saying “he,” I think, just so long as we always bear in mind that we could be wrong. But what does he do with the bloodstained clothes he’s suddenly been lumbered with?’

  ‘Into a plastic bag, sir? Then hide them in his flat?’

  ‘OK. But he’d have to get rid of them at the very first opportunity and before any search could be made.’

  ‘Right. But remember one of the men on duty here Saturday night thought he heard someone sneak out of the building. That could have been the killer, using the opportunity to get rid of the clothes and perhaps even the shotgun as well.’

  ‘Almost certainly, I’d say,’ Jason agreed. ‘I’ll have to order another search of the grounds. See if anyone’s had a little bonfire recently. But, to continue. The killer changes his clothes, bags up the bloodstained ones, cleans any trace evidence off himself with wet wipes or a wet towel or whatever he’s left there for the purpose. Then he returns to his flat, stashes the shotgun and hides the evidence and returns to the party, all innocence and light.’

  ‘Well, it fits. In a way,’ Jim added, a shade dubiously.

  ‘Yes, and in a way it doesn’t. Did Maurice have time to do all that, for one thing?’

  ‘Well, sir, none of the witnesses can say exactly how long it was before he turned up after the shot was fired,’ the sergeant pointed out. ‘The shortest time we got was five minutes, the longest nine or ten.’

  Jim looked for a long while at his superior’s closed face and said tentatively, ‘You don’t really like him for it, do you, sir?’

  Jason sighed and rubbed his tired eyes. ‘I don’t know, Jim. It’s a very clever crime, and our professor is a clever man. But it just doesn’t sit properly, somehow. Our killer is cold-blooded and must have nerves of steel. And Maurice is a pathetic womaniser clinging on to his image of respectability. The two just don’t go together in my mind.’

  ‘But most of the evidence points to him,’ Jim said despondently.

  Jason’s frown, if anything, deepened. ‘Yes, it does rather, doesn’t it?’ he said softly.

  * * *

  At eleven o’clock, an old Daimler pulled to a halt at the vicarage gates and a man in impressive black and purple clerical robes climbed from the back. David Drabble had been a bishop for only two years, but he enjoyed the job. But not, perhaps, when murder and press coverage was suddenly thrust upon one of his vicars.

  He smiled benignly at the constable on the gate, and made his way towards the vicarage.

  At that moment, Jim and Jason stepped out of the far wing and headed across the lawn. At the same time, Graham Noble and a young couple stepped out of the other side of the house, discussing an upcoming christening. Suddenly, they all converged.

  Graham spotted his bishop first, and smiled.

  ‘David,’ he said warmly, knowing the bishop preferred the use of his first name to his full title.

  ‘Graham,’ the bishop returned fulsomely, holding out his hand, but aware of the two men walking towards him. ‘I’ve come, of course, to discuss this awful tragedy with you.’

  As he was meant to, Jason pricked up his ears, as did the young couple. The girl dug her beloved in the ribs with her elbow.

  ‘We was just leavin’, wasn’t we? Thanks ever so for the run-through, Vicar. We’ll all be there Sunday afternoon then, bright and early for the christenin’. I hope little Venus doesn’t cry!’ she added with a giggle.

  At this, it was the bishop who pricked up his ears. ‘Little Venus?’ he asked faintly.

  The new mother beamed at him proudly. ‘My daughter, er . . . Reverend, sir,’ she said, not at all sure what you called a man dressed as David Drabble was dressed.

  The bishop’s eyebrows rose. ‘Ah, I see.’

  Jason and Jim, who were waiting patiently to talk to the bishop, carefully avoided catching Graham Noble’s agonized eye.

  ‘Mr Noble’s been trying to talk me around to a different name,’ the young mother said, unknowingly making her vicar want to sink to the ground and kiss her feet in gratitude. ‘But we like Venus, don’t we, sweetpea?’ And again the elbow was applied judiciously to her partner’s ribs.

  ‘Huh, yeah,’ he grunted painfully.

  ‘See you Sunday then,’ Graham said firmly, then stood back to indicate the open door. ‘David, won’t you come in? Oh, this is Chief Inspector Dury and Sergeant Greer.’

  ‘Splendid,’ the bishop said heartily. ‘Perhaps you’d care to join us for just a short while, Chief Inspector?’

  Jason said he’d be delighted.

  CHAPTER 13

  Paul Waring pulled into the car park and sighed. He’d just spent the last three hours working out at the Stroud gym, giving a demonstration of his prowess to a coterie of dedi
cated fans, and now, as he climbed out of his car, he felt pleasantly tired.

  ‘You look wilted,’ a cheerful voice called to him from the shrubbery. ‘I don’t suppose I can persuade you to pick up a saw, can I?’

  He turned to find a rather weary-looking Monica Noble crouched in front of a particularly woody specimen of rhododendron and walked over to her.

  ‘You look like you’re having fun,’ he said wryly.

  ‘Oh, huge amounts,’ Monica agreed grimly. ‘I decided it was time these monsters were tamed. But I think they’re getting the better of me.’

  ‘Where do you want it cut?’

  Monica handed over the saw with an alacrity that wouldn’t have earned her any points with a women’s libber, and stood upright. Then she asked, ‘Have you heard the latest?’

  Paul could see where she’d been sawing, and set to with ease. ‘No. Nothing to do with Maurice, is it?’ he asked, looking up at her and making Monica fear for his fingers.

  ‘No, I’m rather glad to say. It’s about bloodstains. Apparently the police have found some.’ She passed on the information with studied carelessness, but watched him carefully to see his reaction.

  ‘Here it comes,’ Paul grunted, tugging on the woody limb and pulling it free. ‘Bloodstains?’ he added. ‘Where?’

  ‘Oh, on one of the main flights of stairs, or so the rumour goes.’

  Paul almost smiled. ‘Isn’t the grapevine a wonderful thing?’ he drawled.

  ‘Oh marvellous,’ Monica agreed, then eyed the pale yellow sickly undergrowth that had just been uncovered. ‘These bushes are nice when they flower, but nothing else has a chance to grow.’ She glanced around as a troop of constables passed by. They were all armed with long sticks. ‘I wonder what they’re doing?’ she asked thoughtfully.

  Paul shrugged. ‘Searching the grounds inch by inch, according to Sean. He was looking a bit frazzled when I saw him, but then, this thing is getting all of us down, isn’t it? Must be far worse for him, of course. Anyway, he reckons they’re going to search all of our flats soon. I’m surprised it hasn’t happened before now,’ he added philosophically.