The Lifeline

by Margaret Mayhew

  ‘Huh!’ The Major put down his empty glass and stood up, squaring his shoulders. ‘You coming, Colonel?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not yet. I’ll see if Ruth needs any help.’

  ‘Well, if you don’t mind, I’ll cut along. If Marjorie’s home before me she’ll be wondering where I am and there’ll be hell to pay if I’m late for supper.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Roger! You’ve never killed anyone in your life – not even in the army when you were supposed to.’

  It occurred to the Major that this was not necessarily a compliment from his wife.

  ‘Well, Inspector Squibb seemed to think I must have had something to do with Deacon’s murder. He asked me all sorts of questions. And the police have kept my blazer as evidence because that chap left blood on it. Damned nerve!’

  ‘Squibb? I remember that young man from the time when he was investigating Ursula Swynford’s death. A bully. He was just trying to frighten you, Roger. No one could believe you were capable of murder. Not in a hundred years.’

  He should have been pleased and flattered by the old girl’s faith and trust, but he wasn’t.

  ‘Well, somebody was. Definitely that loony, I’d say, judging by the way he was behaving. Several bricks short of a load, I’ve always reckoned, and now he’s done a bunk.’

  ‘He’s harmless enough, or Ruth would never have kept him.’

  ‘Then if he didn’t do it, who did?’

  ‘A stranger on the lookout for something to steal and Mr Deacon tried to stop him.’

  The Major’s voice rose several notches. ‘I ask you, Marjorie, is that likely? Some passer by smashed Deacon’s head in for a few tomatoes?’

  ‘Now, calm down, Roger. Calm down.’

  She was patting his hand. Not something he could remember her ever doing before. She probably thought he was losing his grip. Well, maybe he was. The whole thing had brought back the nightmare of Ursula Swynford getting bumped off during a Manor fête a couple of years ago. His blood still ran cold to think about it. He’d been manning the Bottle Stall tombola and he’d called out to Ursula as she’d swanned past doing her lady-of-the-manor act. Bit cheeky on his part, of course, but he’d thought everything was steaming along nicely between them. What with the racket from the band, he hadn’t really heard what she’d answered and later on he’d sneaked up to her room, just to have a little chat about things. He’d found her lying dead as a dodo on the bed and scarpered p.d.q., thinking she’d had another stroke. As it had turned out, she’d been murdered. Murdered, for God’s sake! He’d never told a soul about going to her room. Well, who would have believed he was innocent? Nobody but Marjorie, it seemed, which wasn’t much comfort.

  The old girl gave his hand another pat – more of a slap really.

  ‘Inspector Squibb will deal with everything. I’d have another drink, if I were you. Supper in fifteen minutes.’

  She got up to leave. As he’d expected, there was a parting shot from the doorway.

  ‘Let that be a lesson to you, Roger.’

  ‘A lesson?’

  ‘To stay out of trouble in future.’

  She was gone before he could think of a good riposte.

  It was an effort to walk over to the cocktail cabinet. Still a bit wobbly on the pins. No need to rush it, though. He’d been given orders from the bridge, no less. Carte blanche, as the Frogs said. He opened the cabinet lid casually and the tinkling notes of ‘Drink to Me Only’ started up on cue.

  He took his time with glass and bottle, humming along and remembering some of the words of the song. Or leave a kiss within the cup, and I’ll not ask for wine. By Jove, that was saying something! He remembered a bit more. The thirst that from the soul doth rise doth ask a drink divine; but might I of Jove’s nectar sup, I would not change for thine. Quite a racy song for an oldie, when he thought about it. Of course, anything went these days – too far, in his opinion. There was another verse but he’d forgotten the words. He left the lid up and the tune played on. For once, the damned thing could go on as loud and as long as it pleased.

  He made his way back to the armchair and sat down again, his glass well-primed and at the ready. His old and trusted ally would soon do the trick and put everything back into perspective. One sip and he could feel his cockles warming up.

  Marjorie was quite right. There was nothing to worry about. The Inspector would be on the case and have everything sorted out in a jiffy. Didn’t care for the chap, personally, or for his attitude, but he was only doing his job. That was the important thing to remember.

  The loony had done the deed – there wasn’t much doubt about it – and a horrible deed it was. All that blood everywhere. It reminded him of the Shakespeare play the old girl had once dragged him to see. Who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? Macbeth’s wife had been wandering around in a real state, trying to wash it off her hands. Out, damned spot! Out, I say! He felt rather the same about his best blazer which had had not one but several spots on it. He wasn’t quite so sure he wanted it back now.

  He switched his thoughts to the woman he’d seen in the distance. Definitely a woman, no question about it. He knew the difference all right. Had known it for years. But who? The old mince pies had let him down but there had been something vaguely familiar about her, if only he could remember what it was.

  Not that it mattered much, so far as he could see. Whoever she’d been she’d had nothing to do with it. No woman could have swung a heavy spade with that amount of force. It had been a man. An angry man. A very angry man indeed. A lunatic.

  TEN

  ‘We’ll be going over to the Manor again tomorrow, Johnny.’

  She’d spoken quite firmly, for a change.

  He turned a page of the motorbike magazine. The pile was back beside the wheelchair. There had been no more gardening books.

  ‘I’m not going if the cops are still there.’

  ‘Mrs Harvey’s just phoned to say the police have finished their investigations for the time being and would you be able to come and give her a hand again, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘I do mind.’

  ‘Mrs Harvey needs you, Johnny. You’ve been such a help to her.’

  ‘I told you before, she’s just sorry for me. And I’m not going there again.’

  ‘Please, Johnny. For my sake. You were getting on so well.’

  ‘Everything’s changed now.’

  ‘But Mr Deacon won’t be there. It was a horrible thing to happen, but at least you don’t have to worry about him any more.’

  ‘Shut up, Mum! I don’t want to talk about it.’

  Inspector Squibb and a Sergeant had come to see Johnny and the interview had not gone well. Johnny had refused to answer their questions properly. He didn’t know, he’d said, or he couldn’t remember. He’d been hoeing in the rose garden like he’d been told to and hadn’t seen a thing. He’d ended up by saying outright that he thought Mr Deacon had got what he deserved.

  When Sheila had been showing the two policemen out of the house she’d tried to smooth things over.

  ‘Things haven’t been easy for Johnny, Inspector. Not since his accident.’

  He’d said nastily, ‘They’re not easy for us either, Mrs Turner. This is a murder case. A very serious matter. There’ll be an inquest and your son will find he has to answer questions in court whether he wants to or not. The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.’

  ‘But Johnny had nothing to do with it. He can’t walk.’

  ‘He didn’t need to. From what I’ve heard he can get himself around the Manor gardens, no trouble. He’s rather good at managing his wheelchair, by all accounts. Very nifty. If Mr Deacon was sitting down on that stool in the greenhouse, back turned, all your son had to do was wheel himself up very quietly behind him and hit him over the head very hard with a spade. It took considerable strength to inflict those wounds, Mrs Turner. Johnny’s legs may not work, but his arms certainly do. Better than most people�
��s because they get lots of exercise. I’d say he could easily have done it.’

  She’d found her voice. ‘He hardly knew Mr Deacon.’

  ‘Well, he doesn’t seem to have liked him much, does he? Not from the way he spoke about him. There must have been a reason.’

  ‘He’s never said anything to me.’

  ‘He wouldn’t, would he? He doesn’t say much to anyone, so I’m told. Keeps everything to himself, isn’t that so? Quite the dark horse. Don’t worry, Mrs Turner. We’ll soon find out what it was.’

  When they’d gone, she’d said to Johnny brightly, ‘I’ll make us a cup of tea, shall I?’

  He gave one of his don’t care shrugs and turned another page.

  She put the kettle on, took down the teapot and set out two cups and saucers on the tray. Her hands were shaking so much that the china rattled.

  ‘What on earth are we going to do, Tom?’

  ‘Carry on, Ruth. As we always do.’

  ‘I can’t do that. I can’t behave as though nothing has happened.’ She was close to feeble tears. ‘It’s been another nightmare – the police swarming all over the Manor again, the Inspector insinuating things just like he did when my mother died. He seems to think Lawrence’s murder was all our fault – that gardening therapy is some quack idea that was bound to end in trouble.’

  ‘There’s nothing quack about it.’

  ‘But does it really work?’

  ‘You’ve seen how well it was working with Johnny.’

  ‘Not any more. He won’t come near us. Nor will Mrs Reed. She says her husband has forbidden her to come to the Manor again. Tanya’s the only one who’s been turning up, but I’m not sure how long she’ll last. She’s very jumpy and not at all happy. We may not think Jacob’s guilty, Tom, but I keep remembering how upset he was by the others coming to help here, and he’s the only one who would have had the strength to use a spade like that. Joyce Reed can barely lift a pair of secateurs and Tanya has never done any sort of physical work before. That leaves Johnny in his wheelchair or the Major in his best blazer buying a plant for his wife. It must have been Jacob. There’s nobody else.’

  ‘He didn’t do it, Ruth.’

  ‘If he’s innocent, why did he run off and hide?’

  ‘He’s been hiding for most of his life, one way or another. When he discovered the body he thought, quite rightly, that he’d be suspected. So, he fled.’

  She said, ‘I’m frightened, Tom. Supposing he comes back here? He might be blaming us. He might harm Alan.’

  He put his arms round her. ‘Jacob would never hurt anyone, I promise you. And the police will find him soon.’

  ‘Bloody awful thing to have happened, Hugh. Poor Ruth! She must be very cut up. Another murder at the Manor. It’s getting to sound like an Agatha Christie.’

  The Colonel poured a slightly stiffer Chivas Regal than usual and handed the glass to Naomi.

  ‘I know. It’s very bad news.’

  ‘You were over there this morning, so what’s the latest?’

  ‘Tom’s seeing to his patients, Ruth’s trying to carry on as normal with no Jacob and only Tanya left to help her. The police have gone over everything with a fine toothcomb and gone. For the moment.’

  ‘Fingerprints?’

  ‘Undoubtedly. They’ve done Jacob’s room over as well as the greenhouse and they took the spade away with them.’

  ‘Exhibit A?’

  ‘Well, it’s the murder weapon, there’s no doubt about that.’

  ‘And Jacob is Suspect Number One?’

  ‘It would seem so. For the moment, at least. They still haven’t found him and they’re searching hard.’

  ‘Poor chap. He must be holed up somewhere and absolutely terrified. But he’s no murderer, Hugh. He couldn’t say boo to a goose. We know that. You’ll just have to solve the mystery and save his skin.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Well, you usually work out whodunnit, don’t you? Put your mind to this one.’

  ‘That’s Inspector Squibb’s job.’

  ‘Oh, the man’s useless. It’s no good waiting around for him. Get your thinking cap on, Hugh. What about Deacon’s wife as a suspect? Maybe she got fed up with him moaning about his health. Men can be soooo boring when they’re ill – or think they are. Cecil used to drive me crazy. Always something wrong. I often used to feel like killing him.’

  ‘As far as I’m aware, Mrs Deacon was working in her gift shop in Dorchester at the time her husband was murdered.’

  ‘Does she have an alibi?’

  ‘Presumably there were customers who could supply her with one. The police are bound to have checked. I don’t believe she did it.’

  There had been a service for Lawrence Deacon at the local crematorium and the Colonel had attended as a courtesy, together with a handful of mourners. Afterwards, he had introduced himself to Mrs Deacon who had impressed him. She had been very calm and composed. A young-looking, attractive woman and nothing whatsoever like a vengeful murderess.

  Naomi was less convinced. ‘She could have shut up shop between customers, nipped over to the Manor, given him a bash or two over the head with a spade and been back in the shop again in a jiffy.’

  ‘Someone would have noticed her at the Manor, don’t you think?’

  ‘Not necessarily, Hugh. Customers always have all their attention on the plants while they’re trying to decide which ones to buy. I’ve watched them dithering for hours, picking them up and putting them down, like people choosing pork chops in Waitrose. You could ride an elephant past and they wouldn’t see it. I certainly wouldn’t cross her off the list.’

  Naomi peered into her glass as though in search of further inspiration.

  ‘Now, let me think who else might have done it. I know, Tanya Carberry. Our grief-stricken widow. Perhaps Deacon tried it on with her? I always thought there was something a bit creepy about him, you know. Men go for widows, apparently. They think they’re easy game. Though I can’t say I’ve ever had to deal with that problem myself.’

  ‘I’m sure you’d be very capable of handling it, Naomi.’

  ‘You’re right there. But someone like Tanya might not find it quite so easy. She was in a real state after her husband died, you know. Down at rock bottom. The gardening has done wonders to restore her, but maybe Deacon upset her with some unwelcome attentions. Tipped her back over the edge.’

  ‘Unlikely.’

  ‘Well, we can rule out Johnny as a suspect, can’t we? He’s non-combatant unless he miraculously recovered the use of his legs. And the Major too, of course, in spite of his bloodstained blazer. He’d never kill anyone with a garden spade – it wouldn’t be cricket. And Joyce Reed wasn’t at work that day, was she? So that lets her off the hook, too.’

  ‘I don’t think the Inspector is ruling anyone out at the moment.’

  ‘I told you, Hugh, Squabb’s hopeless.’

  ‘Squibb.’

  ‘Whatever he’s called. You’re going to have to take over. Do your stuff.’

  Thursday had appeared from the direction of the pond where he had been admiring the goldfish. He steered a path round the side of the sundowner terrace keeping a careful distance from dog-person Naomi. He had never been a fat cat, in any sense, but the Colonel noticed that he was looking much thinner than usual. Worryingly so.

  ‘Hugh? Are you listening to me?’

  He said slowly, ‘I’m listening, Naomi.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I’ll do whatever I can.’

  She waved her whisky glass at him.

  ‘See that you do.’

  ‘I was wondering if any progress had been made on the Deacon case, Inspector?’

  Squibb, installed behind a big desk in his police station office, oozed self-importance.

  ‘I’ll let you know when the time is appropriate, Colonel.’

  ‘As you can imagine, Mrs Harvey’s very upset.’

  ‘I would be too, if I was in her shoes. One murder at the Manor w
as bad enough but two is getting careless, don’t you agree?’

  ‘Mrs Harvey had no part in either.’

  ‘Not in her mother’s murder, I grant you, but Mr Deacon’s assailant is unknown at the moment. Anyone present at the Manor on that day could have killed him and that includes Mrs Harvey. I’m proceeding on that basis.’

  The Colonel said, ‘I understood that Jacob was your prime suspect.’

  ‘Did you, sir? Then you’d be wrong. I always keep an open mind.’

  ‘But you’re still looking for him?’

  ‘That’s right, sir. You know his background. I remember we discussed it in detail when Lady Swynford was murdered. Abandoned on a doorstep in a biscuit box, then several years in an orphanage, and more years in a mental hospital before he somehow managed to worm his way into working at the Manor. You told me yourself that Mrs Harvey said he seemed upset by Dr Harvey’s patients starting to do garden work at the Manor. Frightened he’d lose his cushy billet, I’d say. And from what I’ve learned, Mr Deacon was the type who’d do a thorough job of worrying him. So, yes, we’re still looking for Jacob and we’ll be asking him a lot of questions when we find him, which we will. Meantime, as I said, I’m proceeding with my investigations. And I’m afraid I can’t give you any more of my time, sir.’

  The Colonel ran into Mrs Reed after he had left the police station. She had been changing her library book, she told him, though it was a waste of time since they never had anything decent to read. Nothing but trashy novels or ghosted autobiographies by tenth-rate celebrities, in her opinion.

  He said drily, ‘I’ve been wasting my time too. Talking to Inspector Squibb.’

  ‘He came to my flat at the Hall and asked me a whole lot of questions to do with Mr Deacon’s murder. I told him that I wasn’t at the Manor that day, or anywhere near it, so I couldn’t help him. I must say it’s all been very stressful and bad for my health. I’ve told Mrs Harvey that I can’t do any more gardening work for her until the police have found Jacob and arrested him.’

  ‘He may not be guilty.’

  ‘The Major saw him running out of the greenhouse and there was blood all over his hands. He must be. My husband says it’s not safe for me to go back.’