by Carrie Marsh
CHAPTER SIX
QUESTIONS
QUESTIONS
Gilding drove back to the police station much later with the presence of Ginsberg, resolutely silent, in the seat alongside. They did not speak for the mile back to the station. When Ginsberg finally did speak, it was to ask a question.
“Sir?”
“Yes, Ginsberg?”
“Was that really an accident?” Gilding looked at the steering wheel and tried his best to think about the question. He was desperately tired. The clock on the dashboard said seven o' clock, but it seemed far too late for that. He was tired and he was stressed. His knuckles, white where he gripped the wheel, were bony and pale in the dusky light of evening. He forced himself to relax, deepening his breathing. It was quite challenging. He had no idea of the answer to that kind of question: they had been plaguing him all evening. Ever since he was called up the hill in the rain to investigate the death.
“I don't know, Ginsberg,” he said after a long while. “Why?”
“I don't think it was,” his sergeant said slowly. The young man had joined the force four years ago, and had a keen intelligence and a habit of thinking before he answered anything. He did that now. “I was just thinking...the way that the metal of the bumper was twisted,”
“Mm?” Gilding asked attentively.
“The back wheels were straight, like the car had been going on straight, and that impact at the back was straight on, too. There was a dent in the boot on either side. Like something with a...what are those things? Bull bar...That's it. Like something with a bull bar had hit into the back, straight on.”
“You noticed something like that? In the dark?”
Ginsberg looked down, clearly pleased by the surprised reaction. “It wasn't really hard, sir. I just wanted a closer look.”
“I'm impressed,” Gilding said, making the younger man look embarrassed. “Carry on.”
“Well, I was just thinking, is all.”
“Thinking what?” Gilding pressed. He needed to get in and start making notes, get in contact with his colleagues in Norwich, maybe find an expert to analyze the photos of the site once Denton finished them. But at the same time he did not want to rush his colleague, whose thoughts were invaluable.
“I thought that, if the rear lights on her car worked, there is no way someone hit her accidentally. The collision was direct and at speed. You can't go doing that by accident.”
“Unless the driver was wildly drunk,” he countered.
“Not even then, sir,” Ginsberg protested. “I mean, I saw a couple of accidents when I served in Tratham, and nothing like that with an intoxication. If you're drunk, you usually go slowly. That's mostly why they happen – someone going slowly in the middle of the road, or someone jumping out at a traffic light or failing to stop at a stop sign. Not many of them are from someone going too fast and colliding into something.”
“True,” Gilding raised a brow.
“I'm just saying we should check the lights,” Ginsberg supplied wearily. Gilding hadn't noticed it, but the younger man was even tireder than he was. His face was gray and his eyes were blurred with lack of sleep.
“I agree. Thank you,” Gilding said sincerely. He meant it. “Now, if you think there's any fresh coffee to be had, I propose we go and eat our sandwiches there. Wherever the coffee is.”
Ginsberg chuckled. “I agree.”
“It's going to be a long night.”
Together, they walked up the stairs to the station. The hallway was dark, the secretary long ago gone home. There was a light on in the back, and the staff room was open, the low hum of the refrigerator the only other sound besides the insistent hiss of the rain. They found the coffee pot, which had been filled sometime in the recent past, and sat and ate their sandwiches at the wooden table on plastic chairs.
Neither of them wanted to talk much. When he had finished his sandwich, Ginsberg headed off to the restroom to change. Gilding drank his coffee, which predictably had gone cold, and headed up the corridor to his office.
At his desk, he sat down heavily and rested his head on his arms.
“I don't know anything anymore,” he said, feeling exhausted. He felt as if everyone was looking to him for answers, and he had none to give them, or himself, anymore.
There were message lights on the phone, and he could hear voices in the room next door as Ginsberg and Denton discussed the accident and skid marks. Somewhere, he could hear the low burr of the paramedic and his colleagues. Everyone was waiting, it seemed, for a statement from him. And he had no idea what to say.
He sighed and pressed the button for the first message light. He heard the voice of a local journalist, wanting a statement for the local paper. He sighed and turned it off. The next message was a message from Hargreave. The polished vowels and clipped consonants were strangely soothing, and he listened to the full message.
“Hello, Gilding. This is Hargreave. I'm heading up to the morgue now. If you want to talk when you get back, you can come and visit. If you don't want to chat, I'll see you tomorrow morning. Cheerio. See you soon or sooner.”
Gilding ran a hand through his hair. The prospect of a trip to the morgue was less than cheerful – in fact, the whole place gave him the creeps and always had. At the same time, though, it would probably be better to talk to Hargreave about his ideas than to sit around alone and try and make guesses about things.
He pressed the third light. It was the secretary, calling to tell him that the press had called her at home. He sent her a text, letting her know that on no accounts should she volunteer him for anything. He would arrange to talk to the press as soon as he was ready and not a moment sooner, but they should consider it a tragic accident until evidence arose to the contrary. Gilding put the phone away, leaning on the desk, head in his hands. He would have to think of something to say to them eventually, but for now he had his work cut out for him simply figuring things out for himself.
“I would like to think it was an accident. We know Janet must have been leaving home – there was a suitcase with her, and unless she was visiting a relative in Norwich, why would she have been taking a suitcase? Maybe she wasn't thinking straight and she pulled out into an oncoming car? Maybe Ginsberg is right – her rear lights might have failed,” he wondered out loud to himself.
As he worked on the idea, he made some notes. He had to speak to Richard. He had already reported the death – that is where he and Ginsberg had gone, with Hargreave in tow. Hargreave was there now, probably: it was his job to confirm the identity of the deceased. It was a job he was happy to delegate: no one wanted to bring that kind of news, especially not when they had not too long ago heard it.
Get the rear lights checked. That was one more piece of information that would help them discern whether it was an accident or not. He also had to remember to send Denton with the camera tomorrow morning as soon as the mist had cleared. Fortunately the rain had held off thus far, so that he could be fairly sure that they would not lose too much visual evidence during the night. The pattern of tire tracks, and the damage to the hillside from the skidded car could all lead them to reconstruct the accident.
That was something he would leave to Hargreave. One disadvantage of the tiny police station was that they only had one resident expert, and that was it. Looking further afield would cost too much. And why, Gilding smiled, draining the last of his cold coffee and finishing the remains of an egg and lettuce sandwich, would anyone want to look any further when they had Hargreave?
Collecting the notes he had made so far on the case, Gilding read over them one last time. Then, sighing, he stood and walked toward the door. He would have a shower to try and warm up and then he would head down the hall to talk to Hargreave. He was, sadly, the one person it would help to see right now.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SORROW IS SHARED
SORROW IS SHARED
At Stowe manor, Marcie walked slowly from the hallway to the parlor, pausing to hang her coat on t
he hat stand by the door. She had just finished at the sewing meeting, which had extended, as it often did, into an informal supper, and wished Harry was back. She felt drained and tired, and she wanted someone to talk to. She had also felt nauseous and had not managed to eat a thing that day since breakfast. She was hungry now.
She headed through to the kitchen, passing the silk-papered walls and antique furniture. She called out to the housekeeper, hoping she was still there. She needed to remember to pay her.
“Mrs. Byrne?”
She heard someone cough in the hallway outside the kitchen. “Yes, ma'am?”
“You are still here! Good. You found the envelope with the month's pay?”
Mrs Byrne, a woman with glossy brown curls and a constant, kind smile, was on her knees, cleaning a tea stain off the carpet. She scraped some hair off her brow. “Yes, thank you, ma'am. Appreciated. Did you hear the news?”
Marcie tensed. “You mean..?”
“Yes! Janet Fleet! Shocking!” She shook her head, making her hair bounce. “I heard she was going to go to Norwich, so I did!”
Marcie frowned. “I don't know if anyone would know that, Mrs. Byrne.” All I know is that I saw her with a suitcase and she looked sad. She could have been going anywhere.
Mrs Byrne stood, panting, and walked through to the kitchen. Marcie followed her. “They would! I had it from Mrs. Coombes, who said she heard it from Allie, who knew Janet better than anyone...”
Marcie shook her head. “Be that as it may, Mrs. Byrne. I don't think we should be spreading idle gossip.” She was standing in her kitchen now while Mrs. Byrne noisily put the pots away in the cupboard and got ready to leave. The sunlight flowed through the window, casting a delicate light on the sideboard and glowing from the vintage copper pans.
Mrs. Byrne flushed. “Yes, ma'am. But it's not idle gossip! I mean – Allie Coombes is a reliable source, like.” She nodded vigorously.
Marcie sighed, . “That may be true, but we still shouldn't discuss it. I don't want to think about it,” she added. It made her sad. The Fleet family – at least the mother and daughter – had been close to her heart since Janet was a little girl and to see the family fragmented was upsetting to her.
“I suppose you're right,” she said guiltily. “I'll be off, then.” She paused, looking around the clean kitchen. “I popped a casserole in for dinner about fifteen minutes ago. Should be done round eight-thirty. I love that slow cooker of yours,” she added with an acquisitive glance in the direction of the old coal oven.
“Thank you, Mrs. Byrne. See you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow, then,” Mrs. Byrne called cheerfully and headed down the steps.
Marcie sighed and leaned on the closed door. Ever since the disappearance of Janet Fleet, the village had been full of gossip. She straightened up and reached for the teapot. It was seven o' clock.
Hopefully Harry will be home soon. She was looking forward to ending the day in quiet conversation without any mention of Janet Fleet. She just wanted to forget.
Carrying her tea back from the kitchen, she settled in the parlor, looking out over the dusk darkened lawns. She leaned back in the Victorian wing backed chair and sighed. Here, in the downstairs parlor, was her favorite place to sit and she was grateful to be able to find refuge here in the silence. Somewhere in a branch high up in the conifer, a blackbird sang, liquid notes of pure music spilling out over the garden.
She poured herself some tea, drawing comfort from the familiarity of the room. Still decorated in the Victorian style, it had pale green acanthus wallpaper, a parquet floor, and a gracious fireplace.
I don't know why I feel like this! I should be content, but I am so sad.
The matter of Janet Fleet weighed on her. She had known all the village children, and Janet was practically part of Marcie's family. If she had been experiencing problems in her marriage, she should have told someone! She shouldn't have felt so isolated here in Stowe where everyone was so helpful. In a strange way, Marcie felt responsible.
“I didn't even know her that well,” She sighed. She reached for the porcelain teapot and poured herself another cup, hoping it would calm her nerves.
She wished Harry would hurry and get back from the club. Her only companion was Murgatroyd, their white Persian cat. He was curled up on the sofa by the fire and had no comment to offer. Not even a purr or a request for his dinnertime. Feeling restless, Marcie went over to the window, looking out across the park to where the lawns met the wide pond, fringed with trees on one side.
“Marcie?”
Marcie whipped round, relieved at the familiar sounding voice. “Harry!” she smiled. “I'm so glad.” Harry said nothing. He was standing in the doorway, coat hanging over one arm. His face was blank, eyes shocked. Marcie narrowed her eyes and felt her heart thump. “Harry?” she asked. “What is it?”
He walked over and drew her down on the sofa beside him.
“Marcie?” He paused. “You heard about Janet Fleet?”
Marcie blinked. “I know she ran away, Harry,” she said sadly. “I've been hearing all day. I really don't want to talk about it. It's so upsetting.” She turned away, but Harry looked into her eyes.
“Marcie, I know she ran away. But the news is worse than that. Marcie, she's dead.”
“What?”
Marcie stared. That made no sense! She had seen her yesterday. She had been so alive. Her chest ached suddenly and she rested her hand there, afraid of the pain. “No, Harry. She can't be. How?”Harry looked at her stricken face and took her in his arms. She sighed, glad of the gentle contact. It made things seem so much more real. She felt a tear fall and then another.
“I know,” he said gently, stroking her back. “I know...it's terrible. I am so sorry. She died in a car crash. On the Stowe Road. Just yesterday night.”
Marcie breathed out, trying to settle, to understand. “She was such a lovely girl, Harry,” she sighed. She wiped her eyes. “What happened?” she paused. “She didn't...” She didn't take her own life? It would be a strange way to do it, but not impossible.
“I don't know what happened,” Harry said gently. “It seems she had an accident.”
“Oh,” she said in a small voice, feeling relieved. “But it's terrible! I know everyone in the village gossiped about her, but I always knew she was just a victim of circumstance.” she sniffed. “She was a good girl. She would never even have married Richard if she had thought there was another way to escape her wretched home...She didn't love him – it's no wonder she ran away.” She covered her face with her hands.
Harry nodded. “I know, Marcie dear. I know. It is so sad. But I thought perhaps she had found some sort of happiness,” he added. “I mean, she was raising Tamysn, who is such a wonderful girl. She shouldn't have died now, with so much ahead of her. Terrible.”
“I know,” Marcie said softly. “But I don't think Janet would ever have been happy here. Not really.”Harry nodded. “She wasn't like the others. She was a free spirit.”
Marcie nodded, throat tight. They both sat quietly, lost in memory. After a while, Marcie cleared her throat. “Gilding has the body?”
Harry sucked a breath through clenched teeth. “Yes,” he said gravely. “I saw him in the parking lot on the way home. He's busy with the investigations now...” he trailed off and wiped a weary hand down his face.
“What?” Marcie asked sharply. “You think he has something to investigate? Harry, I know something is worrying you. What is it?”
“I was at the club,” Harry began softly. “I was talking to Dennis, the mechanic. He said there was no way a car could push her off the road like that by accident.”
Marcie stared at him, eyes wide.
“You mean it was murder? But who would do that? Why..?” She felt a tear then, tracing a cold path down her cheek. “You think some stranger just rammed into her car for fun?” The thought was horrifying.
Harry drew in a breath, then shook his head. “I don't think so, Marcie.”
/> “Why not?”
“Well, Dennis the mechanic was saying that he thought you'd need a particular kind of car for that, and you'd need to think about it carefully – pushing her off the road from the back. It sounds to me – and I might be talking nonsense, I'm not Sherlock or something – as if you'd need to think about it. As if it was premeditated.”
“Oh,” Marcie looked up sharply. “I agree. But who...?”
Think, Marcie! She admonished herself. You know all the villagers. Who would profit from the young woman's death? The answer was there before she even thought about it. “Richard,” she said flatly.
Harry stared at her. “Richard. What about him? You don't think..?”
“I was wondering. Do you think he would..?”
Harry shook his head. “I don't know, Marcie,” he said sadly. “I think if anyone would do it, it would be him. But it could still be an accident. We don't know yet.”
“True,” Marcie said. Her voice wept, though her eyes were dry. “It's terrible, Harry,” she said after a moment. “No one should die so young. And Tamsyn! Poor girl.”
Harry nodded. “Maybe she could visit us here a while?” he proposed quietly. “It would be good for the girl to get out of the atmosphere at home. And here at least no one would say anything bad about her mother,” he added.
“True,” Marcie nodded. “Gossiping cats!” she said angrily. Murgatroyd opened an eye an she chuckled despite the seriousness. “Not you, Murgatroyd. The villagers. Whatever they think of her, they could keep it to themselves,” she added. “If an action is distasteful, than gossiping about it is infinitely worse.” She sat back on her chair, looking offended.
Harry smiled. “I know, dear. But not everyone is as wise as you.”
Marcie smiled. She reached a slim, manicured hand over to his and gripped it in a surprisingly strong grip.
“Thank you, dear.” She took comfort from his solid strength, his easy nature.