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Authors: Ann Granger

BOOK: A Restless Evil
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It wasn't the first time Meredith had seen a dead body. It wasn't even the first time she'd had the misfortune to stumble upon a victim of violent attack. This didn't make the experience less gruesome or shocking. In a sense, it added to the horror. Someone else might have pretended that the woman wasn't really dead. Meredith knew she was. Others might have persuaded themselves a bizarre accident had befallen the unfortunate. Meredith knew she looked at a murder victim. Yet there was disbelief mixed in with her reactions. Not an incredulity at the reality of what she saw, but that she should have been picked out by some capricious Fate to go through all this again.
At least, she thought, I know the drill. It struck her then that the murderer might still be in the church, crouched down among the pews or behind the huge Victorian organ with its forest of dusty pipes. Or behind that faded brocade curtain hanging over the arched doorway into the vestry. Her heart hopped irregularly in her chest as her ears strained for the soft intake of another's breath, the tell-tale creak of wood, and her eyes watched for the
slightest movement of the curtain. Nothing. She was alone with the dead. Sir Rufus sneered down at her as if telling her this sort of thing would never have been permitted in his day. She went outside, took out her mobile and rang Alan, trying to force her voice to remain steady, knowing it wasn't and that it was pitched unnaturally high.
He took it calmly. He was a professional. He had been through it all before and it didn't surprise him that he had to face it all again. That, as he sometimes wryly said, was what he was there for. But she felt a rush of tenderness and gratitude towards him at hearing his clear, comforting but instructive tones. Wait there, by the door. Don't let anyone else enter. If anyone insists, go with them and make sure they don't remove or touch anything.
When Alan had rung off, Meredith remembered to call Mrs Scott, who was now waiting for her in vain at the Old Vicarage. She explained there had been an emergency and she was delayed. She might not make it that day.
‘Emergency in the village?' asked Mrs Scott's voice sharply. ‘Is someone hurt?'
Meredith was startled. How did the woman know where she was? But of course, she was where she was supposed to be that morning, in Lower Stovey. She had been wandering all over the place and although she had seen no one, that didn't mean no one had seen her.
‘In a manner of speaking.' She borrowed the landlord's phrase.
‘Where are you?' demanded Mrs Scott in a voice which brooked no evasion.
Meekly, Meredith told her, at the church.
‘Ruth Aston hasn't fallen off that wretched stepladder, has she? It wouldn't surprise me.'
‘No, no she hasn't. It's nothing to do with her.'
‘Huh!' said Mrs Scott in Meredith's ear and slammed down the phone.
Within minutes the real thing stood before Meredith, bearing down on the church porch like an avenging angel weirdly clad in handknits and droopy skirts, long grey hair tossed wildly by the breeze.
‘Now what's going on?' she demanded.
‘I can't let you go in.' Meredith barred the entry by the simple expedient of spreading out her arms. ‘The police told me to let no one in. I'm waiting for them.'
‘Police?' Mrs Scott twitched an eyebrow. ‘Not paramedics?'
‘The police will send out a doctor.'
Mrs Scott placed her hands on her ample hips. ‘Someone's snuffed it,' she said, sounding not displeased. ‘Who is it?'
‘Yes, someone's dead.' Meredith found it was a relief to confess the truth. ‘I don't know who it is.'
‘I'd better take a look, then.' Mrs Scott advanced towards her as steadily as a tank. ‘And don't bleat about the coppers not letting anyone in. Of course you don't know who it is. But I probably shall, if it's anyone local, that is.'
This was true and the police would be keen to have an early identification. Though Meredith was unwilling to return to the scene, she said reluctantly, ‘I'll have to come with you.'
‘Naturally,' said her companion. ‘Make sure I don't leave my dabs all over the place or pocket the evidence.'
Meredith made an inspired guess. Mrs Scott was a crime fiction fan. She had been reading about it for years and now, to
her manifest delight, the real thing had happened on her doorstep.
‘It's not like in books,' Meredith said firmly.
‘Don't expect it to be. Come on.'
They entered the cool dark interior. The slumped figure was as Meredith had left it. They approached in silence and as quietly as they could as if their steps could disturb the crouching form.
When they reached it, Mrs Scott gave a gasp.
Meredith glanced at her. The woman's florid complexion had paled to a grey hue. Meredith felt an unworthy desire to say, ‘I told you so'. She said instead, though it amounted to the same thing, ‘I warned you it would be nasty.'
The other made an impatient gesture. ‘I've seen nasty sights before. It's just, it isn't anyone I'd have expected it to be.'
‘You don't know her, then?'
‘Of course I know her!' Mrs Scott snapped, rallying. ‘It's Hester Millar who shares a house with Ruth Aston. What a bloody awful mess. Who'd want to kill Hester? What on earth for? A thoroughly harmless woman. Where's her bag?'
‘Her bag?' For a second Meredith didn't catch on.
Mrs Scott pointed at a scuffed brown leather bag lying on the floor by the dead woman's feet. ‘There it is. It doesn't look as if it's been opened. She wouldn't have had any money on her, anyway. The whole thing's a nonsense. He must be a madman, whoever he is.' She squinted at Meredith. ‘You didn't see anyone about, I suppose?'
‘I – no, not in the church.'
‘He might still be here, hiding. Did you try the tower door to see if it's locked?'
To Meredith's dismay, she started towards a narrow door behind them.
Meredith grabbed her arm. ‘We don't touch a thing! It'd be plain stupid to go up there, anyway. If whoever did this dreadful thing is hiding anywhere around here, he's not going to let either of us get in his way. You said before you came in you understood about fingerprints. If we stay here, we'll mess up the scene of the crime. We should go back outside right now. The police will be here in a minute and they won't be happy to find us in here.'
Mrs Scott allowed herself to be led back to the porch. There she turned on Meredith with much of her former hectoring manner. ‘Someone's got to go and tell Ruth the news. She'll take it badly. They'd been friends all their lives, since young women.'
‘Let the police do that.'
‘Nonsense! Let a flatfoot barge into Ruth's home and tell her poor Hester has been stuck in the neck with a knife?'
‘If that's what's happened.'
‘You saw the blood,' said Mrs Scott truculently. ‘You saw the hole in that scarf. You'll see, it'll have been a knife.' She put a hand to her own neck. ‘Carotid artery,' she said. ‘Bet my boots on it. Did you see how much blood had been pumped out of it?' She pursed her mouth. ‘Once the police turn up, this entire village will be here to watch what's going on. Someone's bound to tell Ruth. She'll rush up here in a panic and find out it's Hester. I don't care what you or a bunch of coppers think. I'm going down Church Lane to let her know.'
With that she marched off.
Meredith watched her despondently. Mrs Scott was probably right. As soon as the official circus appeared over the horizon these apparently deserted homes would disgorge a crowd of curious beings. And speaking of curiosity …
Meredith let her gaze roam across the frontage of the cottages flanking the pub. In which one of these did Billy Twelvetrees live and where was he?
The arrival of the first police car put paid to her musings. It was followed by the police doctor and by the scene of crime officers. Then it was the regional serious crime squad in the familiar person of Dave Pearce and behind him another familiar face, Ginny Holding.
‘Hello!' Pearce greeted Meredith. ‘The super said you'd be here.'
‘I found her,' Meredith told him bleakly. ‘And I've got an identification for you.'
‘Oh, right.' He looked surprised. ‘Someone you know?'
Meredith shook her head and explained, ‘I couldn't prevent Mrs Scott rushing off to tell Ruth Aston about it.'
Pearce said, ‘In a place this size, this Mrs Aston would be bound to hear of it before we got to her. We'll need a statement from you and from Mrs Scott and Mrs Aston.'
He made off into the church and Meredith turned to greet Ginny. ‘Hello, DC Holding.'
‘Hello again,' returned Ginny amiably. ‘I've made sergeant since we last met.'
‘Sorry, didn't know. Congratulations,' Meredith apologized.
Holding shrugged. ‘No reason you should know.' She lowered her voice to ask, ‘Do you know this village well?'
‘No!' Meredith retorted. ‘And I don't ruddy well want to!'
She had surprised herself with the vehemence of her reply and she'd certainly impressed Holding, whose eyebrows twitched.
‘As bad as that?' she said.
A blue and white tape printed with Police Crime Scene had appeared as if by magic across the churchyard gate and not a moment too soon. The landlord and his wife had come out of the Fitzroy Arms as Meredith spoke to Ginny Holding. They stood, he impassive, she hopping with excitement, outside their front door to watch all the activity. Other villagers were appearing from all directions but among them, Meredith failed to distinguish the solid form of Old Billy Twelvetrees. Suddenly heads turned and the small crowd parted.
Ruth Aston, pursued by Mrs Scott, appeared running from the entry to Church Lane. She ran on under the lych-gate, breaking through the newly erected tape, dodging the young officer who'd moved to cut her off and arrived panting before them. Mrs Scott lumbered up in her wake.
‘Where is she? Where's Hester?' Ruth demanded of Meredith.
‘Inside the church, Ruth, but I don't think you can go in …' Meredith glanced at Holding and murmured, ‘This is Ruth Aston who shared a house with – with the deceased. And that's Mrs Scott, the woman I told you and the inspector about.'
‘I want to see Hester!' Ruth's voice rose. A supporting murmur came from the crowd.
‘All right, dear, all right,' soothed Ginny Holding.
The raised voice had attracted Pearce who re-emerged from
the church porch and unwisely chimed in with, ‘All in good time, madam.'
‘Don't patronize me!' Ruth pointed a trembling forefinger at him. ‘I want to see my friend. Muriel Scott says she's lying dead in there. It can't be true.'
‘It's true enough, I'm afraid,' said Mrs Scott behind her. ‘Saw her myself. And she's not lying down, she's propped up in a pew under the monument to old Rufus.'
‘Thank you, madam!' said Pearce loudly, cutting off the flow of information which was being eagerly mopped up by the listening crowd. He looked around him, harassed, and pressed his fingers to his jaw as he weighed up the pros and cons of a hysterical scene before an avid audience as against an extra person cluttering up the scene of the crime.
‘I'll just take you as far as the door, Mrs Aston, but no further. And you mustn't touch anything, all right?' he conceded.
‘I don't want to touch things. I want to see Hester!' Her voice rose plaintively like a child's.
‘She'll break down …' Meredith couldn't help but murmur to Pearce.
Perhaps Ruth overheard because she made a visible effort to pull herself together. ‘I am a churchwarden of this parish,' she said with dignity. ‘As is Hester. We look after this church and its contents. If anything happens on the property or to it, I have to report it to Father Holland at Bamford in the first place and probably, after that, to the bishop.'
Pearce, with visions of having to appease a band of ecclesiastics, was made still more unhappy but gave a reluctant nod. ‘I'll take you to see her but then we come straight out,
understand? There's no question of you touching your friend, I'm afraid.'
Ruth repeated with infinite patience, ‘I want to see Hester. I won't leave until I've seen her.'
Pearce led her into the church and Meredith and Muriel Scott slipped in behind them before Ginny Holding realised what they were about to do.
Ruth hurried towards the pew beneath the Sir Rufus Fitzroy tablet. ‘Hester?' she was saying. ‘Hester?' It was as if she still hoped that somehow a mistake had been made and now she was there, she'd be able to rouse that sad, huddled form.

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