Authors: Ann Granger
A Restless Evil (12 page)
âAh,' said Markby.
Meredith put a hand on his arm. âThat's not all. Once news got out about what had happened, people came from all over the place. You must have seen the crowd outside the church. Goodness knows where they were before. I didn't see a soul when I first arrived. But the thing is, Old Billy wasn't amongst them. So where was â is â he? For a real old nosy-parker as he struck me as being, it does seem odd.' She drew a deep breath. âSo I'm wondering if I really was the first person to find Hester.'
âI see.' Markby rubbed his chin thoughtfully. âYou think the old man saw the church was open, went in to see if either of the churchwardens was there so he could trap her in conversation, found Hester dead, panicked and scarpered. Now he's lying low.'
âI'm also wondering whether he saw anyone else around there â or if anyone else saw him. Perhaps you ought to try and
find him quickly, Alan. I'm not telling you your job. I'm just concerned about the old fellow.
find him quickly, Alan. I'm not telling you your job. I'm just concerned about the old fellow.
âWe'll make it a priority, don't worry. At the least, he seems a possible material witness.'
Markby turned back into the sitting room. Mrs Scott had joined Ruth on the sofa and was patting her shoulder in awkward sympathy.
âSorry to bother you again,' he said. âBut is there someone in the village, an elderly person perhaps, who'd know all the gossip, someone who'd talk to me?'
âThere's Old Billy Twelvetrees,' said Ruth, looking up from the crumpled handkerchief she'd held to her eyes.
âOld mischief-maker!' snorted Muriel Scott. âIf you talk to him, discount half of it. What he doesn't know, he makes up.'
âI'll bear that in mind,' Markby promised her. âWhere can I find him?'
âSecond cottage down from the pub, to the left. He's got a daughter living with him, Dilys. If you can get past her, Old Billy will be pleased to see you.'
âThat at least will make a change,' murmured Markby to Meredith as he went out. âMost people, even the innocent, are usually displeased to see the police on their doorsteps!'
Woof, woof, woof
, went Roger in support.
, went Roger in support.
When Markby returned to the church he found a scene of some confusion. The crowd was as numerous as before and additional vehicles had arrived including one near which stood two sombre men, waiting patient and motionless. Though the sightseers were jostling for a good view of the church, around the van and the men there was a space. A
cordon sanitaire,
thought Markby with grim amusement. On the one hand the crowd was fascinated by a violent death. On the other hand, the formalities of death itself were too close to home.
cordon sanitaire,
thought Markby with grim amusement. On the one hand the crowd was fascinated by a violent death. On the other hand, the formalities of death itself were too close to home.
Pearce appeared clad in protective clothing as Markby made his way into the porch.
âThey won't disperse!' he said irritably. He put his hand to his jaw.
âSomething wrong?' Markby enquired.
âWhat? Oh, no. I'm just fed up with that lot of ghouls out there. Why won't they go home?'
âIt's never any different, Dave. They'll go home once the body's been taken away.'
Pearce sniffed. âDr Fuller's here.'
âBetter go and have a word with him, then,' Markby murmured. âGot a spare suit there?'
Inside the church lighting had been set up but the photographer was beginning to pack away his cameras. Fuller, the pathologist, teddy bear like in his one-piece disposable suit, was standing a little forlornly by the corpse.
âThis is very inconvenient,' he said as Markby, now similarly clad, came up. âYou'll be wanting a post mortem as soon as possible and I've tickets for a concert at the Festival Hall tonight. My wife and I have been looking forward to it but it does mean travelling up there this afternoon. We had hoped,' Fuller continued, fixing Markby with a look which suggested all this was his fault, âto stay overnight in London. My wife wants to do some shopping.'
âWhat about Streeter?' Markby named Dr Fuller's assistant.
âIn Marrakesh,' returned Fuller.
âOn holiday?'
âNot a holiday, a conference. Don't ask me why they chose Marrakesh.' Fuller turned his discontented stare on the hapless Hester Millar. âThis lady has considerably upset my plans. I shall have to leave Miriam in London and return on an early train to carry out this examination.'
Markby didn't know whether to be amused or cross. He'd known Fuller for years. Fuller's obsession with music and his family were famous. Nevertheless, the man was meticulous as regarded his profession. Markby knew he'd get the post mortem results through within a couple of days. Fuller was just letting off steam.
âNow you've seen her,' Fuller was saying, indicating the body. âPerhaps we could take her away? The chaps are waiting outside.'
âI saw them,' Markby murmured. âUnless Inspector Pearce has other ideas, let them take the body by all means.'
The undertaker's men arrived with their temporary coffin. They lifted the inert mass which had been Hester Millar gently from the pew. As they did something glinted on the ground by her feet.
Markby stepped forward and using a biro, hooked up a ring of keys.
Hester's body was zipped into a black body bag and deposited neatly in the coffin. Markby and Dr Fuller followed it from the church. The crowd fell silent as it appeared, was loaded into the van and driven away. Markby turned to the watchers.
âRight, you might as well all go home now. We'll be busy here for a long time but there will be nothing for you to see.'
They shuffled about but then began to go their various ways, several of the men disappearing into the Fitzroy Arms. Fuller had driven away.
âThank goodness for that!' muttered a voice at his elbow and Markby turned to see Pearce. He beckoned the inspector back inside the church and held up the keyring.
âThese were hidden by the body. She'd used them to open up. Then she walked over to that pew, put the keys down on the little ledge here and when she fell forward, stabbed, they were knocked to the ground.'
He held the biro with the dangling keyring towards Pearce who searched in his pocket, produced a small plastic bag, and slipped it over the keys.
âAnd,' Markby went on, producing Ruth's keyring from his
own pocket, âMrs Aston has lent me her set. Have you checked the vestry, Dave?'
own pocket, âMrs Aston has lent me her set. Have you checked the vestry, Dave?'
âWe've been in there,' Pearce said. âIt's behind that curtain. There is a small area at the rear behind a screen, locked off. I was hoping to get some keys from Mrs Aston. I didn't fancy breaking it down, being a church. The tower's locked, too.'
âThen we'd better put Ruth Aston's set to good use.'
The two of them made their way to the vestry. It was empty of furniture except for an old wooden table scored with the initials of choirboys long dead. Rows of pegs along the wall were bare of the robes which might once have hung there. The screen to which Pearce referred was of blackened oak and rose nearly to the ceiling. The gap above had been filled in with what looked like chicken wire.
Markby inserted the key labelled âVestry' in the lock. It turned easily. âSomeone comes in here,' he observed. âOiled.'
But there was nothing in the tiny office behind the door but a box of candles, two tall wooden candle-holders, once gilded but now scratched and faded, and a tin of polish. A sepia photograph hanging crookedly on the wall depicted a nineteenth-century clergyman with muttonchop whiskers and a look of confidence which provided ironic contrast to the stripped surroundings.
âPerhaps they use it when someone takes a service here,' Pearce suggested, poking around in the candle box. âNothing here.'
Markby slammed the door of an empty cupboard. âAll the church records must've been moved out when the building fell out of regular use.' He pointed at a paler patch on the dusty floor. âThere must have been a safe there once.'
They relocked the vestry and went back to the nave. By common consent they made for the tower door. Here entry also proved easy. Markby peered at the lock.
âThis has been oiled, too. That's odd. Ruth Aston told me they never climbed the tower.'
The door clicked open and swung silently inwards. Markby ran his finger over the hinges and showed Pearce the resultant smear of oil. A spiral of stone steps ran upwards, thickly coated with dust but showing clearly the imprint of footwear.
Markby pointed at the prints. âTwo people. Trainer soles, from the pattern. One set larger than the other. A couple of youngsters, one older? Or a man and a youngish woman, casually dressed?'
âPerhaps whoever it is chews gum,' Pearce said excitedly. âWe found a piece over there, stuck on an effigy on a tomb. But it was all dried out, been there a week or more. Still, perhaps they were up here when Miss Millar came into the churchâ'
âThen why not just wait until she left again?' Markby pointed at the line of footprints. âAnyway, the prints have had time to gather their own dust, lighter than the surrounding grime, so they aren't so very recent. I'd say made at least ten to fifteen days ago. Your theory won't work, Dave, I'm afraid. It's been a week or more since anyone came up here, too, for whatever purpose. Time enough for fresh dust to settle. Hester Millar's killer wasn't hiding up here.'
Pearce, a promising line of investigation abruptly terminated, mumbled, âPity.'
The two of them climbed the narrow twisting stairs, taking care to keep to one side, clear of the trainer imprints. Pearce, treading in Markby's footsteps, thought ruefully he was like
the page who followed that king who went out in the snow, in the Christmas carol. At intervals they passed window slits through which they could see across the surrounding churchyard and village street. At the top, they came out into a small room smelling strongly of age, damp mortar and bat urine. The bells hung above their heads, the ropes disappearing down through a square hole in the floor. Markby touched Pearce's arm to indicate caution.
the page who followed that king who went out in the snow, in the Christmas carol. At intervals they passed window slits through which they could see across the surrounding churchyard and village street. At the top, they came out into a small room smelling strongly of age, damp mortar and bat urine. The bells hung above their heads, the ropes disappearing down through a square hole in the floor. Markby touched Pearce's arm to indicate caution.
But Pearce was looking at something in the corner. âSee there! Someone's been camping out in here.'
A candle stub in a pottery holder stood on the floor beside an old sleeping bag which had been unzipped and opened out flat. Markby stooped and picked up a small empty packet. He held it up so Pearce could see it.
âHere's your explanation. Condoms. Either the youth of the village have found this spot or someone was making a illicit tryst. Whoever it is must have found a key which would turn the tower lock downstairs. As soon as one of the churchwardens has opened up the church of a morning, whoever it is contacts his or her partner and they rendezvous up here.'
They retreated to the floor of the church and locked up the tower again.
Markby handed the keys to Pearce. âYou'd better keep these. I've told Mrs Aston we'll return them in due course.' He frowned. âWe'll have to find out who holds that other tower key, though just how I don't know. Our mystery lovers are hardly likely to come forward and admit to desecrating the church. They may just have an odd key which turns the lock. These old-fashioned mortice locks can sometimes be opened like that. My mother used to keep a whole boxful of odd keys
for emergency use if one went missing. If that's the case, we don't have to worry. On the other hand, they may hold the entire set for the church, entrances and vestry, which would really put the cat among the pigeons. Yet Ruth says only she, Hester and James Holland have keys. I'll have to check that one out with James. The idea of a spare set of keys hanging around really muddies the water.'
for emergency use if one went missing. If that's the case, we don't have to worry. On the other hand, they may hold the entire set for the church, entrances and vestry, which would really put the cat among the pigeons. Yet Ruth says only she, Hester and James Holland have keys. I'll have to check that one out with James. The idea of a spare set of keys hanging around really muddies the water.'
Pearce grunted and pushed the keys into his pocket. âHow did you get on at the house, sir? With Mrs Aston and that other batty old dear with the striped sweater?'
Markby summed up the rest of his conversation with Ruth Aston and added Meredith's account of seeing someone leaving the churchyard at the far end as she'd approached the church.
âIt seems likely that she saw this old fellow, Twelvetrees. He's the local gossip but he doesn't seem to have put in an appearance here. At least, I couldn't see anyone in the crowd who answered the description Meredith gave me. I thought I'd go along to his cottage and see what's going on there.'
âThey're a funny lot,' observed Pearce of the villagers in general. âWhat with shenanigans in the belfry and all the rest of it. Good luck.'
Markby was well aware that his short progress from the church to Billy Twelvetrees' cottage was being observed. It couldn't be helped. There was no way any investigations in this village could be carried out with any kind of privacy, much less discretion. The atmosphere of excitement all around him was palpable. It could only get worse when the commuting population of incomers returned that evening and made for the Fitzroy Arms to soak up details of the day's events. Mixed with
the excitement was a kind of decent horror and even a sense of being offended that this could happen here in their quiet community.
the excitement was a kind of decent horror and even a sense of being offended that this could happen here in their quiet community.
Or am I, Markby asked himself, looking back to that last enquiry I conducted here and translating what I felt then to what I feel now? It was a curious feeling, he supposed one could call it
déjà vu
, to be knocking on doors in Lower Stovey again after a gap of more than twenty years. The physical appearance of the village had changed in the intervening time, as he'd noticed on his visit to the Old Vicarage with Meredith yet, despite the loss of shop and school, it looked prosperous. Nearly all the cottages in the main street had been painted up and garnished with carriage lamps and the like. He guessed at second homes.
déjà vu
, to be knocking on doors in Lower Stovey again after a gap of more than twenty years. The physical appearance of the village had changed in the intervening time, as he'd noticed on his visit to the Old Vicarage with Meredith yet, despite the loss of shop and school, it looked prosperous. Nearly all the cottages in the main street had been painted up and garnished with carriage lamps and the like. He guessed at second homes.
In this line of gleaming prosperity, the Twelvetrees' dwelling stood out like a rotten tooth in an array of perfect gnashers. It hadn't been painted for years. Its thatched roof was dark brown and disintegrating, held together by a hairnet of chicken wire through which could be seen patches of moss and sprouting weeds. The wooden frames of the windows were crumbling but the panes were well polished as was the fox-head doorknocker. He lifted it and rapped on the door. He hadn't seen inside yet, but he could guess what he'd find.
No one came for a few minutes during which he heard a rattle above his head and knew someone was looking from the tiny window under the mouldering thatch to see who the visitor was. Eventually the door shuddered and was pulled open.
He found himself looking at a middle-aged woman in a pink overall, the colour oddly matched by her salmon-pink tightly-curled
hair. Her face was round and snub-nosed. Her lower lip was fuller than her upper lip and overlapped it, suggesting what dentists call an âoverbite' when the lower jaw protrudes further than the upper one. Her expression was truculent and he was forcibly reminded of a surly bulldog. He held up his identification.
hair. Her face was round and snub-nosed. Her lower lip was fuller than her upper lip and overlapped it, suggesting what dentists call an âoverbite' when the lower jaw protrudes further than the upper one. Her expression was truculent and he was forcibly reminded of a surly bulldog. He held up his identification.
âWe've got nothing to do with it!' snapped the woman.
He ignored this. âCould I speak to Mr Twelvetrees? This is his house?'
âDad's not in. He didn't have anything to do with it, either. How could he at his age and in his state of health?'
âWhere is he?' asked Markby bluntly.
âI dunno. Gone out for a walk, like he does.'
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