A Restless Evil (18 page)

Authors: Ann Granger

BOOK: A Restless Evil

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âHe's in his study,' whispered Jane and led the way down a gloomy corridor and into a dark, book-lined, high-ceilinged room which smelled fusty and was filled with a jumble of furniture. The curtains were half-drawn, which made matters worse. There was illumination of sorts, a green-shaded desk lamp. But when Markby looked towards it, he found that the contrast with the surrounding darkness made anything beyond the reach of the lamp impossible to see at all. So when, from the shadows behind it, a voice piped up, he was startled.

âTo what do I owe the honour?'

âThis is the gentleman I phoned you about, Amyas. You know you haven't forgotten.'

Jane Hatton had gone to the window as she spoke and yanked the curtains apart allowing daylight to seep into the room. Markby found himself looking at a tiny figure, a little bird of a man, with a bald pink dome surrounded by a fringe of white hairs and a look which really was very like that of a naughty
child. Dr Fichett rose from behind the desk and came round to Markby's side of it. He moved with a curious bobbing gait.

âSit down, sit down!' he trilled at them, indicating a pair of massive Victorian armchairs. When they were seated he took a seat in a worn velvet chair of the Queen Anne model, and beamed at them. âCompany,' he said. âHow very delightful. We shall have tea.'

âI'll make it,' said Jane, rising from her chair.'

âBiscuits in the tin!' he called after her as she went out, giving Markby a conspiratorial look as she did.

Alone with him, Markby relaxed in his vast chair, crossed his legs and observed, âIt's very good of you to see me, sir.'

âJane tells me you are a police officer.' Dr Fichett squinted at him. âYou must therefore keep fit.'

âEr â yes. It's a requirement,' Markby said.

âI myself keep very fit. I jog round my garden, twenty times round, every morning.'

âThat's very good indeed.'

âYes, isn't it? I eat healthily. No meat. I haven't eaten meat for years. Fish, yes. Eggs, yes. Do you eat meat?'

Markby admitted that he did.

Dr Fichett shook his head in sorrow. âYou are making a great mistake. My dear boy, do consider giving it up. What is it you wish to see me about?'

The move from one subject of conversation to another was so sudden it disconcerted his visitor who realised that this was exactly the object of the exercise. Dr Fichett, as Jane had warned, was beginning to âact up'.

âI'm afraid I have some not very good news for you, sir. But perhaps we should wait until Mrs Hatton comes back.'

âAh,' said Dr Fichett. âYou're the bringer of ill-tidings, are you? It was customary once, in some cultures, to kill the man who brought bad news.' His sharp little eyes glittered at Markby in malicious glee.

Markby, who'd been worried about bringing bad news to a nonagenarian, decided that the old man would take it fairly well when it was broken to him. He was a tough old bird. Nevertheless, he waited for Jane to come back, which she did almost at once, carrying a tray with the tea things which were made up of assorted mugs and a brown-glazed teapot with a chipped spout.

âNow then, my young fellow,' said Dr Fichett when they each had a mug of tea and a chocolate Viennese Whirl. âOut with your bad news! Are the barbarians at the gates, eh? Has Rome fallen? Has the council complained again about the oak tree in the garden? It is perfectly safe. I won't have it trimmed.'

âAmyas,' said Jane. âThis is serious. You may not have heard this, but someone, a woman, has been found dead in a church at Lower Stovey.'

âWhere's that?' he asked, biting off a piece of Viennese Whirl and showering crumbs down his waistcoat which seemed to have already had a collision with egg earlier that day.

âNear Bamford. You remember telling me you thought you had a niece who lived near Bamford? Hester Millar?'

He gave them a mistrustful look and mumbled, âI don't remember.'

âAmyas, you
do
. Please,' Jane begged him. âDon't tease. Not at a time like this. Oh, this is dreadful.'

Intelligence gleamed in the elderly eyes fixed on her face. âAre you trying to tell me that this unfortunate woman was Hester?'

As he spoke, Dr Fichett froze, half a biscuit in one hand and a pottery mug emblazoned with the coat of arms of Ramsgate in the other. âLittle Hester? Are you telling me she's dead?'

âI'm afraid so, Amyas. I'm awfully sorry.'

Dr Fichett meditated briefly on the news and appeared to slot it into some revelant pigeonhole in his memory as he chewed thoughtfully on the rest of his biscuit. âDear me. Strange news indeed. How old was she?'

âFifty-seven,' Markby told him.

âI dare say she ate meat,' said Dr Fichett.

âShe didn't die naturally, sir. She â er â she was stabbed,' Markby found himself forced to say.

âIn a church?' Dr Fichett sounded a little like Lady Bracknell. âHow extraordinary, like the unfortunate Becket. Who stabbed her?'

He darted a sudden keen look at Markby who thought that sitting in a tutorial with Dr Fichett in his active days must have been a disconcerting business. He fully realised the old fellow was using tricks on them he'd once practised successfully on hapless undergraduates. On the other hand, these same tricks helped this aged person cope with distressing news.

âWe don't know yet, sir. It seems you are her only relative and next-of-kin.'

âI don't know that I care to be that!' Dr Fichett said immediately and shook his bald head. âNo, no, that won't do at all. You'll take care of it for me, won't you, Jane?' He gave her a coaxing sideways glance.

âYour solicitor would be better, Amyas. I'll call by and tell him about it.'

âJust so long as I'm not required to go anywhere. I won't go to any inquest.' His voice, already high-pitched, rose to shrillness.

âThat won't be necessary,' Markby reassured him as Dr Fichett had begun to show signs of genuine distress, not at the news, but at the idea of leaving his own property. Markby wondered when he had last done that. âWhat I was hoping was that you could tell me something about your niece.'

âNot a thing, dear fellow.' The old man relaxed at the assurance he wouldn't be required to venture out into a modern world he despised and did his best to ignore. âI last saw her when she was, oh, about thirty, if that. She was always a very plain girl. Jane, do bring me the album, won't you, my dear?'

Jane, who seemed well-acquainted with all the arrangements in the house, obediently fetched a large leather-bound album from a shelf. Fichett turned the pages slowly until at last he found what he wanted.

âHere you are.' He tapped the photograph with a wrinkled finger. âIt will have been taken the first year Hester was up at Oxford. The other girl is a young friend who was holidaying at my sister's house.'

The album was passed to Markby. It was so heavy he almost dropped it. The photograph had been taken in high summer. It showed two young women in light dresses. One was unmistakably a very young Hester. She had been plain though not without a healthy kind of attractiveness. Both girls had that innocent glow which marks those who've just left school and ventured into a new world, in their case the exciting one of the
university. They were leaning against a drystone wall but he couldn't place the location.

âIt will have been taken,' said Dr Fichett, as if he could follow Markby's mind, âin the Yorkshire Dales. That is where my sister lived. Don't ask me why.'

But Markby had glanced at the girl with Hester. He peered more closely at the photo. The other girl was pretty, very pretty, but fragile-looking. That prettiness had faded with the years but enough of it remained to make him sure he'd seen it recently. He held the album open under Dr Fichett's nose.

âCan you identity the other girl?'

The old man glanced at the photo and looked up at Markby. His eyes were sparkling again with that malicious glee.

âOh my, yes. That's little Ruth Pattinson, the vicar's daughter! You know the rhyme, Superintendent?
There was a little girl and she had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead. When she was good she was very, very good, and when she was bad
â she got into trouble!'

And Dr Fichett laughed so much he choked and had to have first aid rendered by both his visitors.

âA baby?' Pearce looked surprised then shrugged. âIt happens all the time, I suppose.'

âWe're talking about 1966, Dave, and the girl came from an ultra-respectable clerical family. The father of the child had declined to marry her. It was the year before the Abortion Act came into being and even if it had been in force, I doubt Ruth Pattinson with her religious upbringing would have sought a termination under it. An illegal abortion would have been dangerous and she probably wouldn't have known where to go
to get one. Just as well. She couldn't turn to her own parents. They would've been deeply shocked and disappointed in her, especially her father who'd have considered that a vicar and his family should set a good example to the rest of the parish. So, at all costs, she wanted to keep the knowledge from them. One wonders what she'd have done if Hester and her mother hadn't offered her a home in that difficult time for her. Would she have been driven to face her own parents, after all? Or would she have been unable to do that and taken some desperate action?'

Markby shook his head. âI was warned that Dr Fichett was a real old gossip. He's just that. The point is, all his gossip is old. He might have forgotten about his niece's young friend, along with a lot of other ancient history, if anything else had happened to interest him in the last thirty years. But he lives in the past and it's more real to him than the present.'

âWho was the father?' asked the practical Pearce.

âAh, that we don't know. All we know is what Dr Fichett can tell us. Ruth Pattinson became pregnant during her last year at university. Somehow she managed to conceal it until the end of the university year, sitting her final examinations meanwhile. However, faced with going home she panicked and confided in her best friend, Hester Millar. Hester had the solution. She took Ruth to Yorkshire with her where Hester's mother, who was of an understanding nature, agreed that the girl could stay with them until the baby was born. I don't know what they told the Reverend Pattinson and his wife to explain Ruth's continuing absence. I dare say the two girls cooked up some story. That Hester's mother was ill, for example, and the two of them were looking after her. The child was born in
Yorkshire and Dr Fichett believes was adopted immediately. Ruth went home and nobody was the wiser. The old chap knows about it because his sister did have a few doubts about the deception and asked his advice. Amyas Fichett was wise in the ways of undergraduates and the scrapes they got themselves into. He also had some slight acquaintance with the Reverend Pattinson who, apparently, was apt to fire off long letters about his researches into myths to any unfortunate historian whose address he could get hold of. Amyas considered him a crank. He told his sister that informing the Pattinsons of their daughter's predicament would, to use his words, “only make matters worse.” Better Ruth had her child secretly and the Pattinsons were left in blissful ignorance. Mrs Millar, satisfied once her brother had supported her decision, was happy enough to go ahead and let Ruth stay with her. Amyas, incidentally, put forward another reason to me for his attitude. “A very bright girl who'd just achieved a good degree,” he said. “No need to let her mess up her life at that stage”.'

Pearce thought about this for a while. Eventually he said, âWhat's it got to do with Hester Millar's death?'

âAs far as we know, nothing. But it explains why Ruth offered a home to her friend. She owed Hester a debt.'

Pearce brightened. âPerhaps Hester Millar was about to go public and tell about the child!'

âAfter thirty-five years? Would it matter now? Anyway, tell whom? There's no one the slightest bit interested now except you and me,' Markby pointed out.

âAnd the kid,' Pearce countered. âWherever it is. He or she might have been asking around. Was it a boy or a girl?'

âDr Fichett thinks it was a boy, but isn't sure.'

âSo, he'll be thirty-four now, this lad, you say? Perhaps he has been trying to trace his mother? Perhaps he'd got as far as Hester Millar? Perhapsâ' Pearce began to sound excited. âPerhaps he thought Hester Millar was his mother! He tracked her down in the church and accused her of having abandoned him. She denied it andâ'

âCalm down, Dave,' advised the superintendent. âThis isn't
East Lynne
.'

âWho's she?' queried Pearce.

âIt's a book, Dave,' Markby said with a sigh. âA Victorian story which was made into a successful stage play containing the line, “Dead, dead, and never called me Mother!” The only line anyone remembers. Well, enough of that. The murder mustn't make us forget the bones found in the woods. Perhaps we could concentrate on that for a moment. You've seen Dr Gretton's report?'

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