Frozen Charlotte (17 page)

‘But,’ Martha protested, ‘there are still the questions about Mrs Sedgewick’s very odd behaviour, the shrine of the children’s room, the name Poppy. There’s something funny about Alice Sedgewick and from what you’ve told me the family form a wall around her. They are abnormally protective of her. Why?’

ELEVEN

H
olmes and Watson were a pair of springer spaniels trained as sniffer dogs and their relish for detection was about as great as that of the great Sherlock himself. Their trainer was a police sergeant named Shotton and he too did his work with great gusto and loved the dogs almost more than his wife (though he wouldn’t have dared tell her so). The three of them worked as a beautiful team.

Holmes and Watson’s particular speciality was the sniffing out of decayed corpses. In their time they had unearthed quite a few and as Shotton put them in the back of his van and looked at their eager faces, tongues hanging out, already panting in anticipation, he wondered if today’s mission would bring more success.

He had his orders: first of all to take the dogs to 41 The Mount and see if they found any sign of a second body. If the site proved negative he was to move on to Bayston Hill, to the house the Sedgewicks had previously occupied and do the same there.

Anticipating opposition he had telephoned the Sedgewick’s house to forewarn them. Aaron Sedgewick was absolutely livid.

‘I don’t know what you think you’re doing in this police state,’ he said.

Yeah, yeah, Shotton thought. Police state when they don’t like what we do, but powerless and ineffectual when it is they who want us.

‘Merely trying to find out the truth, sir. I’ll be round with the dogs in half an hour.’

Sedgewick was no more friendly when Shotton arrived at number 41, the dogs straining at their leashes.

Aaron Sedgewick stood, stony-faced, in the middle of the lounge, as the dogs, noses burying in the carpets, began their frantic search handled by Shotton who took absolutely no notice at all of the furious man.

Holmes and Watson covered every single corner of the house, even managing to scamper up the ladder into the loft. Apart from interest in the area around the water tank they found nothing.

When Shotton had loaded up the dogs back into the van he returned to the house.

‘Thank you, sir,’ he said. ‘Your cooperation was much appreciated.’

Sedgewick snorted and gave him a look of pure loathing.

Of his wife there was no sign.

He had a very different reception when it came to the house in Bayston Hill. Occupied by a lively and elderly widow who was, of course, not implicated in the case at all, she thoroughly enjoyed the search. Her name, appropriately enough, was Alexandra Mistery and she heard his sketchy explanation with incredulous eyes.

‘Yes,’ she said excitedly. ‘I read about it in the paper.’ She frowned. ‘It was a bizarre case. I couldn’t make head nor tail of it.’

Neither, Shotton thought, could the police.

‘But then the newspapers don’t always get it right, do they?’ She waited, hoping he would volunteer more information, adding, ‘And the lady who went to the hospital was the same one who sold us the house. We-ell.’

She made a great fuss of the dogs, made Shotton a cup of tea, sat at the table and chatted on and on. He found it difficult not to give the game away as she was so curious.

‘I’m a big fan of crime fiction,’ she said. ‘I love Andrew Taylor and Val McDermid. Oh, they have such wicked minds.’ Her eyes gleamed at the memory of some of the plots. ‘And you think . . . you really think there might possibly be a dead body here?’ Her eyes shone with ghoulish glee. ‘Oh, what a thing. That would be amazing.’ She clasped her hands together. ‘Another cup of tea, sergeant?’

‘No. Thank you. I’d better get on.’

The house was the neat, orderly abode of a middle-aged woman who lived alone. The only thing that interested Shotton was the pile of paperbacks stacked up by the side of the bed. A bookshelf downstairs was full of the same sort of titles. For Holmes and Watson, sniffing their way enthusiastically from room to room, there was nothing to interest them at all except a dead mouse they found at the bottom of the airing cupboard.

Mrs Mistery followed him around from room to room, enjoying herself, tut tutting at the dead mouse and practising what she would tell her friends.

‘The police. They thought . . . another body. Dogs . . . murder. Just like one of my books. And the dogs – all over the place. Scampering up and down the stairs, sniffing under the beds. All too thrilling.’

Like many people who live alone she made little comments to herself which left Shotton wondering whether he should join in the conversation or leave Mrs Mistery to carry on chatting to Mrs Mistery.

When he and the dogs had finished with the house she made another pot of tea and they sat and drank while she continued her attempted pumping of the officer. As soon as he had finished the first cup she offered him a second but Shotton stood up. ‘Thank you, Mrs Mistery. You’ve been really kind but no. If you don’t mind I’ll just check around the garden and then all will be done.’

The garden was quite small with a rectangular lawn and a couple of young trees at the end. Nearer the house it had been largely paved over. Shotton stepped through the patio doors straight onto an area paved with pink and cream slabs. Immediately Holmes and Watson began to yelp excitedly, their noses right down on the paving slabs. Shotton’s heart sank. It was so much easier to dig up a garden than lift a dozen or so concrete paving stones. But there was no doubt about it. The dogs were barking at something. And they expected their reward.

Through the patio doors the dogs’ behaviour had not escaped the vigilant Mrs Mistery’s attention. She rapped sharply on the glass, mouthing, ‘Have they found something, sergeant? Is there something there?’

Her excitement at being part of a real live murder was so great that it hadn’t occurred to her that this would mean the lifting of at least some of the patio slabs, disrupting her garden possibly for weeks. Shotton watched as both Holmes and Watson yelped and tried to stick their noses right into the crack between two of the slabs. He marked the spots then put the dogs in the back of the van, rewarding them for their skill. Then he returned to the house and the now wildly excited lady.

‘Was it you who had the patio laid, Mrs Mistery?’

‘Oh no,’ she said, with relish. ‘It was done before we came here. Clive, my husband, was already ill by the time we moved here to be nearer my daughter. Poor man, he wasn’t up to laying a patio or any other building work for that matter.’ Then her eyes widened. ‘You think somebody is buried under there, don’t you? That they laid the stones to conceal a body. Like that West chap. Oh yes, Sergeant Shotton, I have an interest in true crime as well as fictional works.’

Shotton couldn’t think of a suitable reply. Far from being upset at the thought of a body lying underneath her patio since before she had moved in with her dying husband, Mrs Mistery was delighted. ‘Oh how thrilling,’ she said. ‘Just wait till I tell my friends at the WI about this. They’ll be so
jealous
. Who do you think it is, sergeant?’ Her eyes swivelled towards the patio. ‘Lying there all that time. The mother of the dead child?’ she deduced. ‘It has to be. This is amazing.’ Her eyes still sparkled even when she added, ‘I suppose you’ll have to take the entire patio up. Put up one of those white tents like you see on CSI. It’ll be in the papers. Reporters will be camping on my doorstep asking me for a statement.’

Shotton began to feel slightly alarmed. Mrs Mistery was jumping too far ahead. He tried to put the brakes on. ‘Umm, Mrs Mistery . . .’

She took absolutely no notice. It was as though he had not spoken.

As each realization hit her she grew more and more excited. ‘I’ll have to take them out cups of tea like Mary Archer did. Oh my word.’ Yet another idea landed. ‘What if there’s a second baby under there? What if there’s a serial baby killer around?’

Shotton felt quite dizzy. ‘Mrs Mistery,’ he said carefully, ‘let’s keep all these ideas to ourselves for now, shall we? Let’s not jump the gun and start making up stories. The dogs are trained to sniff out decayed bodies. Not necessarily
human
remains. But yes, we will have to dig up the patio but we’ll put the slabs back too when we’ve found what’s beneath them. Please don’t start rumours and please, please don’t worry.’

‘Oh, I’m not worried,’ said the lively widow.

He recalled the final words of the TV show as he said, ‘And don’t have nightmares.’

She looked at him. ‘Nightmares? You must be joking. This is the most exciting thing that’s happened to me since my husband died.’

Shotton was even more taken aback at this. He studied her, now thoroughly puzzled and confused. He might have a good relationship with dogs, he reflected, as he returned to his van and called in to the station, but he didn’t get anywhere near understanding humans.

Grope Lane was a narrow passageway lined with shops near St Mary’s Church and the Bear Steps. It was a pretty, historic part of the town and was reminiscent of a medieval alleyway where all sorts of skulduggery would have gone on. One could almost imagine the shout of ‘
Garde-loo
’ and a bucket of slops being pitched out of one of the crooked casement windows in the thirteenth-century home of one Richard Stury, a successful merchant of Welsh wool.

WPC Delia Shaw walked over the cobbles to a shop halfway up called Victor Plumley’s. She had been detailed to speak to the estate agents. Like many in the town, it was an old family business with a sign over the door which proclaimed that Victor Plumley had been an estate agent in this ‘shoppe’ for more than two hundred years. Delia smiled as she pushed the door open. This feeling of history underfoot was the very reason why she loved this town which so unashamedly and proudly flaunted its history and why she would never work anywhere else if she could help it.

A young man looked up as the doorbell jangled. His badge informed her that his name was David Plumley.

‘Good afternoon,’ he said politely, ‘Can I help you?’

She flashed her ID card. ‘I’m part of the team investigating the discovery of a child’s body in number 41 The Mount. You may have read about the case in the papers.’

David Plumley frowned. ‘Is that the lady who took a dead child to the hospital? About a week ago.’

‘That’s correct.’

‘I really don’t see how we can help you?’

‘It’s to do with the history of the house where the child was found,’ she said. ‘Number 41 The Mount. The people who are the current occupants bought the property from another couple. They, in turn, bought the property through you.’

‘That must be years ago.’

‘Eight years.’

David Plumley couldn’t quite assimilate the information. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but I don’t understand what this has to do with us.’

‘Forensic evidence,’ WPC Shaw said, ‘indicates that the baby had been dead for a number of years. The pathologist is not absolutely sure how many. We’re covering all possibilities.’

Plumley made an expression of distaste. ‘How horrible. How gruesome. Are you telling me that the body could have been in the house for more eight years?’

‘It appears so,’ Delia said carefully.

David Plumley swallowed. ‘I showed people over that p-property myself,’ he stuttered. ‘Are you telling me . . . ?’ His voice trailed away and his colour changed to an odd shade of green.

‘So you handled the sale yourself?’

‘Well yes, partly. It’s a lovely house. I remember it quite well. Not the usual run-of-the-mill place. Large, Victorian semi-detached, as I recall it. They’re always popular. Sell very quickly as a rule. Particularly in such a good area. An old lady.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘A Mrs Isaac was selling it. She was quite elderly and a wee bit muddled. She wasn’t really up to showing people round the place so when her son and daughter-in-law couldn’t get up here we showed prospective purchasers around ourselves. Subsequently she went to live with her family.’ He frowned again. ‘I can’t remember where they were from.’

‘Were you the only member of staff who showed people around?’

‘No. I had an assistant at the time called Jenny. She did some of the viewings for me. There weren’t that many. The Godfreys appeared fairly soon after the property had gone on the market. The Mount is a very popular area. Number 41 was only on the market for a couple of months as I remember.’

‘When you showed people round was there any time when they were alone in the property?’

‘Absolutely not,’ David Plumley said. ‘That would be totally against our rule book. Oh no. Quite definitely no one would ever have been ever left alone in the property.’

‘Do you know whether Mrs Isaac had carers in?’

Plumley screwed up his face. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘I mean she wasn’t that bad. Just a bit dotty and a bit frail. I don’t think I remember any carers being there.’

‘Does Jenny still work here?’

‘No. She left a few years ago. Her husband got a job in Australia.’

‘Are you still in touch with her?’

David Plumley coloured. ‘No,’ he said shortly. ‘But I can vouch one hundred per cent that Jenny would not have left people alone in the house. It would be against all the rules in the book. They could have stolen something for a start and then we would be liable. Jenny was a professional.’ He smiled and WPC Shaw wondered why the embarrassment? Plumley had mentioned a husband. An office affair?