Souvenirs of Murder (10 page)

She was not to be reassured on that subject but I was a little disappointed that Patrick had not given her our condolences before launching into the questioning. Even under pressure he usually retains common politeness and I could only think that he was far more stressed about the prospect of the following day than I had imagined.

He said, ‘You've already intimated that you had no idea why your husband had gone to the church that morning – and it has just been established from forensic evidence that he must have died in the vestry between ten and eleven. His body was discovered shortly before midday. Did he say anything to you before he went out?'

‘I didn't know he'd gone out. But Melvyn could be a bit like that, not always saying what he was going to do. I had stayed in bed, I didn't feel very well.'

‘Are you aware of anything particular that was on his mind?'

‘No.'

She was far younger than I had expected, at least fifteen, or even twenty years younger than her late husband, who had been sixty-one. Grief, strain, and anger made her appear pale and drawn – she wore no make-up – but discounting that she was still unattractive and frumpily dressed. Her sister was a slightly older version, with the frumpiness times two.

‘Did you go to the recital at the village hall the night before he died?' Patrick enquired.

‘Yes, we had tickets. But we didn't stay long. It was terrible – they hadn't a clue how to play Brahms so we didn't risk the rest of the programme.'

‘Did you come straight back here?'

‘No, we went for a walk. We were rather disappointed and didn't want to come home just then.'

‘Was it a mutual decision to leave?'

‘Of course.'

‘I ask because it would appear that your husband was a controlling type of person. There seems to have been a certain amount of resentment caused by his—'

‘People always resent a clever man!' Barbara Blanche butted in with. ‘Melvyn was clever. He believed in showing how things should be done. He couldn't bear the second-rate. If people resent that it shows how small-minded they are.'

‘That's only a matter of opinion,' I was stung to say. ‘I'm married to a clever man but people don't resent him, they admire him. He wouldn't dream of imposing himself on people. Bath CID have statements from a large proportion of the local residents, a good percentage of whom, I have to tell you, are professional people, and at least twenty of them stated that your husband was insufferable.
That,
Mrs Blanche, can be the basis for murder.'

She opened her mouth to take issue with me but I swept on. ‘Whether you accept it or not he must have made at least one real enemy, either now, or in the past. Was there anyone in Hinton Littlemoor with whom he'd had a serious argument?'

She glowered at me, then said, ‘I thought you were here just to take notes.'

‘Please answer the question.'

Stiffly, she said, ‘There had been a few tiffs with people who didn't like what he was doing. It was inevitable.'

Patrick said, ‘So he didn't take the hint and back off a little?'

‘No, why should he? Melvyn was brave as well as clever. He used to fly bombers.'

Well, that would figure, I thought.

‘Was there anyone in his past who might have borne a severe grudge?' Patrick said.

‘No one that I can think of.'

‘Please pause to think for a few moments. It's very important.'

‘No, no one,' came the immediate reply.

‘How long had you been married?'

‘Fifteen years. Really, I don't see how—'

‘But why was he in the church?' Patrick persevered. ‘Neither of you was on the cleaning or flower rotas, and no parish documents are kept in the vestry.'

‘I have no idea why he should have been there.'

‘Did he know where the key to it was kept?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Do you?'

‘No.'

‘What did your husband do before he went in the RAF?'

‘He gained entry when he left school. In those days you didn't have to be a graduate. It was something he'd always wanted to do.'

A truly crazy idea hit me. I quickly wrote on my pad and passed it across to Patrick who read what I had written and gave me a brief, quizzical stare.

‘Tell me,' he said slowly to Barbara Blanche, ‘Do you know anyone who lives down on the small estate where the railway station used to be?'

‘I – er – think a couple, no – er – two couples we've met at quiz nights, or something like that, live in that direction,' the woman stammered. ‘But I really wouldn't describe them as friends.'

‘Have you been to their homes?'

‘No, hardly, as they're not friends of ours.'

‘Not for meetings?'

‘Meetings!' she shrilled. ‘No!'

‘Committee meetings, I mean.'

‘Oh! No.'

Patrick got to his feet. ‘Thank you. That'll be all for now.'

She had flushed. ‘When can I have Melvyn's body and arrange the funeral?'

‘Not yet. You'll need to ask Detective Chief Inspector Carrick about that. He's in overall charge.'

We left.

‘Thanks for the compliment,' Patrick said when we were outside.

‘Any time. I have an idea she's as horrible as he was,' I muttered,

‘The question about friends down the hill seemed to press a panic button.'

‘So where
are
the wine and communion wafers kept before they're consecrated during services?' I asked.

‘In a small cupboard in Dad's study.' He whistled softly. ‘I wonder if that's what he was after? Or anything else with sacred connections for black magic ceremonies.'

SEVEN

To interview everybody on the various lists again would be an enormous task and, personally, I felt would be mainly a waste of time. James Carrick was thorough and the fact that nothing he had turned up so far had lit any fuses probably meant that the answers lay elsewhere; with a new line of enquiry. First though, it seemed a good idea to discover the reason for Barbara Blanche's apparent awkwardness when asked a simple question.

‘Do we really have to talk about this now?' John Gillard asked when we called round on our way home, partly to assess the builders' progress.

Patrick said, ‘Let's just say that someone we were talking to this afternoon got their tongue in any number of knots when asked if they had friends on the new estate.'

The rector shook his head. ‘Black magic's a load of obscene nonsense.'

Elspeth lost patience. ‘John, this is Lieutenant Colonel Patrick Gillard, only he doesn't use his rank, of the Serious Organized Crime Agency and his assistant Miss Langley. Please answer the question.'

This reproof had the effect of making John chuckle. ‘And if I offer him a dram to forget all about it for now he'll accuse me of trying to bribe a police officer.'

‘Of course,' Patrick said. ‘But I wouldn't mind one anyway.'

His father paused in fixing them both a tot and said to Patrick, ‘Look, I'm sorry I've been a bit over the top about everything.'

‘Nothing to apologize for,' Patrick said. ‘This is terribly stressful for you.'

‘Oh good,' Elspeth said. ‘Some sherry for me, please John, one of those lovely schooner glasses. And whatever Ingrid wants.'

‘Most people would say that it's none of my business what people do in their own homes, or in their own time,' John began, Elspeth having left the room, with her sherry, to attend to the cooking of their evening meal. ‘But when my parishioners are frightened by something that's going on in their midst I feel it is my duty to do a little investigating with a view to persuading people otherwise. Last Sunday I made it the subject of my sermon again. I've mentioned it before but didn't pull any punches this time.'

‘Please be careful,' Patrick said. ‘Those who mess around with what they're pleased to call the black arts are often very unpleasant.'

‘I agonize about the young ones being drawn into such things in such godless times,' said John.

‘What exactly have people been saying to you?'

‘There's a piece of spare ground behind the housing development higher up the hill and in the opposite direction to where the drainage system's being put in. One day, no doubt, it'll be Phase Three of the estate. There's a footpath running through it that eventually leads up to the boundary of Hagtop Farm.'

‘I know it,' Patrick said.

‘Several parishioners have seen lights at night, and fires with masked people dancing around them. Screams, drunken singing. Animal and poultry remains have been found in that area together with extensive bloodstains on the grass. Whatever it is, Patrick, it's not good for children to find headless chickens and what's left of someone's poor cat. Of course it might be nothing more serious than wild bonfire parties and the activities of foxes.'

‘Dad, I agree it's suspicious but honestly can't see how thundering from the pulpit is going to help. You're literally preaching to the converted.'

‘Am I?' asked John with an ironic twist to his mouth.

‘Are you saying that you think some of the members of your congregation might be involved?'

‘It's happened elsewhere and it would be stupid of me not to think Hinton Littlemoor's full of angels because I know all too well it isn't. It's not unknown for followers of that kind of thing to try to get hold of communion wafers to use in their wretched ceremonies. I understand people become ensnared and then blackmailed into stealing church items after being photographed naked, or something along those lines, when they'd gone to what they thought was a perfectly ordinary party, only to be drugged or have their drinks spiked. I need to prove if anything's going on. So a bit of thundering might draw someone's fire.'

‘Any ideas why Melvyn Blanche was in the vestry that morning?'

The rector stared at his son. ‘I don't think you're changing the subject, are you?'

‘No.'

‘He wasn't the sort to be easily intimidated.'

‘Oh, no, he'd have had to have gone in for something like that quite willingly. Does that fit in with the man you knew?'

‘But I didn't know him very well. I don't think anyone did. I have to say I found him overbearing and high-handed. It was the reason I always resisted him having any real responsibilities on the PCC, and he didn't like it. He may well have eventually resigned. The man didn't really want to do any work, you understand, just be in a position to tell other people what to do.'

This time it was Patrick who chuckled. ‘And a one-time Royal Naval Reserve officer isn't going to take any nonsense from a retired member of Crab Air.'

‘No, quite,' John said with feeling. ‘But you know, to be fair, I can't see Blanche getting involved with people cavorting around Devil worshipping.'

‘He might have known those who did. Someone who had a hold over him.'

To John I said, ‘We found a hammer in the garden here this morning. But it might not be the murder weapon.'

‘That's a thought!' Patrick exclaimed. ‘Have you lost any tools lately, perhaps just before you went away on holiday – dropped a hammer in the bushes?'

‘What, me?' said his father. ‘You ought to know by now that I never open my tool box if I can possibly help it.'

‘Perhaps you'd check if there's anything missing.'

‘They're probably all rusted together.'

Later that night I wrote up and printed the notes we had made of the day's work and put them in the case file. Tomorrow would be another matter.

Michael Greenway arrived dead on time with the two expected members of the Complaints Department who were introduced as Commander David Greenshaft and Detective Chief Inspector Helen Hurst. Carrie had been forewarned of their impending arrival and the house had been cleared of the two noisy little people by the simple expedient of her taking them to stay with Elspeth for most of the day, John busy with his parish duties.

Whether Greenway had made some kind of stand with regard to my presence at this interview was open to conjecture but the pair did not quibble when, after having shown them all into the first floor living room and served coffee and biscuits I sat down in a chair that I had previously carefully positioned, slightly away from the centre of the room but nearest to where I had suggested to Patrick he should sit. OK, I had set the stage; the three visiting policemen placed so they were not ranged in front of the ‘suspect' like a firing squad.

‘Nice house,' was Greenshaft's opening remark after he had set the recording machine going. He was a tall, thin individual and, if in the acting profession instead, would have made a first-class Stasi officer. Nobody had asked Patrick if he had fully recovered. He had not.

‘It's rented,' Patrick told him. ‘We've sold our place and bought the rectory that my parents were going to be chucked out of. Quite a bit of work had to be done to it to make room for the family.'

‘Expensive, no doubt,' the man murmured, glancing up from extracting a fat file from his briefcase and opening it.

‘Mum and Dad helped with the cost as it'll be their future retirement home.'

Up until now Patrick had been tense and monosyllabic after a practically sleepless night but now appeared to be as relaxed as our cat, Pirate, who was curled up on the hearth rug in front of the log fire. Unlike Pirate though Patrick is ferociously good at hiding his feelings when necessary.