Murder by the Minster

by Helen Cox

  Though it couldn’t be denied that Inspector Halloran kept himself in shape, Kitt was no magpie when it came to her affections. It took more than a set of sparkling blue eyes to turn her head. She was the type to fall in love with souls, and, as a preference, those of fictional characters who remained perfect and untouchable on the other side of the page. Halloran seemed palatable enough and Kitt ventured he might even be dashing on occasion, but he was no Edward Rochester. A controversial choice of fictional mate, Kitt would concede. But she was uninterested in straight arrows void of any complication or nuance. No matter what her reading group thought of Rochester, they couldn’t accuse him of being too straightforward.

  ‘To be honest,’ said Grace, interrupting Kitt’s thoughts. ‘I don’t think she noticed. Maybe he isn’t her type.’

  ‘Nobody is,’ Evie said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Grace.

  ‘Oh, nothing, it’s all a bit sad.’

  At her friend’s words Kitt drew in a sharp breath, taking in the sweet scent of ageing books and dust, before leaning her back against the wall next to the doorway. She stared at the row of bulky directories shelved in front of her, all of their spines coloured warning-light red. If she had the strength to barge into the office now, this subject would be closed, but in a moment it was all far too late.

  ‘Don’t keep me in suspense,’ Grace pushed. ‘What do you mean, “sad”?’

  There was a pause. Kitt’s blue eyes flitted left and right as she wondered how her friend would respond.

  ‘Well, the last bloke Kitt was with, he sort of disappeared,’ Evie continued.

  On the other side of the wall Kitt drew down the shutters of her eyelids, remembering.

  ‘Disappeared? What, like a missing person?’ said Grace.

  ‘No, not exactly. One day, he just stopped communicating. Wouldn’t return any of Kitt’s messages. Or phone calls. When she went to visit him in the room he was renting in Manchester, he’d moved out.’

  ‘Oh my God. When was this? Where’d he go?’

  ‘Must be more than ten years ago now. She never found out where he went,’ Evie said, her voice almost as small as Kitt had felt that day, when she had realized the man she loved was gone. ‘Kitt said his flatmate didn’t have a forwarding address. But he’d given proper notice. He’d known for four weeks that he wasn’t going to be around.’

  ‘Ugh,’ said Grace. ‘She got ghosted.’

  ‘Ghosted?’ said Evie.

  ‘Yeah, when the person you’re with just disappears. Like a ghost.’

  Ghosted.

  Kitt’s mind turned the word over and over, like the ocean trying to smooth a rough pebble. A fitting word, she thought, for an experience that would haunt her for years to come. Fiddling with the pendant around her neck, she read the words, written by Charlotte Brontë, engraved across the gold. ‘I am no bird, and no net ensnares me.’

  Not even a safety net, Kitt thought.

  ‘So that’s why she never talks about boyfriends,’ said Grace.

  ‘There’s been nothing serious in the time I’ve known her,’ said Evie. ‘But that’s fine, I just want her to be happy.’

  ‘She seems happy,’ said Grace.

  ‘You’re right, actually,’ said Evie. ‘In spite of that temper of hers, Kitt’s probably the happiest person I know.’

  At this, Kitt’s eyes sprang open. She willed the corners of her mouth to turn upwards. ‘Courage, girl. Strength, metal,’ Kitt said, reciting under her breath the words of encouragement her parents used whenever she or her sister, Rebecca, found themselves despairing over anything – from the death of an elderly relative to an unfortunate teenage wardrobe malfunction. Growing up in the eighties, the latter had happened more regularly than she would care to admit now.

  Standing up straight, Kitt pushed her shoulders back and swung open the office door.

  Five

  Kitt’s smile widened as she met the eyes of her two friends. The room was bathed in tinted afternoon sunlight streaming in through the only feature of undisputed beauty in the ­second-floor office: an ornate stained-glass window depicting a scene from Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing. There was a moment’s silence.

  ‘Kettle boiled yet?’ said Kitt. Evie was sitting just to her right in one of the battered floral armchairs, while Grace was standing to her left at the dark wooden desk in the centre of the room.

  ‘Just a second ago,’ Grace said.

  Kitt nodded at her assistant. ‘I’ll pour. You take a seat.’

  The silence hung around while Kitt handed a teacup to each of her friends. She then pulled up a wooden chair next to Evie’s.

  ‘I’m afraid we can’t get comfortable,’ Kitt said to Grace. ‘I left “Back in five” sign on the desk three minutes ago.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Grace. ‘I’ll check on the desk in a few minutes. But at least let me hear a little bit . . .’

  ‘Evie, are you up to talking about it?’ asked Kitt.

  ‘I think it will do me good,’ Evie said, looking down into her tea. ‘But I’ll warn you I’m likely to cry again. It’s been one shock after another this morning.’

  ‘I know, love.’ Kitt’s brow dipped as she looked over at her friend, cradling the teacup as if it was the only warmth available to her in the world. ‘Start at the beginning, and the moment you want to stop, stop.’

  Evie moved her lips one over the other to moisten them as she looked between Kitt and Grace. ‘The first I knew of it was when Halloran and Banks walked into the salon this morning,’ she began, referring to Daisy Chain Beauty – she used the back room there for her massage appointments.

  ‘What did they say?’ asked Grace.

  ‘They said I’d have to cancel my appointments because they needed to take me to the police station. Said they wanted to speak to me about a murder, and it was in my interests to cooperate. I said I’d be happy to help them in any way I could, but that I couldn’t just cancel all my appointments – I need the money.’ Every muscle in Evie’s face slackened as she remembered what had happened next.

  ‘That’s when they told you,’ Kitt said, ‘who the victim was.’

  Evie’s voice wavered as she spoke. ‘I just broke down. I wouldn’t believe them to begin with.’

  ‘I am so sorry,’ Kitt said, leaning across and squeezing her friend’s hand.

  ‘I’m sorry too,’ said Grace.

  ‘I know, thanks,’ Evie said. She was wincing with the pain of retelling her ordeal, but continued. ‘Anyway, Diane was on reception and said she’d cancel my appointments, and they drove me to the police station. They said they wanted to talk to me, but it wasn’t just a chat. They cautioned me, you know how they do on the police shows.’

  ‘You have the right to remain silent . . . ?’ Kitt asked.

  ‘Yeah. I saw cameras fixed near the ceiling. They recorded what I said. The word interrogation is a bit strong because the inspector was very calm all the way through, but they did question me,’ said Evie.

  ‘But why?’ Grace asked. ‘Because you’re his ex-girlfriend?’

  ‘No, it’s not just that. For a start, there was no sign of forced entry. Which means—’

  ‘Owen knew his killer,’ Kitt finished. ‘But that alone doesn’t prove it was you. Owen knew lots of people. There’s still not much reason to suspect you above anyone else.’

  Evie glanced down at her teacup.

  ‘What? What is it?’ asked Kitt.

  ‘The poison was slipped into some wine. The bottle was still in the kitchen when the police arrived. It was a bottle of Egly-Ouriet Brut,’ said Evie.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Kitt.

  ‘Is that not a very good wine?’ asked Grace, looking between the two friends.

  Kitt shook her head at her assistant. ‘Owen impressed Evie by buying her a bottle of Egly-
Ouriet on their first date.’

  ‘Not that I know anything about wine,’ said Evie, ‘but I saw how much it cost and it wasn’t cheap.’

  ‘All right, I’ll admit that doesn’t look good. But how would the police know what wine Owen bought on your first date?’ asked Grace.

  ‘I’d posted on Facebook about it a couple of times because he bought a bottle on our anniversaries,’ Evie explained. ‘That’s where gloating gets you.’

  ‘Now, now,’ said Kitt. ‘Owen bought that wine for you. You’ve never bought any, have you?’

  ‘Not on my wages,’ said Evie.

  ‘Then there are no financial records to prove you purchased the murder weapon,’ Kitt said. ‘A coincidence over a bottle of wine wouldn’t be enough to convict you of anything anyway.’

  Evie pressed her lips together and looked back at Kitt with wide, nervous eyes.

  ‘There’s more, isn’t there?’ asked Kitt.

  ‘Owen was found . . .’ Evie’s mouth wobbled, but she recovered herself, ‘they found him with a note pinned to his chest.’

  ‘A note?’ Kitt said. ‘The police never mentioned that to me.’

  ‘I imagine what I’m telling you is pretty much need-to-know only,’ said Evie.

  ‘What did the note say?’ asked Grace.

  ‘I don’t know how else to say this . . .’ said Evie.

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Grace. ‘Just take your time.’

  ‘No,’ Evie said. ‘That’s what the note said. “I don’t know how else to say this.”’

  ‘Wait,’ Kitt said, her breath quickening. ‘Those words. That was the opening sentence of the break-up message Owen sent to you.’

  ‘Word for word.’

  ‘Did it say anything else?’ Kitt asked.

  Evie shook her head. There was a pause before she continued. ‘The police had searched through Owen’s message history and found our break-up messages. We went back and forth on that thread for a few days, and the exchange doesn’t show me in my best light. But it gets more macabre.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ said Kitt.

  ‘The note, it was pinned to his chest,’ said Evie.

  ‘Yes, you already told us that,’ said Kitt.

  ‘It was . . . the killer pinned it to his chest by . . .’ Evie trailed off, her mouth tried to make the right shapes, but no sound came out.

  ‘What?’ Kitt prompted, not sure if she really wanted to know given the look on her friend’s face.

  ‘Stabbing a fountain pen . . . through his heart. That’s what was holding the note there. Through his heart . . .’

  Kitt held her right hand to her chest, thinking.

  ‘But that’s just . . .’ Grace began.

  ‘Sick?’ Kitt suggested.

  ‘Yeah, and . . . weird . . . isn’t it?’ said Grace.

  ‘I’m not sure weird really covers it,’ said Kitt. ‘Poisoning, stabbing through the heart . . . It’s like A Study in Scarlet.’

  Evie frowned at her friend. ‘Is that librarian code for something?’

  ‘No, it’s Sherlock Holmes. One of the stories.’

  ‘I don’t remember that episode,’ said Grace.

  Kitt stared at her assistant. ‘It’s a book, Grace. You haven’t read any Conan Doyle, then? Too busy watching all five Paranormal Activity films on a loop, no doubt.’

  ‘Actually, there are six Paranormal Activity films, not including the unofficial spin-off—’

  ‘Oh, good grief,’ Kitt said, bringing a hand to her head.

  ‘But no,’ Grace continued. ‘I was too busy reading the Byomkesh Bakshi stories, which I have been told surpass the Sherlock Holmes stories on several levels.’

  Kitt’s face broke into a smile. ‘They are rather good. The Invisible Triangle was one of my favourites.’

  ‘Oi,’ said Evie, looking between Kitt and Grace. ‘When you’ve quite finished your book club meeting, there’s a human being in pain over here.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Kitt said.

  ‘It’s all right.’ Evie sniffed. She paused then, and added, ‘But in case it is somehow relevant, who was the murderer in that story?’

  ‘There’s a lot of back story in A Study in Scarlet, but ­essentially . . .’

  ‘What?’ asked Evie.

  ‘The murders in that story were revenge killings, over a broken heart.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Evie. ‘This really doesn’t look good for me, does it?’

  Kitt made a dismissive wave. ‘Give over. You’re innocent. There’s no hard evidence, no DNA at the crime scene, or we wouldn’t be sitting here right now.’

  Evie nodded, but didn’t say anything else. Grace took the opportunity to interject.

  ‘So in A Study in Scarlet, someone is poisoned and stabbed through the heart? Like Owen was?’

  ‘No, not exactly,’ said Kitt. ‘Two different people, and not with a fountain pen. So weird . . . You couldn’t kill a person that way, I don’t think. At least not easily. Halloran said that Owen was poisoned, which means the murderer must have stayed with the body afterwards to pin the note on him in this . . . this theatrical manner.’

  ‘But would a fountain pen even cut through skin or tissue?’ said Grace.

  ‘Not without the use of great force. Or, I suppose you could stab the victim with something else first and then wedge the pen in there . . .’

  Evie moaned and covered her ears.

  ‘Sorry,’ Kitt said, rubbing Evie’s nearest arm. ‘I don’t mean to be callous, I’m just trying to understand it, I suppose.’

  Evie tried to turn her lips up at the corners, but remained quite pale in the face. Perhaps, however, that was in part because since breaking up with Owen, she’d stopped indulging in those god-awful fake tans from the salon on Coney Street. All the staff there looked like they’d been Tangoed, which should have been enough to deter anyone from entrusting their skin to those people. Owen had let it slip on their second-ever date that he liked ‘exotic-looking’ women, and Evie, in her wisdom, had decided a fake tan was the closest she could get.

  It had taken a few weeks, but she was at last starting to look more peachy than Jaffa.

  ‘Did . . . did the police say what brand the fountain pen was?’

  Evie stared at her friend. ‘I know you love stationery, but do you really think that’s the big question right now?’

  Kitt sighed. ‘If there’s a brand, the police will be able to track down where the fountain pen came from. Not many people use fountain pens these days.’

  Evie looked up to the ceiling, thinking. ‘I think they said it was a Stanwyck fountain pen.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think that brand is even on sale any more in the shops. I certainly haven’t seen them for years, so the killer must have gone to a specialist shop to find it. That’s bound to narrow the police search for the culprit.’

  Grace raised her hand in the air, like a schoolchild asking permission to speak.

  ‘I’m not sure the hand-raise is totally necessary, Grace,’ said Kitt.

  ‘Sorry, just wanted to make sure you’d finished. In our criminal psychology unit, we were taught that the way a crime is committed tells you a lot about the ego of a person, particularly in murder cases.’

  Kitt went quiet for a moment, digesting Grace’s comment. ‘Owen was poisoned. Which is a sort of sneaky method for killing a person, isn’t it? It’s not a death by brute force. And this thing with the fountain pen, it must have been done after the fact. It would take time. Which means the killer hung around to sort of orchestrate what the police would find when they got there.’

  ‘You mean, to make the evidence point to Evie?’ Grace asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Kitt. ‘But there’s more to it than that. If they stayed at the scene to . . . well, to arrange things, that suggests calculation. Maybe even a la
ck of guilt over what they’d done.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Evie. ‘I think I was wrong. Talking about this is not helping.’

  Kitt took Evie’s hands in both of hers. ‘No, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘We don’t have to talk about it. I just don’t understand how the police could think you’d done such a thing.’

  ‘Well, most people are killed by somebody who knows them,’ said Grace.

  ‘Yes,’ Kitt said, glaring at her assistant. Evie had only just visibly recovered from Kitt’s accidentally vivid assessment of how efficient a fountain pen might be at piercing the heart of her ex-boyfriend. ‘Thank you for that comforting thought, but perhaps now would be a good time for you to check there’s nobody waiting at the enquiry desk.’

  ‘Oh . . . I— I didn’t mean to sound insensitive,’ Grace stuttered, standing up from her chair.

  ‘I know, it’s all right,’ Evie said to Grace. ‘Who knows what to say in situations like this?’

  Grace pursed her lips and put her hand on Evie’s shoulder for a moment before placing her teacup on the desk and leaving the room.

  ‘I don’t want you to worry about this,’ Kitt said, looking at her friend.

  ‘How can I not?’ said Evie.

  ‘Because,’ Kitt said, ‘the police need more than the fact you and Owen weren’t on great terms to make an arrest for murder.’

  ‘They have got more though,’ Evie protested. ‘The killer used the exact words of a break-up message Owen sent to me.’

  ‘Yes, but anyone who knew about the message could have done that, couldn’t they?’ said Kitt.

  ‘Yes, and Inspector Halloran did ask for a list of other people who knew about it, which I gave him.’

  ‘Good. See? They can’t cart you off to prison just like that. The police need evidence you were at the crime scene, and as you were with me that evening, we both know they’re not going to find anything. There’s a reason why the late, great crime novelist Sue Grafton started her alphabet series with A is for Alibi: it’s one of the most important aspects of any criminal investigation, and you’ve got one.’