Candles for the Dead

by Frank Smith

  A cold, hard knot formed in Lenny’s stomach, and he began to shake.

  * * *

  Hawthorn Drive was a long, curving street on the south side of Broadminster. Mrs Turvey had been right in her assumption that Harry Beecham lived not far from Farrow Lane. Five minutes by car at most.

  Number 83 was a semi-detached house with a small patch of lawn and a few undernourished roses and hydrangeas separating it from the road. The house itself looked neat enough, but close inspection revealed a lack of care. As Paget walked up the path, he noted paint lifting from the window sills, brickwork that needed pointing, and moss well established in the cracks on the steps leading to the front door.

  He rang the doorbell and waited. The morning paper was still in the letter-box, and it was almost noon. He was about to ring again when he heard someone coming to the door.

  The man who opened the door was grey. Grey hair, grey moustache, grey pullover and trousers. Even his face was grey, and he looked as if he hadn’t slept for a week.

  ‘Mr Beecham? Harry Beecham?’ enquired Paget.

  The man blinked at him like some sort of automaton processing and digesting Paget’s words. ‘That’s right,’ he said at last.

  ‘I’d like to talk to you. My name is Paget. Detective Chief Inspector Paget. May I come in?’

  Beecham looked apprehensive. ‘Police?’ he said. ‘What…? I don’t understand. What do you want with me?’

  ‘I’d prefer to discuss that inside, sir, if you don’t mind.’ Paget moved forward as he spoke, and Beecham automatically stepped back.

  ‘What’s this all about?’ he asked. ‘Has there been a – a robbery or something?’ He looked up and down the street as if hoping to find the answer there.

  Paget moved past him. ‘In here, sir?’ he enquired, pointing to a partly open door.

  Beecham ran nervous fingers through his wiry hair, then shrugged resignedly. ‘Yes. Yes, I suppose…’ He closed the outer door and followed Paget into the front room.

  The furniture, Paget noted, was old but nicely kept, as were the scattered carpets on the polished floor. Inexpensive pictures adorned the walls – pastoral scenes, for the most part, but Paget’s eyes were drawn immediately to a charcoal sketch of a dancer. It was the only one of its kind in the room, and he felt the frame alone must be worth more than the rest of the pictures put together.

  The artwork was magnificent. Paget was by no means a connoisseur, but he knew instinctively that everything about the drawing was superb. The flowing line of the body; the movement of the arms; the tilt of the head – he could feel the fluid motion and the freedom of the dance.

  The chief inspector moved closer. ‘H.B.,’ he said aloud, turning to Beecham. ‘Did you do this?’

  Beecham shook his head. ‘No,’ he said curtly. ‘That’s Helen’s work. My wife.’

  ‘It’s magnificent,’ Paget said. ‘But I don’t recall seeing any of her work before. Does she exhibit locally?’

  ‘No. That was done five years ago.’ His words were clipped as if he didn’t want to talk about it, but as Paget continued to look at the sketch, he offered a grudging explanation. ‘Helen was just starting to exhibit when she became ill and had to give it up.’

  ‘She’s done nothing since?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Pity. A great pity,’ said Paget as he turned away. He indicated the chairs on either side of the fireplace. ‘May we sit down?’

  Beecham hesitated, then nodded. He waited until Paget was seated before lowering himself gingerly into a chair facing the chief inspector. ‘What is this all about?’ he asked again.

  ‘I’m told you went round to Elizabeth Smallwood’s house last night,’ said Paget. ‘Pounded on her door, in fact. Is that correct, sir?’

  Beecham stared. ‘Is that what this is about?’ he asked. ‘I mean, I know I was a bit short with Mrs Turvey, and I’m sorry, but did she actually report me to the police?’

  ‘Do you mind telling me why it was so important that you find Mrs Smallwood?’

  ‘No offence intended, Chief Inspector,’ said Beecham stiffly, ‘but I really don’t see what business it is of yours.’

  ‘Did you find Mrs Smallwood?’ Paget persisted.

  ‘No. And once again I don’t see…’

  ‘Mrs Turvey told you that Mrs Smallwood was in the church at the top end of Farrow Lane, did she not?’

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t go there.’ Beecham sat forward and clasped his hands together like a supplicant. ‘Look, I don’t understand all this,’ he said earnestly. ‘Why do you want to know whether I saw Beth or not?’

  Paget ignored the question. ‘I find it strange that you should be so anxious to see Mrs Smallwood one minute, then not go to the church when you were told that she was there,’ he said. ‘Where did you go, sir?’

  ‘I came home,’ Beecham said tersely, ‘and that’s all I’m going to say until you tell me what this is all about.’ The man looked exhausted, but Paget had caught a whiff of his breath as he entered the house, and suspected that what Harry Beecham was suffering from was a hangover. The question was: had he been drinking because he’d lost his job, or to blot out the memory of killing the woman who’d replaced him?

  ‘Beth Smallwood was killed last night,’ he said, watching Beecham closely.

  Beecham sat up straighter in his chair and blinked rapidly. ‘Killed? he repeated shakily. ‘How? Where? What happened?’

  ‘She was beaten to death in St Justin’s church by someone who wanted us to believe she died while being robbed.’

  Beecham stared slack-jawed. ‘Oh, God,’ he said weakly. ‘Poor Beth.’ He rubbed his face with his hands as if trying to stir some life into the putty-coloured flesh. ‘But you can’t think that I…? I mean, I went round to the house, yes, but…’

  ‘Mrs Smallwood had just taken over your job,’ Paget interjected. ‘A job from which you had been dismissed after many years of service.’

  Beecham’s mouth set in a thin, hard line, and for the first time since he had opened the door his eyes became alive. ‘You’ve been speaking to Gresham,’ he accused.

  ‘According to my information,’ Paget continued as if Beecham hadn’t spoken, ‘you arrived at Mrs Smallwood’s house about eight thirty last night, and began hammering on her door. When Mrs Turvey came out to see what was going on, you demanded to know where Beth Smallwood was, and when she told you she was at the church, you went up there to find her. What happened when you got there, Mr Beecham? Did all that pent-up rage and resentment at losing your job suddenly boil over?’

  Beecham’s head was shaking violently. ‘No, no, no! You’ve got it all wrong!’ he protested weakly. ‘I never saw Beth. I told you I came straight home.’

  Paget’s eyes showed disbelief.

  ‘It’s true! Honest to God; I swear it. Mrs Turvey did tell me that Beth was at the church. She said something about preparing for a wedding, so I thought there would be someone else there as well, and I wanted to talk to Beth alone. So I came straight home.’

  ‘What did you want to talk to Mrs Smallwood about?’

  Beecham looked away and did not answer immediately. ‘I wanted her to tell me herself why she had given in to Gresham,’ he said bitterly. ‘I wanted Beth to tell me to my face that she hadn’t agreed to sleep with that slimy bastard in order to get the job.’ He looked down at his hands. ‘Not that I would have believed her if she had denied it,’ he ended, speaking more to himself than to Paget.

  ‘Sleep with Gresham? Come now, Mr Beecham. That is a very serious allegation.’

  ‘That would be his price,’ said Beecham flatly. ‘Just ask any of the girls. Gresham can’t go near a woman without trying it on.’ He sighed. ‘The only reason Gresham would promote Beth is if she agreed to sleep with him. She’d have never got the job otherwise. Beth is a good worker – or was – and I liked her, but she wasn’t management material by a long shot, and Gresham knows it.

  ‘But he’s a canny bastard. He knew that Beth wa
s desperate for money. She simply couldn’t afford to turn down a promotion, even if it meant taking it on Gresham’s terms.’ Beecham shook his head sadly. ‘As for the job, she’d muddle through with Gresham’s help, but there would be a price to pay, and Gresham would take great delight in exacting it. But I doubt if it would have lasted long. Once Gresham tired of her, he’d find some excuse to get rid of her.’

  Suddenly Beecham’s face broke into a crooked smile. ‘But now he’ll have no option but to put Terry Ling in there,’ he said softly, ‘and he won’t like that!’

  Paget remembered the name. ‘Who is Terry Ling? And why doesn’t Gresham like him?’

  ‘He’s a management trainee. Came over from Hong Kong three years ago. He’s been at our branch for about six months, now. He’s young, he’s intelligent, and he’s ambitious. And he’s had excellent training in Hong Kong. My old job would be a doddle for him.’

  ‘So, what’s the problem?’

  ‘First of all, Terry was sent here by head office and Gresham didn’t have any say in the matter. And Terry’s being Chinese made it even less palatable. Gresham is not known for his tolerant nature, believe me. On top of that, Terry probably knows more about banking that Gresham ever did, and he sees him as a threat. Oh, no,’ concluded Beecham, ‘Gresham won’t be happy about this at all.’

  ‘Tell me about your relationship with Beth Smallwood outside the office,’ said Paget. ‘I’m told you were in the habit of taking her home.’

  Beecham sighed. ‘Mrs Turvey, again, no doubt,’ he said wearily. ‘Beth was a friend. That’s all. There was nothing between us. I love my wife dearly, Chief Inspector, but I cannot talk to her.’

  Beecham leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling. ‘My wife suffers from long bouts of black depression,’ he went on. ‘She also suffers from agoraphobia. She never goes out. We have no social life at all. It’s not the sort of thing one discusses over coffee at work, but I could talk to Beth. I used to drive her home after work, and we would talk. Sometimes I would stop there for tea.’

  He raised his head and looked directly at Paget. ‘I wouldn’t hurt Helen for the world, so I never told her. I lied. I said I was working. It seemed so much simpler that way.’

  ‘I see. Did Mrs Smallwood ever mention any relatives, other than her son, I mean?’

  ‘She said something once that made me think she had a sister, but she would never talk about her family. I don’t think she’d had a very happy time of it when she was young, so I stayed away from the subject.’

  ‘Any idea where this sister might live? Or her name?’

  Again Beecham shook his head. ‘Sorry. It was some time ago, and as I said, it was only an impression. I could be wrong.’

  ‘What can you tell me about Mrs Smallwood’s son, Leonard?’

  ‘Lenny?’ Beecham grimaced. ‘I can tell you he made her life a misery,’ he said sourly. ‘Should have had a damned good hiding years ago, but Beth wouldn’t hear a word against him. The kid was always in some sort of scrape, but it was never his fault. He was in court, you know. Stealing or receiving stolen goods or some such thing. I remember Beth went to court with him and he was put on probation. But she would never talk about it.’

  ‘Was Beth Smallwood in any kind of trouble?’

  Beecham frowned. ‘What kind of trouble?’

  ‘Was she worried about anything? Was she frightened of anyone? Did she ever mention anything like that?’

  ‘No.’ Beecham scoffed at the idea. ‘She was always worried about Lenny, of course, but that was normal. She was hardly the sort to make enemies.’

  But she probably made one of you by taking your job, thought Paget. He rose to his feet and Beecham followed suit.

  ‘Thank you for your time, sir,’ he said as he made his way to the door. He paused. ‘There is just one more thing, though. What were you doing between the time you left the bank yesterday and when you arrived on Mrs Smallwood’s doorstep last evening?’

  ‘Driving around, mostly. Still in a state of shock. One minute I was doing my job; the next I was out on the street, literally. I didn’t know what to do, so I just drove. I stopped several times, but I couldn’t tell you where.’

  ‘Had you been drinking when you arrived at Mrs Smallwood’s house?’

  Colour flooded into Beecham’s face. ‘I – I may have had the odd drink,’ he said nervously.

  Paget raised an eyebrow. ‘The odd drink, Mr Beecham? Yet you say you drove around all day but can’t remember where you stopped?’

  Beecham’s face grew darker. ‘All right, so, I did have more than a few. If you must know, I had a damned sight more than a few. God knows I had good reason, and you can do what you like about that! And, yes, I was upset; yes, I wanted to talk to Beth, but when Mrs Turvey said she was at the church I assumed there would be others there as well, so I came straight home. You have to believe that.’

  ‘Can anyone confirm what time it was when you came home? Your wife, perhaps?’

  Beecham sighed heavily and shook his head. ‘Helen was sleeping when I got in last night and I didn’t wake her. You see, as I explained, my wife never goes out; I have to bring the world to her, and the last thing I wanted to do was talk about my day.’

  Chapter 8

  ‘Officially, between eight thirty and nine fifteen last evening is the best I can do,’ said Starkie. ‘Unofficially, if you put the time of death at around ten to nine, you won’t be far wrong. Getting to her so soon after she died, and the stable temperature in the church, helped narrow it down.’

  ‘Can’t ask more than that,’ said Paget. ‘What about cause of death?’

  ‘Confirmed,’ said Starkie. ‘In non-technical terms, it was a vicious blow to the side of the head. The victim must have died instantly. But she wasn’t kneeling. In my opinion she was standing when she was hit, and went down heavily on her knees when she fell. There was also a scrape on her left arm, which I believe happened when she tried to ward off the first blow. Which also means she was facing her attacker. It was the second blow that got through.’

  ‘And the weapon?’

  ‘Ah! I was coming to that. Forensic found traces of blood in the grooves in the base of one of the candle holders on the altar, and it fits the injury. More tests have to be done, but I’d say it’s a safe bet. But she’d been in the wars even before that. Those injuries to her face and the bruises on her body were caused by someone punching her in the face and knocking her down at least an hour – possibly more – before she died. But there’s more. I found evidence to suggest she’d been raped. Or, if it wasn’t rape, it was certainly rough sex. Her lips were swollen, bite marks on the breasts, and there was heavy bruising around the vaginal area as well as on her back and buttocks. Finger marks can be seen quite plainly on her back.’

  ‘You’re saying she was attacked and raped an hour or two before she was assaulted in the church?’ said Paget incredulously.

  ‘No, that’s not what I’m saying,’ said Starkie. ‘Unless I’m very much mistaken, the physical evidence suggests that Mrs Smallwood was raped several hours before she died. Say in the middle of the afternoon or thereabouts. Then, about an hour or so before she died, she was punched in the face and knocked down. The bruises were made at different times.’

  ‘Good God!’ Three separate assaults in so short a space of time? What had the poor woman done?

  ‘I also found several fibres under the nails of her left hand, none of which matched her own clothing, so I sent them on to the lab. I suspect they came from the killer’s clothes when she tried to ward off the blow.’

  ‘On the other hand, they could have come from something with which she came in contact before she was killed,’ Paget suggested.

  ‘No. I don’t think so. There were too many of them and the fibres were quite long. They would have been a nuisance. She would have pulled them off immediately.’

  ‘Thanks, Reg. Appreciate your call. You’ll let me have the full report as soon as possible?’
<
br />   ‘First thing tomorrow morning,’ Starkie assured him.

  Tregalles, who had been hovering in the doorway for the last couple of minutes, entered the office. ‘Nancy King – you know, the tall brunette who works in the office downstairs – was just in to see Len Ormside,’ he told Paget. ‘She says that Mrs Smallwood rang her at home last night to ask her advice. It seems that Nancy met Mrs Smallwood when Lenny appeared in court, and when she rang last night, she told Nancy that she’d lied at the trial and she wanted to set things right. Nancy told her to come in this morning, and she would make sure she was looked after.’

  ‘And now she’s dead,’ said Paget slowly. ‘I wonder if young Lenny knew his mum was about to shop him?’

  * * *

  Grace Lovett sat in Paget’s office, one slender, nylon-clad leg draped over the other knee, foot swinging slightly as she watched him peruse the papers in front of them.

  ‘Good of you to bring these over yourself, Grace,’ Paget said without looking up, ‘but Tregalles could have brought them.’

  ‘It was no trouble. I came myself in case you had any questions.’

  Paget continued to study the papers while Grace studied Paget. She could have sent the papers over with Tregalles, but she’d wanted to see the chief inspector again. She was probably being silly, she told herself, but she was fascinated by the man. He was so – unreachable; so remote. Not that he hadn’t always treated her with courtesy and the utmost respect, but, dammit, she’d like something more than respect from him. She’d like to be noticed for herself.

  He looked tired; in fact his face was drawn. He works too hard, she thought, and he could do with a few home-cooked meals. She wished she had the nerve to invite him to dinner.

  Grace had rarely seen him smile. All business; everyone who knew him said so; a workaholic in fact. Still not entirely over the loss of his wife. He must have loved her very much, she thought, and felt a twinge of jealousy.

  ‘Very good, Grace,’ said Paget, looking up. ‘You did well to spot it. I’ll take this round to the bank manager tomorrow morning and see what he has to say about it. There will have to be an audit, of course.’