Candles for the Dead

by Frank Smith

  ‘Did she say that when you met again in the church?’

  Lenny looked puzzled. ‘Church? I don’t know what you mean. I told you, I haven’t seen her since that night.’

  ‘Why did you hit her? What was the argument about?’

  ‘That’s none of your business. It’s private.’

  ‘Was it money? Did it have something to do with the money your mother embezzled from the bank where she worked?’

  Oh, Christ! They knew about that. Lenny closed his eyes tightly. The cramps were getting worse and he was sweating hard.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he ground out.

  ‘I’m afraid your mother is dead, Lenny,’ said Paget softly. ‘Killed by someone who attacked her in the church. Did you kill your mother, Lenny?’

  The words were spoken quietly, but there couldn’t have been a greater reaction if Paget had shouted them. The boy sucked in his breath; his eyes flew open to stare at Paget. He began to shake and tears ran down his face. ‘Dead?’ he gasped. ‘She’s not dead. Ask Tan. She was with me at the house. Ask Ta…’ He choked on the word. His body arched, and Andrea grabbed him by the shoulders, straining to hold him as he tried to throw himself from side to side.

  ‘That’s enough!’ she told Paget sharply. ‘Ring the bell for the nurse. Four short.’

  ‘Can I help?’ Paget asked as he pressed the bell.

  ‘Just – just leave!’ she told him sharply. ‘A nurse will be along in a minute. Now go! There will be no more questions today.’

  Paget hesitated, but a nurse arrived on the dead run, and he was forced to move aside. Andrea began issuing instructions, and it was obvious that he would only be in the way if he remained. He thought of waiting in the corridor, but what would be the point?

  What was there left to say?

  Chapter 19

  Dorothy McLeish was a small, sharp-featured woman of forty – three years older than Beth Smallwood. Her face was impassive as she looked down on the pale features of her sister. ‘Yes, that’s Beth,’ she said quietly, and turned away. ‘Is there anything else?’ she asked Tregalles.

  ‘A few formalities,’ the sergeant told her, ‘but they can wait if you’d rather.’

  ‘No.’ The woman’s voice was firm. ‘I’d like to get it all done now,’ she said. ‘Donald and I – he’s my husband – talked it over last night, and we’ll take care of the funeral arrangements. We don’t have much but we can see her buried properly. I doubt that son of hers will be much help.’

  ‘He’s here in hospital at the moment,’ Tregalles told her, and explained briefly what had happened. ‘Perhaps you’d like to visit him?’ he suggested.

  ‘You say he’s on the mend?’ Mrs McLeish was English born, but she’d spent so long in Scotland that there was a discernible Scottish lilt to her words.

  ‘That’s right,’ Tregalles told her. ‘It may take a while, but the doctors say he’ll be all right.’

  ‘Then I’ll not be bothering him,’ she said flatly. ‘I disliked him as a child, and he was no better for his growing up.’

  ‘You’ve seen him recently, then?’ Tregalles guided Mrs McLeish to the car and held the door for her, then went round and got in himself.

  ‘He came last year. Just turned up one day with a bit of a girl in tow, and said he’d come to stay for a while. Borrowed Beth’s car, he had. Said he’d come for a holiday, bold as you please. I gave him dinner, then sent him packing. I wasn’t having any of that under my roof.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw your sister, Mrs McLeish?’

  The woman remained silent for some time. ‘The last time I spoke to her was just after Lenny was born,’ she said softly. ‘She was seventeen, then, and I went to see her. We had a fight, and we’ve never spoken since.’

  Tregalles frowned. ‘Never?’ he said. ‘Yet she had your telephone number. That’s how we found you.’

  ‘She may have had it but she never used it.’

  ‘And you never got in touch with her?’

  ‘No. It would have done no good.’

  ‘Are either of your parents alive?’

  Dorothy McLeish stared straight ahead, but her eyes saw nothing of the road. ‘I was fifteen when our mother died,’ she said tonelessly. ‘She’d been ill for a long time. Cancer, I think it was, although the doctor put it down as heart failure when she died. Dad wouldn’t have it that she was ill. Said she was just lazy. He was a seaman, away from home half the time, thank God. We managed as best we could, but after Mum died he talked of leaving the sea. Said he’d been offered a job on the docks. We were living in Liverpool at the time.

  ‘That’s when I left home. I couldn’t stand it any more. Not alone there with him. I was only sixteen, but anything was better than…’ The words caught in her throat, and she fell silent.

  They arrived at Charter Lane, and Tregalles escorted Mrs McLeish to Paget’s office, which he knew would be empty. Better, he thought, than the stark surroundings of one of the interview rooms.

  ‘Coffee?’ he offered, but Dorothy McLeish shook her head.

  ‘Is your father still alive?’ he asked. ‘He should be notified if he is.’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Mrs McLeish said, ‘and to be quite honest, Sergeant, I hope he’s not. I certainly don’t want to see him again, ever.’ She lifted her chin and her dark eyes met Tregalles’s quizzical gaze defiantly.

  ‘You said you haven’t spoken to your sister since Lenny was a baby,’ he prompted. ‘Why was that?’

  Mrs McLeish looked away. ‘I should never have left her,’ she said so softly that he could barely hear her. ‘I knew what would happen.’

  Tregalles waited. Dorothy McLeish turned a troubled face toward him. ‘I was barely sixteen myself.’ Her eyes pleaded with him to understand. ‘My father had –’ she swallowed hard – ‘used me as a substitute for my mother since I was ten. I knew that if I stayed…’

  She sighed regretfully as tears slowly trickled down her face. ‘But I shouldn’t have left Beth on her own like that.’

  Tregalles left the room and returned with a cup of coffee. He set it in front of her, and she flashed him a grateful glance. He took his seat again and waited as she grasped the cup with both hands and sipped the steaming liquid.

  ‘I should have done something – anything to get Beth out of that situation,’ she said wistfully, ‘but I didn’t, and I can’t change that. She was sixteen when she met Harold Smallwood. He was eighteen; a local boy. Not much of a catch; a bit simple, but not a bad lad. Somehow or other they managed to get married. Beth lied about her age, I suppose, but she had wedding lines to prove she had really married Harold. But when it became apparent that she was pregnant, Harold couldn’t handle it and he left. As far as I know, he never came back.’

  ‘You said you fought with your sister just after Lenny was born. What was that about?’

  Dorothy McLeish looked down at her hands. ‘It was my fault, really,’ she said quietly. ‘I should have kept my mouth shut, but I was so angry!’ She broke off and shook her head. ‘I suppose it can’t hurt her now. It was over Lenny. You see, Beth happened to mention the first time she met Harold, and I realized that Lenny couldn’t be Harold’s son, and I said so.’

  Mrs McLeish made a helpless gesture. ‘As I said, I should have kept my mouth shut, but once it was out, the damage was done. Beth flew into a rage and called me everything under the sun, and it was then I realized that she had known it all the time. Lenny wasn’t Harold’s son. That’s why she’d rushed him into marriage.

  ‘Lenny may carry Harold Smallwood’s name, but Lenny is my father’s son,’ she ended. ‘I know it and Beth knew it, but she refused to acknowledge it. And she never has as far as I know.’

  * * *

  Paget turned left into Bridge Street after leaving the hospital, but instead of returning to Charter Lane, he continued on until he came to what was still called the bypass despite the fact that the town had closed around it in recent years. Ther
e, he turned right and followed it for about half a mile before turning off on Lansdowne Drive.

  The houses were set well back from the road. There was money here, attested to by paddocks bounded by white fences, and driveways lined with trees. Paget drove slowly, looking for numbers on gateposts.

  He saw the sign before he saw the number; the silhouette of a Shetland Sheepdog against a white background, and the name of the kennels underneath. The house was not large compared with those around it, but it was almost twice as big as his own in Ashton Prior. Solid, two-storeyed brick, with six leaded windows across the top and four across the bottom, and the three broad steps leading up to the front door were bordered by two columns.

  He rang the bell and waited. Faintly, from somewhere at the back of the house, he thought he heard the sound of a horn. He rang the bell again and heard the same sound.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  A woman had come round the side of the house and was standing with one hand on her hip. She was small and slender, and she looked as if she’d spent a lifetime out of doors. She was dressed in baggy trousers, a broadcloth shirt, and a pair of boots that had seen much better days.

  ‘I’m looking for Mrs Gresham,’ Paget said, coming down the steps. ‘My name is Paget. Chief Inspector Paget of the Westvale Police.’

  The woman came forward and thrust out her hand. ‘I’m Lilian Gresham,’ she said. ‘I take it you’re not looking for a dog?’ The hawkish features crinkled into a smile.

  ‘No, I’m afraid not,’ he said. ‘I’m looking for some information. Could you spare me a few minutes?’

  ‘If you don’t mind us talking while I get on with my work,’ she said briskly. ‘I’m in the middle of grooming a dog that hasn’t been combed for God knows how long.’

  Lilian Gresham led the way to the back of the house and down a path to a large enclosure containing covered kennels and open runs in which there must have been at least a dozen dogs. As soon as they saw her, they began running back and forth and barking excitedly.

  ‘Quiet!’ she roared in a voice that seemed to come from her boots, startling even Paget. But the dogs fell silent, except for the odd furtive ‘woof!’ as they settled down.

  They continued on past the runs to a small building where yet another Sheltie greeted them as they entered. ‘Meet Sir Gwayne of Evanloch,’ said Lilian Gresham. ‘Otherwise known as Gumby by his owner. Did you ever hear such a ridiculous name for a dog?’ She picked up the dog and set him on a table, then went to work on him with a brush and comb.

  ‘I presume this has something to do with that unfortunate woman’s death,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘But I don’t see how I can help. I don’t think I ever met her. I haven’t been in the bank in years.’

  ‘Still, there may be a way in which you can help,’ Paget told her. ‘Were you here last Monday evening?’

  Lilian Gresham straightened up and stretched. She pursed her lips and thought for a moment. ‘Yes, I was here. That is, either out here or in the house.’

  ‘Do you remember receiving any telephone calls that evening?’

  She lifted her head and stared off into space. ‘Yes. There were several, as a matter of fact. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Were any of them for your husband?’

  ‘Yes. Two, I believe. One was from that frightful woman, Gretchen Middlehurst. Something to do with the cricket club. Arthur is on the committee, you see. She blethered on and on about it. I did leave a message for Arthur, so I assume he has taken care of it.’

  ‘And the other call?’

  Lilian Gresham frowned. ‘That one was a bit odd,’ she said slowly. ‘He insisted on speaking to Arthur even after I told him Arthur wasn’t here. He didn’t actually call me a liar, but he certainly implied it. Said Arthur was avoiding him, and it wasn’t good enough. Quite belligerent. I didn’t like his tone and I told him so, then I hung up. I half expected him to ring back, but he didn’t. Foreign, I think. Spoke very good English but I’m sure he was foreign. Oriental, I should think.’

  ‘I see. Do you have any idea what time that was?’

  Lilian Gresham thought about that. ‘I was still out here when he rang.’ She indicated the telephone on the wall. ‘Both lines on it are extensions from the house,’ she explained. ‘One is for everyday use, and the other is for the kennels. Whenever I’m out here and Arthur’s out, I switch them through. I suppose it would be easier if we had an answering machine, but I hate those damned mechanical voices.’ She picked up the brush and comb and began working on the dog once more.

  ‘I think it must have been about nine o’clock,’ she said, referring to his question. ‘Yes, it was, because I was tidying up and getting ready to go back into the house. Sorry, but that’s the best I can do. Is it important?’

  ‘Probably not,’ said Paget, ‘but we do have to check everything out. There were no other calls for Mr Gresham?’

  ‘No, I’m sure there weren’t.’

  ‘I take it your husband was out most of the evening, then?’

  ‘That’s right. He went to visit his father in Golden Meadows. He often goes up there in the evening.’

  ‘Do you recall what time it was when he left the house, Mrs Gresham?’

  ‘Some time around seven, I should think. I can’t say I was paying that much attention to the time.’ The woman paused, then turned to face him, frowning. ‘Why are you asking all these questions, Chief Inspector?’ she asked. ‘Surely you can’t think that Arthur…’ She made a dismissive gesture.

  ‘We believe that Elizabeth Smallwood was killed by someone she knew,’ he said. ‘As a matter of routine, we must check out where everyone was when she died. Once we can confirm their stories, we can eliminate them from our enquiries and concentrate our efforts elsewhere.’

  ‘I see.’ Lilian Gresham looked thoughtful as she returned to her task. ‘Is there anything else you wish to know?’

  ‘Do you recall what time it was when Mr Gresham returned that night?’

  The woman didn’t reply immediately, seeming to concentrate on stripping handfuls of hair from the heavy coat. ‘I can’t be sure,’ she said at last. ‘After I finished here, I went in, had a bath, and went straight to bed. That would be about ten or a little after. I vaguely remember hearing Arthur come in, but I don’t know what time it was. And he was gone before eight the next morning, which was quite unusual for him. Had some sort of meeting to attend, I believe he said.’

  Lilian Gresham turned her full attention back to the dog. ‘I don’t think there is anything else I can tell you,’ she said. ‘Sorry if I haven’t been much help. Would you mind seeing yourself out?’

  * * *

  Traffic was heavy along Tavistock Road at this time of day, and Peggy Mycroft kept well over to the side as she cycled home from school. She didn’t like this stretch of road at all. Cars travelled far too fast, and they came too close.

  This part was particularly bad because of the narrow verge and the steep slope that dropped away to the railway sheds below. One slip and she’d be over, and there would be no stopping until she hit the bottom. She kept her eyes fixed firmly on the strip of road in front of her, concentrating on keeping her balance as another string of cars whizzed past. Only another fifty yards or so to go before she could turn off the busy road, she thought thankfully.

  A movement caught her eye, and suddenly a bedraggled figure rose up beside her and staggered into the road. Peggy screamed and fell off her bike. The driver of a car about to pass blanched and cursed her roundly as he swung out to avoid the girl, then slammed on his brakes as he realized what he’d seen.

  Chapter 20

  Amy Thomson lay with her eyes closed, listening to the activity around her. They had kept her awake when all she wanted to do was sleep; probing, shining lights into her eyes, holding up different numbers of fingers in front of her face and asking repeatedly how many she saw. What was her name? Where did she live? Could she count backward from ten to one?

  They had done s
omething to her shoulder. It felt dead, even when she tried to move it. She thought it might be bandaged, but she hadn’t the energy to find out.

  Now, finally, they had given her something for the pain in her head, and it was beginning to work. But she still felt cold despite the blankets tucked in around her. She didn’t think that she would ever be warm again.

  The policeman, who had stayed with her until the ambulance came, was still there. She could hear him talking to someone in a low voice. He was waiting to talk to her again, but she wanted to think before she told him anything. He was saying something about another girl; the girl on the bike. Just a grazed knee and elbow and shaken up a bit.

  She’d pretended not to hear when he’d asked her what she’d been doing down there in the sheds; she had to get it sorted in her mind before she told him anything.

  Why would anyone want to kill her? She’d done nothing except pick up the money as Tony had asked her to. Oh, God! The money! What had happened to the money? She didn’t even know how much it was, but Tony had offered her twenty quid just for picking it up, so there must have been quite a bit.

  Amy groaned. Tony would be furious!

  So what? she thought rebelliously. He should be happy she wasn’t killed. After all, she’d been doing him a favour, and he could have gone there himself. No one would have seen him.

  Amy hadn’t given that much thought until now because she’d been so anxious to please Tony – that’s what people did for one another when they were in love. But now, in the light of what had happened, doubt crept into her mind, and the story he had told her didn’t sound as plausible as it had when they lay together on the bed.

  Had he known that someone might be there?

  Even as the thought formed in her mind, Amy knew instinctively that Tony had known there might be someone waiting in the darkness. And still he’d sent her there.

  To be killed? The thought chilled her to the bone.

  No! Tony wouldn’t do that, she told herself fiercely. Not Tony. He loved her.