Candles for the Dead

by Frank Smith

  ‘That,’ the sergeant went on, ‘ties him to the attack on Amy Thomson, but there’s more. Several partial fingerprints and palm prints found in the church have been identified as Beecham’s. They were found on the main door of the church and on one of the pews close to the chancel steps. Which,’ he concluded, ‘ties him to the killing of Beth Smallwood.’

  Paget stood before the blackboard and nodded slowly. ‘Good work, Len,’ he said quietly. ‘We’ll have him in for questioning.’ He glanced at the time. ‘Where’s Tregalles?’

  ‘I think he’s upstairs working on reports,’ Ormside said.

  ‘Right. Give him a shout. Tell him to meet me at the car. We’ll pick up Beecham now.’

  * * *

  Harry Beecham dragged his protesting wife into the house and locked the door. He cursed when she fell as he tried to drag her up the stairs. ‘It’s no good pretending that you’re ill,’ he screamed. ‘Bone bloody idle, that’s your trouble. Get up! Move, you useless cow!’

  Helen Beecham struggled to her feet. She’d lost her slippers when she’d fallen at the hospital. Dully, she saw one foot was bleeding where she’d gashed it on the broken crockery. Harry was screaming at her again. She moaned as he pulled her up the stairs. Her arm felt as if it were being torn from its socket.

  He literally hurled her into the bedroom, then slammed the door behind her. She heard the key turn in the lock as she sank exhausted to the floor and closed her eyes. She wanted only to be left alone; left alone to die.

  Downstairs once more, Harry Beecham sat on the bottom step, panting hard. He’d shown them, he thought triumphantly. They couldn’t take his wife away from him. She was his property; his to do with as he wished. No one had the right to interfere with what went on in a man’s own home. No one!

  It was all Gresham’s fault, he told himself bitterly. If it hadn’t been for that sex-crazed bastard, everything would have been all right. Beth should have been the one to leave the bank, by rights, not him. She wasn’t capable of doing the job. Not his job. It was a man’s job; always had been; always would be. She’d have made a right balls of it. Besides, she was supposed to have been his friend. Some bloody friend she turned out to be! As soon as Gresham had offered her the job, she’d jumped at it – or let Gresham jump on her.

  Beecham snickered at the thought. Fat lot of good it had done her. Look where she was now. He was glad she was dead. He felt again the excitement, the rush of adrenalin as he’d looked down on her staring eyes and watched the blood oozing from her head. Served her right!

  Women! they were all the same. Couldn’t trust them. Let you down every time. His first wife, Esther, had been the same. Wanted to go back to work, to help them get ahead, she’d said. But he knew what she was up to. He wasn’t born yesterday. She’d get ahead all right. Get ahead of him! She’d have her own money and start telling him how things should be. Well, look what happened to her! He’d tamed her! He’d shown her who was boss.

  She’d tried to pretend that she was sick as well; too sick to keep the house as she should; too sick to get his meals; too sick … He snorted in disgust.

  He saw her in his mind’s eye, standing there clinging to the newel post at the top of the stairs, making those awful mewling sounds. The very sight of her had sickened him. All it had taken was a slight push.

  He’d thought Helen would be better. Quiet, submissive, plain. She’d know her place. He’d expected her to give up all that nonsense about painting when they were married – or at least keep it to a nice little hobby that wouldn’t interfere with her wifely duties. But, oh, no. She wanted to ‘express’ herself; be creative; sell her paintings. She wanted to be better then he was; show him up.

  Beecham smirked. Well, he’d soon put a stop to that little scheme! He’d shown her where her duty lay.

  He became aware of the sound of cars pulling up outside. Doors slammed, and someone shouted. He darted into the front room and lifted the edge of the lace curtain.

  Police! Grim-faced; determined. How…?

  He dropped the curtain as if it were hot and backed away from the window. He saw shadows flitting past as men ran round the side of the house, and suddenly he was bathed in sweat.

  ‘Police! Open the door!’ Fists were pounding on the door.

  He went cold. Bile rose like acid in his throat, choking him, suffocating him. He ran into the hall. Now fists were hammering on the back door as well. He put his hands over his ears, but he couldn’t shut out the sound. He heard a crash. They’d smashed the glass in the back door; they’d be in the house in seconds.

  He went up the stairs, whimpering and scrambling on all fours as he slipped and scraped his shins. The whole house seemed to shake as a burly shoulder crashed into the door below. Sweat and tears ran down his face. His vision blurred. His foot caught on the top step and he sprawled across the landing.

  He regained his feet and staggered to an open door. Behind him he heard the splintering crash as the front door caved in. Booted feet thundered in the hall below. Someone shouted, ‘Check upstairs!’

  He slammed the door and turned the key.

  Chapter 29

  Paget knocked and entered, closing the door behind him.

  Superintendent Alcott was standing at the window, hands clasped behind his back as he looked out across the playing fields. The ever-present cigarette burned between his fingers.

  Paget waited.

  ‘Messy,’ Alcott said without turning round. ‘Could it have been prevented?’

  ‘No.’ Paget was emphatic. ‘We were actually on our way to pick him up when the call came through from the hospital that Beecham had abducted his wife. Three cars responded, and we all arrived at the house more or less at the same time. It took us less than two minutes to break in, but we were too late. By the time we’d kicked in the bathroom door, Beecham was dead. Throat cut from ear to ear.’

  ‘And Mrs Beecham?’

  ‘We found her locked in a bedroom. She’s back in hospital now.’

  Alcott left the window and took his seat behind the desk. ‘I don’t know,’ he sighed. ‘I’ve been in this business for almost thirty years, and I still find it hard to believe some of the things that people do to each other. I suppose he was mad?’

  Paget sat down himself. ‘I don’t think he was,’ he said, ‘at least, not in the sense that he didn’t know right from wrong. I think Beecham knew exactly what he was doing, and he went to great pains to hide his actions from the outside world. He was very clever, and he was looked upon with a great deal of sympathy by his co-workers for looking after his “sick wife” with such fortitude.’

  Alcott grimaced his distaste. ‘Give me a detailed report as soon as you can,’ he said. ‘The press officer needs a summary, and I suppose I’d better brief Mr Brock myself. He feels that a senior officer should be present when the announcement is made that a major crime has been resolved.’

  ‘Resolved, sir?’ Paget looked dubious. ‘Don’t you think it might be a bit premature?’

  Alcott eyed Paget narrowly through the smoke. ‘What are you trying to tell me?’ he demanded roughly. ‘That Harry Beecham is not guilty?’

  Paget shook his head. ‘No. I don’t think there is the slightest doubt that he is guilty of the assault on Amy Thomson, and of holding his wife a virtual prisoner, but I would like more time to study the evidence against Beecham in the matter of Beth Smallwood’s death. Much of the evidence we have is purely circumstantial, and I hesitate to attribute everything to Harry Beecham until Forensic have completed their tests. In my view, it would be better to delay that announcement for a day or two rather than take the chance of having to retract it later.’

  Alcott shook his head impatiently. ‘Good God, man, what more do we need?’ he demanded. ‘We have Beecham’s palm and fingerprints in the church; we have Rudge’s testimony that he saw Beecham running from the scene; we have motive – Beecham himself told you that he wanted to confront Beth Smallwood because he was convinced that she had sold
herself to Gresham in order to get his job – not that we need to offer that as evidence since it was only speculation on Beecham’s part; and this Mrs whatever-her-name from next door says Beecham was pounding on Smallwood’s door, and she told him where Beth was.’

  Alcott leaned back and glowered at Paget.

  The chief inspector nodded slowly. ‘I agree,’ he said simply. ‘We do have all those things, but none of them prove conclusively that Beecham actually killed Beth Smallwood. It can be argued equally well that Beth Smallwood was dead when Beecham got there, and that his subsequent actions were those of a man who realized how incriminating it would look if he were found there, and he simply panicked and ran.’

  ‘And the blackmail?’ Alcott demanded. ‘Why did he respond to Rudge’s attempt to blackmail him if he didn’t kill Beth Smallwood? And he didn’t hesitate to try to kill young Amy.’

  ‘Same argument,’ said Paget. ‘Beecham couldn’t afford to let it be known that he had been in the church that night.’

  Alcott suddenly rose to his feet. ‘You’ve still got this bee in your bonnet about Gresham, haven’t you?’ he accused.

  ‘If not being satisfied with some of the things Gresham has told us, then, yes, I do have a “bee in my bonnet” as you put it, sir,’ said Paget evenly. ‘The man is lying to us, and his explanation of how he knew Beth Smallwood would not be coming in on Tuesday morning is ludicrous. Not only that, but he has his secretary, with whom he’s having an affair, lying to us as well.’

  Paget, too, rose to his feet. ‘Look, sir,’ he said earnestly, ‘all I’m asking for is a little more time to follow this up. I don’t know whether Gresham had anything to do with Beth Smallwood’s death or not, but I do know that if we simply lay the blame at Beecham’s door and let it go at that, we could well be letting a murderer go free.’

  Alcott turned his back on Paget and stared out across the playing fields. Chief Superintendent Brock wasn’t going to like this. As far as he was concerned, the case was in the bag, and no doubt he was already preening himself for his appearance before the cameras. On the other hand, it might be the lesser of two evils to risk the man’s displeasure now rather than drop him in deep shit later.

  Alcott sucked deeply on his cigarette. Past experience had taught him to listen when Paget advised caution, but could he convince Brock of that? Perhaps, if he held back the information about Beecham’s prints having been identified in the church …

  He turned to face Paget and eyed the chief inspector gravely. ‘Very well,’ he growled, ‘but I want this resolved one way or another within the next couple of days, understand?’

  Paget breathed easier. He didn’t like the time frame, but he wasn’t about to argue the point with Alcott. ‘Understood, sir,’ he said – and departed quickly before Alcott could change his mind.

  * * *

  The telephone was ringing as Paget entered his office. ‘There’s a Miss Fairmont asking to see you, sir,’ the duty officer told him when he answered. ‘Shall I have someone bring her up?’

  Rachel Fairmont? That was odd. Wasn’t she supposed to be taking the minutes of the meeting at the bank this afternoon? ‘Is anyone with her?’ he asked.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Right, then. Give me five minutes, then send her up.’

  Paget rang the incident room and asked for Tregalles. ‘Rachel Fairmont will be in my office in the next few minutes,’ he told the sergeant. ‘I’d like you to sit in; we may need notes.’

  Rachel Fairmont and Tregalles arrived at the same time. While Paget directed her to a comfortable seat in front of the desk, Tregalles settled himself unobtrusively just inside the door. Paget took his own seat behind the desk and looked enquiringly at Rachel.

  ‘I was under the impression that you would be in a meeting this afternoon,’ he said, glancing at the clock.

  Rachel moistened her lips. Her fingers gripped the handbag in her lap as if she feared someone might snatch it from her.

  ‘I – I should be,’ she said nervously, ‘but I told Mr Gresham I wasn’t feeling very well. I said I wanted to go home. I didn’t like to lie to him, but I thought he might try to stop me coming if I told him the truth.’

  ‘I see. And why would he do that?’

  ‘It’s just that…’ Rachel hesitated, then lowered her chin as if steeling herself. ‘I’m afraid I lied to you this morning,’ she burst out. ‘I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have. I could see you didn’t believe me. I told Mr Gresham that you hadn’t believed either of us, but he said it would be all right if we…’

  She stopped abruptly and caught her lower lip between her teeth.

  ‘Just take your time,’ Paget advised. ‘You say you lied. I take it you mean you lied about the phone call you are supposed to have received from Mr Gresham on the night Beth Smallwood was killed?’

  Rachel nodded vigorously. ‘Yes.’

  ‘There was no such call?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But Mr Gresham knew about Mrs Smallwood’s call to you?’

  Rachel hesitated. ‘Yes,’ she said in a barely audible voice.

  ‘Because he was with you when she rang?’

  The woman’s eyes widened, but she nodded slowly. ‘Yes.’

  ‘In fact, Miss Fairmont, you and Arthur Gresham are lovers. Is that not true?’

  Rachel must have guessed it was coming, but even so, she flinched at the word. She looked down at her hands. ‘Yes,’ she said softly. She seemed relieved now that her secret was out in the open. ‘I know it was wrong to lie to you, but I did it for Arthur’s sake. He was afraid. His job at the bank; his wife – he hasn’t told her about us yet. It’s difficult. We don’t want to hurt Lilian any more than we have to – it’s not her fault that we fell in love – so he’s waiting for the right time. You see, we intend to be married.’

  Rachel’s fingers kneaded her handbag as she looked imploringly at Paget. ‘None of this has to come out, does it?’ she asked anxiously. ‘Now that I’ve told you the truth. I mean, it has nothing to do with what happened.’

  Paget eyed Rachel speculatively. ‘Tell me everything Beth Smallwood told you on the telephone the night she was killed?’ he said.

  Rachel frowned. ‘I’ve told you…’ she began, but Paget stopped her.

  ‘You told me only what you wanted me to hear,’ he said. ‘Each time I asked you about that conversation, you were evasive, Miss Fairmont. If you expect me to co-operate with you, I must have the truth. What else did Beth say when she rang?’

  Rachel gnawed at her lip once more, then looked at Paget with pleading eyes. ‘I didn’t mean to mislead you, Chief Inspector,’ she said earnestly. ‘It’s just that what she said didn’t make any sense, and Arthur said there was no point in mentioning it to you because it would only lead to confusion. He said he’d have to talk to Beth to find out what it was all about.’

  ‘When was he going to do that?’

  ‘I don’t know. He didn’t say.’

  ‘Then I come back to the question, Miss Fairmont: what did Beth tell you on the phone that night?’

  Rachel lowered her eyes. ‘It wasn’t the doctor she was going to see in the morning. It was the police,’ she said huskily.

  Paget flicked a glance at Tregalles. Now they were coming to it. Mrs Turvey had said that Beth Smallwood had spoken to her about going to the police, and Nancy King had told them that she’d set up an appointment with Beth for nine o’clock Tuesday morning.

  ‘The police?’ he said as if surprised. ‘Did she say why?’

  ‘It was all so muddled. It was hard to understand her because of her swollen tongue. What I think she said was that she had made an appointment to see the police the next day, and she was going to tell them everything. She said she would have gone to see them that night but she had to go to the church. Something about a wedding. I didn’t understand that part. And she said she didn’t care what happened to her.

  ‘In retrospect, I suppose she must have been talking about her embez
zling the money from the bank, but at the time it didn’t make any sense to me or to Arthur. Neither of us could think why Beth would want to talk to the police. Arthur was very upset about it.’

  Rachel leaned forward earnestly. ‘You see, Arthur is very sensitive about anything that might reflect badly on the bank, so he was anxious to talk to Beth as soon as possible to find out what sort of trouble she was in. Talk of the police disturbed him.’

  ‘I see. Did you get the impression he meant to speak to her that evening?’

  ‘Oh, no. I’m sure he didn’t mean that. Well, he couldn’t very well, could he? At least, not immediately. Not without letting Beth know that he was with me, and we didn’t want anyone to know that.’ She shot him a quizzical look. ‘How did you know?’ she asked curiously. ‘About us, I mean?’

  ‘I couldn’t help wondering why Gresham acted so formally with you,’ Paget told her. ‘And after seeing you at home, I wondered why you dress the way you do at the office. I thought at first that it was to avoid Gresham’s advances, considering his reputation in the office, but your reaction when I mentioned that made me wonder all the more. A few discreet enquiries confirmed my suspicions, and I realized you must have been together when Beth rang that night.’

  Rachel’s eyes flashed. ‘That’s not true!’ she flared. ‘About Arthur, I mean. He … It’s just his way. He’s a very tactile person. Sometimes he might put his arm round someone’s shoulder or touch them on the arm, but it doesn’t mean anything.’

  Paget ignored the outburst. ‘Why do you think Beth Smallwood was in such a state when she left the office that Monday afternoon?’ he asked.

  ‘She was excited about the prospects of her new job, I expect. Why? What does that have to do with anything?’

  Paget took out a notebook and flipped through the pages. ‘“It was a bit embarrassing, really,”’ he quoted. ‘“She kept apologizing for the way she looked and for being so silly … she dropped her handbag and spilled everything on the floor.” That was what you told me, Miss Fairmont, and another employee described Beth’s face as “all puffy and white … she’d been crying and I thought she was ill.” And the bus driver said, “I thought she was ill and she’d been crying.”’