Candles for the Dead

by Frank Smith

  He closed the notebook. ‘How long had she been out of Mr Gresham’s office when you saw her in that state, Miss Fairmont?’

  ‘Half an hour; perhaps a little more,’ she said stiffly.

  Paget eyed the secretary speculatively for several seconds. ‘Half an hour,’ he repeated. ‘And still in a state of great agitation over what amounted to a relatively small promotion.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I don’t buy that,’ he went on. ‘What you have described sounds more like the reaction of someone who has suffered an extremely traumatic experience. And we know that Beth Smallwood did suffer such an experience that afternoon. We know it from the medical evidence; we know it from the bruises on Beth Smallwood’s body. We know it from the condition of her clothing. What you have described seems far more consistent with that explanation than it does with the reaction of someone who has just been promoted.’

  Rachel had gone very pale, and her teeth pressed hard against her lower lip.

  Paget eyed the woman dispassionately. ‘You were there outside Gresham’s office, Miss Fairmont,’ he said. ‘You must have some idea what happened to Beth Smallwood in there.’

  Rachel Fairmont closed her eyes tightly and shook her head. ‘No! I won’t listen to this,’ she whispered. ‘Arthur would never … Beth was just … She was surprised, that’s all. She told me she almost fainted when she heard the news.’

  ‘Why do you think Beth Smallwood was promoted, Miss Fairmont?’

  Rachel tilted her head defiantly. ‘Because,’ she said, ‘as Arthur explained to me, he had no choice. He was forced to cut staff, and it was “suggested” by head office that he cut senior staff rather than junior staff in order to save more money. It would have made more sense to let Beth go rather than Harry, but as I say, he had no choice. He didn’t do it because he wanted to do it; he did it because he had to do it.’

  ‘And you knew nothing of this beforehand?’

  ‘No. Arthur called me into his office after Beth left, and asked me to take a memo announcing Harry Beecham’s leaving and Beth’s appointment. That was when I first learned that Beth was to take Harry’s place.’

  Paget shook his head impatiently. ‘You have worked for Arthur Gresham as his private secretary for years, Miss Fairmont. Not only that, but by your own admission the two of you are lovers. And yet you say you had no idea that Gresham intended to get rid of Harry Beecham and promote Beth Smallwood in his place? – a person who, by all accounts, was neither equipped nor ready for the job. Why do you think that was, Miss Fairmont? Why do you think he never mentioned it to you? Weren’t you just a little bit suspicious about what had gone on between Arthur Gresham – the man you say you intend to marry – and Beth Smallwood when you saw the state she was in when she left his office?’

  Colour flared in Rachel’s cheeks.

  ‘Weren’t you jealous, Miss Fairmont? Weren’t you upset?’

  ‘No! Of course not. Arthur isn’t … It wasn’t like that,’ she protested, but her voice trembled and she looked as if she were on the verge of tears.

  ‘What time did Mr Gresham leave your flat that Monday evening?’

  The question caught Rachel by surprise. She looked confused. ‘I – I don’t know, exactly,’ she said. ‘Why? What are you getting at?’

  ‘Please try to think. It is important.’

  Rachel tried to look at him, but her eyes slid away before his penetrating gaze. ‘It wasn’t long after Beth rang,’ she said in a subdued voice. ‘We talked about what she’d said for a few minutes and then he left because he had a meeting with Ivor Trent.’

  ‘And Beth rang about eight?’

  ‘Yes. About then. It was about fifteen minutes after Arthur arrived, and he usually gets there about quarter to eight.’

  ‘And he left shortly after Beth called.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So that would be what? Quarter-past eight? Twenty past?’

  Rachel sighed. ‘Something like that,’ she agreed wearily. ‘But I fail to see what…’

  ‘Certainly no later than half-past? Right?’

  Rachel hung her head. ‘I-don’t-know!’ she said despairingly through clenched teeth. ‘I told you: I-wasn’t-watching-the-damned-clock!’

  ‘No, of course you wouldn’t be,’ said Paget quietly. ‘I’m sorry if my questions have upset you, Miss Fairmont, but we do have to make sure we have things clear in our minds. You did the right thing by coming in, and I do appreciate it.’ He glanced at the time. ‘Was there anything else?’

  Rachel shook her head. She looked utterly miserable, and it was clear she was far from convinced that she had done the right thing by coming in.

  Paget stood up and came round the desk. ‘Sergeant Tregalles will take you downstairs where your statement will be recorded and typed up,’ he told her. ‘Do you need a lift home?’

  ‘No, I have my car,’ she said dully as she rose to her feet. Her eyes sought Paget’s. ‘You’re wrong about Arthur,’ she said. ‘I know him. I know him better than anyone. He isn’t like that. You must believe me; he isn’t like that at all.’

  * * *

  Tregalles had just returned with a copy of Rachel Fairmont’s statement when Grace Lovett appeared in the open doorway. She looked tall and slim and elegant in her two-piece linen suit with shoes to match. Her blonde hair rested gently on her shoulders, glinting softly beneath the office lights, and her eyes were the colour of a summer sea.

  ‘Am I interrupting?’ she asked hesitantly. ‘I could come back again at a more convenient time.’

  ‘No, no. Not at all, Grace,’ said Paget, motioning her to come in. ‘Tregalles and I were just about to call it a day. What brings you here?’

  Tregalles stood aside for Grace to enter. She entered like a breath of spring, fresh and clean and tantalizingly fragrant, and the sergeant sighed inwardly. He couldn’t for the life of him imagine why Grace Lovett was still single. Nor could he understand Paget’s apparent indifference to her charms.

  Paget waved her to a seat. ‘Now, what can we do for you?’

  Grace undid the tie on the folder she’d been carrying, and pulled out several sheets of paper stapled together. ‘I had to come over this way,’ she said by way of explanation, ‘so I brought this with me. It’s the report on Mrs Smallwood’s clothing – the items you asked me to recover from her house and send over for analysis.’

  ‘That was very good of you, Grace,’ said Paget as he took the report from her. ‘Does it help us at all?’

  ‘I think it does, sir. As you will see, the condition of the undergarments tends to confirm that there was sexual activity, but it is impossible to state accurately when that activity took place. However, given the condition of the rest of Beth Smallwood’s clothing, and the manner in which she kept them, I think it would be safe to assume that she changed her underclothes daily, and they would then be washed, so it could be inferred that the activity took place earlier that day. Also, there are traces of seminal fluids, but they will have to undergo further tests before any conclusions can be drawn.’

  Grace delivered the information dispassionately as if giving evidence in court, and Paget found himself admiring her for it.

  ‘But the most interesting part – at least I think so,’ Grace continued, ‘is the information regarding the fibres found in Beth Smallwood’s hair and on her undergarments. As you will see, sir, they are carpet fibres, easily identifiable if only – and here’s the catch – you have some idea where to look for the carpet.’

  Paget, who had been skim-reading as she talked, looked at her for a moment, then smiled. ‘I think I know exactly where to look,’ he said quietly. ‘Can I keep this?’ He tapped the report.

  ‘Of, course, sir. That is your copy.’

  Paget rose to his feet, and Grace had no option but to follow his example. ‘Thank you, Grace,’ he said warmly. ‘I appreciate your bringing this over here personally. This could help a lot.’

  Grace Lovett smiled in return and allowed herse
lf to be shepherded to the door. She had hoped to stay longer, but she had been late getting there, and now everyone else had gone home. Still, he had said he appreciated what she’d done.

  Tregalles was on his feet, holding the door. His face was solemn but his eyes twinkled. His glance flicked toward Paget then back to her. He winked.

  Grace felt her face grow warm, and she could feel the sergeant’s eyes upon her all the way down the corridor. Next time, she promised herself, she would make damned sure that Tregalles was somewhere else before she came to see his boss.

  Chapter 30

  Paget took copies of the forensic reports home with him that evening, but by the time he’d waded through the jargon and officialese, and mentally followed the movements of everyone who had been in the church the night Beth Smallwood died, he found himself nodding off.

  The answer, he felt sure, lay in the reports before him, but he couldn’t see it. There was something he had read that had triggered a response, and yet for the life of him he could not bring it into focus.

  He yawned and glanced at the time. It was only nine o’clock, but perhaps a shower and an early night would clear his head. Perhaps a fresh look at things would bring the answer in the morning.

  The phone rang. He groaned. It was bound to be something to do with work. He scooped it up. ‘Paget.’ His tone was clipped.

  ‘Neil?’

  ‘Andrea?’

  ‘It is you,’ she said. ‘For a moment there I thought…’ Andrea laughed nervously. ‘Sorry, Neil. What I meant to say was, thank you very much for the flowers and the card. The flowers are beautiful, and the verse was lovely. You really shouldn’t have. But I’m glad you did. They really cheered me up. I should have rung earlier, but…’ Andrea’s voice took on an anxious tone. ‘I’m not interrupting anything, am I?’

  ‘No, no, of course not,’ he assured her. ‘I’m glad you liked the flowers.’ His mind raced. Andrea sounded so pleased.

  ‘They’re lovely,’ Andrea said again. She paused, hesitated. ‘I’m told you were enquiring about me at the hospital today. It was very good of you to come. Sorry I wasn’t there, but I was anxious to get home as soon as possible. I didn’t want Sarah to worry.’

  ‘It was…’ He was about to lie; to say he just happened to be there. He changed his mind. ‘I was worried about you, Andrea,’ he said. ‘You could have been killed by that crazy pair. Are you quite sure you’re all right?’

  ‘I’m fine. Really.’ Andrea gripped the phone a little tighter and took a deep breath. ‘Neil…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I – I was wondering … I mean, I really do appreciate your concern, and I’d like to thank you, well, personally.’ Her face felt warm and her mouth was suddenly dry. ‘Perhaps…’ Her courage failed her. All the things she’d so carefully rehearsed vanished in a cloud of self-doubt. ‘Perhaps, next time you’re in the hospital I’ll have a chance to do that,’ she finished lamely.

  Somehow he had expected more. There had been something in her voice, a warmth that had made him think … He dismissed the thought impatiently.

  ‘There’s really no need,’ he said gruffly.

  ‘Well … In any case, thanks again, Neil. Goodbye.’

  Andrea set the phone gently in its cradle and closed her eyes. ‘Why?’ she demanded despairingly of the empty room. ‘Why is it so damned hard to simply ask the man to dinner? What is it that makes me so unsure of myself when I’m talking to him?’

  A sound came from the partly open bedroom door, and Andrea rose to her feet, still mentally shaking her head at her own cowardice. She stood for a moment inside the doorway, watching Sarah as she slept. The child had kicked the covers off in her sleep, and lay with one arm hanging over the side. As Andrea went to her, she recalled the terror of the night she’d thought Sarah was in Victor’s hands, and she shivered violently. She’d trusted a man once, and it could have cost Sarah her life; she dare not make the same mistake again. Not that Neil could be compared to Victor. But then, Victor had seemed all right at first …

  Suddenly everything boiled up inside her. Why couldn’t she and Neil have just remained friends? It had been all right, then. She had felt safe with him. Comfortable. Until that night before Christmas when he’d looked at her and she knew; knew that he wanted to be more than ‘just a friend’. Not that he’d said anything, but she could see it in his eyes; sense it in his voice – and she’d wanted to respond.

  And that had frightened her, because she knew she could not – dare not allow this man to get too close to her. And then it was too late.

  Andrea sighed softly as she moved to the bedside. Why did everything have to be so damned complicated?

  Wednesday – 22 May

  As Paget was about to enter the building, a fair-haired young man burst through the doors and almost knocked the chief inspector over. Maltby. A junior member of the CPS, and certainly the most impetuous.

  ‘Oh, God! Sorry, sir,’ he apologized as he recognized the chief inspector. ‘I didn’t mean … I really am sorry, sir, but it’s the wife. I mean I’m going to see the wife … It’s a boy! Seven pounds four ounces. I was supposed to be there, but it came early. I mean he came early. Janet will kill me.’ The prospect didn’t seem to worry him.

  ‘Your first, I take it?’ said Paget, hiding his amusement.

  ‘Yes, sir. Oh, God! I almost forgot. Have one of these, sir.’ Maltby reached into an inside pocket and took out a handful of cigars. He thrust one into Paget’s hand. ‘And I really am sorry, sir.’ He patted Paget’s arms as if to make sure he was all right, then leapt the remaining steps and was off like a hare.

  Paget still had the cigar in his hand when he reached his office. He had no intention of smoking it, but no doubt Alcott would take it off his hands. He smiled as he rolled the Cellophane-wrapped cigar between his fingers and thought about young Maltby. A son. Must be quite a feeling.

  He was about to put the cigar away when he paused. Cellophane, and a partial print – and something he’d meant to check on with Forensic at the beginning of the week. It might mean nothing, but then again …

  He picked up the phone.

  * * *

  Arthur Gresham arrived alone. Miss Fairmont, he explained, was not well, and had not come in this morning.

  ‘Nothing serious, I hope?’ said Paget as he led the way into the interview room.

  Gresham looked around the room with obvious distaste as he took his seat at the table. ‘No,’ he said, dismissing the idea with a shrug. ‘Touch of flu or some such thing, I expect. Came on yesterday afternoon and she left early. Made it damned awkward at the audit meeting, I can tell you. Had to bring in one of the other girls to take the minutes, and she didn’t have shorthand. Went on till after six.’

  Gresham frowned as Tregalles switched on the tape recorder and entered the time and date and those present.

  Gresham looked at his watch. ‘Is all this really necessary, Chief Inspector?’ he asked irritably. ‘I thought that all I had to do this morning was correct my statement. I do have other business to attend to, you know.’

  ‘I appreciate that, sir,’ said Paget blandly, ‘but there are one or two other matters that have arisen since last we spoke. You don’t object to helping us with our enquiries, do you, sir?’

  Gresham eyed the tape recorder speculatively. ‘Of course not,’ he said in a milder tone. ‘That is why I’m here.’

  ‘Good.’ Paget leaned back in his chair and nodded at Tregalles.

  The sergeant opened the file in front of him. ‘Let’s begin with what you told us yesterday,’ he said. ‘You told us that you rang Miss Fairmont about ten o’clock on the night Beth Smallwood was killed, and she told you of the call she had received from Mrs Smallwood. Is that correct, sir?’

  Gresham scowled. The fact that it was the sergeant rather then the chief inspector who was asking the questions irritated the bank manager.

  ‘That’s what I said, Sergeant, and Miss Fairmont confirmed it if you rec
all.’

  ‘And you say you made that call from the public telephone outside the Three Crowns. Is that correct?’

  Gresham appealed to Paget. ‘You know all this already,’ he said.

  ‘If you’ll just bear with us, Mr Gresham. We do have to make sure we have everything straight before it is committed to paper.’

  Gresham looked less than mollified as he turned to Tregalles. ‘What was the question?’ he asked sharply. Tregalles repeated the question. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said irritably, ‘that is what I said.’

  ‘You are quite sure of that, sir?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it, Sergeant,’ Gresham flared.

  Tregalles was unperturbed. ‘You see, sir, the reason I wanted you to be sure is because that particular telephone has not been working for more than three weeks. How do you account for that?’

  ‘Well, it was working when I used it,’ Gresham said belligerently. I should know. And as I said, Miss Fairmont will back me up.’

  ‘Yes, well, we’ll come to that in a moment, sir. But I’m afraid British Telecom’s records don’t back you up.’

  Gresham turned to Paget once again. ‘Obviously the records are wrong,’ he blustered. ‘Besides, what difference does it make which telephone I used? Miss Fairmont has told you…’

  ‘Miss Fairmont,’ Tregalles broke in smoothly, ‘has retracted the statement she made in your office yesterday. She now says there was no such call made that night.’ Tregalles tapped the folder. ‘She says you were with her in her flat when Mrs Smallwood rang.’

  Gresham’s eyes widened. ‘That’s preposterous!’ he said. ‘When did she tell you this?’

  ‘Late yesterday afternoon.’

  Gresham shook his head as if in disbelief. He took off his glasses and began to polish them.

  ‘Miss Fairmont came in,’ Tregalles went on, ‘because she realized that we did not believe the fabrication about the phone call – to say nothing of her purported lapse of memory regarding that call – and she hoped to clear things up by telling us the truth. She also confirmed something we had discovered for ourselves – that you and she were lovers.’