Candles for the Dead

by Frank Smith

  Gresham opened his mouth and closed it again. ‘I don’t believe you,’ he said unsteadily.

  ‘That we knew about it or that Miss Fairmont confirmed it?’ Paget put in. ‘I can assure you, sir, that both statements are correct. We have witnesses who have seen you visit Miss Fairmont’s flat a number of times; witnesses who have seen you park your distinctive car beside the butcher’s shop in Lyall Street, and others who will testify that you were not at Golden Meadows when you said you were.’

  Gresham’s face had paled. He moistened his lips. ‘There is no need to go on,’ he said stiffly. ‘You have made your point, Chief Inspector. What is it you want of me?’

  ‘Miss Fairmont told us that Beth Smallwood intended to talk to the police on Tuesday morning,’ Tregalles said. ‘She says that news upset you. Why was that, sir?’

  Gresham half closed his eyes. God! What else had that woman said? ‘I didn’t know what Beth was talking about,’ he said. ‘I wondered if it had something to do with the bank. And if it had, I wondered why Beth hadn’t spoken to me first.’

  ‘I think you knew very well – or thought you knew – what Beth Smallwood was talking about,’ said Paget. ‘And I think you were scared to death.’

  Gresham’s face reddened. ‘I don’t know…’ he began, but Paget cut him off.

  ‘Then let me remind you, sir. You thought that Beth was going to tell the police about what happened in your office that afternoon. You thought she was going to tell them how she’d been raped on your office floor. But you couldn’t let that happen, could you? You couldn’t allow Beth Smallwood to go to the police with her story. Even if the charge could not be proved, an investigation into your activities would soon reveal your affair with Miss Fairmont, and if that became public knowledge, you’d be on very shaky ground with the bank. Neither, I suspect, would your wife be all that pleased, and you couldn’t afford that, could you? Especially if she wanted a divorce. That possibility alone would spell financial disaster for you, wouldn’t it, Mr Gresham?’

  Gresham’s glasses came off again. ‘That’s…’ he began shakily, but Paget cut him off again.

  ‘Beth Smallwood was raped that Monday afternoon,’ he said harshly. ‘When she came out of your office she was in tears. She dashed straight into the Ladies and stayed there out of sight until Miss Fairmont went in to find out what was wrong. That was at least half an hour after Beth Smallwood left your office, Mr Gresham, and she was still so agitated that she couldn’t even hold her handbag without spilling everything on the floor. Does that sound like the behaviour of a woman who is happy about an unexpected promotion?’

  All colour had deserted Gresham’s face. Sweat glistened on his brow. ‘You can’t prove any…’ he began, but Paget cut him off yet again.

  ‘Can’t prove it?’ he echoed contemptuously. ‘We know from the medical evidence that Beth Smallwood was raped. We know it happened in the afternoon. We know that you had been pursuing her for weeks; your own staff will testify to that! You, sir, cannot keep your hands off women, and there are those who would be only too happy to testify to that!’ Paget reached across the table and grabbed Gresham’s hand. He turned it palm down and jabbed an accusing finger at the four small marks where a fork had once pierced the skin. Gresham snatched his hand away.

  ‘There were fibres found on Beth Smallwood’s clothing,’ he went on as he released the hand. ‘Her underclothing, Mr Gresham. Carpet fibres which will be compared with the carpet in your office.’

  Gresham’s face was ashen. His lips trembled but no words would come.

  ‘I think that when you left Rachel Fairmont’s flat that Monday night,’ Paget continued, ‘you went directly to the church where you knew the woman you had raped would be alone. You went inside and found her by the chancel steps, preparing to put new candles in their holders. You grabbed one of the candlesticks and struck her, then struck again to make sure that she was dead.

  ‘But you had to make sure that no one looked in your direction for a motive. You had to make it look as if someone else had done it; a random killing by some unknown. You wiped the candlesticks, set them on the altar and lit them, then took money and credit cards from Beth’s handbag to make it look as if she had been attacked while praying.’

  Gresham was shaking his head violently. ‘You’re wrong!’ he gasped. ‘I didn’t kill Beth. I wasn’t anywhere near the church. I had to go to a meeting with the city planner. I…’

  ‘Your meeting with Ivor Trent was for nine o’clock,’ Tregalles interjected coldly. ‘You left your lover’s flat before eight thirty, and it takes no more than three minutes to drive to the Three Crowns from there. Yet you didn’t arrive until just after nine, and you were so preoccupied that Trent put the meeting off until the following day. Where were you during that half-hour, Mr Gresham? Where were you at the very time that Beth Smallwood was being beaten to death?’

  Gresham’s glasses skittered out of his hands and slid across the table, but he made no attempt to retrieve them. ‘I swear I didn’t kill her,’ he whispered. ‘I was driving. Rachel kept going on and on at me about that afternoon until I was sick of it. I just wanted to get away. I didn’t know what to do. I still didn’t know what to do when I realized it was nine o’clock and I had to go and meet Trent.’

  The bank manager drew in a shaky breath, and with it tried to rally. ‘It – it wasn’t rape,’ he stammered. ‘Beth was grateful. She was attracted to me, and…’ He broke off as he saw the expression on the sergeant’s face.

  ‘Would you like to see the photographs of her body?’ Tregalles growled. ‘See the bruises? The gouges in her flesh? Don’t try to tell me it wasn’t rape! And once they’ve seen the pictures, I don’t think a jury would think so either.’

  Gresham slumped in his chair and closed his eyes. His face glistened.

  Paget eyed him with contempt. He felt no pity for the man. But for all the circumstantial evidence, there was not a single piece of hard evidence that put Gresham at the church when Beth was killed.

  ‘Why did you try to return to the church the following morning?’ he asked abruptly.

  Gresham seized on the question. ‘I wasn’t trying to go to the church,’ he said. ‘Why would I? I didn’t know Beth was dead. I was going to catch her before she had a chance to go to the police. I was going to try to talk her out of it. Offer her money if I had to. Anything…’

  ‘Including murder?’ Tregalles said.

  ‘No! For God’s sake, why won’t you believe me? All right! Perhaps I was a bit … a bit rough on Beth, but I didn’t kill her. Why would I go back to see her in the morning if I’d killed her the night before?’

  ‘But we don’t know that for certain, do we, sir?’ Tregalles countered. ‘You say you were going to Beth’s house, but you could have been returning to the church. Seeing the police there must have come as a shock. You hadn’t expected the body to be discovered quite so soon, had you, sir? So you started to turn to make it look as if you intended to go down Farrow Lane – even made a point of it by arguing with the policeman on duty. But I’m curious, Mr Gresham: what was it that you thought you’d left behind?’

  Blood rose in Gresham’s neck and his face became contorted as he half rose in his seat. ‘I wasn’t going to the damned church,’ he screamed across the table. Spittle flew from his mouth. ‘I keep telling you, I didn’t know that Beth was dead!’

  Chapter 31

  Paget tossed Gresham’s statement on the desk. ‘We still need proof,’ he said wearily. ‘There is nothing here to show that Gresham was ever in that church. Nothing at all.’ He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling as if searching for inspiration. ‘Why did he go back on Tuesday morning?’

  Tregalles shrugged and shook his head. ‘I spoke to Dandridge again, and he insists that Gresham was trying to go down Farrow Lane, and the only thing that could possibly be of interest to Gresham down there is Beth Smallwood’s house.’

  Paget brought his gaze down off the ceiling. ‘O
r Beth herself,’ he said.

  Tregalles frowned. ‘But she was dead.’

  Paget nodded. ‘Exactly. Perhaps Gresham is telling us the truth.’

  ‘There is no way that man was telling the truth,’ Tregalles growled. ‘Look at what he did to that poor woman. Look at how he fell apart in there. He’s as guilty as sin!’

  ‘I agree. Guilty of abusing Beth Smallwood – but is he guilty of killing her? We would like to think he is because of what he did to her, but is he? The evidence against Beecham is far more convincing.’

  Tregalles shook his head stubbornly. ‘He must have left something behind,’ he said. ‘Prints, hair, fibres from his clothing. He couldn’t just come and go without leaving a trace.’

  ‘I went over everything last night,’ said Paget, ‘and there was nothing there that I could…’ He stopped abruptly. ‘Or was there?’ he said softly. He reached for the folder on his desk and began flipping through the pages. ‘Prints,’ he muttered as he searched. ‘Prints and fibres. Yes, here it is.’ He quickly scanned the page and marked it.

  He picked up the phone and punched in Starkie’s number.

  ‘Reg. Paget,’ he said when the pathologist answered. ‘Tell me again about the fibres you found caught in Beth Smallwood’s nails. I have the analysis from the lab, but I want you to tell me exactly what you saw when you first examined the body.’

  * * *

  Paget had just put the phone down and was about to leave the office with Tregalles when it rang insistently. He paused, half inclined to leave it, but turned back and snatched it up.

  ‘Paget,’ he said brusquely.

  ‘PC Toogood here, sir,’ said a voice that smacked of rural Shropshire. ‘Sorry to trouble you, sir, but we have a domestic situation here. Woman beat up by her boyfriend, and she refuses to talk to anyone but you, sir. Says she has something important to say about that killing in the church last week. Name of Fairmont. A Miss Rachel Fairmont.’

  ‘Is Miss Fairmont all right?’

  ‘She’ll have a bit of a shiner, but no bones broken or anything like that.’

  ‘You’re ringing from her flat?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Do you have a WPC there?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Sergeant Radcliffe – he’s my sergeant – sent one along straightaway. WPC Cooper.’

  ‘Right. I’m on my way. Be there in ten minutes.’

  * * *

  Rachel Fairmont sat huddled in a chair, her long legs tucked under her. She held a cold compress to her face, lifting the cloth just long enough for Paget to inspect the fast-closing eye beneath.

  ‘Gresham?’ he asked.

  She nodded and winced. ‘He’s gone mad,’ she said. ‘He burst in here shouting and swearing. He wouldn’t give me a chance to explain. Just kept screaming at me and shoving me across the room until I was backed up against the wall. Then he hit me.’

  Rachel put the cloth back in place and closed her eyes. ‘It was him, wasn’t it?’ she whispered, choking back a sob. ‘I didn’t want to believe it. He swore to me that he had nothing to do with it, but he was so frightened when he left here that night. Beth had told me she was going to the church, and I’d mentioned it to Arthur. He must have gone straight over there to talk to her, and…’ Her voice broke and she buried her face in her hands. ‘I’m sure he didn’t mean it,’ she sobbed. ‘It must have been an accident.’

  Paget glanced at Tregalles who was scribbling furiously in his notebook. He pulled up a chair and sat down facing Rachel.

  ‘You knew what happened in Gresham’s office that afternoon, didn’t you, Miss Fairmont?’ he said quietly.

  Rachel lifted her head but she wouldn’t look at him. ‘That’s what you and Gresham were arguing about that night when Beth rang, wasn’t it? Gresham told us that you kept going on and on at him until he couldn’t stand it any longer and he left. You must have known for some time that Gresham was turning his attention to Beth Smallwood – even the tellers knew he’d been pursuing her – and when Beth came out of that office, you knew exactly what had taken place. You tackled him about it that evening. And then when Beth rang and spoke of going to the police the following morning, you thought she meant to tell them about what had happened in Gresham’s office. And that’s what you told Gresham. But that was wrong. Because of her swollen tongue, her words were garbled, and you misunderstood. What Beth wanted to talk to the police about was her son, Lenny, who had just beaten her up, and to tell them that she’d lied for him in court.

  ‘Arthur Gresham was getting tired of you, wasn’t he? He liked to play the field. He never did intend to marry you; he had too much to lose. He has no money of his own; his wife has it all, and he wasn’t going to jeopardize that!’

  Rachel was shaking her head vigorously. ‘That’s not true!’ she protested. ‘He was going to marry me. He was! He swore to me that night that it was me he loyed, and he begged me to forgive him.’ Her face darkened. ‘It was Beth. She led him on. It wasn’t his fault. He loves me, and he’ll need me more than ever now.’

  Rachel saw the look in Paget’s eyes as he regarded her swollen face. ‘Arthur didn’t mean to hurt me,’ she said defiantly. ‘He was angry. He thought that I’d betrayed him.’ She shivered and tugged the loose sweater she was wearing closer to her. ‘If only he’d told me,’ she ended miserably.

  ‘That’s a very nice sweater,’ Paget observed. ‘I noticed it last Sunday. You were wearing it then.’ From the corner of his eye he saw Tregalles look up, obviously puzzled by the seemingly unrelated question.

  ‘It’s Arthur’s, actually…’ Rachel stopped. ‘But what has that to do with…’

  ‘And you were wearing it the night Beth Smallwood died,’ Paget continued as if she hadn’t spoken.

  ‘Yes, but…’

  ‘It’s wool, isn’t it? Vicuña wool?’

  The woman remained silent.

  ‘I can have the constable check the label.’

  Rachel’s lips set in a thin line. ‘So it’s vicuña,’ she flared. ‘But what that has to do with anything I don’t know.’

  ‘Don’t you?’ asked Paget softly. ‘Then let me explain, Miss Fairmont. Let me tell you what I think happened a week ago Monday when Beth Smallwood was called into Arthur Gresham’s office. In fact, let’s go back further than that, to when Arthur Gresham had to decide how best to cut his staff to satisfy the dictates of head office – and himself.

  ‘He’d begun to take an interest in Beth Smallwood recently, but Beth was doing her best to stay out of his way. But Gresham knew, as most of you did at the bank, that Beth was living virtually hand-to-mouth. She would do almost anything to keep her job, and she’d jump at the chance of a promotion, no matter what the cost to her personally. Which was what Gresham was counting on. In fact, she was even more desperate than he suspected, because Lenny was bleeding her dry and she had turned to embezzlement to try to keep the boy out of trouble.

  ‘By getting rid of Harry Beecham, Gresham would save the bank a senior man’s salary and perks, thereby enhancing his own image as a manager. He would then make Beth Smallwood an offer she couldn’t refuse, and she would have no choice but to submit to his demands.’

  Rachel put her hands to her ears. ‘I’m not going to listen to this,’ she whispered fiercely. ‘You’re wrong! Absolutely wrong!’

  Paget continued as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘But Gresham got carried away that afternoon, and he raped Beth in his office, didn’t he, Miss Fairmont? You were sitting there outside his door. You knew what had gone on behind that door, didn’t you? You knew that it was Beth he wanted, not you, and that’s what you were arguing about that night when Beth made that very unfortunate call to you. She didn’t want to talk to Gresham, not after what he’d done to her, so she called you instead. She said she was going to the police, but her words were garbled because of her swollen tongue, and you thought she was about to turn Gresham in.’

  Rachel’s face crumpled. ‘I shouldn’t have told Arthur,’ she whis
pered. ‘He was terrified. He could lose everything. He said Beth had to be stopped, but I never dreamed he meant…’

  Paget was shaking his head. ‘Oh, no, Miss Fairmont,’ he said softly. ‘It wasn’t Arthur Gresham who went to the church that night. It was you!’

  The woman became very still.

  ‘Gresham had a lot to lose, but he was confident that he could buy Beth off with money. Which was why he set out early next morning to see her at home. He had no idea that she was dead. He was trying to get down Farrow Lane to see her, but was stopped by the police.

  ‘But you, Miss Fairmont, you had set your heart on marrying Gresham, and if Beth went to the police and charged him with rape, you’d lose everything. Your affair with Gresham was bound to come out; your hope of marriage would be gone, and where would that leave you?’

  Rachel had dropped the compress and was shaking her head violently back and forth. ‘It’s not true!’ she cried desperately. ‘None of this is true. It was Arthur. He’s the one who said she had to be stopped. He’s the one who raped her, for God’s sake!’

  Paget nodded slowly. ‘Yes,’ he said quietly, ‘he raped her and you knew it. You tackled him about it the moment he arrived here that night. And when he left, you got into your car, drove over to the church, and confronted Beth. You didn’t even give her a chance to explain, did you? Why should you? You were so sure you knew why she was going to the police, and you wanted her out of the way. Permanently. As long as she was around she was a threat. Knowing Gresham as you did, you thought he might even talk her round and take her as his mistress.’

  Rachel squeezed her eyes tightly shut as if by doing so she could shut him out, but Paget continued on relentlessly.

  ‘You confronted Beth, grabbed the candlestick and hit her. She tried to defend herself, so you hit her again. But in going down Beth grabbed your sweater, the one you have on, and fibres from it were caught in her nails. I doubt if you even noticed.