Deadly Errand

by Christine Green

  ‘I met Jacky at the church,’ he explained. ‘It was the love of Jesus we had in common at first. But then I became much more fond of dear Jacky, just as a wonderful friend, you understand. She was my ideal soul mate, my alter ego if you like.’

  ‘I see.’

  Kevin continued, there was no stopping him. ‘We used to walk home after church at first; occasionally she'd come to my house but more often I'd come here. I was always welcome.’

  ‘Of course,’ I murmured.

  ‘I can't believe she's dead, you know. We had such wonderful times together. We loved the same music, enjoyed long walks, the countryside, even the same TV programmes – nothing violent of course – nature documentaries, that sort of thing.’

  ‘So what went wrong?’

  ‘Wrong?’ he echoed.

  ‘Well, you were no longer going out with her.’

  ‘That's true but things were getting – very intense, shall we say.’

  Yes, let's say that, I thought, but I didn't let him off so easily. ‘You mean you wanted to get her into bed and she didn't?’

  His eyes flickered at the question as if his brain had to do a double-take. ‘I can assure you,’ he said irritably, ‘my intentions towards Jacky were marriage and one day children. Our break-up had nothing to do with carnal desire.’

  I was losing him, I could tell. His eyes concentrated first on the washing machine and then on the door. ‘I'm sorry, Mr Stirling,’ I said softly. ‘I just wondered why such a compatible couple should, well – separate.’

  Kevin sighed. ‘Oh, if you must know, we had a row. No, it wasn't a row – it was just an argument about her voluntary work. She never really had enough time for me. We met at church of course, but apart from that she was always so busy. It got worse and worse and in the end I gave her an ultimatum – voluntary work or me. She chose the former.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Do you?’ he said dully. ‘If she had lived, no doubt we would have got together again some time. I just wanted to be with her all the time. Jesus came first of course – with us both. But … I still miss her.’

  I nodded and patted his arm. He looked about ready to cry. ‘Do you know anyone who may have wanted Jacky dead?’ I asked.

  ‘No – no one. She didn't have any enemies. Why should she have any enemies?’ Kevin's voice had risen in agitation.

  ‘What about the anonymous calls?’

  ‘Those!’ His thin lips curled in contempt. ‘The police asked me about those. It wouldn't surprise me if those homeless yobs weren't responsible.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don't know. But they're useless individuals, work-shy louts. That's all they are.’

  ‘Jacky didn't seem to think so – she helped them.’

  ‘True,’ he murmured. ‘I think she was misguided, naïve.’

  ‘The night of the murder?’

  Kevin's eyes glittered angrily. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘I was at home, of course, with my parents. The police have established my innocence completely. I wouldn't have harmed Jacky, would I?’

  ‘No, of course you wouldn't. Thank you for talking to me.’

  He smiled in relief. The utility room had become claustrophobic for us both.

  I went back to the lounge with Kevin following miserably behind. He resumed his seat next to the old lady who had by now fallen asleep. Kevin was no murderer, I felt sure. His blandness hid no passion, no real anger, just a peevish sort of jealousy. His greatest arousal probably came from singing hymns. I was about to cross Kevin Stirling off my ever-dwindling list of suspects when I remembered that a single stab wound in the back was a passionless type of murder.

  I drank another sherry and watched Kevin. He was watching me, his ferrety eyes trained on my bosom. He'd crossed his legs to expose white short socks and black hairs. He wore black slipon shoes with thick soles. Would Hubert think that significant, I wondered?

  Helping myself to yet another sherry I realised I wouldn't be driving myself home tonight. Before calling for a mini-cab and saying my goodbyes I would call on Ada Hellidon. The fresh air would do me good and I could take her a vol-au-vent and a couple of bridge rolls.

  Her house was in darkness save for the front room light. I knocked and knocked but there was no answer or sound of movement. I shivered.

  ‘It's the district nurse,’ I shouted in desperation. Then I peered through the letter-box. I smelt the paraffin first. Then my eyes caught a glimpse of a black shape on the floor. Ada lay there. Dressed in black, ready for the funeral.

  Chapter Seven

  A neighbour with a key let me in. Ada lay tidily, on her side with her legs drawn up, at the bottom of the stairs. Her hair seemed to glow in the dinginess of the hall like a purple halo and as I switched on the light the pink lamp-shade cast the scene with an almost surreal warmth.

  She looked not dead but sleeping. There were no signs of violence and her hair curved into the nape of her neck in tight, unspoiled, newly permed curls. She wore a black coat and a grey skirt which had managed not to expose her knees and on her feet were red slippers. Not fluffy ones but the type with leather uppers and fur-lined. But still slippers.

  I told the neighbour who stood open-mouthed with shock that she should ring the police from her house. There was no need to call an ambulance yet.

  Kneeling beside Ada I felt for both radial and jugular pulses. There were none. Her skin was cool but had not quite the icy coldness of the many hours dead. There was no sign of rigor mortis and I thought death had probably occurred within an hour or so. Judging by her closed eyes and peaceful expression, death seemed to have called too suddenly to cause either pain or fear. Had she fallen downstairs, I wondered, or had she had a massive heart attack or stroke halfway down the stairs?

  I stepped over her body and walked upstairs to check the carpeting. The orange and brown stair carpet was secured firmly on each stair by stair-rods. At the top there was a fitted carpet leading to the bedrooms and the bathroom. There were no badly worn areas, no fraying edges, no loose or rucked patches. Nothing there to have made her fall.

  Within minutes the police had arrived. A uniformed Inspector, accompanied by a sergeant, gazed for a moment at the body with barely disguised disappointment.

  ‘Looks like an accident,’ said the Inspector miserably. ‘Did you find the body?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Name?’

  I gave my name.

  ‘Not yours. The victim's.’

  He ignored me then to make a cursory inspection of the stairs until interrupted by the police surgeon, Dr Benfleet.

  ‘Hello, Gerry. Accident?’ he asked the Inspector.

  His answer was given with a toss of the head stairwards and a mumbled, ‘The usual.’

  Benfleet bent down to examine the body. But he couldn't bend far because his belly got in the way. He sank on to his knees, and began straightening the body. I stood pressed against the hall wall trying to be inconspicuous. Looking up suddenly he asked, ‘WPC?’

  ‘Nurse.’

  ‘Good. Help me roll down her stockings.’

  We turned her gently on her back and removed her stockings and then, starting at the head, he began his examination. There was slight but recent bruising on the left temple. Making a few notes he began to scrutinise Ada's body for signs of injury. I kept quiet.

  Eventually he stood up, stretched himself, smoothed his silver hair into place, patted me on the arm and, looking at the Inspector, said, ‘Dead about an hour and a half, natural causes by the look of it, probably shock due to fractured pelvis. There's some bruising, most of it new.’

  The Inspector gazed for a moment at the staircase. ‘Stairs aren't that steep surely, not to fracture a pelvis?’

  ‘Osteoporosis. Weak bones, old boy. Very common in elderly ladies. Even spontaneous fractures are quite usual.’

  I could keep quiet no longer. ‘Could she have been pushed?’ I asked.

  Dr Benfleet gav
e a low chuckle. ‘Ah! that old chestnut. Yes indeed, my dear, she could well have been pushed. But try proving it. It's very hard to distinguish between bruises; one tiny shove, that's all it would need. Not a good method of murder.’

  I raised an eyebrow in surprise.

  ‘Can't be sure they'll die, can you? They might manage a few dying incriminations.’

  My question had managed to irritate the Inspector.

  ‘What exactly are you doing here?’ he asked.

  ‘I knew Ada. I nursed her once. I found the body and wouldn't like to think she had been murdered.’

  ‘This isn't New York,’ he said. ‘Harmless old girls don't get murdered in Short Brampton. She fell down the stairs. There are more deaths through accidents in the home than anywhere else.’

  ‘Nurses get murdered,’ I said, but he ignored me.

  ‘Leave your name and address with my sergeant; we'll be in touch if there is anything we need to know.’

  I was dismissed, although Dr Benfleet gave me a wink as I left. As I walked towards Clare's house I noticed both Clare and Nina waiting for me on the front door step. At least I thought they were waiting for me but instead they were saying goodbye to the funeral guests. The arrival of the police had perhaps made some of them leave early just so they could hang about outside watching. Dr Hiding was just leaving.

  ‘Miss Kinsella, there you are. I was concerned. I thought for a moment you had decided to drive home. And I did notice you drinking rather large amounts of sherry. I'll give you a lift.’ With his hand on my arm in a vice-like grip I didn't have much choice. And anyway I felt too depressed to argue.

  On the way back to Longborough Dr Hiding drove my car with one hand on the steering wheel, the other on my thigh. The hand didn't move so I tried to forget it was there. Every so often he turned slightly towards me, smiling. I tried to keep the conversation on the subject of Ada's death, telling him how I'd found the body. That, surely, would dampen his ardour.

  ‘Had the CID arrived?’ he asked.

  ‘Uniformed, an inspector and a sergeant.’

  ‘Inspector Dallington?’

  ‘Yes. He seemed to think Ada's death was an accident.’

  ‘The CID will be called in if there's any doubt at the postmortem. They are an ungodly bunch but they get results.’

  I wasn't convinced. ‘They haven't made much progress with Jacky's death so far.’

  ‘And you have?’

  ‘Well, no … but it is very complicated.’

  He laughed. ‘Prayer, my dear, is the answer, and of course finding the protector.’

  ‘Protector?’

  ‘Yes. Someone, somewhere, knows or guesses who the murderer is. Invariably they get conscience-stricken and begin to ask questions. God works in unusual ways.’

  ‘Amen to that.’

  The thought struck me that if that was the case, someone I'd already met could be in danger. Or poor Ada had started asking questions and had been given the ultimate answer.

  When we arrived in Farley Wood it also struck me Dr Hiding would now be without transport.

  ‘Where do you live exactly?’ I asked.

  ‘Within walking distance, on the old Longborough Road. From here I'll be home in about fifteen minutes. I'll pick my car up tomorrow.’

  ‘It's very kind of you to drive me home. Thank you.’

  I tried to sound polite but firm. But that didn't stop him making a sudden lunge and trying to kiss me and grab my breasts simultaneously.

  ‘Dr Hiding! Pull yourself together,’ I managed to say as I prised his lips from mine. ‘Jesus won't want you for a rainbow.’

  His face puckered but it brought him to his senses. ‘A minor aberration, Miss Kinsella, I do assure you. I find you so desirable. We could walk with God together, we could marry. Celibacy is such a hard road and I get so lonely.’

  As he spoke I could smell the whisky on his breath and behind his glasses his eyes lurked, pink and watery, like lychees floating in syrup. ‘Dr Hiding,’ I said, ‘you have been drinking. In the morning you'll be sober and you'll remember this conversation with embarrassment. I shall do my best to forget the whole incident. Good night.’

  He got out of the car then, wordlessly, and began to walk away with bowed head. I watched as he walked past the church, lifting his head towards the spire, a dark shape against a darkening sky. But now he walked more upright, his shoulders squared once more in righteousness. God must have spoken to him forgivingly, and I couldn't help wondering if he needed forgiveness on other occasions, and for more serious ‘aberrations'.

  The phone was ringing as I opened the front door. It was Hubert. ‘I've heard the police are swarming over Short Brampton. What's happened? Are you all right?’

  ‘I'm fine. Swarming is a slight exaggeration, though, for a duo of police. And how did you find out so quickly?’

  Hubert chuckled. ‘A friend of a friend rang.’

  ‘Not touting, I hope,’ I said. ‘You'd not be disappointed, though. There's been a fatality – Ada Hellidon is dead.’

  There was silence for a moment. ‘God rest her soul,’ he said. ‘Do you think it was an accident?’

  ‘Seems most likely, but I suppose we won't really know until the PM.’

  ‘You just take care of yourself. You could be next in line.’

  Somehow that thought had never crossed my mind. ‘I'll see you later,’ I told Hubert.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I think you could do with a bit of help.’

  ‘I'm sure I can manage perfectly well on my own, Mr Humberstone.’

  ‘I didn't mean that sort of help,’ he replied. ‘I meant some treatment to help you relax and release your deductive powers.’ ‘Sounds wonderful – but what do you have in mind?’

  ‘Reflexology.’

  I felt the laughter grip my chest and I had to cough to ward it off. ‘It sounds very appropriate,’ I said between coughs. ‘Are you any good?’

  ‘Good! I'm a star pupil.’

  Thoughts of Hubert massaging feet amused me for a few seconds until I realised it was my feet he had designs on. Not only, it seemed, could my life be in danger, my feet were also at risk. And I wasn't sure which worried me most.

  The following morning, on Saturday, I went back to see Clare Byfield in Short Brampton. Dr Hiding's Range Rover was no longer there, but the neighbours seemed to be out in force, making the most of bright but wintry sunshine by sweeping their front paths or cleaning their cars.

  I managed to talk to Ada's right-side neighbour, a short woman with tiny hands and feet which ballooned into a large round shape as though her extremities had pumped up her body. She wore a bright blue padded jacket which added to her girth but her unlined face and curly brown hair made her age difficult to guess.

  ‘I'm a newcomer here,’ she explained cheerfully. ‘I've only lived in this village for ten years.’

  Freda Banks rested the broom she was using against her chest, and as she breathed, the broom handle rose and fell between the cleavage of her breasts like some mesmeric extra limb. I tried not to look at it.

  ‘I work full-time so I didn't know Mrs Hellidon all that well. Nice lady, but a bit of a gossip. Noticed if people didn't take their milk in straight away, that sort of thing. And she seemed to have a down on the Byfields.’

  ‘In what way?’ I asked.

  By now, I'd taken out my reporter's note-pad and my pencil and was attempting to write down every word. Mrs Banks, trying to be helpful, spoke very slowly as if I were either deaf or daft, or both.

  ‘Now then,’ she began, ‘Mrs Hellidon told everyone she met about the “goings-on” as she called them. Am I speaking slowly enough for you?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, thank you. Please go on.’

  ‘Well, to be honest, I think poor Mrs Hellidon was a bit jealous.’ ‘Jealous of what?’ I asked, my pencil poised.

  ‘Money, visitors, that sort of thing. She was very lonely, I'm sure. So she just watched the comings and goings from her front window.’
Mrs Banks placed both hands over the broom handle and stared into space for a moment.

  ‘Whose money?’ I asked. ‘Clare Byfield's or her boyfriend's?’ A frown crossed Freda's forehead. ‘Oh, no, dear. You don't seem to understand. It was Jacky's money she seemed to mind. In fact it worried her. But, as I told her, nurses earn a lot more these days and Jacky didn't waste her money. She didn't drink or smoke. She did go on holidays but not to anywhere all that exotic, although Mrs Hellidon seemed to think a trip to Blackpool quite something.’

  ‘I see,’ I murmured, but I didn't. I was confused. ‘What really puzzles me,’ I said, ‘is if Mrs Hellidon was a gossip and not friendly towards the family, why on earth was she invited to the funeral?’

  Freda's eyes widened in surprise. ‘Oh – but she wasn't invited. She told me. She wouldn't have gone to the funeral anyway, she was strait-laced C of E. And Clare Byfield couldn't stand her. Whatever made you think she'd been invited?’

  ‘No reason,’ I lied, remembering Ada's body, all in black. Had she only pretended that she'd been invited? Was that why she still wore her slippers?

  I thanked Freda Banks and left her sweeping the front path, her body swaying and wobbling to the steady rhythm of the brush strokes.

  The front door of the Byfield house opened before I'd even knocked.

  ‘Do come in,’ Clare said, smiling. ‘I saw you come up the drive. I'm just so glad we've got the chance to have a quiet chat. Alan has gone out for a while. Come through to the kitchen. It's my favourite room. Do you have a favourite room?’

  She didn't seem to expect an answer, so I stayed silent.

  The kitchen did have charm, with a pine dresser, onions hanging in strings, decorative plates on the wall and a refectory-size pine table. Dried flowers in a basket on the dresser, a large bowl of oranges on the table, plus the smell of freshly ground coffee gave the room a feeling of warmth and plenty. Its only disappointment was the absence of any signs of baking.