Embroidering Shrouds

by Priscilla Masters

  Christian nodded dubiously. ‘I’ll do what I can but I wouldn’t think they’re likely to be from Leek. There are plenty of big, rough towns within an hour’s drive of here. They’re more likely to be from one of those places. I’ll ask around if you like; see what I can come up with, but I don’t think –’

  Joanna gave him another smile. ‘Great. Thanks. Now let’s take a trip round, shall we? And don’t forget, anything you notice as being different or missing is worth a mention.’

  It didn’t take long; Spite Hall was little more than a troop hut, two rooms at the front, a bathroom behind the bedroom and a kitchen which spanned the width at the back. Everything about the proportions of the place was displeasing – the dark corridor which led up the middle, the long, narrow sitting room, the tiny kitchen, shabby and bare except for a glazed cabinet which seemed to hold nothing but cereal packets, a now mouldy loaf of bread, some tea bags and a tiny jar of marmalade. Two teacups, plain white, sat in the sink, a half-eaten packet of Rich Tea biscuits on the draining board. An old-fashioned radio, grey, grubby plastic with a vinyl handle stood on an oak table spread with a faded cotton tablecloth.

  It was less than meagre. It was spartan. Christian took some time to scan the kitchen, then he shrugged. ‘It looks the same as it always does,’ he said.

  And Joanna found herself puzzling over his character. A conflict of opposites. Sometimes pleasant, sometimes covertly aggressive, and at other times deliberately on the offensive. Deep within her a question was forming. Had the boy loved his great-aunt or not? She couldn’t tell. At times she was convinced of his previous affection and current grief, at others he seemed indifferent to the crime – almost amused by it. His grandfather had hinted at a close relationship between the old woman and her great-nephew, more than close, unhealthy. When Christian Patterson had first entered Spite Hall he had seemed upset – disturbed. But now all those emotions appeared to have melted away. He seemed calm, unconcerned, not curious, almost challenging the police. So which was the true Christian? Or had he adjusted so quickly?

  Joanna’s judgement on the old woman had been that she was not a woman to be weakly liked or disliked but someone who polarized the emotions. Nan Lawrence would have been loved or hated. Out of the three people closest to her, two of them had disliked her with fierce intensity and of the third she did not know.

  Sergeant Barraclough joined them in the kitchen. ‘My granny had a kitchen just like this,’ he said, looking around him. ‘Takes me right back to when I was a little boy and she used to bake scones for tea.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘I tell you what, Jo, nothing in my entire life has ever tasted half as nice as those currant scones with a dollop of butter and jam.’ He tapped his corpulent stomach. ‘Probably the beginnings of the ruination of my figure. But it was worth it.’

  Joanna laughed. ‘Now we’ve had that trip down memory lane’, she said, ‘perhaps you’ll tell me how much milk was left in the bottle?’

  ‘A little less than a fifth of a pint. About enough for two cups of tea.’

  ‘Then she died after supper,’ Christian said firmly. ‘She always left enough for two morning cups of tea. Then she rinsed the bottle through and put it on the step before the milkman called in the morning.’

  ‘At what time did she have her supper?’

  ‘Half past six.’

  ‘And you saw nothing on Sunday evening? No car draw up?’

  Christian hesitated. ‘I saw her’, he began, ‘through the window at about six. She’d left the curtains open. She was sewing.’

  ‘But you didn’t call in?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Really?’ Korpanski’s voice was heavy with scepticism.

  ‘What time did she get up and have her morning tea?’

  ‘Half past seven.’

  Joanna glanced at Mike and knew that if Christian’s statement was to be believed Nan Lawrence must have died sometime between six p.m. Sunday evening and early Monday morning. And if Tylman had been less observant they wouldn’t even have been able to narrow it down to that.

  The three of them left Barra in the kitchen with his reminiscences and trooped into the bathroom. It was tiled, with a white 1940s suite, grey-white threadbare towels, mould on the sills, plastic curtains and blue lino on the floor. They were in there for less than a minute; it was obvious nothing had been disturbed. And lastly they went to the bedroom where Sergeant Barraclough was concentrating his investigation. Articles from the wardrobe were strewn all over the bed, a couple of ancient furs, crimplene dresses, skirts, blouses, a toppling pile of shoeboxes and with them a fusty, mothballed air. Again Christian seemed momentarily moved; he held on to the door as though unwilling to cross the threshold. Joanna and Mike almost cannoned into the back of him.

  ‘Is anything wrong?’

  ‘It’s the smell,’ he explained. ‘The mothballs. That awful, pungent stink clung to her, it did.’ He grimaced. ‘Funny, isn’t it. Aunt Nan is reduced to two things, an unfinished tapestry spattered with her blood and the stench of mothballs. So much for immortality, Inspector.’

  Joanna scrutinized his face, searching for some clue as to his true feelings but his face was calm and relaxed despite the comment. However, he still seemed reluctant to enter the room but waved his hand in front of him. ‘I wouldn’t know what was in her wardrobe or her bedroom,’ he said. ‘I never came in here as a matter of fact.’

  Joanna could see Mike mentally tallying up this piece of data. If Christian’s fingerprints were found on any permanent fixture in this room it would prove this statement a lie. And one proven lie was often the first sign of a crumbling suspect.

  He still seemed determined to be helpful. ‘I can’t see that anything’s missing from here. I don’t think there was anything of value here anyway. But, as I said, I never came in here.’ The repeated dogmatic statement felt like a challenge to the police to prove it wrong.

  ‘Why don’t you ask Marion Elland, Aunt Nan’s home help. She was always flicking dusters and brandishing the vacuum cleaner around this place. Knew it better than her own home, I should think. If anything’s been taken she’ll know.’ His eyes looked thoughtful.

  Mike stirred from the hallway. And as far as you know your aunt didn’t keep any money around the house?’

  ‘That’s right, Sergeant,’ Christian said. ‘That’s what I said.’

  Mike persisted. ‘Did you ever see much money lying around the house?’

  ‘A few pounds,’ Christian replied, mirroring Mike’s eyes with hostility. ‘Enough to pay off the milkman, nothing worth killing for, Sergeant.’

  ‘That depends, Christian,’ Joanna said quietly. ‘Although many millions wouldn’t stir me to murder, people have been killed for a few pence.’

  And that seemed to make Christian Patterson very uncomfortable. ‘Do you mind if I get on now?’ he asked, glancing at his watch. ‘I’ve got a lecture to get to.’

  Joanna waited until he had vanished through the front door before she spoke. ‘So, what do you make of that?’

  Korpanski was holding his counsel. ‘I don’t know, Jo,’ he said. ‘I can’t work him out. If he was the one he’s such an obvious suspect, and right on the doorstep too that he can’t have thought he’d get away with it. He’s not that stupid. And anyway, why would he have killed her? The question is, do we have enough to get a warrant to search Brushton Grange?’

  ‘I’d like to anyway.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘But for now I’d like to talk to the home help. You see Mike, I’ve just had a thought about this gang business.’

  ‘What sort of thought?’

  ‘What if the crimes weren’t committed by the same people? What if we’ve been deceived and the only common factor is that they were all committed against elderly women? Apart from that –’

  ‘Hold it, Jo.’

  ‘The early burglaries, they were done by the same people. Yes, a gang, maybe from the city, maybe from Stockport or Macclesfield. But starting with the assault on Emily Whittaker thi
ngs were different. And the Cecily Marlowe case was different again. I don’t know. I can’t prove it, not yet. I’ll have to spend more time thinking and we need to talk to all the old women.’

  Korpanski was patently unhappy. He scratched his head and hesitated before speaking. ‘I think it’s dangerous, Jo, to start jumping to that conclusion.’

  She turned the full force of her gaze on him. ‘I’m not jumping to any conclusion,’ she said. ‘You know me better than that but I’m keeping it at the back of my mind. Something will crop up either to prove or disprove my theory. Until then it’s on a back burner.’

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘OK.’

  ‘Glad you agree.’

  They were standing outside the ugly building. An icy wind had blown in from somewhere. Dark fingers beckoned from the trees, a last remaining leaf was blasted from a branch, winter was arriving. Joanna shivered. ‘I could almost believe she was a witch.’

  Mike stared at her. ‘You need a night off.’

  ‘Maybe. Come on.’ She clicked back to normality as suddenly as she had left it. ‘Where next?’

  ‘I wondered’, he suggested, ‘if it might be worthwhile talking to someone.’

  ‘Anyone particular?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She put a restraining hand on his arm. ‘You’re not talking about Melvin Grinstead?’

  Mike shrugged.

  ‘That old lag?’

  ‘If anyone knows some dirt about this business,’ Mike said, ‘he does. There’s nothing about petty crime in Leek that he doesn’t have a whiff of.’ He interpreted her silence correctly. ‘I know you disapprove of using moles, Jo, but what else have we got? Hundreds of hours of police time have been and will be spent on this case and the others that went before it.’ He paused before firing his last shot, knowing it would sway her. ‘If we’d caught the people who carved up Cecily Marlowe, Nan Lawrence might still be alive.’

  ‘OK, then, you have my permission but not, Korpanski, my approval.’

  Mike grinned. ‘I can live with that.’

  Chapter Ten

  Unseeing, Lydia stared at the words for a moment then pushed the exercise book aside, beneath was the photograph. She looked at it for a long time before putting her pen down. She would write no more today.

  Mike and Joanna collected sandwiches from Coffee Beans, the crowded little cake shop at the bottom of the High Street, and munched them as they drove along the Buxton road. Marion Elland lived a couple of miles out of Leek at the foot of the Roaches on Blackshaw Moor. The Tittesworth estate was little more than two opposing rows of council houses just past the army camp.

  The burglaries must have disturbed the home help too. In answer to their knock she opened the door only as far as a brass chain would allow. Three inches of wary face stared out.

  ‘Mrs Elland?’

  The woman fixed her eyes on Mike. ‘My husband’s inside you know,’ she said defensively. Then taking a look at Joanna, ‘And if you’re Jehovah’s Witnesses I’m agnostic.’

  ‘Police,’ Joanna answered.

  She looked from one to the other. ‘Then where’s your cards?’ But she hardly glanced at them before unhooking the chain and opening the door wide, giving them a full view. She was a small, tired-looking woman in her early fifties, with faded salt-and-pepper hair. She was wearing a flowered overall and yellow rubber gloves. ‘What is it you want?’

  ‘We understand you were Nan Lawrence’s home help.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said cautiously, adding quickly, ‘I can’t tell you anything. I mean, I just cleaned there.’

  ‘What days, Mrs Elland?’

  Women always responded well to Korpanski, even tired fifty-year-olds. Marion Elland gave him her first smile. ‘Wednesday and Friday mornings,’ she said. ‘Social Services put me in there.’ She made a face. ‘She didn’t appreciate me though, hardly spoke, ever so unfriendly. When I made her a cup of tea she sometimes didn’t even say thank you, so I don’t see how I can help. I didn’t really know her at all.’

  Korpanski grinned at her. ‘We just want to ask you a few questions.’

  Again Marion Elland responded to him. ‘All right, come in, won’t you? Cup of tea?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Inside was neat and very clean, decorated in pastel colours, peach and blue. There was a strong scent of Airwick and polish. The three-piece suite looked as though it had just stepped out of a furniture showroom. The only aspect which made this house different from millions of other homes in England was a huge picture window that overlooked the brutal crags of the Roaches. Instead of sitting down Joanna crossed the room and stared out of it, remembering a time when a spiral of smoke had drawn some soldiers to its base.

  ‘Lovely view, isn’t it?’

  The two officers agreed.

  Marion Elland had brought in a tray bearing three cups of tea. She placed it on a small, occasional table and looked at them brightly. ‘Sugar?’

  ‘Just half a one.’

  The home help brought it to her and stared with her through the window. ‘It’s the one thing that would stop me ever moving from this house,’ she said, ‘that view. It’s so special.’

  ‘Unique.’

  Reluctantly, Joanna moved away and sat down on the sofa.

  ‘Tell me about Nan Lawrence,’ she said.

  The home help’s answer was frank if not flattering. ‘Oh, she was a difficult old thing. Cantankerous. But then lots of old ladies are. She was just worse than most. In one way, anywhere she’d have lived would have been a Spite Hall; she was that sour. A troublemaker. Always accusing me of either doing things too thoroughly and wearing the surface off or not thoroughly enough and leaving dust, saying I’d pinched things when she’d just lost them, or broken them when they’d always been chipped. That sort of thing. I clean for six old ladies. And she was by far the worst. And as for the influence she had over that boy. Well, it wasn’t healthy.’

  ‘You mean Christian?’ This was the second time it had been hinted at.

  ‘He had a sort of fascination with her and she encouraged it. I think he almost believed she had supernatural powers – that she was a sort of witch. She’d tell him old stories, silly old tales about people who’d crossed her coming to grief, and he believed her, or maybe he just pretended he did.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  The home help shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Maybe to encourage her to tell him more stories or perhaps he was just stringing her along. You know, letting her think he believed them when really he was just laughing at her. Who knows with that young man.’ She hesitated then moved in closer. ‘You’ve heard about the dog?’

  Joanna shook her head.

  ‘Mr Patterson had a little dog. Fustin, his name was, a sort of terrier. Used to sit in the front window and bark. Annoyed Nan something terrible yapping half the day. He had a habit of sitting on her front doorstep too and doing his business. I saw her watching him one day with a look of venom.’ The home help shuddered. ‘I feared for that dog.’

  ‘What happened to it?’

  ‘Someone must have soaked it in petrol. It was found, just a charred heap it was, at the bottom of the steps to the Grange.’

  ‘Nan?’

  ‘I don’t believe for a minute that she was the one to get hold of a gallon of petrol,’ Marion said darkly.

  ‘Christian?’

  ‘Nothing was ever proved,’ Marion said self-righteously. ‘Mr Patterson, he’s a lonely old man, all he ever had was that dog. I watched him bury it out the back shovelling the earth so slowly. Each time he lifted the spade there was a terrible sadness around him.

  The whole family were strange in different ways. Have you met Miss Lydia Patterson yet?’

  They both nodded.

  ‘Have you been to her place?’

  Joanna smiled, contrasting the mucky carelessness of Quills with the neat order of the Elland household.

  Marion Elland moved in closer. ‘It’s a health hazard. But Nan, she wasn’
t dirty, just spiteful; loved to cause trouble. It was like a hobby with her, stirring up things, old things. I’ve seen her talk to couples who’d been married for forty years or more and remind them of some time long ago when the man had been caught with his trousers down and his arms around another girl, or spread unfounded gossip about women, about children who bore a resemblance to some local philanderer.’ Marion Elland made an expression of disgust. ‘She was plain nasty. Most of what she said wasn’t true anyway. It wasn’t even founded on fact, not that that stopped her. She didn’t care how much hurt she put about. It entertained her. And Christian would listen, his eyes as round as oatcakes, drinking the whole lot up as though it were gospel. From a young lad he was mesmerized by her. I think that’s why his mother fell out with him.’

  ‘So he came to live at Brushton Grange?’

  ‘Only so as he could be near her. Aye. She was an old witch.’ She fished a pink tissue from her apron pocket and dabbed her eyes. ‘And for all that her death has upset me, such an awful way to go. I have prayed for her to be at peace, because she never was in this world, leastways, not while I knew her. There was something poisoning her that made her like that. Like an abscess.’ She stood up abruptly, almost upsetting the dainty tea table, and crossed to the window to stare out at the rocky crags.

  ‘Do you know what it was that made her like this?’

  Marion Elland shook her head. ‘No,’ she said simply. ‘Maybe she always was like that. Maybe it was just the terms of her father’s will. I don’t know.’

  Mike spoke up. ‘You’re religious, are you, Mrs Elland?’

  Marion nodded her head vigorously. ‘I am that. Went to the same church as her, the one near Rudyard Lake.’ She sighed. ‘That’s one of the reasons I put up with her difficult ways. We were both children of the Lord.’

  It was a sweet, simple belief, one which Joanna almost envied. ‘Did you see her in church last Sunday?’