“Okay for me to go through?” Matt asked.
“Yes, sir. I’ve finished here.”
All the same, Matt took great care as he went up, pulling his jacket close so as not to let it brush either side of the narrow stair, and stepping with as little pressure as possible on the wooden treads. In the organ loft, which sloped down in broad, shallow steps either side of the surprisingly large instrument, by a dark wooden rail were two more of the team.
“Afternoon, sir,” said Glyn Pryce. “Getting quite an unfortunate reputation for itself, Pontygwyn is,” he added.
“The village of doom,” said his companion in a theatrically deep voice. “Bring us your women and we’ll deal with them.”
“I’d suggest less of the comic turns and more concentration on the job,” Matt snapped at him. He knew gallows humour was part of their way of coping, but he wasn’t in the mood.
“Sorry, sir,” the man muttered, reddening.
“Okay Pryce, what have you got?”
“Over here, sir.” He made his way down to the front of the organ and Matt followed him.
Chapter 22
On the organ loft side, there was plain wood panelling, although Matt had noticed the side facing the body of the church was elaborately carved. Pryce was standing by the panelling.
“These marks, sir. I missed them earlier on. What do you make of them?”
Matt bent to look more closely at the wooden rail. Most of it was satin smooth from year after year of devout polishing, but where Pryce indicated Matt noticed scratches in the glossy surface, and they looked new. He bent to look more closely. Three grooves, one very faint. He walked slowly along, studying the rail, but there were no similar marks. Turning, he came back, his eyes never leaving the rail until he’d studied its whole length.
“I know it’s speculating, but I’d say these were made by someone’s nails. And they’re fresh. Did you notice the victim’s fingernails, on the right hand?”
“Yes,” Evans said. “That’s what made me have another look up here.”
“Well done. I’ll send the photographer up, we want a record of these, every detail.”
“And there’s another thing, sir. We found this earlier too.”
In front of the organ was a plain wooden stool, no cushion, just polished wood smoothed by many an organist’s seat. Pryce was pointing at one corner, there were dark marks, something sticky, and some of the same substance had dripped on to the floor below. It looked like blood.
“What I thought, at first, sir, was that the lady fell and hit her head, became dizzy maybe, and toppled over the rail? But then, I don’t think so; somehow, it’s too high.”
“You’re right. I don’t buy that either. Well done, Pryce. Get the SOCO team up here and have them go over it again. I want a fine-tooth comb job, okay?”
“Will do, sir,” said Pryce, sounding pleased with himself.
Matt thought he knew how the grooves had been made, but he wasn’t so sure about the blood on the organ stool. Did she jump or was she pushed? The old music hall phrase played out a rhythm in his mind. He made his way carefully down from the loft and walked across to Dr Curtis, who was busy putting her equipment into a battered but capacious leather holdall.
“I’ve finished here,” she said. “It’ll be okay for the lads to move her now.”
“What was the cause of death?” Matt asked.
“How on earth do you expect me to answer that question at this stage?”
“I know you’ve probably got a pretty good idea.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“Come on, Doctor,” Matt said, irritated. “What did you find?”
“Severe fracture of the skull. Back of the head smashed right in, which is probably what killed her. Broken femur in the left leg, probably other bones broken as well. Almost certainly massive internal bleeding. She came down with a hell of a whack, and these stone flags are decidedly unforgiving.”
“What about the time of death?”
“You know I can’t possibly say yet,” she snapped, then relented a little. “She’s been dead some time, rigor’s well established, although the temperature in here has to be accounted for.”
“One thing. There’re some marks up there, on the corner of the organ stool, looks like blood. Did you notice anything on the body that could account for it?”
“No, but I’ve hardly started. You really do seem to think I’m some kind of miracle worker. As I said before,” her voice sounded as if she felt she was talking to a child with a decidedly low IQ, “you’ll have to give me a chance to get her back to the mortuary. When I’ve finished the PM all the details will be in my report.”
Matt knew he’d have to be satisfied with that. “Thank you, Doctor,” he made himself say, but couldn’t resist adding, “I need another quick PM. If this is murder, we could be dealing with some lunatic who’s going to make a habit of it. I don’t want Pontygwyn turning into the village from hell. As it is, the press is going to have a field day. An attractive teenager followed by a harmless spinster. What more could they want?”
“I’ll do my best. For once, you’ll just have to possess your soul in patience.” She picked up her bag and stomped out of the church. Matt watched her go, wishing he could work with a pathologist who wasn’t the human equivalent of Eeyore.
Matt stood silent while, with infinite care, the body was lifted on to a stretcher covered with a black plastic body bag. A moment later, it was zipped up and he could no longer see the smashed remains of Rhona Griffiths.
Dilys came and joined him. “Should we go over and talk to the vicar, sir?”
“Yes. I suppose we should.”
“There’s a WPC with her, but Pryce said she seemed pretty together about it. Shocked, of course, but apparently she was an A&E nurse before she was ordained, so death probably isn’t quite so disturbing for her as it is for most people.”
“I don’t know so much,” Matt said curtly. “It’s pretty familiar to people in our job, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy to deal with. You just have to develop coping mechanisms.”
Dilys shot him a questioning glance, but he didn’t elaborate as they made their way out of the church and round to the vicarage. The front door was open, but Matt knocked anyway and waited for Cath to appear, the WPC following in her wake.
“Oh, it’s you,” Cath said, sounding relieved. “Come in. I thought it might be one of that crowd across the road. I was going to give them a piece of my mind.”
“There’s a police constable keeping a weather eye on them. He’ll make sure they don’t bother you.”
“Good.” She led them through to her study. “Can I get you some coffee or tea or something?”
“That’d be very nice.”
“I’ll do it,” said the WPC. “I know where everything is from when you made ours.”
“Bless you,” said Cath, and sounded as if she meant it. “This is a dreadful business. Poor, poor Rhona. What can have made her do it? I had no idea she was that unhappy, which makes me feel very guilty. She was one of my most regular parishioners, and she worked like a Trojan keeping the church clean. Granted, she was a bit odd at times, and could go in for some rather malicious gossiping, but still, I’m sure her heart was in the right place.”
Matt wondered if Fabia would agree with her. What was it she’d said of Rhona? A nosey old bag, always snooping into everything whether it was her business or not. Maybe it was a case of curiosity killed the cat, Matt thought bleakly.
“You believe she committed suicide, do you?” he asked.
“Didn’t she? I’ve been going over and over it in my mind. She couldn’t have overbalanced. The organ loft rail is far too high.”
The WPC came back with their coffee on a tray. Matt leant forward and picked up a mug with a design of Tintern Abbey on it, spooned in sugar and wondered how to put what he wanted to say. “There is, of course,” he began slowly, “the possibility that someone else was involved.”
&nb
sp; Cath Temple looked at him, horror in her eyes. “You mean, murder? Oh my God! Not another one. Are you sure?”
“Not as yet.”
“If she was deeply religious, surely suicide would have been out of the question for her?” Dilys pointed out.
“I suppose so,” Cath said, “but murder, what on earth is going on here?”
Matt treated the question as rhetorical. “Obviously we’ll know much more when the forensic and scene of crime reports come in,” he said. “Until then, I have to keep an open mind.” He sat forward in his chair. “I need you to give me some idea of timings. I actually saw her leaving her house about eight o’clock yesterday evening, I was next door talking to Fabia Havard. Did you by any chance see Miss Griffiths later than that? Perhaps you could outline exactly what happened and when.”
“I’ll do my best.” She spoke, hesitantly at first, then with more certainty. She said she’d gone across to the church about ten in the morning, described treading on the scarf in the porch. “I don’t know why, but from then on I had this feeling something was wrong, the scarf felt so sort of slimy under my foot, I nearly fell over when I trod on it. Maybe that was why. I don’t know.”
Matt interrupted her. “Where is the scarf now?”
“I gave it to one of your men.”
“Good. And then?”
“It was when I turned towards the font. At first, I thought it was a bundle of clothes, but then I saw her legs.” She took a shuddering breath and Matt wondered if she was as much of a stoic as Dilys had suggested.
“Take your time,” he said gently.
“I’m okay. It’s just remembering how pathetic they looked, sticking out from under that floral skirt, with those ridiculous shoes still on her feet. And I remember the way one eye looked up – sorry.” She took another shuddering breath and wiped a hand across her mouth. “I checked if she was still alive, but of course she wasn’t. I already knew it really. Then I said a quick prayer while I knelt there, it seemed the right thing to do. After that I locked the door and ran back here to phone you lot.”
“When was the last time you were in the church, before this morning?”
“Last night, just before nine I think. I was looking for my blasted cat and I noticed the door was ajar. Rhona must have ...” The colour drained from her face and a look of abject horror came into her eyes. “Oh my God!”
“What is it?” asked Matt, his interest quickening.
“I saw the door wasn’t closed properly. I knew Rhona was due to do some cleaning late yesterday afternoon, so I just assumed she’d forgotten to lock up after her. I looked round the door and called out, but there was no answer, so I came back here and got the key, then locked up as usual. The thing is,” she swallowed hard and looked near to tears, “do you think she was in there? Maybe if I’d found her then I could have saved her. She might still have been alive.”
“I doubt it. From what the pathologist told me, I think death must have been instantaneous. There’s no way of knowing, as yet, if she was in the church when you locked up, but there’s very little chance you could have done anything to help her.”
“Oh dear,” Cath got up and began to pace about, “this is a terrible business. I must phone and speak to the bishop, let him know what’s happened, and the archdeacon too, I suppose.” She frowned, chewing absent-mindedly at a fingernail. “If Rhona was murdered, the church will probably have to be reconsecrated. I’m not sure of the exact form. This isn’t a situation I’ve ever had experience of before.”
“I’m sure you haven’t,” Matt said soothingly.
“Do you know when you’ll be finished in there?”
“Probably by tomorrow morning.”
“That soon. Well, thanks.”
“Don’t thank me. That’s just the way it goes.”
But she hardly seemed to hear him. “Do you need me anymore?” she asked anxiously. “I do rather need to make a few phone calls. The bishop will have to be told as soon as possible, and the churchwardens.”
“We’ll leave you to it then,” Matt said, getting up from his chair. “We’ll probably need to talk to you again, but that should be all for now. Will you be here for the rest of the day?”
“Yes, and most of tomorrow, unless there’s some kind of emergency.” She grimaced, realising what she’d said. “I don’t think we need any more of those, do we?”
* * *
When Fabia caught sight of the police constable standing by Rhona’s front door, she strode round to ask why he was there. By dint of a mixture of flattery and pulling rank, she managed to find out all she wanted to know. Shocked and disturbed she went back inside; she needed someone to talk to. She rang Cath, but the phone was engaged, and she was sure Matt would be with the SOCOs at the church. She’d just have to wait. Fabia thought back to last night and Rhona creeping furtively out of her front door, dolled up like a Christmas fairy. She’d seemed so excited, elated even. Fabia was positive she was off to meet someone. And then what had happened? Another killing wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility. Was Pontygwyn playing host to a serial killer? And if so, who would be next?
Fabia told herself speculating would get her nowhere. Just because Amber was murdered didn’t mean Rhona had been too. She got up and went over to the window, looked next door to where the constable stood. Nothing else was happening out there yet. Just as she was about to move away, Matt’s car pulled up outside Rhona’s front gate. Fabia hurried from the room and out of the front door. By the time Matt emerged from his car, she was beside it.
“It’s true then, about Rhona?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Suicide or murder?” Fabia asked, coming straight to the point.
“Not sure yet.”
“This is terrible, Matt.”
“You think I don’t know that?” he snapped, glaring at her. He dropped his voice and went on. “We’re pretty sure it’s murder. Dilys suggested she might have seen or known something Amber’s murderer found threatening. You said before she was in the habit of snooping around, spying on people.”
“Yes. I’m afraid it ran in the family. Her father was just the same. Mrs Pritchard once told me he owned this incredibly expensive telescope, state of the art stuff at the time. He was always talking about studying astronomy, but the rumour was that he pointed it down rather than up and used it to spy on his neighbours. You see that dormer window up the top there with the glass sides?” she pointed up to the roof of Rhona’s house. “That’s where I understand he used to keep it, and I imagine you can see a hell of a lot from that vantage point.” As Fabia spoke she saw Matt’s eyes widen, knew that the same thought had occurred to both of them. “Why didn’t I think of that before? She could have–” But Fabia was now talking to Matt’s rapidly retreating back.
Chapter 23
Matt found Dilys directing operations in Rhona’s sitting room. “Have you looked in the attic yet?”
“No, we’ve only just started on this floor, and there’s the next floor up yet.”
“Come with me.”
“What’s up, sir?”
“I’m not sure, it’s just something Fabia said.”
He took the stairs two at a time. On the landing they found a narrow door. It was locked. Dilys had Rhona’s keys and tried one then another. On the fourth try, they were successful. The door creaked unpleasantly as it opened and revealed a narrow staircase. They made their way up it into the large gabled room. Matt paused to look around.
The floor was uncarpeted and the room obviously a repository for unwanted furniture. There was a stack of dining room chairs in one corner and two ancient Lloyd Loom armchairs, their paint dull and chipping, in another. In the middle was an ancient three leaf dining table, and backed up against it an old, sagging two-seater settee. All the furniture was covered in a thick film of dust. And yet, to the right of the window, tucked under the eaves, was an old tan leather suitcase with not a speck of dust on it. It was square cornered with stitching rou
nd the edges, expensive in its day, but battered and faded now, and either side of the handle were brass locks, polished and gleaming. It definitely had an air of being cared for.
Matt made his way to the window embrasure, but before he got there he was distracted by a framed photograph on a small shelf to one side of it. Some fresh flowers, daffodils and irises, stood on the shelf in a cut-glass vase, and before it were two small candle holders designed to hold night lights. The candles in them were half burnt down. On the other side was a free-standing brass crucifix of a particularly ugly design. It had obviously been polished quite recently.
Matt’s mouth twisted in distaste as he studied the face in the photograph. It was of a man, unsmiling, his dark hair plastered close to his head. He had prominent ears and wore an expression of thin-lipped disapproval. The humourless, rather cruel eyes stared back at him. The photograph, like the candlesticks and the suitcase, looked as if it had been well cared for and dusted regularly.
“He looks like a teacher we had at school,” Dilys said as she came up beside him. “Really nasty, he was. Got the sack for beating some poor kid half senseless. Dead weird isn’t it, with the flowers and all. Wonder who he is?”
“Her father, I’d say. There’s a strong likeness.”
“Didn’t she mention him when we interviewed her?”
“Yes, she did, several times, her dearest Da,” Matt said, distaste in his voice. It would definitely be helpful to know more about Rhona’s father, and her background generally. Fabia came immediately to mind as a source of information. Perhaps he’d drop in later, once he’d finished here. He tried to ignore the buzz of pleasure the thought gave him. Concentrate on the matter in hand. The telescope.
It stood in the dormer window on a custom-made stand, a magnificent instrument, all black metal and gleaming brass. Matt rummaged in his pocket for a pair of gloves and pulled them on, then he carefully lifted the end and put his eye to the lens, making sure he didn’t come into contact with the metal. Gradually things came into focus. It was certainly a strong one, some seventy-five times magnification, and with the glass sides to the dormer, its position was perfect. A pigeon on a rooftop in Parc Road gave him a beady-eyed stare then flew off towards Gwiddon Pond. Matt followed its progress before swinging back along the length of the River Gwyn until he came to the bridge. The detail was amazingly clear. It would be a simple matter to pick out people on the bridge, and very easy to recognise them. Is that what had happened?
Murder in the Valleys Page 19
