Cruel as the Grave

by Meg Elizabeth Atkins

  ‘That’s completely inconsistent with the facts.’ He looked at her steadily. ‘You’re talking about murder.’ It was mad. Who had she got lined up as suspect?

  ‘Someone murdered that woman, didn’t they? And we know it wasn’t Reggie. Someone made that anonymous phone call to you.’

  Someone came out of the dark with that obscene lay-figure to torment Helen.

  ‘... Someone went round to Woodside that morning, when he was alone and not capable of protecting himself. Amongst the neighbours — there’ll be somebody who saw something, I know, I know. But you never made enquiries, did you? Can’t you now?’

  He sighed inwardly, faced with one of the illogicalities of extreme emotion: now that her uncle was dead, she wanted the police to prove him innocent. ‘Look, I’m sorry about this, I don’t think you understand. It’s nothing to do with me personally — it’s where the job’s concerned. The matter’s closed.’

  ‘You mean, you’re just going to leave it there?’

  ‘I don’t have any choice. As far as the bosses are concerned — your uncle was responsible for Beattie’s death.’

  She sat in silence for a while. Had he been too brutal? No. She looked at him with quiet certainty. ‘You don’t think Reggie did it, do you?’

  It was the one question he didn’t want her to ask, because beyond the simple answer his professionalism was threatened. He’d slipped up. It had taken this tragic outcome to force him to acknowledge that in the very beginning his diligence had failed; in concentrating on Reggie to the exclusion of anyone else he had overlooked something crucial. It was there somewhere. He didn’t know what or where but in everything he had learnt and seen and listened to — the moment had occurred. And slipped past him…

  ‘I did think so — at first. But now... No.’ As the investigation was closed he was jeopardising nothing by his admission. He thought she might get excited, accuse him, demand something be done, but she seemed satisfied, nodded and said, ‘Well, no... ’ quietly to herself.

  He saw that the day had suddenly taken its toll, all the emotion, all the control, draining away and leaving nothing but weariness. He had had an account of the funeral from Annette; her description of Paula’s daughters set his mind reeling — anyone else but Annette and he wouldn’t have believed it. ‘We can talk about this another time, Liz, if you want. You’re just too tired now. You ought to go to bed.’

  ‘Yes, I think I’m beginning not to make sense... ’

  He put the guard in front of the fire. Carried the tray into the kitchen, saw the back door was locked, switched off the light.

  She was still sitting on the rug. He reached down, lifted her, and for no more than a moment felt her slender warmth against him. He led her into the hallway. ‘I’m going now. All right?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you for keeping me company, it was kind of you.’

  He kissed her forehead, opened the door, let himself out into the wind-thrashed night. Thank you for keeping me company... She had taken him at face value. As his sympathy was genuine he had no trouble with his conscience; he would never take advantage of her. It didn’t seem to occur to her that he had the inclination to. That was because she was a nice girl. He couldn’t see that getting in the way of anything.

  *

  Liz woke early, unrefreshed, her brain buzzing. If two resolutions were forming she recognised only their components and left them to arrange themselves while she showered and breakfasted. Her first duty was to Helen.

  Instead of driving to Woodside, she rode her bicycle, which she loved. Pedalling briskly through a morning of dramatic gloom, of shrouded distances and skeletal trees, the air sharpened by the acid smell of decaying leaves, she had time to consider how she was to implement the first of her resolutions. She was so absorbed she found herself flying across Miller’s Bridge before she even realised she had reached it.

  This turned her mind in another direction and she cycled on more slowly, thinking over what Hunter had told her about Reggie’s encounter with Beattie at the Railway. At some time she would have to tell Helen, but not immediately; that would be putting too great a strain on her sorrow. It would wait a while.

  At Woodside there was still a hush in the atmosphere but the sense of a household under tension had eased, giving way to a distinct feeling that the comforting routine of everyday life was waiting to nudge itself back into place.

  Mrs Riley had come in and was busying herself cleaning up after the previous day. Audrey, the cousin, and Catherine, the friend, gossiped cosily before the fire in the sitting room with a delighted Uncle William. Liz said to Mrs Riley, ‘He remembers how ghastly it was here when he used to come and stay when old Mr Willougby was alive, he didn’t have a home of his own, being at sea such a lot. He does so love it now. I’m afraid you might find him rather difficult to dislodge — don’t be surprised if he’s still pottering about in a few days’ time.’

  ‘He’s a lovely gentleman, and he can talk to your aunt about Mr Reggie, she’ll like that.’

  ‘Stop all that busying, let’s join the others for coffee in the sitting room.’

  ‘No, I’ll get on, I’ve the Dalrymples later. I must say, it was ever such a nice funeral — well, if such things are ever nice. Apart from, well, I prefer not to mention.’ Like so many people, she preferred never to mention Paula’s daughters. ‘And people said such nice things about Mr Reggie. And it was all very elegant here yesterday, you arranged this beautifully, just as Miss Willoughby would’ve done herself if she’d been well enough. I hope she perks up soon.’

  ‘Thank you, and thank you for all your help yesterday, I don’t know what we’d have done without you.’ Mrs Riley had been very fond of Reggie and stoutly refused to countenance any rumours about him.

  Helen had been left to sleep, so Liz was in time to take her up her breakfast tray. She looked gaunt, fragile as a cobweb, but she was all ready, sitting up in bed in peignoir and pretty boudoir hairnet, her face made up. She knew the value of habit and discipline, she would put herself together slowly by such efforts.

  Liz found this so brave she had to blink away tears, busy herself with the tray, then sit chatting for a while; arrangements for the day... a suggestion Mrs Riley be given a present for her help at the funeral. ‘Yes, yes,’ Helen agreed. ‘You mustn’t let me neglect such things. It’s just — ordinariness — isn’t it, that brings one back on an even keel eventually.’

  ‘Yes.’ So in Helen’s beautiful room they talked of the most ordinary things.

  ... and beyond the echo of their voices — the great, dark tract where some things would never be ordinary again.

  Reggie’s car still out there in the garage. No one had the faintest idea how to mention it, much less what to do with it.

  Sixteen

  She had no intention of telling Helen what she was about. When she had some results — whatever they might be — and when she could decide what to do with them... well, then would be the time to think again.

  The houses on Woodside were set far apart, some a long way back from the road. Liz chose her target area. She knew most of Helen’s neighbours by sight or by name...

  I do hope you don’t mind my calling (the advantages of being socially acceptable — she had always been accepted without question as Helen Willoughby’s niece, it scarcely seemed to matter what disgrace had overtaken the family). — Do come in, my dear. May I say how sorry...

  I know this might sound rather strange — but on the morning my uncle died — did you see anyone going into Woodside? No, not the postman, milkman... Just anyone. — Well, no, unless I happen to be out there with the dog... Driving Mother to... Taking the children...

  A blank at five houses; one left, final fling. The latest arrival on Woodside, Mrs Maltravers, wonderfully chaotic evidence of her family life all around her. ‘Please, Miss Farrell, forgive all this mess. We haven’t straightened ourselves out yet, and I’ve just got my husband off to work, the children off to school.’

  ‘Don
’t apologise, I understand. Now, I know you’re new here and — ’ calculatedly — ‘I do hope people are making you feel at home.’

  ‘Your aunt, such a lovely lady... Invited us for drinks... ’

  ‘Yes, yes. I know this may sound strange, but my aunt and I are so concerned about my uncle’s death. I’ve had some thoughts about it that she doesn’t know, she has to take things very gently at present — so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything to her about this. I don’t suppose that, on the day Reggie died, you can recall seeing anyone — a stranger — anywhere about.’

  Mrs Maltravers, briefly, put her arm about Liz’s shoulders — which no one else had done and almost reduced her to tears. ‘I am so sorry, such a sweet man. Well, I wish I could help but — strangers — I’m not sure yet who is and who isn’t.’

  ‘Do you remember the morning? Did you see anyone at all — going into Woodside? Walking past?’

  ‘I do remember that morning, yes, but it was just so ordinary. Arthur took the children off to school that day — I did the bits and pieces one needs to do, scraping porridge off the cat, that sort of thing. Then about ten I went up to one of the back bedrooms, putting up curtains. So I wasn’t looking out of the front at all, I’m afraid. And on such a ghastly day who would be about? Except, of course, the old boy who walks down the back every day, nothing seems to keep him in.’

  ‘That’s Mr Truelove, he lives with his daughter in those new houses on the Nantwich side of Hambling. But he... Didn’t you say you’d just got the children off to school — and tidied up — so it couldn’t have been very early, could it? What time do you think?’

  ‘Time. Ah, time. Is it important?’

  ‘Well, I think it might be, rather. You see, old Mr Truelove never, never, varies. Mornings, 8.30.’

  Mrs Maltravers gave a small yelp. ‘I’m still on auto pilot then, not doing curtains. Let me think. While I was upstairs I listened to the end of the morning service; some of Woman’s Hour — coffee time. Yep. About a quarter to eleven.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  Mrs Maltravers was a steady woman. She was sure.

  ‘But you thought it was Mr Truelove?’

  ‘Only because I’ve seen this old body occasionally, striding out in all weathers. It’s never occurred to me to look at the clock. I just assumed it was him — all bundled up in his rainwear — but if you say his time’s 8.30, then... might he have altered it?’

  ‘That’s what I’d better find out.’

  She pedalled off to Delamere Gardens, a good two miles. Mr Truelove’s daughter, Martha, sat her down with coffee and biscuits. ‘You need it, cycling all this way.’

  ‘Thank you for coming to the funeral, I’m sorry I didn’t have time to chat. It was good of you and your husband — ’

  ‘The least we could do, pay our respects. Reggie was one of the old school. I hope Miss Willoughby’s feeling better, she’s been through such a lot.’

  ‘Yes, thanks, she’s recovering, but it’ll take time. Look, there’s something I want to ask you... ’ Liz recited her story. ‘Mrs Maltravers was the only person who saw anyone, and she thought it was your dad.’

  ‘No, Liz, it couldn’t have been. It was the last week in October, yes? Dad had already gone away by then to my brother’s in Bridlington. Still there — God be praised — I wrote and told him about — about Reggie.’

  ‘Well, the thing was, Mrs Maltravers said she saw him walking along the path behind the houses — you know how he does — only she said it was about quarter to eleven. And I thought, if he’d altered his time for any reason, and he might have seen something, and if I could ask him...

  ‘Liz — catch him altering his routine by as much as a minute. No. And he’d gone away by then, so whoever it was... Mrs Maltravers is new, isn’t she? It's understandable she’d make a mistake. One person in rainwear looks the same as any other, don't they?’

  ‘Yes,’ Liz thought, pedalling home. On a decent day there’d be some hope of identifying them, even across a distance, but in the rain... For the first time she thought of the drama and mystery of rain. How it weeps and whispers. How people dressed for it are almost in disguise, identity extinguished by turned-up collars, enshrouding macs, oilskins, caps, sou’westers, scarves... She sighed. It could have been anyone walking down the path behind the houses.

  Back at home she put her second resolution into effect by telephoning Annette, who was delighted to hear from her. ‘Liz, you sound much brighter.’

  ‘Thanks. Now, I don’t know what you’re going to say to this. Listen quietly till I’ve finished.’

  Annette was quiet even after Liz had finished, then, having thought, she said reasonably, ‘What on earth do you think you’re going to gain by this?’

  ‘I don’t know. Something. Nothing. Your boss said he was quite sure it was their first meeting, from what that woman — Doris — told him. A man can’t talk to a woman the way another woman can. If I talk to her — and her sister-in-law — I can possibly find out something that will help.’

  ‘Help what?’

  ‘I have to find out the truth.’

  ‘You have to prove your uncle’s innocence.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The two might cancel each other out.’

  ‘All right, I’ll cross that bridge when — ouch, that was an unfortunate phrase, wasn’t it? Annette, I know it’s a lot to ask you to come with me. But it has to be tonight. It’s Thursday, Mr Hunter said this Doris and her sister-in-law are always in the Railway on a Thursday, sitting at the side of the bar. We could find them, we could — I won’t be here next week, Annette, I have to be back at school on Monday — ’

  Annette had more objections, Liz more persuasions. She was confident enough — just — to go alone, but she’d be much better with Annette, even a reluctant Annette.

  ‘I do understand why it’s important to you, Liz, but you have no idea — it could be damned unpleasant. You’re not the type to fit in there; if these women decide they don’t like you — and they don’t have to have a reason — they could be pretty nasty. Oh, well... I suppose if you are set on it you’d better do it with a professional minder. But listen... I’m running the show.’

  ‘Yes, constable,’ Liz breathed.

  Annette put the phone down. Collier, who had been hanging about deliberately after hearing Liz’s name, came to sit on the edge of her desk. She told him. He said, ‘I don’t think the guv will like it.’

  ‘No, neither do I. Don’t tell him, will you.’ She did not need to ask. They looked at each other thoughtfully for a while, ‘I like her, James.’

  ‘Yes, she’s nice.’

  ‘I need to keep an eye on her.’

  ‘That, too.’

  ‘Besides, suppose I did find something I could take to Hunter... ’

  *

  Liz was right. The Railway was so quiet they picked out the two women at once: sitting at a table to one side of the bar — a dumpy woman dressed in bright colours and a thin woman with a harsh face and orange hennaed hair...

  Annette went straight to their table, smiled in an undifferentiated way. ‘Doris and Vi?’

  They looked at her warily. ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘I’m Annette, she’s Liz. We’d be ever so grateful for a chat with you ladies — we think you can help us, well, help her. It’s about Beattie Booth.’

  Liz was wondering frantically what had happened to Annette. The clear diction of her speech, slipping into the local accent, had become slovenly; her manner was pushy; she had even acquired a brassy smile. Careless and friendly, she had subtly aligned herself with the two women. Liz, not daring to open her mouth, felt like an alien species...

  At Beattie’s name, their interest sharpened visibly, but wariness prevailed. ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘Listen, we'll sit down and tell you all about it. What about a top-up before we start, eh? Come on, girls, no harm in us having a drink together, is there? What you having?’ She too
k their order and was off to the bar. Liz, in a state of panic, shot after her. Their half-whispered conversation took place beneath the smirking scrutiny of the barman, who was gazing hotly at them.

  ‘Annette, what am I going to do? I can’t talk like you.’

  ‘Why should you?’

  ‘So they’ll accept me.’

  ‘They wouldn’t accept you if you were gift-wrapped. For God’s sake don’t try, you’ll sound like a send-up of Nora Batty.’

  ‘Nora Batty is a send-up, isn’t she? Here, let me pay for these — ’

  ‘No, I will — ’

  The barman leered. ‘Not seen you girls here before. Looking for summat special, are you? Anything I can do?’

  ‘Yes. Fuck off’ Annette said.

  Liz carried the tray with the drinks. Annette flopped down at the table. ‘This is nice. Cheers, dears... Thing is, it was you saw Beattie meeting that chap in here, wasn’t it?’

  ‘How come you know?’

  They had talked of nothing else for weeks, to anyone who would listen — and everyone did. But discussion was contained within tribal boundaries; Annette, as a stranger, was required to explain herself.

  ‘I’ve got a friend knows someone at the nick — no, not a nark. And anyway, apart from that — you’re famous. You know, nobody’s ever got to the rights of it, and you’re the only ones who ever saw them together. You do know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, well... ’ Heads inclined in synchronised, queenly nod, acknowledgement of their status. They lit cigarettes and disappeared behind a screen of smoke. Orange hair said, ‘You mean him as done her in.’

  Liz said quietly, ‘He didn’t. He didn’t murder her — ’

  ‘Oh, no, not much — left a note saying as he did then topped hisself. That’s what I heard. You know different, do you?’

  ‘It’s what people are saying, I know, but it isn’t true. He was miles away from the place where she drowned — ’

  The dumpy one in bright clothes said, ‘I’ll say this, Vi, we’d never have thought he’d harm a fly.’