'I imagine he was worried that Christian Farley would destroy the will once Moon was dead, so he took it, and then concocted his plan to get his hands on the loot. To that end, he fostered a dislike for Moon in his wife, spreading tales that were sure to get back to her. Then he set her up as patsy for Moon's murder. He sent her the newspaper clippings; of course, he knew all about her feelings where homosexuals were concerned. I imagine she'd taken in the prejudice with her mother's milk. After she'd been led by the nose into making that abusive phone call to Moon, he used that homosexual film of his father-in-law to convince us that Moon had died at her hands after he had broken the news about Carstairs. All he had to do then was set up the second, faked suicide.
'No wonder she collapsed when we showed her that DVD and told her we knew Moon was her father; it was the first the poor woman had known of either. He was one cool customer, all right.'
'Must have been. Everyone we've spoken to has said the same—that Moon was a very gifted palmist/astrologer, yet even he didn't realise how very dangerous Astell was.'
Rafferty shook his head. 'I think he did. But his prime concern was his daughter. I think he disregarded any danger to himself in the same way he disregarded Mrs Moreno's Tarot reading—if it ever happened. Emotion affected his judgement. He judged wrongly—and died.'
'All right, I'll accept that. But Edwin Astell couldn't have known Ellen Hadleigh would take ill and leave the Astells’ party early that evening.’ He paused. Unless...are you saying he arranged things that way?'
'Of course he did. He’d have known she didn't drink and drugged her sherry, just to get rid of her. He couldn't risk her staying late in the kitchen. But at the same time, he didn't want to make any suspicious changes to their normal anniversary routine, and she always helped out, presumably staying till the kitchen was tidy. Of course, he knew all about Ellen Hadleigh and her son—she'd worked for the Astells for years, and would have realised that by sending her home, he risked having her charged with Moon's murder. That wouldn't have suited him at all, so he phoned her, thereby providing her with an alibi. He couldn't phone her from Moon's office, of course. He would have known the calls from that office would be checked routinely. It's my guess he rang he from the call box near the office.'
Llewellyn mused, 'I wonder what made Mercedes Moreno hang around after she'd returned to pick up her gloves that night. Do you think she suspected what was going on?’
'As to that, I'm sure she'll tell us that—and the rest, if we ask her nicely. Especially if we tell her that the alternative is a stretch in jail. We know from Sarah Astell that Mrs Moreno didn't knock at their front door. She must have gone round the back—through the garage/conservatory, where she'd have found Astell's change of clothes laid out ready for his return. I'm sure it occurred to her that it was a strange place to leave an entire set of clothes. She must have wondered what he was up to then, and decided to hang about to find out. Once he realised she could give him away, he must have appealed to her greed. He'd worked with her for months; I imagine he recognised a soul mate. He must have known she would be open to offers. She wouldn't have been slow to see the advantages to herself. She was a widow, and I think she foresaw benefits: money, a partnership, maybe even marriage. That must be when they concocted their little alibi.'
'Marriage? To Astell? I think you're reaching ahead of the evidence,' Llewellyn told him. 'I wonder why he didn't just kill her and be done with it?'
'Because he was a man who relied on planning. He wouldn't risk killing her on the spur of the moment. Later, maybe, when her usefulness was at an end, but not then. He couldn't be sure that someone hadn't seen her return to his house, and she would be careful not to enlighten him either way. Of course, later, she would have been smart enough to take suitable precautions to protect herself—like writing a letter to be deposited with a solicitor that told the truth, and which was to be opened in the event of her disappearance or sudden death. I'm sure, unlike Sarah Astell, she would know just how to safeguard herself. Talking of marriage,' Rafferty changed the subject with startling rapidity, 'when are you going to make an honest woman of my cousin?'
Llewellyn gazed at Rafferty with an air of mild reproach. 'Did your mother never teach you it was rude to ask personal questions?'
'Ma?' Rafferty grinned. 'Don't be daft. It was her who told me to ask.'
Llewellyn sighed. 'Of course. Silly of me.' He drained his mug, and then it was his turn to change the subject. 'You never did tell me how your mother got on at the clairvoyant's. Did she manage to get the information she wanted from your father?'
'Course not. I told you the old man never volunteered anything when he was alive. He's not likely to start now he's dead. It was just another of my Ma's ploys. You know she makes her own opportunities to poke her nose into my love-life.'
'And mine,' Llewellyn muttered sotto-voce.
'Talking of which, you might as well tell me if you and Maureen are planning to get hitched. Ma will worm it out of you, anyway.'
Llewellyn relented; he even managed a faint smile. 'When–- if – we decide to marry, you'll be the first to know—after Mrs Rafferty, of course.'
Llewellyn sauntered towards the door. Before he reached it, he turned back, his expression enigmatic. He didn't seem to realise that his final admonishment gave the game away. 'Just as long as it's firmly understood that – if you agree to be my best man – I shall write your speech.' That said, he walked briskly away, leaving Rafferty with a pleased and rather idiotic grin. It faded abruptly as he realised that once his Ma had steered Llewellyn and Maureen into wedded bliss, she would undoubtedly turn her attention back to him. Weddings always had such an unfortunate effect on her.
Rafferty put his head in his hands and groaned.
The End
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THE HANGING TREE
The Rafferty & Llewellyn British Mystery Series
Geraldine Evans
BLURB
The Hanging Tree
‘The original crossroads used to run by here,’ Sam told Rafferty. ‘Legend has it that this was the old Hanging Tree.’
When Inspector Rafferty first hears the report that a bound and hooded body has been seen hanging from a tree in Dedman Wood, he dismisses it as a schoolboy hoax, especially when police at the scene find nothing out of the ordinary.
But his anxiety rises sharply when the witness turns out to be a respectable local magistrate, who identifies the corpse as Maurice Smith, a man once accused of four child rapes. Thrown out on a legal technicality, Smith’s case had become a cause-celebre which had generated much ill-feeling within the community.
Rafferty and Sergeant Llewellyn visit Smith’s home – to discover he has mysteriously disappeared. And in his flat they find a threatening letter, and fresh bloodstains...
Then the body turns up again in the woods. Could there be a self-appointed executioner at work, meting out his own form of justice on the legendary Hanging Tree?
Trailer, The Hanging Tree: http:/youtube/IW-NByLllQ4
Chapter One
IT WAS 10.00 P M AND Inspector Rafferty was thankful to finally be going home. The week before Christmas was not the best time of year from a policeman's point of view; Essex, in common with the rest of England’s densely-populated southern counties, had too many criminals with shopping lists of luxury items and a matching reluctance to pay for them. The combination had made his day long and tiring.
So he was inclined to snap when Constable Timothy Smales burst into his office, crashing the door back against the wall just as he was putting his coat on and melodramatically exclaimed, 'it's gone, sir. Vanished. Lilley says—'
'Can't you open a door without smashing it off its hinges, man?' Rafferty demanded. 'What's the matter with you?'
Crestfallen, Smales said, 'Sorry, sir.'
'What's gone, anyway?' Raffer
ty asked.
'I thought you'd have heard by now, sir.' Smales's fallen crest was now on the rise again and he came forward excitedly. 'A body was reported hanging in Dedman Wood. Only, as I said, when Lilley got there it had vanished, so—'
Rafferty was dismissive. 'Is that all?' Timothy Smales's schoolboy enthusiasm for corpses killed his small stock of common sense and he made a mental note to put the young constable down for a few more post-mortems as a cure for the condition. 'Hardly reason to take the paint off my wall. It's another hoax, man. Have you forgotten it's the school holidays? Last week it was armed robberies—this week it's corpses. With a bit of luck, by next week, the bored local teenagers will be tormenting the fire brigade instead of us.'
Smales flushed but continued doggedly. 'It wasn't a kid that reported it, sir. It was a woman. According to Beard, a posh-sounding woman. Very adamant, she was. And she was there waiting for Lilley. Said she almost burned his ears off when he finally got to the scene. And another thing, Lilley said there were definite indications that a body had been hanging where she said.'
Rafferty, still keen to get home and put his feet up, wasn't easily moved from his opinion that the call had been a hoax. The world was full of attention-seekers who had forgotten to take their medication; a posh voice and a bossy manner didn't make his conclusions any less likely. Still, he reminded himself, callers intent on wasting police time didn't usually hang around for the police to arrive.
'Lilley said there were what looked like rope marks on one of the more sturdy boughs,' Smales went on. 'And the grass was flattened directly underneath it. A small tuft of rope was still clinging to the bough itself.'
'Could have been made by children with a tyre swing.' Rafferty still felt their witness would turn out to be less impressive in the flesh. But maybe he ought to look into it a little more deeply. Resignedly, he removed his coat and indicated that Smales should continue.
'Constable Beard said the woman who reported it told him she was a magistrate from Burleigh.' Burleigh was in the north of the county, while Elmhurst was in the south, near the coast. 'A Mrs ffinch-Robinson. I can believe the magistrate bit and all, because Lilley said that when he got there and the body had gone, she didn't half give him a ticking off. Seemed to think he should have got there sooner. Anyway, she said she'd be in to make a formal statement. She hadn't been drinking, either,' Smales added. 'Lilley made sure to smell her breath.'
Rafferty frowned. ffinch-Robinson. The name rang a bell. And from what Smales said she sounded both sane and sober. But if so, and she was telling the truth, what the devil had become of the body? If the cadaver was a suicide, as seemed likely, what reason would a third party have for removing it?
Having come up with no answers, he said, 'I want to see Lilley the second he gets back. And warn him he'd better make sure he can read his writing, because I shall want to know exactly what this Mrs ffinch-Robinson said to him. I'll need chapter and verse, because, by the sound of her, nothing but another corpse will satisfy her. ‘Pity’ we can't provide her with one,’ he muttered to himself.
MRS FFINCH-ROBINSON arrived at Elmhurst police station ten minutes later and was shown into Rafferty's office. She proved not only entirely sober and respectable, but less than understanding of the slow police response.
Rafferty did his best to soothe her ruffled magistrate's feathers. 'It's nearly Christmas, Mrs ffinch-Robinson. A very busy time for us and—'
'I understand that, Inspector. But I would have thought a report of a man's body hanging in the woods would take precedence over public house brawls.'
'Normally it would, of course. Unfortunately, all the uniformed officers were out or otherwise engaged when your call came through. All I can say is that an officer was despatched in response to your call as soon as possible.'
Thankfully, Mrs ffinch-Robinson didn't pursue the complaint. But she had another that was equally sensitive. 'I suggest you speak to the young officer who finally arrived in response to my call, Inspector. I found his manner offensive. He not only had the effrontery to smell my breath as though he believed me to be drunk.' Briefly, Rafferty closed his eyes, surprised at Lilley's clumsiness; it was more the behaviour he had come to expect from young Smales. 'But he also warned me of the penalties for wasting police time—hardly conducive to good police-public relations, you must agree.'
As he gazed at Mrs ffinch-Robinson, perched, with all her ruffled magisterial dignity in his visitor's chair, Rafferty wished he hadn't sent Sergeant Dafyd Llewellyn out to soothe the latest victim of Elmhurst's Christmas-shopping criminal fraternity. He could do with the Welshman’s diplomatic skills here. He marvelled at Lilley's nerve. Pity his judgement wasn't so hot, because, from the top of her rather stylish Lincoln green, deerstalker hat, to her no-time-to-waste French pleated hair, through to her firmly corseted figure and practically shod feet in their brilliantly burnished tan boots, Mrs ffinch-Robinson proclaimed authority, sobriety and a total lack of hysteria. Her voice, as crisp as a Cox's Orange Pippin, was clear, precise, and as demanding of a policeman's respect as the rest of her. Hardly surprising, of course. As she had been at pains to explain, she was a magistrate.
Rafferty, earlier inclined to scoff at tales of vanishing cadavers, didn't doubt she was telling the truth about the missing body. Apart from anything else, her statement hadn't varied by as much as a word from that taken down by Lilley. She had told them she was staying with her daughter and had taken the daughter's dog for a walk. It had been the dog that had led her to the corpse. All that was simple enough. But what she had to tell him next was more worrying and did little to reassure him that the next few days would be anything but difficult.
'I didn't say anything to that young officer,' she told Rafferty, 'as he didn't exactly inspire confidence that one would be believed, but I'm certain the corpse was that of a chap called Maurice Smith.'
Rafferty frowned as another bell rang. Now why did he recognise the name?
Mrs ffinch-Robinson's intelligent grey gaze noted his dilemma. 'His was something of a cause-célèbre about ten years ago. Maurice Smith was charged with raping four young girls. The case was dismissed on a legal technicality on the first day of the trial.' Her firmly chiselled nostrils quivered her disdain for such legal bumbling. 'One of his victims killed herself when Smith was released. As you can imagine, the victims' families were outraged and made various threats against Smith.'
Rafferty nodded. Details of the case were slowly coming back. He seemed to remember that, of the families that Mrs ffinch-Robinson mentioned, one had done more than threaten. The father had waylaid Smith and given him one hell of a beating, receiving a prison sentence for his pains. 'Excuse me, Mrs ffinch-Robinson, but how did you recognise him? After all, it's ten years since—'
Mrs ffinch-Robinson interrupted him. 'Smith used to live in Burleigh which is where I sit on the bench and he had come up before me in the Magistrates' Court on several occasions in his teens. His front teeth protruded quite dreadfully. Extraordinary the parents didn't get them seen to, though, of course, the mother was one of those spiritless women you could advise till you were blue in the face. Anyway, the teeth of the corpse were exactly the same. That's why I recognised him. He'd changed very little in other respects, too. There is no doubt in my mind that it was Smith. None at all.'
Reluctant to seem to doubt her, Rafferty had, nevertheless, to question her further. 'Pardon me, but I thought you said he had a hood over his head when you found him, Mrs ffinch-Robinson?'
Although she looked a little put out that he had detected a flaw in her statement, she answered promptly enough. 'So he did. I didn't touch anything, if that's what you're implying. I didn't have to as the wind must have got under the hood and it was half off. Naturally, I shone my torch on his face. You should be grateful I did, Inspector.' The Cox's Orange Pippin in her voice became crisper than ever. 'At least you know the body's identity, even if it has gone missing.' She gave him a stern, magisterial, smile. 'Now all you have to do
is find it.' She paused before adding, 'and his murderer, of course.'
AFTER MRS FFINCH-ROBINSON left, Rafferty checked Smith's history. A colleague at Burleigh, as long on the job as himself, was able to confirm all that Mrs ffinch-Robinson had said and more and it was a pensive Rafferty who called Llewellyn in on his return and explained what had happened in his absence.
'You believe her?' Llewellyn asked.
With a wry smile, Rafferty nodded. 'I think we can take it that Mrs ffinch-Robinson wasn't hallucinating. She's a magistrate, no less, and the type to take Harrods’ trips, not LDS ones.'
'No chance it might be a suicide? After the shock of finding a body, even magistrates can get their facts wrong. It was dark, remember.'
'No chance at all I should think,' Rafferty told him. ‘And she had a torch.’ Of course, Llewellyn hadn't met Mrs ffinch-Robinson, he reminded himself. 'According to the witness, the body not only had that hood over his head, but his hands were also bound behind his back. No, I'm convinced she was telling the plain, unvarnished truth.'
He wished he could say otherwise. Mrs ffinch-Robinson would make a wonderful showing in the witness box—confident, firm, and not to be swayed by the defence counsel's tricks. But first, as she had mentioned, they had not only to find the body, they had also to catch the murderer—without him, their star turn would remain off-stage, probably giving the producer hell from the wings.
RAFFERTY & LLEWELLYN BOXED SET: BOOKS 1 - 4 Page 67
