A Village Deception (Turnham Malpas 15)

by Shaw, Rebecca

  Mr Fitch had come up with a clever plan. He was going to try to persuade Peter not to leave as a way of putting him off the scent of tracking the donation to its source. Peter would assume, from their conversation, that it couldn’t possibly be Craddock Fitch who made the donation since he’d tried to get him to stay with no mention of a massive contribution to the church funds to help persuade him.

  Craddock Fitch went home rejoicing at his tactics and the first person he met was Jeremy Mayer. He was outside, smoking a cigar on the terrace, and Craddock was forcibly struck by how dreadful he looked. My God! The man was dying on his feet. Surely he wasn’t pining for the slut who’d been his wife. He was well shot of her, as Craddock knew from personal experience.

  ‘Jeremy! You OK? You don’t look too good.’

  Jeremy nodded his head.

  ‘I didn’t know you smoked.’

  He got another nod.

  ‘Not heard any more about, you know … ?’

  Jeremy looked at him, straight in the face, and Craddock saw the pain in his eyes. Suddenly he felt ashamed of what had happened in the past.

  Jeremy shook his head.

  ‘I’ll join you with one of those. It’s years since I smoked one. After the morning I’ve had, I could do with one.’

  Jeremy offered him his cigar case and Craddock helped himself. Then Jeremy lit it for him and the two of them stood smoking on the terrace, their backs to the big house, staring out across Home Park towards the Old Barn.

  ‘I always knew.’

  ‘What?’ asked Craddock Fitch.

  ‘About you and Venetia.’

  Mr Fitch coughed a cloud of smoke from his throat and lied, ‘I guessed you’d think that. You’re quite wrong on that score, I’d nothing to do with her.’

  ‘Beggar you for it. She was mine.’

  ‘Let’s be honest here, Jeremy—’

  ‘No, it’s for me to be honest, not you. I’m the honest one. I didn’t stray with someone else’s wife.’ He remained staring into the distance. ‘I loved her. People might think she wasn’t worth it, but I loved her. I put up with that actor fellow Hugo, this man, that man, even her passion for the rector, though that never came to anything of course.’

  ‘I should think not. You shouldn’t even think along those lines. The rector, indeed. I’m shocked.’ And he was too. Not just shocked, but appalled. What was the matter with the man? How had he landed himself with Jeremy letting his hair down like this? In an intuitive flash he saw the truth; this was guilt talking. It was Jeremy who’d killed her.

  No, he must be wrong. Not old Jeremy. He’d bullied him for years until he’d grown bored of it and Kate had persuaded him to treat Jeremy like a human being. They’d got on much better after that.

  ‘Is there something you’re trying to tell me? If so, spit it out.’

  Jeremy turned to face him instead of staring across at the Old Barn. He slowly brought his arm back and Craddock Fitch, totally unaware of the man’s intention, watched as Jeremy’s fist shot out and landed fair and square on his nose. In spite of his very evident exhaustion, Jeremy’s punch was powerful and the blood flowed.

  ‘That’s from Venetia, for using her as a prostitute.’ Then Jeremy walked back into the house, leaving Craddock Fitch mopping up blood with his immaculate handkerchief. It didn’t seem to want to stop, so he went inside to find his secretary. Then he remembered, too late, that she’d sacked herself that morning. And all because of him. Damn everything this morning. Everything and everybody. What was the point of giving all that money to the church and then having a morning like this one? But somewhere deep down, Craddock Fitch knew he’d got the punch because it was well deserved and nothing to do with God, nor the donation.

  The church treasurer, Hugh Neal, rang Peter early on the Wednesday morning to tell him about the massive anonymous donation the church had received. ‘How much? Have I heard you right? We’re talking six figures here?’

  ‘Yes, we are. Fantastic, isn’t it?’

  ‘Who from?’

  ‘It’s anonymous, Peter. I can’t say, can I? I paid it into the bank before they changed their minds.’

  ‘Who on earth can it be, Hugh?’

  ‘Not the faintest. If I were you, I’d get using it for the repairs in case they ask for it back! Only joking, but it is a godsend. Literally. Be glad.’ Hugh refrained from saying, ‘So you won’t need to resign now.’ But he did say, ‘Is someone on high telling you something here, Peter? Be seeing you.’

  ‘I can’t believe it. What a huge surprise! I’m completely overwhelmed. Are you sure you’ve got it right? I mean, it is such a colossal sum.’

  ‘Of course it’s right, I counted the noughts! Several times! Be thankful. Rejoice!’

  ‘I will. Thank you, Hugh.’

  Peter sat staring into space thinking about this enormous windfall. Was it money from Ralph’s estate, perhaps? It would be the kind of gesture he would make. Maybe there wasn’t anyone to inherit the money so he’d left it to the church instead. No, of course not, he was quite wrong. Craddock Fitch? No, he’d been that morning to beg him not to leave and he hadn’t mentioned a bribe, so it wasn’t him. He rang Caroline at the practice and told her the good news.

  ‘Oh, darling! Talk about pennies from heaven. My word. That’s marvellous.’ It was on the tip of her tongue to add that now he needn’t leave Turnham Malpas, but she left it unsaid because it might well be that he needed to go just the same, in spite of the money. But who on earth would give that enormous amount to the church? As far as she was concerned, it must be Craddock Fitch, though he’d never given money on this scale before.

  The news broke in the bar that night. It was Zack who told everyone about the phenomenal good fortune. ‘True as I’m sitting here. It was someone who wishes to remain anonymous. Not even the rector has been told, so it’s no good quizzing him. It’s a vast sum of money. The rector told me this afternoon in my shed over a cup of tea. He’s absolutely gobsmacked and he’s got no idea who’s given it.’

  Dottie said, ‘Mr Fitch came to see him this morning. Is it ‘im?’

  ‘Apparently not. No.’

  ‘Never mind who’s given it, how much did they give? Do we know that?’

  Zack knew they’d be amazed, so he delayed his reply for as long as he possibly could till eventually Sylvia said, ‘For heaven’s sake, put us out of our misery.’

  ‘Guess how much you think it’ll be.’

  Someone suggested twenty-five thousand pounds, but then they said that that would be ridiculous.

  Zack shook his head.

  ‘More?’

  Zack nodded. So the estimates went up and up and when they’d reached one hundred thousand, they couldn’t believe it when Zack nodded his head again.

  Dottie declared that they couldn’t go on guessing. ‘For heaven’s sake tell us, Zack,’ she said.

  So he did. ‘One hundred and fifty thousand pounds.’

  Every single person drinking in the bar stopped what they were doing, overcome with disbelief. Georgie, coming back in after a quiet ten-minute break to recoup her energy, couldn’t understand the silence. ‘What’s the matter? Has someone died?’ Then she remembered Jimmy and wished she hadn’t said that.

  ‘My God!’ said Willie. ‘My God!’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ said someone else.

  ‘Blimey!’ said the Londoner called Royston, the one with the weekend cottage.

  ‘Cripes!’ muttered Sylvia and took a great gulp of her gin and tonic. She didn’t swallow it properly and choked. Willie had to bang her on her back to bring her round. She wiped the tears from her cheeks and said croakily, ‘Whoever in all this world could give all that to the church?’

  But there was no answer to that. It was some time before anyone thought of the consequences of this vast sum, and it was Zack who said the most important consequence out loud. ‘We shan’t have to sell the church silver now.’

  ‘More importantly, the rector, bless him, won’t fee
l he has to leave now.’ This was said by Dottie, who had felt ill ever since the big announcement on Sunday in church. She didn’t think she could bear the idea of the rector leaving because she so loved her housekeeping at the rectory. She knew full well that, with her past, they shouldn’t have allowed her over the doorstep, but they did and for that she would be eternally grateful.

  ‘You’ll be pleased, Dottie, that they won’t be going?’ said Vera.

  ‘Oh yes. It’s a privilege to work there, all their lovely furniture and that, and such nice people. I love Beth as though she was my own. I love Alex too, so like his dad.’

  ‘Like me, you never had no children, did you, Dottie?’

  ‘No, I didn’t, Sylvia. I never really wanted any till it was all too late. When you’re young there’s all the time in the world, then suddenly there’s none.’ She stood up and raising her voice said, ‘I propose a toast, everyone, to whoever it is who’s given that money. God bless ‘em, I say.’ And they all clinked glasses and were grateful for the anonymous donor who’d stepped in and saved the day.

  The anonymous donor, at this moment, was entertaining a police superintendent in his sitting room. ‘The man is dying on his feet, superintendent, believe me.’

  ‘We have no evidence. Not a scrap.’

  ‘I’m sure I’m correct. In his right mind, he would never have punched me, ever. He’s just not that kind of man. He’s an educated man. He may have been married to a tart but he always treats everyone as a gentleman should. ’

  ‘Grief can do funny things to people.’

  ‘Well, I find it hard to believe he’s grieving. You see, she wasn’t worth that kind of loving. Honestly, believe me. Did you know her?’

  ‘Never met her actually.’

  ‘Tart through and through. She was free with her favours and it didn’t matter who it was. Dustman or duke. And, what is significant is that the rector caught them at it in Home Park one evening. Jeremy must have been absolutely mortified, enough for his temper to get up and to do her in. How did he do her in?’

  ‘Strictly speaking, Mr Fitch, I am not permitted to reveal that. The post-mortem isn’t complete anyway and, even if it was, I still wouldn’t.’

  ‘Of course, of course. Quite right. I know I’ve no evidence as such, but he is talking like a guilty man. He is. But I can’t convince you, can I?’

  ‘We can leave no stone unturned and, other than Harry Dickinson, we have absolutely no clues as to a possible murderer. Therefore I will question Mr Mayer again and see if I can—’

  ‘Good man. Good man.’ Mr Fitch got to his feet and held out his hand. ‘Thank you, I’m sure I’m right. He’s got guilt written all over him. Thank you. If it is him, I shall be very upset. The poor chap’s had a rotten time with that wife of his playing away. Go carefully with him, won’t you?’

  ‘I will. I’ll interview him again tomorrow. I’m sure it’s Harry Dickinson though. He lies better than anyone I have ever known. One lie after another, and we can’t catch him out.’

  ‘He certainly fooled everyone in the village.’

  ‘Must go. Thanks for the whisky.’

  ‘A pleasure, believe me. What seems so surprising to me is that they both loved Venetia to bits. Both of them. Amazing, isn’t it? A woman like her?’

  ‘Nothing so queer as folk, Mr Fitch.’ He examined Mr Fitch’s swollen face. ‘Hope the face improves. Goodnight!’

  Peter and Caroline were both late to bed that night. Peter because he was reading and didn’t stop until he found his eyes closing and the book falling out of his hand, and Caroline because she’d not been keeping up with new medical research and was working hard to catch up.

  Peter turned on the alarm, Caroline switched off the light and the doorbell rang with an urgent clamouring which couldn’t be ignored. Beth appeared on the landing and Alex shouted down from the attic, ‘There’s someone at the door. Shall I go?’

  ‘Stay where you are, it’s most likely for me.’ Peter snatched his dressing gown from the back of the bedroom door and fled downstairs. Whoever it was had now begun hammering with their fists on the door. Peter undid the bolts and the person begging to be allowed in fell on his knees on the hall floor as Peter undid the lock. ‘I need to talk. Sorry it’s so late. Just need to t-talk.’

  ‘Come in. Let’s go in my study.’

  It was clear that Jeremy had a terrible weight on his mind. One didn’t have to be exceptionally perceptive to see that was his problem: the deep grooves down either side of his mouth, the ashen, almost grey-green colour of his skin, his bowed posture and, most of all, his tortured eyes, told a story.

  ‘I always keep a bottle of brandy hidden in my study for cases such as this. OK?’

  Peter didn’t even get an acknowledgement, but he poured out a measure in the small glass he kept for the purpose and put it into Jeremy’s hand. ‘Drink it steadily and that’s an order.’

  Minutes passed and, so far, Jeremy had said nothing so Peter decided to speak up. ‘Now, Jeremy. Do you need to unburden yourself? Perhaps you want to tell me something you can’t keep to yourself any longer? I’m more than willing to listen, if it will help.’ Peter took the empty glass from him and waited.

  ‘I had to come. I had to tell someone. I just can’t hide it any longer.’

  ‘You’ll feel better when you’ve told me. I make a good listener.’

  ‘It’s Venetia. You know I loved her.’

  ‘You did, you told me so.’

  Jeremy nodded. ‘All along I knew she wasn’t, shall we say, top drawer. No education that counted, not like you or me. I got a first at Cambridge, when I was young and full of life. You wouldn’t think so to look at me now.’ He half laughed at himself. ‘Heading for great things, me, they all said. But I’d no interest in succeeding. Anything for a quiet life. With a name like Sidney Milton Mogg, how could I possibly succeed at anything?’ Jeremy paused and gazed into space, a sob occasionally breaking the silence. Suddenly he hauled himself out of the sofa and blindly headed for the door to escape. Peter protested, ‘Don’t go. Don’t go. Stay and talk to me.’

  Very softly, Peter said again, ‘Don’t go, Jeremy, stay and talk. Please. I know it’s late, but I don’t mind if you have things you need to speak of for your own good.’ He laid a restraining hand on Jeremy’s arm. ‘Please, just sit down and let me hear you out.’

  Jeremy stood looking at him, his eyes full of pain. ‘You’ll listen, won’t you? You won’t be judgemental? You won’t laugh at my foolishness?’

  ‘I’ll listen and I won’t be any of those things. You know that.’

  Jeremy sank down again, dropping like a stone as though he had no strength left.

  ‘I met her in a massage parlour in the West End. She worked there as the receptionist. We got talking and when she asked me what I did for a living I said “nothing”. I hadn’t got a job at the time so it was true. She mistook that for thinking I was so well off I didn’t need to work and, when I happened to mention that I’d been to Cambridge, that did it. She thought I must definitely be well off.

  ‘To my shame, I didn’t enlighten her because she thrilled me and I wanted her so badly. She was so fascinated by me, I can’t think why, that before we’d known each other a month she was living with me. She found out soon enough that there wasn’t much money about, but for some reason she stuck with me through thick and thin, and I loved her for that. I loved every inch of her, her clothes which were usually outrageous, her overdone make-up, her body because it was good, everyone could see that. I also loved her for her sense of humour. You know what it’s like to love someone.’ He looked up and half smiled at Peter, as if acknowledging that they were one of a kind. ‘At that time I could impress people and get them to lend me money, almost without asking. My CV was impressive, you see. Public school, a first in classics, it all spoke of reliability. How mistaken could they be? Venetia could spend money faster than anyone alive could earn it.

  ‘I’ve always known you are a man o
f the world, not some soft in the head, self-righteous cleric, so I can tell you what she did and it won’t cause offence. She began making money as a prostitute, with taste, if that’s possible. She wasn’t standing on street corners, you know. Night after night, I had to make myself scarce so she could have the flat to invite them back to.

  ‘It tortured me. It broke my heart but, when you’ve no money and no job and you’ve sunk so low you haven’t enough money to buy food, you do whatever you can. Anyway, she met this man with more money than sense and he offered to help us buy Turnham House, which we longed to do as soon as we saw it up for sale. We wanted to set it up as a health club. The money we spent. Oh, God!’ Jeremy drew in a great, shuddering breath and started to stutter. ‘As you k-know … it failed, f-failed almost before it got s-started. It was a terrible blow. You see, I thought it was something I could really make a go of. Fortunately, Craddock Fitch saved the day when he bought it from us and we’ve never looked back since. We did so well out of it there was no need for her to … There was no more need for her to …’ Jeremy fidgeted with his hands as though that explained what he meant without the need for words.

  Peter was tempted to break the silence but he found the words simply wouldn’t come. He was horrified by what Jeremy had gone through. Imagine, he thought, loving Venetia like he did and knowing that was happening, night after night.

  ‘Then, as you know, Harry Dickinson appeared these last few weeks. This time I knew for certain it was different. This time it was for real. She didn’t know that to start with, but I did. I saw the signs and I could see she would leave me, that was the way it would go. Worse, she was so taken with him that she told me everything they got up to. She taunted me with it.’

  By now Jeremy was shaking with distress, yet he appeared to have a strong inner core that made him determined to make a full confession, leaving nothing out. ‘She came home the night you saw them in Home Park and told me. She said how shaming it was. Anyone but you, she said. Absolutely anyone, but you. But she loved him so much she could still laugh it off, it was all just another part of the excitement of their affair. I still had some standards left then, and I was destroyed by that. She was dead that night really, but it took me a while to get round to doing it. She’d had too much to drink one night, much too much, and I’d encouraged her so she wouldn’t realise what I was going to do. I wanted to make it easy for her. She would be too drunk to know, if you see what I mean. And I did it. I smothered her while she was full of the drink. She lay there on the bed wearing one of her beautiful nightgowns, dead, but still beautiful in my eyes, and I wished to God I hadn’t done it. It was the most appalling betrayal. But there she was … she was gone, and it was all far, far too late.’