If Necessary Alone

by V M Knox

  ‘Go home, Sarah.’

  She looked up at him. ‘I know they mean well. But I just couldn’t stand it. All the fussing. They never liked Donald. And now all they will say is how wonderful he was. Well he wasn’t. He was a drunk and bone lazy.’ She paused, her gaze staring out into the unknown, unable to focus on anything tangible. He knew that stare. He understood it. He’d seen it in the trenches in the eyes of those who survived more than one day.

  ‘You’re in shock. Completely understandable. But you should go home.’

  She seemed stuck in time, too early for tears, too late for regrets.

  A strong smell of faecal matter wafted over them.

  ‘I hated him,’ she blurted. ‘After our son died, I died.’

  Clement sat beside her and reached for her hand.

  She snatched it away, thrusting it deep into her pocket. ‘I don’t mean to offend. Thank you for your compassion. I’ll be alright. You just do what you came to do.’

  ‘If you’re sure. But I am still a vicar and I am here for you, Sarah, should you need me.’

  She nodded.

  He moved away from her. It was probably for the best. He would only be here for a few days at most and grief, as he well knew, takes a longer time to heal than he had to give.

  In the icy silence Clement stared at Donald Crawford. His body, silhouetted by fierce daylight, hung, suspended in the centre of the only window in the entire space. As grotesque as it was, there was something almost theatrical about it; like a picture, the corpse framed for maximum effect. What had happened was beyond horrific, but to Clement, the scene screamed unnatural death.

  Looking away, Clement’s gaze shifted to his left. Four horse stalls occupied the length of the western wall, but no animals were stabled there, the horses, no doubt, having long been replaced by vehicles for delivery of the post. Boxes of every size filled the stalls now. He looked down. Beneath his feet he could see where tyre tracks had compressed the straw on the barn’s floor. ‘Do you park the lorry here?’

  Sarah lifted her head. ‘Sometimes. It depends on the weather and if I have to collect things for the shop.’

  Clement understood, at least in part, why McAllister felt angst over the barn’s usage. It was a large space, surely more useful for storing coal than crates of provisions. Towards the northern side of the building and only a few feet from Donald Crawford’s body, a ladder leaned against the edge of the loft floor. Clement lifted his gaze. Some ten to fifteen feet above the stalls and slightly higher than the window where Donald Crawford hung, the loft ran the full width of the barn. But the distance from the edge of the loft to where Donald Crawford lay suspended worried Clement. He frowned and turning, focused on the small hayloft door that faced the street. If Billy Wallace had used the hatch, he could have entered the barn crossed the loft and descended the ladder. Looking along the edge of the loft, Clement’s gaze settled on the hay that had spilled over the edge.

  ‘Do you think you could answer some questions?’

  She nodded.

  ‘What is stored in the loft?’

  ‘Nothing. Just hay. We store it for Robert Wallace during winter for his cattle.’

  Clement turned, his eye now on a closed door to the left of the main entry. ‘And in there?’

  ‘Not much at the moment. There’s a bed as well as a table and chair. We rent it to itinerant farm workers around harvest time. The wireless is also there in the wall, behind a timber panel.’

  Clement nodded. ‘I’m so sorry about this, but I must ask. Do you know if your husband did the schedule this morning?’

  Sarah was staring at him, no doubt thinking him uncaring.

  ‘I’ll check the book,’ she said, standing. ‘They’ll probably have some request, given last Saturday’s fighter attack and what we told them about the trawler Tom saw.’

  Clement watched Sarah walk towards the annexe door and open it. He felt wretched about asking her questions at such a time, but he had to know and she knew that. He turned, his gaze roaming over the barn once more before walking towards the ladder. He placed his foot on the first rung. It surprised him that the ladder was not fixed in its position. Steadying it, he climbed up and stood on the edge of the loft. Mountains of hay lay piled up, increasing in height towards the wall. If Wallace used it for winter fodder storage, it stood to reason that no one except Wallace would go up there. So why had Donald Crawford? Sarah’s words resounded in his mind.

  What could Crawford have wanted so badly that the man couldn’t wait for his wife to return? Clement glanced across at the man, the sight and smell of Crawford’s mutilated body making him nauseous. Clement looked away, his focus again on the piles of hay and the floor some ten feet below. A pitch fork lay amongst the straw, the tines facing upwards.

  Had Wallace come to the barn while Crawford had been attending to the schedule? Had they fought over something in the loft that had resulted in Crawford falling backwards? Clement looked again at the hay that lay around the loft. It didn’t appear to be unduly disturbed. His gaze returned to the implement on the floor below. No one would deliberately leave a pitch fork on the floor in such a manner. Therefore, Donald Crawford had been using the fork when he fell. Clement stared at the tool, a frown forming on his brow. Was that what he was meant to think?

  He turned again and looked at the distances. How had Donald Crawford fallen into the window some four feet away from the edge of the loft? Surely if he had been clutching the implement at the time of his fall, his body would be on the floor alongside the fork? Perhaps Crawford had been trying to evade the pitch fork, and after falling, his attacker had thrown it to the floor? Clement heard a door close. Sarah was staring up at him, her face whiter than before.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The wireless. It’s not there.’

  Chapter 8

  Sarah stood in the middle of the barn, the pockets of her coat elongated. He hurried down the ladder. A bitter wind blew in through the broken window, the pungent smell of death and something he couldn’t name whirling around them. ‘You should sit down again.’

  She walked over to the hay bale and slumped onto it, her head bent over her knees.

  ‘When you’re ready, can I ask another question?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Was your husband right handed or left?’

  ‘Right. Why do you ask?’

  He spoke calmly and slowly, aware she was still in shock. ‘The pitchfork on the floor. It could only land there if he was holding it in his left hand when he fell.’

  Sarah looked up, her vacant gaze falling on the pitchfork; her hands were shaking. ‘I think I’m going to be sick again.’

  ‘Perfectly understandable.’ He sat beside her and placed his hand over hers again and waited while she retched the final contents from her stomach. This time she did not remove her hand.

  A few minutes later she reached for her handkerchief and mopped her mouth. ‘You don’t believe it was an accident, do you?’

  ‘No.’ He paused. ‘I’m really sorry about this, but I need to know if your husband did the schedule. Did you keep a transmission record?’

  She nodded. ‘Of course. But the book isn’t there either and without it it’s impossible to know. The Y-station would, but you need a pass to get in there which I don’t have.’

  ‘Where was this book kept?’

  ‘With the wireless, behind the wall panel.’

  He turned and stared again at Donald Crawford. Why had the killer displayed Donald Crawford in such a manner? Was the gruesome spectacle solely to disguise the theft of the wireless? But how did the killer even know it existed, and moreover, where to find it? So many questions.

  Return to the facts, he told himself studying the scene. Clement wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but he knew from experience that the answers lay in the detail. He’d learned that from Chief Inspector Morris of Lewes Police. Somewhere, he hoped, the killer had left a trace of hi
mself. Clement took a note book from his pocket and turned to face Sarah. ‘Who had access to the barn?’

  ‘Just us.’

  ‘Was it locked?’

  ‘Always. Donald didn’t trust anyone with a key. Not with all the boxes in here. And Robert Wallace had to ask if he wanted access. That always led to an argument.’

  ‘And the wireless?’

  ‘Donald didn’t care about it. He complained when I asked him to do the schedules.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he was the Signals Operator. In his opinion, it should always have been his responsibility, not mine. He resented it. And he resented me for it.’

  ‘He was jealous of your work?’

  ‘Yes.’ Sarah took a deep breath and sat up straight, her eyes avoiding the man she had known for twenty years. ‘But we both knew he couldn’t have done it anyway.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Despite Donald’s experience, he’s an alcoholic…was an alcoholic. And alcoholics are not reliable, nor do they have steady hands. I told you that this person, whoever they are, could only differentiate between Donald and me if they were good. That isn’t true. Our signature touch would be as different as chalk and cheese.’

  Clement stared at the woman. ‘Sarah, if that is the case, then your position here is no longer safe. Is there anywhere you could go for a few days? Friends? Family?’

  Sarah shook her head. ‘If I leave now, then whoever killed Donald will know we are onto him. In any case, no one else knows about the wireless, and they will wonder why I have gone. I have to stay; even if only to arrange his funeral. My safety lies in doing everything the same and responding as normally as possible.’

  While he acknowledged that there was some truth to what she’d said, he didn’t like it. The situation was dangerous, especially for her. He looked at her, wondering if she was capable of making such an important decision, given what had just happened. But time was not on his side. ‘Very well. But be ready to leave with little notice. Pack some clothes into a small bag. Not a suitcase and please, wear something different to your most distinctive long coat and red cap. Don’t go anywhere on your own or with only one other person.’

  ‘I have work to do here.’

  ‘Sarah, you are in real danger. Do you value your job more than your life? Because that is what it amounts to.’

  She stared at him.

  ‘I apologise for sounding harsh but someone in this vicinity is not only a traitor but also a murderer. You and I both know this, even if others do not. Don’t be alone for a second, and sleep at the McAllisters’ until this man is caught.’

  At last she seemed to hear him. He saw her hand go to her head, her fingers grasping the red tam. Hair fell from under the cap. It was the first time he had seen any real emotion, but it wasn’t grief.

  ‘Is there anything in the barn, no matter how small, that isn’t as it should be?’

  ‘Other than a dead man in the window?’

  ‘Sorry, but I have to ask.’

  ‘I know.’ She stood and turned around as if seeing the barn for the first time, her fingers all the while playing with the loose button on her coat. ‘Not that I can see.’

  ‘Is there another way into the barn?’

  ‘Only the old hayloft door, but it hasn’t been used in years. Besides, it’s not big enough for a thief to enter.’

  ‘What about a child?’

  ‘You mean Billy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Billy may taunt midges but that’s all. Besides, Donald could lift Billy with one hand.’

  ‘I didn’t mean Billy killed your husband, but he may have witnessed something or someone.’

  ‘We must tell Kathleen.’

  ‘That would be unwise and cause unnecessary alarm.’ Clement paused, his mind on the likely sequence of events. ‘It is unlikely that Billy saw anything.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘If Billy had witnessed something and the killer knew it...’

  ‘I think I’m going to faint.’ Sarah sat heavily onto the hay bale, her head forward over her knees.

  ‘I was going to add, that he would certainly have told his mother who would have told everyone and, no doubt, telephoned for the police while in your sitting room.’

  ‘Of course.’

  He could see the relief on her face, and he noticed something else; the ever-present, mildly annoyed countenance that he had seen since his arrival, and which he had assumed was permanent, had vanished. It was as though some barrier between them had been breached. He had felt it before, when one human being connects with another and whilst he couldn’t actually name it, he knew without question what it wasn’t. No one would ever replace Mary.

  She looked up at him. ‘Thank you for your understanding, but if you really want to help us…me…just do what you came to do, and find out who did this.’

  Clement nodded and wandered over to the large entry doors, allowing the widow time and space. He scrutinised every surface and edge but nothing appeared disturbed. Did the lack of any forced entry mean that Donald Crawford knew his attacker? Clement turned and stared again at the scene. Chilly silence was what he saw and felt. There was something not just macabre about it; it was contrived. A manufactured horror. Why? The question haunted. ‘We should go back. You need to be with your friends now.’ He paused. ‘You asked me to do what I came to do, and I will, but while I know I am here as Major Wisdom, I am still Reverend Wisdom. I cannot, nor would I want to, stand between you and your minister but, I am here for you should you need me.’

  ‘Thank you. I just want to get back to work. Perhaps it would be best if you didn’t come back with me. They’ll see your presence as an intrusion, especially after what you said.’

  ‘As you wish. Would you tell Aidan, then, that I will see him back at the manse?’

  She nodded.

  Her glance shifted to her dead husband one last time before she turned and walked through the barn doors.

  Clement drew his coat higher about his neck as the wind blew into the barn from the shattered window. He pondered what reception Sarah would receive on her return. He knew he had offended the villagers and their pastor by suggesting that the death may not be straight forward, but it could not be helped. They did not know what he and Sarah knew. Neither could they be informed. Although it appeared likely that the traitor and the murderer were one and the same, there was no proof. Neither was there absolute proof that Donald Crawford had, in fact, been murdered. Clement leaned on the door frame to the little room. As grotesque as the sight was, he stared at Donald Crawford.

  Fact; Donald Crawford had died between half past ten and midday. That exonerated Sarah as she had been with him or doing deliveries. He shook his head. That wasn’t quite true. She had left him before eleven to finish the deliveries. Could she have doubled back after she had seen him enter the manse? It was possible. He knew one could see the kirk and the graveyard from the manse, Aidan had said as much. So it was also possible for Sarah to have watched him enter it then make her way to the barn. He ran the idea around his head. Whilst it was feasible, he believed it unlikely. Her reaction to her dead husband had been genuine and unrehearsed.

  Clement tried to imagine the sequence of events. If Donald Crawford had been attending to the schedule at the time the attacker entered the barn, the killer would have heard it and known that the wireless was in the annexe. That meant the main doors had to be unlocked, something Sarah said never happened. Yet the barn had been unlocked when he and Sarah first entered it. Moreover, it had to have been unlocked for Kathleen Wallace to gain entry. So had Crawford just forgotten to lock it behind him as McAllister had speculated at the manse?

  Clement walked into the annexe, his gaze scanning the small space as a cold blast blew through the broken window. Unlike the unpleasant odour in the barn, the little room smelt fresh. He sniffed the cold air. Such a small room, unused and closed for most of the time
would surely smell of damp? He stared at a single cast iron bed in the corner, the only furniture in the room other than the table and chair in front of the wall panel where the wireless had been secreted. He stared at the bed. The mattress, covered in the familiar ticking fabric, was folded back in half and a pillow sat on top of it. A coarse-weave blanket was folded over the metal rail at the foot of the bed. Just as Sarah had said, nothing in the room appeared to have been used for some time.

  He turned and stared at the table and chair where he imagined the daily transmissions took place. But other than the missing wireless, everything looked as it should. Neat. Orderly. Unused. Unnatural. He pondered again whether Crawford had been accompanied into the barn. But if that was so, he would not have attended to the schedule and the wireless would still be secreted in the wall. However, if he had been interrupted during the scheduled broadcast by someone entering the room unexpectedly, surely he would have reacted? There would be some evidence of a struggle. Crawford would, presumably have stood, the chair pushed away from the table. It could even have been overturned and the wireless would be on the table with the headset still attached and the wooden panel open. Clement pressed the timber slats until he found the loose one. Removing the panel, he studied the small space, but it was empty. Replacing the timber slat, he looked around the floor. A small pencil sat under the bed amongst the dirt. Lifting it between his index finger and thumb, he saw that it left no outline in the dust. Nor was there any dust on the pencil. Turning it over in his fingers, he returned it to where it had landed when the killer had discarded it.

  Leaving the room, Clement walked back into the barn and stared at the pitchfork. If the right-handed Donald Crawford had been holding the implement at the time of his fall, it would either be outside lying in the snow or directly beneath him. Not on the floor in the middle of the barn. Clement ran his gaze along the shaft of the tool then the tines. No blood. Nothing to indicate that Donald had either been holding the fork or threatened with it at the time of his death.