Six Proud Walkers

by Anthea Fraser

  ‘Very well, Mr Walker, that’s all for the moment. Please accept our sincere sympathy—we’ll make things as painless as we can for you all.’

  Walker nodded, but showed no sign of moving. After an exchanged glance, it was the two policemen who rose to their feet and silently left the room.

  CHAPTER 7

  They stopped for lunch at the Watermill in Fallowfield, taking their beer and sandwiches out to the shade of an umbrella in the sunny garden. Sometimes, Webb reflected that his career was inextricably bound up with the county’s pubs; certainly he’d patronised a wide selection of them during the course of investigations, more often than not instigated by the demands of Jackson’s stomach. Left to himself, he’d have skipped lunch and pressed on with his interviews, but Ken’s metabolism was in constant need of restoking, and ground to a halt without regular intakes of food. He watched now while the Sergeant speared a pickled onion with his fork.

  ‘I hope you’ll breathe in another direction for the rest of the day.’

  Jackson grinned. ‘Have one yourself, and you won’t notice it.’

  ‘No, thanks.’ Webb leant back in the iron chair, gazing across the scorched lawn. It was dotted with round white tables like their own, some with umbrellas, some in the full glare of the sun. Over against the hedge, customers who’d finished eating were making the most of their lunch break by sunbathing.

  High summer, he thought. The phrase was evocative of cow-parsley, shoulder-high in the hedgerows; of insects droning lazily on hot, sleepy afternoons, and cottage gardens burning with the vibrant blue of delphiniums and sulphur-yellow marigolds; and, out in the fields, the fragile poppy swaying among the tall grasses. He must find time to paint some poppies; he did so every year, unable to resist their glowing grace.

  But before he could indulge himself, he’d a particularly brutal murder to solve. ‘I hope the maid’s over her hysterics,’ he said.

  ***

  She was, but her eyes were still red with weeping. ‘There’s nothing I can tell you, sir,’ she said tremulously. ‘Mrs Dorothy had invited Master Gavin to tea, forgetting it was my afternoon off. I offered to change it, but she wouldn’t hear of it. “I hope I can still boil a kettle!” she said. So I left the trolley ready in the drawing-room, with a cloth over it to keep things fresh.’

  Webb was glad she hadn’t seen that cloth spattered with blood.

  ‘Who was in for lunch, Miss Barlow?’

  ‘There was Mrs Neville and the two young ladies as usual, and Mrs Dorothy’d come back because of her appointment.’ ‘Did any of them leave the house before you did?’

  ‘Oh yes, all of them. Miss Melanie went first—I saw her leaving with her tennis racquet. Then Miss Fay.’

  ‘Where was she going?’ Webb interrupted.

  ‘To Miss Mallow’s, I think, sir. The vicar’s daughter—they see a lot of each other.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Then Mrs Neville drove off to her French, and a taxi called for Mrs Dorothy.’

  ‘What time would that have been?’

  ‘Just after two, sir. As I was getting ready to go out myself.’

  So Dorothy hadn’t driven to the appointment herself. Who had brought her home? Someone who unaccountably turned on her with the poker?

  ‘She didn’t mention where she was going?’

  ‘Not in my hearing; though she did say, with that smile of hers, “I’ll be glad when this afternoon’s over, Phyllis.”’

  Had she been thinking of her appointment, or the meeting with her grandson?

  ‘Did you know what she meant?’

  She shook her head sadly. ‘Is Mr Neville back, sir?’

  ‘Yes, we’ve just seen him at the factory.’

  ‘He’ll be taking it bad. Devoted to his mother, he was; closer, somehow, than the other two. Poor gentleman.’

  There was nothing to be gained by prolonging the interview. They took their leave and returned to the Incident Room in Honeyford church hail.

  ‘The village is buzzing with rumours, Guv,’ Dawson told Webb as he flicked through the house-to-house reports. ‘And as you’ll have seen, the press are camped at the gate. Now all the family knows, can we release the story?’

  Webb nodded. ‘I’ll give them a brief statement to go on with, and we’ll have a press conference tomorrow—nine a.m. at Carrington Street. We could do with publicity now —might open up some new leads.’

  ‘There was a lad in earlier,’ Sergeant Dawson volunteered. ‘Stanley caught him trying to call on the Walkers. Demanded to know what’d happened, but we didn’t enlighten him.’

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘Tenby. Clive Tenby.’

  Hannah’d mentioned the name. He’d go round to see her later. ‘OK, Bob. Give me his address and I’ll double-check. Any of the neighbours been seen yet?’

  ‘Yep, several that were at the party. Their statements are being typed.’

  ‘Fine.’ Webb glanced at the clock. Three o’clock. It was being a long day. He was hot and sticky and could do with a shower, but that would have to wait. He’d better see if he could track down the Ridley chap. No one seemed to have taken his threats seriously, but that didn’t mean they’d not been seriously meant. Furthermore, according to his employers he’d not been at work yesterday.

  Behind him, the Incident Room phones rang incessantly, and he barely heard them. Until one call was for him.

  ‘Would you like to take it in the other room, sir?’ the switchboard girl asked. ‘It’s free at the moment.’

  ‘Right. Who’s on the line?’

  ‘Inspector Petrie, sir.’

  The result of the PM, no doubt. He closed the door of the small committee room and lifted the phone.

  ‘Inspector Petrie, sir, at the mortuary.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘An interesting development: it seems the deceased has never borne children.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No question of it, according to Dr Stapleton. She had—quote—“a rare congenital abnormality of the uterus”. Unquote.’

  ‘What about that unbroken line they’re so proud of?’

  ‘Perhaps that’s why they’ve kept quiet about it.’

  ‘Well, it’s a turn-up for the books, I’ll say that. Anything else of interest?’

  ‘Yes, she was suffering from an advanced stage of Blackett’s Syndrome, whatever that is, but it didn’t have a direct bearing on her death.’

  ‘OK, if you’ve finished there, we’d be glad of your assistance as soon as you can make it.’

  ‘I’m on my way, sir.’

  Webb put his head round the Incident Room door.

  ‘What’s the name of the family doctor?’

  ‘Pratt, Guy.’

  ‘Address?’

  ‘The Gables, Swing Gate Lane.’

  ‘And where might that be?’

  ‘It leads down from the far side of the High Street. There’s a Bank on the corner.’

  ‘Has he been interviewed yet?’ He hadn’t. ‘Right, I’ll see to it now.’

  Jackson was waiting in the car. He’d parked in the shade and rolled his sleeves up. He pulled them down as Webb approached, and as they set off, Webb told him about the post-mortem.

  ‘So we’ll see what Dr Pratt has to say,’ he finished.

  ‘There’s the Bank, turn down here. Now we’ll have to look out for The Gables. Why don’t they have numbers in the country?’

  They were in luck; the doctor had just returned from his rounds, though he wasn’t too pleased to see them. Probably been looking forward to a shower, poor devil, Webb thought with sympathy. Making the best of it, Pratt asked his wife to bring tea and led the way to his surgery.

  Webb wasted no time. ‘We’ve just learned from the post-mortem, Doctor, that Mrs Walker never bore children.’ He nodded. ‘I was expecting this.’

  ‘Her sons were adopted as babies?’

  Dr Pratt nodded again. Then he said slowly, ‘You’re not going to believe this, but the
y’ve never been told.’

  ‘What?’ Webb exclaimed, for the second time in half an hour.

  ‘It’s true. They don’t know they’re adopted. I was sworn to secrecy when I came into partnership with Dr Sloane. Since he and old Mr Walker died, I’ve been the only person who knew.’

  ‘But surely their birth certificates—?’

  The doctor shook his head. ‘The shorter form became standard when they were still children, and was substituted for the originals. They never thought to question it.’

  There was a knock on the door, and Mrs Pratt came in with a tea-tray. She was an odd-looking woman with strong, rather coarse features and she wore a tent-like dress in unbleached cotton. Webb waited until she’d gone out and the doctor had poured their tea. Then he said:

  ‘Instructions were left for them to be told after her death?’

  ‘I imagine so.’

  ‘You never discussed it with her?’

  ‘Good Lord, no! She was totally neurotic on the subject. Her Achilles heel, you might say.’

  ‘But why was it such a secret? There’s nothing shameful about it.’

  ‘She thought there was. She was obsessed with the family name, and the direct line going back so long, particularly since she herself was the last of the Fairfaxes. So when she discovered she couldn’t have children, her world fell apart.

  According to Dr Sloane, it was the only time in her life she didn’t get what she wanted. Well, she offered to divorce her husband, threatened suicide, the lot. In the end, they talked her into adopting, but only Dr Sloane and the adoption agency knew. Believe it or not, she faked all three pregnancies—padded herself, and so on. Pathetic, really.’

  ‘Incredible, I’d call it. The family’s in for quite a shock. There’s something else, too, Doctor. Did you refer Mrs Walker to a neurological consultant?’

  The doctor folded his hands on the desk-top and looked down at them. ‘Forgive me, but I can’t see that this concerns her death.’

  ‘Where she went on the afternoon she died is of paramount importance, Dr Pratt.’

  ‘I see.’ He smiled slightly. ‘I’m sorry, this breaking of confidences goes against the grain. I’m glad to say I’ve no previous experience of murder cases. But to answer your question, yes, I referred Mrs Walker to Mr Bruce Springfield, of Kimberley Road. I was almost sure what was wrong with her, but hoped I was mistaken. However, tests Mr Springfield carried out over the last few weeks confirmed she was indeed suffering from Blackett’s Syndrome.’

  The doctor paused. ‘Quite apart from distress on her own account, this posed a problem because it’s a hereditary disease. Mr Springfield, of course, assumed the rest of the family would be affected, but I knew differently.’

  ‘Exactly what is Blackett’s Syndrome?’

  ‘Basically, a fairly rapidly advancing paralysis which strikes in middle to old age. Unfortunately there’s no known cure.’

  ‘Would her sons have known it was hereditary?’

  The doctor shrugged. ‘When they learned what she was suffering from they would presumably have made inquiries. And that’s one of the outstanding features of the disease.’

  ‘So,’ Webb said slowly, ‘she would either have had to let them think they were all doomed, or tell them they were adopted.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Have you spoken to Mr Springfield in the last twenty-four hours?’

  ‘He phoned as soon as she left him.’

  ‘Did you ring back after examining her body?’

  He shook his head. ‘I needed time to think.’

  ‘Well, that’s all the medical questions for now, Doctor, but could your wife join us? I’d like to ask you both about last Saturday.’

  The doctor raised his eyebrows, but he went to the door and called ‘Inez!’

  She came, looking inquiringly from her husband to Webb.

  ‘Would you sit down for a minute, Mrs Pratt? I’d like you and your husband to think back to the birthday party on Saturday evening. Did anything happen which struck you as odd? Anyone behave differently from usual?’

  ‘There was Gavin,’ Mrs Pratt said. She had a deep but unexpectedly pleasant speaking voice. ‘He lost his temper with Dorothy, which was very embarrassing.’

  ‘Yes, I heard about that. How did the others react?’ ‘Much as you’d expect. Tried to pretend it hadn’t happened.’

  ‘And his grandmother?’

  ‘She excused herself and went up to her room.’

  ‘Did anyone else seem on edge? Before this happened, I mean.’

  ‘I thought Dorothy was. I asked Leslie if she was all right but he was noncommittal, as he always is about patients.’

  ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘Not really, except that they were trying to keep Fay away from Clive.’

  ‘Clive who?’

  ‘Tenby. Pamela and Derek’s boy. They went out together earlier in the year, then split up.’

  ‘Why was that, do you know?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘What about you, Doctor? Were you aware of any tensions?’

  ‘I can’t say I was. My working day’s spent looking for such things, but I try not to carry it into my social life.’

  Webb turned back to his wife. ‘What about the coffee morning, then? I believe you went to the Old Rectory on Tuesday?’

  She looked surprised. ‘Nothing happened there. Lydia’d invited us to meet a woman who’d come to stay in the village —a schoolmistress, I believe. She seemed quite pleasant.’

  Jackson stole a glance at the Governor, but his face was impassive.

  ‘And everyone was quite at ease?’

  ‘Except for lingering embarrassment about Gavin. But then Dorothy looked in and invited him to tea, so I assumed it had all blown over.’

  There was nothing else to be learned from the Pratts. Webb and Jackson took their leave.

  ***

  Ashley answered the doorbell to find Eleanor and her son on the step, and held down a spurt of annoyance.

  ‘I felt I had to come,’ Eleanor was saying. ‘Robin sounded so distraught on the phone. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.’

  Where on earth could she sleep? Ashley wondered distractedly. Certainly not with Robin, with young people in the house.

  ‘Come in,’ she said, summoning up a welcome. It’s good of you to come.’

  Though Eleanor must have known Dorothy disliked her, she seemed genuinely upset. Her small, cat-like face was pinched and pale, and the child beside her held tightly to her hand.

  ‘We’re just having tea. The men aren’t home from work yet.’ Ashley led the way to the sitting-room and through its French windows into the garden. Tea was laid on the patio under a gaily coloured umbrella. Lydia and her daughters were grouped round the table and Gavin lay reading on the grass a short distance away.

  Extra cups were brought, and room made for the new arrivals. Beneath her hostess manner, Ashley wondered how long they proposed to stay. While it was a comfort at this time to have Lydia and Neville with them, Eleanor, despite the diamond on her finger, was an outsider. It was bad enough having Robin here—

  She turned hastily away, lest her face betray her. Oh, why had she been so stupid as to get involved with Robin? Yet the answer was plain enough; her twitchy, frustrated body had been crying out for the love which Howard seemingly could not give her. Robin, an expert in such matters, had seen her need and taken steps to satisfy it. But after that one time, knowing temptation was still strong, she’d taken care not to be alone with him.

  Had he told Eleanor? she wondered suddenly, and shame drenched her. As it was, she could hardly bring herself to meet his eyes; now, she must also avoid Eleanor’s. Then there was that policeman, she thought with increasing agitation. She’d seen his interest at the fete, and felt her body respond. God, was she to be a prey to all mildly attractive men, the classic frustrated woman? It didn’t bear thinking about.

  ‘But how did it happen?’ Eleanor was askin
g.

  Lydia, glancing at her sister-in-law’s flushed face, thought she understood her distress. ‘Ashley found her,’ she said, and in a lowered voice outlined what had happened. The two girls sat silently, staring down at their hands, but young Jake was listening with horrified intentness, his eyes on Lydia’s face.

  ‘Do they know who did it?’ he asked in his childish voice, as Lydia came to a halt.

  ‘Not yet, but they’ll soon find him.’

  ‘But why was she killed?’

  ‘Hush, darling,’ Eleanor murmured, but Lydia answered mechanically.

  ‘We can’t imagine. It must have been completely motiveless.’

  Gavin, unwillingly within earshot, pushed his book aside and lay face down on the grass, cushioning his head in his arms. Why couldn’t the little squit shut up, he thought angrily. Why did he have to keep on about it?

  He’d hardly slept last night. The ghastly scene at the Old Rectory had stained his memory, and nothing he could do would banish it. Poor old Gran, to go that way. Suppose the police found out he’d been there? They had ways, hadn’t they? He’d not touched anything, but his shoes might have picked up a trace of blood. It had been difficult to avoid in that first, uncomprehending horror.

  And if they did find out, it would be all the worse because he’d lied. Mum wanted what was best for him, but Dad thought she was wrong to keep it quiet, and, increasingly, he did himself. Oh God, please let them find out who did it, now, and then he needn’t be so frightened.

  ***

  It was five o’clock when Webb arrived at Wychwood, and Hannah’s first impression was how tired he looked. He gave her a crooked grin. ‘I’m taking two hours off,’ he said. ‘I’d be undyingly grateful for a shower and a meal. And if any optional extras are on offer, they too would be much appreciated!’

  ‘Certainly, sir. In what order would you like them?’

  ‘Shower first, meal last.’

  She pushed open the bathroom door. ‘There’s a clean towel in the cupboard. Enjoy yourself.’