Witching Murder

by Jennie Melville

  And had she done so stark naked? For some reason the thought amused Charmian.

  ‘I wonder if she met Kate going down the road?’ Charmian wondered as she drifted off to sleep. ‘If so, Kate is the only one of us who would remember to say good evening.’

  There was no sign of Kate next morning so presumably she had spent the night with her mother in the flat in Wellington Yard (where Charmian had once lived). Unless, Kate being Kate, she had taken off for Tibet or Beijing, from which city she would eventually send a postcard, signalling her arrival.

  Before dressing, she took another look at the image in the plastic bag. It looked less like her this morning but was still an unpleasant object with the orange locks, which had clearly not been well stuck on, beginning to come apart from the scalp.

  Charmian, having taken an anxious check of her weight on the bathroom scales, decided that grapefruit and black coffee were her fate that morning. It must be all the shortbread and rich cake that Annie had donated to the household, most of which she herself had eaten.

  She put on a neat suit as being appropriate to a day of interviews and applied a low-key make-up. As she brushed her hair, she noticed a lot seemed to be coming away with the brush. Tiresome. Perhaps the new hairspray did not suit her. She must consult her hairdresser, an old friend and enemy called Beryl Andrea Barker – Baby to her friends – who had a beauty shop off Peascod Street.

  After a moment of hesitation, and feeling ashamed of herself, she went to the little doll and stuck its hair back on as firmly as she could. Better be safe than sorry.

  When she went out to start her day, she saw Miss Eagle working away in her garden. She was wearing a clean print dress with a tiny belt round the waist; she looked a different person from the naked lady of the night before. It was hard to believe it was the same woman.

  There was something about that respectable, genteel figure that riled Charmian. I’ll give you a miss today, my lady, she decided, let you get on with it. Whatever it was.

  Winifred Eagle raised her head as Charmian approached. ‘Good morning.’ Her pale eyes were at once sharply focused yet without expression, like a blackbird looking for a meal.

  I’ve never liked birds, thought Charmian. Whatever you say about the pretty creatures, when you get close they don’t have a pleasant look about them. Eagle, Peacock, too many birds alto gether. Had they fluttered towards each other because of their names? ‘ Nice morning. You’ve started work early.’

  ‘I like to get ahead with the garden before it warms up. It’s going to be a hot day.’

  Charmian responded mildly, not saying much. Winifred went on brightly: ‘And I like the open air. It’s so nice to feel the air about one.’

  I bet, thought Charmian. About you and on you. She felt her head itch and passed a hand over her hair. Drat it, this was self-suggestion. Mercifully no hair came away in her hand. But Miss Eagle noticed.

  ‘Are you all right, Chief Superintendent? Have you got a headache?’

  Charmian shook her head, trusting no hair fell out. ‘No,’ she said shortly.

  Miss Eagle gave a hopeful stare, waiting for more from Charmian, who said nothing, but gave a polite smile and walked off.

  Out of the corner of her eye, observing Winifred, she thought she looked disappointed, as if a communication of some sort would have counted for something. Might have been expected?

  Was it possible that Winifred meant Charmian to have seen her naked form last night?

  I was right not to talk to you, Winifred Eagle. Whatever you and I might be, we are not friends.

  Charmian drove what she called the country way to Slough. It took longer but on a fine summer’s day was something to enjoy. Of course, it was hardly country really, but there were trees and grass and stretches of what had once been farms. There were horses in the fields, and you did see the occasional cow, although whether they gave milk or were just there for decoration, Charmian had never made up her mind.

  She was soon in heavy traffic, but she knew the back roads to Woodstock Close where Denise Flaxon lived, with the shop Twickers around the corner. She had followed the route taken by Denise on the day she had made her statement in Merrywick Police Station, but it was the way taken by everyone who desired a quiet ride.

  Charmian sat for a while in her car, observing the whole street. Cars lined the kerb, some of the vehicles looked as though they were never moved, but stayed there week in and week out. The gutters were littered with bits of paper, empty drink cans and other trash. It was a familiar urban street scene. Windsor was clean, wealthy Merrywick positively sparkled; this street was grubby. But nevertheless, the houses that lined it were solid and not unprosperous. Number twenty, where Denise Flaxon lived, even had window boxes full of geraniums on the ground-floor sills.

  The front door sported three bells with names underneath. Flaxon, on the top, Jessamon underneath, Schmidt beneath that – so to the Schmidts must go the credit for the window boxes.

  Charmian was about to press Miss Jessamon’s bell when she was forestalled. The door was opened by a small, stout woman, dressed in a red and white cotton dress with a kind of bandana of matching material round her head. The dress was tightly belted, producing the illusion of a waist where no waist rightly was.

  ‘No need to ring the bell. I saw you from the window and recognised you. I’m Flo Jessamon. Come in, come in.’

  Charmian found herself in a dark hall, smelling of dust and dried flowers. It was carpeted in red with an old oak table on which was a brass gong, and a scatter of letters which looked as though they had been posted years ago and got no welcome when they arrived.

  ‘How did you know me?’

  ‘You gave a talk in Merrywick a summer ago. I was at it. Enjoyed every word.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘That was a terrible business there that year, wasn’t it?’ Flo Jessamon was referring to a series of brutal killings in Merrywick in which Charmian had been involved.

  ‘Very.’

  ‘And have you come about the man I reported?’ Flo was pleased. ‘Didn’t think we’d get anyone as high-up as you.’

  Charmian consulted her notes. ‘You reported the matter, but the man was actually seen by a Mr Schmidt.’ Miss Jessamon started to speak, but Charmian, recognising a compulsive communicator, went on: ‘And is Mr Schmidt at home?’

  She had become aware of a smell of frying onions and something strongly savoury like paprika seeping through the cracks of the door at the end of the hall.

  ‘Yes, I believe so,’ said Miss Jessamon reluctantly. ‘But …’

  The door to the Schmidts’ flat opened and a tall, thin lady appeared holding a milk bottle.

  ‘Oh Flo, I thought it was the milkman. I wanted to complain. This milk is off.’

  ‘But, he’s such a nice man. It’s your refrigerator, Louise, I’ve told you that before.’

  Behind Mrs Schmidt appeared a small, mouselike figure who had to be Mr Schmidt.

  Charmian went forward, managing to circumvent both his wife and Flo Jessamon who were now engaged in a mild argument on the matter of refrigerators and nice milkmen.

  ‘Mr Schmidt?’

  ‘Dr Schmidt.’

  His wife turned her head with a look of surprise, but she said nothing. Miss Jessamon did.

  ‘Oh, Ferdy, you aren’t a doctor, are you?’

  Charmian ignored all this, although it did introduce a certain doubt in her mind as to the value of Ferdy Schmidt as a witness.

  ‘My wife is very concerned about the quality of the milk,’ he said softly. ‘ It makes her quite violent. Are you the Health Inspector?’

  There is no doubt, Charmian thought, that I carry an aura of authority with me. I am an Inspector of some sort, anyway.

  But Ferdy Schmidt answered lucidly enough when she got her question through to him.

  ‘You ask about the man I saw watching the house? Yes, he was standing under the tree watching. One notices a thing like that when one has lived my
life. Such a life. It should not be inflicted on a dog.’

  But he described the man. Tall, not young, not old either. On the whole he thought he was probably in his late thirties. Wearing jeans like they all do. Casual. He sounded disapproving.

  Tall? But anyone would seem tall to the small Mr or Dr Schmidt. About the clothes? Yes, on this matter, Charmian felt she could rely on Ferdy Schmidt. He looked a careful dresser himself, although dressing-gowned at that moment.

  ‘Stayed there quite a time. Then he went back to his car and sat there. Still watching. He thought I couldn’t see him. But I could.’

  ‘Oh, he had a car. Can you describe it?’

  Ferdy nodded. ‘A red Cortina. Nothing special.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you noticed the number.’

  ‘Wait.’ Ferdy held up a hand, he disappeared into his own apartment from which the smell grew ever stronger. He reappeared holding a piece of paper, which he handed over to Charmian. ‘Here. You take it. I thought there was something funny about him, so I wrote it down.’

  At this moment the milkman appeared, and the attention of Mr Schmidt was demanded by his wife.

  Flo Jessamon gripped Charmian’s arm, the delinquent arm whose hand refused to write, and said, ‘ You should listen to me. I saw the man too.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t.’

  ‘He came back, he came again,’ said Flo in triumph, ‘ and I was watching from my window.’

  ‘That was lucky.’

  No luck about it: she had been watching on purpose, staying on guard all day.

  ‘So can you give me a description?’

  Flo obliged. ‘Not very tall. Medium height. Fair hair going grey. I was looking down so I could see he was going bald on top. Just a bit. Clothes? Oh, they were lovely. Beautiful dark suit. Very expensive, I should think. Yes, I might know his face if I saw it again, but I was looking down from my window, so I could not see his features so clearly,’ she added regretfully.

  ‘Did he have a car?’

  Yes, he had had a car and he had parked where she could see it.

  ‘No, I couldn’t say what sort of car. I don’t know enough about them. But it sort of matched his clothes. Expensive. The colour? Oh, dark blue, a very dark blue. Smart.’

  Unlike Mr Schmidt she had not taken a note of the number but she remembered it began with a G.

  A this-year registration number. If Flo Jessamon was right then the smart dark blue car was new this year.

  But the red Cortina observed by Mr Schmidt was at least four years old.

  The description of the men clashed as well.

  Two different cars? Two different men?

  She saw Miss Jessamon looking at her for approval. ‘Thank you, that’s a real help,’ she said gently. ‘It may have nothing to do with the murder, but it’s interesting.’ For reasons you know nothing about. ‘ I see you have a Mrs Flaxon living on the top floor, do you think she saw anything? Is she in?’

  Miss Jessamon looked doubtful. ‘She might be. She comes and goes. You could try. I thought I heard someone go up the stairs.’ One couldn’t watch all exits and entrances, and no one regretted that more than she did. Especially with this rumour she had picked up (in the Post Office, she always did well there for news) that it was Denise Flaxon who had found the body of that poor girl. Flo had not told the Schmidts this little nugget, and wasn’t going to. Keep it to herself, her property.

  Charmian rang the bell for the top-floor apartment. Getting no answer – bells did not always work – she mounted the stairs and knocked on the door.

  There was no answer. She tried again, but, getting no response, turned away.

  There was someone sitting in the corner of the room, well away from the window. But that person was not Mrs Flaxon and did not wish her well.

  Charmian drove past the shop Twickers on purpose. It was open with a customer just coming out, so she found somewhere to park the car and walked back.

  Caprice was behind the counter on which was a great earthenware bowl filled with what looked like a mixture of dried herbs and flowers. She was busy transferring this to little cotton bags, and then tying them up with red ribbon.

  ‘For insomniacs,’ she said. ‘Put one of these on your pillow or round your neck and you will sleep well and have good dreams.’

  ‘I’ll buy one.’ And Charmian laid some coins on the counter.

  Caprice looked surprised. ‘Have it on me.’

  ‘Do they work?’

  ‘I’ve never tried. I always sleep well, and as for dreams, I tell myself what I want to dream and then I do it.’

  Charmian crushed the little bag in her hand. It gave a sharp nose-pricking smell, not entirely pleasant, but strong. It might contain some sleep-bringing drug, although she wondered if the dreams that came with it would be good.

  Caprice watched her with a slight smile. ‘Risk it,’ she said. ‘ See what you get. It’s not the same for everyone.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘So I’m told.’

  ‘What’s in it?’

  Caprice gave the bowl a stir. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Odds and ends. This and that. Birdie mixes it up.’

  ‘I’d like to meet her again.’

  ‘Easily done. She’s always in and out. She’ll be in later today.’

  ‘I’ll be back.’ If not today, then some other time. Charmian was interested in Twickers and all that went with it.

  Seen in bright sunlight, the shop was more like an old-fashioned apothecary’s shop with a touch of a food store.

  ‘Did you ever think that Vivien was being watched?’

  ‘No, I never did.’

  That seemed short and sweet.

  ‘But if she was, it would be a man.’ Caprice gave a short laugh. ‘She was that sort. Harmless but a man’s girl. It showed.’ She wasn’t herself and that showed, too.

  Charmian did not ask her about the little figure left at her door. No point. If Caprice knew of it, she was not the sort to confess. But Charmian thought the shop was, somehow, its provenance. It matched.

  When she had gone, Birdie Peacock emerged from the back room where she had been hiding.

  ‘So she’s gone. What did she want?’

  ‘She wanted to know if Vivien was being followed. Or watched.’

  ‘She was, of course.’

  Caprice nodded. ‘And she wants to talk to you.’

  ‘Then I’ll keep out of the way.’

  ‘She looks to me the sort that will keep coming back.’

  Caprice returned to bagging her wares. ‘I gave her a bag of this. With my compliments.’

  Birdie laughed. ‘ You are a devil. Well, good luck to her.’ Then she looked down at the counter with its scatter of coins dropped by Charmian. ‘Oh, look, you didn’t give it to her. She paid.’

  Caprice followed her gaze. ‘Damn, damn and damn.’

  She subscribed to the view that between the witch and the victim no money should pass.

  Charmian drove back to Maid of Honour Row, where she fed Muff. She thought longingly about eating something rich and filling on her own account, but recognised that her waistline would never stand it, so she settled for a drink of ice-cold water. Then she extracted the small image, whose outline seemed to get more blurred with time and put it in her pocket. Almost all the pretend hair had fallen off by now. Altogether it was an unpleasing object.

  She decided to walk to the church hall where the Major Incident Room for the murder investigation was set out. All possible windows had been opened inside but it was still hot and stuffy and people were working in shirt sleeves. A bank of green screens linked up with the main police computer were offering information without comment. A uniformed WPC moved languidly between desks distributing printed sheets. No one seemed full of energy, but those who recognised Charmian at once took on a brisker air.

  She saw Dolly in the opposite corner of the room.

  ‘We ought to have air conditioning.’ Dolly fanned herself.

  ‘
It is humid; I think a storm might be blowing up.’

  Dolly found yet another window to open. ‘Try getting even a fan out of our lot!’

  ‘Things not going well?’

  ‘No. We’re no nearer finding out who killed Vivien. No one saw anything, no one heard anything and no one admits knowing anything. There’s just one woman neighbour who says she might have seen a man outside Vivien’s house taking a look, but she isn’t sure. You can talk to her if you like, but I don’t advise it. She suffers total recall about a life without incident. You even get the dripping tap and what the plumber said.’

  Charmian thought her young friend needed bracing. ‘Oh, come on, you know every case has a patch like this, then things move on.’ Mostly but not always. They both knew that as well.

  Dolly was not to be done out of her grumble. ‘As far as I’m concerned it looks like nothing, nothing and nothing.’ But her face lightened. ‘There, I feel better now I’ve said that. And there is this,’ she threw a sheet of information towards Charmian. ‘About the blood in the kitchen.’

  Samples of blood had been taken from Vivien. In the ABO blood grouping system, Vivien had group B which is shared by just over eight per cent of the country’s population. Vivien’s blood group could also be broken down into yet another grouping system of an even rarer sort.

  Charmian looked up. ‘So far so good.’

  ‘Read on.’

  There were traces of another person’s blood by the sink and on the handle of the knife used on Vivien. This could have been the murderer’s blood. When analysed this was found to be group A – a more common group shared by about forty per cent of the population.

  ‘So, we know the blood group of the killer. What we don’t know is his name or address.’

  ‘That isn’t all,’ said Dolly. ‘ The outfit that searched for blood traces did a thorough job. Read the last paragraph.’

  On the door handle leading to the hall there had been found further blood traces: this turned out to be an unusual AB group.

  ‘You see the scientist doing the analysis is careful to point out that this is a very provisional analysis,’ said Dolly. ‘But it could show the presence of a third person.’