Witching Murder

by Jennie Melville

  ‘Get one for me.’

  ‘Or coffee? Not iced.’ Probably not even really hot, they went in more for the pallidly warm stuff in the Incident Room here. Something to do with the coffee-maker not liking being moved, it seemed.

  ‘No, water.’

  That wouldn’t be iced, either, but Dolly ran the tap until the water was cold, letting it pour over her wrists as well, while she watched Charmian read.

  Charmian drank the water. ‘Thanks. He says he saw the woman at the front door. He was going to his car to collect some goods and only saw her from the back. He says she was a tallish, thin woman wearing jeans and a white shirt. When he came back she was gone … Do you think it really was a woman?’

  ‘If you read on, you will see he also says she had a mane of bright red hair hanging down her back. Not many men like that. And not one we know.’

  ‘We don’t know a woman like that, either.’

  ‘I expect Slough will find her,’ said Dolly hopefully.

  Charmian laughed. ‘ Perhaps the Josh Fox agency kept colour photographs of clients,’ she suggested.

  ‘Much more likely to keep photographs of people he was investigating.’

  ‘I expect he did if he could get them. I would myself.’ The camera was a great aid to detection, Charmian thought. ‘Get Slough to look, then.’

  Dolly nodded. ‘I’ll do that.’ She took a deep breath. The gods must be on the side of Superintendent Peter Arbat, Dolly decided; they would be in touch.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind interviewing that jeweller myself,’ said Charmian, who hadn’t liked the man. ‘Can anyone be that vague?’

  ‘You weren’t wearing jeans yourself, were you?’ Dolly looked at Charmian’s red hair.

  ‘No, I was not. Not me. Some other female.’

  Dolly said gloomily, ‘ This case is sprouting figures like a plant. First a couple of men, now a woman who might just be a man.’

  ‘I’m going to find one of the men if I can. And I may flush out the man-woman in the process.’

  ‘Good for you,’ said Dolly. ‘Let me know who you find.’

  Charmian got up. ‘You’ll be the first. Meanwhile, I suppose you’ll be talking to the local coven?’

  ‘As soon as Slough lets me. I gather they want first go. Of course Peacock and Co were questioned straight away by the local CID sergeant, and then held for more questioning. They’ll have been washed clean of information. I don’t expect to get much out of them.’

  ‘At least you can find out why they went there.’

  ‘Looking for revenge, I expect. They must have found out about the true nature of Josh Fox’s interest in them.’

  ‘But that’s something to think about in itself, isn’t it? Why was he watching them, and who had paid him to do it. Because he must have been paid. Think about it, Dolly.’

  ‘Check the records,’ said Dolly slowly. ‘Ought to be something there. We’ll have to hope he kept careful records.’

  ‘Oh, he did, I’m sure. He was a professional. But he may have used some form of coding. Just for his use only.’

  Before she left Charmian asked for one of the photographs of Josh Fox who was really Ted Elder. ‘Just something I’m thinking about,’ she said.

  Charmian sat in her car and thought.

  She realised, even if Dolly did not, that with this second murder the situation had changed.

  Dolly Barstow would be crowded out of the investigation. Inspector Elman and Superintendent Father would take over. They couldn’t afford not to now that Peter Arbat was involved; rank would have to speak to rank.

  Her own position would alter. Because of who she was and her position in London she would be tolerated, she would still be a ‘special adviser’, an ad hoc role to be accepted and passed over as much as possible. But she would not be welcome.

  Dolly Barstow had been allowed to manage what seemed like an ordinary unsolvable little case not likely to bring promotion nearer to the likes of Fred Elman, while Superintendent Father, absorbed in matters more sensitive politically, had been willing to delegate. He usually was willing to delegate, it was both his strength and his weakness.

  Charmian knew both men, and sympathised with their workload in a busy force with special responsibilities because of the town they protected, but she could see that now they would start to be more active in what had turned into a double murder.

  Unless you believed in coincidence and thought that Ted Elder had been killed in connection with something quite other than the murder of Vivien Charles, just at the time when he had got ready to talk to Charmian.

  Charmian did not believe this judgement.

  What did she think of the case herself now? She tried to assemble her thoughts.

  To begin with, how did she feel about it? Because feelings counted. They were clues to the inner thought processes.

  One thing she felt was excited. That was unexpected and meant that underneath she sensed she knew the answer.

  That wasn’t such a surprise to her as it might have been to Dolly.

  Alexandria Road was at no time a pretty road. As well as the church hall now housing the Incident Room it was also home to several small factories and workshops, some of which looked as though they had been left around since the Industrial Revolution. The first one, the one when the early Celts discovered iron. It was a bit of Windsor discreetly hidden from the tourists.

  Cars lined the street on both sides so that lorries hooted and disputed the rights of passage with each other as they tried to get through. It was on a bus route as well which made life even more difficult.

  Charmian looked through her windscreen. Someone was coming down the road, sticking bits of paper on the car windows. Not a traffic warden, as might have been expected from the number of illegally parked cars on double yellow lines, but a boy. Tall, thin and scruffy. He was setting about his job with less than total effort, jamming the papers anywhere that caught his eye. Or didn’t catch his eye – one or two pieces were distributed at random while he gazed upon a young girl passing by. Several papers were already fluttering aloft in the strong wind.

  There was a look about the papers that reminded Charmian of something.

  She waited until he came up to her, then she wound the window down. ‘What is it you’re doing?’

  He stared at her, speech clearly not being his chosen means of communication.

  ‘Selling something,’ he said, after a bit.

  ‘What though?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Here give one to me.’ She grabbed one of the advertisements from his limp hand. It

  came away so readily that she felt the whole pile could be hers

  for the asking.

  ‘Have as many as you like.’

  He had a satchel slung over one shoulder full of more supplies,

  but he looked ready to abandon the lot at any moment.

  Perhaps he thought she was making a collection. ‘Thanks, one

  is enough.’

  While she was reading, he sat down on the kerb and lit a cigarette.

  ‘Rotting my lungs,’ he said conversationally. Charmian read:

  SELLING YOUR HOME?

  SELL THROUGH US

  HOMELINE

  YOUR NEW LOCAL AGENCY

  FASTEST AND BEST

  ‘What’s it say? Don’t do much reading myself.’

  The advertisement was printed on bright yellow paper. Round the edges, in a kind of formalised border, the logo EL was patterned.

  ‘It’s about selling your house.’

  ‘I thought it might be,’ he said.

  ‘Why did you think that?’

  ‘Usually is,’ he said simply. ‘Or about moving your furniture. One or the other.’

  ‘Do you work for these people?’

  ‘No. I just go to the printer’s shop and pick up the bundles. He pays me.’

  ‘I thought money must come into it,’ said Charmian drily.

  ‘Why you asking these things, lady?’


  ‘Just wondered. Not much of a job.’

  ‘All I got.’

  Clearly feeling that something more was, or might be, demanded of him, and willing to oblige, he said, ‘Are you selling your home, miss?’

  ‘No.’

  Charmian wound down her window. She did not return her advertisement, she did not wish to add to the disappointment he so clearly felt already.

  As she drove off, he was back at his lackadaisical work. Not with any energy but with a fair persistence, about every third advertisement getting into position. As he said, it was all he had and he got paid.

  Charmian wondered if his employers searched him for undelivered advertisements before he got the cash.

  In spite of this interruption, she discovered her thoughts had clarified.

  Vivien Charles had been stabbed with a knife taken from her own kitchen. Around her had been arranged various unpleasant articles associated with witchcraft. Traces of two types of unusual blood groups had been found in the kitchen. Vivien was the source of one type of blood, her murderer may have been the source of the other.

  Only may have been, since there was evidence that someone had been in that house in Dulcet Road after the killing. Further, that someone appeared to have had a key.

  That key could have come from Bloods, from whom Vivien had rented her house on a short-term lease, and who appeared to be casual about keys.

  Bloods now belonged to HOMELINE which itself belonged to this corporation EL.

  One more fact: Vivien was pregnant when she died. She could have met her lover in the street where she worked. The girls with whom she had worked at Cay-Cay had thought so. Charmian thought so too.

  The EL was in that same street. Just across the way, in fact.

  There were trailers, odd facts, which she hadn’t worked in yet. Such as what had happened to Vivien Charles that had caused the malformation of her child? An infection, a natural accident of life, or a shock?

  If a shock, then what shock and delivered by what instrument?

  Another fact: the death of Ted Elder, working as Josh Fox, who had been watching the witches, was in there somewhere. She suspected he had tried blackmail, regretted it and tried to contact her.

  She must have seen him somewhere, at some London gathering, and he had seen her. Perhaps found reason to trust her.

  There were some things she might never find out, but she meant to find out about Josh Fox. His memory needed either redeeming or condemning, and she wanted to find out which. He deserved that much.

  She was driving faster and faster as the thoughts poured out. She had also taken the wrong way round, so that she was caught in a lot of busy traffic that was heading towards Slough town centre. Clearly it was Woodstock Close for her first call and the EL building in Hatton Woods second.

  In Woodstock Close there was more activity than was usual at this hour in the afternoon, especially on a Wednesday when a midweek lull seemed to occur. It was a day when the milkman did not call, when the postman appeared to give the area only one delivery of letters and when even the huge Alsatian dog that promenaded the streets, a menace to pedestrians and motorists alike, was taken off by his owner for his weekly defleaing at the local veterinary surgery. This had to be done weekly because owing to his size and his temper it was very difficult to work on him for more than five harried minutes. That it was done at all was to prevent a divorce between the co-owners, one of whom loved the dog, fleas and all, and the other of whom hated him. Neither could control him. Lately they could only go to bed when the dog said Yes.

  But this Wednesday saw Miss Jessamon already pretending to clean her windows while Ferdy Schmidt was watching at his half-open door. Nor were they alone in this, other residents in other houses in the street were on the look-out as well. Window boxes were being watered and gardens that usually never saw a spade were being turned over.

  The reason for this alertness was the TV film crew assembling itself in the street. It was believed they were filming for a commercial. Rumour had it that it was to advertise a new washing powder, another rumour spoke of a building society. But the most popular part of the rumour was that they would be recruiting locals for a crowd scene.

  Miss Jessamon went into the front garden to check if her windows were as clean as they should be, and met Denise Flaxon on her way out of the house. Denise was carrying the neat black bag which she usually took to work. Elysium Creams supplied a similar bag but Denise preferred to use her own.

  ‘Afternoon, dear,’ said Miss Jessamon.

  ‘Good afternoon.’ Denise put on her dark sunglasses against the glare of the street.

  ‘You off to work, then?’

  ‘I’ve got to cover an area way out of town. I’m going today so I can make an early start tomorrow.’ Denise smoothed her hair where the side of the spectacles had disarranged it. She was always very neat, her hair particularly groomed and precise.

  ‘You do work hard, dear, we don’t see much of you.’

  ‘I haven’t been doing very well,’ said Denise with a sigh. ‘I’m afraid I may have to give up my franchise with Elysium. I have to renew it soon anyway and I don’t know if I can afford it. Or if they’ll take me on again. My sales haven’t been much.’

  Miss Jessamon made sympathetic noises. She had bought a pot of Elysium night cream herself to help Denise and very pretty it looked on her dressing table, much too pretty to open and use.

  ‘You see what we’ve got in the street?’

  Denise glanced down the road to where the film crew were assembling outside a big van. ‘I do. Isn’t it a nuisance? I shall have a job getting my car out. I’m just going to put this case in the car and get one more case down and then I’m off.’

  ‘I’ll keep an eye on your place, dear,’ volunteered Miss Jessamon happily, ‘I mean with persons watching the house, who knows what might happen.’

  ‘There hasn’t been any more of that, has there?’

  ‘No,’ said Miss Jessamon, who regretted it. ‘I would have known if there had. But do you ever get the feeling that there’s someone in your place? Someone who shouldn’t have been there?’

  Denise, who had indeed had this feeling but who had discounted it as imagination on her part, stared at her neighbour. The old bird must be psychic or something.

  Miss Jessamon put out a thin hand to gently touch the other woman, ‘I heard you crying the other night, my dear. I am sorry. Let me know if I can help.’

  Charmian had to search for somewhere to park when she drove up. Most of the road seemed blocked by a large van with appendages of cables and accessories. SOUTH TV was proclaimed in large letters on the side of the van.

  She tucked her car away, then walked towards the house where she could see Miss Jessamon watering a plant in the front garden.

  On her way she passed a dark-haired woman hiding behind tinted glasses who was just getting into her car.

  Miss Jessamon was pleased to see Charmian. Less pleased perhaps than on a normal quiet day when she had nothing to watch, but glad to welcome her.

  ‘See what’s going on in our street? Hive of activity, aren’t we?’ She opened the gate to let Charmian in. ‘They’re going to use some of us in the crowd scene.’

  ‘Really? I should keep out of the way if I were you. You don’t want to see your face flickering away on the TV screen, do you?’

  Flo Jessamon looked at her as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘Some people might not, but I do.’

  Ferdy Schmidt had heard voices and came out of the front door. ‘Oh, it’s you.’ He was disappointed. No TV prospects there. In any case, he didn’t like police officers, even good-looking female ones.

  ‘Can I come into the house?’ Charmian asked, ‘ I want to ask you something.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Flo. ‘My sitting room. With pleasure.’

  ‘Both of you.’

  ‘Glad to.’ Flo was a generous soul and willing to share this small happiness with Ferdy Schmidt, who
had been very down in the mouth lately.

  She led the way in, followed by Charmian and Dr Schmidt, who smelt strongly of garlic with a hint of paprika. Then she turned with a radiant smile. ‘ Out with it, then. Open up.’

  ‘You remember the man or men you two saw watching the house? Of course you do. I expect you both have good visual memories?’

  ‘I have,’ agreed Flo Jessamon. She was sure she did have. Never forgot a face. Names, yes. Faces, no.

  Ferdy contented himself with a small nod. He wasn’t going to lay a claim to anything until he saw where it led. It had been his rule in life. Never volunteer, and if possible hide.

  Charmian drew out the doctored photograph of Josh Fox – Ted Elder. She offered it first to Ferdy Schmidt.

  Ferdy made a production of it. First he handed it back to her. ‘Wait.’ Then he took a spectacle case from his breast pocket. Then he withdrew his spectacles and then he took out a large white handkerchief with which to polish them. This took a little time before he had them clean enough; he held them up several times to check, frowning as he did so.

  ‘Hurry up, Ferdy, do.’

  He ignored Flo’s impatience. One last twirl with the handkerchief and he was ready.

  He took the photograph over to the window where he studied it in silence.

  Flo rolled her eyes at Charmian. ‘He sees better without them, anyway, as I know for a fact.’

  ‘It’s all right, Miss Jessamon,’ said Charmian, her eyes on the man. She believed he had made a decision.

  Ferdy handed the picture back. ‘Yes, it is. This is the man I saw watching the house. Or I judge so.’

  ‘Thank you. I thought you’d say that.’

  Flo said, ‘Now my turn.’

  Silently Charmian handed the photograph over.

  Flo, who had managed to get a good look earlier while Ferdy hung about, took no time at all. ‘No, this is definitely not the man I saw. Definitely not.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Charmian again. ‘I felt sure that was the case.’

  Ferdy said softly and sadly, ‘That man there is dead, is he not? Yes, I thought so. One could not mistake the look.’

  While this was going on, Dolly Barstow had made a decision. An interviewing job needed doing which she would like to have done for herself, but she knew that she was too busy. Many tasks here demanded her attention.