Death Waits for No Lady

by James Andrew

  When Blades and Jean had followed the slow queue of Digby’s congregation into the meeting place, Blades had noticed that the crowd was mostly female, with a lot of mothers and young wives, or sisters in it, their faces taut and anxious. Blades supposed they had all seen someone off to war, had felt the pride and dread that people did on that occasion, then suffered the agony of their not returning. He speculated on the constant letters they would have written, and the replies they would have received, brief enough in some cases where writing had been a problem for their young men, but replies there would have been, and delivery to and from the Front was quick and regular, so that the women would have known when the usual letters stopped that something had happened. To an extent, the telegram was only confirmation of what they had already worked out.

  When the crowd saw the minister enter from a door on the left, their quiet whispers died away leaving an expectant silence. The minister held himself in a dignified pose as he walked in his black robe to the pulpit where he sat for a moment’s prayer. The pulpit hid much of him from sight, though the movement of the top of his head as he bowed towards his clasped hands could be seen. Then there was a rustle of his vestment and he stood, his skin shining in the candles. His face was serious with office and occasion but then a smile did transpire, and Blades could see that it held forgiveness and hope, as if news of something better had reached him. The congregation stood with the organist and sang, ‘Abide with me’ before sitting in silence once again.

  Digby stood in rapt thought in his pulpit. His eyes stared ahead of him but gave an impression that they saw nothing that was in front of them. After some time, Digby frowned and cupped his right ear with his right hand as if listening to someone standing behind his shoulder. He stood like this for a few minutes, and there was a tense silence in the congregation as they watched him.

  Then he said, ‘Is there a Jean here?’ And the urgency and suddenness of this were electric.

  Blades had not known what form Digby’s communication with the dead was going to take. It came across to him as contrived, though this may have been his cynical policeman’s brain. But if the question was aimed at his wife, how could Digby have known Jean’s name? Blades supposed someone in Digby’s position would be able to do his research but how would he have known they would come here? Blades glanced at his wife beside him; she was pale and looked at a loss.

  Digby repeated, ‘Is there a Jean here?’

  There was urgent whispering around the meeting room, then Blades nudged Jean, and she raised a tentative hand.

  The minister spoke. ‘I have a message from Tom.’

  Jean’s reply was an exhalation of breath.

  ‘Your brother?’ the minister asked.

  Digby was not in the Blades’ social circle, and Blades had not expected him to know Tom’s name.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He is–’ and the minister hesitated. ‘He says he is happy where he is. You shouldn’t worry.’

  Blades had Jean’s hand in his now and he could feel her shake. He knew the depth of her emotions about her brother, and there was a lot of anxiety in her face as she looked towards the minister.

  ‘Ask him–’ But Jean could not bring the words out easily.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Ask him if it was quick. The telegram gave no details. I don’t even know how he died.’

  The minister frowned. Blades and Jean and the rest of the congregation found themselves attempting to interpret his silence. Then Digby’s words were ringing out. ‘It was sudden. A bullet in the chest. But he says he’s at peace now.’

  ‘Thank God.’

  Then Blades felt the woman who meant most to him in the world being engulfed by sobs as tears rushed down her face. Then her head was in her hands.

  An elderly woman stood up and there was desperation in her voice as she said, ‘Sammy. Is our Sammy there? Please tell him to talk to us.’

  The minister looked at her. ‘If the dead choose to speak, they do. But I’m sorry. I can’t summon them.’

  ‘But Sammy?’ the woman wailed.

  Then someone else said, ‘Is my Bob there?’

  ‘And my Alfred?’ another person said.

  Blades looked round at the congregation and took in the pain on their faces. His hand squeezed Jean’s and she returned it. There was so much desperation in this gathering of people, Blades couldn’t help feeling for every one of them and, though he couldn’t himself believe in all this theatre, he was glad that Jean felt she had been put in touch and been given peace.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Blades was in his office tinkering with the wording of his final report, or that, at least, was what he would have been doing, if his mind had not strayed. Blades was at the moment considering the nature of proof. There was always difficulty with that. By its nature, it could only be circumstantial, in which case always flawed, unless someone came forward who claimed to have seen the crime being committed, and even that needed some sort of corroboration.

  Physical evidence was reckoned so important, but it had been deliberately misleading in this case. Even so, erase the mysterious fingerprints on the false murder weapon and he might have charged Digby, whom Blades now knew was helpless, manipulated and damaged, not a predator but the opposite even if, by Blades’ interpretation, he was deluded. And Digby was now free to carry out his vocation, which Blades was grateful for because it had helped Jean.

  Erase the fingerprints and they might have charged Jack Osgood. He might not have been a loss to the world. It would have been ironic for him to be punished for a murder he had not committed instead of a murder he had. Or should he as a policeman not be arguing against the findings of a court?

  Without fingerprints, Renshaw might have been arrested for murder, and he’d only ever had fraud in mind.

  But what had done the trick in this case, Blades realised, was logic. He’d worked out circumstances and reasoned from those and what had been said and not said that it had been Janet. When he’d known why the unknown fingerprints were at the scene and how the ‘murder weapon’ had been switched, it had led him to wonder whether there was any possible argument he could put forward against it being Janet. She had bought such a poker. Others might have done but she definitely had. Then he had thought back to his talk with Katy who had mentioned leaving, which he’d thought strange as he had known she loved her job there, and not only that, being an orphan, she had nowhere to go. What she had not said was why she wanted to leave. Blades had thought she must have seen the same thing that Charlie had, and the most likely person she might want to get away from was the only other person left in Elmwood Hall: Janet. And he had even worked out where the murder weapon was likely to be hidden, as close to Janet as it was possible, in the fire iron set in her kitchen. But he wished he had acted earlier. Logic, yes, and also luck. Luck that Constable Flockhart had not met any delay on his way back to the station. If he had, and they had set off later to rescue her, Katy would have been murdered.

  He was ever so glad the crime had been solved because it would let him sleep better at nights. He was pleased too that he had proved himself in his job. He had his first murderer. The papers would be kinder to him and perhaps Jean would even stop pestering him to take up her father’s offer.

  Even Peacock had praised him and that had given him satisfaction. What was it he had said? ‘Oh no, sir. It wasn’t luck. You’re a detective and you did your job. When the bullets flew around you stuck to your task. And you made sure you got the right person.’

  Blades was even wondering if he could allow himself the luxury of becoming slightly swell-headed. He was enjoying the renewed lightness inside himself. Perhaps he could relax a bit more, though he doubted it.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  The couple strolling along the beach by the Ridges was no longer in the flush of youth. His hair underneath the flat cap was white and hers underneath her broad-brimmed hat was the same, but they could still enjoy a romantic stroll along the beach
in the light of the setting sun. They were in Birtleby on holiday, and relaxed. Though they were not holding hands, they did sometimes touch. Despite his age, with his long legs, he still had an easy lope whereas she, with her shorter ones and her dumpier frame struggled at times to keep up. Laughter bounded out of them and along the shore at regular intervals. They smiled at each other as they chattered, their voices almost singing with cheerfulness. Birtleby in summer was an escape for them. They drank in the tranquil scene of sea and sand as they wandered along. Then, struck by something he had spotted, he stopped, so she too came to a halt, then looked up at him puzzled.

  He was staring at a group of gulls squawking and squabbling. There was a frown on his face. He put his hand on hers, and squeezed it as he blurted out, ‘What’s that?’ Her eyes followed his and then she echoed him. ‘Yes. What on earth is that?’ They started walking again and the closer they came to what had drawn their attention, the quicker their pace. When they reached the gulls, the birds flapped off reluctantly with ill-willed backward glances. The man and woman stared and now they didn’t say anything.

  A body lay in front of them, half covered in sand. Blood seeped from it, a lot of blood. Beside it was a rock which must have been the murder weapon. It was the body of a young woman who looked as if she would have been pretty and in her prime before the rock descended on her skull. Her hair was blonde and cut in a bob. Her skirt was a fashionable length and she looked like a woman who had been in the midst of enjoying life.

  The man reached down, picked up her arm at the wrist and felt for her pulse, but there wasn’t one. The woman beside him let out an alarmingly loud sob, and he put his arm around her. He pulled her away from the body and they started to trudge back up the beach.

  ‘We’ll get the police’ he said.

  ‘God, but that’s dreadful,’ she replied. ‘Who could have done a thing like that?’

  When the couple arrived at the police station and reported what they’d seen, the police sergeant did not believe them but, after questioning them at length, found that they stuck to their story, so he mounted his bike and rode to the Ridges, along with Constable Flockhart on his bicycle.

  Sergeant Ryan shuddered when he looked at the scene. ‘Oh no,’ he said.

  ‘God, this is awful,’ Flockhart said. ‘You don’t suppose…’

  ‘It’s the Ridges murderer? We haven’t seen any sign of him for some time.’

  ‘But it must be,’ Flockhart said.

  ‘It might be,’ replied Sergeant Ryan, ‘We’ll leave others to draw conclusions.’

  ‘But it probably is,’ Flockhart said.

  Sergeant Ryan left Flockhart in charge of the crime scene. There was a weariness in Ryan’s gait as he walked back along the beach to where he had left his bike. This was not news that Inspector Blades would be pleased to hear.

  More fiction by James Andrew

  If you enjoyed DEATH WAITS FOR NO LADY, be sure to check out the first, third and fourth books by James Andrew:

  THE BODY UNDER THE SANDS (Book 1)

  Two soldiers recently returned from the Great War are accused of murdering a woman near a small seaside town. They protest their innocence but are convicted on circumstantial evidence and given the death penalty. One of the soldiers begins to suspect the other as guilty. But can he betray his brother in arms who saved his life during the war?

  http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07KKGPNFS/

  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B07KKGPNFS/

  THE RIDDLE OF THE DUNES (Book 3)

  A woman is killed near the beach. There is little evidence. But the crime bears the hallmarks of several similar murders some time ago. The trouble is that the man supposedly responsible was sent to the gallows...

  https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07XY5GN7L/

  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07XY5GN7L/

  THE SUITCASE MURDERER (Book 4)

  When a young woman is reported missing, Inspector Blades pulls out all the stops to locate her, despite knowing deep down that she’s been killed. He must identify a man seen carrying suitcases near her last known whereabouts, and unravel a mystery to find the killer.

  https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B087C4PTLG/

  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B087C4PTLG/

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