by Ann Granger
‘I don’t want to touch things. I want to see Hester!’ Her voice rose plaintively like a child’s.
‘She’ll break down …’ Meredith couldn’t help but murmur to Pearce.
Perhaps Ruth overheard because she made a visible effort to pull herself together. ‘I am a churchwarden of this parish,’ she said with dignity. ‘As is Hester. We look after this church and its contents. If anything happens on the property or to it, I have to report it to Father Holland at Bamford in the first place and probably, after that, to the bishop.’
Pearce, with visions of having to appease a band of ecclesiastics, was made still more unhappy but gave a reluctant nod. ‘I’ll take you to see her but then we come straight out, understand? There’s no question of you touching your friend, I’m afraid.’
Ruth repeated with infinite patience, ‘I want to see Hester. I won’t leave until I’ve seen her.’
Pearce led her into the church and Meredith and Muriel Scott slipped in behind them before Ginny Holding realised what they were about to do.
Ruth hurried towards the pew beneath the Sir Rufus Fitzroy tablet. ‘Hester?’ she was saying. ‘Hester?’ It was as if she still hoped that somehow a mistake had been made and now she was there, she’d be able to rouse that sad, huddled form.
Pearce hurried anxiously after her and caught her arm. ‘Go easy!’
But Ruth had stopped, staring down at her friend’s body. She repeated once, ‘Hester?’ Then she sagged at the knees.
Pearce grasped her as Meredith and Muriel Scott ran forward.
It was Mrs Scott who took charge. ‘See here,’ she said to Pearce. ‘I knew this would happen. I live next door at the Old Vicarage. You can see the place from the porch. I’m going to take Ruth there – Meredith here will help me – and I’m going to make her a good strong cup of tea with a dram of something in it. Got that?’
‘Er – yes,’ said Pearce.
‘If you want statements and things like that, you’ll find us there, so don’t worry you’ve lost us.’
‘No,’ said Pearce.
The two women, supporting Ruth between them, managed to get back to the porch. A sympathetic murmur rose from the crowd as they appeared. Holding signalled to the officer in charge of the gate who lifted the tape to let them through. The watching villagers parted in silence. Somehow, with Ruth stumbling and only half conscious between them, they reached the Old Vicarage. At the door, Mrs Scott stopped and addressed Meredith.
‘You have to manage on your own for a couple of minutes. I’ve got to go and shut Roger in the cloakroom. If he jumps up at Ruth while she’s in this wobbly state, he’ll send her flying.’
She let herself into the house, squeezing through the door to prevent the exodus of Roger who could be heard whining and crashing into the hall furniture in his joy at her return. Sadly for him, his enthusiasm was rewarded with his being incarcerated in the cloakroom, whence soon echoed a dismal howl.
Muriel Scott reappeared panting. ‘All right now. Come on.’
Ruth was rallying. ‘I’m sorry …’ she was muttering. ‘I’m so sorry …’
‘Buck up!’ Muriel ordered her not unkindly. ‘Let’s get you indoors.’
They deposited Ruth on the ramshackle sofa in the sitting room. Muriel Scott rummaged in a cupboard and produced half a bottle of whisky and some tumblers. She put these on a coffee table and ordered Meredith, ‘See to that,’ before disappearing in the direction of the kitchen.
As she passed the cloakroom door, Roger scratched furiously at it making it rattle. Meredith wondered how strong the catch was. She poured three shots of whisky and handed one to Ruth.
‘Don’t like it much,’ protested Ruth weakly.
‘Think of it as medicine.’
Ruth obediently took the glass, sipped and winced. Meredith took a good swig of her own drink and was grateful for the peaty tang and the comforting sensation of warmth in her gullet. She sat down on the sofa beside Ruth and decided it would be best to forewarn the woman about the next likely events.
‘The police will be here shortly, wanting to know things, asking questions about every conceivable detail. Some of it will be horribly personal. There’s no such thing as privacy in murder investigations, I’m afraid.’
‘You know about them?’ Ruth managed a wry smile. ‘But of course, from your friend, Mr Markby. Will he come?’
‘I hope so,’ Meredith told her. She longed to see Alan, to know that he was there, taking charge of all this. But she added, ‘I’ve known Inspector Pearce, who took you into the church, for some time and he’s a most capable chap.’
Roger burst into hysterical barking which indicated he’d heard his mistress returning. Muriel Scott bore a tray with steaming mugs of tea into the room.
‘This’ll put you right,’ she told Ruth. ‘Feel cold? Want the fire on?’
‘I am a bit chilly,’ Ruth admitted.
‘That’s the shock. Hang on.’ She stooped and switched on the gas fire in the hearth. ‘You’ll be better in a minute.’
‘But I’m not going to be, am I?’ Ruth contradicted her. ‘Better in minute, I mean. Not in days or weeks or months. I don’t know what I’m going to do without Hester. I’ll go on, manage, all the rest of it. But it’s going to be so hard. Not just the loneliness but the knowledge that she died like that.’ She shook her head in bewilderment. ‘I just can’t seem to take it in. Someone killed Hester. Who? Why? It’s just not possible. No one in Lower Stovey would do such a dreadful thing. Not to Hester, not to anyone.’
‘Wouldn’t they?’ asked Mrs Scott unexpectedly. ‘What about those bones they dug up in the woods the other day?’
Ruth put her hands over her face and moaned.
‘Oh, for goodness sake!’ snapped Meredith to their hostess. ‘We don’t need to talk about those now!’
Mrs Scott was unrepentant. ‘The police will.’
‘Why should they? Those bones are probably donkey’s years old. Alan told me. They can’t have anything to do with this.’
Whatever Muriel Scott might have replied was drowned out in a crescendo of barking and scratching. The cloakroom door shuddered.
‘Someone’s coming,’ said Mrs Scott.
She went out and could be heard opening the front door. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said. ‘Thought you might turn up. Come on in, then.’
A tall, familiar figure in a crumpled green Barbour filled the doorway to the sitting room.
‘Oh, Alan!’ said Meredith. ‘Thank goodness.’
‘Do you feel up to talking about your friend?’ Markby asked Ruth gently.
They had spent some time on the civilities, drinking the tea and whisky, dispensing condolences and comfort. Now Alan, seated on a nearby armchair, leaned forward with his hands loosely clasped.
‘We were friends since we were girls, students,’ Ruth answered simply.
‘How long had you shared a home?’
‘Oh, that.’ Ruth hunched her shoulders. ‘Not so very long. Only about three years, no, nearly four. It was after my husband died. I made a rather late entry into the marriage stakes,’ she added.
Markby caught Meredith’s eye and saw her look away.
Ruth was still speaking. ‘My late husband was a nice man. He liked surprises. You know, finding out what people liked and buying suitable presents or setting up little treats. I used to tell him, he liked to play Father Christmas. It was a little like that, really. Harmless enough, except that sometimes he got it wrong. He got it wrong about the Old Forge. He knew I’d lived in Lower Stovey as a child, that my father had been the vicar here. So when he found out the Old Forge was up for sale he went and bought it without a word to me. He thought I’d be delighted to come back here to live. Only I wasn’t. I’ve never wanted to come back to Lower Stovey. But I couldn’t tell him that. He was so pleased at what he’d done, so confident that I’d be as pleased as he was.’
Ruth hunched her shoulders again. ‘So that’s how we came back here to live. Then h
e died, Hester came to stay and — and never went away again.’
‘Miss Millar wasn’t married, hadn’t been married?’
‘Oh no, never. It was a pity, really. She was an awfully good cook.’ Ruth sighed. ‘We’ve got a larder full of jams and pickles and a freezer full of pies and cakes, pâtés and meringues, oh, everything under the sun. All Hester’s work. I shan’t be able to eat any of it, that’s the trouble. Poor Hester. But I can’t.’
‘Yes, you will,’ interrupted Muriel Scott. ‘Can’t let good food go to waste.’
‘It would be like dining with a ghost,’ said Ruth in a low, firm voice.
Markby cleared his throat and brought the conversation back to matters in hand. ‘Would she have some relative, someone who would be next-of-kin and needs to be informed?’
Ruth shook her head. ‘No one I ever knew of. I used to know her mother, many years ago, but she’s been dead ages. Her father died when she was quite little. No brothers or sisters. She never got a Christmas card or birthday card from anyone. She never talked about anyone. I never asked her. I just assumed there wasn’t anyone one. I think she only had me,’ Ruth finished sadly.
‘I see. Tell me about the church. I understand you and Miss Millar acted as churchwardens. Was it left open all day, every day?’
‘Oh, no. From springtime onwards, now, when the visitors come – if if they do – we open it after breakfast, any time between nine and ten, and close it up at tea-time. In the winter months we don’t open it unless we go in there to clean. Except when there are services, of course. On the first Sunday in the month when we get a visiting priest, the church is open all morning and afternoon. Generally Father Holland from Bamford comes or sometimes the Reverend Picton-Wilkes, who’s retired but takes the odd service.’
‘And so it would have been open today? For casual visitors, tourists?’
‘Yes.’ Ruth nodded. ‘Hester went to open it, that is, she had a couple of errands in the village and that was one of them.’
‘How many sets of keys are there? I mean, did Miss Millar have her own keys to the church? Or did you share a set?’
‘Hester had a set and I had one. Father Holland has another. Those are the only sets I know of. Each set has four keys on a ring, one for the north door which serves as the main entrance, one for the west door which hasn’t been opened in donkey’s years, one for the vestry office and one for the tower. What used to be the south door was bricked up a hundred years ago. I don’t know why. Not that either of us ever goes up into the tower. There’s nothing up there except bats. They’re a bit of a nuisance but we can’t get rid of them, protected species, as you probably know.’
‘I see,’ Markby said. ‘I wonder, could I borrow your set of keys? If you haven’t got them on you, then I’ll send someone round to your house later to pick them up. Naturally, I’ll see someone brings them back to you in due course but we’ll need them for a while to secure the scene of – of what’s happened.’
Ruth began fumbling in her handbag. ‘I should – yes, I have. Here are mine.’ She thrust a ring of large old-fashioned keys at him. ‘Take them. I don’t need them. How can I – how can I ever go in there again?’
‘Of course you will!’ interposed Muriel Scott sternly.
Markby slipped the keyring into his pocket. ‘So Miss Millar went out this morning to open up the church. What time would that have been?’
Ruth looked confused and clutched at her head, burying her fingers in her hair. ‘Nine-thirty or thereabouts? We listen to Radio Four in the morning, the Today programme, and it had finished and the news summary which follows it. I wasn’t paying much attention to the programme which followed that, someone being interviewed, I think.’
‘Do you know what the other errands were? It would be useful to know if she completed them before going to the church.’
‘I’m not sure,’ Ruth admitted. She wrinkled her brow and began to look distressed. ‘She had her leather shoulderbag with her as always and she may have been carrying something else, something small, but I’m not clear in my mind about it. I just wasn’t paying attention. I’m so sorry. I ought to have asked her. But she just said she had a couple of things to do, including opening the church, and would be back in under an hour.’ Tears filled her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. ‘I didn’t even turn round properly, I just glanced back at her over my shoulder and saw her standing by the door. I mumbled, OK or something like that. We didn’t even make a proper goodbye.’
Muriel Scott was looking restless. Markby took the hint.
‘Thank you, Mrs Aston. Perhaps we can talk again later, when you’ve had a chance to take all this on board. I realise it’s been a terrible shock.’
He got to his feet. Meredith and Mrs Scott rose with him. Muriel moved towards Ruth and bent over her. Meredith followed Markby to the hall.
Roger, in his prison, scratched at the door, whined and then fell silent, no doubt listening intently.
‘There is something I ought perhaps to tell you,’ Meredith said in a low voice.
Alan raised his eyebrows. ‘Yes?’
‘When I first met Ruth, in the church the day we came to look at this house, there was an old boy there, a local man, a sort of oldest inhabitant. Ruth called him Old Billy Twelvetrees. She told me he watched out for her entering the church and then always came over to chat. The landlord of the pub here is apparently a nephew of Old Billy and he also mentioned to me that his uncle liked talking to the ladies when they came to the church. I’d just popped into the pub for coffee, by the way. It’s a peculiar place. I didn’t fancy it.’
‘You’re getting off the point,’ he chided her.
‘Right. Well, just before I found Hester, as I was walking up the church path, I saw someone in the churchyard. He was quite a distance away and of course, I wasn’t close enough to make a confident identification. The man had his back to me, in any case. But he was the height and build of Old Billy. He limped and was helped along with a stick as Old Billy is. He seemed in a great hurry, scrambling over the graves, almost as if he wanted to get away from something.’
‘Ah,’ said Markby.
Meredith put a hand on his arm. ‘That’s not all. Once news got out about what had happened, people came from all over the place. You must have seen the crowd outside the church. Goodness knows where they were before. I didn’t see a soul when I first arrived. But the thing is, Old Billy wasn’t amongst them. So where was – is – he? For a real old nosy-parker as he struck me as being, it does seem odd.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘So I’m wondering if I really was the first person to find Hester.’
‘I see.’ Markby rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘You think the old man saw the church was open, went in to see if either of the churchwardens was there so he could trap her in conversation, found Hester dead, panicked and scarpered. Now he’s lying low.’
‘I’m also wondering whether he saw anyone else around there – or if anyone else saw him. Perhaps you ought to try and find him quickly, Alan. I’m not telling you your job. I’m just concerned about the old fellow.
‘We’ll make it a priority, don’t worry. At the least, he seems a possible material witness.’
Markby turned back into the sitting room. Mrs Scott had joined Ruth on the sofa and was patting her shoulder in awkward sympathy.
‘Sorry to bother you again,’ he said. ‘But is there someone in the village, an elderly person perhaps, who’d know all the gossip, someone who’d talk to me?’
‘There’s Old Billy Twelvetrees,’ said Ruth, looking up from the crumpled handkerchief she’d held to her eyes.
‘Old mischief-maker!’ snorted Muriel Scott. ‘If you talk to him, discount half of it. What he doesn’t know, he makes up.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Markby promised her. ‘Where can I find him?’
‘Second cottage down from the pub, to the left. He’s got a daughter living with him, Dilys. If you can get past her, Old Billy will be pleased to see you.’
‘That at least will make a change,’ murmured Markby to Meredith as he went out. ‘Most people, even the innocent, are usually displeased to see the police on their doorsteps!’
Woof, woof, woof, went Roger in support.
Chapter Seven
When Markby returned to the church he found a scene of some confusion. The crowd was as numerous as before and additional vehicles had arrived including one near which stood two sombre men, waiting patient and motionless. Though the sightseers were jostling for a good view of the church, around the van and the men there was a space. A cordon sanitaire, thought Markby with grim amusement. On the one hand the crowd was fascinated by a violent death. On the other hand, the formalities of death itself were too close to home.
Pearce appeared clad in protective clothing as Markby made his way into the porch.
‘They won’t disperse!’ he said irritably. He put his hand to his jaw.
‘Something wrong?’ Markby enquired.
‘What? Oh, no. I’m just fed up with that lot of ghouls out there. Why won’t they go home?’
‘It’s never any different, Dave. They’ll go home once the body’s been taken away.’
Pearce sniffed. ‘Dr Fuller’s here.’
‘Better go and have a word with him, then,’ Markby murmured. ‘Got a spare suit there?’
Inside the church lighting had been set up but the photographer was beginning to pack away his cameras. Fuller, the pathologist, teddy bear like in his one-piece disposable suit, was standing a little forlornly by the corpse.
‘This is very inconvenient,’ he said as Markby, now similarly clad, came up. ‘You’ll be wanting a post mortem as soon as possible and I’ve tickets for a concert at the Festival Hall tonight. My wife and I have been looking forward to it but it does mean travelling up there this afternoon. We had hoped,’ Fuller continued, fixing Markby with a look which suggested all this was his fault, ‘to stay overnight in London. My wife wants to do some shopping.’
‘What about Streeter?’ Markby named Dr Fuller’s assistant.
