The Wychford Murders

by Paula Gosling

  ‘So he inherits her all? Or was there a will? Or perhaps a partnership agreement?’

  ‘We haven’t got that far yet, sir.’

  Paddy grinned. ‘What? Five hours gone and you haven’t got that far, yet?’

  ‘Sir . . . ’

  Luke smiled, too. Bennett seemed a decent lad. ‘Carry on, Constable. You’re doing fine. I’m just going to take a walk up the towpath, before that raincloud over there decides to burst. Coming, Paddy?’

  They crunched along beside the river, which lived up to its name and murmured peacefully between its banks, overhung on the opposite side by large willows. Beyond them was a narrow band of wild growth, and beyond that, a sweep of lawn. ‘Peacock Manor over there, Paddy. We passed it on the way in – big, splendid place with a circle drive, all leaded windows and ivy. I had great plans to grow up and buy the place with my millions, one day. Son of the house was about my age, went off to the best schools and all that, while I attended the local grammar. He played the toff on holidays, so I beat the hell out of him, one summer. No trouble to us, afterwards. Not a bad chap, just . . . ’ His voice halted, but he went on walking.

  ‘Just what?’ Paddy asked, trying not to slip down the bank where the water had undercut the path.

  Luke smiled. ‘Just bloody rich,’ he said.

  ‘At the present rate of outgoings, I’d say another year or eighteen months will see you irretrievably in debt. It’s a terrible thing, Mark, and I hate saying it, but there doesn’t seem to be a way out. The money from the land sale for the housing estate was only a stop-gap and to finish off those death-duties. Unless you’re prepared to sell more land . . . ’ Heatherington, the bank manager, raised his hands and let them fall.

  ‘I suppose another mortgage is out of the question?’ Heatherington looked at him over the top of his glasses. ‘Isn’t that a bit Peter and Paul? If you had a regular income, Mark, or even if your stepfather’s income was a bit more regular . . . the bank might consider it. But, in the present circumstances, no, I’m afraid not. Surely you don’t need that land between the house and the river?’

  ‘Of course we don’t need it.’ Mark agreed, a bit savagely. ‘But it’s part of what makes the house so special. I showed you the plans for the conference centre. That area would be landscaped for a small golf course. If we sell that off, the conference centre would lose a valuable asset and drawing card.’

  ‘What about the land in back of the house, then?’

  ‘I suppose we could sell off that top parcel, Fox Run. It’s over the round of the hill, out of sight of the house itself. The local hunt would set up a howl, of course, but I can’t go under just to see a lot of “animal lovers” in red coats have their little entertainments, can I? Do you think we could find a buyer for it?’

  ‘I happen to know a national conglomerate is looking in the area for a suitable site,’ Heatherington said, slowly.

  ‘Site for what?’

  ‘A hypermarket.’

  Mark paled. ‘Anyone else looking?’

  ‘An electronics firm, perhaps. And a couple of speculative builders. I’ll look around, shall I?’ Assured of some business and the continued solvency of an old and valued customer, Heatherington became more expansive. ‘I don’t suppose you have your eye on any heiresses, do you?’ he smiled.

  Mark Peacock raised an eyebrow. ‘Don’t think I haven’t considered it,’ he said. ‘But I find it hard to be quite that cold-blooded about saving the manor. If one wafts into my line of vision, fine, but I refuse to go fortune-hunting.’ Unlike Basil, he thought to himself. And look what he got, thinking Mother was so wealthy. The house fooled Basil, as it fooled so many others, Mark himself included, in a way. Ah, but he loved it. Loved it enough to stop seeing Jennifer Eames before he found himself well and truly in love with her, and willing to throw sense to the winds. She was a super girl, but he could hardly expect her to take on him, his mother, Basil, and the worry about the manor. Besides, he didn’t for a minute think she would have him. If only Mother would let go of the reins, he thought. If only I were stronger and could tell her to go to hell.

  ‘Well, I’ll leave it with you, then,’ he said, standing up and extending his hand towards Heatherington. ‘As soon as you’ve located a possible buyer, let me know.’ The bank manager assured him that it would be soon, and they parted.

  Outside, in the street, Mark took a deep breath. Rain had come and gone while he’d been in the bank, and the newly washed air was fresh.

  He started towards his car, and saw Jennifer Eames coming out of the chemist’s shop opposite. Waiting a moment, to say hello if she crossed the street, he saw her glance his way, and then walk on, her head high.

  Mark felt something twist inside him. He got into his car. Basil Taubman turned and raised an eyebrow. ‘Well?’

  Mark watched Jennifer get into her car and drive off, then jabbed his key towards his own ignition, and missed. ‘We’ll probably have to sell off Fox Run,’ he said, angrily. ‘He wouldn’t give us any more time. Sounds like there are several possibilities – such as a hypermarket.’

  ‘Mabel would never stand for that,’ Basil said, visions of a possible Scene conjured up before his horrified eyes.

  ‘That’s what I’m counting on,’ Mark said. ‘If I point out to her that this is the only alternative, it might swing her over to the plan, and she’d sign the damned papers at last.’

  ‘How much time do you have?’

  ‘Oh, Heatherington has to do some homework. Now I’ve told him I’m willing to sell – or intimated I am – he’s apt to be quiet for a month or two. Also, his wife is socially ambitious, and they’d like to stay on Mabel’s good side. They assume, you see, that there is one.’ His smile was wry. ‘We can hold things off, but eventually . . . ’ Mark slumped back in his seat. ‘You’ve got to convince her, Basil.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ his stepfather said, and smiled. ‘I’ve been known to have my little successes in the past.’

  Mark stiffened. ‘Never mind the past. It’s the future we’re concerned about here.’

  ‘Point taken, dear boy,’ Basil agreed. ‘And now, if you’ll drop me at the station, as advertised, I’ll do what I can towards paying the bills. All right?’

  Mark glanced at him. ‘All right. Thanks.’

  Basil shrugged. ‘De nada. I want things to work out as much as you do. I love the house, too – it is my spiritual home as well as my physical one. I’ve told you that, many times. I’ll do anything I can to keep it. You know that.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ His stepfather’s psychic vagaries about the house sometimes verged on the embarrassing, but he was grateful for any support. Mark turned the ignition and started the car. First the station, then back home. He drove recklessly towards Martyr’s Bridge, cutting in front of a lorry and causing it to slam on its air brakes. He went over the bridge too fast, and had to brake wildly to avoid a tour bus parked on the opposite side.

  Soon it would be time to take Mother to Milchester.He would have preferred a warmer destination for her.

  ‘The first thing we want to do is try to find out who the father of her child was,’ Luke told Paddy, who was making notes. ‘Obviously we talk to her cousin and his friend, then her other friends, and try to build up a picture of her.’

  ‘And the papers? Do you want me to give out a press release?’

  Luke considered. ‘Tell them there are certain similarities between this killing and the one in Woodbury, but don’t elaborate. If I know them, that’s all they’ll bloody need. I don’t want to give anything away.’ He looked at Paddy, who raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Well, both were women and both had their throats cut, those are certainly similarities,’ Paddy said, shrugging. ‘But you know they’re bound to start putting together some kind of Ripper thing.’

  ‘Maybe that’s just what we’ve got,’ Luke said, bleakly.


  ‘I thought you didn’t want to talk about that,’ Paddy reminded him.

  ‘I don’t. Cyril didn’t – as I’m sure you noticed. But you’re right, it’s something we have to consider. We also have to consider the possibility of a copycat killing – which is why we have a lot of legwork ahead of us, to see if we can either find any links between these women, or separate them into having individual reasons for being murdered. If it is a copycat killing, it won’t do either murderer any harm to think we’re looking for a maniac. It might lull them into being careless about alibis and such. Alternatively, if we are looking for a maniac, he may surface, eventually. They often do.’

  Paddy frowned. ‘By killing again, you mean?’

  Luke nodded, his face grim. ‘And again. And again. And again.’

  Chapter Nine

  Monkswell Craft Centre was a low grey-stone rectangle set back some two hundred yards from the main road. A large but tastefully lettered sign indicated the turn-off on to a gravelled road which led to a rather unevenly surfaced parking area on the far side of the buildings. Luke and Paddy left the car there and picked their way down the flagstone path that led through the low arch in the wall.

  The old cloisters had been beautifully restored, and the open central area paved over. The aged stonework was mottled here and there with white and green lichen, and the graceful pointed arches of the covered walkway were complete again. Carved stone rosettes bracketed them one by one, and at each roof-corner of the inner square a small gargoyle stuck out a tongue at the devil. Simple hand-made benches had been placed around a fountain in the middle, providing seating for shoppers or patrons of the small coffee-shop that had been placed on the site of the original kitchens. At the moment the fountain was rather redundant, as it had begun to rain again, and the drops that were projected upward were swamped by those coming down. Rainwater gushed from the gargoyles into small basins below their chins, and their mischievous expressions had taken on a sullen air, due to the glistening overlay of moisture. No one sat on the benches, and the pigeons (for there was clear evidence of pigeons) had gone somewhere dry to roost. The scene was bleak, set for a party to which no one had come.

  All around the inner side of the old cloister walkway, however, brightly lit windows revealed the various craft shops and their wares. Chunky, amusing sweaters from the Knit-Wits, wrought-ironwork and tinsmithing at Clangers, silk flowers at Rosie’s Posies, hand-dipped candles at Off Our Wick, homespun shawls and clothing at Get Weaving. In addition to these rather archly named endeavours there were other artisans at work who simply had their names and crafts over their doors – a carpenter making pine furniture, a stained-glass artist, a portrait sculptress, a leather-worker. Win Frenholm’s shop had belonged to the first category – it was called The Three Wheelers, and its small display window was crammed with rather odd pots and plates.

  Luke, wincing at some of the more gaudy specimens, looked through the glass shelving to the shop beyond, and saw two men in close conversation. They were holding hands.

  The smaller of the two had been crying – so, presumably, he was the sensitive Mr Barry Treat. The other, a rough-hewn type in a clay-spattered pullover, had to be Gordon Sinclair. He was scowling down at his partner, his eyebrows drawn darkly together under his overhanging thatch of grey hair.

  Luke turned to Paddy. ‘Do you know, I think I’d like a cup of coffee first. How about you?’

  ‘Always a good place to start,’ Paddy acknowledged. They went down to the snack bar and entered its steamy fragrant interior. A long counter with stools ran down one side, in the American style, and five small round tables took up the rest of the space. There were checked plastic tablecloths on the tables, and small pots of artificial flowers in the centre of each (courtesy of Rosie’s Posies?). Luke’s nose told him baking was done on the premises, as did the homely look of the pastries and cakes displayed under glass on the counter. He also deduced that bacon had been cooked that morning, and that the coffee was fresh. In short, here was something special – not the usual stewed tea and damp buns. Three women, seated at the rear with their heads together over empty cups, glanced up at them and then at each other. Luke nodded and sat down at the counter with Paddy. The man behind the coffee urn emerged and took their order. He was bald and comfortable-looking, with a tattoo showing beneath the edge of his white short-sleeved tee-shirt.

  ‘Two coffees, please, white. Bit far inland for you, isn’t it?’ Paddy asked.

  The man grinned, showing old-fashioned false teeth some-what the worse for wear, and drew coffee from the big urn that reflected his porcelain grin. ‘You might say that,’ he agreed, amiably.

  ‘Here’s to the Merchant Marine,’ Luke said, approvingly, toasting the tattoo with his coffee cup.

  ‘That’s it. Something to eat with your coffee?’ the man asked.

  ‘No, thanks very much,’ Luke said.

  ‘Pie looks nice,’ Paddy said. ‘I’ll have a piece of that.’

  ‘Made it myself, this morning.’ The man cut a large wedge of the sugary-crusted apple pie and presented it to Paddy with a flourish. ‘You’ll like that, you will. Dutch recipe. Give you a bit of energy on a day like this.’ He regarded them thoughtfully. ‘Come to interview the two in the pottery, have you?’ he said, after a moment.

  ‘What gave us away?’ Luke asked, not denying it.

  ‘Eyes,’ the man said, leaning on the counter. ‘With the police, the eyes are never still. Always watching, you are. Just in case someone starts something, I suppose. Bad view of life to carry with you, gentlemen. Very cynical. Shame about the girl.’

  ‘You knew her?’

  ‘Know them all,’ the man said. He raised his voice slightly. ‘Police here, ladies – come about Win.’

  ‘Damn,’ Luke muttered into his cup. He turned and gave the ladies a wide, white smile, which was not returned. ‘Afternoon, all,’ he said, and then mentally kicked himself for sounding like Dixon of Dock Green. It was a trap he always tried to avoid. He could hear Paddy choking quietly on his pie. ‘Shut up,’ he muttered, and increased the voltage on the smile. ‘Do you mind if I join you?’

  The three women were wildly disparate in appearance. One was tall, angular and white-haired, one was small, dark and plump, and the last was a real Titian-haired beauty.

  ‘I suppose you might as well,’ the older woman said. Her eyes were faintly pink, as if she might have been crying some time earlier. ‘Could we have more coffee, Sam, please?’

  ‘Right away,’ said the bald man.

  Luke settled himself in a chair beside their table. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Abbott,’ he said.

  ‘Abbott of the Yard?’ asked the redhead.

  ‘No, Abbott of the Regional Crime Squad,’ he smiled. ‘I admit it lacks a certain tone. Do you all work here at the centre?’

  ‘We’re the Knit-Wits. That’s Mary Straker,’ said the redhead, indicating her dark-haired partner. ‘I’m Annabel Leigh. Hannah Putnam, here, is the portrait sculptress.’

  ‘I saw some of your work as I passed through, Miss Putnam. I particularly liked the small figure at the back.’

  Hannah Putnam’s harshly lined face took on a more amenable expression. ‘Old Tom?’ she asked. ‘Only thing worth showing. Thank you.’

  ‘Hannah does kids’ heads during the summer to keep her alive while she does her own stuff in the winter,’ Annabel volunteered. ‘That’s how most of us work. We get a little burst around Christmas, but summer is our main selling time. Things are quiet now, as you see.’

  ‘They won’t be for long,’ Paddy said, coming over with his coffee. ‘I understand your local paper comes out mid-afternoon. You might find yourselves busy very soon after.’

  ‘You mean ghouls?’ Hannah asked, with distaste. ‘I suppose that is inevitable.’

  ‘Won’t be entirely a bad thing,’ Luke said, easily, leaning back. ‘Th
ey might well spend some money while they’re here.’

  ‘No publicity is bad publicity,’ interjected Sam, from behind the counter.

  Hannah Putnam turned in her chair to fix him with a hard stare. ‘That is not in very good taste, Sam Ashforth.’

  He was unabashed. ‘Still true, though. Ray Moss was saying this morning he had some old sketches he did of her – he was going to get them out and frame them up, ready for trade. You’ve got a head of her, too, Hannah, I know you have. Could sell it at a good price now.’ He was aware of their disapproval, and his tone became defensive. ‘Look, we’re going down the drain here, even if none of you will admit it. She didn’t do much for us while she was alive, God knows. Let her do some good when she’s dead.’ His expression was truculent, a prophet patronised in his own country.

  Luke kept his face neutral. ‘I didn’t notice the name Ray Moss on any of the shops. Is he one of the craftsmen here?’

  ‘He’s a lithographer and printer. If you go through the tunnel opposite the archway, you’ll find his studio in a long barn beside the cloisters. I think it used to be a granary. Most of us have some of his things up in our places. We sell them for him and take a small commission. He doesn’t mind being watched, that’s one of the conditions under which these places are let to us, but he hates dealing with the public directly.’ There was something in Annabel Leigh’s voice that intrigued Luke.

  ‘Is he good?’

  ‘His work is exquisite,’ Hannah Putnam pronounced. ‘It is all he lives for. As an artist he is a model to us all.’ She paused. ‘As a human being – less so.’

  Mary Straker leaned forward and spoke for the first time. ‘He is huge, and gross, and when he eats he always leaves a little food in the corners of his mouth. He is disgusting.’ She looked a little startled at her own boldness, and sat back in her chair, grasping her coffee cup in both hands.

  ‘I see. You say he has some sketches of Win Frenholm?’

  ‘She modelled for many of us at one time or another,’ Hannah explained. ‘As Sam said, I have done a bust of her. Also a full-body study. She had wonderful bones, perfect proportions, and could stay still for long periods. These days, so many of them fidget. It is an art in itself, being still. She had that.’