The Wychford Murders

by Paula Gosling

  ‘For Christ’s sake, what more do you need?’ he rasped.

  ‘Who owns this shop?’

  ‘I do,’ Sinclair said. ‘I own the house, the shop, everything. If it’s inheritance you’re thinking of, forget it. Barry gets nothing but grief from Win – as always. At least that will stop, now that the bitch is dead. I might have killed her, but not Barry. He thought she was wonderful.’

  They let themselves out of the pottery shop, Paddy with relief, Luke with resignation. ‘Two down, and the rest of the world to go,’ he said. ‘We’ve got two victims – one sensible faithful family woman, and one promiscuous tart. Where’s the connection, Paddy? What the hell did they have in common?’

  ‘They both met the wrong man at the wrong time,’ Paddy said, pointedly.

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I’m afraid I do,’ Paddy said. ‘I’m afraid what we’re chasing is a psychopath who kills women at random. I’m afraid he’ll kill again.’

  ‘I’m still not convinced of that. And I’m certainly not sure about the random,’ Luke said, grimly, and headed towards the car.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Physiotherapy Department of the hospital was over-warm and overcrowded. Grunts and gasps of effort arose from various curtained cubicles as treatments were carried out. An occasional ‘ouch’ pierced the ear. Above this mixture of sounds, as neutralising as piped music, there was the hum of small machines and a rhythmic splashing from the direction of the hydrotherapy pool.

  Jennifer found Frances in her office. She was peeling wax from her shoes with intense concentration. Jennifer’s ‘Hi’ startled her, and she whirled around on her swivel chair, which tilted and nearly dumped her under the desk.

  ‘You have a licence to drive that thing?’ Jennifer laughed as she leapt forward to steady her friend.

  ‘Suspended,’ Frances said, gamely righting herself and preparing to take the chair on again if it chose to continue the fight. Outnumbered, the chair remained still, but seemed to exude an aura of menace. She eyed it cautiously, and elected to stand. ‘What brings you out here?’

  ‘Kay’s car is in the repair shop again and her husband is in Ward 6 having his bunions righted at last, so I drove her out. Also I wanted to ask you to come round to dinner, tonight. I need a little moral support.’

  Frances held on to Jennifer’s shoulder as she replaced her de-waxed shoe. (The warm wax bath had overflowed while she was dipping a patient’s arthritic hand – just another of life’s little adventures.) ‘Why? Not that I need a reason to leap at Mrs Louis’ cooking whenever asked.’

  ‘Well, I’d like to say it’s because you’re such charming company, which you are, but really it’s to even up the numbers. The police are coming to dine.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Unbeknownst to me – or to Aunt Clotilda, for that matter – my dotty uncle has been keeping up a correspondence with Luke Abbott for years. He helped Luke straighten himself out after his father ran off, and they’ve kept in touch ever since, through college and everything. He rang him up as soon as he knew Luke was in town, and invited them both to dinner tonight.’

  ‘Both?’

  ‘Luke and his sergeant – Paddy Smith.’

  ‘I can see why you want a few more on your side,’ Frances acknowledged, with a grin. ‘What’s the betting that your uncle has every gory detail out of them in nine minutes flat?’

  ‘No bet,’ came Kay’s astringent voice from the door. ‘My bet is that he kept in touch with Luke Abbott merely to have a line into Scotland Yard, the old busybody. Newspapers never tell the whole truth, he used to say.’

  ‘And then he’d send you around to find out all the details, right?’ Jennifer laughed.

  ‘I have my uses,’ Kay smiled back.

  ‘She has an intelligence network of friends and relatives that covers the whole county,’ Jennifer told Frances. ‘What would you like to know?’

  ‘Who owns that little cottage in the woods opposite the craft centre?’ Frances asked promptly.

  ‘Mr Ebenezer, the cobbler,’ Kay came back, just as quickly. ‘Why, thinking of buying it?’

  ‘Is it for sale?’

  ‘I’ll ask him – let you know,’ Kay promised.

  ‘See?’ Jennifer chuckled. Then she grew serious. ‘Kay, did you know Luke Abbott?’

  ‘Sure,’ Kay said. ‘What do you want to know about him?’

  ‘What happened with his father, exactly?’

  Kay sighed, and leaned against a filing cabinet. ‘Ran off with some girl from Milchester, broke his wife’s heart. I know it’s an old-fashioned phrase, but your uncle said that was God’s truth, in her case. She actually developed heart disease and died about two years later, when Luke was – let me think – about fifteen, I suppose.’

  ‘I never knew that,’ Jennifer said, thinking back to the Luke she had known then. It must have been right around the time she’d had such a crush on him.

  ‘Oh yes. He wasn’t the type to parade his troubles, but he looked after her all through her last illness. Real devoted to her, he was, took her death hard. He was supposed to go into care, but your uncle intervened, found him a place with a family in town, so he could finish his schooling. Luke was a little wild to begin with, but he settled down once your uncle stepped in. They were real close until Luke went up to university. I know they wrote to one another quite a bit, for a while. Then Luke joined the police, got promoted, got married, and I don’t know much after that.’

  ‘Luke Abbott is married?’ Jennifer interrupted, her voice tinged with wistfulness.

  ‘Was. I think his wife died a couple of years ago,’ Kay said. ‘Why – were you interested?’

  ‘No, of course not. That is . . . ’

  ‘Hah! What goes on here?’ Kay said, and she and Frances fixed Jennifer with inescapable glares.

  ‘Nothing,’ Jennifer said, lamely. ‘I was only asking.’

  ‘No woman ever “only asks” about a man,’ Kay said, firmly.

  ‘Is he attractive, Jennifer?’ Frances asked.

  ‘No. Yes. Well . . . ’

  ‘If he looks the way he did when he left for university, he’s not too bad,’ Kay conceded.

  ‘Well?’ Frances persisted.

  Jennifer wilted. ‘He’s not too bad,’ she admitted.

  ‘Which means I get stuck with the other one, is that it? What did you say his name was?’ Frances asked, rather bleakly.

  ‘Paddy Smith,’ Jennifer told her.

  ‘Oh, God – sounds like an Irishman,’ Frances mourned. ‘Will I never escape the divils, even here?’

  ‘Seems a damned foolish time to go socialising, when we’ve got this case on,’ Paddy grumbled to Luke, as they drove up to High Hedges. It was a big rambling house of the local golden stone, heavily ivied, with mullioned windows and a sweep of lawn on three sides. A small sign saying ‘Surgery’ pointed to a smaller door on one side of the main entrance. ‘Very nice, very Country Life, and me with only my old tweed suit.’

  ‘The Mayberrys aren’t like that,’ Luke said, stopping the car and looking up at the welcoming glow in the windows. ‘Dr Wally is the closest thing I’ve got to a family. He was damned good to me – for me – when I was younger. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him.’

  ‘Do you mean he’s the killer?’ Paddy asked, wryly.

  ‘No – but I might have been. Or in jail myself, instead of putting people there,’ Luke said, seriously. ‘I think maybe that’s why I’ve had what success I’ve had – I’m a crook at heart. Dr Wally saw that and turned it around in me. We used to go fishing a lot, talked for hours – we were very close. Then, when I went to university, we slowly lost touch. Well, I moved on, I suppose. Grew up. We were down to exchanging a note with our Christmas cards, but I always felt he was here, ready for me any time, ready for a talk on the
river bank. I’m sorry that it wasn’t affection that brought me back. It should have been. He’s a remarkable man.’

  But Luke’s first sight of his old mentor told him that here, too, there was change. Once upright, unpredictable, and full of energy, the old man was now weary and bent over in his wheelchair by the fire. Nevertheless, his eyes were still fine and bright, and he gave Luke a thorough inspection, scowling at the moustache.

  ‘Don’t like the soup-strainer,’ he grunted.

  ‘I’ll consider shaving it off,’ Luke said.

  ‘Only consider – no promises?’

  ‘I’m not the promising kind,’ Luke laughed.

  ‘So I recall. And who’s this with you, glowering around him like a suspicious collie? We don’t have any weed or snow here, young man.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’ asked Paddy, startled.

  The old man turned to his wife. ‘Isn’t that the right word?’

  ‘Uncle Wally, stop that,’ Jennifer admonished him, with a smile. She was delighted to see how he’d brightened up when Luke had entered the room. (She’d brightened up a bit herself, as a matter of fact.)

  Luke introduced Paddy to the old man, and then Jennifer completed the formalities, leaving a stricken-looking Frances talking to an equally uncomfortable-looking Paddy beside the fire. When she went over to help David Gregson with the drinks, she noticed his hands were shaking. She watched him for a moment, out of the corner of her eye, but there was nothing in his face except a strange blankness. She could understand Frances and Paddy feeling awkward, but what on earth could be the matter with David? He caught her looking at him, and flushed.

  ‘Have I got toothpaste on my chin or something?’ he muttered.

  ‘No, of course not. Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said, brusquely, and turned to hand out the glasses. She watched him for a moment, then shrugged and turned to the guests. If he wanted to go on shutting her out, so be it. She’d waste no more time on him.

  After a moment, Clotilda came in and beamed around her. ‘Dinner will be ready shortly, as long as Mrs Louis doesn’t lose her nerve,’ she told them, and collected a drink from David as she passed. He looked after her, glanced around at everyone, and then went back to his intense study of the bookshelves. Jennifer sent him a scolding glance, but he paid no attention.

  Clodie was in her element. It was the first dinner party she’d been able to have since Wally’s illness, and she was determined it should be a success. She bustled around, busy with the task of putting everyone at ease – for which she had talent in abundance. The mix was a little unusual, but with luck, all should go well. As long as Wally behaved himself.

  Clodie’s optimism lasted until half-past the dessert.

  They’d covered the changes in Wychford since Luke was last there, Wally’s stroke, Jennifer’s divorce, the death of Luke’s wife and how he’d managed to look after their twin sons since then, Clodie’s work for the Church Committee (she was making a tapestry for the altar), Frances’ search for a house and weren’t prices awful?, Paddy’s hoped-for promotion, David’s move to this house and how it would improve the efficiency of the practice, and then, quickly (seeing fire in Jennifer’s eye), the weather.

  Wally hadn’t had much to do with the weather lately, having been confined to home. Besides, he felt that sufficient attention had been paid to generalities and personalities. Avoiding Clodie’s eye, he plunged in. ‘So, who killed these women, then?’ he demanded of Luke. ‘Got your man yet?’

  ‘We’re working on it,’ Luke said, austerely.

  ‘Got any good clues? Any leads?’ Wally persisted.

  ‘A few.’

  ‘Oh, come along, Luke,’ Wally said, slightly nettled. ‘You can do better than that. You’re among friends here.’

  ‘Stop it, Wallace,’ Clodie said. ‘You know perfectly well Luke can’t discuss a case while he’s investigating it.’

  ‘Poppycock,’ Wally said. ‘There’s no reason why he can’t tell us how he’s going along. We won’t talk to anyone about it.’

  ‘He can’t be certain of that.’

  Uncle Wally began to go red in the face. ‘Well, thank you very much. I haven’t been a doctor all my life without learning how to keep a secret or two, have I?’

  ‘Such as a certain lady trying to poison her husband with arsenic?’ Jennifer put in, quickly. ‘What would be the official position on that, Luke?’

  ‘Are you serious?’ Luke looked across the table at her, gratefully.

  ‘Quite serious.’ She outlined the story of the Teagues, calling them Mr and Mrs X. Uncle Wally, knowing himself vulnerable on this count, calmed down slightly as she talked. When she had finished, Luke considered, but Paddy spoke.

  ‘Attempted murder is a crime.’

  ‘So is wife-beating,’ Frances said, instantly. ‘It sounds like self-defence to me.’

  ‘Rather a drastic form of it.’ Luke smiled across at her. ‘I don’t know what the lawyers would make of it, mind, but as far as the police are concerned, we can’t arrest without a complaint being made. We can bring a case ourselves, of course, but someone would have to give us the information required to make the case sufficiently strong to expect a prosecution.’

  ‘You mean you’d turn a blind eye to attempted murder?’ Clodie demanded.

  ‘Self defence,’ Frances affirmed. Her outrage concerning this point of women’s rights had brought a flush to her cheeks and a spark to her eye. ‘No man has the right to beat his wife and make her life a misery. No woman should have to put up with it. She has my sympathy, entirely. I’d give him arsenic myself, the rogue.’

  Paddy turned and looked down at her. She was a different woman altogether than he’d originally thought. It was as if a sparrow had suddenly decided to sing. ‘The trouble would be if she put in a pinch too much and knocked him off,’ he told her, gently. ‘Not quite like over-seasoning the roast, is it? We could hardly turn a blind eye to a corpse, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Well, of course not,’ Frances said, becoming flustered under his steady gaze. When he’d walked in she’d noticed immediately that he resembled Cornel Wilde, her childhood hero, and from that moment on she had been too stricken with shyness to speak more than a few polite monosyllables to him. Of course, he couldn’t be expected to know that he brought back to her all the warm dark excitements of the cinema on a Saturday afternoon. She was certain he merely thought her awkward and peculiar. Lord knows, she felt awkward and peculiar. She was not accustomed to the police looking like this. If she leaned forward and ripped open his shirt, would there be a blue uniform under it?

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, suddenly discomfited in his turn by her change of expression.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said in a strangled voice, returning to her lemon soufflé, praying she would not choke. Not thirty minutes gone by and she was already considering ripping off his shirt. Frances Murphy, what would Sister Ursula say to you, now, if she knew of your evil thoughts? Wicked girl. Frances swallowed a giggle, choked, reached for her napkin, and knocked over her wine. It ran over the tablecloth like a fast-moving snake, and down on to Paddy’s knee. He jumped back, knocked against Clodie’s elbow, and triggered a sudden ejection of her spoonful of soufflé into Luke’s lap.

  The ensuing activity, which involved leaping up, apologising, and the swift application of napkins and salt, effectively sank the question of arsenic and Old Bill, but it did not divert Uncle Wally.

  ‘She was a bit of a tart, you know,’ he announced. Everyone froze. For a wild moment, Jennifer thought he was referring to Mrs Teague, who was thin, slatternly, and sly.

  ‘Who was?’ asked David Gregson, who had remained seated during the flap, concentrating on his dessert. For a moment it seemed as if the two men were alone in the room and all the fluttering was as of distant theatricals, of little or no interest to them.
/>   ‘Murdered girl. The second one – down by the canal. Frenholm, her name was. One of our patients, as it happens. Had to treat her for VD about ten months ago, just before my illness. She had to name her contacts, of course. Took two pages. Don’t know where they find the energy, these young people. Exhausted me just writing them down.’

  ‘I’d appreciate a look at that list,’ Luke said.

  ‘Privileged information,’ Uncle Wally said, promptly. ‘Mind you, I wouldn’t say no to an exchange . . . ’

  ‘Why, you old devil,’ Clodie said in annoyance. ‘You had that up your sleeve all the while.’

  ‘I can get the information from the Department of Public Health,’ Luke said, mildly, sitting down again after checking his chair for any stray spots of soufflé. ‘Would take a few days, of course.’

  ‘Well, a few days could make all the difference,’ Uncle Wally said, encouragingly. ‘After all, he might strike again tonight or tomorrow night.’

  ‘Who?’ Frances asked, mortified by the furore she had caused, not giving a damn now. What worse could happen?

  ‘Why, this monster, this killer who’s roaming about with his little knife at the ready,’ Uncle Wally said. ‘Two women, throats cut, must be the same chap. Psychopath, probably, hates women . . . ’

  Jennifer involuntarily looked at David Gregson, who chose that moment to look at her. He went pale, then flushed, and looked away quickly.

  ‘We don’t know it’s the same man at all,’ Luke protested.

  ‘Aha!’ Uncle Wally said, gleefully.

  ‘We don’t know that it isn’t, however,’ Paddy added. ‘We have only started our investigations . . . ’

  ‘Rubbish,’ Uncle Wally said. ‘You know. You always know. Why, Luke, you wrote me yourself once that most murders can be solved within the first forty-eight hours . . . ’

  ‘Most murders, yes. Most murders are family affairs, so to speak,’ Luke said.

  ‘But there’s a new kind of killer surfacing, isn’t there?’ Clodie asked, quietly. ‘What they call a serial killer? Someone who just kills for thrills and moves on. Kills strangers . . . ’