The Wychford Murders

by Paula Gosling

  ‘Another American import,’ Uncle Wally growled. ‘Not here.’

  ‘What about the Yorkshire Ripper? Or the one in London who stuck them down drains and under the floorboards?’ Frances asked. ‘Is that the kind of thing you mean?’

  ‘Their motives were sexual,’ Jennifer said. ‘These women weren’t raped.’

  ‘Weren’t they?’ Uncle Wally pounced, and glared at Luke, as if it were his fault if they’d escaped that particular horror.

  ‘I’m certainly not convinced that the same person killed both women,’ Luke said. ‘We’re waiting for the post-mortem reports.’ He handed his empty plate to Jennifer, who had stood up to clear for cheese and coffee. ‘At the moment there seem to be no obvious suspects or motives in the death of Beryl Tompkins, whereas in the case of Win Frenholm, there are almost too many. Jennifer was kind enough to tell me the Frenholm woman was pregnant, so I’ve asked for a full scan of the foetal blood. If the pregnancy was a direct or even an indirect motive for her death, having a match for the father might help us to narrow down the number of suspects.’

  ‘Could you convict on that?’ David asked, in an odd voice.

  ‘No, of course not. But it would add, could add, to the weight of evidence. It might give us a pressure point with the suspect, when we have him, as well. It’s a long shot, of course, but long shots can occasionally be accurate. I can’t really say anything more at this point.’

  Uncle Wally, initially enthused by these snippets of inside information, now regarded him with disappointment. What had seemed a fresh spring had suddenly dried up, for it was obvious from Abbott’s tone that he’d said all he was prepared to say. ‘You’ve changed, lad. You really have.’

  Luke met his eye. ‘I hope so,’ he said, evenly. ‘I am a Detective Chief Inspector, Doctor Wally. If I haven’t learned my job by now, I shouldn’t have it, should I?’

  David Gregson spoke abruptly. ‘I suppose it’s rather like the case of the wife poisoning her husband. You need a corpse to prove the nature of the crime. Two similar killings might be coincidental, but three – not so likely. So, what you’re really waiting for is a third murder, isn’t it?’ His voice was reflective. ‘That would settle whether it’s a case of serial killing or not, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘We’d rather work on what we have,’ Paddy said, firmly. ‘Two dead women is more than enough for us, thanks.’

  ‘Yes, of course. But it would make it clearer, wouldn’t it?’ David went on. His tone was scholarly, objective, but it struck cold all around the table. ‘You’d know, then, wouldn’t you? I mean, you’d be certain, then?’

  ‘All we’d be certain of is three women dead instead of two,’ Luke said. ‘There are such things as copycat murders, you see. I’m rather inclined towards that probability at the moment.’

  ‘But where do you draw the line?’ Uncle Wally persisted. ‘I accept that if a second murder is committed that looks like the first, you might say that was a copycat killing. But David has a point. Surely the obvious conclusion would be that the same person had killed three times? In which case, doesn’t it stop being a copycat killing and start being something much worse? Or are you seriously saying that if you had a third murder you’d consider the possibility that it had been committed by a third person?’

  ‘No, I’m not saying that.’ Luke’s voice was becoming steely. ‘In fact, I’m trying very hard not to say anything at all. At the moment I have two murders to investigate, one over in Woodbury—’

  ‘—That’s only a mile away over the hills,’ David interrupted.

  ‘—and another here in Wychford,’ Luke went on, through clenched teeth. ‘My God, man, two women are dead – isn’t that enough for you? It’s the media who like to produce these kind of scares – it sells newspapers, but it doesn’t solve crimes.’

  ‘Luke,’ Paddy said, quietly. ‘It’s only conversation.’

  Luke, with a great effort, calmed himself. ‘Yes, of course. Sorry.’ He managed a smile at Clodie. ‘Apparently it’s bothering me a little more than I thought.’ He turned to Wally and David Gregson. ‘You must get that problem in medicine, too.’

  ‘Sometimes,’ Wally said. ‘Does you credit, Luke, to care about things. But it can get in the way.’

  ‘I know that, sir, believe me.’

  Jennifer could see that he was in a difficult position, and suggested in an over-bright voice that they all help themselves from the cheese board while she got the coffee. Clodie said something to Luke about the weather, and Frances began what seemed to her an inane conversation about house-hunting and its attendant difficulties. The women, in short, did their duty and tried to keep things light, sensing that boredom was probably the best way to avoid blood on the linen.

  David Gregson, reaching for the biscuits, murmured something to Uncle Wally, who had begun to sulk. The old man looked startled for a moment, looked at him for a long time, then nodded. He asked no more questions of Luke, or anyone else, after that, and it was left to the rest of them to keep the conversation going.

  Clodie, watching her husband down the length of the table, saw that he was tired now. Perhaps it had been too soon, after all, to expect him to face this. He’d seemed lively at first. Too lively by half. Now he was grey-faced, and slumped. He kept looking at David Gregson, and then down at his plate.

  He hardly touched his cheese.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘I suppose you wondered why I didn’t call you after you came back from London?’ Mark Peacock put down Jennifer’s drink and seated himself opposite her with his own.

  ‘I assumed you didn’t want to call me.’ She said it with a smile. A careful smile, not too light, not too anything. ‘Our friendship wasn’t on that kind of basis, was it?’

  ‘I didn’t let myself call you, because I was afraid I might be getting in too deep,’ Mark said, with every appearance of frankness. ‘My situation wasn’t exactly ideal. Vis-à-vis the house and my mother and – everything.’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t follow.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. The point is, that’s all changed, now. She’s finally agreed to let me go ahead with my plans for the manor.’

  ‘You mean the conference centre plans? That’s marvellous, Mark. I’m really pleased for you.’ And she was. Something in him had changed, seemingly for the better. There was a bright and almost manic light in his eyes, a sense of power where before he’d been subdued and bitter. Either way she had to admit he was an unnervingly attractive man, physically. The stormy sexuality of his frustration had been replaced with a strange sense of power and excitement. As before, when she was with him, she had to remind herself that this was not enough on which to build either a romance or a life. She had been well aware of Aunt Clodie’s eager hopes for a ‘good match’, and quite steadfast in her own determination not to make the same mistake twice. She’d married for sex once before, and ended with subjugation.

  Never again.

  That did not, however, preclude an interesting relationship between two consenting adults, and that had seemed in the offing, before she’d gone to London a few weeks before. When he hadn’t called her on her return, she’d assumed that he’d lost interest. She’d been sorry, as there were not all that many attractive available men in Wychford, and it looked like being a long, lonely winter. And there was no denying her ego had been a little bruised, as well. But she’d had no regrets – and no intention of calling him, either. So, when he’d rung the surgery this morning and asked her to lunch, she’d been wary, even reluctant.

  But, after all, one had to eat lunch somewhere.

  He was waxing enthusiastic now, the fire burning bright in him. ‘We’re going ahead with the conversion work immediately – Hickson, the builder, is already putting up the scaffolding. I’ve had him on standby for months, ever since I began to think Mother was weakening.’ He took an impatient swallow of his drink to wet his throat
. ‘I have Basil to thank for it, really. It was he who put the final pressure on her, gave her an extraordinary song and dance about how he wanted to spend more time with her, if you can believe it.’

  ‘Perhaps he does.’

  ‘And perhaps he’s afraid his job in the City is getting a bit shaky,’ Mark said, with rather more insight than she had heretofore thought him to possess. ‘Of course, steeped in those wretched romances she reads all the time she believed him. She’ll do anything for Basil – thank God he sees it my way.’ A peculiar look came across his face. ‘I must say, he was pretty damned convincing last night. Very impressive. At any rate, Peacock Manor is about to start paying for itself – and just in time, too. Things were getting pretty close to the knuckle.’

  ‘Were they?’ Jennifer was surprised. It never occurred to her that people like the Peacocks could have financial worries. ‘Well, I’m very, very pleased for you, Mark. I know how much the project means to you.’

  ‘And to you,’ Mark said.

  She frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Don’t you?’ he asked. For some reason she couldn’t fathom, he seemed disappointed in her. As if she’d missed a cue. He put his drink down and contemplated it for a moment, cleared his throat, seemed to make up his mind, and raised his eyes to hers. ‘When we’re a going concern, we’ll be having groups of people to stay, as you know. Although we’re not legally required to have one, I would like to have a physician available for our guests should, God forbid, the need arise. I’d like that physician to be you. Would you consider taking an annual retainer to be the official medical consultant to the Peacock Manor Conference Centre?’

  ‘Oh.’ Now it was her turn to feel disappointed, for which she roundly admonished herself behind a bland smile. ‘Why me, Mark?’

  ‘Well, this is going to be a very distinguished operation. I think, with your looks and charm, you’d be a definite asset to us. It would involve a little more than strapping the odd sprained ankle, of course. I’d need your advice on fitting out a small medical room, with exercise and treatment facilities to install, sauna, Jacuzzi, and so on. We’d have to work together quite a bit, before the opening. Would you mind that?’

  ‘Of course not. But surely . . . ’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, wouldn’t your mother object? I have the impression that she doesn’t approve of women doctors. Or perhaps it’s just me she doesn’t like.’

  ‘Mother will have nothing to do with the administration side of the manor,’ Mark said, firmly. He picked up his drink, put it down, picked it up again and took a swallow. When he put it down, it was with a small crash. ‘You want the truth, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Mark, I do.’

  ‘It’s the only way I can see more of you without getting up her nose,’ he said, rather like a small boy admitting a minor misdemeanour. ‘You’re right, she doesn’t approve of you. She doesn’t approve of any girl for me, frankly. I’ve had to knuckle down to her in the past, but if this thing works out, and I know it will, then what she thinks and says won’t matter any more. I didn’t care enough about anyone to fight her before . . . but I do now.’ He looked at her reproachfully. ‘I thought you knew that.’

  ‘You’re a grown man, Mark, surely your life is your own.’

  ‘My life, yes. My income, no.’ He stopped as the girl from the bar came over to tell them their table was ready. They moved into the dining room and settled themselves. Despite the change in locale, Mark apparently felt the need to continue his self-justification. ‘I admit it, I’ve done her bidding for the money. What did it matter? My career was stonewalled, anyway. I’ve been too weak to break away, or too lazy, probably. All I’ve ever cared about is the manor. But now . . . ’

  Jennifer began to eat, automatically. Some part of her was hungry and needed sustenance, the rest of her was numb. She couldn’t believe that Mark was saying these things to her, when for weeks she’d been convinced she was just another trophy on his watch-chain.

  ‘I’ll be honest with you, Jenny, because I think you deserve it,’ Mark was continuing. ‘I want to see more of you. Eventually I hope to make our relationship a great deal more than just professional. I can’t do that, yet. I know Mother is difficult – sometimes downright impossible. And I admit I’ve always given in to her in order to have an easy life. But this project is something I’m willing to work hard for. And the same thing goes for us. I’ve stayed away from you these past few weeks quite deliberately – to see if what I was feeling was really as strong as I thought it was. I know now that it is. I’ve been lazy and weak, but I intend to stop that. I don’t want you to get away, Jenny. Give me a chance. Help me stand up straight, at last.’

  She believed him. She was certain he’d never been this honest with a woman, because he was so awkward about it. She’d never seen him awkward or uneasy about anything before. And she wasn’t altogether sure she wanted to see it now.

  ‘I’ll have to talk it over with David,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  She’d thrown him, she really had, and this gave her a good feeling. His assumption that she’d been just waiting to be asked rubbed her the wrong way. Hadn’t any woman ever hesitated in the face of his charms before? Probably not. It would do him a world of good. ‘I meant the thing about being your medical consultant. It’s a business matter, Mark. I am part of a practice, you know. It may be that it would have to be a joint undertaking . . . ’

  ‘I don’t want Gregson, I want you. Would you have to ask his permission to marry me, as well?’

  ‘Are you asking me to marry you?’

  He looked exasperated. He was very aware of her clear voice and its carrying quality against a background of largely male conversation. Fortunately a political argument was in progress, and nobody was paying them the least attention. ‘I thought I explained that . . . ’

  She relented. ‘Yes, you did. Sort of. Look, Mark, you’ll have to forgive me, but to coin a cliché, all this comes as a bit of a shock.’ She sighed. ‘I thought we’d been out and had some pleasant times together, and that was the end of it. Nothing you ever said or did gave me any reason to believe that I was special to you in any way. Now you suddenly come along and profess deep feelings . . . What am I supposed to think? What am I supposed to do?’

  ‘You went to bed with me.’

  ‘Of course I did,’ she snapped. ‘You’re a very attractive and exciting man and I’m a healthy, normal woman.’

  ‘Do you go to bed with every attractive man you go out with?’ he asked, neutrally. It sounded more like curiosity than resentment.

  ‘No, certainly not!’ There was no point at all in trying to explain to him how it had healed her to have a man prove to her that she was still attractive after the divorce. He’d been her medicine. An antibiotic against the infection of self-doubt.

  He smiled suddenly. ‘Neither do I. Sleep with every woman, I mean,’ he added, hastily. ‘So, I wasn’t wrong about you. Or us.’

  ‘Let’s just say you were and you weren’t. What I do with my body is one thing, what I do with my life is quite another.’

  ‘You mean now that I’ve given in to your desires you don’t respect me any more?’ he asked, all innocence.

  She looked up, quickly. The bastard, he was laughing at her. Served her right for underestimating him. Ah, but he was so attractive, sitting there. And he had such nice hands. And such a nice mouth. And underneath the teasing he was quite, quite serious. She had to respect that.

  ‘Eat your lunch,’ she told him. ‘It’s getting cold.’

  ‘Is that supposed to be some kind of coded response?’ he asked, dutifully picking up his fork but doing nothing with it. ‘Does “Eat your lunch” stand for “Yes, Mark” by any chance?’

  ‘It stands for no nonsense,’ Jennifer said, with a smile. ‘And for “I’ll think about it”.’ She glanced at the clock.
‘And for “My God, it’s after two o’clock and I have the ante-natal clinic this afternoon.” Your mother’s right, women doctors are not the thing. No grace.’

  ‘It’s my mother who’s still the problem, isn’t it?’ he demanded.

  ‘Not at all. I just need time to think, that’s all,’ she said, her mouth full of Haddock Mornay.

  ‘I thought . . . ’ he began, then stopped. He was quiet, watching her bolt her food. ‘Perhaps I should have thought a little more,’ he finally said, with a trace of bitterness. ‘I can’t say I blame you. You wouldn’t want her always there, would you?’

  ‘Sorry?’ She was finishing up her wine. The pregnant ladies would be arriving, and Kay would be running out of excuses.

  ‘Nothing. What about tonight?’

  That stopped her. ‘Tonight?’

  ‘We could have dinner.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know . . . ring me after evening surgery, would you?’

  ‘You’ve got surgery this evening, too?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You work too hard.’ Mark scowled. ‘Gregson expects too much of you.’

  ‘And about time, too,’ Jennifer said. ‘Thanks for the lunch, Mark. And . . . the rest. I’ll ring you.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘As soon as I can. ’Bye.’ She kissed him on the cheek, kept moving, and left him looking after her, frowning. When he realised other people were staring at him, he sat down. When the waitress brought the cheese board, he cut off a large wedge of cheddar with a savage swipe of the knife, nearly frightening the poor girl to death.

  He apologised, smiled, and asked for a brandy.

  What a gorgeous man, thought the waitress, who was new to the area, and she rushed off to do his bidding.

  After an exhausting afternoon with the nervous mothers-to-be of Wychford, Jennifer came in panting for a cup of tea. Her aunt was in her usual place before her embroidery frame. She received the news about Mark Peacock with surprising calm. Even a little scepticism.