“Are there any other marks on the body?” Tyler asked.
“Just a few bruises. He’s got some fresh scrapes on his knees, which suggests he tripped. And,” Murnaghan pointed, “he’s got this long scar across his chest, but it’s old. He suffered a serious injury when he was younger.”
Tyler peered at the pale, scrawny body. The scar was deep and puckered and ran from his upper ribs on the left to his lower ribs on the right. A long slash, by the look of it.
“Apparently he was in the Boer War. That could be a sabre wound.”
“Yes, it could be. It has been surgically stitched.”
“When I first saw him, his mackintosh was unbuttoned to the waist,” said Tyler. “Any theories as to why that was?”
Murnaghan actually chuckled. “I call it the Lear syndrome. As in King Lear. You don’t commonly see it, but it is a syndrome of exposure. The victim actually experiences a feeling of intense heat as the blood vessels open in a last desperate attempt to live. Although it’s the worst possible thing to do, victims will sometimes take off layers of clothing as they try to cool down.”
“Why do you refer to it as the Lear syndrome?”
“Remember poor old Lear, wandering around the moor out of his mind? He’s suffering from hypothermia. And when he finds his daughter is dead, he cries, ‘Unbutton me here.’ Critics have explained that as a tender moment but I say it was because he was feeling overheated. Amazing, isn’t it, that William Shakespeare knew that?”
“I’ll say. He knew a lot of things, that bloke.” Tyler bent over Jasper’s body. “Anything more you can tell me about the knife that was used?”
“Not a lot, except it was narrow, probably sharp on both sides.”
“Domestic knife? Working knife?”
“I can’t tell, Tom. Maybe we’re dealing with another of those bloody commando knives we saw in your last case. It fits the bill in that respect. Either the coat slowed down the blow or the assailant was faint of heart. Maybe both.” Murnaghan walked over to a tray on the counter. “When I checked the pockets of his mackintosh, I found this.”
He held out his hand for Tyler to see. In the centre of a handkerchief was a thin coin of some kind, tarnished and slightly irregularly shaped around the edges.
“Looks old.”
“It is. About three hundred years. It’s a silver shilling from the time of Charles I. The old fellow probably found it in one of the fields. Not surprising, I suppose. The whole area was a hotbed of Civil War skirmishes. Ludlow itself was under siege. Roundheads won the day.”
“I thought it was the Royalists.”
“Was it? You may be right, Tom. Time blurs them.”
Murnaghan rubbed at the coin.
“They’re not that rare, but they’re not exactly common, either. There was nothing else on his person.”
“Do you think it’s valuable?”
“Not worth a fortune, but it could bring in enough for the month’s rent.” He held up the shilling. “There may have been more where that one came from. Maybe Jasper had a whole purse full. Somebody knew of it, and tried to rob him.”
“Hmm. Can I have a look at the handkerchief?”
Murnaghan handed it to him. “Nothing distinctive. Plain white cotton. No revealing monograms in the corner.”
“Bit on the grubby side, but you’re right, nothing distinctive. I’ll hang on to it.” Tyler refolded the handkerchief around the coin and placed it in his pocket.
The coroner grimaced. “Given the circumstances of his death I’d call this, at the very least, a case of manslaughter. We’ll have an inquest next week and I’ll have the complete post-mortem done by then, but that’s my opinion at the moment.”
Tyler groaned inwardly. It was hard enough for the Cartwright family that Jasper had died so miserably. He didn’t relish telling them that a person or persons unknown had assaulted him.
Murnaghan returned to the gurney. “Don’t you despair about the world sometimes, Tom? Here we are in the middle of the worst conflagration the world has ever known and even in this little rural backwater there is no respite from a heartless killing.” He sighed. “Three centuries ago, men died, spilled other men’s blood, and now we can hardly remember what it was all about. Do you think in a hundred years’ time posterity will say the same about us?” He put on a posh falsetto. “I say, pater, why were the Germans and the English fighting?”
Tyler shook his head. “I hope this war has more at stake than the Roundheads and the Cavaliers disagreeing about whether the King had the right to tax them or not.”
The coroner shrugged. “Darn right it does, Tom. Darn right. Don’t mind me. It’s just my mood today.”
Tyler was at a loss as to how to cheer him up.
The coroner stared down at the grey face of the corpse. “Poor old sod. He was in good health for his age. Lived by his muscles all his life. His liver wasn’t the greatest – he probably drank too much – but there was no alcohol in his system when he died. Deserved to go peacefully in his bed.” He covered Jasper’s body again. “I’ll put him in the pantry until you can release him to the family. You can take his clothes, if you like. I had to cut them off but they’re entitled to have them back.”
“It’s going to be a shock when I pass this along. But thanks, Doctor. I’ll get on to it right away.”
“I’ll write out my report and have Winnie type it up for you.”
He wheeled the gurney into “the pantry,” as he called it: a storage area at the far end of the morgue.
“I’d better get on, then,” said Tyler.
Dr. Murnaghan returned to the chair he’d been sitting in when Tyler arrived.
“Happy Christmas, Tom.” He picked up the newspaper again.
Tyler left him to it.
—
The wind had picked up but Tyler relished it. He wished it could blow away all troubles. Not possible, of course, and when it almost snatched off his hat, he was irritated and made a dash for the car. After a couple of alarming coughs, the engine started.
“Atta girl.”
He depressed the clutch, moved cautiously into first gear, and headed back to Ludlow.
Suddenly, following an impulse he wouldn’t allow himself to analyze, he turned off the main road toward the butcher’s shop that his former father-in-law owned, where he thought Vera would be working. Why not? He and his ex-wife needed to talk – Christmas was fast approaching.
The bell on the door of the shop tinkled sweetly and the familiar odour of dead meat and sawdust assailed Tyler as he entered. Vera looked up from behind the counter where she was serving a customer. The smile of welcome she was ready to flash at an incoming customer froze.
“I’ll be with you in a moment,” she said. Ice cold.
“No rush.” He stood to one side, trying to appear casual.
Vera’s hair was longer than when he’d last seen her, and it suited her. Dark, with a natural wave, her hair had always been one of her best features. She seemed a little trimmer, but that suited her too.
“Thank you, Mrs. Bailey,” she said, and she stamped the ration card that the woman handed her. “We’re hoping to have some fresh rabbit on Friday. Shall I put you down for one?”
“Yes, please.”
The woman picked up her package of meat and dropped it into her shopping bag. “I’m going by Hayden’s. He said they might have some onions today. Wouldn’t that be grand?”
“It certainly would,” answered Vera.
Tyler couldn’t help but notice how pleasant she was to her customer. He certainly hadn’t been privy to that side of her personality for a long time. He still blamed himself for the unhappiness of their marriage, but Vera was implacably unforgiving.
Mrs. Bailey left with a polite nod in Tyler’s direction.
Vera waited until the door closed. Definite drop in temperature.
“So, look what the cat dragged in. You’ve come about my letter, I presume.”
Shite. Tyler had forgotten
to even open it. The solicitor’s address had been sufficient to make him put it aside.
“No, as a matter of fact. I had to come into Whitchurch and thought I’d drop in for a minute.”
“What for? Everything is above board in here.”
Tyler made himself swallow an equally sharp response. He knew how deeply he’d hurt her, but he had hoped time might have healed some of the wounds. Especially as he knew she had a new man in her life. Clearly not.
“How’ve you been, Vera?”
“As well as can be expected.”
“You’re looking very smart. That a new hairdo?”
Rather than smoothing the waters, his comment seemed to aggravate Vera even more.
“What can I do for you, Tom? I’m too busy to stand here chewing the fat.”
“Well, Christmas is coming up…and I wondered about our Janet. She says she’ll likely get a few days off. I’m not really set up to do much of a Christmas and I’m hoping she’ll be able to stay with you and your dad.”
Vera scowled. “Of course. She’s my daughter too, don’t forget. We’re her family. She’ll stay with us.”
“Good. That’s good.” Tyler hesitated. “I’ll write to her, then.”
“Do what you like,” said Vera with a shrug. “She’s a big girl. She can make her own decisions. She knows how to get in touch with me.”
The shop was gloomy, only a low light on to show the few cuts of meat in the case. Vera was vigorously wiping the glass countertop.
“I suppose you’ll be spending Christmas with your lady friend?” she said.
Tyler forced himself not to react. “I presume you mean Clare? And the answer is probably not. To my knowledge she hasn’t returned to England yet.”
He wondered how Vera would react if she knew the contents of Clare’s last letter.
Vera swiped at the counter. “You’ll be alone, then?”
“Well, I’ve got a good sergeant, we share the house. He’s a widower. No family. We’ll probably spend the day together.”
Tyler was trying desperately to inject some levity into the conversation. To his astonishment, Vera’s expression softened.
“Be nice to see Janet, at least.”
“It will indeed.”
Tyler’s anger left abruptly and he felt a wave of sadness sweep over him. He and Vera had been married for nineteen years. They’d had two children together. It was an undissolvable bond.
He spoke quietly. “I understand you’ve been seeing a new fellow.”
Wrong thing to say! Vera’s softness vanished.
“So?”
“Nothing. I just wanted to say that I wish you every happiness.”
The bell sounded as another customer came in, and Vera’s professional smile reappeared immediately.
“Good morning, Mrs. Rowan.”
“I’ll be going then,” said Tyler. “I’m sorry,” he added ambiguously, not even sure himself what he was apologizing for. She didn’t look up.
—
Tyler made good time on the drive back to Ludlow, and the car held up, although speed seemed to come at the cost of the heater. As he turned into town he noted that two more black wreaths had appeared on front doors in Mill Street. Two more deaths. He made a mental note to find out who they were so he could visit the families. He was still working at getting to know his new territory. He almost smiled. His former chief constable had described the position of inspector as being a sort of secular vicar. “You should know all your parishioners, so to speak. The good and the not so good. And they should know you. I can’t fathom how cops in big cities manage. Here, at least, nobody should be a stranger.”
He parked the car, giving the dashboard another little pat of thanks. Maybe the thing needed a name. He’d ask Rowell.
The sergeant was behind the desk.
“Before you tell me what happened, I’m going to bring you a cuppa. You look like you’re perishing.”
“Thanks, Oliver. Bloody heater gave up the ghost on the way back.”
While the sergeant fussed with the kettle and teapot, Tyler removed his hat and coat and went over to the fire to thaw. “By the way, Oliver, I think the car would perform better if we gave it a name. What do you think?”
“I already have, sir,” Rowell called. “It’s Annabel. I named her after my grandmother. Same cussedness. You never knew which side of her you were going to get, the sweet old lady or the cranky curmudgeon.”
“All right. Let’s hope she doesn’t take after her namesake entirely.”
The sergeant came over with the tea tray. “I did bake some scones, sir. I was thinking you could have them later, at tea time, but would you like one now?”
“That would hit the spot all right.”
Like a magician pulling a rabbit out of his hat, Rowell plonked a small jar of jam on the tea tray.
“I’ve been saving it for Christmas, but I think it might be more appreciated today. It’s damson.”
“Homemade?”
“It is. And the plums are from the tree in my in-laws’ garden. Hmm. I’ll build up that fire. Be right back.”
He picked up the coal scuttle and trotted off downstairs to the cellar.
Tyler sat down in his chair. Recklessly he slathered jam on the scone and stuffed it in his mouth. Scrumptious. Washed down with a cup of strong tea, it was a feast fit for a king. Almost made him forget about rationing, the war, the weather, and the miserable death of an apparently harmless old man.
Rowell poked the fire into doing its job, and for a brief moment it blazed into a gratifying warmth.
“So what did Dr. Murnaghan have to say? Don’t tell me – it’s a suspicious death! You have that look about you, sir.”
“Do I indeed? Well done, Watson. Dr. Murnaghan has determined that Jasper was assaulted. He was stabbed. Died from exposure, but we’re looking at manslaughter.”
He explained what the coroner had told him. When he’d finished, Rowell shook his head sadly. “Who’d harm a pathetic old fellow like Jasper Cartwright? Off his rocker to boot. I can’t fathom it.”
“Nor me. But we have the unpleasant task of telling John Cartwright that his father was attacked. And, at the moment, we don’t have a clue who did it.”
Both men were silent while Tyler sipped his tea.
“I’ll need to take a couple of the constables with me. We didn’t give the hideout any attention first time around, never thinking we’d be dealing with a situation like this. We should get some photographs, at least.”
He removed the handkerchief from his pocket and showed Rowell the coin.
“It was in Jasper’s pocket.”
“That’s an old one for sure.”
“Charles I. According to Dr. Murnaghan, not a fortune but a nice little find nevertheless.”
“Maybe there’s more where that came from.”
“Could be. It was the only thing he had on him. I’ll see what the family has to say about it.”
Tyler noticed that the floor was unusually clean and shiny.
“That’s a good job the lads did.”
“It is, but that Wickers fellow is so cheeky I could slap him. He is just about to step over the line when he pulls back and becomes all sweetness and light. You can’t pin anything on him. The other one, Oldham, isn’t so bad. He’s just under Wickers’ thumb is the problem.”
“What time are they coming in today?”
“They’re not. Oldham rang to say they’ve both come down with terrible bad colds and have to stay indoors. They don’t want to spread their germs.”
“That’s thoughtful of them. Is it a crock?”
“Probably. Oldham sounded like he was all plugged up but that’s easy to fake. He just had to hold his nose.”
“Where was he calling from?”
“The Mohan place.”
“That’s the closest farm to the Cartwright one. I’ll need to have a chat with our chums.” Tyler put down his teacup. “Where’s the rest of the crew? Don’t tell
me they’re all off sick too.”
“No, sir. Constable Mortimer took it on herself to check on the two evacuee boys.”
“And Mady? Biggs?”
“They’re both out on the beat.”
“When are they due back?”
“In about thirty-five minutes.”
“Send them out to Bitterley, soon as they come in. They’ll have to bike. It’s miserable weather but I’ll need them.”
“Are you still intending to go into Shrewsbury, sir?”
Tyler bit his lip. “I am, but I think I’ll do some preliminary investigation here first.
“Oh, by the way, Oliver, would you check out the latest casualty list? I noticed two new wreaths on Mill Street. I should drop by and offer my condolences.”
“I will, sir. One of them must be at Mrs. Dawson’s. I know her son was missing in action.” He sighed. “Seems like she’s heard. Tragic, but at least now she knows for sure. Better that way.”
Tyler remembered his visit with Nuala Keogh. It was true what Rowell said: not knowing was the agony.
He headed for his office. “I’ll be right back.”
There was a toilet for Tyler’s personal use beside his office. He opened the door. The tiny room smelled of carbolic and also looked spotlessly clean. It really did seem as if the lads had done a good job.
He used the toilet and pulled the chain to flush. The water filled up in the bowl…and overflowed onto the floor.
What the hell?
There was nothing he could do except jump out of the way. The water stopped overflowing but was not draining at all. He went out.
“Oliver. The toilet’s blocked. It was perfectly all right yesterday. Why do I have the feeling our chummies might be responsible?”
Rowell shook his head in disbelief. “I shall investigate, sir.”
The door opened with a bang and Agnes Mortimer came in.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Morning, Constable. Leave your coat on. We’ve got to go out. Can you handle a camera?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“Beg pardon, sir?”
“You seem proficient at many things, Constable.”
“Do I, sir? Er, well, thank you.”
“The camera is kept in the storeroom cupboard. Sign it out with Sergeant Rowell. He’ll be right back. He’s just checking out the plumbing in my toilet.”
Dead Ground in Between Page 13
