‘Sergeant Bridgstock, good morning. You got here in good time.’
‘Came over with the doctor, in his car here, me and PC Kitchin, soon as we got the telephone message from your sergeant. I thought it best not to do anything until you came back, like.’
‘Not a great deal any of us can do, I fancy. We’ll have to wait for the back-up now.’
Which meant the arrival of the photographer, the fingerprint man, the ambulance and all the accompanying paraphernalia increasingly associated with the discovery of a suspicious death, much as Reardon would have preferred to be left alone for longer to digest the implications of this second one. Nowadays forensic evidence was playing an ever more important part in the detection of crime and it was useless, not to say backward-thinking, to deny the forward march of progress. Not when so much could now be scientifically proved – although he would be the last to wish to disregard the old, tried and tested methods of observation, the patient questioning of suspects, the application of ordinary common sense and even the much despised gut feeling that as policemen they weren’t supposed to rely on.
‘They should be here at any time now. And Sergeant Gilmour will be with us shortly.’ Having returned from Bryn Glas, Gilmour was now occupied with his own bacon butty.
‘The doctor’s with the body in the cellar, sir.’
The low door in the corner of the shop opened in a highly dangerous manner, without any sort of landing, on to the precipitous flight of stone steps that led to the cellar. Reardon trod gingerly down, stepping carefully aside when he reached the bottom to avoid the splayed body which the doctor was busy examining, by the light of candles that had been begged, borrowed or stolen. In a ghastly parody of some Danse Macabre, the eerie light they generated threw huge, leaping shadows on to the whitewashed walls every time the doctor and the constable standing in attendance nearby moved.
This time it wasn’t Fairlie who was doing the honours, but another doctor, an elderly, grey-haired man with a small toothbrush moustache, wearing gold-rimmed glasses and rubber gloves. He barely glanced up from his kneeling position by the body. ‘John Emerson,’ he introduced himself briefly. Reardon immediately recognized the name as being that of the pathologist who had carried out the autopsy on Penrose Llewellyn.
‘DI Reardon.’
The doctor raised his head from what he was doing and gave him a quick look. ‘Good to meet you – you’re the man here on the Llewellyn case?’
‘That’s right. Dr Fairlie not around?’
‘They tried to get him, but he’s not back from a call out.’ Levering himself upright, he remarked drily, ‘We’re about to make history – two cases like this within a week in a place the size of Hinton. Queer sort of coincidence. This’ll set the tongues wagging.’
‘Cases like what, doctor?’
Emerson said, after a pause, ‘I can’t properly see what the devil I’m doing in this light, but frankly, from what I can see, I don’t like it. His injuries aren’t consistent with simply falling down those steps, damned dangerous though they are. His neck’s broken all right, but there’s also this nasty wound on his temple, yet there’s not much blood anywhere around … not enough anyway – head wounds like this bleed a lot, as you must know. Did he fall or was he pushed? I won’t state unequivocally until I’ve examined him properly, but I’d say you’re going to have to start looking for someone who had it in for this poor devil.’
The possibility of accident hadn’t even occurred to Reardon. He couldn’t imagine any reason compelling enough for anyone to leave his bed and go down the cellar steps – especially these steps, a deathtrap if ever he’d seen one – in the middle of a freezing cold night. And where was the candle or matches he’d have needed if he had started to come down here and then just tripped? And if he had fallen, why had the door at the top been closed? A more likely scenario was that someone with nefarious intent had managed to pick the lock of the shop door at some time during the night, forgetting, or not knowing, that the shop doorbell was spring-activated to ring when the door was pushed open; Murfitt coming downstairs to investigate, pausing only to thrust his feet into a pair of socks, and meeting the person who had turned out to be his killer: the man – or woman – Parslowe had seen. The snag to that was that there didn’t appear to be any signs of forced entry. And what about the dog, Tolly? His basket was in the shop and presumably he slept there. At what point had the killer imprisoned him in the storeroom? And possibly how? Reardon asked himself, thinking of the strength of that high energy, muscular little body.
Emerson stood up and snapped off his rubber gloves. ‘He hasn’t been dead long. I’d go so far as to say only a few hours, can’t make it more specific.’ He was being cautious, as they all were, these doctors, about the notorious difficulty of establishing a time of death. ‘And I suppose you want to know what weapon? You could make a start by looking for the traditional blunt instrument – or perhaps not so blunt, something with a flat round top, but heavy. And used with considerable force.’
He indicated the wound on Murfitt’s right temple – deep, with several strands of the victim’s hair plastered across it. Splinters of bone showed through the exposed flesh and other matter, and the weapon had caught and torn the cartilage at the top of his ear. Dried blood covered his face and had soaked into the neck and shoulders of his pyjamas, but as Emerson had noted, there appeared to be little on the steps or the flagstones where he lay. Had he been killed and then thrown down the cellar steps, or thrown down first and afterwards dealt the blow that had killed him? In any case, why the cellar at all? The idea of it as a hiding place was daft. In a small property like this, there was no possibility that a body could remain hidden for long.
Whatever the weapon that had caused such a wound, it hadn’t been left lying around, either here or upstairs. The viciously cold cellar was singularly bare, and very small. Nothing at all had been kept here, not even the miscellaneous junk that often accumulated in cellars. A couple of mousetraps, last resting places for their long deceased and mummified occupants, sat on a stone slab primarily designed for helping to keep meat, milk and the like cool, though no meat-safe or anything similar had stood there for a long time. The slab was covered in a layer of coal dust.
‘A coal hammer?’ Reardon suggested.
‘Distinct possibility.’
He walked to the door at the end of the cellar and peered in. It seemed there had been a recent coal delivery, but it was almost impossible to see anything properly. A heavy hammer, the sort often used for breaking up lumps too big to go on the fire as they were – or any other weapon, for that matter – might well have been tossed in there, or even buried under the coal to hide it. ‘Nice job for someone, sifting through that lot,’ he remarked.
Constable Kitchin, to whom the remark was addressed, managed a grin. ‘Yessir.’ As long as it’s not me, his tone managed to convey.
But this didn’t have the hallmarks of a planned murder where the killer came prepared with a means of dispatch, more like a rage-induced attack, the snatching up of whatever was nearest to hand as a weapon. A coal hammer might fit the bill, but it was hard to imagine why Murfitt and his killer would have gone down into the cellar before such a confrontation.
The main question was, however, why? Why, indeed, had Murfitt been murdered at all? A chance intruder, intent on burgling the shop, was hardly on the cards. What was there to burgle? Second-hand books, and little, if anything, in the till? Unless the thief had some prior knowledge of something kept in the storeroom where Murfitt had said he kept his more valuable stock.
‘Well, the best of luck,’ Emerson said as he prepared to go. ‘I’ll let you have my report as soon as possible, but don’t expect any surprises.’
Reardon followed him up the steps. Bridgstock left with the doctor, after promising the extra manpower that would now be needed from Wyvering. A couple of constables would do, one at a pinch. Reardon walked to the desk where Murfitt had been working and sat down in the chair to
wait for Gilmour. His hand went out to the ‘till’ – nothing more than an old, square Oxo tin, a locked box evidently having been thought unnecessary, since all it contained was a ten-shilling note, three half-crowns, a sixpence and a few pennies.
Two murders, within as many days. Coincidence, the doctor had said. If he believed that, Reardon did not. Nor was it inconceivable that the two victims – Pen Llewellyn and Adrian Murfitt – had met their deaths at the hands of the same person. Whoever Pen’s killer was, had he been afraid that Murfitt knew his identity and had therefore dispatched him, too? Although it was unworthy, he felt a jolt of adrenalin that this second murder might, just possibly, be the break they needed, the lucky chance that could lead to the solving of the deadlocked first. At any rate, Cherry would have to do without his two officers for a bit longer.
And yet, if there was a connection between the two victims, so far nothing more than the buying and selling of old books had emerged. He groaned inwardly at the implications. The rarefied world of specialist book collecting was as mysterious to him as the workings of the universe. But one thing he’d bet his pension on: if Murfitt had had anything in that storeroom valuable enough to provide a motive for murdering him, it wouldn’t be there now. Could he possibly have left behind anything so useful as an inventory? Looking around at the disorganized state of the shop, he decided he wouldn’t hold his breath about that. The storeroom, where Murfitt had said the books of any consequence had been kept, might give some indication for such a motive, but it would need someone more expert than he was to assess their worth.
He shuffled though the papers on the desk, about a dozen loose sheets held down by a brass paperweight and an expensive, gold-plated fountain pen. Poetry, as Murfitt had said. Being forced to learn reams of it by heart at school had stifled any desire in Reardon to read it for pleasure in later years, though Ellen had from time to time tried to interest him. Mostly it didn’t do anything for him, except for some of the war poets, and that had to be because the sentiments tallied much with his own experiences. Although they had moved him in a way other poetry signally failed to do, he knew himself still unqualified to judge the good from the bad. Ellen might understand this stuff of Murfitt’s; he didn’t.
He didn’t bother to read it all, but folded the pages together and slipped them into his inside pocket, then went across to look through the shelves. Murfitt had given no indication of whether he was published or not, but his search for a slim volume among the other books produced no result. Perhaps he would in time have come to realize he had a better future as a book dealer – had any sort of future not been denied him.
EIGHTEEN
Carey, with the restlessness that had consumed her ever since her homecoming, and finding it unbearable to be indoors, had taken herself out for a long walk. Not choosy about direction, she had let her footsteps eventually lead her down Nether Bank towards the river. At the bottom she stopped and leant against the stone parapet of the ancient bridge, looking down into the capricious though today quiescent river, grey and oily as it slid on its way to join the Severn. Her mind was confusingly full of the hateful thing that had been discovered in Hinton that morning, an inexplicable kind of dread, all mixed up with worries about things she must do before she left, people she must face.
As if on cue, her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Gerald Fairlie’s motor car on the other side of the bridge. He stopped and drew into the side when he saw her, then came to stand beside her. ‘Carey. What are you doing here?’
‘I needed some fresh air to clear my head. Things seem to be so … oh, I don’t know … that awful thing that’s happened at the bookshop … I suppose they sent for you?’
‘They did but they couldn’t reach me. Emerson from Wyvering has seen to it.’
They spoke for a while about the news which, from the time early that morning when Adrian Murfitt’s dead body was discovered, had spread like a bush fire through Hinton. ‘Exaggerated, no doubt,’ he said with a wry smile. As usual, talking to sane and sensible Gerald brought a sense of proportion to the events, the feeling that things would be taken care of. ‘But I’m afraid,’ he said cautiously in answer to her questioning, ‘the police are treating it as a suspicious death.’
‘Suspicious? Oh, heavens! What’s happening, Gerald? What’s happening in peaceful Hinton? First Pen, and now this?’
He stiffened at the mention of Pen and she bit her lip. That had been tactless. She knew that Gerald regarded the enquiry into his death as a slur on his professional integrity, all the worse because Pen had stood so high in his regard. But he merely said, ‘It’s nasty – but thank goodness it’s nothing that need concern you, Carey my dear.’
She shivered a little. ‘Only in so far as it concerns everyone who lives here.’ Now wasn’t perhaps the best time, but she couldn’t put off any longer telling him of her plans to leave Hinton. ‘As a matter of fact, I shan’t be here much longer, anyway. I’ve made up my mind … I’m leaving Hinton for good, Gerald.’
She guessed he had been half expecting it but, Gerald-like, his face had taken on that set, closed expression that hid his feelings. He was a good person but too nice and polite ever to show what he really felt; it must be hard for him to tell his patients what they must sometimes know. The knuckles of his hands were white now where they rested on the rough stone parapet. ‘You don’t need to leave at all, you know that,’ he said at last, gruffly, as if the words had been dragged from somewhere deep. ‘I’ll risk saying it again … I can’t offer you much as the wife of a country doctor, but—’
‘Please, Gerald.’ These were deep waters, deep enough to engulf her if she let them. ‘Please, don’t.’
In the days before her mother’s last illness had made it impossible, she had worked for Gerald, as his receptionist. He dispensed his own medicines for the everyday ailments that afflicted the people of Hinton and the surrounding district, and he’d taught her how to roll pills or measure out and make up medicines, how to dress and bandage minor wounds, all of which she’d been more than happy to do, conscious that it took a weight off his shoulders. She was sorry for him, alone in that great house he could no longer afford the upkeep for, and struggling with managing his practice. He had come to depend on her, but when it began to be more than that, she’d known it was time to leave. Her mother’s growing dependence on her had provided the excuse.
The cancer, however, had come unexpectedly, and finally finished Muriel off. Pen had begged Carey to let him find a nurse but the sense of obligation she always felt towards Muriel had made her refuse. Pen had helped so much, coming to sit by her bedside, and he’d been with her at the end, which had come while Carey, exhausted, had been persuaded to snatch some rest. She’d been wakened by a gentle hand on her shoulder. Gerald had popped in to administer the morphine Muriel needed but he had been too late. She had died five minutes earlier.
Since then she had felt a sense of obligation to both of them, to Pen and to Gerald for what they had done. But not an obligation to sacrifice her life …
‘I’m sorry, Gerald, but it would never do, you know. But I shall always be very fond of you,’ she said softly.
‘Fond.’
How crass that sounded, when she would really like to say she did love him very much – in every way except the way he wanted. But that would only hurt him more. ‘I’ll keep in touch, Gerald, I can never forget everything you’ve done for me – and for what you did for my mother.’
‘I would do more than that, for you, much more. You know that,’ he said, his face bleak.
A horse-drawn wagon, heavily laden with what looked like sacks of grain began to cross the narrow bridge and they were forced to draw into the side, into one of the passing places. When the cart had gone, he was once more the same earnest, kind Gerald. ‘Let me give you a lift home. I wouldn’t be surprised if we had some snow before long.’
NINETEEN
Gilmour, now fed and primed for action, presently joined Reardon in the book
shop. He listened intently while Reardon brought him up to date with what Emerson had said, and what he’d thought so far. ‘Before the circus arrives, I’d like us to go through the place more thoroughly. Have a look in the cellar first and then upstairs. It’s not going to take long and I’d appreciate another opinion. Watch how you go down those cellar steps. We don’t want you at the bottom as well.’
Gilmour grinned to himself, imagining the forensic team’s reaction to being regarded as circus performers, and at the warning. But he took the advice and went cautiously down the steps and, with the aid of his flashlight, looked at the face of the man he had last met trying to take him down a peg when he’d only been attempting to make sense of the information about those old books Theo Llewellyn was so interested in. The beam of light revealed a face now devoid of superciliousness – or anything else, except the marks of his death. Despite the instant dislike he’d taken to the man, his gut wrenched. Nobody deserved this.
After he’d taken in what he could see of the cellar, and feeling surprisingly shaken by what he’d encountered, he next went up to Murfitt’s bedroom to gather what little there was to be gained, before clattering back down the carpetless stairs.
Reardon was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, thinking. The kitchen, far too small to have served as a living room as well, was as comfortless a place as the spartan bedroom. There was a red, quarry-tiled floor with only a thin, cheap, Turkey-patterned mat. A straight-backed wooden chair drawn up to a card table covered with oilcloth, a sink in the corner with a cupboard above. One sagging armchair covered in greasy green plush, with its stuffing escaping and an untidy pile of left-wing weeklies on the floor beside it. Thin cotton curtains with a design that had long since faded into nothing but blurs. Maybe Murfitt had grown accustomed to such privations during his years as a conscientious objector … or was it a denial of an upbringing he’d come to despise? An obviously educated man with a public school accent, the few clothes he had possessed were of superior quality, if somewhat the worse for wear. Shirts from Jermyn Street, Lobb handmade shoes. Those fancy pyjamas. The suitcase holding his underclothes had been real leather, not cheap cardboard. His only other possessions appeared to have been his stock of books, the paper on which to write his poems, and the expensive, gold-plated fountain pen.
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