The Dead Girl's Shoes

by Arney, Angela

  Hilda wouldn’t let either of them wake Amelia. ‘She’s taken tablets,’ she said. ‘And she’s not to be disturbed.’

  About half an hour later Simon arrived back from London. He was ashen faced. ‘I’ve heard the news,’ he said. ‘What do you know?’

  ‘Not much.’ Tom answered for Ruth. ‘It seems he collapsed down at the Eel Lodge, a stroke by all accounts. But we only really know what was broadcast on the TV. Ruth wants to wake your mother, but that dragon, Hilda Thorne, won’t let her. Says she’s been drugged by the doctor, and mustn’t be disturbed.’

  Simon didn’t reply, but ran upstairs to his mother’s room.

  ‘Looks as if waking her is an impossibility anyway,’ was his verdict on coming back down. He looked at his watch. ‘I’m going to tell Hilda to go home now, and I suggest we all get some sleep until the morning. Mother will wake then, I presume, and we can take it from there.’ He looked at Tom who nodded, then he turned to Ruth. ‘And for God’s sake could you stop snivelling, Ruth. You are driving me mad.’

  ‘I shall never be able to sleep,’ sobbed Ruth.

  ‘I’ll get you something from my lab,’ said Simon. ‘I’ve been working on sedatives made from Valerian flowers. I’ve got a solution that should knock you out.’

  ‘But you’re not a doctor,’ said Tom doubtfully. ‘I’m not sure. Supposing you poison her.’

  ‘I’m a chemist,’ he replied. ‘Doctors only prescribed stuff we chemists make. Besides,’ he added grimly, ‘if Ruth does snuff it, it will only be another one to add to the pile!’

  ‘How can you say that!’ said Tom.

  Simon didn’t answer. He left the room and went out to his lab in the garden. When he returned with a bottle of golden coloured liquid, he gave her two teaspoonful’s. Ruth didn’t object, she swallowed it obediently, and it seemed to work because soon she stopped weeping, and eventually went upstairs and fell asleep on her bed.

  Simon and Tom stayed in the kitchen and Tom made some cocoa. ‘What do you know about my father’s death?’ asked Simon. ‘I haven’t spoken to anyone official yet.’

  Tom shook his head. ‘Neither have we and Ruth refused to speak to anyone official, she just wanted to talk to her mother, and that’s been impossible. So we know nothing, except what we heard on the TV. Apparently, the police were involved because of the gun, which went off. However, it didn’t kill anyone. And your father definitely wasn’t shot. He died of natural causes so they said.’

  ‘I don’t understand why it made the TV news,’ said Simon. ‘Not if he died from natural causes.’

  ‘Because of the gun, and I suppose also because of the Villiers’ family name. Your cousin has just been murdered, and now…,’ Tom’s voice petered out.

  Simon was silent for a few moments then said, ‘I suppose you think I ought to be more upset about the old man’s death? Ruth obviously is. But then,’ he paused and heaved a sigh. ‘She was always his favourite. I never got a look in. I was his big disappointment because I didn’t want to become the Squire of Avon Hall, marry, have half a dozen children and carry on the tradition of the damned place.’

  Tom looked at him seriously. ‘You may not have wanted it, but you are the owner of Avon Hall now. At least I assume you are. Is the estate entailed?’

  Simon gave a bitter laugh. ‘Not really, but it’s tied up, for what it’s worth. The estate is separate from the money; and this means that I’ll have to work bloody hard to keep the old place going. Without money to go with the house and land it’s worthless. It will be a weight around my neck for the rest of my life. Ruth will be all right. I know he’s left her a sizeable lump.’

  ‘What would Jem have got? If she had lived?’

  ‘Peanuts! A small legacy I expect. She’s only my father’s niece, and her parents were penniless theatre people. She inherited nothing from them, except the name.’

  Tom collected Simon’s now empty cocoa cup, added it to his own and took them across to the dishwasher. ‘I’m going to kip down over there,’ he said, nodding at a battered sofa standing against the kitchen wall. ‘I wasn’t planning on staying the night when we came out, but it looks like I’ll have to.’

  Simon stood up and stretched. ‘OK. I’m going to my own bed.’ He started walking out from the kitchen. ‘By the way I can lend you anything you want in the morning. A pair of jeans and a Tee-shirt. We’re about the same size.’

  Tom raised his eyebrows. ‘I won’t need that. I can go back to Salisbury in the morning now that you’re here to keep Ruth company. Then I’ll come in and meet up with Maguire as requested. And by the way,’ Simon stopped in the kitchen doorway to listen, ‘I meant to tell you,’ Tom continued. ‘Jem’s old boyfriend turned up. He’s been summoned to appear before Maguire tomorrow morning. He’s not very happy about it.’

  ‘Fergus is never very happy about anything,’ said Simon, ‘I always wondered why Jem put up with him.’

  ‘Exactly,’ agreed Tom. ‘But apparently he was at that wretched perfume launch do, Jem fixed him up to meet some theatre director. So he’s in the picture like the rest of you.’

  ‘And you,’ pointed out Simon. ‘You are being interviewed by Maguire as well.’

  Tom shrugged. ‘No idea why. I was never near the damned Country House Hotel.’

  *

  Lizzie woke early the next morning. She had slept well. The sea air and a fish and chip supper in the seaside café with Maguire had done her good. Adam had been good company, and once her own initial bad mood had evaporated and they had both relaxed a little, the evening was enjoyable. Of course, they’d talked about the current case. He’d updated her on some details which she’d missed, telling her how he had found the evidence of Jemima’s body being carried along the footpath through the woods into Avon Hall gardens.

  ‘I was hopeful that forensics would find more, and that would then lead us to the perpetrator of the murder,’ he said. ‘But apart from Tess discovering the shoe in the undergrowth at the side of the path when she was with me, nothing else was found. Dave Harvey’s visit was a waste of time.’

  ‘Yes, so Steve told me. The trail went cold as they say,’ said Lizzie thoughtfully, ‘until you found Jemima’s letter and that put you on to Harold Villiers.’

  Adam nodded glumly. ‘And now he’s dead so he can’t tell us much!’

  At that point, the waitress came over with the wine list. Maguire took it. ‘Enough shop talk now,’ he said. ‘Let’s concentrate on the wine.’

  They ordered an Italian Pinot Grigio blush, Lizzie’s favourite. ‘We can take what we don’t drink back with us,’ said Lizzie. ‘I’ll keep it in my fridge, although I warn you it won’t last long in my house.’

  ‘Rosemary didn’t drink much,’ said Adam suddenly. Lizzie looked at him quizzically; he didn’t normally volunteer much personal information. She didn’t reply but let him continue. ‘I always felt guilty about drinking when I was out with her,’ he said. ‘She often had no alcohol so that she could do the driving.’

  ‘Good heavens, she sounds an absolute saint,’ said Lizzie. ‘I couldn’t bear to be so virtuous.’ Immediately she regretted the remark. It sounded bitchy. ‘I need it to relax,’ she added hastily. ‘One of my sins, I suppose you could say, and my ex-husband certainly liked his wine.’

  Adam pulled a face. ‘I did sometimes feel guilty,’ he admitted. ‘I felt guilty because I was enjoying something she couldn’t have.’

  ‘Nothing to feel guilty about, if she’d wanted wine she could have had it,’ said Lizzie briskly. ‘A little of what you fancy does you good. Isn’t that what they say?’

  Rosemary wasn’t mentioned again, but it didn’t stop Lizzie wondering about her.

  *

  Now, as she was showering and getting ready for work the next day, Lizzie thought about their conversation. Everyone thought Adam Maguire had lost the love of his life when Rosemary had died, but now Lizzie began to have doubts. She’d been to his house a few times. For supper once – a Marks and
Spencer’s ready meal plus wine – and then a couple of times for a quick coffee before collecting Tess for a forest walk. Each time she’d noticed how everything was so neat and tidy, and to use Louise’s words – she’d accompanied her mother once - so totally without any character whatsoever. In fact, she’d had to aim a kick at Louise’s ankles when she’d stood before a coloured print on the wall in the hall and groaned; it was bright green and was of an Asian girl with long hair, a print popular in the 1950s. Lizzie knew exactly what Louise thought of it and was worried that she might actually blurt out her opinion.

  Afterwards, luckily when they were alone, she did. ‘My God! How can anyone bear to have that monstrosity on the wall,’ she said.

  ‘He probably doesn’t even notice it,’ said Lizzie, and was pretty sure she was right.

  Yes, Adam’s house was not a comfortable or welcoming place. Somehow, she didn’t think Adam and Rosemary had done much entertaining, but it was not something she could ask about.

  However, she put all such idle thoughts from her mind when she saw the time. Nearly 8.30 am. The practice was having an admin meeting at 9.00 am. She would have to get a move on; she needed to be there, as she wanted to push through a new system for online repeat prescriptions. Something Dick Jamieson was dead set against, so there was bound to be a battle. Backing the car from the garage at the side of Silver Cottage, she shot down the narrow track at the side of her garden that led to the small B road passing the cottage. Stopping to see if anything was coming before pulling out she noticed the small white - well he would have been white if he’d had a bath – dog further down the road. He was barking and running backwards and forwards in a worried manner. Lizzie pulled the car across to where he was and parked on the grass verge. He instantly ran up to her, and then ran away again through the bracken, immediately reappearing as if waiting for her to follow, which she did.

  Lizzie knew that the path opposite which the dog followed led to Bennison Enclosure, a lonely place and a haven for deer and other wild life. She walked that way sometimes and had never met anyone. The dog looked familiar but Lizzie couldn’t think why. She didn’t know anyone with such a dirty looking animal! He was getting more and more agitated. Ahead of her was a piece of tarpaulin, rigged up in the rough form of a tent between some hazel canes which had been lashed together, and tied around something which had wheels. The dog rushed up to it and dashed inside beneath the cover. There was a person inside, but she could only see the feet. They were sticking out from the end of the tent, and the feet were wearing odd shoes. One foot, the right one, was clad with a filthy trainer, the left foot was wearing a black leather ballet type shoe with daisies sewn across the front. It looked very peculiar.

  Lizzie immediately realized that she’d come across Nellie Barnaby, and that was the reason she’d recognised the dog. It was Roger. She’d witnessed both of them being turfed out from behind the stalls on the High Street on market day. Roger was now looking at her with a very anxious and expectant expression.

  ‘All right, old boy,’ she said, fondling one dirty ear. ‘You’ve got help now.’ Bending down she looked into the tent. ‘Nellie,’ she called. ‘It’s Dr Browne. Are you all right?’

  It was a daft question. She knew that straight away. If she had been all right, her little dog wouldn’t be so frantic. Maybe she was just drunk and asleep, or dead! Lizzie didn’t linger too long on that possibility. She had heard that she was often drunk, and that homemade scrumpy was her favourite tipple when she could get her hands on it. There was no answer, and with a sinking heart, Lizzie crawled into the tent to find out what the problem was. Dropping to her knees, she edged slowly towards Nellie’s inert form. The tent was hot and smelly; it smelled of alcohol, general filth and other noxious scents; it was difficult not to gag, but Lizzie gritted her teeth and reached Nellie’s head. Well, she assumed it was Nellie, she couldn’t actually see who it was. There was not much light, but she felt around and found a leathery neck by digging down through the layers of clothing. She also found a pulse, quite a strong one. At least the occupant of the tent was alive. ‘Nellie,’ she hissed.

  Nellie groaned. ‘Damned snare,’ she muttered indistinctly. ‘Twisted my bloody leg. Shouldn’t be allowed. Bloody gamekeepers, they know they’re illegal. They’re not supposed to set snares.’

  ‘Nellie,’ said Lizzie again. ‘Can you hear me?’ The answer seemed to be an affirmative groan, so she said, ‘I’m going to get help.’

  Not waiting to hear anything else, Lizzie crawled backwards into the fresh air. Roger sat at the entrance to the tent and looked at her. ‘You’re a good little dog,’ she said. ‘Everyone could do with a guardian angel like you, even if you do smell to high heaven.’ She picked up her phone and called the police and ambulance, and then called Adam on his mobile. He was about to set off for Stibbington station. ‘I know where the other shoe belonging to Jemima is,’ she told him. ‘It’s on the foot of Nellie Barnaby.’

  *

  Simon and Tom, in the kitchen at Avon Hall, were making coffee and toast. ‘I’ll take some up to Ruth,’ said Tom. ‘Then I’m not sure what we should do next.’

  ‘Well, I suppose we will all have to go down to the police station and find out what has actually happened,’ replied Simon. ‘I know my mother will tell us, but I’d prefer to have it in plain simple English from the police, not some hysterical, garbled version from my mother.’

  Tom thought Simon was being very hard hearted about the death of his father, but said nothing. He disappeared upstairs carrying a tray up to Ruth. He heard the phone ring, and Simon answering it. Meanwhile he found Ruth awake, and not very grateful for her breakfast tray.

  ‘I don’t want anything,’ she said.

  Tom put down the tray and regarded her with some exasperation. ‘Look love, I know how you must be feeling.’

  ‘You don’t know,’ snapped Ruth. ‘You can’t possibly know.’

  Tom ignored her comment and carried on. ‘You’ve got to face up to things as they are. We all have to face up to them. So have something to eat and drink, get dressed and then we will talk to your mother. Later we’ll talk to the police.’ He turned and left the room, just as Simon yelled up the stairs from the kitchen doorway.

  ‘Hey Tom. The police think they’ve found your car. They want you to go and have a look. For some reason I don’t understand, they have it down at Stibbington Police Station, in the forensic department there. They want to speak to you now to make an appointment for you to go down to the yard at the back of the station.’

  Tom left Ruth balancing the tray on her knees and clattered down the stairs.

  *

  Steve Grayson was eating his usual enormous bowl of muesli and pondering on the fact that Phineas Merryweather had phoned him the night before. ‘It’s strange that old Phineas wanted to ask me, me of all people, what Maguire was doing last night,’ he told Ann. ‘And although he said it was nothing that couldn’t wait until today, I have a feeling that it was very important.’

  ‘Never mind about that,’ said Ann. ‘Just keeping feeding the baby as well as yourself, while I make the coffee. I’m running late this morning. It’s my turn to help out at the day nursery.’

  Steve obediently took a spoonful of baby food and ladled it, rather inexpertly, into George’s open mouth. He still hadn’t quite got the hang of feeding him. It was a matter of luck where the sloppy mixture actually ended up, but he persevered and was thankful when Ann announced that she could take over, as the coffee was ready.

  Grabbing a mug of coffee he stood up, kissed Ann on the forehead, and George on the one clean spot he could find, the top of his head, and retreated from the kitchen still drinking his coffee,. ‘Got to go,’ he said. ‘Not sure when I’ll be back.’ He drained the last of his coffee.

  ‘You never are,’ said Ann. But she smiled. Being married to a policeman had taught her never to expect a definite answer to anything. ‘And if you will drink hot coffee like that you’ll end up with a stom
ach ulcer.’

  ‘Got a cast-iron stomach, love,’ said Steve and slammed the kitchen door behind him.

  *

  On the other side of Stibbington, in the small flat next door to the Infirmary, now called Stibbington General Hospital, but still called the “Infirmary” by all the local inhabitants, Kevin Harrison reached out a hand and stopped his alarm ringing. He’d been out playing darts the night before at The Turf Cutters’ Arms in the forest, and had drunk too much local cider. It was made by the landlord, Pete Beeson, and was much stronger than the stuff bought in from the brewery. Kevin wished now he’d not drunk any at all, and staggering to his kitchen made himself an enormous cup of tea. He let it stand while he took a power shower to wake himself; drinking the tea as he dressed, then retrieved his bike from the side shed and left. He didn’t want to be late this morning of all mornings, he had a feeling that Maguire was going to draw all the threads they’d gathered together between them, and maybe solve the case. For his own part, Kevin was still perplexed. It seemed to him that each bit of information they’d acquired pointed in a different direction. Maybe Maguire, with the benefit of years of experience, could make sense of it. He certainly couldn’t.

  *

  At Stibbington station Maguire had just settled himself into his office when his personal mobile rang. It was Lizzie. She told him about the shoe and Nellie Barnaby. ‘She’s in A & E at the moment,’ she added. ‘I think she may have a broken leg.’

  ‘Will she be admitted?’

  ‘Not if the casualty officer or sister here has anything to do with it, but they will have to if the leg is broken,’ said Lizzie. ‘I feel sorry for Nellie. No one wants her, but then you can’t blame them as she stinks to high heaven. I think they’ll clean up the leg, x-ray it and then plaster it.’

  ‘ And then what?’

  ‘Social services will take over. It’s the dog I’m worried about. Dear little mutt, he saved her life you know, and I have him in my car at the moment. He’s a lovely old thing, but I do wish he didn’t smell so.’