‘Let’s just leave that for another day, shall we?’ Vernon advised, hiding his shock at this accusatory statement. ‘I think you’ve had enough to deal with today. Now, get that drink down you, and get off to sleep. There’s nothing that looks so bad after a good long sleep.’
Five minutes later Vernon Warlock was walking briskly down Market Darley Road towards the High Street, his original plan when closing early for the day now abandoned. With what he had just learned, he was off to have a chat with good old Charlie Rainbird. They were birds of a feather, those two, and maybe they could flock together for an hour or so that evening at Charlie’s place. Mill Cottage was a little more off the beaten track than Vine Cottage, and their consultation therefore less likely to attract notice.
Dimity’s last statement still echoed round his mind, however, and he found it difficult to take it in: Hermione the writer of those beastly letters? Why, that meant that she was morally responsible for Gabriel Pryor’s suicide, and he just couldn’t imagine his old friend indulging in anything so sordid or cruel. But, if there was physical evidence, and Dimity had said she had actually seen a letter in Hermione’s faithful old typewriter, then he may have to believe it in the end, but he would never understand how, or why she would do such a thing.
III
Monica Raynor had been glued to the window of her estate agency for a little over five minutes, before Quentin noticed her, and asked what there was out there that was so fascinating that she couldn’t take her eyes off it.
Without even a hint of losing her temper at the sarcastic tone in which he had phrased his question, she answered, ‘There’s something going on at The Spinney, but I can’t work out what it is.’
‘What do you mean, something going on? What could possibly be going on over there?’
‘I don’t know, but there’re a lot of cars outside, including a police patrol car, and a uniformed constable has just placed himself in the middle of the drive, down by the gates.’
‘Here, let me see!’ Quentin didn’t have a bone in his body that would have recognised embarrassment, and he gaped through the glass like a kid at an aquarium.
‘You could at least have the decency to stand back a little bit. If you stand any closer to the window, the nice policeman will be able to see your tongue hanging out,’ she admonished her husband for his blatant nosiness.
But her embarrassment meter was about to register dangerous levels before exploding, for Quentin actually left the office, crossed the road, and engaged the policeman in conversation. How he had the nerve she did not know, but her suddenly ruddy complexion cleared a little, as she realised that he might come back with all the gen about what was going on over there, and she would know as much as he had found out, without looking like a complete arse-hole and nosy parker. Although they didn’t often occur, there were definite, if infrequent, benefits to being married to a veritable ‘sticky beak’, as she believed the Australians termed it.
Of course, he made her beg for it when he returned, success written all over his smug, smirking face, and he spent some time telling her how helpful and polite PC Green had been, when approached for information, and how forthcoming he had been with said information, because he knew that it would be common knowledge very soon, so there was no reason at all why he couldn’t tell the concerned gentleman, what had occurred at The Spinney.
‘Come on, Quentin! You’ve made such a meal out of it that you must be on to the brandy and cigars by now. Just tell me before my head blows up with pent-up curiosity. What the hell’s going on over there?’
‘All right, I give in. I might as well tell you, before that bloody old gossip Tilly Gifford phones up and steals my thunder.’
‘And?’ she prompted him, as he had taken a rather protracted pause, and she had found herself holding her breath. ‘Tell me, you unspeakably smug git!’
‘Old Grayling’s dead!’
‘She can’t be!’
‘Oh yes she can. And she is. Apparently Dimity Pryor found her when she nipped over for a quick chat. The old girl was as dead as a dodo at her writing desk, with the best part of a poison pen letter in front of her, in that wreck of an old typewriter of hers.’
‘No!?’
‘True!’ Quentin was loving being the bearer of dramatic tidings, and he determined to string it out as long as possible. It wasn’t often his wife actually listened to anything he said, so he would enjoy it while he could.
‘What was it? Heart attack?’
‘Nope! Try again.’
‘Massive stroke?’
‘Nope! Try again.’
‘Quentin, if you don’t tell me immediately, I shall phone Tilly Gifford, and have it hand-fed to me, and covered in chocolate.’ She would phone Tilly anyway, to see if she had any more details, working as she did at the surgery, but Tilly wouldn’t be home just yet, and Monica wanted to know now. ‘Brain haemorrhage? There you are, that’s three guesses. You have to tell me now.’
‘Well, it wasn’t exactly a brain haemorrhage …’
‘Don’t tease, or I’ll kick you in the nuts; I really will, and you’d better believe me.’ The suspense was really getting to his wife now, and he knew she would prove as good as her word, so he gave in and provided the last of the information he had managed to elicit from PC Green.
‘Billhook in the head!’
‘No!?’
‘Really! I’m not joking,’ he reassured her. ‘And I’m sure that nice constable wouldn’t lie to me. It would be more than his job’s worth if he did, and I complained. Oh, and get this – she was the author of the poison pen letters. And Pervy Pryor only went and committed suicide because of one of them, didn’t he?’ Without waiting for an answer from her, he continued, ‘And if she hadn’t been murdered, they’d have done her for the letters and being the cause of a suicide, and our wonderful, famous authoress would’ve ended up in clink.’
‘And it really was her that wrote all those letters? Those two letters, I mean, although these things usually occur in bunches or whatever, don’t they?’ She had nearly dropped the ball there. She should have shut up straight away, without saying anything daft about there being just the two letters. She’d almost mentioned the one she’d received, and given herself away. She’d have to watch her mouth in future. Whoever had killed Hermione Grayling had probably received such a communication, and it had sent them over the edge. Hadn’t Gabriel Pryor killed himself after getting one?
‘Looks like it, my sweet. But don’t worry about an alibi. I’ll tell the police you were here with me all day.’
‘What do you mean? Why should I need an alibi?’
‘Because I’ve been hunting around for your secret stash of fags, my little duckling, and one of the places I looked was in the pockets of your dressing gown. But don’t let it worry you. We were both involved in that little deal, so I’m not about to cut my own throat, am I?’
For once, Monica was speechless. So he’d already known about the letter! She hoped he wouldn’t get any ideas about trying to pin this murder on her, or even hint to the police that she had received a letter. He would know it was all nonsense, of course, but he’d have a good old laugh up his sleeve watching her squirm, and trying to talk herself out of the frame, while he denied all knowledge of the contents of her dressing gown pocket with the sweetest of smiles on his dishonest little face.
Taking a key from her handbag, she unlocked a drawer in her desk, and withdrew a half-empty packet of cigarettes and a lighter. If she’d ever needed a cigarette in her life, she needed one now.
As she lit up, Quentin, who had returned to his observation post at the window, called over his shoulder, ‘I think they’re taking the body away now.’
‘Well, don’t you get any fancy ideas about not giving me an alibi, buddy, because I could do exactly the same to you. And it was you who pointed out that the letter referred to a deal that both of us were involved in. Instead of threatening me, you should be taking care of me: making sure I don’t
go shooting off at the mouth.’
‘That piece of string’s got two ends, Mon, and we both nipped out for a few minutes earlier. Let’s just call a truce, and keep out of each other’s way till this whole distasteful situation blows over, eh?’
‘Done!’ agreed Monica, knowing it was the best deal she was likely to get in the circumstances.
IV
As Quentin was having a good goggle at the mortuary van, Craig Crawford turned the corner from Tuppenny Lane into the Market Darley Road. He had tried again, in vain, to change his library books, but he had found the building locked up and in darkness for the second day in a row. Being a rather cowardly young man, he had decided not to confront Noah and Patience, and maybe engender bad feeling between them, but he was determined to phone the County Council, as a concerned, and not a little disgruntled, library user, to find out what the hell was going on, if they even knew themselves what the situation was.
His angry and self-centred thoughts completely left his mind, however, when he saw the plethora of vehicles outside The Spinney, and the policeman on duty at the road end of the drive. He had to cross the road at some point, as his house was the other side of the Ox and Plough, so he might as well cross it now, and have a word with the policeman outside, about what was going on.
Nothing much ever happened in Steynham St Michael, and after the suicide of his comrade-in-cards, it looked like there was something else afoot now. What fun, he thought, with the callousness of the young, and mentally rubbed his hands together.
PC Green greeted him courteously, understanding perfectly well that his function this afternoon was to repel all boarders, whether members of the public or – heaven help him! – representatives of the press. He had been instructed in how much information he was allowed to give, and passed this on, now to a second eager seeker-of-knowledge. He didn’t give a hoot how many people came to question him, so long as they didn’t try to enter the premises. He had his orders, after all.
Five minutes later, curiosity satisfied, Craig Crawford headed towards Cedars and home, his mind now totally distracted from his unchanged library books. They were all murder mysteries, his favourite genre, and here was a real life murder mystery, practically on his own doorstep. Whoever could be responsible?
As he went indoors and headed for the kitchen to make himself a pot of tea, he felt an involuntary tingle of excitement, and then felt ashamed, as it concerned the death of another. But, then, what the hell! Frissons of excitement didn’t exactly come his way every day of the week, and he might as well enjoy the puzzle of who was responsible while he could. It wasn’t as if they had been bosom buddies, or anything like that: he’d just played cards in the same group as her and, to be quite honest, he found her rather intimidating.
V
Monica Raynor, assessing all the implications of Hermione’s demise, and never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, waited until Quentin was ‘washing his hands’ and then slipped out of the office and round to her car in the tarmacked area at the rear of the building, its access being from Tuppenny Lane and invisible from the office windows.
Before Quentin could come out looking for her, she put the car into gear and sped off in the direction of Prince Albert Terrace. If she remembered right, old Potty Pounce always ‘did’ for Hermione in shifts that had crossed over the ones she had originally done for Monica. Well, she’d already bagged back her services, maybe she could bag back her old hours as well, which had always suited perfectly.
As she drove, she wondered how she could have been so dull-witted as not to react immediately after hearing about Hermione’s death. Their house also needed a damned good spring clean, that would take days rather than hours, and she wanted to inveigle Hilda to take it on: get it all shipshape again before resuming her regular sessions, that they had arranged the other day when she (Monica) had ‘got in quick’ after Gabriel’s suicide. She’d be happy to pay double-time for this extra service, which she was sure would attract old Potty.
Even though this would be only a temporary rush of work for Hilda, it would leave her with a reasonable number of her hours replaced for now, some of them on a regular basis, and surely it didn’t matter who she cleaned for, as long as she earned a crust
The old dear was probably worried sick, with two of her regular clients gone beyond the great divide, and her income dwindling by the day. In fact, she thought, as she parked her car outside the house in Prince Albert Terrace, she ought to be jolly grateful to get the work. There was only so much cleaning to be done in a village the size of Steynham St Michael.
Although Monica realised she was kidding herself, and that Mrs Pounce’s services were like gold dust, she continued to present a brave and positive front, as she knocked at the door, surprised to find herself nervous, even though she had no idea that Charles Rainbird and Buffy Sinden had already pipped her at the post. The old dear didn’t have a telephone, and probably didn’t even know that Hermione had been killed.
But of course she did! The village grapevine is as intangible as mist, and saturates at about the same rate, and equally as thoroughly. Hilda was, of course, very pleased to be offered more hours, but she’d have to see what she could do, what with her new hours at the antiques shop and Clematis Cottage. She magnanimously agreed to consult her work schedule and let Monica know if she could fit in the extra time for her proposed ‘blitz’ when she was next at that end of the village. The change in time for her visits to the Raynors’ was agreed without demur.
In some ways it would be nice to get back to the way things were before she’d been snaffled by that author-woman. Although Hilda had been proud to work for such a famous writer, Hermione could be a bloody nuisance, with her every ‘could you just do this’, ‘would you mind just doing that,’ and ‘would it be too much trouble to stay on and finish …’ At least with Mrs Raynor she finished on time, and there was no discussion about it.
And she didn’t have to worry about breaking or damaging any valuable ornaments, the way she would have to again at Mr Rainbird’s, but then he did pay extra for her vigilance in this matter.
On her way back to the office, Monica didn’t know whether she was pleased or seething. She’d gone there, like Lady Bountiful, to make the old dear’s day, and Hilda had trumped her ace, graciously checking to see if she could fit the Raynor residence into her busy new schedule. How callous the residents of Steynham St Michael were, she thought, conveniently forgetting her own selfish motives in hoping that she had got in first.
VI
While Monica Raynor was humbling herself on Hilda Pounce’s immaculately clean doorstep, Malcolm Littlemore took a stroll from his craft shop to Charles Rainbird’s antiques emporium for a little chat. He had taken a fancy for a Wellington chest and, after a few sessions of fruitlessly looking for one that didn’t cost a king’s ransom, he had decided that Charlie might just be his darling in respect of achieving this goal.
He found Charles vigorously cleaning a few pieces of very fine silver, and brimming with the feeling of bonhomie that having news to impart engenders. And Malcolm was all ears. Although Vernon had wandered down to apprise Charles of the stunning events at the top end of the Market Darley Road, Malcolm had been helping Amy with the end of the year stock-take, as well as keeping an eye on the shop.
They hadn’t gone home for lunch, but had got the restaurant to make them up some sandwiches, locked the shop doors, and eaten while they worked. As it happened, they had had not a sniff of a customer the whole day, and it was with absolute horror (and a little shiver of excitement, that such a thing could happen almost on their doorstep), that Malcolm listened to Charles’ tale of murderous mayhem – exaggeration and embroidery were a couple of his unacknowledged hobbies which he wasn’t even aware he enjoyed.
Malcolm, of course, rushed back to his own establishment, so that he too should have the enjoyment of imparting such blood-thirsty tales, and with thoughts of local murder in their minds, both he and Amy were of the shared opinio
n that they should close up shop for the day and go home for a little drink, to steady their nerves.
Using the illogical excuse that they’d be safer in their own homes – Hermione hadn’t been, after all – they locked up, drove at an unnecessarily fast pace back to Forge Cottage, and poured a large one each, in order to deal with the shock from which they were obviously suffering. They then had another large one, to toast the soul of their dear departed friend, and another even larger one, to toast the future apprehension of the murderer, and that was them set for a good old session that evening.
Well, it didn’t matter really. Tomorrow was Saturday, and they probably wouldn’t even bother opening the shop, the way business had been, and they had plenty of savings. The shop was more of a hobby than anything else, and it was beginning to feel that it was time for a new and less time-consuming pastime.
VII
Tilly Gifford had a thoroughly enjoyable evening, both disseminating information and collecting it where possible. Hermione’s murder, although shocking, wasn’t the only subject discussed. Tilly had lain full-length on her sofa, the handset of her telephone, if not red hot, then at least very warm to the touch, sipping Chardonnay to keep her throat from getting too dry.
When she finally hung up on her final call and tried to get to her feet, she was surprised to find that her balance was not what it was when she had first lain down and, what was even more surprising, was that the bottle of wine, that she had newly opened before she had begun her marathon session, was now completely empty. It had been a long evening, though, as witnessed also by her throat, which was sore from talking.
It was no wonder she felt a little wobbly after all that alcohol, she thought, and began to have a little sympathy for Amy Littlemore and her bruises. If the poor woman constantly felt like this, no wonder she kept falling down and bumping into things.
Still, it had been a good old gossip, and after her seventy-five centilitre nightcap, she knew she would sleep well, and there was no surgery on a Saturday for her to get up for. Saturday’s were covered by a locum service, and Tilly, therefore, had her weekends to herself – apart from Tommy, of course, but then they’d never lived in each other’s pockets.
Inkier Than the Sword (The Falconer Files Book 3) Page 11
