Murderer's Fen

by Andrew Garve

  Gwenda smiled back fondly. “You needn’t worry about me.…” She stepped lightly into the cockpit. Hunt unlocked the cabin door and helped her down the short staircase. She gazed around, her eyes shining.

  “It’s lovely,” she said. “A proper stove, and everything … Electric light—and a radio … And a fridge.…! Why, it’s luxury.”

  “There’s not a lot of space,” Hunt said. “We can put everything in the van that we don’t need, but it still won’t be exactly roomy … You don’t think we’ll be too cramped?”

  “I’m sure we won’t.… And it’ll be much more fun than the caravan.” She began to explore—exclaiming at the little washroom, opening the hanging cupboard, the lockers and the drawers; admiring the galley with its cunningly-stowed crockery and its chromium taps, the smart gas fire, the softness of the two foam-rubber bunks. “I’ve never seen anything so neat and compact,” she said. “It’s like a doll’s house.”

  “You won’t feel lonely, will you, when you’re on your own …? I’ll have to be away quite a bit, you know, seeing clients.… As a matter of fact, I’ve got to see someone this evening about a sale—I may be away a couple of hours … Will you be all right?”

  She laughed. “Of course I will. I’m not frightened of bogey men … I love it here.”

  “You’ll have to draw the curtains over the windows when the lights are on—and not play the radio too loudly.”

  “I know … I’ll be terribly careful.”

  Hunt gave a satisfied nod. “All right, then—I’ll get your suitcase. And the bedclothes—I stripped them off this morning … I shan’t be long.”

  He was back in a few minutes with an armful of sheets and blankets, Gwenda’s case, and an illustrated magazine. “Something for you to read while I’m away, sweetie …” He made a second journey for his own things and a few basic food supplies.

  “There,” he said, “that should see us through until to-morrow …” He looked at his watch. “It’s nearly half past seven—you could ring the Bakers’ now. Then you’ll be able to settle down.”

  “Yes, that’s a good idea.”

  He helped her across the plank in the gathering dusk and, with his arm affectionately around her, led her past the long line of boats to the office. There, he drew a curtain over the window and switched on the light. “What’s the Bakers’ number?” he asked. She told him, and he dialled it for her. A man’s voice answered. Hunt passed the receiver to her, and stepped back. “Keep it short, darling,” he said. “No point in having a long discussion about it.”

  Gwenda kept it short. She was terribly sorry, she said, but something had happened and she just couldn’t come. She really was sorry … When the man started pressing her for an explanation, Hunt took the receiver from her with a smile and hung up. “Least said, soonest mended,” he said. “Well, that’s that … Now I really ought to push off.”

  He took her back to the boat and saw her aboard. “I wouldn’t come out again to-night, darling, if I were you—it’s a bit tricky walking the plank in the dark …” He kissed her. “Enjoy yourself … I’ll see you about half past nine.”

  He drove to Peterborough in a relaxed and confident mood.

  The purpose of the trip, as he’d first envisaged it, had been to establish beyond any doubt that he’d actually visited the city. There’d be no difficulty in getting someone to remember him. He could have a snack in the town, or ask directions of a policeman, or stop for a drink and petrol on the way back, scattering signs of his passage along the route like a hare in a paper chase. In some such way he could provide himself with the strongest supporting evidence of the story he was going to tell about taking Gwenda home, and at the same time give himself an alibi in connection with the letter he was going to write. On second thoughts, though, he’d decided against that course as being too unsubtle. An alibi created by conversations of his own seeking might well seem to the police suspiciously premeditated. It might even cast doubts on the genuineness of the letter. Testimony volunteered and coming out of the blue would be infinitely more convincing. And it wasn’t as though he couldn’t afford to take a chance. That was the beauty of his new plan. He hadn’t staked everything, he wasn’t committed. He was in a position to let things take their natural course. If someone happened to notice him in Peterborough, fine. If not, his very casualness about the trip would strengthen his story … And he’d still have his second line of defence to fall back on—the suitcase. One of the ploys was pretty sure to work … So he’d just knock off the necessary eighty miles on the clock, and hang around for a bit, and leave the rest to luck …

  It was just after half past eight when he reached the city. He stopped twice on the outskirts to ask the way—getting out of the car and walking well away from it before he spoke to anyone. It wouldn’t do to have anyone saying later that a man in a cream MG sports car had asked for Everton Road—but hadn’t had a girl with him … Having got exact directions, including the name of the approach road, he was able to park with confidence just short of the Everton Road corner. With a street lamp shining above him and a phone box just ahead, it was the ideal spot. He lit a cigarette, and waited. He sat there for a little over ten minutes. In that time, several pedestrians passed him, and three people came to telephone—a woman, and a young couple. They all looked at him—especially the young man, who was obviously interested in the car … With luck, he’d have his evidence …

  He got back to the site at a quarter to ten and went straight to the boat. From the outside it appeared to be in darkness—but inside, all was bright and cheerful. Gwenda, he found, had been busy in his absence, She’d unpacked her clothes and stowed them away and found a space for her empty suitcase in the congested forepeak where the gear was kept. The cabin had been cleaned, the bunks made up. A kettle was singing on the stove. It all looked, Hunt thought, appallingly domestic. He wouldn’t have guessed that a dazzler like Gwenda would have turned to with such enthusiasm. Still, if it suited her.…

  “Well, I managed to pull off the sale,” he said. “One more commission to add to our nest egg.…”

  Gwenda smiled. “That’s wonderful, darling.”

  “Not bad for a couple of hours’ work—though it was a fairly hard sell. The fellow had a whole stack of brochures from other makers … How have, you been getting on?”

  “The time’s flown … Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “You bet …” Hunt sat down on one of the bunks. “I say, this is rather cosy, isn’t it?”

  “It’s heaven,” Gwenda said. “I can hardly believe it’s happening … Do you take sugar?”

  “Yes—three, please … Sugar for energy!”

  “I’ll soon get to know the things you like …” She passed the cup to him. “What are we going to do about the shopping?”

  “I’ll have to go on doing it,” Hunt said. “We can’t let you loose in the village—not till the new job’s fixed.”

  “They’ll be surprised at your appetite, won’t they?”

  He grinned. “I’ll say I’m eating for three …! No, actually I will have to be a bit careful about that. But I’ve got a lot of tinned stuff in the van—enough to see us through.”

  Gwenda nodded. “Have you finished work for to-day?”

  “Not quite—I’ve still got some letters to write … It’s been rather a broken day—what with one thing and another.”

  “It’s my fault … I’m sorry …”

  “Good heavens, it doesn’t matter … But I would like to clear up a bit of paper work before I turn in.” He put down his cup. “That was a nice drop of char.”

  “Would you like another?”

  “No, I’d better get on.… Look, you go to bed, and I’ll creep quietly into my bunk later … Okay?”

  “Yes, all right.”

  Hunt kissed her tenderly. “I’ll always remember this day,” he said.

  “So shall I … It seems like a miracle.”

  He kissed her again. “I love you, darling … Sw
eet dreams!”

  He went to the van and lit the lamps. There would naturally be a light there if he was supposed to be writing—and if Gwenda happened to go into Flavia’s cockpit, she’d expect to see it. These were the details that counted.…

  He collected his torch and gloves; walked quickly to the shed, and put on his overalls and gumboots. The mahogany dinghy was handy, the oars ready. In a matter of seconds he was across the lode and striding off into the fen. The night was mild and clear, the moon just coming up. He felt excited, exhilarated. So far, his plan was working splendidly. The boat ploy had been a great success. Peterborough was behind him. And the next steps were clearly mapped in his mind. This was where his knowledge of the fen would come in …

  A few minutes’ walking brought him to the bend in Stoker’s Drove. He looked first to see if the working punt, with its tools, was still in the old place. Yes, that was all right.… He glanced ahead to the trees that flanked the hide, checking his position; then across the waste of Stoker’s Fen, where water gleamed in the moonlight … This was about the place, he thought. He took one of the spades and the shovel from the punt and crossed the ditch, parting the reeds carefully. He mustn’t make it appear that it hadn’t mattered to him whether he left traces or not. He advanced slowly, shining his torch on the ground to avoid the pitfalls of the old peat holes. Soon he came to a line of taller reeds, with a pool beyond. This would do nicely. He began to turn up the saturated earth, breaking off the sedge, stirring up the roots. A bird rose from the reeds, ahead with a flap and a screech—but he wasn’t unduly startled. His nerves were in good shape. He’d nothing to be alarmed about—not yet. He’d done nothing—yet. Presently he put the tools aside and began to stamp around with his heavy boots, pressing the sodden soil back into a trampled, muddy oval. He shone the torch down on it. It looked fine … No clear footmarks—but its appearance was certainly sinister enough to arouse the interest of suspicious policemen … Yet everything would seem to have an innocent explanation, when nothing was found … A perfect job, in a perfect place …

  He backed out carefully, checking all footmarks as he went, obliterating anything that looked at all identifiable. Near the drove he stopped and flattened some of the sedge at the edge of the track he’d made. No harm in giving the sleuths a little extra encouragement … Then he replaced the tools in the punt and walked quickly back to the dinghy. There was no sound from the site, no light except in the caravan. He re-crossed the lode, stripped off his muddy overalls and boots in the shed, returned to the van, and cleaned himself up.

  Now for the letter he’d planned—the letter that would set off the inquiry. A plain sheet of paper, and a plain envelope. Or better still … He looked in his wallet. Yes, he still had a letter card. No chance of tracing a letter card. He began to write out his message—the message he’d already mentally drafted … Saying just enough to get things moving—yet couched in terms sufficiently vague to allow for an alternative explanation of the incident in the fen. Mentioning a time that would give him an alibi, if the Peterborough gamble came off. Directing the police to an untenanted grave, if they had the wit to work things out … A little masterpiece … Hunt felt immensely pleased with it. Pleased, too, that he’d thought of the hide, and of a way to exploit the lie of the land … And all without danger. Without a single really hazardous step having been taken …

  He read the finished version through, satisfied himself that it said neither too much nor too little, and put it away in his wallet. For the moment, that was all.…

  Gwenda stirred as he entered the boat. He touched her hair, said “Good-night, darling,” and slipped into his bunk without turning on the light. He lay for a while, planning the next day’s moves. Then he sank into the untroubled sleep of a man with nothing on his conscience.

  In the morning he gave Gwenda a cup of tea in her bunk, cosseting her. Everything depended now on keeping her in a happy and contented frame of mind. Attentiveness, and a few kisses and caresses, should ensure that. He didn’t think that she was wanting anything more at the moment—she was shy with him still, and showed no sign of making passionate advances. That suited him well … In other circumstances, he’d have found her irresistible, lying only a few feet away from him with her lovely hair spread over the pillow and her blue eyes shining and her nightdress not all that opaque. He’d have been over there in a flash. But not now. He’d too much on his mind for sex. He was like a juggler, watching over half a dozen things at once … And soon there’d be more of them … At least, he thought, it was a stroke of luck that Susan was away for the week-end.

  He washed and shaved, and then went off to the caravan to fetch eggs and bacon for breakfast. The village lay in a deep Sabbath silence, the fen was deserted. No danger threatened from anyone at the moment. But a fine October Sunday might well bring people out. He’d have to be careful. He stood for a while in thought, weighing a balance of risks. Gwenda was bound to get restive if he kept her a prisoner when the weather was good. It would be worth while accepting a few hazards to avoid that. He could probably work something out … Maybe even kill two birds with one stone …

  Gwenda had dressed by the time he got back. At the sound of his approach she came out into the cockpit, smiling, and sniffing the air. She was still wearing the pleated skirt and blue jumper she’d had on the day before, but now her hair was pinned up on top of her head.

  “That’s sensible,” he said. “Save you getting it caught in the floorboards!” He handed her the eggs and bacon. “It’s going to be a lovely day again.”

  She nodded. “It seems a shame we can’t go out … It all looks so beautiful.”

  “Well, I’ve been thinking about that,” Hunt said. “There’s really no reason why you shouldn’t go out by yourself … You could take a walk in the fen.”

  Gwenda glanced across the lode. “How would I get there?”

  “We could borrow a pram dinghy from one of the boats and keep it tied up on the outside of Flavia … Then, whenever you wanted to go off, you could row yourself over to the other bank.”

  “Oh, I’d love that.”

  “You’ll have to make absolutely sure there’s no one around before you set off—and before you row back.”

  “I will, darling—I’ll be most careful.”

  “It might be as well to keep away from people, too—just to be on the safe side. Some folk are so nosy.”

  “I won’t go near a soul.”

  “Good … And after dark we can go for a walk together, eh?”

  “Yes, please,” Gwenda said.

  Hunt stood eyeing her. “You know, if you’re going to mess about in boats and explore the fen, you really ought to have some old clothes … You’ll ruin that nice jumper and skirt … Haven’t you got anything?”

  “I’ve got some slacks,” Gwenda said, “but they’re not old. I wasn’t prepared for this sort of thing.”

  “No, of course not … I’ll tell you what—I’ll bring you some things from the store. I always keep a selection there for the boat people … How about a pair of jeans, a windcheater, a woolly cap and gum boots …? That’s mostly what the students wear when they come grubbing about in the fen. Then if you catch on a bramble or fall in a pool, it won’t matter.”

  Gwenda smiled. “All right, darling … I’m in your hands.”

  “You’d be in my arms,” Hunt said, “if you weren’t holding bacon and eggs … Okay, I’ll get the things while you cook breakfast.” He went off, whistling.

  He was back in a few minutes, rowing along the lode in a tiny green-painted dinghy that he’d taken from a nearby boat top. He made it fast to Flavia and climbed aboard with an armful of clothes.

  “There you are,” he said. “Service.…”

  “I’ll try them on after breakfast,” Gwenda said.

  The blue jeans and the gumboots fitted perfectly. So did the T-shirt Hunt had brought with him. The woolly cap had a blue band round it that matched the jeans. The brown windcheater was a shade on the
large side, but Gwenda said it would do. She seemed pleased with the outfit.

  “We’re going to be a bit short of locker space with all these extra things,” Hunt said. “Why not put your good outfit in the suitcase and let me take it to the caravan? That’ll make more room in the forepeak, too. We don’t want to get cluttered up.”

  “All right,” Gwenda said.

  Hunt grinned. “I suppose you think I’m bossy.”

  “You are, a bit.”

  “I’m sorry … It’s all well meant, darling.”

  “I know,” Gwenda said. “Anyway, I don’t seem to mind being bossed by you.”

  The morning passed very smoothly. Gwenda slipped across the lode just before eleven, rowing a short distance downstream first and tying up to the bush on the opposite bank that Hunt had pointed out to her. Hunt watched her for a while from the van window as she strolled along Stoker’s Drove, lingered in the sun, stopped to examine something that had caught her eye … It was a good thing, he thought, that she was so fond of the country—some girls would have hated wandering in the fen alone, but she was obviously revelling in it.… As for the change of clothes, he was delighted. The new outfit provided the perfect disguise—especially with her hair tucked away under the cap. No one seeing her now would connect her for a moment with the girl who’d arrived the day before.…

  While she was away, he strolled into the village and posted his letter card.

  Approvingly, he noted her cautious return around midday—her seemingly casual approach to the bank, her careful inspection of the lode and the site before she rowed across. She was obviously entering into the spirit of the thing—regarding it all as a bit of an adventure … And it seemed that she’d had a wonderful morning. All the time she was preparing lunch, she chatted gaily about the fen and the interesting things she’d found there.