A Trio of Murders: A Perfect Match, Redemption, Death of a Dancer

by Jill McGown

  He sighed.

  ‘If George—’ She stopped, then decided that to amend it to Mr Wheeler would make things worse. ‘If George and I had cooked it up, would we have come here together?’

  ‘You’d have been better going to Mrs Wheeler’s solicitor,’ Lloyd said. ‘But you can make a statement if you want.’ He stood up. ‘I notice George hasn’t had much to say for himself,’ he said.

  George had gone pale, and Eleanor could see beads of sweat on his forehead. Lloyd had been deliberately trying to provoke him, all the time, and he still didn’t say anything.

  ‘And I must warn you,’ Lloyd went on, ‘that if you make a statement you can be prosecuted if you say anything knowing it to be false.’ He opened his office door. ‘Still want to make it?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  He brought in a young man who took it down and read it back. Eleanor signed it with an angry flourish and handed it to Lloyd.

  ‘Thank you for coming in,’ he said.

  She left, with George following behind her like a large dog. Outside, he sat down on the wall.

  ‘You only said one word, and that made me look a liar,’ Eleanor said angrily, then saw how he looked. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

  ‘I will be,’ he muttered. ‘Once Marian’s out of there.’

  Eleanor sat down with him. ‘Why didn’t you ask to see her?’ she said.

  He shook his head, and they walked round to her car.

  ‘He didn’t believe a word,’ George said. ‘Not a word.’

  ‘Oh – that was just theatre,’ Eleanor said. ‘I told him she had the car – someone’s bound to have seen it.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’

  She looked at the pale, defeated face. ‘Look, George, she was there! They can’t make out in court that I’ve got some daft female solidarity reason for saying so.’

  ‘What if she doesn’t want you to give evidence?’ he asked.

  Eleanor’s hand stopped in the act of unlocking the car door. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said, after a moment. ‘She’s bound to. You saw what he was like – no wonder she confessed. He was making me feel as if I was lying, and I’m not being accused of anything.’

  They got into the car. ‘Let’s go and see the solicitor,’ said Eleanor. ‘He’ll know what to do. Where does he live?’

  George took a card from his wallet, and handed it to her in silence. She had to stop twice on the way to let him out to be sick.

  ‘It’ll be all right,’ she said, arriving at the house. She squeezed his hand. ‘You’ll see. It’ll be all right.’

  ‘Do you really think she’s making it up?’ Judy asked, picking up Eleanor Langton’s statement.

  Lloyd shrugged. ‘I don’t know what to make of it,’ he said. ‘It sounds a bit unlikely. And George Wheeler didn’t seem too keen on it himself.’

  ‘No,’ said Judy. George hadn’t acknowledged her presence at all; she could have understood if he’d been resentful, like Joanna, and simply hadn’t spoken to her. But it hadn’t been like that. It was as though she hadn’t been there. No, she amended. It was as if he hadn’t been there.

  ‘And there’s this,’ said Lloyd, putting a handwritten statement on her desk.

  Judy read Marian Wheeler’s new statement and looked up at Lloyd. So that was why he’d called her in.

  ‘Now it makes a bit more sense,’ she said.

  But something didn’t; she knew that even as she said it. She frowned at the statement. It seemed all right – it confirmed Freddie’s findings.

  ‘More sense,’ Lloyd agreed. ‘But we told her he was on the bed, didn’t we? And she knows he ended up on the floor.’

  Judy nodded. ‘What does Freddie think?’

  ‘Would you believe I haven’t been able to get hold of him? He must take the last Sunday in the year off.’

  ‘I kept on hitting him,’ Judy quoted. ‘Could that account for the blows after he was dead?’

  Lloyd shrugged. ‘Probably,’ he said. ‘That’s what I wanted to ask Freddie. That, and—’ He smiled. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Forget it.’

  Judy flicked through her already thick notes. It all seemed to fit, but there was something that wasn’t right.

  ‘What’s up?’ asked Lloyd.

  ‘I’m not sure. Something doesn’t fit.’

  Lloyd came over, picking up the statement, and sitting on the corner of her desk. It usually irritated her, but this time she was glad.

  ‘About this?’ he asked, reading it through.

  ‘No. I don’t think so. It makes sense. It fits in with the forensic evidence – it maybe even explains the two extra whacks.’

  ‘Lizzie Borden took an axe, and gave her . . .’ mused Lloyd. ‘But you don’t believe it,’ he said.

  ‘I might,’ said Judy. ‘If I could find what I’m looking for.’ She looked up at him. ‘Because if you’ve got a piece left over after you’ve finished the jigsaw, it must belong to another puzzle – right?’

  ‘There are quite a lot of puzzles,’ Lloyd said. ‘Little puzzles. What was Mrs Anthony hinting about George Wheeler, for instance?’

  ‘What was Marian Wheeler angry with George about?’ asked Judy.

  ‘If she was,’ said Lloyd. ‘I’m inclined to think he made that up, like today’s little pantomime.’

  But Lloyd wasn’t really dismissing Mrs Langton’s statement just like that, Judy thought. It had set him thinking; he was going to ask Freddie something, and he wouldn’t say what. So he had to be back on his frame-up theory. No point in asking; he’d tell her when he felt like it.

  ‘And why didn’t Joanna go up to talk to Graham in all that time, if she’d made it up with him?’ she asked. ‘Eight hours, Lloyd.’

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘If this statement’s true, none of that is any of our business.’

  There was a knock, and Jack Woodford came in. ‘Just going to the machine,’ he said. ‘Anyone want anything?’

  ‘Coffee,’ Lloyd said, digging in his pocket for a coin. He threw it. ‘Thanks, Jack,’ he said, as his phone rang, and he slid off Judy’s desk. ‘We’d better talk to Mrs W. again,’ he said, as he picked up the phone. ‘Lloyd.’

  He listened.

  ‘Right. Thanks. Tell them to wait – I want a word with them before they go.’

  He hung up and turned to Judy a little sheepishly. ‘Just something I have to talk to Bob Sandwell about,’ he said.

  Judy gave him one of her looks for good measure, for whatever he was up to, he clearly deserved one. She watched the door close behind him, and uncharacteristically put down her notes, thinking about Lloyd, and Michael, and the dreadful mess her life was in.

  Next door, two typewriters clattered, one expertly, one inexpertly. There were voices, laughter, as someone was being teased. Outside, a bus churned through the slush to the bus-station. Someone walking past was whistling Plaisir d’Amour. She wished she could be in Lloyd’s flat, quiet and peaceful. Their few snatched moments on Christmas morning had been shattered, and she was afraid that her life might be going the same way.

  The last time she’d been there – really been there – had been how long ago? She looked at the calendar on the wall. Almost three months ago. My God, was it that long? No wonder Lloyd had had enough. She had known then about Michael’s promotion, and she had wondered, as she and Lloyd had made love, what she was going to do. She had pushed the thought away, told herself that it would all resolve itself somehow. But it wouldn’t. It couldn’t. She had to resolve it.

  The door opened suddenly, jerking Judy back to her surroundings with a heart-stopping jump.

  ‘Lloyd’s coffee,’ Jack said. ‘He’s gone off somewhere – he said just to give it to you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Judy, taking the paper cup. Her hand trembled slightly from the start she had been given, making coffee spill over on to her desk.

  ‘Don’t worry – I’ve got it,’ said Jack, mopping it up with blotting paper.

  Judy stared as the brown stain
spread over the paper.

  ‘All right?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she said absently. ‘Yes. Thanks, Jack.’

  He went out, and she picked up her notebook, leafing through to find the right page.

  Her hand shook. Spilled coffee on dress.

  Well, fancy that, Judy thought. She sat back, looking at the sentence for a moment. Then she put on her coat, scribbled a note to Lloyd, and left.

  The phone was picked up this time.

  ‘Freddie? Where the hell have you been?’

  ‘Out,’ said Freddie. ‘Playing Trivial Pursuit, if you must know.’

  ‘I didn’t know dead bodies could play Trivial Pursuit,’ said Lloyd.

  ‘Neither did I, until my wife took it up.’

  Lloyd smiled. ‘How does your wife put up with you?’ he asked.

  ‘She’s a saint, Lloyd, a veritable saint. What can I do for you?’

  Lloyd read him Marian Wheeler’s second statement.

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘It fits.’

  ‘But?’

  There was a pause. ‘Same buts as before, really. Still, she’s admitted it, so that’s that. Though—’

  ‘Though – what?’ Lloyd said eagerly.

  ‘Two confessions seems like one too many to me,’ he said. ‘It’s a funny one, Lloyd.’

  ‘I know,’ said Lloyd. ‘And what I wanted to know was – does her second statement account for the two post-mortem thumps?’ he asked.

  ‘Not really. I don’t know what to make of them.’

  ‘Freddie?’ Lloyd said, preparing him for the silly question. ‘Is there any doubt about the murder weapon?’

  He heard Freddie draw in a slow breath. ‘No,’ he said. ‘But if you were to bring me something else that general size and shape, I’d certainly consider it.’

  ‘Like another poker?’ Lloyd said. ‘The one from the kitchen?’ He held his breath.

  ‘The one we’ve got gives every indication of having been used,’ said Freddie.

  ‘Could it have been used just for the two extra blows?’

  There was a long silence. ‘It’s improbable, but just possible,’ Freddie said at last. ‘You bring me the other poker, and the chances are I’ll know if it was used.’

  ‘Good,’ said Lloyd. ‘Because it’s on its way here now, with any luck.’ He had dispatched Bob Sandwell and one of the uniformed lads to the vicarage an hour ago.

  Freddie laughed. ‘What’s your theory this time, Lloyd?’ he asked.

  Lloyd didn’t know what sort of reception it would get. ‘Marian Wheeler had been using the poker in Elstow’s room,’ he said. ‘When she made up the fire earlier that day. Someone could have killed him with one poker, cleaned it, put it back – then bopped him a couple of times with the one that already had Marian Wheeler’s fingerprints on it.’

  ‘What about the fingerprints on the landing?’ Freddie said.

  ‘Coincidence. It’s a polished floor. Chances are, her prints are all over it. From polishing.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Freddie, unconvinced. ‘I’d have thought that polishing was supposed to have the opposite effect. And are you saying she’s just going along with all of this?’

  He sounded just like Judy. Lloyd didn’t answer, because he hadn’t worked out that part of his theory.

  ‘And what about the dress?’

  ‘Someone else could have burned the dress, too,’ Lloyd said, beginning to feel cornered.

  ‘She was wearing it, Lloyd,’ he said. ‘But it’s an interesting point about the poker. Send it to me anyway.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Lloyd, irritated. ‘I will.’

  He put down the phone, and there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Sir?’ Bob Sandwell came in. ‘We’ve brought them both,’ he said, handing him two pokers, in separate bags. ‘Mrs Elstow told us about this one.’ He held it up. ‘It’s from the back bedroom,’ he said. ‘She says her mother got a fire going in there on Christmas Eve, so her prints might still be on it. I checked the other rooms, but they’ve all got gas or electric fires. No other pokers, sir.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Lloyd. ‘Give them to Sergeant Woodford, will you? Tell him I want them taken to the lab first thing in the morning.’

  Sandwell departed, ducking under the door, though he wasn’t quite that tall. Lloyd sat forward. He was still lost in thought when Judy came in.

  ‘I’ve tried my theory out on Freddie,’ he said.

  ‘Your frame-up theory?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. Plus my poker theory.’ He gave her a brief résumé. ‘And all that Freddie could find to fault it was that she was wearing the dress,’ he said. ‘But she may not have been wearing it. She changed into it when she thought she was going to the pub –but she ended up doing a whole load of housework instead, didn’t she? She did a washing, and made a bed up for Joanna – she even got a fire going in the back bedroom. Heaving coal about? In a brand new dress that she wanted to wear to the midnight service?’ He sat back. ‘Perhaps she wasn’t wearing the dress at all,’ he said. ‘Perhaps she laid it on the bed, ready to change into when she got back from visiting.’

  ‘Except that she was wearing it,’ Judy said again. ‘When she went visiting.’

  Lloyd smiled. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘I suppose you can prove it.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Judy.

  ‘Oh, well,’ Lloyd said resignedly. ‘Another theory gone west.’

  Judy shook her head. ‘No it hasn’t,’ she said.

  Lloyd smiled. He loved it when Judy got on to something. She looked just like a gun-dog.

  ‘The dress,’ she said. ‘When we saw Marian Wheeler on Christmas morning, she was wearing a trouser-suit. There wasn’t a dress in the washing, and there wasn’t one with coffee stains on it anywhere else; But according to Mrs Anthony, she spilled some coffee on her dress. I’ve been back to Mrs Anthony,’ she said, ‘I got a good description. Peach, full skirt . . .’

  Lloyd frowned, as he realised what that meant. ‘But if she was wearing it at half past eight,’ he said, ‘she couldn’t very well have thrown it on the fire some time previously.’

  ‘No,’ said Judy. ‘She couldn’t.’

  ‘She spilled coffee,’ said Lloyd slowly. ‘And went home to change yet again. Are you saying that someone burned the dress after that?’

  ‘Not after,’ said Judy, sitting forward. ‘Lloyd – if someone frames you for murder, I imagine you don’t usually just go along with it, do you?’

  ‘Well, I normally protest my innocence, I must agree,’ said Lloyd.

  ‘Make fun of my grammar if you like,’ she said. ‘But there is one circumstance in which you wouldn’t protest your innocence.’

  ‘Is there?’ Lloyd thought hard. ‘You mean I’d want to be framed?’ he asked. ‘I’d have to have framed myself.’ He hit his head when he finally saw the point. ‘Let’s talk to the lady,’ he said. His eye caught Mrs Langton’s statement as he stood up. ‘You’d better take that,’ he said to Judy.

  Judy picked up Mrs Wheeler’s statements too, and read all three while they waited in the interview room.

  When she was brought in, Marian Wheeler looked as calm and composed as she had when they had arrested her, but the slightly far-away look had been replaced by watchfulness.

  ‘Some more questions, Mrs Wheeler,’ said Judy. ‘You understand that you don’t have to answer them, and you can have your solicitor present if you choose?’

  ‘I understand.’

  Judy laid Mrs Wheeler’s two statements down in front of her. ‘Do you want to make a third?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ve told you everything.’

  ‘Except the truth.’

  Mrs Wheeler didn’t speak.

  ‘Right,’ said Judy. ‘Where were you at five past eight on Christmas Eve?’

  ‘I’ve told you in my statement,’ she said.

  ‘Where were you at five past eight on Christmas Eve?’ Judy ask
ed.

  Lloyd watched Marian Wheeler. He’d never been able to perfect Judy’s trick of asking the same question over again, just as though it was the first time. It was dreadfully irritating, and almost always produced a response.

  ‘I’ve just told you.’

  ‘You were in your daughter’s bedroom?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Laying into her husband with a poker?’

  Marian Wheeler raised her eyebrows. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘If you want to put it like that, I suppose that is what I was doing.’

  ‘And then you burned the dress, and went to see Mrs Anthony?’

  Mrs Wheeler didn’t reply, but the watchfulness became wariness, and she sat a little further back in her chair.

  ‘Where were you at five past eight on Christmas Eve?’ asked Judy, pleasantly.

  ‘I – I was at home.’

  ‘Battering your son-in-law to death?’ enquired Judy.

  Marian Wheeler looked shocked. ‘Sergeant, I don’t think there’s any need to—’

  ‘There isn’t a gentle way to say it,’ said Judy. ‘Someone battered him to death.’

  ‘I did,’ said Mrs Wheeler. ‘I’ve told you.’ She picked up the statement.

  ‘And then you burned your dress?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No,’ said Judy. ‘You were wearing the dress when you saw Mrs Anthony.’

  ‘No! No – Mrs Anthony’s a very old lady—’

  ‘We made that mistake,’ Lloyd said, chiming in. ‘She’s old, but she’s sharp. Right, Sergeant?’

  ‘She’s described it to me, Mrs Wheeler,’ said Judy. ‘Peach, full skirt, deep cuffs . . .’ She paused. ‘You spilled coffee on it. You went home to change.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Wheeler. ‘That’s when I did it – I got confused, that’s all.’

  ‘You didn’t leave Mrs Anthony’s house until ten past nine. Graham Elstow was already dead.’

  Mrs Wheeler’s eyes had lost their wariness, their defiance, and Lloyd knew that Judy had won.

  ‘Where were you at five past eight on Christmas Eve, Mrs Wheeler?’ asked Judy, in the same interested, polite tones.

  ‘At the castle,’ she said, her voice flat. ‘I went to see a girl called Eleanor Langton. She’s working there. A sort of archivist or something.’