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

by Jill McGown

  Post-Mortem

  Exhaust fumes hung in the cold, still air; sirens whined down as the cars’ engines were switched off. Lights flashed, and the winking colour on the pale, ancient stone seemed almost festive. Judy stood watching, supported by the car door, unable to help.

  Lloyd, grim-faced, walked through the chaos towards her, shaking his head.

  ‘All right, what’s going on here?’ A torch played on their faces. ‘Inspector Lloyd?’ said the voice, disbelievingly.

  ‘A woman’s just shot herself here,’ Lloyd said angrily. ‘She’s dead, I’m sure, but I want the doctor here. Now.’

  The sergeant ran back to his car, and reached in for his radio. After a few minutes, he came back, still looking confused. ‘I’ve to tell you that Freddie’s at the station, and he’s on his way,’ he said.

  ‘Good,’ barked Lloyd. ‘Now you can tell me what this circus is doing here!’

  The sergeant looked offended. ‘The burglar alarm went off in the station,’ he said. ‘We were using it as an exercise.’

  ‘The burglar alarm?’ Lloyd repeated, then sighed. ‘The window,’ he said to Judy. ‘She broke a window.’ He took a short, calming breath, and explained in more detail to the bemused sergeant.

  He turned back to Judy. ‘Do you think you can walk to the house?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m sure I can.’ She limped to the doorway, her arm round Lloyd. Eleanor Langton stood just inside, shivering.

  ‘Do you mind if we . . .?’ Lloyd began.

  ‘Of course not,’ she said.

  ‘Mrs Langton,’ he said gently. ‘You’ll get pneumonia if you don’t get dressed.’

  She looked down at herself almost in surprise. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I will. Then I’ll make you a hot drink, Sergeant Hill. I don’t think you should have anything stronger – they say it isn’t . . .’ She foundered. ‘There’s a first aid kit in the kitchen,’ she said. ‘I’ll bring it.’

  Judy smiled. ‘Don’t bother,’ she said. ‘You get dressed.’

  Lloyd helped her to the sofa. ‘I think your leg should be up,’ he said, easing off her shoe, and pulling the coffee table towards her.

  ‘I’m not dripping blood all over the carpet, am I?’ she asked. She wouldn’t look.

  He smiled, shaking his head, then sat down beside her. ‘Some coward you turned out to be,’ he said.

  ‘She was going to shoot her, Lloyd!’ Judy said, springing to her own defence.

  ‘And you thought it would be a much better idea if she shot you,’ said Lloyd.

  ‘I didn’t think anything! I just warned her.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Lloyd said. ‘You’re frightened to change the way you live, but you’re quite happy to get in the way of a deranged woman with a double-barrelled shotgun.’ He stood up. ‘I have to get over to the vicarage,’ he said, with a sigh. ‘Break the news.’

  Judy nodded. Poor George, she thought. Poor Joanna. ‘Lloyd? Tell Joanna I’m sorry I couldn’t come myself.’

  ‘Sure.’ He looked at her for a moment. ‘I thought you were dead,’ he said.

  She caught his hand, and squeezed it. ‘So did I,’ she replied.

  Joanna gave her father a little encouraging smile as he went off with the inspector. She had wanted to say she was sorry, but she couldn’t, because her father must never know the terrible thing she had thought, when she had finally rung the police.

  Her poor, gentle father.

  The inescapable truth, which should have been shattering, had come almost as a relief. Almost as though she had known all along. Perhaps she had. And perhaps so had her father, who may have convinced himself that Eleanor Langton had killed Graham, but had failed to convince his stomach. And now, her mother was dead. But she couldn’t take that in. Not yet.

  She waited until the sound of the police car’s powerful engine had dwindled to nothing before she closed the door.

  ‘I’ve made a big pot of tea,’ said the policewoman. ‘You come and have a cup of tea with me, love.’

  Joanna allowed herself to be steered into the kitchen, where the fire burned brightly and WPC Alexander bustled plumply round her. She had offered to go with her father to the castle, but he had said she should stay. Two hours ago, he couldn’t have summoned up the will to make such a decision, but he could now.

  Because with the inspector’s terrible news had come a reawakening of her father’s spirit.

  At least she hadn’t lost him.

  Eleanor found as many containers as she could for coffee, which she was providing on a conveyor-belt system for the people who were working out in the bitter cold. It seemed ridiculous that just across the courtyard there were dozens of cups and saucers in the café, and she couldn’t get into it. She found herself thinking that she would have to speak to her employers about that, as though this happened every week; she almost made herself laugh.

  Thank God Tessa wasn’t here, though in truth, the events of the night had barely affected Eleanor herself. A shout, a shot. Another shot.

  Now that they had told her what had happened, she knew how close she had come. But at the time, it had just been a confused sequence of sights and sounds, like a scene from a badly directed play.

  She handed the tray to a grateful policeman, and picked up the first aid kit. Sergeant Hill had refused several offers of medical assistance, but Eleanor thought she really ought to do something.

  ‘Ah, just the job!’ A tall, thin man with an unexpected smile appeared in her kitchen and took the box from her. ‘Doctor,’ he explained.

  ‘Oh, good,’ she said. ‘I’m sure I wouldn’t be very good at it.’

  ‘Neither will I,’ he said. ‘But you have to give the public what they want.’

  *

  George had nodded his confirmation that it was Marian, then had walked away, feeling detached from it all. Perhaps it was the pills. For a long time, he stood unnoticed in the shadow, watching as the numbers dwindled, and only Chief Inspector Lloyd and the officer who had driven him remained. When the ambulance came, bumping over the frozen ground to Marian, he slipped into the courtyard.

  The door was open; he walked in, and could see Eleanor at the end of the corridor, sitting in the dining room. She stood up as he went in, her face pale.

  ‘The police are waiting for me,’ he said. ‘I just wanted to be sure you were all right.’

  She nodded, but her eyes were worried. ‘George?’ she said. ‘Did I cause all this?’

  ‘You?’ He took her hand. ‘Oh, Eleanor. No.’ He shook his head. ‘No.’ he said again.

  They were putting Marian in the ambulance; they asked if he wanted to wait until it left, but he shook his head. It was odd, he thought, as he was driven back home. Now that everyone else was feeling sick, he didn’t.

  Not any more.

  Lloyd watched as the ambulance drove away with Marian Wheeler’s body, and rubbed his eyes. Would she have come with them if the damn squad cars hadn’t arrived? He passed the shattered window that had brought them, and shrugged. He’d never know now. All he knew was that his immediate future would be filled with enquiries and questions and statements, and the depressing likelihood that the file would quietly be closed on Graham Elstow’s murder.

  He shivered, and arrived at the cottage as Freddie was leaving.

  ‘Bloody cold out here,’ said Freddie, his breath streaming out as he spoke. He smiled. ‘I never thought I’d get that close to Sergeant Hill’s legs,’ he said.

  Lloyd rubbed cold hands together. ‘Isn’t there something about medical ethics?’ he said.

  ‘I have to take my pleasures where I find them,’ said Freddie. ‘Most of my patients are past their best.’ He opened the car door and threw in his bag. ‘Like Mrs Wheeler,’ he said.

  ‘Must you be so cheerful?’ Lloyd said. ‘The woman has just blown her brains out.’

  Freddie grinned. ‘I’d sooner look at Mrs Wheeler’s brains and Judy Hill’s legs than the other way round,’ he said.

&
nbsp; Lloyd smiled reluctantly.

  ‘The leg’s not bad,’ said Freddie. ‘The wound, I mean. I’ve bandaged it up – but she should get an anti-tetanus injection.’

  ‘Now?’ asked Lloyd.

  ‘Now would be best.’ He got into the car. ‘And she should take it easy for a few days,’ he added. ‘But they’ll tell her all that at the hospital.’

  Lloyd lifted a tired hand as Freddie reversed out of the courtyard, and roared off into the night. He knocked quietly at the door.

  Eleanor Langton gave him a little smile as she opened it. A real smile. ‘Come in,’ she said. ‘I’ll make you a cup of coffee – you look frozen.’

  ‘Great,’ said Lloyd. ‘Thank you. Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I didn’t really know what was happening until it was all over.’ She walked down the corridor a little way, then turned back. ‘Your sergeant saved my life,’ she said.

  Lloyd nodded briefly, and walked into the sitting room, where Judy sat, her now bandaged leg still resting on the coffee table. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘A quick cup of coffee and then we have to get you to hospital.’

  ‘Hospital?’ she said.

  ‘Freddie’s orders. Besides, I want a real doctor to look at it.’

  She laughed. ‘Freddie is a real doctor,’ she said.

  Lloyd raised his eyebrows. ‘Laugh-a-minute Freddie?’ he said.

  ‘That’s just how he copes,’ said Judy. She patted the sofa. ‘Come here,’ she said.

  Lloyd sat beside her on the sofa, as she gingerly removed her foot from the coffee table, and moved closer to him.

  ‘We have to sort ourselves out,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ Lloyd agreed. ‘But I don’t really think this is the ideal place,’ he added, with an uncomfortable glance at the door. ‘She’ll be back any minute.’

  ‘Oh, but it is the ideal place,’ said Judy. She looked down for a moment, then her head came up resolutely. ‘I’m not very proud of what I’ve been doing,’ she said. ‘To you or Michael.’

  Lloyd took her hand.

  ‘I should have left him when it started,’ she went on, then shook her head. ‘I should never have married him in the first place.’ She looked away again. ‘For a moment tonight,’ she said, ‘I honestly thought I was dead. And I’ve wasted too much of everyone’s time. Michael deserves more than this, and so do you.’ She smiled sadly. ‘So I’m leaving him,’ she said.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Lloyd gently touched her bandaged leg. ‘You’ll never have a better piece of magic chalk.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  Her lips touched his, gently at first, then with an urgency that took him by surprise. They broke away as the normally silent Eleanor positively banged her way down the corridor, rattling cups.

  Lloyd frowned. ‘You set this up,’ he said, incredulously.

  Judy grinned. ‘They don’t call you a detective for nothing,’ she said.

  ‘You told her? About us?’

  ‘She told me,’ said Judy.

  ‘I told you she was a witch,’ said Lloyd, as Eleanor just happened inadvertently to bump into the door with her noisy cargo.

  ‘Sorry I was so long,’ she said. ‘I made a couple of sandwiches.’

  A sandwich and a cup of coffee later, Lloyd went to bring his car round from the gatehouse. He stood for a moment looking down at the moonlit village. It was exactly like the Christmas card he’d got from the Woodfords.

  And this place had made him shiver, he thought, touching the rough surface of the wall. Perhaps his Welsh superstition had been right.

  Mrs Anthony could have told them. She hadn’t been hinting about George at all. She had been telling them, in words of one syllable, about Marian. And hadn’t he said that they would find an old lady who would solve it all for them? Pity they hadn’t been listening.

  Murder at the Vicarage, he thought, as he got into the car. He must read it again some time.

  DEATH OF A DANCER

  Chapter One

  NO ROAD TRAFFIC BEYOND THIS POINT – ALL VEHICLES TO CAR PARK

  Philip Newby turned in the direction of the arrow, along a road which ran between two buildings. Behind the larger of the two, he could see the car park, and pulled in, thankful to find a space close to the road. He emerged from the car with difficulty, shivering as he stepped out into the bitter January wind. This winter was never going to end. There were always going to be heaps of snow along the pavements, making them narrower than they were to start with. The frost that lay along every branch of every tree, every television aerial, every telegraph wire, was there forever, frozen and permanent.

  Reaching back into the car, he took out the walking-stick, and made his way back along the side road. It seemed like a long way to the school itself, which was on the other side of the grounds, its roof visible above the other buildings. Between him and the grey, dignified building was a curving tarmac roadway slippery with slush; it might just as well have been a minefield. But the school had been there for a hundred and fifty years, and he didn’t suppose it was going to come to him. He clamped his teeth together as he walked up the slight incline that he once wouldn’t have recognised as one.

  He walked quickly; too quickly, the doctor had said. Certainly too quickly for the conditions. But he walked, and there had been a long time when it was thought that he might not, because of the back injury. It had healed more quickly than his leg, as it had turned out. It ached, from time to time. He couldn’t turn quickly. But he did exercises, and through the pain he could feel it strengthening. With the leg exercises, all he could feel was the pain. His long stint in a wheelchair had, however, made his arms stronger than they’d ever been; an ironic twist.

  He made the final assault with a burst of speed that took him up the stone steps at the front of the building in seconds; the best way to deal with steps, he’d found. He winced each time his weight came on to his right foot, as it had to, but the pain afforded him some pleasure; it was proof that his leg was still there, and still functioning.

  Heat wrapped round him like a blanket as he went into the building, and he stood for a moment, savouring it. In the large entrance-hall, an old-fashioned finger-post pointed the way to the office, where he joined a queue, a mixture of boys and staff, who looked at him curiously or incuriously, depending on their nature. Staff didn’t get preferential treatment, he noticed. First come, first served. He approved of that.

  Another finger-post greeted him: CLASSROOMS 1–14, STAFF ROOM, LADIES’ REST ROOM, STOREROOM, BOILER ROOM. It pointed in all directions, including up. CLASSROOMS 15–21, that one read. HEADMASTER’S STUDY, PHYSICS LAB, LAVATORIES. He looked at the wide, curved staircase, counting the steps he could see, in case LAVATORIES indicated the only facilities available. Like an old man. An old man with a stick, afraid of a flight of stairs. He’d bought the stick specially; the hospital had said that theirs was very carefully designed to give the best support, and hadn’t been too keen on the idea, but if he had to walk with a stick it would be a stick to be proud of. It was a silver-topped walking-stick, slim and elegant. All right, the surgeon had said grudgingly. But keep the other one in case that one snaps. The balance was all wrong, with that heavy knob; these sticks weren’t for walking with, they were for show. So Philip was showing it. The other one was with his luggage, in the car.

  First day of term; that was the reason for the queue. There were questions to be answered, children to be checked and registered and comforted, staff to be given timetables and instructions and notes about epileptics and Muslims. He joined the end, and shuffled up with the others. He’d been told not to, in a letter. The headmaster would meet him, show him round, it said. But none of the people he had seen had been the headmaster. His memory was a bit faulty, but not that bad. Treadwell had come to see him just before Christmas, to check that everything was all right, and that he could start in the new year.

  He had seemed very solicitous. Too solicitous. Philip must tell him, he had said, if there we
re any obstacles that could perhaps be overcome or made less troublesome. There would be no obstacles, Philip thought darkly. He was thirty-seven, God damn it. He was in the prime of a life that he enjoyed, an uncomplicated life, doing more or less what he pleased. He was . . . he was just temporarily inconvenienced. He wasn’t disabled, and he never would be. He just used a walking-stick, that was all.

  An all-male queue; but in the office two women came into view as Philip at last achieved the window position, with only a man and a small boy ahead of him. The blonde receptionist was dealing with the queries; she caught his eye, as she would, for Philip was taller than the rest of the queue, and she smiled. Philip smiled back automatically, but he was looking past her to where another woman sat perched on the desk, talking on the phone. She was a little younger than he was, at a guess. Dark eyes, clear skin, dark hair drawn away from her face. Delicately coloured eyelids, and lips that matched the pale, polished nails. A wedding ring encircled one slim finger. No other jewellery. He felt as though he knew her, but he didn’t.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’ she was saying. ‘It’s just that it’s only on that one night. But I did say I’d—?’ She paused. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’m really grateful, Diana.’ She twisted the telephone cord lightly in her fingers as she spoke.

  Lifting her hand to his mouth, kissing the long, slim fingers . . .

  ‘You’ll have to hire one,’ the receptionist was saying to the man. He was about fifty, stockily built, slightly overweight, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt.

  ‘Hire one?’ the man repeated, in a London accent which, if it ever had been polished up, had returned to its native roughness. ‘Do you know how much the bloody things cost to hire?’

  His lips touching her eyes, her cheekbones . . .

  ‘Fucking dinner-jacket,’ the man said, walking down the corridor.

  There were embarrassed giggles from the boys, but neither of the ladies seemed shocked, or even surprised.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse Sam,’ the dark one said, her hand over the mouthpiece as she addressed him over the head of the small boy in front. ‘He’s a law unto himself.’ She turned back to the phone. ‘Just apologising for Sam,’ she explained to the caller. ‘He’s trying to shock people, as usual.’