Murder in My Backyard

by Cleeves, Ann

  “We always stay with Alice on St. David’s night,” James Laidlaw said. “ It’s a family tradition. Her husband was Welsh, and she liked to entertain.”

  “You arrived yesterday?”

  James nodded. “Late in the afternoon.”

  “Did your aunt seem concerned, worried?”

  James hesitated. “ Not really. She was angry about a new development planned for the edge of the village, but that was nothing unusual. She was always fighting for some cause or another. I’m afraid she was rather a crank.”

  “No,” Judy said. “ That’s not true. She was well-read, intelligent, especially concerned about environmental problems.” She turned to Ramsay. “Alice was a scientist,” she told him, “ a chemist. She met her husband at Newcastle University, where they both worked. He was a historian and quite famous. You might have seen him on television. Alice may have dressed rather strangely and been a bit eccentric, but she was no fool.”

  “Perhaps you could explain about the new houses and what they had to do with Mrs. Parry,” Ramsay said.

  “Alice originally owned the land where the housing development is proposed,” Judy said. “She sold it to a builder on the understanding that it would be used for cheap starter homes for the village people. Then she found out that the development would be much bigger than she’d been led to believe and that he was going to build big executive homes for people prepared to commute into Newcastle. Of course the villagers are furious and think Alice sold out—though she let the land go to the builder for well under the market value.”

  “What is the name of the builder?” The interruption was gentle and she hardly paused.

  “Henshaw,” Judy said. “ Colin Henshaw.”

  Ramsay recognised the name immediately as the builder who owned the land behind his cottage. He said nothing, and Judy continued:

  “There was an action meeting in the hall yesterday afternoon. Alice went to it, and apparently it got very nasty. Later in the day she received a threatening letter. It really upset her.”

  “Were you at the meeting?” Ramsay interrupted again. “Can you tell me exactly what happened?”

  “No,” Judy said. “We didn’t arrive until it was all over. But one of your reporters went, didn’t she, James? She would be able to tell the inspector what went on.”

  “Yes,” James said absently, “though I’m not sure how reliable she is.”

  “What is her name?” Ramsay asked.

  “Raven,” James said. “ Mary Raven.”

  Ramsay turned to Judy. “ You mentioned a letter,” he said. “Could you tell me about that?”

  “It was delivered here some time after the meeting,” Judy said. “By hand, I suppose. But if Alice guessed who had made it, she didn’t say. It was anonymous. There was no handwriting, only words cut out from newspaper. It was horrible, violent. It said something like ‘If you kill our village, we’ll kill you.’”

  “How did Mrs. Parry respond to the letter?”

  “She wasn’t frightened,” Judy said. “ She was sad and upset but not frightened. She loved Brinkbonnie. She didn’t want her friends to think she’d let them down.” She looked at James and smiled a little maliciously. “She was angry, too. She thought James could do more to support her by making a fuss in the Express. She threatened to cut him out of her will if he didn’t help her.”

  “Nonsense!” James said. “She said no such thing! This is preposterous.”

  “Come on, James,” Max said, rolling onto an elbow. “ She may not have spelled it out, but that’s certainly what she implied.”

  It seemed to Ramsay that the couples did not like each other very much. The brothers seemed to have little in common and the women had not acknowledged each other’s presence since he had been in the room. Stella raised her swanlike neck and looked at them as if the bickering was beneath her. She had contributed nothing to the conversation, yet he thought that in some subtle way she was manipulating the direction it was taking.

  “Tell me more about this letter,” Ramsay said. “ Do you know what happened to it? Where is it now?”

  “I don’t know,” Judy said. “ I didn’t see it in the dining room this morning. Perhaps Alice took it out with her.”

  “Out?” Ramsay repeated. “Did Mrs. Parry go out after dinner last night?”

  “Yes,” Judy said awkwardly. “At about ten o’clock.”

  “Where on earth did she go at that time of night?”

  “She went to see Henshaw,” Judy said. “She wanted to persuade him to sell her back the land.” Judy Laidlaw had become the family spokesperson. She was competent, articulate, and they seemed content to leave the responsibility to her. Yet occasionally, as she spoke, she glanced at Stella with undisguised spite, as if she were pleased to have the opportunity to put her and James in the wrong. “If James had promised her more support in the Express, she might never have felt it necessary to go.”

  “But you let her go?” Ramsay asked. “On her own?”

  “She was a very independent woman,” James said. “ Of course we tried to dissuade her, but she wouldn’t listen.”

  “What time did she come back?”

  They looked at each other, ashamed and defensive.

  “She told us not to wait up,” Max said lamely.

  Ramsay looked at each of them in turn.

  “Did anyone see Mrs. Parry after she’d been to Henshaw’s last night?” he demanded.

  No-one answered.

  “Who went to bed first?” he asked. “How long did you wait for her?”

  “I went first,” Judy said. “I didn’t hear Max come in. I fell asleep very quickly.”

  “I was watching a late film on the television,” Max said. “ It didn’t finish until midnight. James and Stella went up before me.”

  “And it didn’t occur to you to worry about Mrs. Parry?” Ramsay looked at them all in astonishment. Why did they feel so little guilt? They were, in a way, responsible for their aunt’s death. They should have taken more care of her.

  Max shook his head. “I had a lot to think about,” he said. “Problems at work, you know. I expect you’ll find it hard to believe, but I’d even forgotten that she was still outside.”

  “You didn’t lock any of the doors?”

  Max shook his head again. “No,” he said. “Alice saw to all that.”

  “And you didn’t go outside?”

  There was perhaps a momentary hesitation. “ No,” Max said. “Why should I have done?”

  Ramsay paused, then the focus of his questions became more general. He could sense their relief but was unsure if it was because one of them had been implicated in the murder or because, after all, they felt some shame in having let an old lady wander about alone so late at night.

  “Did any strangers come to the house yesterday evening?” he asked.

  “Not while we were here,” Judy said. “Olive Kerr was here until we sat down for dinner. Alice asked her to join us, but she said she wanted to go back to her own family. I suppose the letter must have been delivered by someone. And of course that reporter was here in the afternoon.”

  “The reporter from the Otterbridge Express? She came to the Tower as well as to the meeting in the hall?”

  “I think so.” Judy looked around at the family for confirmation. “Isn’t that what Alice said? That she had a discussion with Mary Raven after the meeting?”

  But the others, it seemed, could not remember.

  “You didn’t see any strangers at the house?” Ramsay persisted. “There was no-one hanging around the drive or in the churchyard?”

  Stella Laidlaw smiled suddenly and spoke for the first time.

  “Only those teenagers who hang around the bus stop on the green,” she said. “They were there, I think.”

  “Can you see the green from the house?”

  “Oh,” she said, “ you can see most of the village from our bedroom window.” She remembered the moonlit figure pacing between the gravestones and
smiled again, hugging the information to herself. Ramsay saw the smile and thought how heartless the woman was. She had nothing, after all, to be pleased about. All four Laidlaws would be under suspicion and subject to intrusion and prying questions until the investigation was over. Every family had secrets and he would know most of the Laidlaws’ before the thing was finished. The thought gave him no pleasure.

  “Will both Max and James benefit under Mrs. Parry’s will?” he asked, and as he had expected the question provoked righteous indignation.

  Could he really think, they asked, that they would hurt Alice? They all loved her.

  “You do see why I have to ask?” Ramsay said mildly. “ If you don’t wish to discuss it with me, I can talk to Mrs. Parry’s solicitor.”

  “The Tower comes to me with the understanding that it’s to stay in the family,” James said. “I’ll respect her wishes, of course. She hadn’t a lot of capital, but what there is goes to Max. Neither of us stands to make a fortune from her death.”

  “This is ludicrous,” Max said. “You should be talking to Henshaw. He must have been the last person to see my aunt alive. And what about the maniacs in the village who called that meeting yesterday and want to stop the building? What about the lunatic who wrote that letter?”

  Ramsay ignored the outburst and stood up abruptly. He felt he had spent enough time with them. In other circumstances he would have muttered something about leaving them alone with their grief. But grief seemed beyond them.

  “Thank you for your attention,” he said. “ Please stay in the Tower until one of my officers has taken statements from you. Then you’ll be free to go.”

  As he left the room he could sense their resentment.

  In the playroom at the top of the stairs the children had finished the jigsaw puzzle and were talking with an earnest intensity that would have surprised their parents. It was a small cluttered room with a bare wooden floor and faded print wallpaper. The toys were mostly old, strange, unlike the bright plastic ones they had at home. There was a fort with carved soldiers and a large metal spinning top. On a trestle table along one wall there was a model railway with peeling papier-mâché hills and houses made of balsa wood. It had belonged to Peter’s father and had been built by Anthony Parry, but Peter had been told that he was still too young to play with it unsupervised.

  As Carolyn spoke to him he looked at the trains with longing. It seemed a terrible injustice that he could not touch them, and that thought on top of all his other misery made him cry suddenly. Carolyn watched in frustration as tears ran down his cheeks.

  “It’s no good crying,” she said crossly. “ I’m only trying to help you.” She felt so much older than he and knew she would have to take all the responsibility. “ We must sort out what we’re going to tell them.”

  “I won’t tell them anything!” he cried, looking up at her. “I promise.” For the first time ever he was frightened of her. He had loved his cousin ever since he could remember, but the violence of her words made him wish she would leave him alone. Yet he still wanted to please her.

  “Of course you’ll have to tell them something,” she said. “They won’t ignore us just because we’re children. Not this time. You found the body. The police will want to talk to you.”

  “Will they?” She seemed so clever. He knew he would trust her judgement. She had always protected him from unpleasantness. He stood up and wandered to the window. A pile of old annuals were stacked on the sill. Before he had started school Carolyn had read them all to him. Outside the policeman who had spoken to his parents appeared on the grass. Frightened, Peter turned back to the room and his cousin.

  “Answer all the questions about finding Aunt Alice,” she said. “Tell them just what happened. That won’t matter. But when they ask you about last night, this is what you must say …”

  She took his hand and pulled him close to her, so he could feel her fine hair on his cheek, then he listened carefully as she repeated her instructions.

  Chapter Five

  Ramsay had banned them all from the kitchen until it had been checked forensically. If Mrs. Parry had been stabbed, he said, the murderer might have gone into the kitchen to clean himself up. And the knife. They were to look for bloodstains on the floor and by the sink. Banished from the kitchen, Hunter took shelter in an open shed, which was attached to the house. Logs were stacked against one wall and there was a heavy saw hanging on a nail. Ramsay found him there, drinking tea from a flask with the civilian scene of crime officer. When the S.O. C.O. saw Ramsay, he melted into the garden and Hunter was left to explain.

  “It’s bloody cold outside, sir,” he said. “You can’t blame him. The village P. C. is keeping an eye on the site.”

  Ramsay said nothing and Hunter continued: “ He’s got a police house in the village. You’ll be welcome to use it as a base, he says.”

  “Thank him,” Ramsay said. “ I’ll see him later.”

  “Do you want some tea?”

  Ramsay shook his head. “ I’ve finished with the Laidlaws now,” he said. “You can take their statements. Where’s Olive Kerr?”

  “Upstairs in the bathroom, washing her face. She was a bit upset.”

  Outside, the scene of crime officer was bending diligently over the body. Hunter had been right. It was very cold.

  “Can you give me any information about the murder weapon yet?” Ramsay asked.

  The man looked up, eager to be helpful.

  “We’re looking for a smooth, wide-bladed knife, I think,” he said. “The sort you’d find in any kitchen for cutting meat. Something sturdy but not at all unusual.”

  “Anything else of use?”

  The man shook his head. “Nothing yet.”

  Ramsay went back into the house and found Olive Kerr standing uncertainly in the hall. Her eyes were red from crying.

  “Come on,” he said. “ I’ll walk you home.”

  “I can’t believe it,” she cried. “I was here yesterday afternoon helping her get ready for the family. Now I’ll never see her again.”

  Gently he helped her off with her apron and on with her coat. They went out through the front door and onto the drive. It was so cold that the bitter wind took his breath away, but Olive hardly seemed to notice it. There were more policemen in the garden now, searching along the line of the wall.

  “What are they doing?” she asked.

  “Searching for the murder weapon,” he said. “Later I’ll have to ask you to look in the kitchen and see if anything’s missing. We’re looking for a meat knife.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” she said. “ Mrs. Parry was careless with her things. There’s a pile of cutlery in the kitchen and more in the scullery.”

  They came to the wrought-iron gate to the churchyard. “Do you always come to work this way?” he asked, having to shout against the wind.

  “Usually,” she said. “It’s quicker than going all the way up the Otterbridge Road and down the drive.”

  “Did you come this way today?”

  “No,” she said. “It was so wild Tom gave me a lift to the end of the drive.”

  So, Ramsay thought, you didn’t shut the gate behind you this morning. Either the murderer was very careful or he left by the drive. Or, he thought, it was one of the family.

  When they got to the green, they turned to face the weather. She walked very quickly, stiff, upright, and proud. The waves beyond the cottages were huge and relentless, and Ramsay could taste the spray where he stood.

  “I’ll be all right now,” she said. “ You can leave me here.”

  “I’ve some questions to ask,” he said. “ I’ll have to come with you.”

  She nodded briefly and walked on.

  In the house behind the garage there was the smell of meat cooking. Tom Kerr must have been looking out for her because he had the door open before they reached it. He was a tall man, bearded, rather serious. His hair was balding and he made Ramsay think of a monk.

  “I heard in chu
rch,” he said. “I was just thinking I should come and fetch you.”

  He put his arm around her and Ramsay felt excluded, a little jealous. They were obviously very close.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “ I’ll have to come in. There are questions to ask. But I thought you’d be more comfortable here than in the Tower.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Of course. Tom, this is Inspector Ramsay. He’s in charge of the investigation.”

  Tom Kerr nodded and stood aside. “Maggie’s at work,” he said. “I told her she should stay here today, that you’d need us all around you, but you know what she’s like at the minute. There’s no talking to her.”

  “For goodness’ sake, man, she’s better at work. What good would she do here? Leave her alone. None of this is her fault.”

  The sharpness of her words shocked Ramsay and it occurred to him that there was a tension between them that had nothing to do with Alice Parry. He supposed that it was none of his business. Unless it had a bearing on the investigation.

  Tom Kerr accepted the rebuke apologetically. “There’s a fire in the lounge,” he said. “Why don’t you go in there? The boys have been playing upstairs since they came back from Sunday school. They’ll not disturb you. I’ll make you some coffee and bring it in.”

  Olive nodded and led Ramsay into a small room with large, heavy furniture. She picked up a coal scuttle and rattled the fuel loose and thrust it onto the fire. The flames were damped briefly by the coal dust then burned again.

  “Tell me about Mrs. Parry,” Ramsay said. He settled comfortably into one of the armchairs. He wanted to show her that he was in no hurry, that he could listen to her all morning if she would talk to him. “How did she seem yesterday? You probably knew her as well as anyone.”

  She nodded, acknowledging the statement as a compliment before replying. “ She was canny,” Olive said. “ Just like she always was. I never knew Alice Parry anything but thoughtful and kind. The meeting had upset her and she was angry about Henshaw and his houses, of course, but she was always in a state about something, and that had been rumbling on for days.”

  She paused. “I blame myself for that,” she said. “ I started it all off. My daughter’s divorced and she and the bairns live with us. I was always complaining that there was nowhere in Brinkbonnie she could afford to buy and the council houses all sold off. I didn’t know it then, but Mrs. Parry went off to talk to Henshaw about that land. I told them in the village she was only acting for the best, but they didn’t belive me.”