Suspicious Death

by Dorothy Simpson

  Thanet gazed at the building, imagining it as it once was, with the sound of children’s voices floating through those open windows, the noise of shouts and laughter enlivening the midday hush which lay now over the village like a pall.

  And it was here, within those thick stone walls, that Marcia, Edith, Grace, Reg and the long-lost Henry had spent the years of their youth, seeing each other daily, linked by the tight ties which used to bind the small rural communities. This school, this village, would have been Marcia’s whole world and it was scarcely surprising that she had wanted to return to flaunt her success before the people who would once have regarded her as the lowest of the low. And her former school friends, how would they have felt when they learned that it was Marcia who had bought the Manor? None of them had made very much of their lives. Wouldn’t they have found it galling, to know that the child who had once come to school bruised and hungry and smelling of stale urine had outstripped them all? And they surely wouldn’t have forgotten their ancient grudges against her? She had, after all, stolen Edith Phipps’s one and only chance of happiness, robbed Grace of her brother and Reg of his best friend.

  And she had then proceeded to threaten to injure them further. Edith was to lose her job, Grace her daughter and Reg his inheritance.

  Had the memory of those old wounds served to underline and reinforce the inevitable feelings of anger at these new and latest injuries?

  Thanet suggested as much to Lineham.

  ‘Could be, sir. In each case they were going to lose what they valued most. But unless we can come up with some evidence, whoever did it is going to get away with it.’

  ‘Nil desperandum, Mike. Drive on. After a certain point my brain can’t function properly without food and drink.’

  The pub had featured so much in this case that Thanet looked around with more than customary interest when they went in, but there was nothing special about it: heavy oak beams, gaudily patterned carpet, veneered oak tables and the usual pub smell of beer, smoke and furniture polish. The food was good, though – generous portions of quiche and a salad which was rather more adventurous than the universal offering of a lettuce leaf topped with a few slices of tomato and cucumber. Apart from three young men at the bar it was deserted. The landlord recognised Lineham and they were swiftly served.

  Half an hour later they were walking up the sloping meadow towards Greenleaf’s hut. The place seemed deserted.

  ‘There’s no sign of him,’ said Lineham. ‘Perhaps he’s out.’

  Thanet hoped not, but if so, there was nothing they could do about it. It would be pointless to wait, for all they knew Greenleaf could be gone all day. ‘Let’s hope he hasn’t skipped!’

  ‘No, look, the door’s open!’ said Lineham. ‘He can’t be far away.’

  ‘Try calling him.’

  It was evident that Greenleaf had been sawing logs. There was a wide scattering of fresh sawdust around a chunk of tree trunk which had evidently been used as a sawing horse; saw and axe lay near by, ready to be taken up again at a moment’s notice. The freshly cut logs had been stacked beneath an open-sided shelter at the back of the hut.

  Lineham cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted Greenleaf’s name a few times, swivelling to project the sound in different directions. In the distance a dog began to bark.

  ‘Greenleaf’s dog?’ said Lineham.

  Thanet shrugged. He was standing at the door, looking into the hut. Greenleaf lived a spartan life. There was a canvas camp bed, a pile of neatly folded blankets at one end, a pillow at the other, no sheets; an old leather armchair with the stuffing coming out; a formica-topped table with a small Calor gas cooker on top, and an upright chair; a tall storage cupboard which probably served as a larder; a wooden box about two feet long by eighteen inches deep; and a transistor radio. A knitted balaclava helmet hung on a nail by the door.

  Thanet and Lineham looked at each other.

  ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Mike?’

  Lineham grinned. ‘Seems a pity to miss such a good opportunity.’

  ‘Call him again.’

  Lineham obliged, but there was still no response.

  ‘I’m just going to take a look around out here,’ said Thanet.

  Another grin. ‘Right, sir.’

  Thanet wandered off to look at the chickens, keeping an eye open in case Greenleaf suddenly emerged from the woods. He thought that he would probably hear the man coming, though; up here it was very still. And the view was remarkable. For someone who didn’t need the company of others, or who shunned it for some reason as Greenleaf did, this was as pleasant a place as he could hope to find. How badly had Harry wanted to stay here? Badly enough to kill, when the opportunity offered itself?

  Thanet glanced at the hut. Lineham was kneeling in front of the wooden box.

  The goat’s stake, Thanet noticed, had been moved since the last time they were here, a good ten feet further away from the hut, and the animal was busy cropping the new grass near the perimeter.

  ‘Sir!’

  Thanet swung around. Lineham sounded excited. The Sergeant was hurrying towards him, waving a book.

  A book?

  ‘Look!’ Lineham opened it to the flyleaf and thrust it towards him. A square label pasted inside informed him that on 18 July 1951 this book had been awarded to Henry Gates, for the best work in his class.

  Henry Gates?

  Henry … Harry …

  Was it possible that Harry Greenleaf, the recluse, was really Henry Gates, Grace Trimble’s brother? Henry, who had been Reg Hammer’s best friend, Edith and Marcia’s first love?

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Thanet stared at the label, mind racing. If Greenleaf was really Henry Gates, it would explain why he had chosen Telford Green as his sanctuary. After the trauma of the fire and no doubt many months of surgery he would have needed the comfort of familiar surroundings. Thanet closed the book, read the title. Palgrave’s Golden Treasury. Typical of school prizes given at that time.

  ‘What d’you think, sir? Think he could be Gates?’

  ‘Greenleaf could have picked this up at a jumble sale in the village.’

  Lineham’s excitement visibly waned as he considered this proposition. ‘Possible, I suppose.’

  ‘Likely, even. On the other hand …’

  ‘If he is Gates, why d’you think he didn’t go back to his family?’

  ‘There was only his sister to go back to, remember. And frankly, from what we’ve seen of her, if I were Greenleaf I’d prefer to live up here by myself.’

  ‘The Pringles said she was very fond of him.’

  ‘True. Though that’s not the same as saying, he was fond of her.’ Thanet shrugged. ‘Perhaps he just didn’t want to make himself known, wanted to hide himself away from everybody. It would be understandable, considering the degree of his disfigurement.’

  ‘You don’t think …? No.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I was wondering if his sister did know who he really was, if he might have told her. But if so, I shouldn’t think she’d have dropped him in it by telling us he was on the bridge that night.’

  ‘No.’ Ironic, that, if Harry was Gates: brother and sister meeting on the bridge where they must have lingered so often as children, Harry knowing that the following day he would have to leave Telford Green for the second and perhaps last time. Had he been tempted to approach Grace, tell her who he really was? He would then have been able to move in with her, stay on in the village legitimately. He would have been a nine-day wonder, true, but once the sensation became everyday reality people would no doubt have accepted him back as Henry Gates, one of them. Sympathy for him would have run high. He wasn’t stupid, must have realised all this. Why, then, if he was Gates, had he not declared himself?

  Perhaps he wasn’t Gates after all, really had picked the book up at a jumble sale. Thanet glanced down at it. The cover was bent, worn and stained. If Greenleaf was Gates it must have accompanied him through all the int
ervening years, perhaps the only memento of his childhood.

  Thanet suddenly became aware that the distant barking had become louder and a few moments later Harry’s black and white mongrel shot out of the wood and tore up to them, barking furiously. A couple of feet away it skidded to a halt but continued barking.

  It didn’t look as though the animal was going to attack them, but it seemed politic to stand still. Harry couldn’t be far away.

  A couple of minutes later he emerged from the wood, bent almost double, both hands clutching the rope over his right shoulder. In a moment Thanet could see that he was dragging a sizeable log. He lowered it to the ground and straightened up.

  ‘Jack! Enough!’

  The dog stopped barking immediately, like a radio that had been switched off. Then it looked at its master and, nose to the ground, ran up to the hut, sniffed around inside, then returned to sniff at Lineham’s trousers. The message was clear.

  Greenleaf hadn’t needed it, however. His eyes were on the book in Thanet’s hand. ‘Got a search warrant, have you?’

  Thanet was in the wrong and he knew it. But if he admitted it, Greenleaf could prove difficult. He was just the type to make an almighty fuss. Better to counter-attack. If they were wrong about his identity, of course, their ammunition would be useless. But it was worth a try.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Mr Gates. We’ve been waiting for you for some time.’

  ‘Gates? What are you talking about?’

  Thanet held up the book. ‘This is yours?’

  Harry glanced towards the door of the hut. ‘You should know.’

  ‘Your name is inside.’ Thanet opened the book and held it out, displaying the label.

  Harry barely glanced at it. ‘Ha, ha. Very funny.’

  ‘You don’t deny that you are Gates, then?’

  ‘You can think what you like, mate.’

  Thanet sensed Lineham tense beside him and cast him an admonitory glance. It was one of the Sergeant’s weaknesses that he took it as a personal insult when witnesses were rude to Thanet. Why on earth, he wondered, had various people he had spoken to about Greenleaf said that he was a mild, gentle man, the type who “wouldn’t hurt a fly”? Perhaps, in normal circumstances, he was. Perhaps it was only when he felt threatened that he threw up this barrier of implacable hostility like a hedgehog extending its bristles. Once again Thanet regretted the impossibility of reading the man’s reaction from his expression. That stretched, shiny skin was about as responsive as a balloon. He heard Mrs Pringle’s voice, ‘Henry was such a good-looking boy …’, and firmly suppressed the pity which once again threatened to get in the way of handling the situation correctly. If Harry, or Henry, were a murderer, he would have to take his chance with the rest. And if not, well, he seemed quite capable of looking after himself.

  ‘If you prefer, we can go back to Headquarters to talk about it.’

  Harry’s sudden stillness told him that this was a highly unwelcome suggestion.

  ‘Or we can discuss it here. Providing that you are willing to cooperate.’

  Harry stared at him for a moment longer, then shrugged. ‘Let’s get it over with, then, I’ve got work to do.’ He strolled across to the hut, picked up an old guernsey sweater from the chair near the door and pulled it on. Then he turned, leaned against the outside wall of the hut and folded his arms. ‘Well?’

  Lineham took out his notebook.

  Harry still hadn’t either admitted or denied that he was Gates, Thanet reminded himself.

  ‘Look, it would be a simple matter for us to check whether you really are Greenleaf or not. One phone call to the Records Office would do it.’ If they were lucky. ‘But I would like to emphasise that even if you do choose to live up here under an assumed name there is no reason whatsoever for us to make this public unless you are involved in our investigation.’

  ‘That’s all right then, in’t it? I’m not.’

  ‘In that case you have nothing to worry about. And nothing to hide, either. You are Henry Gates?’

  Gates looked away from Thanet, down towards the village. Then, with a resigned sigh he shrugged. ‘Yes … You did mean what you said, about not telling anyone?’

  It was the first sign of vulnerability he had shown.

  ‘Of course. So long as you are not involved …’

  ‘How many more times do I have to tell you? I’m not!’

  ‘Oh come on, Mr … I’ll call you Harry, shall I? It’ll be simpler. Come on, Harry, we both know that’s not true. You were seen.’

  ‘When? What are you talking about?’

  But the note in Harry’s voice told Thanet that he knew quite well.

  ‘When we were last here, you told us that you had been at home on Tuesday night, packing up, that you hadn’t gone out. That was a stupid thing to do. You knew you’d been seen in the village by at least one person. Why lie about it?’

  ‘Why d’you think? Because any fool could see that with the motive I had for wanting to get rid of her, if I told you I’d been down to the village that night, I’d be inside quicker than I could say “Marcia”! I thought it was worth taking a chance you wouldn’t find out.’

  ‘So what time did you go down?’

  He had set off, it seemed, at about a quarter to ten. He wanted to take a last look around Telford Green before moving on next day. He had left Jack behind because people tended to stop and chat when he had Jack with him and he didn’t feel like talking to anyone that night.

  ‘So how long would it have taken you to get down to the village?’

  ‘Five minutes or so.’

  Harry had then walked first up to the far end of the village, getting back to the bridge probably soon after ten. Pressed for a firm time he became irritable. ‘I wasn’t looking at a bloody watch all the time, was I? Haven’t even got one.’

  Lineham was tense, Thanet could tell. At around a quarter past ten Marcia had left her mother’s cottage, only a few minutes away from the bridge, and shortly afterwards had fallen or been pushed through that gap. If Harry had been hanging about the village it was possible that, even if he hadn’t had a fatal quarrel with Marcia himself, he might have seen what happened to her.

  ‘Go on. And take your time. Tell us in detail what you saw and heard as you were approaching the bridge.’

  ‘Well, just as I was passing the pub the door opens and a coupla men come out. One of them was drunk and the other just propped him up against the wall outside and said, “Go on then, Reg. Home.” And back he goes inside. Reg just stands there for a minute and then his knees sort of fold up and he slides down till he’s sitting on the floor. Then he doesn’t move.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘Nothing. Not then, anyways. I sort of hesitated a bit, then I thought, someone else’ll be out in a minute, they’ll see him home. So I walked on to the bridge and stood looking down at the water.’

  He hadn’t heard Grace coming up the steps from the footpath on the other side of the bridge because a couple of cars went by, and it was not until she stepped on to the metalled road that he was aware of her presence. He recognised her at once, and slipped away, went to hide behind some bushes near by.

  ‘It didn’t occur to you to tell your sister who you are – I’m assuming she didn’t know? – and move in with her?’

  Harry moved his shoulders uneasily against the wooden wall of the hut. ‘I did think about it, yes. But I’m used to living by myself. I like it. I like the freedom. You don’t have to account to nobody, up here.’

  Thanet understood. Harry had escaped from his sister once and didn’t want to risk being enmeshed again.

  ‘So then what did you do?’

  He could see it all as clearly as if he were there, hiding behind the bushes himself: the bridge, with the warning lights around the broken parapet; the receding figure of Grace. Any second now Marcia would come into sight …

  ‘Well, Grace went off home, in the other direction, and there was Reg still sitting on the floor
outside the pub across the road … Well, I wasn’t doing nothing, and once upon a time me and Reg was best mates. So I goes across, says, “Come on, me old mate.” I manage to get him on his feet and off we stagger.’

  The whole scenario sounded all too likely. Thanet remembered that curious look on Hammer’s face, as if he thought that his memory must be playing tricks on him. If, in his drunken state, he had recognised the voice of the childhood friend he hadn’t seen for years, he might well have wondered later if he had been dreaming. ‘You took him all the way home?’

  ‘It’s only a coupla hundred yards. Yeah. Rung the bell and dumped him on the doorstep.’

  ‘Mrs Hammer says he didn’t get home until half-past ten. Nearly half an hour, to cover that distance …?’

  ‘It must’ve taken me getting on for five minutes to get him to his feet and get him on his way. And then … Ever tried moving a drunk? He’s a dead weight, believe me. Reg is a big man, and he kept on falling down.’

  ‘While you were helping him along, did you look back at the bridge at all?’

  Harry shook his head. ‘Had my hands full, didn’t I?’

  ‘Or hear anything?’

  ‘Reg was singing, on and off. And I really wasn’t paying attention to what was going on behind me. If I’d known there was going to be a murder, and I was going to be a suspect …!’

  No point in saying that strictly speaking they still weren’t sure that there had been one. Harry probably wouldn’t have believed them anyway.

  ‘While you were in the village, did you see anyone else about?’

  Harry frowned, thinking. ‘There was a woman …’

  Thanet and Lineham spoke together.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘As Reg and me staggered across the bridge. She was posting a letter.’

  Edith? Thanet had checked. The post box was on the Manor side of the bridge. Unless Edith had seen Marcia coming and had walked on to the bridge to accost her, there would be no reason for them to have met.

  ‘Did you recognise her?’

  ‘No. There’s no lamp on that side of the bridge and the light is bad. And she was turning away from the box at the time. I only saw her back. Anyway, I wasn’t paying much attention.’