Frozen Charlotte

by Priscilla Masters

  ‘If he left a note,’ she said quietly, ‘I had no choice. Your father would have known what he was doing and the consequence of his actions.’

  Cley’s face crumpled. ‘I know that,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t make me feel any better.’

  ‘Finton, I’m sorry about your father,’ she said, ‘but I was simply doing my job. You can’t blame me.’

  He did not reply but stared ahead of him, his dark eyes sad.

  She bought the jug anyway.

  TEN

  Sunday

  The lunch invitation had been extended to Sukey and Agnetha so they drove in Martha’s car out towards the black and white half-timbered manor house where Simon had lived with Evelyn. Armenia and Jocasta had never really lived there as it had been bought after they had left home. Martha didn’t know if Simon had ever realized, but Evelyn had never really liked it. Bought as a status symbol, Evelyn had found it spooky and too big even with an army of cleaners and gardeners.

  The place was immaculate. They drove down the gravelled drive, taking in the manicured lawns bordered by topiary yew bushes and beyond that the little stone archway which led to Evelyn’s favourite spot – the rose garden. Martha couldn’t see Christabel having much of an interest in roses. Still – you never knew. She pulled up outside the oak door and tugged at the bell.

  Armenia opened the door, rolling her eyes. ‘What a bloody…’ she exploded then remembered her manners. ‘Hello, Martha. Lovely to see you. Sorry you’ve been dragged into all this.’

  She was her mother in some ways, slim and elegant, but she lacked Evelyn’s soft warmth. Armenia was as brittle as glass. She was, though she would have denied it hotly, a clone of her father. Tough, stubborn, very determined, she was a force to be reckoned with.

  She looked past Martha and gave a shriek. ‘Sukey Gunn,’ she said. ‘You’ve quite grown up. Right behind my back.’ She gave her a hug and Agnetha too. ‘Thank goodness you’re here,’ she said. ‘It’s been dire. My father. Oh.’ She threw her hands up in the air. ‘It’s ridiculous. I’m ashamed of him. Bloody little gold-digger. Thinks we can’t see right through her? Come on into the lions’ den.’

  Martha followed her into the panelled hallway hung with a few ancient portraits. Nothing to do with Simon – he had come from humble beginnings – and they weren’t anything to do with Evelyn either. They had been bought at various salerooms up and down the country. Simon had a friend who was a clever and knowledgeable art dealer and he had purchased most of these through him. But the portraits had the desired effect. They made the house look like an old family seat which was the look Simon wanted.

  Armenia was joined by her sister, Jocasta, who looked every bit as fed up as her sister. ‘Hi,’ she said gloomily. ‘Join the happy family – I don’t think.’ She led them into the sitting room.

  Simon and Chrissi were sitting side by side on the sofa and frankly Chrissi looked terrified. Simon shot Martha a despairing look and stood up. ‘Glad you’re here,’ he said.

  Chrissi gave her a swift smile. ‘Hello again,’ she said in her little girl’s voice.

  Simon had a housekeeper, Hannah Scholz, a woman in her thirties who had come from what had once been East Germany. She had been a real find, very tidy and organized, a terrific cook and it seemed to Martha that she did the work of three women, keeping the house immaculate. She was also blessed with common sense and looked after Simon as she had looked after Evelyn right up until her end, adding nurse to all her other roles.

  Hannah called them in to Sunday lunch, roast beef with all the trimmings. The distraction of serving food and eating, plus the usual conversation, did lighten the atmosphere at the table. Hannah kept her gaze away from Martha which probably meant that she did not want to join in on the condemnation of Christabel.

  Afterwards they sat and talked and Martha began to see Christabel not as a young lovely woman or even a gold-digger but as a person, and she decided then that she would ring Simon later in the week and talk to him. She had a few thoughts to share with him.

  DI Randall and PC Roberts had a couple of hours to walk around Malaga, which proved to be an interestingly ancient and historic city. Then they made their way back to the airport and boarded the plane. They spoke a little about their meeting with the Godfreys but Alex was anxious to speak to Martha.

  One phrase that Vince Godfrey said had stuck uncomfortably in his mind. ‘What my wife wants she gets.’ For all the fact that Vince had protested he loved his wife there had been some bitterness – resentment – in his words.

  But Petula had not had all she had wanted – if a husband’s fidelity counted for anything. So how would a woman like that respond to a husband who broke his wedding vows and was unfaithful? Might she feel he owed her something?

  They had no children. Neither had expressed any regret over this but had stated the fact baldly, without inviting sympathy. Perhaps a truly selfish person was better off having no children.

  Alex winced. Personally he would love to have had children.

  Alex had the feeling that Vince had said more than he had meant. If he consulted Martha and related the conversations, he argued, he might have a woman’s take on it. Maybe.

  He rang Martha first thing Monday morning and wasted no time on preamble, stating bluntly, ‘I wonder if I might come over and discuss this case with you?’

  ‘Of course, Alex. You know you’re always welcome to talk about cases with me. How was Spain?’

  ‘Not hot but we did see a little sunshine and enjoyed walking round Malaga. And of course we simply had to visit a bar for some tapas . I’ll come straight over if it’s all right with you.’

  ‘Fine. I’ve got something to tell you too,’ she said.

  ‘I forgot. Sorry. How was your weekend with your friend’s husband?’

  ‘Dire,’ she said. ‘Even worse than I’d expected. Civil war in the Pendlebury household, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  He was round in less than half an hour before she’d really got stuck in to her morning’s work. Jericho let him in with a sour, grouchy look. Alex took no notice but went straight into Martha’s office.

  ‘Not much of a tan,’ she teased.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Now what can I do for you?’

  He sat down in the chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him. ‘At some point, Martha,’ he said, ‘we’re going to have to decide whether to pursue this case or drop it.’

  ‘Ye-es,’ she said. ‘I realize that. But you know I always want to find out what the truth is. It doesn’t help that Mark Sullivan can’t be absolutely certain of “a” how long ago the child died, and “b” whether it was born alive and “c” whether it died from natural causes.’ She hesitated. ‘I take it the visit to the Godfreys wasn’t an out and out success then?’

  ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘They certainly didn’t admit to anything.’

  ‘What were they like?’

  ‘He’s obviously made a lot of money. Money he doesn’t quite know what to do with. I wouldn’t like to say how exactly he made so much money. It might simply be hard work but he seemed a shifty sort of guy to me. He was certainly relieved to see us leave. They have no children and he practically admitted that he had been unfaithful to his wife.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Martha said. ‘And before they lived in number 41?’

  ‘An elderly lady well into her eighties lived in the house before the Godfreys. She’d lived there for years and by the end was fairly incapacitated so obviously didn’t go into the loft in the last few years. If, say, one of her carers was pregnant, she could have hidden the baby up there without the old lady being aware. It’s possible. Vince Godfrey said she was demented by the time her relatives took her to live with them.’ He shifted in his seat. ‘Then there are the Godfreys themselves. Though they both said they had carried out extensive renovation to the property Vince Godfrey says he was not the one to box in the immersion tank. If Petula Godfrey had become pregnant there woul
d have been no need and no point in concealing either the pregnancy or the baby. If she really hadn’t wanted a baby she could have had an abortion and if she was intending to keep the child she would have had proper antenatal care.’

  He chewed his lip, frowning. ‘She admitted to having a couple of maids but denied that any one of them had become pregnant. She said she would have fired them.’ He stopped. ‘If one of her maids or one of her husband’s mistresses had become pregnant…?’

  ‘That’s a very sinister scenario,’ Martha said. ‘Do you really think? Are they capable of…?’ She looked at him. ‘You’ve met them,’ she said. ‘What do you think? That she murdered one of his mistresses and the baby too?’

  ‘It does seem incredible.’

  ‘Is there another body there? Or did the mistress escape leaving the baby behind? Surely not?’

  ‘I know, Martha, none if it does make sense but the fact is someone hid that body in the house.’

  ‘The Godfreys seem unlikely, surely?’

  ‘Ye-es except that I thought that Vince – Mr Godfrey – was trying to convey something to me when he said how determined his wife was, that she had to have what she wanted. He was telling me something, Martha.’

  She was silent, unable to think of anything helpful to contribute.

  ‘Anyway. Enough of that. Tell me about your weekend. How did dinner with the vamp go?’

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘She isn’t really a vamp. Just seems very young. She was much as I’d expected but no worse. Truth is I don’t think she’s a bad kid. Just not for Simon. That’s all. She’s wrong for him.’

  ‘Because she’s not like Evie?’

  ‘Give me some credit, Alex. No, not just because of that. It’s because she’s the wrong age, the wrong outlook, the wrong intellect. Even the wrong class. Everything’s wrong.’

  ‘You think she is a gold-digger?’

  ‘Not in the usual sense. I’m sure she doesn’t think of it like that. It’s more that she might love him now but when he’s older, more vulnerable, he won’t be the same man. Anyway, that wasn’t what I had to tell you. Alex. I know about the Message to Martha.’

  ‘What? You’ve solved it on your own?’

  ‘Not really. My stalker wanted me to know who he was and why.’

  ‘I am intrigued.’

  ‘Thought you would be.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  She related Finton Cley’s story, finishing: ‘Quite simply he blames me.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘We-ell. His point is that I put the family through a lot of unnecessary pain. He thinks I should have suppressed the letter and put in a verdict of misadventure. Then there would have been an insurance payout; he could have stayed at public school.’ She recalled Finton’s face. ‘I might even have become a lawyer or a doctor, like you.’

  She carried on with the story. ‘His mother wouldn’t have been flung into penury and presumably his sister, in spite of her father’s suicide, would not have descended into depression and alcoholism.’

  ‘Very neat,’ Alex said, ‘but if there was a note and you had suppressed it you could, presumably, have been accused of insurance fraud.’

  ‘That’s right. I had no choice. I pointed this out to Finton but he was fairly unforgiving. His mother has since died and his sister has alcoholic cirrhosis of the liver. It’s a sad story.’

  Alex touched her hand. ‘You’re not responsible, Martha.’

  ‘I keep telling myself that but a little voice inside me listens to Finton’s arguments and I do feel responsible.’

  ‘You are not responsible,’ he repeated, louder this time.

  ‘No, I know that. I don’t really see how I could have acted any differently but it is one of the difficult and sore points of the job.’

  ‘Is he going to leave you alone from now on?’

  She nodded. ‘I think so.’

  ‘It’s a grim business. Talk about something else.’

  Afterwards she could have bitten her tongue off but she’d said it by then anyway. ‘Did your wife mind you going away for the weekend?’

  His face seemed to freeze and she knew she’d said something gauche. He said nothing but the look of anguish that passed across his face was grey and chilly. He opened his mouth and still said nothing. Then he looked away from her.

  ‘I would dearly like to confide in you one day, Martha,’ he said softly, ‘but now is not the time. My wife is not a well woman.’ He met her eyes very briefly and she nodded and smiled.

  ‘When you’re ready to talk, Alex,’ she said, ‘I will be ready to listen.’

  He met her eyes, then: ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I shan’t forget.’

  She changed the subject. ‘Mark Sullivan seems better.’

  A tinge of humour touched Alex’s face. ‘A little bird told me that Dr Sullivan has somehow managed to curb his drinking.’

  ‘That was the conclusion I came to and I’m so glad. So very glad. He’s clever and talented and it was a rotten waste.’

  ‘He’s also left his wife, so the same little bird told me, and is living alone in a small rented bungalow.’

  ‘Another one with a much younger girlfriend?’

  ‘I don’t think so, at least, not that the little bird has told me. I think it were the drink that done it .’ Alex stood up. ‘Thanks for listening, Martha. I appreciate it.’

  ‘Keep me informed,’ she said. ‘What’s your next move?’

  ‘Get someone to talk to the estate agents who sold number 41 to the Godfreys, see if I can interview the relatives of the old lady, just in case they have anything to add – maybe about carers or something, take some sniffer dogs over to the house the Sedgewicks lived in before they moved just in case they did bring the body with them to number 41.’

  ‘But,’ Martha protested, ‘there are still the questions about Mrs Sedgewick’s very odd behaviour, the shrine of the children’s room, the name Poppy. There’s something funny about Alice Sedgewick and from what you’ve told me the family form a wall around her. They are abnormally protective of her. Why?’

  ELEVEN

  Holmes and Watson were a pair of springer spaniels trained as sniffer dogs and their relish for detection was about as great as that of the great Sherlock himself. Their trainer was a police sergeant named Shotton and he too did his work with great gusto and loved the dogs almost more than his wife (though he wouldn’t have dared tell her so). The three of them worked as a beautiful team.

  Holmes and Watson’s particular speciality was the sniffing out of decayed corpses. In their time they had unearthed quite a few and as Shotton put them in the back of his van and looked at their eager faces, tongues hanging out, already panting in anticipation, he wondered if today’s mission would bring more success.

  He had his orders: first of all to take the dogs to 41 The Mount and see if they found any sign of a second body. If the site proved negative he was to move on to Bayston Hill, to the house the Sedgewicks had previously occupied and do the same there.

  Anticipating opposition he had telephoned the Sedgewick’s house to forewarn them. Aaron Sedgewick was absolutely livid.

  ‘I don’t know what you think you’re doing in this police state,’ he said.

  Yeah, yeah, Shotton thought. Police state when they don’t like what we do, but powerless and ineffectual when it is they who want us.

  ‘Merely trying to find out the truth, sir. I’ll be round with the dogs in half an hour.’

  Sedgewick was no more friendly when Shotton arrived at number 41, the dogs straining at their leashes.

  Aaron Sedgewick stood, stony-faced, in the middle of the lounge, as the dogs, noses burying in the carpets, began their frantic search handled by Shotton who took absolutely no notice at all of the furious man.

  Holmes and Watson covered every single corner of the house, even managing to scamper up the ladder into the loft. Apart from interest in the area around the water tank they found nothing.

  When
Shotton had loaded up the dogs back into the van he returned to the house.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said. ‘Your cooperation was much appreciated.’

  Sedgewick snorted and gave him a look of pure loathing.

  Of his wife there was no sign.

  He had a very different reception when it came to the house in Bayston Hill. Occupied by a lively and elderly widow who was, of course, not implicated in the case at all, she thoroughly enjoyed the search. Her name, appropriately enough, was Alexandra Mistery and she heard his sketchy explanation with incredulous eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ she said excitedly. ‘I read about it in the paper.’ She frowned. ‘It was a bizarre case. I couldn’t make head nor tail of it.’

  Neither, Shotton thought, could the police.

  ‘But then the newspapers don’t always get it right, do they?’ She waited, hoping he would volunteer more information, adding, ‘And the lady who went to the hospital was the same one who sold us the house. We-ell.’

  She made a great fuss of the dogs, made Shotton a cup of tea, sat at the table and chatted on and on. He found it difficult not to give the game away as she was so curious.

  ‘I’m a big fan of crime fiction,’ she said. ‘I love Andrew Taylor and Val McDermid. Oh, they have such wicked minds.’ Her eyes gleamed at the memory of some of the plots. ‘And you think… you really think there might possibly be a dead body here?’ Her eyes shone with ghoulish glee. ‘Oh, what a thing. That would be amazing.’ She clasped her hands together. ‘Another cup of tea, sergeant?’

  ‘No. Thank you. I’d better get on.’

  The house was the neat, orderly abode of a middle-aged woman who lived alone. The only thing that interested Shotton was the pile of paperbacks stacked up by the side of the bed. A bookshelf downstairs was full of the same sort of titles. For Holmes and Watson, sniffing their way enthusiastically from room to room, there was nothing to interest them at all except a dead mouse they found at the bottom of the airing cupboard.