Frozen Charlotte

by Priscilla Masters

  Mrs Mistery followed him around from room to room, enjoying herself, tut tutting at the dead mouse and practising what she would tell her friends.

  ‘The police. They thought… another body. Dogs… murder. Just like one of my books. And the dogs – all over the place. Scampering up and down the stairs, sniffing under the beds. All too thrilling.’

  Like many people who live alone she made little comments to herself which left Shotton wondering whether he should join in the conversation or leave Mrs Mistery to carry on chatting to Mrs Mistery.

  When he and the dogs had finished with the house she made another pot of tea and they sat and drank while she continued her attempted pumping of the officer. As soon as he had finished the first cup she offered him a second but Shotton stood up. ‘Thank you, Mrs Mistery. You’ve been really kind but no. If you don’t mind I’ll just check around the garden and then all will be done.’

  The garden was quite small with a rectangular lawn and a couple of young trees at the end. Nearer the house it had been largely paved over. Shotton stepped through the patio doors straight onto an area paved with pink and cream slabs. Immediately Holmes and Watson began to yelp excitedly, their noses right down on the paving slabs. Shotton’s heart sank. It was so much easier to dig up a garden than lift a dozen or so concrete paving stones. But there was no doubt about it. The dogs were barking at something. And they expected their reward.

  Through the patio doors the dogs’ behaviour had not escaped the vigilant Mrs Mistery’s attention. She rapped sharply on the glass, mouthing, ‘Have they found something, sergeant? Is there something there?’

  Her excitement at being part of a real live murder was so great that it hadn’t occurred to her that this would mean the lifting of at least some of the patio slabs, disrupting her garden possibly for weeks. Shotton watched as both Holmes and Watson yelped and tried to stick their noses right into the crack between two of the slabs. He marked the spots then put the dogs in the back of the van, rewarding them for their skill. Then he returned to the house and the now wildly excited lady.

  ‘Was it you who had the patio laid, Mrs Mistery?’

  ‘Oh no,’ she said, with relish. ‘It was done before we came here. Clive, my husband, was already ill by the time we moved here to be nearer my daughter. Poor man, he wasn’t up to laying a patio or any other building work for that matter.’ Then her eyes widened. ‘You think somebody is buried under there, don’t you? That they laid the stones to conceal a body. Like that West chap. Oh yes, Sergeant Shotton, I have an interest in true crime as well as fictional works.’

  Shotton couldn’t think of a suitable reply. Far from being upset at the thought of a body lying underneath her patio since before she had moved in with her dying husband, Mrs Mistery was delighted. ‘Oh how thrilling,’ she said. ‘Just wait till I tell my friends at the WI about this. They’ll be so jealous . Who do you think it is, sergeant?’ Her eyes swivelled towards the patio. ‘Lying there all that time. The mother of the dead child?’ she deduced. ‘It has to be. This is amazing.’ Her eyes still sparkled even when she added, ‘I suppose you’ll have to take the entire patio up. Put up one of those white tents like you see on CSI. It’ll be in the papers. Reporters will be camping on my doorstep asking me for a statement.’

  Shotton began to feel slightly alarmed. Mrs Mistery was jumping too far ahead. He tried to put the brakes on. ‘Umm, Mrs Mistery…’

  She took absolutely no notice. It was as though he had not spoken.

  As each realization hit her she grew more and more excited. ‘I’ll have to take them out cups of tea like Mary Archer did. Oh my word.’ Yet another idea landed. ‘What if there’s a second baby under there? What if there’s a serial baby killer around?’

  Shotton felt quite dizzy. ‘Mrs Mistery,’ he said carefully, ‘let’s keep all these ideas to ourselves for now, shall we? Let’s not jump the gun and start making up stories. The dogs are trained to sniff out decayed bodies. Not necessarily human remains. But yes, we will have to dig up the patio but we’ll put the slabs back too when we’ve found what’s beneath them. Please don’t start rumours and please, please don’t worry.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not worried,’ said the lively widow.

  He recalled the final words of the TV show as he said, ‘And don’t have nightmares.’

  She looked at him. ‘Nightmares? You must be joking. This is the most exciting thing that’s happened to me since my husband died.’

  Shotton was even more taken aback at this. He studied her, now thoroughly puzzled and confused. He might have a good relationship with dogs, he reflected, as he returned to his van and called in to the station, but he didn’t get anywhere near understanding humans.

  Grope Lane was a narrow passageway lined with shops near St Mary’s Church and the Bear Steps. It was a pretty, historic part of the town and was reminiscent of a medieval alleyway where all sorts of skulduggery would have gone on. One could almost imagine the shout of ‘ Garde-loo ’ and a bucket of slops being pitched out of one of the crooked casement windows in the thirteenth-century home of one Richard Stury, a successful merchant of Welsh wool.

  WPC Delia Shaw walked over the cobbles to a shop halfway up called Victor Plumley’s. She had been detailed to speak to the estate agents. Like many in the town, it was an old family business with a sign over the door which proclaimed that Victor Plumley had been an estate agent in this ‘shoppe’ for more than two hundred years. Delia smiled as she pushed the door open. This feeling of history underfoot was the very reason why she loved this town which so unashamedly and proudly flaunted its history and why she would never work anywhere else if she could help it.

  A young man looked up as the doorbell jangled. His badge informed her that his name was David Plumley.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ he said politely, ‘Can I help you?’

  She flashed her ID card. ‘I’m part of the team investigating the discovery of a child’s body in number 41 The Mount. You may have read about the case in the papers.’

  David Plumley frowned. ‘Is that the lady who took a dead child to the hospital? About a week ago.’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘I really don’t see how we can help you?’

  ‘It’s to do with the history of the house where the child was found,’ she said. ‘Number 41 The Mount. The people who are the current occupants bought the property from another couple. They, in turn, bought the property through you.’

  ‘That must be years ago.’

  ‘Eight years.’

  David Plumley couldn’t quite assimilate the information. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but I don’t understand what this has to do with us.’

  ‘Forensic evidence,’ WPC Shaw said, ‘indicates that the baby had been dead for a number of years. The pathologist is not absolutely sure how many. We’re covering all possibilities.’

  Plumley made an expression of distaste. ‘How horrible. How gruesome. Are you telling me that the body could have been in the house for more eight years?’

  ‘It appears so,’ Delia said carefully.

  David Plumley swallowed. ‘I showed people over that p-property myself,’ he stuttered. ‘Are you telling me…?’ His voice trailed away and his colour changed to an odd shade of green.

  ‘So you handled the sale yourself?’

  ‘Well yes, partly. It’s a lovely house. I remember it quite well. Not the usual run-of-the-mill place. Large, Victorian semi-detached, as I recall it. They’re always popular. Sell very quickly as a rule. Particularly in such a good area. An old lady.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘A Mrs Isaac was selling it. She was quite elderly and a wee bit muddled. She wasn’t really up to showing people round the place so when her son and daughter-in-law couldn’t get up here we showed prospective purchasers around ourselves. Subsequently she went to live with her family.’ He frowned again. ‘I can’t remember where they were from.’

  ‘Were you the only member of staff who showed people around?’

  ‘No
. I had an assistant at the time called Jenny. She did some of the viewings for me. There weren’t that many. The Godfreys appeared fairly soon after the property had gone on the market. The Mount is a very popular area. Number 41 was only on the market for a couple of months as I remember.’

  ‘When you showed people round was there any time when they were alone in the property?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ David Plumley said. ‘That would be totally against our rule book. Oh no. Quite definitely no one would ever have been ever left alone in the property.’

  ‘Do you know whether Mrs Isaac had carers in?’

  Plumley screwed up his face. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘I mean she wasn’t that bad. Just a bit dotty and a bit frail. I don’t think I remember any carers being there.’

  ‘Does Jenny still work here?’

  ‘No. She left a few years ago. Her husband got a job in Australia.’

  ‘Are you still in touch with her?’

  David Plumley coloured. ‘No,’ he said shortly. ‘But I can vouch one hundred per cent that Jenny would not have left people alone in the house. It would be against all the rules in the book. They could have stolen something for a start and then we would be liable. Jenny was a professional.’ He smiled and WPC Shaw wondered why the embarrassment? Plumley had mentioned a husband. An office affair?

  ‘And the Godfreys?’ she prompted.

  ‘As far as I remember he was a bit of a wide boy while she was typical of a woman who wanted her own way. I remember she was saying she’d have this changed and that changed and she didn’t like this. She was quite a picky person. She slightly irritated me. She seemed to want to change everything. Original fireplaces, central heating system, all the colour schemes, paint over the banisters. She would have spent a lot of money -’ he gave a deep sigh – ‘removing every single vestige of a period property. Ghastly woman. She should have had a newbuild.’

  ‘She wasn’t pregnant?’

  ‘Not that I saw. I mean it’s a long time ago and she could have been in early pregnancy without it showing but I know she wasn’t obviously pregnant. I can’t recall much detail now but as far as I remember this was how they struck me. Mr Godfrey had made a lot of money in a fairly short time and…’ He laughed. ‘His wife was going to make sure she spent it. He appeared…’ He paused. ‘Indulgent. Does that help you?’

  ‘Yes. Thanks,’ Delia said. ‘You’ve been really helpful. I wonder if I might trouble you for the contact details of Mrs Isaac’s family.’

  ‘It’ll take a while,’ Plumley said. ‘It was a few years ago. Can I ring you later?’

  ‘That’ll be fine.’ WPC Shaw gave Plumley her card. ‘These are my contact details. If I’m not there just leave the names and addresses on the answerphone.’

  ‘I will.’ Plumley stood up and shook her hand.

  As soon as he got the phone call from Sergeant Shotton, Alex Randall sent Paul Talith round to number 41 to talk to the Sedgewicks and tell them that they were following a lead at their previous house in Bayston Hill. He would be interested to note their reaction.

  Talith broke the news to both Sedgewicks in the now familiar sitting room.

  Alice appeared composed. In fact she didn’t react at all, but sat, hands folded on her lap, a polite half-smile on her lips, looking around the room. Her husband, however, was incandescent.

  ‘A lead,’ he taunted. ‘What lead?’

  ‘I’m sorry but I’m not at liberty to reveal that, sir,’ Talith said, watching the man’s face carefully.

  The careful politeness failed to improve Aaron Sedgewick’s mood. ‘That’s right,’ he flung back bitterly. ‘Hide behind bureaucracy, why don’t you?’

  Talith didn’t rise to the challenge.

  Aaron thundered on. ‘I don’t know why you’re hounding us in this way,’ he shouted. ‘My wife was simply the person who found this wretched body.’ His eyes bulged as he spoke the word. There was no sympathy for a tragic death or even for the impact it might have had on his wife. Aaron Sedgewick was, Talith decided, an extremely self-centred man.

  Sedgewick ranted on. ‘There’s nothing at all to connect my wife with the child’s death. I shall speak to Acantha and demand that you stop persecuting us.’

  Talith thought the word ‘persecuting’ a little strong but he kept his cool, a talent he was fast honing to perfection.

  ‘We’re being as quick and thorough as we can, Mr Sedgewick.’

  ‘So why have you come round today?’

  ‘Just to clarify some details.’

  ‘Clarify? What details?’

  ‘The patio, sir, that you constructed in the garden of your old house?’

  ‘What about the patio?’ Sedgewick responded irritably. ‘This is quite ridiculous. It’s just a patio.’

  ‘We’re only doing our job,’ Talith said steadily. ‘That’s all. Now. The patio? Did you build it?’

  ‘Yes I did,’ Sedgewick admitted.

  ‘Yourself, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Well, I had some help from a firm of builders that I owned back then but I did most of the work. Want something doing and all that.’

  ‘Can you remember exactly when you built the patio?’

  ‘It would have been around 2003 or 4. I know it was sometime during the summer. It was really hot and then suddenly it turned wet. We had the devil of a job trying to drain the water off so we could lay the flagstones.’ He eyed Talith. ‘I admit I built a patio,’ he said, mocking him. ‘It’s hardly a major crime. You don’t even need planning permission. So what of it?’

  Talith kept quiet and watched Sedgewick’s eyes narrow as he stopped blustering and started to work out what was behind this trail of questions.

  ‘Why are you interested in a small building project?’

  ‘We’ve taken the sniffer dogs round there,’ Talith said steadily. ‘They are specially trained to detect long-decayed bodies.’ He waited. His inspector had taught him the value of a pause of the right length and in the right place.

  Aaron Sedgewick was scowling like a troll.

  ‘Exactly what are you implying?’

  Again Paul Talith waited for Aaron Sedgewick to realize where this was heading – which he finally did.

  ‘You think my wife buried someone under the patio?’

  Talith gave a swift glance at Alice. Even though her husband had just spoken the most outrageous of sentences which involved her she was still sitting, staring in front of her, a fixed smile on her face.

  Talith felt a shiver. This woman was not quite right in the head.

  He looked back at Aaron. And right in front of Talith’s astonished eyes the colour drained out of Aaron Sedgewick’s face. For a moment Talith even thought he would pass out. ‘Sir,’ he said urgently. ‘Sir?’

  Aaron stared right past him, as though seeing his own ghost.

  He completely ignored the presence of his wife, muttering, ‘My wife. My wife? My wife?’

  Talith could see no point in pursuing the questions.

  Half an hour later he was relating the result of the interview to Alex Randall.

  ‘Honestly, sir,’ he said. ‘I thought he was going to drop in front of my very eyes. He looked completely shocked, as though he had suddenly realized something. All the fight was gone out of him.’

  ‘Did he actually say anything?’ Randall asked.

  ‘He sort of muttered, “my wife, my wife, my wife”, over and over again and she just sat there with this weird smile on her face. I’ve never seen anything like it. I was glad to get out of there.’

  ‘What do you make of it?’

  They looked at one another, possibilities streaming through their minds.

  ‘Oh my word,’ Alex said slowly.

  Martha rang Simon that afternoon and he sounded clipped and strained.

  ‘Hello, Martha,’ he said glumly. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m well. Thank you, Simon. You?’

  ‘The girls are making things very difficult,’ he complained.
‘They’re hell. They won’t even try and like Chrissi. They’re being so unreasonable. Do they want me to be alone for ever?’

  She thought he was being a little dramatic. ‘Simon,’ she said, ‘hear me out.’

  ‘You don’t like her either,’ he said glumly.

  ‘I don’t dislike Christabel,’ she said. ‘I think she’s fine but lots of people find it hard when they’re suddenly left on their own after being married for a long time.’

  ‘And?’ She could sense the hostility in his voice. He was guarded, negative, suspicious.

  ‘Why not have her as a girlfriend. Why all this talk about being married? What’s all the hurry?’

  The other end of the line went quiet.

  ‘It’s because you haven’t got used to the fact of being alone. I know, Simon, because I’ve been through it myself. You’re simply rushing for a swift solution.’ She paused. ‘It’s more likely to be a disaster than if you wait.’

  More silence. Then: ‘Have you not been tempted to marry again?’

  ‘At first I desperately didn’t want to be alone,’ she said, ‘rather than wanting to marry a specific person.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Mind your own business,’ she said, laughing.

  And after a brief pause Simon joined her. ‘I shall listen to your voice,’ he said.

  Almost as soon as she had put the phone down Alex Randall rang her. ‘Just keeping you informed, Martha,’ he said. ‘We’re digging up the patio at Bayston Hill, the house the Sedgewicks lived in before they moved.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked bluntly.

  ‘The sniffer dogs became frenzied there this morning – over one particular spot. They’re rarely wrong, Martha.’

  She tried to keep the pictures out of her mind, of a further body – or even bodies – being found in another property.

  ‘Keep me informed, Alex,’ was all she said, but he sensed that she was disturbed.

  Tuesday morning

  The team was assembled and arrived at the house in Bayston Hill at nine o’clock. To their relief there were no journalists and no more than a passing interest from the other inhabitants of the road. They’d offered to move Mrs Mistery to a hotel for a few days but she would have none of it. ‘Absolutely not,’ she said. ‘Miss out on all the fun? This’ll probably be the only murder investigation I’ll ever be involved in. This is my moment of fame. Go to a hotel? You must be joking. I’m staying put and what’s more, if some of my very dear friends want to come to tea, which I’m sure they will, I shall invite them.’