False Accusations: Nothing to fear if you have nothing to hide... (Willowgrove Village Mystery Book 1)

by Cora Harrison

  ‘Fabulous, isn’t it,’ Ian agreed happily. He hadn’t seen the dog, of course. Like the good driver that he was, his eyes had been focussed firmly on the road ahead and they had not wavered. Flora’s smiled grimly to herself. So much for Ian Madden’s statement that he had seen Mrs Trevor when he came to pick up Jenny and to take her to the airport. Her mind went to Jenny and to Anthony. Two very clever children. And inseparable. Had Jenny usurped Jason’s place as Anthony’s twin? The boys had not been close, not at primary school and certainly not in secondary school, where they had been placed in different streams.

  Even neighbours had remarked on how the twins did not really get on together. There had been quite a bit of talk about that at the school gate.

  But what was Anthony like nowadays, thought Flora? And wasn’t it a bit odd that he had not stayed overnight in his own house and gone down to Dewhurst Lane to share Jenny’s taxi, rather than taking a late bus to the airport and presumably dozing on hard seats in the waiting room until checking in for the morning plane to Majorca. Could there have been some reason behind that? Jenny, she remembered, had always been a great plotter.

  And there was something very strange, but also very clever about fitting her car with a tyre which was bound to blow up as soon as it got hot. Something very clever and something meticulously planned.

  Not, she thought, something that Jason would have devised.

  Chapter 27

  ‘Flora, are you all right?’ Paula was at her door less than five minutes after the taxi had dropped her off. Barely time to change out of her smart clothes and into a comfortable linen skirt and light blouse. The kettle was just beginning to sing when the doorbell went.

  ‘How did you know?’ Flora, well-accustomed to concealing depressing thoughts, welcomed her in with a smile.

  ‘I was in the shop when we saw Cradduck’s pickup lorry go past with your car on top.’

  ‘So you went straight down there to find out what had happened?’

  Yes.’ Paula looked at her hesitantly. ‘Flora, I just went down to make sure that you were all right, but when I went to the door of the garage I could hear Arthur Cradduck talking to his apprentice — Muriel was there, too. I couldn’t help overhearing, but he was saying that he thought someone was trying to hurt you.’

  ‘I see,’ Flora said resignedly. She should have warned Mr Cradduck not to say anything.

  ‘Did anyone else hear him?’

  ‘No, just us. But you know Muriel — the story is probably all around the village by now.’

  Flora looked at her uncertainly. She was in a dilemma. On the one hand, she had no right to voice her suspicions, but on the other it would be a relief to unburden herself. If anything happened to the car again, it would be a relief to think that someone else knew. This is Paula, she told herself. Fifteen years ago Paula and she worked side by side for a period of seven years. She knew secrets that Flora did not talk about even to any of the teachers.

  ‘Paula,’ she said slowly, ‘you must keep this to yourself, but I think someone, perhaps, did try to injure me. Perhaps it was more an effort to frighten me. And I think that I know who.’

  ‘By putting a dodgy wheel on your car?’

  Flora nodded. ‘Mr Cradduck thinks that it happened in my own garden; someone came in..’

  ‘From the back lane?’ Paula’s quick mind had raced ahead. ‘And you didn’t hear or see anything?’

  Flora shook her head; she must, she supposed, look troubled, because Paula said swiftly, ‘But you think you know who did it? Oh, Flora, you must be careful. You’ve been trying to investigate this murder, haven’t you? Going around asking questions, don’t deny it! I saw you yesterday. I wished that I had said nothing. I knew what you were up to then.’

  She guesses, Flora thought. She guesses who swapped that tyre for the dodgy one and she doesn’t find it impossible. The same name was on the tip of both of their tongues, but, as often before, they just exchanged a meaningful glance.

  ‘Come and see the spare room,’ she said to change the subject. ‘I thought I’d put Rosie in there. I did it up for my twin sister’s little granddaughters; Margaret has plans to bring them down from the north to me for a week or so in August — these school holidays are difficult for a working mother like my niece.’

  ‘She’s still nursing, is she?’

  ‘Yes, and the little girls are seven and eight now, so they’d be quite happy to spend a week in Kent with me and their grandmother. I could take them to the sea and that sort of thing. It would be quite a change for them, living in the centre of Leeds. Look, everything is pink — I think Rosie will like it here.’

  Paula exclaimed at the sight of the very pink room, pale pink walls with a border of fairies, and the old chest of drawers and wardrobe, both painted pink, and deep pink duvet covers on each bed.

  ‘You’ve had fun with this,’ she said amused.

  ‘Well, they’re like my own grandchildren,’ Flora excused herself. She looked around; there were quite a few toys, teddy bears, board games, even a lovely fairy castle which she had bought to celebrate their birthday, a bookcase full of children’s books, but nothing much for a nineteen-year-old. ‘I wonder what I’ll do with her all day,’ she said thoughtfully.

  ‘I’ll come down every day and take her off your hands for a few hours,’ promised Paula. ‘The poor child would love to have a job or do some training so that she could pretend that she’s the same as anyone else. Perhaps you could get her onto one of those Government Training Schemes when September comes around.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Flora said. But Rosie may be in prison serving a life sentence by September, she thought and the familiar sharp pain came to her stomach. I won’t be able to bear it if that happens, she thought. But she couldn’t deceive herself; miscarriages of justice did occur. It was no good saying that she wouldn’t allow it to happen. This wasn’t like some petty crime that happened in school; this was murder and someone put that pillow over Mrs Trevor’s face and smothered her.

  If Rosie can only be found innocent then I will leave this business to the police, she told herself and felt a pang of conscience. Was that irresponsible? Surely, thought Flora, this person could not commit another murder. This murder was a one-off.

  Some words came to her head, said by Agatha Christie’s creation, Poirot: It’s so dreadfully easy — killing people… And you begin to feel that it doesn’t matter… That it’s only you that matters! It’s dangerous — that.

  ‘You know, Paula, I’m suddenly a little worried about having Rosie here,’ she said hurriedly as they went downstairs again.

  ‘Why?’ Paula stopped halfway down and turned to stare at her. ‘You don’t think she’s dangerous, do you?’

  ‘No, of course not!’ Impatiently Flora pushed away the memory of Dr Rowling’s remarks. ‘No, I’m not afraid of Rosie, but I am afraid for her.’

  ‘I see.’ Paula continued on down the stairs, staring thoughtfully ahead. Her pleasant round face looked worried.

  ‘You see, if someone tried to injure, or even kill me, just because I was poking around, someone might get worried in case Rosie actually saw something; she was in the house at the time, remember.’

  ‘Should you ask for police protection?’

  ‘No,’ Flora said decisively, ‘but I think that I’m going to get an alarm installed. I’ve often thought about it and this has given me the push to do something. I’ll ring a firm and get them to come out today.’

  Chapter 28

  Saturday, July 6, 1991

  Every family in the village had someone there at the funeral.

  And, even then Willowgrove inhabitants probably only accounted for less than half of the people present. Never, in Flora’s memory, had so many strangers crowded into the little medieval church. As Jenny got out of her car, cameras flashed as if it had been her wedding, rather than her mother’s funeral. She behaved with great dignity, Flora thought, watching her with an anxious pain in her heart. She was dressed in
a smart black suit with a black chiffon blouse, her blonde hair the only bright spot. Her face was very white and her eyes, those beautiful blue eyes that she and her sister had inherited from their mother, were deeply shadowed. She took no notice of the press, but greeted the people from the village, many of them mothers, fathers and grandparents of her school friends, shaking hands, thanking them for coming; her gravity and self-possession almost making her appear to be of their generation rather than of her own.

  Flora, thinking of Jenny on that golden summer of The Wind in the Willows felt her heart ache as she shook the girl’s hand and then went to greet friends and neighbours. After about ten minutes they all followed Jenny into the cool, shady church and Flora took a seat in one of the back pews where she was soon joined by Ted, squeezing his tall elegant frame in between her and Mrs Barrows.

  ‘Which is Toad?’ he whispered.

  Flora frowned at him. He probably thought he was being discreet, using a nickname, but those nicknames were well known in the village and Mrs Barrows, on his left-hand side, was the greatest gossip in the place. He nodded, taking the hint and said no more, glancing at the faded medieval paintings on the southern wall with the interest of a stranger.

  Flora herself was scanning the faces to see whether Jason Osmotherley was there. Anthony, she had already spotted; he was acting as lieutenant to Jenny, thanking people for coming, handing out service leaflets, finding empty seats in the over-crowded church, responding to the agitated signals from the organ player, quickly bringing a message to Jenny and then across to the choir, huddled together in the tall narrow choir stalls. Anthony’s face had changed; the zany, football-mad, skinny youngster with hair sticking up like the cartoon character, Peanuts, was transformed into quite a handsome well-built youth, though not as tall or as broad-shouldered as his twin brother. Anthony, however, compensated with a clever, animated face and Flora thought that Jenny had made the better choice.

  ‘There’s Sergeant Dawkins and P.C. Prior,’ whispered Ted. Flora’s eyes followed his and then she suddenly saw Jason. He was by himself, not with his family or any of the villagers. He was tucked into a dark corner, half-hidden by the medieval font and Flora only spotted him because Sergeant Dawkins was staring straight at him. She sat back in her seat, feeling slightly relieved. It was good that Sergeant Dawkins was still considering suspects other than Rosie. Her eyes went to a tall figure who had just come in. She had mentioned the funeral at breakfast and he had made no response, but there was Simon, taking a leaflet from Anthony and then going to sit next to Jim Prior. Flora watched him anxiously. Had Sergeant Dawkins turned to look at him with unusual keenness?

  The service went well, it was dignified, with no attempt at personalizing it with any embarrassing stories or anecdotes about the deceased. Mrs Trevor, a woman who had kept herself aloof from village affairs, would have approved. She must have been a very lonely woman, thought Flora; she could have been only in her early twenties when her husband deserted her, leaving her to care for two children. She glanced over at Mr Rice. Was there any truth in Paula’s piece of gossip about a possible liaison between himself and Mrs Trevor? She thought not. That was just Mrs Barrow.

  The most poignant moment came when the service finished and the coffin, carried by the Osmotherley twins, supporting the top two corners, Jim Prior, Simon, Benjamin Rice and Ian Madden, supporting the rear, went slowly down the middle aisle followed by the solitary figure of Jenny. She looked very small and very alone and Flora’s eyes filled with tears. From various parts of the church she heard the noise of subdued sobs. Mrs Barrows buried her face in a large handkerchief. The cameraman in the corner half-lifted his camera then thought better of it and slid out through the side door.

  ‘Handsome young man,’ remarked Ted when they were stood around in the churchyard. ‘So that’s Toad, then. Do you think that our Rosie is in love with him?’

  ‘I doubt she knows the meaning of the word,’ Flora said absentmindedly. Rosie, she had decided fourteen years ago, actually loved no one but herself. The rest of the world was there to be placated with pretty smiles, charming gestures, but deep down she had an indifference to it. Her mother’s death had not bothered her; this was something that Flora had taken for granted but to someone like Sergeant Dawkins it must have looked like proof positive that Rosie had murdered her.

  ‘Ted, could you go and chat to Paula?’ Flora said. ‘Look she’s over there, by herself, under that big chestnut tree. Tell her I sent you. I just want to have a word with someone.’ She had seen Benjamin swing impatiently away from his mother and position himself on the edge of the churchyard.

  ‘This is a very sad morning, Benjamin,’ she said, approaching him as he stood by the railings.

  ‘It is indeed, Mrs Morgan.’ He had turned into a very good-looking young man and she smiled affectionately at him. No real harm in him, just spoiled and with a weak character, or so she hoped. However, it was usually easy to find out things from him and to trick him into a confession. He did not have the nerve to persist in his denials once he realised that you had guessed the truth.

  ‘The second death in the village in the last three months.’ Flora gave a heavy sigh.

  He flinched. She was certain of that.

  ‘Poor old Mr Sinclair! Wasn’t that sad? Just walking along Dewhurst Lane with his old black Labrador. He was killed instantly. Of course,’ she said, watching him carefully, ‘it was probably not altogether the driver’s fault; the old man was wearing dark clothes and was in the middle of the road, just around the corner of that narrow bend. The police deduced that from the position of the body and from the tyre marks.’

  He was easy to read, Benjamin. His cheeks flushed and his eyes were unhappy. He looked around to see whether he could escape.

  ‘And the police did say that the driver stopped; they knew that by the tracks on the road, and he probably checked whether the man was still alive. And then when he found that the poor old fellow was dead — well, he just went away as fast as he could, hoping that no one had seen him.’

  Benjamin recovered himself a little. ‘The driver should have gone to the police, though,’ he said in the tones of an upright citizen.

  ‘He should have.’ Flora still eyed him and he wriggled under her gaze. ‘I think he would have,’ she said, turning the knife relentlessly, ‘but he was probably drunk and he reckoned that he would lose his licence.’

  ‘Lucky for him that there were no witnesses.’ She recognised this tone; Benjamin had decided that he was going to brazen this out.

  ‘Ah, but there was,’ she said softly. ‘There was one witness.’

  And with that Flora left him and went across the churchyard and joined Paula and Ted.

  ‘We’ll just visit the house for ten minutes,’ she told him as Paula went off to talk to Mrs Rice.

  ‘And then a pub lunch?’ he enquired with a lift of his eyebrow.

  ‘I suppose we could perhaps drive out into the countryside afterwards,’ she said after a minute’s hesitation. The more they pooled their brains, the solicitor and she, the better chance there was of coming up with something. ‘I know a nice pub,’ she went on, finding that a certain enthusiasm was growing within her. ‘We could sit it in the garden; it’s just beside a lovely wood and a pond.’

  ‘This looks good,’ said Ted as the waitress set the tray down on the wooden table before them. The sun was very hot, but they were well shaded by a huge maple tree and there was a nice soft breeze blowing across the millpond. ‘Now, tell me the results of your interrogations.’

  ‘He was definitely nervous, and I’m pretty sure it was him. He would have looked a bit bewildered if it weren’t. I know Benjamin. He wouldn’t be very interested in discussing something that had nothing to do with him.’

  ‘But how would Mrs Trevor have seen him if no one else did?’

  ‘You see, it was quite possible that Mrs Trevor was out walking that night.’ She was ready for that question. ‘I often saw her walking at night if
I were coming home late. She would be out there on the road, striding along very rapidly. She had lost weight, a few people remarked on that to me, and that’s why she did it, I suppose — she had begun to look quite solid and middle-aged last autumn, so I suppose she decided to slim down. She never had anyone with her and it was often dark when she went walking.’

  ‘So you think that she saw the accident …?’

  ‘She probably didn’t see the accident. In fact, knowing her — she was a very responsible, rather busybody sort of woman — I would say almost certainly that she didn’t; if she had, she would definitely have reported it. But what she could have seen was Benjamin’s car rushing out of the laneway. You see, as I explained to you before, this laneway was a short-cut, for those in the know; instead of joining the road to Willowgrove up at the roundabout, you could just cut through there and it comes out quite near to the Trevors’ house, and then...’

  ‘And then when she heard of the fatal accident and the hit-and-run driver, she put two and two together.’ He finished her sentence for her.

  ‘That’s it.’ Flora thought about the matter for a moment and then nodded. ‘Yes, I’d say that’s what happened.’

  ‘You think she might have tackled young Benjamin about it, then?’ He drank some of his beer and looked around with a satisfied air. A pair of swans were escorting their half-grown cygnets across the grass towards a big stand of reeds and from time to time there was a plop from the water where a fish jumped. Most of the families having a Saturday lunch had taken tables by the sawdust-covered play area with its swings and climbing frames. Ted and Flora were alone in this part of the garden and could talk freely.