Crazy Lady

by James Hawkins

  “However,” cuts in Jackson, one of the lesser lawyers whose name has yet to appear on the company’s letterhead, “you did make a statement to the police saying that you had actually given Mr. Edwards no money whatsoever.”

  Mason returns to his handkerchief for a second, leaving Barnes to step back in.

  “Perhaps Mr. Mason was confused,” the senior lawyer carries on, talking to the table in general. “Perhaps Mr. Mason didn’t consider a personal loan to an old friend to be any business of Her Majesty’s Metropolitan Police Force. Perhaps Mr. Mason should revisit his statement, apologize profusely to the officer, and make the necessary amendments.”

  Mason, appearing more confused than ever, looks to Creston for guidance but is unable to read anything into his boss’s expression, so he asks, “But how will that leave Mike Edwards?”

  “Mr. Edwards is not our concern,” replies Jackson, taking back the reins. “Accepting an unauthorized remuneration under any circumstances is a dangerous matter for a senior officer. He will have to explain that himself.”

  “And if he says it was a bribe?”

  “Then he would be a very foolish man.”

  “This was a pretty stupid stunt, Dave,” says the assistant commissioner as Bliss stands before him checking out the pattern in the carpet.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Then the senior commander looks up with a wry smile. “It paid off though, didn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir”

  “Relax, Dave,” says the assistant. “Sit down and let’s get our story straight.”

  “Straight, sir?” queries Bliss, unsure of the route this officer is talking.

  “The way I see it,” continues the assistant commissioner, “is that we recalled you to duty because we thought you were the best man for such a sensitive case.”

  Bliss laughs to himself. Edwards obviously has something on you as well, he is thinking as the commander continues. “A sensitive case which possibly… and only possibly… involved one of our most senior, and beloved, officers.”

  “Yes, sir,” replies Bliss now seeing clearly the path that is being taken.

  “And,” the assistant continues, “you were merely acting under orders for the purpose of potentially clearing Mr. Edwards’ name.”

  “That’s absolutely true, sir,” says Bliss, keeping his face as straight as he is able.

  “Good. I’m glad we’ve got that sorted out.”

  “But what about the documents they claim I took?”

  The assistant looks up sharply. “You didn’t, did you?”

  “No. I didn’t”

  “OK. Well. Just tell it the way it was. Say you didn’t, and if they claim different they’ll have to prove it.”

  “So. What happens now, sir?” asks Bliss, anxious to get moving.

  “Well.” The assistant commissioner checks the wall clock as if searching for the day. “It’s Friday. Let’s see if anything transpires over the weekend, and if not, Monday you’re on your way again.”

  “I was hop—” is as far as Bliss gets. “A couple of days won’t hurt, and we’ll have to reinstate you on full pay for the whole month, plus all your travel expenses: flights, hotels, meals, hire car, the works. Now that’s not so painful is it?”

  “No, sir,” says Bliss as he rises.

  “Monday morning at eleven then,” orders the assistant commissioner opening the door to let Bliss out.

  The prospect of a wet weekend in London isn’t appealing to Bliss, especially with his mind stuck so deter-minedly on Yolanda and his unfinished book. But with little choice, the historic city of Westchester with its gaily decorated side streets and promise of a mid-winter festival or a pantomime in a local church hall has more appeal, and his daughter and son-in-law take no persuasion. “I’ll stay at Daphne’s,” he tells them when they pick him up at the front entrance of Westminster Abbey an hour later. “And I’ll treat you two to a romantic weekend getaway at the Mitre.”

  “That’s very generous of you, Dad,” says Samantha, and he turns with a mock snarl to his son-in-law.

  “Yes it is. Especially considering the poop your husband dropped me in. But I can afford it now I am back on full pay plus expenses.”

  Peter Bryan catches on and laughs. “I guess the hotel receipt will be in your name.”

  “Well,” says Bliss. “You can always stay at Daphne’s if you prefer.”

  The slow drive out of London in the dusk is lightened by Peter Bryan, who sits in the backseat playing with Bliss over his scheme to win back his lost love.

  “I can just picture you on television with Michael Parkinson or one of those Americans, Oprah probably,” laughs Bryan. “‘So Chief Inspector,’ she says, ‘If I’ve got this right, you wrote an entire novel just to impress a woman.’ And you say, ‘Yep. That’s correct, Oprah,’ and she says… and to be honest I think it probably would be Oprah… she says, ‘So tell us, Dave, did it work? Did the lovely come back?’”

  “Yeah, all right,” sneers Bliss. “I know it sounds corny.”

  “No, no,” says Bryan. “I’ve not finished, because, just before you give your reply, Oprah turns to the camera and says, ‘OK, folks, let’s go to commercials. And what do you think ladies? I mean he’s a good-looking chunk of change. Did the lucky lady say ‘Yes’ or was she absolutely crazy and said ‘No’? We’ll have the answer when we come back.’”

  “All right. Enough,” says Bliss putting his foot down, but Bryan can’t help one more dig.

  “So the ads are over and the camera is back on you, and you go all silly and say, ‘No. She bloody well didn’t.’ Then what? They get Yolanda on the phone and Oprah says to her, ‘So are you totally crazy or…’”

  “I said, that’s enough,” shouts Bliss, but Samantha can’t help chiming in.

  “The TV station’s switchboard will light up like a firework,” she says. “Limos loaded with rich widows will be lined up outside…”

  “Yeah, yeah. All right,” scoffs Bliss as he pooh-poohs the notion. “Look, I’m not interested in anyone but Yolanda; I don’t care about being famous or about the money and I certainly don’t want a widow, rich or otherwise. I’ve waited a long time for Yolanda and if she doesn’t come back, I don’t want anyone else — got it?”

  “Yes, Dad,” says, Samantha, affectionately stroking his hair. “I just hope she realizes how lucky she is. No one’s ever written a novel for me.”

  “Or me,” laughs Bryan.

  Daphne Lovelace greets the trio at the front door of the Mitre Hotel in Westchester High Street. “Ted Donaldson is meeting us for dinner,” explains the sprightly woman, wearing a pink taffeta hat in celebration. “And I’ve booked the room as requested,” she adds. Then she tugs at Samantha’s arm and whispers, “I got you the bridal suite with a Jacuzzi. Your dad can afford it.”

  “Thanks, Daph,” says Samantha, giving her a conspiratorial nudge.

  “If the devil should cast his net…” jests Donaldson as he sweeps the group towards the dining room. “I don’t know about you lot but I’m famished.”

  “Nice to see you again, Ted,” says Bliss, offering his hand, and Donaldson reciprocates.

  “I knew you’d take up my offer. I told you I could use a good detective.”

  “You don’t need me,” laughs Bliss. “You’ve got young Daphne here.”

  “Now you’re talking,” says the superintendent, lacing his old friend’s arm through his and leading the way. “Come on,” he calls over his shoulder. “Friday night is steak night.”

  Amelia Drinkwater and the deaths of the three Creston children dominate the conversation as they wait for dinner, but as Donaldson points out, until forensic document examiners have done their job he doesn’t have enough to arrest her.

  The document examiners at the Home Office forensic science laboratory may be no better qualified than Mark Benson to give an opinion on the validity of the certificates and records, but their reputations stand or fall on their ability to persuade judges and
juries in accordance with legal niceties.

  “We’ll need at least a couple of weeks for a prelim report,” the receiving officer explained, despite the fact that Donaldson stressed that it was a murder case.

  “It’s basically your word against hers at the moment,” Donaldson explains unnecessarily to Bliss, and then he turns the conversation to his favourite subject: the food.

  Ted Donaldson excuses himself after dinner, leaning on his wife. “She’ll have a bit of supper waiting for me,” he says as he rises, patting his ample gut. “She knows how to keep a man satisfied.”

  “All right, Ted,” says Daphne as he heads off, then she turns back to the others. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of Ted, but I’ve been thinking about the Creston kiddies, and what confuses me is where they buried the first one, John.”

  “The town cemetery,” suggests Peter Bryan, but Daphne shakes her head. “No, I checked all the graveyards in the entire parish. There is no record of a John Creston or Thurgood anywhere.”

  “And he is not in Creston Chapel?”

  “No,” she says. “I looked. And Grainger, the old gardener, just shrugged it off because the baby wasn’t a legitimate Creston.”

  “That never stopped Louis XIV,” says Bliss, explaining that the French monarch made a career of legitimizing his bastard children.

  “I know,” admits Daphne. “Kings have always done that; half the world’s royalty are actually Smiths and Joneses. But I don’t think Creston Sr. was overly chuffed about his precious son marrying Janet in the first place, let alone taking on her child.”

  “What about Amelia Drinkwater?” suggests Samantha, but her father shakes his head.

  “No,” says Bliss. “She didn’t seem to know where any of them were buried.”

  “Doctor Symmonds might know,” continues Daphne, “but I don’t think he likes me.”

  “Or Trina,” laughs Bliss. “But I don’t know who else to turn to.”

  “Maybe we should take a snoop around Creston’s manor in the morning,” suggests Peter Bryan, half-jokingly. “I have a feeling that his lordship will be spending the day in bed with his lawyers in London.”

  “You’ve got me into enough trouble already…” starts Bliss, but he doesn’t rule out the plan entirely.

  chapter eighteen

  Saturday dawned with a festive glaze of frost on hedgerows and roofs, although the hoar is slowly dissipating in the watery winter sun by the time that Daphne pours David Bliss a cup of Keemun tea.

  “Maybe we should pop over to Dewminster,” says Bliss, eyeing the milky blue sky from Daphne’s kitchen window and seeing the beginnings of a brighter day. “I wouldn’t mind taking a peek at the scene of the crime.”

  “Locked,” calls Peter Bryan without surprise a few hours later as he tests the ornate metal gate at the end of Creston’s driveway and eyes the “No trespassing” sign on the adjacent stone pillar.

  “We could try the back,” suggests Daphne, and two minutes later they take the servant’s route that she followed with Grainger.

  “Imagine the headlines,” says Samantha as they track through a small copse and emerge to spy the sprawling Victorian hall surrounded by clipped lawns. “Two senior police officers, a lawyer, and a —”

  “And a private detective,” pipes up Daphne as they stroll through the grounds like Sunday picnickers.

  “Yes,” continues Samantha. “Two officers, a lawyer, and a private detective were apprehended in the act of…” She stops and points to a small grassy area cordoned off by a low box hedge. “There’s some gravestones.”

  “Pet cemetery,” explains Daphne. “Grainger showed me.”

  “Let’s have a peep,” suggests Peter Bryan. “It always amazes me that people go gaga over a mangy mongrel or a flea-infested moggy.”

  “Grainger said something about a monkey,” Daphne is saying as they paddle across the wet grass and line up in front of a row of miniature headstones that are just as pretentious as any of the marble monuments in the town’s graveyard.

  “Bonzo, Prunella, Chi-chi…” reads Samantha as she reels off the names of lapdogs, cats, hounds, parrots, and a pet chicken. And at one end, with no more ceremony than the others, “Micky, the monkey.”

  “It doesn’t surprise me,” says Daphne brushing a hand over the inscribed tablet. “The family lived in Africa during the war and all the chocolate comes from there.” And then she stops with a curious look. “That’s a coincidence,” she says, pointing. “I can’t remember the actual date, but Janet’s first kid died about the same time.”

  “The chapel’s over here,” calls Samantha, moving on, and Daphne hustles to catch up.

  “I’ll have to check his death certificate,” the elderly woman is saying as they test the chapel door and slip inside.

  “I knew it,” exclaims Daphne two hours later, following a clotted cream tea in Dewminster and a joyride around the countryside, as she stabs her finger on her photocopy of John Creston’s death certificate. “Just a week before the monkey,” she says with an expression that invites only one conclusion.

  “What are you saying, Daph…” starts Bliss, but he’s already catching on.

  “They wouldn’t…” begins Bryan, but the events of the past few weeks suggest that nothing would be too devious for the Crestons and he changes his mind. “I suppose it’s possible,” he carries on, taking another look at the certificate. “Although I’ve no idea how we’d go about getting an exhumation warrant.”

  “We wouldn’t need one,” suggests his wife in a lawyerly tone. “It’s not consecrated ground and it’s not human remains… apparently.”

  Daphne lights up and grabs the key to her garden shed. “I’ve got a couple of spades…”

  “Whoa,” warns Bliss holding onto her. “It’s just the sort of thing Creston’s lawyers would love.”

  “Then Sam and I will do it. You two can stay in the car.”

  Darkness falls very early despite the star-scattered sky, but the rising moon lights a path for the two would-be grave robbers as they sneak back into the grounds of Creston Hall.

  “It’s getting nippy already,” whispers Daphne as they slip from tree shadow to tree shadow but the work soon warms them.

  The rotted wooden casket lies four feet down under a heavy stone slab, and by the time they’ve reached it, Daphne has gone too far. “You’ll have to get the boys,” she says, slumping onto the dewy grass and taking off her appropriately sombre black hat, and five minutes later the two chief inspectors slink back through the copse with a crumbling casket between them.

  A large plastic bag from Daphne’s garden shed shrouds the kitchen table while the four stand around warming themselves with brandy-laced tea. “Here goes,” says Bliss, wearing a pair of Daphne’s pink rubber kitchen gloves, and he picks away at the decayed box until a small skeleton lays exposed.

  “I think it’s a monkey,’” says Bryan taking a closer look, but Daphne is determined not to have been wrong.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “Those arm bones don’t look overly long.”

  “What other differences should there be?” asks Samantha with a handkerchief clamped over her nose.

  “Hair… tail… lower forehead… bigger teeth…” comes from around the table but no one spots anything obvious.

  “We need a pathologist,” starts Bryan, but Daphne has another idea.

  “What about a doctor?”

  Peter Symmonds is both surprised and annoyed to find Daphne Lovelace on his doorstep again, especially as it is nearing midnight, but the elderly troublemaker is backed by a formidable posse so he puts on a polite face. “What do you want now?”

  David Bliss steps forward. “Dr. Symmonds. We are police officers. Can we have a word?”

  “I said I didn’t want to press charges —” he is explaining when Bliss cuts him off.

  “If we could just step inside, sir.”

  Peter Symmonds rattles the decanter against the rim of the glass as
he pours himself a whisky, but he manages to hold his voice in check as he scans the quartet around his dining table and asks, “Are you sure won’t join me?”

  “Not for me, Doc,” says Bryan, while the others shake their heads.

  Symmonds sits and slaps his hands, palms down, on the table with forced bravado. “Well?” he questions. “What can I do for you?”

  The doctor’s denial over the missing documents precludes Daphne from referring to them, so she begins circumspectly, “You must have seen a lot of dead babies in your day —”

  Symmonds stops her almost immediately. “Look, please stop dancing around. I’m well aware that you and your accomplice stole certain records —”

  “Then why did you deny it?” steps in Bliss.

  Symmonds eyes the group for a few seconds then takes a meditative drink before slowly lowering his glass. “My father was a good man,” he begins, and then pauses to conjure up a mental image. “He was a caring man,” he carries on with a fond picture. “A man committed to the welfare of his patients.” Then he stops, realizes his glass is empty, and fetches the decanter from the sideboard while he brushes aside a nostalgic tear. All eyes follow the old doctor, watching in silence as painful memories appear to age him; slowly, perhaps reluctantly, he returns to the table and sits motionless for several long seconds before haltingly continuing. “Dad… um… Dad began practising before the war, before the National Health Service, when patients had to pay.”

  “When the rich got preferential treatment,” suggests Daphne from personal experience.

  “And the poor didn’t even get an opinion unless Dad paid for it out of his own pocket or got some of the richer families to help out.”

  “Like the Crestons,” suggests Bliss.

  “Precisely,” agrees Symmonds. “Half the oldies in this town probably owe their lives to the Crestons one way or another. They built the hospital, paid for the beds, stocked the pharmacy shelves…” Then his voice trails off as his story heads into murkier waters.

  “So,” says Daphne, taking his hand and leading him in the direction she knows he’s going. “If Mr. Creston needed a small favour in return it was only natural that your dad would oblige if he could.”