Ann Granger

by That Way Murder Lies

  ‘Short as in not tall. Jeremy reckons they must have lowered the height requirement for coppers. According to him, the ones at Bamford were practically midgets. Unimpressive, he called them.’

  ‘I don’t think I’m going to let your cousin Jeremy anywhere near Alan!’ said Meredith. ‘If he said that to Alan, Alan would hit the roof.’

  ‘I admit,’ said Toby, ‘old Jeremy can be rather outspoken. I think it’s all those years as a captain of industry. He’s used to giving orders and seeing minions scurry to obey his every command. He probably harangued the cops until they politely told him to naff off.’

  ‘I am not letting him near Alan!’ said Meredith firmly.

  ‘Wait! He wouldn’t be like that with Markby because Markby is the right sort.’

  ‘Right sort?’ A prawn fell from Meredith’s chopsticks back into the sauce. ‘What on earth is the right sort?’

  ‘He’s high-ranking, a superintendent, isn’t he? Jeremy is used to dealing with the top men. Markby went to public school, he’s polite to ladies and wears polished shoes. He’s even, as I recall, quite tall. Tall enough to satisfy Jeremy’s idea of a copper. They’d get on like a house on fire.’

  ‘I doubt it! Your cousin Jeremy sounds a real snob.’

  ‘He isn’t, not really, just conditioned by all those years in the boardroom. He’s a bit stuffy, that’s all. Alison, bless her, hasn’t a snobbish bone in her body. She’s a sweetie. You’d like her.’

  ‘I might like her. I don’t think I’d like your cousin Jeremy. Incidentally, I’m probably tall enough for his idea of a police recruit!’

  ‘Don’t take against him,’ pleaded Toby. ‘He’s really a decent guy, but right now he’s in a terrible state over this letter business. He needs help. Believe me, he isn’t the sort who seeks help unless the situation is desperate. He adores Alison. He must be ready to kill whoever is writing the letters. He’s got a slight heart condition. It can’t be good for him.’

  Meredith gazed at Toby’s face, puckered in worry lines. He scratched his mop of light brown hair and gazed back at her. Well, thought Meredith, what are friends for? Toby seems genuinely to care about this awful cousin. The least I can do is try and help.

  ‘Did the police,’ she began, ‘say if anyone else in the district had received a similar letter? Because, as far as I know anything about it, the writer is often someone with a grudge against the community. He or she sits down and pens these wretched things to any and all. It’ll probably turn out to be someone no one suspects.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, only Alison’s been getting letters. Or rather, no others have been reported to the police. We and the police think it’s probably only her because they aren’t the usual run of poison pen stuff. There’s no foul language or accusations of unnatural sex, any of the stuff twisted minds usually come up with. The letters refer to a specific event in Alison’s past, something that really happened. That’s why she’s so upset and Jeremy, too. Just think, this weirdo has got hold of some very personal and, up until now, private information about her. No wonder she’s sensitive about it.’

  ‘That is more worrying,’ said Meredith soberly. She wondered if Toby was going to tell her what the specific event was, or if she was going to have to ask outright. The problem with family secrets was that people were reluctant to disclose them even when forced to seek help. Jeremy, Alison and Toby would have to learn that they needed to open up. She tried the roundabout approach. ‘He, the writer, isn’t asking for money, is he?’

  ‘No, not yet, anyway. It’s just an accusation, repeated over and over again, and a threat to make it all public.’

  ‘Where is the letter now?’

  ‘The local cops have it. They’re trying to see if they can get a sweaty fingerprint off it or something. Alison’s going crazy at the idea of all those coppers reading it. It’s not something she wants anyone to know about. Jeremy knows, because she told him when they married. I know because he told me all about it on the phone. But no one else around there does, unless the writer carries out his threat to tell everyone. If it is a man, which we don’t know. I fancy it’s a woman myself. It seems like a woman’s thing.’

  ‘Poison is a woman’s weapon, whether it’s in a bottle or written on paper, you mean? Plenty of men have written letters of that sort.’

  ‘All right. We’ll call the writer “he” for the purpose of discussion. Look, Alison’s panicking. She says they’d have to sell the house and leave, if the facts in the letter got out. They’re a funny lot in the country. They take an unhealthy interest in one another’s affairs and rumours run like wildfire.’

  ‘Not more than in the city,’ Meredith defended rural life.

  ‘Don’t you believe it. The green-welly brigade are sticklers for form, and can be merciless if they think you don’t fit in. There’s so little going on in the country that your social life is everything. Being cut from everyone’s guest list really matters. In town you can make new friends, there’s a bigger pool, if you like. In the country you’re down to your neighbours. If the contents of the letter get out, they’ll freeze out Alison and old Jeremy too. In the city there’s far too much going on for anyone to worry what his neighbour is doing, or care.’

  ‘Conan Doyle,’ Meredith objected, not willing to give in to this argument, ‘wrote that it was the other way round, or at least he has Holmes say so in one of the stories. Holmes tells Watson that nobody knows what goes on in the country because people are so isolated.’

  Toby considered this point. ‘Either way, all that rural peace and quiet isn’t good for you. It makes people strange and who knows what they get up to?’

  ‘You’re saying, one of them found out Alison’s secret and is writing to let her know? But how did he find it out? Because if we know how, we might well know who.’ Meredith frowned. ‘Why torment Alison with threats? If, as you say, the knowledge would result in social exclusion, why not just tell everyone, if the writer’s aim is to do her harm? Instead, he just writes about it. What’s his purpose?’

  ‘That’s a question none of us can answer. Alison wouldn’t hurt a fly. She hasn’t got any enemies.’

  ‘She’s got at least one,’ Meredith pointed out, ‘unless the letters are just a sick joke. Did she keep the envelope? If the writer licked it, there might be a DNA trace.’

  ‘You see? You know all about that kind of thing. I knew you were the one to ask.’Toby’s manner was that of a man who had successfully passed on a burden to another’s shoulders.

  I’m a sucker, thought Meredith. Why did I let him drop this in my lap? ‘One more thing,’ she said. ‘And it’s important. Before I’m convinced this matters enough to bother Alan with it, I need to know exactly what this episode in Alison’s past is, because that’s the cause of the trouble. I’m the soul of discretion. I won’t blab it around. But what you’re asking me to do is ask Alan to get on to whoever is handling this at the local station and make waves. Alan’s got plenty on his plate without that. I need to know it really matters. Sorry, but Jeremy and Alison losing all their friends isn’t enough. They must be fair-weather friends, by the way.’

  Toby nodded. ‘Yes, I realize you have to know. I warned Jeremy about that.’

  ‘You told Jeremy you’d speak to me? Honestly, Toby—’

  He cut short her spluttered indignation by plunging into his story, knowing full well, she told herself wryly, that her curiosity would outweigh her anger.

  ‘Twenty-five years ago, Alison stood trial. She was found not guilty. That is, she wasn’t guilty and the jury agreed.’

  ‘So, why is it a problem now? Why should she worry if the neighbours know? I think country people are a lot more tolerant that you believe they are.’ Meredith paused. Toby was avoiding her gaze. ‘Toby? What did she stand trial for?’

  ‘Murder,’ said Toby simply.

  Chapter Two

  ‘I’ve been looking forward to this Easter break,’ said Alan Markby. He scowled at an overweight youth who ha
d just lurched past their table. The beer in the boy’s glass had slopped dangerously near them. ‘Now you tell me the wretched Smythe is staying in the neighbourhood.’

  ‘Hey!’ said Meredith. ‘I don’t let him call you nicknames, so I don’t think you should call him “the wretched Smythe”. He’s really very nice, good-hearted. You just need to get used to his sense of humour.’

  ‘Do I, indeed? I’ll try and remember that. As far as I’m concerned he’s a walking disaster area. He exerts a malign influence on all around him and especially, I might add, on you when you move into his forcefield. He’s a Jonah. Look what happened when he leased you his flat, only for him to turn up unannounced because he’d been chucked out of some country, persona non grata. You had to go and stay with Ursula Gretton in a caravan on an archaeological site, up to your knees in mud and, incidentally, dead bodies! Then he broke his leg and you had to—’

  Meredith threw up her hands. ‘Alan, stop, please! He didn’t break his leg on purpose. Nor was he thrown out of that country for something he’d really done. It was a tit-for-tat thing. We’d expelled one of theirs and so they expelled one of ours. It happened to be Toby. I’m sorry you don’t like him, but he’s an old friend—’

  ‘It isn’t that I don’t like him!’ Markby interrupted her. ‘I agree, he’s a likeable chap. He’s just accident-prone. What’s he like at his job?’

  ‘Very good, as it happens. He’s conscientious. He tries hard to help people. He’s trying now to help his cousin. Toby wouldn’t turn his back on anyone in need. In that way, I think he’s like you.’

  ‘Hah!’ said Markby, momentarily silenced by this devious thrust.

  It was Thursday evening and they’d driven out into the country for a meal at a riverside pub. From their seat by a window they could watch the sun go down, scattering red-gold flashes over the rippling water.

  ‘Like,’ Meredith had said earlier, ‘that glitter stuff you buy to decorate home-made Christmas cards.’ She hoped Alan wasn’t going to be difficult about Toby. But she had expected a certain lack of enthusiasm and prepared for it. At any rate, she wasn’t going to be put off. ‘Have you,’ she asked now, ‘ever met this Jeremy Jenner?’

  ‘No, not that I recall. I’ve heard the name. I know of the property, Overvale House. I used to know the people who lived there years ago. It’s a nice place. In today’s market, it’s certainly an expensive one. You and I couldn’t afford it. Jenner must be pretty well-heeled.’ Markby picked up his glass and drained the last of his wine. ‘Would you like coffee?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ At least, she thought, he seemed prepared to talk about it.

  ‘I’ll have to go over to the bar and order it. Won’t be long.’

  In his absence Meredith sat back, pushed her thick brown hair from her face and looked around her. This pub was very old. That wasn’t unusual in the Cotswolds which was dotted with such places. Other buildings, she thought, are demolished or altered or change their usage, but the village pub goes on for ever although subject to change in other ways. The villages themselves had changed. Wealthy high-flyers lived in cottages built for country labourers to which they added extra bathrooms and home offces. The descendants of the original cottagers were banished to housing estates. The new inhabitants of the town centres wanted a quaint pub – but a quaint pub with all the trimmings. The result was that to remain viable, the pubs had nearly all turned themselves into quasi-restaurants. It varied, of course. Some kept only a minimal bill of fare. Others, like this one, had virtually given up being places where people went just to drink and socialize. The old timers wouldn’t recognize it. Although, to be fair, many of these inns had been on the old coaching roads and had supplied food and lodging for the weary and bruised travellers who stumbled through their doors. In providing food, they were returning to a traditional use.

  She spoke her thoughts aloud to Alan on his return.

  He smiled at her. ‘This place is believed to have been a stopover for medieval pilgrims making their way into the West Country to Glastonbury.’

  ‘As old as that?’

  A young barman brought the coffee and when he’d left them Markby said in a conversational way, ‘So Mrs Alison Jenner has been receiving unpleasant correspondence?’

  ‘Yes, she has. And you will look into it yourself? I know it’s already in the hands of the local police, but Toby is counting on your help with his problem.’

  This didn’t go down well. Alan struggled to repress whatever remark had leapt to his lips, threw up his hands, brought them down with a slap on the table and hissed, ‘It isn’t his problem, is it? It’s the lady’s. Can you persuade your very good friend Smythe that I am a regular copper and not Philip Marlowe? If Mrs Jenner does wish to speak to me about her problem, I am willing to listen. But the request must come from her. Honestly, you wonder why Smythe annoys me? Of course he annoys me. I don’t doubt he has all the excellent qualities you give him. But you know the old saying, the way to hell is paved with good intentions?’

  ‘I think that’s unfair,’ she said obstinately.

  Markby studied her. Whenever she was sticking to a point of dispute (and Meredith did stick to points. It was one of the things which made verbal jousting with her such a satisfying mental challenge) she had a trick of tilting her chin and jutting out her lower lip. He found this trait both endearing and comical. It always made him want to kiss her. But he couldn’t kiss her here in the middle of the restaurant. There were free souls who did that sort of thing but he wasn’t one of them.

  ‘Well,’ he said cautiously, because he knew he was going to cede the point but he didn’t want to make it obvious. ‘If Mrs Jenner does approach me and I do agree to look into it, it’s because I don’t want to spend my entire Easter break fending off reproachful looks and remarks from you. Don’t look so injured! I know you well enough to know you never give up. Incidentally, you and Toby haven’t got any wild ideas about doing a little amateur investigating yourselves, I hope!’

  ‘That’s not what Toby wants,’said Meredith, avoiding the direct answer.

  ‘It’s not what I want! It’s a police matter. I don’t mind discussing it with the Jenners but I just hope Toby and his cousin don’t think I’m going to sort it all out in ten minutes. With a bound, Jack was free! That sort of stuff. Winkling out the writers of poison pen letters can be a lengthy process. We waste time going after every suspicious character in the neighbourhood and it turns out to be a dear old lady who lives alone with a pug dog and goes to church every Sunday.’

  ‘I said something of the sort to Toby. I’m sure they don’t think it’s going to be easy.’ Meredith took a deep breath and plunged on. ‘We’ve been invited to lunch at Overvale House tomorrow. I haven’t accepted, of course I haven’t! I wanted to ask you first, naturally.’

  ‘Oh, thanks very much!’

  ‘I said I’d ring first thing in the morning and let them know.’

  Alan grimaced, pushed an unruly hank of fair hair from his forehead and sighed. ‘That doesn’t give me any time to look into the background. I don’t like going into things blind. I know you’ve told me what Toby has told you but I’d like to look up this old murder case just to see what Alison Jenner’s unwished-for pen pal has got hold of. But yes, tell them we’ll go to lunch, by all means. I can understand the state they’re in.’ After a pause he added, ‘It does sound to me like the first move in a plan to blackmail the Jenners.’

  ‘Toby says no demand for money has been made and Alison insists on that. She’s received five of the letters, four of which she burned. All contained the same threat to reveal her secret to everyone.’

  At this Markby muttered crossly, ‘Why must they always do that, destroy the letters? They come in to their local police station, at long last, to tell us they’re being targeted by hate mail, and we ask, how many letters? Then they get shifty and don’t want to say but eventually admit there have been several, all torn up, thrown away or burned. Burning is the favourite. How are
we to do anything without any evidence?’

  He drummed his fingertips on the table. There was a faraway look in his eyes. Despite himself, he was interested. ‘If the threat in the letters to make the old scandal public is real, the intention being to harm Alison’s social standing, why not just go ahead and tell someone about it? Why mess about writing letters? Just a word in the right ear would do it. Toby’s correct in one thing. Rumours do run round small communities like wildfire.’

  ‘It’s what Alison fears, Toby says. She thinks that after making her sweat for a while, the writer will do just what he threatens. To me that speaks of a real hatred. But Toby says Alison is a quiet, friendly, harmless woman.’ Meredith had noticed the faraway look and knew it meant Alan would grumble – but he’d do it.

  ‘A nice woman who was once on a murder charge? You and I are already viewing this in two different ways.You speak of hatred. I’m thinking along the lines of extortion. When a man’s got as much money as Jenner, it has to be considered as a motive. He, the writer, hasn’t asked for money yet, but he will. He’s softening them up. When they’re in a complete panic and pretty well in his grip, then he’ll suggest a one-off payment and they’ll leap at it to get him off their backs, poor souls. But it won’t be a one-off, that’s the thing. They’ll get another demand and so it’ll go on. I’m inclined to stick to my blackmail theory.’

  ‘What you’re suggesting doesn’t sound like an old lady living with a pug dog and getting her kicks from sending anonymous letters to her neighbours,’ Meredith argued. ‘It’s a big jump from trying to frighten someone to demanding money.’

  ‘It is, but sometimes a person starts out with one aim and then thinks up an improvement on his original plan.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Meredith said soberly, ‘the Jenners would almost prefer blackmail as a motive. That someone wants your money is easier to bear than the fact that someone hates you and is delighting in tormenting you.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘They can’t think how the wretched writer got on to them in the first place, or on to Alison, at any rate.’