A Well Dressed Corpse

by Jo A. Hiestand

  “Honestly, Mark! This isn’t the time or place for this discussion. Plus, it actually concerns only Adam and me.”

  “Just looking after your welfare, Brenna. I don’t want to see you hurt.”

  “I thank you for your concern, but I really don’t want to talk about it. We’ve got an investigation to get on with, anyway.”

  “Oh, sure. Right.” He hurried after me, and minutes later we were seated in the Harper front room and talking to the teary-eyed widow.

  Marian Harper personified the Grieving Widow…at least, the majority I had dealt with. A soft-spoken, thin woman in her forties, Marian handled her eye-dabbing and our questions with equal ease. She sat well back in her wing chair, her left leg crossed on top of her right, and absentmindedly petted the white Persian cat that sprawled across her lap. “You like cats,” Marian said, noticing the direction of my gaze. When I nodded, she said, “She’s feeling her age, poor dear. Twenty-four. Ancient, aren’t you?” She stroked the cat and cooed to it. “She means more to me now, with Reed gone. Well, I don’t know what I’d do without Marguerite.” Marian clutched the facial tissue in her right hand. Her eyes, as well as her voice, were steady, looking at Mark and me without flinching as she talked about the evening of her husband’s disappearance. “I’ve gone over this before,” Marian said, the quiver of her voice held in check. “Two days ago, when Reed first went missing. I told all this to the people from the media. And to police officers. You,” she added, recognizing Mark as her interviewer. “You have all the information.” She raised her eyebrows slightly, no doubt hoping Mark would ferret out the report and leave her alone.

  “We realize that, Mrs. Harper,” Mark leaned forward, his forearms on his thighs, “but we’d like to hear it again, if you are able to tell us. You might have remembered something else by now, something you forgot to mention when we spoke.” His face held the hint of a smile, one of his most beguiling expressions, and Marian nodded.

  “Certainly. Anything to help with this. Well, it does make it somewhat different, doesn’t it, now that he’s been…found.” She broke off and took a sip of tea before continuing. “Reed went missing Tuesday, nineteenth of June.”

  “What time was that?” I readied my pen, not wanting to miss anything so she’d have to repeat it yet again.

  “Immediately after the meeting ended. Around half past nine, I’m told.”

  “You weren’t at the meeting, then.”

  “No. Only members of the Fete committee attended. They met in the church hall. Six of them. Reed needed to see how everything was getting on. There are so many details in the fete and well dressing. Even though it’s practically the same thing each year, still, you need to see about the booths and entertainment and food.”

  I believed it. Just seeing to the creation of those two-dimensional mosaic-like tableaux could take nearly a week. “And your well dressing celebration is…?”

  “It begins Friday next and runs for ten days. Sunday, eighth of July is the last day.”

  “A week from today?” Mark murmured.

  “Twenty-ninth of June, yes. Is that a problem? You won’t shut down the well dressing.”

  “I’m just surprised. I haven’t seen any preparations for it.”

  “They’ll start tonight or tomorrow, no doubt. The booths can be erected early because the vendors like to get started on that. But the creation of the well dressing panels won’t start until Sunday or Monday, I shouldn’t think. The mud and flowers dry out so quickly if it’s assembled too soon, don’t they?”

  “Who attended the meeting?” I asked, eager to get the questioning back on track.

  Marian stirred in her chair, already tired of the retelling. “Besides Reed, there was the vicar.”

  “Harding Lyth. What is his role in the festival?”

  “He chooses the hymns for the wells. And of course plans the service for Sunday morning.”

  “The hymns for the wells?” Mark looked at me for clarification.

  “The vicar and choir lead a procession of villagers to start the well dressing festival,” I explained. Mark may have been reared on a farm not far from here but he quickly made the transformation to city boy. “They stop at each well and sing a hymn. The vicar—and the minister, if there is a Chapel congregation in the village—give thanks for the water at each well. It’s a custom unique to Derbyshire, do you know? Began in Ashbourne, I believe, as a thanks offering to God when the villagers were spared from the plague. Others have suggested that it’s the remnant of an old custom the Romans brought with them. Giving thanks for water is neither new nor confined to the Romans; there are many cultures that do and have done that. But I have never heard of another culture doing it quite as we do in Derbyshire, with our flowered panels. Interesting, don’t you think?”

  Mark nodded, still looking confused, then bent over his notebook. His bluff didn’t work on me. I prompted Marian again for the rest of the meeting attendees.

  “The vicar’s daughter, Angela Ellis.”

  “She married?” Mark asked, raising his head.

  “No. That’s her stage name.”

  “Stage name? She famous, then?”

  “She wants to be. She’s the emcee of the entire festival, so she needs to be at the meeting. Reed’s assistant, Jenny, has charge of overseeing the various booths and games.” She took another sip of tea, holding the warm cup in her hands.

  “Who are the last two?” I asked, gently nudging her to talk.

  “A police constable and his wife. They live in the village. It’s nothing to do with Reed’s disappearance. Though he did get involved quickly enough. The constable, I mean. Clayton Warson. His wife is Lynn. Clayton oversees security and needs to know about parking concerns, one-way traffic and such. Lynn takes charge of the food ordering for the tea tent, the various smaller booths that sell bottled beverages and snack foods.”

  “As you said, a lot of work.”

  “Not half. Still, it’s tradition, isn’t it? Well dressing is a Derbyshire custom.”

  “Where were you at that time?”

  “Here. I can’t prove it, if that’s what you want to know.”

  “When did you realize he was late returning home?”

  The question seemed to have no effect on Marian. She held her cup and gazed at something on the far side of the room—Reed’s portrait, perhaps, hanging above a damask-covered settee. Was she remembering some happier time with him, or the discovery of his body in the forest? The chatter of the starlings stirred her from her reverie and she said rather slowly, “That evening. Around eleven o’clock. I knew how long the meetings usually lasted, so when it got to be so late I rang up Harding.”

  “The vicar.”

  “Yes. He sounded surprised that Reed hadn’t come home. We live so close together, and the meeting was at the church.”

  “A few minutes’ walk from your house.”

  “Did he usually walk or drive to these meetings?” Mark asked.

  “Oh, walk, always. It’s ridiculous to drive that short a distance.”

  “Anyone walk with him? Or see him leave the church that night?”

  “Everyone else lives north of the church. The Warsons—Clayton and Lynn—of course the vicar and his daughter, and Jenny. Odd how that turned out…” Her voice trailed away and her attention returned again to her husband’s portrait.

  I consulted the map one of the constables had sketched of the village and wondered if it was significant that Reed had walked alone on the dark road. If he even got that far.

  Mark asked if any of the others had actually seen Reed leave the church.

  Marian shrugged, unable to verify that. Rearranging the neckline of her silk blouse, she said, “I just know what they told me. I-I had to talk to them, you know, to ease my mind. I was that frantic when Reed didn’t come home. So I went to each person’s house and asked if they knew where Reed was. I thought he may have said. You know.” She stared unblinkingly at Mark. “Tossed off a casual remark as t
he meeting was breaking up.”

  “And did anyone know?”

  “No. At least, no one recalled it. They may have told the police later.” She broke her gaze and sniffed. “It’s so unlike Reed to do this—go off without telling me—that I had to talk to everyone. Well, most people would, wouldn’t they?”

  “What did they say about him leaving after the meeting? Did you learn anything?” I knew all this from reading the case notes, but I wanted to see if Marian’s recital changed for some reason.

  “The vicar and his daughter were the last to actually leave the church since he had to lock up. Reed stood outside by the lych gate, talking to Clayton and Lynn. Angela, the vicar’s daughter, walked up to them and chatted with them until her father joined them. Jenny had gone on before, a minute or two earlier, saying she had to get home. Clayton, Lynn and Angela then went on, Clayton and Lynn living the farthest from the church and could escort Angela to her house.”

  “That leaves the vicar and your husband.”

  “Harding—the vicar—told the police that he left my husband still at the lych gate. Harding cut across the churchyard, the vicarage is just west of the church. He’s always taking that short cut. There’s a path between the tombstones and a large oak; it goes to the back door.” She paused, as though picturing the tableau or the churchyard. “He said he didn’t see when Reed left. It was so dark, you know, at that hour. And Reed had been standing on the side of the lych gate that is nearest the road.”

  “The eastern side.”

  “Yes. The path to the vicarage is on the west side of the gate, nearest to the church.”

  “And Harding didn’t hear anything.”

  “Hear anything?” Marian’s eyes grew larger, giving her the look of a child peeking out from beneath the bedclothes. “Like what?”

  “Oh, your husband’s footsteps on the gravel; him whistling, perhaps, talking to someone. I just thought Harding might have heard something and then mentioned it.”

  “I don’t think anyone was there. All the others had gone by the time Harding walked home. I doubt if they gave any thought to Reed. It’s not like this is a high crime neighborhood and they walk each other home.” Her fingertips lightly touched her lips, as though she had let some taboo subject slip, or the tactile sensation anchored her to the real world in the midst of her nightmare.

  “So, the road from the church to your home is dark.” Mark watched Marian’s fingers pull at the corner of her lips. “Your husband is the last to leave, and he’s left standing at the lych gate. The church is just about a quarter of a mile from your house. Yet, his body is found over a mile away, in the wood. Can you explain that?”

  Marian’s eyes widened, giving her the look I’d seen so often in family members when they received bad news about a missing relative. She stumbled over her words, trying to make sense of Mark’s inference. “No. I don’t know how he got there. It’s unthinkable that he should walk there, especially at that hour. And I don’t know who would have driven him there.” Her words trailed off. Perhaps the scenario played over in her mind.

  “Had he any enemies? I ask that because he ended up there somehow, and the logical assumption is that his killer took him there.”

  “No! Of course not! Reed may not have been on everyone’s ‘favorites’ list, but he certainly wasn’t the kind of person who had enemies.” She broke down for a moment, consumed in body-shaking sobs. I offered her a facial tissue and she sat holding it, her head bowed, the tears rolling off her cheeks onto her lap. When the worst of her grief had passed, she blotted her eyes, smiled weakly at me, and apologized.

  “No need to,” I replied. “Would you like to do this another time?”

  She shook her head, the crumpled tissue in her hand. “No. Please. Let’s finish this. I-I’d like to put it behind me.” Running her hand over her arm, she looked at me, then at Mark, perhaps wondering to whom she should speak.

  I said, “Not any enemies, then. Perhaps someone with whom he had an argument? A neighbor, or someone here in Cauldham? Even a colleague at work? What was his business, by the way? I know he was the director of the village fete, but surely that’s not a year-round paying job. How did you get your income?”

  She shifted her posture and the cat leapt from her lap and padded out of the room. Sweeping the stray cat hairs from her clothes, Marian said, “We own an ad agency. In Buxton. On the High Street. He’d taken it over from his father when he retired. His grandfather had it before that. It’s been in the Harper family for several generations. They branched out in the 1950s to include marketing and promotional management. They’ve always been successful. To the point that his grandfather invested great sums in the mines in this area.” She rubbed her lips again, glancing from me to Mark. “I know what you’re going to say…that most of the mines have shut down in Derbyshire. That’s true. The lead mines around Castleton are all played out now. Were long ago. But his grandfather mined for fluorspar, and that brought in a great deal of money. He invested that money in other things, so when the coal and lead mines did officially close, the family didn’t suffer financially. I always feel sorry for the miners, you know.” She eased back in her chair, the anonymity of nameless and faceless people a buffer to her grief. “So many men laid off, so many families fell on hard times. I don’t know where they went, what they did to survive. And those mines…” She looked out of the window, as though she could see beyond the village, through the great mountain gorge known as The Winnats, into the deep, dark depths of the earth that hugged mines like Odin, Goyte, Thatchmarsh. Closer to Cauldham, perhaps, to envision Ladywash, Portway or Dirtlow Rake.

  I found myself thinking about the men of those mines, especially the workers who mined coal on Derbyshire’s eastern side. Those mines had closed in the late 1980s. Not so long ago that the bitterness over job losses would still be felt. Safer working conditions may have made the work less hazardous to health and physical labor in recent years, but did that compensate for the termination of a career, a way of life that might stretch back through generations, the cessation of a family’s income?

  Mark had been a miner. I had seen the coal dust ingrained into the skin at the bridge of his nose, ground in when he rubbed the corners of his eyes, a sort of tattoo he flaunted when we first met in police school. Coal mining had been the major industry around Bolsover, where Mark worked. But in the death rattle of its last lucrative days, Mark applied to the police force; his acceptance saved him from the fate that fell to so many thousands. I glanced at him to see if the talk about closed mines made him uncomfortable. He gazed at Marian, perhaps waiting for her to continue.

  “Could it have been a kidnapping gone wrong?” Mark asked.

  Marian blinked, her hands trembling slightly. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Your husband was kidnapped and held for ransom, only it ended tragically with his death. Was anything like that suggested, or possible? Would someone—villager or agency client—assume you could come up with the money if your husband was kidnapped?”

  “As I said, we had the agency business and my grandfather, and my cousin, invested the money elsewhere. We enjoy a high return on that. Plus, I think I mentioned, I have my own money. My family owned land around the village,” she said, allowing herself a slight smile. “Quite an extensive tract. By careful investment, that continues to produce income. We’re well off but can hardly afford a several-million-pound ransom, if that’s the norm for kidnapping payoffs.” She dabbed at her nose with her handkerchief.

  “Do you know of anyone at your husband’s ad agency who was angry with him? Something connected with his job? Or a client?” I said.

  Marian shifted her eyes back to me. She shook her head slowly. “I’m sorry, miss. I don’t know of anyone. Someone could have done, of course, but I wouldn’t know. Reed didn’t talk about business here at home.”

  “You or your daughter have a problem with anyone? I know Ilsa is seventeen—that’s a difficult age. Perhaps someone at school, o
r a former boyfriend.”

  “Why do you ask that? You’re thinking some sort of revenge, a retribution?” When I opened my mouth to reply, she rushed on. “That is absolutely absurd! This is the twenty-first century. We left honor killings and such far behind.”

  “Still,” Mark said, “things like that do happen. Had anyone got mad at you or your daughter? Did you receive any ransom demands when Reed went missing?”

  A wrinkle in her silk trousers occupied her attention for a moment. Her fingers pressed the fabric against her knee, as though the pressure could iron out the small crease. Giving it up, she said, “No. We never heard a word. The last anyone saw of him was at the meeting, nineteenth of June, until you discovered his body.” She took a deep breath before rephrasing her response. “I’d been praying ardently ever since he went missing. Yes,” she said rather hastily, as though to ward off our interjections, “I realize it’s been just two days, but I’ve spent most of that time praying. Even driving to and from your police station I prayed. I went to church Wednesday and Thursday, lit candles, asked every saint I could think of for intersession. I even begged Harding to pray with me, thinking a man of the cloth would have a greater pull. All to no avail.” She patted her cheeks with her fingertips. “I’m a regular churchgoer, so it’s not like God didn’t know who I was. I believed if I asked, he would help me. I don’t know why this happened to me.” She ended in a quivering of her lips and another sniff.

  “No one contacted you during this time. I realize two or three days is not very long, but if your husband had been kidnapped, for instance, surely the kidnapper would have had his plans in place and would have contacted you the night Reed went missing. Or at the very latest the next day.”

  Marian shook her head and dabbed again at her eyes.

  “No email, no phone call, no letter?” I said, nudging her for a response.

  “No. We were frantic with worry. I had no idea what had happened to him. He didn’t go on business trips and he had no outing planned with any of his friends. He would have told me.”