A Well Dressed Corpse

by Jo A. Hiestand

  “Where did he like to go on these outings? Did he have a specific group of people who usually went with him?”

  “Reed liked to get away when his work got too demanding. He’d take off twice a year, usually, to do some hiking. He said it did him good, getting some vigorous exercise like that.”

  “Any particular spot he’d hike? Or regular people he’d walk with?”

  “His brothers, nearly always. And my cousin.”

  “Their names, please?”

  “Kevin Harper—he’s fifty, ten years older than Reed, and his full brother. And Edmund Worrall, who’s Reed’s age. They have the same mother. And Perry Bowcock, my cousin. Also forty.”

  “And their occupations?”

  She blinked several times, then said, “Perry is retired but has taken the role of photographer for village events. Kevin works and is a shop owner here in Cauldham. Edmund doesn’t do much of anything but garden, wander about the village and sit in the pub—nosey parker things, if you want to call it that.”

  “Did they see a lot of each other throughout the year? The hiking jaunts weren’t the only time they got together?”

  “No, they were very close. We’d go to the opera in Buxton, gather for birthdays and dinners and the like. Reed just liked to get outdoors every so often. They had a great time together.”

  “Where did they like to hike?”

  “Moorland walks, mainly. I don’t think they had a favorite. You can ask Kevin and Edmund, of course.” Her voice had dropped and taken on a hardness not evident at the beginning of our talk. I sensed it was something more than just talking about her husband. When I asked, her fingers toyed with the opal pendant, sliding it back and forth on its gold chain. “You mustn’t think I begrudged Reed his time with his brothers, miss. I had my time with my girl friends, so why shouldn’t he take a weekend with Kevin and Edmund?”

  “But there’s something more, I think.”

  She pulled in her bottom lip, flattening it against her lower teeth. I thought she had finished her talk but she said rather suddenly, “It’s just that damned dog of Edmund’s.”

  “What about it? Did your husband and Edmund quarrel about the dog?”

  “I’m sorry. It’s too silly. You’ll think me a fool.”

  “If it’s bothering you, Mrs. Harper, then it’s not silly.”

  “And,” Mark said, “if it’s linked to your husband, it may be pertinent.”

  Marian sighed loudly, as though resigning herself to sounding like a berk, then said, “It’s just that, well, Poe—that’s the dog. A great bulk of a black lab, nearly as big as a calf but with a wolverine’s disposition.” She gave me an apologetic look and said, “I never could warm to that dog. There was something about him…”

  “Did he frighten you? Or play too rough?”

  “No, no. Nothing like that. Just that, well, every time I saw him I thought of a shuck. Now I feel even more strongly about it because Edmund brought the dog here, to the house, the day before Reed disappeared.”

  SIX

  Diary Entry, 26 April 1987

  Today disappeared before I knew it. My birthday. Sweet sixteen. Isn’t that what they call it? Glorious day, even if the weather didn’t cooperate. Gray and rainy. How I wish mum had had me in the spring—how super it would be to walk barefoot on the lawn or walk through the wood to find wildflowers. But it can’t be helped so I concentrate on Clayton to be happy. I’m over the moon! He came over for tea, then we drove to Glossop to the cinema. I chose the film, since it is my birthday. We saw Lady Jane. It’s been out only a month or so and I’ve wanted to see it. Helena Bonham Carter and Cary Elwes (Lady Jane Grey and Guilford Dudley) seemed to have a special chemistry on film. I wonder if they do off the set? Their acting was simply superb but I thought Cary too handsome to take my eyes off even when Clayton gave me a kiss. I thought Guilford’s line “Some of the greatest battles are fought with the heart” particularly significant. I mean, isn’t that how I feel about Clayton?

  He gave me a blue silk scarf and a silver locket. To keep a lock of his hair in, he joked. But I will. When I get up the nerve to ask him. I hope he didn’t spend all his money on me. It’s a super gift, and all, but we have to save for our future. Still, it’ll be nice to have a part of him so close to my heart.

  Got home late. I was in a muck sweat coming home, thinking I’d get the rocket from Gran. She was cool. Said I had only one 16th birthday. Glad she didn’t explode. It would’ve ruined my day. Clayton and I parked in the wood behind the Hall, and all the time he was kissing me I imagined he was Cary Elwes. But I’ll keep that a secret, take it with me to my grave.

  SEVEN

  “I admit I may take the subject too gravely,” Marian said. A family photo album lay open on the table and she now picked it up. She slipped back a few pages, came to the section she wanted, and angled the book so Mark and I could see the photos. The time period looked to be Victorian, with women in long-skirted dresses, men with full beads or muttonchops, and horse-drawn carriages populating the streets and rural roads. Tapping her finger on a portrait of a middle-aged man in tweed knickers and vest, she said, “Reed’s great grandfather. He was walking with friends near Dirtlow Rake and fell through a sinkhole. Despite his friends’ frantic efforts, he died. A large black dog had been following them for a mile, despite the men’s efforts to chase it off.” She cradled the photo album against her chest, her arms wrapped around it. “Reed’s great uncle fell off the grassy bank of a river. The water level was high and the current swift due to extensive spring rains. His heavy clothing took him under. They found his body some hours later, wedged inside one of the river’s sluice gates. A dog had been seen prior to this, standing on the ridge of the hill next to the gate.

  “We would write this off as accidents but several years ago Reed’s aunt went on a walking tour with friends. They evidently were near Mam Tor. She broke through the top crust of a sinkhole and fell twenty meters to her death. Her friends saw a shuck—the ghost dog—for that’s what we believe it is, near the lane when they walked back over the Tor.” Carefully laying the album back on the table, she said, “You can laugh. There’s nothing scientific about any of this. But every member of these three parties saw the spirit dog—and these incidents occurred decades apart.”

  “You believe the dog is linked to your family for some reason?” Mark asked, his eyes shifting from the album to Marian’s face.

  “I can’t explain it any other way. Doesn’t the black dog foretell misfortune or death? It seems to in Reed’s family,” she added, somewhat reluctantly.

  “How did you meet Reed?” I wanted to know—it might be pertinent in the investigation, giving us a new lead—but it also might ease her discomfort if she talked about happier times.

  “By accident.”

  “You mean, a random encounter, like at the green grocer’s or somewhere.”

  “No. Literally by accident. My car hit the back of his. Sounds like something from a novel or a film, but that’s how we met. Dusky, late autumn day, rain-slick road. Me, a new driver and not accustomed to driving in adverse weather.” She allowed herself a faint smile, as though the years had been swept away by this simple recital and she was standing in the rain, talking to Reed. “He was such a gentleman about the whole thing, didn’t get upset at all. He just laughed it off and we ended up in a little pub exchanging names and phone numbers, insurance contact information and the like. He rang me up a few days later, wanting to know if I had any problems with a stiff neck, if I were all right. He sent flowers, too.” Taking a deep breath, she fixed her attention again on some place on the far side of the room. Did she see Reed standing there, smiling at her? I had nearly convinced myself to turn in my chair to look when Marian added, “We ended up going to a dance that next week. It wasn’t long after that I knew I was in love with him.”

  “Was your husband as sure of his feelings then as you were?”

  “Oh, yes. He always said it was love at first sight. Well, l
ove at first crash, was actually his phrase. He joked about being struck with Cupid’s sledgehammer and not a dart. An exaggeration, of course, for my car hardly did more than a small dent in his boot. But he liked to talk about our meeting and how he got knocked off his feet.” Marian refocused on my face, her eyes steady and bright. “I guess it was one of those things that are meant to be. We were attracted to each other instantly. I like his family, too.”

  “That makes married life easier.”

  “It does. My folks liked Reed, too, so we had a lot of help and love at the start. And throughout our marriage,” she added, nearly as an afterthought. “But it’s the first year or two when a supportive family really help to ease you into married life. When you’re just getting to really know your spouse.”

  My thumb and middle finger pressed against my engagement ring and I found myself wishing a prayer that Adam and I would settle into our shared life with minimum problems.

  Mark added a few names to his list of family members, friends, acquaintances, and work colleagues—a list he created when he had first interviewed Marian at the police station. Now he got the name and address of Reed’s garage—the people who serviced his car—and people who worked, however remotely, on the village fete. In total, she’d given him just a half dozen new names today but, as Mark reminded me on leaving her house, you never knew who had a reason for murder.

  * * * *

  Mark and I left Marian’s shortly after that, finding out that Reed had lived in the house since he was born—as had his father and grandfather. On marrying Reed, Marian had moved in, but they kept her family home outside Flash, in Staffordshire.

  “Wild, rugged country,” Mark said as we walked down the hill to Kevin Harper’s house. “Nothing much in Flash but the pub, is there?”

  “There’s got to be something more.”

  “Something more than its connection with counterfeiting money, you mean.” He shook his head and kicked a small stone out of his way. The stone skittered across the road and banged into a tree trunk.

  “It’s a nice area. Great for rambling. Lovely scenery.”

  “If the wind lets you breathe, I guess it’s lovely. That bunch of rocks—Ramshaw? Yeah, that’s them. Ever see that group called the Winking Man? Downright spooky, I call it.”

  “It’s all right when the sun’s not behind it,” I countered.

  “Yeah, well, I’ll just stay in Derbyshire, thank you. That area gives me the creeps. Caves, sinkholes, rivers. You know about The Devil’s Hole? You ever hear that thing?” He looked at me, silently challenging me to deny it held no mystery to it.

  “It’s just the wind, Mark,” I said. “It’s incredibly breezy on top of the Roaches, as you just said not a minute ago. I grant you it sounds like a ghost or something is lamenting, until the wind comes from another direction…”

  “Fine. Okay. Nature at its strangest. What else would you expect from an area that has yak and wallaby wandering around?”

  “I thought the wallabies were nearer to Mam Tor or Kinder Scout.”

  “They hop, don’t they?” He looked at me, Superior Knowledge beaming from his expression. At least he’d forgotten his anxiety over the ghosts. “Anyway, that whole area wallows in unexplained phenomena. Farms up there didn’t get an electric supply until the late 1960’s.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Just that the region is remote. Wild, like I said. Anything could be living up there. Or going on up there.”

  “Oh, really, Mark! You’re sounding like a fiction writer. Besides, Marian Harper was talking about a black dog in Derbyshire, not in the Roaches region of Staffordshire.”

  “Not that far away. They walk.” He glanced around, perhaps expecting to see a wallaby or black dog. “I repeat—I’m staying right here. Preferably in a pub or other civilized place.” He bent down, picked up a twig, and threw it across the road. “What have we stumbled into, Brenna? Black dogs, moaning rocks, sinkholes… I wish I knew a priest.”

  I patted his hand. “You’ll be just fine. Concentrate on the case and the ghosts will disappear.”

  He would have said more, but we were at the front garden gate of Kevin Harper’s house. Kevin said we’d caught him just before he left for work and that he could give Mark and me fifteen minutes.

  “And what is your work?” Mark asked after we were seated in the lounge.

  “I own the gift shop here in Cauldham.”

  Mark blinked and glanced at me. I hadn’t expected that, either. Kevin’s bulky build put me more in mind of a weightlifter than a jockey. Recovering his composure, Mark said, “You’re not in the family business? We spoke with your sister-in-law and she told us that Reed headed the ad agency. I would have thought that you, as the older brother, would be doing that.”

  He flashed a quick smile before staring at Mark. “You’d be wrong.”

  “Why aren’t you managing it?”

  “No mystery, detective. I have no interest in it.”

  “Did you work there and then relinquish it to Reed?”

  “No. Reed took over from our father. I realize the elder son usually controls the company, but I didn’t want to. Reed was old enough to take over. He’d been working there since his teen years, during school holidays. He knew the business quite well. Dad handed over the reins and we’ve all been happy ever since.”

  “Your brother did quite well with the company, I understand. He has a large, beautifully furnished house, drives a vintage sports car—”

  “Yeah, Reed’s done okay by the business. But Marian’s no hanger-on. She brought her own money to the marriage.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  “Maiden name is Good. Her family owns Good Teapot Company.”

  I knew the business. Their slogan proclaimed, “Why settle for an ordinary pot when you can have a Good one?” I always thought that clever. Maybe Reed’s company had come up with it.

  Kevin said, “Besides having shares in the company, she has an inheritance from her maternal grandmother. She’s financially secure. And so is Ilsa, their daughter.”

  “When did you buy your gift shop?”

  He glanced at his watch but made no move to get out of his chair. “Twenty-five years ago. The sale fell into my lap.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning I was old enough, was looking for a location, had the urge and the brains and the skill to do it, and liked that business. It also serves as an outlet for my paintings. I sell them in the shop. They sell quite well, too. I have a few in the arts and crafts shop in the old school, too. Do you know that? Just south of the church? Used to be the church school in the good old days when more people sent their kids to such places. But the desire or the population has dwindled, so the main section of the building’s been converted into a youth hostel. The tourist information center shares the ground floor with that handicrafts shop.”

  “You said the sale fell into your lap. How?”

  “Previous owner wanted to move to Canada. Some place in Saskatchewan, I believe. As I stated, the timing was right, so I grabbed it. I’ve not been sorry. I love my job and I meet interesting people. I always knew this area had a lot of tourists but I’d no idea how many, or the diverseness of places they came from, until I opened my shop.”

  “You don’t share your brother’s love of the family business. Do you help with the well dressing or the fete?”

  “Only by submitting a design for one of the wells. All entries must be into the committee in September so that they can vote on the designs. The village has three wells, so three designs are chosen. I’m lucky enough that most years my entry is chosen for the church well.”

  “But the well dressing isn’t until the twenty-ninth of June. Why are the designs submitted so early?”

  Kevin looked slightly amused. “You’ve never done a well dressing, then. The designs have to be decided upon so that the villagers will know what sorts of things to save.”

  “What sort of things?”

  “You�
��ve seen a well dressing panel before, haven’t you, detective?”

  Mark pressed his lips together, as though he’d been insulted. “Sure. Lots of times. In Buxton, for instance. They’re mosaic-like pictures. Big things, six or seven feet tall, about three or four feet wide. Displayed vertically, like a painting, but at the well site.”

  “If you ever look closely, you’ll see they’re made entirely of natural things. Flower petals, moss, tree bark, bits of stone and eggshell, sheep wool… Nothing manmade is allowed. Although most folks save eggshells, for example, all year, sometimes the chosen well panel design designates something rather odd. So the villagers need to know the designs well ahead of time so they, in turn, have time to save up.”

  “Like, if one of the designs is about conserving the Lady’s slipper orchid, people would have to come up with something reddish-pink for the flower.”

  “Precisely. We did a panel on the black grouse last year.”

  “Its numbers are severely down,” I said. “In England and in Wales.”

  “That’s right. The National Trust has been instrumental in reintroducing it into the Peak District’s Derwent Valley. I mention the bird only by way of illustrating how difficult some of these well panel designs are to reproduce using natural materials only. The bird is black and white, with a vivid red topknot. The feathers had to be a shiny black. Where do you get that?”

  “It can be a problem,” I agreed.

  “As I said, that’s why we need to decide on next year’s design rather quickly after the current year’s well dressing is finished. It’s not always easy to find enough items. Blue sky, for instance. Hydrangeas produce a nice blue, but as most gardeners of that bush can tell you, the blue isn’t a guarantee. Pink and purple are notorious for popping out when you need a good blue. Consequently, we don’t encourage designs that call for a vast expanse of blue sky.”

  “Reed never contributed any designs or ideas for the panels?” Mark asked.