“I wouldn’t be especially sad for myself, but the village could use the prize money. If we win it.”
“Seems like a good possibility, doesn’t it? The village has won the competition for quite a while, I understand.”
“Of course we will win,” she said emphatically, perhaps invoking whatever well dressing gods had rule over such things. “We’ve won it for ages. Have you seen the photos of past years’ well panels? They’re probably stuffed into a cupboard in the village hall or some unappreciative place. The snaps’ll give you an idea of the quality of our work.” She smiled, as though recalling one particularly nice panel. “Anyway, we’ve no doubt about the outcome. We’re going to do over part of the youth hostel with the prize money.” Angela perched on top of a weathered, round-topped tombstone and looked thoughtful. “That’s part of what we were deciding at the meeting. It’s important to have nice accommodation for our visitors. Just imagine if you were staying at a hostel that needed new paint and mattresses and such. You wouldn’t come back. And you’d talk about the rotten lodgings to your friends. So you see why winning is so important this year. The tourist information center and the handicrafts section are fine, but we’ve got to bring the bedrooms and kitchen up to the same level. It’s beneficial to the village in general if we can keep the tourist trade high.”
“Did you see Reed Harper leave the meeting?”
“We all left the church together, chattering away—well, all of us except Jenny Millington, Reed’s assistant. She’d gone on a few minutes before. But the rest of us walked outside together. I walked home with Clayton and Lynn Warson, since we all go the same way. I don’t know about Reed. I expect he chatted a bit with Dad and then went home. But I don’t know.”
“How did Jenny and Reed get on together?”
“They worked together; of course they liked each other.”
“Doesn’t necessarily follow. I don’t know statistics, but there are thousands, probably millions, of employees who can’t stand their bosses. But they put up with the poor working conditions because it’s a job and it’s better than having no pay packet at all.”
“Well, I don’t think it was bad as all that. I never heard any specifics, but I never heard about any quarrels.”
“Did they socialize?”
“Nothing outside work, no. And even then, it wasn’t that often. I think Reed had house parties mainly for his agency group.”
“Jenny didn’t work there?”
Evidently we were straying into waters Angela didn’t like. She glanced at a nearby tombstone. “Oh, no. Her work with the well dressing festival was strictly on a volunteer basis. Reed was the only person paid. And very little salary at that.”
“Then what does Jenny do?”
“She’s a writer. Quite good, frequently published. Makes a substantial living from what I understand. At least she has her own house and car. She works freelance, writing for magazines and newspapers. You’ll have to find someone else to fit your jilted lover role—that is what you want to know, isn’t it, with all these questions?”
TWELVE
The Hope Observer, 14 April 2010
Young lovers might no longer run away to Peak Forest to be married, but Lovers Leap nearly saw its old function renewed recently.
Friday, 13 April, Jennifer Millington left a distraught message stating she was going to take her life by jumping from Lovers Leap Hill.
The note, handwritten and lying on her kitchen table, briefly stated she no longer wished to live since she could not be with the man she loved.
Millington’s friend called police from the Derbyshire Constabulary to her home around half past six Friday night. “We were supposed to have tea together,” the friend, who wishes to remain anonymous, said. “When it came on to five o’clock and she still didn’t come, I started phoning her house and mobile phones. Toward six o’clock, I finally went to her home. She didn’t answer the doorbell, so I got worried and phoned the police.”
On entering and searching the home, officers discovered the apparent suicide note in the kitchen. The note stated that she would throw herself from Lovers Leap Hill.
Officers called for more support and quickly converged on the hilltop and base. They discovered Millington sitting on the cliff edge, a photo of the man in her hand. Although distraught, she allowed officers to escort her down the hill and into a waiting ambulance. She was taken to Devonshire Royal Hospital for observation and medical attention. She refuses to name the man connected to the case.
Lovers Leap Hill, one mile east of Buxton, is actually a large natural cleft in the region’s limestone rock. It is connected in legend to a young 18th century couple, who leapt the chasm on horseback whilst escaping pursuers engaged by their distraught parents.
Millington, 24, lives in Cauldham and is a successful newspaper columnist and travel writer.
THIRTEEN
Jenny Millington was what Mark a year ago would have called a “looker.” Tall, brunette and blue eyed, she had a model’s figure and the beauty essential for the camera. But as she talked to us in her house I detected an underlying despondency. Her eyes held no sparkle; her lips did not curl readily or frequently into a smile. I settled into my chair, willing to let Mark do the questioning while I divined the cause of her sadness.
“How long have you worked with Reed Harper?” Mark asked. A trace of friendliness tinged his words and his eyebrows were raised in anticipation of establishing a rapport. He leaned forward, his forearms on his thighs, and smiled.
“Several years,” Jenny replied, as though considering what we wanted to hear. “I thought it would be fun, so I volunteered. Since I’m a writer, I can use my skill in developing the releases for the newspapers and the opening speech. I’ve a bit of graphic art skill so I also design the posters we put up at the visitors center, the pub, and other places. Not that the villagers need reminding,” she added, almost allowing herself to smile, “but we do get a lot of tourists, since we’ve won the Hope Valley cup so often. Lynn Warson wants the posters in the visitors center as a way of letting outsiders know about the fete. I suppose it helps bring in some money.”
“You don’t sound very certain about that. Or as though you’re in favor of it.”
“I’m not, actually.”
“Oh? Why is that? Too many people attending?”
“Yes. But don’t get me wrong—it’s not tourists in general.”
“What, then?”
“You’ll think me awfully selfish.” She had taken time to choose the correct word, and now that she had uttered it, she blushed.
“Why selfish?”
“Because I like our fete just as it is. The size is perfect. We’re a small village. If we get too many visitors, the parking will become a major problem, the village will be littered, and folks will be poking into everything. We’ve enough people right now, with our winning the Hope Valley cup. I don’t want us to overflow with people, like what’s happened to some of the other villages in the area.”
“That is a concern,” Mark agreed. “I don’t know where you put all those cars now, so I can’t imagine what will happen if your popularity increases.”
“And there’s the gardens, too. Some tourists think nothing of walking through the plantings around the market cross and by the pond. I’ve even seen people pick a flower or two from private gardens. What’s happened to respect for other people’s things?”
“Did Reed Harper feel the same way? Want to keep it small?”
“Not at all. He thought the bigger the better. Each year he was quite keen on bettering the fete and the well designs. He said the more tourists we had, the more money we would have flowing into the village. He was like that—concerned about improving our life style, upgrading the village. Money gave us the means to fix up the youth hostel, fix up the children’s playground…that sort of thing.”
“He sounds as though he was a very caring person.”
“He always thought of others. He hadn’t a mean bon
e in his body.”
“You just said you weren’t that enthusiastic about the possibility of the village fete expanding in size. Do you know if anyone else was opposed to plans Reed may have had? Did he make anyone mad?”
“Mad enough to kill him, is what you want to know.”
“Yes, since you said it.”
Jenny’s eyes widened slightly as she shook her head. A strand of her shoulder-length, curly hair slipped forward but she seemed not to notice. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know which—if someone was opposed to his plans or if someone was angry with him?”
“Both.”
“You worked with him, Miss Millington. You never heard a conversation or took a phone call from someone who was upset with Reed Harper…for some reason?”
“No. I wasn’t his secretary.”
“You were his assistant. Isn’t that nearly the same thing?”
“In some ways, yes. I typed letters and made phone calls, but I never heard that anyone was angry with him or with the fete plans. We’ve done this for decades, you know. The village, I mean. It doesn’t vary much, so why would anyone get upset with Reed?”
“You just mentioned you’d be unhappy if the festival got too big,” Mark countered, his stare becoming more intense.
“Of course. I won’t deny that! But being concerned if the fete grows too large and killing someone…well, that’s rather a stretch, isn’t it?” The statement came out as a squawk protesting her innocence.
Ignoring her objection, Mark said, “If you feel that way about keeping the fete from growing too large, surely there are others with similar opinions. It’s not absurd that someone might over react in the heat of the moment. It’s happened before.”
“This is a small village. I would have heard if someone was mad at Reed. If not directly, then by someone else.”
“Gossip.”
“If you want to call it that, yes. Nothing much stays secret in Cauldham. I would have heard.” Her voice trailed off, simultaneously sounding sad and regretful.
“Did you know if Reed had an appointment with anyone the night he went missing?”
“I never heard, though he may have done.”
“You were with him in the church that night.”
“Yes. As were Clayton, Lynn and Harding,” she added quickly, as though that supplied her alibi.
“What time did you leave the meeting?”
“When it had ended. Around half past nine, I believe. Maybe a few minutes before. I really didn’t look at the clock.”
“You were the first to leave.”
Jenny shifted her gaze to her lap. Her hands were clenched and trembling, the knuckles blanched. Lifting her head to meet Mark’s stare, she said, “I had things to do. I don’t like to stand around chatting, wasting time.”
“What was so urgent that you left before the others?”
“That doesn’t concern you. Or Reed’s death.”
“How do I know that if you don’t tell me what it is?”
“I don’t lie.”
“Perhaps not, but I don’t really know you, do I?”
“Unless you arrest me, I’m afraid that has to remain one of those things you will have to accept as true.” Her voice had strengthened somewhat during this short recital, and she looked at Mark as though challenging him to charge her with Reed’s death.
We left it at that for the time being, thanked her, and walked out of her house, aware that she watched us from behind the drawn, twitching curtains.
* * * *
Margo and I dawdled over a late dinner at the pub. I had talked with her and Mark for some time in the incident room, having a cuppa and theorizing “theory” and “alibi” in an off-hand, informal way. Graham wanted an early morning meeting tomorrow to go over the facts of the case, but the questions already plagued me and I wanted to play “what if” now, with my colleagues. We quickly tired of it, though—perhaps too mentally dead from the long day—and Mark picked up an Indian takeaway to eat in his bedroom upstairs in the pub. Margo and I needed the mind-numbing chatter of the pub patrons, so we sat in the main room, our dinner over, and slowly sipped our beverages between bouts of conversation.
The pub had been modernized, but probably not in the manner that the average person would phrase it. Electricity had been added in the form of light fixtures, a television set, and a sound system for the weekend musicians. Gas radiators placed strategically along the walls chased the chill from the rooms. Other than an updated kitchen and the loos, the lounge and private bars hadn’t changed much from their coaching inn days. The atmosphere and heavy oak beam interior also helped draw in the tourist crowd.
“Ready to call it a night?” Margo stood up, grabbing her shoulder bag, and turned slightly to the entryway.
“I should, I’m so tired, but I can’t settle down yet. I’m restless.”
“Too much to think about, Bren.”
“You think?”
“Sure. The Reed Harper case, the bones identification, Scott’s recovery—”
“I wish he were back on the job,” I said.
“It’s not even been a month since he was released from hospital, Bren. Give him some time to heal.”
I nodded, knowing Margo’s words to be true, yet I wished Scott were around to talk to. A response driver out of the same police station and Section as the rest of the CID Team, Scott Coral had been severely injured while trying to apprehend a criminal last month. He had done well under hospital care but he still had a long recovery time ahead of him. Even when he came back to work he could be placed on light duty. But he had become such an integral part of my personal life, had been the sane voice of reason for my work and social problems, handed out opinions and solutions, helped with our murder investigations, that I felt suddenly alone without him close by. Which was absurd. Not only did we have a crack team of detectives in Margo, Mark, Graham and the others, but also I had Adam to confide in. I better turn to him first, I thought, digging my room key out of my trousers pocket. Fine way to start off a marriage, yearning to talk to another man.
“Have you heard how Scott’s doing?” I asked. If Graham didn’t know, Detective-Superintendent Simcock might. I hated phoning Scott’s home; I never knew if he’d be sleeping.
“No. But he ought to be doing well. He wouldn’t have been released if the doctors weren’t certain he’s out of danger. You know how they are…careful. Don’t want to get sued.”
It all boils down to money. Hadn’t someone just said that today?
“You coming, then?” Margo gave me her look that was halfway between a question and a demand for an answer.
“I’m too fidgety. I’m going to walk around the village before I turn in.”
Margo glanced at the old clock above the bar counter. “Would you mind if I join you? It’s not so awfully late.”
“Afraid I’ll go missing, too?” She fell in beside me as we walked outside.
“Don’t be such an idiot. You look like you need to think aloud, that’s all. I’m a good ear, or have you forgotten?”
“Come on, then. I can see it’s useless to send you to bed.”
We started up the hill, the lights and laughter of the pub falling behind us. For all of Margo’s assumption that I needed to think aloud, and for my own admission that I had several issues to think about, we were amazingly quiet. Our footsteps echoed against the stone faces of the houses, then faded into the night as we left the residential tract and came to the northern branch of Miners Road. Margo and I stopped and stared at the black ribbon of road that twined through the wood. Even now, well into the dark hours, we made out the cut through the forest, the gapping chasm forever dividing the forest into Safe and Unsafe. Where a murderer disposed of a body and where nothing sinister spoiled the beauty.
Margo nodded at the treetops, just visible against the streak of lead gray clouds. “They look different from this angle, at this time of day.”
A breeze tossed the uppermost boughs a
nd the hint of ghostly arms stirred in my imagination. I shook it off as the clouds parted to reveal the silvery crescent moon. My voice sounded far away as I said, “What are we doing walking alone, Margo? We need two handsome men, a babbling brook and little light music.”
“You can always ring up Adam, Bren, but don’t pair me with Mark.”
I laughed, remembering how Mark had tried to date Margo in the earlier months of our working together. To say it didn’t work out is like saying Superman has a slight problem with Lex Luther.
“Incidentally, how are the wedding plans coming along? Decide on anything yet?”
We walked past the junction and Jenny Millington’s house. Cauldham Hall seemed to loom out of the night, its black hulk giving it greater substance and more authority than it possessed in the daylight. Beyond the hall, I could vaguely see the whitish headstones in the churchyard. The church merged with the black mass of trees surrounding it; the vicarage peeped out of the obscurity by a light in a back room.
“Well?” Margo turned her head to look at me, though what she could discern of my facial expressions is debatable. I hesitated too long and she added, “The place, the reception hall? Surely you’ve settled on the date, Bren.” Her voice raised a few pitches and she said, “Your dress?”
“The date is Saturday, first of December. You’ll get an invitation, if that’s worrying you.”
“I would hope I’d get an invitation. Getting you married has been one long project.”
I would have laughed, but her statement was too close to the truth.
“So, what else? Where, got your dress picked out? Give with the details, girl.”
I stopped opposite the church lych gate, where the shadows lay thicker and darker. For some reason I needed the anonymity of a curtain before my face. Leaning against the nearest upright support, I said, “It’s all a mess, Margo. I’m afraid we’re finished.”
Margo put her hands on my shoulders and turned me so that I faced her. “I don’t believe a word of that. What happened between you two? Maybe I can help.”
A Well Dressed Corpse Page 8
