A Well Dressed Corpse

by Jo A. Hiestand

  I looked across the street. The bench beneath the huge yew was vacant. It also angled away from the street, lending some privacy to any conversation there. “Is that private enough, or would you rather go to the incident room?”

  “No. The yew is fine. Anyway, I don’t know why I’m so worried about being overheard. This’ll be all over the village before too long.”

  We followed him across the road and sat beside him under the tree. As with Edmund, Mark chose to stand. He rested his right foot on the bench seat and leaned forward with his arms folded on top of his thigh. I asked Clayton what we could do for him and he laid the package on his lap.

  “I need to confess,” he said simply, shifting his gaze from Mark to me.

  “Why?” I asked, wondering if our murder inquiry was going to be wrapped up as easily as a confession. “What have you done?”

  “It’s not in the league of withholding evidence, but I did have a struggle with my conscience about it.” He handed me the package. It was heavy, a bit less than the weight of a small digital camera. As I unwrapped it, he said, “There’s a long story that goes with this. That’s what I need to tell you.”

  I untied the string keeping the brown paper folded, laid it on the bench, and slid the paper off the object. A silver pocket watch, its case covered with an engraved monogram, rested in my palm. The watch looked to be very old.

  “It was my grandfather’s,” Clayton said, by way of introducing the subject. “I got it on my sixteenth birthday.”

  “Nice,” Mark said. “This connected to what you want to tell us, then?”

  Clayton nodded, his face losing its color. “There’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just start. You know when you showed me the photos of the bones and fabric found in the wood?”

  I nodded and Mark muttered that he recalled something of that nature.

  “Well, I could’ve identified the fabric right away, without even stopping to think. It was from a blouse my girl friend wore. She wore it the last time I saw her, the day she disappeared. You see,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, “my girl friend was Vera Howarth. The woman who’s been missing for twenty-two years.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  “I didn’t want to admit it, not right then. I-I was afraid my wife would find out, that you’d question her immediately.”

  “Just having a former girl friend is not a thing a spouse would get upset about,” I said. “Nearly everybody has at least one old boy or girlfriend. It’s natural. You date before you marry.”

  “Vera and I were engaged.”

  “I still don’t see why that needs to be kept secret.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “No,” Mark said, irritation creeping into his voice. “We don’t. If you’d quit pussyfooting around and tell us.“

  “If you’d open the case of the watch.”

  I pressed the button on the crown. Front and back covers opened simultaneously, hinging out from the numeral six at the bottom of the clock face. It was a double hunter case, exquisite in its craftsmanship and fascinating in its working mechanism. A lock of wheat-hued hair, tied together with a bit of blue ribbon, had been coiled inside the bottom of the clock but fell onto my lap as the case opened.

  Clayton leaned over, picked up the hair and laid it gingerly inside the open case. I curved my hand around the clock, protecting the hair from any gust of wind.

  “This is Vera’s hair. She gave it to me as a Valentine’s Day love exchange. I gave her a lock of mine. She put mine in a heart-shaped locket I’d given her for her sixteenth birthday, and I put hers…well, here in my pocket watch.”

  “When was this?”

  “Twenty-two years ago. 1989. I was nineteen and Vera was seventeen. Well, nearly eighteen. Her birthday was quite soon, nearly two months away, on the twenty-sixth of April.”

  “When did she actually go missing? Right after Valentine’s Day?”

  “Oh no! Not until the second of April. So, you see, we had over a month together after I asked her to marry me.”

  “You asked her on that Valentine’s Day?” I didn’t say so, but I thought it a romantic gesture.

  “Yes. She was just about eighteen, as I said. Only lacked three weeks.”

  “Why have you brought this to us now? Why not when Vera first disappeared?”

  “There was no need to do it then. She just vanished; no body was ever found so there was nothing we could match her hair to. There was a search of the area, of course, but nothing turned up. It hardly began before it was called off.”

  “Yes. I remember, you told us yesterday about the note stating she decided to go to London.”

  “Which was postmarked on the sixth of April.”

  “You’re certain of the date.” I assumed he would be; your fiancée disappears, you’re frantic with grief—yes, you’d recall the date.

  “Oh yes. The original file the police made when she disappeared contains the envelope and note. You’ve probably got it with you at the incident room.”

  We probably did. Anything connected with our case would have been brought in.

  “It’s been authenticated,” Clayton went on. “When the officers took the note, they compared the handwriting with some items in her house. It matches. It’s her writing. Same with the notepaper,” he added almost too eagerly. “They compared that, too. The note she mailed me was written on the same notepad. It’s probably all in the incident room if you want to see it.“

  “Perhaps later.”

  Mark said, “How long have you and your wife been married, Clayton?”

  He lost what little tinge he had to his cheeks. “I know what you’re thinking.”

  Mark’s voice raised in surprise. “Really? What, then?”

  “That Vera and I had a flaming row and I killed her. Well, I didn’t. I loved her, I’d just proposed marriage to her.”

  “How long have you and Lynn been married?” Mark repeated, louder.

  “Twenty years.”

  “You’ve kept Vera’s hair all this time without Lynn knowing of it?”

  “Yes. I didn’t see any reason to tell her. She’d just be furious.”

  “So you married Lynn when you were how old?”

  “Twenty-one. I waited for Vera to come back, you see. I thought she’d come back to me.”

  “You waited two years. What made you decide to marry Lynn if you were so set on waiting for Vera?”

  “It just hit me, that’s all. I realized after the first year that she wouldn’t return. There’d been her note at the offset, telling me of her decision. I figured she’d know by two years if she wanted to marry me. But she never wrote. There were never any other letters. Just that first one bidding me goodbye. I just got to thinking, I guess. I mean, if someone really loves you, no matter if she’s gone to another city for a job or something…well, she’d write to you, wouldn’t she? She’d want to hear from you, want to tell you she loves you, want you to write back and say you love her.”

  “But that didn’t happen.” Mark’s voice had a touch of sympathy in it.

  “No. There was nothing. When she didn’t return…” He glanced in the direction of the church. “She would’ve been forty years old this year. I’m forty-two, did you know? Where does our youth go?” He said it so faintly, so slowly, that I could feel his hurt.

  “We’ll need to ask Lynn about all this,” I said as gently as I could.

  Clayton nodded, his head lowered in shame. “I know. That’s why I didn’t tell you yesterday when you showed me the photo. I tried to figure a way around this, so she wouldn’t find out, but I know nothing’s sacred in a murder investigation. I’ve resigned myself to her finding out. Talk to her—it’s okay.”

  Mark said rather sarcastically, “So you bring us this hair, having wrestled with your conscience.”

  “I know I should have said something yesterday, but I was so shocked to see that blouse fabric and the—” He swallowed, looking slightly ill. “Well, I believe you can
run a test on those bones, now. You can get the DNA from her hair. Then we’d know for certain if it’s Vera. I’d know what happened to her, then. I’d know that she didn’t run from me.”

  Mark snapped the watch closed, wrapped it again in the brown paper, and slipped it into his trousers pocket. “You told us yesterday about her grandmother and her parents, so I assume there’s no one to notify if we get a DNA match.”

  Clayton stood up, his eyes boring into Mark’s. “No. Vera never spoke of anyone and I never saw anyone visit them. It’s like they were the only two people left in their family.” He ran the back of his hand beneath his nose and added, “It’s this damned village, you know.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “There’s some sort of curse on it.” He rushed on as he saw a hint of skepticism on Mark’s face. “It’s easy to scoff, but you don’t live here. You don’t know its history. Vera went missing, Reed went missing, and they end up dead. Two teenagers disappeared at separate times two years ago but luckily the police found them. One was wandering incoherently in the wood; the other was found near the disused Odin Mine. She’d fallen into a sinkhole and broken her leg. And there’s Jenny Millington, who tried to kill herself. Seems above the law of averages, to me.”

  I looked at Mark. His expression was blank.

  “Not counting the others who have seen the black dog around here. You can search the newspaper files, if you care to. Only don’t laugh it off. Something’s going on here that’s got Other World stamped all over it.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” Mark said, his voice expressionless and hard. He stood up, his hand on Clayton’s upper arm, and pulled Clayton to his feet. Pulling his mobile from his pocket, he said, “Right now, what concerns me is This World.”

  Clayton glanced from Mark to me, confusion in his eyes and a quaver in his voice as he asked what Mark was doing.

  “Calling a constable.”

  “A constable? Why?”

  “To drive you into Buxton. More specifically, to Silverlands, Sectional headquarters.”

  “Police head…” His eyes widened as the realization of his situation became apparent.

  Mark finished talking to Graham, flipped his phone closed and repocketed it, and said, “Clayton Warson, you do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

  “You’ve given me a caution!” Clayton’s voice shot up an octave as the color drained from his face.

  “If you recognize it, you know what it means.”

  “But a caution…” His eyes searched mine for some sympathy or explanation. Finding none, he turned back to Mark. “You give cautions when someone’s suspected of an offense.”

  “You don’t call what you just did an offense?”

  “What are you on about? What offense?”

  “Obstruction.”

  “Obstruction! What did I—”

  “Attempting to pervert the course of justice.”

  “You’re joking.” Again his gaze returned to me, a wild, desperate look that silently pleaded for help in this fast-enveloping nightmare.

  “It’s beyond a joke, Warson.” Mark faced the man toward the approaching police car.

  “But perverting the course of justice? You’re daft, mate! I told you about the fabric, that I believe it to be Vera’s. I brought you the lock of hair. Think about that,” he said loudly as the car stopped opposite us and the officer got out. “Her hair. You’ve got something to match the bones to, you’ve got her DNA, for God’s sake. You’ll know if those bones are her!”

  “You left this a bit late, Warson.”

  “But I brought this to you! I freely surrendered the hair to help with your case! You can’t be serious about all this… I’ve just helped you!”

  Mark helped the officer get Clayton into the car. The door closed with an ominous, heavy thud and I watched Clayton’s panic turn more physical as he leaned against the back seat window and yell something at Mark. The rolled-up window prevented his words from reaching us.

  As the car headed up the hill, I exhaled deeply. Mark’s hand slipped around my shoulder. “Not exactly what I was thinking when this started,” he said.

  I nodded, unsure of what to say. We stood on the grass near the road, talking in near whispers, trying to make sense of Clayton’s actions. Mark finally stirred, directing us toward the path of the long-departed police car. “I know Clayton thought he was helping, but he should have shown us that yesterday. And answered our questions more truthfully yesterday.” He patted his trousers pocket, perhaps making certain he still had the pocket watch. “He did pervert justice, Bren. His answers were a load of rubbish. He tried to throw us off course and not incriminate himself. He should have relinquished that bit of hair yesterday when the subject came up.”

  “Actually, when Vera first went missing,” I said, my mind still whirling.

  “Yeah. Anyway, he waited too long.”

  “He’ll get the rocket now.”

  “From his wife and from his superior.”

  I sighed deeply. “I don’t know which will be worse.”

  “It’s his own fault. He shouldn’t have kept that all these years.”

  “I feel sorry for him.” I glanced in the direction of the incident room we had set up in the church basement—our own patch from which our interviews emanated. Clayton would soon be enduring his own interview. I said, somewhat slowly, “He’ll probably be suspended from duty. Maybe even be divorced when his wife finds out.”

  “Either way,” Mark added, “he’s in deep shit.”

  * * * *

  We were about to walk up the hill to the youth hostel, when raised voices forced us to turn in the direction of the pub. Chad Styles, whom we had left just hours ago in Upper Hogsley, stood in the outdoor eating section of the pub, yelling at Kevin Harper. Not just yelling, I noticed as we hurried up to the two men. Shaking his finger in Kevin’s face. Chad’s anger was matched equally in the volume of his voice and the redness of his cheeks.

  “What’s the problem?” I asked as Mark walked between the men, forcing them apart.

  “Ask him,” Kevin said, his voice quivering, yet at a normal speaking level. “I was just coming out of the pub and Styles nearly jumps me.”

  “You’re exaggerating, mate,” Chad said, his face still fiery. “I called to you, you ignored me, started to walk across the street, so I grabbed your arm.”

  “You couldn’t just follow him?” Mark stood like he was expecting the men to start swinging at each other.

  “He seems to have grown deaf,” Chad said. “Selectively.”

  Kevin rolled his eyes. “I didn’t hear you. I told you that.”

  “Your heard your friend easily enough.”

  “He was walking next to me, for God’s sake! Of course I heard him.”

  “What do you need to talk to Kevin about?” Mark asked, visibly growing tired of the bickering.

  “I want to know if I can get something of mine from your brother’s effects,” Chad said rather testily, as though he had repeated it several dozen times.

  “Something of yours?” Kevin said, his eyebrow raised. “What? Why does Reed have it?”

  “I loaned it to him a month ago. It’s a photograph. Of last year’s well dressing in Upper Hogsley, if you must know. I need it for our closing ceremony.”

  Kevin shrugged, his eyes dull and devoid of interest. “First I’ve heard of any photograph, Styles. Ask Marian for it.”

  “I didn’t want to bother her. You know…”

  “Yeah. You’re insinuating she is mourning for Reed and I’m not.”

  “Don’t be stupid. That’s not what I meant. I saw you, thought I’d ask you and see if you could get the photo. It’s easier for you to ask Marian for it, you being family, than for me to barge in on her.”

  “Well, I don’t know about the photo and I’m not going to look for i
t. She’s upset enough without me poking about in Reed’s things. Maybe it’s at the church or the village hall, since it’s about the well dressing festival. Did you ask Harding?”

  “No. I thought I’d try you first.”

  “Which you did. And I’m telling you I don’t know a thing about it, so ask Harding. Or pop into the hall when there are workers about. But don’t bother Marian.” He held up his right index finger, silently warning Chad, and strode across the road to his shop.

  Mark said, “You all right with that, Mr. Styles? Can you ask others besides Mrs. Harper?”

  “Looks like I’ll have to, won’t I?”

  “The photo’s that important, then,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “It won’t complicate things, though, if you can’t find it.”

  “I hope I don’t find out.” He strode off toward the church, a look of determination on his face.

  * * * *

  Lynn Warson was in the tourist information center, talking to a family. Mark picked up a pamphlet from a rack near a photo display of last year’s well dressing event and I busied myself by looking at the wood carvings of birds and small mammals. Lynn circled something on a map, jotted a few words on the paper’s margin, and pointed in a generally northern direction. Must be telling them about the old mines and caves, I thought. A bit further discussion and Lynn folded the map and handed it to the father. As they left the center, she saw us and came over. Mark stuffed the pamphlet into his pocket and asked if we could speak to her.

  “We just spoke yesterday,” she said, annoyance creeping into her voice.

  “That’s as may be, Mrs. Warson, but we’ve learned something that may or may not prove to be pertinent to the case, and we’d like to talk to you.”

  “I can see I won’t get a moment’s peace until you do.” She led us into her office, shut the door and asked what we wanted. She also remained by the door, as though she didn’t want to waste a second getting to the door and opening it when we were finished. Standing against the wooden rectangle, her back tilted back slightly and touching the polished oak surface, she looked defiant and aggravated.