A Well Dressed Corpse

by Jo A. Hiestand

  “Did you know your husband had been previously engaged?” Mark asked.

  I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t the reaction she had. She folded her arms across her chest and half laughed. “That puppy love thing? I heard something about it.”

  “From your remark, you’re evidently not jealous to know you weren’t his first choice.”

  “That was twenty-one years ago. Clay grew out of his infatuation with Vera.”

  “Did he tell you about his former engagement or did someone else tell you?”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “Please answer the question.”

  She exhaled, clearly annoyed with the topic and with us. “I heard it from Edmund Worrall. He was Vera’s best friend.”

  “Reed’s half brother.”

  “Don’t know of any other.”

  I said, “How long did you know Clayton before he proposed to you?”

  “Six months.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Really. I don’t see what this—”

  Mark inclined his head and spoke slowly and precisely. “How old were you when Clayton proposed?”

  “Nineteen. He was twenty-one. I’d moved into the village with my parents at that time. That’s how I met him.”

  “When did you get married?”

  “Two months later.”

  “Awfully soon after that, wasn’t it? Especially since you hadn’t grown up together, known each other through school.”

  She shrugged, losing some of her animosity. “Why should we have waited? We loved each other and wanted to get married.”

  “Did you know Vera?”

  “No. As I said, my family and I had just moved here. That was after she left.”

  “And you’ve lived in Cauldham.”

  “Happily ever after. Moved out of my parents’ home and into mine with Clayton. Twenty years ago. Can you do the math?”

  Ignoring her remark, I said, “So Clayton’s infatuation with Vera, as you put it, was over when you two married.”

  “Yes. Of course. If not, do you think he would have proposed to me?”

  “You knew about the note she sent him. Do you know about anything else from that part of his life?”

  Her eyes narrowed and she looked at me like an uncooperative witness glaring at the opposition counsel. “What’s that mean?”

  “Did you know your husband has kept a lock of Vera Howarth’s hair, kept it ever since they were engaged?”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Ask Clayton if you don’t believe me.”

  “I don’t have to. I know Clay. He wouldn’t keep a memento of another love.”

  “That’s your decision, obviously, but it happens to be true.”

  “You’ll say anything to get people to talk, to turn on one another.” She turned toward the door, stepped to the side, grasped the doorknob and flung the door open. “Now, I think we’ve talked long enough. I have work to do. Like fumigating my office.”

  Walking back to the pub, I said, “A woman that mad could be mad enough to kill.”

  Mark snorted and ran his fingers through his hair. “If she knew about the hair, she might.”

  “A husband that doesn’t tell his wife about a previous engagement. What do you make of that?”

  “He had something more to hide than a lock of hair.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  PC Byrd drove the pocket watch and Vera’s hair to the lab in Birmingham to run a DNA test on it and the bones. Graham had requested a rush on it, needing to know if we had found Vera’s remains and, if so, would this pertain to the Reed Harper case. But even with a rush order, it would be twenty-four hours before we’d know if we had a match or not.

  Having missed our lunch, Mark and I next headed to the pub, intent that no one would stop us from our meal. We took our food outside, sitting at one of the small wooden tables in the front courtyard. The late afternoon sunlight illuminated the shop fronts on the western side of the street, leaving us in shadow, but it was still pleasant, with a warm wind rushing down the hill and the leaves of the trees rustling under the symphony of birdsong. I took a long drink of lemonade, then scowled as my mobile rang.

  “What is it now?” I muttered before glancing at the caller ID display.

  “Better not answer in that tone of voice.” Mark picked up his crab and olive sandwich. “Probably is the Vic, wondering where we are.”

  I glared at Mark, hating the nickname that many of my colleagues had bestowed upon Graham. Being a vicar once upon a time was no reason to ridicule him behind his back, and I told Mark so.

  He raised his arms in surrender. “No harm meant, Brenna. It just slipped out.”

  “Better not slip out when you’re with him.” Glancing at the name displayed on my phone, I said, “It’s Adam,” and answered.

  Mark murmured, “All is well” and took a bite of his sandwich.

  “Adam,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “I’m glad you called.”

  “I couldn’t wait any longer, Bren. I realize you said you’d call me today, but it’s past tea time and I just thought, for one moment, that you forgot or got wrapped up in something.”

  “You’re on my list, Adam. I didn’t forget. Just haven’t had a minute to myself.”

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to rush you. Is this a bad time?”

  I heard the anxiety in his voice, the hope that we could talk and the apprehension that I’d have to hang up on him. “Now is perfect. I’m having a late lunch with Mark.”

  “Just so I didn’t interrupt something with the case.”

  “No. You’re fine.” We lapsed into an awkward silence, both of us knowing we had to talk about the wedding and his parents’ wishes, yet neither of us brave enough to speak first. I took a deep breath as Adam said, “Have you had a chance to think it over, Bren?”

  I glanced at Mark, needing an emotional anchor. He was getting up, mouthing he would be right back, and walked into the pub. So much for the life buoy. “Yes, I’ve thought about what you said.”

  “And?” The hope swelled in his voice.

  “You know I love you, Adam. You know I don’t want to intentionally hurt you—ever.”

  His voice lowered. “Bad news.”

  “Not necessarily. I haven’t said anything yet.”

  “It will be bad news. Whenever people start out with ‘You know I love you’ or something like that, it’s always what you don’t want to hear.”

  “Adam.”

  “Don’t sugarcoat it. I can tell from your tone, you’re not budging.”

  “It’s not a question of budging, Adam.”

  “What do you call it, then? You know my parents and I want a church wedding, but you’re holding out for some outdoor gala. It’ll be December, Bren! Trees and birds and sunshine is nice, but have you considered how cold it will be?”

  “So we bundle up in overcoats and mittens for ten minutes. We can wear our fancy dress inside at our party afterwards.”

  Adam exhaled deeply, venting his exasperation with me. “Have you given a thought to my older relatives? What do you think traipsing through the wood or moor or wherever will do to them? Besides unable to walk far enough or steady enough to tramp through heather and ferns, you’ve got them standing outside in the cold, Bren. And don’t say it’s just for ten minutes, just for a quick ceremony. You haven’t considered the little jaunt to and from your piece of paradise.”

  His anger shone through his tone, never mind the last ridiculing words.

  “It’s not so much the ceremony, Adam, as it is your parents’ involvement.”

  “What’s wrong with that? They’re trying to help us by throwing in a few quid to cover expenses. Mom has a friend who’s a travel agent, so she can get us good deals on honeymoon destinations. And another friend has a friend who is manager of a bridal dress shop—”

  I felt lost in the gush of words. “Adam, I appreciate all that, but I don’t want a fancy dress. Even if
we had the ceremony in a church I wouldn’t want that kind of dress. I know your folks are offering us help and advice, but why can’t we have the wedding we want? Why can’t we save our money for our house and have a simpler ceremony? Will anyone really remember the elaborate wedding twenty years from now?”

  “My folks will. We will.”

  Where was Margo when I needed her advice? I took a deep breath and said, “Why is a church wedding so important to your parents?”

  It was Adam’s turn to take a deep breath. “My folks never had one. They were hippies and shunned that type of wedding. They—they’ve regretted it. They wish they’d had proper photos and the traditional garter and bouquet throwing. All the customs that link you to your ancestors. They realize what a mistake they’d made and don’t want us to regret our wedding.”

  I didn’t know how to respond. He had linked our wedding to his parents’ mistake and remorse. Whatever I said had to be carefully worded; I didn’t want to drive a wedge between us. “I’m sorry they regret their ceremony. Maybe they could do a vow renewal ceremony for their sixtieth anniversary…in a church with all the flowers and candles and music they missed. That would still be lovely.”

  “There’s something else, Bren.”

  “Yes? What?”

  “You know I’m an only child.”

  What was coming? “Yes.”

  “Mother’s always dreamed of a church wedding for me. I know how that sounds,” he said hurriedly, giving me no time to reply. “Usually the daughter’s mother is the one keen on that. But I think it all relates back to their own poor ceremony choice. Not too many years after mum had me she and dad started to be disappointed about the wedding. She doesn’t say so, but I think she’d like to sort of erase their own mistake by participating in my church wedding.” He fell silent, perhaps waiting for me to reply, perhaps thinking about his own emotional situation with his parents.

  I told him I’d think about it some more, told him I loved him, and rang off as Mark returned to the table.

  He angled his head, giving me a concerned look. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.” I nodded.

  “You’re not eating.” He pointed to my untouched sandwich. “You can’t work a case on your nerves, Bren, and you can’t think properly about the case, or about Adam, without food in your stomach. It gives you energy and brain power, or hadn’t you heard?”

  I glared at him, my hand lightly touching the glass of lemonade. The warmth of my fingers puddled the chilled condensation beneath them and the water droplets zigzagged down the glass’ exterior and collected beneath it on the tabletop.

  “I don’t know the problem, of course, but I think things will look much better on a full stomach.”

  “Or in the morning. Isn’t that the cure-all for everything?”

  “Don’t knock it. It’s amazing what the brain can sort out while you’re sleeping.”

  I made no move to eat.

  After a minute Mark said, “Make an effort, Brenna. For the sake of everyone who loves you.” His eyes shone with concern.

  I picked up my ham and pineapple sandwich, took a bite and chewed, and Mark smiled. After swallowing, I said, “I didn’t mean to bother you with this, Mark.”

  “No bother, I assure you. Feeling better?”

  I chewed another bite of sandwich, nodding.

  “Just what the doctor ordered.”

  “Speaking of ordered…”

  “You want something else to eat?” Mark half stood up, trying to see the menu chalked on the outdoor blackboard.

  “No. But you said ‘ordered.’”

  “At least your hearing hasn’t suffered from your lack of food.”

  “Do you want to hear this or just mouth off at me?”

  “Go on, please.”

  “Since Clayton gave us Vera’s hair to run a match against those bones that were found, doesn’t it make you wonder why both bodies were discovered in the wood, close together? I do. It makes me think about the order we found them in.”

  “What? Like the body wasn’t laid out in some ritualistic manner, or the exact placement of it, according to the compass cardinal points?”

  “No.”

  “The order we found them in—chronologically? Like, if the body had been discovered first? Would those bones ever have been found? Is that what you mean?”

  “No.”

  Mark ran his fingers through his hair, the silvery streaks looking almost whitish in the sunlight thrown back from the building across the road. “Sorry. I still don’t understand where you’re going with this.”

  “Well, how did the two bodies get to the woods? A dead body’s awfully heavy to carry. I can’t see anyone running the risk of transporting a body in his car, either. Telltale DNA is left behind.”

  Mark nodded, perhaps remembering the case in March with the body in the car boot. “So we need to look at how the bodies were transported.”

  “Not only that, but why there? Why the wood? We know killers tend to dump their victims in places where they feel safe, or that holds some meaning for them.”

  “So we look for someone with a link to the woods. Or with coal mines, since the site is close to the abandoned Odin Mine.”

  “Or Angela Ellis or Jenny Millington,” I added, writing these items in my notebook.

  “Or one of those caverns. Which one is the closest? Speedwell?”

  “Peak Cavern, I think.”

  “So any of these could have a meaning for our killer.”

  We exchanged anxious looks. I took a sip of lemonade before saying, “Getting back to how the bodies got there. You said ‘ordering.’ That’s what made me think of this again. It would’ve been easier for the murderer if he ordered his victims to the woods, or ordered them into his car. Then he wouldn’t have to struggle with a dead body.”

  “Provided he could persuade his victims to do that. Wouldn’t it be even simpler to lure them to the area? Make an appointment on some pretext?”

  “That suggests they were friendly, trusted each other. Why else would anyone meet someone at night in the wood?”

  Mark grabbed his drink and sat back in his chair. “We won’t know that until we know who the killer is.”

  “Just don’t try to tell me it’s tied up with black dogs and ghosts,” I shivered. “Flesh and blood killers are hard enough to track down.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Books from the Library: Derbyshire’s Tales of Ghostly Goings-on and Haunted Homes

  One late winter night in February 1789, Charles Bowcock sat up late, reading in front of a low-burning fire. His wife had retired to their bed several hours earlier. Their children, Emma, John, and James, had preceded their mother, sleeping in their separate bedrooms in the west wing of the hall. Charles had spent a long day dealing with tenants and planning with his estate manager. His reading candle had burnt out, but the fire still cast its golden glow onto his paper and across the floor nearest the fireplace. A taper burned in the sconce near the stairway.

  He leaned closer to the fire to see the writing on the paper better. There were other candles in candlesticks throughout the room—the family was not niggardly nor poor—but Charles didn’t plan to stay up much longer. So he huddled over the paper, near the fire, and read.

  At some later hour he awoke to the long, high howling of a dog. The fire had burnt to little more than coals by now and the candle in the wall sconce flickered on threats to die out. Charles poked up the fire, threw another log onto the meager flames, and lit one of the spare candles. Despite the wintry weather, he yanked open the front door and peered outside.

  Snow was falling, and had been for some time, for an inch or two covered the ground. The frigid air whistled through the stand of pines at the northern edge of the door but Charles remained planted on the spot. The howling continued, louder and urgent, chilling in its urgency.

  Charles stepped outside, scuffing the snow as he hurried beyond the flagstone terrace. Holding his candle high and shielding it
from his eyes, he peered into the blackness in the direction of the sound. He could see nothing but swirling snow.

  Assuming he had been dreaming, he turned toward the hall when the howl sounded again.

  Charles hesitated, wondering if he should call out the men or ignore it. What was more common than the baying of a hound, he thought. But the intensity and pitch of the cry told him he heard no ordinary hunting dog; it was the Gabriel Hound.

  He rushed back inside, nearly falling on the snow-slick flagstones. He charged up the staircase, calling his wife’s name. She sat up as he burst into their bedroom, drawing the bedclothes around her and inquiring what was amiss.

  “’Tis the Gabriel Hound, Suzanne, as sure as I’m born,” he said, and ran down the hallway to the children’s rooms.

  On entering their daughter’s room, he saw that she was well, sleeping and breathing peacefully. He eased the door to as quickly as he could and rushed to his sons’ room, the next door down.

  The two boys were in their beds; John lay on his side, a faint blush upon his cheeks. Charles lowered the candle to within inches of John’s nose. The candle flame flickered as the boy breathed.

  Fearing the worse, Charles stepped over to James’ bed. One look at the little boy’s ashen face confirmed his worst fear. As Charles scooped the lifeless form into his arms, the howling of the hound ceased.

  A search of the grounds later revealed only Charles’ footsteps in the snow; no dog print marred the pristine snow anywhere near the hall. Not surprising, if one remembers the Hound can only be heard.

  From that time to this, the baying of the Gabriel Hound announces death or danger to the family.

  The Hound doesn’t restrict itself to the family or the Cauldham area, however. Perhaps attached to others as well, residents in Edale, Castleton and Hathersage have also heard the Hound’s howling. Though mostly associated with great danger or disaster in some form, the Hound does occasionally serve to protect an individual, as when a young woman narrowly missed stepping into a sinkhole in the 1980s. Whatever its role, it is best not to ignore the baying of the Gabriel Hound.