A Well Dressed Corpse

by Jo A. Hiestand

  TWENTY-FOUR

  We had a couple of hours before turning in, so Mark and I returned to Edmund Worrall’s house. Mark’s and my conversation concerning killer and victim being friendly and trusting each other nagged me, shouted at me. My question about why anyone would meet someone at night in the wood had been tossed out in frustration, but the more I thought of it as I ate the rest of the meal, the more it made sense. We needed to talk to someone who was not connected too strongly to Reed, but someone who knew the undercurrents of the village. Edmund Worrall immediately came to mind.

  “I’d think most anyone in a village knows each other well enough to go to the wood at night. Not my ideal for a meeting place, but I don’t know the people or the history behind it.” Edmund had finished his tea and washing up, and we sat around the dining room table, sipping coffee and watching the storm clouds rolling in from the west.

  Mark had thought this a daft idea, for we didn’t know if Edmund had murdered Reed or Vera, whom we assumed to be our bones. But I didn’t see what harm it would do. If we discovered later that he had lied to us, we would deal with it.

  “You had mentioned earlier today that Reed cheated on Marian during their marriage.”

  “Right. He had a history of love-’em-and-leave-’em even before their marriage, but Marian went ahead with the wedding. I hated to see her have anything to do with Reed ’cause I figured she’d end up the same way. You can’t change a leopard’s spots, can you?”

  “These other women he had affairs with…was Vera Howarth one of them?”

  “Vera?” He held his cup shoulder high, ready to take a sip. “Don’t think so. ’Course, I don’t make it my business to be a nosey parker.”

  “Do you know anyone specifically who was involved with Reed? You gave us Clarice Millington’s name, but is there anyone else you know of?”

  He eyed us, taking time to sip his coffee. When he set the mug back on the table, he said, “Well, since you ask, I do remember one other woman. It’s been a while.”

  “Mind giving us her name?”

  “This is important, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “To Reed Harper’s case?”

  “Maybe with something else, too.”

  “Those bones?”

  “The name, if you please, Mr. Worrall.”

  “Christine Stevenson.”

  “Where will we find her?”

  “In the graveyard. She died last year.”

  * * * *

  Edmund gave us the name of Christine’s uncle. Perry Bowcock lived next door to the Harpers, so we walked up the hill to his house.

  Slightly smaller than the Harpers’ house, Edmund’s residence mimicked the style and gray stone of the other homes in the village. Nothing much changed, I thought, except the colors of doors and window, and the flowers in the gardens.

  Recovering from the surprise of opening his front door to two police detectives, Perry invited us inside. He turned off the television in the back lounge and joined us again in the living room.

  “Sorry about that.” He straightened his T-shirt as he sat in the rocker. “I didn’t know who was at the door.” He seemed to be all muscle, tall and chunky, with an energetic crop of auburn haircut into a close trim. His forearms obliterated the chair’s arms; his large frame completely filled the chair. He settled into a smooth rocking rhythm, his gaze alternately on the darkening sky and us. “So you want to know about Christine,” he said, his voice taking on a far-off quality.

  “We’d appreciate it.” Mark leaned forward, his notebook and pen ready. When he had introduced us, he mentioned our investigation into Reed Harper’s death. Perry didn’t appear to think this was outside the bounds of police investigation.

  “Christine was my niece. A beautiful girl with fiery red hair and cornflower blue eyes. Intelligent, helpful, super sense of humor.” He wiped his eyes with his handkerchief. “Sounds like a cliché, what every grieving parent says about a child they have to bury, but it’s true of Christine. She got involved with Harper little over a year ago. That’s what led to her death.”

  “Did he have a direct hand in it?” Mark asked, his voice sharp.

  “No, but I wish he had. I’d have taken a huge amount of pleasure in strangling him. Don’t look shocked, detective. I would’ve, but I didn’t. Christine was sixteen years old when Reed began an affair with her. Three years ago. She became pregnant.” He paused again, gazing at the tabletop. When he continued, his voice was steady. “She was humiliated, embarrassed beyond reason. I tried telling her that she could give the baby up for adoption, but she wouldn’t listen. She said she’d always be reminded of her sin and short falling even if the baby went to another home. She left the village four months ago, in February. Went to a bed-and-breakfast in Scotland. In Inverness. Well, outside the city, actually. On the south side of Loch Ness. I got a letter from her, saying she wanted to get away from Harper and everything that reminded her of him and think things through. A month later, just this past March, she committed suicide.”

  He uttered the sentence so slowly, so even-toned, that it caught me by surprise. I glanced at Mark, wondering if I had heard Perry correctly. Mark stared at the man, but Perry kept looking at something outside the window.

  I squeaked out my condolences and considered taking our leave.

  Perry added, “She didn’t have to do that. I would’ve helped her, done anything I could for her and the baby. But it was her upbringing, you see. She was a strong churchgoer and couldn’t forgive herself.”

  As Mark and I stood up, Perry finally shifted his gaze to my face. He said, “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to wallow in my self-pity. If you need any more information…” He let the sentence dangling, for I could read the message in his eyes.

  I placed one of my business cards on the table. “If you think of anything else we might want to know, ring me any time, Mr. Bowcock. Any time.”

  He nodded and as Mark and I stepped outside I could hear the steady squeak squeak of his rocker and his low, unabashed crying.

  “Well, what do you think?” Mark said as we walked back to the incident room.

  “What do I think about what?”

  “About Christine, the niece.”

  “I think it’s tragic. No one should kill herself. No problem should warrant that solution—which really isn’t one. A solution, I mean.”

  “No, Bren. About the fact that it’s suicide or not.”

  I frowned, glaring at him. “Why shouldn’t it be suicide? What difference does it make? Anyway, that was last year.”

  “It makes a difference if Christine was actually murdered. It makes a difference because if she was, then maybe that links up with Reed Harper or something else going on in this village.”

  “Oh, right.” I slowed my gait.

  “We have only Perry’s word about his niece.”

  “You’re suggesting—”

  “I’m not suggesting anything right now. But he’s our only source of information at the moment.”

  Nodding slowly, I said, “It wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to make us follow a drag to an erroneous conclusion.”

  “I’d hate to attempt to count them.”

  “We’ll look at the case files, then.”

  Mark nodded and we walked briskly to the church and were soon reading the case notes pertaining to Christine Stevenson’s death. I felt sicker with each page I read. Her death was a sad, miserable affair that never should have happened. The case notes confirmed the verdict of suicide. I stood up and grabbed my shoulder bag as Mark returned the file. We silently nodded good night to each other, mutely agreeing to let that line of inquiry go.

  * * * *

  Needing to clear my mind of the day’s stress, I wandered through the churchyard. I am not a great lover of poking about among the tombstones to read their inscriptions, but churchyards are usually restful, peaceful places in which to stroll. And they are havens for birds, too.

  I had walked for a
while, meandering through the stones, circling the church several times, taking the path to the vicarage and strolling in the direction of Cauldham Hall. When I came within sight of the massive wrought iron gates I turned back, keeping to the path, my eyes on the way through the wood. Dusk was falling rapidly, but I didn’t quicken my stride or shorten my walk. The wood was refreshingly cool and tranquil, a symphony of birdsong and a scented spa to my overworked nerves.

  As I approached the church I slowed my gait. The sound of voices floated through the open door. Jenny Millington and Harding Lyth. Ordinarily I wouldn’t have eavesdropped, for I counted the conversation between vicar and parishioner as private as those between doctor and patient, or lawyer and client. But the urgency in Jenny’s voice compelled me to hesitate just outside the door. The words forced me to linger.

  “But should I have said anything?” Jenny paused and there was a strangled sob, as though she had clamped her hand over her mouth.

  “I don’t know what you could have said that would have changed anything,” Harding said. The tone was low, and as smooth and unhurried as a languid brook.

  “But I’m haunted by it! I can’t sleep. I can’t go anywhere or do anything without thinking of it or seeing him before me. I-I fear I’m going insane.”

  “I’ve seen no signs that you are, dear. You’re just under a great deal of stress. Anyone would be if they had your history or had suffered what you have.”

  “That doesn’t put an end to my misery, Harding. Empathy doesn’t halt the dreams I have. A pat on the back doesn’t stop me from thinking of him, thinking that I could have handled it better.”

  “We all have regrets, Jenny. None of us has lived a life free of ‘if only,’ so you shouldn’t beat yourself up so hard.”

  “But I could have done something more. That’s the problem!”

  “You left the meeting to deal with him, you told me. I don’t see what else you could have done.”

  “I would have stayed to talk to him in person. I wouldn’t have used the coward’s way and spoken to him over the phone.” Her sobbing echoed against the stonewalls and Harding’s soothing sounds floated over the sound of her pain.

  When the crying had subsided, Jenny said, “Will I be punished?”

  “Punished?”

  “For what I did.”

  “The police.”

  “I don’t care about the police right now, Harding. I’m worried about when I die. Will God punish me? Will I go to hell?”

  “Jenny, if you are truly sorry you will be given redemption. That is God’s saving grace for us all. Christ came into the world to teach us that forgiveness for our sins is possible if we truly believe and are penitent of our fault.”

  “But this isn’t something like cheating on a school test.”

  “I know what it is, Jenny. Even something as grievous as being responsible for a man’s death will be forgiven. You just have to ask in your heart and mean it with all of your might.”

  “Truly? Even something as terrible as what I did? I will be saved?”

  “God is love, Jenny. It isn’t just a slogan.”

  “But to have a hand in a man’s death. To have the police here.” The sole of a shoe scrapped across the flagstones and I stiffened, wondering if Jenny and Harding were coming outside. No further sound followed that until Jenny spoke again. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Leave it to me, Jenny. I’ll put things right.”

  “Thank you, Harding. It means more to me than I can say. Thank you.”

  “Try to let go of it, dear. Take it to God in prayer, if that will ease your mind and heart. But leave the physical work to me.”

  I tiptoed away as their footsteps grew louder. Standing behind a massive juniper, I watched them come outside and pause on the path as Harding gave her a swift kiss on the cheek before bidding her good night.

  * * * *

  The temptation of the pub whispered to me as I climbed the stairs to my room. The day had been horrifically long and stressful enough, with people’s emotions and wounds exposed once again, but now I had the mysterious tête-à-tête between Jenny and Harding to mull over. I would have liked to relax with a glass of wine or a shandy, but I didn’t want to rely on crutches. I wanted to think.

  I had brewed myself a cuppa with the electric kettle and a tea bag from the collection of tea flavors on the little table in my room, and had just settled down in the window seat when there was a knock on my door. I set down the mug, got up and opened the door. Adam stood in the doorway, a red rose in his hand.

  “Hello, sweets.” He handed me the flower.

  I took it and let him in. He walked over to the window seat as I closed the door. “It’s lovely, Adam,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “No more than you deserve.” He noticed the cup of tea. “If you’re having a night cap, I’ll join you.”

  “For tea?”

  “Sure. Why not? You weren’t going to go to sleep right this minute, were you?”

  “No.” I refilled the kettle, flipped on the switch and dumped a tea bag and two cubes of sugar into a mug. He took my vacated place on the window seat and stared at the night sky until I handed him his tea.

  “Ta.” He took a sip, then smiled at me. He seemed to have all the time in the world.

  I leaned against the dresser. “I should be surprised you’re here, say what an unexpected pleasure it is to see you, but I kind of expected it. You want to talk, don’t you?”

  “I think we need to, Bren. I think you also believe we need to.”

  Pressing my lips together, I nodded. The rose angled across the top of the dresser, where I had put it to fix Adam’s tea. I let it lie there, needing to make this conversation as emotionless as possible.

  A fork of lightning lit up the black sky, throwing the oak outside the window into relief. I ignored my tea. Best to get this over with. “I’m really not trying to be difficult. That’s no way to plan a wedding or begin a marriage. But—and I mean this in the nicest way—this isn’t your parents’ ceremony. It’s ours. We’re creating our own life together, our own memories. I feel for your mother. I realize she wants to help us avoid a mistake and end up with the same regrets she has now, but she’s not us. She’s not me and she doesn’t have my life history. I need to be outdoors, Adam. I’ll suffocate inside a church. I need to feel the natural world around me. I feel closer to God that way. Nature is something he created; man created religion. Don’t you get a thrill out of listening to bird song in the morning, or feel the wind in your face, or the smell of a pine forest?”

  “Sure, but that wind’s awful cold in December.”

  “You know what I mean. It’s just an example.”

  “But a church wedding is also beautiful, Bren. The church at dusk, the aisles of lit candles throwing a golden glow over everything, the stained glass alive in a dozen dazzling colors, the bells tolling out our happiness.”

  The word nudged something in my mind. Usually scent did that, evoking strong associations and memories. But the remembrance of tower bells brought the sensation of church back to me with the vividness of yesterday. I associated tower bells with tragedy. We were teenagers—Frank, Glenda, Cheryl, Todd and I—learning how to ring the bells. Not only the physical control of the large bells, but also the basic patterns that we would play. We’d been warned about the bells, told about the dangers of practicing with the ropes without a qualified ringer present. But, as happens occasionally with teenagers, Todd sneaked into the church one night, climbed up to the ringing chamber, and uncoiled a rope, thinking to practice the hand stroke part of the pull. Because Todd still was a learner, he didn’t have the skill to control the sway of the continually rising and falling rope. Noose-like, the rope looped around Todd’s neck and pulled him twenty feet to the ceiling as the great bell swung through its arc. He died from strangulation. I saw him dangling in the dusky half-light, the rope slightly swaying, the silence overwhelming in fright.

  I tried to convey this to Adam, t
ried to explain that the scene still haunted me. “I know I’m not rational, Adam. I know that happened twenty years ago, but I can’t seem to shake it. It was an appalling sight. Besides, we were friends.”

  He set his tea down and came over to me. Wrapping his arms around me, he laid his chin on the top of my head and whispered, “My poor angel. I had no idea. You never said.”

  I lifted my face and he kissed me. “It’s not the sort of thing I generally blab about. Big, brave copper still haunted by nightmares of decades-old accident.”

  “You don’t think being with me, being in church for a completely different reason, would still that ghost?”

  I murmured “I don’t know” into his chest.

  “You’re afraid to find out, aren’t you?”

  “Not the best time or place to discover I still see Todd hanging there.” I angled my head toward him and smiled. “I’ll spoil the ceremony when I run screaming from the sanctuary.”

  Adam hugged me again and I broke from him. He said, “I’m willing to bet you any amount of money—well, nearly any amount—that you’ll do fine. There’ll be too many people there; we’ll fill up the space so there’s no room for Todd.”

  I should have laughed; I should have taken a breath and agreed to it, but Adam hadn’t lived through my nightmares. I still had them occasionally, when I couldn’t sleep or something, like Adam’s remark, touched off a memory. I said rather hesitantly, still debating with myself, “I can’t, Adam. You know I’d do anything I can to please you—will do throughout our marriage—but I can’t do this. I hope you understand.”

  He glanced at the rose, forgotten on top of the dresser. “Anything to please me but grant me this.” He exhaled heavily. “Fine. Maybe we can have a wedding by proxy.”

  “Adam…”

  “We’ll meet up later, at the reception. Oh, sorry. You don’t want that either.”

  “Adam, we can figure this out. It’s not insurmountable. I just have to think about this.”