by Faith Martin
Clement nodded.
The Dewberry farm was one of three that surrounded the village, lying on the western side, and it took only a minute or so to drive into the village proper. It consisted of one main street, entitled Freehold Street, with several smaller lanes leading off it that no doubt looped and meandered about and eventually re-joined the main street at some point further on.
It boasted the usual: a square-towered Norman church, built of greyish stone, with an accurate church clock, a village primary school with a plaque stating that it had been funded by a local lord back in the mid-1880s, and a single pub.
They found the pub by following the main road to where it diverged to form a not particularly square-shaped village square. Surrounded on three sides by a mixture of thatched and tiled cottages, on the fourth side was the pub, The Horse and Groom, and a long, low building that looked as if it might serve as a makeshift village hall. The pub was an attractive building, with a Virginia creeper growing up its ironstone walls, and a cheerfully painted pub sign depicting a grinning lad and a very large chestnut horse. The low, single-storey building next to it was built of red brick, had guttering that needed fixing, and too many uniform windows. All in all, it looked like a cheerless place to meet up and hold a village dance.
‘I wonder where the village shop and post office is,’ Trudy mused, looking around. ‘It might be a good idea to start there.’ In her experience, most villagers tended to have certain places whether they congregated to gossip – and whilst the pub was probably the chosen spot for men, she had a shrewd idea that the village shop was the domain of the housewives.
Clement glanced around, spotted the church tower and waved his hazel stick vaguely in that direction. ‘Down Church Lane perhaps?’ he mused, setting off.
Church Lane was a short, no-through lane that produced no sign of any shops. Back-tracking, they set off back up Freehold Street, turning off down the first lane they came to, and striking lucky within a few hundred yards or so.
The shop, which at one time had probably been a fairly large family home for someone not quite top-drawer, but fairly affluent by village standards, stood proudly in the middle of the lane. Its two large front windows displayed jars of tempting sweets and confectionery for children in one, and a more mundane selection of newspapers, packets of detergent and tinned goods for their parents in the other. No doubt the top floor had been turned into a cosy apartment for whoever was running it.
‘I could do with some tobacco for my pipe,’ Clement said, whilst Trudy tried to pretend she hadn’t spotted the sherbet dabs. She’d always loved sherbet, but she could hardly buy some in the presence of Dr Ryder!
They pushed open the door, and the babble of female voices that greeted them fell momentarily silent as three pairs of eyes turned in their direction, all three registering, if not hostility exactly, then certainly hard-eyed speculation.
Trudy, feeling a bit odd out of uniform – and therefore not receiving the usual deference or belligerence it evoked – felt momentarily wrong-footed. But Dr Ryder, looking every inch the learned, handsome man of ‘a certain age’ came in for far more speculation anyway. And as if playing to the gallery, he moved confidently forward down the middle of two aisles consisting mostly of toiletries, boxes of cereal, packets of tea and loaves of sliced bread, smiling urbanely at the three women standing at the counter as he did so.
‘Ladies,’ he said, wishing he’d worn his Trilby, so that he could doff it.
The oldest of the women, standing behind the counter at the till and undoubtedly the proprietor, was a large, round woman, wearing a floral apron, the kind that tied behind the back of the neck and behind the waist, and covered a multitude of sins. She had short, grey, curly hair (almost certainly permed) and wore an unexpectedly vivid shade of scarlet lipstick. She could have been anywhere from fifty to seventy.
She eyed him speculatively as he approached. In front of her and to her left, was a woman of about forty-five or so, not quite so plump, with short, blonde, curly (almost certainly permed) hair. To her right was a woman of about thirty or so, taller and thinner, with dark curly hair (probably not permed) and slightly bulbous brown eyes.
‘Sorry, don’t let me interrupt. I was wondering if you had any shag?’ Clement said, fixing his eyes on the shopkeeper.
This opening gambit earned him a winning smile and she reached behind her to take down several colourful tins of shag tobacco from the shelves, all of which claimed to give the smoker the best smoking experience he could wish for.
‘Certainly sir. Would any of these suit?’
Trudy hid a smile and made a show of checking out a jar of chicory coffee as she watched and observed a maestro at work.
Clement began by asking the proprietor’s advice which – naturally – inclined towards the most expensive tin. Luckily, it was a brand that Clement knew and had smoked before, and within moments he had his hand in his trouser pocket, scattering half-crowns and sixpences and other assorted change onto the countertop.
The tall thin woman spoke first. ‘Don’t I know you?’ she demanded abruptly.
Clement, surprised, turned to look at her. In his lifetime he’d probably met thousands of people – but this woman’s visage rang no bells. Before he could answer, she spoke again, nodding.
‘Yes, I saw you once. At the Radcliffe Infirmary. You’re a doctor, right? A surgeon?’ She turned to the blonde woman and said obliquely, ‘You remember our Brenda’s bit of trouble all those years ago?’
Clement bowed acknowledgement and made no effort, at this stage, to explain his change of career.
Trudy could see all the women look at him even more eagerly now – not only a handsome stranger, but a doctor no less! She wondered how long it would be before one or other of them managed to worm some interesting details out of him – primarily, his married status. She only hoped Dr Ryder wasn’t rash enough to admit to being a widower.
‘Can I get you some matches to go with that, sir? Or a refill for your lighter?’ the woman behind the till wheedled, and Clement obligingly bought a box of matches.
‘We’re here to pay our respects to Keith,’ Clement said, then added, knowing it was unnecessary, ‘Superintendent Finch, that is. I’m a friend of his.’ He was only stretching the truth a bit. He was sure that the police officer would indeed regard him a friend if he could prove his son hadn’t committed suicide – or had anything to do with his girlfriend’s murder.
The ladies gave a collective sharply drawn breath at this, and shot each other quick, questioning glances, as if mentally debating who should go first.
‘We’ve had lots of trouble with reporters,’ the blonde woman finally spoke for the first time, not looking at Clement, but directly at Trudy, who flushed. ‘We’re hoping the fuss will die down now and they’ll leave us in peace,’ she added significantly, still eyeing Trudy with displeasure.
‘Oh, Trudy isn’t with the press,’ Clement said. ‘She’s my assistant and she also knew David,’ he lied blandly.
At this, all three women stared openly at her – no doubt wondering just how well she’d known the dead boy. So intent was their scrutiny that she could practically hear the cogs turning in their heads. Did he dump her for Iris? Did Iris know? Was David two-timing Iris with her?
She could understand why Clement needed to come up with some sort of story to account for their nosing around, but she wished he’d consulted her first.
‘It’s been a bad business all round,’ Clement said mildly. ‘I hope Keith’s wife is coping?’ This gentle probing had the desired effect, and all eyes reverted back to himself as they contemplated the current state of their stricken fellow villager.
‘Betty’s just about coping, I suppose,’ the shopkeeper said slowly.
‘Having Delia at home helps,’ the blonde woman agreed.
‘Oh yes, David’s sister,’ Clement said. ‘She must be very upset about all this too.’
‘She is,’ the tall brunette said. ‘She was alw
ays close to her little brother. And she always said that Iris was no good for him. Mind you, I don’t think anybody thought that a girl like Iris would be.’
At this somewhat stark and shocking statement, Trudy felt her breath catch in surprise. Like everyone else, she’d been brought up to believe that you didn’t speak ill of the dead – and certainly not of someone who had been murdered.
As if sensing the silent censure in the room, the taller woman fidgeted sharply. ‘Well, we all know it’s true, even if nobody has the courage to say so out loud,’ she said defensively, looking around, half defiantly, half shame-faced.
The shop owner, coming to her rescue, cleared her throat. ‘Well, least said, soonest mended,’ she trotted out the platitude as if not really believing it.
Clement smiled at the now discomfited, red-faced brunette. ‘I’m sure you’re right though. From what I’ve been hearing about her, a lot of people thought that she and David were mismatched.’
‘She was very pretty, I hear,’ Trudy heard herself pipe up helpfully. She knew that if there was one thing that united middle-aged ladies it was talking about younger, prettier women.
Right on cue, the shopkeeper sniffed condescendingly. ‘And she knew it, too.’
‘You knew her well?’ Clement slipped in.
‘All her life. I’ve lived in the village nigh on fifty years, and the Carmodys have lived here generations, I reckon. They’re all right,’ she added, a shade grudgingly, Trudy thought. ‘Frannie works as a daily for folks round abouts and her husband has a good solid job as a coal man. Sensible, hard-working people, both of ’em. And their three sons turned out right enough – two of ’em with wife and kiddies of their own now. Only their Bobby is still living at home. And I don’t reckon he was happy about his sister’s airs and graces neither,’ she added, her lips thinning into a tight line.
‘Oh, one of those, was she?’ Trudy said with a sigh of understanding. ‘I knew a girl like that at school. Always making up stories about herself, pretending to be better than she was,’ she added, sounding most indignant about this non-existent schoolmate.
‘Ah, that was Iris,’ the tall brunette said. ‘Oh, she was pretty enough, and nobody was surprised when she was elected May Queen. But that girl had her sights set on much higher things, didn’t she, Flo?’
Thus appealed to, the blonde woman nodded vigorously. ‘My Jane said Iris was forever boasting that she was going to be a model, or an actress or some such. She was always swanning around in fancy clothes, wasn’t she? Where did she get the money from to afford them, that’s what we’d like to know.’
At this, all three women’s heads nodded in unison.
‘Didn’t she have a job?’ Trudy asked guilelessly.
‘Huh! Not her – young madam wouldn’t deign to chip her painted nails on anything like hard work,’ Flo shot back tartly. ‘Didn’t stop her strutting around wearing a gold and pearl necklace though, did it?’
‘Oh, you saw that too, did you?’ the tall brunette said, lips pursed.
‘Perhaps David gave it to her?’ Clement said mildly. ‘They were stepping out, weren’t they?’
The three women gave him pitying looks.
‘A young lad at university? Where’d he get the money from?’ the blonde woman said, shaking her head. ‘No, mark my words, that young lady had more strings to her bow that we knew about. Stands to reason, doesn’t it? I mean … with what happened to her and all …’
She trailed off uneasily. Clement, sensing that they had begun to realise that they might have been a bit free with their tongues, and not wanting to give them time to feel angry about it, made a show of putting his new purchases away in his jacket pocket.
‘Well, good day ladies, we mustn’t keep you any longer.’ He smiled at them in turn, and then turned away, Trudy quickly following suit.
Outside, they paused in the lane, looking around. ‘Well, that was interesting,’ Clement said.
‘They didn’t like Iris, did they?’ Trudy agreed.
‘No. And what’s more, I don’t think they’re sure that David Finch killed her,’ Clement mused. ‘I got the distinct impression that they had pretty strong suspicions that were other men in her life, and one of them was responsible for what happened to her.’
Trudy nodded. She didn’t know everything about the Carmody case, but she’d heard enough from chat at the station to know that the team working on the murder case believed that Iris was involved with other men. And she supposed anyone suspected of being intimate with the girl had already been thoroughly interviewed. But a week after the May Queen had been found so spectacularly trussed to the maypole she knew that the team was not close to an arrest. DI Jennings would be looking and sounding much more chipper if they were.
‘We need to ask the Superintendent if he knows whether or not his son bought expensive jewellery for Iris,’ Trudy said. ‘And speaking of my superior officers, I need to use the phone box to tell Inspector Jennings about the woodworm in the ladder.’
Clement nodded amiably, and they walked down the lane, to where they’d spotted the bright red village phone box. As they approached it, two young girls playing hopscotch on the pavement paused in their game to watch them go by. No doubt, within the last week the village had been inundated with strangers – both police and press – which would have been a rare occurrence indeed. And whilst the police presence had probably dwindled now that most of the evidence had been collected, and any witnesses found and interviewed, she suspected the press would be less keen to desert a good story. Although, with the inquest into David Finch over, she supposed eventually the story would fade out of the immediate spotlight and the village could return to normal.
Well, for everyone but the Carmody and Finch families anyway.
Trudy duly fed some pennies into the slot, pressed the right button, then dialled the station number and reported in, finishing up by asking DI Jennings if he knew about the murder victim’s unexplained jewellery. The Inspector ignored this, but was very definitely interested to hear about the state of the stepladder, though as usual, didn’t give her any praise for her sharp eyes or quick thinking. Instead he reminded her to dodge any reporters that might still be hanging around the village and leave the Carmody case to him, before ringing off abruptly.
When she stepped out of the phone box, she saw Dr Ryder sitting on a low garden wall, the two little girls sneaking curious looks at him.
Around twelve or so, one was wearing two bright pink hair slides in her mousy brown hair, whilst the other, smaller and darker, was busy with her stick of chalk, robustly marking out further hopscotch squares and numbering them assiduously.
Clement smiled as she approached. ‘All done?’
Trudy nodded. ‘Where to now?’
‘It’s getting on for five. Time we called it a day, I think.’ He called a cheerful farewell to the two girls, who waved at him in response. ‘Can you come to my office about noon tomorrow? We’ll have lunch here in the Horse and Groom and see what the male contingent in the village have to say for themselves. Their perspective on Iris is bound to be somewhat different, I think, from what we’ve heard from the women. Pretty girls can usually wrap any man around their little fingers,’ he added, eyes twinkling. ‘It’ll be interesting to see who she bothered with, and who she slighted.’
Trudy nodded happily. However, her smile abruptly faltered as she wondered if she could get away with claiming expenses for a pub lunch. If she had to pay for it herself, she’d be short for the weekend! Then she realised that Dr Ryder, gentleman that he was, would probably insist on paying the bill anyway.
Chapter 9
The Horse and Groom looked a little busy for a weekday lunch hour, and as Trudy and Clement stepped inside and looked around, it didn’t take long for them to realise why. At least three, if not more, of the men sat at the bar jawing away were reporters.
True, now that the inquest into David Finch was over, and with the Iris Carmody case generating no new information,
the members of the press weren’t out in as great a force as they had been when the May Queen’s dead body had first been discovered. But still, Trudy and Clement prudently made their way to a table at the back and kept their heads down. Luckily, the pub was one of those low-ceilinged, small-windowed pubs that didn’t let in a lot of daylight, and they were careful to stick to the darkest part of the room.
Once seated, they consulted the blackboard menu on one wall, which obliged with the usual ploughman’s lunch and assorted sandwiches, and choices made, Clement made his way cautiously to the bar. He was careful to stand at the farthest end of the bar from the reporters and waited to attract the landlord’s attention, before giving their choices for food. He also bought a half-pint of the local beer for himself, and a glass of lemonade for Trudy.
Even from where he was standing, he could see that most of the reporters were rather the worse for drink, which might have helped him somewhat in going unrecognised.
He said as much to his companion when he returned with their drinks, but muttered, ‘I don’t suppose our luck will last for much longer though. Sooner or later, someone is bound to rumble us.’
Trudy sighed. ‘I know. Let’s just hope it’s later.’ She took a sip of her lemonade and glanced around. There was no way they could chat to the locals until the reporters left, and she had a feeling they were not likely to be going anywhere fast, which made the pub a bit of a lost cause right now. She made a mental note to come back another time.
When their sandwiches came, they ate slowly, ears on the alert for any stray titbits of information that might come their way. On the next table over to their right, two men dressed in well-worn trousers, knitted jumpers and solid work boots, played dominoes. They looked like farm labourers taking a rest from their tractors, but they played with a silent intensity that spoke of a long-time rivalry.
Seated behind them, however, was a rather florid-faced, middle-aged man dressed rather more respectably, and an older man who was busy chomping his way through some cheese and pickle. They seemed to be rather more vocal, and luckily for Trudy and Clement, weren’t bothering to keep their voices down.
