A cut knee, the result of sliding across a piece of broken glass, distracted him for a few moments, but he then set off to find the best place to hide. He thought he’d found it as he headed across the lawn to a big patch of gooseberry and other fruit bushes. Then something caught his eye and he paused, puzzled.
He saw the old lady sitting under one of the trees at the edge of the little orchard. So, mischief in mind, he crept closer. He planned to shout ‘boo’ to her and see if it made her jump as much as when he did it to his sister or mum and dad. Creeping closer like he’d seen those Indians do in an old cowboy film, he got right behind the old lady, who was sitting on a sort of stool.
But he never got to shout; nor, indeed, did he talk properly for a very long time afterwards.
He just screamed and screamed and screamed, until his Mum, closely followed by his sister, pushed frantically through the hedge and pulled him close.
Had his mother been on her own she would have screamed too. When you’re being brave and trying to comfort your terrified children, though, you don’t, as she said later. This is particularly so when you were trying to re-assure them after seeing something as horrible, as truly horrible, as that which was laid out scant feet away.
Chapter 17
‘Hell! There’s certainly no doubt now, is there?’ said Bulmer, as he gazed with professional detachment at the scene confronting them.
‘No, none,’ agreed Calderwood, gazing sombrely at the blood-soaked scene, horribly at variance with the sunlit shadiness of the old orchard, it’s trees already heavily laden with burgeoning apples and plums.
And there wasn’t. The nursery rhyme theme of the first murder had been neither random nor a one-off, the sick tableau confronting them, made that very clear. The elderly lady appeared at first glance to be dressed in red. The second glance however, showed that her dress had originally been white; the red was from the great gouts of blood which had poured from her severed neck. The only item of clothing still completely white was the old fashioned mob-cap on her head.
‘You don’t see many of those round nowadays, that’s for sure,’ remarked a PC who was setting up the tenting round the body, gesturing at the head-gear.
No, you don’t, thought Calderwood.
‘It was placed there after her death, or immediately before it,’ Bulmer said suddenly; ‘Just in case we missed the significance of the rest,’ he added, ‘as if we could!’
Calderwood nodded. It was obvious that the scene before them had been deliberately set-up; a visual feast for the entertainment of whatever sick imagination had produced it. But why? was the still unanswered question.
He shook his head wearily. The old lady had been positioned in a grotesque parody of the Little Miss Muffet nursery rhyme. She had been sat upon a small three legged stool with her back to a tree. In one hand was a blood-covered spoon and in the other, a small round dish. The spider of the rhyme had been multiplied and there were a dozen or so scattered on and around her body – some imitation, but most the real thing. Many were also stuffed into her mouth – and some were now exiting through the raw gash across her throat. From what he could see of the white dress, it was stylish and fairly modern, so he had little doubt that the mob-cap had been placed there to add to the “authenticity” of the sick staging.
‘It’s not exactly as the rhyme though is it?’ Bulmer remarked. ‘In the rhyme wasn’t she sitting on a small hummock of grass or something?’
Calderwood shook his head. ‘Yes and no. A “tuffet” can be either a small clump of something, grass, say, or a small stool, like that one,’ he added pointing towards the little seat, itself covered in splashes of blood which were now coagulated and turning a sticky brown colour.
‘Oh!’ said Bulmer impressed with his superior’s knowledge.
‘I know that, entirely thanks to one of my nieces, who is small enough to still like nursery rhymes, but also has a precocious interest in the internet and we did some research on some of the rhymes!’ the young DI explained, smiling.
‘Whoever the killer is, they’re taking fewer chances of anyone stumbling across them during the murder,’ Bulmer remarked. He looked round the largish garden which was entirely surrounded by thick hedges or, along one stretch, Leylandii trees, which had been placed so close together as to be almost impenetrable. ‘Pretty isolated too, same as last time, but more private,’ he added.
‘It’s certainly isolated,’ Calderwood agreed. It was the first thing that had struck them both as they drove up the narrow, rutted lane, little more than a cart track, when the call had come through from the distraught, almost incoherent, woman who lived in the next house. Though not for much longer, he thought briefly. No one was likely to want to stay in a house, where, only a few yards away, a brutal murder had been committed, particularly in so remote a spot. The two dwellings were the only buildings in the immediate vicinity and were entirely surrounded by fields on three sides and the parkland of the manor on the fourth.
‘Well, I suppose we’d better have a chat with the mother, if she’s in any state to be able to talk,’ he said grimly.
‘Carol – Mrs Waterson – knows you need to, sir and she said she’d rather talk now than later,’ the female police officer who had been detailed to stay with the stricken woman and her children, said quietly. They’d entered the house through the kitchen where the young PC was making tea.
‘A couple more would be most welcome,’ Calderwood said, smiling towards the cups placed out near the kettle. There’s no shortage of money, here, he thought, a swift, professional glance taking in the ultra-modern kitchen. He knew little of domestic details but he did recognise the top of the range name on the double oven and other equipment. His initial opinion was reinforced when they walked through the short hallway, furnished with one or two seriously good, and expensive, pieces of art and into the large, and equally expensively furnished, sitting room.
None of which was of the slightest comfort to their owner, he suspected, as his glance fell on the stricken woman huddled on one of the large settees in the room, as she tried to keep herself together as she comforted her stricken children. The little girl he saw was crying which would help her. The little boy would, he guessed, need professional help. He merely clung to his mother, with a grip so tight that the DI saw how white it was from the constricted blood flow, and he looked out through the blankest of eyes at nothing at all.
‘Thank you for agreeing to having a chat now, Mrs Waterson,’ Calderwood said gently, as they took a seat opposite her. A very pretty woman he thought, taking in her fair, delicate features framed by shoulder-length blonde hair, held back from her face by an Alice band. ‘We appreciate it. Should you at any time feel you’ve had enough and would like us to stop, we’ll do so, naturally, and carry on on another occasion,’ he added.
She shook her head, ‘Thank you, but I’d rather do it now while things are fresh; I know how important that is in something like this.’ As she spoke he could see, in the rigidity of her facial muscles and the almost, but not quite, controlled shake in her body, how much the effort of holding herself together was costing her.
‘Is there anyone you’d like us to notify, so they can come over?’ he asked.
She shook her head, ‘My husband is on his way here. Jackie kindly phoned him,’ she added, nodding to the young family liaison officer, as she came in with a tray. ‘I tried, but kept crying! He works in Estwich, so he’ll not be too long. I’m afraid, I rather alarmed him,’ she said, with a weak attempt at a smile. ‘He doesn’t do emotion very well, and he got a bucketful, this morning! Sorry, I’m rambling,’ she said, trying to wipe her eyes without loosening her grip on the children.
‘Quite natural, under the circumstances,’ the young DI responded quietly, passing her a tissue. ‘It’s a lovely spot,’ he added. ‘How long have you lived here?
‘About eight years. We moved here from Estwich when I was expecting Maisie. We’d always said that when the children started to arrive we’
d move back to the country. More fresh air, freedom – and safety, we thought. Ironic, in the circumstances!’ Carol added harshly.
‘Did you know Miss Wilkinson, well?’ he asked.
‘Yes, quite well, but only in the way neighbours do. We’d say hello, or whatever, when we saw each other, either in the village or in the lane outside here. But the gardens were totally private as you’ll have seen, so although we’d hear her occasionally when she was outside, we didn’t see her. Once or twice, when we’d not seen her for two or three days, we’d knock, just to make sure, you know,’ she added. ‘If she was ill, we’d get the odd thing from the shops, things like that.’ Calderwood was impressed; genuine neighbourliness such as that was getting rarer, he thought, even in some of the more rural, and supposedly more community-minded, places.
‘She occasionally baby-sat for us, and we’d have a chat then, but we didn’t know her well in any deeper sense’ she added.
‘When did you see her last?’
‘Yesterday afternoon. She’d done some baking in the morning and she knew these two loved her cakes. They were better than mine, according to this one,’ she said, squeezing the little boy. ‘So, she brought some round, after the fête’
‘Did she seem her usual self?’
‘Oh yes. She was still a bit down, of course, but she seemed more her usual self yesterday.’
‘A bit down about what? Do you know?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, she was still upset over the death of old Doctor Rutherford,’
‘Yes, I imagine many people are. He was very popular, I understand,’ he responded.
‘Oh yes, but it was particularly hard for her, I think.’
‘Really? Why was that?’ he asked.
‘She used to work very closely with him. Before she retired, she was the District Nurse, attached to his practise.’
It took all of the two detective’s professionalism for them to hide their shock at what they’d just heard.
‘Had they stayed close after they’d both retired?’ asked Calderwood, recovering first.
‘I think so, to the extent that they’d occasionally meet for lunch or afternoon tea, that sort of thing,’ she replied.
‘No particularly close links currently then, as far as you know, of course?’
‘No, I don’t think so; though Ellie Grinton would know more,’ she added. ‘ She and Emily were cronies from way back and she often visited her.’
Calderwood nodded, the name familiar from interviews already carried out in relation to the earlier murder.
‘I see you have a good view of the lane leading to here,’ he said looking out of one of the large windows and seeing it gave an uninterrupted view of the rutted lane. ‘Did you hear, or see, anything this morning? Anything at all?’ With the kitchen the same side of the house, he hoped she’d seen something.
Unfortunately she hadn’t. ‘I’m sorry,’ Carol added, ‘but between running the house, and seeing to the children, I tend to be always in and out of all the rooms, and usually focused on something inside,’ she ended.
He nodded, not surprised.
‘Of course, the lane isn’t the only way to reach us,’ she added.
‘Across the fields, you mean?’
‘That, of course, but I’m talking about the footpath that runs right behind these two houses.’
‘A footpath? Where does it start from?’ Bulmer interjected.
‘From the Manor gardens, really, I suppose, but it’s a meandering one. You know the kind, it’s almost as though it was started by a drunken carter centuries ago!’ she said, with a brief flash of unexpected humour. ‘It passes next to both villages, goes past here and goes on to the main road about a mile away.’
‘It’s marked here, Guv,’ murmured Bulmer as he pulled out his ever-present Ordinance Survey map and pointed out the footpath. After tracing the route with a finger, Calderwood looked at his DS and saw the same thought was now in both their minds. There was so much local knowledge involved in both of the two murders, it was becoming increasingly plain that whoever the killer was, they possessed an unusually detailed knowledge of the area, unusual unless they were, or had been, local themselves.
‘Did you hear anything, then, from the pathway or your neighbour’s house? asked Calderwood.
‘No, nothing. We often don’t, we’re so secluded. The only thing I’ve heard this morning was a couple of cries from the Manor’s peacocks,’ she added. ‘Even then we only hear them when there’s a particularly strong wind blowing in the direc…’ She stopped mid-sentence. Her eyes widened with horror as she recalled the oppressive heat of the day – made worse by a complete lack of wind.
‘It… it wasn’t the peacocks was it?’ she whispered, her already pale cheeks blanched even whiter and her whole body starting to shake.
The two detectives, who’d realised what she’d heard just before it dawned on her, felt intensely sorry for the young woman. Her battle to stay strong for the children threatened to collapse before the horror of her realising that far from the raucous joy of a be-plumed bird, she’d heard a dying woman’s desperate, final screams.
‘Mummy’s got to go to the toilet, darlings,’ she managed softly, after taking a couple of very deep breaths, as she gently dis-engaged their clutching fingers. ‘Jackie will sit with you for a moment, won’t you, Jackie?’ she asked turning to the young PC who, seeing her need, had already moved towards her. The young mother’s voice was weakening even as she spoke. Her need to vomit would soon be unstoppable and she didn’t want that to happen in front of the children, still less them hear the anguished cry she was holding back only with great strength.
After a few minutes she returned, considerably paler, but now back in control of herself.
‘Just a couple more questions, Mrs Waterson, then we’ll leave you in peace,’ Calderwood said, realising, as he said the words, that they weren’t the best he could have chosen, peace was something this family would never have for a very long time.
‘What time did you hear the… the peacocks?’ he queried, choosing his words with care, knowing the children were listening.
‘It was early, very early; around 8 o’clock, I think. In fact I’m sure. I was in the garden, picking some vegetables and fruit for today’s meals.’ she trailed off again; her sorrow for the old woman, merging with the new thoughts of just how close she and her family had been to evil.
Calderwood nodded, he’d already noticed the pan full of pea-pods waiting to be shelled and the cauliflower along with a basket of raspberries and another of strawberries. Obviously someone’s a keen gardener, he’d thought.
Just then they heard the sound of a car being driven very fast down the lane, the driver obviously unconcerned about any damage the deep ruts would do to the car’s undercarriage. It swung into the short driveway of the house and a man jumped out and rushed into the house. The woman and children rushed into his arms as he came into the room. At first he was inclined to be angry that they’d questioned her so soon, but her gentle voice soothed him as she explained. Brushing aside his apology, one of many his hot temper made necessary, Calderwood suspected, they said they’d talk to him later that day and they left the family to themselves.
‘How the hell did we miss that little gem?’ asked an intensely irritated Calderwood, as they left.
‘I don’t know, Guv, but I’ll find out, believe me,’ replied a mortified Bulmer.
Calderwood nodded; knowing the DS would get to the bottom of why the old lady hadn’t been more highly flagged up as having a particularly close link to the old doctor. ‘At least we now have two things very clear,’ he said, moving on.
The DS nodded, ‘Yep. It’s obviously clear the two deaths are connected. Quite apart from both being committed in the same area, and within such a short time, I mean. Both having the same nursery rhyme theme, tells us that. Do you think the actual choice of rhymes, Humpty Dumpty and Miss Muffet, has any particular significance?’
‘I don’t know, I
certainly hope not. This one’s going to be difficult enough to crack – pun unintended – without any more sub-text needing to be made sense of,’ his superior said gloomily.
‘The question of course, is whether the link between the two deaths arises out of their personal or their professional relationships,’ mused Bulmer.
‘Either way, as they worked together for thirty years and have known each other for almost forty, we’re going to have to dig pretty deep amongst both sets of names. Fortunately, there’ll be a lot of overlap,’ Calderwood added, not looking noticeably cheered by the prospect.
Chapter 18
‘I thought you’d have had enough of gardens,’ commented Gwilym quietly, as he came into the sitting room, their new favourite room in the Dower House, and saw his partner watching footage of the garden day visits.
Only, the Welshman saw, he wasn’t. Desmond was sitting staring blankly as the pictures, but he saw nothing. He couldn’t. The tears streaming down his face obscured everything.
‘Des!’ Gwilym said, hurrying round the settee and embracing the other man. He didn’t need to ask what he was crying for; he knew. It was the same reason he’d been crying through most of the night; as in fact both of them had. The whole village had been stunned and sickened when they heard of the defenceless old lady’s horrific death. She was well-loved and her death would at any time have devastated everyone. To hear of the way she’d actually died, however, left them all reeling with uncomprehending horror.
‘I’d only been laughing with her two days ago,’ Desmond sobbed. ‘She looked so happy sitting with Mum and the others, amongst all her old friends and obviously really loving her life, her retirement, everything; then yesterday at the fête, sitting beaming with Ellie as they raked it in for the Almshouses. For it to end like that, so viciously! Who could hate her that much; inflict so much pain and fear on her. She’d spent her life looking after everyone else and we couldn’t be there for her when she needed us; any one of us being there would have been enough to save her all that horror!’
The Nursery Rhyme Murders Page 11
