The Nursery Rhyme Murders

by Anthony Litton

  Seeing this, he stepped back into her line of vision and gently took her hand. ‘It’s OK Ellie, love, you’re safe now. I’ll come with you, get you settled in.’ Quite apart from her physical injuries, which were severe, ranging as they did from heavy bruising across most of her body, to a dislocated shoulder, a broken arm, and cracked cheekbone, she was so emotionally frail after her horrific assault, that he stayed with her throughout the next twenty four hours, leaving her only when Eleanor took over.

  ‘OK. The picture’s mostly filled in now, but there are still pieces being added. I’ll tell it as far as I know it. Robert and Colin said they may call in, and they’ll know stuff I don’t, obviously. Anyway,’ he said, pausing to get his thoughts in order, ‘it was by chance, really, that I stumbled onto things; that and the good fortune that we’d decided to have the videos of the gardens professionally edited, which meant a lot more scrutiny of the footage. But most of all, we can be thankful that Desmond is such a rubbish cameraman,’ he added, laughing at Desmond’s rueful expression. ‘I’ll show you what started me wondering about Dolly,’ he went on, opening the laptop he’d brought and inserting a DVD. Whilst it loaded up, he looked anxiously across at Ellie. ‘You sure you’re OK for this?’ he asked.

  She smiled weakly and nodded as much as her bandages would allow. ‘Even if I wasn’t,’ she whispered, ‘ I’d want to hear. It might help me understand, just a little bit,’ she added, tears welling up and spilling over her cheeks.

  ‘OK. Here goes then,’ he said gruffly, squeezing her hand gently, moved as always by the gentle little woman’s trauma. He also reflected sadly that knowing what had impelled Dolly’s murderous spree wasn’t going to comfort her much at all, but at least she would know that there was a reason, sick as it was, behind her brutal and near-fatal assault. It might, eventually give her closure of sorts, he thought, though he doubted it.

  The group all clustered closer as the picture sprang into life and Dolly’s garden came into view.

  ‘Such a beautiful creation,’ murmured Eleanor sadly. ‘How could she be part of creating something that beautiful and be so… so… evil?’ she asked helplessly.

  No one answered. They couldn’t.

  The camera erratically panned across all of it, showing clearly, if jerkily, each little area created within the large space. The vicar’s voice in the background could be heard, as he monotonously droned on about one or two of the little garden themes. The camera continued to be all over the place, one moment it was focused on the garden, the next it was half-way up a tree, then a large portion of blue sky was captured. In the background could be heard voices of the judges and also Desmond and Dolly chatting quietly. Then, just as the vicar was remarking that one section was clearly meant to evoke the seaside, the camera had caught Dolly’s face. It was at that point that Gwilym leant forward and pressed “Pause”. So high quality was the camera Desmond had been using that her features were still clearly visible, with none of the blurring that often occurred when a picture was paused. ‘Here is the bit that’s important,’ he said.

  However closely they looked, though, none of his small audience could see what it was that had caught his attention. ‘See here, he said pointing at one part of the face and moving the picture on frame by frame; ‘and here,’ he went on. ‘and here,’ he added. ‘Together, and for only fractions of fractions of a second, they show her surprise at the comment; followed by her contempt and disgust and then, curiously, relief. They all seemed an odd over the top mix to what was only a passing remark. It was that which set me thinking,’ he explained.

  ‘Seems precious little to go on,’ murmured Mollie, unable, like the rest, to see any change in Dolly’s polite smile as she spoke to Desmond.

  ‘Yes I agree. Fortunately, the police’s own experts have since viewed it and have corroborated most of what I thought I saw, so that’s a relief. But I had some sort of confirmation that I might be on to something when I remembered something else, something you’d said Mollie, which added another little piece to the picture, though I didn’t pick it up at the time.’

  ‘Me?’ the old lady said, startled.

  ‘Yes. You said that Dolly’s real name was Mary. It was only when I was watching the footage and saw those fleeting changes in Dolly’s expression, that the possible significance, the link, if you like, of her name and an alternative interpretation of the little garden came to mind.’

  ‘Which is…?’ asked Mollie, puzzled.

  ‘That for reasons none of us can now know for sure, she created something of vital importance to her, but it wasn’t meant to represent the seaside as the vicar, indeed everyone, thought – but the children’s rhyme, ‘Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary.’

  ‘That’s one helluva stretch, Gwilym,’ Mollie said mildly.

  Eleanor was equally surprised, but said nothing. She knew the man who was her de facto son-in-law much too well to doubt that he was right, and she was content to listen as he explained his thought processes.

  ‘Is it?’ he asked. ‘Here’s the rhyme. I printed some copies off,’ he added, reaching into the pouch of the laptop bag and handing them out.

  He watched as they read the famous words:

  Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary

  How does your garden grow?

  With Cockle Shells and Silver Bells

  And pretty maids all in a row!

  ‘Now, look at this,’ he went on, re-winding the footage. The little seaside garden came into sharp focus again and he paused the picture. ‘The sea shells are obvious. They were what set the vicar off about it being the seaside,’ he smiled. ‘If I was right they would actually represent Cockle Shells, the first element of the rhyme. And then there are these,’ he said, pointing to some flowers clustered in the little enclave.

  ‘Whether Dolly actually knew of their nicknames or merely chose them instinctively, to represent the imagery in the rhyme she loved, I don’t know. Their full name is Campanula Punctata. Coincidentally, or otherwise, some of its colours are sometimes known colloquially, as Silver Bells, because of the silvery sheen on their petals; an apt name, particularly for these here,’ he added.

  His little audience now began to see what he meant as they looked at the little silvery white, bell-like flowers. ‘They, self-evidently, represent silver bells, the second element in the rhyme. And thirdly, we have these,’ and he pointed to the rows of small, multi-coloured, neatly spaced flowers, ringing the little space. ‘Notice how ordered they look, in their neat little rows? And how pretty their various colours are? They are various species of viola, actually, but it occurred to me that they might – just might – represent the third element in the rhyme – ‘pretty maids all in a row,’

  ‘How the hell did you know the names of the flowers, anyway?’ ejaculated Mollie, impressed.

  ‘I didn’t,’ replied Gwilym succinctly. ‘But, as I say, putting Dolly’s real name into the mix and being certain enough that I’d seen something in her expression, made me ring a pal of mine who’s well into plants and stuff like that. I described what the flowers looked like He gave me not just the names, but the nickname of the campanula as well. So that helped, a little, to convince me that, perhaps, I wasn’t being totally deluded’

  ‘Pretty clever, I must say,’ the old lady said in surprised admiration.

  ‘Possibly, but, even with her name, the expressions I’d seen on her face and the little garden’s layout, I was far from certain until I’d spoken to Robert and Colin.’

  ‘They must think a lot of you to act on your theory, and so quickly!’ she commented.

  ‘Maybe, but I think it was more that my timing couldn’t have been better. They’d just had, literally just had, an analysis of some material linked to the first murder. It turned out it was almost only ever used in fancy dress costumes – and it was bright red. They’d just begun to move down the same road as I’d not long started on.’

  ‘Fancy dress? How does…?’ Eleanor started to ask, then interrupted herself. ‘Good lo
rd! Timothy!’ she exclaimed. ‘Her brother was dressed as Superman at the fête,’ she explained, turning to her mystified friend.

  ‘Yes, and Superman, as we all know,’ Gwilym added, smiling slightly, ‘has a bright red cloak. As it turned out, when they later found the cloak at Dolly’s house, it had a segment torn out of it. The tear apparently perfectly matched the fragment found,’ he ended.

  ‘But what was a piece of material like that doing at the murder site?’ asked Mollie.

  ‘It wasn’t at the site, but on the route they found the killer had taken after… after killing Alan Rutherford. She’d certainly carefully planned everything to get him to the old castle; even reading up on birds so she could tempt him with a supposed rare sighting. That they know from the diaries. What they don’t know, and probably now never will know for sure, but they think…’ He paused, trying to phrase what he was going to say in a less shocking way, then, realising he couldn’t, he went on. ‘They think Dolly may have planned to have Timothy framed for the murders.’

  ‘Her own brother! How dreadful!’ said Mollie, all her own strong family feeling giving force to her words.

  Gwilym hesitated. What had been written about in the exercise books could have been fiction, sick fiction, but fiction.

  But DNA doesn’t lie.

  ‘He isn’t her brother. He’s her son,’ he said quietly.

  Chapter 22

  He looked soberly round the ring of shocked faces. ‘The diaries said as much, but Robert asked me to say nothing until a DNA analysis could be done. It has been, and I learned, literally on the way here, that it’s definite: she is Timothy’s mother.’

  The stunned faces of the three women stared back at him speechlessly. Desmond, who still found his own stomach reeling, having been with Gwilym when he found out, also said nothing.

  ‘But… she must have been still a child!’ Mollie said at last, shock making her voice harsh.

  ‘She was – she was thirteen when she had him.’

  ‘Did they know who the father was? No, they couldn’t have,’ Eleanor answered herself. ‘Samuel would have killed him,’ she murmured.

  Gwilym, aware there was no easy way of breaking the news, said bluntly, ‘That would have been rather difficult – he was the father.’

  ‘Good God!’ Eleanor whispered, through lips suddenly gone totally white.

  ‘Yes. The diaries, or rather random jottings, though obviously child-like for many of the years they were being written, are devastatingly clear, and the police think the abuse started when she was about three. It would, I think, explain her fixation on the Nursery Rhyme themes she… she used,’ he added with a quick look at where Ellie was lying. The injured woman was very still, but missing nothing, and what could be seen of her heavily bandaged face was even whiter than when he’d started.

  ‘But what about Jean, her mother? Surely she must have known something; would have said something, done something, surely?’ Eleanor said at last.

  ‘The police certainly think she knew, yes. Why she said, and did, nothing to stop it, who knows. Even today, experts aren’t always totally sure of the dynamic that operates in many cases of domestic abuse, which this most clearly was.’ He paused. ‘They do think though, that she reached breaking point with the birth of the child.’

  ‘Is that why she left? But to leave her own child to cope with the baby and… and Samuel’s… demands,’ Mollie shook her head, her own motherly spirit outraged and uncomprehending.

  ‘The police don’t think she did – leave I mean. The diaries are very disjointed around the time she was supposed to have left; but they do mention a big row, the biggest ever, between Jean and Samuel; huge amounts of screaming and shouting followed by loud bangs and thumps; then complete silence. The next entry simply says ‘Mummy gone.’

  ‘Oh no! You think he killed her?’ Mollie, whispered.

  ‘The police do certainly; or, at least, that there’s a very strong likelihood he did, so they’ve arranged searches, starting tomorrow.’

  ‘So the rumours about her running off with that US airman were false then?’

  ‘Possibly. As no one can remember the man’s name there’s no way of checking, of course, but the police think it was just a story put about by Samuel to hide the truth. Very effective it was too,’ he added.

  ‘What about Samuel?’ asked Eleanor suddenly. ‘It’s as though his dying freed her in some way, but his initials were on the list. Do you think she killed him?’

  ‘No – but she did allow him to die.’

  ‘But I thought he died of a…’ she broke off, realising what he meant.

  ‘He did – eventually,’ replied Gwilym sombrely. ‘The diaries make quite clear however, that the heart attack hit him when they were all at breakfast. They also make it equally clear that she calmly finished feeding Timothy and then ate her own, even after he’d slumped off his chair and lay gasping for air on the kitchen floor.

  No one commented; they couldn’t, so paralysed were they with the horror of what he was saying.

  ‘She writes, quite matter of factly, of how, her breakfast finished, she sat and chatted with him, saying it was her duty to sit with him as he died and she always did her duty. The diaries also make very clear that he knew she wouldn’t phone for help and that he grew increasingly frightened and desperate.

  ‘How could she? How could she sit and calmly watch him die like that; even after what he’d done?’ Mollie asked.

  ‘Quite easily apparently; she showed him absolutely no pity at the time and, her diary makes clear, she felt none afterwards. It took him about an hour and a half of increasing pain, before his heart gave out completely and he died. She makes some play of the fact that she was looking right into his eyes at the moment it happened. She then had a second cup of tea, and only then phoned an ambulance.’

  ‘We let her down didn’t we; all of us.’ Ellie whispered into the appalled silence that fell onto them all after Gwilym’s revelations. ‘That’s what the murders were about, isn’t it.’ Her sad words weren’t a question. She knew she was right – and so did the others.

  Gwilym nodded sadly. ‘Her life must have been one long hell, the like of which none of us, thankfully, can ever imagine. As Eleanor says, her father’s death seemed to have freed something in her, and she went after anyone she felt had let her down. He didn’t mention that Eleanor’s name had also been on the list but, for reasons they’d now probably never know, had been taken off it. ‘For what it’s worth, there seem to have been no signs, no pleas for help; nothing that anyone could have latched onto and so helped her; but yes, she went out for revenge.’

  ‘Alan, Emily – and me; all professionals, all people who should have seen some signs. Maybe we did miss some plea for help. The poor, poor child,’ whispered Ellie, tears starting to pour down her face. They weren’t tears for herself, but for the broken victim, who, however vicious and monstrous her acts, they all now realised, had only ever wanted to be loved and protected, allowed to be just a child; a child called Dolly.

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  Author’s Notes

  Thanks

  No published novel is the work of one person and I’d like to take this opportunity to thank Freda Glanville, Jan McLardy and Nick Elliott. They, with their care and reading skills, ensure that when I send off the finished work to be read by the equally eagle-eyed, and even more professional, editors at Endeavour Publishing, it is as free from errors as possible. These errors can range from weaknesses in the plot-line, through character development to overuse of that pesky apostrophe ( and under-use of much other punctuation! ) and can needlessly weaken any book. The work they put in is both invaluable and much valued.

  Should any other
writer be interested in similar assistance, Nick can be contacted on nickpelhame@gmail.com

  *

  Micro-expressions

  Space permits very little detail about these in the novel but they are a very real and valued part of psychology today.

  Originally isolated in work done by Haggard and Isaacs in the 1960’s, and subsequently much developed by Paul Ekman, they are seen as yet another way for others to know what we are really thinking and feeling – not always a comfortable experience!

  Should you be interested in reading further about this fascinating area of work you could do worse than look up either or both of the above on the ’net for much more information, and perhaps learn to read them yourself, and surprise – or upset – your friends!

  Anthony Litton

  Suffolk, March 2015