A Season for Murder

by Ann Granger

  But it was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it? When she first left England (fled England might be a better way of describing it), she’d said she didn’t want ties. She didn’t want memories. She wanted to be able to pick up a suitcase and walk away from anything which ruffled the surface of her own little pond.

  Well, she’d learnt two things. One is that you never walk away from your memories. The other is that the walking away slowly becomes a marathon solo affair. No roots, no ties stops being fun and independent. No roots, no ties starts to get a bore. But, like anyone who has travelled a long way along one road, you grew afraid of turning back and looking for another road, another direction.

  But all this introspection was thoroughly unhealthy. The screen was transmitting the advertising break. Meredith uncurled and went to peer out of the window of Rose Cottage into the murk. A yellow light across the lane and down to the right indicated that someone had returned to live in the cottage with the wishing well. The Fenniwicks, presumably. At least she wasn’t now entirely alone in Pook’s Common. The gleam of yellow was comforting. Of course there was Tom, down at the stables. She wondered whether tomorrow, Saturday, the Haynes would return for their usual weekend. Poor Lucy.

  Meredith glanced at her watch. Getting late. But it was a dirty night and she was loath to go up to bed. She watched the film to its mystifying end, and the programme which followed, made some cocoa and sat up until the early hours watching, and thoroughly enjoying, an elderly horror film. By the time she went to bed at two the light in Fenniwick’s cottage was extinguished. The rain was still coming down, harder now. Not a night to be out and about. A night for rolling yourself up in the duvet and trying not to wish that when you stretched out your foot, it made contact with another body.

  The next morning the sun shone but Meredith got out of bed feeling tired and irritable. Partly, she told herself, that was because Alan hadn’t phoned, partly it was going to bed so late and watching too much television, partly not knowing what would happen now that the inquest had been adjourned. Besides which she had only this weekend left of her leave. On Monday would begin the daily haul as a commuter up to London and back. There was nothing to do in Pook’s Common today. Meredith put on her anorak, went out, got into her car and switched on the ignition with some idea of driving to Bamford or even as far as Oxford.

  The ignition coughed, spluttered and fell silent. Panic seized her. The car had to be running all right! On Monday she’d need it to get in to Bamford station! She tried again. Nothing at all. It was dead. Meredith got out and opened the bonnet, peering doubtfully into the engine. She was no mechanic but there was just a chance that some obvious disconnected wire or other visible mishap might spring to the eye. It didn’t, but a probable explanation was moisture. The poor car had stood out all night in the teeming rain and resulting dampness had wreaked some havoc. Meredith shut down the bonnet, wiped her hands and sighed. There was, however, help at hand in the form of Fenniwick’s garage up on the B road. She set off to walk there.

  Joe Fenniwick was under a car. At least she supposed the feet sticking out belonged to him.

  ‘Mr Fenniwick?,

  ‘Oh, right you are . . .’ said a muffled voice. He wriggled out and sat up, a small, thin-faced man with a gingery crest of spiky hair. ‘Oh, ah . . .’ he said, greeting her with a wave of a spanner. ‘What’s up, then? Want some petrol?’

  ‘No, my car’s broken down. The ignition. Either that or the battery is flat. It’s down the road at Pook’s Common, outside Rose Cottage.’

  Mr Fenniwick scrambled to his feet. ‘You’re the lady then, what’s taken Dr Russell’s place? Pleased to meet you.’ He extended an oily hand, thought better of it and withdrew it. ‘My wife would have been over to welcome you, like, but we’ve been away for the holiday. At the wife’s sister’s. She hurt her leg, the wife’s sister that is, so my wife she went to help out and me and the boy, we went too and celebrated our Christmas over there. The wife will be back tomorrow and the boy . . . but I had to come on home earlier because of the business.’ Mr Fenniwick looked vaguely about him. ‘Ignition, ah. I’ll tell you what, ’tis more like the battery. Got no cover down there – car’s out in the open, that right?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Might be your wiring. Tell you what, I’ll come down later with my breakdown truck and bring your car up here to have a look. I can’t be fixing it down there, you see, because of being on my own here.’

  ‘Yes, I quite understand, Mr Fenniwick, but I need the car on Monday first thing as I have to go into Bamford and catch the early London train.’

  ‘I got a taxi service,’ said Mr Fenniwick. ‘So you’re not desperate, as you might say. But like as not, I’ll be able to fix it before then.’ She thanked him and he said, ‘You didn’t have the chance to meet the lady opposite to you, did you? Her as had the accident?’

  ‘Miss Needham? Yes, I did. It was a dreadful thing.’

  ‘Ah . . . Pook’s Common, you know,’ said Mr Fenniwick. ‘It’s an unlucky place. All the old folk round here will tell you so. Some of them are surprised my wife and I want to live here. Still, touch wood,’ Mr Fenniwick gravely tapped his own forehead, ‘we’ve not come to grief yet!’

  Meredith walked back to Rose Cottage. A little later Mr Fenniwick appeared driving a smart little breakdown truck and towed her car away, promising to see to it right away. Meredith was left marooned in Pook’s Common with nothing to do. She looked across the lane towards Ivy Cottage. It was not surprising Harriet had spent her time down at the stables. There was precious little else to do here. Harriet – Fran – the keys – the books for the cottage hospital. But there was something she could do.

  Meredith went indoors and collected the keys Fran had given her and crossed over to Ivy Cottage. She let herself in and closed the front door. The drawing-room door was open and she went in and surveyed the desolate scene with sinking heart. There was a strangely neglected air about Ivy Cottage now as if it knew its owner had quitted it for good. The furniture was dusty, no Mrs Brissett coming to polish it up any more. Fran had collected up all the photographs and put them in a cardboard box on the floor. Meredith stooped over it and picked up the topmost frame. Three little girls. Fran had changed quite a bit. She hadn’t been a particularly pretty kid, rather scrawny, but my, she’d blossomed! Harriet with her red hair. And the other child . . . Caroline Henderson, the unlucky little heiress. Of the three little girls, two were now dead. Meredith shivered and put the photograph back.

  Most of the books were in a glass-fronted bookcase. Meredith went in search of a box and found one upstairs in the bedroom. Fran had been busy up here. All the bed linen in the cottage had been packed in bags and tickets tied to the necks saying ‘WVS’. She carried the box downstairs and began to stack the books carefully into it. As she did, she checked the titles to see if there were any she hadn’t read. There was a copy of Briony Rides at the Horse of the Year Show. Meredith put it to one side, meaning to ask Fran if she might keep it. She picked out the next book to it and stood with it in her hand.

  The cottage was quiet. Pook’s Common was deserted. When she opened the book, the pages rustled and the noise seemed exaggerated in the stillness. Meredith sat down on the nearest chair and began to read, skipping pages here and there. The binding was stiff. No one else had read this book. She had to force the pages open against the rigidity of the spine and they smelled new in the way paper does the first time a spanking new book is opened. Meredith turned back to the beginning and read the publishing information, names of publisher and printer, date, copyright notice, ISBN . . .

  Crack! It came from the kitchen. Meredith’s heart skipped a beat and she froze, book in hand. ‘Mrs Brissett?’ she called. There was a faint gasp and a muffled exclamation from the direction of the kitchen. A moment’s silence and then a creak and a scuff of a footstep. Whoever was in the kitchen, it was not Mrs Brissett but an intruder who had forced open the back door, not knowing Meredith was
here. But he knew now. Meredith waited, watching the drawing-room door. Another step outside in the hallway. The door opened slowly.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Deanes,’ Meredith said, no longer really surprised, not now. ‘I expect you’ve come for this.’ And she held out the copy of Revolutionary Youth which she had been reading.

  He was wearing his fur-trimmed parka today. He pushed up his spectacles on to the insignificant bridge of his nose and peered at her perplexed. ‘Miss Mitchell? What are you doing here? I thought you’d gone to Bamford . . . your car isn’t there!’ He sounded slightly irritated, as if she had made the wrong move in some game.

  ‘No, Mr Fenniwick is bringing it back some time today. Soon I hope.’

  The sooner the better! she thought suddenly. She was alone here with him, with no one else to hear if she shouted – and Tom down at the stables . . . Harriet’s telephone was outside in the hallway but Deanes still stood by the door.

  Deanes was looking at the book in her hand. ‘Yes . . . that’s mine. I was worried that someone might throw it out . . . I came for it, as you say. I had to force the back door catch but I fully intended to fix it again before I left.’ He held out his hand.

  Meredith held tightly on to it. ‘I’d like to read it, I’ve started . . . look. Would you mind if I hung on to it for a bit?’

  ‘Yes, I would. I’m afraid you can’t, I must have it back!’ He began to sound agitated. His pale cheeks flushed.

  ‘It’s an advance copy, isn’t it?’ Meredith said. ‘I tried to buy it in Bamford but they told me it wasn’t due out yet. Harriet must have got this one from you.’

  Deanes sat down on the chair by the hall door. His spectacle lenses gleamed and, as on a previous occasion out on the common, she couldn’t make out his eyes.

  ‘I can explain, Miss Mitchell.’

  ‘I’m sure you can, Mr Deanes.’

  He hesitated. Suddenly he leaned forward. ‘I’m sure you’ll understand, Miss Mitchell, you’re a sensible woman. You were sympathetic when I spoke to you of my work. You understand how important my work is.’ Those young people depend on me! Whatever else happens, my work must go on! If you’ll listen, you’ll see that this whole thing has been a terrible – ’ he broke off.

  ‘Mistake?’

  ‘No – just a piece of truly rotten bad luck. Everything that followed stemmed from that. It was all forced on me by that woman. Everything was going so well and then . . . she found out. She hounded me.’ Deanes raised a hand and gestured at Ivy Cottage about them. ‘She was a terrible woman!’

  Joe Fenniwick knew she wanted the car urgently. He’d bring it back today but when? Soon, Mr Fenniwick, please! In the meantime, she had to keep him talking.

  ‘Please tell me, Mr Deanes,’ she urged.

  He leaned forward and his gaze fell on the box of photographs in their frames. Something happened then, she was not sure what. He twitched. His manner changed. He no longer looked agitated and anxious to explain himself. He looked quite clear in his mind – although how that mind was working who knew – and he looked angry. Very angry. He jumped up, seized the topmost photograph of the three little girls and brandished it under Meredith’s nose.

  ‘This!’ he shouted. ‘This is the cause of all the trouble! Three women who have ruined my life! Her!’ He jabbed a finger at the picture of the young Harriet. ‘The harpy! She persecuted me! This one . . .’ The finger stabbed at Fran in turn. ‘Just like her. I got rid of one and the other turns up! I should have expected that!’

  ‘And the other child . . .’ Meredith whispered.

  Deanes’ forefinger moved to rest on the likeness of Caroline Henderson. ‘Oh, Caro,’ he said sadly. ‘Caroline, my wife.’

  Alan Markby sat with Fran Needham-Burrell in the gloomy lounge of The Crossed Keys. A tray with coffee cups and pot stood on the low table between them. No one else was in the room. It was clean and tidy enough, but the furniture was dull in colour, the carpet worn, the potted plants dusty. That in particular annoyed Markby. In putting a duster round the furniture, it wouldn’t have been that much of an extra effort to wipe off the leaves of the rubber plant next to him.

  ‘Why are you scowling at that plant?’ Fran asked. ‘Would you like some more of this coffee?’ Her hand hovered above the pot.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Don’t blame you.’

  ‘It’s not bad – it’s just I don’t have a lot of time.’

  ‘I understand.’ Her green eyes surveyed him. ‘I’m grateful to you for taking time to come over here to see me.’

  ‘You said you would be leaving on Monday. I didn’t have the chance to talk either to you or Meredith – ’ He hesitated slightly but hurried on ‘ – at the inquest. It seems too much of a coincidence that Pardy should be killed as he was on the eve of the inquest. Why should anyone kill Pardy? It seems it could only be that the murderer was afraid of what Pardy might blurt out in court. Youths like Pardy are unreliable – they get carried away when cross-examined by the coroner . . . The trouble is we don’t know what he might have said. It’s frustrating. But we’re getting there. We’ve got what we’re sure is the murder weapon – the forensic evidence matches and the owner of house in whose dustbin it was found denies all knowledge of it. We have the young man Michael Leary to swear to having replaced the light bulb in the hall just the other day. We have further forensic evidence from the house . . . I’m currently tracing back Pardy’s movements that day. Or rather, Pearce is. He’s also tracing all Pardy’s contacts. I’m modestly optimistic we’ll get our man and when we do . . . we can work back to Harriet’s accident.’

  ‘You’re sure there’s a connection?’

  ‘There has to be!’ Markby said vehemently. He smiled, a little embarrassed. ‘Well, just possibly there isn’t, but I’m fairly sure.’

  ‘How will you find out about Pardy’s contacts? Apart from what the three youngsters in the house can tell you?’

  ‘I’m hoping a chap called Deanes will help me. I’ve tried to get hold of him. I’ve rung his place this morning but he’s not there. Deanes is a kind of sociologist and writer who took an interest in – ’

  But Fran was leaning forward, sea-green eyes gleaming. ‘Colin Deanes? You mean Colin Deanes, don’t you? You don’t have to tell me who he is! I know Colin all right! What’s he doing down here?’

  Markby looked at her, surprised. She had clenched her fists on her knees and her face was flushed. Cornblonde hair tumbled unheeded over her forehead.

  ‘He rents a house out on the common – Pook’s Common itself, not in the hamlet of Pook’s Common. He’s been living there nearly a year.’

  ‘Well I’ll be damned,’ said Fran flatly, sitting back in her chair and throwing up her hands in a gesture of disbelief. ‘I bet he didn’t know Harriet was living so near when he took on his house!’

  ‘Why?’ Markby demanded sharply. A tingle ran up his spine. ‘What’s Deanes to do with Harriet? I didn’t even know they’d met.’

  ‘Met? You bet they’d met! He would have wanted to keep out of Harry’s way! Mine, too!’

  ‘You?’ Markby frowned, suddenly struck by something. ‘He wasn’t at the opening of the inquest yesterday! Why not? Pardy was his protégé. He’s been acting as Pardy’s solicitor.’

  ‘He was keeping out of my way, you bet!’ said Fran firmly. ‘He’s found out I’m here!’

  Or did he know . . .? wondered Markby. Was it too preposterous? Did he know Pardy no longer required his services and support?

  ‘All right, Frances!’ he said briskly. ‘Start at the beginning and tell me everything you know about Deanes and Harriet.’

  ‘You don’t think . . .?’ She paused. ‘You don’t think he did it again?’

  ‘Did what, Frances?’ Markby urged.

  ‘I’ll tell you the whole thing, but it goes back a long way, several years!’ she warned. ‘Well, in fact it goes back before Deanes actually came on the scene. It started when Harry and I were at school and we had a
chum called Caroline Henderson, we all called her Caro. The three of us were pretty well inseparable, the Three Musketeers some people called us. Caro was a pretty kid but a bit sickly – she was a diabetic. She was also rich. Due to family history she finished up as heiress to her grandfather’s estate. I don’t just mean she was well off, I mean she was seriously wealthy! But she didn’t have any family, only a guardian and some trustees with regard to her money. It was in trust until she was twenty-one.’

  Fran paused. ‘I can’t tell all this with a dry throat and I can’t drink any more of this coffee. I fancy a G and T.’

  ‘I’ll go through to the bar,’ said Markby, rising to his feet. ‘It will be quicker than trying to get service here. It’s almost eleven, they’ll be open.’

  He came back shortly with a pint of beer and the gin and tonic. ‘Carry on, Fran.’

  ‘Right!’ Fran sipped appreciatively at the gin and tonic. ‘We left school and we did what young girls like us do. I went abroad to a Swiss finishing school but at the end of the first term they asked me to leave – I’ll tell you that story one day, but not now and not here – and after that I travelled round a bit. Caroline took an art course. Harry took up good works and went to work for a charity which dealt with delinquents. That’s where she met Colin. He was newly qualified as a solicitor and giving his time free to the charity. Harriet was really impressed with him. I don’t mean – ’ Fran grew emphatic ‘ – that he was any kind of boyfriend! She just knew him and worked with him and she admired him. She brought him to some parties and introduced him around her friends. She introduced him to Caro. It was the biggest mistake of Harry’s life and she never forgave herself for it. If I’d been in England at the time I might have been able to warn Harry. She was naive in some ways. She didn’t realise that what Deanes was looking for when she took him to parties and introduced him around was a wealthy wife. He had no money and he needed money. Not for himself – he was in his way quite altruistic. He wanted it for his work, the kids he helped. He had all kinds of projects of his own, quite distinct from the work of the charity, but without solid and continuous financial backing he hadn’t a hope of getting any of them off the ground. He saw all those well-off young girls at the parties Harry took him to and he saw that there was the money he wanted! I’m sure he felt – and who is to say he was wrong? – that the money they spent on frivolities would be better spent elsewhere. They were wasting it: he could use it for good. He could single-handedly redress the social balance, as it were. The snag was that most of those girls had families who kept their eyes open for fortune-hunters. If he had shown interest in practically any one of them he would have been warned off. But Caroline Henderson was an orphan without family of any kind. She was twenty-one and had come into her own money. She was what you might call a sitting target. There was a whirlwind romance and she and Deanes were married.’