by Stan Mason
He sat down on the sand staring out to sea. Someone was going to pay for the crime, of that he was certain. The difficulty was finding the man. It was like hunting for a needle in a haystack with the police and himself undergoing a great deal of frustration in the hunt. Mrs. Chester had mentioned a boyfriend that Amy had known from her days at school. Mervyn from Lampshire Secondary School. Was there any point in pursuing that line of enquiry? An old school friend who had left school three or four years earlier. Well... he could leave no stone unturned. It was a vain hope to find anything at the school but he had to try.
He made an appointment to see the Headmaster and went to the establishment on the following morning. It was a large secondary school which was attended by over one thousand five hundred pupils every weekday with the exception of holidays. He walked down the school corridor with the odour in his nostrils that permeated the rooms reminding him of past days in his youth. He came to the Headmaster’s office, knocked on the door and entered. The man invited him to take a seat and Hunter stared bleakly at him in making his request.
‘I’m a private investigator charged with finding Amy Chester’s killer,’ he began in earnest. ‘There was a pupil at this school by the name of Mervyn. I don’t know his second name but it may be possible to find it as it’s so unusual.’
‘When did he leave here?’ asked the Headmaster, folding his hands in front of him.
‘About three or four years ago. He may have been in Amy Chester’s class.’
The Headmaster turned in his swivel chair and pulled out two fairly large volumes from the shelf behind him. ‘Let’s see if we can find him, shall we? I think we all owe it to Amy to find her killer.’ He opened the first book to reveal pages of photographs. ‘We take photographs of all the classes each year. A kind of year book,’ he explained. ‘On the back of each page is a list of the names of the pupils. Naturally, as we’re such a large school, a number of photographs are by necessity have to be taken.’ His eyes wandered over the list of names of the fifth and sixth year groups three years earlier in the first volume but, after a short while, he shook his head negatively. Then he moved to the second book to search those of the year before and a smile lit up his face. ‘Ah, here we are!’ he exclaimed jubilantly. ‘Mervyn Jones. That’s his name.’ He moved the volume across the desk, pointing out the face of the boy in question.
Hunter stared at it vacantly in the knowledge that Jones’s face may have changed considerably in the four years that he had left the school. Alice Prescott had been right when she said that she remembered the name because it was Welsh. Well there couldn’t be a more Welsh name than Jones.
‘Do you have an address for him?’ asked the architect, although he realised that the young man had probably moved.
‘I can find it in the register of that year. We always keep the addresses. Excuse me for a moment while I find it.’ He stood up and left the room leaving Hunter to stare at the literary tomes in the bookshelf. His eyes moved to the items resting on the Headmaster’s desk. There were piles of files on one corner and he fingered through them looking at the titles on the front of each one. Suddenly his eyebrows raised when he came across a file with Amy Chester’s name. He was about to open it when the door of the room opened and the Headmaster returned.
‘You have a file on Amy Chester,’ rattled Hunter accusingly.
The Headmaster halted in his tracks before continuing to sit in his chair. ‘Yes,’ he responded cautiously. ‘There was some kind of development.’
‘Perhaps you would share it with me,’ suggested the architect curtly.
‘I don’t think so. You see we have a priest from St. Michael’s church who visits the school each month. Merely to talk on religion to the classes. One of the pupils spoke to him about the case. As you’re aware, anything told to a priest is confidential in terms of its secrecy. He will not be able to tell you anything.’
‘Maybe not,’ countered Hunter sharply, ‘but you can let me see the file.’
‘It doesn’t have anything of that nature in it, I assure you. I merely have it on my desk because our secretary has been on sick leave for three months and it needs to be filed.’ He pulled the file from the pile and handed it to the architect.
Hunter opened it quickly but disappointment soon showed in his face. There was nothing of any interest to him, merely a report of the police investigation at the school. He handed back the file muttering a brief apology.
‘The address for Mervyn Jones,’ stated the Headmaster unperturbed at the incident, ‘is eleven Boundary Road.’
Hunter thanked him profusely and left the building after handing his calling card to the Headmaster. He hadn’t expected to gain any information at the school but at least he had two leads. The first was Mervyn Jones last known address; the second was the priest at St. Michael’s church.
He drove to eleven Boundary Road to face his first disappointment. The row of houses that had been built there were all boarded up. A notice which had been placed in front of them stated that they were to be demolished to make way for a housing estate of one and two-bedroomed affordable apartments. Hunter wondered whether some impish spirit was making fun of him, allowing him to find leads which proved to be of no value whatsoever. Not only was Mervyn Jones no longer living there but all the neighbours, who might have been able to offer information, had departed as well. The young man could have gone anywhere. If so, he probably had had no part in Amy’s death. He proceeded to St. Michael’s church where he confronted the priest.
‘I understand that one of the pupils at Lampshire Secondary School gave you information in relation to Amy Chester,’ he began as the priest stood up after prayer at the altar.
The cleric stared at him seriously. ‘You must understand that anything told to a priest is in strict confidence. I cannot tell you anything.’
‘Look, I’m a private investigator and I have to find Amy’s murderer. Surely you can reveal what you were told. I mean God would want the man punished.’
The priest shook his head. ‘I have no idea of God’s intentions,’ he said solemnly. ‘Everything told to me was in confidence. I cannot tell you what you want to know.’
‘Even if could lead me to her killer?’ Hunter was becoming desperate to get the information.
‘Whatever the situation,’ returned the priest blandly. ‘The information is sacrosanct. Please do not press me on the matter. I have nothing more to say.’
He knelt down before the altar, genuflecting and placing his hands together in front of him before starting to pray. The architect realised that the conversation was over and he left the church no richer in detail than when he first arrived there.
He went home to rue the morning’s work. Nothing at the school, nothing at Mervyn Jones’s house, and even less at St. Michael’s church. It had all been a waste of time. And now he was beginning to concern himself with the fact that he had spent some valuable days of his holiday and was nowhere forward in the investigation. Three weeks was not going to be enough. Not by a long chalk!
It was just over an hour later when the telephone rang with a call that was going to change his life.
‘My name’s Ellen Masters,’ related the caller calmly as he picked up the receiver. ‘I’m a teacher at Lampshire Secondary School. I understand you spoke with the Headmaster this morning about Amy Chester.’
‘That’s right, Mrs. Masters,’ he responded politely.
‘It’s Miss Masters,’ she told him amiably. ‘I saw your calling card on his desk just now and I decided to contact you.’
‘What do you have to tell me, Miss Masters?’ he ventured.
‘I don’t want to talk about it over the telephone,’ she replied. ‘You never know who might be listening. May I suggest you come to the school gates at, say, three-thirty this afternoon. We can talk about it then.’
‘Three-thirty,
’ he repeated. ‘I’ll be there.’
The day dragged on and Hunter looked at his wristwatch a number of times to see the hands move slowly by. Eventually, at three-fifteen, he climbed into his car and drove back to the school. Ellen Masters was waiting for him at the gates. She was a tall young teacher, twenty six years of age, with gorgeous blonde hair, a shapely face and a very slender figure. Hunter stared at her in disbelief. In his days at school, all the teachers were dull and dowdy. In fact some of the female teachers were downright ugly. Why couldn’t he have had such a beautiful woman teaching him when he was young. Not that it would have helped because he would have been concentrating on her all the time and not on the lessons she taught.
‘Miss Masters,’ he greeted with stars shining in his eyes. He didn’t care whether she told him anything of value or not. Gazing at her beauty was sufficient in itself. Suddenly, all thoughts of his dead wife vanished. She had gone from this world; life had to move on. He recognised that his thoughts were running away with him and lust was returning in force but he was a man... and that said it all! The teacher smiled at him as he pointed to his car. They climbed inside and he kept staring at her face.
‘Is there something wrong?’ she asked with concern touching her chin as though there was something there that shouldn’t have been.
‘You’re so beautiful for a teacher,’ he declared emotionally. ‘So beautiful!’
‘I wasn’t aware that teachers had to be plain,’ she teased with a smile on her face.
He rested his hands on the steering-wheel. ‘Can I take you somewhere while we talk?’
‘I usually go to a little cafeteria every day for tea,’ she told him. ‘You can take me there if you like.’
‘Oh, yes!’ he said enthusiastically. ‘I would like.’
Under her navigation, he took her to the cafeteria where they sat at a table drinking tea and eating buttered scones.
‘You want to tell me something,’ he ventured in du course.
‘You told the Headmaster you were an investigator working on Amy’s case.’
‘That’s correct,’ he concurred.
‘This may not help you but I know what the pupil in my class told the priest of St. Michael’s.’
‘I’m all ears,’ he responded readily as excitement welled up inside him.
‘She went to the beach that night with her boyfriend and they came across Amy’s body there. She decided not to get involved and they walked away without telling the police.’
‘And that’s all.’ He seemed surprised that she had refused to give him the scant information over the telephone.
‘That’s all,’ she admitted, looking at him across the table. ‘Tell me why you’re so interested in Amy’s case.’
‘I told the Headmaster I was a private investigator,’ he revealed reluctantly after sipping at his tea. ‘I am in a way, though for a short time only.’ He felt nervous in her presence as if she were a princess and he was a peasant.
‘What do you mean?’ Her voice sounded quite challenging.
‘I’m really an architect. My wife was killed recently in a motor vehicle accident and I sometimes see her vision at night.’ He paused to watch the reaction of the teacher but her expression did not change at all. ‘She told me that her way ahead was blocked by Amy’s spirit and that neither she nor Amy would be free to enter the next world until the killer is caught.’
‘And you believe you actually saw the apparition of your wife,’ charged Miss Masters shortly.
‘On two occasions so far. She was definitely there.’
‘Are you certain it wasn’t a figment of your imagination? I presume you were asleep at the time.’
‘That’s true... but I had woken up. I pinched myself twice to check that I was awake and, on the last occasion, I went to the spot where her vision stood but it vanished as I got there.’
The teacher’s face showed a great deal of interest in the conversation and she advanced the situation rapidly. ‘I have a friend who’s a medium. She’s a very good one. May I bring her to your house to see if she can assist?’
Hunter paused to consider the request. ‘If you think it might help,’ he responded eagerly.
They finished their tea and made arrangements for Miss Masters and the medium to come that evening. By the time they left, the architect felt that he could not take his eyes from the teacher’s face. She was so beautiful... so lovely... so wonderful. Despite the recent demise of his wife, he found himself falling in love all over again. He considered it to be an early form of middle-aged crisis but, then again, no one could really detract from their innermost feelings.
***
Miss Masters and the medium arrived at the house later that evening. Hunter wasn’t sure what to expect as he welcomed them with glasses of sherry. They sat in the lounge after being introduced to each other. The medium immediately looked up at the ceiling and her nostrils widened as she seemed to sniff something paranormal.
‘There’s a spirit in this house,’ she uttered freely when she had finished her drink. ‘It’s not a strong aura in this room but I can feel it.’
‘Then you don’t think I was dreaming when I saw my wife’s apparition,’ advanced the architect delighted that someone might believe his story.
‘I can’t tell you that,’ she retorted smartly. ‘My work involves contact with spirits. Whether you saw an apparition in your sleep or not is your affair not mine.’ She stood up and walked to the door. ‘Yes... there’s definitely a presence here.’
‘Are you saying that the spirit of my dead wife is here all the time?’ he gasped, horrified at the thought of being watched day and night.
‘Until she can pass on into the next world,’ explained the medium in a tone that she thought he should have known that fact. She went into the hallway and started to climb the stairs making her way to the master bedroom. Miss Masters and Hunter followed her closely into the room. ‘Ah, yes! This is where she is! Her aura’s very strong in here.’ She stood at the end of the bed where the dead woman’s apparition had appeared and nodded before going off into a minor trance. Nothing happened for a while as the two onlookers watched her carefully. Then her body stiffened and she began to speak in the voice similar to that of the architect’s dead wife.
‘My name is Ruth and I am with Amy Chester’s spirit. We are locked together halfway between life and death.’
The medium stopped at that point causing Hunter to intervene.
‘That’s rubbish!’ he spat angrily. ‘How can she be halfway between life and death? She’s not alive! Her body was cindered into ashes!’
Ellen placed her hand on his arm to prevent him from breaking the cycle.
The medium went deeper into a trance without speaking for quite some time. ‘I see a cross,’ she said eventually. ‘A Maltese Cross. It’s in a room in a large building.’ She remained silent for a little longer. ‘The room’s empty except for one cupboard. Bloodstained clothes are in there. Bloodstained clothes!’
‘Where is the room?’ yelled Hunter in frustration, overcome by his need to determine the location.
The medium continued, failing to hear him. ‘There are vehicles outside and people in uniform,’ she went on. ‘I can see them.’ Suddenly, her body spiked up as if in agony. ‘Aaaah!’ she screamed. ‘I can feel Amy’s pain. Get off me! Stop doing that! Aaaahhh! Ooooh! You don’t need to hurt me! Get away from me! Aaaarghhh!’ Her hand went to her throat as though trying to wrench deadly fingers away. Then she made a rattling noise as though she was being throttled and the architect took it upon himself to end the session in order to save the woman’s life. He walked towards the medium and slapped her face several times on each side of her face to bring her quickly back to reality. She opened her eyes with the shock and Hunter was forced to catch her as she fainted.
Both he and
Ellen managed to get her downstairs, parking her indelicately into an armchair, before serving her with a large brandy.
‘I thought you were gone,’ the architect told her ‘You were actually choking to death.’
The medium swallowed hard before speaking. ‘You’re right. I think I was,’ she admitted. ‘I went through the same trauma that Amy did. I could see the face of her murderer although much of it was misty. He has dark hair and dark brown eyes and was unshaven.’
‘Well that eliminates half the population,’ muttered Hunter sarcastically. ‘Tell me more about the vehicles outside the building and the uniforms worn by the men.’
‘It’s all a blur,’ came the reply. ‘More like shadows than real people. The realm of the spirit world is not fully understood by anyone. It’s not like watching television. Some mediums simply make contact; others are more visual.’
‘What were the uniforms? Were they paramedics... were the vehicles ambulances?’
The medium shook her head slowly. ‘It was all so vague. I’m sorry but I really couldn’t recognise them.’
The architect turned to Miss Masters. ‘Do the Freemasons use Maltese Crosses as emblems?’
Ellen shook her head. ‘I don’t know,’ she replied calmly.
Hunter turned his attention to the medium as a horrid thought passed through his mind. ‘If my late wife’s aura is here in this house,’ he ventured thoughtfully, ‘does that mean she’ll be here with me for the rest of my life?’
‘Until Amy’s killer is caught... or until he passes on to the next world. His death will free all of you. When he does go, her spirit will be freed.’
