“I must tell Simon. This gives us a new angle”—Jack grimaced—“although I don’t know that trying to trace an eleventh-century itinerant stonemason’s daughter will get us much further forward.” Glancing at his watch, he added, “And in the meantime I’ve got to get to hospital. When I rang Nick this morning, he said he’d come midday and look after Faith. I didn’t like to leave her on her own, with Garnet still—”
“You’ve not found her, have you?”
Startled, they all turned towards the doorway. How long had the girl been there, listening? Gemma wondered. Her short hair stood on end, as if she had just slipped out of bed; her cheek still bore creases from the pillow. As she entered the room, Gemma saw that her slender body was made awkward by the weight of the child she carried.
Jack was the first to collect himself. “No, I’m afraid we haven’t. Faith, this is my cousin Duncan and his friend Gemma. They’ve come to help.”
“I don’t think anyone can,” Faith said softly, and her dark eyes held the glint of tears.
“Sit down,” soothed Jack, rising and arranging a chair for her, “and let’s get you a cup of tea. I’m sure Garnet’s fine—”
The doorbell rang. “That must be Nick, now,” Jack said hastily, and disappeared towards the front of the house.
But there was an unmistakable tone of the official in the low-voiced response to Jack’s greeting, although Gemma couldn’t quite make out the words. Kincaid had caught it as well—he was up and moving swiftly out of the room. With a quick look at Faith, who had sunk into the chair Jack provided, Gemma followed Duncan.
As she reached the door, Kincaid was showing his warrant card to a burly, tweed-jacketed man with thinning red hair. “Duncan Kincaid, Scotland Yard,” he said, shaking the man’s hand. Turning to Gemma, he added, “Inspector James.”
She saw Jack’s surprise as she in turn shook the man’s hand—earlier, she hadn’t introduced herself by rank.
“Alfred Greely, Somerset CID.” Greely’s voice was thick with a West Country burr, and his look was unabashedly appraising. “Is there somewhere we could have a chat?”
“We’ll go into the kitchen,” Jack replied. “Is this about Winnie—Miss Catesby?”
“I’m afraid not. Mr. Montfort, I understand you rang up last night and reported a Miss Garnet Todd missing.”
Once inside, Jack nodded towards Faith. “This young lady is staying with Miss Todd. She came to me last night when Garnet didn’t come home.”
When Greely switched his gaze to Faith, she seemed to wilt further into her chair. “I’m afraid we’ve found Miss Todd,” he said. “A gentleman taking his morning constitutional round the Tor thought a farmer’s gate an odd place to abandon a van and investigated.”
“Garnet’s?” Faith’s pallor was ghastly.
“I’m afraid so, miss. And her inside it.”
“Dead?”
“Yes. I am sorry.”
Faith’s eyes were enormous in her pale face. “She killed herself, then,” she said with what Gemma could have sworn was relief.
“Oh, no,” Greely replied, watching her intently. “I very much suspect Miss Todd was murdered.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
So it is, we are told, with the Company of Avalon, a group of souls who are impregnated with the devotional ideal which was translated into architectural symbol by the Benedictine brethren of old time.
—FREDERICK BLIGH BOND,
FROM THE COMPANY OF AVALON
KINCAID STOOD IN the thick, nettle-filled grass at the edge of Basketfield Lane, watching two crime-scene technicians dust the outside of Garnet Todd’s van for fingerprints.
When he’d asked DCI Greely if he could have a look at the scene, Greely had given him a sharp glance, saying, “You don’t get enough murders in London? Funny way to spend a holiday, if you ask me.” But he had not objected, and Kincaid had followed him in Gemma’s car, down the end of Ashwell Lane and up to the right. They were only a few hundred yards from Jack’s house, but the narrow, hedge-enclosed lane seemed a different world.
Through the low-lying trees Kincaid could just make out the steep eastern side of the Tor, and the snaking queue of climbers making their way up its zigzag path. As still as it seemed in the lane, he could see the wind whipping at the climbers’ clothes. It would be cold at the summit.
A few yards away, Greely slipped his mobile phone back into his jacket pocket, then came to join Kincaid. “The doc’s on his way now,” he said, adding, “Old Doc Lamb has a busy practice, so sometimes we have to wait a bit. But he’s the best there is—been at it since before I joined the force.”
The coroner’s van had already arrived. The driver had pulled it tightly into the nearest passing spot, and he and the attendant sat inside, eating sandwiches and sharing a newspaper.
“Funny your cousin’s young friend should assume the woman killed herself.” Greely chose a dry stem of grass, and breaking it off, chewed it meditatively.
Watching him, Kincaid wondered if city boys ever learned to chew grass in quite the same way. “You from around here?” he asked.
“Born in Dorset, just across the border. But I’ve lived within twenty miles of the Tor, near enough, since I was a lad.”
“Tell me what you’ve got so far, if you don’t mind.” Kincaid nodded at the van. “Why are you so sure she didn’t commit suicide?”
“Van was locked, no keys. Of course, she could have locked herself in, rolled down the window, and tossed them, but in that case she had a throwing arm like a cricket bowler. We’ve had a good look about and there’s no sign of keys. Doesn’t make sense anyway,” he mused, moving the grass stem to the other side of his mouth. “I can see locking herself in, but what good would it do to toss the keys?”
“And the cause of death?”
“Don’t know for certain yet. Nothing obvious. No slit wrists; no sign of the usual pill-induced vomiting; no exhaust hose run through the window. And she was in the back—looks as if she was dumped there. No attempt to make herself comfortable for her last few minutes on earth.”
“Mind if I have a look?” Kincaid asked, his curiosity growing.
Abandoning the grass stem, Greely gave a phlegmatic nod. “Suit yourself.”
Kincaid made his way to the van, careful to use the same path as the crime-scene technicians. The rear doors stood open. Flies buzzed in the van’s interior, and the familiar odor of death wafted out to meet him. The woman’s body lay wedged in a clear space to one side, and some smudged sections in the dust made him think she had been pushed into place among the odds and ends of tile and equipment on dusty rubber flooring. Her feet, clad in old-fashioned black boots, were towards him. She wore a wool cape that had fallen back to reveal a bright, multicolored skirt. Her thick dark hair had come loose from its plait; it covered her face like a curtain.
Kincaid borrowed a pair of gloves from one of the techs and inched inside the van for a better look at the body. Lividity was fairly pronounced, indicating she’d been dead some hours, and when he lifted her eyelid he saw the red spots in the eye indicative of asphyxiation. There was no noticeable bruising on throat or neck, however.
With a fingertip, he moved the thick hair away from her face. She had worn long, dangly earrings; the left one was missing.
Garnet Todd’s eccentricities had gone deeper than costume, according to the brief account Jack had given him, Kincaid mused as he crawled out into the welcome fresh air. But what cause had the woman given someone to murder her? If it had been she who struck Winnie Catesby, as the girl, Faith, suspected, her death made even less sense.
Greely had not managed to get much more out of Faith after his announcement that he believed Garnet Todd had been murdered. She had begun to cry—not a storm of sobs, which might have offered some possibility of consolation, but slow, despairing tears that ran down her face unchecked. Jack had protested then, and Gemma had shepherded the girl back upstairs to her room.
Gemma had offered to stay w
ith her so that Jack could go on to the hospital, and he had accepted gratefully. Knowing Gemma’s aversion to being designated as handholder, Kincaid had given her a questioning glance, but she’d reassured him with a nod. Method? Or sympathy? he wondered—or perhaps a bit of both.
There came the sound of an automobile climbing the gradient, then the crunch of tires on gravel as an ancient Morris Minor appeared round the bend and rolled to a stop. A balding, bespectacled man climbed out, medical bag in hand. It seemed the police surgeon had arrived.
“I see you’ve made it a point to interrupt my lunch, Alf,” he said to Greely by way of greeting, but his jovial tone matched his pink, cherubic face.
“A lack I’m sure you’ll make up, Doc.” Greely gave a pointed glance at the doctor’s paunch, visible evidence of a weakness for good living.
“Too true. I shall have to take up slimming one of these days, if I can just convince Carole to give up cooking. What have we got here, Alf?”
“Woman found this morning locked in her van, keys missing. We were hoping you could tell us a bit more. This is Superintendent Kincaid, visiting from London.” Greely’s ironic emphasis on the verb was unmistakable.
Meeting the doctor’s eyes as they shook hands, Kincaid saw that, despite the jolly-elf exterior, it wouldn’t do to underestimate the man.
“All right, let’s have a look.” Lamb took off his jacket, handing it to Greely, then pulled a pair of gloves from his trouser pocket and slipped them on.
Greely stepped away and Kincaid followed suit as the doctor climbed into the van. “Sharp old bugger,” Greely said. “But he gets tetchy if you get in his way. Not that I’ve ever much enjoyed watching the poking and prodding part.”
They waited in silence while the doctor made his examination. Kincaid gradually became aware of the bustle of activity taking place in the hedgerow as the birds searched for tasty berries and insects, and of the inappropriate rumbling of his own stomach. He had forgotten all about lunch.
“One odd thing,” Greely offered meditatively, providing Kincaid a welcome distraction from his hunger. “The walker who discovered the body this morning was a bloke called Bram Allen—the husband of the lady who discovered Winifred Catesby in the lane.”
Kincaid raised an eyebrow. “Coincidence?”
“He said he walks round the Tor every day—could be his wife’s experience made him nervy—that, and the flies buzzing round the van.”
“Did he know the victim?”
“According to Mr. Allen, everyone in Glastonbury knew Garnet Todd. Seems the woman was a genuine eccentric.”
Dr. Lamb reappeared, rear end first as he backed out of the van. He removed his gloves, brushed off his knees, and rolled down his shirtsleeves before accepting his jacket from Greely.
“All right, Doc, you’ve kept us in suspense long enough,” Greely said, and Kincaid suspected the pair had a well-developed routine.
“Well.” Lamb brushed a twig from his lapel. “I’d say she’s been dead at least twelve hours, maybe a good bit longer with last night’s drop in temperature. Lividity is well established, but there’s some slight staining in other areas that indicates she may have been moved after death. There’s no sign of sexual interference that I can see.”
Grudgingly, as if he knew it was expected of him, Greely asked, “Cause of death?”
“Well, now, that’s the most interesting thing. There are indications of asphyxiation, but no ligature marks or bruising on the throat or neck area. I have my suspicions, but I’m not going to say any more. You’ll have to wait for the autopsy.”
Greely groaned. “I can’t see that we’re much further along. Can we move the body, then?”
“Mmm.” The doctor nodded. “Ask the pathologist to give me a ring when he’s finished, would you? Satisfy my curiosity.” He turned to Kincaid. “Staying long, Superintendent? You might find this one interesting.”
“Just the weekend,” Kincaid answered. He shook the doctor’s hand and watched as he climbed back into his decrepit Morris and chugged down the hill.
Greely signaled to the mortuary attendants. They transferred the corpse onto a white sheet to preserve any trace evidence, then moved it from one van to the other. The doors clanged shut with metallic finality and the van pulled away. The crime-scene technicians were still busy at Garnet Todd’s vehicle, while two uniformed constables painstakingly searched the surrounding area.
Casually, Kincaid asked, “Any leads?”
“Absolutely sod all—except for the young lady your cousin, Mr. Montfort, seems to have taken in. We’ll have to interview her, you know, and the sooner, the better.”
“Did you find any evidence that Garnet Todd’s van was involved in Miss Catesby’s accident?”
“A few smudges on the front fender. Could have been caused by a close encounter with a hedge. There was not much vehicular damage to Miss Catesby’s bicycle, mostly scrapes and dings from the pavement. And there was no bleeding from Miss Catesby’s injuries—”
“So no hope of blood on the vehicle,” Kincaid said grimly. “What about fibers?”
“We’re checking now. But”—Greely shrugged—“it’s a snowball’s chance in hell, if you ask me, and we’ve nothing to link the two incidents other than the girl’s story.”
As he wondered if Gemma had managed to coax anything more from Faith, Kincaid realized how easily they, too, had fallen into their old routine.
As anxious as he was about Winnie, Jack felt he must take the time to let Simon Fitzstephen know about Garnet’s death—and not by telephone. Simon and Garnet had been friends too long for an impersonal notice.
At least he could feel sure that he’d left Faith in good hands. Duncan’s Gemma had a quiet authority that inspired confidence, and she had succeeded in calming Faith where he had failed.
So they were colleagues as well as lovers, he thought, wondering how long they’d been together, and if Duncan had finally managed to lay his troubled marriage to rest. Jack had been sorry to hear of Vic’s death the previous spring, but had done nothing more than send Duncan a brief note—such things still struck too close to home.
And now he found himself the apparent custodian of a pregnant young woman who might deliver her child at any moment. The prospect terrified him.
He found Simon on his knees in front of his perennial border, snipping the dead stalks from bloomed-out plants. “Dreary time of year, isn’t it?” Simon rose, wincing, and as he came across the lawn Jack saw that he was limping. “And digging in the dirt may be good for the soul, but it plays hell with my bad knee.”
“Old injury?” Jack asked.
“Climbing accident. Slipped in the scree years ago and tore a few ligaments. Just let me wash up and I’ll put the kettle on.”
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He could tell Greely some of the things he’d begun to suspect about Garnet, but it would only make his motive look stronger.
But there must have been others who had felt as he did about Garnet—there must have been someone who had wanted her dead. And if he could find out who, he might have a hope of saving himself.
Kincaid and Gemma pulled into Jack’s drive just as he was getting out of his Volvo. They found Faith waiting for them in the kitchen, hands on her hips, furious spots of color on her cheeks.
“Something smells good.” Jack wrinkled his nose in appreciation. “We haven’t had a proper meal in—”
Turning on Kincaid, Faith spat, “How could you? You told Nick he should talk to the police, that it would be all right! So he did, and now they think he’s a murderer.”
“Faith, I told him it was the best course, and I still think that’s true. They’ve got Nick’s prints in the house and his bike tracks in the yard. He’d only make things worse for himself by lying.”
“But you’re a policeman. Can’t you tell Greely it’
s not true, that Nick wouldn’t—”
“I don’t have any jurisdiction here. I can offer the Inspector my opinion, but I can’t tell him how to run his case.” Kincaid held up his hand before she could interrupt again. “I will tell you that I don’t think he’s got any solid evidence, so right now all he can do is try to get a response from Nick.”
“He thinks I helped. Did you know that?”
“Faith—”
“He said I needed legal advice.”
“Greely came here?”
Faith nodded.
“He interviewed you with no one else present?”
“There was a policewoman with him.”
Kincaid hesitated. It was a sticky situation, as Faith was legally an adult, but Greely could have found a better way to handle it. “If he comes again, tell him that you will only talk to him if Jack, or one of us, is present. If he won’t agree to that, tell him you insist on legal representation. That means he can’t talk to you without your lawyer present. Got that?”
“But I don’t have a lawyer!”
Kincaid turned to Jack. “Is there someone you can call?”
“An old school friend. She’s one of the best solicitors in the county.”
“Why don’t you do that, just alert her to the situation.”
As Jack went to make his phone call, Gemma guided Faith to the pot simmering on the cooker, and in a moment had the girl detailing the ingredients.
Crisis defused temporarily, Kincaid thought with relief, but what sort of idiotic thing had he just done? He had known even as he offered his support that he was placing himself in a precariously biased position. But something about this girl seemed to bring everyone’s protective instincts to the fore. Except DCI Greely’s, it seemed.
The doorbell rang. The murmur of Jack’s voice came from the next room, so Kincaid went to the door, girding himself to do discreet battle with DCI Greely.
But it was a man he hadn’t seen before, of middle age, dressed in cardigan and tweeds, with a rather unkempt mane of gray hair.
A Finer End Page 16
