The Oxmarket Aspal Murder Mystery

by Andrew Hixson

  “No evidence of it.”

  “What did her neighbours have to say?”

  “Not very much but they wouldn’t to the police, but I don’t think they were holding anything back. She kept herself to herself, they said. Faith passed the time of day with the neighbours but they weren’t intimate.”

  “How long had she lived there?”

  “Matter of eighteen or twenty years, I think.”

  “And before that?”

  “There’s no mystery about her. Farmer’s daughter from Norfolk. She and her husband lived near East Dereham for a while and then moved to Oxupland. Had a cottage, but found it damp, so they moved to Oxmarket Aspal. Husband seemed to have been a quiet, decent man, that didn’t go to the pub much. All very respectable and above board. No mysteries anywhere, nothing to hide.”

  “And yet she was murdered?”

  “And yet she was murdered.”

  “The niece didn’t know of anyone who had a grudge against her aunt?”

  “She says not.”

  I rubbed my nose, exasperated.

  “You do realise, Paul, that it would be so much easier if Faith Roberts wasn’t Faith Roberts, so to speak. If she was a woman with some baggage then this might be easier to solve.”

  “Well, she wasn’t,” DI Silver said stolidly. “She was just Faith Roberts, who led a simple life and had simple needs. There are hundreds of them all over Suffolk.”

  “But they do not all get murdered.”

  “True.”

  “So why did Faith Roberts get murdered? The obvious answer we do not accept. What remains? A shadowy and improbable niece. An even more shadowy and improbable niece. Facts? Let’s stick to the facts. What are the facts? A middle-aged cleaning lady is murdered. A shy and unassuming young man is arrested and convicted of the murder. Why was Marcus Dye arrested?”

  DI Silver stared at me impatiently. “I told you the evidence against him.”

  “Yes, yes. The evidence. But tell me, Paul, what if I told you the evidence was so contrived it is unbelievable.”

  “Excuse me?” DI Silver considered.

  “The money was taken and hidden outside the house in a place easily found. To have actually hidden it in his room would have been a little too much even for the Suffolk Constabulary to believe.”

  DI Silver frowned but I continued.

  “The murder was committed when Marcus Dye went for his regular daily jaunt down the pub. What if the bloodstain on the sleeve of his jacket came from someone brushing against him in the pub or on the way home in the darkness?”

  “That’s a bit far-fetched, John.”

  “Is it? Maybe that’s the route I’m going to have to take because Faith Roberts was so ordinary. Which means the murderer must be extraordinary.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The answer is not to be found in studying the life of Faith Roberts. The answer is to be found in the personality of the murderer and whether they wanted to strike down Faith Roberts or Marcus Dye.”

  DI Silver looked at me incredulously. “You really think someone would murder a perfectly inoffensive cleaning lady to get someone else charged with murder?”

  “What else can you tell me about Marcus Dye?”

  “Nothing much. His father was a doctor who died when Marcus was nine. Normal school education, tried to get into the Army, but had a weak chest. Lived with a possessive mother.”

  “There are certain possibilities there.”

  “Do you seriously believe what you are suggesting?”

  “What else have I got?”

  “How you going to go about this, John? Is there anything else I can do?”

  “First, I should like an interview with Marcus Dye.”

  “That can be managed. I’ll get on to his solicitors.”

  “After that and subject, of course, to the result, if any – I am not hopeful – of that interview, I shall go to Oxmarket Aspal. There, aided by the case files, I shall, go over them as quickly as possible.”

  “In case the Suffolk Constabulary have missed anything,” DI Silver said with a wry smile.

  “No,” I said. “Some circumstance my strike me in a different light to the one in which it struck you. I will stay in the village, so that I can get a feel of the place. Is there somewhere of moderate comfort you could recommend?”

  “There is the Bellagamba Guest House in Oxmarket Aspal,” he said. “It’s not really a Guest House, just a rather decrepit country house where the couple who own it take in paying guests. I don’t think that it’s very comfortable.”

  “I don’t want to go over budget,” I told him. “I take it the fee is the usual standard rate.”

  “Of course,” DI Silver eyed me doubtfully. “But is it really a good idea to stay in the village?”

  “I think it is essential. I am staying in the village because I am not satisfied about the verdict in the Faith Roberts case. I have a shrewd suspicion of what really happened.”

  “You want to provoke a reaction?”

  “Exactly.”

  DI Silver looked at me uneasily. “Is this wise?”

  “It will prove beyond doubt whether Marcus Dye is innocent or not!”

  3

  My fiancé, Kimberley Ashlyn Gere was curled up with her back to me, her air inches from my nose, the smell of her making me feel almost drunk. Even though we were engaged we hadn’t officially moved in together, but this was the third night in a row that I had stayed at her apartment and I was getting used to it. Sharing my space and my body heat.

  I’d wrapped myself around her, content to look at her while she slept. I watched her breathe: gently in, gently out. She laid so still, her face expressionless, as if she knew she was being watched and didn’t want to spoil the illusion for me. She was perhaps even more beautiful asleep than awake, even devoid of the mischievous spark that lit up her eyes.

  The only noise in the room was the sound of her snoring spaniel, Charlie, who slept contentedly at the foot of the bed. Brushing my lips past her ear, I lifted my head and looked at the morning that was trying to break in through the curtains. It was still raining and the prospect of assisting the police in investigating the deaths of the three men in such dreadful weather did not fill me entirely with glee.

  My head sank once more, my lips against her shoulder, and she flickered momentarily before she settled again. I watched some more, wondering how I had got myself into something I’d never thought I’d be lucky again to experience. Tiny little breaths escaped from between her lips, making the slightest whistle, and I was the only person in the world that could hear it.

  I could feel the comfort and the calm getting the better of me, and I knew I was swimming into a half-sleep, carried away by the warmth of her skin and the smell of her natural perfume. I wasn’t sleeping, though, I was sure I wasn’t. Instead it was fitful serenity; a workable compromise, some kind of sleep mode where I could retain some control. That was what I told myself as I drifted deeper.

  The next thing I knew I was being nudged out of my no-sleep by her pert buttocks grinding against me as she stretched, catlike, her smooth skin working against me, a distinct purr rumbling in her throat. I was suddenly and noticeably awake.

  Kimberley turned, a huge triumphant smile on her face, and pushed me away from her until I was flat on my back. I was aware of her crawling on all fours towards me from my feet, stalking her prey with confidence. A hand grabbed, stroked me, and owned me. Her face told me what we both knew, she could do what she wanted. And she did.

  She sat above me, positioning herself just where she wanted. I ached for her but she remained on her knees, an agonizing inch or two above me. She looked glorious in the half-light, her hair partly over her face, her skin pale in shadow and her figure lean and curvy. When she’d satisfied herself that I’d suffered enough, she swooped and engulfed me.

  She set the pace and the rhythm. I did my best just to keep up. It was a race, but only Kimberley knew where the winning post.


  The smile on her face told me that she was in charge, she had me. But the truth was that I couldn’t care less. If this was subservience, I’d take it. In the end, I wasn’t sure if she pushed or dragged me over the finishing line, but we crossed together.

  As she collapsed on top of me and we both drifted off on a sea of satisfaction, I took a brief second to look over her shoulder and see the indefinable light leaking through the window. I couldn’t place the time within a few hours either way or it didn’t matter. This was sleep I could handle and I shifted a little for deeper comfort, and drifted, like Kimberley, to sleep.

  A while later, I watched the daylight strengthen on her sleeping face. Her hair lay tangled round her head and when she woke, even before she opened her eyes, she was smiling.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  “Morning.”

  She moved towards me in the big bed.

  “What time is it?”

  “Nearly eight.”

  “Good job it’s Saturday,” she commented.

  “I’ve still got to work.” I said sadly.

  “Like some breakfast?” She offered.

  “I’d love some,” I said.

  “Take a shower, while I’m getting it ready.”

  I did as I was told and dressed and refreshed walked into the kitchen of her apartment to find her busying away preparing breakfast. I sipped the freshly made percolated coffee and watched her slice the ends off a grapefruit and placed it on one of the cut sides. Using a small sharp knife, cut off the peel and pith, working her way around the fruit. Next, she cut the membranes to release the segments and put them in a salad bowl along with any juice that had collected on the board. She then did the same thing with some oranges.

  She smiled at me as she removed a melon from the refrigerator and cut it in half and scooped out the seeds. Sliding a knife between the flesh and the skin she chucked out the skin before cutting the melon flesh into small pieces. She added the melon to the citrus fruits and scattered over some grapes and mint leaves.

  Finally she cut the remaining orange in half, squeezed out the juice and poured it over the salad, tossing it lightly and then serving it with low-fat natural yoghurt. Kimberley called it her wakey-wakey breakfast and it certainly was.

  “What case are you working on at the moment?” She asked suddenly.

  I gave her a brief outline and she remained in situ until I had finished.

  “I knew Marcus Dye.”

  “Did you?”

  “We worked briefly together a few years ago before I joined Bio-Preparations.”

  “What was he like?”

  “Quiet, unassuming and definitely not a murderer.”

  “That’s what I’ve got to prove.”

  “I don’t like the idea of you staying away.”

  “I’ve got no choice with this one, darling.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “At the Bellagamba Guest House.”

  Kimberley laughed endlessly and wouldn’t tell me why.

  4

  With great distaste, I looked round the room in which I stood. It was a room of gracious proportions but there its attraction ended. I drew a suspicious finger along the top of a bookcase and found immediately what I had suspected – dust! I sat down gingerly on a sofa and its broken springs sagged depressingly under me. The two faded armchairs were, as I knew, little better. A large fierce-looking dog growled from his position on the moderately comfortable fourth chair.

  The room was large, and had faded wallpaper and engravings of unpleasant subjects hung crookedly on the walls with one or two good oil paintings. The chair covers were both faded and dirty, the carpet had holes in it and had never been of a pleasant design. A good deal of miscellaneous bric-a-brac was scattered haphazardly here and there. Tables rocked dangerously and one window was open, and no power on earth could, apparently shut it again. The door, temporarily shut, was not likely to remain so. The latch did not hold, and with every gust of wind it burst open and whirling gusts of cold eddied round the room.

  Now I knew why Kimberley had laughed at me for so long.

  The door burst open and the wind and Mrs Bellagamba came in together. She looked round the room, shouted “What?” to someone in the distance and went out again.

  Mrs Karen Bellagamba had red hair and an attractively freckled face and since I had arrived was usually in a distracted state of putting things down, or else looking for them.

  I sprang to my feet and shut the door.

  A moment or two later it opened again and Mrs Bellagamba reappeared. This time she was carrying a plastic bowl and a knife.

  A man’s voice from some way called out: “Karen, that cat’s been sick again. What shall I do?”

  “I’m coming darling,” she called. “Hold everything.”

  She dropped he bowl and the knife and went out again. I got up again and shut the door, cursing under my breath.

  A car pulled up, and the large dog leaped from the chair and raised its voice to a crescendo of barking. He jumped on a small table by the window and the table collapsed with a crash.

  The door burst open, the wind surged round the room and the dog rushed out, still barking. Karen’s voice came, upraised loud and clear.

  “Eric, why the hell did you leave the back door open! Those bloody hens are in the larder.”

  Fucking hell, I thought angrily, I’m paying two hundred and twenty pounds a week for this shit!

  Then the door banged to with a crash. Through the window came the loud squawking of irate hens. Then the door flew open again and Karen Bellagamba came in and fell upon the basin with a cry of joy.

  “Couldn’t remember where I’d left it. My memory is so bad. Would you mind if I sliced the beans in here. The kitchen stinks horrible at the moment.”

  “Fine,” I shrugged, admitting that since my arrival, it had been the first time in twenty-four hours that I’d had any chance of a conversation of more than six seconds long.

  Karen Bellagamba flung herself down in a chair and began slicing beans with frenzied energy and considerable awkwardness.

  “I do hope that everything is to your liking?”

  “Yes,” I said politely. “It’s a shame you haven’t got anyone else to share the burden of running this place.”

  “I did have,” she exclaimed with a squeal. “She was brilliant. Unfortunately she was murdered.”

  “That would be Faith Roberts?” I said quickly.

  “It was. God, how I miss her. I can’t cope.”

  “You got on well then?”

  “She was so reliable. She came Monday afternoon and Thursday mornings – just like clockwork. She like to snoop around a bit but she was harmless. Now I have that Stratton woman from up by the golf course. Five children and a husband. Naturally she’s never here. Either the husband’s ill, or the children are ill. With Faith, she was never ill. The first time she never turned up, she was dead.”

  The face of Eric Bellagamba appeared at the window. Karen sprang up, upsetting the beans, and rushed across to the window, which she opened to the fullest extent.

  “Look here,” he displayed a colander full of greenery, “is this enough spinach?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Seems like a bloody load to me.”

  “It’ll be about a teaspoonful when it’s cooked. Don’t you know by now what spinach is like?”

  “Oh bollocks!”

  “Have you got the fish out of the freezer yet?”

  “Well, you’d better go and do that now, otherwise that won’t be thawed out in time.”

  “What about the spinach?”

  “I’ll get that.” She leaped through the window, and husband and wife moved away together.

  I crossed the room and closed the window as nearly as I could. The voice of Eric Bellagamba came to me borne on the wind.

  “Who is the new guest, Karen? Looks a bit dodgy to me. Bloody London accent. What’s his name?”

  “Joh
n Handful, I think he said.”

  “I have seen him somewhere.” He said. “Better get the money out of him, quick.”

  The voices died away.

  I picked up the beans from the floor where they scattered far and wide. Just as I had finished, Karen Bellagamba came in again through the door.

  I presented them to her politely. “There you go.”

  “Thank you.”

  I went past her and shut the door.

  “Sorry, I’m always leaving doors open.”

  “I’ve noticed.” I joked.

  “That bloody door never shuts. This house is practically falling to pieces. Eric’s Mum and Dad lived here and they weren’t well off and they never tried to renovate the place. And then when we came home from Tuscany to live here, we couldn’t afford to do anything either. It’s fun for the children in the holidays, though, lots of room to run wild in, and the garden and everything. Having paying guests here just enables us to keep going.”

  “Am I your only guest here at the moment?”

  “There’s lady upstairs. Been here a few days now. Never comes out of her room. Eats in there. Doing some sort of research.” She paused for a moment before resuming in a slightly artificial voice. “I wonder if you’d mind paying the first week’s rent in advance. I take it you are staying for a week?”

  “Perhaps longer.” I took out my wallet and handed over the cash.

  Karen Bellagamba gathered the money up with avidity. “My husband says he recognises you from somewhere.”

  “I’m a private detective,” I said slowly. “I was on the television and in the local newspapers last year after I had solved a high profile case.”

  “So, what brings you to Oxmarket Aspal?”

  “I am investigating the murder of Faith Roberts.”

  “Ouch,” she said. “I’ve cut my hand.”

  She raised a finger and inspected it. Then she stared at me.

  “Are you serious?” She said. “They arrested that Marcus Dye. He’s been tried and convicted and everything.”

  “He didn’t do it.”

  Karen Bellagamba’s attention diverted from me to the bowl in her lap. “I’m bleeding all over the beans. Not too good as we’ve got them for dinner. Still it won’t matter because they’ll go into boiling water.”