The Oxmarket Aspal Murder Mystery

by Andrew Hixson

  Kristen Braun, who was by now pregnant, left Oxmarket and in the words of the Oxmarket Sunday Echo: Kindly relatives offered her a home. Changing her name, the local well-loved nanny, seduced by a cold-blooded killer, moved away to begin a brand new life and concealed from her daughter the name of her child.

  “My daughter shall grow up happy and innocent. Her life shall not be tainted by the cruel past. That I have sworn. My tragic memories shall remain mine alone.”

  Poor young Kristen Braun. To learn, so young. Where is she now? Is there, in some part of the United Kingdom, an elderly woman, quiet and respected by her neighbours, who has, perhaps, sad eyes . . . And does a young woman, happy and cheerful with her own children, come and see ‘Grandma’ telling her of all the little strifes and stresses of daily life – with no idea of what past sufferings her mother has endured?

  “Fucking hell,” I exclaimed quietly under my breath, before passing on to the next tragic victim.

  Kay Kempster, the ‘tragic wife’, had certainly been unfortunate in her choice of husband. His peculiar practices, referred to in such a guarded way as to rouse instant curiosity, had been suffered by her for eight years. Eight years of martyrdom, the Oxmarket Sunday Echo said firmly. Then Kay met a friend, an idealistic and an unworldly young man who, horrified by an argument between husband and wife, had intervened and assaulted the husband with such intensity and violence that the latter had crushed in his skull on a sharp-edged marble fire surround. The jury had found that provocation had been the reason behind the attack and the young man had had no intention of killing him and a sentence of five years for manslaughter was given.

  The suffering Kay Kempster, horrified by all the publicity the case had brought her, moved abroad ‘to forget’.

  Has she forgotten? The Oxmarket Sunday Echo asked. We hope so. Somewhere, perhaps, is a happy wife and mother to whom those years of nightmare suffering endured, seem now only like a dream . . .

  I cursed under my breath once more and passed on to Jo Pedder.

  She had it seemed, been removed from her overcrowded home and placed in the care of an elderly aunt. One particular day, Jo had wanted to go to the cinema and her aunt refused to let her go. In a blind rage, Jo reacted by picking up a hammer that was lying conveniently on the table and aimed at her aunt with it. The aunt being small and frail, died from the blow. Jo was well-developed for a twelve year old and she was sent to an approved school and disappeared from the public eye.

  By now she is a woman, free again to take her place in society. Her conduct, during the years of confinement and probation, is said to have been exemplary. Does not this show that it is not the child, but the system, that we must blame. Brought up in ignorance and below the poverty line, little Jo was the victim of her upbringing.

  Now, having atoned for her tragic lapse, she lives somewhere, happily, we hope, a good citizen and a good wife and mother.

  I shook my head. A girl of twelve who took a swing at her aunt with a hammer and hit her hard enough to kill her was not, in my opinion, a nice child. My sympathies were, in this case, with the aunt.

  I moved on to Sandra Cavendish.

  She was one of those women with whom everything goes wrong. She had first taken up with a boyfriend who turned out to be a violent criminal wanted by the police for the murder of a security guard at a bank. She then married a tradesman who turned out to be a receiver of stolen goods. Her two children had likewise, attracted the attention of the police by being caught shoplifting in one of the major department stores in Cambridge. Finally, though, she met a new man who offered Sandra a home in Tuscany where she and her children moved too.

  At last, after long years of repeated blows from fate, Sandra’s troubles were over.

  I leant back and studied the four photographs. Kristen Braun with tousled curly hair. Kay Kempster short fat and dumpy. Jo Pedder was a plain child with an adenoidal appearance of open mouth, hard breathing and thick spectacles. Sandra Cavendish looked as if the whole world were on her shoulders.

  For some reason Faith Roberts had torn out this feature, photographs and all. Why? Just to keep because the article interested her? I doubted that. Faith Roberts had kept very few things in her life and I knew that from the police reports of her belongings.

  She had torn this out on the Sunday and on the Monday she had bought a new printer cartridge and wanted to use her computer and possibly print off a letter when the inference was she never wrote letters and hardly ever used her computer.

  I scanned the photographs once again.

  Where, the Oxmarket Sunday Echo asked, are these women now?

  One of them, I thought, might have been in Oxmarket Aspal last November.

  9

  It was not until the following day that I managed to get round to meet the journalist who had written the articles in the Oxmarket Sunday Echo.

  Debbie Baldwin couldn’t give me long, because she had to rush away to London, she explained.

  She was tall and elegant with curly blonde hair, dressed in a wide striped jumper, black leggings and black knee high boots. She didn’t need to wear heels but the boots brought her to eye level with me and I’m six foot two.

  “You’ll have to be quick,” she said impatiently. “I’ve got to be going.”

  “It’s about the article you wrote concerning ‘Tragic Women.’”

  Debbie Baldwin grinned. “I had a lot of emails, texts and tweets on that article.”

  “What about letters?”

  “Yes, I had a few.” She replied.

  “Did you get one from a Faith Roberts from Oxmarket Aspal?”

  She shrugged her shoulder exasperatingly. “Do you realise how much correspondence I receive in a week?”

  “I thought you might remember,” I said, “because a few days later Faith Roberts was murdered.”

  “Of course,” she said, no longer impatient to get to London. “I remember now.”

  “Can you remember the contents of the letter?”

  “Something about a photograph. She knew there was a photograph like in the paper – and would we pay her anything for it and how much?”

  “And you answered?”

  “Only with a standard letter. A polite thanks but no thanks.”

  Into my mind there came back a comment that Karen Bellagamba had made, “She liked to snoop around a bit but she was harmless.”

  Faith Roberts had snooped. She was honest but she liked to know things. And people kept things – foolish, meaningless things from the past. Kept them for sentimental reasons, or just overlooked them and didn’t remember they were there.

  Faith Roberts had seen an old photograph and later she had recognised it reproduced in the Oxmarket Sunday Echo. And she had wondered if there was money in it. . . .

  I moved towards the door of her office. “Thank you, Miss Baldwin. Pardon me for asking, but the notes on the cases that you wrote, were they accurate? I notice, for instance, that the year of the Porter trial is given wrongly – actually a year later than you say. And in the Kempster case, the husbands name was Anthony not Andrew. Also Jo Pedder’s aunt lived in Norfolk, not Suffolk.”

  Debbie Baldwin waved a dismissive hand.

  “I admit I was expansive with the truth.”

  “So, those women are the saints that you painted them to be?”

  Debbie Baldwin laughed at me, which I found a little bit offensive.

  “Of course they weren’t,” she said. “And now – I really must fly.”

  Later in my car, I rang DI Silver on my hands-free mobile.

  “How are you getting on?”

  “I have started making inquiries.”

  “And?”

  “And the result is that Oxmarket Aspal is full of very nice people.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Just consider this.” I said, as I turned in through the gates of the Oxmarket Aspal Doctors’ surgery. “Very nice people have across the length and breadth of time committed murder
.”

  “Where are you now?”

  I glanced at the brass plate that announced I was visiting Dr Hogg, M.D.

  “Let me know how you get on,” DI Silver said, after I had told him.

  Dr Hogg was a large cheerful man of about forty who greeted me with definite admiration.

  “Our quiet little village is honoured,” he said, “by your presence.”

  “You know me?”

  “Of course,” he exclaimed. “The way you solved the death of that financier was just absolutely brilliant.”

  I smiled gratefully at the recollection. Local banker Martin Brett, was found dead in his flat, gun in his hand with bullet wound to his right temple. The initial assumption was that he had taken his own life.

  DI Silver had called me in because he had a gut feeling that something wasn’t right. After an extensive look round, I came to the conclusion that Martin Brett couldn’t possibly have killed himself.

  The coffee table was to the left of the settee with the coffee mug on the table pointed to the left. Left-hand power sockets were habitually used and a notepad was positioned to the left of the land-line telephone. In the kitchen a butter-knife had butter on the right-hand side of the blade and from this I established that Martin Brett was left-handed and that left-handed people do not shoot themselves on the right side of their head.

  Finally forensics confirmed my findings when they discovered that the bullet in the head did not match his gun. After this revelation the wife confessed once I had also questioned her extensively about her jewellery that I had found on the dressing table in the bedroom.

  All the jewellery except for her wedding ring which was dirty on the outside but polished on the inside was clean. They had been married for about ten years. From the condition of the ring, I had concluded that they had been unhappily married for most of that time and she had frequently had affairs. She took pride in her jewellery, but couldn’t bring herself to clean the wedding band because it meant so little to her. Frequent removal had ensured it stayed shiny on the inside.

  “You came just at the right time,” Dr Hogg said heartily, shaking me from my reverie. “I was just about to go out and do some home visits.”

  “I won’t keep you long.” I said and then asked, “What can you tell me about Faith Roberts?”

  “I thought that was all done and dusted?” He asked me sharply.

  “Fresh evidence has arisen,” I told him.

  “Really?”

  “I am not at liberty to say anymore at the moment,” I said. “I understand she worked here.”

  “Oh yes, yes – she was – What about a drink? Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?”

  “No, I’m fine thanks.”

  “Yes, she worked here and very good she was too.”

  “Was she honest?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Was she honest?”

  Dr Hogg raised a quizzical eyebrow. “What a strange question.” He said. “As far as I was aware, I would say the answer was a resounding yes.”

  “So she wouldn’t spread malicious rumours about people without being sure of the facts?”

  Dr Hogg looked faintly disturbed. “What had she been saying?”

  “Nothing to concern yourself with,” I said.

  “What about Marcus Dye?”

  “Bit of a hypochondriac,” he replied. “Probably mollycoddled by his mother. I see that quite often round here.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, Lorraine Terret. Fusses over her son Oliver, like a mother hen. He’s a clever man but not quite as clever as he thinks he is. Budding author he is.”

  “Have they lived in the village for long?”

  “About three or four years. Nobody has been in Oxmarket Aspal for very long. The original village was only a handful of cottages grouped around the meadow. You’re staying here, so I’ve heard through the village grapevine.”

  “Yes, I am,” I replied without expanding on it.

  Dr Hogg appeared amused. “What Karen Bellagamba knows about running a Guest House is just nothing at all.”

  “It’s reasonably comfortable,” I insisted.

  Dr Hogg looked at is watch.

  “I hope I’m not keeping you,” I said.

  “I’ve got a few more minutes. Besides I’d like you to meet my wife. I can’t think where she is. She was really interested to hear that you were in the village. We both love reading about crime.”

  “Fact or fiction?” I asked.

  “Both.”

  “Do you ever read the Oxmarket Sunday Echo?”

  Dr Hogg laughed. “What would Sunday be without it?”

  “They had some interesting articles about five months ago. One in particular about women who had been involved in murder cases and the tragedy of their lives.”

  “Yes, I remember the one you mean. All a load of rubbish if you ask me.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “Well of course the Michael Porter case I only know from reading about it, but one of the others the Kempster case. I can tell you that woman was no saint. She was a real bitch. I know because my partner attended the husband. He was no Robert Redford, but his wife was no oil painting either. She seduced that young man and egged him on to commit murder. He went to prison for manslaughter and she became a rich widow, and married someone else.”

  “The Oxmarket Sunday Echo didn’t mention that,” I said. “Do you remember who she married?”

  Dr Hogg shook his head. “Don’t think I ever heard the name, but someone told me that she did pretty well for herself.”

  “I did wonder after reading the article what became of those four women,” I mused.

  “I know. They could be in Oxmarket Aspal without anyone knowing. You’d certainly never recognise any of them by the photographs. My God, they were a grim looking lot.”

  The clock chimed and I rose to my feet. “I must get going. I’ve a great deal to do. You have been very helpful.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” He said, with false modesty. “But please wait and meet my wife. She’ll never forgive me.”

  He preceded into the hallway and called out loudly: “Keldine! Keldine!”

  A faint answer came from upstairs.

  “Come down here. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

  A thin fair-haired pale woman ran lightly down the stairs.

  “This is John Handful, the private detective.”

  “Oh,” Mrs Hogg appeared to be startled out of speaking. Her very pale blue eyes stared at me apprehensively.

  “Pleased to meet you,” I said, shaking her proffered hand.

  “We heard that you were staying in Oxmarket Aspal,” she said. “But we didn’t know-” She broke off. Her light eyes went quickly to her husband’s face.

  I uttered a few phrases and left with the impression of a genial Dr Hogg and his tongue-tied, apprehensive wife.

  So much for the Hoggs, where Faith Roberts had gone to work on Tuesday mornings.

  10

  Norbert House was a solidly built Victorian house approached by a long untidy drive overgrown with weeds. It had not originally been considered a big house, but was now big enough to be inconvenient domestically.

  I asked the young Polish woman who opened the front door for Lady Osborne.

  She stared at me and then said: “I do not know. Please to come. Miss Bird perhaps?”

  She left me standing in the hall. It was in an estate agent’s phrase ‘fully furnished’ – with a good many curios from various parts of the world. Nothing looked very clean or well dusted.

  Presently the Polish girl reappeared. She said: “Please to come,” and showed him into a chilly little room with a large desk. On the mantelpiece was a big and rather evil-looking copper coffee pot with an enormous hooked spout like a large hooked nose.

  The door opened behind me and a girl came into the room.

  “My mother is lying down,” she said. “Can I do anything for you?”

&nbs
p; “You are Miss Osborne?”

  “No, my name is Chloe Bird. Lord Osborne is my stepfather.”

  She was a plain girl of about thirty, large and awkward. She had watchful eyes.

  “I was anxious to hear what you could tell me about Faith Roberts who used to work here.”

  She stared at me. “Faith? But she’ dead.”

  “I am aware of that,” I said gently. “But I would like to hear about her.”

  “Oh. Is it for her life insurance or something?”

  “It’s got nothing to do with life insurance, it is a question of fresh evidence.”

  “Fresh evidence. You mean – her death?”

  “I’ve been asked by the solicitors for the defence to make an inquiry on Marcus Dye’s behalf.”

  Staring at me, she asked: “But didn’t he do it?”

  “The jury thought he did. But juries have been known to make a mistake.”

  “Then it was really someone else who killed her?”

  “It may have been.”

  “Who?” She asked abruptly.

  “That,” I said, “is the question.”

  “I don’t understand at all.”

  “No? But you can tell me something about Faith Roberts, can’t you?”

  “I suppose so,” she said rather reluctantly. “What do you want to know?”

  “Well – to begin with – what did you think of her?”

  “Why – nothing in particular. She was just like anybody else.”

  “Talkative or silent? Curious or reserved? Happy or miserable? A nice woman or a not very nice woman?”

  Chloe Bird reflected. “She worked well but she talked a lot. Sometimes she said some rather strange things. Personally, I didn’t really like her very much.”

  The door opened and the Polish girl came into the room. “You’re mother say: please to bring.”

  “My mother wants Mr Handful to go upstairs to see her?”

  “Yes, please, thank you.”

  Chloe Bird looked at me doubtfully. “Will you go up and see my mother?”

  “Of course.”

  Chloe Bird led the way across the hall and up the stairs and said inconsequently, “I wish the agency would send us someone who could speak more than just broken English.”