Stone Dead

by Jennie Melville

  ‘Oh well, good. Let’s lay hands on him.’

  ‘He’s missing,’ said Charmian carefully. ‘But we’re looking.’

  It seemed the moment to get into her car and to drive off with a wave. She could see from Deast’s face that losing a suspect was not well thought of.

  The house in Maid of Honour Row, where Charmian had lived alone before she married Humphrey and to which they had now moved back, was empty and quiet. The dog, that successful vagrant who had parked himself on them with no intention of leaving, was away with her husband. That only left the cat who was probably asleep on her bed.

  In the kitchen, she dumped her briefcase on the table, then poured herself a glass of cold milk. She drank it, leaning against the refrigerator.

  The cat’s food bowl was empty, so wherever she was, she was not starving.

  Charmian considered the case, admitting to herself that she was not sure where they were getting. Ellen Winner had given her a lot to think about: the contact that the killer shopper might have made earlier with Daisy, the hint she might have known this person, and the suggestion that Daisy had been imprisoned and not minded too much. Even that touch about the silken gloves. It was almost too much.

  Birdie and Winifred, presently asleep in the house round the corner, mercifully as yet not sold, would have to be questioned again.

  So would Victoria Janus, who had been left alone too long. Come to think of it, she might not be a bad person to consult about talking mind to mind: she claimed to call people back from the dead, and even if that was in jest, she seemed to know about killing all right.

  And she had to bear in mind that the person in the car soliciting help, help which was really an invitation to death, could be a woman.

  Sex dubious, she summed it up.

  So the Horseman still seemed a promising prospect. He was local, he might very well know what was tucked away under the floorboards of the shop in Gallows Passage, and if he knew that, then he might know all about the stone coffin in the garden. She doubted if he was an archaeologist, but he might very likely be a prowler, a digger of holes.

  For the first time, she spared a thought for the early occupant of the stone grave, who had almost certainly been hanged. Poor chap. Not left in peace, even in death.

  She opened her briefcase to draw out the file of papers on the missing women. Then she laid it on the table unopened.

  Bed and sleep first. She would study it again in the morning. Yawning, she made her way up the narrow stairs to her bedroom, where the cat was asleep on the bed.

  The answerphone told her there was one message waiting. It was from her husband, a loving and affectionate message. Because he was, as she often reminded herself, a loving and affectionate man.

  And it really was time she was more grateful for it.

  Chapter Seven

  The Horseman was quietly asleep in his private den. He called it that although the word was not appropriate. It was a cosy den. Not one that belonged to him, but one he was using for the moment.

  Presently, he awoke and considered life.

  As in all good dens, there was a telephone; he moved towards it. He had a good friend he had met a while ago; it was time to call her. Or him. Sex was by mood with that one … Although it was Joseph’s opinion (he particularly disliked those who called him Joe) that there was no sex at all. They had not met in prison, although they could have done, since there was definitely the smell of death about his friend. Perhaps that was what had attracted Joseph.

  In that case, what smell had he sent out that attracted his friend? The answer came at once: blood.

  He let his mind dwell on the institution in which they had met and how they had bonded, if that was the word. Nothing to do with gender. Woman is woman and man is man. And horse is horse. But of that, no more.

  He could ask this friend for help.

  ‘You don’t have to ask me,’ his friend had said. ‘Don’t ask, just tell. We are companions in sorrow.’

  Are we now? he had thought. It was Joseph’s private opinion that this friend did not know anything about sorrow. You’d have to dig deep to find real sorrow in that one. Pleasure in pain yes, sorrow no.

  Yet there was a friendship. An alliance was the better way of putting it. Me for the worst in you and you for the worst in me. My worst is better than your worst.

  Which made a moral judgement but after all, what was a moral judgement? Not something this friend feared, as he had noticed.

  He hoped he could trust this friend.

  Not all these thoughts were internal and silent. If you live alone you need something to give you a sense of your identity. He had a tape recorder on which he set down the ramble of his thoughts.

  Sometimes he listened to them again, sometimes he just erased them.

  The tape was now recording. Today’s thoughts would have a short spell of immortality.

  He rang his friend, but got no answer. Too early in the morning; his friend was not an early riser. Joseph understood that the friend had a complicated life.

  He had something of a nocturnal life himself; ‘But my life is simple compared with your life, my friend,’ he said to his machine, wondering if a great thought or a well rounded observation set in neat sentences would follow. But nothing came.

  He tucked himself into his den for a period of sleep. He was a good sleeper, it passed the time, and cost nothing.

  Presently, he was aroused by voices outside. Men, talking in loud cheerful voices.

  He did not recognize the voices but he knew whom they were talking about when one of them laughingly proclaimed that they would soon ‘get him’.

  ‘He can’t hide here,’ said another voice. ‘I’ll know his tracks.’

  ‘Who said he is here?’ said another voice.

  ‘Seen coming in,’ said the first speaker.

  ‘He may have left already,’ rejoined the other.

  ‘Orders are to search and check.’ Horses are venerated in the Great Park and although none there run free, the speaker knew that there were deer which might attract the knifer.

  ‘What about the police giving a hand?’ Joseph identified this as the first speaker. A man from Scotland, he thought, with some relish. ‘Or a foot? Don’t want them trampling around making trouble.

  They can be called in when we get him.’ This was a new voice.

  Obviously one of authority. ‘Remember that, Mr Macfiggis.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Macfiggis was polite.

  It came to the Horseman that the new speaker with the voice

  of a boss figure probably lived near his den. The thought gave him

  great amusement.

  He withdrew deeper into his den. That lot would never find him.

  A low laugh rippled out of him.

  He waited for the voices to drift into the distance before trying

  his friend’s telephone number once more.

  This time he got an answer: the answerphone was turned on

  and told him that his friend was not there.

  ‘Oh shit,’ said Joseph. He considered leaving a message as the

  machine had politely suggested but dismissed the idea.

  Besides, what was it he wanted to say? I need to speak to you.

  I am in trouble and I want you to share my trouble.

  To make it your trouble if I can.

  He retired into the recesses of his den to have some breakfast.

  Coffee, toast; the marmalade was home-made and good, tempting

  him to have three slices although he was usually a modest eater.

  And never drank alcohol.

  Stimulated by the coffee, he considered emerging from his den

  for a look round, but soon decided against it.

  Instead he turned on the radio to listen to the news on the hour.

  There was no word of the murders, nor was his name mentioned. ‘I am the hidden secret,’ he intoned to his tape machine, ‘ but I

  know the police are looking fo
r me. I have my own source of

  information. And it isn’t telepathy, either.’

  Once again he dialled his friend’s number, still no answer.

  Oh come, my two-faced friend, I was thinking we might do a

  murder together.

  Joke, of course. We are merry together, are we not, friend?

  There would probably be another search. He was beginning to

  be just a little less confident in this friend. Perhaps the friend wanted

  him caught? In that case, Joseph would have to get in first.

  The police had gone searching for Joe Davy in his house even as he had tucked himself merrily into his den.

  He had had advance knowledge of their arrival, having his good friend. It was almost like having your own Guardian Angel.

  There would probably be another search. He was beginning to be just a little less confident in this friend.

  Perhaps the friend wanted him caught?

  In that case, Joseph would have to get in first.

  Chapter Eight

  Frostie came in with a tray of tea and toast for her friends; she had let herself into their kitchen, unasked and uninvited, but determined to do her best for them.

  Frostie being helpful could be very maddening, but Winifred and Birdie had to admit that the sight of her tall, comforting figure bearing food was welcome. She had added a jar of her own honey to the tray.

  Birdie accepted a slice of hot buttered toast and honey. ‘Haven’t been able to eat lately, not since I realized I was a murder suspect.’

  ‘You aren’t, Birdie.’ Winifred shook her head firmly.

  ‘I am, Win, open up, admit it. Frostie does, that’s why she’s here with tea and toast. Comforts for the condemned.’

  ‘Do shut up with that line,’ said Frostie, although there was some truth in it.

  ‘They don’t hang people now,’ went on Birdie, still eating toast and honey with alternate gulps of hot tea, ‘but I shall be banged up in a tough jail.’

  ‘Come on, Birdie, you don’t believe that.’

  ‘Not altogether,’ admitted Birdie, ‘but I don’t like the way the police are sniffing around. They are calling me in—’ she said the words with some relish, ‘ calling me in for some more questioning. “Want to get things straight,” Superintendent Hallows said, and we know what that means.’

  Frostie had brought their breakfast into the sitting room. Birdie and Winifred had had several newspapers spread around them. One was open at a picture of the shop in Gallows Passage, with a smaller picture of Birdie and Winifred in one corner.

  Frostie poured a cup of tea for herself. She could see that, fears of mortality or prison sentence apart, they were enjoying the publicity.

  ‘Photograph’s not bad,’ she assessed. ‘Does you justice, Birdie.’ Even flatters you, but better not say that just now.

  ‘Not bad at all,’ agreed Birdie, preening herself.

  ‘I shouldn’t worry too much about the suspicions against you two.’

  ‘You can see the force of them.’ Winifred, strengthened by the food, was able to face facts. ‘There it is, this dead woman in our garden, and Birdie with her story … brings us right in.’

  Frostie put her mysterious, I know better face on. ‘Well, I wonder.’

  ‘Come on, out with it,’ said Winifred Eagle as she watched Frostie’s face. ‘All friends here.’

  Frostie poured herself another cup of tea, slowly, carefully, watched it for a moment, then said: ‘I’ve heard that they have two other suspects in mind: one is Victoria Janus and the other is the man they call the Horseman.’

  ‘Where did you get this from? Who told you?’

  Frostie thought for a moment. She could say: Well, it will be in the local evening newspaper tonight, and in the big dailies tomorrow, which was probably the case, but instead, she told the truth. ‘My milkman’s daughter is a trainee journalist covering the police beat and she picked up the rumour.’ She gave Winifred, always the more sceptical of the two other witches, a defensive look. ‘She’s a very clever girl, and as a matter of fact, he’s a very clever milkman, always remembers what one’s ordered and when you want it, and always puts the milk in the shade.’

  Trust Frostie to have the cleverest milkman in Windsor, thought Winifred. I bet he delivers the best milk too.

  ‘Lovely creamy milk,’ said Frostie defiantly, well on form.

  Birdie stood up and stretched her legs. ‘I feel better. You don’t know what it’s like being under suspicion of killing someone. But now, when I go in to talk to the Superintendent again, I shall feel braver.’

  ‘It might not be him, might be Charmian and she’s a friend.’

  ‘No friends in police business,’ said Birdie, a keen reader of crime books. The shop had been her idea first. ‘No, I am quite looking forward to it now. And it will be good for business.’

  ‘Once they let us open the shop again.’ Winifred was dour. And replace the floorboards.’

  Birdie became more sober at once as she remembered past events. ‘I’ll never forget those clothes, and the eye.’

  ‘You didn’t see it, not seen it yourself,’ Frostie reminded her.

  ‘No, but just thinking about it is enough. You know what it means, don’t you? Somewhere out there is the woman that lost that eye … I hope she was dead when she did.’

  Frostie said: ‘I guess that’s why they suspect the Horseman … he wouldn’t care if the woman was alive or dead. Prefer her alive.’

  Charmian Daniels, having checked that the search for Joe Davy was under way, spoke to her secretary Florence, opened her letters, read the usual daily précis of the reports which she would eventually have to read in full and asked to see Inspector Barstow if she had arrived.

  Dolly had arrived and had not been pleased to learn that Daisy Winner’s sister had identified the woman found in the stone coffin as her missing twin, and that she, Dolly, had not been there.

  ‘You can stay around now, check with Hallows and ask George Rewley to get in touch. If he ever surfaces. Where is he, do you know?’

  ‘He had an idea.’

  Rewley’s ideas were famous within SRADIC. He was the most intelligent and the most hard-working of the team, the best educated and the most eccentric. Charmian valued Rewley.

  ‘Did he say what the idea was?’

  ‘Something about archaeology. He was not specific. Just digging around, I think.’

  ‘I hope it doesn’t take too long, there’s plenty going on here. He wasn’t going to the Middle East on a dig, I hope.’

  Dolly did not laugh at the joke, just said: ‘I don’t think he had any plans to flee the country. He’ll be back, I don’t think he was going far.’

  Charmian stood up. ‘I’m about to call on Victoria Janus, which is what she calls herself now, Mary Ansell when she was up for murdering two people. Two at least, might have been more.’

  ‘You’ve really got it in for her.’

  ‘I can’t say I take to her. Especially in this new manifestation.’

  Charmian drove to Slough, no great journey from her office, although it took longer than it should because of the heavy traffic. She drove out through Cheasey, through the industrial estate, and found her way to the small side street that was Oakley Road. There in the middle of the row of shops, a butcher’s, a greengrocer’s and wine shop, was Vine House. And yes, there was a sad looking vine struggling for life on the side wall.

  Bitter grapes, thought Charmian sardonically.

  The Janus establishment was in a white painted shop. A plate glass window covered by a soft pale curtain protected those inside from the rude gaze of those outside but probably did not stop them from seeing out.

  She had the feeling that she herself was being observed, so she walked up to the glass door, pushed it open and marched in.

  She found herself inside a large, light room with a desk on one side and a sofa and chairs on the other. A green computer screen winked on the desk.

>   A tall, plump man rose from the sofa. Something in the way he walked towards her told her who he was, the face was without the make-up that had changed the colour of the skin, and the wig, hiding a bald pate, had gone.

  ‘You’re Ellery Queen,’ she exclaimed.

  ‘One half, ma’am, one half only.’

  The other half appeared further down the room and advanced towards them. He had obviously appointed himself the silent half as he said nothing.

  Charmian could not stop herself. ‘ How do you manage when you are Siamese twins?’

  The talking twin understood at once. ‘You mean the legs? It is a problem. We allow ourselves – self, I should say, three legs. That seems reasonable.’

  Charmian nodded.

  ‘So we bind the middle legs – or leggetts as we named them laughingly – together. It can make walking difficult. We have experimented with bending the leg at the knee and then anchoring backwards, but it is painful, and not to be adopted for long.’

  Charmian believed it.

  ‘We do a very good Dorothy L. Sayers, but she is not in much demand lately.’

  ‘An ex-actor, I take it?’

  ‘Not ex, my dear ma’am, say rather an out of work one, a common state in the profession. I am one myself. I would be back on stage if the chance came, or before the TV cameras. Meanwhile this is money well earned, not good money, you understand, but pays the rent. I won’t do doubles, though,’ he added keenly. ‘I won’t be the Queen Mother or Mrs Thatcher.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter?’

  ‘Well, it restricts our earnings, doesn’t it, Tody.’ He turned to the silent twin, who nodded. And the boss doesn’t like it.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’

  ‘But she’s got a new boyfriend … an actor, lovely looking fellow,’ he said wistfully. ‘Works for her when he’s resting. He’ll do anything.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Charmian remembered Ian Fleming. ‘I think I met him dressed as a woman.’

  ‘That’s right. He’ll do anything. He’s good, I must say. He’ll do female impersonation, there’s quite a market for it. But he’s got a wide range. Once or twice, he’s done the Prince of Wales, it’s the nose, you see. Same shape.’