Divine Death: A Rev Jessamy Ward Mystery (Isle Of Wesberrey Book 4)

by Penelope Cress

  The usual suspects

  Luke cleared the table of the remains from our feast, whilst Tizzy ran upstairs to fetch her magazine rack. It delighted me she was so keen to share. I had thought last time that she was wary of letting me see the contents, but perhaps she was just nervous about my asking too many questions. Within minutes the four of us were looking through Tizzy’s cutely decorated folders, each containing potential motives for murder.

  I had picked up Sebastian DeVere’s file. It was grey with spots of yellow and gold. There were lots of swirls and Fleur de Lys stickers. “Why the French influence?” I asked.

  “Because his name is French. Also, don’t you think he has a Parisian air? Like he would have been happier as a courtier at Versailles.”

  I agreed. Tom, who has an eye for such things, had also remarked on Sebastian’s attention to style. Not only was he wearing a black belt with brown shoes, according to Tom, a major fashion faux pas, but he looked more like a tramp the last time I saw him. Was the guilt of his actions eating away at his sartorial soul? Or was it grief? The folder had little to enlighten me.

  He had an impressive pedigree, though. Schooled at Eton, his father was something big in antiques and fine arts. There was one article about DeVere’s auction house in London breaking records with the sale of a Van Gogh sketch. With a buyer’s premium alone of twelve percent, the company made £480,000. His family’s wealth explained the Italian suits. But not why he would want to kill his mentor.

  “How are we going to review this?” I wondered, “Should we pass the files around and then compare notes?”

  “Well, I have the victim’s file here and from what I can see there’s a pool of suspects we haven’t got files for. This man made a living from calling out charlatans and fakes. I’m guessing that made him a truckload of enemies,” Buck replied.

  We swapped files. Next for me was Ernest Woodward. Whilst I knew that Luke was certain Ernest couldn’t have slipped back to the church without them seeing, there was still a possibility that he had. The couple were, as they said, ‘preoccupied’. Though every part of me screamed he must be innocent, I couldn’t prove it. Ernest’s file was also grey but was very formal and businesslike, much like the man himself. Tizzy had drawn cityscapes and used stickers of black umbrellas and bowler hats. The file had a frame around its edge made of a mottled-silver-grey animal print, the only nod to his more eccentric hidden depths.

  “Tizzy, I have to say you’ve captured people’s essences with your designs and you only knew each of them for a few hours at most.”

  “Like I said before, Reverend. I like to capture my first impressions. Take the file you’re holding right now. Mr Woodward. He appears so prim and proper, but I sensed a different side to him. A man capable of so much love and forgiveness. An artist trapped in a business suit. I am sure he was a remarkable lawyer in his day, driven by compassion and empathy but governed by process and protocol.”

  “Listen to my girl, Reverend. She even sounds like a writer.” Buck radiated with pride. They had had a tough start, but I truly believed they would have a great relationship in the future.

  “I agree. Her powers of observation are remarkable. If I were setting up a detective agency, I would want her in my team.”

  Next up was Isadora. There wasn’t much about Isadora herself inside. Most of the articles were about her father. As Reverend Cattermole had reported, he was a very active member of the community. His obituary in the Stourchestershire Times made for interesting reading.

  “Reginald Bryant passed away in his sleep, May 1st, following a brief battle with liver cancer. His loving wife, Rita, remained at his bedside till the end. Reginald was known to the people of Oysterhaven as a loyal Rotarian and active town councillor. A deeply religious man, he volunteered at Journey’s End animal hospice for over ten years. He is best remembered for his philanthropic nature and his legacy of active fundraising for local good causes. He is survived by his wife, Rita, and his daughter, Mrs Isadora Threadgill.”

  No mention of his first wife, and more intriguing, no mention of S.H.A.S. I imagined his second wife wrote the obituary at a time of deep grief. It was probably just an oversight.

  And finally, I got my hands on the file of the main man, Norman Cheadle himself. As Buck suggested, there were plenty of possible suspects with incredibly strong motives. He had built his career on tearing other people’s down. There was article upon article spanning over twenty years. Maybe his killer was a hired gun, paid by a consortium of his former victims, who snuck on and off the island under the cover of darkness. Unknown. Unseen. Undetectable.

  Only one article linked the late professor with any of our other suspects, but it was hardly a basis for murder. Quite the contrary, this story was about how he secured over two million pounds in funding for a new archive at Stourchester University. They named the benefactor as Charles DeVere O.B.E, of DeVere’s Auctioneers.

  “I think the butler did it!” laughed Luke, now more relaxed than he had been earlier that evening. “It’s always the butler. Or the person you least expect. Maybe Norman Cheadle committed suicide.”

  Tizzy giggled. “Yeah, he bashed his own head in.” She sweetly rubbed his hair. Everyone rubbed Luke’s hair. He would be bald by twenty at this rate. “My money is on DeVere. He is ambitious. He has the height. Can’t see how Isadora would have the strength. And she is so sweet. I doubt she ever would get that angry. Crotchety? Yes. Murderous? No.”

  Buck shook his head. “I hate to say it, ya'll, but the only one I see having a motive here is Ernest Woodward. There were several reports in that folder relating to the rumour that Cheadle defrauded his legal firm. Though he went on to expose other cheats and liars, as they say, it takes a thief to catch a thief. My suspicions are that he was guilty and all these years later, mild-mannered Mr Woodward lured him to the church under a false name or something and then set up the fight to give himself an alibi. Then once he knew someone had seen him going back home, he doubled back and wham!”

  “Hmm, interesting theory,” I couldn’t imagine my churchwarden being that devious, “but how did he know he was going to be seen or had been seen? People aren’t usually lurking around a graveyard after dark.” I paused for a beat before sorting all the files in a line. “Hoping for witnesses to give him a false alibi is a high-risk strategy. Ernest is anything but high-risk. Assuming that there wouldn’t be any witnesses is far more likely, and yet we know that there are at least three people who saw Ernest fighting with Norman… hmm, how come Audrey didn’t see you?”

  I turned to Luke. “I guess she was on the other side of the church. Or… it was too dark. There’s a streetlamp by the gate thingy with the roof.”

  “The lychgate. Yes, ... and in her statement, Audrey said that she didn’t see everything that happened because she took the long way around to avoid confrontation.”

  Luke tilted his head quizzically, “Aunt Jess, how do you know what is in her statement. Did you break in again?”

  “Why, son of a gun, Vicar. You broke into the police records?” Buck appeared mightily impressed.

  “I might have strayed on my way back from my exercise class. It’s my church hall. Hardly breaking in.” I knew I had no defence.

  “See, Dad, isn’t she something!” Tizzy clapped her hands. “When I write my first crime novel, I will base the main character off of you, Reverend Ward.”

  What’s love gotta do with it?

  It had been an entertaining evening, even if our real-life game of Cluedo had produced no clear suspect. Between us, Buck and I had convinced the youngsters they had to tell all to the police. Buck agreed to take the couple in first thing in the morning.

  Top on my agenda was to visit Tom and Ernest, despite Inspector Lovington’s warning, they were my parishioners and it was my duty to ensure they received the pastoral care they needed at this difficult time.

  “Look at me! My nerves are shot!” Tom held out his quivering hands as evidence. “We haven’t eaten p
roperly or slept for days. Reverend, we need you to do your sleuthing thing. Have you found anything that can clear Ernest’s name?”

  I wanted to tell them both about Tizzy and Luke but didn’t want to raise expectations. Even with their statements corroborating Ernest’s assertion that he walked home, leaving Norman very much alive, we can’t prove that he didn’t go back to finish the job.

  “Ernest, what I don’t understand is why you were so reluctant to tell the inspector what happened? You must have realised how it would look!”

  “I think I can answer that.” Tom placed one of his quivering hands on his beating chest, “It was to protect me.” He bit his lower lip, rolled his eyes to the heavens and sighed, “I closed up Harbour Parade station around nine-thirty and rode the last car up. When I got home, I found this dear, sweet man crumpled on the sofa cowering in fear. It took me a while to get anything sensible out of him, but once I knew what had happened I, well… I stormed out into the night to find that piece of... you know what, and give him a piece of my mind. Ernest didn’t want to give the police any reason to suspect that I had any motive to hurt that vile man. Which I promise you, Reverend, I would’ve done if I’d found him.”

  “But you didn’t, well you couldn’t have. You said you closed up at half-past nine. Then you travelled up. That takes what, five minutes? Allowing for the time it took you to lock up Cliff View station, walk home, find Ernest, get him to tell you what happened, etc. It must’ve been gone ten o’clock by the time you left the house again. Norman would have been dead an hour by then.”

  Ernest’s mouth twitched into an uneasy smile. “So, it couldn’t have been Tom, then?”

  Now it all made sense, Ernest thought that his devoted partner had dealt the final blow. His silence was to protect Tom, not himself.

  Tom dramatically feigned indignation, “Ernest Woodward, you actually thought me a cold-blooded murderer? I am deeply wounded. Oh, the indignity!'' Then he beamed a smile brighter than the Wesberrey lighthouse. “And that, dear boy, is why I love you so very much.”

  “Well…” I said, thinking that this would be a good time to give the two men some personal space, “I should be leaving.”

  “Nonsense, Reverend. This calls for a celebration. I’ll put the kettle on.” Tom leapt to his feet and whirled off towards the kitchen.

  A brighter Ernest leant forward in his chair and, fixing me firmly in his stare, whispered. “He would have done it, you know. He was an amateur pugilist in his youth.”

  “Tom was a boxer!” I gasped. “Well, it’s a good thing then that someone beat him to it.”

  People constantly surprise me. How we change through life. The different roles we play. Our personality quirks and mysterious pasts. Above all, what continues to amaze me is the human capacity to put ourselves in danger to protect those we love.

  The brighter atmosphere at the White House made for an extremely pleasant morning. I learnt a lot about Tom’s fighting youth. How his father had taught him to box in order to defend himself against bullies and bigots. Turns out he had a natural talent and almost made it onto the Olympic team. A skill Ernest found very attractive when they first met and useful through the years they had to keep their relationship secret.

  “I would have easily laid out that sack of bluster,” Tom boasted.

  “Well, I’m relieved that you didn’t,” I said, carefully dunking a digestive biscuit into my tea. “There is still the question of who did it, though. I have only two suspects. Sebastian DeVere and Isadora Threadgill. As far as can fathom, neither one has a motive, but they are the only other people on the island who were connected to him. Neither has what I would call a cast-iron alibi.”

  “Well, let’s examine what we do know,” Ernest suggested. “What are the facts?”

  “There are several witnesses who can confirm that Norman and Sebastian had dinner at the Cat and Fiddle and that between eight to eight-thirty Sebastian left to go to bed.”

  “And no one saw him afterwards?” Ernest had walked to his bureau to grab a notepad and a pen.

  “But he was at the May Day parade the next day. He was acting as if nothing had happened, but he must have known by then that Norman was dead,” Tom added.

  “They took his statement earlier that morning. It might have been a welcome distraction. People grieve in many ways.” I wished I had been there to see Sebastian’s behaviour for myself. Maybe then I would have a clearer sense of how relevant it was.

  “And, don’t forget the black belt! A man like DeVere could get dressed in the dark. He channels style the way other men are conductors for testosterone.” Tom’s hands danced elegantly up and down. “It’s in his DNA. Everything about that look was wrong, wrong, wrong!”

  “Maybe he couldn’t wear his brown belt...” Ernest scribbled notes, “He was planning to stay a few nights, maybe he only packed a couple of options. One black, one brown. If something had happened to his brown belt -”

  “Like being splattered with blood!” I cried.

  “Leather is porous, right? A devil to clean, especially in a hotel room with nothing more to work with than some shower gel. He couldn’t remove the stain of the night before.” Tom half-jumped out of his chair. “That’s it! I’ve solved it. Sebastian DeVere snuck out of the back of the pub and found his way into the church before Cheadle.”

  “But how did he get there before him? You didn’t see him take the railway. None of the local taxi drivers reported picking him up in town. I’m sure the police would have asked around. Did he have a bike? It’s uphill from the Square and quite a risk.” Something just wasn’t adding up for me. Sebastian was a shambolic wreck when I saw him on Monday. Though, if he were the killer, that would explain why he felt safe accepting Isadora’s invitation to stay at her house. “And how did he get into St. Bridget’s? Phil swears he locked up as usual.”

  “Maybe Isadora told him about the side door,” Tom said nonchalantly.

  Both Ernest and I gasped.

  “Isadora knew about the side door?”

  “Of course, I showed her.”

  Open and shut suitcase

  Tom’s revelation certainly put the cat amongst the pigeons. If Isadora knew about the side door, then she knew it would be unlocked and that she could probably creep in and out without being noticed. Whilst there were plenty of potential witnesses to see Sebastian leave the Cat and Fiddle, no one did. As to Isadora’s alibi, we only had her word that she was watching television. It would be easy enough to look at the schedules and pick a show that would seem plausible. With most programmes available on-demand through the relevant website, it would be simple enough to watch it later, just in case anyone asked questions.

  I was still struggling to work out a motive, but if Isadora were the murderer then trusting, dishevelled Sebastian was in potential danger. I had to speak to Dave straight away.

  ✽✽✽

  “Reverend, I have strict orders not to let you inside the hall.”

  “PC Taylor, I need to speak to Inspector Lovington. It could be a matter of life or death.”

  “I’m sorry, Reverend Ward, but Inspector Lovington warned me you might try to trick me. I cannot let you pass.”

  This was infuriating! “Is he in there? If he is, then I can talk to him outside.” PC Taylor had positioned himself on sentry duty at an equal distance from the hall to the White House. I could have just run past him if I were twenty years younger.

  “As it happens, he has gone to Stourchester. But don’t ask me what he is doing there because -”

  “I know you can’t tell me.” I needed to try a different tack. “Well, maybe you can tell me if Sebastian DeVere is still on the island? I have a book on Neolithic votive offerings that he leant me. I would like to return it.” Just a little white lie for the greater good, the Boss won’t mind.

  PC Taylor hesitated. Even though he had just that minute told me that the inspector was miles away, he looked over each shoulder to check before answering me.

&
nbsp; “We had a request from Professor Cheadle’s widow to pack up his belongings. I have to stay here to keep a lookout. As Mr DeVere is no longer a suspect, he is free to go.” Interesting. “He will be heading back to Stourchester, so I asked if he could help return the professor’s stuff to Mrs Cheadle, and he was delighted. Poor man, he was so grateful to do something useful for his late mentor.”

  “And to get as far away from Wesberrey as possible, I should imagine, eh?” PC Taylor nodded grimly. “You have a primary suspect then? Come on, PC Taylor. You can tell me, I’m a priest.”

  “No, sorry, Vicar. The Inspector would have my head,” The constable was extremely jittery. Having been on the wrong side of the Baron myself, I could understand why.

  “Just a little, teeny, tiny clue. I promise he will never know,” I pleaded.

  He relented. “Forensics found a set of fingerprints. It took them a while to find a match because they weren’t on the system.”

  “But they are now…” Think, Jess, think! “So, they belong to someone on the island that you recently interviewed and processed? And, to my knowledge, you’ve only arrested one person so far. Ernest Woodward!”

  “That’s why I’m not supposed to talk to you! I saw you entering there earlier. I am more than able to keep guard on the evidence and watching the comings and goings of the White House. If I see you trying to warn him -”

  “Don’t worry, Constable. I was merely there to offer my pastoral support. If Ernest is a killer, then I have no intention of getting in the police’s way.” Time to move on. “Anyway, I need to catch Mr DeVere before he leaves the island. It’s looking a tad overcast, I hope you don’t get too wet. Would you like me to bring you an umbrella?”

  PC Taylor declined my offer. Knowing he was watching me like a hawk, I ran home to pick up Fortescue’s island history to serve as a decoy, then raced to meet DeVere before he got on the ferry. Cilla is an absolute godsend.