by K. J. Frost
I nod towards the flowers scattered on the grass. “These are hers?” I ask.
“Yes, sir,” he replies.
“And where is this woman now?”
“She’s in the church, with Constable Newman,” Thompson explains. “She was upset… understandably, so I thought it best to let her go somewhere quiet. But I assumed you’d want to speak to her.”
“I will… in a minute,” I muse, nodding my head, and then I turn and move towards the body. “Has she been touched or moved at all?”
“No,” Thompson replies, leaving Fellowes where he is, and stepping closer to me. “We’ve just been waiting for you and the doctor to arrive.”
“Wyatt’s not here yet then?” I enquire, crouching down and studying the female form before me.
“No. He’s on his way though.”
I nod, removing my hat and taking in the position of the victim, which is that she’s curled up, almost in the foetal position, although her lower leg is straightened beneath her. Her dark winter coat is unbuttoned at the front, her hands clenched over the top of her jade coloured dress, clutching her lower stomach. She’s wearing a simple black felt hat, perched on top of her long, loose auburn hair, which hangs across her face, concealing it, and she has on sensible black shoes and skin-toned stockings.
About three inches above the place where her hands are clasped together, there’s a very obvious red stain, which has leached out into an area of roughly eight or nine inches, across her abdomen, a small darker slash at the centre showing the point of the incision that killed her, and giving away the cause of death – unless I’m very much mistaken – to be a stabbing.
Feeling the softness of the earth beneath my feet, I glance up at Thompson. “You’ve had rain here recently?”
“Yes,” he replies. “It poured for most of yesterday morning, but then it brightened up in the late afternoon, and turned frosty by nightfall.”
“I see.” Despite the circumstances, it’s hard not to recall the fact that I’ve been completely oblivious to the weather for the last seven days, for the simple reason that I’ve had better things to do than look outside, or even listen for the sound of raindrops against the window pane.
“Inspector?” I turn at the sound of Doctor Wyatt’s voice and get to my feet, stepping to one side, as he comes closer. He usually wears a suit beneath his overcoat, albeit a slightly dishevelled one, but today he’s dressed down even more than normal, and has on a pair of dark brown corduroy trousers, with a thick checked shirt, and no tie, his hat hanging loosely in one hand, his medical bag in the other.
“Doctor,” I reply. “Sorry to call you out on a Saturday.”
He shrugs. “Gets me out of the gardening.” His response, coupled with his attire, makes me realise that I know nothing of his domestic situation. But then, it dawns on me that he probably knows nothing of mine either. I doubt he’s aware of the fact that I’m officially still on my honeymoon, for example.
He looks down at the girl before us, taking over my position, and puts his bag on the ground, his hat balanced on top, before crouching, studying her for a while, until he stands and shakes his head, sighing. “Shall we?” he asks and I nod, bending down, and between us, we turn her onto her back.
“Good Lord,” Thompson says in a hoarse whisper, and Wyatt sucks in a loud breath. For myself, I simply close my eyes, and try to imagine how this incredibly beautiful young girl would have looked in life. It’s difficult though, because her face shows the agony of her death, her lips contorted, her pale green eyes staring blindly at the sky above us.
Wyatt crouches again, examining her closely. “She was killed here,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “There’s a large quantity of blood beneath the body…” He points, indicating the staining on the grass, which is much more visible now that we’ve moved the body. “She’d have bled to death,” he adds slowly, “and she’d have known about it.”
“Any idea of time?” I ask, more in hope than expectation.
“No,” he replies, getting to his feet and looking up at me. “But if you really want me to hazard a guess, I’d say she’s been lying here all night. And before you say anything, I know that doesn’t help you very much.”
I hold up my hand. “It’s better than nothing.”
“I’ll hopefully be able to tell you more after the post mortem,” he adds, “but I’m not making any promises. Cases like this are notoriously difficult to pinpoint.”
“I understand.”
He raises an eyebrow, gazing at me. “You’re being remarkably accommodating,” he says, narrowing his eyes slightly.
“That’s because he’s not officially here,” Thompson puts in, grinning, and I can almost hear myself groan out loud.
“He’s not?” Wyatt remarks, glancing at me, then returning his gaze to Thompson again.
“No… he’s still on his honeymoon.”
Wyatt takes a half step back. “Honeymoon?” he says, clearly surprised.
“Yes,” I reply.
“You’ve just got married?”
I frown. “Well, that’s what normally happens immediately before a honeymoon… so yes.”
“And you’re choosing to be here, instead of with your bride?” He seems even more surprised now.
“I wouldn’t say ‘choosing’, no. I think it would be more accurate to say that duty called.”
“Well, I called, actually. If you want to be strictly accurate,” Thompson quips, and I roll my eyes at him.
“And you answered?” Wyatt says, a smile beginning to form on his lips as I nod my head. “You must have a very understanding wife.”
I smile myself now. “I do indeed, Doctor.”
He holds out his right hand and, in spite of my initial surprise, I take it. “Congratulations,” he says, with sincerity as we shake hands.
“Thank you.”
He bends, picking up his bag and puts his hat back on his head. “I’ll have the body removed, shall I?”
“Go ahead.”
He turns, moving away, and calls over his shoulder, “I should have the preliminary report ready by Monday,” before he disappears around the corner of the church.
Normal service has been resumed, it seems.
Turning to Thompson, I issue him with instructions to get Fellowes to stand guard by the body until Wyatt’s men return to remove the girl, and ask him to arrange for a fingertip search to be started.
“Of the whole graveyard?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Looking for the murder weapon, I presume?”
I nod my head. “Obviously we won’t know exactly what type of blade we’re looking for, but generally speaking, I don’t think knives are found in graveyards, so anything would be useful. And can you get hold of Prentice?” I ask, referring to our forensics expert.
“Yes. You want him over here?” he surmises.
“Yes, please. I’d like him to see if he can get any useful footprints. I know it’s unlikely, given the amount of traffic there is around here, but you never know, we might get lucky.” I glance around the area. “There’s no handbag.”
“No. Do you think it was a robbery, gone wrong?”
“Not necessarily.” I crouch down again. “Let’s have a quick look in her pockets.”
I start with the right one, and discover a small purse, containing a few shillings, a house key on a silver coloured fob, crafted in the shape of a dove, and an identity card. The left pocket yields nothing but a plain white handkerchief, with a neat lace edging.
Keeping these items in my hand, I stand again, holding them out to Thompson, who looks at them, then raises his eyes to mine. “Not a robbery then,” he muses.
“No.”
I hand him the purse, the handkerchief, and the key, and then open the identity card. “Mildred Ryder,” I say out loud, reading the name.
“And her address?” Thompson asks.
“She’s local,” I reply. “She lives in Station Road.”
&nbs
p; He nods, taking the identity card from me. “I’ll get everything organised, and I’ll make sure there are constables stationed at all the entrances to the churchyard,” he says quietly. “Where will you be?”
“I’m going to talk to the woman who found the body first… and then I’ll go to the vicarage.”
“Okay. I’ll catch up with you.”
He moves away towards Constable Fellowes and I glance down at Mildred Ryder one last time, taking a deep breath, before I walk slowly around to the front of the church and in through the wide oak doors.
It’s quite dark inside, despite the winter sunshine, and I pause for a moment to let my eyes acclimatise, taking in the high stone arches, the off-white walls, interspersed with brass plaques and name plates, the sturdy wooden pews, and ornate pulpit, and the impressive stained glass windows.
“Can I help?” A police constable in uniform walks over to me and I remove my warrant card, yet again, from the inside pocket of my jacket and show it to him. “Sorry, sir,” he says.
“Don’t be. You’re Constable Newman, aren’t you?” He nods. “Where’s the witness?” I murmur, lowering my voice.
“This way.” He turns and leads me into the main body of the church, to where there’s a diminutive-looking lady sitting in one of the pews. I stand beside her and she startles, looking up, her face paling. “This is Mrs Bird,” Newman says, helpfully, and I smile down at her. She’s probably in her mid-sixties, with short silver-grey hair beneath a knitted green hat, and light blue eyes that give away her current anxiety.
“I’m Detective Inspector Stone,” I tell her, softening my voice, and she relaxes noticeably, as I sit in the pew directly in front of her, making myself less threatening, and turning around to face her. “Do you think you could tell me what happened?”
She nods slowly, glancing down at her clasped hands, then looks up at me again. “I came to put some flowers on Edwin’s grave,” she begins and I hold up my hand, stopping her.
“Can you remember what time that was?” I ask.
“I suppose about ten o’clock,” she replies. “It wouldn’t have been before, because I went down to the greengrocers first thing, to get some carrots, and then when I got back, I had a cup of tea, and then I had get the flowers from the greenhouse, and cut some foliage from the garden, and then find a vase… I don’t leave one here, in case it gets broken… or stolen.” Her voice fades and she lowers her eyes again.
“So, about ten,” I prompt and she nods. “And what happened when you got here?”
“I didn’t even get to Edwin’s grave,” she replies, pulling a handkerchief from inside her sleeve, and dabbing at her nose. “I—I went to the tap to get some water… and that’s when I saw her.”
She starts to sniffle and I reach over, taking her free hand in mine. She’s not wearing any gloves and her fingers are freezing, so I keep hold of her until she’s calmed. “What did you do?” I ask softly.
“I dropped the flowers,” she replies. “Although somehow I managed to hold onto the vase.” She nods to the ornate, cut-glass container on the pew beside her. “And then I ran out onto Summer Road… what with that being the nearest entrance to the churchyard.”
“And that was where you found Constable Fellowes?” I suggest.
“Yes. He was very kind,” she adds, as though concerned I’m about to find fault with him in some way.
I smile to let her know I’m not. “You didn’t see anyone else?” I ask, even though I know she probably won’t have done.
“No.” She sits forward slightly. “I don’t suppose I could have my flowers back, could I?”
I think about her scattered buds and stems, strewn across the grass. “Probably not,” I reply, noting the drop in her shoulders, before I turn to Newman. “Can you drive?” I ask him.
“Yes, sir.” He stands upright.
“Good. There are a couple of Wolseleys parked in Church Lane. I’d like you to take Mrs Bird home in one of them, and help her to gather up some more flowers from her greenhouse…” I look at Mrs Bird. “Is that going to be possible?” I ask her and she nods.
“Yes, I grow them on especially for Edwin’s birthday, every year,” she explains. “I didn’t pick them all this morning… I thought it would be nice to have some in the kitchen to brighten the place up a bit, but needs must…”
“Indeed,” I reply, facing Newman again. “When you’ve done that, I want you to bring Mrs Bird back here, and make sure she gets to arrange the flowers on her husband’s grave. I imagine by then there will be a search going on, but tell whoever’s in charge that I gave you permission to use the tap behind the church, and to lay the flowers… all right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If there are any problems, I’ll be at the vicarage.”
He nods his head as Mrs Bird stands and I do likewise, stepping out into the aisle as she looks up at me. “Thank you,” she murmurs as we walk together along the back of the church towards the door. “This is so kind of you.”
“You don’t have to thank us, Mrs Bird.” I lead her from the church and out into the mid-afternoon sunshine, replacing my hat. “You’ve been very helpful.”
She smiles and I watch as Newman escorts her down the path, passing Sergeant Thompson, who’s coming the other way.
“Everything organised?” I ask him, as he approaches.
“Yes. I drove down to the local station and telephoned Prentice from there. He’s on his way over, and reckons he’ll be here in about twenty minutes. And the desk sergeant there said he’ll get the search started straight away.”
“Good.”
He shrugs. “I’d have involved our own lads,” he adds, “but we’re so short staffed at the moment, I didn’t like to offer anyone.”
“It’s just a search,” I point out. “I’m sure the local uniform chaps can handle it.”
“What next?” he asks, looking around.
“The vicarage.”
“Okay… well, we can get to it through the churchyard, I believe. I think there’s a gate over there somewhere.” He points towards the far corner of the graveyard. “But being as it’s a maze of pathways, I think it might be safer, and quicker, to use the less direct route.”
He indicates down the pathway, in the opposite direction to that taken by Mrs Bird and Constable Newman, and we turn and start walking.
“Did you learn anything from the lady who found the body?” he asks.
“Mrs Bird?” I reply and he nods. “No, not much. She went to the tap as soon as she arrived, and that was when she discovered the body. So she didn’t even enter the graveyard properly.”
“Not that I think she’d have seen anything if she did,” he remarks.
“No. I think Wyatt was right about the fact that Miss Ryder had been here all night.” I bury my hands in my pockets. “Anyway, I’ve sent Constable Newman back to Mrs Bird’s home with her, so she can collect some more flowers to lay on her husband’s grave. It seemed like the least we could do in the circumstances.”
We get to the end of the pathway and turn left onto Summer Road, going along a few yards, and turning into a driveway that leads up to a large red-brick Victorian house.
“Nice place,” Thompson comments, and I can’t fail to agree. It is an extremely grand property, with a magnificent arched doorway, the surrounding brickwork being fashioned in an alternating black and white pattern, which is matched on the window to the right. “That’s impressive,” he adds, nodding to our left, in the direction of the ornate first floor bay window that dominates the front elevation.
“I think they’re called oriel windows,” I reply and he turns, smirking.
“You would know something like that.”
“Well, I suppose some of us have it…” I murmur, knocking on the door and taking a step back.
“And some of us don’t care,” he mutters, just managing to wipe the smile from his face as the door opens and we’re faced with a man of medium height, in his mid-thirties, with s
andy-coloured hair, deep blue eyes, and a friendly face, which I suppose makes sense, given that, immediately beneath his chin, he’s wearing the dog-collar that symbolises his profession. The remainder of his clothing is less formal, however, consisting of grey flannel trousers and a dark red sweater.
“Can I help?” he asks, raising his eyebrows, his hand still on the door, as though he’s quite prepared to close it again, at a moment’s notice.
“I hope so.” I reach for my warrant card, holding it out. “I’m Detective Inspector Stone, and this Detective Sergeant Thompson.”
“Oh yes?” He remains where he is, looking inquisitive now and perhaps a little contemptuous, rather than friendly, and clearly still not about to let us into the house – not until he knows our business, anyway.
“What’s going on?” The female voice that sounds from behind him is just slightly nasal and he steps aside for the first time, revealing an attractive woman with neat brown hair and a trim figure, currently displayed in a tweed skirt and plain white long-sleeved blouse, done right up to her neckline, with a bow at the collar. “Why haven’t you invited these gentlemen in, Neville?” she asks, nudging him completely out of the way and ushering us into the house, with a prim, if insincere smile. We remove our hats, keeping hold of them, standing on ceremony.
“I was about to, dear,” he says, with a tired voice, closing the front door, although I doubt he’s telling the truth. “And they’re policemen.” He makes it sound as though our profession in some way makes it impossible for us to also be considered ‘gentlemen’.
“So?” she retorts, opening a door to her left. “Please, come in.” She smiles, holding out her hand as we pass. “I’m Eileen Hodge, and you’ve already met my husband, Neville.”
“Yes,” I reply, not taking the trouble to point out that he hadn’t bothered to introduce himself.
We follow her into a substantial drawing room, which overlooks the side of the house, two large, deep red sofas sitting either side of an impressive stone fireplace, with a few meagre logs crackling in its hearth, an intricately carved sideboard against the wall to my right, and a couple of low tables dotted around, with ornaments and lamps placed upon them. The walls are decorated with large landscapes, which are grand in scale, if not in content. It’s not exactly a sparse room, but it couldn’t be considered homely either. I would say ‘unloved’ would be a good way of describing this room.
