by Gwen Moffat
‘You didn’t mention any of this to us.’
‘You haven’t interviewed me! We exchanged a few words two days ago but not since. You must have talked to Edith Bland,’ she added. ‘Now she’ll have information; she was living here when the child disappeared.’
The sergeant was approaching. They started to move again. ‘They were friends,’ Tyndale said. ‘Her and Joan Gardner.’
‘I’m not surprised. Presumably they were close in age.’
They reached the black bank and moved along it until the pale bones appeared, reminiscent of dinosaur fossils in rock. He gauged the distance between the remains and the top of the bank.
‘How long would it take for that much peat to accumulate?’
She stared at him. Could he be joking? ‘Several hundred years?’ she hazarded. ‘But if she died by accident on top of the ground the foxes would have seen to the dispersal of the body, and ravens and so on.’
‘Quite. It was a silly question.’
The man was human — no, crafty. That hadn’t been a silly question but a trap. He couldn’t rid himself of the suspicion that in some way, despite the lapse in time, she was involved. When he came to realise that, had it been so, she would never have led them to the skeleton, he’d abandon the suspicion. And by that time other features would be absorbing his attention and everyone could forget that Perry was here first, and that Perry was on the run from the police — or from someone.
Leaving Mounsey and the uniforms on the moor, Tyndale started back with Miss Pink. They were quiet until they reached the track, having drifted apart, each concentrating on the difficulties of the ground. They reached the Corpse Road and looked back to where the three policemen were visible, sitting on the bank.
‘Who was the man she was with?’ Tyndale asked, as if voicing a thought.
‘I have no idea.’ She thought that if a man had been mentioned in the original statements none of the villagers would have named him.
‘She’d be a light load for a farmer to carry,’ he mused. ‘She’d weigh less than a sheep.’
‘It was summer time. There’d be strangers about: ramblers, itinerants come in to help with the hay.’
‘Of course’ — turning bland eyes on her, speaking with apparent carelessness — ‘you’re friendly with the local people.’
Only the Fawcetts, she thought, and sketched a shrug and resumed walking.
He fell in beside her. ‘Not many left now,’ he said. ‘Harald Fawcett, old Isaac... anyone else?’
‘The obvious one.’ She allowed her discomfort to show. It would be unnatural not to mention the name. ‘Was Walter Thornthwaite’s death ever registered?’
‘Not to my knowledge. But we mustn’t jump to conclusions.’ There was a hint of amusement in his tone.
‘Only you were mentioning who was alive,’ she said tartly. When he didn’t rise to this she went on, ‘There will be a number of people who were young at the time and they’ve moved away. Some went to Canada.’ As Walter Thornthwaite may have done, but that was Tyndale’s department.
‘We’ll trace them,’ he said, and then, alarmingly: ‘How senile is Harald Fawcett?’
About to protest strongly, she hesitated and said slowly, ‘Senility is like virginity. Either you have it or you don’t. You can’t be part-senile.’
‘How much credit can we put on his statements?’
‘None. He confuses events, and crimes: historical and current, fact and fiction. He probably includes his dreams. His wife will be able to fill you in better than me.’
‘She wouldn’t be objective.’
He thought she was? No, another trap, he was fishing.
‘What do you know about Edith Bland?’ he asked, disconcerting her again when she thought they were considering rapists and murderers. ‘Isaac’s sister,’ he said, as if reminding her.
‘They’re siblings?’ She giggled. ‘Rick told me he visits her. I imagine Rick thought it a — romantic liaison. I don’t know anything about Mrs Bland. I’ve never spoken to her. Are you telling me the fact that they’re brother and sister is significant?’
She was teasing him but he responded seriously. ‘Possibly. Who knows? Anything may be significant in a murder case.’
They came to the ruin. ‘Don’t go under that gable-end,’ she warned as he made to cross the tumbled stones. ‘It’s ready to fall.’
He turned away and they regarded the remains of the village several hundred feet below. ‘At the risk of sounding critical,’ she ventured, ‘aren’t there more important calls on your time than an ancient murder?’
‘Not at the moment, but I doubt that it’ll be pursued with the kind of enthusiasm we’d give a murder that happened yesterday. It’s a matter of resources. We’re not going to be able to trace all the possible suspects — unless something happened that would point us to one person.’
She tried to think of a clue concealed among those fragile bones that might point them to the murderer, but even if the hyoid were found and it was broken, indicating strangling, that would only tell them how she was killed.
‘The identity of the man may never be known,’ came his voice, ‘not without a witness coming forward — and who’s to say that wouldn’t be from spite? Either that or a confession.’
She wouldn’t let him see that this last had struck home, wouldn’t say heatedly that confessions were often made by people who were mentally disturbed. She thought of Harald uneasily.
*
Surprises continued without remission, each one delivering a jolt that sent adrenalin surging through Miss Pink’s ageing system. This must be how vulnerable people suffered strokes, she thought, stepping into the hall at Nichol House at the invitation of a total stranger, a large tanned man with the suggestion of fine features discernible in the plump moon-face. He beamed at her.
‘I’m Clive Thornthwaite,’ he announced, closing the door, extending a hand.
She tried not to gape, realising tardily that there was no reason why the son from the first marriage shouldn’t be visiting. He ushered her into the kitchen — the kitchen? Bemusedly she was wondering why he hadn’t changed his name, and then wondering why he should. ‘I’m holding the fort,’ he was saying. ‘They’re visiting with Bob and Marina and I’m cooking dinner. You’ll stay, of course; you came to see them.’
‘I’ve come straight down off the hill —’
‘You look splendid: like a Valkyrie.’
He threw a handful of almonds in a pan. Miss Pink was fascinated. On one side sultanas and onion rings drained on kitchen paper. A wooden chopping board was heaped with cubes of meat.
‘I’m doing a biryani,’ he told her. A timer pinged. ‘Would you mind seeing to the eggs?’
She removed a pan of boiled eggs from the stove and placed it in the sink.
‘Cold water,’ he ordered, tossing the almonds. ‘Run the tap on them before they go black.’
She did as she was told and leaned against the sink. She counted eleven little pots of spices beside the chopping board.
‘My mother can’t cook,’ he said. ‘As you’ll know if you’ve eaten here. I grew up with that, of course, which probably explains me. Backlash.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘I’m a chef. Didn’t she tell you?’
‘All I know is that you live in California.’ And I didn’t get that from your mother. ‘Do you have a restaurant?’
‘Not at the moment. I work for a movie director. We commute between Bel Air and his place on the coast near Pebble Beach. Where are my manners? What will you have to drink?’
‘Is there any lager?’
He produced Budweiser and she realised he must have spent some considerable time shopping. Foreign beers and spices didn’t go with the Fawcett image. He sautéed the meat expertly, one hand cradling a large whisky, but his attention was flatteringly on herself — until she asked how long it was since he last came home.
‘Quite a while.’ He peered at the meat, glanced
at the clock, then doubtfully at the window which was open wide to the garden. ‘This smell is going to fill the house,’ he muttered. ‘Ah well, they won’t notice. You would, I’m sure. Tell me, how do you live when you’re home?’
He didn’t want to know where she lived, but how; this man was more interested in people than in geography. She studied him: a few remaining wisps of hair, neither blond nor grey but something between. She’d put his age in the mid-forties, which would be correct, Anne had been pregnant when the reservoir was filling. A pleasant fellow, overweight but light on his small feet. He was wearing leather sandals and khaki slacks, a red T-shirt under his striped apron. She told him about Chrissie Clarke who was a fair cook, and who looked after herself and the house in Cornwall — and the cats. ‘Ah, cats,’ he said, and they were away. In California they had two Siamese and a Burmese who went everywhere with them. He talked as if the movie director were a friend rather than an employer.
Several drinks later, the biryani in the oven and themselves ensconced in the drawing-room, the french windows wide to the air, Clive still in his apron, there was a bustle in the hall. Anne and Harald were back and Miss Pink hadn’t even washed her face. Embarrassed, she struggled to her feet.
Anne stopped on the threshold, alert and uncertain. Harald pushed past her smiling, first at Clive, then at Miss Pink. ‘He’s made you welcome, I see. Where have you been? You’ve caught the sun. Let me get you — ah, you have a drink.’ He went to the sideboard.
Miss Pink saw the query in Anne’s eyes. Suddenly she realised that where Clive was concerned, her news could be terribly distressing. ‘I would love a wash,’ she said, staring hard at her hostess.
‘Come upstairs,’ Anne said.
In a big cool bedroom, blinds slatted against the sun, Miss Pink said, ‘We found the body.’ Anne was silent. ‘Not a body,’ Miss Pink amended. ‘A skeleton, what remains of it: buried in the peat half a mile or so from the Corpse Road. Bags — the collie — found it; Rick and I were walking up there this morning. The police know.’ Still Anne didn’t react. Miss Pink said, ‘Are you that shocked? Didn’t you think she was dead?’
Anne recovered with a gasp. ‘I’m shocked — yes. However much you anticipate it, it’s a shock when it comes.’
Really, after forty-five years? ‘I thought I should warn you,’ Miss Pink went on evenly. ‘Tyndale — the inspector — implied all the men who were living in Orrdale at the time are suspect, but he only knows of three.’
‘Harald, Isaac Dent — who else?’ It was too cool.
‘Your first husband.’
‘Ah yes, Walter. And since no one knows if he’s dead, it’s assumed that he could be alive.’
Miss Pink dismissed that with a shrug. ‘Tyndale was asking whether Harald’s statements — his word — could be relied on.’
‘Harald had nothing to do with her. He wasn’t interested in little girls.’
‘Of course not. What bothers me is that he might get real events confused with fictitious plots. He doesn’t think about what he’s saying. I mean, why did you ask me to take him to Liddesdale yesterday?’
Anne didn’t answer. She was thinking. ‘It would be impossible to find any evidence against him.’
‘You’re not saying — not that there was evidence!’
‘No. What I’m saying is that, with the weird things he comes out with, they could misinterpret: could think he was referring to Joan’s murder, or at least a murder, and then put pressure on, trick him into a confession. But a confession from Harald would be invalid, wouldn’t it?’
‘But you’re worried.’ It was Miss Pink’s turn to be thoughtful. ‘If it wasn’t Harald — and of course it wasn’t,’ she added quickly, ‘then who was it? You see, if we could fasten — no, I don’t mean that, but if the blame lies elsewhere, then Harald’s in the clear. D’you see what I’m getting at? If someone knows who did kill Joan and tells the police, you have nothing to worry about.’
Anne stood at the window gnawing her thumb. It would be a difficult decision: to clear one husband by condemning the other. Miss Pink said comfortably, ‘No hurry. Incidentally, I said nothing to Clive about any of this. How much does he know?’
‘Nothing.’ Anne seemed miles away. ‘He knows nothing.’
‘Do we — do you tell them?’
‘Of course. They have to be warned’ — she read Miss Pink’s expression correctly — ‘about a visit from the police. Let’s fill them in, shall we?’ Her tone was light, too light.
‘I must go back to the flat.’ Anne regarded her doubtfully. ‘It’s a family matter,’ Miss Pink said firmly, at the same time realising exactly how much of a family matter it was.
‘Come down and finish your drink.’ Now the tone was hard. ‘It would look odd if you dashed off after a wash.’
‘There’s just one thing,’ she said, when Miss Pink emerged from the bathroom. ‘It’s going to be tricky with Clive. I mean, Walter is — was his father.’
‘Needs delicate handling.’
‘Exactly. So if I could ask you not to mention anything. Anything?’
‘I’ll go as soon as I’ve made my excuses.’
She reckoned without etiquette. ‘No way!’ Clive protested as she downed her lager and refused another, citing the need for a bath. ‘You were invited to eat with us. You’re going to sample a genuine Indian dish.’
‘Of course she’s staying,’ Harald echoed. ‘No question. Another of these alien beers, Melinda?’
‘Darlings!’ It was Anne. ‘Melinda’s been on the hill all day, she’s dying to change.’
‘So why did you wash?’ blurted Clive, and grimaced as he realised that washing could no doubt have been a euphemism. He was about to rush on when the doorbell rang.
Miss Pink caught Anne’s eye and mouthed ‘Police.’ Why hadn’t she anticipated it so soon? Tyndale had brought her down from Orrdale, dropped her outside the churchyard and driven away. Guessing that he’d be occupied with the murder scene — no, interment site — and the skeleton, the thought that he might find time to visit people this evening hadn’t crossed her mind.
The others were irresolute. Harald said doubtfully, ‘Shall I answer the door, my dear?’ Anne made a flustered flapping gesture and hurried out of the room.
Clive moved to Miss Pink, glancing at Harald. ‘What’s going on?’ he hissed. ‘Is there something I should know?’
Harald had heard him. ‘They found a human bone,’ he said quietly. ‘Almost certainly from the child that went missing in the fifties.’
There were voices in the hall. ‘We found the skeleton this afternoon,’ Miss Pink whispered. ‘Act ignorant. I haven’t told you.’
Anne appeared with Tyndale. He focused on Miss Pink, stayed expressionless for a moment, then he smiled, but not with his eyes. He turned to acknowledge the introduction to Clive. Anne didn’t mention her son’s surname.
Harald came forward, the courteous host, pressing the inspector to be seated, bringing whisky, nodding affably when Tyndale explained that this was a social call, just to give them the latest news. He hadn’t expected Miss Pink to be here before him.
‘They’ve only just come in,’ she told him. ‘I haven’t had time to tell them.’
‘Is that so?’ He looked at their expectant faces. ‘You haven’t heard that we’ve found the remains, presumably those of Joan Gardner.’
Harald cocked his head like a terrier. ‘Where?’
Clive was massaging his mouth. He stared at his mother. Anne was frowning.
‘On the Corpse Road?’ Tyndale glanced at Miss Pink as if uncertain of the topography.
‘In the old peat cuttings,’ she supplied.
Harald’s jaw dropped. ‘She fell — fell in a hole, broke a leg maybe?’
‘She was buried,’ Tyndale said.
‘Oh. Well. Obvious, of course. I’ve done it myself: burial. Dogs aren’t going to smell it in the peat. It was either that or drop it in a crevice in the wood, but too accessible
there — to the dogs. I thought about it a lot. Disposal is always a problem.’ His eyes glazed. The others hung on his words. ‘Killing is easy,’ he assured them, ‘too easy when it’s spontaneous, but even when it’s pre-meditated, when you have it all worked out: the weapon, opportunity, alibis — planned meticulously... I enjoy the planning — but then you have the body to dispose of. Because however careful you are about blood and washing, and plastic sheeting, you must leave some trace of yourself on the body. So above ground is out of the question, and water’s only marginally better... Concrete? Bridge foundations?’ His eyes lit up. ‘The dam? Even that’s not foolproof; there was a case recently where a body was found in concrete foundations — and they weren’t looking for it! No, there’s nothing, no perfect method of disposal, same as there’s no perfect murder.’ He was morose. ‘Eventually they’re going to catch up with you. Peat preserves tissues.’
‘It doesn’t. Only the bones are left.’ Tyndale could have been enjoying an academic discussion. ‘The hyoid bone will be there. If it’s broken, she’ll have been strangled.’
‘Could have been broken with the weight of the soil. Or an animal could have damaged it, or made off with it.’
‘No. The remains are set in the peat. Like concrete.’
There was a heavy silence. Clive stood up. ‘If you’ll excuse me: I have to check the oven.’
‘Grand smell,’ Tyndale said. ‘Your son’s a cook?’
‘Chef,’ Harald corrected proudly, ‘for a cinema tycoon in Hollywood. We’ve got pictures.’ He hurried out of the room.
‘Well, that’s distracted him,’ Anne said, with relief. ‘He does love a good murder.’
‘Is this a good one, ma’am?’
‘It was so long ago,’ Miss Pink put in. ‘One views it objectively, like a report in a newspaper. Did you know the girl, Anne?’
‘I did.’ She stared at the glass in her hand. ‘We all knew her. Silly child.’ She sighed.