The Games People Play Box Set

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “Francesco Schippio, Sylvia said. “I find him quite easy to understand but of course, I don’t see him often. We’re all fixated with the murders, I’m afraid. We’ve been too closely involved.”

  “And,” Harry spoke through the steam from his cup, “I imagine any and every murder is horrible. Perhaps these are worse.”

  “Being close makes them worse,” Ralph said.

  Met with silence, he backed off and returned to the kitchen. But he was satisfied to have met the two people he was there to study.

  With November bouncing in as sweet as a summer’s day, Ruby wandered the village street, over the tiny bridge and past The Crooked Wager, turning up the narrow lane to the bakers. Francesco at the manor produced puddings and cakes of mouth-watering quality, but so did the bakers, and an extra cream slice while walking in privacy never went astray. In fact, Ruby constantly carried spare tissues in her bag for use as surreptitious napkins so that squidgy cream and custard could be removed from her mouth and fingers before she went back to the manor for lunch.

  Edging from the baker’s while balancing a wedge of lemon cheesecake half way to her mouth, Ruby bumped into a younger woman who smiled, and held the door open for her.

  “Thanks,” with mouth full.

  The younger woman followed, and then walked alongside. “Mrs. Pope, I believe”

  “Umm,” spitting crumbs.

  “I’m delighted to meet you, Mrs. Pope. Ruby, isn’t it? What a lovely name.”

  The sun was in her eyes, and Ruby was trying to enjoy her cheesecake in peace and secrecy. After all, chocolate brownies had been promised for lunch and bread and butter pudding with blackberries for after dinner. Ruby knew exactly what Sylvia would say if she saw her scoffing cheesecake mid-morning. Pulling out a tissue, Ruby turned. The young woman seemed intent. “I have no idea who you are,” said Ruby. “And I’m busy.”

  The woman didn’t leave. “How impolite of me not to introduce myself at once,” she said in a hurry. “My name’s Crystal Larkin, and I’m a reporter for the Gloucester Gazette. And I know exactly who you are, Mrs. Pope, since you’re quite famous of course. The wife of the great racing driver, Rodney Pope, who so tragically died.”

  This made all the difference, and Ruby stopped on the top of the bridge. “Yes, yes, you remember him? We were such a grand pair. Rodney and Ruby.”

  “Can we talk, Mrs. Pope?” The reporter pointed to the little wooden seat beside the stream. “I’d love to know more about your husband. It must have been so exciting, married to a famous man like that.”

  Ruby thought about it. Actually, it hadn’t been exciting at all. She’d hardly ever seen him since he was away almost constantly. “Oh, yes,” she said, swallowing the last of the cheesecake. “I met them all, you know. Shaking up the champagne, and the parties afterwards.” She had never actually liked champagne and had only twice been taken along to the huge after-party, but this seemed irrelevant. “I’m always happy to remember dear Rodney. But such a long time ago now.”

  “He sounds like such a humble champion and so skilled. Surely a lovely man.” Crystal had only heard of him that morning when she’d googled the residents of Rochester Manor. “I’m so delighted to have met you, Mrs. Pope, and now I’m able to ask after my hero. But of course, I’m well aware that you yourself are an important woman.”

  “Really?” How did she work that out?

  “The support you gave him, and how you lived with a man addicted to speed and excitement. Besides,” she lowered her voice, “I’m sure you must have skills of your own. All women do.”

  She could boil an egg and just about make toast. “You actually want to know about the murders, don’t you?” Ruby demanded. “Not my husband at all.”

  There were swans on the stream, three white ruffled necks curving beneath the bridge. Since the stream was narrow enough to jump over, the bridge was hardly needed, but it made life easier and attracted summer tourists gazing at the thatched cottages. The Torr was, of course, the same stream that trickled on through the Rochester grounds to the spot where Pam’s dissected remains were found.

  The reporter hiccupped. “Mrs. Pope, indeed I do, and I won’t deny it. Every newspaper in every county wants information on the murders. But I assure you, I admired the champion Rodney Pope for many years. I’d love to hear more.”

  “You’re not old enough.” Ruby eyed Crystal.

  “Well yes, but my father was such a fan, you see, and passed on the enthusiasm to me.” As an experienced journalist, lying seemed not to be a problem. “So please do tell me everything. And perhaps we could speak of the murders too. My editor would be delighted if I came back with a little extra information.”

  Ruby watched the swans duck their heads under the rippled surface, gulping for tiddlers, grubs and water beetles. She felt slightly foolish. Trapped by her own pathetic yearnings for importance through her late husband, a man she had ended up disliking. “Go on then,” she said. “Forget about my poor Rodney. Ask about the murders and be done with it.” She wished she had more cake.

  “Most kind of you, Mrs. Pope. Perhaps you could tell me about poor Pam, the maid, I believe, at your home. And I understand that two others whom you may be acquainted with are involved in some manner. Sylvia Greene and Harold Joyce. Perhaps you could tell me what you know.”

  “They’re my friends, especially Sylvia.” Pam bit her lip. “And Pam was a darling. Everyone liked her. She wasn’t just a maid. She helped us all and we helped her.” She shifted uncomfortably, fairly sure that both Sylvia and Harry would be appalled if they knew she was talking about them. “But,” she added, “I don’t want my own name mentioned. If I can stay anonymous, then I’ll tell you what I know. But it isn’t much.”

  “I can promise anonymity, Mrs. Pope.”

  So much for wanting to know about Rodney and their marriage. “Pam was young and pretty, but she didn’t have many friends. She was a little shy, you know.” Ruby wasn’t even sure how old Pam had been. “Around twenty four. She lived at the manor, but she lived with her mother when she went home on her days off. I don’t know where that is, but she had her own car. She liked the freedom of spending time with her family, but then being able to come back here. She liked reading.” Ruby paused. “Is this really the sort of thing you want to know?”

  “I’m just wondering,” Crystal fiddled with the little tape recorder in her lap, “why a shy young woman would get into a car with a stranger.”

  “How should I know?” Ruby snorted. “But there hadn’t been any murders here. Two in Wales and one in France. Not the same, is it? She wouldn’t have been suspicious.”

  “But if she had her own car –?”

  “She ran out of petrol? He banged his own car into the back of hers? I haven’t the slightest idea. But Pam wasn’t an idiot. Not exactly a neuro surgeon, but not stupid either. Something must have happened.”

  “And it was Sylvia Greene who found her remains, I believe?” The reporter was too quick and too eager.

  “She’s my friend and she’s wonderful, and she’s awfully clever, and she’s trying to solve the mystery herself. I bet she uncovers the murderer before the police do. Harry’s helping too.”

  “And so far who does Mrs. Greene suspect?”

  “Tony,” said Ruby, and blushed. “No. I mean, Tony – Smith. A man from the village. Welsh origin of course. Now go away. I’ve said enough.”

  She stood, but Crystal Larkin asked, “I understand from someone I know, the police twice questioned a Tony Allen. Is that who you mean?”

  “Not at all. Go away,” sniffed Ruby, and hurried in the direction of the manor. She had no intention of confessing to Sylvia and simply hoped the promise of anonymity would be kept. Back at the manor in time for lunch, she ate three chocolate brownies and went off for a siesta. She dreamed, not of Rodney, but of two bloodshot eyes, and the sharp pointed teeth of a vampire.

  It was Sylvia who woke Ruby. “Come on beautiful Bluebell. Up you get. It’s almo
st dinner time and I need someone to talk to. Harry’s been talking about Tony and his wife, and I need to think aloud. I can’t talk to the wall. So come and sit opposite over dinner and tell me I’m wrong.”

  “Can’t we talk about nice things?” Ruby swung her legs from the bed and clutched her neck. “I slept all cramped up and had horrible dreams.”

  “There’s bread and butter pudding.”

  “Oh, alright. I’m coming.”

  Fletcher had missed his breakfast that morning. Having turned up at the manor far earlier than his normal morning practise, he had been excessively disappointed to discover Sylvia and Harry absent. He trudged the garden and the corridors until he bumped into Lavender. “Ah, it’s Sylvia’s brother Fletcher, isn’t it?”

  “Her step-brother.”

  “But I’m afraid we don’t permit unaccompanied strangers here, Sylvia’s out, you see. I expect her back later this afternoon.”

  Scowling, he asked, “Where has she gone?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t give out that information.”

  Fletcher left with a kick at the front door which he then closed behind him. He wandered back to the pub, and there he immediately walked into another argument bordering on chaos.

  “I weren’t here, and it weren’t nothing to do wiv me.”

  “But you’re known to the police, aren’t you, Reg?” Three uniformed constables were glaring at the local pickpocket. But that was not what they’d come about. “We’ve got someone in custody, but that doesn’t answer all our questions. Now, who was it yesterday lunchtime who started the fight?”

  “I told you, I weren’t here.”

  “So who was here? Who saw something?”

  “Those old busybodies Ethel and Bernie Wentworth. They were shouting at some young lad drinking lemonade. They started the fight, throwing insults.”

  “Not throwing punches?” asked the constable.

  The barmaid looked up. “But he was here,” she said, pointing. “And he threw a punch or two, and he kicked poor Arthur once he was down. None of it was Arthur’s fault, poor sod.” She was pointing at Fletcher.

  In silent realisation, Fletcher turned to leave, but two constables were now standing in front of him, and the other was asking, “Had a hand in this, did you, sir? And what’s your name, then?”

  “Fletcher Rankling, and no I didn’t,” he mumbled. “True, I saw some of what happened, but there’s no way I was involved.”

  “Well now, Mr. Rankling, no doubt that’s true. But we’d like you to come down to the station and make a statement. Just to help with our enquiries, you understand.”

  “What statement? What enquiries?”

  “Arthur Sims is in custody,” said the constable, ushering Fletcher out of the pub doors and over to the waiting police car. “Concerning the fight here yesterday, and his own relationship with his son David.”

  “I’ve no idea who these people are,” Fletcher complained. “I’ve just driven down from Wales to see my step-sister.”

  “Oh, we won’t keep you long, Mr. Rankling,” said another of the constables with a deliberately sinister smile.

  Arthur Sims sat on the excuse for a bed, his head in his hands. It was a small dark cell without window or comfort. The mattress was a thin slab of foam, and next to it was a small toilet, and then a cracked wash basin. Against the opposite wall was a lopsided trestle table and a rickety wooden chair. Arthur wondered if he had the strength to break off a chair leg and use it as a weapon. Not that he had the slightest intention of doing so, he simply liked to imagine the damage he could do. Furious over the arrest, he was also worried over David, who certainly wasn’t used to being left alone.

  Locked downstairs in the cells, Arthur had no idea of Fletcher’s presence upstairs and could not hear what was said. He wished he could have a cup of tea.

  Fletcher was offered and accepted a cup of tea.

  “And you were where, exactly, Mr. Rankling, when the fight began. Did you see who threw the first punch?”

  The explanation was easy enough, although he entirely omitted to tell his own part in the proceedings. “Some old couple started complaining and shouting about silly stuff. Then the young lad accused his father of beating him up. Said he’d killed his mother too. So a few other young men came over and started the fight. Threw a beer. Trouble all round. Soon the one they called Arthur was on the ground trying to defend himself. But didn’t have much of a chance. One against four or five. The son was just running around crying. I told the barmaid to call you.”

  One of the constables had been taking notes. “One moment, Mr. Rankling and I’ll get this written out properly. Then you can sign it. No need to stay after that.”

  Within half an hour, Fletcher was free to leave. He was also free to return to Wales. He had the fairly large cheque he’d come for, and clearly he wouldn’t be popular either at Rochester Manor, nor back at the pub. But it niggled. He’d been polite. He’d offered bloody Sylvia protection from murderous fields, and he certainly hadn’t started the stupid fight yesterday. So why should he scurry back to his nagging and piteous father and the boring Welsh valleys, when what he fancied was a chance to get his own back.

  The police station was some distance from the pub, and that was where his suitcase was. But there was a soggy field at the back of the pub, and the roadway passed straight beside it, with only a low hedge in-between. Everything was still wet from the storm. Two days gone now, but the pelting rain and hail had been strong enough to soak everything. Yet a man thoroughly experienced at setting fires could usually manage a bit of a spark even in the mud.

  There was no one around and only a sullen and overcast sky glared down at him. Fletcher bent, as if to pick up something he had dropped. At the same time he took out his lighter, the tiny tin of lighter fuel, and a handful of leaves and twigs which had thoroughly dried off over the past couple of hours.

  Having started the fire easily, he remained there, blowing gently and encouraging the flames. The fire grew. Fletcher smiled, turned, and wandered on to the back door of the pub.

  “In temporary care?” yelled Arthur in fury, “The poor boy will be proper scared. He hasn’t done a thing. Let me go and comfort my son and take him home.”

  “Mr. Sims,” said the constable with some sympathy, “clearly you know about your boy’s accusations. He’s told everyone for years about you beating him up, kidnapping him, killing his mother, and abusing him every day. Well, we looked into this a few years ago when the accusations were first reported to us. It was an in-depth investigation. And of course, we found nothing.”

  “So wot’s the fuss now, then?”

  “The pub brawl brought the whole matter up again, I’m afraid.”

  Arthur fisted both hands, which was unwise. “So you want me up before the beak fer the pub fight? Or fer beating me kid? Or fer killing me wife?”

  “We felt it was time to resurrect the investigation into your general behaviour, Mr. Sims,” sighed the constable. “But it’s quite clear you’re innocent on all counts. That leaves one matter outstanding?”

  He was suspicious. “Curdling the milk?”

  “Mr. Sims, your poor lad has severe mental problems. He’s clearly paranoid and in my judgement, he’s probably schizophrenic. But I’m no psychologist. David needs help, and if he gets suitable treatment, that’ll help you too.” The constable handed Arthur some printed papers. “It’s just a precaution at present, but we’ve ordered your boy to be placed in care for a week, and get some mental assessment. There’s no restraint and you can visit any time you like. In fact, I suggest you go today. I’ve been told David’s under sedation, but only because he was distraught over the fight, and then losing you. He’ll be better off for this treatment, I assure you.”

  Collapsing back on the bench, Arthur gritted his teeth, then relaxed. He stared at the address on the papers. “I’m going,” he said, stood and marched out.

  14

  “Serial killer named – the Welsh Rip
per uncovered – he’s local, and he’s dangerous.”

  The Gloucester Gazette had started it and within an hour, the Herald and the Post had ditched their original front pages and had copied with the most outrageous news of the past five years. They had not dared print Tony’s full name, but hints and suppositions crept very close to home.

  Everybody saw one or the other, but nobody howled at anybody else for the first few hours. Harry was striding the hills. Avoiding sheep droppings and trying not to slip on wet stone, he was up on Cleeve Hill, the wind in his hair and whistling in his ears, a freeze that cleansed, trying to think without anything else mucking up his suffering brain.

  Ruby was lying in bed with a hot toddy on the bedside table, feeling utterly wretched and wondering when everyone would realise she’d been the tittle-tattle.

  Fletcher had grabbed his suitcase and departed The Crooked Wager. On leaving the pub and chucking his case in the boot of his car, he had looked back over his shoulder, peering carefully across to the low field and its ploughed strips. There was smoke. Not so much, and not so thick, but a rising spiral dark enough to whisper of flames growing and travelling. It had been at least twenty minutes since he had lit the fire and it was still smoking. A good deal more than smouldering ashes, then. His groin tingled, and he felt a sense of heat through his stomach. Power.

  He drove in the opposite direction, grinning and chanting to himself. “Eeny, meeny, miny, moe, start a fire and let it grow. If it splutters, let it go, Eeny, meeny, miny, moe.” Fletcher had the giggles. “Daddy dearest, quite contrary, how does your garden grow? Piss, shit and puke, and pretty flames all in a row.”

  It wasn’t far until he passed The Hog’s Head, a small hotel out on the boundary of the next village. He parked, booked in and was given a smart little room with a minute bathroom attached, and dumped his suitcase on the floor. There was no time to get to the bank before it closed, but he’d seen the shiny blue of Barclay’s just a shop or two previously, and could plunder his father’s account in the morning, as well as depositing Sylvia’s generous cheque.