by K. J. Frost
“Yes, Ellis. So do me a favour and don’t let me down.”
“I won’t, sir,” he says enthusiastically, the smile returning to his face.
“Right. I suppose I’d better take a look at the victim.” I glance down at him. “Care to lead the way?”
He nods and walks ahead of me, around the side of the house into a narrow passageway between the main building and the garage.
Even in the dim light, I can see the outline of the body lying twisted on the ground, propped up against the wall of the house. I take off my hat, out of respect, and have a look around, noticing two bicycles further down the passage, leaning against the garage wall. They’re rather distinctive, in that they’re both bright blue, and have a wicker basket on the front. Beyond them, there’s a wooden gate, which was once painted black, but is now a little chipped and worn.
“Is that locked?” I ask Ellis, nodding towards it.
“I don’t know, sir,” he says.
“Check it.” He steps over the victim’s legs and squeezes past the bicycles, lifting the latch of the gate. It opens with ease, but creaks loudly as he pushes it wide enough to pass through.
“Hmm. That would probably be enough noise to arouse the household, and the neighbours, especially late at night,” I point out. “Okay, you can close it again.” He does as he’s told and comes to stand beside me again.
“Do we have a name?” I ask.
“Beth,” he replies simply. “Beth Templeton.”
“Beth…” I muse. “Is that her proper name?”
“How do you mean, sir?”
“Well, Beth could be short for Elizabeth, and just a name that the family use for her. Did you check her identity card?”
“No, sir. The girl who found her told the constable who was first on the scene that the victim’s name was Beth. I just assumed…” He rubs his hand across his chin. “Do you want me to go and ask?”
“No.” I replace my hat on my head and crouch down beside the body. Now I know the area has been dusted for fingerprints, I reach out for her handbag. It’s plain black leather, with a fiddly gold clasp, but I manage to open it, and look inside. Her identity card is tucked in a small pocket and I lift it out and open it.
“It’s Beth,” I tell him, dropping the card back into the bag and putting it on the floor. “Do we know if they’re Jewish?” I ask him.
“No.”
“No, they’re not, or no we don’t know?”
“We don’t know,” he clarifies. “But why does that matter?”
“It might not, but as well as being short for ‘Elizabeth’, ‘Beth’ is also a Hebrew name,” I explain. “We need to ascertain whether they are of that faith, and if so, whether that has any bearing on her death.” I look up at him. “I’ll ask when I interview the family.” I don’t want Ellis blundering in like a flat-foot.
Now she has a name this feels more personal, but I have to do my job, and I return to my investigation of the scene. Her hat, a simple black felt affair, is lying beside her, upside down. One of her shoes – a sensible style with a low heel – has come off and is on its side next to her stockinged foot. Her black wool coat is undone, and beneath that, I can see she was wearing a formal dark grey business suit. The jacket has been ripped open, the brass buttons scattered around the passageway. The same fate befell her blouse, although the buttons are much smaller and less visible. Her silky white bra has been pushed down, exposing her breasts. Her skirt, however, has been pulled up to her waist, and while she’s still wearing her knickers, stockings and suspenders, they are twisted, torn and dishevelled. He clearly pulled her underwear to one side in order to penetrate her; her pubic hair is visible, as is the staining of blood on the delicate white material. Trying not to focus on the significance of that, I pull a pen from my pocket and use it to move Beth’s dark hair away from her face. She would have been a pretty girl… yesterday. Now, her lips are tinged with blue and her tongue is protruding slightly from between them. Her pale brown eyes are open, staring at a space between me and the bicycles, and dark tracks of mascara-laden dried tears have left a trail through her make-up.
“He held his hand over her mouth,” I murmur, more to myself than anyone else. There are bruise marks in the vague outline of a person’s fingers around her lips.
“Yes, the doctor noticed that too,” Ellis replies, unaware that I wasn’t really talking to him. I ignore his interruption and continue to look at the girl before me.
“It would have hurt.” The blood is a big clue to that. “She probably cried out and he had to silence her,” I whisper.
He doesn’t respond this time, thankfully.
“He strangled her with his hands,” I add. “Or maybe hand – singular – either during or immediately after the act.” I stand and look around, walking backwards towards the front of the house again, my eyes focused on the ground, looking for signs. Ellis follows, silent now, having evidently worked out that I’m pondering to myself. Once we’re back on the driveway, I crouch again. “Here,” I say, turning to him. “See the drag marks?”
He kneels beside me and I point out the parallel scuff marks in the gravel.
“The assault started out here,” I tell him, getting to my feet again. He stands with me. “He dragged her down that passageway, put his hand over her mouth to keep her quiet, raped her and strangled her.”
He stares at me, then swallows hard.
“You can tell all that, just from looking at the body?” he murmurs.
“Yes.” I replace my pen in my inside jacket pocket. “Make sure we get photographs of these drag marks, won’t you? And then you can let the body go and start searching the whole of this area.” He nods his head. “And I want you to organise the house-to-house enquiries. Get together a few of the uniformed men to help. Have them ask if anyone heard or saw anything or anyone unusual last night between six in the evening and midnight.”
“But the doctor said…”
“I know what the doctor said, but I’ve known doctors get it wrong. And besides, the murderer might have been waiting here for her. Also, tell the men I want to know whether any of the neighbours saw a man loitering around here in the days leading up to the murder. He may have been monitoring her movements.”
“Yes, sir,” he says.
“And while they’re doing that, I’d like you to have a word with the household staff. Find out if they heard anything last night, and get their version of events from this morning.“
“Right,” he replies. “Where will you be?”
“I’m going to talk to Emily Cooper,” I explain, turning towards the front of the house.
The maid, who took my hat upon entering the front door, shows me into the drawing room, gives me a brief, neat curtsy and tells me she’ll go and ‘enquire’ after Miss Cooper.
This gives me a chance to look around. The Templetons certainly aren’t short of a penny, that’s for sure. The furniture, which consists of two large sofas set either side of the fireplace, and several chairs, dotted in a seemingly haphazard fashion about the room, has that worn, expensive look to it that only the truly wealthy can get away with. There are paintings on the walls that I’d probably have to pay more than a year’s salary to own, and a grand piano stands in the large alcove, its raised lid reflecting the autumn sunlight back onto the sashed bay windows. There’s a well stocked drinks cabinet, on top of which there have been placed a few family photographs. I notice the smiling features of a younger version of the lady whose body I’ve just been examining and feel a stab of pity for this family. Their lives, I know, will never be the same again.
I turn as I hear the door open and close quietly behind me, and allow myself just a few seconds to catch my breath. Standing before me, her hands anxiously twisting a lace trimmed handkerchief, is the most beautiful young woman I’ve ever seen. She has short mid-brown hair, set in soft curls around her heart-shaped face. Her lips are a deep rose pink, although at the moment, she has the bottom one captured nervously b
etween her teeth. She’s about five foot six tall, with a slim figure, which is currently encased in a sensible skirt and blouse. On one hand, she looks ready for work; on the other, she looks ready to drop. As I step towards her, though, it’s her eyes that captivate me. They’re brown – well, ‘brown’ isn’t really the right word. They’re whisky coloured, like amber, with flecks of a greenish-grey, and right now, they’re filled with tears.
“Hello. I’m Inspector Stone,” I manage to say. “Rufus Stone.”
She nods and, for once, doesn’t ask the inevitable question.
“And you must be Emily Cooper,” I prompt, because I think she’s struggling to speak.
“Not exactly,” she whispers.
“Oh?”
She swallows hard. “Shall we sit?” she suggests and I accept, more for her benefit than mine. She takes a seat in the corner of one of the sofas and I sit opposite her.
“What did you mean ‘not exactly’?” I ask her, once we’re both settled.
“My name isn’t Emily,” she explains. “It’s Amelie.”
“Amelie?”
“Yes. It’s French. It’s spelt A-M-E-L-I-E.”
“I see.”
I want to tell her it’s the most beautiful name I’ve heard in my life. I want to tell her that her voice is like an angel’s breath whispering across my somewhat jaded nerves. I want to tell her that her face is going to haunt my dreams until the day I die.
Instead I cough. “Thank you for explaining that.” I swallow all the things I want to tell her; all the things I should tell her, and could tell her, if she wasn’t the closest thing we have to a witness in this case, and I wasn’t the senior investigating officer. “Would you mind answering some questions for me?”
Chapter Five
The temptation to sulk is almost overwhelming. You’d think, wouldn’t you, that having done what I’ve done – twice – people would at least notice me? You’d think there would be some change in their attitude to me? Evidently not. If this morning is anything to go by, my life is destined to be as spectacularly boring as it ever was. Everyone around me is just going about their business, behaving like it’s a normal Tuesday morning.
I have to say, it’s all very disappointing.
Obviously, I don’t want to be caught. I’ll hang for what I’ve done. But I’d hoped to at least have heard that people were shocked, or maybe fearful of the murderer – namely me, of course. Instead of which, everyone just seems to be taking the news in their stride. I know we’re at war, but has murder become so insignificant already? Does it not even warrant a second glance anymore?
I can see that, if I really want them to sit up and pay attention, I’m going to have to try harder. All I need to do is work out how…
*****
“Of course. Would you like some coffee while we talk?” Miss Cooper asks.
“Thank you. That would be lovely.” I’d accept even if I’d just drunk a bucket of coffee, but it’s been hours since I’ve had anything to drink and I know I’m going to be talking for quite some time yet, so the prospect of a drink is very welcome.
She gets up and takes the couple of steps to the mantlepiece, where she pushes a button set into the wall, before sitting back down again. It’s difficult not to admire her perfect figure, but I try hard and just about manage to succeed. Well, she doesn’t catch me doing it, anyway.
“I’m really sorry about this,” I say as she straightens her skirt. “I’m sure the last thing you need is to talk to me, but I’m afraid these things are best done at the time…” I let my voice fade as she looks over at me, the beginnings of a smile forming on her lips.
“It’s perfectly alright,” she says softly. “I realise you’ve got a job to do.”
I’m about to start questioning her when the door opens and the maid who showed me in earlier, steps inside the room. “Could you bring us some coffee, please, Sarah?” Miss Cooper asks her.
“Certainly, miss,” Sarah replies and leaves the room, closing the door behind her.
Once we’re alone again, I clear my throat gently and decide to start with what I hope will be easy questions – in other words, those not directly connected to her friend’s death.
“I understand the victim’s name was Beth Templeton, and that her father is your guardian?”
She nods her head. “Yes,” she confirms, and I’m just beginning to wonder if she’s going to elaborate when she starts to speak again. “My father and Uncle Gordon served in the last war together,” she says. “They were at school and university before that, and joined up on the same day, I believe. They were on the Western Front and both ended the war as captains. At some point around the beginning of 1918, my mother and father met, and then early the following year, they were married.” She leans on the arm of the sofa. “Sorry, I probably should have explained… my mother was French.”
“Hence the name?” I suggest.
“Yes.” She smiles and I have to smile back.
“So, your parents married?” I prompt.
“Yes. They settled in Esher, and I was born in 1920,” she continues. “But my mother died in childbirth, having me…” Her voice cracks, but she rallies. “And then Daddy was run down by a car and killed when I was five years old.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, a lot less automatically than I normally would in such circumstances.
“Thank you. To be honest, although I know they’re my parents and I have photographs and the odd memento, I don’t feel that much of a connection to them. Obviously, I never knew my mother, and I don’t remember my father very well. Not any more.”
The door opens and the maid enters, carrying a large tray, which she deposits on the table between Miss Cooper and myself.
“Thank you, Sarah,” Miss Cooper says as the maid leaves the room again, before she sits forward and starts to pour the coffee from a tall, long-stemmed silver pot, into small pale blue cups with matching saucers. “Milk?” she asks, looking up at me.
“Yes, thank you.”
She adds a little milk and hands me the cup, pushing the sugar bowl in my direction.
“I don’t, thanks,” I tell her.
“Neither do I,” she says, adding a drop of milk to her own cup and sitting back into the corner of the sofa again. “Where were we?” she asks.
“Your parents were both dead…” I reply, feeling insensitive.
“Oh, yes.” If she’s noticed my discomfort, she doesn’t say anything. “After my father’s death, there wasn’t really anyone to look after me and I was scared about what was going to happen to me. I don’t remember much about that time, other than that feeling of fear, and utter loneliness.” She swallows hard, like she’s recalling the experience. “And then Uncle Gordon arrived. He’d heard about the accident, you see. I imagine there was a fair amount of red tape to be gone through, but I ended up living here with him and Aunt Millicent and Beth, who’d just turned six at the time.”
“I see. Was that something your father had arranged in his will?” I ask her. “For Gordon Templeton to become your guardian, I mean?”
“Daddy hadn’t made a will. He was still a young man when he was killed, and it’s not the sort of thing you think of doing really, is it?”
“No, I don’t suppose it is,” I reply, soothingly, although I have made a will myself. But then maybe doing my job makes one more cautious than the average person.
“Gordon and Millicent took me in when I had no-one else,” she says, her voice cracking again. “And I’m eternally grateful to them for everything they’ve done for me.”
I don’t have a reply to that, so I don’t make one. I take a sip of coffee instead, and Miss Cooper copies my actions.
I wait for her to put her cup and saucer down again before I speak. “Can you give me any idea of Beth’s movements yesterday evening?” I ask gently.
She nods her head. “We met outside work at about six,” she says.
“You worked together?”
“Yes. W
e’re… I mean, we were in different departments, but we worked in the same building. Beth and I were like sisters. We went to school together, spent the holidays together, did everything together… and then we managed to get jobs together, working at Hawker’s in Kingston,” she explains.
“And you left there together last night?”
“Yes. Normally we met at the gates and cycled home, but yesterday Beth’s bicycle had a puncture, so we took the bus to and from work. That’s why we waited until six to leave. We didn’t want to stand around at the bus stop for any longer than we had to.”
“I see.” I offer encouragement. “And then you came straight home?”
“No. We went to The Plough.”
“At the top of Spencer Road?” I ask.
“Yes.” She looks a little embarrassed.
“Was that something you did regularly?” I need to know if someone might have been watching them, assessing their movements and the timings of their comings and goings. But the look on her face tells me she thinks I’m judging her.
“No,” she replies. “Not often. We went maybe once or twice a month, I suppose.”
“But not on a regular night?”
“No.” She looks down at her hands, which are clasped in her lap. “We only stopped last night because we were celebrating Beth’s promotion.”
“She’d been promoted?”
“Yes. We’d both been working as secretaries, but Beth was told yesterday that her promotion had come through. She was going to start working for one of the designers on Monday of next week.”
“I see. And did you stay at the pub for very long?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I didn’t.”
“You didn’t?”
“No. I didn’t even finish my first drink. I’d had a slight headache all afternoon. In reality, I probably shouldn’t have gone, but I’d said I would, and I knew Beth was looking forward to it. The problem was, it was quite busy and smokey, and very noisy in the pub, and I started to feel worse and worse. In the end, I had to leave.”
