The Vicarage Murder

by Faith Martin

  ‘And Monica and I will check the empty flat opposite us,’ Graham added. ‘Maurice, why don’t you stay here with Joan and Julie? Make sure they’re OK. Maybe get them something to drink and set up a few deckchairs in the shade for them?’ he added, giving the older man a dignified, less physically arduous task more suited to his usefulness.

  Maurice brightened up at once.

  ‘Delighted. Ladies,’ he said gallantly, leading them off to the table where the fruit punch languished.

  Then Graham glanced across at Sean, who was staring down at his feet. He looked more puzzled than anything else.

  ‘Sean, why don’t you have a glass of wine?’ he advised quietly. ‘You look like you could do with a drink.’

  Sean glanced up. ‘What? Oh, yes. I think I will.’

  They all watched him pour a glass and take it to a shady part of the lawn, where he sat down heavily. It didn’t look as if he tasted it when he drank.

  It wasn’t until the Nobles had entered the main hall that led, amongst others, to the empty flat number 2, that Monica said out loud to her husband what everyone else had been privately thinking. ‘You don’t think anything’s really happened to Margaret, do you?’

  Graham smiled reassuringly and reached out for her hand. His long, gentle fingers felt warm around her own, and she squeezed them gratefully.

  ‘No. I just think it’s sensible to check out all the possibilities, that’s all,’ he said mildly. ‘Knowing Margaret, she probably decided the drinks on offer weren’t good enough, and has just gone off to buy herself some fancy liqueur or something in town, and just hasn’t bothered to tell her husband. Or anybody else for that matter.’

  Monica smiled. ‘That certainly sounds like Margaret,’ she agreed wryly. They were now at the door to flat 2, and the smell of fresh paint and plaster was stronger here.

  ‘Here it is,’ Graham said rather unnecessarily, and reaching for the brass door handle, pushed it wide open.

  Flat 2 echoed the layout of their own flat, in that it had a central corridor and doors leading off it, but this flat didn’t have the long room at the end. The uncarpeted corridor was speckled with paint and gritty with dirt.

  ‘Do you know how far the decorators have got?’ Graham asked, for some reason whispering now.

  Monica too felt the need to lower her voice. ‘No,’ she whispered back. ‘You take the doors on the right, I’ll take the doors on the left.’

  Graham nodded, and promptly disappeared into one of the rooms, leaving Monica hesitating in the gloomy corridor.

  There was something eerie about a house that was bare of furniture and carpets, she thought nervously, something cool and unlived in. It raised the hairs on her forearms.

  When they’d first moved here, Carol-Ann had insisted that the nearly 300-year-old house was bound to be haunted. And now, for the first time since coming to live in the old place, Monica felt herself actively shiver.

  Firmly she took herself in hand, telling herself not to be such a ninny, and determinedly glanced around. The first room she entered had been done out in pale peach and mint green, with newly sanded wooden floorboards, and was really quite pretty. Evidently it was either meant to be a bedroom or a living room. It was utterly empty, and as such, it took about three seconds to see that there was nobody there, and suddenly, Monica felt absurd.

  There was nothing wrong here. It had just been kids having a lark after all. She was acting like some silly heroine in a Gothic novel.

  She bit her lip, returned to the corridor and tried the next room down. This room was different, in that it was in the process of being decorated, and tarpaulins were hung against every wall but one. She looked up and sure enough, the ceiling was in the process of being painted a matt white. The floor, too, was littered with discarded dustsheets, roller trays, brushes standing in jam jars full of smelly turpentine, and in the middle of the room a rickety-looking wooden stepladder had been left upright and ready for use. Monica glanced around, wincing at the bright red splashes of paint on the tarpaulins opposite her. Surely they weren’t going to paint any room that colour?

  A slow, sick feeling began to churn in her stomach, but it wasn’t until she saw one very vivid patch of red begin to trickle slowly down the stiff, dirty tarpaulin that she realized why she was feeling so sick.

  The paint was still wet. And it shouldn’t be. Monica blinked, her mind scrambling for an explanation. Surely any paint stains would have long since dried overnight? The decorators didn’t work on a Saturday, and tended to treat Fridays as a near half-day as well. She seemed to remember that they were all packed up and gone by half past three yesterday. And in this heat, any paint would dry within a matter of hours.

  Fighting off the weak-kneed urge to call for her husband, Monica forced herself to walk slowly towards the far wall, and gave a small yelp as she nearly fell over something on the floor. Windmilling her arms fruitlessly, she half-bent and put one hand out in front of her to stop herself falling right onto her nose. As she did so, her hand touched something heavy and soft and yielding under the tarpaulin on the floor.

  It was only when she looked down that she saw she’d disturbed the dustsheet enough to reveal a leg. A shapely, human, female leg.

  Monica swallowed hard. Feeling acutely nauseous, she quickly clamped her other hand to her mouth. She swallowed hard again, several times, telling herself firmly that she was not going to be sick.

  She was not.

  But she couldn’t seem to drag her eyes away from the sight of the bare limb, which was extremely thin, tapering to a narrow ankle, the foot of which was attached to a very good quality, white leather high-heeled shoe.

  And Monica knew that only one woman had worn heels that high to the party. Unable to help herself, Monica felt repulsed as she lowered her hand to the leg. Her fingers hesitated for a moment, and then gently touched the pale calf.

  The leg was warm! Very, very warm. She must still be alive! Perhaps she’d merely fainted with the heat like Graham had theorised earlier! With a cry of relief, Monica yanked the tarpaulin completely off the supine figure of Margaret Franklyn, and then fell back with a single, sharp scream.

  For one thing was certain. Margaret was not alive. Margaret was very, very dead indeed.

  * * *

  In the opposite room, Graham heard his wife’s cry and came rushing out into the corridor. Seeing her kneeling form through an open door he hurried in and then stopped dead.

  For one moment, as his brain processed what he was seeing, the grisly red-and-white vision on the floor began to swirl, clouding his vision. Then he blinked and determinedly shook his head. Instantly, he reached down for Monica, hauling her to her feet with surprising strength.

  ‘Come on. Come away, darling,’ he said gruffly, and, again with surprising strength, turned her around and led her back out into the corridor.

  It was then that Monica’s legs finally buckled beneath her, and without a word Graham stooped, lifted her into his arms, and walked out with her into the gloriously bright afternoon sunshine. With a shudder, Monica turned her face into his neck and closed her eyes.

  ‘Oh, Graham,’ she sobbed. ‘Did you see her? Did you see what somebody did to her?’

  Graham nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said grimly. ‘I saw.’ And he wished with all his heart that Monica hadn’t seen it.

  Maurice Keating’s jaw dropped at the sight of the vicar carrying his wife across the lawn towards them.

  ‘I say,’ he began, but fell silent as Graham glanced sharply across at him.

  Ignoring the retired Oxford don, he walked right past him and carried Monica to the shady part of the lawn. There he gently lowered her to the ground. As he was doing this, Vera and John returned from their own searches.

  ‘There’s nothing amiss in the flat near us—’ John began cheerfully, and then, seeing Monica’s stricken face and the vicar’s equally grim one, he shut up abruptly.

  Vera wasted no time in going straight to Monica’s side. ‘John,
fetch me a glass of wine,’ she ordered simply. Listlessly, Monica shook her head, but when John brought the glass and Vera pressed it against her lips, she drank obediently. Wordlessly, Graham indicated to John with a jerk of his head, and the older man followed him a few paces away from the ladies, where they couldn’t be overheard.

  ‘Go and call the police,’ Graham said quietly. ‘And an ambulance. Tell them there’s been a fatality.’

  John’s tanned face paled a little, but after one swift, searching glance of the vicar’s face, he nodded and strode away, glancing across at Sean as he did so. Graham followed his gaze and felt his heart sink.

  Slowly, he walked towards the husband of the woman he’d just found so cruelly slaughtered, and hunkered down on his knees in front of him. Seeing this, and sensing the reason behind the heaviness in the air, Julie made a sudden movement in their direction, and was quickly checked by her mother. Joan, in fact, almost yanked her daughter off her feet in her determination to keep Julie away from the two men.

  Maurice began to sweat. He gulped down the last of his glass of wine, and looked longingly at the ice bucket. Dare he pour himself another? No, perhaps not. Best to keep a clear head.

  ‘Sean,’ Graham began quietly, and reached out to touch the man’s shoulder.

  Sean looked up at him, his handsome, rather dissipated face a curious mixture of hope, resentment and understanding.

  ‘She’s dead then?’ Sean said flatly.

  Graham nodded. ‘Yes,’ he confirmed simply. ‘I’m afraid she is.’

  Sean Franklyn, it had to be said, didn’t look particularly surprised.

  CHAPTER 6

  Detective Chief Inspector Jason Dury narrowed his pale blue eyes against the glare of the full summer sun as the unmarked police car overtook an articulated lorry. Once safely by, his sergeant, Jim Greer, who was driving, quickly eased back to sixty. He was relatively new to the Cotswolds, and didn’t yet know his way around the picturesque countryside as well as he would have liked, and the narrow lanes and twisting village roads sometimes took him by surprise. He wondered if his boss knew this, for a few moments later he said helpfully, ‘The turning’s coming up on the right.’

  Jason pointed out the typical country sign, a faded white wooden signpost practically hidden in the hedges by rampant and fragrant dog roses, and with the words ‘Heyford Bassett — Village Only’ barely visible in faded black lettering.

  Jim indicated, and a few hundred yards down the narrow lane, they crested the hill with a panoramic view of a meandering river cutting its way through a small but picturesque valley, and started to head down into the village itself.

  ‘Pretty little place, sir,’ Jim murmured appreciatively, wondering ruefully at the size of house prices in such a rural idyll, and Jason nodded.

  The river cut the village in half, with the older buildings, the manor house, church, and vicarage on the nearest side, and the newer estates plus access to a large farm, on the other side. The narrow, old Cotswold stone bridge crossing the water and connecting the two parts was probably centuries old, Jason surmised, and would once have been almost the sole province of sheep and the farmer herding them to market.

  ‘Did the chap who called in give any details?’ Jason asked quietly.

  ‘No, sir, he didn’t seem to know anything much at all,’ Jim explained. ‘Just said that there’d been a gunshot in the house and that something bad had happened, and could we come out right away.’

  ‘Might be nothing then,’ he grumbled. ‘Some idiot might have been cleaning his air rifle and accidentally shot the cat.’

  Jim grinned. ‘Let’s hope so, sir. Not that I’ve got anything against cats,’ he added hastily, lest his new boss should think him heartless.

  Of all the officers at Cheltenham, though, Jim liked Chief Inspector Jason Dury the best. Like Jim, he came from a working-class background, and had attained his rank through sheer hard work, patience and (unlike Jim) a judicious understanding of office politics. And just like Jim, Jason was also ambitious. In other ways, though, they were very different. At thirty-eight, Jason Dury was still unmarried, despite the fact that he was the heartthrob of the detective division, whereas the younger Jim was comfortably settled with a wife and family.

  They turned off into a narrow lane just before they got to the bridge and a little further on, discovered Church Lane branching off on their left.

  ‘Park in the shade if you can, otherwise the car will bake,’ Jason ordered, as they reached the end of a rustic little beech-lined cul-de-sac and found themselves facing an attractive Norman church, with its typical, plain, no-nonsense tower. He sighed heavily as he got out of the car. ‘Right, well, let’s see what we have.’

  Opposite the church, the roof of a substantial building could be seen, and the sergeant pushed open one of the big iron gates set into a passageway between dark towering yews which obviously led on to the vicarage. As they got past the dark trees, a man stepped out in front of them from the shade of the more colourful bushes that bordered a gravel path. Jason stiffened instinctively for a moment, like all policemen, not liking to being taken by surprise, then noticed the white dog collar and marginally relaxed.

  Graham approached, hand outstretched. ‘You must be the police,’ he said gravely. ‘I’m Graham Noble, the vicar here.’

  As Jason introduced himself, all thoughts that this might turn out to be a minor incident quickly fled. The vicar looked visibly upset, but he was controlling it well. A tall, handsome man, Jason judged that he was probably older than he actually looked, and Jason sensed a quiet intelligence and kindness at work behind his troubled eyes.

  Graham cast an assessing look over the two men, who were physically very different from each other, wondering which would have the higher rank. The older man was about 5’11”, with corn-coloured blond hair and startlingly blue eyes. Character was stamped on his face in the crow’s feet at his eyes, which had a steely look to them. He looked like a man who’d seen a lot. His companion was younger, shorter and darker, and gave the impression of an eager dog straining on a leash.

  Jason helped him out of his dilemma by introducing himself and his sergeant, and the three men solemnly shook hands.

  ‘Were you the one who telephoned us, Reverend?’ Jason asked mildly once the preliminaries were over.

  Graham shook his head. ‘No, that was John Lerwick. Perhaps I’d better give you a quick explanation.’ He turned and began leading them up towards the big, impressive house.

  ‘The vicarage was sold to developers nearly eight months ago, and is in the process of being made into a set of twelve flats. My wife and I live in flat 1. There are, at the moment, four flats still empty and waiting to be sold. We were having a little garden party for all the residents, a kind of housewarming if you like, in the front garden. About . . .’ Graham checked his watch, ‘half an hour ago now, we all heard a shot. It sounded very close, as if coming from the house. When we checked we found one of our party in one of the empty flats, flat 2. A Mrs Margaret Franklyn. And, er . . . she was dead,’ Graham finished.

  It all sounded so blunt and hideously final, put into words like that, and he felt a wave of helplessness wash over him. He felt he should be doing something, helping somebody, but he was not sure how.

  Jim, unaware of the vicar’s angst, shot his superior a quick, excited look but said nothing. In spite of what television programmes would have the general public believe, murders or even suspicious deaths were quite rare, and he’d only ever worked two such cases before.

  ‘I see,’ Jason said flatly. ‘Jim, send for forensics.’

  Jim nodded and reached for his mobile. Jason followed the vicar to the front garden, where the food-littered tables and half-full glasses of wine gave mute evidence to a party that had been rudely interrupted. A series of white faces turned their way, and Jason had an overwhelming impression of a sea of anxious eyes.

  The vicar, somewhat awkwardly, showed him around, and introduced everyone.

&n
bsp; ‘And finally, this is Joan Dix and her daughter, Julie. Julie’s only here for the summer holidays. She starts uni in September.’

  ‘Thank you, Reverend. Perhaps you can show me flat 2?’

  Graham paled but nodded. ‘Certainly, Chief Inspector. This way.’

  Monica and the others watched the two policemen disappear into the far wing of the house, and a small ripple seemed to go through them all. Relief that that moment was over, Monica wondered — or renewed tension? She couldn’t be sure. Although she was beginning to emerge from the fog of her own shock, she wasn’t, by any means, up to interpreting complex body language right now.

  ‘Do you think we should stay out here?’ Joan asked tentatively. ‘Or should we go to our flats?’

  ‘I think we should stay here for the moment,’ Vera said. ‘At least, until someone tells us that we can go.’

  They were all grouped in the shady part of the garden, but Monica could see that both Maurice and Joan were beginning to suffer from the heat.

  ‘Let’s have some more fruit punch,’ she said, which had the effect of brightening the others far more than it should have done. It was as if such a normal, everyday little suggestion had driven away the spectre of that more outrageous thing that had come to visit them.

  Inside the house, Graham pushed open the main door to flat 2, and indicated with a pointing finger the room they wanted. Jim noted that the vicar had every intention of remaining outside, and as they walked into the room he’d pointed out, he could understand why.

  The victim was a mess.

  Grimly, Jason walked very carefully towards the body, aware of the cardinal sin of disturbing a crime scene before forensics had been and gone, but also noting that the crime scene had been considerably disturbed already. He went only far enough to see for himself that the victim was dead, which didn’t have to be very far at all.

  Margaret Franklyn had been hit by a shotgun, at close range and right in the middle of her torso.