Murder of Convenience

by Carrie Marsh

  The muted silver light filtered through rain clouds as the two men sat quietly. Gilding narrowed his eyes. The sunshine was still too bright for how bad his head felt and he had to restrain the urge to get up and shut the blinds.

  “True,” Eustace chewed his lower lip. “What can we say from that information?”

  Gilding paused. “There are only two answers I can suggest. First, that the two of them had some arrangement which involved him following her the following day. Second, that she was not leaving with him. But, if Grant wasn't the man responsible for her fleeing, why did her murderer kill him? Answer me that!”

  Eustace smiled thinly. “Challenge accepted. We know she wasn't running with him. Did the killer know that?”

  “Of course he did! How could he not know she was alone? Hiddingh wasn't anywhere near her at the time!” Gilding snapped.

  “...Unless he was going to meet her, as you also suggested, at a later date,” Eustace mused. “And we don't know they hadn't been discussing it. Someone close to her could have known their plans.”

  “Oh...” Gilding wanted to swear but there was no word that could express his meaning and he gave up, frustrated.

  Eustace smiled. “You see? You'd miss me if I wasn't here. Think of how dreadfully boring it would be.”

  Gilding still had his hands over his eyes. He replied indistinctly, voice muffled. “...at least I would stay sane.”

  “Always assuming you're sane now,” Eustace pointed out jovially, standing and pushing in his chair. “Let me know when you have any thoughts on the matter. I'm interested to hear how the paint samples turn out. Ginsberg said they sent them out this morning to the lab. I have a private bet that they'll be from a single car.”

  Gilding nodded. “I'll let you know,” he promised. “If you leave me in peace.”

  “Consider it done.”

  Eustace left, still smiling, and Gilding leaned forward, resting his aching head on his palms. He wished he could see some logical link between the two deaths. He was sure there was one. However, so far, the only thing that presented itself was the obvious solution: it was a crime of passion. Which left him with one principal suspect. Richard Fleet.

  “I should head down there tomorrow,” he decided wearily. “See if I can get him to answer some questions.” It would, after all, be the logical place to start. And he was already running out of ideas.

  Sighing, he checked the clock. He had asked Harry if he could visit after five o' clock that evening. It was only nine o' clock now.

  “Eight hours,” he said wearily. He turned to phone, planning to call the lab. The sooner they got the standard blood tests out of the way, the sooner he could decide if it was a dual case of drunk driving, or if he really did have something sinister to investigate.

  He deeply hoped it was a simple answer. But in his heart he knew that was not true.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE VILLAGE NEWS

  THE VILLAGE NEWS

  The village bakery, where Marcie stood in line waiting to place her orders, was silent. Usually busy as a marketplace and full of life, the silence was eerie. Shivering in her great coat, Marcie waited her turn. The news of the death had affected them all profoundly.

  “Morning, ma'am,” the baker, Mrs. Knight, said quietly as Marcie approached the front of the queue. Usually ruddy-faced and cheerful, Mrs. Knight, too, was sunk in the downcast mood of the village.

  “Good morning, Rita,” Marcie said in a low voice. “I was wondering if you could help me? I want to place an order for fifty cocktail sandwiches...” She looked at her list. Harry had said Detective Gilding would be there in the evening. I should order something for tea today as well.

  “Of course,” Mrs. Knight agreed, and bent down, writing with soft, stubby hands on a note-pad. “Fifty sandwiches. Is this for the funeral?” she asked.

  “It is,” Marcie agreed.

  “Oh, good. It's terrible news. Terrible. And did you see the paper? Poor Janet! Fancy being murdered...” the baker shook her head, dark curls bobbing with emotion.

  “I suppose she didn't know she was being murdered,” Marcie said thinly.

  “Oh, but ma'am! How could she not? Surely she knew the person? I mean...” her voice trailed off. “...Not many people are murdered by persons unknown to them, is it?”

  “No,” Marcie said in a low voice. “But still. We shouldn't jump to conclusions, should we?”

  “Not jumping to conclusions, not at all. But there are those who do think...” she looked around to check for listeners, “...seeing as she and her husband were uneasy, like...”

  Marcie pressed her lips into a line. If there was something – just one thing – she disliked abut the village, it was gossip. “I won't have anyone accusing Richard Fleet,” she said carefully. “For shame, he has just lost Janet!”

  Mrs. Knight looked upset. “I am sorry, ma'am. But people say...” she trailed off when she saw Marcie's grim expression. “Very well. We'll do twenty salad sandwiches and thirty cheese.”

  “Very good,” Marcie said thinly. “And I'd like to order a cake as well...”

  As the baker took down the particulars of her order, Marcie found her mind wandering. She recalled in a sudden vivid recollection being in the grocery shop about a week before. Janet had been there. She had been talking to someone – a man. She had been smiling, and seemed happier than Marcie had ever seen her before.

  “Oh, dash it all,” Marcie exclaimed, clicking her tongue irritably. Who had it been?

  “Sorry, my lady?” the baker was looking at her, a nervous expression on her face. Marcie could almost have laughed.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Knight,” she said quickly. “I was just trying to remember something, is all.”

  “Oh, good.” The small woman looked quite relieved. “So that's a chocolate and cherry cake?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Marcie nodded quickly. At that moment she could not have remembered if she had ordered a peppermint crisp tart or a helicopter flip.

  If I could remember that man's face! I know Janet was running to meet someone. Who else, but the man who made her laugh like that?

  Thanking Mrs. Knight and walking through the glass doors to the cold morning, plagued by the memory that still eluded her. She slipped into the seat of the Mercedes and pressed down on the pedals, feeling the wind rush through the window and ruffle her hair as she headed onto the main road.

  When she reached the point where the road climbed up and out of the village she paused. There was a police car on the ridge near the common and beside it stood a policeman. He was hammering in a sign. When she drove closer, stepping lightly on the brake to slow down, she slit her eyes to read it. It said: “Detour: Closed road”.

  Marcie stopped. She rolled down the window. She peered at the young officer.

  “Detective Gilding?”

  He turned to face her. He looked haggard. If she were to guess, she would say he had a terrible migraine. “Morning, ma'am.” He sounded tired.

  “Hello, Detective Gilding,” she agreed. “The road is closed?”

  “Yes. I apologize, ma'am. But I have to. This road is the scene of a crime.”

  “I suppose it is,” Marcie agreed briskly. “You have someone looking at the skid marks?”

  He blinked, seemingly surprised that she thought of it. “Indeed.”

  “And you think both these youngsters were murdered?” she asked directly.

  He nodded. “Yes, my lady. What else can I think?”

  “Two terrible accidents?” Marcie raised a brow.

  “I wish it were that easy,” the man sighed. “I've diverted the traffic south and onto the farm road. I'm sorry, ma'am, but if you want to go to Norwich you'll have to go round the whole of Stowe and up the other way.” He lifted his shoulder apologetically. Marcie noted again how tired he was.

  “I can wait until Friday,” she sighed. “Can I offer you an aspirin?”

  He shook his head and gave her a watery smile. “Yes, I do have a
headache. Thank you, my lady. I'll be okay. My doctor put me on Ibuprofen – I just forgot to bring it. See you later this evening?”

  “Indeed,” Marcie nodded. They said their farewells and she drove off, shaking her head.

  Two murders! By the same driver?

  However hard she thought about it, there seemed one major suspect. Richard. Making a mental note to ask Harry what he thought, she headed down into the village. She still had to take some books into the library.

  She ran her errands, feeling restless, and headed up the hill toward the manor. As she reached the crest of the hill opposite where she had seen Gilding, she snapped her fingers.

  “I need to go and fetch the sandwiches...” She turned the corner sharply. “I hope Mrs. Knight has finished them by now.”

  Remembering the baker reminded Marcie of the shadowy form in her last sight of Janet. Second last sight, she reminded herself, remembering what she had seen the morning Janet passed away.

  Shivering in the cold breeze as she sped up the hill to the village, she wished she didn't agree with the local talk. It seemed so obvious, though. Richard, in a terrible rage, had killed Janet and, the next day, killed her lover. Who else would have known about it, if they were planning to run away together? He would have had every chance to intercept their messages.

  But, Marcie mused, if that was the case, what was Richard driving?

  Drawn into the investigation despite herself, Marcie decided she had to find out.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  TALKING TO AN INSPECTOR

  TALKING TO AN INSPECTOR

  Marcie sat in the drawing room at Stowe, working on her embroidery. She felt surprisingly nervous. She threaded a needle and noticed her hand was shaking slightly. She put it back into her canvas and glanced across to where Harry sat, reading the paper. She was glad to have Harry there as well. They were both back early from their respective tasks in the village, waiting for Inspector Gilding to arrive. He had said he would be there around five o' clock, but he was not there yet.

  “Any sign of him?” Marcie asked as Harry stood and walked across to where he could see through the long windows. The parlor was dark and the rain had started again, thinly, running down the long windows in silvered tracks that looked uncommonly like tears. Murgatroyd came in, looking disgruntled, and Marcie put him on her knee. Stroking the silk of his fur was reassuring. She'd had too many shocks lately. He purred.

  “Not yet,” Harry said amicably. He was standing at the window, looking out at the drive.

  “I don't know why I feel uneasy, Harry,” Marcie said, taking his hand when he came over to join her. She took a fresh silk handkerchief out of her pocket and absently began to dry Murgatroyd where the rain had caught him. He purred loudly and clawed her knee. Marcie smiled. She was glad he had come in to join them.

  Harry sighed. “I think it's just the strangeness of it all, Marcie.” He took her hand where it rested on the chair arm and rubbed his thumb over the knuckles, tracing distracted circles on her skin. “We're not used to murders here in Stowe.”

  She sighed. “No, we're not.”

  At that moment, the downstairs doorbell rang.

  “It's him.”

  Pulling her cream pencil skirt straight, Marcie drifted down the marble staircase to the front door. She let the inspector in, frowning at the expression on his face. A handsome man with a gaunt face and black eyes, he looked unusually pinched and drained.

  “Good afternoon, ma'am,” he said softly. “Thank you for inviting me. Sorry I'm late. I had a call from the lab...” he ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

  “Not at all. Come in from the rain. It's icy out there...”

  Inspector Gilding followed her in, hanging his coat on the rack.

  “Afternoon, Randall,” Harry greeted the man as he followed Marcie into the parlor.

  “Sir,” Randall nodded. “It's good to be here.” He gave Marcie an inquiring glance and, when she inclined her head, sank wearily into a chair.

  “I've had some tea prepared,” Marcie said, indicating the tea tray Mrs. Berne had put together for her earlier.

  “Thank you.”

  Harry came to join Marcie at the table and together they watched while Inspector Gilding poured himself a cup of tea with shaking hands.

  “Is it bad down there?” Harry asked, jerking his head toward the police station.

  Gilding closed his eyes and leaned back in the cream wing back chair. He sighed. “Yes, sir. We got the bloods back earlier. No sign of alcohol in them. If they both had accidents, they weren't under the influence when it happened.” He set the cup down on the table, wincing as he stretched his back.

  Marcie watched him, concerned. Her mind was busily considering all the questions she had. She wanted to learn as much as she could from the inspector while she had him here – all the village gossip was getting on her nerves and she wanted the truth.

  “Do you know what car collided with them?” Marcie asked. “It must have been a big thing.”

  Gilding stared, as if surprised that an older lady would have such a keen interest in vehicles and accidents. “We chatted with the expert witness this afternoon,” he said. “As you say, the car was big. Probably like a small truck. And the same vehicle collided with them both.”

  Marcie put her cup down. Her thoughts raced. It seemed so simple, then! All they needed to do was find the car.

  “You have any idea who owns it?” she asked quickly.

  The inspector rolled his shoulders. “Not as easy as that, ma'am.” he said. “So many people in this village have things that size: farmers, shop owners, the building guys...locating that car is going to take a while,” he added grimly.

  “But you could narrow it down?” Marcie persisted. She reached for her glasses and her embroidery.

  Gilding nodded. “We could, ma'am. We know it's white. That rules out Farmer Brownley and his tractor, at least.” he gave a hollow laugh which Marcie echoed.

  “Guilty until proven innocent, eh?” she said.

  They all laughed.

  Harry cleared his throat and asked something about the plans for the village market now that the road was closed. Marcie sensed he wanted to take the inspector's mind off the case, so she let him do it. Inwardly, her mind was racing.

  A white car, probably a utility vehicle or a small truck. That narrows it down.

  As she sat there, frowning at the rain through the long French windows, she ran through a mental list of all the people she knew in the village. She was sure there were only ten of them with large white cars. Herself included. The Mercedes might not be a utility vehicle or a truck, but it was substantial. She had an idea.

  “Harry, dear?”

  “Mm?” Harry looked up pleasantly from where he had been cutting the inspector a slice of cake. “What is it, sweetie?”

  “Have you seen Dennis Harlow recently?”

  “I saw him the other day,” Harry confirmed. “Why?”

  “No reason.” She lifted a shoulder lightly. “I just thought that when I am in town I should ask him about the brakes on Silver. I think the brake shoes are worn.” Silver was her Mercedes. It wasn't true but she was sure no one would mind the white lie.

  “Oh,” Harry said placidly. Catching the look on the inspector's face, he chuckled. “My wife knows all about cars. Her father, Lord Mansford, owned one of the best collections in the country. Not much she hasn't heard of.”

  “Oh,” the inspector looked a little pale. He reached for his cake. “Your wife is a lady of many talents.”

  Harry chuckled and caught Marcie's eye across the table. Marcie pressed her lips into a line to conceal her smile.

  “Yes, she is,” Harry said firmly. “Yes, she is.”

  The afternoon wore on pleasantly with talk of the village and the market. Inspector Gilding had just made friends with Murgatroyd, who was curled up on the chair beside him contentedly, when the inspector's phone rang. Marcie listened in as he answered it in a cri
sp tone.

  “Ginsberg?”

  “You found what? Okay. I'm coming now.”

  He hung up.

  “What is it?” Marcie asked. Her heart was thumping.

  “They found her wallet. It was lying in a back street. I have to go.”

  Marcie blinked. “Her wallet?”

  Inspector Gilding was already walking to the door. “I know. It's a whole new kettle of fish, isn't it?”

  Marcie nodded wordlessly. The discovery made her wonder if it was as simple as she thought. Perhaps it isn't a crime of passion. Perhaps there was some sinister motive I know nothing about. But how would robbery and deaths like these be linked?

  She sighed and got slowly to her feet, walking with Harry to show the young man downstairs. Despite herself, her mind was engaged now and she was eager to find out more about this case. I need to go and talk to Dennis, she decided. He can help me find out what I need to know.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ASSEMBLING SOME FACTS

  ASSEMBLING SOME FACTS

  “I didn't do anything! I didn't see anything. I...”

  Gilding pressed his temples, feeling his headache worsen. “I never suggested you did, Will. I was simply trying to establish if Grant had been behaving oddly during the last few days.”

  “I never saw anything! I...”

  Gilding sighed. He had come up with what he had thought was the brilliant idea of interviewing the members of the local football squad, with which Grant had joined in enthusiastically. If anyone would know, he decided, about any untoward happenings in Grant Hiddingh's life – any tragedies, any odd behaviors, any new developments – the football team would. It was an idea he regretted.

  “You don't know if he was planning to go somewhere new?” Ginsberg was asking.

  “No! He never said that to me! He never told me anything about any plans...”

  Gilding sighed. He had so far interviewed three people: the waiter at the restaurant, Stuart, who worked at Fleet's, and now Will, who appeared to all intents and purpose, to believe they were trying to accuse him of murder. Which they weren't, of course. Nothing could have been further from his mind at that moment. All he wanted was information.