Murder of Convenience

by Carrie Marsh

  When their two guests had left, Marcie sat down heavily on her wing back chair in the parlor.

  “Whew,” she sighed. She closed her eyes and rested her head on the upholstery behind her. She wasn't sure she ever wanted to move again.

  “You look tired,” Harry said gently. “Tea?”

  “Oh, yes, please,” Marcie smiled weakly.

  “I'll go and make it.”

  While Harry was in the kitchen preparing them a tray of tea, Marcie ran over the interview in her mind. The young officer from Norwich had annoyed her slightly, if she was honest about it. Even though she was sure she'd shown him the error of his ways, it was irritating to have to do so. She would have liked time to ask Gilding about his own impressions of the case, but she was sure she would have an opportunity. He often came to visit.

  “Lost in thought?” Harry asked. He returned carrying a tray with her favorite patterned teapot and two cups, complete with a plate of gingersnaps.

  “Thank you, dear,” she said as he put it down on the table and took a seat opposite her. “I was.”

  “Thinking about Janet?”

  “I was, indeed.” Marcie poured herself some tea, smiling as the fragrant scent drifted to her nose. “I was also thinking about Gilding. You know he came to visit this afternoon?”

  “Here?” Harry was surprised. “But I thought...”

  “Not here.”

  “You saw him in town?” Harry was surprised.

  “Mm,” Marcie said thinly, reaching for one of the gingersnaps. She bit into it, enjoying the crisp crumbly texture and the sharp bite of spice.

  Harry looked amazed, then grinned. “Marcie...” he said slowly. “You have that look on your face. What did you do?”

  Marcie giggled. She put her teacup down. “What look?” she asked, feeling an answering grin spread across her own face as he teased her.

  “You know what I mean...” he smiled. “You did something.”

  “All I did,” she said firmly, “is tell the officer what I think.”

  Harry guffawed. “I do hope you did. I suspect he had it coming.”

  They shared a look and Marcie swilled down the last of her tea with a satisfied smile.

  “You are amazing, you know that?” Harry said.

  “Thank you, dear.”

  They sat quietly a while, enjoying the peace and quiet of the parlor as the sun set outside and the day cooled to pale gold and lavender.

  “How was your day?” Marcie asked, pouring more tea from the lilac-patterned teapot that was her favorite.

  “Okay,” Harry said slowly. “I went down to the mechanic to see if they can do something with Oswald.” Oswald was his favorite car, a Morris Minor from shortly after the second world war. He lavished care on the thing, though Marcie had to admit she couldn't see the appeal like Harry could. A stalwart design with a wooden base and square windows, Oswald wasn't exactly a beauty by modern standards, though she had to agree to a certain old-world charm.

  “Is it the brakes?”

  “Mm,” Harry nodded, taking another cup of tea. Marcie nodded. It always was.

  “Did you see Darrell?”

  “I did. We had a chat and a drink at the hotel before I came back home. He's really fed up, actually. I had meant to mention it.”

  “Fed up?” Marcie frowned.

  “About this land deal. Gerald's done it.”

  “Land deal?” Marcie's eyebrow shot up.

  “Lytchwood. I thought you knew? He sold it.”

  “What?” Marcie said sharply. The remains of her biscuit fell nervelessly from her fingers and she stared at him.

  “What, dear?” Harry asked, looking if anything a little nervous.

  Marcie was smiling.

  “Harry!” she smiled. She put her teacup down very carefully and kissed him. “But my dear! That's brilliant!”

  Harry blinked, a half-grin suffusing his face. “What was that for?”

  “You just gave me the missing piece.”

  Harry looked bemused, but he said nothing. Marcie loved the fact that he didn't pry – he simply trusted her to tell him if something was important. Otherwise, he respected her privacy in all ways.

  Now I know, she thought. The last piece of the puzzle is placed.

  All she had to do now was make one more visit, to gather the facts she needed to confirm the final picture. It was a surprising one, even she had to admit.

  “I think I'll go into Stowe tomorrow,” she said slowly, setting down her cup. “I have someone I need to see.”

  “Okay, dear,” Harry smiled contentedly. “I'm meeting the badminton group anyhow. I might see you in the village later. We could have lunch at the cafe, if you want to?”

  “That sounds nice.” she nodded.

  “That's settled then.”

  Marcie smiled happily at him and leaned back in her seat, finishing her tea and watching the sun sink behind the treetops, gilding them with light.

  After weeks of worry, she could finally begin to lay the burden of Janet's death to rest.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  A QUESTING SOUL

  A QUESTING SOUL

  The mist was gray and thick and it pressed against the windshield, choking Marcie as she tried to drive forward. She could not see a thing. She put her foot on the brake and slowed, creeping forward, trying to discern her way. There was nothing ahead, nothing behind. She was lost.

  She felt terror, suddenly – a fear like she had never felt before. Something came out of the mist. A hand squeezed around her chest, pain sawing at her like steel. She could feel her breath slowing, stilling, becoming more painful. Her head ached and throbbed and her body froze.

  Then, just as suddenly as the pain that engulfed her, she saw a light come from the mist, blinding and gold-white. Suddenly, the fear was gone and she felt herself floating, lifted, drowning in the glory of it. Close to her, she heard the sobs of a child, incoherent and inconsolable. They tore at her, sawing through the white mist, calling her.

  She opened her eyes. She was in bed, and the pillow was wet with tears.

  “Oh, Heavens,” Marcie breathed. She lay back against the pillows, feeling her heart thumping as her breath returned to normal. The lace of her nightgown quivered as her chest rose and fell and, slowly, she returned to a state of peacefulness.

  She turned. The room was dark, the light filtering in through the thick linen of the curtains was diffuse and ghostly. She could just make out Harry, lying in the wide bed beside her. His breath was slow and even and she could hear the familiar burr of it as he exhaled. She sighed.

  “Poor Janet,” she whispered. She slid out of bed, feeling restless. She went to the curtain and looked out on the garden. Below her, the lawns were crisp and the grass just etched in frost. The moon was almost full and it shone on the garden, reflecting off the frost stiffened grass and making the branches sculptures in silver. The sky was black, stars winking like tiny, perfect diamonds as they shed their light to earth.

  Marcie reached for a long, satiny robe and sat down in the wing back chair by the window. She stared out at the garden, feeling the peace of it soothe her soul. Poor Janet, she thought again. She had no doubt that the dream had been about her, some strange sharing of her experience. The white light must have been death – she could imagine nothing more all-encompassing, more peaceful. The child, she was sure, was Tamsyn. Her heart ached.

  Janet was lost, and now Tamsyn is. I need to do something for them both. I need to solve this case so that they can both find peace.

  She sat watching the nighttime scene outside the window and thinking about the case. She knew, now, that Janet and Grant were not lovers alone, but co-conspirators. They were not necessarily killed for what they were, but for what they knew.

  There was only one person who would have been in danger because of what they knew. And that, and Harry's revelation earlier, gave her the last piece.

  There was just one piece that didn't fit yet.

  Marcie
sighed. She turned from the window as she heard Harry stirring. She was stiff and weary and she had to think. To give peace to the dead, and to the living. And soon.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  A SURPRISING CONCLUSION

  A SURPRISING CONCLUSION

  The tiny police station at Stowe was quiet, the early evening light orange on the polished tile of the corridors. The silence was broken by a raised voice, coming from Gilding's office. A rich, expansive voice, it belonged to Doctor Hargreaves

  “Well, blow me down with a feather. She's right!”

  Eustace was looking at the sheet of paper that had just arrived from the lab. It was the results of the paternity test for Richard Fleet and Tamsyn. It was negative.

  Gilding felt sick. He had been feeling that way since he had first seen the results about ten minutes ago.

  He was not surprised Marcie was right – he had known her for long enough to know how sharp-eyed she was and that she missed nothing. What had affected him was the fear of what the news would do to Richard. He wondered, wildly, about faking the results, about spilling something on this page to make it indelible, or simply telling Richard a lie. He sighed. He knew he could not do any of those things. He was an officer of the law and bound to tell the truth.

  “I know,” he said to Eustace. The man put the paper back down on the desk and sat down heavily. “It'll break Richard,” he said. “He loves that girl.”

  “I know,” Gilding said again. He had been worrying about it ever since the results had arrived.

  “The thing that bothers me, though,” Eustace added, scratching his head, “is how on earth she knew! Lady Winston-Browne, that is.”

  “No idea,” Gilding sighed. “If she has any idea about this case, I wish she'd pass it on.”

  “You spoke to her yesterday, I take it?” Eustace felt his lip lift in a smile. “I saw your dear colleague yesterday, wandering about like he'd just been hit on the head.”

  Gilding laughed for the first time that morning. “Yes. Meeting Marcie was...a shock, let me tell you.”

  Eustace nodded. “I can imagine. May I ask what he said?”

  “Not a lot,” Gilding admitted. “He was speechless, mostly. Afterward, he asked me what Marcie had done as a living. I suspect he thinks she worked for the secret service.”

  Eustace roared with laughter. “I can imagine he's looking for her on all the data-bases, trying to figure out who she is. I wish him luck,” he sighed. “She is one of a kind, that lady. I hope Harry knows he's a fortunate man.”

  Gilding raised a brow. He had not thought about the fact that Eustace was close to Marcie's age – closer than he himself was by about ten years, at any rate – and he wondered if he had ever made eyes at her. He made a mental note to try and find out.

  His eye fell on the report from the lab as Eustace rearranged his papers fussily, making them straight again. He sighed.

  “How are we going to tell him?”

  “What do you mean, we? I have to tell him, since I'm the poor sod who took the sample yesterday,” Eustace sighed.

  “You don't have to do it, Eustace,” Gilding offered. “It's not an easy job and I'll share it with you if you want me to. I thought I'd be doing it alone, actually.” He felt relieved.

  “Well that's decent of you, some company would be no bad thing. We can head into town for lunch and discuss the case over some nice fish at Orton's, and then head up the hill afterward. Okay?”

  Gilding breathed out, relieved. “Thanks. I like that idea.”

  “An army marches on it's stomach, after all. Though it's an odd mental image, I always thought, that.” Eustace chuckled. “A bit hard to imagine Field Marshal Wellington slithering about at Waterloo, eh?”

  Gilding let out a bark of a laugh. “Thank you, Eustace. You just spoiled the saying forever.”

  “Pleasure, old boy. Now let's go and find some lunch.”

  They sat in the cozy cafe in the middle of the village, and Gilding felt his whole body relax as he tasted the delicious fish. Served with chips and a salad, it was exactly what he had needed to eat. He had barely been eating, forgetting to during his long hours of work. Between the demands of the case and the station he had been wearing himself out.

  “...so my considered opinion is that Gerald did it. To get our young activist out of the way.” Eustace finished, reaching for his drink.

  Gilding frowned. He knew that Grant Hiddingh had a long history of activism, and had taken part in the Pond Protests, as the villagers called the periodic bouts of activity around the land development at Lytchwood, the last time one had happened. That had been five years ago, though, the first year Grant had arrived in the village, which coincided with Gilding’s own.

  “It makes sense, except for two things. First: why now?” he asked, raising his eyebrow. “Five years ago, it would make sense. But now?”

  “Gerald's going ahead with the plans. Didn't you know?”

  Gilding swallowed and nearly choked. “What?” He dropped his fork, startling other customers, who turned to look at them. “Sorry,” he gestured, and reached for the spoon. “You said what?”

  “Gerald's developing the land,” Eustace said placidly. “I thought you knew. I didn't mean to give you a fright there. It would be a shame to spoil such a good meal.”

  Gilding glared at him. “You might have told me, Eustace. That changes everything. How do you know?”

  “I heard it from Dennis. That man misses nothing. I was in having my side mirror replaced, and we got talking. Apparently Mr. Gerald was at the estate agency in town. Dennis' wife's cousin works there. She told Dennis' wife what she had overheard. Apparently he has sold the land to a company and they are planning to put up housing of some kind. Houses for retired folk, that kind of thing.”

  “What?” Gilding said again. He had questioned Gerald himself the other day, and the man had not seen fit to inform him of any of that. Which was odd in itself. “But why was I not told?”

  “Because, old boy, it's not legal,” Eustace continued thoughtfully. “You know that – we discussed it when the development reared its head five years ago. You said you didn't think he'd ever get it right, since his claim on the land is tenuous.”

  “I do remember,” Gilding nodded, drinking as sip of tea. He found hot drinks helped his digestion more and had been drinking mint tea with every meal for the last few years. “I believe the land actually belongs to the council. Or at least, there's a dispute between the two of them – the municipality and Gerald – every few years. Always disappears though. How is he getting this right?”

  “I don't know,” Eustace agreed. “If he has done something, though – bribed someone, say – then perhaps the two young people knew about it. Perhaps they were plotting something. You never know.”

  “No,” Gilding admitted. “If that was true, that would take care of my other question which was: why her? I can see this scenario would make him kill Grant, but why Janet Fleet? Unless, as you said, she knew something.”

  Eustace nodded. “How would we find out?”

  “We could ask Richard if she had been going out often? Maybe they were meeting to plan something.”

  “We could,” Eustace agreed. “But would he know? He was at work most of the day, and Janet worked once a week at the accountant's, filling in for the secretary. She and Hiddingh could have met a dozen times and nobody would know.”

  “Except Tamsyn.”

  “Except her. Yes.”

  Gilding sighed. He couldn't exactly question a child – especially one frightened of men. He made a mental note to ask Hannah Bayes, their only female officer in this tiny police station – to consider the possibility.

  “Okay,” he said. “We'll try and question Tamsyn. Carefully and respectfully, of course. But I don't like it. Especially since we have to go and see them now. With news.”

  “We don't have to see them,” Eustace countered, “only her father. He's at the shop, yes?”

  “Mm,” Gildi
ng nodded. “I told him to expect us at around four o' clock today. Needed to allow for the lab to take time. And for me to get my head sorted out. Which I think I have, actually. Thanks.”

  “Pleasure,” Eustace grinned. “I'm here to help. Now, if I can manage the miracle of actually getting a bill in this place, I will feel entirely able to tackle whatever lies ahead.”

  Gilding laughed. “I'll pay at the till. See you outside?”

  “Decent of you,” Eustace raised a brow. “See you outside.”

  The two of them met, and together, drove the short distance to Fleet's Grocery shop.

  Inside, there were only two customers, and Richard was behind the scenes somewhere, taking stock. Eustace and Gilding waited in the front of the front counter while someone went to fetch him. When he arrived, he looked pale.

  “Tell me,” he said, his voice raw with emotion.

  “In here?” Gilding asked.

  “Follow me,” Richard agreed and led them to his office. He took a seat behind the desk and leaned his head on clasped hands. “Tell me.”

  Gilding and Eustace exchanged looks and sat down. Eustace cleared his throat.

  “She's not yours, Richard,” Gilding said gently, getting in first. He decided to spare the doctor being the bearer of bad tidings for once.

  Richard blinked. He stared at Gilding and the doctor opposite him, eyes filled with sudden tears. Gilding felt terrible. He wished he hadn't told him. Gilding reached into his case and brought out the paper with the lab results on it to show him.

  “I'm sorry, Richard,” he said quietly. “This must come as a shock to you.”

  After a moment, Richard cleared his throat. “I don't care,” he declared solemnly. “Tamsyn is my daughter. She always will be. It's not pieces of paper as makes fathers. It's hearts.”

  Eustace and Gilding stared at each other.

  “Never a truer word was spoke,” Eustace murmured quietly. Gilding, who had no children of his own but had always wished to, closed his eyes.