The Wychford Murders Page 4

  ‘Well, you know what I mean. Anyway, I’ve got poisoning on the mind at the moment. I actually found myself suspecting poor Mrs Teague of giving her stinker of a husband arsenic this afternoon.’

  Her aunt considered this, as if she had been asked to solve a crossword clue. ‘She works as a cleaner in several places. One of them is Mr Pelmer’s. Another is the photo-processing plant. They use a lot of chemicals there, I should imagine. She could get hold of all kinds of things. Who knows?’

  They stared at one another across the top of the embroidery frame for a long moment, and then Jennifer sighed. ‘We’ve got to stop doing this, Aunt Clodie,’ she said.

  ‘It’s not as if it were the real thing,’ her aunt said, glancing down at the newspaper on the floor with distaste. ‘Our little conjectural diversions are quite harmless.’

  ‘I’m not so sure they are.’ Jennifer said, swinging her feet down and sitting up. ‘It’s your fault, you know.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ her aunt said, resignedly. Aunt Clodie was an inveterate reader of mysteries and thrillers. She made up for the dullness of her life with constant conjecture about ‘things’ in the village. Funny looks, a word overheard, and so on. Bent over her embroidery frame, her mind free to wander, she imagined murders everywhere. Oh, it was a game, of course it was a game – and one that was hard to give up, since it harmed no one.

  Jennifer shared her aunt Clodie’s taste for fictional mayhem, and, when she’d come down from London to take over her uncle’s practice, it wasn’t long before Aunt Clodie revealed her private obsession – trying to figure out who would like to murder whom, or, indeed, who might have murdered whom, or was planning to murder whom, or who was in the process of . . .

  And so on.

  Had Jennifer carried things too far, this time?

  ‘You don’t really suspect Mrs Teague, do you?’ Aunt Clodie demanded, worried enough to leave her stitching for the moment. A long strand of scarlet trailed from her upheld hand, as she regarded Jennifer in some dismay. ‘I mean, you wouldn’t really do anything about it, would you?’

  ‘I’d have to do something if the tests revealed arsenic,’ Jennifer said. ‘I’d have to report to the police that someone was putting the stuff into Jack Teague. I wouldn’t make any specific accusations, obviously, that’s their job, but I’m sure I’d be expected to report it to someone.’

  ‘But wouldn’t you have to tell Mr Teague first? Before you went to the police?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Jennifer admitted, slowly. ‘If she killed him outright it would make it much easier, of course.’ She stopped. What was she saying? Clodie had got her going again. It really was too much – and with a real killing in the neighbourhood, in poor taste, as well. But when she thought of Mrs Teague – those dark resentful eyes, that tight little mouth – oh, well. Reluctantly, she put her shoes back on and stood up, relinquishing the comfort of the sofa and the fireside. ‘I’m going to have a quick bath before evening surgery.’ She grimaced, slightly. ‘Where I will sit and listen to all the patients going in to see Dr Gregson.’

  Her aunt watched her go out – such a delightful girl. So sad to see her wasted like this, working with sick people, running herself ragged, with her big brown eyes and silky hair and lovely legs unappreciated. Wally might have been a trial, but at least he’d always appreciated his wife. Jennifer deserved better, especially after what she’d gone through with that ridiculous ex-husband of hers. Clodie had had great hopes of Mark Peacock despite his ghastly snobbish mother. (She, who had little to be snobbish about, having been a Norwood before she’d captured poor gentle Major Peacock. Erratic family, the Norwoods. First the grandmother running off with that bizarre Italian nobleman who kept trying to fly off the top of things in weird contraptions that invariably crashed, then the mother who drank and kept a pet monkey. And wasn’t there talk of a mad uncle, locked away between the wars? Of course, who could say what was madness, these days? They did such wonderful things with drugs now.)

  Clodie brightened, thinking of drugs and things. Perhaps Mrs Teague was trying to kill her husband. Perhaps Jennifer’s hunch would prove correct, and she’d go to the police, and there would be a tall, handsome detective assigned to the case, and . . .

  Devoted Reader was off again.

  ‘Uncle Wally?’ Jennifer knocked and, hearing a gruff command from beyond the panel, opened the bedroom door and put her head around the edge. ‘Is the doctor in?’ she asked.

  ‘No, he’s out,’ said her uncle from the bed. ‘But your uncle is here.’

  ‘Oh, good.’ Jennifer came in and regarded with affection the large figure that lay mounded under the embroidered counterpane. ‘Never could stand that crabby old GP, anyway.’

  ‘He was a bit of a pain,’ Wallace Mayberry conceded. ‘Too much on his mind, that was his trouble. Had a good day?’

  ‘Not too bad.’ She gave him a very brief outline of the day’s two surgeries. It was his considered opinion that Jennifer was a sound doctor, but ‘soft’. She was glad of his advice on many of the cases – people he’d treated for years, and whose idiosyncrasies were as familiar to him as his own. His right arm and leg were still weak, but his mind was as sharp as ever.

  ‘I saw ten patients today, David Gregson saw twenty-three,’ Jennifer grumbled. ‘You’ll have to speak to him, Uncle Wally, you really will. What’s the point of my being here if I’m not carrying my share of the load?’

  ‘Speak to him yourself,’ Uncle Wally said, good-naturedly. ‘He’s not an ogre. Sit down, discuss it, work things out.’

  ‘He’s not reasonable,’ Jennifer objected, somewhat childishly. ‘He hates women, I’m certain he does. Maybe he’s afraid I’m a better doctor than he is.’

  ‘David is a fine physician,’ Uncle Wally said. ‘Wouldn’t be my partner if he wasn’t And he doesn’t hate women at all, although after what that wife of his put him through, he’d have a perfect right to be down on the sex. He’s just – a little conservative.’ He sighed, and looked out of the window. ‘Weather closing in, I see. Autumn here at last.’

  Normally her uncle would have led her into a spirited discussion about the practice, but today he seemed content to let the subject go without argument. For a moment Jennifer was concerned, and then she remembered that this was one of the days Frances came to treat him. ‘Feeling tired?’ she ventured.

  He roused himself to a mild echo of fury. ‘Tired? Tired? The wench is a sadist, do you know that? She loves having me at her mercy. Ghastly woman. Fire her.’

  Jennifer grinned. ‘Out of a cannon?’

  ‘Preferably.’ He smiled back, wearily. ‘She wants to put me on a bicycle.’

  For a moment Jennifer thought she hadn’t heard correctly, and then she smiled. ‘An exercise cycle, I presume.’

  ‘Well, I’m hardly about to go wobbling down the drive, am I?’ Uncle Wally grumbled, more amiably. ‘Although I wouldn’t put that past her, come to think of it. She was saying something about fresh air and sunshine. Very nasty stuff, that. I wouldn’t mind, you know, except she is so damned cheerful, I want to swat her. May God forgive me for every elderly patient I ever told to “snap out of it” or “get up and about more”. How they must have wanted to tell me to go to hell.’

  Jennifer knew how Frances had to steel herself to confront the old man each time she came to treat him, and smiled to herself. Uncle Wally was improving steadily under her gentle tyranny, despite his complaints.

  ‘I’m an old man, I’m tired, it does me no harm to lie here and rest.’

  ‘Liar. You know better. And you’ve been resting for months now,’ Jennifer said, briskly. ‘I think an exercise bicycle is a very good idea. Twenty miles a day should be enough to start with.’

  ‘She reckoned fifty. Said she’d connect it to my telly and I could provide my own electricity for watching old films all afternoon.’

  The though
t of Frances connecting anything to anything nearly made Jennifer laugh aloud. ‘Good film on this afternoon,’ her uncle went on, changing the subject enthusiastically. ‘Don Ameche inventing the telephone. He—’

  Jennifer broke a rule and interrupted her uncle. ‘—Do you think Mr Teague’s wife is capable of poisoning him?’ she asked.

  Her uncle looked at her reproachfully, still being full of old Hollywood’s magic, but considered the question. ‘Up to her old tricks again is she?’ Uncle Wally asked.

  ‘You mean all those enigmatic notes I found in his file about gastric . . . ?’

  He waved a hand. ‘Over the years, I’d say three or four times. I sent him for X-rays, barium meals, gastroscopy, the lot, as you saw in the notes. Then I hit on arsenic.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  He shrugged. ‘For right or wrong, I left it, because I tell you, honestly, I couldn’t make out whether she meant to kill him or just to pay him back for making her life hell. The doses were very small, you see, not lethal at all. But I managed to let her know I knew what she was up to. He improved dramatically. It weakened him, though. Didn’t get around to beating her up again for some time. Had some sympathy for the woman, but murder . . . ’ He shook his head. ‘Not supposed to do it, you know.’

  ‘I know,’ Jennifer said, drily. ‘On the other hand, you’re not supposed to beat your wife either.’

  ‘I should have beat mine,’ Uncle Wally said, dourly. ‘Then maybe she’d come up here and visit with me more often.’

  ‘That’s not fair,’ Jennifer told him. ‘You’re quite capable of going down in your wheelchair. The lift works perfectly. You could even walk if you had a mind to and took it slowly. Anyway, when she does come up here, you complain that she interrupts the best parts of the films. It’s a wonder she hasn’t poisoned you!’

  His face lit up. ‘Do you suppose she has? One of those rare South American poisons out of those damned murder mysteries she’s always reading? Might explain a lot of things.’

  ‘Uncle Wally, much as you would like to blame your illness on someone else, the fact is that all your life you ate too much, smoked too much, drank too much, worried too much, and did too little about it. A stroke is getting off lightly, if you ask me. I would have expected apoplexy at least, particularly during one of those Sunday lunchtime political arguments you used to get into at the Woolsack.’

  ‘How is the Woolsack these days?’ he asked, in an attempt to divert her from yet another lecture on healthy living.

  ‘Still standing, despite the loss of your custom,’ Jennifer retorted. ‘Dinner’s nearly ready, I understand. Count yourself lucky I haven’t got time to read you the Riot Act. And don’t you dare smoke that cigar you’re hiding on an empty stomach, you old . . . you old . . . worm!’ She gave him a friendly scowl as she went out.

  ‘Worms can turn, you know,’ he muttered, darkly. But he grinned at the closing door, and moved the cigar from under the bedclothes into the bedside table drawer.

  For later.

  Dusk slowly claimed the lovely town of Wychford with its shadows.

  Little by little it changed from a gold and green patchwork to black velvet and diamonds: streetlamps, headlamps, lights from every size and shape of window – all twinkled on the slopes above the murmuring chuckle of the now-invisible river Purle. The trees along its banks whispered together, their conversation drifting up the fields and over the hedgerows to the wooded heights beyond.

  In the cottages and homes of the old town, lamps cast their glow outward across fading gardens and leaf-strewn lawns. The long line of traffic in the High Street had at last disappeared. The softness of the summer’s end was being nipped by the chill of autumn, and night was coming on.

  At Peacock Manor, the houseman was carrying in the pre-dinner sherry; while at the Mayberry home, the evening meal was already on the table. Dr Mayberry’s tray had been carried up to him, and he was cutting roast beef and watching an old Will Hay movie on BBC 2.

  Mr Pelmer, having stayed open late to fill any prescriptions from evening surgeries, had locked up at last, and disappeared. In his windows spotlights shone down on laxatives, tonics, cosmetics, perfumes and adhesive plasters, but the shop behind this lavish display was dark.

  In David Gregson’s modern house, set high in the surrounding hills, an old clock clicked and sounded the hour. The clamour of its bell echoed through all the shining, empty rooms.

  At the new housing estate, children were being rounded up for baths, and babies (including a still-lively Darren Patrick Baldwin) were being fed, winded, and proudly presented to weary fathers just home from a long day’s work.

  The four rooms of Frances Murphy’s little flat filled with smoke as the oven happily, busily, and thoroughly burnt the casserole she’d set the automatic timer to cook for dinner.

  At the Monkswell Craft Centre, a party was beginning. Hilarity, wine and nonsense held sway. People came and went, laughter was heard, and there was quite a bit of sexual by-play in the darker corners of the place. This came under the heading of artistic expression, and was more or less tolerated. To have protested would have labelled one for ever ‘non-creative’, a fate not to be borne.

  It grew late. And later still. Slowly, the lanes and streets of the town grew quiet. A slight mist rose from the cooling fields and hung over the river Purle. An owl hooted and swept low over the dark meadows, watching for prey. The bell in the tower of St Mary’s church struck one. The people of Wychford were safely home and at peace.

  Save two.

  On the second curve of Swann Way, below an elderberry bush, one was lying dead.

  And another was running away.

  Chapter Five

  Luke Abbott and Paddy Smith were in the dining room of the Woolsack when the landlord came over to them. They had stayed over to pursue their enquiries concerning the death of Beryl Tompkins. Abbott was just about to ask for more toast and coffee, but the landlord spoke first, and said there was a phone call for them.

  When Luke returned to the table, the coffee cups had been refilled and fresh toast was in the rack. He scowled at them.

  ‘That was PC Bennett. We have more work to do,’ he said.

  ‘Oh?’ Paddy went on buttering toast. Another set of damn forms to fill in, presumably.

  ‘There’s been a second murder. Here in Wychford itself, this time. Another woman with a cut throat.’

  Paddy stared at him. ‘You’re joking,’ he said, around a mouthful of toast and strawberry jam.

  ‘I only wish I were.’

  ‘Bloody hell. Same method?’

  ‘According to Bennett, exactly the same. Body was found about twenty minutes ago, on the towpath beside the river. If I remember my local geography, the path from the photo-processing plant crosses the main road, drops down the hill, and eventually joins the towpath.’ His face was blank. ‘Cyril is on his way. I guess we’d better be, too.’

  ‘Looks like we could be here a while,’ Paddy said, carefully. ‘Maybe you’ll have time to look up some old friends.’

  ‘Old friends or old fiends?’ Luke asked.

  ‘I wasn’t going to suggest it,’ Paddy commented, swallowing the last of the scalding coffee, and standing up. ‘I never said a word.’

  ‘You didn’t have to,’ Luke said, getting up too. ‘Every time we attend a homicide these days, the word is there in the back of my mind. Isn’t it in yours?’

  ‘Psycho?’ Paddy asked. Their eyes met.

  ‘That’s the one,’ Luke agreed.

  They came out of the Woolsack and looked down the graceful slope of the High Street. The rain of yesterday afternoon had cleared the air, and overhead a wide V of migrating geese arrowed across the blue sky. A few of the trees showed that frost had passed by recently, for leaves at their tops showed yellow and red. There was condensation on the windows of the car, further eviden
ce that cold weather was on the way.

  ‘Maybe I should have packed warmer clothes,’ Luke said. ‘I have the feeling I’m going to need them.’

  Chapter Six

  It was halfway through morning surgery when Jennifer first heard about the second murder. Kay, their secretary/ receptionist, brought the news in with her coffee.

  ‘We’ve lost a patient.’

  Jennifer looked up, resignedly. ‘Mr Wymark? I’ve been expecting the hospital to call—’

  ‘—No. Win Frenholm.’

  Jennifer’s look of resignation changed to one of astonishment. ‘But she was here only yesterday. She wanted me to—’ she stopped, suddenly. ‘I suppose she’s gone over to Mitchell, or Larrabee. Lord, I must have really upset her, after all.’

  ‘Not half as much as the person who cut her throat upset her,’ Kay said, dropping the bomb at last.

  ‘What?’

  Kay nodded. ‘My brother’s wife’s sister’s boy is in the police. They found her this morning out along the towpath. Under an elderberry bush. Poor cow. She wasn’t exactly my cup of tea, but nobody deserves to go like that.’ Kay crossed her thin arms across her chest and regarded Jennifer with some interest. ‘What did you do to upset her, then?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Jennifer said, hurriedly. ‘Nothing that matters, now. My God, that’s two murders, isn’t it? That one over in the Woodbury area, and now this one.’

  ‘Both with their throats cut, too. Looks like there’s a nutter on the loose. Aside from you and me, that is.’ Kay’s usual bantering tone was a little thin this morning.

  ‘Was she sexually assaulted?’

  ‘I don’t know, he didn’t say about that. Only that it had happened, like. Not supposed to say anything, come to that, but I stopped there on my way in here with a pie for his mother as she hasn’t been feeling up to much after her op, like, and he did just mention it, in passing.’ Kay shivered. ‘Makes you sick to think about it, one cut and wham, you’re finished.’ She gave Jennifer an odd glance. ‘Sometimes your uncle used to be called out by the police. Any chance you’ll get tapped on the shoulder?’