A Dirty Death (28 page)

The vicar had private business which was causing him profound anxiety. Since Guy Beardon died, things were getting worse. The first wife had somehow got hold of his address and had been contacting him by letter and phone more and more in the last week or so. Yet he still wasn’t sure what she wanted. What had begun as a bit of minor mischief, a sense of putting one over on the arrogant Guy, by knowing unsuspected details of his early life, had turned into something much darker and more dangerous.

Guy had died a dirty, disgusting death, and Father Edmund was still unable to feel any personal sorrow for this fact. He had been much more affected by the killing of Sam Carter, in spite of his 
profound disapproval of the man’s ungodliness. It had been with motives of genuine concern that he had visited Redstone that afternoon; hearing those children talking about him so disaparagingly in the office had come as a very unpleasant shock. Any sympathy he might have been fostering had evaporated in seconds. How in God’s name was he supposed to care about heathens and pagans like them? Running half-wild all their lives, not understanding the normal constraints of modern existence, they were barely the same species as others of their generation. There was nothing at all he could do for them, and it was futile even to try.

And yet he had tried, in a feeble way, to divert the tidal wave of trouble they were facing. And, heaven help him, he was still trying – though since Sam’s death, he had realised that he was groping more blindly than he’d believed at first. There was some substantial piece of the jigsaw that he was missing, and it was an attempt to grasp this which preoccupied him now.

Sylvia Westerby seemed to him to be a good place to start. Living next door, she and he had struck up a workable relationship, which Father Edmund found oddly satisfying. He enjoyed her directness, her easy strength. Although she never came to church, she would sometimes lend a hand at garden parties and bring and buys. 
A good-natured woman was a precious thing, in his opinion, and he made a special effort not to alienate her.

The boundary between the two properties comprised a substantial hedge, reinforced with a wire netting fence, to prevent Sylvia’s livestock from straying. But at the upper end, adjacent to the road running into the village centre, there was only a fence, leaving a clear view of each other’s front doors. If Sylvia’s door stood open, it meant she was at home. He went to look. Not only was the door open, but her bicycle was propped against the wall of the house. ‘Hello!’ he called, standing just outside the threshold. ‘Are you there?’

She came through from one of the main rooms, appearing slowly, her expression neutral. ‘I’m here,’ she said and waited. He felt her silence as hostile, almost aggressive.
Serves her right for leaving the door open
, he thought.

‘Ah, yes,’ he began, clasping his hands together in front of his stomach. ‘I just thought I should come and ask you how things are at Redstone. I did call in, but Mrs Beardon was out, and the children – well, I didn’t get much sense out of them.’

‘They’re not
children
, vicar,’ she corrected him sternly. Then her tone mellowed. ‘They’re all very shocked. Obviously.’ She leant a shoulder against the doorway, and seemed in no hurry to be rid 
of him – but neither was she inviting him in. Obstinacy kept him there; he was intent on seeing this through.

‘They can’t manage the farm now, surely? I thought perhaps we could find someone to help them. Rally the community.’

Sylvia laughed a little, a chuckle of muted scorn. But her words were friendly. ‘Yes, I had the same idea myself. I have been going over every day myself, but they seem too disorganised to be able to help, if you see what I mean. It’s difficult to know how to be of any assistance. And who is there in the village who’s not already as busy as can be?’

‘There must be people. Youngsters. Retired …’

‘Don’t suggest Wing Commander Stradling, whatever you do. We’ve already considered him.’ She laughed again, and Father Edmund allowed himself to join in fleetingly.

‘There’s Phoebe and Elvira. They’d be ideal.’ He felt a rare sense of inspiration. Where had that idea come from? He cocked his head pensively, looking at the thought again. Surely it was brilliant.

Sylvia pursed her lips and widened her eyes. ‘My goodness,’ she said. ‘I would never have thought of them. They don’t know much about farming, surely?’

‘We could ask them,’ he said. And that matter 
seemed to be closed. After all, the farm work had not been his main worry.

‘The police—’ he went on. ‘Are they still examining the place for clues?’

‘Oh, no, I don’t think so. I gather it’s all being done from their offices, now. Laboratories – whatever. I have no idea what it is they’re doing.’

‘I saw the car here—’ he paused delicately.

‘That’s right. They asked me some questions, as well. Didn’t you get a visit?’

He shook his head. ‘Not since Sam died, no. I was interviewed after the Grimsdale death, as was everyone else, so far as I know. They didn’t seem to think I had anything useful to contribute.’

She looked at him sharply. ‘And were they right?’ she asked.

Father Edmund put his head back, and breathed deeply. ‘They were indeed,’ he said stiffly. Something had gone wrong with the conversation. He hadn’t expected to be put on the defensive like this. He had come to elicit information, and only now did he realise how incompetently he was going about it.

He breathed again, steadying himself. ‘Well, as I say, I am very concerned about that poor family. Perhaps you would convey my sentiments to them. I would willingly help in any way I can. It’s hard to imagine how it is for them, with so much tragedy falling upon them. Murder is a terrible 
thing.’ Words were coming more easily now. ‘Just think what hatred there must have been. Something must have been desperately wrong up there, for this to happen.’

Sylvia said nothing. When he looked into her face again, there were tears in her eyes, gathering heavily on her lower lids, trembling on the brink before spilling over. Father Edmund was appalled.

‘Well,’ he flustered. ‘I won’t keep you any longer. I’m sorry to have intruded. Sorry to … er …’ She blinked, and scraped a forefinger from each hand harshly across each cheek. She seemed angry, but still she said nothing.

He left, knocking glancingly against the bike as he went.
Typical
, he thought furiously, as he regained his own property.
Wretched women, retreating into tears just when you thought you might get something out of them
.

He made himself tea and laid two homemade ginger biscuits on a small plate. One of the few perks of this job was the never-ending stream of good food provided by the church ladies. A bachelor vicar was a magnet for such things, and it was a lean day when some little tin or jar or packet of cake, jam, or biscuits did not appear in his porch as if by magic.

He reviewed his plan as he crunched, torn between wishing himself completely removed from the whole business, and excitement at the special 
nature of his involvement. The first Mrs Beardon had asked him for help, and he could not easily refuse it. She was keen to meet Miranda, and to ascertain the precise legal position regarding Guy’s estate, without alerting either Miranda’s children or the police. This had seemed innocent enough to Father Edmund. He had his doubts as to whether she could be entitled to any property, and had told her as much, already. But he supposed that she had a much more emotional motive, namely sheer curiosity as to how Guy’s life had turned out after he’d left her. This he could understand. This, he told himself, was why he was willing to assist her. After all, she had only requested that he keep her informed as to whether it appeared possible for Miranda to leave Redstone for a visit to Nottingham. Barbara did not seem much interested in the murders, presumably under the impression that some inscrutible local feud lay behind them. People, as Father Edmund well knew, had strange ideas about life in the deep countryside.

Fortified, he washed his teacup, and stepped outside once again. This time he would need the car. There was an element to this mystery that he had so far overlooked, despite its nagging presence at the back of his mind. That all three deaths were connected seemed both obvious and impossible. The paradox had apparently struck 
most people in the same way, and had the same effect. The murder of Isaac Grimsdale had been so incomprehensible that scarcely anyone even had a theory about it. And without a theory, they had been rendered wordless on the subject. ‘Poor old Isaac,’ they said, shrugging helplessly.

This would not do. At the very least, Amos must be in need of succour. Another non-churchgoer, he was barely known to the vicar. But this was not a good reason for neglecting him. There were pastoral duties to perform, as well as a rich vein for amateur sleuthing. Besides, Isaac had not yet been buried. The Council would take charge at this rate, bundling him off to the crematorium early one morning with none of the due ritual. Perhaps Amos simply needed a helping hand, to guide him through the process. Father Edmund was more than satisfied with this excuse for a visit.

The track to the Grimsdale farmhouse was overgrown and bumpy. It ran between high hedges, beyond which was land which had long belonged to Redstone on one side, and a different farm entirely on the other. Father Edmund was only dimly aware of the history of land ownership in the area, although the church ladies had been more than happy to explain it to him, many a time. Rounding a sudden sharp bend, he found himself in a large rutted yard outside the house, 
which was set on high ground. Automatically he stared at the view falling away to his right, sweeping down to the hollow where Redstone and all its outbuildings clustered, and then up the far side to the Mabberley woods. It was splendid, he acknowledged; more than splendid. How odd that nobody had ever mentioned it to him! The Grimsdales’ house must have the finest vista in the whole area. It did him good just to stand for a moment and appreciate it.

When he turned back, remembering the reason for his visit, Amos was standing in the doorway, at the front of the house, staring at him. ‘Good God!’ he said, thickly.

‘My dear fellow, how are you?’ Father Edmund gushed nervously. ‘I’m afraid this visit is badly overdue. I’ve come to offer my condolences over your brother.’

Amos went on staring. Father Edmund could see the wound on his head; it looked as if it ought to be covered with a dressing. Had the man’s brains been addled? he wondered. Wasn’t there mental trouble in the family, anyway?

‘I’m glad to see you,’ said Amos, then. ‘It’s like magic.’

‘Pardon?’

‘I was – in a way – praying for someone like you to come. I need help, you see.’

To the best of his recollection, Father Edmund 
had never been the answer to anyone’s prayer before. It was a highly disturbing feeling. Warily, he smiled. ‘Then you must tell me all about it,’ he said. ‘Shall we go in?’

The inside of the house was astonishingly tidy. He realised that he had expected a hovel, full of animal hair, mud, unwashed crockery. He gazed about him, and then looked questioningly at Amos. ‘Do I detect the hand of a woman?’ he said, with a knowing smirk.

Amos shuddered at that, and almost ran into the living room. Father Edmund followed, noting that this room was equally pristine. Amos threw himself down on a large armchair and gestured his visitor to find a seat. Then a long silence ensued, with the vicar unable to find a safe opening to a conversation he could not begin to predict.

At last, Amos spoke. ‘A woman,’ he said. ‘That’s it, all right.’ And he began to tell a strange, disjointed story, full of ancient grievances and present day terrors. The vicar listened, uncomprehending at first, but afraid to interrupt with questions, in case some tenuous thread be lost.

At the end, he sat back, and stared hard at the unnervingly clean ceiling.
The woman even washed his ceiling
, he thought, irrelevantly. ‘I think we’ll have to go to the police,’ he said at last. ‘If I’ve understood you correctly, they’ll be 
most anxious to hear everything that you’ve just told me.’

Amos nodded resignedly, almost mournfully. Father Edmund felt something flutter inside him, and his head hummed strangely. What could this sensation be? he wondered. Suddenly he understood. It was sadness. Pure overwhelming sadness, for the things that could happen in the world.

While Amos was unburdening himself to the vicar, Miranda was doing something similar to Dave, the young police sergeant. He had been detailed to interview her one more time, with a view to confirming the facts about her relationship with Sam, as well as eliciting any other information which might be ‘pertinent’. ‘We’d like to know a little more about Mr Carter’s background,’ he began. ‘It strikes us as rather … well,
thin
. A few discrepancies seem to be showing up, too.’

Miranda fought down a surge of irritation. Talking about Sam’s ‘background’ seemed pure irrelevance to her. She waited restlessly for the questions to start.

‘Basically,’ said the man, with a small smile, 
‘we can’t seem to get hold of any motive for his killing. None of the people we’ve spoken to can suggest any reason at all why Mr Carter should be murdered. Here we have someone turning up on your farm in the early hours of the morning, having presumably taken your husband’s gun from Mr Carter’s room on a previous occasion, and then shooting him in the back with it. No sign of a disturbance, nobody reporting a fight or even an argument. That does seem to suggest that the killer was quietly waiting for his chance – that this was all carefully planned. Would you agree?’

Miranda felt panic. How was she supposed to reply?

‘Er, well …’ she stuttered. ‘I haven’t really thought about it. At least, not in that sort of detail. You’d be better off asking Lilah. She’s the amateur detective, not me.’

‘Well, let’s go through it slowly, shall we?’ His patient persistence seemed sinister, like a cat silently watching the mousehole. It was worse somehow that he was so young. He ought not to be this confident at his tender age. At times he behaved almost paternalistically, though never enough for her to feel she could trust him.

‘Firstly, the gun. Your daughter saw it in Mr Carter’s room a few days ago.’

‘Yes, she mentioned it,’ confirmed Miranda. 

‘So, how do you think the killer could have got hold of it?’

‘Sam never locked his door. Anyone could have slipped in and taken it. There’s been a lot of coming and going since Guy died.’

‘Could you give me a few names?’

‘Oh, heavens.’ She felt daunted. ‘Let’s see. Jonathan, Sylvia, Amos, the AI man, the milk recorder, about four reps, the vicar … any number of police people. And there are times when nobody’s in the yard, when it would be easy to sneak in on foot. There are plenty of hiding places and we haven’t got a dog to warn us.’ She looked up as a shadow crossed the sunlit floor. Lilah was standing in the doorway, as the policeman had done earlier.

‘Can I come in?’ she asked. ‘It’s just that I’ve found something in the office.’

Miranda sighed. ‘Oh, Lilah, not again,’ she protested.

Ignoring her, Lilah held something out to the policeman. ‘I’ve never seen it before. I don’t understand why it was there,’ she said simply.

‘Have
you
seen it before?’ he asked Miranda.

It was a photograph of Guy, standing on a beach, a coat jacket slung over his shoulders. He looked young and handsome and arrogant. Miranda looked at it for a long moment and shook her head. 

‘Could it have been Mr Beardon’s?’ the Inspector asked.

‘It could have been,’ said Miranda, with a nod. ‘In fact, surely it
must
have been. He’s got an old album somewhere. If I was a suspicious wife, I’d say he’d been showing this to some lady friend, showing off what a handsome chap he’d been in his prime.’ She spoke lightly, dismissively. Lilah was horrified.

‘Mum!’ she protested. ‘Don’t make jokes like that.’

‘I wasn’t joking, love. You know how vain your father was. And it’s a very nice photo.’

The policeman looked from one to the other, assessing their reactions. ‘Right, then,’ he said at last, slipping the photo into an envelope. ‘Could you fetch the album, please?’

With some difficulty, Miranda found it. It took very few minutes to establish that the photo had not come from its pages. There were no empty spaces, no recent removals. Dave licked his lips and chewed a corner of his mouth with suppressed excitement. ‘Thank you very much,’ he nodded to Lilah. ‘Now, perhaps I can carry on with your mum for a bit?’ She looked hard at Miranda for a moment, and then went outside, closing the door behind her.

‘Tell me more about Mr Carter,’ he invited. ‘Anything that comes to mind.’ 

Miranda, soothed by the relaxed approach, found herself pouring out a jumble of information about herself, Guy and Sam. She briefly went over their early history, when Sam had been a favourite pupil of Guy’s, and when he left school, and Guy had kept a fatherly eye on him. ‘I suppose he was a sort of substitute for Terry and Leo,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Even though he was much older than them.’

‘Who are?’ the policeman prompted.

‘His sons, by his first wife. We told you about them.’

‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘We checked them out. They’ve both got the strongest possible abilis.’

‘I’m impressed,’ she said with a faint smile.

He encouraged her to finish the story, asking about personalities and relationships. Guy had been a difficult man, she admitted. Everyone had had cause to resent him, including herself. And yet she hadn’t at all minded being married to him. Having him die like that made her genuinely sad, if not entirely surprised. ‘It was an awful way to go,’ she added. Yet every time she thought about it, the horror was mixed with a very tiny glow of amusement. That the mighty Guy in all his arrogant confidence should come to that end was a little bit of a joke; a joke she planned to revisit with Sylvia and other friends, over the years to come. 

She confessed with a wry smile, that she really had supposed that Sam had done it, out of a mixture of all-too-understandable reasons.

‘Which were?’ he prompted.

Firstly, she explained, there was the way Guy treated him. Even a worm will turn, and Sam was several stages up from a worm. People always assumed that because he wore shapeless and tattered clothes and had rough hands that he must be an ignorant semi-human yokel. Guy himself, although he knew better than anyone that this was wrong, behaved as if it were so. The unvarying humiliations could easily have become too much to bear.

‘And secondly?’ He asked the question almost idly, as if he had all the time in the world. He leant back in his chair, folding his arms. He had even stopped taking notes.

Well, Miranda plunged on,
secondly
, there was the curious matter of the ownership of the farm. Guy had behaved badly over that, she supposed, although on paper it must seem perfectly fair. When they had found Redstone and decided to buy it from the Mabberleys, it had been clear that every penny of the milk cheque would have to go to pay the mortgage every month. There simply was nothing to spare for Sam’s wages. At that time, Sam and Guy had been as close as father and son, and neither could bear to be parted. 
Sam wanted to get away from his domineering widowed mother, and Guy was aware that he had actual biological sons growing up forever out of his sight or knowledge. Each filled a gaping need in the other. Miranda formed the third side of the triangle, and was not always comfortable with her position. Casually, Guy offered Sam part ownership of the new farm in return for the most minimal of wages. He would have free accommodation and food, and occasional use of the car. It was more than many a farm labourer might have expected in generations past. Sam had shrugged and nodded agreement. From the start, he had seemed content, and never once had Miranda heard him complain about money in all the subsequent years.

‘So, strictly speaking, he was a man of some considerable means?’ the sergeant summarised. ‘And he might possibly have taken exception to the way your husband treated him as only a humble employee?’

‘We all forgot about the original arrangement,’ Miranda assured him. ‘I suppose Guy felt – I don’t know –
embarrassed
, almost. I don’t really think he deliberately slighted Sam, or anything like that. Although – well, he was never very nice to him, I suppose. I always assumed that Sam accepted it, as Guy’s manner. I mean, they were obviously fond of each other, in a funny sort of way.’ 

‘So, to your knowledge, nobody in the village knew that Sam Carter was part owner of the farm?’

‘That’s right.’ She nodded. ‘None of us would ever have talked about it. I don’t think we can treat it as a motive. Not even Lilah or Roddy knew. And I had honestly forgotten until the will arrived the other day.’

‘Right,’ he said slowly. ‘And is there a thirdly?’

‘Pardon?’

‘We’ve had firstly and secondly. Reasons for thinking that Sam might have killed your husband. Is there anything else?’

Miranda felt her face growing red. Hoping to avoid his gaze, she stood up. ‘Let me get us some coffee,’ she said.

He nodded acceptance. ‘There is, isn’t there?’ he persisted.

‘I don’t think so,’ she muttered, with her back to him.

‘I should tell you that I’ve talked at some length to your neighbours, as well as the vicar and Mrs Axford in the shop. And a person called Hetty Taplow. Routine questions, but there did seem to be hints. I’ll put this as delicately as I can, Mrs Beardon, but it must be mentioned. One or two people seem to think that there were … relations … between you and Sam Carter. Is there any truth in that suggestion?’ 

She sighed, and turned back to him. ‘It isn’t like you think,’ she began.

‘I expect it is,’ he said, with a direct look. ‘Don’t worry, it won’t go any further. At least …’

‘It might, if we get to a court case. I don’t mind, really. I’ve never cared much about what people think of me. Yes, Sam and I had sex sometimes. Do I have to say any more than that?’

‘Did your husband know?’

‘God! Of course not! He’d probably have taken us both out and shot us if he’d ever found out. The only person who knew was Sylvia, and she wished she didn’t, I think. It wasn’t anything important. Just sex. Sam didn’t have anyone else, and … oh, what’s the use of trying to explain?’

‘But it’s definitely a thirdly, all the same. A reason why Sam might have wanted your husband out of the way?’

Miranda said nothing. The memories were irresistibly coming back to her. The ‘affair’ – if that’s what it was – was something she almost never thought about between encounters, but which she found quite extraordinarily pleasurable when it was actually happening. The inevitable Lady Chatterley overtones – utterly inappropriate though they were – only added humour to it.

For Sam had not been in any sense a ‘good’ lover. Urgent, apologetic, hasty, clumsy – like no character in any book she’d read, she had still 
found it thrilling. She loved the way he’d
needed
her so inescapably; she more than loved his moments of climax, the long, relinquishing gasp and brief collapse onto her welcoming breast. Always then she cradled him, calling him baby names and shushing his groans of guilt and shame. They parted every time with her on a warm, self-satisfied high and him stumbling awkwardly away, mumbling that he wasn’t going to do it ever again – he’d find his own woman, be damned if he didn’t.

But he never did, and he grew all the more dependent on her, until he started taking risks – dropping back to the house when Guy assumed he was hedging or ditching – and telling her he loved her. Although he never voiced it, Miranda assumed that he suffered agonies of jealousy towards Guy, the rightful husband.

Perhaps he had calculated that with Guy dead, he could marry Miranda and assert his rights on a number of levels. In the weeks following Guy’s death, she had allowed herself to believe that he would get over his guilt and allow himself to move into her bed permanently. The idea even had some natural justice to it, although she suspected there could definitely be too much of a good thing where Sam was concerned.

The policeman had finished. He drained his coffee mug and got to his feet. ‘Thank you very 
much indeed for being so frank,’ he said, and smiled the warmest smile so far. ‘You’ve been extremely helpful. So has your daughter. I’m sure we’ll have something to show for the investigation before much longer. Meanwhile, please do contact us if there’s any more you feel we should know.’

Miranda nodded, then remembered something. ‘I meant to ask you – would it be all right if I went away for a day or two? There’s somebody I want to go and see. And it would be wonderful to get out of this place for a bit.’

He smiled paternally. ‘That would be no problem, providing you came back again. Just let us know when and where.’

When he was gone, Miranda felt drained. What had possessed her, telling him everything like that? He must be a hypnotist, to have got it all out of her so easily. And poor Lilah, banned from the house, what must she be thinking? A quick look around the yard suggested that she had found some work further off. The hens were clustered around the gate, crooning earnestly, and Miranda realised they hadn’t been fed. As she scattered corn for them, she watched with scorn their desperate dashes from grain to grain.
Stupid creatures
, she thought. So dependent. Like everything else here, a millstone around her neck. The desire to escape was like a physical sensation. Like running away 
from a great fire. She had to get away, to a place where nobody and nothing needed her.

This was the chief motive in wanting to visit the woman in Nottingham. She hadn’t been completely honest with Lilah when conveying the subject matter of last night’s phone call. Barbara had sounded as if she had something important to discuss, and Miranda was happy to clutch at any straw.

She knew that she was probably taking a foolish risk. She was, after all, a woman of property, and if Barbara was living in relative poverty, the discrepancy might call for action that would be unwise or worse. Though she had had the sense to speak to her solicitor, in order to give herself at least a modicum of ammunition prior to making the visit. If she could honestly state that everything was mortgaged, or tied up in some sort of trust, or rightfully due to Lilah and Roddy, she would feel more confident.

But escape was not going to be entirely simple. First she had to ensure that Lilah and Roddy would survive without her. The very least she could do was to ensure that they had some help with the milking. She took up the phone and dialled the number of the agricultural college. It rang and rang in vain. ‘Damn it!’ she exclaimed, dashing the thing down in a gesture worthy of the irascible Guy. But still she couldn’t quite take the step of 
phoning for a proper relief milker. Somehow, it was just too much of a commitment. Somehow, there had to be a simpler answer.