Magpie Murders (54 page)

Saxby could not have looked lovelier. It was still early and for a moment there was nobody in sight – no cars either – so it was possible to imagine the little community as it might have been a century ago. For a moment the murder seemed almost irrelevant. After all, what did it matter? People had come and gone. They had fallen in love. They had grown up and they had died. But the village itself, the grass verges and the hedgerows, the entire backdrop against which the drama had been played, that remained unchanged. Years from now, someone might point out the house where Sir Magnus had been murdered or the place where his killer had lived and there might be an ‘Oh!’ of curiosity. But nothing more. Wasn’t he that man who had his head cut off? Didn’t someone else die too? Snatches of conversation that would scatter like leaves in the wind.

And yet there had been some changes. The deaths of Mary Blakiston and Sir Magnus Pye had caused a myriad of tiny cracks that had reached out from their respective epicentres and which would take time to heal. Pünd noticed the sign in the window of the Whiteheads’ antique shop: CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. He did not know if Johnny Whitehead had been arrested for the theft of the stolen medals but he doubted that the shop would open again. He walked up to the garage and thought of Robert Blakiston and Joy Sanderling who wanted only to get married but who had found themselves up against forces well beyond their comprehension. It saddened him to think of the girl on the day she had come to visit him in London. What was it she had said? ‘It’s not right. It’s so unfair.’ At the time, she could have had no idea of the truth of those words.

A movement caught his eye and he saw Clarissa Pye walking briskly towards the butcher’s shop, wearing a rather jaunty three-feathered hat. She did not see him. There was something about the way she carried herself that made him smile. She had benefited from the death of her brother. There could be no denying it. She might never inherit the house but she had regained control of her own life, which mattered more. Would that have been a reason to kill him? It was curious, really, how one man could make himself the target of so much hostility. He found himself thinking of Arthur Redwing, the artist whose best work had been desecrated, sliced apart and burned. Arthur might consider himself an amateur. He had never achieved greatness as an artist. But Pünd knew all too well the passion that burned in the heart of any creative person and which could all too easily be subverted and turned into something dangerous.

Or what of Dr Redwing herself? The last time she had spoken of Sir Magnus, she had been unable to disguise her hatred not just of him but of all he stood for. She, more than anyone, had known the hurt that he had caused her husband and Pünd knew, from past experience, that there is no more powerful person in an English village than the doctor and, in certain circumstances, the doctor will also be the most dangerous.

He had walked some of the way down the High Street and he could see Dingle Dell stretching out on his left. He could have taken the short cut through to Pye Hall but he decided not to. He had no wish to meet with Lady Pye or her new partner. They, of all people, had had the most to gain from the death of Sir Magnus. It was the oldest story in the world: the wife, the lover, the cruel husband, the sudden death. Well, they might think they were free to be together but Pünd was quite certain that it would never work out. There are some relationships that succeed only because they are impossible, that actually need unhappiness to continue. It would not take Frances Pye long to tire of Jack Dartford, as handsome as he undoubtedly was. To all intents and purposes, she now owned Pye Hall. Or was it that Pye Hall owned her? Matthew Blakiston had said it was cursed and Pünd could not disagree. He made a conscious decision and turned back. He did not want to see the place again.

He would have liked to have spoken to Brent one more time. It was odd that the role of the groundsman in everything that had happened had never been fully explained. Inspector Chubb had dismissed him almost entirely from the investigation. And yet Brent had been the first to discover Mary Blakiston’s body after she had fallen as well as the last to see Sir Magnus before he was decapitated. For that matter, it was Brent who claimed to have discovered the body of Mary Blakiston and it was certainly he who had telephoned Dr Redwing. Why had Sir Magnus so arbitrarily dismissed him just before his own death? Pünd feared that the answer to that question might never be known. He had very little time left to him, in every sense. This morning he would set out his thoughts on what had occurred in Saxby-on-Avon. By the afternoon he would be gone.

And what of Dingle Dell? The stretch of woodland between the vicarage and Pye Hall seemed to have played a large part in the narrative but Pünd had never considered it, in itself, a motive for murder if only because the death of Sir Magnus would not necessarily prevent the development going ahead. Even so, people had behaved very foolishly. They had allowed their emotions to run away with them. Pünd thought of Diana Weaver, the stolid cleaning lady who had taken it upon herself to write a poison pen letter, using her employer’s typewriter. As things had turned out, he had been unable to ask her about the envelope – but it didn’t matter. He had guessed the answer anyway. He had solved this case, not so much by concrete evidence, as by conjecture. In the end, there could be only one way that it would all make sense.

He retraced his steps, walking up the High Street. He found himself back in the cemetery of St Botolph’s, passing beneath the large elm tree that grew beside the gate. He glanced up at the branches. They were empty.

He continued towards the newly dug grave with its temporary, wooden cross and plaque.

Mary Elizabeth Blakiston
5 April 1887 – 15 July 1955

This was where it had all begun. It had been the death of Robert’s mother, and the fact that the two of them had argued publicly just a few days before that, which had driven Joy Sanderling to his office in Clerkenwell. Pünd knew now that everything that had happened in Saxby-on-Avon had stemmed from that death. He imagined the woman, lying beneath him in the cold soil. He had never met her but he felt he knew her. He remembered the entries she had made in her diary, the poisoned view she had taken of the world around her.

He thought of poison.

There was a footfall behind him and he turned to see the Reverend Robin Osborne walking towards him, making his way between the graves. He did not have his bicycle with him. It was strange that, on the night of the murder, both he and his wife had been in the vicinity of Pye Hall, the one supposedly looking for the other. The vicar’s bicycle had also been heard passing the Ferryman during the course of the evening and Matthew Blakiston had actually seen it parked outside the Lodge. Pünd was glad to have come across the vicar one last time. There was still a certain matter to be accounted for.

‘Oh, hello, Mr Pünd,’ Osborne said. He glanced down at the grave. Nobody had left any flowers. ‘Have you come here for inspiration?’

‘No. Not at all,’ Pünd replied. ‘I am leaving the village today. I was merely passing through on my way back to the hotel.’

‘You’re leaving? Does that mean you’ve given up on us?’

‘No, Mr Osborne. It means the exact opposite.’

‘You know who killed her?’

‘Yes. I do.’

‘I’m very glad to hear it. I’ve often thought … it must be very hard to rest in peace when your murderer is walking on the ground above you. It offends all the ideas of natural justice. I don’t suppose there’s anything you can tell me – although I probably shouldn’t ask.’

Pünd made no reply. Instead, he changed the subject. ‘The words that you spoke at the funeral of Mary Blakiston, they were of great interest,’ he said.

‘Did you think so? Thank you.’

‘You said that she was a great part of the village, that she embraced life here. Would you be surprised to learn that she kept a diary in which she recorded nothing but the darkest and most unkind observations about the people who lived in Saxby-on-Avon?’

‘I would be surprised, Mr Pünd. Yes. I mean, she did have a way of insinuating herself, but I never detected any particular malice in anything she did.’

‘She made an entry about you and Mrs Osborne. It seems that she visited you on 14 July, exactly one day before she died. Do you have any recollection of that?’

‘I can’t say …’ Osborne was a terrible liar. His hands were writhing and his entire face was drawn and unnatural. Of course he saw her, standing in the kitchen. ‘
I heard you were having trouble with the wasps
.’ And the pictures, lying face up on the kitchen table … Why were they there? Why hadn’t Henrietta put them away?

‘She used the word “shocking” in her diary,’ Pünd went on. ‘She said also that it was “dreadful” and asked herself what action she should take. Do you know to what she was referring?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘Then I will tell you. It very much puzzled me, Mr Osborne, why your wife should have needed treatment for belladonna poisoning. Dr Redwood had purchased a vial of physostigmine for that very purpose. She had stepped on a clump of deadly nightshade.’

‘That’s right.’

‘But the question I asked myself was – why was your wife not wearing shoes?’

‘Yes. You did mention that at the time. And my wife said—’

‘Your wife did not tell me the entire truth. She was not wearing shoes because she was not wearing anything else either. This is the reason why you were both so reluctant to tell me where you had been on holiday. In the end, you were forced to give me the name of your hotel – Shelpegh Court in Devonshire – and it was the matter of one simple telephone call to discover that Sheplegh Court is well known as a resort for naturists. That is the truth of the matter, is it not, Mr Osborne? You and your wife are followers of naturism.’

Osborne swallowed hard. ‘Yes.’

‘And Mary Blakiston found evidence of this?’

‘She found photographs.’

‘Do you have any idea what she intended to do?’

‘No. She said nothing. And the next day …’ He cleared his throat. ‘My wife and I are completely innocent,’ he said, suddenly, the words tumbling out. ‘Naturism is a political and a cultural movement which is also related very much to good health. There’s nothing unclean about it and nothing, I assure you, that would demean or undermine my calling. I could mention that Adam and Eve were unaware that they were naked. It was their natural state and it was only after they had eaten the apple that they became ashamed. Hen and I travelled in Germany together, before the war, and that was where we had our first experience. It appealed to us. We kept it a secret simply because we felt that there were people here who might not understand, who might be offended.’

‘And Dingle Dell?’

‘It was perfect for us. It gave us freedom, somewhere we could walk together without being seen. I hasten to add, Mr Pünd, that we did nothing wrong. I mean, there was nothing … carnal.’ He had chosen the word carefully. ‘We simply walked in the moonlight. You were there with us. You know what a lovely place it is.’

‘And all was well until your wife stepped onto a poisonous plant.’

‘All was well until Mary saw the pictures. But you don’t think for a minute – you – you can’t think that I harmed her because of it?’

‘I know exactly how Mary Blakiston died, Mr Osborne.’

‘You said – you said you’re about to leave.’

‘In a few hours from now. And this one secret I will take with me. You and your wife have nothing to fear. I will tell no one.’

Robin Osborne let out a deep breath. ‘Thank you, Mr Pünd. We’ve been so worried. You have no idea.’ His eyes brightened. ‘And have you heard? According to the agents in Bath, Lady Pye isn’t intending to continue with the development. The Dell is going to be left alone.’

‘I am very glad to hear it. You were certainly correct, Mr Osborne. It is a very beautiful place. Indeed, you have given me an idea …’

Atticus Pünd left the cemetery on his own. He still had fifty minutes until the meeting with Raymond Chubb.

And there was one thing he had to do.

2

It took him a short time to write the letter, sitting with a cup of tea in a quiet corner of the Queen’s Arms.

‘Dear James,

By the time that you read this, it will all be finished. You will forgive me for not having spoken to you earlier, for not taking you into my confidence, but I am sure that in time you will understand.

There are some notes which I have written and which you will find in my desk. They relate to my condition and to the decision that I have made. I want it to be understood that the doctor’s diagnosis is clear and, for me, there can be no possibility of reprieve. I have no fear of death. I would like to think that my name will be remembered.

I have achieved great success in a life that has gone on long enough. You will find that I have left you a small bequest in my will. This is partly to recognise the many years that we have spent together but it is also my hope that you will be able to complete the work of my book and prepare it for publication. You are now it’s only guardian but I am confident that it will be safe in your hands.

Otherwise, there are few people who will mourn for me. I leave behind me no dependents. As I prepare to take leave of this world, I feel that I have used my time well and hope that I will be remembered for the successes that you and I shared together.

I would ask you to apologise to my friend, Detective Inspector Chubb. As will become apparent, I have used the physostigmine which I took from Clarissa Pye and which I should have returned to him. I understand it to be tasteless and believe it will provide me with an easy passage, but even so it was a betrayal of trust, even a small crime, for which I am sorry.

Finally, although it surprises me, I would like my ashes to be scattered in the woodland known as Dingle Dell. I do not know why I ask this. You know that I am not of a romantic disposition. But it is the scene of my last case and seems fitting. It is also a very peaceful place. It seems right.