Magpie Murders (8 page)

‘Where was the father at this time?’

‘He was a mechanic at Boscombe Downs, working for the RAF. It’s not that far away and he was at home quite a lot but he wasn’t there when it happened. And when he found out – well, you’d have to ask Robert, not that he remembers very much of it, I’m sure. The point is that his parents just tore each other apart. He blamed her for not looking after the boys properly. She blamed him for being away. I can’t tell you very much because Robert never speaks about it and the rest is just village gossip. Anyway, the upshot was that he moved out leaving the two of them living alone in the Lodge. They got divorced later on and I’ve never even met him. He wasn’t at the funeral – or if he was, I didn’t see him. His name is Matthew Blakiston but that’s about all I know.

‘Robert grew up with his mother but the two of them were never happy together. Really, they should have moved. They should never have stayed near that horrible place. I don’t know how she did it, walking past the lake where her own son had died, seeing it every day. I think it poisoned her … It reminded her of the boy she’d lost. And maybe part of her blamed Robert even though he was nowhere near when it happened. People do behave like that, don’t they, Mr Pünd. It’s a sort of madness …’

Pünd nodded. ‘It is true that we have many ways of coping with loss,’ he said. ‘And grief is never rational.’

‘I only met Mary Blakiston a few times, although of course I saw her in the village quite a bit. She often used to come to the surgery. Not because she was ill. She and Dr Redwing were good friends. After Robert and I got engaged, she invited us round to the Lodge for tea – but it was horrible. She wasn’t exactly unfriendly but she was so cold, asking me questions as if I was applying for a job or something. We had tea in the front room and I can still see her with her cup and saucer, sitting in her chair in the corner. She was like a spider in a web. I know I shouldn’t say things like that, but that was what I thought. And poor Robert was completely in her shadow. He was so different when he was with her, quiet and shy. I don’t think he said a word. He just stared at the carpet as if he had done something wrong and was about to be told off. You should have seen how she treated him! She didn’t have a single good word to say about him. She was dead set against our marriage. She made that much clear. And all the time the clock was ticking away. There was this huge grandfather clock in the room and I couldn’t wait for it to strike the hour so we could be on our way.’

‘Your fiancé no longer lived with his mother? At the time of her death?’

‘No. He was still in the same village but he’d moved into a flat above the garage where he works. I think it was one of the reasons he took the job, to get away from her.’ Joy folded the tissue and slipped it into her sleeve. ‘Robert and I love each other. Mary Blakiston made it clear that she didn’t think I was good enough for him but even if she hadn’t died, it wouldn’t have made any difference. We’re going to get married. We’re going to be happy together.’

‘If it does not distress you, Miss Sanderling, I would be interested to know more about her death.’

‘Well, as I say, it happened on a Friday, two weeks ago. She’d gone up to Pye Hall to do the cleaning – Sir Magnus and Lady Pye were away – and somehow she tripped when she was doing the hoovering and fell down the stairs. Brent, who works in the grounds, saw her lying there and called the doctor but there was nothing anyone could do. She’d broken her neck.’

‘Were the police informed?’

‘Yes. A detective inspector came round from the Bath constabulary. I didn’t actually talk to him but apparently he was very thorough. The wire of the Hoover was in a loop at the top of the stairs. There was nobody else in the house. All the doors were locked. It was obviously just an accident.’

‘And yet you say that Robert Blakiston is accused of her murder.’

‘That’s just the village talking and it’s why you’ve got to help us, Mr Pünd.’ She drew a breath. ‘Robert argued with his mother. The two of them often argued. I think they had never really escaped from the unhappiness of what had happened all those years before and in a way it was hurting both of them. Well, they had a nasty row outside the pub. Lots of people heard them. It started because she wanted him to mend something in the Lodge. She was always asking him to do odd jobs for her and he never refused. But this time he wasn’t happy about it and there was a lot of name-calling and then he said something which I know he didn’t mean but everyone heard him so it doesn’t matter if he meant it or not. “I wish you’d drop dead”.’ The tissue came out again. ‘That’s what he said. And three days later she was.’

She fell silent. Atticus Pünd sat behind his desk, his hands neatly folded, his face solemn. James Fraser had been taking notes. He came to the end of a sentence and underlined a single word several times. Sunlight was streaming in through the window. Outside, in Charterhouse Square, office workers were beginning to appear, carrying their lunchtime sandwiches into the fresh air.

‘It is possible,’ Pünd muttered, ‘that your fiancé did have good reason to kill his mother. I have not met him and I don’t wish to be unkind but we must at least entertain the possibility. The two of you wished to marry. She stood in the way.’

‘But she didn’t!’ Joy Sanderling was defiant. ‘We didn’t need her permission to get married and it wasn’t as if she had money or anything like that. Anyway, I know Robert had nothing to do with it.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

Joy took a deep breath. This was clearly something she hadn’t wanted to explain but she knew she had no choice. ‘The police say that Mrs Blakiston died around nine o’clock in the morning. Brent called Dr Redwing just before ten and when she got to the house, the body was still warm.’ She paused. ‘The garage opens at nine o’clock – the same time as the surgery – and I was with Robert until then. We left his flat together. My parents would die if they found out, Mr Pünd, even though we’re engaged. My father was a fireman and now he works for the union. He’s a very serious sort of person and terribly old-fashioned. And having to look after Paul all the time, it’s made both my parents very protective. I told them I was going to the theatre in Bath and that I was staying overnight with a girlfriend. But the fact is that I was with Robert all night and I left him at nine o’clock in the morning, which means he couldn’t have had anything to do with it.’

‘How far, may I ask, is the garage from Pye Hall?’

‘It’s about three or four minutes on my motor scooter. I suppose you could walk there in about a quarter of an hour, if you cut across Dingle Dell. That’s what we call the meadow on the edge of the village.’ She scowled. ‘I know what you’re thinking, Mr Pünd. But I saw Robert that morning. He brought me breakfast in bed. He couldn’t do that, could he, if he was thinking of murdering somebody?’

Atticus Pünd did not reply but he knew from his experience that murderers could, indeed, smile and make pleasant conversation one minute and strike violently the next. His experiences during the war had also taught him much about what he called the institutionalisation of murder; how, if you surrounded murder with enough forms and procedures, if you could convince yourself that it was an absolute necessity, then ultimately it would not be murder at all.

‘What is it you wish me to do?’ he asked.

‘I don’t have a great deal of money. I can’t even really pay you. I know it’s wrong of me and I probably shouldn’t have come here. But it’s not right. It’s just so unfair. I was hoping you could come to Saxby-on-Avon – just for one day. I’m sure that would be enough. If you were to look into it and tell people that it was an accident and that there was nothing sinister going in, I’m sure that would put an end to it. Everyone knows who you are. They’d listen to you.’

There was a brief silence. Pünd took off his glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief. Fraser knew what was coming. He had been with the detective long enough to recognise his mannerisms. He always polished his glasses before he delivered bad news.

‘I am sorry, Miss Sanderling,’ he said. ‘There is nothing I can do.’ He held up a hand, stopping her before she could interrupt. ‘I am a private detective,’ he continued. ‘It is true that the police have often asked me to help them with their enquiries but in this country I have no official status. That is the problem here. It is much more difficult for me to impose myself, particularly in a case like this where, to all intents and purposes, no crime has been committed. I have to ask myself on what pretext I would be able to enter Pye Hall.

‘I also must take issue with your basic proposition. You tell me that Mrs Blakiston was killed as the result of an accident. The police evidently believe so. Let us assume that it was an accident. All I can do then is to confront the gossip of certain villagers in Saxby-on-Avon who have overheard an unfortunate conversation and have made of it what they will. But such gossip cannot be confronted. Rumours and malicious gossip are like bindweed. They cannot be cut back, even with the sword of truth. I can, however, offer you this comfort. Given time, they will wither and die of their own volition. That is my opinion. Why do you and your fiancé even wish to remain in this part of the world if it is so disagreeable to you?’

‘Why should we have to move?’

‘I agree. If you would take my advice, it would be to stay where you are, to get married, to enjoy your lives together. Above all, ignore this … I believe the word is “tittle-tattle”. To confront it is to feed it. Left alone, it will go away.’

There was nothing more to be said. As if to emphasise the point, Fraser closed his notebook. Joy Sanderling got to her feet. ‘Thank you very much, Mr Pünd,’ she said. ‘Thank you for seeing me.’

‘I wish you the very best, Miss Sanderling,’ Pünd replied – and he meant it. He wanted this girl to be happy. During the entire time he had been talking to her, he had forgotten his own circumstances, the news he had heard that day.

Fraser showed her out. Pünd heard a few brief mutters, then the front door opened and closed. A moment later, he came back into the room.

‘I say, I’m terribly sorry about that,’ he muttered. ‘I was trying to tell her that you didn’t want to be disturbed.’

‘I am glad I saw her,’ Pünd replied. ‘But tell me, James. What was the word that I saw you underscoring several times as we spoke?’

‘What?’ Fraser flushed. ‘Oh. Actually, it wasn’t anything important. It wasn’t even relevant. I was just trying to look busy.’

‘It struck me that might be the case.’

‘Oh. How?’

‘Because at that moment, Miss Sanderling was not saying anything of particular interest. The motor scooter, though. Had it been any colour but pink, it might have been significant.’ He smiled. ‘Could you bring me a cup of coffee, James? But after that, I think, I do not want to be disturbed.’

He turned and went back into his room.

3

Joy Sanderling made her way back to Farringdon tube station, her path taking her round the side of Smithfield meat market. There was a lorry parked outside one of the many entrances and as she went past, two men in white coats were bundling out an entire sheep’s carcass, raw and bloody. The sight of it made her shudder. She didn’t like London. She found it oppressive. She couldn’t wait to be on the train home.

She had been disappointed by her meeting with Atticus Pünd, even though (she admitted it now) she had never really expected anything from it. Why should the most famous detective in the country be interested in her? It wasn’t even as if she would have been able to pay him. And what he had said had been true. There was no case to solve. Joy knew that Robert hadn’t killed his mother. She had been with him that morning and would certainly have heard him if he had left the house. Robert could be moody. He often snapped out, saying things that he regretted. But she had been with him long enough to know that he would never hurt anyone. What had happened at Pye Hall had been an accident, nothing more. All the detectives in the world would have been no match for the wagging tongues of Saxby-on-Avon.

Still, she had been right to come. The two of them deserved their happiness together, Robert in particular. He had been so lost until he had met her and she wasn’t going to allow anyone to drive them apart. They weren’t going to move. They weren’t going to take any notice of what people thought of them. They were going to fight back.

She reached the station and bought a ticket from the man in the kiosk. Already a thought was taking shape in her mind. Joy was a modest girl. She had been brought up in a very close and (despite her father’s politics) conservative family. The step that she was now considering shocked her but she could see no other way. She had to protect Robert. She had to protect their life together. Nothing was more important than that.

Before the tube train had arrived she knew exactly what she was going to do.

4

In a restaurant on the other side of London, Frances Pye cast a careless eye over the menu and ordered grilled sardines, a salad, a glass of white wine. Carlotta’s was one of those Italian family restaurants behind Harrods: the manager was married to the chef and the waiters included a son and a nephew. The order was taken, the menus removed. She lit a cigarette and leant back in her chair.

‘You should leave him,’ her lunch companion said.

Jack Dartford, five years her junior, was a darkly handsome man with a moustache and an easy smile, dressed in a double-fronted blazer and cravat. He was looking at her with concern. From the moment they had met, he had noticed something strained about her. Even the way she was sitting now seemed nervous, defensive, one hand stroking the other arm. She had not taken off her sunglasses. He wondered if she had a black eye.

‘He’d kill me,’ she replied. She smiled curiously. ‘Actually, he
did
try to kill me in a way – after our last row.’

‘You’re not serious!’

‘Don’t worry, Jack. He didn’t hurt me. It was all bluster. He knows something’s up. All those telephone calls, days off in London, the letters … I told you not to write to me.’