Nine Lives (16 page)

I read about that suicide. Dr Yonge. She was a friend of Dr Fortescue. But her suicide was none of my doing. So I won't chalk her up. Nevertheless, she was one of them. And now she is no more, and I didn't have to lift a finger. God is on my side after all.

I have to look around for another victim. That will leave only two. I am well on my way to vindication.

It was a woman's turn. I like to be fair in my choices, and I lit upon a Melissa Fairbanks who plied her dubious trade somewhere in Hertfordshire. I didn't need to use the Devon ploy. I could be there and back well within the day. I staked out the address and particulars before making my move. Melissa was a divorcee who lived alone. Her dwelling was a cottage that was generously isolated. She gave me an appointment at five o'clock in the afternoon. A poetic time I thought,
for it is at this hour that the doomed bull enters the ring. There was a mini-market car-park near her home. It was pretty full, and I slipped into a space unnoticed. Then I walked across two fields to her cottage. I was gloved, of course, but that was the extent of my cover. I looked at my watch. It was exactly five o'clock and I almost heard the flourish of trumpets as the bull roared into the ring. I saw myself in my suit of lights, amply prepared.

I rang the bell and she opened the door herself.

‘Mr Crawford?' she asked, for that was my seven-down two-to-go name.

‘No,' I said. I had to. I couldn't perform. Wilkins would have to wait, for Miss Fairbanks was the spitting image of my Verry. The same colouring, the same hair, the same plump figure, the same smile.

‘I'm sorry to disturb you,' I said quickly. ‘I must have the wrong address. I'm looking for a Mr Thomas.' I was pleased with my prompt invention.

‘I don't know a Mr Thomas in these parts,' she said. ‘But you could ask at the post office in the village.'

‘Thank you,' I said. ‘I'm sorry to have troubled you.' I left her, crossing the fields without fear of witness, while Melissa waited for a Mr Crawford who had changed his mind. It was surely her lucky day. I was relieved for her, as I was for myself. I can't honestly say that I enjoy my sorties. I am killing after all, and that calls for little pleasure. Of course, I am thrilled each time I get away with it but that thrill is temporary and I have continually to bear in mind the purpose of my crusade. It is that which propels me. I thought of Verry. Her resemblance to Melissa had shaken me, and I valued her more and more. I thought I'd buy her a little treat, so I dropped into the mini-market with my trolley, like any
respectable shopper, and I bought a side of smoked salmon and a good bottle of Chablis.

I had saved Wilkins a journey to Hertfordshire, and I wondered where he would like me to send him next. He'd already been to South Wales on my behalf, the London suburbs, Birmingham and, to top it all, Paris. I thought another journey to Kent might please him. He could take his wife along and she could visit her relations, while he was looking for clues and witnesses – of which there would be none. So I decided on Canterbury.

On investigation, I found the place riddled with psychotherapists. Perhaps it was the awesome aura of the cathedral and its pious overtones. Therapy must have been seen as a safe haven from its guilt-inducing severity. There was a Mrs Sheila Stephens practising there, audaciously in the precincts of the cathedral itself. Her location plainly proclaimed that she was offering an alternative. I was aware that it was a strike that entailed some risk – and a very special disguise. Mrs Stephens lived in a well-populated quarter, where tourists outnumbered residents. I first thought I might dress as one of them, an American perhaps, with a garish T-shirt and cigar. But that was too easy, too obvious and lacking in imagination.

A better disguise was that of a clergyman. In my reconnaissance I had noted that many men of the cloth ambled in the cathedral precinct. I made a note of their garb and their gait and I felt that both suited me. I hired the costume from a theatrical costumier. I told them it was for amateur dramatics, which was partly true. Drama it certainly was, but by now I was far from amateur. I didn't bother to make an appointment. The arrival of a clergyman at a Canterbury door would be no surprise. I would carry a box with me as though collecting for charity.

The cathedral clock struck four as I passed her doorway. I knew that sessions usually lasted about fifty minutes, and just in case she had a patient I would wait around until he or she left. But within ten minutes, a man emerged, looking rather distraught, I thought. His had clearly been a depressing session. I waited a while, then I boldly went to her door and rang her bell.

She answered almost immediately and smiled when she saw me. Men of the cloth are used to welcome and I returned her smile. I decided that this was going to be a quick one.

‘I'm collecting for children in Ethiopia,' I said, and I stuck my foot in the door.

‘Just a moment,' she said. ‘I'm on the phone.'

I went straight inside.

‘I'll be there at six,' I heard her say.

I wouldn't count on it, I thought. Then she came back. My string was at the ready. I took her from behind, rather as I had poor Miss Mayling about five killings ago. It was all over quickly. There was a lot of blood, but I kept myself spotless. I made sure her pulse was still, then I left, rattling my collection box, first making sure that no one was in the close. I joined a group of clergymen who were making their way to the cathedral. I acknowledged one of them and commented on the weather. But he shook his head. ‘Spanish,' he said and I was relieved.

I had never been inside the cathedral and I thought I might as well do a bit of sightseeing. But once inside, I felt deeply out of place, and for good reason, and slowly I backed my way outside. I was anxious to get out of my disguise. I thought that without it my shame would cool. But it took some time, and I had reached the outskirts of London before I was calm again. The thought of the purpose of my mission justified all.

The following morning, I returned the costume to the costumier. The assistant asked me if the play was a success.

‘Did you have a good house?' he asked.

‘Full,' I said. ‘Relatives.' I laughed.

‘What was the play called?'

He'd caught me on the hop.

‘
The Vicar's Lapse
,' I said off the top of my head.

‘Sounds interesting,' he said.

I fled before he could question me further. I was glad to get rid of that costume and I resolved never to use such a disguise again. It was a temptation to fate. It was an insult, an offence, a base irreverence, and to whom I dared not contemplate. So it's

SEVEN DOWN. TWO TO GO.

It was Save the Children …

It was Save the Children Week in Canterbury. Much work had gone into its promotion. Sundry committees had organised events which were to culminate in a grand fête in the city square. Coordinating all these committees was Mrs Sheila Stephens, a bigwig in the Canterbury community, a JP who sat on the Bench, and who, apart from all her good works, practised as a part-time psychotherapist. A final meeting of all the committees to coordinate events was scheduled to take place on a Thursday evening at six o'clock.

They were gathered in the council chamber of the Town Hall. The chairmen of each committee had prepared their progress reports. They were ready to begin. But they were missing their president. Mrs Stephens was a stickler for punctuality and they couldn't understand why she was late. Some emergency might have occurred, one suggested. She may be ill, said another.

‘She's not ill,' a woman said. ‘I spoke to her on the phone at about four o'clock. She said she'd be here at six.'

‘Let's give her another ten minutes,' they decided. ‘She's bound to have some explanation.'

Since it was Mrs Stephens' duty to authorise all the arrangements, it was impossible to proceed without her. The minutes went by. The gathering was restless and a little concerned. At six-thirty, the Reverend Tom Fenby, who was in charge of the tombola, offered to go round to the precinct and knock on her door. They all agreed and said that they would wait for his return.

When he was gone, they speculated on the causes of Mrs Stephens' absence.

‘Cold feet at the last minute,' Mrs Havering suggested. She had never liked Mrs Stephens. Thought her a bossy-boots.

‘I must say,' Mrs Gordon of the cake stall offered, ‘it's quite a relief to be without her. She should never have been elected in the first place.'

‘Amen to that,' Mr Naughton offered. He'd wanted to take charge of the coconut shy, but Mrs Stephens had ordered him to the ticket booth where he would be stuck for the whole afternoon and could enjoy nothing.

By the time the Reverend Tom Fenby returned, Mrs Stephens' reputation was in tatters. Unmendable, torn asunder by many bitter words, which later would have cause to be eaten and swallowed in shame. Or pretend that none of them had been said or heard.

They were appalled at Reverend Fenby's appearance. He was white. He struggled into the hall and groped for a seat. He was breathless with horror.

‘What's the matter, for God's sake?' Mr Naughton asked. He waited for the Reverend to catch his breath

‘Murder,' the Reverend panted. ‘I called the police. I must get back there.' Then he put his head in his hands. ‘God have mercy,' he said.

The committee men and ladies gathered around him. An event threatened, a real event, one far more exciting than cake stalls and tombolas.

‘What happened?' one of them asked.

By now the Reverend Fenby had regained his composure.

‘I knocked at her door. I rang her bell. I tapped on the window and there was no reply. Then I noticed a red streak
that started under the front door and continued down the path. It looked like blood. I panicked. I broke the glass window of the front door and looked inside. She was lying face-up on the floor.'

His composure deserted him once more and he broke down, weeping.

The committee ladies had begun to put on their coats. They were bound for the scene of the crime.

‘Poor Mrs Stephens,' Mrs Gordon said. ‘Such a good woman.' She had clearly forgotten her expressed relief at being without her, and a murmur of fulsome praise was heard from the gathering. They helped Reverend Fenby to his feet, and together they made their way to the precinct.

The police were already on the spot, and the cul-de-sac where Mrs Stephens had lived was cordoned off. Two policemen stood guard outside the house, while a few in authority were allowed inside. Reverend Fenby approached one who looked like a senior officer, and confessed to having discovered the body and made the phone call. He was taken aside. By this time a sizeable crowd had gathered, and the police urged them to go away.

‘Show's over,' they said, but the crowd would not move. And there they stayed until the nine o'clock bell tolled from the cathedral.

The investigators were still inside the house. Their search had ceased, but they were embroiled in argument. The Chief Superintendent reminded them that the murder was the business of Detective Inspector Wilkins. But the Chief Inspector considered it was his baby since the crime had been committed on his patch. So they argued, back and forth. It was a question of whether or not they should move
the body. The Chief Superintendent argued that all should remain as it was found until Wilkins could see for himself. Eventually the Chief Inspector surrendered and a call was put through to London.

Wilkins had settled down to watch the news on television. His wife had brought him his cocoa, and suggested he have an early night. Then the telephone rang.

‘Leave it,' Mrs Wilkins said. ‘We could be out. Nothing's that important it can't wait till morning.'

‘You never know,' Wilkins said, as he stretched his arm to the receiver.

His wife watched his face as he listened to the caller. Whatever it was, it must have been good news, for his eyes crinkled with joy.

‘Tell them not to touch anything. And send the car. I'm ready to leave.'

He put the phone down. ‘He's done it again,' he said. ‘In Canterbury. At last another chance.'

‘What about the poor victim?' Mrs Wilkins reminded him.

But he was already reaching for his coat. ‘If killers are on the loose, there are going to be victims,' he said. He went over to her and put his arm around her shoulders. ‘It's a nasty business,' he said. ‘But you know that. It's part of the deal.'

‘I'll get you a thermos,' she said. ‘And a sandwich. You'll be up all night.'

Wilkins was not a religious man, but on the journey to Canterbury, he prayed. He prayed for a fingerprint, a stray fibre, a shoe print. He prayed for a witness. Just one reliable witness. He prayed for a clue of any kind. He had high hopes and he tried to stifle them. He had always had high hopes prior to each investigation, and each time
they had come to naught. Sitting in the passenger seat, he drove with the driver, pressing his foot on the floor of the car. Accelerating. He was anxious to arrive.

The roads through south London were heavy with traffic but the siren facilitated their passage and the M2 to the coast was reasonably traffic-free. In just over an hour, they arrived in Canterbury. And straight into the close.

As soon as he saw the body, he recalled that of the second murder, Angela Mayling of Birmingham. Both women had been found in the same position. Taken from behind, face upwards on the hall floor. His hopes began to fade. The Birmingham murder had offered no clues at all and this one was likely to be the same. Apart from the glass pane which Reverend Fenby had broken, there was no sign of a break-in, the Chief Inspector informed him, no fingerprints, no shoes, no fibres. He insisted that their search had been thorough.

Wilkins felt
de trop,
and he began to wonder why he had been called upon.

‘We thought you ought to see the scene as we found it,' the Chief Superintendent added.