Untimely Graves (11 page)

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Authors: Marjorie Eccles

BOOK: Untimely Graves
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‘Demolish them? That won’t go down very well with the town worthies.’
‘The town worthies don’t have to work here,’ Daphne said shortly. ‘If they did, they’d realise what an old rabbit warren it is, what a ratty state this side of the quad at least is in.’
Lavenstock was proud of nurturing within its bosom an institution which, if not among the top flight of public schools, could boast of numbering among its alumni a First World War poet, a famous fashion photographer, a reactionary right-wing MP, a New Labour cabinet minister, and a TV chef. As long as the ratepayers didn’t have to contribute to its upkeep, they liked the general ambience created by the old buildings, which conferred on Lavenstock a prestigious dignity that helped to dispel a Black Country image most felt was unwarranted: the town did, after all, merely touch fingertips with that unlovely sprawl.
But if the buildings comprising the rest of the north-facing side of the quad were anything like the offices he’d already seen, Mayo was forced to acknowledge the school had problems. Daphne’s office, where they were sitting, was a Dickensian affair, still sporting, incredibly, an old sloping desk and a high stool, though they’d been pushed into a corner to make room for a modern desk, a fax machine and state-of-the-art computer facilities. The room was low-ceilinged and dark, despite panels in the door having been removed and glass substituted. The windows overlooking the quad were leaded and looked picturesque but rattled in their dark wood frames, the floor was of oak boards a foot wide but worn into depressions in various places by the passage of numberless feet. Steel filing cabinets stood against the panelled dado where the walls above had a problem with peeling plaster. Crude industrial shelving screwed to it held dusty piles of files. The outer office, where the two juniors worked, was similarly uninspired. And, it had to be said, Wetherby’s own office wasn’t much better.
‘Apart from anything else,’ Daphne went on, ‘a new entrance
would be better from a security point of view. Mr Wetherby was always going on about it, since he was responsible for security arrangements.’
Reflecting on this irony, Mayo recollected a door situated in the far wall of Wetherby’s office which had seemed to him to have been the killer’s most likely mode of entry. It had, however, been locked when they arrived, and Daphne swore it was kept locked at all times. But she had no idea where the key was, or even if one still existed. It was never opened under any circumstances, because it led on to a windowless corridor which eventually emerged in one of the two identical lodges flanking the main Tilbourne Road entrance. All the same, it was an easy enough method of unauthorised entry for anyone inclined, since it had been ascertained that only one of the lodges had a porter, and the other was used for dumping parcels and casual deliveries, and was often left unlocked. Both had similar blank corridors leading off, running behind what formed offices for the various administrative functions of the school, the only doors being right at the very end of each corridor wing, the route from the unmanned lodge emerging into the Bursar’s offices, the other into the stationery stores.
Was it indeed through that allegedly locked door the killer had come? Or through the usual door, via the quad and the outer office? In the Bursar’s office, a large, steel-framed mirror hung several feet further along the wall which faced his desk. Looking up from his work, he would have been able to see, in reflection, through the glass-panelled door, right into the outer office. So also would anyone standing outside the door have been clearly visible to him. His killer could have been known to Wetherby then, to the extent that he’d been free to walk behind him and fire the fatal shot, the bullet entering just behind the right ear.
Mayo had one more question to ask before he left: ‘Can you think of anyone who might have had some grudge against Mr Wetherby, anyone likely to have done this?’ A simple question, the answer to which was often glaringly apparent to all who knew the victim; in most murders, the obvious suspect was quite likely to be the correct one.
Daphne gave the same answer to his question as nearly everyone did, at first, ‘Not to want to kill him, no, surely not that!’ Then she added, ‘Not even Dorrie Lockett. She might have been
furious with him, but I can’t imagine her storming back with a gun and shooting him!’
‘You mean he was well liked?’ But her initial reaction had told him what she’d meant. He helped her out by adding, ‘What sort of man was he, then?’
She thought for a moment or two before answering. ‘He was very efficient, and he expected the same from everyone else, otherwise you got a lecture. He could be very sarcastic, quite cutting, in fact, and he liked the sound of his own voice – though he wasn’t the only one around here that applies to!’ She added fairly, ‘Most people thought him charming.’
‘Most people?’
‘Yes, well, that didn’t include me,’ she said truthfully after a moment. ‘He was really just too – too full of himself. You know the sort. Good-looking, smooth, persuasive …’ She took a deep breath. ‘But it wasn’t only that. If you want the truth, I thought there was something – creepy about him. No, I don’t mean obviously weird. I don’t know what it was, but it made my skin crawl. How somebody as nice as Mrs Wetherby could stand him, I don’t know. Poor woman.’
‘Yes, poor woman.’ She’d already been told. Abigail Moon was busy setting up the enquiry at the moment, then he would go along with her, probably this evening, to see Mrs Wetherby again. Rotten job, one he hated, but one he made himself do. ‘Is she likely to be able to cope?’
‘I really don’t know,’ Daphne said slowly.
Damn silly question, really. One which nobody could answer with certainty. Shock took people differently. Apparently strong people went to pieces, those you’d expect to succumb found unexpected sources of courage, or stoicism.
‘I don’t know her very well,’ Daphne went on. ‘I don’t think anyone does, except perhaps maybe John Riach, and that only because he worked closely with Mr Wetherby.’
‘Riach? He’s the Assistant Bursar, isn’t he?’
She nodded. ‘She took part in school affairs, always came to any function with the Bursar – and she always helps to make wonderful costumes for the school drama group – in fact, she once told me she makes all her own clothes, though you’d never guess. Quite artistic, really, I believe. But she doesn’t join in the
community, not like the other school wives. I sometimes wonder if she isn’t rather shy.’
He watched her finish her tea. He thought there was more she might have said, had she been so inclined, but she put her cup back in the saucer with a little sigh, and said nothing. He looked at the weak, greyish mixture in his own cup and ventured a sip. Apart from the fact that it was now cold, he’d been right to suspect it. He pushed it away, deciding he’d rather die some other way.
Joe Totterbridge never used the telephone if he could possibly avoid it. He made Eileen do it for him instead. Even though he couldn’t do that today, he still had no inclination to bestir himself. But the alternative was worse, it would mean going all the way up to Kelsey Road to tell Dorrie Lockett, and he wasn’t used to walking all round the universe, like Eileen was. His heart would probably give out, toiling up that hill. For a moment he contemplated just ignoring his promise to his wife – Dorrie Lockett would know something was wrong soon enough when Eileen didn’t turn up tomorrow. But then she’d likely telephone for an explanation, probably disturb him just when he was watching breakfast TV.
He’d just have to do it, after he’d had a beer and a sandwich. If he could find where Eileen kept the corned beef …
‘Eileen’s not coming for a bit,’ Dorrie heard him shout down the phone when she left the supper table to answer it.
‘Why, what’s wrong, Joe?’ She had to hold the phone away from her ear as she listened to the answer. Unaccustomed to telephoning, Joe remained unshaken in his belief that it was necessary to bellow in order to be heard so far away.
‘Her’s in hospital, they took her in last night. Her hip give out and her slipped and fell and banged her head on the cooker. Knocked herself out, her did.’
‘Good heavens, she’s all right now, I hope?’
‘Oh ar, her come round OK, but they’re not letting her out, seeing as how they’ve got her in there at last,’ Joe said, as if his wife were some wild animal which had been evading capture for weeks.
‘You mean they’re going to do her hip while she’s in?’
‘Ar. Not afore time, neither.’ His voice quavered with self-pity. ‘Though how I’m expected to manage without her I don’t know.’
‘Oh, you’ll cope well enough, Joe, a resourceful man like you. Poor Eileen! But she’s been waiting long enough for that operation.
Tell her I’ll be straight along to see her, and not even to
think
about coming back.’
‘Oh, her’ll be back soon enough, orright,’ Joe said hastily. ‘We couldn’t hardly make ends meet without her bit of money.’
‘Joe Totterbridge,’ said Dorrie with conviction, when she’d returned to her supper and given Sam the news, ‘is a moron. He seems to think Eileen will be back on her knees scrubbing floors next week. Personally, I can’t see her wanting to come back ever, not to clean, I mean, though I hope she’ll still come as a friend.’ Her momentary forthrightness suddenly deserted her, to be replaced by a lost, forsaken look. She pushed aside what was left of her shepherd’s pie. ‘Whatever will I do without her? We’ve known each other over fifty years.’
‘Mrs Totty’ll never desert you, perish the thought! She’ll be back, if it’s only for a gossip. I’ll drive you up to the hospital whenever you want to visit. But meanwhile, what are you going to do about getting some replacement help?’
‘Replacement?’ Dorrie looked alarmed. ‘Oh, we can surely manage! Well, I mean – can’t we – well, tackle this sort of thing between us for the time being?’ She looked hopefully at Sam.
‘Mmm.’ Sam had no more idea how to tackle that sort of thing than Dorrie, and even less enthusiasm for it, but neither did he relish the prospect of living in Dorrie-engendered chaos. He’d no objection to getting the garden into shape, but there he drew the line. There was his book to think of, too, as she’d reminded him. ‘Pass me the Yellow Pages.’
He was dead.
They would be coming to interview her and they would expect her to be distraught, the grieving wife. Whereas Hannah felt nothing, yet, not even the sense of freedom she should at least have been allowed to feel. She should feel elated, and would, later. But meanwhile, she couldn’t play the part, certainly not alone.
The young woman police officer who said she’d been trained in bereavement counselling, coming with John Riach to tell her what had happened, had accepted her dry-eyed reception of the
news without surprise. It was shock, she told Hannah, she would cry later, and advised her not to resist it. But she hadn’t cried. Couldn’t.
WPC Matthews, a big, clumsy, well-meaning young woman who said her name was Tracey, had offered to stay the night with her. However, the thought of a stranger in her home horrified Hannah, even someone as kind and understanding as Tracey was, despite appearances to the contrary.
She picked up the phone and, without having to look up the number, tapped it out from memory.
For nearly three years, two of them spent in the wastes of Antarctica – cold, white, empty, boring and windy, surrounded by miles of frozen sea – Sam had kept a picture of Hannah in his mind. He had no photographs, had needed none, to remind him. Slender, pliant, with soft, thick dark hair to her shoulders. Moving like a dancer, with a languid grace, a soft, slow smile that moved from her lips to light her big, brown eyes.
But now … when Sam saw her, he was utterly shocked, wrenched with pity. She looked at least ten years older and, yes – bereft was the word. Yet he knew this was unlikely to be because of her husband. She was, by accident or design, wearing black. Long-sleeved and high-necked as were all her clothes, which he knew she made herself, and one of her soft, chiffon scarves. Her thick creamy skin looked dull and had lost its elasticity. Naturally slender, she was as painfully thin now as an anorexic model.
She closed the door behind him and without words, he opened his arms. She went into them as if coming home, and he kissed her, breathing in the expensive scent he remembered so well. Her body moulded itself to him, feeling light and insubstantial, her arms tightened, her mouth opened hungrily under his, but he drew away gently, feeling strangely reluctant. ‘Not yet, Hannah.’
‘Not
yet
?’
‘He’s barely cold.’
She shrank as if he’d doused her with icy water. ‘You think we should show
respect
for him?’
‘I think we should be careful, that’s all.’ He reached out his
hand and gently undid the delicate, filmy material draped around her neck. ‘My God, it hadn’t stopped, had it?’
Her hand flew to her throat, fluttered like a bird over the livid bruise, then dropped to her side. ‘It has now,’ she said flatly, retrieving the ends of the scarf and retying it.
His pulses beat. ‘Why wouldn’t you leave him, Hannah? There was no reason for you to stay, with Paul grown up.’
‘I don’t know. Where would I have gone? How could I have lived? And remember, I am still a Catholic.’ She looked away from him. ‘Or maybe I couldn’t quite forget he was my child’s father, after all, that I had loved him, once.’
Astonished as he was by the insight of this last, he thought sadly that the first reasons were more likely to have applied, as far as Hannah was concerned. Wetherby had provided her with a comfortable, even luxurious, home. He had money, over and above what he earned, both of which, Sam had to admit, were very important to Hannah, and whatever else his faults, he had been generous. But perhaps more to the point, she had never had any personal ambitions, unlike other women of her age who had careers, or at any rate aspirations to have one after their families were off their hands. Hannah had never done a day’s paid work outside the home in her life. He’d thought about this a lot while he was away, and understood a good deal more about her now than he had then.
‘The police will be here any moment. Will you stay with me? I don’t know how to face them. Am I supposed to show grief? I can’t feel it.’
The door bell rang. Colour flew to her face, then receded, leaving her deathly pale. ‘I’m not ready for this,’ she cried in a panic. ‘Please help me – and Sam, don’t say anything about – don’ t say anything, please?’
He had never had any intentions of referring to their one-time relationship. The fewer people who knew, the better. He was going to have enough trouble as it was, trying to break it to Hannah that, especially in view of what had happened, all must be over between them.
After all, they weren’t what Hannah had expected, or at least the woman, Inspector Moon, wasn’t. They weren’t frightening, or
accusing. Moon had a brisk manner, controlled in a way that suggested to Hannah she’d had to work at it, that she was naturally more spontaneous. Unlike Hannah herself, she looked very clear as to what she wanted from life, as if her expectations were high and she’d every intention of seeing them fulfilled. She frightened Hannah rather more than the quiet, authoritative man who was her superior. She was well dressed, in an olive-brown trouser suit, a colour chosen expressly to set off that lovely, thick, coppery, expensively styled hair. Beautiful teeth, noticed Hannah, who was always aware of that in other people, afraid it would be noticed when she smiled that she’d had to have one of her own front ones replaced.
Hannah introduced Sam, and Sam asked if they minded if he stayed, while at the same time entrenching his big frame solidly and immovably into his chair. ‘Not if Mrs Wetherby doesn’t.’ Inspector Moon’s bright hazel eyes travelled from one to the other, taking in his determined chin and reddish blond hair, contrasting him with Hannah’s thin, dark tenseness. He was looking steadfastly at the carpet, as if determined not to interfere.
They didn’t stay long, in the event. There was really nothing she could tell them, Hannah said tightly. Of course she couldn’t think of anyone her husband regarded as an enemy, but then, he wasn’t a man to show his emotions and he wouldn’t have confided in her even if he’d had any. She’d last seen him at breakfast. He sometimes came home to lunch, but today, he’d wanted to work on some papers for a meeting that afternoon and had decided to have a sandwich sent in to his office. She’d been at home here, all day, making costumes for the school’s production of
The Beggar’s Opera
. ‘The girl who’s playing Polly Peachum came during her lunch hour for a fitting. Oh, and John popped in, John Riach, he’s the Assistant Bursar.’
Sam lifted his head and stared at her.
‘He walked across for some papers Charles had forgotten. He stayed and had a sandwich with me. Until Rosie came at one. Her fitting took about twenty minutes, I suppose. I was alone after that until John came back with your policewoman to – to tell me.’
Suddenly, she exclaimed, hand to her mouth, ‘Paul! Oh God,
I’ll have to tell Paul. How could I
possibly
have forgotten that?’
‘Who’s Paul, Mrs Wetherby?’
‘My son. He’s a cadet in the Marines.’ Her eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them rapidly away; her hand flew again to the knot of her scarf, then as if suddenly aware of the action, she withdrew it and twisted her hands tightly together on her lap.
‘We’ll get through to his commanding officer, if you like. It’ll be a comfort to you to have him home.’
‘I don’t see how that’ll be possible. He’s on some sort of training exercise in Belize at the moment.’
‘That won’t matter. They’ll give him compassionate leave.’ The superintendent spoke for the first time, and though the words were sympathetic, the quiet decisiveness of his voice suddenly made Hannah reverse her opinion of him. Perhaps he was the one she should be wary of.
‘No, I don’t want him here, not yet! There’s nothing he can do at the moment. I’d rather wait for the funeral. When – when will that be?’
‘It may be some time.’ The inspector explained the procedures – that there would have to be an inquest, which would be adjourned for the police to make further enquiries, that the coroner would not release the body for burial or cremation until they were completed.
‘There’s no need for him to come home,’ Hannah repeated. ‘I’ll contact his CO. Maybe they’ll let me speak to Paul. I’d like to tell him myself.’
Well, it was her decision.
Mayo was looking at a big, dark grey car parked on the drive outside the window. ‘Is that your Saab outside, Mr Leadbetter?’
‘No, I walked here. I’m staying with my aunt in Kelsey Road. I walked round when Mrs Wetherby telephoned with the news.’
‘It’s Charles’s car,’ Hannah said. ‘Your people said it could be brought back, so John Riach drove it round.’ She teased a fine thread on the hem of the scarf, which was patterned in soft greys and lilacs. Pretty but not a good choice, without enough colour against the black, draining her face of what little natural colour she possessed, Abigail thought judicially.
Mayo was still looking at the Saab. ‘Did you share the car with your husband, Mrs Wetherby?’
Her eyebrows lifted. ‘Me, drive Charles’s car? That’s the last thing he would have allowed! Anyway, I don’t drive. I walk into town, or take a taxi.’
‘We’re all chauvinists at heart, we men,’ said Mayo, who didn’t particularly care who drove his car, especially on long journeys. ‘Kelsey Road, you said, Mr Leadbetter? You’ll be Miss Lockett’s nephew, returned from the Antarctic?’
‘As a matter of fact, yes. How did you know?’
‘Oh, news travels fast in Lavenstock.’ Dorrie Lockett, he was thinking. The lady who was causing problems with the school’s new entrance. The nephew who’d written the letter. Probably insignificant, unrelated facts, but he filed them in his memory for future reference. He added, ‘For the record, where were you at twenty past one?’
‘Working in my aunt’s garden. It’s become a jungle while I’ve been away and I’m trying to clear it.’

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