An Unholy Mess Page 14

  Monica forced a smile. ‘Hello, Muriel, yes, we’re fine, thanks.’

  ‘Oh good. I can’t imagine it’s much fun living in a house where,’ her voice dropped dramatically, ‘murder’s been done.’

  Monica bit back a grin. Not for Muriel a sly hint or dig. She’d just come right out with it. It was this trait that almost endeared her to Monica, in a funny kind of way.

  ‘It’s the kind of world we seem to live in nowadays, I’m afraid, Muriel,’ she said sadly.

  Muriel’s cat, a disreputable ginger tom with tattered ears hopped onto her garden gate and began to wash his bent whiskers. Muriel stroked him absently, and he set up a lawn-mower loud purr.

  ‘I hope you enjoyed the fair, though? Had a nice time, and all?’ Monica asked quickly. If she could just sidetrack her, she might be able to get away.

  ‘Oh yes, great fun,’ Muriel gushed. ‘And we were all so looking forward to going to the fair, and had been for ages, as I told that young chap with all the muscles. If only we’d known! Well, none of us are physic, are we, so it’s no good cutting up now about missing out on things back here, is it?’

  Monica found herself fighting off a fit of the giggles. No wonder Muriel was so unpopular with her neighbours! She could well see how her candour could chafe!

  ‘Not that you ever expect something bad to happen on your own back doorstep, obviously,’ Muriel continued. ‘And none of you people did, either, I ‘spect?’ she added cunningly. ‘Otherwise, I’m sure you wouldn’t have been having a party in the first place.’

  Monica winced at her unintentional callousness. ‘No, it came as a dreadful shock,’ she managed to say feebly.

  ‘Arr, it would,’ Muriel nodded her grey head sagely. ‘I saw that divorced woman just the day before it happened, and asked her if we’d see her at the fair, you know, all friendly, like, and you should have seen the look she give me!’ Muriel sniffed.

  ‘No. Well, Pauline can be a bit—’

  ‘Still, I hope that nice Mr Franklyn ain’t letting himself get too down,’ Muriel interrupted, blithely unaware of her rudeness. ‘You have to watch new widowers you know,’ she added significantly. And tapped the side of her nose knowingly.

  Monica blinked. Now exactly how was she supposed to answer that?

  ‘Oh, Mr Grantley. Cooo-eeee—’ Spotting another victim who’d been unable to take evasive action in time, Muriel waved a hand furiously. Across the road, a man walking his dog blanched.

  Monica quickly ducked her head and cowardly walked away, leaving Mr Grantley to his fate, with a muttered farewell. She passed her fellow victim on the way, giving him a rather unchristian sorry-but-rather-you-than-me look in passing. He managed a gallant smile, but his dog looked at her with big, accusing brown eyes.

  She made it to the small village shop with a sigh of relief and collected a basket before strolling around the few aisles. The shop, like most villages lucky enough to still have one, was a sort of grocery-cum-jack of all trades. She selected some notepaper and tried not to wince at the price. It was one of her many ‘duties’ as a leading light of the community to be seen supporting her local tradesmen and women. The shop did well enough though, since most of the conference-goers from the old Manor would wander down for their daily papers and odds and ends, and comment on how ‘quaint’ it was to be in a ‘real’ shop again. And most of them, out of sheer nostalgia, bought some of the sweets kept in huge jars that lined the windowsills.

  Monica approached the till with a firm smile fixed on her face, for she’d just noticed Madge Tilsbury waiting there, her own shopping basket all but empty. Also watching her approach was Phyllis Cox, the inimitable shopkeeper. Phyllis, at fifty-two, was widowed and spry, and the ‘information centre’ of the village.

  Monica, confronted by two pairs of avid eyes, braced herself. ‘Morning Madge. Phyllis,’ she said cheerfully.

  ‘Morning, Mrs Noble,’ Phyllis said.

  The perpetual use of her married name was one of the few drawbacks of being married to Graham, Monica had discovered. All of Phyllis’s other customers were called by their first names, but although Monica had urged her to do the same for herself, she was the vicar’s wife, and as such was doomed to be Mrs Noble until judgement day.

  ‘Mrs Noble,’ Madge echoed politely, then cast a quick look at Phyllis. Phyllis nodded encouragement. ‘I was just saying to Phyllis, here,’ Madge launched into conversation instantly. ‘My old dad was at home Saturday afternoon.’

  ‘Oh?’ Monica murmured, wondering where this could be leading.

  ‘Well, he said he’d be all right on his own for a while,’ Madge added defensively. ‘And he would have it that I was to go off and enjoy myself for a few hours at the fair.’

  And Monica suddenly remembered that Madge was Arnold Tilsbury’s youngest daughter. Unmarried, she had stayed on at home, first to look after her mother, who was now dead, and just recently to keep an eye on her father, who, unfortunately, had a mild touch of Parkinson’s.

  ‘I’m sure it made a nice change for you to get out and about on your own for a bit,’ Monica said firmly. ‘It must have done you the world of good. Did you enjoy the fair?’

  Both women unbent a little in obvious approval. Some old biddies didn’t like the vicar’s wife because she was pretty and younger than her husband. But the jury was still out with the vast majority of villagers, and for Monica to show such understanding and sympathy with a carer’s plight went a long way in raising her profile with the shopkeeper and Madge.

  ‘Ah, it was wonderful,’ Madge said. ‘I won a goldfish.’ Then her brow furrowed. ‘Anyway, when I got home and found out about, well, all your trouble, Dad said something that sort of stuck in my mind.’

  And in a flash, Monica knew why she was being told all this.

  Madge and her father had been Heyford Bassett residents all their lives, and were honest, hard-working people of an older, simpler order, who’d simply never come into contact with the police before, or ever expected to. And what they needed now was a go-between; someone they could trust to keep their best interests in mind. And Monica made for an ideal conduit.

  ‘I see,’ she said softly, ‘how very worrying for you. Was it something that might be relevant to the case, do you think?’ she asked, very careful to keep any hint of pressure out of her voice.

  Again Madge and Phyllis exchanged quick, nervous glances.

  ‘Well, it might be,’ Madge said reluctantly. ‘You see, when I heard about … the trouble, and told Dad, he said he’d actually heard shots that afternoon, about ten minutes apart, he said. Loud as could be, and coming from the vicarage. Or Chandler’s Spinney, he wasn’t sure.’

  Monica nodded encouragingly. ‘Yes, somebody said much the same thing to my husband Saturday evening,’ she confided craftily. ‘I’m sure he’s already mentioned it to Chief Inspector Dury. But if he hasn’t, I’ll be sure to pass on your message to him myself. What time did your father say he thought he heard the shots?’

  ‘Ah, well, there’s the thing you see,’ Madge said uncomfortably. ‘He’s not good with his memory, Dad isn’t. Not anymore. He thinks the first one was at about three o’clock. But he’s sure the shots came ten minutes or so apart.’

  Monica nodded, looking grave and concerned. No doubt the Tilsburys were trying to be genuinely helpful. And there was no point in sounding like a know-it-all by saying there was only one shot. That would only negate all the goodwill she was accumulating now.

  ‘I see. Well, thank you for telling me, Madge. I’ll be sure it gets passed on to the right quarters.’

  Madge heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Thanks ever so, Mrs Noble.’

  Monica nodded and turned to Phyllis. ‘Can I have three books of first class stamps please, Phyllis? And a pint of milk.’

  She didn’t know it then, but that conversation would soon come back to haunt her, and make her wonder how she could ever have been so stupid as not to realize its importance straight away.

  But that would c
ome later.

  CHAPTER 11

  Jim Greer had been praying for a break all morning, and those prayers that they got a lead soon were answered at around 2.30 that afternoon, with the ringing of the telephone. The sergeant picked up the receiver, listened for a few moments in silence, then said crisply, ‘Right, that’s very helpful. Can you give me your exact address?’

  Jason, who was going through the background reports on the vicarage residents, concentrating at the moment on Paul Waring’s meteoric rise to a body-building fortune, caught the note of excitement in his sergeant’s voice and looked up hopefully. Like his sergeant, he too had been hoping, if not for divine intervention exactly, then for a spot of random luck to come his way.

  Jim was scribbling away furiously, and after he hung up, he looked across at his superior officer and grinned.

  ‘We’ve got a nibble sir. A very nice but discreet lady from a bank just called. She said that she recognized Margaret Franklyn’s picture in the paper as being that of a lady who rents a safety deposit box at her bank.’

  Jason cursed. ‘I thought you got onto their bank Saturday, for their financial records?’

  Jim was already getting to his feet. ‘I did, sir. But this isn’t the Franklyns’ usual bank, and the deposit box is in her name only, which leads me to wonder if her husband even knew anything about it?’

  Jason reached for his jacket.

  ‘Let’s ask him on the way out, shall we?’ he murmured. ‘He’s back in their flat now, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He was seen coming back this morning.’

  ‘Been out on the tiles all this time?’

  ‘Spent Sunday night drunk in one of the cells in Cirencester,’ Jim said flatly.

  Jason nodded without comment. One of the dilemmas in a murder case was that posed by the victim’s spouse. On the one hand, they were often a prime suspect. On the other, a police officer had to always be aware that, if innocent, these people were grief stricken human beings who’d just had their whole world violently turned upside down. And a little compassion and understanding never hurt anything, he’d always thought, as long as you didn’t allow it to cloud your judgement.

  Sean, when he finally opened the door to their summons, still looked a little the worse for wear.

  ‘Oh,’ he said dully, opening the door wider. ‘It’s you. Come on in.’

  ‘We won’t stay long, sir,’ Jason said, and didn’t miss the relieved look in the other man’s eyes.

  The picture he was getting of the Franklyns’ marriage didn’t exactly portray it as being that of a match made in heaven, but you never really knew. Even if they weren’t exactly love’s young dream, Jason knew that the loss of a person who’d played a major part in your life could still be one hell of a wrench, and leave anyone feeling vulnerable and lost.

  ‘Good. I’ve got to see the undertakers about things,’ Sean said vaguely.

  Jason looked at him even more closely, knowing a fudged excuse when he heard it.

  ‘Perhaps it might be a bit premature to be thinking like that, sir,’ he said gently. ‘I doubt your wife’s body will be released any time too soon. Besides, it’s best to take these things as and when they come.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Er … thanks for the advice, Inspector. I’m just—’ Sean shrugged helplessly. ‘I just don’t know what to do with myself, that’s all.’

  Jason nodded. ‘I’m sure it’s very difficult, Mr Franklyn. And we’ll try not to keep you for long. If you could just answer a simple question for me, we’ll be on our way. Did you know that your wife kept a safety deposit box?’

  Sean, who’d been looking vaguely around the room, abruptly swung his head towards the policeman. He looked stunned, and then, quite unmistakably, furtive.

  ‘Safety deposit box? Margaret?’ he said harshly. ‘No. For her jewellery-making materials, you mean? Precious metals and semi-precious stones? That sort of thing? And do you mean at our bank?’ Something about his bluster rang a warning bell, deep in the back of Jason’s mind.

  ‘No, it wasn’t at your regular bank,’ he said, nothing of his suspicion telling in his voice. ‘Thank you, Mr Franklyn , that’s all for the moment.’

  ‘Just a minute,’ Sean said roughly, reaching out to catch hold of Jason’s arm as he turned to leave. ‘I have a right to see what’s inside it! I am her husband, you know!’

  His face was flushed now, but whether with excitement or fear, neither policeman could have said. Jason very carefully disengaged his arm.

  ‘We’ll be sure to leave you a receipt for any items taken from it,’ he said carefully, and Sean flushed and flung himself away.

  ‘Oh, do what the hell you like,’ he muttered ungraciously.

  Jason nodded to Jim, and both men left the room. But the instant the door was shut behind them, Sean walked to the telephone.

  He had to talk to his solicitor. Quickly.

  The bank was one of the main five, with a branch situated in a prime location in Cheltenham’s heart. The lady who’d called quickly identified herself when Jason approached one of the tellers, and hastily showed them through the back and into a small, beige room.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you quite this soon,’ Mrs Judith Banner said, a shade flustered. Wearing a smart blue suit and neat hairstyle, she was the epitome of a trusted bank employee. ‘I do hope, Chief Inspector, that there will be no, er, mention of this bank’s connection to Mrs Franklyn in the newspapers?’

  Jason assured her there wouldn’t be as far as the police public relations office was concerned, and listened to her patiently as she recited the bank’s policy on the obligations of privacy towards customers. Eventually, however, she took them into a room down in the vaults.

  ‘Normally, of course, Mrs Franklyn would bring her key and I mine, but in the circumstances—’ She trailed off hopefully.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Jason said, making a quick mental note. Find the key. It had obviously not been kept at the Franklyn flat or amongst Margaret’s private and personal possessions, otherwise the police search would have uncovered it by now.

  ‘We have duplicates made of the customer keys, of course,’ Mrs Banner admitted. ‘They will lose them. And sometimes they die, and the next of kin can’t find them. Perhaps you’d turn this key while I do the same?’

  The long, flat box was extracted without any more fuss and Jason carried it to the table provided. It wasn’t very heavy. Jim politely thanked the bank employee and walked her to the door and held it open for her. When she was gone, Jason flipped back the lid. Wordlessly he went through the contents.

  The box contained papers that related to Margaret’s insurance, her passport, some money (£1,600 they were to discover, when they later counted it) some private letters from a lover (the last one dated over two years ago) and a pile of various odds and ends.

  The first thing Jason checked was the insurance.

  ‘Hmm, she’s insured for £100,000. Not a fortune, but the beneficiary’s her husband.’

  The passport was current.

  Jason next read the love-letters with a slightly uneasy feeling that he shouldn’t really be doing so (which he quickly quashed) and then passed them on to Jim.

  ‘A job for you, Jim. It looks as if it was all over long ago, and ended amiably, but check him out. Find out where he was on Saturday, and if he thinks the husband knew about the affair.’

  ‘Sean doesn’t seem the jealous-husband type to me, sir,’ Jim said. ‘And why kill her over her infidelity after all this time?’

  ‘Perhaps he only recently found out about it,’ Jason said, but without any real conviction. ‘I have to say, though, that I’m getting the impression that the Franklyns had a free-range sort of marriage. Now what’s this?’

  He’d been sorting through the odds and ends – some postcards from abroad, a letter or two from jewellery retailers promising to look her wares over – when he suddenly struck gold.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Read over my shoulder ,Jim,’ Jaso
n said curtly, which the sergeant promptly did.

  What he saw was a slightly yellowed piece of ruled paper, written to Margaret in a rounded, distinctly feminine handwriting. The author was obviously in an agony of pain and anger, and as the missive went on, the language became more and more desperate. But it was the mention of one name in particular that fairly leapt out at the two policemen.

  The name was that of Dr Maurice Keating.

  The first thing Jason did after leaving the bank was to drive back to police headquarters where a computer, given the name of the letter-writer, quickly coughed up several salient details, including the hard, harsh facts of her death.

  After reading through the data, the next port of call was to St. Francis’s College, Oxford, where Maurice Keating had been a tutor of English Literature for thirty-two years.

  The Provost of the college, perhaps not surprisingly, was not pleased to see them, and was even less pleased to discuss Dr Maurice Keating and a certain female student. But he was unfailingly polite. Naturally, nothing had been proved. And Dr Keating had left his post recently only and solely because he’d reached retirement age, and wanted to devote all his time and effort to the great opus of his life, writing about the work and times of the poet John Donne.

  Of course, the college’s name mustn’t be dragged through the mud.

  By the time they left, Jason’s skin was crawling. As they walked across the ancient quad, he laughed grimly.

  ‘What a place to live and work. All this quiet, back-stabbing, over-intellectualised angst gives me the creeps.’

  Jim shrugged. ‘Oh I don’t know, sir,’ he said, looking around at the beautiful quad and baize-like croquet lawn with a mild sense of envy. ‘I daresay it suited our professor quite well.’

  Just then an ancient woman, ninety if she was a day, and dressed in the full regalia of a Don’s gown and colourful headwear, walked across the lawn towards the ivy-clad library.

  ‘Reached retirement age, my foot,’ Jason growled. ‘In these sorts of places, they don’t retire. They just get re-titled as Emeritus Fellows and put out to grass until they die of old age.’