Deadly Thyme (26 page)

“Taken? From Tavy?”

The doctor had started towards a waiting car.

“Wait!” Jon said. “Was he wearing shoes?”

“Shoes?” the doctor paused, looked puzzled before answering. “Now that you mention it, he hadn’t any.”

34

Thursday morning

Day twelve

I
t was six o’clock by Jon’s mobile. He lay in the bed trying to think, but a mist had settled in his brain. Could be because he’d stayed late at the Spider’s Web, with drinks all around, pretending to be interested in snooker, whilst listening to the locals discuss Tavy. But he’d left the pub with more questions than answers.

There was a tapping sound at the door.

He struggled away from the thick duvet, threw on some trousers and opened the door.

In stepped Trewe. “Hallo, it
’s six o’clock. Are you sleeping in?”

“No, sir. I had a late
—”

“Good, I need a word.” He sat on the only chair available. “This place looks like a tip.”

Because everything he’dhad in his caravan had either gone up in smoke or been ruined by water and soot, Jon had had the files on the other girls found dead in the regio
n
resent from London. Papers were strewn across every surface. Jon worried that Trewe must be seeing his room as completely disorganized. Here and there, colored paper tags dotted across the jumble didn’t help. “It’s my room, sir. I didn’t think to entertain—”

“It
’s a perfect spot to speak without other ears overhearing. What is this mess? Looks like you’ve been working on something.”

“It
’s about the other girls—”

Trewe held a hand up, interrupting Jon. “God, you don
’t give in easily do you? Suspects tried, convicted, period.”

Jon was in no mood to coddle this
jackass. He sat on the edge of the bed to face Trewe. “Two of the cases are still open. And those convictions were before 1989 and DNA profiling.”

“Blast it! You
’re going to try to dig up DNA on every case?”

“I
’ve already done it.”

“On whose authority?”

“I … I took the initiative.”

Trewe glowered and sat in the nearby chair. “Blasted vigilante.”

“Just hear me out.” Without waiting for a response from Trewe, Jon picked up a sheet of paper from the desk and began to read aloud. “Cecilia Jaggi, twenty. Strangled. Hands tied together with ivy. A package of periwinkle seeds stuffed into her mouth. Ten weeks pregnant. Found by a walker along the A30 near Bolventor. DNA from saved fetal tissue being done, as we speak.”

Jon glanced up and caught Trewe
’s glare, which he had expected. He didn’t wait for more response but kept reading. “Next, Alice Dorset, twenty-four, rosemary twisted into a bit of her hair. Mother’s name—Rosemary Townsend. Found alongside a church, near Boscastle. A small Elder tree branch under one arm, her shoes were missing. DNA, inconclusive.”

“Hold it. What was the date on the first case?”

“1984.”

Trewe shook his head. “I can
’t believe a case from so long ago would have anything to do with this murder. Why would he wait for so long to strike again?”

“He
’s getting more desperate or something set him off. I can’t speculate as to what it was.” Jon waited half a tic for Trewe to reply, but the CI was listening. He finally had his absolute attention. “In the Jane Simmons case, the girl’s bra was stuffed with rue. It was June 1995 when some hunting dogs unearthed her shoeless remains. The young lady at seventeen had already proven studies of the scholastic kind were not her thing. She was more interested in the opposite sex. She had been officially declared a runaway in 1992, though she rang up her mother sporadically to let her know she was all right. The calls stopped in February of ’94. Her body was found near Rough Tor. The workup on all saved samples showed no foreign DNA.”

Trewe leaned back. “And then there was one.”

“That we know of anyway. Victoria Benton, age fourteen. Disappeared six months ago from Devon. Her parents received her shoes by parcel post.” Jon set the list on the desk. “That must have been horrible.”

Trewe growled, “So why do you include Annie in this fantasy of yours?”

“Because of the herbs and shoes.”

“Herbs and shoes?”

“Each body was found with herbs or something significant about shoes. What I would like you to do, if I may be so bold—”

“
Nothing has stopped you before.”

“What I
’d like to see happen would be that Victoria Benton’s DNA from a hairbrush or something be compared to the body from the surf.”

Jon noted the angry stance Trewe took
, as if he were fighting a losing battle and would never admit it. He would have to allow the man to save face. “Look, the mere fact that he used the other shoe to hang in the tree speaks more than words, in my opinion. For her sake, man! There were herbs tied into the string around her neck!”

“What do the herbs mean, is the question.”

“Herbs do have meaning. People study and write books about it.”

“And of course, you would know
your herbs.”

“As it happens, I do.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

The course Jon had taken had been boring. The real reason he had attended had been the girl he
was seeing at the time. He realized Trewe was staring at him. “Cecelia Jaggi, the first girl, had ivy twined in her hands and a package of periwinkle seeds stuffed in her mouth. Ivy represents wedded love and fidelity, but the periwinkle is
Fione de Morte,
the flower of death, from an Italian tradition of laying wreaths of periwinkle on the graves of dead babies.”

“And she was pregnant.” Trewe tapped a finger against the wall. “I get it. Go on.”

“The first murder seems disorganized. She was strangled, but the herbs suggest that he loved her and wanted to marry her. Did he not want the baby? Did she push him over the edge? By the next girl, Alice Dorset, he’d perfected his methods, or at least he was calm about murdering her. Rosemary and Elder branches were found on her body. According to an ancient custom, burying Elder tree branches with the dead protected the soul from evil. Rosemary is for remembrance, and her mother’s name was Rosemary. So we can conclude by inference, the killer perhaps didn’t relish the killing but was interested in her mother—or hated her mother.”

“Amazing what you can learn in those courses.” Trewe
’s tone was sarcastic.

They were interrupted by Mrs. McFarland
when she poked her head through the door to say that breakfast was on the sideboard and ask if Mr. Trewe cared to join them.

Jon wondered if she
’d been listening. She’d never before come to tell him breakfast was there; she’d always left him to find it. She flushed pink as Trewe stood.

“I don
’t want anything, Mrs. McFarland,” Trewe said. “I’ve got to be going.”

“I
’ll be down in a moment, thank you,” Jon told her. He watched her walk downstairs before he shut the door. He continued, “Most of this I’ve been researching on the Internet since we last talked. The rue stuffed in the bra? Rue is for repentance or regret.”

“And the girl had a reputation.”

“Exactly. Only in this instance, the death was violent, so there was no regret there. He must have thought the girl needed to repent for something and she hadn’t.”

“Okay, I
’m listening. Annie Butler had thyme in her neck cord,” Trewe said.

“Thyme grows around here. In days gone by, specifically in Wales and probably here in Cornwall, thyme
’s flowers were thought to hold the souls of the dead. Hence, thyme for death. The fact is, he found a bit of thyme that had a blossom. He used it specifically, when a sprig from a wild bush, which would not be blooming, would be more convenient. I think this was not so much a murder as a burial.”

             
“Deadly thyme. Sounds as if you have him figured out.”

Jon took a deep breath. “I believe this is a man who believes he is above the law. He has been doing this
for some time and has not been caught. Now he is flaunting it. But he is either quite superstitious, or he believes in ceremony. Why? Is it regret? Perhaps he believes he is humane so killing isn’t part of his nature. Is he attempting some kind of atonement for himself by including ceremony in the burial? He forces himself to carry out some sort of elaborate burial practice where each time the plant material is tied in some way to the dead, but not to him. I believe he still feels some security because nothing’s been in the press about any connection in the other deaths. Probably thinks he got away with it again. And there’s one other thing.”

“I
’m listening.”

“I
’ve been wondering why he didn’t molest the girl. Why not? He’d violated her by taking her blood. So why not sexually? Then, it came to me. He’s impotent.”

“That
’s hitting a little close to the bone, son.”

Jon sat back at that. “That could be one reason he didn
’t.”

“Or perhaps sex is
just something you are fixated on, Mr. Graham. This is not a pedophile. And the herb theory is interesting but thin, very thin. Meanwhile, I’m pursuing the idea that Mr. Tavish knew more than he was letting on. There must be a reason he had his head bashed in.”

“I imagine he did know something. How long has he lived in
Perrin’s Point?”

“About twelve years.”

“So he hasn’t been here much longer than Ruth Butler. Where did he move from?”

“Wales.”

“I wonder how long the killer has been here and where he moved from. He can’t be a native, because others would know and wonder about him. Being an incomer creates its own peculiar lack of anonymity.”

Trewe stood, put his hands in his pocket. “With your
theories
there must be a reason Tavy had parsley tucked into his pockets.”

“Parsley?”

“Don’t miss your breakfast.” Trewe huffed and exited Jon’s room.

Annie studied the water in the pool. By some odd quirk of nature
, a deep gouge at the center of the floor had filled with water from a thin rivulet of water streaming down one side of the cave. There must be a reason that the water never overflowed the pool and it stayed a constant level, but she couldn’t see how.

The water was crystal clear. There were shiny things at the bottom.

A sound behind her startled her. It couldn’t be the man, it was daylight. She turned too quickly and her head began to pound again. The light made her dizzy and her sight blurred. A shadow moved. She knew it was the man and she needed to be lying in her bed pretending to sleep.
Move!
She moved—but not quickly enough. The great hulking shadow became
him
. She sat still again, looking at her hands, trying to hold back tears. He caught her awake.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Looking at the water.”

“If you fall in
, there won’t be anyone to save you. No one will hear your cries.”

“I
’m careful. The chain will keep me here.”

“True
, true.” He gave an awful chuckle. “I want you to do something for me.”

“Will you unchain me?”

“I’ll take you for a car ride. Fresh air.”

“There
’s plenty of fresh air here.”

“Don
’t be cheeky.”

Think Annie, think! There may be a chance of escape
. She said, “Yes.”

“You
’ll write a letter to your mother?” He was drooling.

He leaned too close to her and she wanted to spit in his face, kick him where it counted,
and gouge his eyes out, but she forced stillness into her limbs. She could endure his reeking breath. She had to be free of the chain. But if he laid a hand … “What do you want the letter to say?”

“That you will be allowed to rejoin her if she will meet me.”

He was mad—stark-raving. The way his eyes looked when he spoke about her mother—there was something wrong there, bent, like a bolt hadn’t been screwed in right and now everything inside this man had fallen sideways.