Deadly Thyme (37 page)

47

O
n the way to his car Jon listened intently as Perstow told what he knew.

“Old Mrs. Davies went to the post office at a quarter past the hour. When she entered she saw the one counter overturned and came over scary. Found the postmistress on the floor behind the counter
, ’n’ she turned and stumbled out. Someone noticed her about the time she began to scream. It had just happened, I reckon. The blood was still flowing when the first unit arrived. There was no helpin’, though.”

They were thirty minutes away
, but they hardly spoke as Jon took curves at full speed, honking before each turn. As their car drew closer to the old post office, they pulled to the side of the roadway and walked through the thick crowd of villagers gathered around the door of the combined county courthouse where the post office was. A white-haired lady was at the center of the most attention. Several people bent over her as Jon and his colleagues drew closer. A constable barred the door to keep the curious out of the building. SOCO had arrived at the scene.

“Is that Mrs. Davies?” Jon asked.

“That’s her, poor dear,” Perstow said. “Bad heart. Wonder we didn’t have another body.”

Trewe told Perstow, “Call for reinforcements from Devon
. You need to work as liaison between the teams. I’ll contact you later.”

Perstow left with Constable Stark
. Trewe motioned for Jon to join him. “We need to see the body, but let me talk to Mrs. Davies first.”

Trewe walked over to where Mr. Malone sat next to the tiny Mrs. Davies. Malone moved aside to make a space for Trewe to sit. Jon stared at Malone
, but the man ignored him.

“I
’m sorry, Olivia,” Trewe said. “Not a nice thing to happen.”

“The blood. The blood!” Olivia Davies wailed. Jon saw the lady was trembling. “Oh! I can
’t get it out of my mind. I never imagined anything so horrible could happen. What with that little girl, and our Tavy, and now this! In broad daylight! What are we coming to, Peter?” She sobbed.

“There, there, dear.” Trewe put an arm around her. “Nothing you could do. You
’ll be right as roses soon enough. Mrs. Jeffers is going to take you to your house and sit you down and give you a lovely cup of sweet tea. Aren’t you, Mrs. Jeffers?”

Jon noticed another lady nod emphatically. She was not quite as elderly as Mrs. Davies.

“I’ll see she gets home and comfortable, Peter,” Mrs. Jeffers said.

These people really like Trewe, Jon thought. They looked up to him, yet called him by his given name.

Trewe stood as Mrs. Davis was helped away. The crowd parted to make way for Jon and Trewe to get to the door. The pathologist, Roger Penberthy, beckoned from just inside the post office’s doorway.

Trewe exclaimed, “You
’ve arrived soon enough for once!”

“I was in the area when the call came through.”

They filed after him into the building. The metallic odor of blood overpowered the smell of postal supplies lining the walls. Lying face-up behind the counter, the postmistress was very dead. Blood had pooled beneath her. She was outlined in the dark liquid like a large pudding in raspberry sauce.

“What have you got for us, Roger?” Trewe asked.

The doctor moved behind the counter, careful to avoid stepping in the blood. “At first glance, I surmised massive brain hemorrhaging had killed her.”

Jon pointed at the bloody shoeprint near the body. “Do you know who did that?”

“No.”

“Hold up,” Trewe said. “Is the wound consistent with being hit on the head with a blunt instrument?”

“You can see for yourself.”

The three police officers leaned over the body. There was an obvious dent in the side of her skull
and a large bruise on her forehead.

The pathologist continued, “At first, I would have said it is a very straightforward case of blunt trauma.”

“Would have?” Jon asked.

“Yes.”

“How long would you say she’s been dead?”

“After a preliminary examination, about an hour. I would put a guesstimate at around one o
’clock. The post office would have been empty for only a small frame of time.” The doctor gave a little choking cough and smoothed his generous mustache with one hand. “The postmistress was very strict about her break. She took a regular tea at midday sharp every day, rain or shine. Wouldn’t let anyone else touch her mails during that time. Wouldn’t allow Postie Pauline in. Not even her companion, Thomas, came round then—she was that particular.” The doctor shook his head. “She said that was the way of it and anyone can wait half an hour to buy their stamps.” He looked from Jon to Trewe. “But, what with the method of killing used, a thorough autopsy will better determine the time.”

Jon noticed the sweat beaded on the doctor
’s forehead and wondered what had so perturbed the unflappable man. He couldn’t help musing aloud, “Well, this lets her off the short list.”

“Go on about cause of death,” Trewe demanded.

Jon moved closer. A heavy, partitioned shelf had been ripped away from the wall and now lay next to the postmistress’s skull. As if she had just stepped out of them, her large shoes sat neatly to one side.

“There is the shelf edge here
,” the doctor pointed.

“Killed her?” Trewe snapped.

“I’m getting to that. First thought: she fell into that shelf, knocked it from the wall, fell forward, hit her head a second time on the counter, and fell backward. I would have said that was it.”

Tiredness eked out of Trewe
’s voice. “I know you’re dying to tell us how she really died.”

“Well, I wouldn
’t say dying.” The pathologist took out a handkerchief and blotted his forehead. “At first I thought the shelf
was
the instrument of death. There’s the dent at the front of the cranium and blood on the counter here.” He pointed to the edge of the counter. It seemed obvious.

“But wait, there
’s more,” Trewe said with a touch of sarcasm.

“He
’ll get to it given time,” Jon muttered.

“Well,” the pathologist explained, “I examined the body a little closer
, and Peter—” the doctor gave a long sigh, whistling through his great white mustache. “I’ve been the doctor here for many years. She never registered with my surgery. I understood she went to a doctor in Port Isaac. I never questioned … wasn’t my place. I actually had never thought much about it.”

Trewe slammed a palm against the counter. “Roger, we
’d like to get on with our jobs.”

“Well, Peter, if you
’d only be patient. I’ve just received the shock of my life. You’re not being very sensitive.”

Jon wondered why death would be so shocking to a pathologist.

“I’ve never been accused of being sensitive, so tell!” Trewe bellowed.

“The cause of death wasn
’t blunt trauma at all, though I’ve no doubt the injury to the brain was serious enough to cause eventual death.”

“Make short work of it!”

“You see, gentlemen, with the amount of blood around the body, we can surmise that the body has lost a lot of blood. There are only a few places where a cut can be made to cause this kind of serious blood loss in a relatively short period of time: the neck, of course, then the main arteries under the arms and legs—a deep puncture wound in the chest area could pierce an artery around the heart, which would cause blood to pool in the chest cavity. Then there is this, if you’ll just have a careful look here.” The doctor pulled the postmistress’s skirt. The cloth came away with a soft, suctioning noise.

So much blood.

The doctor yanked her blooded knickers away from a red gaping hole in her flesh.

The other men gasped.

The doctor said matter-of-factly, “The postmistress was a mister. With a deliberate stroke of a very sharp knife … sexual organ deleted. That is where the loss of blood took place. Then it was conveniently covered with the clothing.”

“Oh God!” Jon saw black specs in the blood and leaned forward for a better look. Plant leaves of some sort were intermixed into the deep, red liquid. “He
’s becoming more violent.”

Perhaps because Trewe hadn
’t moved, Jon glanced at him. Trewe’s face had turned as white from loss of blood as the floor was red with it.

Jon motioned for the pathologist to help. Together they gently tugged Trewe toward the door.

Trewe jerked away from them and turned back to the doctor.

“Where is it?”

The doctor looked at him with question in his eyes.

“His Tom, Dick, and Harry! What do you think I mean?” Trewe spit the words out
, as distasteful as they sounded.

The doctor glanced down at the body. “Sorry. Haven
’t found it.”

Trewe swayed.

“I’m taking you home, Peter.” Roger Penberthy grabbed his arm.

As Jon helped get Trewe out the door, he said to the pathologist, “
Have the lab discover what kind of leaves those are mixed with the blood, and see the shoes are handled with care.”

48

Hasten Inn

Wednesday afternoon

Day
eighteen

Mrs. McFarland had provided an impromptu lunch. She didn’t normally provide lunch to her guests, much less guests of guests, so Jon was grateful for the cold meats and toast that she had set out with her usual, unflappable energy. Trewe and Perstow were eating as Jon pushed his untouched lunch away. They had spent the evening and night garnering forces, comparing notes, and assigning tasks. After four hours of sleep they were ready to start again.

It had been three weeks since Jon had stumbled after Tavy on the coastal path
, when Chelsea led them to Victoria Benton’s body dressed in Annie’s clothes. Today was another inquest. The condiment jars rattled when Jon’s fist hit the table.

Perstow stopped munching to stare at him. “S
ar?”

“Do policemen go mad with inactivity?”

“No,” Trewe growled.

“How is it,” Jon demanded, “someone like the postmistress could get away with keeping such a thing quiet for so long?”

“Wouldn’t have been easy, keeping that secret,” Trewe cleared his throat. “Lived with about twenty cats and a couple of canaries and Thomas. Such a secret—don’t you know the villagers are going to look a bit askance at that fellow? The postmistress didn’t garden, didn’t attend church, didn’t socialize at the pub. Didn’t, didn’t, didn’t.” Trewe blew air through pursed lips and kept his voice low, “Question is: why was she killed?”

Jon took a sip of tea
—good, strong stuff. “Seemed to me she was a professional busybody. She must have found out something she wasn’t supposed to know.”

Perstow nodded. “Snooped into everything. She could tell when Uncle Elmer last wrote from Australia, or when Joe
’s sister in Sidmouth would have her eightieth birthday.”

“As to the
‘why now?’ …” Jon pulled his chair closer to the table. “That isn’t so hard. It was because of the computer!”

“Her computer?” Perstow said, sounding surprised. “Why is that?”

“There’s a public-access, for-pay computer in the post office. She would notice who uses it. The killer likely intended to knock her on the head hard enough to kill. When she fell, the dress went up. The murderer, perhaps as surprised as we were, went mad and whacked it for the lie. That would put a self-righteous spin on this character if it were true.”

Trewe nodded. “But do we know yet what the leaves in with her blood were?”

“Dried parsley flakes,” Perstow said.

“I thought so,” Jon said. “Makes sense the killer had them with him.”

Trewe looked pointedly at Jon. “He planned to do the murder, all right. But what does it mean, dear expert-of-all-things-herbal?”

“Well, parsley used to be called the Devil
’s herb, because it takes so long for the seed to germinate that it was said it would go down to hell seven times before reaching for heaven. Honored as a plant of death, the customary thing to do was put the leaves on the corpse or to make them into wreaths for decorating tombs.”

Perstow whistled through his teeth. “You
’re sayin’ he was honoring the dead?”

“Not in the postmistress
’s case, but likely in Tavy’s. Remember the parsley in Tavy’s pockets was fresh, but these were crumbled flakes. Probably leftovers he still carried in his pockets.”

Trewe finished his tea and set the mug down with a thud. “There should be a law against people knowing too bloody much. We
’ve another inquest to attend. We’ve put paid to one mystery only to have more open up.”

Perstow
’s face paled. “Whatever is next?”

The weather had turned unseasonably warm and oppressive
, but they were able to walk from the Hasten Inn to the courthouse because it was only a little ways along the cliffs. To the north across the sea-filled horizon, the clouds were a deep blue-black while, where Jon stood, the light was bright as blazes.
Storm front,
he thought,
Just wish it would get on with it.
He removed his jacket as he entered the long, narrow courtroom of the combined county courthouse and walked down the aisle between the rows of pew-like benches that faced the podium.

The police tape blocking off the area around the post office would be something for the gawkers
, but there really wasn’t anything to see even if they could get past all the curtained windows and closed doors. The post office was only a small portion of the building in the front and was completely separate from any of the official offices or the courtroom.

Extra chairs had been added around the court room in anticipation of a crowd. It was almost empty save for a few people along one wall. They had laptops open
, or notepads, so were likely reporters. There was a news crew outside. Cameras were not allowed in the courtroom. As to the laptops, they were probably going to have to put them aside at some point because most of them had video.

Trewe sat alone near the front. Taking a seat behind Trewe, he leaned forward and said, “Someone mentioned a package left near the inciden
t room with your name on it?”

Trewe turned slightly and muttered, “Not a pleasant subject.”

“Someone trying to tell you your business?”

“He isn
’t alone then.” Trewe turned and gave Jon the eye. “The postmistress’s pocketbook with the severed organ tucked inside did me a turn. It was left in one of the rain barrels. Someone saw blood on the outside of the barrel.”

“So I heard. Nasty.”

“There was a note to Mrs. Butler. She confirms it is her daughter’s handwriting, says there was a message from each first word.”

“How did she figure it out?”

“Something about text message abbreviations. At any rate, the message was ‘don’t follow the man.
’
”

“Good Lord!”

“The fact that he let her write anything at all … I don’t know whether the killer wants us to know the girl is alive … whether we are fooling ourselves into thinking we’ll catch him out …”

“
… or whether he is laying a trap.” Jon noticed others beginning to take their seats. “Were the cameras functioning on the street near that rain barrel?”

“They were.”

“And?”

“
There was a figure—bundled to look fat, face painted, possibly with blood—short, or huddled over to look short. Must have known there were cameras—so many cameras.” Trewe gave Jon another look.

People drifted in by twos and threes until the room filled. Murmurs, coughs and scuffs of chairs diminished into expectant silence.

The new coroner from Exeter moved purposefully to the front of the large room. He used one hand to whisk his wave of sandy-colored hair off his forehead. With the motion the hint of a smile disappeared as he sat in the front row.

A barrister by the name of Mr. Ackerman moved to the podium. He turned with a flourish and sat.

A showman, Jon decided.

There was m
ore coughing and scraping of chairs against wooden floors. Perstow lumbered toward them. He nodded to Jon and sat next to Trewe.

“This is the second inquest into the death of Annie Grace Butler,” Mr. Ackerman called out. “The law requires a second inquest in the event of a murder being done and no killer apprehended. When the killer is apprehended, there can be no question of injustice in the examination of the body with the opinion written by an independent coroner, thereby expediting the release of the body for burial.”

Jon listened to the precise litany of words. The loved ones needed to bury the body. His mind wandered. Who in this room knew the body to be released to Ruth Butler was not her daughter?

Mr. Ackerman called Perstow to testify. “Are you able to proceed?”

Perstow faced the coroner. “Your Honor, I would like to defer to Detective Chief Inspector Peter Trewe. I reserve the right to add anything I might wish to include, in due time.”

Mr. Ackerman nodded, “Of course. Let the record so reflect. Thank you, Sergeant. Detective Chief Inspector Trewe, take the oath.”

Trewe cleared his throat. “I swear by Almighty God that the evidence I give shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

“Thank you. Proceed.”

Jon glanced across the other attendees to where Ruth Butler sat on the other side of the room. She turned in his direction. He gave a quick nod. He’d kept quiet despite his frustration at not being able to add anything constructive. He had no hope of impressing her. But he would solve this case no matter how long and frustrating it became.

Trewe gave his name, rank
, and number, then said, “We received a call …” and he went on to report what had happened after the call came about the body in the surf.

Jon thought about what he had been doing on that day
: checking up on Trewe, walking the cliffs wondering how the man had come into so much money, seemingly all at once—and now that he knew, he still didn’t understand why Trewe didn’t retire. His mind was pulled back into the flow of Trewe’s voice.

“
… and immediately alerted police officers in the area to respond.”

Trewe went on to recount the investigation
’s progress before and after the discovery of the body. Jon listened to the facts but remembered how his discovery of the body had left him heartsick and furious. What a jolt that had been.

Another witness was speaking.

The criminal profiler from London was a woman, Dr. Sarah Manning, whose bottled-blond hair contrasted sharply against her florid face. She spoke distinctly. “This type of killer’s thoughts fester in his mind, creating pressures that need an outlet. If at any time he or she were afforded opportunity to kill with impunity, he or she would consider them opportunities to perfect the killing technique. Each incident feeds the killing urges and the effect is a release of pressure …” She used the words “steps to moral decline,” which made her sound as if she were reading from a textbook.

An intelligent-sounding combination of words later, she concluded by saying this killer had likely reached a tight place of no return, which meant
, to Jon’s way of thinking, that the killer could not stop killing.

Ruth sat next to her mother in the front row of the already stuffy room. She leaned forward
, determined to hear everything. She repeated to herself that this was not about her daughter.

During the first inquest she had been sick, numbed, and unable to understand most of what went on.
This time she felt her time was being wasted when she would rather be out looking for Annie. Tears burned her dry eyes. She glanced around at the blurred colors in the courtroom. No one stood out. No one called attention to themselves. Of course, the person responsible had been a chameleon all this time; he wouldn’t be any different today. Not unless she did something to force him.

On the other side of her sat Sally in her flannel jumper, her face a bit red from the heat in the room. Sally gave her hand a squeeze. Sally didn
’t know that Annie was not the subject of this inquest. How would she react when she told her that Annie was still alive? She wasn’t supposed to, but she had decided to tell her after the inquest. She wanted her perspective.

Sam sat behind her
, so she could see him if she turned sideways a little. He looked like a whitewashed beach pebble, all clean and neat, but not at all outstanding. He had offered to represent her in this inquest but she told him that everything about it was routine because they still had not discovered who the killer was. She couldn’t in good conscience ask someone to cross-examine any witnesses. But he promised to help her with her immigration problems later.

Ruth didn
’t want to jump up and yell, “Who did this?” but not doing anything was becoming more difficult by the minute. Her mother squeezed her hand. It was good to have her here.

Jon Graham sat across the aisle. She thought about how he had told her the body was not Annie. Her heart gave a painful lurch again. That
’s right, not Annie. It was someone else’s precious child, but not Annie.