Shades of Murder (4 page)

Meredith and James Holland looked at one another.

‘Ladies first,’ said James gallantly. ‘Pass it on to me when you’ve finished, Meredith.’

Geoff beamed at them. ‘William Oakley was charged with the murder of his wife, Cora. He got off and was damn lucky to do so. Many a man went to the scaffold on flimsier evidence.’

‘I’ve seen a portrait of William, tucked away in disgrace in a dusty back bedroom at Fourways,’ said Juliet unexpectedly. ‘I came across it when I was being shown round by Damaris. She was very embarrassed. She just said “That’s my grandfather!” in a starchy voice before hurrying me on. I nipped back for a look when her back was turned. In the portrait William looks the sort of chap who passed for handsome in those days. Lots of curling black hair and flourishing moustachio with a touch of a tippler’s complexion!’ Juliet illustrated her words with a mime of her right hand and pulled a wry face. She then blushed bright red and they all looked at her. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘I was interested! I didn’t say it
wasn’t an
interesting
story, just that it was horrible. Anyway, you only have to look at William to see he’s the sort of man who’d murder his wife.’

‘The criminal countenance,’ Markby mused. ‘A very popular theory once, but generally dismissed now. What happened to William after the trial, I wonder? He’d hardly have been welcome in local society after a scandal like that.’

Geoff shrugged. ‘I’d like to be able to tell you that he came to a sticky end, but the truth is, nobody knows what became of him. Inevitably there was gossip. People shunned him. So, with his reputation shot to pieces, both sides of the family made it clear to him that he should go away and stay away. He went abroad and was never heard of again. It was the way they dealt with family scandal then. The boy grew up in the care of relatives. When he reached twenty-one, he applied to the courts to have his father legally declared dead. My guess is the move was intended to clear title to the house and its then considerable estate. Extensive enquiries failed to turn up any trace of the fellow. No letters had been received from him. The bulk of his late wife’s substantial fortune had passed to the boy under her will and William had little cash. His wealth lay in the bricks and mortar of Fourways, yet he hadn’t approached anyone for financial help. He’d apparently vanished off the face of the earth, so he
was
declared dead.

‘The son, thank goodness, didn’t turn out a chip off the old block. He lived happily with his wife and family at Fourways, though they say he never recovered from the loss of his only son, Arthur. Neither of the girls married. Now, as Juliet said, they’re old and not in very good health. I’m not surprised they want to move to more suitable surroundings. But all the same, it’s sad to think of the last of the Oakleys leaving Fourways after more than, what? At least a hundred and thirty years the family’s been in residence there. And honestly, I find it hard to imagine them being happy in a small modern flat with neighbours under their noses.’

Meredith had been mulling over the facts. ‘It’s a sad story, but perhaps not that unusual. I don’t mean the murder, I mean families dying out, money running out, big old houses falling into disrepair. Who can afford to live in them now but pop stars, rich Arabs and a handful of successful business types?’

‘Successful crooks.’ Markby sounded resigned. ‘They like to splash their money about and live in style.’

‘Not in Fourways, they wouldn’t,’ said Juliet in the voice of one who knew – which gained her a curious look from Markby. ‘Or I suppose
not,’ she added hastily. ‘Don’t look at me like that, Alan. All my clients are ace respectable. I told you, Fourways is a crumbling dump.’

Pam Painter surged up again, flushed and breathless. ‘Don’t tell me! I know what you’ve all been talking about.’ She turned to Markby. ‘Do you know, Alan, you bring out the worst in Geoff. Whenever you come here, we seem to end up discussing violent death.’

‘Don’t blame the poor chap,’ said Geoff. ‘He gives me the opportunity to indulge my hobby. But as it happens, we were discussing the sale of Fourways. Nothing to do with murder at all.’ To Meredith he whispered, ‘I’ll give you the box of papers when you leave. Keep ’em out of sight of Pam!’

On the horizon the darkness was edged with a pale streak. The two men who stood, side by side, well muffled up against the bitter wind, eyed it with unease and impatience. They had spent the past hour in this churchyard and the only shelter was in the lee of a small mausoleum. From this doleful vantage point they watched proceedings a few yards off. Several men were busy around a gaping hole in the earth. Two of them were still industriously deepening it, shovelling out yet more soil. Another couple held lanterns. They didn’t speak. The tools scratched and chinked against small stones and grit. Occasionally, a rustle in untrimmed grass a little way off announced some small creature scuttling about its business, alarmed by the unexpected human presence at this hour.

Just a foot or two away from the hole a constable in a waterproof cape watched in gloomy silence. At his feet stood an open box containing glass jars. From time to time the constable looked down at these as if ensuring that no one had managed to spirit them away.

The remaining person in this group was a bespectacled little man who scrambled around the diggers with a trowel in one hand and a glass jar like those in the box in the other. In contrast to the dour silence of the diggers, he uttered bursts of protest along the lines of, ‘Just a minute, I’ve got to take a sample here. I say, hold on there!’

‘Look here, Wood!’ exclaimed the larger of the two men by the mausoleum. His size was exaggerated by his full cape and the tall silk hat he wore incongruously in this setting. ‘Can’t those fellows hurry it along? Soon people will be on their way to work, the sun will be up, and we’ll collect a gawping crowd.’

‘Yes, Sir Herbert,’ said his companion, who was more prosaically clad in an ulster topcoat and a bowler hat jammed well over his ears. He’d taken the further precaution of wrapping a woollen muffler several
times round his neck and over his chin. His voice, as a result, came indistinctly from somewhere within its folds. Wood added mildly, ‘The scientific gentleman is holding things up.’

Sir Herbert muttered. He took the point being gently made. Responsibility for the delay rested not on the local men but on the soil analyst who’d travelled with Sir Herbert from London.

At that moment the church clock struck the quarter hour. ‘You see?’ said Sir Herbert peevishly, ‘It’s a quarter to six.’

Wood was spared having to find a reply by a burst of coughing from their right.

‘And that fellow is getting on my nerves!’ added Sir Herbert irritably.

Both turned in the direction of the coughing and stared hard at a black-clad gentleman who called out defensively, ‘I’ve got a cold!’ Unfortunately his affliction made this come out as, ‘I’ve dot a dold.’ As if to prove it further, he drew out a large white handkerchief and trumpeted into it.

Sir Herbert muttered his disgust. Wood said in his mild voice, ‘Got to have the undertaker here. He’ll identify the coffin – when we get to it.’ He gave an apprehensive glance at the diggers who had again been held up by the scientist intent on filling his glass jars with soil.

‘I know why the fellow is here,’ snapped Sir Herbert, ‘but from the sound of him, someone will be burying
him
soon!’

At this perceived insult, the undertaker moved further off, quivering with indignation. It was now perceptibly lighter. All around them, shapes emerged from the gloom giving the impression that the crowd of onlookers Sir Herbert feared, had arrived in the shape of stone cherubs and angels. Marble hands clasped in horror, they fixed the desecration, and the living who’d wrought it, with pupil-less eyes. The pale streak on the horizon had become a pinkish haze.

Wood thought, Red sky at night, shepherds’ delight. Red sky in the morning, shepherds’ warning. He hoped it wasn’t a bad omen. He was as keen as the Home Office man to be out of here. He didn’t like churchyards and he particularly didn’t like the ostentatious sculpture all around. He’d once told his daughter Emily, only half joking, that when the time came to bury him, he wanted only a simple headstone bearing the legend,

Here lies Jonathan Wood.
If he did any harm,
He did some good
.

Emily hadn’t been amused. In fact, she’d been so distressed he’d found
himself apologising profusely and insisting he was very well, thank you. Yes, honestly, never better. No, not even an ache or two.

Sir Herbert said in a low voice, ‘I can tell you, Wood, the Home Office isn’t at all happy about this one. Dash it all, we have nothing but the statements of a dismissed housekeeper and a lot of local gossip. My belief is that, should it come to a trial, defence would have a field day. If it weren’t for the fact that the dead woman’s father has a friend in the cabinet, this exhumation wouldn’t be taking place!’

‘We’ve got a classic set of circumstances,’ said Wood, easing his chin out of his muffler. ‘Mr Oakley has had a reputation of being a man about town for a long time. He’d pretty well run through his own money even before he married a wealthy wife. If he’d had a grain of sense he’d have stopped chasing petticoats, but there, it’d got a habit with him, I dare say. His wife was threatening separation. So,’ concluded Wood, lapsing into the vernacular, ‘he done her in.’

This brought forth the tetchy reply, ‘Circumstances is all you have! The Crown has to prove it, dammit! If he did it, then the fellow was confounded ingenious. No one at the original inquest doubted the death was anything but a dreadful accident. And another thing. That scientific chap has taken samples from all over this churchyard. If arsenic is found anywhere else, the Crown’s case will fly out of the window. It’s happened before and it’ll happen again.’

Wood thought gloomily, yes, it had. And if it did happen again, he knew who’d get the blame. Bamford wasn’t a big town, but it was an important market centre for the surrounding countryside, and its police station was expected to maintain law and order over a generous domain. For that reason, it warranted an inspector in charge where other small towns had to make do with no one more senior than a sergeant. Not, of course, that a really top-notch inspector had been sent to this rural backwater. No, they’d handed it to Wood. He even suspected he’d got his promotion just so that they could kill two birds with one stone. He’d worked hard and had some success in his career but he wasn’t the sort of man who made a good impression in social circles outside his own. Grudgingly, they’d made him inspector and rubbing their hands, he was sure, they’d put him here in Bamford. He’d saved them having to take a more dashing figure from duties elsewhere.

He didn’t mind. He liked it here. He felt at ease among its people both in the town and the surrounding country. He liked being in charge of his own little kingdom. To help him he had a sergeant and two constables, one of them over there by the grave. Like him, the sergeant and the
constables were solid, dependable men, but not destined for greater glory.

But now, unexpectedly, a chance of glory had come along. Not that he liked to think he saw it that way. Still, if he put a hand on the collar of a gent like William Oakley . . .

A sudden cessation of work at the graveside took his attention. The constable came scrambling towards them over hummocks and kerbstones. He saluted.

‘We’ve reached the coffin, Mr Wood, sir.’

‘Right!’ said Wood with relief. ‘Won’t be long now, Sir Herbert. Constable, get that undertaker over there sharpish.’

But the undertaker chose to take his revenge by proceeding at a stately pace towards the spot. One of the lantern-bearers lowered his light into the pit. The undertaker leant over at a perilous angle and took so long before he pronounced judgement Wood feared Sir Herbert would deluge him with strongly worded advice. In the nick of time, the undertaker turned from the grave and was coming back, still at that same stately pace. Perhaps he couldn’t walk any other way.

‘Yes,’ he said, his consonants still distorted, ‘that’s the coffin, gentlemen. The nameplate is quite clear.’ He whipped out the handkerchief and blew his nose again.

‘Then let’s get out of here with it!’ growled Sir Herbert.

The undertaker stuffed his handkerchief into a pocket and offered, ‘You may wish, gentlemen, to open the lid briefly first, while we’re out here in the fresh air.’

At that moment, the church clock struck six.

‘No time!’ snapped Sir Herbert.

Wood said in his mild voice, ‘For all our comfort . . .’

‘Oh, all right, then,’ agreed Sir Herbert. ‘But make it quick, can’t you?’

‘Jenkins!’ called Wood to the constable. ‘Once the coffin is up and – er – ventilated, make sure they board over the hole securely. We don’t want anyone falling in. And you had better stay here to guard it. We don’t want trophy-hunters, either.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Constable Jenkins glumly.

‘Don’t worry,’ Wood told him. ‘I’ll send Bishop to relieve you as soon as I get to the station.’

Constable Jenkins’s expression, visible now in the pale early morning light, showed that he interpreted this last statement as meaning, ‘When I’ve had a good stiff drink!’

‘You’re very quiet,’ Alan observed as they drove home through the darkness. ‘It’s no use trying to read that box of papers Geoff gave you in this light.’

‘I couldn’t resist taking a quick look.’ Meredith regretfully closed the box on her knees. The car’s headlights played off shopfront windows and made lights dance across the puddles a rainshower had left on the pavements. After the claustrophobic heat of the Painters’ party it was blessedly cool.

‘I found it very warm in there, didn’t you?’ She turned her head to study her companion’s profile. ‘I thought Dr Fuller was your pathologist. I didn’t know you used Geoff’s services.’

‘Fuller is our regular pathologist and a very good one, but he’s not a poisons expert. So when we, or when Fuller on our behalf, has something in that line, we send it off to Geoff’s poisons unit. Mind you, he’s right in saying deliberate poisoning is far less common today than it once was.’