The Ellie Hardwick Mysteries (9 page)

Charles carried on, oblivious of our disapproval, ‘Vain bloke though! Lord, how the man fancied himself! Snappy dresser and always wore a suit to work. But that cloak! Used to whisk about in it something sickening! He thought it made him look dashing—and the trouble is—it damned-well did! While the rest of us were muddling about on mucky sites in plastic Andy-Pandy suits for protection, he'd be swishing about looking like some sort of super-hero. The blokes on site used to laugh but the women loved it because he could carry it off! Anyway, whatever he had, it worked.'

He looked thoughtful for a moment and added, ‘No . . . they don't make them like that any more.'

‘Sounds
like a species we can well do without,' I said crisply. ‘He had a wife hereabouts, didn't he?'

‘Catherine. Poor Catherine. Lovely Catherine. Still lives in the village. No one could understand why she put up with him and his goings on. But she always maintained he'd come back. Showed everyone postcards she got from him in Spain every year. “It's just a question of time,” she says. “He's working out there. He'll be back when he's made his reputation.” Not that she couldn't have done well for herself, either. She's had a bloke in the background for years. Gentleman-farmer type. Scott. Have you heard of him?'

I nodded. Handsome, middle-aged and perpetually broke, Tony Scott was quite a figure in the village. A single man since his divorce, he was rumoured to be paying out large alimony bills. I'd never connected him with the artistic Catherine Somersham with her eyes always dreamily on the middle distance. I'd seen her at village street fairs, I'd even bought one of her paintings, but had never met her.

Charles went off with a cheery, ‘Say hello to the Plod for me . . . sorry I can't stay, but it's you they want to see, Ellie.'

Ben and I turned to the quinquennial survey carefully typed and filed and I raised a question that had occurred to me even while gazing at the leathery corpse. ‘Look, I don't
know
much about the state of dead bodies and no doubt the pathologist will have answers but, Ben, how do you think it could have been preserved like that for five years? Didn't putrefaction occur? You were the appointed builder at the time, I see, can you remember what the weather was like that summer?'

Ben's jaw dropped and he began to stir excitedly. ‘That were hot. Days and days of heat. Best harvest for years, they say. And the autumn, the same. Do you think he might have been . . . well . . . kippered? Swinging about up there like an Orford smokie?'

‘Could be. We'll ask Jennings when he arrives. But something else puzzled me, Ben . . . I'd have expected the body to have . . . um . . . fallen apart . . . been eaten away by insects. Wouldn't you?'

Ben considered for a moment. ‘Look on page one, there should be something about pre-existing conditions . . . there—look.'

His splayed thumb indicated a paragraph and I read, ‘ “. . . extensive anti-infestation treatment carried out on all woodwork . . . insecticidal fluids” . . . Mmm . . . Heavy duty stuff. And the tower was sprayed. Small space—Byam prudently says he put the inspection off for a couple of days to allow the fumes to dissipate. I see. Are you thinking that any winged creatures that might have been interested in a body would have been knocked cold by the treatment?'

‘It's
possible, I'd have thought.'

There was a screech of gravel outside and Jennings strode into the office. He looked refreshed this morning and as brisk and bright as I remembered. He'd never met Ben before and I introduced the two men, explaining the builder's role in the Byam Somersham saga.

‘. . . So, accidental death is what it seems to have been. A cracked skull caused instant death. He didn't suffer, Ellie,' the inspector was concerned to tell me. ‘It looks as though he was coming down from the upper bell tower (though what the hell he was doing up there when the survey job was complete, I've no idea), missed his footing on the ladder and dropped the trap he was holding up over his head. It crashed down—did you know it was lead-lined?—of course you did—sorry. It bashed in the back and top of his head . . . here . . .' He picked up a file and demonstrated on Ben's head. ‘Killed him at once and trapped his arms which were still extended over the lip of the hole.'

‘We were wondering why the body didn't disintegrate and drop?' I said tentatively. ‘In fact we've had some ideas.'

‘To start with the most obvious thing—his suit was of very good quality, a light summer fabric but strong enough to sustain the weight of his body until it . . . well until we found it. To go on—we think putrefaction didn't occur because of the exceptional weather . . .'

‘All
those hot harvest days and it was well ventilated up there. Not one of those louvred windows is intact. “Kippered” is what Ben's saying.'

‘Right. Yes. Well done.' He fished about in his briefcase and produced an e-mail print-out. ‘Forensic entomologists—that's grub experts to you—are a bit puzzled though,' he said. ‘This is just a preliminary statement—work could take days—but they're not able to find a great deal . . .'

‘Ah. We think we can help you there!' Ben and I exchanged smug looks.

* * *

After Ben left, Jennings ‘you'd better call me Richard', stayed on for a second cup of coffee. There was an uneasiness about him and I sensed that he still had questions. He didn't know whether to grill me in his role of interrogator or chat to me as a helpful assistant so I made it easy for him by launching into a few questions of my own.

‘What was he doing up there when the report was finished and had been handed in for typing? Look here. Charles is very old-fashioned and doesn't yet quite trust modern technology. Oh, it's all on computer but he keeps the original dictated tapes just in case. Someone told him a bolt of lightning can have a dire effect on your hard-drive, since
when
it's been belt and braces.' I showed him a plastic bag which had been filed next to the document. I took out the small Dictaphone cassette it contained. ‘I've checked it and you should perhaps have this but it's nothing more than the architect's survey. This is what may be important.' I peeled the small pink post-it note from the back of the cassette. ‘It says “Bats! A.S.Ch. 8 p.m.” He'd forgotten to inspect the bat accommodation. No reference to it in the body of the report. I think he probably went back as an afterthought to check up on the colony.'

‘A.S.?'

‘All Souls, the name of the church.'

‘Of course. I'd better take those. Yes, thanks, Ellie. This all begins to fall into place. Except . . .'

‘Those postcards to his wife? He can't have sent them. Who did? Is Catherine lying? What's going on?'

Jennings looked uncomfortable. ‘I called on the widow last night and broke the news. She seemed distressed and horrified, I'd say. She stuck to her story about the cards . . . she keeps them in a row on her mantelpiece . . . And, as the authenticity was corroborated by the police—what can I say? It's all a bit awkward.'

Carefully, I said, ‘I was thinking that, on behalf of the firm, I'd go along to see Catherine and express our condolences. A bunch of flowers, perhaps . . . What do you
think,
Richard?'

He grinned. ‘I think that would be a good idea, Ellie. She teaches art at the local college. You'll probably find you have a lot in common.'

He turned to me as he left, his hand on the doorknob. ‘Oh, if you get into a girlie chat with her, you might ask how she's going to spend the two hundred grand.'

‘The two hundred grand?'

‘Life insurance policy. She'd kept up the payments on her husband's life.' He paused and added thoughtfully, ‘I always think it should be called a “death insurance policy” don't you?'

* * *

Catherine Somersham's greeting when she answered the door of the Old Mill House (conversion by Byam, I guessed) was warm. She even knew my name. I stood uncertainly on the doorstep, almost hidden behind a generous armful of white arum lilies.

‘Come in! It is Ellie Hardwick, isn't it? You work with Charles? I'm just making some tea, will you have one? I won't say “Oh, you shouldn't have,”' she said gracefully, taking the lilies, ‘because these are my favourites! Flowers
are
a sort of consolation, you know. And consolation is still, even after five years, much needed.'

While
she went to put them in water I cast an eye around the living room and began to relax. I find anything minimal bleak and soulless and this room was the very opposite of minimal. It defied any label—I doubt Catherine was the kind of woman who cared about style—and she would probably have laughed if I'd suggested ‘bohemian-chic'. It looked as though she had just collected into the room everything she admired or found comfortable. White sofas covered in coarse linen, wooden floors with Scandinavian rugs scattered over, books spilling over from shelves no longer equal to the task of housing them, white walls and everywhere, paintings, not all her own.

The conversation was surprisingly easy and led on from my genuine and enthusiastic comments on the painting I'd bought at the previous year's village art festival. She invited me to look at the other pictures on the walls and, while on my feet, I took the opportunity of strolling to the fireplace and admiring a bronze turn-of-the-century figure of a little dancer on the mantelpiece.

‘No! It can't be a Degas, I know that! But it's the next best thing!'

‘It's my great-grandmother.'

‘She sculpted this?'

‘Oh, no, sorry! She was the model. My great-grandfather did it,' she smiled.

I replaced it carefully, then hastily
began
picking up the pile of postcards my manoeuvrings had scattered.

‘Oh, dear!' I said in tones of mock horror. ‘I wouldn't have taken you for an admirer of modern architecture . . . Spanish is it? Yes, these two are in Barcelona—a couple of Gaudi's best . . . then the Guggenheim Museum? The Sant Jordi Sports Palace? Not my favourite!'

‘Nor mine,' she said easily. ‘You can look at them if you want to. They're postcards Byam wrote.' She chewed her bottom lip for a moment, started to say something, sighed and then took the plunge. ‘Ellie, I don't know what to do! Oh, do you mind my laying this on you? You'll wonder what on earth you've walked into! Bad enough that you had the shock of discovering the body . . . I feel as though I ought to apologize for him . . .'

I made encouraging noises and she went on haltingly, ‘I've been fooling the police and now they know it. That nice inspector who came last night saw straight through the rubbish I was telling him. I'm not a good liar and I think he's pretty smart. What on earth can I say to them? I think they might be going to arrest me.'

‘It's never a bad idea to tell the truth. That inspector you saw . . . Jennings? . . . he's halfway human. He would listen. I could give you his number if you like. Er . . . if it would help to rehearse it, see how it comes out, I'd gladly
listen.'

I put on my receptive face. Not difficult as I was eager to hear and she responded by launching straight into her story.

‘Five years ago when Byam disappeared I was left in limbo. Not a word. No note. He'd told me he was due some leave and he was going off for a few days by himself.' She glanced at me, her expression one of mixed defiance and shame. ‘He did that occasionally. It was a price I paid . . . not happily but with a certain resignation, I suppose. But this time, none of the local ladies he'd had an affair with had gone missing in a companionable way.'

I looked at her, startled by her cold rationality.

Misinterpreting this she said hastily, ‘Oh,
you
weren't . . . surely you . . .?'

‘I never met the man,' I said firmly. ‘I've only been working in the village three years.'

She took a photograph from a table and handed it to me. ‘Meet him now,' she said quietly.

Even from the photograph the quality of the man leapt out. Not classically handsome, I thought, but I'd have turned in the street to look at him and speculate. Humorous, clever and interested is what he looked. It made last night's horror even more of an obscenity.

She took the photograph from me and sat holding it in her lap while she continued. ‘Shortly after he went off I had a very good
reason
to insist that he was still alive at least. I didn't want to be a widow and I didn't want to get a divorce. Two years before, we'd had a holiday in Spain and he'd bought and written out some postcards to friends and family and, as usual, he handed them to me to do the donkey-work—“Here, Cath, you'll remember the addresses. You can finish these off.” Well, I rebelled. I didn't bother. They just came back home with us in the luggage. When I wanted to prove he was still alive, I remembered them. I took five or six of them over to a place I know in Spain and paid the hotel manager to post them to me on a given date, one a year. I put them each in a typed envelope. The police believed me because—well, why wouldn't they? I was saying what they wanted to hear. They must have been expecting me to try to prove he was
dead
because of the life insurance policy. But I needed my husband to be
alive
. For personal reasons.'

I was about to encourage her to enlarge on this when a Range Rover tore down the drive and parked in front of the house. A florid-faced man got out and hurried straight in. I noted with distaste that he had a bottle of champagne in the capacious pocket of his waxed jacket.

‘Cathy! Cathy! Have you seen the news? Accidental death is what they're saying. Oh, who's this? Didn't realise you had company.' He looked around in a stagey way for my car.