The Haunted Lady (2 page)

He stared at the figure reclining against the rear wall of the building and frowned. The man appeared to be either asleep or drunk – or both. Robert wondered briefly where the recumbent imbiber had got into such a condition. There were no pubs or off-licences for several miles. How had he managed to reach such a remote spot when he was in no fit state to stand up?

He walked across and stared down at the man whose eyes were glazed; his head slumped to one side. The grey pallor of the man’s faced and those eyes, staring into eternity, convinced Robert that this was no drunk. This man was dead.

Robert was no stranger to the sight of dead bodies. He often helped his father-in-law, a local undertaker, and corpses held no fear for him. What had caused this man’s demise, he wondered, and how had he got to this secluded place to die.
A heart attack, a stroke
 –
or worse still, suicide
?

Then he saw the blood beneath the body, and acting on an impulse he later regretted, he twitched the man’s raincoat to one side. He recoiled and stepped back to avoid the swarm of flies that rose up, disturbed from their feast. ‘Oh, dear Lord,’ he murmured – the closest Robert came to swearing. He looked at the body and felt nausea rising in his throat. Blood had stained the man’s shirt and the top of his trousers. Blood that had pumped through a gaping slit in the shirt, seeping from a single wound directly opposite the victim’s heart. This was no accidental death, no natural causes – this was murder.

The morning after our return home from London, Eve was busy unpacking and refilling the wardrobes with her latest purchases when the phone rang. She answered it. I heard her say, ‘Oh dear, that sounds awful.’ Then, ‘No, that’s not a problem, we should be in most of the day, but we do need to go shopping later. I’ll look forward to seeing you again.’ She put the phone down and turned to me. ‘We’re going to have a visitor. That was Mrs Phillips, you remember? The lady on the train.’

‘That sounds like a Hitchcock title. What did the vicar’s mother want?’

‘She wants us to help her son.’

‘What is it this time? More ghosts? Vampires in the vestry?’

‘I don’t exactly know, she didn’t give any details. All she said is that it’s something to do with a murder and that her son Michael is very upset about it.’

‘Not
The Murder at the Vicarage
?’

‘Adam, you’re at it again. Can you be serious for one moment?’

I grinned. ‘OK then. As long as it’s only for a moment.’

Shortly after the call, Johnny Pickersgill arrived on our doorstep. ‘I don’t suppose there’s a cup of tea going?’ He sounded despondent, which was uncharacteristic.

‘You look as though you need cheering up. Come on inside and we’ll see what we can do.’

Nothing was guaranteed to brighten Johnny’s day more than that, and it worked. He gave me a broad smile, one that got even wider once he heard the exchange between Eve and me. ‘Johnny’s here, darling,’ I called out.

‘I know, I’ve put the kettle on. I’ll be back in a minute.’

We went through to the kitchen and, as we waited for the kettle to boil, he said, ‘You’ve missed all the fun and games. We’ve got a murder on our hands.’

Eve entered and I told her, ‘Johnny seems to think we missed out on all the excitement. I did try and explain to him that as far as you were concerned shopping was thrilling enough, but he says there’s been a murder while we’ve been away.’

‘Where?’

‘In the deer park at Studley Royal.’

‘What was it, something to do with poachers?’

Johnny shook his head. ‘Nothing like that, at least we don’t think so.’

‘When did this happen?’

‘His body was found on Friday evening and only then because the groundsman went to prepare the pitch for the start of the season. It was lucky there was a home game scheduled for that Saturday, because if they’d been playing away it could have been another week before he was found.’

Eve and I looked at one another in bewilderment. I shrugged my shoulders and said, ‘Don’t ask me what he’s talking about. It certainly sounded like English, even if none of it made any sense.’

‘I’m talking about the cricket club.’

‘What cricket club is that?’

‘The one where the body was found. In the deer park.’

I had a mental image of a fallow deer strapping on pads and batting gloves, collecting his bat and striding out to face a stag that was bowling right hoof over the wicket. ‘Tell me, Johnny, how do they manage to put one of those batting helmets on over their antlers?’

Eve began to giggle. This was a bad sign. Hysterical laughter was in the offing, so I had to quell it fast. ‘So far, Johnny, very little has made any sense whatsoever. What on earth has the game of cricket got to do with a deer park?’

‘Part of the deer park is a cricket ground, the base for Studley Royal Cricket Club,’ he explained. ‘The dead man was found by the cricket pavilion.’

Discarding the idea of various cricketing puns such as ‘how was he out,’ ‘it was over for him’, or even ‘his innings was closed,’ I asked, ‘Who was the victim, and how come
you’re
involved when Studley Royal is more than fifteen miles away?’

‘His name is – or was – Mark Bennett. He used to be curator of Dinsdale Museum and Art Gallery.’

‘I thought that place was closed,’ Eve interjected.

‘The place was closed two years ago while they build an extension to house the collection of sculptures and paintings; Bennett took early retirement. The rumour is that Bennett wasn’t too happy about the way the plans were pushed through, which is why he took his bat home. Oh, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Because he was discovered at the cricket ground, I mean.’

Eve looked at him severely. ‘I should warn you that Adam is in charge of the bad jokes round here.’

I ignored the insult, concentrating instead on what Johnny had revealed thus far. Something still didn’t add up. Dinsdale was much nearer than Studley Royal, but it still wasn’t on Johnny’s patch, so why was he involved in what must surely be a criminal investigation, and therefore a matter for CID. No way was an out of area murder part of Johnny’s terms of reference. I asked him point blank, and noticed his hesitation before replying, and the care with which he chose his words.

‘As you know, Detective Inspector Hardy is still on sick leave after that car crash, and so the chief constable has asked me to lend Detective Sergeant Holmes a hand. Probably because we’ve worked together before, and he’s still a bit wet behind the ears – that, plus I know the area better than most, and the people involved. Without the DI, he’s floundering a bit.’

Mention of Hardy caused me to ask, ‘How is the DI, have you heard?’

Johnny smiled. ‘He’s been out of hospital a while and hobbling around at home on crutches. My missus bumped into his wife when she was shopping in town the other day. Mrs Hardy told her that she hadn’t really needed anything, she’d only gone into Dinsdale to get out of his way. Apparently he’s like a bear with a sore head, and she told my wife that if he doesn’t go back to work soon the police will have another murder to investigate – because she’ll kill him.’

‘Oh dear, poor woman,’ Eve said sympathetically. ‘That does sound bad, I can understand how she feels. I think men are often like that when they are ill – or imagine they are. They either become bad-tempered or very sorry for themselves, as if nobody had suffered as much as that before.’ She glared at me as if defying me to argue. I didn’t.

What Johnny had said about knowing the area was probably true, but I felt sure there was more to it than that, and I couldn’t at that stage work out what he meant by ‘the people involved’. My thoughts returned to Eve’s phone conversation with Mrs Phillips. Given that North Yorkshire was nothing like Chicago during Prohibition, I couldn’t imagine there having been too many murders during our week’s absence. ‘If you’re closely involved in the inquiry, Johnny, would you care to tell us how the Reverend Phillips fits into the picture. Is he a suspect?’

Johnny’s jaw dropped with astonishment. I’ve never seen his mouth so wide, except perhaps when he’s about to take a drink of tea – or beer. He eyed us suspiciously. ‘I thought you said you didn’t know anything about a murder,’ he retorted. His tone implied an accusation I hastened to refute.

‘We don’t, but we met Rev. Phillips’ mother on the train when we were returning from honeymoon in January; we gave her a lift from the station to the rectory. She phoned this morning just before you arrived and she mentioned a murder. I find it difficult to imagine there being a large body count round here – not since the Vikings left, anyway.’

‘Ah. Actually, we believe the vicar isn’t involved, or at least not directly. However, he is engaged to Chloe Kershaw and her uncle is definitely a suspect. In fact, he’s been arrested on suspicion of murder.’

I whistled with surprise. ‘Did you say Kershaw, as in the family that owns Elmfield Grange?’

I noticed Eve looking baffled and added for her benefit, ‘There have been Kershaws living and farming in this area for generations; they’re one of the biggest landowners in the district.’

‘Adam’s right,’ Johnny confirmed, ‘and it’s David Kershaw who we believe killed Bennett.’

Eve still seemed puzzled. ‘Why? I fail to see the connection between a farmer and the curator of an art gallery. I don’t want to sound like a snob but most of the farmers I’ve met wouldn’t know which way up to hang a painting – particularly one by Picasso.’

Johnny’s derisive snort suggested he was no fan of the Spanish master as he continued, ‘To be fair, I might have trouble with one of them myself, but art isn’t the connection. It’s far more personal than that. We think Mrs Kershaw’s interest in art drew her and Bennett together, and one thing led to another. It seems that happened quite often. Bennett has ... had a bit of a reputation where ladies were concerned. We believe Kershaw found out that Bennett was carrying on with his wife. Jealousy got the better of him and he did for Bennett. It’s an old tale, but just as true nowadays.’

That sounded odd to me. Perhaps Johnny getting philosophical gave me a clue that all wasn’t as it seemed. For one thing, if Rev. Phillips had got engaged to the Kershaws’ niece, then that suggested that her uncle and his wife were older, and so would Bennett be if he was forced into early retirement. ‘They can’t exactly be spring chickens, any of them. Or is it a case of sex for the over-sixties?’

‘Kershaw is only forty-five and his wife is a couple of years younger. Their niece is the son of Kershaw’s older brother, which explains the age gap. Mark Bennett would have been fifty-eight next month, had he survived.’

‘Has Kershaw confessed?’ Eve asked, ‘and for that matter has Mrs Kershaw admitted to the affair?’

Johnny grimaced; an expression of frustration that his reply underlined. ‘Neither of them has admitted anything. To be honest, neither of them has said a word about anything. We’ve questioned them, but it was like talking to ourselves. In fact, nobody’s talking. Not just them, we can’t get a word out of any of the family members or the people who work for them. Clams would make better conversationalists than that lot.’

‘If that’s true, what evidence have you got? Or is all this simply theoretical?’

I saw Johnny wince and realised my guess was closer to the truth than he would be prepared to acknowledge. ‘I can’t divulge what evidence we’ve got at this stage of the investigation, not even to you two,’ he told us stiffly.

I turned to Eve. ‘Allow me to translate that for you. What Johnny actually means is that the police have no evidence worth mentioning. All they do have is a collection of rumours, gossip, hearsay and innuendo. They have taken all those titbits and carefully weaved them together into some sort of a theory. In other words they have absolutely no idea who murdered this man Bennett, or even what the motive for the killing was, and they are clinging onto this one possible theory like a drowning man clings to a life-raft.’

Although Johnny would not confirm or deny that what I’d said was true, I found the fact that he left immediately, even refusing a second mug of tea, to be highly significant. Before departing he told us that the only reason for his call had been to ensure we were OK after our week away, not to have police work put under a microscope. Had I needed confirmation, that last sentence would have convinced me.

––––––––

J
ohnny’s visit that morning came as no surprise, but the ones that followed certainly were. I was about to suggest we go for our morning walk when the doorbell rang again. This time Eve answered it. It proved to be our fellow-passenger from the train journey and it was obvious from the woman’s harassed expression that something was wrong. We invited her inside and, once we were seated in the lounge, Mrs Phillips said, ‘Thank you for agreeing to see me, I hope I haven’t come at an inopportune time? Michael doesn’t know I’ve come to see you. In fact, he told me not to bother you with our troubles. You won’t tell anyone what I’m about to say, will you?’

We assured her of our discretion, but even so, Mrs Phillips now seemed reluctant to explain the reason for her visit. Eve obviously decided she needed prompting. ‘We know about the connection of Michael’s girlfriend to the recent murder. Is it that, or is there something else?’

‘It isn’t only the murder – I mean, it is, but there are other things as well. I extended my stay to see if I could help, there was no reason for me to rush home, you see. Oh dear, I’m not explaining myself very well. The murder is the worst thing, what with Chloe’s uncle being arrested and all that, but there is also the haunting that’s causing my son a lot of distress, and then there’s the other problem with finding out about Chloe as well.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m not really sure why I came here, except that I needed to talk to someone who isn’t involved. Does that make sense?’

It was incomprehensible enough to make me to wonder if she was related to Johnny, or if I had lost the ability to understand English.

‘Why don’t I make us a cup of tea and you can tell us about it,’ Eve suggested, ‘just talking it through might help.’