THROUGH THE GLASS DARKLY - OLD SINS CAST LONG SHADOWS

OLD SINS CAST LONG SHADOWS - EPISODE SEVEN

XXII

THE INQUEST

A joint inquest was held two days later in the town hall.

The coroner, Mr Andrew Cook. A small fussy man with glasses and an extraordinary sense of his self-importance.

Beside him sat Allum-Edwards. Jan Burton, Mia Khalifa, her brother, Aziz, Reynolds, Saskia, and finally Doctor Norton, all scattered about the packed assembly hall.

Cook glanced round the jury and then, started proceedings.

Constable Blake.

Sergeant Wilkins.

Dr Norton.

"Sergeant Wilkins called you to the scene once

Lady Casterton had been found dead?"

"He did."

"Will you describe what you found there?"

"Lady Casterton was lifeless," he described, "Her auburn hair ruined in multiple places. Her emerald green eyes wide open, but her jade irises held a sudden sadness. Her clothes, strangely immaculate looking and slumped over, half-sitting, half-laying on the bedroom floor."

"How did you know someone had strangled, Lady Casterton?"

"Pure guesswork. I did not make a detailed examination as I considered it was the responsibility of the forensics team before the body's position altered."

"Of course," the judge said.

"Yes, she had been dead for about an hour."

"Thank you, Dr Norton."

The pathologist came next -- giving a full and technical description of the bruising on the victim's neck. Her large brown eyes neatly lined in black, with the lithe movement of an athlete, stepped quickly up into the witness box, and her calm smile won over everyone. She spoke with an American accent and with her hands, each word, her delicate fingers flourished.

"An assault of great savagery?"

"Yes."

"Would considerable strength be needed?"

"Yes."

"Do you think the crime committed by a man or a woman?"

"Man."

"Thank you, Doctor DeMar."

Details as to the condition of the body, well nourished, healthy, age seventy-five. No signs of illness -- heart, lungs, all good.

Reynolds took the stand next. He stood there, an erect figure and only the way he moistened his lips revealed the intense nervousness he suffered.

"You are Joshua Reynolds?"

"Yes, sir."

"How long have you worked for Nicholas

Casterton?"

"About five years, sir."

"Your role is the gardener of the estate?"

"Yes, sir."

"Can you tell everyone what happened on the night in question?"

"I saw Saskia Bandini. A little earlier than normal, sir."

"For the sake of those here present would you like to tell us who Saskia Bandini is?"

"Mr Casterton's regular Friday night guest." 

"For what?" 

"Sex." 

"How early was she?"

"Half an hour."

"How long did she detain for?"

"Only about five minutes."

"How long normally?"

"About sixty minutes."

"You're sure it was Saskia Bandini?"

"Yes."

Reynolds stood down, and Jan Burton took the stand next. She gave evidence of the arrival of Nicholas Casterton, and on-time he left.

"Mr Casterton when he turned up, did he seem normal?"

"He had a bruised eye, sir."

"Did he say how he got it?"

"He said he had walked into a door?"

"Did you believe him?"

"Of course, I didn't."

Cook nodded, "Please, go on."

"I continued preparing the food, and they were still arguing."

"Do you know what about?"

"No," she said. "Probably about money."

"Why do you say that?"

"Always argued over money."

"At any time did you suspect that Lady

Casterton might be in danger?" She looked shocked at my question.

"Of course not."

                "Tell me again. What time did            Nicholas

Casterton leave?"

"A quarter to six."

"What time did you go up and check on Lady

Casterton?"

"Well, it turned out to be well past seven."

"Why did you think it wasn't that time?"

"I got so caught up in my cooking, and the time must have gone quicker than I thought."

"You found the body? What did you think?"

"I was frightened."

"You did not doubt in your mind that she was dead?"

"None whatsoever."

"Did you form an opinion as to how long she had been dead?"

"Well, I didn't think much about it."

"Would you like to guess?"

"As I touched her, I thought she had been dead longer."

A tall thin man (Frank Moruzzi) rose and asked permission to put a question.

"In the disagreement did she at any time mention cash."

"No-no-she didn't."

"Why did you think it was over money?"

"Casterton always wanted finance for something."

"Thank you, sir."

Jan Burton stood down and the examiner concluded Lady Casterton murdered by person or persons unknown. After, quick recess things moved on to the demise of Nicholas Casterton where they recalled Reynolds.

"At what time?"

"Nine."

"Pretty precise?"

"The church clock chimed. Never wrong."

"How long would it take the visitor to reach the house?"

"Five minutes at the outside."

"What time did she arrive at the night Nicholas

Casterton died?”

"About eight-forty-five."

"Do you know why?"

"No, I don't."

"Did you see anyone else?"

He shook his head. "No one else. Not another soul."

"Thank you, Mr Reynolds." He stepped down.

"Mia Khalifa!"

A faint soft buzz at the inhabitants of Oxmarket craned their necks to look at the fiancée of Nicholas Casterton who stood defiantly facing the coroner.

The preliminaries went rapidly. Cook protracted: "I understand from the doctor's report you contracted s******s from Mr Casterton?"

Mia flushed, looking around the audience's fixed eyes on her.

"Yes."

"How did you feel?"

"I confronted him."

"What did he say?"

"He broke my arm."

There were more mutterings of displeasure from the audience.

"You did not go to the police?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"He might kill me if I did."

More rumbles of disapproval.

"Would you mind going through again the chain of events leading up to Nicholas Casterton death?"

Mia shivered. "No, of course not."

"Thank you," Cook verified his notes. "You were in the kitchen when you heard the argument between your fiancé and an unidentified person."

"Yes."

"Could you hear what they argued about?"

She shook her head. "No."

"How long did it go on for?"

Mia shrugged. "About five minutes, followed by silence."

"What did you do?"

"I went to the door, discovered I couldn't open it and started banging on it, but I got no response." "What did you do next?"

"I went into the garden and ran around the back of the house, to discover the curtains drawn, and the

doors bolted shut."

"What if I told you it was unlocked?" "I can't explain it," she said expressionlessly.

"You are not under oath in this general assembly, Miss Khalifa. You will be under in another court shortly. Are you willing to swear the French doors were fastened?"

"I am, yes. Locked when I checked." Her voice, clear and unfaltering.

"So, what did you do next?"

"I called the emergency services."

"They discovered Nicholas Casterton was dead?"

"Yes."

"You can stand down." She did so to absolute silence.

"Next, I would like to call Aziz Khalifa."

XXIII

THE INQUEST CONTINUES

A faint soft buzz as the inhabitants of the hall craned their necks to look at Mia's twin brother stand defiantly facing Andrew Cook.

The preliminaries went rapidly, and the medical questioner extended. "I understand you disagreed with the deceased?"

"Yes. My sister explained he had already reneged on the prenuptial agreement he had made with our father before his death and when she told me about s******s, I was angry."

"How did he react when you confronted him?"

"He laughed at me."

"How did you answer back?"

"I hit him."

"Did he try to fight back?"

Aziz chortled. "No, he just crawled up into a ball and cried like a baby."

          "Now, Mr         Khalifa, did you          see Nicholas

Casterton before his death?"

"No, I did not."

"Would you mind explaining where you were on?

Friday evening?"

"I can't recollect."

"That is absurd, Mr Khalifa," the analyst said.

"Think again." Aziz shook his head.

"I couldn't tell you. I have an idea that I was out walking."

"In what direction?"

"I really can't remember." The coroner's face grew graver.

"Accompanied by anyone?"

"No."

"Did you meet anybody on your walk?"

"No."

"That is a pity," the Doctor of Medicine said dryly. "Am I to take it then that you were are refusing to tell this investigation where you were at the time of Nicholas Casterton's death."

"If you want to take it that way, yes."

"Be careful, Mr Khalifa."

Aziz Khalifa appeared unfazed, and the coroner passed briskly to the next point.

"You heard your sister's account concerning the argument the victim had?"

"I can't comment on something I didn't hear myself."

"And yet, you cannot tell the hearing where you were."

"Well, I didn't stand outside Casterton's office door, I can assure you of that."

The assessor looked at him with complete disdain. "You can stand down now."

Aziz moved back to his seat. He bent his head and whispered to his sister.

"Saskia Bandini!"

All eyes in the room turned on the women from the Secret Spa.

Casual, but smartly dressed in jeans, a jacket, and a neck scarf. Her face made up, but not overdone and her hair pulled back into a ponytail.

Yet somehow, I continued to watch her. Something in the way she held herself. As though unsure of where her limbs should be to appear naturally placed. The average person just walked along, barely aware of their surroundings. On autopilot just as much as those who commuted by car. Her eyes moved quickly over everything in front, to the sides and every few minutes behind as well. In those brief moments, she looked my way I saw her protuberant eyes and the prominence of her cheekbones, gaunt.

She introduced herself and waited for the examiner to ask the first question.

"Miss Bandini, how often did you attend Mr

Casterton?"

"Every Friday."

"The purpose of your visits?"

"For sex."

Rumbles of ridicule in the crowd and all eyes turned on Mia Khalifa sitting in the front. The glare she aligned on Saskia Bandini would make the'll freeze entirely over.

"Did he pay you for this privilege, Miss

Bandini?"

"Yes."

"Would you mind telling us how much you charged?"

"£120 a session."

Gasps rang around the room.

"Cash?"

"Yes," Saskia confirmed.

"Can you tell everyone what happened on the night of Mr Casterton's death?"

"Got ready as usual for my weekly visit, when I received a text message saying I wouldn't be able to see him later in the evening."

"How did you feel?"

Quietly she let her eyes drift towards Mia

Khalifa.

"I felt nothing."

"Okay"

"A young man called at the Spa with a beautiful bunch of flowers."

I watched the community. I was not astonished to notice someone near the front row drop their head. I was trying hard to hide their profile from the woman giving out the communication.

"Can you describe him?"

"Handsome as hell."

Ripples of laughter filled the building.

The coroner turned his attention to the audience who stopped laughing, as his fixed stare penetrated their soul.

"Had you ever seen this man before?"

"No."

"Since?"

"No."

"Miss Bandini. You may step down."

The remainder of the inquest was a dry proceeding -- mere bare bones. Evidence of identification preceded me, and Allum-Edwards followed me.

Allum-Edwards sat down, and Cook addressed the jury.

There could be little question. No thoughts of accident or hara-kiri. No suggestion of manslaughter. Only one choice remained -- intentional killing.

All the witness declarations were all contradictory. Jan Burton claimed Casterton left his aunt's house half an hour before the crime pathologist put as the time of death. Yet, he was the only visitor. Saskia Bandini said she did not go to Casterton's in the evening. However, an eyewitness caught her walking across the garden to his study. The statements are all diametrically opposite. They might think the facts pointed to a person, but we need additional information before a case -- means, motive and opportunity. Someone must have been in the vicinity of the crime at the appropriate time. With nothing to go on, the best verdict can only be Wilful Murder without enough evidence to show by whose hand. Such a decision would leave the police free to pursue the necessary inquiries.

The inquiry adjourned for a week.

The murders had jumped to ascendancy in the daily press. I am succeeding in the General Election.

Now a new Government had become established, a new sensation was due. The Oxmarket deaths, a godsend to papers at their wits' end for news following a bitterly fought campaign by all the parties had ended.

Afterwards, having dodged reporters, I met Allum-Edwards, and we went for a coffee and a sandwich.

"Well, what a waste of time."

Allum-Edwards had been overtaken and dazed by his misfortune. The case from hell to try to clarify.

"I am not sleeping," he told me, "and this is the first thing I've eaten for days. A croissant, for God's sake. My bloody job is on the line, with this one."

"Please, you must keep the faith," I reassured him, "I will solve this case within the next forty-eight hours."

"Your commitment and courage are far greater than mine. It is all so baffling."

"I shall not rest until this affair is solved."

"Evil mustn't go unchallenged."

"Wickedness never goes unpunished," I said,

"but the punishment is sometimes classified."

"What do you mean?"

"It is obvious Nicholas Casterton was not a good man. The list of suspects could be as long as my arm.

It is not. It is and can only be one." Allum-Edwards eyes lit up.

"You know?" He gasped with excitement.

"I think I do, but I want to be a hundred per cent certain."

"For God's sake," he snapped. "I need to know."

"I need to be sure. I don't want you arresting the wrong person."

Allum-Edwards visually relaxed. "No, I don't want that either."

"Good, we understand each other."

"We must be wary we have not been taken down a blind alley, with worrying too much about the identity of the woman. It's whoever Nicholas Casterton argued with is important, and according to

Miss Khalifa, he quarrelled with a man."

"We only have her word for it."

"What about the prints on the weapon?" I asked.

"What about them?"

"Everyone's been done?"

"Of course."

"Nobody's fingerprints matched those found on the dagger?"

"No."

"All taken?" I persisted.

For a moment, Allum-Edwards appeared bewildered, and he reacted after a few minutes.

"You mean-?"

"Casterton himself?"

Allum-Edwards still took a minute or two to understand.

"What I am suggesting is the prints on the haft of the knife belong to Casterton."

"Are you affirming he killed himself?"

"Of course not. What I am saying is someone is trying to make a complex circumstance even more

perplexing."

"I'll check it out," Allum-Edwards said.

"The whole thing, about this case, has been one misdirection after another, I wouldn't be surprised if you discovered that the position of the attributes on the handle would be somewhat awkward."

"Then, why has someone tried to make it look like a suicide?" Allum-Edwards asked.

"I said the killer is trying to make a confusing case even more bewildering."

XXIV

THE MYSTERY DEEPENS

I spent the next day in baffled despair. How I achieved the end, in view, and did not disclose to anyone until the time felt right, I cannot say. Nonetheless, I did.

Not comfortable with this colossal amount and deception affiliated. Everyone associated themselves in the clarification of this mystery like a jig-saw puzzle. All contributed a little piece of knowledge or disclosure. However, their task ended at this point. To me, alone, the job of fitting those pieces into their correct place.

With any case like this, it is quite natural for my mind to embellish confusion. I liked to arrange the facts, all in their proper place. Examine and reject. Those of importance I put to one side, those unimportant, discard.

The difficulty is sorting the essential from the unessential.

Eventually, that little curious fact would tally. Somewhere else some place significant.

Some incidents at the time appeared irrelevant, but after I had sat down and written all the niggling doubts in my head on my note pad. Now able to look at the case from a different angle, I compiled a list concerning each person involved. Queries with no bearings on the crimes -- just things that remained unexplained. 

‘The alibi given by Jan Burton could not be substantiated because she had seen the time reflected in a hallway mirror. The face of the clock, Roman numerals, making it easy to make an error with the time. Especially with the distraction of preparing the dinner. The gardener's evidence. Nicholas Casterton's weekly visitor, wearing a coat with a hood but did not stay as long as usual. Someone understood the Friday night protocol. Saskia and Nicholas Casterton stuck to a pattern, which made it simple to imitate. The murderer made the mistake of not keeping to the same timescale. From the arrival in the time the person impersonating Saskia left. Everything done in too much of a hurry. The lack of contributor's fingerprints on the handle of the murder weapon. The only set found on the dagger that was Casterton's. Bright prints, no smudged ones disturbed by someone wears gloves. One of the biggest mysteries of all. In my mind, there could be only one solution.’

Repeatedly I went through my notes until delighted. Yet, after about the tenth episode of reading them, I would never be happy.

A breath-taking light bulb moment struck me when I realized how stupid I could be. I made a complex and complicated case out of the most straightforward one. What an i***t! All there in front of me, and I saw nothing. 

I went through my report once more, and I rearranged them into the tremendous discovery they had now become.

I closed my notebook and sat back in my armchair and shut my eyes. All fitted in. All the things that puzzled me and a little unnatural. Now, all belonged.

I did not know everything. In some respects, correct in my deductions. In other ways, ludicrously far from the truth. Now, one phone call to make and ask two questions, even though I knew the answers.

I walked into town, which took me about twenty minutes, to reach the high street. I passed the greengrocer with his window full of apples and oranges, the butcher with his lumps of meat on display and naked chickens hanging up, and the small bank, and the grocery store and the electrical shop.

Oxmarket became a village that comes with no town planning or great enthusiasm for architecture. Every building different, borrowing this and that from another era. It made the place as glorious as a beloved grandmother's quilt, ever patch unique and as eye-catching as the one before. 

The buildings were a fantastic jumble of assorted styles. Rickety shops, marble, and brick houses overlooked by a massive stone cathedral. 

I took a narrow short-cut; I came out at the other side of where the coffee bar huddled despondently among the immense city structures. Washed out under the overcast sky, it hunched. People rushed by it, outside on the street. The sole customer looked up at me as I entered. The interior of the café bright lights and colourful walls. 

I ordered a pot of tea for one and walked over to where Katya Rodriguez, the pathologist, sat in the corner waiting for me. Her black hair fell to her shoulders on this occasion, but her beautiful brown eyes still lined in black. Her Latin-American skin tone shone in the artificial light, and although she wore a blouse and a pair of black trousers, she looked stunning.

"Thank you for meeting me," I said.

She smiled warmly. "My pleasure. How can I help?"

         "How     much     Bendamustine     did     Nicholas

Casterton consume before he died?"

"Along with the alcohol, enough to finish him off."

"What about whether the killer skewered him after death?"

She frowned at my question. "Stab wounds are somewhat gaping because the blade severs the elastic tissue responsible for preserving the shape of the epidermis over the skeleton. There is often some subcutaneous fat bulging from the cavernous wound. If blood is circulating at the time of the stabbing, the blight is ante-mortem, and the edges immediately under the skin have a red, haemorrhagic appearance. By contrast, thrust damage rendered after the heart has stopped a pale-yellow colour, lacks the haemoglobin around the extremities. The third type of impale cut is termed perimortem. Here the injury occurred just before death by shock and haemorrhage. There is minimal if any bleeding in the laceration because of the slight blood pressure due to catalepsy and the dying process. In the event of an overkill situation in which the victim suffered multiple s***h massage, one will see a mixture of

ante-mortem or perimortem."

"And Nicholas Casterton?"

"Still alive when stabbed."

"Conscious or unconscious?"

"That's open to conjecture," she said, with firmness.

"Conceivable though?"

"Of course," she admitted. "Why are you

following this line of inquiry?" "Just a theory," I said.

"Be careful it doesn't lead you down a blind alley." 

"Very well. Why did Nicholas Casterton have a fire burning in his study? At this time of the year?

The summer for God's sake." Katya shrugged.  "A chill perhaps?" I shook my head.

"Getting rid of something."

"What?"

"No idea, but it is the hottest September in memory and Nicholas Casterton is lighting a fire.

Why?"

I paused for a reaction but got none.

"Doesn't make sense."

I noticed a glint of admiration in her eyes.

"I can see why they hired you now." 

XXV

MY ENEMY’S ENEMY IS MY FRIEND

At my insistence, I went back to Casterton's house.

I sensed Allum-Edwards embarrassment over the fire. The police had not verified, and he applied a damage limitation procedure, by insisting he came back with me.

I did sympathize with the Detective-Inspector. A boss, no matter what the role, became only as good as the surrounding people. His people let him down, badly with no intention of making life-critical for him. I liked him, and if I were able to clarify this perplexing problem, I would make sure he got the kudos he deserved.

Halfway. Lady Casterton's killing proved an easy one to solve. Nicholas Casterton's, a different ball game. Whatever remnants survived the fire, might throw a bit of light on the situation.

"What are we here for?" Allum-Edwards pressed.

Deftly, on hands and knees, I began to sort through the ashes from the framework into the fender, managing them with the most considerable caution. I managed to extract a small piece of half charred paper.

I scrutinized the debris baffled, momentarily. Unusually thick, quite unlike ordinary notepaper.

Part of a motif still visible. One I recognized. 

Suddenly, an idea struck me.

"Detective Inspector! It's a fragment of a protection arrangement!"

"Jesus!"

I stared at him sharply.

"You're surprised?"

"I thought another final demand in the study to enabling the opportunity to abolish any documents, like an office shredder. Nicholas was anxious to cancel out and must necessarily be of a bulk which made difficult to abolish. The idea of an accident protection policy occurred to me before I set foot in the house, so papers burned in the grate did not amaze me. I did not, at that time, know that the plan in question came with a suicide clause, and I admit that when I realized that fact, my hypothesis became easier. I deduced that Casterton's determination to destroy this certificate of insurance came as a direct consequence of his clinical diagnosis he'd received from Dr Norton."

"What analysis?" Mia asked puzzled.

"That he was terminally ill."

Sad for a few moments, she regained her composure as best she could.

"He never said a word."

"Didn't you ever wonder why he was taking

Bendamustine?"

"No, should I?"

"Bendamustine is a chemotherapy medication used in the treatment of chronic lymphocytes' leukaemia, multiple myeloma, and non-Hodgkin's

lymphoma."

She said nothing.

"Let's turn the clock back to the day Lady Casterton died?"

"I didn't kill her," she said quickly.

"I know you didn't," I said, "Nicholas did."

"What?"

"He slew his relative," I repeated.

"-- he had -- he had an excuse."

"Given by an unreliable witness."

"I -- I don't understand."

"Jan Burton wanted to believe that he didn't commit the crime. She believed him to be incapable. Her aptitude, however, told her Nicholas Casterton did murder her ladyship."

"I -- I -- still -- still don't comprehend."

"I tell you why the Jan Burton gave Nicholas such a convincing cover story. She knew he killed Lady Casterton, and she tried to stifle her instincts."

"No, no, no!" Mia cried, "Don't say! Oh, please do not say! Not accurate! Cannot be acceptable. Why would she think like that? What is wrong with

the woman?"

"He broke her heart."

"Oh my, God!" 

She buried her face in her hands.

There was a knock on the door, and her brother, Aziz, stuck his head around the door. He was smiling until he recognized me.

"Sorry," he said, with no feeling. "I thought you were alone."

"No," his sister, responded nervously. "I am not."

"Please, come in. Come in," I beckoned. "I would like to ask you some more questions."

Aziz raised a quizzical eyebrow. "I cannot think of what else there is to ask me." I smiled without warmth.

"I might surprise you," I said, cheerfully.

"Really?"

"Let me tell you a little story, shall I? Nicholas Casterton, a brutal, arrogant man who did not mind treading over anyone, to get what he wanted, whether, capital or s*x. To begin with, I want to concentrate on money. Casterton had little but his auntie a great deal. Some cash entrusted to her belonged to Nicholas. Not allowed access made him mad. Especially with his mounting debts. So, in a blazing row, he strangled his aunt. Once the red mist dissipated, he went about the task to pretend he still talked to her when she was already dead. He left the house and had the good a fortune, of Jan Burton, seeing the time reflected in the hallway mirror, which gave him the alibi, and nearly thirty minutes."

"What have I got to do with it?"

"Absolutely nothing," I said, "but after Nicholas Casterton's death, I wanted to know who the youthful-looking man who had changed from male to female clothing, and back again, in the public conveniences at the local railway station. From the description I had been given a 'girly-looking man,' he sounded remarkably like you as it was. Did that explain why the 'woman' visiting on that night had been unwilling to speak to the gardener?"

I watched Aziz's confidence dissipate in front of me.

"Finally, was Saskia Bandini's explanation of why she did not go to the house on the night of Nicholas Casterton's death so implausible? The text message and the handsome young man delivering the flowers was who it was, and it made perfect sense for you to put Saskia off not to visit her client that night." I was met with stony silence. I continued.

"No single answer to any one of my questions led me unequivocally to the guilty party. Taken together, when I answered them all rationally and logically, I could reach only one conclusion."

"What is that?"

"Far more straightforward than I initially thought. As no one can escape, the unlikely must be

true, and the killer is the deceased."

"What?" 

"Nicholas Casterton's prognosis must have been stark enough he could not bear to suffer. He locked the room, staged the argument, and took his life. If you had checked his paperwork thoroughly, I have no doubt a life guarantee annuity which pays handsomely in case of murder but not at all cause of death is suicide. Under normal affairs, I would have deemed the process unnecessary to burden his widow any further, not in normal circumstances." "What are you trying to say?" Aziz snapped.

"Ever since I first saw you, I always thought there was something familiar about you," I said, and they equally started to fidget uncomfortably. "You see, unfortunately, for you two, I have a memory like fly-paper. All sorts of things get fastened away until something triggers them off. I noticed you two sitting in the garden. I tried desperately to think what was so recognizable about you both. Then, it came to me."

I waited, wanting Mia and Aziz to feel the similar fear they had forced on their victims, five years ago.

"The vanishing philatelists."