THROUGH THE GLASS DARKLY - OLD SINS CAST LONG SHADOWS

OLD SINS CAST LONG SHADOW - EPISODE TWO

VI

MY HELP IS REQUIRED

At the end of a cinder-covered driveway is my house -- a converted boathouse, a stone building that jut out from the of the estuary. Its lower portion stood in the water; stained with a line to show where the tide came in. The top half was a single storey level with an incline. Two small windows sat on either side of a door, like a child's drawing of a house. 

With my holdall containing my holiday clothes and the collected post in one hand, I walked to the door and struggled to find the correct key. Finally, I nudged the door open. No interior walls, just a large room that I decked out like a studio flat, painted the unplastered partition with white and installed a double-glazed arched window facing out on to the inlet. A small kitchen area had been built at one side, while a sofa and armchair positioned close to both sides a wood-burning stove at the other. I chose sixties-style Scandinavian furniture, with unadorned lines, and muted colours, which made the place bright and airy. A deep-red rug I had bought online covering the varnished floorboards. Small as it is, I am proud that it could feature in the pages of a glossy travel magazine. 

My phone rang, shaking me out of my melancholy and Detective Inspector Allum-Edwards came on the line. The sentences tumbled slowly and cautiously out of his mouth, each one wrapped in a Herculean voice. They seemed to have echoed from the roof of his aperture, spreading their warmth everywhere. His words were clear, when he spoke, more precise than ameliorated water. His heavy accent set him apart from everyone else, that made him seem as different and in the right way. I introduced myself and almost noticed a difference in his tone of voice. 

"Got a slight problem for you "

I rolled my eyes, but out of sheer curiosity, I agreed to listen.

"Lady Casterton passed away shortly after 7 pm, last week," he began. "Her live-in housekeeper, Jan Burton, found her dead, after requesting her to come downstairs for her meal. From an initial examination by the pathologist, she died at a quarter past six. Suspicion fell on her nephew; whose relationship had become strained recently. We arrested him and were ready to charge him when the housekeeper's statement cleared him of any wrongdoing."

"How was that?" I was becoming more interested in this puzzle. Nothing better could lift me except an unexplainable event like this, particularly after hearing the other side of this little gem only three weeks ago.

"He departed the house at a quarter-to-six while she was in the kitchen preparing the food. She heard him leave, by the sound of the door slamming. He normally never left before dinner when he called around, so she looked at the clock and saw the time.

So, he couldn't have killed her."

"You think he did it?"  

"He did it." The determination in his voice impressed me.

"Maybe we should talk?"

"Not here. You're hardly the flavour of the month now."

"Am I ever?"

"Do you know the Black Crow Inn?"

"Yes, I know it."

"Then, I'll meet you there in an hour."

VII

I AM HIRED

The bar curved into the dark, barely lit room. Through the windows, the diamonds of lead panes trickled the sallow light of street lights. The smell had changed over the years. Once, cigarette smoke only, the perfume clung to clothing, skin, and furniture alike. Now, stale beer and body odour. Some establishments are more like restaurants now -- all clean with waiting for staff. Not here. Not at the Black Crow Inn." A den of debauchery in the town. No-one came here with anything wholesome in mind.

Allum-Edwards happened to be the only person in the pub, positioned precariously on an unsteady looking stool, which he stepped off when I walked in. He appeared wrong. Head perched at an angle on shoulders which themselves crooked and hunched the right arm shorter than the other. The left leg, several inches longer than the other and his feet encased in black shoes, one heavier and larger than the other. His muscles rippled beneath the leather jacket he wore. Nothing in his body coordinates, so although he moved forward, he seemed to be trying to go backwards or sideways.

The face, even worse. As though taken to pieces. Put back together again by a child with only vague knowledge of the human form. There were a dozen scars on his neck and around his cheeks.

We shook hands, and then I offered to buy him a pint which he duly accepted. We had the same -- a couple of lager and limes.

"So, what do you think of my little conundrum?"

"Somewhat baffling," I admitted. "Are there any other suspects or evidence of intruders at the house."

"None, whatsoever."

"What about the house-keeper?"

"Physical weakness rules her out. The victim had her neck broken during the suffocation, and she is so willowy, I think I've seen more fat on a chip."

Despite everything, this man had a sense of humour.

"What is the nephew like?"

"Make your mind up on him."

"Have you got his address?"

He gave it to me, along with a Suffolk

Constabulary business card. 

"Call me on this number. Not at the station, the fewer people who know about your involvement, the better."

"Do they dislike me that much." Again, the smile. 

"Probably it's more of them tired of how you make them look stupid."

I finished my drink and made to leave.

"Don't need to do that," I said, "They are quite capable of doing that on their own."

VIII

THE SUSPECT

I took a short-cut through the woods, to visit Nicholas Casterton. The grassy floor, a million hues of Roman umber, more than my eyes could detect, yet there they sat. The moisture, alternation on variation magnified the differences. They are mingled in some stones, adding their greys to the mosaic beneath my feet. The shrubs khaki over the forest kissed with moss; on their shaded parts grows lichen thrown there like powdered paint. 

I let my eyes rest on the words, scarred by animals seeking insects. Each of them a calm brown, their injuries mahogany and deep even where the illumination reached them. Periodically, a ring going right around the circumference, regular and chaotic simultaneously.

Once, out of the trees, the rural area beckoned. Today a day of sunshine and rambling for me. The sunlight, brilliant but not yet with the heat of summer. Fields no longer swathe of rutted mud. Each one softly verdant, the new stems ruffled by the light breeze. Hills rolled like a casually laid eiderdown quilt, rising, and falling in soft waves. I strolled up the muddy path, my senses soaking in the changes since I had last walked this way in winter. The air had more warmth and more fragrance, and the music that met my ears an auditory painting from the winged artists as they called, sung and raised their new families in the treetops.

The countryside stretched before me like a blanket of squares held together by the thick green stitching of the hedgerows. It rose and fell like giant breakers on a gentle ocean and dotted with wildlife. There is the wood that separated the grassland, or a country-house or barn. 

The farmhouse belonging to Casterton had once been the residence of a Lord. It sat proudly on the crown of the hill. An enormous block of a building in every shade of grey. The facades had carvings and a prettiness no other abode had other than the mansions walled off a couple of miles away or so. I wrapped on the brassy door knocker, the lion's head both golden and dark in the creases. As I stood waiting, I took in the doorway, double wide and colossal. The house looked built to impress. Mission accomplished, in that respect.

Casterton's cow-boyish gait seemed at odds with the Savile Row suit. A casualness to it not right in cloth so crisp. He opened his mouth, a New York accent flowed, and the hand he offered to shake manicured to perfection, the skin softer than a baby. His face, one of utmost confidence, whatever game this man played he never lost. He smiled like a long-lost brother and shook my hand warmly with the perfect squeeze and eye contact. I reciprocated, but never would I believe in a man so complete -- the more precise the image, the more serious the danger underneath. Everyone had flaws and quirks, and if polished right out, then countenance not even an option.

"Can I help you?"

"I am a private detective. I am looking into the unexplained death of your kinswoman."

"Already spoken to the police."

"I want to check from another perspective," I told him.

He waited for a few moments before standing to one side. The exterior of the house suffered many winters and storm seasons. Yet, the old wooden floor inside, sheltered. It still bore the characteristic colour of American walnut, dull, but in a way more beautiful than any engineered product could be. A woodland dream that I had the pleasure to walk on.

The dining room is exquisite with walls covered with a shimmering auric paper. In the ceiling, above the carved oak table a candelabra. Down the centre, -- a Celtic artifice, woven in gold and green into the fabric. The floor to French cornice doors, left slightly ajar to let in the scented summer air. The silver cutlery firm to the hand and shone in the early evening light. At each place stood a tall empty wine crystal and beautifully folded napkins to match the runner -- the only thing not there, the food and the guests.

"This way."  I duly followed him.

I stopped at a room which had its door open. A narrow room, with locked glass cabinets on either side inside them the most significant personal collection of war memorabilia I had ever seen.

"You are curious about this?"

"Yes, I am."

I moved closer to the cupboard containing knives. I gestured to the one with the guns. 

"Any idea what this is?"

Casterton looked over my shoulder at what I admired.

"I don't profess to be an expert."

"A double-edged commando dagger developed in the Second World War by Fairbairn and Sykes. One, a silent killing specialist, and the other, a crack shot with the rifle. Isn't it a beauty? Look, an eight-inch blade with a cross-piece and a ribbed centre on both sides. Designed to fit exactly into the palm of your hand," I looked at it with admiration. "This is still the greatest instruments of destruction ever invented. Firearms are noisy, and they can jam. The knife is a loyal friend. Do its job instantly, and it will

never let you down."

"Anything else you like?"

"You've got a Lee-Enfield." 

"Go on."

"It's a bolt-action, magazine-fed, repeating ammunition that served as the main firearm used by the military forces during the first half of the 20th century. British Army standard from its official adoption in 1895 until 1957."

Casterton applauded mockingly. "You're good."

I stopped again by another cabinet. "Ah, an FN Browning High Power, single-shot semi-automatic 9

mm, handgun."

"Do you like it?"

"It does have several design issues."

Casterton cast an analytical eyebrow.

"The jerk is heavy, especially for a single-action pistol," I said. "This disadvantage is a consequence of the Hi-Power's supply chamber disconnect safety, added to the model to meet the requirements of the Gallic armies. The normal Hi-Power ability connected to the cylinder, released by a plunger pressing. This action adds tension to the displacement, and the necessary influence to operate this feature causes resistance as well. The problem's resolved by removing the magazine safely, thus voiding the pistol's warranty."

"I see."

"After-market trigger springs with reduced force are available to improve the pull," I went on, "it tends to bite the web of the shooter's hand, betwixt the thumb and forefinger. This is caused by pressure from the striker spur and by pinching between the shank and grip tang. This problem can be fixed by altering or replacing the hammer, or by learning to hold the weapon to avoid injury."

"You seem to understand your stuff," Casterton led me away from his arsenal. "Are you a collector?"

"God, no," I exclaimed, "One of my many interests."

The room he took me into gave away his bachelorhood and a contradiction to the place we had just come. Functional. The mantle where he puts his keys and garage door opener. On the coffee table, a wrench set and new wheels for a longboard. Under the small eating table, a pack of beer. The fridge-freezer held meals for one, and he had more clothes in his laundry basket than in his wardrobe.

Not hopeless, though. He knew one end of a vacuum cleaner from the other. He had modern-looking prints of the wall and a small photo of his parents on a side table. 

"How can I help you?" he said.

"Firstly, I'd like to say, that I really appreciate you allowing me to talk to you."

"Mia, my fiancée, said that it's for the best of the greater or common good."

"Clever, lady."

"Yes, she is."

"This all must be a great shock to you?"

"Yes, of course."

         "Could     you tell               me what happened the afternoon you visited?"

"Not sure what I can add to it. I went to ask for some money. The old bint would not cough up, had no idea how much it costs to run this place. Anyway, declined to help, so we had words, and then I stormed out."

He drew in his breath sharply, and his face suddenly went white. "What is the purpose of all this?" he asked, irritably. "That's what I want to know."

"There will be an inquest," I said calmly. "As I have the experience, I have asked to make a few inquiries of my own and advise the local constabulary on what I have discovered. I don't want to cause you too much inconvenience."

"Do I need my lawyer?" he asked angrily.

"You are quite within your rights in contacting him, of course."

A pause.

"If you object to answering my questions?"

"Not at all. Only -- it seems -- all so unnecessary."

"I completely understand, but it is all straightforward. A matter of routine."

"Sorry. I did have a motive. The old cow refused. Now, hours later, dead, and I inherited the whole caboodle." 

"Did she refuse to give you money before?"

"A couple of times, but she always relented."

"Not this time?"

"No. Auntie appeared adamant that I wouldn't get any more than my monthly allowance."

"Thank you. Now your alibi is the evidence given by Miss Burton, about what time you left."

He smirked. "Yes, I am grateful."

"I understand you had a relationship with a little while back?"

Casterton flushed. Whatever he had been expecting, it certainly had not been that. He sat up with an entirely new expression on his face. "No bearing on her statement. Why would you mention it? What's that got to do with my aunt's death?" 

"Just snooping. You are ready to talk about anything else except that. I wonder why that particular part of your life is off-limits?" 

Casterton threw me a glance, as though he did not care for my amiable reluctant acceptance of his behaviour without protest. He would, I thought, have preferred me to be more suspicious.

"I don't know why you are so curious about her.

Is it because I dated her for quite a while?"

"As I said, nosey."

Casterton continued to look at me strangely but said nothing.

"After you left the house, where did you go?"

"Home."

"Did you see anyone on your way home?"

"Did I what?"

         "Someone     who     could     substantiate     Miss

Burton?"

"I don't know."

"Perhaps, too buried in your thoughts to notice?"

"Yes."

"Did it make you cross about the control she had over your trust fund?"

"Of course, it did," he snapped. "My parents included a caution agreement to prevent me from

wasting the money."

"How did that make you feel?"

"Angry," he said. "Nothing I could do about it, though."

"Until she died?"

"Rum thing -- life. My late lamented relative kicked me out, and half an hour later, dead?"

"I did hear that mentioned, yes."

"Naturally. A thing of that kind is sure to be dug up. A man of your reputation would not miss that

would you?"

I said nothing. 

"Fancy a snifter before you leave?"

I turned him down.

"You don't mind, if I do?"

"Not, at all," watching him mix himself a drink.

"Here's to murder," he said. "In the space of one short night, I am converted from the creditor's despair to the tradesman's hope. Yesterday ruin stared me in the face, and now all is affluence. Bless my dear old Aunt Sylvia!"

He drained his glass. Then, with a slight change of manner, he spoke to me.

"Seriously, though, what are you doing here? She decided to kick me out of her life dramatically. Next day, dispatched to heaven. So, why are you

absorbed in my aunt's death?"

"I am always interested in crime." "I'm sure you are," he said uncomfortably.

"Now, do you remember what time you left?" I said, trying to catch him out.

"Unfortunately, I don't," he said. "Mislaid my watch, some weeks before, and I just don't know

what happened to it."

How convenient, I thought.

IX

A SCENT OF DEATH

My next port of call?

The mortuary.

Due to recent budget cuts, the Home Office Pathologist now used the morgue in the local Oxmarket medical institution. I reached the navy double-doors with their versatile band fastened midway and their dull chrome handles. I caught sight of the corridor stretching yonder, as I walked along the polished linoleum floor, cut into tiny squares by the thin wire in the window panels. Without pause, I pushed with my body weight and soundlessly opened with ease. A draft of air hit my face, warm and with a tincture of bleach. Ahead of me, magnolia walls, decorated with old photographs of the staff- either deceased or rocking their nineties in some retirement home. I could fit at least two of me with arms outstretched across its width. The hallway curved, disappearing in a hundred metres or so. Every few seconds, I passed a separate set of doors with a hand-sanitizer dispenser: to oncology, to geriatrics, to maternity. I bypassed them all heading for the dead house to find some answers, walking beyond the everyday heroes who came forward when our need came. They knew "words save lives," with kindness and ready smiles for all. I walked past the children's emergency department, where bright emoji hung from the ceiling, fictional superheroes moved in the breeze and rainbows on the partition.

The children arrived and when they left, all anxiety drained away as the staff pulled the plug on fear and filled with confidence instead. They cared for the carers and enough time for their health. The NHS is a British treasure. The buildings, or the machines, secondary. People are helping people. Katya Rodriguez met me at the door in her green scrubs, her black hair tied in a ponytail complemented her Mexican origin with the brown eyes, neatly lined in black. She moved as supple as an athlete and the natural smile of one visiting a dear friend. She spoke with an American accent and with her hands, each word, the delicate fingers would flourish into the stagnant sepulchral flicking the air like a bird’s wings. It then settled as she listened to my questions like she all the time in the world, and nothing could interest her more than what I had to say. Younger than expected, but I did not mind at all -- those hands, beautiful, precise, elegant. 

"I know a lot about you," she said, after the introduction.

I stopped asking questions and just stood watching her at work. Beauty is lost when death claims the emotion of a body -- no romantic carcass. It is final. The skin rots, the skeleton follows, and the hair matting into the soil. A life, beautiful, and experience we cherish, the fervour nurtured.

With the astral body departed, what is the distinction? A ghoulish thing when the warmth leaves the blood, and the limbs become stiff. Science can measure everything -- every atom -- and yet not the same at all. The soul had recalled to our maker and what is left is simply bones and flesh. I watched the coroner continue with her full examination of Lady Casterton. The body, not her any more -- just a necessary vessel for her life, now emptied through murder.

In this job, a cadaver is a dead body unless someone who loved them enters the room. Then, the atmosphere changes when the examiner starts to feel the trauma. Mostly they deal with later in macabre humour -- the hit-and-run casualty is "roadkill", and the stabbing patsy is a "pin cushion." It is not they do not care; more they find a way to do their job and still function as spouses and parents.

Katya moved around the table, taking measurements, and green plastic covers protected her flat shoes.

She crossed to the whiteboard, talking above the squeak of her felt pen. "She only weighed about forty-one kilograms. Not much for a woman of 173 centimetres in height." She peered over her shoulder

at me. "Just over five feet eight."

"Any signs of illness?"

"No, considering her age, she looks a vigorous specimen to me."

"Strangulation, the reason of death?"

Katya Rodriguez raised one eyebrow and tipped her head in my direction. "Patience, please. I'm not a bloody robot."

She returned to the body and turned it over on to its front, leaning in closer for a better look.

She poked about in the nostrils. "That's fascinating. " She examined her latex fingertips. "Cotton fibres " She moved up the forehead and picked some more from the eyelashes and eyebrows.

"The attacker tried to suffocate her at first."

"Really?"

"What's this?"

"What?"

"A blemish on the left front-temporal scalp.

About ten centimetres in length."

"A wound?"

Katya shook her head "No, a surgical scar. At a guess, I would say our victim here, had an operation at some time on a head injury." "How fresh is the lesion?"

Katya's smile conveyed both superiority and amusement. "Depends on what you mean."

She turned her attention now to the neck, at the chafing around it.

"Did anyone find a rope found at the scene?"

"No, I don't think so, why?"

"These abrasions would advocate the presence of a cord."

"Strangled with it?"

"Yes, or something similar. In any event, far too early to be submitting theories on the cause of cessation."

"What about the time of death?" I asked after she had finished.

"At the moment, I'll stick by what I told the police. Around about a quarter-past-six."

"The last person who saw her alive appears to be, Nicholas Casterton."

"Apart from the killer," she added.

"Yes, yes, of course."

Katya Rodriguez took two hours to complete the autopsy after breaking for a lunch of onion bhaji, lamb bhuna with garlic fried rice and kulfi ice cream. I ate a cheese sandwich from the hospital canteen, and I struggled to prevent myself from vomiting. 

Now the body lay opened, like something hanging from a butcher's hook, internal organs removed. She had been healthy, and nothing found internally detracted from the notion anything other than a brutal bumping-off caused her death. A crime perpetrated by someone who can enter and leave a house without being seen.

"Interesting corpse," Despite enjoying herself, beads of sweat gathered in the creases of Professor Katya Rodriguez's brow, "Didn't quite eat as nice a last meal as I did. Tuna and mayonnaise." She grinned. "Anyway, happy to give you a hypothesis now on how she died."

Surprised, I paid attention -- pathologists, invariably reluctant to commit themselves to anything. Katya was a specialist supremely confident of her abilities. She closed the rib cage, folded the skin and tissue back across the chest towards her initial incision, and sowed her back up while she spoke.

"Asphyxiation from behind," she said. "From the colour of the fibres found in the abrasions. The assassin generated immense strength in doing so, and by the small bruise in the centre of her back, applied their knee to gain momentum."

"Male or female?"

"The abrasion canted up the back of her neck. Whoever attacked her was taller than her. You can make up your solutions from that."

The picture Katya painted with her words suddenly very vivid to me. The face of the murderer came to me with no great surprise of their identity.