BLIND SPOT - AND TWO OTHERS

THE OXMARKET ASPAL MURDER MYSTERY - EPISODE SEVEN

14

 Keldine Hogg came to visit me the next morning.

  I was already on my way down to the village green when she bumped into me walking in the opposite direction.

  “Why are you here in Oxmarket Aspal, Mr Handful?”

  I was puzzled by the question because I never thought that she was stupid.

  “I told you. I’m investigating the death of Faith Roberts.”

  “I thought that is what you would say,” she said sharply.  “But it’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it?”  I raised my eyebrows.

  “Of course it is.  Nobody believes it.”

  “And yet, I promise you, it is the truth.”

  “You won’t tell me.”  Her pale blue eyes blinked, and she looked away.

  “Tell you what?”

  She changed the subject abruptly again, it seemed.

  “I wanted to ask you – about anonymous letters.”

  “Yes,” I said encouragingly as she stopped.

  “They’re really always lies, aren’t they?”

  “They are lying some time,” I said cautiously.

  “Some time?”  She persisted.

  “Yes.”

  “I think they’re cowardly,” she said vehemently.

  “They are,” I agreed.

  “Would you ever believe them?”

  “That is a very difficult question,” I said gravely.  “Especially when they’re normally sent in text form nowadays.”

  “I don’t believe them,” she said vehemently.  “And I know why you’re down here, and I tell you it isn’t true.”

  She turned sharply and walked away and left me standing there perplexed.

  Keldine Hogg professed to believe that I was staying in Oxmarket Aspal for a reason other than that of inquiring into Faith Roberts’ dearth.  She had suggested that it was only a pretext.  Did she really believe that?

  What have anonymous letters got to do with anything?

  Was Keldine Hogg the original of the photograph that Lorraine Terret had said she had ‘seen recently?’

  In other words, was Keldine Hogg Jo Pedder?  Had Dr Hogg met and married his wife in total ignorance of her history?

 I shook my head and sighed.  It was all perfectly possible, but I had to be sure.  A chilly wind sprang up suddenly and the sun went in.  I shivered and retraced my steps to the Guest House.

  Yes, I had to be sure.  If I could find the actual weapon of the murder –

  And at that moment, with a strange feeling of certainty – I saw it.

  On the littered top of the bookcase near the window.  And I stood there wondering whether, subconsciously, I had seen and noted it much earlier.  It had stood there, presumably, ever since I had come to the Bellagamba Guest House.

  Why I didn’t ever notice it before, I thought I will never know.

  I picked it up and weighed it in my hands.  Examined it, balanced it and raised it to strike –

  Karen came through the door with her usual rush, two dogs accompanying her.

  “Hello, are you playing with my tenderizer?”

  “Is that what it is?  A meat tenderizer?”

  I turned the implement carefully in my hands.  Made of steel, it was shaped like a large square mallet with one studded side for the tenderizing of the meat.

  “Great for killing someone isn’t it?”  She said conversationally.  “I told Eric what’s coming to him if I get fed up with it.”

  She laughed and put the tenderizer down and turned towards the door. “I’ve forgotten what I come in here for now.”

  “Where did you get this from?” My voice stopped her before she got to the door.

  “At the Christmas Car Boot at the Vicarage,” she replied.  “I bought it off Lord and Lady Osborne’s stall.”

  She went out and the door banged.  I picked up the tenderizer and held it under the light in the centre of ceiling.

  On the studded side there was a faint, very faint, discolouration.

  I placed it in my pocket and immediately left the Guest House, knowing that nobody would notice it missing as it wasn’t a very tidy household.

  Clouds had gathered and the day was now oppressive with a threat of rain.  I walked through the dense shrubberies to the front door of Norbert House and decided that I would not like to live in this hollow valley beneath the hill.  The house itself was closed in by trees and its walls suffocated by ivy.  It needed, I thought, a bit of a sort out.

  I rang the bell and after getting no response, I rang it again.  It was Chloe Bird who opened the door to me, and she seemed surprised.

  “Oh,” she said, “it’s you.”

  “May I come and speak to you?”

  “I – well, yes.  I suppose so.”

  She led me into the small dark sitting-room where I had waited before. 

  “I’m afraid,” Chloe said in an apologetic tone, “that you’ve called at an inopportune moment.  Agatha has handed in her notice today.  She only took the job to get a work permit and so that she could get married.  Now they’ve fixed the date, and she’s leaving today.”

  “Bit short notice,” I commented.

  “It is, isn’t it? My stepfather is fuming.  But I don’t think we can do anything about it. We wouldn’t have known anything about it if I hadn’t caught her packing up her things.”

  “It’s the way of the world, I’m afraid.”

  She rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand.  “You’re probably right.”

  “Anyway, I won’t keep you for long,” I said, “I just wanted to ask you about a stainless-steel meat tenderizer.”

“A meat tenderizer?”  Her face was blank, uncomprehending.

  I described it carefully in an enunciated manner, before adding. “I believe it came from this house?”

  “Yes.  I remember we had a clear out before the car boot Harvest Festival.”

  “Harvest Festival?”  I said.  “I heard it was at the Christmas Car boot sale.”

  “No, it was definitely the Harvest Festival one.”  She insisted.

  It suddenly became hushed in the little room.  I looked at Chloe Bird, and she looked back at me.  Her face was mild, expressionless, uninterested.  Behind the blank wall of her apathy, I tried to guess what was going on.  Nothing, perhaps.

  “Are you really sure it was the Harvest Festival car boot and not the Christmas one?”  I asked, quietly, urgently.

  “Quite sure.”  Her eyes were steady, unblinking.

  I waited and continued to wait, but what I was waiting for did not come.

  “I won’t keep you any longer,” I said formally and Chloe Bird went with me to the front door and presently I was walking down the drive again pondering over two divergent statements – statements that could not possibly be reconciled.

  Who was right?  Karen Bellagamba or Chloe Bird?

  If the meat tenderizer had been used as I believed it had been used, the point was vital.  The Harvest Festival would have been at the end of September, beginning of October.  Between then and Christmas, on November 1st, Faith Roberts had been killed.  Whose property had the meat tenderizer been at the time?

  I went to the post office.  Lynn Beverley was always helpful and did her best. She’d been to both car boot sales, she said.  She always went.  You picked up many a nice bit there.  She helped too, to arrange things beforehand, collecting the fees.

  A stainless-steel meat tenderizer, rather like a square hammer?  No, she couldn’t rightly remember.  There was such many things, and so much confusion and some things snatched up at once.

  I bought a large jiffy bag from her, went to the corner of the shop and wrote the name and address of the local pathologist Dr Kira Reed who had worked with me many times before, and discreetly put the tenderizer inside it, sealing it before walking back to the post office counter.

  Lynn Beverley accepted my parcel.

  “Registered?”

  “Yes, please.”

  She copied down the address and I noticed a sharp flicker of interest in her keen black eyes as he handed me the receipt.

  I wandered back up the hill going over the case repeatedly in my head.

  Of the two, Karen Bellagamba, scatter-brained, cheerful, inaccurate, was the most likely to be wrong.  Harvest or Christmas, it would be all one to her.

  Chloe Bird, slow, awkward, was far more likely to be accurate in her identification of times and dates.

  Yet, there remained that irking question.

  Why, after all my questions, hadn’t she asked me why I wanted to know?  Surely, a natural, an almost inevitable, question?

  But Chloe Bird hadn’t asked it.

15

 “You’ve had a phone call,” Karen Bellagamba called from the kitchen as I entered the Guest House.

  “Really?  Who was that?”

  I was slightly surprised.

  “Don’t know. It was a young woman.  I jotted her mobile number down for you on my note-pad.”

  “Thank you.”

  I went into the dining room and over to the desk.  Among the litter of papers I found the note-pad lying near the mainline telephone and the numbers 07902930455.

  Removing my mobile from my pocket, I dialled the number.

  Immediately a woman’s voice said:  “Hello?”

  “This is John Handful.”

  “This Is Joanne Burton.”  She said.  “I wanted to know if there is anything I can do to help?”

  “How about handing in your notice?”  I said.

  “Excuse me?”  She said after a little hesitation.

  “I need you to take up a vacancy.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Can you cook?”

  “Of course.”  A faint amusement tinged her voice.

  “I will meet you in the same small restaurant between Oxmarket and Oxmarket Aspal where we met before.”

  “Okay, fine.”

  I ended the call, and then I disinterred the local telephone directory from under a pile of paperwork and looked up the telephone number of Lord and Lady Osborne.

  The call was answered by Lady Osborne.

  “Hello, this is John Handful.”

  “I’m sorry.  It’s not really convenient.  Agatha has left us in the lurch.”

  “That’s what I’m phoning about,” I interrupted.  “I know of someone looking for a job.  She is not fully trained, but she is very enthusiastic.  Her name is Joanne Burton.”

  “That is really kind of you.  Anything is better than nothing.  My husband is so particular, and he’s not very patient with Chloe.”

  There was an interruption.  Lady Osborne spoke to someone who had just entered the room, and though she had placed her hand over the receiver I could still hear her slightly muffed words.”

  “It’s that private detective.  He says he’s got someone to replace Agatha.  No, English.  Don’t make objections, darling?  I think it’s very kind of him, and you know how much Tristan goes on.  I think it will be a great help until we sort out something more permanent.”

  The digression over, Lady Osborne spoke with the utmost graciousness.

  “Thank you very much, Mr Handful.  We are most grateful.”

  I ended the call and glanced at my watch before going into the kitchen.

  “I won’t be here for lunch, I’m afraid.”  I said to Karen Bellagamba almost apologetically.

  “That’s fine,” she said.  “I hadn’t started getting it ready yet.”

  I left the house and half an hour later found Joanne Burton waiting for me In Duncan’s restaurant and over a lunch of Veal Shanks with Parma Ham and white wine followed by Polenta cake with oranges and Cointreau I finished outlining my instructions to her.

  “So you understand what it is you are looking for.”

  She nodded.

  “And you arranged everything with Anglia Meats?”

  “I basically lied through my teeth,” she laughed holding up a hand as I began to protest.  “You needn’t worry, I’ve got it covered for two weeks maybe three.”

  “Fair enough,” I shrugged.  “But I must warn you, somewhere in Oxmarket Aspal there is a murderer at large.”

  “I can look after myself,” she said.

  “Famous last words,” I exclaimed.

  Joanne Burton laughed, a frank amused laugh.  One or two heads at neighbouring tables turned in our direction.

  I found myself appraising her carefully.  A strong, confident young woman, full of vitality, keyed up and eager to attempt a dangerous task.  Why?  I thought again of Marcus Dye, his gentle defeated voice, his lifeless apathy.

  “Why are you trying to put me off?”  She asked suddenly.

  “I’m just letting you know the facts before you take on this task.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be in any danger,” Joanne Burton said confidently.

  “I don’t think so for the moment,” I agreed nervously.  “Do you know anyone in Oxmarket Aspal?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” she said after some consideration.

  “Have you ever been there before?”

  “A couple of years ago I went out with one of the drivers to help out with deliveries when we were really busy.”

  “Go on.”

  “We went to the pub and the Guest House where you’re staying.”

  “Did you see the Bellagamba’s?”

  “I saw Mrs Bellagamba,” she replied.  “She took the delivery.”

  “Would she recognize you now?”

  “Probably not.  But even if she did it wouldn’t matter, would it?  After all, people change their jobs all the time.”

  “Did you see anyone else in Oxmarket Aspal?”

  “Only Marcus.”  She said, she wriggled a little in her chair.  “We met in the pub a couple of times. There’s not much else in the village is there?”

  “No,” I agreed. “Was that before Faith Roberts’ death?”

  “Yes, but the last time was just before.”

  “Did Marcus ever speak to you about Faith?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “And you’ve spoken to no one else from the village?”

  “Only Oliver Terret.”

  “Really?”

  “I saw him give a talk on that Crime Writer’s show on one of the satellite channels, and he was coming out of his cottage and I recognized him and asked him for his autograph and to pose with me on a selfie on my mobile.”

  “And he agreed to do this?”

  “Oh yes, he was ever so nice about it.”

  “Do you know any of the other villagers by sight?”

  “Well, I know the Brooks-Nunns.  They’ve got a fantastic car, and she wears the most gorgeous clothes.  She opened a new bookshop in Oxmarket about a month ago.  People are saying she could be the next Mayor.”

  I nodded and then took from my pocket the envelope containing the four photographs.  I removed them from the envelope and spread the four photographs on the table in front of her.

  “Christ, these are old,” she said studying them closely.

  “The oldest is nearly thirty years old.”

  “I thought so by the clothes.”

  “Have you seen any of these before?”

  “The women or the photographs?”

  “Either.”

  “I’m certain that I’ve seen this one before.”  Her finger rested against Kay Kempster.  “In some newspaper or other, but I can’t remember when.  The child looks familiar as well.  But I can’t remember when I’ve seen these.  Some time ago, I thought.”

  “All these photographs appeared in the Oxmarket Sunday Echo on the Sunday before Faith Roberts died.”

  Joanne Burton looked at me sharply.

  “And they’ve got something to do with it?  That’s why you want me to -”

  She did not finish the sentence.

  “Yes.”  I said with emphasis.  “That is why.”

  I took something else from my pocket and showed it to her.  It was the cutting from the Oxmarket Sunday Echo.

  She read it carefully.  Her head bent over the flimsy bit of newsprint.

  Then she looked up.

  “But that’s who they are?  And reading this has given you ideas?”

  “You could not express it any better.”

  “But all the same I don’t see -” She was silent for a moment, thinking. I did not speak.  However pleased I might be with my ideas, I was always ready to hear other people’s concepts too.

  “You think one or other of these people is in Oxmarket Aspal?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Of course.  Anyone may be anywhere . . . “She went on, placing her finger on Kirsten Braun’ pretty simpering face:  “She’d be ancient now – about Mrs Terret’s age.”

  “About that.”

  “What I was thinking was – the sort of woman she was – there must be several people who’d have it in for her.”

  “That is a good point,” I said slowly and then added.  “Do you remember the Michael Porter case?”

  “Who doesn’t?”  She said.  “I was quite young at the time, but the media is always bringing him up and comparing him with other murders.  I don’t suppose he’ll ever be forgotten, do you?”

  I raised my head sharply and wondered what brought that sudden note of bitterness into her voice.

16

  I met Julie Lawes and Oliver Terret for a drink that night.  We met at Clarendon Cottage and I found Lorraine Terret in good humour before we left, speeding our departures with good wishes.  Oliver had been assiduous in making all arrangement for her comfort, running back a couple of times after we were in the car to see that all was as it should be.

  “Everything all right?” I asked, when he re-joined us for the last time.

  “Yes,” Oliver said.  “She’s on the phone.”

    The place was heaving, all the tables were full and a crowd three or four deep were gathered round the bar.  The windows were all steamed up, like the majority of the locals who had been there from the start of the gig.

  Our drinks arrived, thumped down in a beer puddle on the bar. I dropped my money in the same puddle and caught the look the barmaid threw me.  She swept the money into her hand and returned a moment later with a beer towel to wipe the counter dry. I gave her a winning smile, and she replied with a sullen scowl.

  I handed out the drinks, and we moved away from the bar near a group of couples gathered round a table by a window, empty glasses accumulating in large numbers.   

  We talked eventually about various subjects and I went at great length to avoid talking about Faith Roberts by talking about other cases.  Particularly the most recent one that appeared in the papers

  “Do you remember the murder of actor John Croxton live on stage. I was there with my fiancé Kimberley.  The play was The Rough with the Smooth at the little theatre in Oxmarket. It was mediocre but there was a murder! Live on stage!”

  “God!”  Oliver Terret exclaimed.  “How awful and exciting at the same time.”

  “Detective Tim Ewart, played by the actor John Croxton, summoned the other characters to the drawing room, so he could reveal whodunnit. As I'd worked out from Scene One, Lady Farriers, had been killed by her son Tommy, played by the actor Mark Sewell. Mark, playing Tommy, then had to, in a fit of rage, hit Tim, played by John, with his aluminium crutch. The aluminium crutch was meant to be made of rubber so that John wouldn't be injured but during the interval, someone had replaced the rubber aluminium crutch with a real aluminium crutch. Mark playing Tommy struck John playing Tim across the head with the real aluminium crutch and killed him.”

  “God, I’m confused,” Julie Lawes giggled.  “I need another drink.”

  “I’ll get these,” Oliver said and went off to the bar while Turntable were playing their version of Queen’s Don’t Stop Me Now, and they made an excellent job of it.

  Oliver returned with the drinks and I continued with my tale.

  “Now, the only person who could have replaced the rubber aluminium crutch with the real aluminium crutch was someone who'd had access to Mark's dressing room during the interval. Mark revealed who had been in there during the interval - the director Fiona Dodman, John Croxton who played Detective Tim Ewart, Jenny Downes who played Sarah Melchester, Christopher Rice who played Eamon Melchester and Anne Lynch who played the maid, Trudi. As could be seen in his performance, Mark clearly liked a drink. At one point, during a tennis court scene that I actually thought would never end, he referred to Jenny instead of Sarah, the character she played and there were bruises on John's arms where, as Tim, he'd been struck by the character Tommy Chapelle in earlier performances, but where the actor Mark had missed the padding stitched into the coat. I hope you're getting all this down? So, the killer could have been Fiona Dodman, the director or one of those four actors, five including Marks himself. It had to be someone who could smuggle a real crutch in and replace it without Mark noticing although, obviously, the bottle of gin he was knocking back would have helped.”

  I sipped my drink before continuing.

  “Fiona Dodman, the director, was wearing tight jeans and a top that was far too pink and far too small, so she wouldn't have been able to smuggle in anything larger than a peanut. Which would have been fine if she wanted to kill someone with a nut allergy, but she didn't? After some gentle questioning from me, she broke down and admitted that she was in love with Mark but that he wasn't interested. At last, an explanation for why the old drunk had been cast in the play!”

  Turntable were having a short break and I lowered my voice.

  “Jennie Downes who played Sarah Melchester was clearly having an affair with Mark (in real life, I mean, not in the play) so had he broken things off with her? Was she pregnant, and he didn't want to know? And if so, was she trying to get revenge by getting Mark arrested for the murder of John? It seemed... improbable but not impossible.”

  “And I thought my plots were complicated,” Julie Lawes interjected.

  “Chris who played Eamon admitted that he didn't like Mark and that they'd had a fight during the interval. It turned out that Mark was in love with Jenny (who played his sister Sarah) and he hadn't liked the way Mark treated her. But again, why go to the trouble of having him arrested? Why not just kill Mark himself?”

  My audience of two silently shrugged their shoulders.

  “Anne who played the maid Trudi admitted that she'd been having an affair with the victim John who played the detective Tim but there was no way she could have hidden a crutch in her maid's costume. So, we had two suspects, Fiona the director and Anne who played Trudi, who couldn't have smuggled the crutch in. Two suspects, Jenny who played Sarah and Christopher who played Eamon, who could have smuggled the crutch in but who didn't appear to have a motive. And then Mark and John themselves. If Mark had wanted to kill John, then there were easier ways to have gone about it. Which leaves the victim John himself.”

  “What?”  Julie Lawes asked

  “As Tim, Matthew wore a long overcoat, so he could have done it but there are easier ways of committing suicide - even if you do want to do so dramatically live on stage. The thing is aluminium is actually quite light. There's no guarantee that a strike from an aluminium crutch would actually kill someone. But think about it. The bruises on John's arm. Mark's unprofessional behaviour, the drinking, the affairs. John had already complained to Fiona, the director, about Mark, but because she was in love with Mark, she hadn't done anything about it. And that was it.”

  “And?”  Oliver Terret pressed, as I finished my pint.

  “John had decided to get Mark sacked himself.” I went on. “He'd gone into Mark's dressing room with the real aluminium crutch hidden under his overcoat. The drunk Mark, busy either fooling around with Jenny or fighting with Christopher, wouldn't have noticed John swapping the crutch. John's plan was for Mark, as usual, to hit him with the crutch, not knowing that the rubber aluminium crutch was now a real aluminium crutch. He presumably hoped it would break his arm or cause enough damage that he could sue the theatre or Deborah and ensure that Mark was sacked. But Mark, perhaps because of the fight with Jonathan, was even more drunk than usual and swung the crutch too high, striking Matthew across the head and accidentally killing him.

  So, just to make sure you've got it: The murder victim John Croxton (played the detective Tim Ewart) was also the killer as he himself swapped the fake murder weapon, the rubber aluminium crutch, for the real murder weapon, a real aluminium crutch, in an attempt to get Mark Howells (who played the killer Tommy Chapelle) fired. The plan itself backfired, and he caused his death."

  “Good grief,” Oliver Terret exclaimed and Julie Lawes was totally speechless.

  “Now on that note,” I said finally, “would anyone want another drink?”

  Oliver Terret immediately glanced at his watch.

  “No, I’d better be going. I don’t like to leave Mum on her own for too long.”  He finished his drink.  “You could always come back to mine for another, and then I could have a drink.”

  “Good idea,” Julie Lawes said.

  We piled back into Oliver’s car and within ten minutes he pulled up at the gate of Clarendon Cottage.

  “You go in,” he said to us. “I’ll put the car away. The key is under the mat.”

  We walked up the path and I found the key, unlocked the door and pushed it open and followed Julie Lawes inside.

  There were no lights on and there was a smell of scent in the hall, something rather exotic and expensive.  For a moment I wondered if it was in the right house, then I found the light switch and pressed it down.

  The light sprang up in the low oak-beamed square hall.  The door into the sitting-room was ajar, and I caught sight of a foot and a leg.  Lorraine Terret, had not gone to bed as I had first assumed.  She must have fallen asleep in her chair and since no lights were on, she must have been asleep a long time.

  Julie Lawes went to the door and switched on the lights in the sitting room.

  “We’re back -” She began and then stopped.

  Her hand went to her throat and I looked past her to see that Lorraine Terret had been murdered.