Shades of Murder Page 3

  'Ladies first,' said James gallantly. 'Pass it on to me when you've finished, Meredith.'

  Geoff beamed at them. 'William Oakley was charged with the murder of his wife, Cora. He got off and was damn lucky to do so. Many a man went to the scaffold on flimsier evidence.'

  'I've seen a portrait of William, tucked away in disgrace in a dusty back bedroom at Fourways,' said Juliet unexpectedly. 'I came across it when I was being shown round by Damaris. She was very embarrassed. She just said "That's my grandfather!" in a starchy voice before hurrying me on. I nipped back for a look when her back was turned. In the portrait William looks the sort of chap who passed for handsome in those days. Lots of curling black hair and flourishing moustachio with a touch of a tippler's complexion!' Juliet illustrated her words with a mime of her right hand and pulled a wry face. She then blushed bright red and they all looked at her. 'All right,' she said, T was interested! I didn't say it

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  wasn't an interesting story, just that it was horrible. Anyway, you only have to look at William to see he's the sort of man who'd murder his wife.'

  The criminal countenance/ Markby mused. A very popular theory once, but generally dismissed now. What happened to William after the trial, I wonder? He'd hardly have been welcome in local society after a scandal like that.'

  Geoff shrugged. Td like to be able to tell you that he came to a sticky end, but the truth is, nobody knows what became of him. Inevitably there was gossip. People shunned him. So, with his reputation shot to pieces, both sides of the family made it clear to him that he should go away and stay away. He went abroad and was never heard of again. It was the way they dealt with family scandal then. The boy grew up in the care of relatives. When he reached twenty-one, he applied to the courts to have his father legally declared dead. My guess is the move was intended to clear title to the house and its then considerable estate. Extensive enquiries failed to turn up any trace of the fellow. No letters had been received from him. The bulk of his late wife's substantial fortune had passed to the boy under her will and William had little cash. His wealth lay in the bricks and mortar of Fourways, yet he hadn't approached anyone for financial help. He'd apparently vanished off the face of the earth, so he was declared dead.

  'The son, thank goodness, didn't turn out a chip off the old block. He lived happily with his wife and family at Fourways, though they say he never recovered from the loss of his only son, Arthur. Neither of the girls married. Now, as Juliet said, they're old and not in very good health. I'm not surprised they want to move to more suitable surroundings. But all the same, it's sad to think of the last of the Oakleys leaving Fourways after more than, what? At least a hundred and thirty years the family's been in residence there. And honestly, I find it hard to imagine them being happy in a small modern flat with neighbours under their noses.'

  Meredith had been mulling over the facts. 'It's a sad story, but perhaps not that unusual. I don't mean the murder, I mean families dying out, money running out, big old houses falling into disrepair. Who can afford to live in them now but pop stars, rich Arabs and a handful of successful business types?'

  'Successful crooks.' Markby sounded resigned. 'They like to splash their money about and live in style.'

  'Not in Fourways, they wouldn't,' said Juliet in the voice of one who knew - which gained her a curious look from Markby. *Or I suppose

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  not,' she added hastily. 'Don't look at me like that, Alan. All my clients are ace respectable. I told you, Fourways is a crumbling dump.'

  Pam Painter surged up again, flushed and breathless. 'Don't tell me! I know what you've all been talking about.' She turned to Markby. 'Do you know, Alan, you bring out the worst in Geoff. Whenever you come here, we seem to end up discussing violent death.'

  'Don't blame the poor chap,' said Geoff. 'He gives me the opportunity to indulge my hobby. But as it happens, we were discussing the sale of Fourways. Nothing to do with murder at all.' To Meredith he whispered, 'I'll give you the box of papers when you leave. Keep 'em out of sight of Pam!'

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  times round his neck and over his chin. His voice, as a result, came indistinctly from somewhere within its folds. Wood added mildly, 'The scientific gentleman is holding things up.'

  Sir Herbert muttered. He took the point being gently made. Responsibility for the delay rested not on the local men but on the soil analyst who'd travelled with Sir Herbert from London.

  At that moment the church clock struck the quarter hour. 'You see?' said Sir Herbert peevishly, 'It's a quarter to six.'

  Wood was spared having to find a reply by a burst of coughing from their right.

  'And that fellow is getting on my nerves!' added Sir Herbert irritably.

  Both turned in the direction of the coughing and stared hard at a black-clad gentleman who called out defensively, 'I've got a cold!' Unfortunately his affliction made this come out as, 'I've dot a dold.' As if to prove it further, he drew out a large white handkerchief and trumpeted into it.

  Sir Herbert muttered his disgust. Wood said in his mild voice, 'Got to have the undertaker here. He'll identify the coffin - when we get to it.' He gave an apprehensive glance at the diggers who had again been held up by the scientist intent on filling his glass jars with soil.

  'I know why the fellow is here,' snapped Sir Herbert, 'but from the sound of him, someone will be burying him soon!'

  At this perceived insult, the undertaker moved further off, quivering with indignation. It was now perceptibly lighter. All around them, shapes emerged from the gloom giving the impression that the crowd of onlookers Sir Herbert feared, had arrived in the shape of stone cherubs and angels. Marble hands clasped in horror, they fixed the desecration, and the living who'd wrought it, with pupil-less eyes. The pale streak on the horizon had become a pinkish haze.

  Wood thought, Red sky at night, shepherds' delight. Red sky in the morning, shepherds' warning. He hoped it wasn't a bad omen. He was as keen as the Home Office man to be out of here. He didn't like churchyards and he particularly didn't like the ostentatious sculpture all around. He'd once told his daughter Emily, only half joking, that when the time came to bury him, he wanted only a simple headstone bearing the legend,

  Here lies Jonathan Wood. If he did any harm, He did some good.

  Emily hadn't been amused. In fact, she'd been so distressed he'd found

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  himself apologising profusely and insisting he was very well, thank you. Yes, honestly, never better. No, not even an ache or two.

  Sir Herbert said in a low voice, 'I can tell you, Wood, the Home Office isn't at all happy about this one. Dash it all, we have nothing but the statements of a dismissed housekeeper and a lot of local gossip. My belief is that, should it come to a trial, defence would have a field day. If it weren't for the fact that the dead woman's father has a friend in the cabinet, this exhumation wouldn't be taking place!'

  'We've got a classic set of circumstances,' said Wood, easing his chin out of his muffler. 'Mr Oakley has had a reputation of being a man about town for a long time. He'd pretty well run through his own money even before he married a wealthy wife. If he'd had a grain of sense he'd have stopped chasing petticoats, but there, it'd got a habit with him, I dare say. His wife was threatening separation. So,' concluded Wood, lapsing into the vernacular, 'he done her in.'

  This brought forth the tetchy reply, 'Circumstances is all you have! The Crown has to prove it, dammit! If he did it, then the fellow was confounded ingenious. No one at the original inquest doubted the death was anything but a dreadful accident. And another thing. That scientific chap has taken samples from all over this churchyard. If arsenic is found anywhere else, the Crown's case will fly out of the window. It's happened before and it'll happen again.'

  Wood thought gloomily, yes, it had. And if it did happen again, he knew who'd get the blame. Bamford wasn't a big town, but it was an important market centre for the surrounding countryside
, and its police station was expected to maintain law and order over a generous domain. For that reason, it warranted an inspector in charge where other small towns had to make do with no one more senior than a sergeant. Not, of course, that a really top-notch inspector had been sent to this rural backwater. No, they'd handed it to Wood. He even suspected he'd got his promotion just so that they could kill two birds with one stone. He'd worked hard and had some success in his career but he wasn't the sort of man who made a good impression in social circles outside his own. Grudgingly, they'd made him inspector and rubbing their hands, he was sure, they'd put him here in Bamford. He'd saved them having to take a more dashing figure from duties elsewhere.

  He didn't mind. He liked it here. He felt at ease among its people both in the town and the surrounding country. He liked being in charge of his own little kingdom. To help him he had a sergeant and two constables, one of them over there by the grave. Like him, the sergeant and the

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  constables were solid, dependable men, but not destined for greater glory.

  But now, unexpectedly, a chance of glory had come along. Not that he liked to think he saw it that way. Still, if he put a hand on the collar of a gent like William Oakley ...

  A sudden cessation of work at the graveside took his attention. The constable came scrambling towards them over hummocks and kerbstones. He saluted.

  'We've reached the coffin, Mr Wood, sir.'

  'Right!' said Wood with relief. 'Won't be long now, Sir Herbert. Constable, get that undertaker over there sharpish.'

  But the undertaker chose to take his revenge by proceeding at a stately pace towards the spot. One of the lantern-bearers lowered his light into the pit. The undertaker leant over at a perilous angle and took so long before he pronounced judgement Wood feared Sir Herbert would deluge him with strongly worded advice. In the nick of time, the undertaker turned from the grave and was coming back, still at that same stately pace. Perhaps he couldn't walk any other way.

  'Yes,' he said, his consonants still distorted, 'that's the coffin, gentlemen. The nameplate is quite clear.' He whipped out the handkerchief and blew his nose again.

  'Then let's get out of here with it!' growled Sir Herbert.

  The undertaker stuffed his handkerchief into a pocket and offered, 'You may wish, gentlemen, to open the lid briefly first, while we're out here in the fresh air.'

  At that moment, the church clock struck six.

  'No time!' snapped Sir Herbert.

  Wood said in his mild voice, 'For all our comfort

  'Oh, all right, then,' agreed Sir Herbert. 'But make it quick, can't you?'

  'Jenkins!' called Wood to the constable. 'Once the coffin is up and -er - ventilated, make sure they board over the hole securely. We don't want anyone falling in. And you had better stay here to guard it. We don't want trophy-hunters, either.'

  'Yes, sir,' said Constable Jenkins glumly.

  'Don't worry,' Wood told him. 'I'll send Bishop to relieve you as soon as I get to the station.'

  Constable Jenkins's expression, visible now in the pale early morning light, showed that he interpreted this last statement as meaning, 'When I've had a good stiff drink!'

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  He was silent and she knew her criticism had angered him. But she was entitled to a viewpoint and, for goodness sake, as she was with him there had been a likelihood she might have been drawn in too. The yobs could have set about the car.

  All the same, after the silence threatened to become the obstinate kind which neither wanted to break, she took the step of saying, T was scared, that's all. I don't want to squabble over it.'

  She sensed that he relaxed. 'I wouldn't have let you come to any harm.'

  How would you have protected me? she wanted to ask. Against a drunken mob? She didn't ask. Instead she thought, I'm used to looking after myself, that's the trouble. If I'd been alone, I'd have assessed the situation and avoided it. Put my foot down, if I'd been driving, and raced straight past. But I'm not alone these days, not since I moved in with Alan. I can't get used to it. We're starting to squabble. We didn't do that before. We argued, yes, but we didn't snipe at one another. And he didn't talk about protecting me, for crying out loud! What am I - a half-wit?

  As a lateral extension of this thought, she heard herself saying, 'Geoff and his sister squabble - have you noticed? He's in his forties, like you. She's in her thirties, like me. Put them together and they seem to regress to a pair of four-year-olds.'

  'So what? It's not serious,' he said aggravatingly. 'Laura is my sister and we wrangle.'

  They had reached the house as he spoke and the car rolled to a halt.

  'Yes, you do.' Meredith conceded the point unwillingly. 'But you and Laura aren't competitive like the Painter siblings. I would have thought they'd have outgrown it by now, that's all.' Lest this turn into another disagreement, she added crisply, 'But then, I was an only child - what would I know?'

  They had progressed into the house on this last statement. Alan threw the switch which lit up the entrance hall. Chucking his car keys on the telephone table, he asked, 'You do still really want to go ahead with looking for a new house together?'

  He had that look in his blue eyes which always made her feel she'd been put on the spot. She was annoyed by it because she wasn't a suspect in a case. She didn't have to come up with excuses and alibis. He wanted the truth but she couldn't give it because she didn't know it. Yet she felt she had to answer.

  'What makes you think I don't?' she prevaricated, setting down the box of papers with unnecessary care and moving past him into the kitchen.

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  T didn't say I doubted you. I did wonder why you asked Juliet to find you a tenant and not a buyer for your place/

  So that was it. "Oh. I see!' She turned from the sink. 'Look, I'm practical. OK? This house of yours, it isn't suitable and if we're to live together, we need somewhere else."

  T know that. I never thought I'd ever be sharing this place with someone. It was only ever bought as a place to keep my stuff and sleep.'

  'But suppose things don't work out. Alan? I don't like burning my boats. It's a sort of comfort to me, I suppose, to think I have got my own place - if I should ever need it again. If I can rent it out. that will cover my mortgage. I can always sell later when we've seen how things go.' She turned her back to him and twisted the cold tap. Water splashed down into the kettle. Tt doesn't mean I don't love you. It's more a doubt I've got about myself. I've tried to explain that to you before.'

  He came up behind her, put his arms round her waist and kissed the back of her neck. 'I do understand. But it took me so long to lure you in here, I can't really believe my good luck.'

  "Don't count your chickens! You might yet live to rue the day I crossed your threshold.'

  T won't do that,' he said. Til never do that.'

  She twisted her head to smile up at him. Peace had been made. He didn't want to squabble any more than she did.

  Yet, when he'd taken away his arm, he asked. 'You're not really going to wade through that box of Geoff's research material?'

  Something about his voice sounded censorious to her ear. She bridled.

  'Of course I am. I'm interested in local history.' The kettle had boiled. 'Tea or instant coffee?' she asked. T could, I suppose, make cocoa.'

  'Spare me the cocoa,' he grumbled. 'I'm saving that for my dotage. And local history, my foot! It's ghoulish curiosity.'

  Tt is not! Why do you object?' That was a way of saying, 'What business is it of yours?' Surely they weren't going to fall out over the history of the Oakley family? 'I'm interested in it as a human situation,' she said carefully. 'This was a man accused of murdering his wife, a woman he must once have loved.'

  'Must he?' Alan asked drily. 'Cora Oakley was very wealthy. William had nothing but an estate encumbered with debt.'

  'Then she at least must have loved him.'

  Markby was watching her as she spoke, her
flushed face, the way she avoided his gaze. Something was worrying her. Something to do with them. Please God, he found himself asking, not asain. Not like it was

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  with Rachel. Rachel and I were happy when we first married. We were young, of course, and naive. We should have known we could never make a go of it. Rachel hated the police work. She never wanted to be a copper's wife. She always treated my job as something like a mild illness that I'd get over, in time. Then I'd go and find myself a job she liked better. Something with lots of corporate entertainment and travel attached to it. Dinner parties and dressing up.

  His failure to answer had attracted Meredith's attention as his remarks hadn't. She looked up and fixed her large hazel eyes on him. He noticed her mascara had smudged. The observation triggered an upsurge of emotion in him so strong it caused pain. This is love, he thought. It's such a powerful thing, no wonder people are afraid of it. She's afraid of it. Am I the proverbial fool who rushes in where angels fear to tread?

  More harshly than he intended, he asked, 'Does love solve everything? I've known men and women who've killed for love. It doesn't have to be for greed or hate.'

  She looked startled at the emotion in his voice. There was another awkward silence.

  Markby hunched his shoulders. 'It takes more than motive to convict a murderer, in any case. I've met men with motive a-plenty and opportunity, sometimes with a track record of violence. There's been no doubt in my mind they were killers. They've known I've known it. But they've looked me in the eye and told me they didn't do it, and I couldn't prove they did - and they were right. I haven't been able to prove it, just as no one back then could prove William Oakley murdered his wife. He could have done it, yes. But you have to show he did do it. Quite a different kettle of fish.'

  His gaze became that of a man looking back into the past. 'All police officers,' he said, 'hate cases like that. Some become obsessed with them. They worry away at them for years hoping some new bit of evidence will turn up, or Chummy will get over-confident and betray himself. Sometimes it happens and we get him in the end, although not, of course, if he's already stood trial and been acquitted. Then he's laughing at you. But I've known officers who've still gone on searching because they've wanted to know that they were right, even if the villain is beyond the law.'