Death of an Ordinary Guy Read online

  “You’re writing to the Halfords?”

  The vicar nodded, sighing loudly and pushing the pen away from the paper. “I was with them last night, of course, but I always think it nice to follow up with a note expressing my understanding of their grief. I try to offer comfort, you know—remind them of our Lord’s love and the certainty that Mr. Pedersens’ in heaven—but sometimes…” Lyle shrugged his shoulders, indicating the difficulty of such an epistle. “It’s my duty, as it is with every caring human being, don’t you think? Where would we be if we didn’t care for each other?”

  Graham refrained from saying the obvious. In a way, ours was a strange job, combining the extremes of uncaring and caring. Uncaring, self-centered people broke laws—robbed, assaulted, killed. Caring, respectful people became witnesses, comforted the victims. We dealt with both. And Graham had too, as a minister. He had merely changed clothes and rules.

  Graham coughed and remarked instead that it was very kind of Lyle to give his support.

  “Only doing what I want to do. I need to help.”

  “Well,” Graham said, “perhaps you can help us for a moment. I was told you know something of a tiff involving Talbot and Byron MacKinnon a few years back. 1973, I believe it was.”

  I did some hasty mental arithmetic, eyed the pudgy, short man, and wondered how he could have stopped a fight involving that leviathan. Even now, the handyman wasn’t exactly in his dotage. Like David confronting Goliath—without the slingshot. “Case of attempted murder,” I said, nudging Lyle’s memory. “Assault with a hammer.”

  “You referring to Talbot’s little trouble?” The vicar rubbed a pudgy hand across his chin. “Yes, I remember it, though I must confess I’d nearly forgotten. Haven’t dredged that up in ages. What do you want to know about?”

  “Any particulars you may remember. Reason, outcome—that sort of thing.”

  “I don’t suppose I’d be doing anything unethical in relaying the story.” He eyed Graham as though judging the man’s honesty.

  “I shouldn’t think it’s anything like revealing a confession,” Graham replied. “I’m conducting a murder investigation, sir, and one of the usual dull bits of routine is the sorting out of pertinent and impertinent facts. This may or may not have anything to do with Pedersen’s murder, and if it hasn’t, I’ll forget it. But if there’s a link between Talbot’s rash behavior with Byron, and anything with Pedersen… If one of the men told you something in confidence, you may leave that out. I’m not asking for a baring of the soul. I just want the bones of the fight. Who started it, how it was resolved…”

  “Yes.” The vicar, now released from guilt, readily gave the information. “If you say it was 1973, it was 1973. I’ll accept that. I’m not much good on dates. But I do remember the altercation. It was, amazingly enough, this same time of year. Is that what brought it into the open?”

  “May I venture a guess, and ask if the Catchpool dole sparked it?”

  “Yes, Mr. Graham, that blasted dole. I swear I don’t know if it’s more of a blessing or a curse. The money helps the Halfords, I’m certain, but the discomfort that comes with it—” He shook his head, no doubt recalling previous trouble with Talbot. “Not only for the Halfords when Talbot’s in one of his moods, but also for the poor man himself. He can’t be a happy person if he’s always so agitated over this dole business. But you asked about the fight. I’m afraid I’m inclined to ramble.

  “Anyway, Talbot was going on and on about his rightful fortune, and Byron called Talbot a liar, I’m afraid. Nasty scene. That was bad enough, but then Byron suggested Talbot leave the village because no one liked him, which wasn’t true. I do! Byron said Talbot had no real job, just the few odd ones he got from Arthur, me, or some of the villagers who felt sorry for him and had a few pence to spare. We’ve been remarkably successful. It’s kept Talbot here ever since he arrived in the ’50s. Anyway, Byron got angrier and angrier at Talbot, finally boasted that when he—Byron—married Kris Alton— Oh, that’s Kris Halford’s maiden name, by the way. Byron bragged that when he married Kris, Talbot had better not be poking around the manor house.”

  “Implying Talbot shouldn’t be expecting any odd jobs from that direction,” I asked. “Did Byron oversee such things?”

  Lyle nodded, his eyes blinking again like a pigeon. “Yes. Byron had the key to the till, as it were. Powerful man, Byron MacKinnon, in his way. Controls the running of a good portion of the estate. Though what right he had to say that to Talbot—”

  “Can’t read any other meaning into it at the moment,” I said, marveling at the vicar’s memory.

  “Exactly. Well, Talbot, who has always liked Kris and made no secret about it, snapped. First he had heard of Kris’ engagement, I suppose. Talbot was holding a hammer and swung it at Byron’s head. He succeeded in knocking him to the ground, whereby he kicked him in the ribs, still trying for his head with that hammer. Nasty scene!”

  “Where was all this?”

  “Just outside. In the churchyard. Talbot had just finished with some chores I’d given him, and Byron came strolling up the walk to talk to me. Byron had innocently asked where I was and Talbot asked why he wanted to know. Byron, of course, said it was none of his business, and it worsened from there.”

  “That’s why no one else was around to help you stop the fight,” Graham said. “And why he had the hammer. Unfortunate.”

  “I tell you, I don’t know how I got the two men separated. ’Course, I wasn’t yet into my fifties.” He shook his head.

  “Maybe Divine intervention?” Graham offered.

  Lyle nodded, and said quite truthfully, “You’re amazing, Mr. Graham. Yes.”

  “Did Byron marry Kris? I know she’s married to Derek now, but with divorce so prevalent—”

  “No. They got as far as the engagement and that was it. Probably some pre-wedding tiff about child rearing or mothers-in-law. All too common, these fall-outs. But isn’t it better to get that all sorted out before you need it? Of course, you’ll want to ask Byron or Kris the reasons. I don’t reveal more than the obvious. Or what is common village knowledge.”

  Which constantly surprises me, I wanted to say.

  Graham thanked the vicar and we left to see if Byron’s intended was awake and ready for a game of “Do You Remember?’

  * * * *

  Sounds of everyday life washed over the village as Graham and I drove to the Halfords’. Not for the first time I thought how odd life was: we were investigating a murder, yet wet laundry flapped from clothes lines, women shopped at the butcher’s for tonight’s mince or lamb or chicken, the baker’s shop displayed fruit flans and iced buns in its window. Farmers from the outlying granges stopped at the pub for a quick pint before heading home. Children playing in the school yard laughed and played at kickball or tag. People unconcerned about the murder, cocooned in their world and ignoring us as long as we didn’t intrude on their comfort zones.

  Kris Halford had been one of these people. Now, cradled in a blue comforter, she was lying on the living room sofa when we entered the Halford home. Her night of sorrow was etched into her face as though a sculptor had cast it in stone. The dark eyes stared at me from beneath reddened, swollen eyelids, and a box of tissues near the sofa suggested her interminable crying. She pushed a coil of limp brunette hair behind her ear, making a semblance of caring. Graham took a chair opposite her while I sat on the end of the sofa.

  “Yes, I suppose I am better,” Kris murmured, dabbing at a tear with the damp tissue. “If you can call a numbed head and a confused mind better. All I see is Steve. Him sitting here, so happy to be with us. Him at the pub where we had dinner Saturday night. Him in that chair.”

  Just as well Derek shelved Pedersen’s photograph for a while, I thought, noticing its absence from the tabletop. She remembers readily enough without that visual aid.

  “I won’t apologize,” she said, her voice stronger after her cry. “I’m going through hell, and if anyone can’t see that and sympa
thize with me—”

  “I’m neither impatient nor condemning you, Mrs. Halford. Unfortunately, I have to ask questions concerning Pedersen’s death, and you, also unfortunately, are part of the tragedy. If you’d rather we return at some later time…”

  Kris waved her hand, stopping his rising from the chair. “Please. I’m just lying here. Please stay. I’m all right. Derek’s at the office. I couldn’t see him staying home for me. Besides, either Arthur, Byron or Lyle stop by every few hours to see how I am, warm up some soup. You know.”

  I said it would be hard to beat help like that.

  Kris nodded. “Besides, I wasn’t good for anything except having a lie in and a cry. Silly of him to take a day off for that. If you want to talk to him again, he won’t be home till six or so.”

  Graham assured her that he could catch up with Derek later, but that right now he wanted to ask her a few questions if she was up to it.

  “Haven’t done a thing all day. I’m living on hot chocolate and tea. Plenty of nutrition there.”

  I gazed at the array of mugs littering the tables, their interiors circled with dried chocolate froth or bits of tealeaves.

  Kris, following my gaze, asked if we would like tea or coffee. “I can do a no-brainer like that.”

  I looked at Graham, who shook his head. I declined, also, but said, “If you’d like a cup—”

  “Thanks, Sergeant, but I’m full to the gills. I’m either experiencing a caffeine buzz, or your surgeon’s pills still have a hold of me. Mogadon, I think,” she replied in answer to Graham’s raised eyebrow. “Yes. Great sleeping pill. I’m out in twenty minutes. Sleep like the dead.”

  I averted my eyes as she reddened. In the silence I heard a cat outside. Kris’s or Eleanor Conway’s wandering moggy?

  “I must admit,” Kris said, regaining her composure, “I rather enjoy the hot chocolate. I haven’t had any in ages, but Derek insisted last night. Said it’d make me sleep. Something about hot milk…” Her hand fell suddenly, limply to her lap and she laughed. “God, as if I needed hot milk to top off the pill. Funny. While we’re working we say we’d love a day of just doing nothing. And here I am, doing nothing, only it’s not the relaxation we dream of. Do people really know what it’s like, how hellishly boring doing nothing is?” Her eyes sought Graham’s for a gesture of understanding, asking no response. “Why Steve, of all people? Can you tell me that, Mr. Graham?” She held the empty mug, almost like a caress.

  “Sure I can’t get you anything?” Graham asked. “I’m quite handy in the kitchen. Been known to make soufflés, even.”

  “You’ve got my husband beat.” Kris grabbed a tissue and dabbed at her nose. “He knows his way around the tinned soups and such. Even makes the occasional sandwich or heats up a scone. But you and the Sergeant don’t want to know about our domestic bliss.”

  “I understand Talbot, Evan and Lyle were at the bonfire. But we don’t know about Pedersen’s involvement. I know this is painful, Mrs. Halford, but do you know if he changed his mind about attending the event? It would help us in our investigation if you could talk about it.”

  “My husband and I didn’t see Steve after tea. We had it early, around half three, I should think. I wanted to help Evan in the pub. He needed to get down to the green while it was still early. Steve—” She broke off, fighting down a sob. “Steve left after the meal. He said he wanted to check the torch and lanterns for firecrackers. Derek and I were surprised we didn’t see him at the fire, though after a while we assumed he was somewhere in the crowd watching the foolery, or else he had figured there would be firecrackers after all so he felt safer skipping the fire.”

  “I understand that the reason Pedersen came to Upper Kingsleigh, apart from renewing his friendships with you and your husband, was to bring you a family heirloom.”

  “Gran’s ring,” Kris said, waving her hand at Graham so the opal winked with fiery colors. “Grandma Warren. It’s one of those family jokes that you don’t quite expect to mature. Gran promised me this ring, then before she got around to giving it to me, it got mislaid. I thought that was the end of that. But Mom wrote to tell me she’d discovered it quite by accident one day when she was going through some of Gran’s things, and would see I’d get it. Mom lives in the States.”

  “Must be wonderful to have it,” I said.

  “Yes. I assumed it would come with my Christmas parcel. I never dreamed it would be hand delivered. And by Steve.”

  “More trustworthy than the mail,” Graham said. “How did Steve get the honor? He knew your mother, I take it.”

  “He had looked her up when he got discharged from hospital. After he returned from Viet Nam. He was trying to find me, so he contacted her. That’s when he found out I had returned to England on our graduation from university. And that I had married Derek. Mom gave him my address.”

  “And his arrival was a surprise?” I asked.

  “That’s like Jonah saying ‘What fish?’. After I got over the shock, I was elated. Steve came laden with other family mementos besides the ring—Dad’s scouting paraphernalia, Gran’s favorite doll, some duplicate photos that Mom had even assembled into an album and labeled for me. Some from my university days, family snaps of holidays and such. God, it brings back the memories. Birthdays, Thanksgiving, Fourth of July…”

  “Fourth of July. Of course. Their holiday with fireworks. Is it usual for Upper Kingsleigh to use fireworks during Guy Fawkes Night? I thought they were generally outlawed these days.” He looked at me as though wondering why headquarters had assigned me bonfire duty. Was he finally noticing my potential?

  “If you’re trying to get the names of any criminals, I can’t tell you. And I mean ‘can’t,’ not ‘won’t.’ We’ve never had them, but Steve had no way of knowing that. There’s always the odd chance that some child might think it funny to poke a firecracker into the tower of wood—even with your constables on guard. They do use them on Mischief Night, however.”

  “Yet in all your years living here…” Graham suggested.

  “Nothing. We follow the speed limits, adhere as closely as we can to the Ten Commandments, stand patiently in queue at the post office window. We’re a law-abiding village, on the whole. Except when it comes to murder.” She banged the mug onto the table, her eyes glaring at him, not because she held him responsible for her friend’s death, but because he was handy.

  Graham said nothing, and I wondered if we should leave. Before I could suggest it, Graham asked if her marriage to Derek was her first.

  Kris’ knuckles grew white as she twisted the edge of her comforter. “It’s none of your business, Chief Inspector, as far as I can see. I shouldn’t be surprised if you ask me next to see my bank statement.”

  “I apologize if I’ve offended you. But there’s a good reason behind all my apparent poking and sniffing about. I was informed today that you’d been engaged to Byron MacKinnon in 1973.”

  Kris’ eyes shone through her tears with an intensity that startled me. It was as though she glowed with the rage fueling her grief. “It’s true. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone off like that. It’s just that, well… It’s not as buried as I thought, is it? That’s what makes it hard, losing Steve like that. After I’d lost him to the war, as we supposed, and then Byron walked out on me… Well, Derek was my last chance for happiness. I wasn’t getting any younger. What a moronic phrase, but it’s true! If Derek hadn’t come along, offering love and security, ignoring the faults of my aging body and personality… Sounds like I accepted him for something other than love, and that’s absurd. I’m clinging to Derek with every fiber in my body. If anything ever happens to him, if he’s ever taken from me…”

  The narrative had cost her. She leaned her head against the back of the sofa, shut her eyes, and choked down a deep sob. “You’ve found your niche in the C.I.D., Mr. Graham. You’ve done a first-rate job of ferreting out the little dramatic bits of village life. The sordid or just plain embarrassing secrets most of us have and
most of us pray will be forgotten.”

  “If you think I’m impertinent or being just plain nosy, I’m sorry. I assure you I’m just gathering facts at the moment. I don’t go to bed and gloat over people’s misfortunes or think about methods of blackmail. That’s not as flip as it may sound. I’ve been accused of both, unfortunately. I only ask because it may give me an insight into Byron’s or Talbot’s behavior or emotional stability. It may come in handy, it may not. And if it doesn’t—” He shrugged.

  “In one ear and out the other?”

  “Precisely. I can’t be bothered remembering trivial bits. Cases get too complicated too quickly for me to retain such pieces of remarkably exciting information such as what Talbot has for breakfast.”

  Kris laughed suddenly and released her hold of the comforter. “I wouldn’t dream of asking you. But I don’t think I can tell you details of Byron’s and my engagement. You must ask him. He ended it. Tell him I sent you, if you need to break down his reluctance.”

  We uttered our thanks for her help and let ourselves out while Graham echoed Kris’ general opinion that Upper Kingsleigh was a respectable village except for murder and greed.

  FIFTEEN

  Fortified with afternoon tea, I parked my car at Catchpool Manor. I leaned against the open car door, mesmerized by the magnificence of the house. The late afternoon sun shone halo-like behind it, casting blue shadows into the eastern woods. I recalled the brochure’s text, and mentally checked its accuracy against what I had seen. ‘Catchpool Manor, predominant and well-positioned in the picturesque Derbyshire village of Upper Kingsleigh. En suite facilities, exposed oak beams, gourmet meals, peaceful flower gardens.’ But there was more than this simple declaration. A curving, tree-framed driveway from the main road from the village eventually led to an immense lawn, which lay like a green table cloth under the building’s limestone grandeur. That same green color accented the northern side of the house with its walled rose garden and head-high boxwood maze. A confusion of oriel windows, strapwork, and sharply-pointed gables welcomed callers to their own slice of England. Sunlight and shadow played against the far western window, re-enforcing many speculations that perhaps ghosts did walk the corridors after midnight. This November afternoon, however, the ancient walls harbored only a handful of tourists eager to explore the halls and surrounding hills.