Death of an Ordinary Guy Page 4

  “Hard cheese.”

  “What? Oh, yes. Rough go. He’s a real hard worker. Invaluable man. Also emulates the Buxton visitor’s centre. Keeps the pamphlets plentiful, plans day trips to local sites, lets my guests know what’s happening throughout the area. Takes a group photo, which people are free to buy or not. Nice holiday reminder. They seem to appreciate the kindness.”

  “Invaluable man, indeed,” Graham agreed, then caught my eye. “We’ll have to see if this paragon of secretaries can tell us anything of Mr. Pedersen.”

  “Of course you’re free to question Byron,” Arthur returned. “Or anyone associated with me. I’m all for helping the police.”

  “It’s a pity there aren’t more people like you, Mr. Catchpool.”

  Arthur stumbled over his words, momentarily flustered. “Oh? Yes, I suppose it would make your jobs easier. It’s been a dreadful shock. Simply awful. I’ve just seen to my guests, actually, and they’re taking it quite well, if you can call dealing with murder ‘well.’ I suppose it is murder…” He glanced from Graham to me as my pen stopped. As Graham nodded, Arthur grimaced, either the word or idea abhorrent to him. “Yes. I thought so. There’s a comfort in wanting it to be suicide or an accident, isn’t there. I mean, it shifts the horror of an unknown lunatic lurking among us to a self-inflicted event.”

  “But the burden of suicide,” Graham said, the minister escaping from within him, “is that the survivors carry the guilt of the death. They eternally accuse and punish themselves with non-answerable questions of ‘Why didn’t I help more? Why didn’t I spend a bit more time with him?’” He tilted his head, looking wise and paternal and otherworldly. I wondered if his words were mere ministerial dogma or pain from personal loss.

  Arthur replied quickly, the subject evidently distressing him. “I hope you catch this berk. Do whatever it takes to find him.” He settled back in his wing chair, as though waiting for the jail doors to clang shut on the criminal.

  In the silence I sank my fingernails into the chair’s velvet upholstery, scraping them against the nap to create little roads in the smooth blueness. Like the villagers’ lives, I thought, staring at the uneven fabric. An event hits and ruffles everything. I smoothed out the fabric with the flat of my hand. I wondered how it would feel to sleep against such softness and had begun calculating the cost of sewing a small comforter when Graham said, “I would have thought that Pedersen would have stayed with his friends, the Halfords.” He looked at me for confirmation of the name and when I nodded, he said, “Or don’t they have the space for a guest?”

  “Actually, he did stay with them. Oh, yes,” he added as Graham’s eyebrow shot upward. “After his second night here he left us. I don’t know why he didn’t go straight to Kris and Derek, but that’s where he ended up.”

  “Nothing like mother-in-law come to visit?” I suggested.

  “The only mother-in-law is in America, and she hasn’t been over for ages.”

  “Fear of flying, then?”

  “I have no idea, Sergeant. If you want to know anything in that vein, ask Kris. I don’t know her mother very well.”

  “So.” Graham set the teacup on the table and leaned forward slightly, his brown eyes bright with interest. I knew his mind was as alert as his body. “Pedersen checked into your B-&-B Thursday, correct? He stays Thursday night, then checks out—”

  “Saturday,” Arthur said. “He had breakfast, then checked out. I think that’s right… Yes. Sorry I’m so muddled, but the murder…”

  Graham said we quite understood, and that perhaps this was a bad time to talk.

  “No, no. Perfectly all right. Just on edge. Pedersen stayed here the two nights, I believe. Well, Derek, Kris or Byron can tell you. Fortunately, Derek and Kris remodeled a bit a few years back. Would’ve been a sticky wicket trying to squeeze a guest into that cottage of theirs. But it turned out to be worth every pound I lent them. The house is quite nice. Roomy enough for several guests now. Anyway, we had the graveside dole on Friday. Pedersen presented himself to the Halfords afterwards.” Arthur seemed a bit flustered sorting through the progression of days and events.

  “I’ve heard about it,” Graham said. “But I don’t know particulars. Could you…”

  Arthur giggled nervously. “Nothing much to it. My great-grandfather set it up. We assemble every November third in the church yard. Derek and I are the principal performers, if you will. A maximis ad minima,” he murmured. “We’re also the last performers in the succession of this fantastic tableau. Have been since— Well, I suppose I should start at the beginning if you’re to make any sense of the whole thing.”

  Graham assured Arthur that we would appreciate it.

  “This whole thing began,” Arthur explained haltingly, alternately blushing and blanching, “almost a century ago—1899, actually—when great-grandfather ran over Derek Halford’s grandfather. Well, not himself,” Arthur corrected as Graham registered bewilderment. “My great-grandfather’s carriage ran over Derek’s grandfather. Broke his leg. Damaged the carriage somewhat, too. Unfortunate.”

  I offered my opinion that it was very unfortunate for Derek’s grandfather also.

  “What? Oh, yes. Rough go for Halford. Great-grandfather had him seen to, of course. Best medical attention, and all that. But for some reason, the leg refused to set properly, and Halford limped the rest of his life. Great-grandfather, of course, felt just awful about it.” Arthur shifted slightly in his chair to study a portrait of a white-haired older man. The painting hung, gild-framed, next to an equally white-haired man who bore unmistakable family resemblance. Arthur’s likeness was two frames down the line, presumably next to his father. I wondered what would happen if Arthur had no children—or the wall became filled. “He had this consuming sense of duty,” Arthur continued, looking again at Graham. “The whole thing haunted him terribly, so on his death bed he provided in his will for Halford. The family was to get £300 annually, payable on the date of great-grandfather’s death. It was to run for three generations.” Arthur bent forward and lowered his voice, the parentheses almost visible. “I suppose great-grandfather figured the remembrance of Halford’s accident would be passed down through successive generations. Vivid enough, certainly, for a father to relate to his son, never mind village gossip helping it along.”

  “And the son,” Graham ventured, “is the present dole recipient, Derek Halford?”

  Arthur nodded. “That’s why this dole is so unique. Most run on to perpetuity. Ours will die out with Derek.”

  “Interesting,” Graham murmured, resettling into his chair. “So what happens? You hand Derek Halford his money and you all go celebrate in the pub?”

  “Nothing quite so normal. No. We gather in the church yard, Derek recites a verse great-grandfather wrote— A foolish bit of scrap, but according to the will it has to be said.”

  “And it is…” Graham prompted.

  Arthur looked at the carpet, as though pleading it should open up and receive him. He breathed deeply, then said, “First the crutch to heal the bone, then the purse will me atone. As the bone and mind set, so must do the man. Sire to son this passes on. Son to son will see it gone till the last of three my charity will span.” He looked at Graham, as though waiting for judgment. When Graham merely smiled, Arthur said, “Derek holds up a pair of crutches over great-grandfather’s grave—a symbolic gesture, you understand. Merely a stage prop. Though it’s oddly prophetic because Derek did need crutches for a while. Years ago. Still limps. The vicar then hands me a small brown leather pouch with the dole in it. I hand it to Derek. Then we all troop down to the bonfire area and Derek throws the crutches on the woodpile, ready for the bonfire lighting on Guy Fawkes night. Silly, isn’t it? There’s all the bother about getting the money from the bank, driving to Buxton or Chesterfield or somewhere to buy a pair of crutches, digging out the leather pouch… Silly. Whole thing only takes five minutes, but we have to perform.”

  I said I thought it quite a nice, civilize
d ceremony. “Refreshing to hear someone has enough moral fiber to stand accountable for his actions.”

  Arthur silently consulted great-grandfather’s portrait again before replying, “Anyway, Friday we had come down to the bonfire for the last bit, and when it was all over, Pedersen pops up in front of Kris and announces he just happens to be alive and here. I must say,” Arthur said, recrossing his legs and looking rather upset, “he chose a bloody awful way of doing it, but there you are. Kris fainted from the shock of seeing him. Well, she would, wouldn’t she, after believing he had died years ago? Anyway, Pedersen went home with them, I understand, though he returned here to sleep. Then he checked out Saturday and spent the rest of his time with them. What an unpleasant way for a holiday to end.”

  “Bad way all around,” I agreed. “Mrs. Halford enjoys their friend’s stay, then winds up being present at his death, as it were. Very unpleasant.”

  Graham said, “Have you any thoughts why Pedersen should be murdered?”

  “Who’s murdered?” Though decidedly slurred, the statement was understandable, and drew our attention to the newcomer in the doorway. Propped up like a limp sack of potatoes from the bonfire, Uncle Gilbert, as he was begrudgingly known to and called by Arthur, slumped against the door jamb. One hand was wrapped around the edge of the door, the other hand wrapped around a glass. He uttered his question again, this time to the door.

  Obviously embarrassed and annoyed, Arthur rose quickly. Glancing at us, he mumbled an introduction. “My uncle, Gilbert Catchpool. He’s visiting for a few days.”

  As if editorializing, the wood-cased clock on the mantle belched the half-hour, then settled into silence.

  Uncle Gilbert lifted the glass to his lips and, as though using the glass as odd binoculars or telescope, staggered into the room, barely consuming more whiskey than he spilled. He paused at the couch as Arthur rushed up to him.

  Remarkable. No family resemblance at all, I thought, scanning the paintings on the wall. The Catchpools were, without exception, angular, bony people. Brunets and redheads. There were several noses that seemed to pass themselves from father to son, and an occasional cleft chin, but the verification of Catchpool splendor and lineage rested in the eyes. Dress altered with the generations, but those large, close-set eyes linked them. And Gilbert Catchpool either echoed the maternal line or was a throwback to an earlier branch, I thought, for everything about him was round. But his round hazel eyes had taken on a definite red hue, as had the circular spot of pale skin at the back of his head. An emphatic stomach rolled down his substantial frame, threatening to overflow the confines of his belt.

  Gilbert’s free hand dug into the back of the sofa for support, giving him the appearance of someone leaning into a cyclone. He swayed slightly, alternately blinking and pulling back his eyelids, trying to focus his eyes and mind. Like a bully clamoring for a fight, he demanded our names and to know who had been murdered.

  “Steve Pedersen’s been murdered,” Graham replied evenly from his chair.

  Gilbert squinted at his nephew, as though the name and circumstances nagged at him from somewhere within his mental morass. “Do we know him? Did I murder him?”

  FIVE

  Blushing instantly, Arthur laughed nervously, glanced at Graham—who wasn’t laughing—and said, “No.”

  To which question, I wondered.

  Turning to Graham, Arthur said, “He gets like this, I’m afraid. You mustn’t pay him any mind.”

  I stood up and made a move toward them. ”Anything I can do, Mr. Catchpool? Help you get him situated?”

  “What?” For a second, Arthur blinked as wildly as his uncle, then pulled a smile from some inner resource. “Thanks all the same. I’m accustomed to this, unfortunately. He’s used to me. It might confuse him if you—”

  Nothing would confuse that old sot, I thought. What you really want to say is that it’d be embarrassing for me, being a woman, to help tuck Uncle into bed.

  “Thanks anyway, Sergeant.”

  I nodded, reclaiming my chair, and scratched Gilbert’s name in my notebook.

  “Was your uncle at the bonfire tonight?” Graham’s question, ridiculously simple, halted the Catchpools’ progress across the room.

  Arthur turned slightly toward Graham, his hands on his uncle’s shoulders, his mouth open. Gilbert stood facing the door, continuing his mumbled questions while Arthur related Gilbert’s activities. “I don’t know precisely when he was there. I know he was there before the fire was lit. I saw him. So did most of the people, I suppose.”

  “His question about killing Pedersen—”

  Arthur laughed again, and quickly said it was just his uncle’s drunken talk. “He— It’s just piffle. He’s just talking nonsense. He’s had too much to drink. He didn’t even know Pedersen. Uncle’s staying with me in this section of the house. I doubt if he even knows who my B-and-B guests are.”

  “Will he remember anything about his evening when he wakes tomorrow?” I knew Graham wasn’t going to bet anything on Arthur’s answer or Gilbert’s recollections.

  “Should do,” Arthur replied, glancing at Gilbert. “Depends. Some nights he drinks more heavily. You know how it is. He might wake up and remember everything about tonight.”

  Graham thanked Arthur, asked again if we could help, then watched the two leave the room. He turned to me, eager to play ‘what if.’ “In the mood to risk that kewpie doll of yours, Taylor?”

  “I’ve grown quite fond of it, actually.”

  “Could just be the idle talk of a drunk…”

  “Could be just an act, too. Wanted to know what we’ve deduced so far, so he thinks he’ll barge in here, maybe crash in a chair and eavesdrop. Only his upstanding nephew—”

  “He could’ve eavesdropped at the door outside the room,” Graham reminded me.

  “Couldn’t hear as well. We weren’t exactly shouting.”

  “No doubt about his having a pull or two. He didn’t get that complexion by standing under the moonlight.”

  “Arthur was in an awful hurry to get Uncle G away from us. Embarrassment, fear, or change of plans?”

  “There you’ve got me, TC.”

  Quarter of an hour later, Arthur was back in his chair, decidedly less flushed and breathing normally, and replying to Graham’s original question about motive for Steve Pedersen’s death.

  “Haven’t a clue. As I said, he didn’t know anyone except the Halfords. Byron can get you a list of the guests’ names, if that would be helpful. Perhaps he had made an enemy among them. I don’t know. People do get a bit uptight and on others’ nerves when they travel. I probably sound like I’m talking through my hat, but something could have happened like that, I suppose.”

  “We can suppose almost anything at this stage,” I mumbled as Graham stood up.

  Arthur quickly got to his feet. He seemed relieved the grilling was over. “Would you like a work area? I’ve got any number of rooms that might be suitable. I suppose you’ll be needing something like that.” His voice trailed off now that he was in the unfamiliar territory of police procedure.

  As I moved toward the door, Graham thanked Arthur for the offer. “I’ll see if we can get a room at the pub. That usually suits our purpose. We really prefer to work away from anyone’s home. Not that we don’t appreciate the gesture, but we come and go at such unorthodox hours.”

  “Yes. Less disturbance all the way around. Well, if there’s anything more I can do…” He saw us to the door and waved enthusiastically as we got into our car.

  “What’d I say about eavesdropping?” I asked. “Probably offered the room Uncle G could keep an eye and ear on us. So he’ll know how to change his story when we question him.”

  “Anyone ever tell you you’ve got a detective’s mind?”

  “First I’ve heard it mentioned, sir.”

  “Well, don’t go by my word. I’m only a detective-chief inspector. Well. Not the most helpful interview we’ve ever had.”

  Graham’s
fingers lay loosely across the steering wheel, drumming out a steady beat. I wondered if he was mentally playing a favorite piece of music. I glanced out the window, not wanting him to know I was curious about him. A faint fragment of a tune escaped his lips. So, he likes Handel. And the keyboards in Handel’s day were the organ and harpsichord. Was that the instrument office gossip had joked about? I recalled catching the tail-end of one joke as I entered the canteen one day—Graham in a white wig and asking about key information and if anyone could handle it—but at the time I had assumed it was linked to his ministerial career. Graham at the harpsichord was a different image than I would have conjured up. I glanced at my own left hand, surreptitiously pressing the fingertips against my thumb. The calluses from years of guitar playing were hard, unlike the softer touch needed for stroking harpsichord keys. I knew that much from my brother. I looked at Graham’s hands again. Did harpsichord and guitar sound good in duet? I was about to ask Graham when he said, “It’s not too awfully late, Taylor. Just gone 10:00. What say you sharpen your detecting skills and tackle the Halfords. Think of it as Sleuthing 501.”

  In spite of my determination to prove myself capable of the assignment, I panicked. I knew that if I made a hash of it, I’d be renewing my acquaintance with the constables.

  I thanked God for the countryside’s darkness, for Graham couldn’t see my face flush. He was busy expounding. “The female link is vital at times, Taylor. Women convey sympathy, understanding, patience. He’ll probably pour out his heart to you. I’ll see about that incident room. Hope I didn’t just turn down the only available space in the village.”

  “We can always plead stupidity. Wouldn’t surprise a lot of people.”

  Derek Halford showed no surprise when I identified myself at his door. He’s probably expecting the entire village to be interrogated, I thought as he hurriedly straightened the afghan covering an upholstered chair.

  The room carried the house’s exterior harmony inside. A wall of bookshelves, flowered draperies, and pastel colors blended to soothe the senses. A large picture window looked out into the Halfords’ back garden. Thinking of Sleuthing 501, I began with my usual apology at having to bother Derek at his hour and under these circumstances, and then inquired about their emotional state.