Death of an Ordinary Guy Read online

  “Byron spares no detail to make it accurate,” Eleanor said, patting his hand. “The hall and room are so lovely. Ropes of holly and ivy, candles everywhere, pine logs in the open fireplaces. Gives you the thought he’s lived it before.”

  “And the boars head?” I said, already feeling Elizabethan.

  “Complete with apple in the mouth. Well, I’ve got Evan’s books to balance.” Byron got up and stretched.

  “Time for the day to start already?” Eleanor glanced at the clock. “Seems like the sergeant just had her tea.”

  Yes, that’s all I had. Just tea. I glanced again at the biscuit tin and stood up, thanking them for the information.

  Eleanor walked us to the door. “Well, I am sorry for Arthur losing some of his business, but don’t worry about what hasn’t happened, Byron. I was just licking my own wounds before you arrived. It’s natural for Arthur to play Good Samaritan. That’s his character. But Arthur’s got a beautiful establishment, and the village has a lot going for it. I just hope we can weather any storm that may blow up.”

  I glanced around her shop again, noting the handmade sweaters and tams, the homemade biscuits and breads, the paintings and photographs of local scenes. A lot of local talent had their hopes and money tied up in the Conway Gift Shop. If it died it would take more than Eleanor and Mason with it.

  “It can’t drive everyone away,” Eleanor said, forcing cheer into her voice. “There’ll be tourists.”

  But tourists gawking at what, I wondered as I extracted myself from the cat’s tail and left the shop.

  NINE

  Monday morning’s drowsiness was punctured by a peal of church bells announcing the nine o’clock hour and nudging the idler into activity. Graham stood in the feeble sunlight, sipping a cup of coffee. I had just returned from my talk with Eleanor and wanted my breakfast, but he grabbed my arm, explained that it was a good time to see the village—the scenes of the crime, as he put it—and so we walked.

  Upper Kingsleigh was laid out along three roads that comprised the letter “H.” The cottage of Talbot Tanner snuggled near the top of the eastern road, his house nearly swallowed by the woods. Faint rustlings murmured from the underbrush while a chorus of chirps squawked overhead from the obscure gloom. The world was waking. A hill rose along the left side of the road, harboring church, churchyard, and residential cottages farther south of the church. The expected duck pond and village green sprawled along the southern side of the connecting road, an assortment of shops facing its verdant calm. A few hearty ducks dotted the pond’s surface, plunging into the cold, gray water only to emerge in a chorus of quacking and flapping wings. On the right-hand western road, opposite Talbot’s cottage in distance and station, the manor house consumed its acreage, its turrets and limestone proclaiming everything Talbot would never have. The village pub and post office faced each other at the intersection of the shorter cross street and this long, winding road. More cottages trickled down the western road until the woods finally reclaimed the land and melted into the craggy Derbyshire dales.

  Now back at the pub, we dawdled over a later-than-usual breakfast while considering the sprouting bits of facts and follies that seemed to walk hand-in-glove with this deplorable case. And, from the slice of life we observed from our table, we hadn’t been the only late nighters last evening. Evan had taken our breakfast orders, eyes blinking owl-like in the sharp early light. He had asked me how I had slept, and I wondered if his words held more significance than the casual polite phrase. Outdoors the pale sun joined the attack on sloth, pulling villagers and the investigating police into the new day. Can’t blame anyone for his languor, I thought, swallowing the last of my tea. Late night and shock make for slumberless bedfellows.

  “You up to having a visitor, Mr. Graham?” Evan Greene alternately glanced over his shoulder, then to my superior. He twisted the signet ring on his left little finger. Coupled with the continued strain of the murder, this additional role of master of ceremonies was evidently too much for this bull of a man. “Vernon Wroe,” Evan replied to Graham’s question, then explained Wroe was a frequent visitor to Upper Kingsleigh. “Former Army. Near as thinks he’s still in WWII. Caught up in the old days, but knows his current dates and such. He’s not befuddled. Likes to be called ‘Colonel,’” Evan added by way of smoothing the water.

  “Let’s hope he’s more coherent than Uncle Gilbert,” I said, then groaned at the thought of having to interview the lush.

  Graham threw down his napkin, smiling at the pub owner. “Likes the village or the excitement as much as that? Have him come over, by all means.” Fortifying himself with the last of his coffee, Graham watched Wroe’s confident approach.

  He was immaculately dressed in tab trench coat, which when unbuttoned revealed his three-piece tan suit, tan shirt and tie. Removing his hat, he sat down quickly, as though he had no time to waste. He eyed me, probably wondering who I was and if he could get rid of me. Seeing I had settled in for the duration, he addressed Graham.

  “You’ll forgive my early intrusion into your day, Mr. Graham,” Wroe declared after declining a cup of something. An enthusiastic gray and white mustache bracketed the corners of his thin lips, stopping just short of his jawline, as though it would fall earthward if it hadn’t been attached to his skin. Pale blue eyes stared from an equally pale face. No color or obvious physical feature helped define his flesh, for Wroe was completely bald. Consequently, speaking with Wroe gave the observer the strange feeling of talking to a head of cauliflower. Perhaps it was this lack of physical coloring that tainted Wroe’s personality, prodding him to strive too hard to be noticed or heard. He spoke with authority, his language peppered with Tommy Atkins jargon and stories. He sat down, as poker-backed as one of his privates standing at attention.

  “You’ve done nothing of the kind, Colonel Wroe,” Graham assured the man. “I was just finishing up my breakfast. A bit late for me, but I was up till all hours last night.”

  Not to mention up with the sun to check out the territory, I wanted to say. Not many could match Graham for stamina.

  “Same things I ran into during my stint in the Service,” the colonel replied, commenting on the shared problems in the two men’s jobs. “Hurry up and wait, isn’t it?”

  “I understand you saw action during the war.”

  “Was in the Eighth. In Electronic Intelligence. Stationed in Sicily for a good part of the war, though we moved about. Anywhere I was needed. I tapped into the Germans’ communications, came up with some interesting bits that happened to do some good for our side. Saved a few lives.”

  “You must have many fascinating stories, Colonel.”

  “Damned right. Best years of my life, Graham. Best years. Gave me a chance to prove myself. I went in as a captain, retired as a colonel. Where else can you get such advancement? We went through hell, and that’s not the over-used expression you might think. It forged us, made us strong or we died. And through all that I got to know as good a group of lads as you’d ever hope to meet.”

  “Adversity does that,” Graham said. “War, hostage situations, accidents—”

  “God, I loved the camaraderie,” the Colonel continued, as though Graham had never spoken. “Loved whipping Jerries’ ass, too. We showed ’em they couldn’t do that sort of thing to innocent people. Me and my mates gave it to ’em, and we’re still mates fifty years later.”

  “Not many people can claim such long-lasting friendships,” I said, venturing to respond even though Graham had been mowed down. Wroe looked at me, blinking as though he had just seen me. Smiling, he started to reach for my hand, apparently thought better of it, and laid his hand in his lap. “Exactly, Miss,” he said, his voice now barely above a whisper. “You speak wise beyond your years, which—if I may say something personal and not meaning to be offensive—can’t be many. Yes, Miss. Chums for life, many of us. Counted Talbot’s dad as one of my mates till he died. Where else but in war can you develop and maintain that quality of friendship?�
�� He turned back to Graham and examined him as though he were looking for something wrong with Graham’s suit.

  Probably wants to put him on report, I thought as Graham smiled contentedly back at the veteran. Or ask about his two years’ National Service. If Graham doesn’t maneuver this back to the dullness of a murder investigation, we’ll be chatting about Super-Pro receivers and ground waves by teatime.

  “I don’t mean to hurry you along, Colonel,” Graham said as though sensing my thoughts, “but I assume you didn’t drop by just to chat me up. May I help you with something?”

  “It’s about that damned business at the fire last night,” Wroe snapped. He leaned forward, jabbing a gnarled finger at the rumpled napkin lazily trailing across Graham’s plate.

  “Know something about that, sir?”

  “Damned right I know something about it. I know a damned sight more than lot of folks would credit. I may be slow in getting around, but I still have eyes, ears and a brain.”

  Graham said that he would be glad to know what the Colonel had seen that everyone else had missed.

  “It’s my duty, Chief Inspector. I’m glad to help the police. Wish more people felt this way. Country’d be a lot better if more people felt this way. As it is, it’s become every man for himself, and to hell with the other bloke. But I still believe in doing my duty. Was reared that way.” His chest swelled slightly as he drew in a breath and seemed to hold it.

  “I appreciate your loyalty, Colonel. Would you mind—”

  “What? Oh, certainly. Last night, Inspector, at approximately 1630 hours, I observed Gilbert Catchpool loitering by the oak—that tree commandeered for hoisting the effigy.”

  “I see. And was Mr. Catchpool—how shall I put it—cognizant of his surroundings? Did he seem to know what he was doing, what was going on around him?”

  “If you mean, Inspector, was Gilbert Catchpool in his usual addled, soused state, I cannot report that with any accuracy. I didn’t get close enough to smell his breath, thank God. But he was at the tree, near the rope. I am aware of Gilbert Catchpools’ ‘state,’ Mr. Graham. I am not unknown in the village, and he and I have met here many times previously.”

  “Was Gilbert actually doing anything to the rope, or fussing about with the Guy? Did he look as though he were trying to hide something, however nonchalantly he might have loitered?”

  Colonel Wroe inflated his chest again, threw back his thin shoulders, and replied rather too loudly, “I am too much of a gentleman, Inspector, to reply to that impudent remark. I came here to offer my observation of Catchpool. I assumed, however unwisely, that since the deceased was found at the end of a rope and Gilbert Catchpool was at the other end of it, as it were, you might be interested. Other than that, you may investigate as you are moved. There are other ways, Inspector, of divining the enemy’s movements than by infiltrating their stronghold. Use your electronic surveillance, man! Plant a bug on him. Run DNA testing. If he has the deceased’s hair or flecks of skin on him, he’s your man. You shouldn’t have to be told.”

  Graham diplomatically thanked the colonel and stood up as the elder man left the table. “You certainly have a magnetic attraction for the Senior Citizen, Taylor. He would have talked your ear off, told you his life history.”

  “Perhaps a career as a biographer is more in my line.”

  “There’s no denying, Taylor, you have a talent with the Octogenarian age…”

  I was hoping I’d get some genuine compliment instead of the banter he hurdled at me, but he was concentrating on the case. “What a humble old thing he is,” Graham said as we watched the man leave the room. “What’s the older generation coming to, Taylor?”

  “He was aching to tell us all about his valiant contribution.”

  “Damned if I wouldn’t have asked if I had the time, in spite of my abhorrence of bravado and vanity.”

  “Then I commend you on your restraint,” I said, smiling.

  “And you need to atone for that load of rubbish you just dumped. Repent in church—it’ll do you good.”

  * * * *

  The vicar of St. Michael’s church was evidently one of the few who had kept to his normal weekday schedule, for he waved—cheery and freshly scrubbed—when Graham called out his ‘good morning’ to the approaching figure. Lyle Jacoby was short, pudgy, and practically bald. More like a monk than English vicar, I thought, noting the fringe of pale hair that shone halo-like in the sun. Steady, clear eyes, devoid of the puffiness or redness that spoke of the few hours’ grabbed sleep, gazed frankly back at Graham. Most likely stayed till the wee hours comforting the Halfords, I thought.

  “I’d no idea when you’d be coming, Mr. Graham,” Lyle sang out after Graham had introduced us. “I figured you would find me wherever I was, so I went about my usual offices. Though that could change abruptly.”

  “How are the Halfords?” I asked. “I assume you’ve been rather busy with them.”

  Lyle nodded slowly, supporting the unspoken acquiescence and his dejection at the same time. “They both reminded me last night of little children. So terribly sad, this tragedy. Such a shock. Reunited with their friend after thirty years of believing him dead, then to have him die like that, so quickly, so horribly—”

  Only this time, I wanted to add, there is no wondering at Pedersen’s disappearance. There would be no further reunions.

  Lyle shook his head and turned to face the approximate direction of Halfords’ house. Gesturing toward the west, the vicar said, “I don’t know which of them is the more upset. Kris, now, I’d expect to grieve, being as how she was engaged to Mr. Pedersen. But Derek— Well, not that men can’t mourn. It’s such a silly, self-destructive trait we’ve harnessed men with over the years, this machoism, being stoic and brave and keeping grief hidden. Asinine, if I am allowed any say in the matter. However,” Lyle said, blushing slightly, “Derek had a healthy cry last night. Don’t know who was holding up whom when I got there; they were so shocked and overcome. I let them talk. Seemed the best thing. You know—the shoulder and ear that only hear and don’t judge. They needed that more than any phrases I could give them about resurrection and heaven.”

  “Sometimes,” Graham said, his voice thickening, “sometimes it’s best just to be present and listen. Nothing wrong with being a shoulder or ear for an evening.” A commiserate heart and a servile ear, I thought, remembering the over-used phrase. An observant ear, I called it.

  “It’s therapeutic. Helps them get a grip on the tragedy,” I ventured.

  “I suppose so,” Lyle went on, sounding uncertain it was all right. We’d been walking along the High Street, gravitating without conscious effort toward the church.

  In the center of the early morning sky, the square tower of St. Michael’s pushed its way out of the dimness, the rosy rays of sun tingeing the church’s ancient limestone walls. The same limestone dotted the churchyard in tombstones and memorial crosses, their ages evident from weather-washed engraving or angle of leaning.

  The same cross shape was reflected in the building itself, solid, unmovable, an anchor of centuries of hope. It seemed to rise from the very ground that supported its massive weight. Clumps of chrysanthemum, sage and bare-branched wintersweet decorated its foundation, mixing with cast-off pine needles and dried, fallen leaves. The dregs of summer, I thought, my fingers suddenly aching to rake up the floral debris and set the perennials and rhododendrons in order. As if on sentry duty, a flock of rooks suddenly rose from their perch on the church tower, screeching into the morning.

  “You have a beautiful church, Vicar,” I said, noting the sunlight capping the top of the gargoyle above the door. It was a perfect waterspout, its gapping mouth appearing ready to devour anyone wandering too close. All that stood that danger were the rooks that nested there.

  “What? Oh yes, Sergeant. Thank you,” Lyle said quickly, as though he had just seen the church. “Lovely pile, if I am permitted to agree without sounding boastful, though it was built before I ever arrived
. Do you know religious architecture well? No? Ah, then, I must point out some of the nicer features to you. The core of the building undoubtedly is early medieval, though a magnificent rood and screen were added late in the 16th century. Probably by a wealthy merchant. Upper Kingsleigh and its environs benefited from various industries as they rose and fell. Wool trade, taking the waters, milling, coal mining. As the wealth accumulated in pockets, it slowly trickled into the church. But we’ve had the devil of a time of late reinstating the church to its proper condition. Honestly! What those Victorian architects destroyed when they ‘restored’ the altars and gallery! But we’ve got it put to rights now. You must see our parclose screen, Sergeant.”

  I murmured I would love to, but thought I’d not have the chance. Lyle bubbled on. “Magnificent carving! But here we are, now. Climb’s getting a bit longer each morning. But that’s old age for you. Now, then.”

  Lyle bent to remove a damp leaf from the top of his shoe before following us through the lychgate. Its squeak mingled with the shrieks of the retreating birds. It also startled me, for I snapped my head toward the sound, expecting another Guy magically dancing before my eyes.

  Graham noticed my unease. His eyebrow raised in silent puzzlement before he refocused on Lyle’s unceasing chatter. ”It’s a shame this has happened to them.” Lyle lapsed into a recital of the couples’ volunteer involvement in the village, then said, “There’s time enough for a memorial if they’d like one. Or a hymn or prayer at service next week.”

  “I always thought Blest Be the Dear Uniting Love is an uplifting hymn,” I said, afraid to look at Graham. I know I blushed, for I could feel my face growing warm. “Such a healing text.”

  “How right you are, Sergeant!” Lyle bubbled. His face beamed, now that he had a musical soul mate.

  “Charles Wesley had a genius for expressing the sentiment succinctly.”