Landscape with Corpse, page 7
‘Then I came out myself…and got down as far as the bridge, and there was somebody—behind me—I glanced hack. A woman came, from the market-place. Came and walked round to where Jennie was…Jennie was…and then back. But running and then there was a lot of noise and shouting and screaming, from the market-place…screaming…’
‘So you went back to have a quick peep—to see what all the fuss was about?’ I asked, that being what I could not have resisted. Then, at her blank stare, and her eyes bright and wild in her ashen face, I prompted, ‘Did you walk round to Jennie’s spot—and actually see—’
‘Oh, yes, yes! Philipa…’ The fingers clawed at my arm again. ‘And she was lying there, blood in her lovely hair. She must have been dead. Easel knocked over. Must have been dead.’
‘That need not actually be so,’ I told her. ‘Then what did you do?’
She was becoming impatient. ‘How do you mean, Phillie? For heaven’s sake…’
‘What did you do then?’ I persisted.
‘I ran back here.’
‘Over the bridge, then. Did you see anybody ahead of you, on the bridge, or even over the other side of it.’
‘No—yes—I don’t know. You’re just confusing me…’
I could see she was close to collapse. ‘Have a drink of your fruit juice, Elise. And a bite of your sandwich. There’s nothing any of us can do except sit and wait.’
She did as she was told, nibbling cautiously at a sandwich. Gradually, the shaking eased and the eyes shed their bright desperation. She drank her fruit juice.
‘We’ll have to tell Geoff,’ she whispered eventually, producing a fact that I had not considered. Of course we would.
‘I’ll go and see to that,’ said Oliver. ‘The rest of the group will have to be told, too.’
‘Oh…don’t go,’ Elise whispered, too late though, because he’d already disappeared into the greenery.
‘I’ll stay here with you,’ I assured her. ‘And we’ll just have to wait.’
There seemed to be no point in doing otherwise. But restraining Elise was difficult, as she wanted to be with the rest of our group, with Geoff. So I suggested that we should move out into the open, where at least we might detect movement of one sort or another.
This we did, leaving all our belongings behind, and picked our way through the trees, just in time to see Oliver hurrying back.
We stopped. We waited.
6
He had been running, and was short of breath, but eventually he managed to say, ‘It’s worse than we thought, Phil. It’s Pam, love. She’s dead, too. Geoff’s just found her.’
Elise clutched frantically at my arm.
‘Oliver…you’re sure?’ I asked.
‘I got a peep, Phil. A quick look. It’s Pam, and she’s dead, and it looks like a blow to the back of her head. There’s a length of old post…’ He shrugged. ‘Let’s get back to the coach.’
Elise clung heavily to my arm, mumbling and sobbing, and Oliver had to help me with her. She was instantly brighter.
We reached the coach. Larry sat stolidly behind the wheel. Geoff stood stiffly by the steps.
‘How long since you found her?’ Oliver asked.
‘What? Pam? You mean Pam?’
‘How long?’
‘But you said, Jennie.’ Geoff looked round wildly, as though searching for Jennie. Elise was now clinging to my arm, her fingers digging into the flesh.
‘Jennie’s dead, Geoff,’ Oliver said quietly. ‘Poor Elise has seen her. But—about Pam. You haven’t answered.’
‘What…what?’
‘How long since you found her, Geoff?’
‘Oh…just before you came. Ten minutes, say. You did say Jennie? Jennie as well? It can’t be…’ And he watched while Oliver nodded.
Geoff didn’t know where to look, at the trees in desperation, or at Oliver with some kind of hope that he could take it all off his hands.
‘I saw Pam earlier,’ Geoff went on. ‘She was all right, then. Sketching an outline. Oh God!’ Frantically, he rubbed his hands over his face.
‘Show me again, Geoff,’ said Oliver. ‘But keep behind me. You too, Phil, if you want to come.’
‘Of course I want to come.’
Geoff led the way with confidence, though I could not detect any break in the trees, until we came close. ‘This way,’ he said.
‘I remember now,’ Oliver said, and Geoff fell back. Thankfully.
The path was quite long, and eventually opened out on to a fair-sized flat area. Oliver paused, then stood and stared at what was there to see. I was at his shoulder.
Pam was lying face down beside her overturned stool. Pastels were scattered around her. The easel had been knocked over when she had fallen, and her painting, dog-clipped to a thin board, lay face upwards beside her. Above and slightly behind her right ear the skin was broken, and blood had run down beneath her chin. Her right hand was palm down on the grass, and a white pastel pencil peeped out from between her fingers.
A two-foot length of wood, two inches square and rotted at one end, lay beside her. There was blood on the solid end.
Oliver crouched. Cautiously he fingered through her hair and felt the neck beneath the curve of her chin. Tried again, then turned his head up to face me.
‘She’s dead, Phil,’ he said quietly. ‘I can see broken bone in the laceration. It was a vicious blow. Vicious.’
He made a move as though about to get to his feet, then changed his mind and reached over to touch the surface of the painting, and looked at his fingertip. When he rose to his feet he said, ‘She’d finished her painting, Phil, and she’d spray-fixed it.’
I just nodded. I couldn’t understand what he wished to imply. He gave the scene a last, comprehensive appraisal, and turned to leave.
Geoff was close behind me. ‘Is she…’ he whispered.
‘She’s dead,’ Oliver said flatly. He led the way back to the coach, and when he got there he asked, ‘Has this thing got a radiophone?’
Geoff was bemused, and stared numbly. Then he understood. ‘Oh yes.’
‘Have you called the police?’ Oliver raised his eyebrows. ‘No? Then you’d better do it. Just tell them Pam’s dead and that it looks like violence.’
But Larry, still sitting quietly behind the wheel, was already using the phone. Geoff managed to get himself up the steps, and clambered past Larry, hunting for somewhere he could sit. He had glanced emptily at Elise, who was sitting just at the foot of the steps on one of the folding stools. She tried to smile at him, but it was a poor effort.
I followed Geoff into the coach. He allowed himself to slump into one of the seats. I sat beside him.
‘Geoff,’ I said gently, ‘I’m afraid you haven’t heard it all. There’s more. It’s Jennie. Surely Oliver told you. Poor Elise went along there, to the Ladies, and saw her. Jennie’s dead, too. No…it’s no good shaking your head like that. It’s a fact. Elise saw Jennie lying there. And the way she told it—there’s a good reason to believe she died in much the same way as Pam. A blow to the head.’
‘Oh God…no!’ He stared wildly at me. ‘And Elise actually saw her?’ This seemed to be the fact that really shocked him.
‘Yes. And lying much as Pam is, from what Elise told us.’
‘Oh hell. Poor Elise!’
‘I’ll have to go to her,’ I said. ‘We can’t leave her sitting out there alone…and brooding.’
He nodded numbly. I edged my way back into the open air. She was sitting still where I’d seen her last, on a stool, head hanging low, with Oliver standing beside her.
‘It’s true, then?’ she whispered.
I nodded. ‘Yes, Elise. It’s all horribly true. Both Pam and Jennie dead. It’s a terrible fact, but it’s happened.’
‘Yes.’ Her voice was toneless. ‘I suppose.’
I looked round for Geoff. He was right behind me. ‘Can you find her a drink, Geoff?’ I asked. ‘Something alcoholic.’ But Geoff simply stared at me emptily.
‘I’ve got a drop of brandy,’ Larry said. ‘For emergencies,’ he added, catching Geoff’s eye. He produced a quarter bottle with an inch left in it, and poured a little into a plastic cup. He handed it to me, and I crouched to hold it to Elise’s lips. She spluttered as I heard Oliver say, ‘Is there any way to get down that cliff, Geoff? Without having to go through Pam’s place, I mean. just for a quick look round, and before the police get here.’
Geoff shrugged. ‘Any space you can find to get through the trees. But why—’
‘Something I want to look for.’
Oliver can be very annoying sometimes, going all secretive. He caught my eye. ‘There’s something missing from Pam’s site,’ he told me, ‘something that should be there, and isn’t.’
‘Then leave it for now, Oliver,’ I said.
He simply smiled at me. ‘Give me a pip on your horn the moment you get a sight of a police car, Larry,’ he said.
Then he hurried away towards the tree barrier, choosing a gap twenty yards from Pam’s entry point. How very annoying of him! ‘They’re a hell of a time getting here,’ grumbled Geoff.
Now Oliver’s words echoed in my mind. Something missing that ought to be there. If he thought he was going to play guessing games with me, he was shortly to be hearing a few things about his character that a wife, however new, might feel free to express.
They came from the direction of the estuary, bumping up the track we had used, a single police patrol vehicle, with its flasher working, but no siren.
‘Larry!’ I said, and he gave the horn a single pip. Half a minute later, Oliver appeared from beneath the trees. He was a little short of breath.
‘You cut that a bit fine,’ I told him, but he simply shrugged. ‘And where have you been,’ I asked, ‘and why?’
He made no answer at once, and instead had a question for Geoff. How very infuriating!
‘Did you get a good look at that painting of Pam’s, Geoff?’ he asked.
‘I looked.’ Geoff seemed ashamed to admit it.
‘And did it seem that she’d finished it?’ Oliver persisted stolidly.
‘What? I don’t know. Well, yes. Finished. Pam’s usual attention to detail—the light slanting through the trees. Her speciality.’ Oliver considered that for a moment, then he went on, ‘So you’d say she managed to do such a perfect job of it—’
Geoff cut in sharply. It was clear that he hadn’t really been listening. ‘They’re here, Oliver. Talk about something else.’
Oliver gave him a wry look, probably wondering why it should matter what they were talking about.
We watched as the police car drew up, a few yards away. Two uniformed men got out, one a sergeant.
‘What’s all this, then?’
He would have been well aware that there was already a murder in the town. A second violent death would seem to be an unlikely coincidence. But nevertheless, it had to be investigated.
‘Where?’ the sergeant asked.
‘I’ll show you,’ Oliver offered, as Geoff obviously didn’t wish to. ‘Stay with the car.’ The sergeant shot a glance at the driver. ‘I’ll be right back. Now…’ To Oliver. ‘Show me.’
By this time, I was beginning to feel a little left out of things, what with Oliver’s something missing, and now the sergeant’s complete ignoring of me. But…
‘My wife had better come along,’ said Oliver, detecting the light in my eye.
‘We don’t need…’ The sergeant was dismissive.
Oliver cut in quickly. ‘To observe things that we men might miss,’ he explained. ‘Feminine things. It’s a woman who’s dead.’
The sergeant glanced at me doubtfully. ‘Come if you want to. And watch where you put your feet.’ But he clearly wasn’t happy about it.
Oliver led the way, followed by the sergeant, then me. The scene had not changed, but now I paid more attention to the painting, as something about it seemed to have attracted Oliver’s attention. And it really was a splendid piece of work, full of the detail that one didn’t expect from pastels. But she had pencil pastels, a white one still clutched in her hand, and it was with these that she had managed to catch the sunlight rippling on the water and slanting through the trees, which ran unbroken from here to the estuary.
‘Chalks?’ said the sergeant. ‘She’d been drawing with chalks?’
‘Pastels,’ Oliver corrected stiffly. ‘And it’s painting, not drawing.’
The sergeant took no notice of that.
I cast my gaze around, but I couldn’t imagine what it was that Oliver had said should have been there, and was not.
‘You know her name?’ The sergeant glanced at me as he got to his feet.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It’s Pamela Wilton.’
‘Mrs Pamela Wilton?’ He had noted her ring.
‘Yes,’ I said. Oh Lord—and we ought to have let Paul know.’
Nobody had thought about that.
‘Her husband—where?’ he asked.
‘He’s busy painting.’ I pointed back towards the estuary. ‘Back there.’
‘And nobody’s told him…’
I shook my head. ‘It’s been a great shock. Nobody thought to.’
He drew himself up to his full height. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
We threaded our way through the trees and back to the patrol car. The sergeant went to use its radio.
‘Well?’ Oliver asked me.
‘Well what?’
‘Did you spot what ought to be there, and isn’t?’
I suddenly felt very tired. ‘Let’s not play games, Oliver, please.’
‘She’d finished her painting and she’d spray-fixed it. So—where’s her spray-can?’
I shrugged. He could be so very irritating. ‘She threw it away. Perhaps over the edge of the cliff.’
‘No. I had a good search, and the tide’s far enough out not to have floated it away. Quite simply, it’s been taken away.’
‘But why?’ I demanded. ‘Are you saying that the person who killed her took her spray-can away? There’s no sense in that.’
He shrugged. ‘There has to be a reason.’
I now understood what was worrying him—and was now worrying me. To have taken it away would have been a deliberate action, and therefore it mattered.
‘Somebody’s coming,’ said Geoff suddenly. A red Rover was approaching, and drew up twenty yards away. A door opened, and from it came a man in a smart charcoal-grey suit. He was a slim six foot two. He approached the sergeant.
‘You’re sure about this, Sergeant?’
‘It’s obvious, sir. Head bashed in with what looks like a fence post. It’s lying beside her.’
‘Have you got on to the SOCO?’
‘No sir. Left the decision to you.’
‘Then I’ve decided. Contact him, and let’s have the team here, and on the job. Who can show me?’ he asked, looking round at our, no doubt, set faces.
‘This chap here,’ said the sergeant, indicating Oliver. ‘He was the one who found her.’
I nudged Oliver, who cleared his throat. ‘That’s not quite correct. Mr Davies, here, he found her. We’re a group from the college, a painting group, and Mr Davies is our tutor. On a routine check of how his students were doing, he found the dead woman. Pamela Wilton, her name is. He fetched me, and I checked she was dead.’
‘I hope to God you know what you’re doing. I’m Superintendent Llewellyn. D.S. You know what that is?’
‘I do,’ Oliver assured him. ‘I’m ex-police. That’s why—’
‘I know, I know,’ said Llewellyn. ‘Show me.’
His eyes were grey, and rather deep-set and penetrating, yet with lines from them that suggested a sense of humour. His eyes now scanned the scene before him, the coach, Larry and Geoff, Elise sitting on her stool, her face still swollen and flushed—and me. ‘Hmm!’ he said. ‘Let’s go and have a quick look.’ His eyes swept over our group, and centred on me. ‘And this is?’
‘My wife, Philipa. I’m Oliver Simpson. And that’s Geoff Davies, our tutor.’
‘Show me then.’ His head jerked to Oliver. He knew whom he wanted.
I allowed them to get on with it without me. I’d seen enough of poor, dead Pam.
They threaded their way out of sight through the trees. I didn’t expect a long visit, as the superintendent, at this stage, would require nothing more than a quick look round, to get a general impression.
They spent only a few minutes on it, and emerged in close conference. Llewellyn was saying, ‘So the dead woman, here, has a husband who chooses to do his painting elsewhere?’
He seemed to be addressing this to me, but I said no more than a simple ‘yes’, and gave him a sad smile.
‘In solitude,’ he suggested, ‘she could concentrate, and clearly she was able to take advantage of her seclusion, because she was obviously good at it—and I’m no expert. What was I saying?’
He would never, never lose touch with the trend of his own thoughts, but he clearly derived a dry amusement at his own expense.
‘You were saying’, I supplied, ‘that Pam Wilton—the dead woman—has a husband somewhere in the vicinity. Yes—and he is. Not far away,’ I clarified. ‘By the estuary.’
‘Then I propose that you and I—and your husband if he wishes—should walk to where he’s hiding himself—’
‘Not hiding,’ I said positively, although Paul had not shown himself, and he must have heard the activity, and might even have caught glimpses of the flashing blue lights shining through the trees. Yet he seemed not to have investigated. Too involved with his own work, no doubt. ‘Shall we say that he cherishes his solitude?’ I pointed back towards the town. ‘You passed him on your way here.’
‘Then I suggest that you show me where.’
He began to walk away, shepherding me along with a gesture. Oliver fell into step, and Llewellyn glanced at him, but made no comment. ‘Let’s hear what he’s got to say for himself, and why he wasn’t sitting with his wife.’
‘I don’t think they ever did work together,’ I told him, then realised that it was a reflection on their marital relationship. Trying to mend fences, I went on, ‘I understand that this is usual. All the other painters, they like to paint, and don’t usually care for company.’
