Holding asked in a despairing voice, âAnd it was worth killing one woman and trying to kill another to protect someone like your father?'
Dilys looked affronted. âYou haven't been listening! I told you about losing the cottage. How'd you like to lose your home? Besides, I thought perhaps I'd be in trouble because I knew about the women all those years ago, and didn't tell. I helped
bury the hiker, too. But that wasn't my choosing. It was Dad's idea.' Her gaze met Pearce's, level and almost serene. âNone of it was my choosing,' she said. âIt was all Dad.'
After a moment's silence, Pearce said hoarsely, âThank you for telling us about it, Dilys. You did the right thing.'
But Dilys had something to ask. âShall I go to prison?' She didn't sound worried, rather curious.
âIf you are convicted.'
âBecause I've been thinking,' Dilys said placidly. âNow Dad's dead, Kevin will have me out of that cottage for sure. But if I'm in prison for a nice long time, it'll be a roof over my head, won't it?'
âI'd like a word in private, Inspector!' snapped the solicitor.
In the corridor outside the interview room, the solicitor buttonholed Pearce with a fierce gleam in his eye. âI wish it to be made quite plain that my client spoke to you so freely against my advice. I warned her against making a confession and I shall be advising her to withdraw it.'
âWhy?' Pearce asked bluntly.
âGood heavens, man! Need you ask? Her reasons for making it are extremely suspect. She wants to go to prison because, as she put it, it will give her a roof over her head! If you expect to go to court on the basis of that confession, I should tell you I shall make sure that a jury knows that is her reason. If a judge hears her talking like that, he'll probably tell the jury to disregard it!'
Pearce was inclined to agree but didn't say so. Instead he said, âYou can't deny she attacked Miss Mitchell.'
âShe may have attacked her. She didn't kill her. That she
killed the other woman, Hester Millar, is something we only have her word for. The old father probably did it. He was always going in that church, she told me so. He liked to chat to the churchwardens of which Miss Millar was one. You can't rely on anything she's told you, and that's the top and bottom of it. As for that business of burying the hiker in the woodsâ'
âDon't tell me all that grisly detail came out of her imagination,' Pearce interrupted.
The solicitor looked momentarily disconcerted. âYes, well, we still can't believe that she witnessed it, just because she said so. The old man could equally have come back and told her about it. Just as he could have come home and told her he killed Hester Millar. Or possibly neither of them killed her. Can't you see, Mrs Pullen is desperate not to find herself homeless? Now her father's dead, she sees prison as a safe refuge. The woman's mind is scrambled.'
âWe'll leave it to a jury, shall we?' Pearce suggested.
The solicitor snorted. âThe whole taradiddle rests on the existence of that box of trophies.'
âWhich Miss Mitchell saw and can describe.'
âBut,' said the solicitor nastily, âcan't produce.'
Pearce eyed the solicitor suspiciously. âTell me, why are you so keen to get her off?'
âIt's my job,' retorted the solicitor silkily.
âThere's more to it than that.'
The young man gave him a dirty look. âAll right. She's poor and uneducated. She's middle-aged, unattractive and totally unaware of the impact of what she says. She was a battered child who grew up in fear under the thumb of that wicked old man. Despite her evasions, I believe he abused her and her
sister sexually when they were children and probably abused her after her mother's death. You'll have noticed she avoided straight answers to any question about that kind of abuse being inflicted on her either as a child or later. He beat the kids up, that's all she'd admit.'
Pearce said thoughtfully, âIf she doesn't want to tell, she won't. Don't plan on making that part of your defence.'
The solicitor fixed him with a glittering eye. âWhen people like her fall foul of the law and get into the system, they can't defend themselves. Everything they say or do makes it worse. They make a poor impression on a jury. Yes, I'm going to do my damnedest to get her off that murder charge! And you know perfectly well you have to do more than rely on a confession. You've got to have proof.'
He stalked off.
Pearce trudged upstairs to Markby's office. The superintendent looked up as he appeared and asked, âThings not going well, Dave?'
âLook at it this way,' returned Pearce gloomily, rubbing his jaw. âShe's confessed but it's just our luck that her solicitor is a crusader.'
He explained, summarising what had happened in the interview room.
âDoing his job, Dave,' said Markby. âLike he said. And we're going to do ours.'
âPatronising, public-school ponce!' growled Pearce. âSorry, sir, I meant the solicitor. I didn't mean you.'
âThank you, Dave. I appreciate you making that clear.'
âI mean,' Pearce pursued the point. âI don't suppose Dilys would have liked to hear herself described the way he described
her. Anyway, he's wrong. He's talking as if she's simple. She's not. She's a cold-blooded killer and she's what my grandma used to call as artful as a cartload of monkeys. She'd run rings round that solicitor any day if she put her mind to it. And now she's running rings round us.'
âYou mean the remark about wanting to go to prison,' Markby said.
âThat's it. Confession? It's worthless. She made it worthless the moment she said that about going to gaol to have a roof over her head. What's more, she knew it and didn't need the solicitor to tell her so!' Pearce snorted.
Markby nodded his agreement. âA confession without evidence to back it is, in any case, worthless. We must find that box with the old man's collection in it.'
âWe're turning that cottage inside-out,' Pearce protested.
Markby sat silent. The Potato Man had escaped justice. Left to the eager-beaver solicitor, the Potato Man's daughter might yet beat a murder charge, unless they could come up with some tangible evidence.
âAnd we had it,' he said softly. âWe had it and I didn't realise it. Jam! I had jam on my shirt cuff when I left that cottage. She was bending over the pedal-bin throwing something away. She was throwing away that pot of jam! If Ruth had just remembered, while I was talking to her at the vicarage, that Hester had been holding a pot of jam, I might have got on to Dilys straight away!'
It hadn't been the only indication. Hindsight was a wonderful thing and Markby reflected ruefully on what it was telling him now. Another image had filled his head, that of Dilys opening the cottage door to him when he came to seek her father and
her immediate declaration on seeing him that, âWe've got nothing to do with it!' He might well have asked her, there and then, with what? For Dilys hadn't been among the spectators at the church so how had she known what to deny? Of course, she might have popped her head out of her front door and a neighbour given her the news. But her denial, when she'd been asked no question, told its own tale. It was the reaction of her type to any suggestion she might be responsible for anything meaning trouble. He should have twigged that her defensive reaction to the mere sight of him meant she had something to hide, that the use of âwe' meant they both did, she and the old man.
There was a rap on the door. âSir?' It was Ginny Holding's voice, and seconds later her excited face peered round it. âSorry to interrupt but thought you'd like to know.'
Ginny wasn't without enjoying a moment of triumph. She paused then threw open the door wide so that she was revealed clasping a soot-streaked shoebox. âThey just brought it in, sir! They found it stuffed up the chimney. All the things are in there, the ring, everything.'
A smile broke on Markby's face. âWell done, Ginny.'
âGreat!' said Pearce in a muffled voice.
Markby looked at him. Pearce was holding his hand to his jaw again.
âFor crying out loud, Dave,' Markby said wearily. âSee a dentist about that tooth first thing tomorrow morning. And when you have, come in and see me. We've got another line of enquiry to open up.'
âWhat?' Pearce gazed at him baffled.
âCome on, Dave. You said yourself the woman is a cold-blooded
killer. Mr Pullen and his girlfriend, the barmaid, both disappeared overnight and were never seen again. Dilys never bothered to file for divorce. She wouldn't need to, would she, if she knew he was dead? Look, the same scenario has been replaying itself at that pub for weeks now. Norman Stubbings, tired of his wife Evie, has been fooling around with Cheryl Spencer. The difference is, Evie hasn't taken a kitchen knife to Norman â yet. Well, go on, then, get to it.'
Outside his office, a dismayed Dave Pearce turned to Sergeant Holding. âHe's not serious, is he, Ginny? I haven't got to dig up those bloody woods again?'
Roger was in the garden when Markby got out of his car before the old vicarage. Seeing a visitor, he let out hysterical barks of welcome and pounded towards the gate. When he reached it he stood on his hind legs, hung his huge paws over the topmost bar, and dribbled happily.
Markby patted his head, which seemed to drive Roger delirious, and told him, âI'm just coming to see your mistress, if you don't mind getting down off the gate.'
Roger barked expectantly and showed no sign of moving. He was too heavy to push. Fortunately, his owner had heard the commotion and was coming towards them.
âOh, it's you,' she said on spying Markby. âHang on, I'll let you in.' She threw her arms round Roger's neck and hauled him away from the gate. âCome on, then!' she panted.
Markby hurriedly open the gate, slipped through and closed it securely behind him. Roger wriggled furiously in the headlock Muriel Scott had on him.
âGo indoors!' ordered Mrs Scott. âThe front door's unlatched. When you're in, I'll follow and shut Roger out here.'
He wasn't sure quite how she was going to manage that. Markby opened the front door, went in, pushed the door back ajar, and waited in the hall. After a moment and sounds of combat the door flew open. Muriel catapulted inside and slammed the door in Roger's face. He responded by attacking it. His claws could be heard scraping teeth-grindingly on what was left of the paintwork.
âThere's no harm in him,' declared his breathless owner, leaning back against the door. âHe wants to be friends. The only reason he laid Dilys Twelvetrees out flat in the woods, the day she went for Meredith, was because he'd recognised her and wanted to say hello.'
âI'm very glad he did. He saved the day.'
âYou're sure Dilys killed Hester, then?' Muriel stared hard at him.
âI believe so and we'll work hard proving it.' He eyed her curiously. âMeredith told me that when you saw Hester dead in the church you appeared more surprised at the identity of the corpse than at its presence. Had you expected it to be someone else?'
She sniffed and said promptly, âNorman, from the pub. Either him or one of those daft girls he's always fooling with. I thought Evie might finally have snapped and taken a carving knife to him. I wouldn't have blamed her if she had.'
Surprised, Markby asked, âYou knew he took his girlfriends to the church tower?'
She had the grace to redden and avoid his eye. âNot exactly, well, I did suspect. His dad had been bell-ringer, you see. That would probably have given him the idea.'
Markby blinked. âAnd you said nothing?'
Mrs Scott rallied. âTo whom? To Evie? Didn't she have enough troubles? That family, Twelvetrees â Norman's mother was a Twelvetrees, did you know? They always did look on women as punchbags.' She met his gaze now. âOr worse,' she added.
There was a silence as both contemplated the crimes of the late Old Billy Twelvetrees.
Muriel Scott broke it to say, âI don't know why we're standing out here. Come in and sit down.'
He followed her into the untidy drawing room and took a seat on the horsehair sofa. Muriel flopped into an armchair and asked, âDo you want a cup of tea?'
âPlease don't bother. I really can't stay long. I felt I had to come and explain to you that we shan't be making an offer for the house.'
She gave a mirthless hoot. âI didn't think you would! After all that's happened? The last place Meredith wants to live is Lower Stovey, I should think.'
âShe isn't keen on the place, I admit.' She wasn't keen on the house, either, but if Muriel liked to think their objection was to the village, rather than the vicarage, that suited him.
âIf I don't sell it to you, I dare say I'll sell it to someone else eventually,' Muriel observed. âI'll have to bring the price down. Just so long as I get enough to buy a little place somewhere for me and Roger.'
âRoger would prefer the countryside, I imagine.'
âI wouldn't take him to the town. He'd hate it and so would I.' Muriel tapped her fingers on the arm of her chair. âYou know, years ago, when I came to this house to look after the Reverend Pattinson, I was really thrilled. I was widowed,
broke, homeless, rather as poor Dilys was after her husband bolted with the barmaid. But I'd better luck that she did. When they told me that Miss Pattinson, as she was then, had asked if I'd keep house for her father, it was like a miracle. I wrote straight away to accept. I met Miss Pattinson and the old reverend and we all got on like a house on fire. It seemed meant, somehow, that I should come here. He was no trouble, Reverend Pattinson. A bit absent-minded and living among his books, like I said. But he ate whatever I put in front of him, was always polite to me, followed instructions. If I told him to go and change his jacket he'd toddle off and do it. He was a nice old chap.'
âAnd you had relatives in the village, another reason to be here.'
She raised an eyebrow at him. âYes, I did. How did you know?'
âRuth Aston told me Martin Jones is your uncle. That he told her you were available to keep house and it was to him she made the suggestion you come here.'
âThat's right. But Kevin wrote me the letter because Uncle Martin wasn't used to writing letters. Kevin, of course, is my cousin. Not that I go over to the farm much. I can't take Roger there. He misbehaves all over the place. It's a funny thing. My Uncle Martin always said Old Billy had been the best farmworker he'd ever hired. The Reverend Pattinson never spoke badly of the family, either, because Mrs Twelvetrees had once been the cleaner here. But then, the reverend was a man who couldn't see what was under his nose half the time. He had a problem distinguishing between what was real life and what he'd like life to be. Do you understand me?'
âI do indeed,' Markby told her. âThere are a lot of people like that.'
âHe spent too much time with his head in books, that's what,' concluded Muriel.
âYou know,' Markby said to her, âI think I may have met you twenty-two years ago when I came to this house to talk to Mr Pattinson. A woman showed me into the study but to my shame, I can't remember if it was you.'
âIt would've been me but I don't remember you, either. I remember a copper coming to call about the rapes in the woods, but not his face.'
Markby said ruefully, âMy memory ought to have been jogged when you opened the door to Meredith and me and remarked we might have thought you the housekeeper. Not now you're not. But you were then. I should have remembered.'
There was a silence. Then Muriel added soberly, âSo it was Old Billy Twelvetrees, after all. It makes sense when you think about it, but when I remember him tottering up the village street with his stick â well, it's hard to adjust to it.'
âHe wasn't old then. He was fit, strong and sexually, he was frustrated. His wife was an invalid and marital relations had ceased. But he was also disposed to domestic violence. He saw no reason why he shouldn't take what he wanted elsewhere. He worked right alongside the woods. Yes, it does all make sense.'
âLiving here all those years among us,' Muriel shook her head. âKnowing what he'd done. I wonder he had the nerve. He couldn't have had any conscience.'
âI don't suppose he did. He was a nasty piece of work. Nor was he afraid his daughter, who alone knew what he'd been up to, would tell. She was cowed by his authority and frightened
of losing her home. Besides, if he'd left, where else would he have gone? This was his village, his was a local family. All his life had been spent here. He worked at the farm and had no other skills. He lived in a tied cottage. He'd lose all that. What's more, if he'd ever considered running away, he must have realised it would arouse suspicion in itself. That a man with his roots so firmly in Lower Stovey would suddenly pack his bags and go, that would have had tongues wagging. He kept his head. There were no suspicions of him. He stayed. In fact, he became pathologically afraid of leaving.'
Muriel nodded. âHe cheated us all at the end, too, didn't he?'
âUs?' Markby enquired gently.
She grimaced. âI do have a personal interest. I wasn't one of his victims, don't go thinking that! But I had other relations here besides Uncle Martin when I came. You investigated the Potato Man business. You'll remember Mavis Cotter.'
âI do. She was the first, or the first we knew of.'
âPoor kid. She was a sort of cousin of mine, too. In villages like this one, we're all pretty well related. Only I'm not kin to the Twelvetrees, thank God! Tainted bloodline that, if you ask me.' She looked up at him. âThey put Mavis away, you know, after that affair in the woods.'
âPut her away?' Markby was startled.
âYes, in an institution. Her mother reckoned she couldn't be responsible for her, not after what had happened. She said Mavis might go roaming off and something else happen to her. Mavis had no sense. Bit simple. But she was a nice girl, pleasant, hard-worker, biddable. Never any trouble. She had a very loving nature. But she couldn't look after herself. So, in the end, away she went. It was wrong, wasn't it, to do that to
her?' Muriel's sharp gaze rested on Markby's face.
âYes,' he said. âIt was wrong.'
âShe wasn't crazy. She wasn't a danger. She was just a bit backward and her mother couldn't cope with it. So away she went, locked up with a lot of strangers, looked after by strangers. She would have had no idea why. They did that in those days. It was as if they punished the victim.'
âI'm sorry,' he said.
âNot your fault,' she replied. âThat's life, isn't it? Something goes wrong and then things keep on going wrong. It can happen to anyone.' She looked thoughtful. âIt'd been nice if the police could've nabbed him back then. But at least we know what happened and people here know that poor Mavis didn't make it all up.'
âI'm glad,' Markby told her, âyou see it that way. It is, I suppose, some small consolation even for me.'
From outside came a dismal howl.
âI'll have to let him in,' said Muriel.
âI have to go. I have to pick up Meredith at the church and then we mean to look in on Ruth before we leave.'
Muriel scowled alarmingly not, as it turned out, in wrath but at the working of memory. âRuth, glad you reminded me. Tell her, will you, that I've got some papers of her father's for her. I've been turning out. Got to, now the place is up for sale.' She gestured vaguely towards the study. âI should have put everything of his together when he died and handed it all to his daughter then. But Ruth wasn't living here then, so I pretty well left everything where it was. Later Ruth did move back here with Gerald, her husband. He was a nice bloke,' Muriel added in parenthesis. âPity he didn't last long. Cancer, you
know. Anyway, I remember I told Ruth I had some stuff here if she wanted it and she said something about coming over and going through it all. But she never did, what with Gerald being ill and so on.'
âI'll tell her. What sort of papers are they?'
A sniff greeted this. âWhat he used to call his research. He was very keen on ancient legends and that sort of thing. He had a bee in his bonnet about the Green Man. Hang on.' Muriel got up and lumbered out of the room. After a moment she returned and handed Markby a battered cardboard folder. âThis is a typical example. Give it to Ruth, will you, so she can see the sort of thing it is. Tell her there are another three boxes full of it.'
There was another amiable battle with Roger on the way out. Markby got into his car and put the folder on the front passenger seat. He reached out with the ignition key, but then curiosity overcame him. He flipped open the folder and pulled out the top sheet. It was hand-written in a cramped, old-fashioned style.
âYesterday my wife persuaded me to go with her to a garden centre. I was surprised to find there (among all the other very expensive ornaments for gardens) a plastic mask of the Green Man. Or that's what it claimed to be. It should have been labelled as foliate head, because its expression was far too benign for the old Green Man! It looked quite jolly. Where were the sly features or the tormented ones? Where the eyes filled with ancient wickedness and the knowledge of unspoken, dreadful sin?'
Markby pushed the sheet back into the folder. The late Reverend Pattinson had been misled. Because features were benign, it didn't mean some awful memory didn't lurk behind them. Only consider Old Billy Twelvetrees, a mischievous old
fellow, a local eccentric, but no harm in him to all outward appearances. But unspoken sin? Oh, yes!
Meredith had left Alan to tell Muriel Scott they didn't want the house. She hadn't wanted to rehearse the episode in the woods again. She was grateful to Muriel and grateful to Roger but it wasn't something she wanted to relive.