Never Laugh as a Hearse Goes By: A Penny Brannigan Mystery (16 page)

Penny leaned forward to try to get a closer look at the bin man and then pointed at him. “Wait. That’s Chris. Chris Jones. That constable I like.”

“It is,” smiled Davies. “And he’s going to check the bin and…” He stopped to answer his phone. “Yes, all right. Got it. Good. Thanks.”

He turned to Penny. “Chris just picked up the EpiPen. It wasn’t in the bin when he photographed it a few minutes ago, so we know the warden dropped it in. We’ll have him doing that on CCTV as well. The EpiPen will be tested for fingerprints to make sure it’s Minty Russell’s, but I’m confident we’ll get the result we expect.”

He tipped his head. “Right, well, time to talk to the warden and listen to what he has to say.”

“May I come?”

Davies gave her a wry look. “I think you know the answer to that. You go downstairs and have a coffee, and I’ll join you in the Gladstone Room as soon as I can.” He was about to say something else when a knock on the door interrupted him. Davies nodded at Penny and made a little gesture toward the door. She opened it to find Chris Jones, changed out of his bin-man uniform and looking every inch a police officer.

“Coming, Jones,” Davies said. He turned back to Penny and repeated himself. “Wait downstairs. I’ll join you when this is over.” He took a couple of steps and then turned back.

“Why did you suspect him?” he asked.

“I realized his odd behaviour wasn’t because of his concern for the Library or what the bishop thought. It was guilt, pure and simple,” she said.

“Guilt?”

“The sleepwalking, hand wringing…”

Davies raised an eyebrow.

“Lady Macbeth.”

Twenty-six

The warden looked up in surprise as Gareth Davies entered his office.

“Good morning, warden. I’m afraid we’ve come to talk to you on a serious matter.” PC Chris Jones followed him into the room, holding a small notebook in one hand and a carrier bag in the other.

The warden looked from one to the other.

“Yes,” he said. “I was half expecting you. There seems to be no end to this. Please sit down, both of you.”

“I want to talk to you about the death of Minty Russell,” Davies began. “We interviewed you before, but in light of new developments, we need to talk to you again, and this time I want you to tell me everything you know about it.”

The warden’s eyes shifted to Jones, who remained standing, and then back to Davies.

“You want me to tell you everything I know about the death of the bishop’s secretary? I hardly knew the woman. She organized the conference that was held here, but until then, I’d never met her. We spoke a couple of times about conference arrangements but other than that…” He shrugged. “Sadly, while she was here she had an allergic food reaction. But was the food necessarily from our kitchen? Perhaps she ate something she had purchased somewhere else. Really, that’s about it. I don’t know how I can help you or what more I can tell you. I’ve told you everything. Several times, in fact.” He shifted uneasily in his chair. “I was told this morning that you, that is the police, now think her unfortunate demise was accidental. Is that not correct?”

Davies nodded at Jones, who removed a plastic evidence bag from the carrier bag. He handed it to Davies, who placed it on Fletcher’s desk and carefully smoothed it out so the warden could see the contents clearly.

“This is an EpiPen we recovered from the rubbish bin in the Library kitchen area about ten minutes ago. We saw you put it in the bin and you were photographed doing that. Now I’d like you to tell me how you came to have it in your possession.”

The warden’s shoulders sank as he sighed and leaned forward. He closed his eyes and his whole body went limp.

“I don’t know if I should say anything,” he said, finally.

“That’s entirely up to you. We can have a chat here or we can go to the police station in Buckley where I will place you under arrest, and at that time you’ll be cautioned and interviewed by trained officers. That’s the neat, tidy, official way of doing things and Jones and I are just fine with that, aren’t we Jones?”

Jones nodded. “We are, sir.”

“She wanted money,” Fletcher said in a low voice.

“How much money?” Davies asked.

“Not a lot,” Fletcher said. “Forty pounds a week, was what she said. But then she added, ‘to start’. So I knew it would never end, that she’d always be holding it over me.”

“Holding what over you?”

“I lied on my CV. I said I’d finished a masters degree in divinity at Oxford. She checked my references and called my old college. She found out I hadn’t finished my thesis and that the degree was never granted. But for some reason she told the bishop everything was in order and he approved my application as warden of this beautiful place.” He raised a hand and gestured toward the Library on the other side of the orange metal door. “This cathedral of books.” Fletcher’s eyes filled with tears as a haunted, painful silence filled the room.

“It was all I ever wanted,” Fletcher continued. “For thirty years I wanted this living, to live here and to be surrounded by all this beauty. And then she…” His voice broke and a choking sob caught in his throat.

“When did she present her offer?” Davies asked.

“On the first day of the conference, while we were having morning coffee in the Gladstone Room.” He raised his eyes to Davies and gave a derisive laugh. “After you had given your presentation. Oh, she was very coy. She said she knew about my master’s degree and that I could trust her not to say anything to the bishop. That she was sure we could come to a suitable arrangement. It was all very subtle, but there was no doubt what she was doing and what she was after.”

“And then what?”

“She said she’d give me some time to think about it and we’d talk again. So I went through the rest of the morning with that hanging over me. She was going to ruin me. I felt I had no choice but to get rid of her.”

“And how did you do that?” Davies asked.

“I saw the notice on the board in the kitchen about her food allergy and it was easy to get some salmon paste. The kitchen staff had been very careful with her food. They’re very good with allergies, and I’m sorry they’ve been implicated in this. It had nothing to do with them. I smeared the paste on some pieces of chicken. Anybody who tasted it wouldn’t have noticed it. It was about the same colour as the korma sauce. I didn’t know her allergy was that bad. I thought it would just make her sick and she’d have to go home and it would buy me some time to think. I wasn’t thinking straight. I couldn’t think what to do or how to get myself out of the mess.”

“Did you consider talking to the bishop and maybe offering to finish the thesis?” Davies asked.

“You must be joking. Have you spoken to him? He’s the coldest, most unforgiving person you could possibly imagine.” The warden spat out the words. “Talk to him?” Fletcher let out a snort of disdain. “Don’t make me laugh.”

“So how did you get the EpiPen out of her bag?”

“Oh, that was easy. She left her bag hanging on the back of her chair. I stopped by the table to ask if everything was all right and just took it. It was in a side pouch. I figured she’d keep it where she had easy access to it. After all, when you need something like that, you can’t waste time messing about looking for it, the way you and Bronwyn were.”

Fletcher thought for a moment. “Anyway, after I took the EpiPen, at that point I told myself it’s not too late, you don’t have to go through with this. But I felt myself caught up in something. It was almost as if something had been set in motion, something quite apart from myself, something I wasn’t controlling.”

A slow smile started to spread across his face.

“You know, I feel strangely better.” He put both hands on his shoulders, palms facing upward, and raised them. “Lighter. As if a terrible burden has been lifted from me. Well, they do say confession is good for the soul.”

He looked at Davies and let out a long, slow breath.

“I never knew anyone who was murdered and I never knew anyone who had killed someone. I always wondered what kind of person, an ordinary person, could kill someone. What forces would drive them to it? How would they feel afterwards? Could they live with themselves? And would it be worth it?” He placed his hands on the desk, one of top of the other. “And now I’m about to discover the answers to all those questions.”

Davies nodded. “Yes, you are.”

“But before you ask, Inspector, I didn’t kill that swine Shipton,” Fletcher said, his voice rising. “You’ve got to believe me. I didn’t kill Shipton. I was as appalled as everyone else. Maybe even more so.”

“No,” agreed Davies. “I don’t think you did have anything to do with Shipton’s murder. Your murder was simple and rather sloppy, if you don’t mind me saying so. You had no idea how bad her allergy was and how much or how little salmon paste would be needed to kill her. Very hit and miss. If her allergy had been less severe, then perhaps you would only have succeeded in making her ill.

“Your murder was not very well thought through. Anyway, someone once said that murder is for amateurs and killing is for professionals. Take poor Shipton, for example. Someone much more ruthless and cunning than you did for him. His murder was clinical. But tell me. You called him a swine. Why?”

“Because that’s exactly what he was. Everybody loathed him, especially the bishop. I heard that Blaine was getting ready to ask the archbishop to move Shipton to another diocese in another part of the country. Wanted to wash his hands of him. Couldn’t stand him. And then Shipton went and got himself killed, saving him a lot of bother.”

“What was the problem with Shipton? Why did the bishop dislike him so much?”

“He was a thorn in his side. Unmanageable. Thought the rules didn’t apply to him. Never handed anything in on time. Sloppy recordkeeping. The bishop is a real stickler for that sort of thing. Lives by process, does the bishop. Shipton just couldn’t be bothered. Took great pride in considering himself a rule breaker, but everyone just considered him a loose cannon.”

“How do you know this?”

Fletcher rubbed his red, swollen eyes. “All the rectors know it. It’s been going on for years. One wonders why the bishop put up with it as long as he did. I don’t even think Shipton was particularly religious. No idea why he went into the church. It’s not as if anyone has to, nowadays.” He let out a mournful, resigned sigh. “What happens now? About me, I mean?”

“I shall caution you and you’ll be taken in for questioning.”

“I expect I’ll go to prison.”

Davies gave a tight nod. “Yes, you probably will. Murder usually involves a custodial sentence.”

Fletcher took one last, longing look around his office, with its bare shelves still waiting for his books that would now never be displayed, and then stood up. “Right, well. I suppose this is when you put the handcuffs on me?”

“I don’t think that will be necessary, do you?” said Davies, as the three prepared to leave. “I expect you’ll come quietly like the gentleman you are.” He nodded at Jones, who opened the door.

“But I can’t help feeling all this has been such a shame,” Davies said. “Two lives destroyed. One lost and another in ruins. And in the end, for what? For nothing.”

With the warden placed in the back of a police car, Davies joined Penny. He found her gazing out a window of the Gladstone Room with its unobstructed view of the front entrance.

She turned to face him. “So he’s gone.” Davies nodded. “I don’t know how I’m going to tell Bronwyn,” Penny said.

“You don’t have to,” Davies replied. “I’ll do it. I’ve had lots of practice delivering bad news.”

Penny sat down in one of the brown leather chairs and Davies sat near her. “So what happens now?” Penny asked.

“The warden’s just given me some interesting information that means we can open a new line of inquiry. And we’re going to use it to find out who killed Shipton.”

Twenty-seven

“Where do we start?” asked Penny.

“We?” he asked, with a wry smile.

“Well, you’re the one who used the word ‘we’, so naturally I thought you meant us. Anyway, I’m here now, so I might as well be useful,” Penny replied.

“Very well. Let’s start with this.” Davies unfolded the note Penny had found in the Robinson Room with the three initials and amounts that she’d given to him earlier.

“Fletcher confirmed that Minty Russell was attempting to blackmail him, and this,” he said pointing at the list, “is exactly the amount she was asking for. So let’s assume she was also trying to blackmail the others on the list for these amounts. So PB here is Pamela Blaine. Minty thought she was good for eighty pounds. But who does the
S
stand for? Shipton?”

“Stephens?”

“Unfortunately, Shipton’s dead so we can’t talk to him. But it’s more likely Minty had something on him, and we need to find out what that was.”

“His boyfriend?” Penny asked.

“Sexual behaviour used to be first-rate grounds for blackmail, back in the cold war days, but not anymore. These days, homosexuality, adultery.… Who cares?

“Let’s consider Shipton as the
S
on Minty’s list. The boyfriend could factor into this. There could be something in his ethnicity.”

Davies flipped through the pages in his notebook. “Mr. Azumi Odogwu, he’s called. He may be in this country illegally and we’ll certainly ask our friends in the UK Border Agency to do a workup on him. We’ll also see if they have a landing address for him. We’ve been through Shipton’s residence, but there’s no sign of Mr. Odogwu.”

“Do we know where he lived?” Penny asked. “Well, Shipton lived in Abergele, so it’s likely Odogwu is or was also living there,” Davies replied. “We’ll find him, sooner rather than later, I hope. But the warden told me something interesting about Shipton. Said the bishop positively loathed him.”

“Did he say why?”

“He was difficult to manage and paid absolutely no attention to his paperwork.”

Penny laughed. “I’m sure there were times when the bishop said, ‘I could kill that Shipton,’ but he didn’t mean it. You don’t kill someone because they didn’t get the paperwork done on time. Otherwise, Victoria would have killed me ages ago. She’s always complaining how hard it is to keep on top of her monthly reports because I don’t submit receipts or expense claims on time.”