Deadly Thyme (30 page)

It was quite late
, and he knew the girl would be asleep. He would be very quiet. Undressing from the waist down, he examined the bruise forming over his hip and shook his head.
What to do?
He splashed cold water on the bruise. It would be better tomorrow, perhaps. It would have to be—a limp would give him away.

Then, he positioned himself over the tiny pool in order to place the object of his true loathing directly into the water. He writhed and groaned with the pain from the frigid water until he could stand it no more. He pulled away gasping. He glared down at his shrunken member and nodded. “Serves you right.”

The candlelight revealed several flashes of gold beneath the water. Amongst the gold pieces, four tiny white objects lay as if randomly cast. Four tiny white teeth. Their owner did not miss them.

38

Saturday

Day fourteen

J
on showered, dressed, and tromped down the stairs, looking forward to Mrs. McFarland’s fresh vegetables and farm eggs. Steaming chafing dishes lined the dining room’s sideboard. He carefully tipped their coverings back to check the contents: rashers of bacon, warm scrambled eggs, fried tomato, smoked herring; toast done to perfection slotted into a silver toast rack; homemade jams, butter, and clotted cream; boxes of cereal and bowls of muesli; and pitchers of milk and orange juice.

He shook out a linen napkin and laid it next to his place at the empty table. No other guests had made it downstairs as yet. This was lovely. He soon topped a full plate with a piece of toast and set it at his place. He poured a cup of hot coffee and sat down.

The door opened on silent hinges. “Oh Inspector!” Mrs. McFarland stuck her head in. “I’m so sorry. Excuse me. I was hoping you wouldn’t be disturbed after yesterday—I’m so sorry about that—but he said it was urgent!”

Mrs. McFarland had
“flustered” down to an art.

“
It’s alright. Who is it?” He laid his fork down.

“Mr. Trewe. He is here, in the guest
’s lounge.”

“Right.” Jon stood up.

“If you’d like, I’ll make you something fresh when you return.” She picked his plate up. “A policeman’s work is never done, isn’t that what they say?”

In the guest
’s lounge, Trewe was perched on the room’s one extravagance, a circular settee, complete with gaudy fringe, taking up the center of the room like a velvet mushroom.

Dark circles under Trewe
’s ice-blue eyes gave his pallid face a haunted look. He held up a sheet of paper.

“What is it?” Jon asked.

“A copy of a note stuck to my door this morning.”

Jon took the sheet and read, “
‘Birds of a feather, flock together, and so will pigs and swine. Rats and mice have their choice, and so will I have mine.’ Mother Goose again.”

“Yes.” Trewe did not look well. He winced and sat straighter, and collapsed forward with a groan, his face livid.

“What’s wrong?” Jon attempted to lay the man back but his knees came with him as if he was in a full body cramp. His eyes were closed. “Mrs. McFarland,” Jon shouted. “Call for an ambulance.”

Mrs. McFarland rushed into the room. “Oh
dear me! Not the old trouble.” She ran out of the room, shouting, “I’ll call for an ambulance.”

Trewe stirred. His eyes opened. “What
’s happened?”

Jon kept his hand on his shoulder. “Take it easy
, man.”

“I
’m fine. It comes and goes.”

“It?” Jon stared at Trewe. The man didn
’t answer; his eyes were closed again. “Mrs. McFarland!” Jon called, “The ambulance!”

“Ambulance?” Trewe
’s eyes opened. He struggled under Jon’s arm.

“Relax, man.”

“Don’t you dare! No ambulance!” Trewe sputtered. “If I need to go to hospital, I can bloody well drive there on my own. Leave off!” He pushed Jon away.

“You
’re not well.”

“I
’m fit as a bloody fiddle.” Halfway to an upright position, he bent over double with a groan. “Bugger all!” he said, in a choked whisper. “Damn it to hell! I’ll die in hospital!”

It didn
’t take long before an ambulance screeched to a halt outside the inn. Though bent double, Trewe insisted he walk to the stretcher. He complained the entire time. “I’ve things to do! This investigation needs me. Who’ll feed the chickens?”

Though he
did
wonder about the chickens, Jon assured him he would see to everything. As the ambulance doors closed, he heard Trewe yell, “Call Perstow!”

Jon shook his head and ran both hands through his hair. Trewe had the entire department on edge. All the noise in the world couldn
’t disguise it; the man was scared to death. Why was that?

Trewe
’s well-being had now become a priority among many priorities. Which would be the urgent and which would be the immediate? And which of the immediate urgent would become the most important? He would follow the ambulance south to the hospital to make certain Trewe was well and settled. On the way to the hospital he passed the morgue. It wouldn’t take a minute to stop and check on Tavy’s postmortem.

Pathologist Roger Penberthy held a jar of orange opaque liquid up to the light as Jon entered. The man
’s white mustache bristled. “Sorry to hear about Peter.”

“How
’d word get out so quickly?”

The man pointed to the radio nearby and Jon saw the long insect-like antennae. “I listen to the calls. Like to know what to expect.”

Jon swallowed.
That’s morbid
.

The man spoke in a thoughtful manner, his blue-veined hand touching his chin. “Can
’t imagine what could be the matter with Trewe. He’s tough as nails. I’ll drop by on my way home. You asked about Mr. Tavish’s age? Nineties, and he’s been dead since last Saturday afternoon, I’d say.”

“How
’d you come to your timeline so exactly, Dr. Penberthy?”

“Insects, flies, you know
, cycle of life—we measure the stage of the insects in the body, and there you have it, to the day. Contents undigested of the stomach—egg—so his last meal was breakfast, I imagine.”

Jon
’s stomach rumbled in disgust. “I’ll take your word.”

“One more thing.”

“What’s that?” Jon asked.

“He didn
’t have long for this world anyway—a month, maybe two. Our time is in God’s hands. Who knows the hour?”

“You
’re saying?”

“He had lung cancer
—inoperable, metastasized to the lymph nodes, liver, and brain.”

Jon thanked the coroner and left. He wondered if Tavy
had known.

When Jon entered the hospital ward, he found Trewe sitting up in a bed at the end of a long row of beds, most occupied. Jon stopped at the end of Trewe
’s bed. With eyes closed, the man’s face looked almost peaceful. Trewe’s eyes opened.

Jon asked, “What
’s wrong with you?”

“What?” Trewe
muttered through cracked lips. “No preliminary small talk? No, ‘How are you? Glad to see you’re alive.’? You’d best be watching that. Someone may suspect you’d been hanging about with the likes of me.” Trewe grimaced, though it may have been a smile. “The doctors know damned little, and what they do know would fit in that shit bottle. Here and I thought it was my heart. They say no. They’ve got me on bloody awful clear liquids. Don’t happen to be carrying a spare pizza under that coat of yours? No? They’ll run tests tomorrow—early morning. Going on some horrid fast starting at midnight.”

“They
’ll get to the bottom of this, surely.”

“Don
’t say bottom. That’s one of the tests.” Trewe moved uneasily under the covers. Glancing around, he waved Jon closer. “The curtains have ears and I want information. They’ll figure something out about me by tomorrow. Can’t keep me in here too long taking up a bed. Have you learned anything new about Tavy’s death?”

Jon leaned in
and explained what the coroner had told him about Tavy. Then he said, “You’ve got my number. I’ll post a constable outside the ward’s door. No, don’t argue. The note taped to the door at your house this morning was addressed to you, not me. I’ll be around again this evening.”

“No, don
’t come. I insist.” Trewe fluffed his pillows. “I’ve arranged for you to take charge till I’m out of here. You’ll have plenty to do.”

Jon stared for a moment and then said, “Why?”

“Why do I leave an investigation such as this in your hands? Because I was too stubborn to listen to a capable and inventive young man.”

Jon was shocked speechless.

Trewe raised his voice, “But don’t expect an apology!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Just shake it up and see what falls out.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jon drove north to Perrin’s Point. From the hospital it was about an hour’s drive. His mind filled with lists of things to prepare for the general assembly’s direction tomorrow morning. He made verbal notes on his mobile. The blue posters requesting any information concerning Annie Butler were still tacked up on notice boards or on shop windows. Some were already in tatters.

He slipped in the back door of the police station and startled Perstow
who was going through papers on the desk Jon had been using which he had moved into the former holding cell.

“Oh! Sorry. Only straightening this for you.” Perstow continued picking up papers and putting them in piles. His ears flamed red.

Jon filed away his suspicions. “I understand there is a psychologist’s profile report. Is it here?”

“Yes. I was just seeing that.” Perstow went around the desk, reached over to one pile,
and glanced through quickly. “Not here.” Scratching his head, he went into the other room and came back with the report.

“Something wrong with your leg Perstow? You
’re limping.”

“Slammed the gate on a toe.” Perstow
’s blue eyes creased to a squint. Funny how his eyes receded into his face when he smiled, like a shark when feeding. “Thank you for your concern, sar.”

“I just met with DCI Trewe in hospital.”

“I was not surprised he put you in charge, sar.”

“Well, I was. He mentioned the investigation
’s been stepped up?”

“Combinin
’ Mr. Tavish’s murder investigation with Annie Butler’s. Trewe had already arranged several interviews with the murder’s team. Ye’ll be wanting to attend the last few?” Perstow took on the persona of an eager puppy.

“Yes. Any leads, anything new?”

Perstow’s face took on a tragic cast. “No, sar.”

“Thank you, then.” Jon dropped the papers to his desk. He didn
’t like a curt dismissal but he had so much to do before tomorrow. He reread the psychologist’s criminal profile, and likewise an analysis of Charles Darrin. Mother issues, yes. He was suspected of murdering his mother—slit her throat. What were the mother issues that would suddenly come into play here after being benign for so long? Was this why he was after Ruth Butler? What would he do if he got her? Kill her as he had his mother? Stands to reason.

He was surprised when he glanced at the wall clock. It was still morning. So much can happen in a moment. He picked up the phone and called the
incident room. He spoke to an officer and told him he wanted a twenty-four hour watch over Mrs. Butler.

He gave a quick perusal to the other reports that had accumulated. He gathered up the things he wanted to study further and added those to his briefcase to take with him. He put other reports in a stack. At the china board, he drew a diagram against an area map
, correlating the time and location of each incident into a rough timeline—the time he was entering the area, the moment that Annie was taken, the car bashing he received, the finding of the girl’s body in the surf, and the finding of Tavy’s body on the side of the cliff.

It was logistically possible for one person to have managed the harassment of Mrs. Butler and all of the other incidents. That is, if someone spent his entire time completely devoted to stalking her and tacking up mad lines of drivel on doors.

Just as Jon was leaving, he ran up against Perstow again. The man skulked soundlessly. If he were not such a jovial man he might be creepy.

“I just had the thought, s
ar,” Perstow said and handed two sheets of paper to Jon. “The DCI may have commented on what else we found on Tavy’s computer.”

Jon read aloud, “In marble walls as white as milk, and lined with skin as soft as silk, within a fountain crystal clear, a pail of wealth doth appear. No doors there are to this stronghold. No one can enter and steal my gold.
”

A pail of wealth, gold! Perhaps he should see the police commissioner about sending another officer to reactivate the fraud investigation of Trewe. But Trewe was as helpless as a baby in hospital. How could he be the killer? No, it wasn
’t Trewe. Someone else had wealth, but not enough to look suspicious.

Perstow rubbed his elbow and shook his head sadly. “If you don
’t need me, sar, Her Indoors has it in mind to create a garden patio of sorts. It is Saturday, an’ all.”

“Sounds like work to me.”

“It’ll get done drekly, or it’ll be the end of us. There’s the phone. I’ll just get that first.” Perstow scooted back into his office to answer the persistent ringing.

Jon was familiar with the local word
“drekly.” In the slow pace of life here, there were a lot of things done “drekly.”
Let us only hope murder is solved a lot quicker.
Jon tacked his timeline to the note-crowded china board. He would take this to the morning parade tomorrow.