Dry Bones (16 page)

‘Oh, yes. I knew what she was like. She used to walk by this house on her way to and from the village shop. She had a sweet tooth, you see, and she was very fond of Alice's cakes. As I told you, Vera was very smitten with her. Besotted is the word. Poor Alice was extremely upset.'

‘So I gather.'

‘The shop is a hotbed for gossip, of course, but I hardly ever go there myself – it's too expensive for me. I go to a supermarket in town instead, once a month in my old car.'

‘You hear all the gossip, nonetheless?'

‘It comes to me, Colonel. I spend a lot of time working in my garden and people often stop to talk at my gate as they pass by. They don't like me much, but they use me as a sort of listening post. I hear most of what's going on in the village.'

‘Did Gunilla ever stop to talk to you?'

‘No. I was of no interest to her. But, one day, when she was going past, I stopped
her
and told her exactly what I thought about her behaviour.'

‘And what did she say?'

‘She said I was a frustrated old maid and told me to mind my own business.' Miss Simmons stirred her coffee briskly. ‘There was another occasion when she spoke to me, Colonel. I may as well tell you about it. I know I can trust your discretion.'

For the second time in a single day his discretion was on the line.

‘Of course.'

‘Some time later, when she came by, she called me over to the gate. I thought at first that she might be going to apologize for her rudeness but, of course, she wasn't. Instead, she said that she had something to tell me. Something I ought to know.'

‘What was that?'

‘She told me that a man had come into the Golden Pheasant who had been one of my pupils at the village school, many years ago. She said that he'd told her all about how I'd beaten him until he bled and that I'd taken a perverted pleasure in it. He said that I'd done the same to other children in the school as well but they were all too frightened to tell anyone. Then she said that she was going to tell all the people in the village because they should know how wicked I was.'

‘And what did you say?'

‘I told her to do what she damned well liked. I told her nobody would believe a word of it and that she'd made the whole thing up. Of course, she laughed at me – the same way she laughed at everybody. It wasn't me that was wicked, Colonel, it was her.'

‘What happened, then?'

‘She disappeared.' Ester Simmons gave him a dry look. ‘And I don't deny that I was extremely glad to see the back of her. But that doesn't mean that I murdered her. I can assure you that I didn't.'

Crispin Fellows might have been on the right track, he thought. Caning children had been common enough in those days; six of the best had been perfectly normal. But perverted pleasure taken in it was a different matter altogether.

‘You do believe me, don't you, Colonel?'

‘Yes, of course.'

But he wasn't sure if he did. Or if he didn't.

C
ornelia was having lunch with a friend, which gave the Colonel a perfect excuse to stop at the Golden Pheasant to sample some more of their home cooking and Edward Maplin's ale. Sausage and mash was on the menu: a good old English dish, the kind he liked best.

He ordered it from Kevin and took his pint over to the corner table where he had sat before. Betty Turner brought a mat, cutlery and a proper napkin.

‘Nice to see you again, sir. You're getting to be quite a regular.'

He smiled. ‘Not for much longer, I'm afraid.'

‘Well, I'm sure Mrs Heathcote's been very thankful to have your help.' She moved a step closer and lowered her voice. ‘The police came to ask me more questions.'

‘Oh?'

‘They wanted to know if I knew what Gunilla's suitcase looked like.'

‘Do you?'

‘Well, I only went into her room a couple of times and I can't really remember. It was dark blue, I think, and cheap, like cardboard. Anyway, it was gone when I came back from helping with my grandson. There wasn't anything at all left of Gunilla's in the room. Nothing. I know that because Mrs Barton asked me to give it a good clean. I was amazed that Gunilla had cleared it out so thoroughly, considering how lazy and messy she always was, and with her leaving in such a hurry. Mrs Barton told me she went the same day that Mr Barton gave her the sack. Couldn't wait to be out of the place.'

‘What did Mrs Barton think of Gunilla?'

‘I don't know. She never said. She always kept her opinions to herself. I suppose she had to put up with her, seeing that she couldn't help her husband like he needed. Not that Gunilla ever did much work. Between you and me, I think Mr Barton only hired her in the first place because he thought she'd be good for business. The pub hadn't been doing too well before Gunilla arrived on the scene. Once word got around about her, everything changed and the customers were flocking in.'

‘How did Mr Barton treat her?'

‘Well, he'd be angry with her when she hadn't done something she was supposed to do, but she'd get away with it, every time. She'd peep round her hair at him, like she did with all the others, and she'd laugh at him.' Mrs Turner gave the linen napkin a tweak. ‘Of course, men are all the same.'

The Colonel rather hoped that he was included in this sweeping statement; it would be nice to know that, for once, he was not considered entirely trustworthy.

‘Do you mean Mr Barton was attracted by Gunilla?'

‘Oh yes. He didn't show it – he wasn't that kind of man – but I could tell that he was. And she'd have known it. She flirted with him, like she did with all the rest. Of course, she was just leading him on. Playing her games. He wouldn't have been at all her type.'

‘What exactly was her type?'

‘Hard to say. But she liked them to be a bit of fun.'

‘And Mr Barton wasn't fun?'

‘He was overworked, poor man – running a pub's a very hard job – and there was always Mrs Barton's health to worry about. I felt sorry for him.'

The sausage and mash, when it came, was accompanied by a rich onion gravy and mushy peas. And, praise God, Betty Turner even remembered the Colman's English mustard.

Afterwards, he walked on towards the house, thinking over what Betty Turner had told him. Inspector Rodgers had dismissed the Bartons as of no consequence to the investigation: Mrs Barton being a sick old lady and Mr Barton beyond communication in his grave. The Colonel was not so sure he agreed. The Bartons could hold the key to what had happened to Gunilla. And why.

He arrived at the house at the same time as Cornelia returned in the Range Rover from her lunch. She was in high spirits and he realized that she was rather drunk.

‘Pour me a brandy, will you, Hugh? I feel like celebrating.'

He fetched the decanter and a glass, poured the five star brandy and lit her cigarette.

‘What are you celebrating, Cornelia?'

‘Getting rid of this bloody place. Henry Willoughby called me to say they've already got someone interested.'

‘That's fast.'

‘Well, they know what they're doing. He's bringing them here tomorrow. They're Dutch, apparently. They grow tulips in a big way. I don't care if they're Hottentots so long as they buy it.' She took a gulp at the glass. ‘Won't you join me, Hugh?'

‘No, thanks.'

‘Well, sit down, at least. Don't just stand there. My God, I'll be rid of Gunilla Bjork at last! I can forget all about that horrible bitch.'

He said, ‘Not quite yet. Her murder hasn't been solved.'

‘And it probably won't be, will it? How can the police ever find out? It's been too long. Too late. They don't care anyway. Nobody does. She wasn't worth caring about.'

He watched her take another gulp. ‘You never told me about the Bartons, Cornelia.'

‘Who?'

‘The couple who employed Gunilla at the Golden Pheasant.'

‘Oh,
them
. What about them? There was nothing to tell except that they weren't very good at running a pub, poor things. In fact, they were useless. You've got to know what you're doing these days – like Henry Willoughby.'

‘Apparently, Roy Barton fell for Gunilla.'

‘Well, I expect he did. I mean, there she was flaunting herself like crazy and he had an invalid wife . . . Of course he did. But Gunilla wouldn't have bothered with him, except to tease him. He was a very dreary sort of man.'

‘No fun?'

‘No fun at all. And she liked fun, God rot her! Well, she did rot, didn't she? Down to her bones.' Cornelia emptied her glass. ‘I think I'll go and lie down for a bit, Hugh.'

‘That's not a bad idea.'

She started up the circular staircase, clinging with both hands to the steel rail, and he called after her.

‘By the way, I'll be out tomorrow.'

She stopped and turned round. ‘All day?'

‘Yes, all day.'

‘But you'll be back by the evening?'

‘I should think so.'

‘Where are you going, Hugh?'

He said firmly, ‘That's my business, Cornelia.'

He took the scenic route to Poole, across country, and stopped at a small pub for some lunch. Neither the beer, nor the food was a patch on what the Golden Pheasant provided but it was a friendly place and he was able to sit outside in the sun.

A phone call ahead to the General Hospital at Poole had confirmed that Mrs Maureen Barton was a patient there and that afternoon visiting was allowed between three and four thirty p.m. To kill time, he went down to the harbour and watched the sailing boats coming and going on the water and breathed in the salty air.

He could understand why Alice and Vera were attracted by the idea of living by the sea. If he had been a navy man, he might have done so himself instead of retiring to a landlocked village. As Vera had rightly said, there was something clean and honest about it, and he also felt that it imparted a kind of mysterious solace to the soul. A panacea for all troubles. Fortunately in England, the sea was never very far away. It was always there to commune with, if one felt the need.

He returned to the hospital and followed the signs for the ward.

At its entrance, he asked a nurse where he could find Mrs Barton. She was nothing like Miss Simmons's sister in the photograph. No starched cap or apron, just a shapeless nylon overall.

She frowned. ‘You're not another of those CID people, are you?'

‘Definitely not.'

‘Because the one that came before upset her.'

‘I promise that I won't.'

‘She hardly says anything. And she wouldn't talk to the police sergeant at all. Not a word.'

‘Perhaps I might have better luck.'

She assessed him with a professional glance. ‘Well, she doesn't have any other visitors, poor old thing, so you might cheer her up a bit.'

‘How is she?'

She turned down a thumb. ‘There's not a lot we can do except keep her as comfortable as possible.'

Maureen Barton was in a separate room nearest the ward entrance. Laura had been in a similar room: a place for patients who needed extra care and attention and who were not expected to live long.

She was lying motionless, eyes shut, and surrounded by the monitors and apparatus that were keeping her alive. A small, frail woman, as pale as death.

He sat down on a chair by the head of the bed, which brought him down to her level. When he spoke her name, she opened her eyes.

‘Mrs Barton,' he said. ‘I've come to talk about Gunilla Bjork – if you don't mind.'

There was no response but, eventually, she turned her head slowly in his direction. When she answered, her voice was weak: not more than a whisper.

‘I don't know you. Who are you?'

He gave her his name.

‘I've been staying in King's Mowbray with Mrs Heathcote, an old friend of my late wife. She and her husband bought the farm that used to belong to the Holland family. You may remember them coming to the Golden Pheasant?'

‘Mr Heathcote came all the time . . . I never liked him.'

He said, ‘You would remember Gunilla Bjork, too. She worked for you and your husband, didn't she?'

Her lips moved slowly. ‘She was no good . . . Roy had to give her the sack.'

‘So I understand.' He paused. ‘Gunilla's remains were found recently, buried in the Hollands' old barn. The Heathcotes' builders came across her skeleton when they were working there.'

She turned her head away from him, shut her eyes again.

‘I'm not a policeman, Mrs Barton,' he said. ‘But I'm here because I think that your late husband may have had something to do with Gunilla's death.'

After a moment, her eyes reopened.

‘He didn't kill her, if that's what you mean.'

‘Will you tell me what happened?'

‘Why do you want to know?'

Why indeed, he wondered. There was no good reason, except perhaps that a Chief Detective Inspector in thrall to a Greek goddess could not be expected to care very much about the death of a Swedish barmaid. It seemed important that someone did.

‘I'd like to know the truth.'

She was silent for several minutes, then she sighed.

‘I might as well. Nobody can do anything about it now. Roy's dead and I'll be gone soon.'

He waited and, presently, she went on. Her voice was even fainter and he had to bend his head close to hear her words.

‘I knew it was a mistake . . . hiring a girl like. She was bone lazy and nothing but trouble from the first . . . flirting with all the men . . . they were like bees round a honeypot.'

‘So I've heard.'

‘She'd tease them . . . lead them on . . . tempt them. I never thought Roy would fall for it . . . but he did. Just like all the rest. I knew by the way he looked at her. I couldn't blame him . . . I hadn't been a proper wife to him for years – not since I got so ill. He couldn't help himself. Poor Roy. He was a good man.'