Strangeways to Oldham (12 page)

There'll be no trouble with the death certificate, because he'd had a long illness: probably cancer – it usually is, these days. So they'll just cremate him, probably; the same with young Mr Williams, and nobody will ever be any the wiser, if we don't do something about it. You remember what Williams said about Foster – that he wanted Reggie cremated, and not buried, but – thank God – he was buried, so we could still force an exhumation.'

‘Aren't you running just a bit ahead of yourself there, Manda?' asked Hugo.

‘I don't think so, Hugo. Somebody's got to sort out this mess, and it might as well be us. Nobody else is interested, and until we can provide adequate evidence that crimes have been committed, nobody will listen to us.'

Hugo managed to keep Lady Amanda in check by suggesting that she give him another lesson in taming the trike, and this distracted her for a while, but during afternoon tea, she was back at the ‘trouser leg' of the murders again, like a Jack Russell with a rat.

‘You never actually gave me the address, did you, Hugo, old boy?' she pumped him, like a car nearly out of petrol and desperate for fuel.

‘What address is that, then, Manda?' he replied, playing the innocent.

‘You know darned well what address I'm talking about. Don't be obtuse,' she retorted, a growl creeping into her voice.

‘The address of my house for the estate agents?' he asked, without hope, but more as a distraction and time-waster.

‘The address of that Derek Foster that you found this morning.' Anger was making her sound like a furious cat, disturbed at its food.

‘Can't seem to remember where I wrote it down,' Hugo parried, knowing he wouldn't win, but hoping he might distract her sufficiently so that she was put in a foul enough temper to forget what her original purpose had been.

‘You wrote it in the little section at the back of your diary, where you always make notes. You haven't forgotten at all. You're just doing this to rile me.'

‘It's working then!' Hugo commented, noticing the rise in the pitch of her voice as he continued to prevaricate.

‘Hugo!' she shouted. ‘Give me that blasted address!'

‘All right! Keep your hair on.' Reaching into his trouser pocket, he produced his diary, flicked to the back pages, where he made a note of anything he particularly wanted to remember, and read: ‘Eleven, Mogs End, Belchester. That's to the south of the city, isn't it?'

‘Yes. It runs off Lumpen Lane, cutting through to Rag-a-Bone Road. It's only a sort of alley, really, and the houses are just a few tumbledown old cottages; should have been condemned and demolished years ago, in my opinion, but then who am I to contradict the nosy-parker preservation societies that seem to proliferate today?'

‘Satisfied now?' he asked, putting away his diary.

‘Absolutely! We'll go tonight!'

‘What do you mean, we'll go tonight? Go where? Why? This all sounds a bit iffy to me.'

‘We'll go and scout out the house – make sure he lives there – that sort of thing. It's only a little tidying up. We need to be absolutely sure of our facts, before we can take this investigation any further,' she explained, in the most rational of voices, as if it were perfectly normal to go skulking about at night, trying to see into people's homes, before getting them arrested for what was now triple murder.

‘Manda! You can't be serious! What if he catches us – you? I'm certainly not going peering through folks' windows, spying on them in their own homes.'

‘I shall pretend to be an old lady who has come over queer, and would like a glass of water – something of that order should do it,' she informed him, without a hint of embarrassment.

‘But he'll recognise you!' Hugo warned. ‘What do you do, then, when he confronts you with being at Reggie's funeral, the wake, and the reading of the will?'

‘I shall go in disguise,' she retorted, giving him a scornful look, as if this were so obvious that he should have thought of it himself. She seemed completely to have forgotten how she had poured contumely on this idea, when Enid had suggested it.

‘You can't!' expostulated Hugo, in as masterful a voice as he could manage.

‘I can, Hugo. And what's more, I will. There are no street lights down that alley, and it should be easy enough to sneak into the garden and look through a lighted window – much easier after dark than in broad daylight.' Lady Amanda had made up her mind, and nothing in the world would make her change it.

‘Well, how are you going to get there?' Hugo asked. ‘Surely not on that tricycle of yours? There's no way you could make an effective escape on that. He'd catch you in no time.'

‘I shall get Beauchamp to take us – us, you notice, in case I need your help – in the Rolls, and park it in Lumpen Lane. There's a tiny piece of waste ground at the junction with Mogs End where Beauchamp can park, and extinguish the car lights. No one will notice it there.'

‘I don't see what sort of help you think I could be to you. I'm hardly up for a sprint escape, or for wrestling with villains.'

‘You could call the police if anything happened to me; if I didn't come back, or something.'

‘Oh, great! So I have to sit inside a pitch-black car, waiting for something dreadful to befall you, before I'm of any use. Beauchamp would be a lot handier than me.'

‘Fact is, Hugo, I want you to be there. This is our adventure, and I don't want you to miss out on any of the fun,' she explained.

‘Fun?' Hugo was astonished by this view of what they were proposing to do. ‘I'm going to speak to Beauchamp,' he threatened. ‘I shall forbid him to drive you anywhere tonight after dark.'

‘Surely you don't want to force me to carry out this necessary surveillance with the tricycle as my only conveyance and means of escape, do you?'

‘Manda, that's not fair. Of course I don't. If you must carry out this hare-brained scheme, then of course I'll accompany you, even though the thought of it worries me to death.'

‘Good man, Hugo! That's the spirit!' She was always magnanimous in victory. Getting her own way bucked her up no end.

Chapter Thirteen

It wasn't dark enough for them to leave until half past nine, and it took a further twenty minutes to get Hugo out of the house and into the car. First he had had to go to the lavatory, then he had decided that he really ought to take a light jacket against the cool of the evening, then he claimed to have left his glasses in his bedroom.

When he stated that he had to go to the lavatory again, as anxiety always affected his bladder, Lady Amanda decided that this was the last straw, and rushed him from the cloakroom, through the front entrance, and into the car. She would brook no more shilly-shallying and time-wasting, and put her foot down with a firm hand [!]

The drive through Belchester at this time of night was very pleasant. Not being a great centre for night clubs and partying, the few public houses the city did possess were usually frequented by older residents who wanted only a quiet drink. Those who wanted a more riotous time left the city for other destinations with more glittering establishments on offer.

The little city was almost deserted and, with its street lights in the style of Victorian gas lights, charmed anew, with this slip back in time, and its unpopulated streets. Beauchamp turned right, out of North Street in to West Street, then took the first turning left, into a road called simply and accurately West-to-South, then first right into Lumpen Lane, which was shaped like the letter ‘U'.

At the bottom of its curve was a right-hand turn into Mogs End, and, opposite this junction, a small piece of ground, unused since a venerable cottage had been demolished due to its unsafe structure; a victim of neglect and lack of care.

Beauchamp drew the car to a halt on this tiny piece of waste ground, handed a torch back to Lady Amanda, then extinguished the car's lights. ‘Take care of yourself, my lady,' he mumbled, as he handed it over, and Hugo leaned across to Lady Amanda and whispered, ‘Keep your eyes peeled, old girl, and never underestimate the power of a scream.

‘If we hear anything of you, Beauchamp can rush to your aid, and I can get in the front and lean on the horn, until everybody living hereabouts comes outside, to see what all the noise is about.'

‘Hugo?' she hissed back.

‘Yes?'

‘Why are we whispering?'

‘I haven't the faintest idea, Manda. It just seems appropriate, somehow.'

Lady Amanda slipped from the car, with absolutely none of the grace and elegance of a cat, and immediately caught her toe on a half brick, causing her to exclaim, audibly, in surprise and pain, an action that drew an even louder ‘shh' in stereo from the Rolls.

‘I'm OK,' she hissed back. ‘I'll just put my torch on for a minute, until my eyes get more used to the low light.' There may not have been any street lighting in Mogs End, but it was a clear night, and the sky provided sufficient illumination for her, after just a few steps.

Trying to act as normally as possible, she extinguished her torch and put it in her pocket before starting to saunter down Mogs End, keeping as keen an eye out as she could, in the low visibility, for the house numbers. She was not sure which end the numbering began, nor which side had the odd numbers, and which evens.

She was on the right-hand side of the street, as one approached it from this end, and the second house had, fortunately for her, a large number ‘4' on its gate, so at least she had the information required, to locate number eleven. The numbers obviously started at this end, and the odd numbered cottages were on the other side of the road.

Looking around her with a nonchalance she did not feel, she crossed the road and began to stroll slowly past the cottages with the odd numbers, counting as she went. ‘I must have passed one and three, so, five next, seven – no lights on in there at all, they must be out – nine, television blaring, and
there
 – number eleven.'

She whispered to herself to boost her confidence, because, at this very moment, she felt uncharacteristically frightened. Anything could happen to her, going into enemy territory like this. She'd brushed and sprayed her hair flat, worn her tattiest old gardening clothes, and smeared on some very bright make-up, before leaving home, but she suddenly felt naked – exposed as she never had been before, and as if she had a name card round her neck, confirming her identity to all and sundry.

At the garden gate, she paused, and looked over it to see how it opened, undid the bolt with the greatest of care, and then froze on the spot. What if he had a dog? It would come rushing at her a soon as she set foot on the property, barking its head off. What if it was a large dog? A vicious dog?

Scolding herself for such cowardice, she grabbed the gate and began to open it very slowly, stopping after only about six inches, because it was badly in need of oiling, and screeched like the very devil itself. A light came on in the front room of the house, and she ducked down into a crouching position as quickly as she could manage, behind the hedge that fronted the property. It was quite a height, and very unkempt, and made a good shield for someone of her bulk.

The front door was opened, and a voice called, ‘Is there anyone there?' It was Foster's voice, all right. She was definitely at the right place, but this was no consolation, now that he had become aware of her presence. Or had he? He might just put it down to not having shut the gate properly.

She was right. A few footsteps sounded on the very short garden path, and the gate was kicked shut. This was a blessing, as Foster never got as far as actually taking a look out into the street. She'd just have to get in some other way.

When the front door had slammed shut, she crawled along the very narrow pavement, eventually finding a place where there had been a gap in the hedge, and it would be possible for her to swarm her way through, even though the hedge was in the process of managing this breach in its defences. So much for being discreet, she thought. If any of the neighbours were to come out of their houses, she would look like an old soak, crawling home after a binge!

It was no easy job, penetrating that hedge, even though it grew much more sparsely at her point of entry. Twigs and branches caught at her hair and her clothing, and nettles stung at her ankles as she scrambled her way through. One wayward frond of foliage found its way up her skirt in the most undignified way, and assaulted her most viciously, in a place for which she could not possibly seek sympathy. But she was determined to get to the other side, finally reaching it on all fours, and having to put her hand back through it for her hat, which had been whipped off, and deposited back on the narrow paving, on the other side.

Gathering her dignity as best she could, she stayed in her prone position, and approached the side of the house, still on all fours. The light at the front of the house had been switched off again, but there was a light to the right-hand side, which she considered might possibly be the kitchen, as the starlight revealed pipes exiting the wall, and disappearing into what she supposed was a drain.

On reaching the window from which the light illuminated an oblong of the garden, she slowly slid into an upright position – it had to be slow. Fast, she couldn't do, at her age – and pressed herself against the wall of the property. Maybe, if she was very careful, she could sneak a peek into the interior.

She had no idea what she expected to achieve by this action, she suddenly realised, and all the adrenalin, which had buoyed her up thus far, suddenly evaporated, leaving her feeling old and foolish. What had she hoped to achieve by this nocturnal reconnaissance visit? Well, it was no good making a bolt for it now. She'd just have to achieve what she had set out to achieve, and get a look into this chappie's house.

The feeling of foolishness continued to nag at her. Had she really expected to find him brewing some sort of devilish potion in his kitchen, intent on claiming the lives of more victims? What was she playing at, and at her age, too? She ought to be ashamed of herself, but that would have needed a grown-up attitude, and she never intended to grow up properly.

Dismissing such negativity from her mind, she remembered that the Golightlys weren't quitters, and she steeled herself to lean round, as rapidly as she could, and sneak a peek into that kitchen. She bunched her muscles, drew in a large breath, which she held, with the suspense of the moment, and bobbed her face rapidly across the window pane, and back again.

There had been nobody in the room. It was empty. Thus emboldened, she took a more leisurely look at the interior of the room, looking for goodness knows what, but alert to any alien item, out of place in such an environment.

As she committed the contents of the room to memory, she became aware of a low, menacing growling, which seemed to be coming from just behind her slightly crouched figure. The hairs on the back of her neck began to rise, and she turned, very slowly, to see just what was to her rear.

As she began to move, the growling turned to a deep baying bark, and a voice ordered her to stay where she was. Completing her one-hundred-and-eighty degree turn, she found herself almost nose to nose with a dog she immediately identified as a Great Dane, its collar held in a firm grip by its owner, Derek Foster.

‘Don't move or cry out,' he commanded. ‘I've phoned the police and they're on their way. I suggest you just stay where you are until they arrive, unless you'd like to take on Marmaduke here.'

‘I'll stay,' she whispered, and gradually straightened up, until she was in a more comfortable position. The dog growled again, and gave two mighty ‘wuffs'.

‘I also suggest you keep quiet. Marmaduke doesn't take kindly to strangers.' After a few seconds of silence, he asked, ‘Aren't you that woman who came to my father's friend's funeral? You can talk now I've spoken in an ordinary social voice. He won't make a move if I act in a civilised fashion towards you.'

‘I was there, yes.'

‘Why?' he enquired, still speaking softly.

‘Because Reggie was an old friend, and an ex-business partner of my father's. I was just paying my respects.'

‘Is that all?' He sure was nosy, she thought.

‘Of course!'

‘Then why did you stay on after the wake, for the reading of the will? Hoped he'd left you something, was it?'

‘Something like that,' Lady Amanda agreed, not sure where this conversation was leading, but not enjoying it one little bit.

At that moment, what she considered to be their sinister little exchange of un-pleasantries was interrupted by the wail of a siren, and a police car drew up in the road outside the cottage, its lights providing a bright show of red and blue, but that was not all. A Rolls-Royce approached from the other direction, and also parked, nose to nose with that belonging to the forces of law and order.

‘Thank God!' Lady Amanda muttered, her voice drowned by the still unquenched wails of the siren. ‘Beauchamp has ridden to my rescue!' and her whole body relaxed, shortening her height by a good two inches, and decreasing the pressure in her bladder, which had grown considerably, during her little conversation with Foster and his hell-hound.

At the gate, Beauchamp was standing aside courteously, to allow a uniformed policeman and one in plainclothes to precede him, and all three figures approached the tableau presented by an elderly lady slumped against the side wall of the cottage, and a man, responsibly restraining a large and angry dog.

‘Shall we go inside?' enquired the policeman not in uniform, and Lady Amanda's spirits slumped to new depths. It was that Inspector Moody, who already suspected her of being batty. How was she going to talk herself out of this situation, without confirming his original suspicion?

Once inside the cottage, Beauchamp took over with his usual aplomb, and confirmed, without a shadow of a doubt, that Lady Amanda had bats in the belfry. ‘I am Lady Amanda's family retainer,' he explained. ‘She often goes wandering,' he continued, in a perfectly reasonable tone. ‘It runs in the family. There's many a time, in the past, when I've had to locate her late mother, out for one of her little jaunts, looking through other people's windows, to see how the other half lives.

‘She's not dangerous: just wants to watch other people getting on with their lives, in homes so different from her own. If I could only persuade her to get a television set, it would probably solve the problem instantly with, perhaps, an addiction to
Coronation Street
, or one of the other soap operas, that I believe are on offer, these days.

‘But she is adamant that she won't have such a thing as a television in the house, and this is the result. Please accept my sincere and humble apologies, and be assured that I will keep a closer eye on her in the future, if she's in one of her exploring moods.'

Moody looked at the dignified figure of the manservant thoughtfully, considering whether he was telling the truth, or just trying to talk his employer out of an awkward situation. After a short silence, he gave Beauchamp the benefit of the doubt, having been subjected to Lady Amanda's visit to the police station, and her ramblings about there having been a murder committed at a local nursing home.

‘I sympathise with your predicament,' he intoned, addressing Beauchamp for the first time. ‘Do you have transport to get the old lady home safe and sound?'

‘I do, indeed, Inspector. The family Rolls-Royce is parked outside, awaiting us for the journey home, if you will be so generous as to permit us to leave.'

Moody thought about it, but had one or two more questions. ‘And you'll definitely keep a sharper eye on her in future?'

‘Certainly, Inspector,' replied Beauchamp with dignity.

‘And do you know how she got here tonight?'

‘I strongly suspect it was by tricycle,' he answered, making the inspector gape with surprise. ‘No doubt on the route home, I shall find it abandoned somewhere, and simply come back to collect it with the trailer, when I have got my charge settled for the night.'