Distant Voices. Barbara Erskine

seen.

      We called her Faye.

       Who Done It?

      Flakes of snow blew in through the door with him as Jenkins pushed his way into the warmly lit bar of the Dog and Duck. It was early yet and only old Fred and Mr Denby were in.

      ‘My usual, Sam,’ said Jenkins. He was full of importance. Leaning his elbows on the bar he looked sideways at Mr Denby. ‘Heard the news, have you?’

      ‘No Jenks, what’s that then?’ Sam slid the pint glass expertly across the polished counter.

      ‘They found a body up Highfield way.’

      ‘A body?’ Mr Denby straightened up sharply and looked at the newcomer for the first time. ‘A dead ’un you mean?’

      ‘’Course I mean.’ Jenkins was indignant. He took a long drink at his glass. ‘Huddled up under Jeffrey’s barn he was, in all the puddles and melting snow up there.’

      ‘Who was it then, Jenks?’ Fred spoke for the first time. His hand was shaking slightly as he raised his own glass to his mouth.

      ‘Don’t reckon they know yet.’ Jenkins drained his beer and waited expectantly, his fingers casually nudging the glass across the bar. ‘He was pretty soggy, so they say.’

      ‘He would be.’ Mr Denby nodded sagely. ‘It’s been thawing the last twenty-four hours.’

      ‘Snowing again now, though.’ Jenkins nodded towards the dark windows. The glass was as far as it would go without pushing.

      Mr Denby noticed at last. ‘Same again all round, Sam, please.’

      ‘What do the police say, Jenks?’ Fred was lighting his pipe, sucking the flame down into the encrusted bowl.

      ‘They reckon it was murder.’

      Fred dropped the match and blew on a burnt finger. ‘Murder? What makes them think that?’

      ‘He had a hole in his head, that’s what. And blood all over him.’

      ‘Poor chap.’ Sam produced three brimming glasses. ‘I wonder if it was old Everett. He used to sleep rough in the barn sometimes.’

      ‘No, it wasn’t him.’ Jenkins clasped his glass happily. ‘It was Everett as found the body.’

      ‘Do they reckon he did it?’ Mr Denby looked at him sharply.

      ‘Nope. He’s got an alibi.’

      The four men were silent for a while, listening to the fire hissing round the logs in the hearth, then Fred slammed down his empty glass on the counter and turned for the door.

      ‘Goodnight all,’ he called and was gone.

      ‘I think he knows something,’ said Jenkins quietly. ‘Did you see how his hand was shaking?’

      ‘And he burned hisself on that match.’ Mr Denby nodded. ‘Do you think we ought to tell Constable Conway?’

      ‘No.’ Sam shook his head vehemently. ‘If he did it he had good reason. Fred never does anything without a very good reason.’

      Fred plodded slowly up the hill. The lights in Constable Conway’s cottage were blazing as he went up the slushy path and knocked on the door. Mrs Conway showed him into the parlour where the constable, his blue shirtsleeves rolled up above the elbow, was sitting at the table, eating a large bowl of stew.

      Fred sat down opposite the young man and waited until his host’s mouth was empty. ‘That body you’ve got. Know who it was?’

      Conway shook his head without speaking and spooned up some more stew.

      ‘Did he have a red shirt and a townified tie?’ Fred was twisting his cap round between his fingers on his knee.

      Constable Conway choked slightly. ‘How do you know that?’

      ‘I seen him before. He was heading up Highfield way. Looking for hammer beams, he said.’

      ‘Hammer beams?’ The constable’s mouth dropped open. ‘What are they when they’re at home?’

      ‘Don’t rightly know, but Jeffrey’s barn’s got ’em. He had a camera with him.’

      Conway nodded. ‘Yes, that was still there. There wasn’t no robbery. The chap had quite a bit of money in his wallet.’

      ‘Was it by the door you found him?’ The casualness of Fred’s question did not fool the constable. He had risen and, buttoning on his tunic was already reaching for his notebook.

      ‘Now see here, Fred. You’d better tell me everything. What do you know about all this?’

      ‘Nothing much. But a few days back I was up that way. I saw one of those great icicles fall over that doorway. Like a sword it was, three or four foot long. That would kill a man if he were standing underneath.’

      ‘I reckon it would.’ The constable nodded thoughtfully. ‘Could have been that.’

      ‘And the icicle would have melted long since.’

      ‘I reckon it would.’

      Fred left the cottage well satisfied.

      There was no one left in the village now who would remember the slick fancy architect fella who had seduced and then abandoned Fred’s pretty daughter. Only old Mrs Hennessy, and she was blind. And you can’t fingerprint a puddle, now can you?

       Watch the Wall, My Darling

      PART ONE

      With each smart tap of her foot on the sun-baked ground the swing arced higher. Above her the dappled shade of the oak tree cooled the air. Mercifully hidden now behind the high yew hedge the garden party was in full swing.

      Caroline Hayward grimaced as, throwing back her head at the apogee of the swing’s travel, she felt her long heavy hair slip from its combs. Her bonnet had already gone, hanging from its ribbons behind her like an unruly animal. Shaking her head she laughed suddenly, feeling her hair whip across her face. What did it matter how she looked? She was alone at last and for a few precious moments she was free!

      ‘That swing was not designed for adults!’

      The deep voice startled her so much she nearly released her hold on the ropes.

      Dragging her slippers in the dust to slow her momentum she tried desperately to stop, suddenly acutely aware of the acres of petticoat showing beneath her light, blown skirt. Grabbing at what remained of her dignity as the swing slowed she curbed her first instinct which was to jump to her feet. Instead she smoothed her skirts, taking a deep breath as she saw who had addressed her. Dressed in sober black like all the men present at the bishop’s garden party, the Reverend Charles Dawson, her host’s elder son, was standing facing her, his darkly handsome face showing uncompromising disdain; Charles Dawson who had spent the best part of the party surrounded by a cluster of his father’s younger women guests.

      ‘You obviously find our party boring, Miss Hayward,’ he said with a humourless smile. ‘I’m sorry, but I must suggest you find other ways to amuse yourself. That swing was not designed to take someone of your weight.’

      ‘I am not that heavy, Mr Dawson!’ Caroline retorted. To her chagrin one of her slippers had fallen off and she was feeling for it desperately with her foot, hidden beneath her full, long skirt.

      He allowed himself another tight smile. ‘I didn’t mean to imply that you were.’ He gave a slight bow, his eyes gleaming. ‘Nevertheless,