Monday July 11
Business was slack at the Hartley Agency. Cleo wondered how
long she could afford the luxury of a detective agency that scraped a living
from wayward husbands, wives leading double lives, household pets disappearing
and other cases that barely qualified as such, even if Dorothy Price was
enjoying herself tremendously.
Robert was anxious to hang on to the marriage to someone
many people in the village of Upper Grumpsfield thought was an intriguing bird
of paradise (but in the nicest sense) and knew that his only chance of that was
to welcome Cleo’s new baby, though he hated the idea.
Although Cleo had back-pedalled quite a lot recently as a
private eye, leaving Dorothy to take over quite a lot at the agency, they still
indulged in their start-the-week breakfast meetings. Dorothy found the discussions
helpful, and Cleo was procrastinating about bowing out of the agency until
after the birth of her baby. Miss Marple would have got out her knitting, she
reflected.
Frequent trips to Middlethumpton, ostensibly to buy things
for the baby, had enabled Cleo to continue meeting Chief Inspector Gary Hurley
of Middlethumpton Police Headquarters even when she had no case to discuss with
him. Gary was only able to cope with this tantalizing situation because he was
sure it could not go on for ever. Robert thought his marriage to the exotic
half-cast Cleo, who had a doctor title in social anthropology that she would
never dream of talking about, let alone using, would be saved by the arrival of
the baby he did not want but would claim.
***
To pass the time between trivial cases, Cleo did not go in
for handicrafts, but wrote essays discussing her sleuthing experiences and was
forced to laugh at the memories she had noted in her reports and the notebook
she carried around in case something occurred to her. She read those essays out
loud to Dorothy when current business had been discussed. Sometimes Dorothy
even appeared in one.
One memorable experience had been at the garden party held
every summer on the vicarage lawn. Although Cleo could think of more
entertaining ways of spending a Saturday afternoon than helping at the bring-and-buy
stall that Dorothy Price set up every year, she felt obliged to help. The case
she remembered now had not materialized. In those days she had been torn
between sleuthing, heading ghost tours at the local historical ruins and
running Middlethumpton public library.
The bring-and-buy stand was really only a pile of jumble and
a useful way of getting rid of stuff you no longer needed and helping the organ
fund of St. Peter’s Parish Church at the same time. Judging from the random
collection of rubbish on sale, the priority for most donors had certainly been
to rid themselves of their rejects rather than help the organ fund.
To avoid people turning to petty theft if they hadn’t
already done so, it was important to keep an eye on the display, such as it
was. After all, there were visitors who thought it was a help-yourself stand and
coveted any old junk if it belonged to someone else.
The culprit was an elderly gentleman, a Mr Holborn, though
what Mr Holborn intended to do with the cracked pie-dish he had hidden under
his winter coat and not paid for was at first shrouded in mystery.
He had come, like so many other old people, from the local
care home. The carers thought that was as good as any outing they could offer.
They did not need to hire a bus and the old dears could be back for tea, which
was served very early so that the kitchen could be closed for the night.
The old people enjoyed themselves, as could be seen at the
home-made wine stand at which they queued all afternoon, since the wine made of
70% rum and 30% juice claimed to be from elderberries and provided by the
bucketful by the resourceful Mrs Barker was to be had for a nominal sum, and
for free if Mrs Barker thought the customer was needy.
Dorothy told Cleo once of her experience of the wine she had
only ever drunk for medicinal purposes. When Gary Hurley had lodged at
Dorothy’s for a short time after his burnout therapy, she had offered him the
wine and he had drunk a tumbler full, after which he slept round the clock and
declared that it was as potent as knock-out drops and not even illegal. Cleo
wondered how many of the old folks would get home before they fell in a heap.
***
That summer’s day, while Cleo was counting the relics
propped up at the side of the stand, Dorothy left her post as guardian of the
frontal display to chase and challenge an elderly man to reveal what he was
hiding. She was irate.
“People did not donate things for others to steal,” she told
him. “You are Mr Holborn, aren’t you? You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“But I need it for my stamp collection,” he explained.
“You don’t need a pie-dish for your stamp collection. Come
and put it back,” Dorothy commanded.
“But I need it to soak the stamps off letters,” he told her.
“Then buy it, for heaven’s sake!”
“No money, Miss,” Mr Holborn replied sadly as he turned the
pockets of his coat inside out with one hand while clutching the stolen object
fiercely with the other.
Cleo heard the altercation and hurried round the stand.
“You can have it for nothing,” she told him.
“But that’s a pound less for the organ fund,” Dorothy
complained.
“I’ll put the pound in, Dorothy,” Cleo said, and to the old
man she said “I hope you realize that the dish is cracked and will leak water.”
“I’ll use it to dry the stamps then,” said the man.
Cleo felt she had to argue the point with Dorothy.
“No one into pie-making would buy a cracked dish like that.
Let the gentleman have it if it makes him happy.”
“I suppose you have a point there,” Dorothy sniffed. She
turned to Mr Holborn and said “Run along and don’t steal again!”
At that moment one of the nurses from the home came up to
the stand.
“What has Mr Holborn been up to this time?” she wanted to
know.
“Nothing much,” said Cleo.
“Not another pie-dish, I hope,” the carer said.
“Another?”
“He collects them,” the nurse explained. “He already has
about two dozen.”
The three women laughed heartily. Meanwhile Mr Holborn was
beating a hasty retreat waving the pie-dish trophy in the air.
“So that’s where the pie-dishes went in previous years,” Dorothy
said, which only added to the mirth.
Needless to say, a detective agency cannot survive on such
incidents.
***
On this bright Monday morning in July, Cleo was sitting
early at her desk pouring over her database, having forced herself to get up
early enough to make Robert a cooked breakfast.
Robert Jones, family butcher and devoted, or rather
possessive husband of Cleo Hartley, stocked up at the wholesalers at the crack
of dawn every Monday morning. He was currently suffering in silence because he could
either put up with Cleo’s continuing – ostensibly clandestine - affair with
Gary Hurley and wait until it cooled off, or he could complain and risk her
leaving him there and then, which would entail his leaving the cottage, since
it was Cleo’s and not his to occupy if they were to separate.
Luckily, Robert was a natural stoic. Cleo, caught between
loyalty to Robert and a growing rather than diminishing passion for Gary, was aware
that Robert’s and her bio-rhythms were galaxies apart. Robert, who was used to
getting up early and had no time for bio-rhythms, taunted Cleo every Monday
with the remark that at least it got her out of bed early once a week. She
swore to herself that it would be the last time she bothered, especially as she
found fried food at six in the morning disgusting.
***
Had she still been in bed, Cleo’s mobile phone would have
danced a jig as it broadcast the call, but dancing a jig was the last thing the
caller had in mind. It was way ahead of opening hours for the Hartley Agency,
so a business call was unlikely, Cleo thought.
“I found her in the pond,” the voice lamented.
“Is that Paddy Kelly?” said Cleo. “Who are we talking
about?”
“Betty. Betty Coppins,” the voice wailed.
“Calm down, Mr Kelly. I can’t understand you when you sob
like that.”
“I pulled her out, but she was dead.”
“Have you called a doctor and the police?”
“Not yet. Should I?”
“Of course you should. You’re not hiding anything, are you?”
“No,” Kelly exclaimed.
“What was Mrs Coppins doing in your pond, Mr Kelly?”
“She came to visit me yesterday, and then she went home.”
“But she was in your pond, you said, so she must have come
back.”
“I didn’t see her come. My bedroom is on the front side of
the farmhouse. You can’t see the pond from there because it’s at the back.”
“I’ll call the police and Dr Mitchell, shall I?”
“Will you do that now?”
“Of course. I’ll come along to your farm, Mr Kelly. Wait for
me in front of the farmhouse. I’ll be with you in two ticks.”
“That’s good of you, Mrs Jones.”
Mrs Jones was still Miss Hartley by name, but she did not
correct the distressed caller. That
would only have complicated matters in Kelly’s head.
There was no way that Cleo would set off without informing
the police, and therefore no way she could possibly avoid phoning Gary, who was
probably still at home. Cleo could not help wondering why Mrs Coppins had
visited Mr Kelly, until she remembered that Jessie Coppins, Mrs Coppins’ eldest
daughter, was possibly Kelly’s daughter and you could not rule out they still ‘carried
on’ even after all those years. Mrs Coppins had been what Dorothy would call a ‘loose
woman’ in her early days and had probably not kicked the habit. Kelly must have
something going for him, but Cleo could not think what.
Mrs Coppins now had 6 children of her own, from several
different lovers, and two children that
were the result of her daughter Jessie being raped by her father, Joe Coppins. Mrs
Coppins had stopped being Betty Crumb on getting married. A definite
improvement since she had already borne Joe two sons and was pregnant again,
with Jessie, she thought, the prodigy of a side-line lover named Patrick Kelly.
She had ultimately rejected the side-line lover in favour of
Joe Coppins and told everyone that he
was Jessie’s father, although that was not mathematically possible since he had
been in the merchant navy at the relevant time. However, since Miss Crumb had ‘entertained’
several lovers at the same time, the fatherhood of the child could not have
been determined without DNA, and Coppens had chosen not to demand such a test.
***
People tend to believe what they want to, including Joe
Coppins, and we should not judge other people’s morals, Dorothy insisted.
***
Despite Joe Coppins having being entered onto Jessie’s birth
certificate as his legal daughter, Betty Coppins extracted money for Jessie out
of Kelly, who had in the meantime looked elsewhere for a wife and did not want Magda
to know about his relationship with Betty, and at least one other ‘side-line’
rumoured to be the local solicitor -a respectable lawyer rather than a pimp.
In return, Mrs Coppins, as she was now known, avoided
further open contact with her former beaux. Joe Coppins must have suspected the
truth about Jessie, but had been quite happy with the arrangement as long as it
did not become known that he had been cuckolded In fact, anyone who could do
arithmetic knew anyway, and more importantly, as long as the payments from
Kelly and others flowed and he could enjoy them alongside his disreputable wife.
***
Joe Coppins was currently out of circulation after serious
offenses that had put him behind bars for a bit. That gave Betty Coppins, who claimed
to have ended her marriage after Coppins had been charged with murder, a free
hand to run her once clandestine ‘massage’ studio quite openly. Had she also revived
her intermittent relationship with Kelly to add to her cash flow? Mrs Coppins
was still quite a dish in her early forties, and Kelly was gratified for her
attentions.
Mrs Coppins was, as usual, keeping her clients separate from
one another, so Kelly did not know that her massage studio was a convenient
place to carry on a trade that had little to do with its trade description and
a lot to do with initiating the young lads of the area in the tricks of
seduction in return for their pocket money or meagre earnings as apprentices.
***
Gary was surprised to have a call from Cleo before Robert
had left the cottage, having forgotten that Robert would have left for the wholesaler’s
by now.
“Cleo.”
“Hi Gary! Ready for an outing?”
“You’re early and I thought we were having time out today.”
“Not that kind of outing.”
“I could be over in ten minutes.”
“Out of bounds, Gary.”
“Well, meet me at Romano’s.”
“No time. I’m referring to the Kelly farm, not to anything
personal.”
“Not Paddy Kelly. Do you mean the one who rented his wife
out?”
“Sure. Is there another? Magda is history now and his past
and present extra playmate fell or was thrown into the pond behind the old
barn. He dragged her out – dead.”
Gary did not bother to ask any more questions. He didn’t
much like the idea of another corpse after weeks trying to cope with Chris
Marlow’s description of body parts found in a canal just outside Middlethumpton,
Chris being the forensic pathologist at HQ and not squeamish, whereas Gary
certainly was. Fact is that if Cleo needed him, he would be there. Maybe she
would have thought again about trying to save her lousy marriage, or was he to
turn up just for a corpse?
“I’ll be there directly.”
“If you don’t want to come yourself, send a squad car, Gary!”
“I wouldn’t miss Kelly’s dilemma for anything,” he said.
Gary did not add that he wanted to see Cleo whatever made
that possible, but Cleo was in no doubt that that was in his mind. The idea of following
a genuine crime call by a genuine - if secret - tryst had planted itself firmly
in Cleo’s mind.
“Kelly is probably harmless, Gary. He was innocent of any
crime last time, remember?”
“If sending your wife out soliciting is not a crime, then he
was innocent.”
“You didn’t charge him.”
“What was the point? I couldn’t have proved anything.”
“Betty Coppins, now a corpse, had a line in what she called
massage going, Gary. I don’t suppose the young lads she seduced had much cash
flow. She might have taken up with Kelly again because she needed the money.”
Now Gary was forced to get the low-down.
“Go on!” he sighted.
“Remember Jessie Coppins, the promiscuous girl who poisoned
the cook at Huddlecourt Minor School?”
“How could I forget her? She made a pass at me!”
“Wow. What a chance you missed.”
“I know someone I prefer,” said Gary. “What about her?”
“She might be Kelly’s daughter.”
“I knew that because it spoiled the incest charge, didn’t
it. I’m not sure that I should be delighted that it’s just as murky as ever in
that village of yours, Cleo!”
“I’m not responsible for the riff-raff, Gary! Mrs Coppins collected
upkeep for the girl from him and if he was the father, she was not extorting
money, was she?”
“Did Kelly tell you all that?”
“No, but I can’t think of any other reason. He was still infatuated
with Betty Coppins, but I can’t believe that she was interested in him apart
from his cash flow,” said Cleo.
“I’ve heard of a case where a cop waited all his life for
his lady love to make up her mind.”
“Don’t start that now,” said Cleo.
“So Kelly paid Jessie’s mother for sex because he was in love
with her? Is that what you meant?”
“It sounds reasonable.”
“I wouldn’t give you money,” said Gary.
“I would not give you any either,” said Cleo.
Touché,” said Gary. “I’m starting to think you should spend
your time writing for women’s weeklies, Cleo. A sort of dream-time series.”
“I doubt whether their stories are allowed to be quite as
steamy, Gary. They are cleaned up for publication. After all, most teenage
girls get their facts of life from such stories.”
“Joking apart, the Kelly story has depth, Cleo, and murky is
the right adjective.”
“The affair also ended in a murky pond.”
“I’m glad we have Romano’s guest room. At least we don’t need
access to a murky pond.”
“If you carry on making jokes about the case, I might be
tempted to push you in!”
“I’ll call forensics. They’ll look after me.”
“Tell Chris to bring his wellies, Gary.”
“Since when have you called them ‘wellies’?”
“’Rubber boots’ are less charming.”
“Wellies don’t have to be charming, Cleo.”
“Neither does Kelly, but this morning he was sobbing when he
called me. He’s waiting for me now. I’m going to call Dr Mitchell. He’ll give
the poor guy a sedative and the corpse a death certificate.”
“OK. See you there at the farm in about half an hour. I’ll
have to call paramedics and get Mrs Coppins brought to the lab.”
“OK, and Gary…”
“You’re thinking about Romano’s, aren’t you?”
“Yes. But that’s not what I wanted to say,” said Cleo.
“So what did you want to say?”
“Kelly would not have called me if he’d been able to cope,
Gary. Bear that in mind and don’t be too hard on him. He’s innocent until he’s
found guilty!”
“He could be bluffing. He’s a wily character. Let me be the
judge,” said Gary.
“I think I’d better call Dorothy now and tell her about Mrs
Coppins. She can cope with Kelly if you have a problem, Gary.”
“I only have one problem and you know what that is.”
***
Cleo was cross with herself for giving Gary advice. He was a
lovely guy, a good cop and she loved him to bits. She must kick the habit of
acting superior. She wasn’t superior. She was just a sad woman missing the love
of her life when she could not be with him. These days she was trying to keep
her marriage going for the sake of the baby she was expecting.
***
Dr Mitchell told Cleo that he would come immediately,
examine the corpse and issue the appropriate death certificate. Forensics could
do the rest. The paramedics could deal with the logistics. After that she rang
Dorothy, who was delighted to have a good crime to get her teeth into.
“Quite apart from that being a very heartless approach, Dorothy,
it might not be a crime.”
“Cleo, you don’t fall into a pond if you know it’s there.”
“She might have been drunk.”
“Or pushed. I wouldn’t trust Kelly as far as I can throw
him. A nasty piece of work. I’ll be at the cottage in ten minutes.”
“Say fifteen, I’m in the office,”
“OK. I’ll meet you there.”
“We’ll drive, Dorothy. Wasn’t Kelly nice to you?”
“That depends on how you define ‘nice’.”
“I don’t think the
Hartley Agency can hang on to the case and I’m not sure I want to, anyhow.”
“Do what you think best, Cleo. I’ll go along with it and to
be honest a murder case is a size too big for us.”
“I’ve notified Gary. He’ll be at Kelly’s place soon.”
“Good. Then you won’t have to buy so many baby things,” said
Dorothy, ambiguously.
Cleo guessed that her sorties to see Gary under the deck
mantle of baby clothes shopping had been interpreted. No wonder. Dorothy’s
speciality was interpretation, and that had led to many a mystery being solved.
A call to Robert to tell him about the tragedy at Kelly’s
farm did not impress him unduly. He was just unloading some trays of meat he
had brought from the wholesaler’s and anxious to get it into the fridge. A
woman in a pond was a faraway call from making sure the cooling chain was not
disrupted for any longer than necessary. Robert liked to get the ice out of his
delivery van before it melted.
“Sad for Kelly, but he shouldn’t hang out with prostitutes.
I can’t be home till much later tonight, depending on when the main delivery
turns up,” he said. “Don’t take the case on, Cleo. It’s a number too big for
you.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” she retorted, guessing that
Robert would hate the idea of her have yet another reason to go to
Middlethumpton.
“Well just watch out,” he advised. “Take Dorothy with you. Kelly
is not squeaky clean. He could be dangerous.”
“Surely not! He’s a wizen little guy. Weight for weight I
could knock him flat.”
“Not if he’s armed with a pitchfork.”
“Gary will be there to defend me.”
“Don’t make me laugh. Look what happened to Sybil!”
“Sybil was leading a double life.”
“Others lead double lives,” said Robert, slyly referring to
Cleo’s. “And your Chief Inspector did not even notice.”
Cleo ignored the dig. She did not want to tell Robert that she
knew that Sybil had been a fly-by-night. Gary had made a genuine effort to give
her a start in a new life.
***
What Cleo could never tell Robert was that Gary had been
making an effort to find someone he could live with since Cleo would not have
him ‘on a permanent basis’. She knew she should be straight with Robert and
tell the truth, but the time was not ripe. Cleo was not ready to leave Robert and
confused by the loyalty she still felt. She knew he was jealous of Gary, but
Robert thought she was his property. He was possessive and yet passionless in
their relationship. In a strange way, that inspired loyalty in Cleo. Watching
three-cornered relationships on TV films was enough security for Robert, who assumed
that the wives always preferred their husbands in the end.
“That’s how people deal with their double lives,” Cleo had
told him.
“Meaning?”
“They keep their relationships well apart.”
“And end up dead in hotel cupboards! I must get this meat
into the fridge, Cleo. Watch out and keep me posted.”
“Not all lovers end up dead in closets, Robert.”
“No. Some end up in coppers’ beds,” he said.
“I’m keeping Gary at a safe distance, Robert,” said Cleo
mendaciously.
“Are you trying hard enough?”
“Are you trying to keep our marriage going with this kind of
talk, Robert?”
“I don’t have to try.”
“So you need no improvement, I take it.”
“I haven’t got someone on the side, Cleo.”
“Anything else you’d like to say, Robert?”
“I should not have said that. I’m sorry.”
“So am I. I’m pregnant and emotional. I need a bit of tenderness,
Robert, but you are not even trying.”
“I have the feeling that I only have a part share in you.”
“No one’s stopping you leaving me,” said Cleo.
“Perhaps I will, one day. I could say the same for you.”
***.
Cleo was alarmed. She was trying really hard to find a way of
making her marriage work for both of them. Not spending enough quality time
with Gary was awful and she did not know how long she could endure the situation.
She remembered a comment Gary had once made after a passionate round of
love-making that had left them stunned.
“You like puns, don’t you, Cleo?”
“Go on. I just hope that’s not what you were not thinking of
ten minutes ago.”
“The only thing tender about Robert are his steaks,” said
Gary. “How come he is such a cold fish?”
“Did I tell you that?”
“I think that’s why you need me, Cleo.”
“I just need you, Gary. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?”
***
Robert shouting “Are you listening, Cleo?” down the phone
brought Cleo back to reality. She had been sure that Robert had ended the call.
“Thinking of leaving me, Robert? Love to Mother.”
“Are you sure about that? I’m not sure about anything.”
“Neither am I, but now that Gloria is your chief cook and bottle
washer she’s as happy as Larry and that makes me happy.”
“More like Ella Fitzgerald than Larry. She’s singing
spirituals again.”
“That makes her happy, Robert. We all need something to make
us happy.”
“You should know,” said Robert and rang off.
***
Gloria was not only Robert’s mother-in-law, but also the
best saleswoman he had ever employed. Indulging her love of traditional Gospel
songs added significantly to her charm and impressed anyone within hearing
distance. Now she was busy serving customers, darting between them into the
back room to weigh ingredients for the short crust pastry to wrap round the home-made
sausages and delivering spirituals at full throttle at the same time. As for
the sausage rolls, she was sure she had invented them. They were selling like
hot cakes since they had been introduced at the shop. Gloria had made a world
of difference to Robert’s trade.
***
The singing stopped. Gloria was listening in.
“Did I hear you talking to Cleo?” she shouted.
“Nothing important. She sent her love,” Robert called back.
Gloria was to know as little as possible about Kelly. She
would find out soon enough. Gloria was a natural confidante, willing to listen
to the most far-fetched gossip, so the news about Mrs Coppins’ fate would be
passed on to her as soon as someone who had heard about it came into the shop –
and it cannot be denied that some customers came even if they didn’t need much so
as to pass on or listen to any gossip going.
Gloria Hartley would add anything she knew, and if she knew
nothing, she would have no scruples about making something up, often involving
Cleo’s Detective Agency. Robert did not protest seriously, since chin-wagging
was good for sales. Cleo was more scandalized than Robert by her mother’s lack
of tact and diplomacy, but Gloria was a law unto herself.
“I’ll fix the sausage rolls in the back room,” Gloria told
Robert. “Can you serve while I’m busy?”
“Don’t phone Cleo,” Robert ordered.
“What makes you think I would,” Gloria asked innocently.
“I saw you pocket your mobile, Gloria.”
“Just in case.”
“In case what? You can’t make pastry and use the phone at
the same time. Better leave it with me for safe-keeping.”
Gloria handed over the mobile obediently and went into the
back room to get on with the baking. Robert smiled inwardly. That’s one up for
me, he decided, putting the confiscated mobile on a table where Gloria could
see it. She could not phone Cleo now, Robert decided.
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