A Finer End

Greely had not managed to get much more out of Faith after his announcement that he believed Garnet Todd had been murdered. She had begun to cry—not a storm of sobs, which might have offered some possibility of consolation, but slow, despairing tears that ran down her face unchecked. Jack had protested then, and Gemma had shepherded the girl back upstairs to her room.

Gemma had offered to stay with her so that Jack could go on to the hospital, and he had accepted gratefully. Knowing Gemma’s aversion to being designated as handholder, Kincaid had given her a questioning glance, but she’d reassured him with a nod. Method? Or sympathy? he wondered—or perhaps a bit of both.

There came the sound of an automobile climbing the gradient, then the crunch of tires on gravel as an ancient Morris Minor appeared round the bend and rolled to a stop. A balding, bespectacled man climbed out, medical bag in hand. It seemed the police surgeon had arrived.

“I see you’ve made it a point to interrupt my lunch, Alf,” he said to Greely by way of greeting, but his jovial tone matched his pink, cherubic face.

“A lack I’m sure you’ll make up, Doc.” Greely gave a pointed glance at the doctor’s paunch, visible evidence of a weakness for good living.

“Too true. I shall have to take up slimming one of these days, if I can just convince Carole to give up cooking. What have we got here, Alf?”

“Woman found this morning locked in her van, keys missing. We were hoping you could tell us a bit more. This is Superintendent Kincaid, visiting from London.” Greely’s ironic emphasis on the verb was unmistakable.

Meeting the doctor’s eyes as they shook hands, Kincaid saw that, despite the jolly-elf exterior, it wouldn’t do to underestimate the man.

“All right, let’s have a look.” Lamb took off his jacket, handing it to Greely, then pulled a pair of gloves from his trouser pocket and slipped them on.

Greely stepped away and Kincaid followed suit as the doctor climbed into the van. “Sharp old bugger,” Greely said. “But he gets tetchy if you get in his way. Not that I’ve ever much enjoyed watching the poking and prodding part.”

They waited in silence while the doctor made his examination. Kincaid gradually became aware of the bustle of activity taking place in the hedgerow as the birds searched for tasty berries and insects, and of the inappropriate rumbling of his own stomach. He had forgotten all about lunch.

“One odd thing,” Greely offered meditatively, providing Kincaid a welcome distraction from his hunger. “The walker who discovered the body this morning was a bloke called Bram Allen—the husband of the lady who discovered Winifred Catesby in the lane.”

Kincaid raised an eyebrow. “Coincidence?”

“He said he walks round the Tor every day—could be his wife’s experience made him nervy—that, and the flies buzzing round the van.”

“Did he know the victim?”

“According to Mr. Allen, everyone in Glastonbury knew Garnet Todd. Seems the woman was a genuine eccentric.”

Dr. Lamb reappeared, rear end first as he backed out of the van. He removed his gloves, brushed off his knees, and rolled down his shirtsleeves before accepting his jacket from Greely.

“All right, Doc, you’ve kept us in suspense long enough,” Greely said, and Kincaid suspected the pair had a well-developed routine.

“Well.” Lamb brushed a twig from his lapel. “I’d say she’s been dead at least twelve hours, maybe a good bit longer with last night’s drop in temperature. Lividity is well established, but there’s some slight staining in other areas that indicates she may have been moved after death. There’s no sign of sexual interference that I can see.”

Grudgingly, as if he knew it was expected of him, Greely asked, “Cause of death?”

“Well, now, that’s the most interesting thing. There are indications of asphyxiation, but no ligature marks or bruising on the throat or neck area. I have my suspicions, but I’m not going to say any more. You’ll have to wait for the autopsy.”

Greely groaned. “I can’t see that we’re much further along. Can we move the body, then?”

“Mmm.” The doctor nodded. “Ask the pathologist to give me a ring when he’s finished, would you? Satisfy my curiosity.” He turned to Kincaid. “Staying long, Superintendent? You might find this one interesting.”

“Just the weekend,” Kincaid answered. He shook the doctor’s hand and watched as he climbed back into his decrepit Morris and chugged down the hill.

Greely signaled to the mortuary attendants. They transferred the corpse onto a white sheet to preserve any trace evidence, then moved it from one van to the other. The doors clanged shut with metallic finality and the van pulled away. The crime-scene technicians were still busy at Garnet Todd’s vehicle, while two uniformed constables painstakingly searched the surrounding area.

Casually, Kincaid asked, “Any leads?”

“Absolutely sod all—except for the young lady your cousin, Mr. Montfort, seems to have taken in. We’ll have to interview her, you know, and the sooner, the better.”