Murder by the Book (Sophie Sayers Village Mysteries 4) Read online

  I didn’t answer. My head was spinning with the sudden realisation that Billy was probably the last person to have seen Bertie alive.

  21 Well, Well

  I was also mightily relieved to realise that Billy had spoken to Bertie after I did. Otherwise I might have been a murder suspect. After all, I had motives: my affection for Carol, and my ardent wish to see her live happily ever after with Ted, Becky and Arthur. And I had the opportunity: alone in the courtyard, unwitnessed, with Bertie. I also had the means: I may not have the strength of Wonder Woman, but as a fit, healthy twenty-five-year-old, I could easily have pushed a feeble, drunken old man backwards down a well.

  As could Billy, strong of arm thanks to his twin employments of gardening and gravedigging. But did the brothers’ mutual hatred really run that deep?

  “I’ll come back up there with you, Tommy,” I said, wiping my hands on a tea towel and abandoning my post.

  I dashed across to the trade counter to whisper to Hector a hint of what was transpiring. His jaw dropped as he listened to me.

  “Yes, you go with him, sweetheart,” he said in a low voice. “Go with Tommy and make sure he doesn’t get himself into any serious trouble.”

  Did Hector think Tommy might somehow be involved? Much as he loved throwing things down the well, adding a full-grown man to his collection of missiles seemed unlikely. Unless Billy had put him up to it. It wouldn’t be the first time that Billy had got Tommy to do his dirty work. Was that the favour that had earned Tommy his raffle ticket – pushing Bertie down the well?

  I hesitated, clutching Hector’s arm.

  “What about the tearoom?” I gestured towards a couple of ladies just settling down at a newly vacated table.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll call Becky.” He pressed a speed dial code on his phone and put it to his ear. I didn’t know he had Becky on speed dial.

  But there was no time to fret at how easily I might be replaced. I followed Tommy to the door and up the High Street. Running to keep up with Tommy’s long strides, I realised just how strong this wiry young boy had become.

  In the courtyard, the village doctor was peering down the well beside Donald.

  “The cops have gone from Hector’s House, Donald, so you’ll have to phone 999,” Tommy was saying as I caught up with him. “And don’t go disturbing the scene of the crime. There might be clues.”

  He pulled his magnifying glass out of his Parka pocket. The doctor straightened up and laid a firm but gentle hand on Tommy’s arm.

  “We’d better leave that to the experts, son. I’ll put in a call now.”

  Tommy’s shoulders sagged. “I’m only trying to help.”

  “I know, son,” said the doctor. “But the best help you can give till the police get here is to try to remember exactly how you found the body. That will be very helpful indeed.”

  I was thankful to the doctor for his sensitivity.

  Tommy perked up. “Shouldn’t I have a lawyer present?”

  “No-one’s being accused of anything,” said Donald. “We just need to piece together what we can, to give the police a head start finding out who did it and why. As you discovered the body, you’re a very important witness.”

  Tommy straightened his shoulders proudly. “Yes, I suppose I am. That makes me sort of like a detective, doesn’t it?”

  The doctor nodded. “I suppose it does. Now, let’s go inside and get our wits about us before the police get here. Donald, can you cover up the – er – the well in the meantime?”

  While the doctor and Tommy returned to the bar, I helped Donald haul a sheet of plywood from the skip and position it across the top of the well’s low wall. Then Donald placed a few of bricks on it hold it down. He glanced up at me sheepishly. “Am I overdoing it, Sophie?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t think he’ll try to escape, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  Poor Donald’s face was pale with shock. After the euphoria the Valentine’s Night success, this was the last thing he needed.

  Gently I took his arm to steer him indoors. “Come on, Donald. You never know, when this gets in the local papers, it might bring lots of new customers up from Slate Green.”

  Donald groaned. “Oh God, the papers. That’s all I need. Whatever will the brewery say?”

  “Ker-ching,” I said, and was glad to see him smile albeit briefly.

  Once inside, we settled down with Tommy and the doctor round the table nearest the bar.

  “You don’t think they’ll say it’s all my fault, do you, Doc?” asked Donald. “Wretched health and safety. This is exactly why I’ve been wanting to get the well filled in. But I was more concerned about toddlers falling down it, not grown men. Honestly, you’d think someone his age would have more sense.”

  I bit my lip. “It was awfully dark out there last night, though, Donald.”

  All three swivelled round to stare at me.

  “How do you know it was dark out there last night?”

  “I… I heard a noise, and went out, and… and I saw the old man. I talked to him. He was alive and standing there large as life. I know it was the same man, I recognise him, even in the daylight. And I know who he is - was.” I hesitated. “He was Billy Thompson’s brother, Bertie.”

  They gasped.

  “His older brother. He seemed a bit tipsy to me. But you know, old people don’t see well at night. Joshua, next door to me, he has to use really bright lightbulbs to see properly. Maybe Bertie just tripped.”

  “But that’s what the wall is for,” said Donald. “That little wall around the well. To stop people falling down it. It’s not like it was a concealed mineshaft, with no outward clues. You can’t fall down a well, just like that.”

  “You might if you were a bit drunk,” I said uncertainly.

  Tommy thumped his hand down on the table, making us all jump.

  “You could if someone pushed you,” he said, turning pale. “And I can think of someone who might have pushed Bertie down the well.”

  22 Slow Motion

  “Tommy Crowe, you promised me you wouldn’t tell no-one about seeing my brother here last night.” A vein on Billy’s forehead was pulsing hard enough to worry me. “I thought you and me was friends. I said you could only have my raffle ticket if you didn’t tell no-one about meeting him.”

  This was hardly the reaction I’d expected Billy to have to the news of his brother’s death. Seeing the pub door open on his way home from Hector’s House, he had strolled in on the off-chance of an early pint.

  Tommy grimaced. “You never told me he was your brother. I’m sorry, Billy, I really am. But it’s too late now to give you back your raffle ticket, because we won the hamper, and Sina and me have eaten all the chocolates, and my mum’s drunk all the champagne. So unless you want us to sick them all up again –”

  Billy snarled and turned away. I hated seeing these two unlikely but loyal friends torn apart by this awful discovery, when Tommy might have been a comfort to the old man in his time of need. Billy’s eyes were filling with tears. He turned to me in appeal. “I know I’ve said some harsh things about Bertie in the past, but he was my brother. Even if he did say some awful things about Carol last night, still shameless after all these years. What decent man wouldn’t have lain a few punches on his chest to try to shut him up? But he was my only surviving brother, my only living flesh and blood. I wouldn’t have it in me to kill the old bugger.”

  “Your only living relative, apart from all the other people in the village you’re related to,” said the doctor gently, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement.

  Billy scowled again. “Well, you knows what I mean. The only close member of my family that’s left. My only sibling. Don’t that count for nothing these days?”

  Tommy leaned over to whisper to me. “Most murderers know their victims personally.” I wished he hadn’t committed so much of his detective book to memory. I bet he wasn’t as good with French verbs and algebraic formulae.

 
; “But why would anyone think I’d murder my own brother? We weren’t no Cain and Abel.” Bertie’s voice was plaintive. “And why now? If I’d wanted to kill him, I could have done so long before now. Not that I ever bested Bertie in a fight when we were youngsters, and I didn’t intend to start now. It must have been someone else, but who would do such a thing?”

  “Don’t answer that, Tommy,” I said quickly. “Let’s leave it to the real police to ask the questions.”

  I pulled the tearoom order pad and a pencil out of my pocket, and a pencil, and started to make a note of the sequence of events from the night before.

  Carol had come in from the courtyard after me, claiming Bertie had stood her up. Supposing Ted had somehow found out about it? Becky might have tipped him off, feeling vengeful towards her father and wanting something better for her mum. Those strong baker’s hands would have no trouble thrusting a feeble old man down a hole in the ground.

  Donald looked at his watch and got up from the table. “I’d better tell the concrete men to come back another time.” He headed for the door.

  Of course, I only had Carol’s word for it that she hadn’t seen Bertie when I bumped into her outside the Gents’. She could easily have pushed Bertie down the well before she came through the side door. I thought she seemed a little over-excited for someone who had only come to the pub to supervise a prize draw. That was before she’d spotted Ted there waiting for her.

  I looked sideways at Tommy, currently absorbed by dismantling a sugar lump grain by grain.

  Donald returned, shaking his head. “They said they’ve got to charge me full whack for this mix. This courtyard is going to cost me a fortune.” He sighed. “Why did this have to happen on our busiest night of the year? The only one when there wasn’t a regular trickle of smokers out to the courtyard? Otherwise someone would have spotted what was going on and stopped it.” He locked his eyes on mine. “If it hadn’t been for your Valentine’s Dinner, we might have saved the poor old soul.”

  I gasped at the injustice. “It wasn’t MY Valentine’s Dinner.”

  “I don’t know why you two are getting so aerated about concrete and Valentine’s nonsense,” said Billy, his voice cracking as he spoke. “It’s not looking good for me, is it? I mean, no-one seems to have seen him after I did. And I swear on our mother’s grave, I left him alive.”

  “Perhaps he jumped down the well,” said Tommy brightly. “I mean, it’s the sort of thing a person might do.”

  Donald put his hand over his mouth to cover a laugh. “It might be the sort of thing you would do, you crazy child,” he said, “but not the average old man on a dark night.”

  “From what I saw of Bertie, I don’t think he would have been capable of jumping,” I said. “Staggering, perhaps.”

  “But over a wall?” asked Donald. “Not unless somebody pushed him over it.”

  “You mean, did he fall or was he pushed?” I said. “Perhaps we’ll never know. Not unless you’ve got a hidden camera out there.”

  “But of course I have.” Donald clapped a hand to his forehead. “CCTV. It’s very low resolution, and a bit clapped out, but it might help. Quick, let’s take a look before the police get here.”

  “Might you hide the evidence if it shows Billy killed him, then?” asked Tommy, sounding like he thought it was a genuine possibility. “You mustn’t do that, Donald. That would be wrong.”

  “Of course not,” said Donald, marching across to the bar and lifting the flap. “Come on, you can all come and witness it if you like, to make sure I don’t tamper with the evidence.”

  Tommy, the doctor and I got to our feet and followed Donald, leaving Billy sitting with his head in his hands.

  “The camera automatically downloads onto my PC at midnight every night, so yesterday’s footage will be on here already,” said Donald, punching 6pm on 14 February into the search box, then setting it to run on fast forward.

  There were two screens side by side showing footage from two separate cameras, one pointing from the rear wall of the pub towards the well, the other positioned above the side door and pointing down the alley.

  “I’m in it quite a lot, aren’t I, Donald?” said Tommy, admiring the speeded-up footage of him lobbing stone after stone down the well. I hoped Donald hadn’t been intending to keep that bit of wall.

  Donald ignored him. “Here, now we’re getting somewhere. It’s too dark to see the details clearly, but that’s obviously you, Sophie, having a chat with Bertie, and very wisely keeping your distance from him.”

  After I’d gone back up the alley and disappeared inside the pub, we saw Bertie lurking by the well on his own for a bit, stumbling about, clapping his arms around himself for warmth.

  “He didn’t have a very thick coat on for such a cold night,” said the doctor. “He could well have been verging on hypothermia if he’d been out there too long at his age.”

  Then, the footage still on fast-forward, Billy emerged into the alley and made straight for Bertie. There were no brotherly hugs of welcome after their decades of separation. Instead there followed agitated, jerky movements of heads and arms, as they engaged in what looked like a ferocious row. They kept their distance from each other until Billy took a step forward to strike his brother, smacking him, open fisted, on the chest in anger, once, twice, three times, before turning on his heel and marching away from him.

  We held our breath as Billy departed, leaving Bertie stood there, wobbling slightly, then a bit more, and more and more, like the final skittle reluctant to allow a player a strike. Finally gravity got the better of him, and he tumbled, arms and legs flailing, dislodging a shoe on the low wall as he tipped over backwards at an awkward angle. When he bashed his head on the far side of the well, we all flinched.

  “That must have been the moment of death,” said the doctor quietly.

  Then Bertie disappeared completely down the well.

  We were silent as Donald rewound those last few moments, making Bertie reappear, spookily, like a rabbit from a magician’s hat.

  “That’s clever,” said Tommy appreciatively.

  This time when Donald clicked play, he let the film run in real time.

  “Bertie must have cried out when he fell,” said the doctor. “So why didn’t Billy stop to help him?”

  “Billy,” I said slowly, feeling relief starting to wash over me, “Billy forgot to put his hearing aids in last night. He was on his way back down the passage by the time that Bertie lost his footing. He couldn’t possibly have heard.”

  I pointed at the screen as Donald reran the footage once more.

  “Look, if he had heard it, he would have reacted. He’d have jumped, or turned round, instinctively, even if he chose not to go to his aid. But look at him, he just keeps walking. He plainly hasn’t heard a thing.”

  Donald rewound to show the brothers arguing beside the well again, and this time we could see plainly that the push that Billy had given him hadn’t been of murderous intent. All he’d done was set his brother a little off balance. The physical frailty inflicted by Bertie’s dissolute, drunken life had done the rest, and in the shadow of the cottage in which the brothers had been born, Bertie Thompson had tumbled to his accidental death.

  The bar flap clattered behind us, and we turned to see Billy standing, pale and helpless, to await our verdict.

  “Find anything worth seeing?”

  “It was an accident, Billy, just a very unfortunate accident,” said the doctor slowly. “Of that we can be absolutely sure.”

  “Pardon?” said Billy. “Speak up, I can’t hear you if you’re going to whisper.”

  I turned to the doctor and smiled. “I rest my case.”

  By the time the police had come and gone, and the ambulance had taken Bertie’s body away to the morgue, it was past lunchtime. I thought I’d better head back to Hector’s House. I hoped he had been missing me, in spite of the ease with which he’d fielded Becky as a substitute.

  The shop was much quieter th
an when I’d left. Hector, seeing me as I pushed the door open, looked up anxiously.

  “Everything ok up there, Sophie?”

  I nodded. “Sort of.”

  He pointed to the central display table, where gaps like missing teeth had appeared where copies of The Girl with Forget-Me-Not Eyes had once been piled high.

  “Look at that! We’re sold out! We’ve sold every last copy.” He grinned. “I can see the headlines in next month’s Bookseller, can’t you, Sophie? ‘Minty’s Minting It’. And it’ll all be down to you.”

  “Lovely,” I said weakly, although I meant it. “But what I really need now is a nice cup of tea.”

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  For the latest information about Debbie Young’s books and events, visit her Writing Life website, where you may also like to join her free Readers’ Club: http://www.authordebbieyoung.com

  Also by Debbie Young

  SOPHIE SAYERS VILLAGE MYSTERIES

  Best Murder in Show (#1)

  Trick or Murder? (#2)

  Murder in the Manger (#3)

  Coming soon:

  Springtime for Murder (#5)

  Murder Your Darlings (#6)

  School’s Out for Summer (#7)

  SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS

  Marry in Haste

  Quick Change

  Stocking Fillers

  ESSAY COLLECTIONS

  All Part of the Charm: A Modern Memoir of English Village Life

  Young By Name: Whimsical Columns from the Tetbury Advertiser

  About the Author

  Debbie Young writes warm, witty, feel-good fiction.

  Her Sophie Sayers Village Mystery series of seven novels runs the course of a year in the fictional Cotswold village of Wendlebury Barrow.

  Her humorous short stories are available in themed collections, such as Marry in Haste, Quick Change and Stocking Fillers, and in many anthologies.