23 The Solution Approaches

REMEMBERING REBECCA - Part 23

Detective Sergeant Bob Short and Detective Constable Shelia Robinson were called into the DI’s tiny office, little more than a corner of the main office partitioned off by a flimsy wall, and she smiled at them.

“We’re good to go,” she said quietly, knowing that anything she said had a chance of being overheard in the main body of the office, “the Bishop, bless his soul, has received a letter that, had we known its contents at the time he received it, might well have pointed us in the right direction and led to the good Reverend Roper being invited to spend time until his trial in a warm and cosy cell. However, and I think it understandable, the letter was dismissed as a crank piece of nonsense and put to one side. But now we’ve a job to do with no Super interfering in it, and we’d best do it as swiftly as we can. I don’t think there’s any risk of there being more murders, though. Right, for starters, any comments?”

“Well, ma’am, its seems likely that the weapon used to send the Reverend for a debate on justice with his Maker most probably belonged to Mr Styles,” said Bob.

“What makes you say that?” asked Rosie.

“Well, ma’am, as far as I can tell there’s only one gun on the streets in this neck of the woods, and it belongs to him.”

“On the streets, Bob?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.

“Well, he says it’s in a drawer upstairs in his house, though he can’t get to it. He had a leg shot off when he was in the army and now that he’s reached his seventies, he insists, his one real leg is no longer good enough to assist him when it comes to climbing the stairs. So he says he’s sure the weapon’s there but hasn’t seen it for years.”

“Which brings us to his fiance,” put in Sheila.

“Ah, yes. Carry on, Sheila,” smiled Rosie.

“Candice Kristen. Dowdy and weather-worn, and dependant on her walking stick, lets it be known that she plans to marry the gentleman in question,” smiled Sheila. “Seems he needs a woman to care for him and the only way he can see of getting one is by marrying one. Separate bedrooms, though. His is downstairs because he can’t cope with stairs, and hers, I should think, is up the wooden hill. Which she might have a problem with, walking stick and all, especially after a shandy or two on a romantic summer evening.”

“But would she be the sort of woman to steal a gun if she did cope with stairs?” asked Rosie.

“Dowdy and depressed. That’s what I thought she was, and unlikely to make any decision that could have repercussions,” mused Sheila

“What about motive, though?” asked Rosie.

“There was one thing that came across to me when I discussed her matrimonial future,” said the D.C., “her life seems to have been haunted by the loss of a good friend when she was little, the girl Rebecca Rowbotham. From the way she spoke she looks upon the murder of that girl as the one factor that determined the rest of her life, and it’s not been a sociable sort of life. And she knew who killed her. She knew it was the boy Roper. After a very much lost and haunted life she might look on that as a motive.”

“Then why didn’t she say something back then?” mused Bob.

“I can’t answer that other than to suggest that Roper was the Headmistress’s son and she may well have been the sort of head who struck terror into young hearts if what you said to her made you cross her, and calling her own kid a murderer might well have done that. It may have been fear that stilled other tongues, too. And don’t forget back then there was such a thing as corporal punishment.”

“Harsh times,” frowned Bob.

“I’d like to ask her, Ros… ma’am,” replied Sheila, “see if I can get her to open up.”

“Then you do just that, Sheila. Meanwhile, I’d like to have another word with our one-legged Mr Styles, check him out for a motive and make gentle enquiries about his deep romantic affair.”

“You are joking, aren’t you? All he wants is a skivvy!” exclaimed Sheila.

“Then let’s knuckle down. You know what we’re doing. I’m off to see Mr Styles with Bob, and you can tackle Miss Kristen on your own, Sheila.”

They separated at that point, Rosie driving to the home of the very military Samuel Styles. She frowned when she saw the door knocker. “I’m glad that’s not real,” she whispered.

It was obvious that it had been a struggle for him when he opened the door after a lengthy delay during which Rosie almost turned to go, thinking him not at home.

“Sorry,” he said, “I’m not used to visitors and my leg’s bot up to much these days. Damned thing. Be better off with two wooden stumps than this lump of flesh,” and he tapped his good leg with a firmness that made him wince. “Don’t hang about, come in,” he added.

“We’re still asking questions about the girl who was killed when you were at school, not as a teacher but as a pupil,” said Rosie, “and the shooting of the Reverend Roper recently. Do you think that it’s possible that there’s any connection between the two murders?”

“What? Sixtyish years apart? How can there be?” he frowned, “though the spooky thing is when I came out of the bog and buttoning little Sammy into my pants it was that same tyke who reckoned he was saving the girl. Blood all over him, he had, Dicky Roper. That’s what we called him back then: Dicky. His mater was the head squaw, you know, bossy boots in her office with her size twelve slipper she used to paddle our bottoms with if we stepped out of line. Oh, she did that, she did. Size twelve, though it wouldn’t have fit her little feet.. Damned well hurt, too. Grew up to be a vicar, he did, though he was a dirty minded little tyke back in the day.”

“Do you think he killed the girl and only said he was saving her?” asked Bob.

“’Course he did! We all knew that and might have said but for his ma’s size twelve!” laughed Samuel Styles.

“And do you think that it’s possible that’s why he was shot?” asked Rosie.

“Could be m’dear. I would offer you a cuppa, but I’m fresh out of tea and milk, so I won’t. Is that all?”

“Are your wedding plans going well?” asked Bob, turning to leave and smiling to himself at the whole idea of this military man having any plans of a romantic nature.

“What? That? Silly bint came round last night, popped upstairs ‘cause I can’t, said she needed the loo, though there’s a perfectly good one down here, and then said the whole sheban was off! My wedding, that is! Said there was no need for it any more!”

“I’m sorry,” murmured Rosie.

“Oh, don’t be. It’s a load off my mind, that’s what it is, and I’ll bet you a pound to a penny that she’ll still pop in with tiffin every now and then!”

The two police officers wished him farewell and went back to the car.

“Well,” sighed Bob, “What do you make of that, then?

“It goes a long way towards telling us everything,” replied Rosie.

© Peter Rogerson, 28.01.21