25. A Final Little Note

REMEMBERING REBECCA, part 25

Two days later, first thing in the morning, Rosie called her team to her for a brief conference.

“Any luck searching for another weapon?” she asked, knowing there hadn’t been but needing it confirmed.

“I went to see the mother of the child Rebecca Rowbotham,” said Sheila, “poor old soul! She wouldn’t have any idea about finding a gun, and if she did happen to pick one up as she rolled along in her wheelchair, she’d have less idea how to use it. No, she can be discounted on just about every front and mainly because she’s a thoroughly decent old lady who I rather suspect would have to beg forgiveness if she as much as swatted a fly.”

“What about you, Bob?” asked Rosie, turning to the sergeant.

“I spent a cosy hour with Steptoe,” he said, “not the man’s real name, of course, but his business is called Steptoe’s Parlour after an old television comedy series.”

“I know,” Rosie smiled at him, “it’s usually being repeated somewhere or other. And?”

“Well, Steptoe’s the local go-to man if low-life thieves need to fence something in his second hand emporium, and he swears he wouldn’t touch anything like a gun even if one was offered him. He insists he’s even careful fencing knives if they look dodgy. And there’s nowhere else in Brumpton. I could try a county-wide search, but I don’t think I’d come up with much.”

“Right,” said Rosie, “which brings us back to the weapon Miss Kristen says doesn’t work, the one she half-inched from Mr Styles and his tin leg. I’ve had a report from forensics. Far from not working, Miss Kristen’s weapon has been fired recently and the only prints on it belong to her. The real miracle is that her prints were taken sixty years ago for exclusion purposes, after Rebecca was murdered, and have been on record ever since, somehow escaping the great fire of the seventies!”

“So she might have shot Roper after all?” queried Bob.

“She was quite convincing when she said the gun didn’t work,” put in Sheila, “how about Mr Styles?”

“We could check him out, but I rather suspect the weapon wasn’t in his bedroom drawer at the time of the shooting, but in Miss Kristen’s handbag,” Rosie told her team, “I think we should have another go at our Candice.”

“Would you like me to see what she’s got to say?” asked Sheila.

“No. I’ll go,” Rosie told her, “I don’t want you to think I don’t trust you to ask the right questions but I want to test the waters myself. You can come with me, however. Two people are more likely to spot subtexts in what’s being said than one.”

“And me?” asked Bob.

“Yes. Just pop in to see My Styles. Say it’s out of courtesy and explain that his pistol’s turned up. No need to tell him who had it. OK, everyone?”

The three of them left the office, observed by their Superintendent who was frowning. He still couldn’t see that a sixty year-old death could have multiple repercussions so many years after the event even if the Bishop did.

Sheila sat thoughtfully as Rosie drove to Candice Kristen’s house.

“Penny for them?” urged her Inspector

“Oh, nothing much,” she replied, “I was just wondering if I missed anything when I spoke to her and she handed the gun over. What you said about subtexts made me wonder.”

“It’s possible,” admitted Rosie, “but don’t trouble yourself about it. No harm’s been done.”

“And that’s a blessing, if I missed something,” acknowledged Sheila.

Miss Kristen’s house was in silence when they arrived there. No matter how hard they knocked the door, there was no response.

“Not seen her since yesterday morning,” volunteered a neighbour, opening her own door to see what was going on, “when she put the empties out, and a note cancelling her milk. One pint, she had, every other day. Said that’s all she needed, and then it turned out to be too much seeing as she don’t want any.”

“Oh dear,” muttered Rosie, “come on, Sheila, nip round the back and we’ll check. I remember what was said about people round here not locking their doors.”

The two officers made their way round the back and to a back door that was swinging open, not even closed.

“I don’t like this,” whispered Rosie, and she slowly, carefully, made her way through the kitchen and towards the living room, with Sheila just behind her.

Candice Kristen was sitting in her chair in the room, but there was a stillness and silence about her that seemed ominous, and Rosie stood in the doorway for a moment, taking in the whole room. On Candice Kristen’s lap was an empty bottle, the wort that contain prescription tablets.

“Miss Kristen,” she called quietly, but the elderly lady remained still and mute.

Rosie tiptoed to the chair and gently tested the cold flesh of Candice Kristen for a pulse, but there wasn’t one. She picked up the small bottle and examined the label before nodding and replacing it on her lap.

“She’s gone,” she whispered, “phenobarbitones. send for an ambulance.”

While the constable followed that instruction she looked around. Next to the still body of the dead woman was a small side-table and on it was a single sheet of paper, folded neatly in two.

She picked it up, guessing what it was.

Opening it up, she read,

I’m sorry. I loved Rebecca and he killed her. I know he did and I can’t live another day knowing that he’s still alive in the world and going about doing for anyone who might tell on him. So it was down to me to do the right thing. I’m sorry I lied about the gun.

And she’d even signed it Candice Kristen.

“Come on, Sheila,” murmured Rosie, “The case is solved. All the cases.”

They walked out of the house and stood waiting for the ambulance to arrive. A second police car arrived, and Superintendent Knott climbed wearily out.

“So what was it?” he asked bluntly, “you were wrong and it had nothing to do with sixty years ago after all?”

“Sir, it had everything to do with it,” almost snapped Rosie, “because sixty years ago Richard Roper either deliberately or accidentally stabbed a schoolgirl in the playground, and she died, and because he was the feared Headmistress’s son not even other children nearby let on they knew if they’d noticed anything. One of those other children lies dead inside this house now, having taken her own life, possibly with an assortment of pills and tablets that she stored up over the years, waiting for just such an occasion. It was she who, having spent a lifetime mourning a ten year old friend, finally plucked up the courage to borrow a gun and shoot him, and it was he who had despatched two elderly ladies because they had threatened to finally tell the church authorities, who whatever you might think actually don’t like killers amongst their clergy!”

“Oh,” mumbled Superintendent Knott, and without checking that who his Inspector had suggested might lie in cold death inside the house was actually there, climbed into his car, and drove off.

THE END

© Peter Rogerson, 30.01.21