13 Horace’s Revelation

Christie’s Detective Agency Two Part 13 THE BODY IN THE LIBRARY

“Sit yourself down, lad, have a special cuppa and tell us all about it,” urged Jenny as Horace wove his way between rows of floral dresses smelling of this or that fabric conditioner and an assortment of freshening fragrances, and worn jeans with gashed knees.

“I could do with the tea,” he agreed, “it’s thirsty work down in the dungeons of the Brumpton Echo!”

“I expected you to be gone all day,” Jenny told him, “I’ve been there in the past and spent long boring hours finding my way through reams of microfiche.”

Horace joined them at the table and sat down as a hot drink arrived for him.

“I hit it relatively lucky,” he said, “the journalists had already been digging into their past issues when Mrs Foster was found murdered, so they led the way.”

“So spill,” encouraged Jenny.

“Well, to cut a long story short, when she was young, more than fifty years ago, Lauren Foster had well advanced plans to get married, everything was in order, the church booked, the guests arriving, but the groom failed to turn up. Unknown to poor Lauren he had a lightning romance with another young woman, courted her apparently in one single evening, proposed to her, was accepted and eloped with her, and all before he should have been standing next to Lauren in the church.”

“That’s a tragic story, but what’s it got to do with today?” asked Jenny, frowning.

“I read in one of my favourite books how sins of the past can cast long shadows,” put in Rosie, “I’ll bet it’s all to do with one of those long shadows!”

Horace looked at her, and grinned. “You’re a clever lass,” he said, sounding very much like a pompous older man when he was actually three or four years younger than she.

But Rosie smiled back at him. “It’s just that I love reading,” she said, “when my boyfriend’s watching the telly I like nothing better than curling up next to him with a good book. He thinks I’m daft, but as long as I’m there with him all right he isn’t really bothered.”

“There’s a lot to be said for books,” agreed Jenny.

“Anyway, would you like to know the name of the lad who left her at the altar?” asked Horace.

“Of course!” said both women together.

“You’d have thought your Detective Inspector might have discovered this,” began Horace, “because it may well be in the next issue of the Echo. But the idiot who treated her so badly was called Ian Pritchard. Now Ian was one of two brothers, sons of a farmer out Chickencoop way.”

“Chickencoop?” asked Jenny, “I can’t say I’ve heard of that. Where is it?”

“The smallest of hamlets a few miles south of Duckcrop,” said Horace, “I’ve lived here all my life and I hadn’t heard of it until I checked on a map in the library. Duckcrop is next to nowhere, but Chckencoop is even less.”

“I knew a lad out there before I got disenchanted with lads,” murmured Jenny.

“I love lads,” sighed Rosie irrelevantly, “especially my Jimmy.”

“Anyway,” continued Horace, I decided to look a bit further, and I hit pay-dirt!”

“You did?” exclaimed Jenny.

“This is better than Agatha Christie!” breathed Rosie.

“I did,” smiled Horace, “because a few weeks later there was a murder in Chickencoop. On a farm there. One of the farmer’s sons was hacked to death after he jumped off the tractor he was driving because someone forced him to by standing in the way of where he was going. It was either run him down or talk to him. And not being the killing sort the driver stopped the tractor before it hit him and jumped down.”

“As anyone would,” nodded Jenny.

“Probably,” conceded Horace, “but not anyone would do what he did next. He leapt onto the tractor lad and virtually hacked him to pieces with a darned big knife. It was, according to the Echo, an extremely vicious attack driven by wild fury. “

“And do we know the name of the deceased?” asked Jenny.

“This is exciting!” whispered Rosie.

“His name was Ian Pritchard,” said Horace, “and the man with the big blade was none other than Lauren’s brother, unlikely name of Lofty. Apparently he told her that he was going to sort the Pritchard lad out once and for all for letting her down like he had, but she didn’t think he was going to kill him! She thought he might just shout a bit, might even punch him once or twice, but it never crossed her mind that he would kill the man who left her at the altar.”

“She never said anything,” murmured Rosie.

“You what?” asked Jenny.

“Lauren was my friend,” Rosie told them, “you see, we’re both into books and reading. In fact, from what she told me about her life, just about all she ever did was read books, any kind of book: fiction, she knew everything about detective stories and must have read all of them lots of times to have so much detailed memory of the plots that she discussed with me. But she never mentioned that she’d been left at the eleventh hour by a scumbag of a boyfriend, nor that her brother had gone and murdered him! You’d have thought she’d have mentioned that, wouldn’t you? On a Sunday morning in the park. I looked forward to our little chats, you know.”

“You’re probably the only friend she had,” Jenny said quietly, “when I spoke to her about a year ago when I was at a political meeting protesting about leaving the EU, and she was there too, she never said anything beyond what she read in books. She was cross when the Referendum voted for us to leave the EU. She said she wanted to spend her fading years, what with her eyesight on the way out, going to see some of the places she’d read about while she still could, and she was afraid that now she wouldn’t get the chance.”

“You were at a political meeting?” asked a shocked Horace, “I don’t see you as an activist taking to the streets to protest!”

“Well I’m not, though some who think strongly about important issues should,” replied Jenny, “all within the rules of the law, of course, peacefully, non-violent.”

“Anyway, to continue,” went on Horace, “I delved even deeper because I could see there was some story lurking in the memory of the Brumpton Echo. Because I followed up on Lauren’s brother, Lofty. He was caught; he made no effort not to be caught, and he was sentenced to life behind bars. He was released on life licence after a dozen or so years, and very soon after that rearrested when it was said that he tried to burn the Pritchard farm down. A silly move if ever there was one. He was bound to be suspected and caught, what with his history. Anyway, he was released again a month or so ago after spending the largest part of his life in prison.”

“So that’s who you think…?”

“Who else?” asked Horace, “there’s a direct connection between him and his sister Lauren.”

“Who you say he killed?” asked Jenny, “it doesn’t make sense to me! Why murder the sister you worship? After all, it wasn’t her fault that he spent most of his life behind bars.”

“Well, it might if he find the missing link,” murmured Horace.

“What missing link?” asked Rosie.

He smiled at her, and shook his head. “That’s the trouble,” he said, “it’s missing and I’ve no idea what it is.”

“I’ll see Cyril,” decided Jenny, “at least he can shed some light on Lofty, you say his name is. Lofty Foster. Killer and arsonist. We might have to see him ourselves.”

“Carefully,” recommended Horace, “from what I read in the paper he’s a dangerous piece of work.”

“Very carefully,” agreed Jenny.

“He might be an alright guy who’s had a lot of bad luck,” suggested Rosie, “it’s easy to judge people when you don’t really know them, and newspapers always tell stories sort of black and white, when the world’s more shades of grey.”

Jenny turned to Rosie and smiled warmly. “If ever you need another job you might think of seeing me,” she said, “I like the way you think.”

© Peter Rogerson 07.10.21

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