Faith Martin - A Fatal Affair

Margaret puffed a bit as she crossed the lane in front of the school, and looked across to check the time on the church clock opposite – barely 7 a.m., so she was well on schedule. Nevertheless, she was mentally making a list of all the things she still needed to do as she turned the corner that would take her past the duck pond and onto the village green proper.

She only hoped, she thought with a scowl, that Sid Fowler had remembered to secure the ribbon-bedecked wooden crown on top of the maypole before it got dark last night. For whilst the stone maypole itself was left in situ to withstand the weather all year round, the wooden piece at the top, with multiple slats carved into it through which the long, colourful ‘ribbons’ were secured, was always kept stored in the school shed.

Sid wasn’t the most reliable of men, though, and she had the spare key to the school shed in her pocket, just in case. She had delegated Rose Simmonds, the barmaid of the village pub, to make sure that all the many ribbons, traditionally the seven colours of the rainbow, had been cleaned and would be bright and sparkling for when the children began their dances.

As a child who had once danced around the maypole herself, weaving and ducking around her fellow schoolmates in order to create the intricate patterns so iconic of the maypole, she knew how much better it all looked when the ribbons were bright and fresh. Spider’s Web and Gypsies’ Tent were her favourite dances, but the Twister …

At that moment in her reverie, Margaret looked towards the maypole to check all was as it should be, and stopped dead in her tracks. For a second or two, she merely stood and blinked, not really sure that she was seeing what she thought she was seeing.

Falteringly, her brain buzzing like a hive of disturbed bees, she stumbled forward, but as her feet stepped onto the soft green grass of the green, she felt the strength leeching out of her, and she sank awkwardly onto her knees.

She felt her mouth open, but was incapable of making a sound.

Instead, she just stared at that year’s May Queen.

Nobody had been surprised when Iris Carmody had been chosen. Traditionally, all the village men (in a closed ballot) elected a village girl between the age of sixteen to twenty to be Queen of the May. And Iris, with her long pale fair hair, big blue eyes, heart-shaped face and hourglass figure had been breaking the hearts of local boys since she’d hit puberty. And probably even before then! Now, at the age of seventeen, she had swept all other challengers before her.

As May Queen, she was to rule the village for the day, for tradition had it that the May Queen’s every wish had to be met. Of course, in the past, this had led to some jolly japes, with one May Queen famously ordering that all the pigs must be ‘painted’ green, and all lads must have daisy-chains for belts!

Margaret, for one, had had severe misgivings about giving Iris Carmody, the little minx, so much scope to make mischief, and she didn’t believe that she was alone in that. There had been more than one wise matron who had taken her aside and muttered darkly about the village’s choice this year.

But looking at Iris now, dressed in a long white gown embroidered with a swathe of tiny colourful flowers and her long, waist-length hair topped by a crown of violets, bluebells, primroses and narcissus, even Margaret had to admit that she epitomised youthful beauty and the spring.

Even the colourful ribbons, hanging from the crown of the maypole, and which were now wrapped tightly around and around her body, holding her fast to the stone edifice, looked pretty.

But underneath the swathe of beautiful fair hair that was framing her profile, Margaret Bellham could see a string of darkly smudged bruises around Iris’s neck, and even more horrifically, the congested, contorted face and lolling blue tongue that made the dead girl look like a grotesque parody of what a May Queen should be.

Finally, the monstrousness of what she was seeing freed Margaret Bellham from her paralysis, and she began to scream, before wailing pitifully.

It was a week and four days after the murder of Iris Carmody, and DI Harry Jennings was beginning to feel the strain. His officers had been working on the case non-stop, with the press breathing down their necks every inch of the way. He wasn’t particularly surprised by this, as a beautiful girl dressed as a May Queen and found strangled and bound to a village maypole was many a newspaper editor’s dream.

But it was just one more headache that he didn’t really need.

And he knew that another one was about to walk through his office door at any moment. He sighed heavily and leaned back against his chair, feeling the lack of sleep catching up on him. The trouble was, for such a spectacular crime, the investigation of it was turning out to be frustratingly pedestrian.

For a start, nobody had seen the dead girl on the day of her death. The girl’s parents had no idea why she’d dressed so early and left the family home when she had such a busy day ahead of her. And nobody in the village had heard anything untoward occurring at the village green, either the night before she was found, or early in the morning – not even those sleeping in the cottages surrounding the crime scene.

And whilst there had been gossip and speculation aplenty within the village about the dead girl – and her love life – there was very little confirmatory proof to actually go on. Oh, it quickly became very clear after the PCs had finished interviewing everyone in the small village that everyone and their granny had a lot to say about the dead girl – and not much of it flattering. Or too flattering, depending on who was doing the talking. According to most of the women, she was a flighty girl at best, a man-eater at worst, but nobody could actually point the finger with any conviction at the supposedly long list of her potential victims or lovers. And whilst a fair proportion of the men had liked to hint that they knew Iris rather well, on being pushed for times, dates and proof, nobody would actually go so far as to admitting to being the girl’s paramour.

Everyone agreed that her ‘official’ boyfriend of the moment had probably been taken for a fool, but unsubstantiated gossip didn’t provide rock-solid motives for murder.

And now, piling tragedy upon tragedy, there had been a second death that was almost certainly connected to the murder of the May Queen. Although this one looked, thankfully, far more straightforward to deal with, and the Inspector had high hopes that it could soon be closed. Especially once his next visitor had been tactfully dealt with.

Well, perhaps …

Here DI Jennings heaved a massive sigh. As he did so, there was a sharp, peremptory rap on his office door, and before he could bid anyone enter, the door was thrust open and a tall, brown-haired man walked in. Dressed in a slightly rumpled, charcoal-grey suit, he was not fat but not particularly lean, and although he was a handsome enough individual, he looked noticeably pale and hollow-eyed. He also looked much older than the fifty-two years that Harry Jennings knew him to be.

As well he might, poor sod, the Inspector thought grimly. Jennings hastily shot to his feet. ‘Superintendent Finch, sir,’ he barked out awkwardly. ‘Er … won’t you sit down?’

The Superintendent nodded and sat very carefully and precisely in the chair in front of the Inspector’s desk, a clear indication of how rigidly he was controlling himself. The Superintendent had already given his formal statement to Jennings yesterday morning, which had been painfully awkward for both men concerned, but Harry hadn’t been surprised to have received the call from Keith Finch late yesterday afternoon asking for another ‘informal chat’ today.