31 October 2012
~Slightly scary~ ~Not mine~
By S L Fleming
One shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. Having said that, I can’t remember anyone wasting much time lamenting the loss of Samuel Roberts.
In fact, just a few days after his disappearance it became apparent that people were inclined to arrive a little early at the bus stop outside his cottage in order to have a good natter with their friends, and children no longer lowered their voices whilst riding their bikes past his front door. The shop became a place to linger and socialise, the Boar’s Head was noticeably busier, and even the Chapel, where Sam could often be found sleeping off a hangover on a Sunday morning after not quite being able to negotiate his way home the night before, saw a slight increase in congregation numbers.
Unfortunately, the Police were unable to ignore the Missing Person’s Report filed by one or two of the more benevolent members of the community, however convenient it might be to do so. And so it was that I was given my instructions to carry out a second interview with Mrs Megan Roberts, exactly 17 days after her husband had seemingly vanished into thin air.
I didn’t know Mrs Roberts too well in those days, mainly on account of her reclusive nature. Once or twice a week I’d catch a glimpse of her nipping into the butcher’s or the post office, always with her head well down, uncommunicative and withdrawn. Of course, this was hardly surprising. Samuel Roberts‘ temper was legendary, and it was no secret that his wife had to bear the brunt of his drink-fuelled rage on many an evening. Sergeant Matthews, who had carried out the first interview with Mrs Roberts just a few days after Samuel had disappeared, noted in his report that she’d been wearing a heavy amount of make-up that morning, in an attempt, he believed, to conceal the remains of a bruise on her left cheekbone.
The absence of this brute notwithstanding, I was extremely surprised to find Mrs Roberts in the most convivial of moods on that dreary, autumn morning.
“Ah, come in, Constable! Come in and sit yourself down.” She led me into the cosiest of kitchens, and settled me into a carver next to the range, on which a pot of stew bubbled and simmered.
“Would you like something to eat? You look half-starved,” she said, putting a mug of steaming hot tea on the table in front of me.
I wondered how many famine victims Mrs Roberts had actually seen, as I shifted my 16-stone frame in the chair and counted back the 2 hours and 45 minutes since breakfast. But the rich, peppery aroma of meat stew played tricks with my mind, and my stomach began to rumble.
“I don’t want to put you out at all Mrs Roberts,” I said politely, letting the statement hang in the air.
“Call me Meggie,” she smiled. “And it’s no trouble Constable. How about a warm pasty? I‘ve just made a batch.”
Meggie chatted away happily while I devoured the pasty, showing no outward signs of concern about Samuel, and I found her company so pleasant that if it wasn’t for the huge amount of paperwork that was waiting for me on my desk back at the Station I could have easily stayed all morning. As it was, I chose an appropriate lull in the conversation to explain the point of my visit.
“First of all,” I said, “I want to assure you that we’re working very hard to ascertain Samuel’s whereabouts. In the meantime, I just need to clarify a few things.”
Meggie flashed me an accommodating smile.
I flipped open my notebook. “When did you last see your husband alive?”
“Let me see...” she wrinkled her face in thought. “It must have been two weeks last Friday, the 24th I think, about midnight.”
I almost choked on a mouthful of tea, and hastily flicked back a few pages to find the notes I‘d prepared the previous day.
“Friday the 24th? That, er... wasn’t the answer you gave to Sergeant Matthews last time.”
Meggie raised her eyebrows. “Well, it wouldn’t be, Constable. Sergeant Matthews asked me a different question.”
I re-read the question aloud. “’When was the last time you saw your husband?’. You said on the afternoon of the 25th, about 2pm.”
“That’s right. But you asked me when had I last seen my husband alive. And that was on the night before, about midnight, when he came back from the pub.”
I could have kicked myself. We all had our suspicions that Sam had come a cropper on the cliffs nearby, but in a lapse of concentration I’d let the word slip out. I cleared my throat, nervously. “Right. So you’re saying you saw him the following day, but he wasn’t alive?”
“That’s right Constable. Of course, technically I saw him after 2pm, but not in a recognisable condition. So around 2pm would have been the last time I saw him, well... you know... as you would have remembered him. Would you like some more tea?”
“So the next question,” I continued, after taking a few seconds to compose myself, ‘Was there anything unusual in his manner? Did he seem agitated, angry or depressed?’ You answered ‘no’.”
“Right again. He wasn’t any of those things. And there was nothing unusual about his manner. He just lay there, in a pool of blood. Dead as a doornail.”
“Then... why did you tell Sergeant Matthews that Samuel had gone out of the house around mid-morning?”
“He did! Not of his own accord, mind. I dragged him out into the back yard myself. I had to clean up and he was getting in the way. Of course, I couldn’t leave him there, attracting rats and the like. Once I’d mopped up I dragged him in again, this time down to the cellar. They used to hang meat down there you know, to cure. The hooks are still hanging from the ceiling, would you believe it? Was that yes to tea?”
I scanned the last few questions, Did he say anything that morning to give an indication as to where he might have gone? Has he come back for any of his things? Does he still have a house key? The list went on, and to all of them she could have replied, quite truthfully, with a simple ‘no‘.
Meggie was already out of her chair and filling the kettle. I wondered how old she was; 60 maybe, 65? Average build for her age; not overly tall or strong, but with deft, delicate hands, so far unaffected by arthritis. Even so, I wondered how she’d found the strength to move a corpse around on her own.
“How did you kill him, Meggie?” I said softly.
Slowly, she put the kettle back down on the worktop. “With a cleaver.” She sat down opposite me and sighed, suddenly dejected. “I’d just had enough, Constable. Can you understand that? I know it was wrong, but I’m getting on now, I can’t fight back like I used to. I want a quiet life; one where I don’t have to walk on eggs all the time.”
I stopped asking questions after that. Instead I had another cup of tea and made small talk until Meggie had cheered up again. I had no intention of searching the place. I was sure the old girl had done a good job of cleaning up anyway. Not much evidence, I shouldn’t think. Not on the ground floor, anyway. I shuddered to think what might be below my feet.
As I got up to leave I gave the stew a little stir. “Those pasties are wonderful Meggie,” I remarked. “You should sell them in the shop.”
“Oh, I would,” she laughed. “But there just isn’t enough of him to go around, if you know what I mean!”
Somehow I made it all the way to the station before throwing up.
Despite this gruesome revelation, I let Meggie her take her secret, such as it was, to the grave. I wasn’t about to earn my stripes arresting a sweet old lady who’d wasted the best years of her life being bullied and beaten by her thug of a husband. Besides, she never did anyone any harm. Apart from chopping up her old man with a cleaver and making him into pie filling, that is. As for me, from that day on I became a strict vegetarian.
Well, you would, wouldn’t you?
A Quiet Life • Opuss № I