The Scribbler Iain Maitland (good books to read txt) 📖

“Oh, it was,” she replied. “But no, he was Mrs Smith’s nephew, not Miss Bright’s. I came in to get Miss Bright ready for her lunch and he was just sat there in her armchair next to her … she was on the bed … he was, well, I don’t think he was getting much sense out of her. She drifts in and out. I caught the tail-end of what he was saying, asking her if there was a vicar in the home. I think perhaps … she was religious … she had a cross and a bible … and she wanted to speak to a vicar before she, well, you know.”

“I’m confused,” Gayther said. “This man was in Miss Bright’s room. You heard him asking her if there was a vicar in the home. But … he was Mrs Smith’s nephew. How do you know that?”

“Well, I said to him, ‘Can I help you?’ because I didn’t recognise him … we have a few regulars we get to know … and he said he was just asking if there was a vicar in the home and he sort of nodded and smiled towards Miss Bright as if it had been her who had been asking him. So, I asked him who he was and he said he was John Smith, a ‘long-lost’ nephew, that’s what he said, and I laughed and said that Mrs Smith was in the next room along and no wonder Miss Bright didn’t recognise him.”

“And what did he say to that?” Gayther asked.

“He smiled and said something about not having seen her – Mrs Smith – for many years. He then asked again if there was a vicar who could ‘say a few words’. That’s what he said, ‘say a few words’. I remember that and I told him the Reverend Lodge was in the room right above.”

“Did you then show him to Mrs Smith’s room?” Gayther pressed.

“No, I would have done, but I was running a bit late, and Miss Bright, well, I think she needed changing. So, he showed himself out and that was the last I saw of him.”

“Did you ask Mrs Smith about him later, to see if they had had a nice chat.”

“I did, but she’s another one who’s away with the fairies much of the time. She didn’t have anything to say about it. I don’t think she could remember what she had for breakfast that morning. And I was in at different times and on the other floor, and then I left, so I never did find out how that went or whether the Reverend Lodge said a prayer for Mrs Smith. I don’t know where he got the idea she was dying, though, as she’s physically quite well for her age.”

Gayther finished his cup of tea and placed it carefully on the table by his side. As he thought about his next question, she spoke.

“Why?” she asked, and then added, “perhaps I’m missing something, but why, I mean, what does John Smith have to do with the death of the Reverend Lodge. I don’t understand?”

Gayther tried not to sigh, “We just have to tie up the loose ends. It’s possible John Smith may have some insight into why the Reverend Lodge died. If they spent some time together.”

Before she could think about that, and ask another question he might struggle to answer, he went on.

“Can you describe him for me, Mrs Williams?”

“Mr Smith? I would say he was about fifty, maybe a little older. He had on one of those dark hoodies. He was wearing a cap, a sort of baseball cap, and blue jeans. I remember thinking how he was, well, quite old really, but dressed young. What did make me smile, although it’s a bit mean, is that he had these old blue canvas shoes on, with the Velcro strips across the top rather than laces. Hobos. It’s what all the old boys with dementia wear. It makes it easier to get them dressed and undressed.”

“Did you notice his eyes at all?”

“His eyes? No, not really. He was quite pale, though, with white stubble and, well, I wouldn’t say he was, what’s the word, um … albino, is it? He didn’t have pink eyes or anything like that, but he was very pale, and his skin sort of looked a bit flaky. I did wonder whether he might have been ill.”

“Did he wear gloves? Maybe for eczema?”

“I can’t say I noticed that.”

“And his height and build?”

“I, oh dear, I still think in feet and inches, I’m afraid. He was a bit taller than me, maybe five foot seven or eight. There wasn’t much of him. Ten or eleven stone?”

“One last question, because we’d like to trace him, see if he can help us … what about his voice, how would you describe that?”

“Oh …” she said, distracted suddenly by the sound of what Gayther assumed was the teenage son running downstairs, “he was from Suffolk. He had an accent, quite nice to hear, quite old-fashioned, it was. Everyone speaks, what’s it called, Estuary English these days.”

Got him, thought Gayther as he nodded his thanks and rose to his feet to end the conversation and say goodbye. We can forget Sally and Jen … and Elvis bloody Elsworthy … and cut to the chase. This man is The Scribbler and the net starts closing on him from now. 5. MONDAY 12 NOVEMBER, 4.10PM

The man with the latex gloves stood beside a copse of trees close to run-down public toilets in Acle in Norfolk. He coughed and wiped his runny nose, which he always seemed to have at this time of year.

He had, one way or the other, spent the best part of three hours in and around the park. Here by the trees for the past ninety minutes and more. Woollen hat pulled down. Fleece collar pulled up. Pocket-sized binoculars in his hands.

Bird-watching, or so