A Murder In Hartley (Part 1)
Origin Of Murder Series
It was a frigid November day when Jimmy Nib died. Some say it was the coldest Autumn day they had experienced in the last twenty years. The locals of Hartley village had found his blue body bobbing up and down in the river that skirts through the surrounding fields. They had also found the remains of a bottle littering the ground nearby, pressing keen shards into the damp soil. Dan Hardy reckoned that was the cause of death. He was as much acclaimed for his quick opinions as he was also famed for his butchery skills. Whenever new folk entered the quiet village, which really was seldom, time wouldn’t pass long before they had heard about Hardy’s craftsmanship of meat, and to leave the village without paying a visit to this local wonder was surely a deep offence to the people of Hartley. Sally Goodman, the vicar’s wife, was of quite a different opinion regarding the matter of Jimmy Nib’s unfortunate passing and was rather keen to allow this poor soul some benefit of the doubt, without too quickly considering him a drunkard. Her husband, William Goodman, was much loved by all his parish; for some, it was his commitment to the Scriptures that stirred the deep affection in their hearts for him, and for others, it was simply his caring nature that often led him strolling through the village, looking for ways to care for his people. Just like his wife, William could not agree with Hardy on the cause of death, and instead, he proposed the idea of murder. The other good people of Hartley were also conflicted in their opinions of what had happened to kind Jimmy, and thus the sleepy village, normally so peaceful and uneventful, found themselves rather divided over the question of murder.
Knock, Knock! The whisker-faced man paced back and forth restlessly before the door, now and then pausing to look up at the window above him that was nestled between the pastel-coloured wall.
“Really, someone ought to be in! A murder, and no one to report to?” He huffed, tapping his foot impatiently against the cobbled path. The door received another firm knock, accompanied by a heavy sigh.
“Excuse me Mr. Hardy, can I help you?” A sweet, girlish voice drew his attention away from the unfortunate door, and to the street. A young woman, about sixteen years old, was watching him, her soft green eyes casting an inquisitive look. A basket lay in her hands, boasting the riches of the village market.
“Oh yes, Emma, finally. You don’t know just how long I’ve been waiting here. It’s been almost two hours since they found him, and the authorities are supp’osed to be there.”
“Found who?”
“Jimmy Nibs, bless him. He was found dead this morning. Dead! Can you believe it?”
Emma’s eyes widened with shock. “Really? Where?”
“In the river, and with a bottle beside him. I’m dead sure that’s what did it to him, but the vicar isn’t convinced; he says it could be murder!” Dan Hardy was getting somewhat vexed by now, wishing to be back at his store instead of out here, talking to Emma about a man who, quite frankly, he had never liked. “That’s why I’m here - I need to speak to your father.”
Emma was a smart girl, and thus not wishing to further worry the bothered man, she smiled sweetly, and replied, “Father’s not in at the moment, but I’ll get him for you. I know where he’s gone.”
“You’re a good lass, Emma. Tell ‘im he ought to be quick about though; it’s caused quite a fright in the village.” He gave a slight nod of acknowledgement and then strode back down the street, whistling rather loudly.
The Superintendent stood up slowly, a perplexed look cast across his face; he was a gentle-looking man, with a well-trimmed moustache, and warm honey-toned eyes. The dull grey of his suit seemed to match the bleak sky above.
“Oh Jimmy, what have you gotten yourself into now?” He muttered, watching as two of his sergeants carefully lifted the sodden, lifeless body out of the foaming water, and placed it onto a stretcher resting on the frosted dirt.
He pulled a pen and notebook from his pocket and scratched a few thoughts down onto the paper. Victim: Jimmy Nibbs, 35 years of age. Found face down in river. Likely cause of death drowning - self-inflicted. He paused, pen mid-air, and stepped over to the remains of the bottle that lay untouched. Pulling a cloth from his coat pocket, he fastidiously picked up the bottleneck with it and then sniffed the cracked glass.
Whiskey.
The pen once again lay siege to the paper. Empty whiskey bottle - victim potentially drunk?
“No, no, no…it can’t be that,” He frowned, ruffling his fingers through his chalky-brown hair. “He said he was done with it.”
“Sir, we’re ready to go.” One of the police officers stood a few steps away, a little too eager-eyed for the Superintendent’s liking. “What do you think happened to him? The bottle get the better of him?” He was too nonchalant; too jovial about it all. Death didn’t seem to bother ones like him.
A heavy sigh escaped the Superintendent’s lips. He didn’t appreciate being dumped with new recruits; especially ones that seemed so excitable about events such as this. “Tom, remember; it’s still a person who died. Try to have a little heart.”
The officer straightened up and attempted a more sincere pose. “Yes sir. I’ll try, sir.”
The Superintendent smiled weakly, re-homing the pen and notebook in his pocket. “We’ll see what the autopsy says, and talk to the locals. They won’t be short of opinions.”
“Now Mr. Hardy, what can you tell me about the victim?” The Superintendent stood in the back room of the butcher’s store, watching the bloodstained man run his knife along the inside of a partially gutted pig. The job looked effortless when he did it.
“I’m sure you’d know just about as much as me, sir. Contrary to most folk around here, I didn’t like him much. Yes, he was a kindly fellow, but I knew about his past. They say he killed a man when he was young; spent six years in the block for it. I don’t easily give my trust to a man who’s taken another’s life.” He plunged the knife into the bleeding flesh.
The Superintendent grimaced. “So, were you pleased he died?”
“No of course not. A death is still a death, and I’m sorry the fellow met his end like that. I’m just saying, though, I don’t think he was just the kind man folk took him to be.” He paused his butchery for a moment, wiping a bloodied finger across his brow. “If you ask me, he well nigh did it to himself, by having no respect for the bottle. I wouldn’t call him your usual drunkard; it only happened every now and then, but when it did, it hit him hard. Say, was it a beer bottle lying near to him?”
“No, it was whiskey.”
Hardy’s eyebrows slanted upwards. “You don’t say so? Now that is odd.”
“Why so?”
“Because although he had a keen taste for much of that sort of stuff, he’d never taken to whiskey. Didn’t quite appeal to him.”
The Superintendent’s brow furrowed deeply. “Do you think there is any possibility he had changed his mind about it?”
“No, absolutely not. Even the smell of it was too much for him.”
“Hmm…well, thank you for your time. If you think of anything else, please let me know.” The Superintendent tilted his hat, and left the store, warmly welcoming the crisp air outside.
He made his way down the high street, now and then stopping to offer a polite “good afternoon” to the village folk as they ambled along. It was a pretty place here, with charming cottages setting off the cobbled streets, and beds of snowdrops sprawling throughout.
A few metres down the road, and he reached Hartley Green; the resting place of the church. The stonework of the walls had aged gracefully, and though storm and wind did indeed try their best at battering the place, it still stood strong. Late autumn flowers scattered the lawn, granting the place a beautiful serene look.
The Superintendent continued on his way, following the gravel path that wound behind the church, leading towards the manse.
Sally Goodman met him at the door, her kindly eyes brimming with concern.
“Good afternoon, Superintendent. Please, please, come in. Let me take your coat. I’m sure you’ve had quite the morning. Really, it’s so sad about poor Jimmy.” She perched his coat on the hook by the entrance and led the way into the lounge. “Here, please, sit down. Can I get you a cup of tea?”
The Superintendent smiled warmly. “Yes thank you. And your husband, is he around?”
“He’s just visiting one of the members; John Demerly. He’s taken ill, and doesn’t have long to live. But he should be back soon.” She stepped back into the room, puffs of steam swirling above the cups she held. “Here you go. Now, I’m presuming this is about Jimmy Nibs?”
The Superintendent sighed, leaning forward in his chair. “Yes, unfortunately it is. How well did you know him?”
“William and I have,” she paused, dashing her hand across her eyes, “I mean we had known him for coming up fifteen years I believe. He was a very kind man, but he was lonely as well. He never married, though I believe there was once a girl he liked. He always came to the Sunday Service, but I believe it was more of a formality for him.”
“And did he have a problem with drinking?”
“He did, at times, slip into his old habits, and he knew it was wrong. But it wasn’t a consistent part of his life. I know Hardy likes to call him a drunkard, but I don’t believe that’s quite fair.”
The front door closed loudly, announcing the arrival of William Goodman. He stepped into the room; his face weary with sorrow and his eyes reflected his tender soul.
“Superintendent, it’s good to see you. Though I wish the circumstances were different.”
“And you, Reverend. I’m sorry to bother you at such a time as this, but these questions must be asked. Do you agree with your wife that Jimmy Nibs wasn’t a drunkard?”
“Yes I certainly do. I wouldn’t once upon a time, but he had changed. He had told me he was ‘giving it up for good’, and I believe he meant it. As far as I’m aware, he hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol for the last six months.”
The Superintendent scratched his head thoughtfully. “Yes that’s what I seemed to recall.”
William leaned forward, an earnest look besieging his face. “Now, I know, Sir, it’s not my job to do the suggesting, but are you considering murder?”
“And what makes you suggest that?”
“Well, for character’s sake alone, I don’t know why anyone would want to murder poor Jimmy. But on the other hand, his personal decisions did give him a bad name in some places; not so much around here, but elsewhere. People didn’t like him because he wouldn’t fight.” William shook his head sadly.
“Do you mean because he was a CO?”
“Yes that’s right. Everyone has to make a decision according to their conscience though, and for him, it’s because of what happened at that pub some twenty odd years ago. I don’t blame him for choosing that.”
“Hmm that’s right. It’s a complicated one. And yes, I am considering murder.”