"Who found the body?" asked Frost, completely unaware of the tension in the room.
The area car driver who had answered the 999 call stepped forward. "The vicar's wife, sir. She went to that cupboard to see if she could find any spare hymnbooks for the carol service and found the obscene books and photographs heaped on the floor. She suspected they had come from the trunk. She opened it, and there was the kid."
Mullett reasserted himself. "The vicar's in his study downstairs, Frost. His wife's in the lounge. She's very upset and I thought it better to keep them apart at this stage."
"Has the vicar said anything?" asked Frost.
The area car driver pulled out a notebook. "Another bloody memory man," snorted Frost, but undeterred the constable flicked through until he found the right page. He cleared his throat and read.
"The vicar said he had no idea how the child had got there. He last used the room about a week ago and last saw the child when she left Sunday school last Sunday afternoon. His wife, Mrs. Bell, was hysterical and I couldn't get much sense out of her, but she said-" and he dropped his eyes to the notebook for the exact words, "-'I knew it would come to this one day, I just knew it'." He shut the book with a snap and replaced it in his breast pocket.
Frost made no move.
"Well, Inspector," said Mullett with forced heartiness, "I expect you'll want to question the vicar right away. We'll hang on here until the pathologist arrives."
Frost ignored him and sank to his knees by the trunk. Heedless of the shocked protests, he turned the body to one slide and plucked something from the back of the blue coat, then he jerked his head abruptly at Clive.
"Come here, son. You want bloody facts, do you? Here's a bloody fact." He pointed then looked up at Mullett. "I don't want to speak to the vicar, sir, and I don't need any bloody pathologist to tell me who killed this kid." He gently replaced the tiny corpse in its original posi tion and looked at Clive who nodded grimly. There could be little doubt. All day long they had both been brushing and brushing to get the damned things off their clothes and the back of the girl's coat was smothered in them… hairs-black, brown, white, tabby-from the mangy moulting fur of many different cats.
"Come on, son," and Frost moved to the door.
"Where are you going?" asked Mullett, frowning.
"To arrest Martha Wendle for murder," said Frost, and was clattering down the stairs before Mullett could ask any more stupid questions They were going too fast for safety, but fortunately the roads were empty. Frost refused to waste time walking through the woods. "Take the private road, son," he ordered. Then: "Why are we slowing down?"
"We're coming to the gate," explained Clive. "It's locked."
"Drive through it," said Frost.
"It'll damage the car," exclaimed Clive, horrified.
"Sod the car, son. Smash through it. It'll make me feel better."
So Clive gritted his teeth and pressed down hard on the accelerator. The gate grew bigger and bigger until it filled the windscreen, then struck the car with a hammer blow. A splintering sound, something shot up in the air and crashed on the car roof, then there was snow and open road ahead.
"Saves all the sodding about with a key," murmured Frost, looking back at the wreckage with satisfaction. The dark crouch of the cottage leapt up in front of them and Frost was out of the car while Clive was still applying the brakes.
No lights anywhere. He hammered at the front door. Silence. He sped round to the back and rattled the handle. Locked, but a tiny sound of movement from within. He charged it and bounced off, bruising his shoulder painfully. Clive joined him and kicked near the lock as he had been taught and the door crashed open and they fell into the kitchen with its smells of boiled fish and leaking cats.
She was sitting in the dark, waiting for them, green unblinking eyes staring from her lap.
"We've just come from the vicarage," said Frost.
"Yes," she said, not needing to ask any questions.
Clive went into the other room to fetch the oil lamp and the light showed her broken and resigned. "I didn't think anyone went into those rooms," she said.
"You sodded it up," murmured Frost, gently. "The sort of thing I usually do. You picked the wrong room. It was his photographic studio. Anywhere else and we might never have found her." He cautioned her and asked if she had anything to say.
Martha stood up and the cat leaped from her lap. "They might as well have their fish." A newspaper parcel of fish heads was tipped into a saucepan and the ritual of boiling began.
"Children come here and torment me. They throw stones… break windows… call me a witch." She screwed up the fishy sheet of newspaper and dropped it into a battered enamel bucket. "Last Sunday that child came-Tracey Uphill. She kept banging on my door. When I opened it, she would run off, calling me filthy names. Where do children learn such language?" The water boiled over and she lowered the gas. "I find it best to ignore them so they get fed up and go away, but this one kept on and on. Then she started throwing stones. My kitten was outside. My lovely white kitten."
"The one we dug up in the garden?" asked Frost.
Martha nodded. "She hit it with a stone. Broke it's back. It screamed with pain. I had to put it out of its agony. The child turned to run, but fell. I was so angry, I grabbed her throat. I shook her." She clenched the fingers of her strong hands, then thrust them out of sight under her apron. "I shook her and shook her… And then she was dead."
The fish heads rattled in the saucepan. Clive's pen raced across his notebook.
"When I realized what I had done, I was horrified… and frightened. I had to hide the body. At first I was going to bury her with the kitten, but it seemed so obvious. Then I thought of Dead Man's Hollow. No one ever goes there. I took my spade and dug in the dark. It was like some macabre joke. The very spot I had chosen… something was already there. Human remains!" She paused and shuddered.
"You'd uncovered the arm of the skeleton?" asked Frost.
"Yes. I think I screamed. Then I pulled myself together, covered it up again, and returned to my cottage."
"So that's how 'the spirits' knew what was buried there?"
"Yes. When you first called, the child's body was still in the cottage. I had to put you off the scent."
"You didn't put me off the scent, Miss Wendle, you confused me-which isn't very difficult, I'm afraid. But Tracey wasn't here when we searched your cottage this afternoon."
"You were too late. I'd already hidden her in the vicarage. I'd just driven back from there."
"Too late! The story of my life," said Frost. "Why did you choose the vicarage?"
"I'd been there many times before with my spiritualist meetings. I knew there were lots of old rooms no one ever went into. I'd booked the hall for another meeting and had to go there today to make final arrangements. I took the child's body in my car. No one saw me. I carried her up the stairs into a darkened room. There was an old trunk covered with a sheet. It seemed ideal. There was a padlock, but it just fell off. I opened it. Inside were a lot of old books. I took them out and put the child inside. I didn't think anyone would find her."
She turned the gas off under the saucepan and emptied the contents onto several plates. The floor was alive with cats, purring in anticipation… the cats whose fur had betrayed her.
Frost emerged from Mullett's office smoking an enormous red and gold banded cigar which a delighted Divisional Commander had pressed on him from his special V.I.P. box. It forced Frost's lips apart and weighted his head down. Bloody Mullett had been bubbling over with joy as if they had found the girl alive and well… but his elation was really due to the fact that the girl had been proved to be dead before the police were called in and no possible blame could be attached to Denton Division for its handling of the search. He was overjoyed that Frost had obtained a signed statement from the Wendle woman, tidying up all loose ends, but even this might have kept his cigars firmly in their box were it not for the telephoned message of praise received from the Chief Constable.