In the previous three parts, an unexpected change of plans allowed Trixie to accompany Jim on a trip north, where she soon discovered that the woman next door had been murdered. In the time since, Trixie has dug out quite a number of dirty secrets and she is homing in on the murderer…

Part Four

“I hear there’s been an arrest,” Jim announced, as he arrived home from work that evening. “Mrs. Hill’s son.”

“What?” Trixie nearly dropped the spoon she was using to stir the bolognaise sauce. “But I’m sure he didn’t do it!”

Her husband shrugged, as if to distance himself from the decision. “I’m sure they know what they’re doing,” he murmured.

Trixie turned her back on the stove and began expounding her position. “What benefit would he get from murdering her?” she demanded. “She’d already settled the money on him; there wasn’t much left to get. And besides, he seems to be pretty well-off in his own right. Besides, they were estranged and had been for years! It’s not like she was bothering him all the time. They didn’t see each other at all, as far as I can tell. There just isn’t a motive there. And why would his wife want to kill her, either, especially since she’s divorcing him. If she was after money, you’d think she’d stay with him until after he inherited, if she was planning the murder. And wouldn’t she already know that he wouldn’t get much else? Anyway, I know she didn’t do it herself, because of her nails.”

“Her nails.” Jim’s flat tone showed his confusion at the statement.

“She’s got long, red nails, like talons,” his wife explained impatiently. “You can’t strangle someone with a cord with nails like that; I checked. As I was saying, I don’t think the business partner is involved – he seemed so sincere, though of course that doesn’t mean he actually was, but also it does look like nothing changes for him by her death. What he told me about selling checks out with what happened before the murder. Olivia’s uncle was really, truly upset – about the only person who actually was – so I don’t think it was him, either. And after what happened with Olivia and that developer, I don’t think he has what it takes to kill someone!”

There was a silence, as Jim thought about what she had said. “So, if none of those people did it, who did?” he wondered aloud. “You seem to have eliminated every single suspect.”

“I know,” she admitted, flopping down onto a chair. “There just has to be another motive, because I’m pretty sure now that none of them did kill her. I just can’t seem to figure out what it could be.”

In the morning, Trixie returned to the historical society’s archive for another session looking for documents. Up until then, they had found almost nothing of relevance but Trixie had made good progress on cataloguing the contents of the boxes. She expected that this day would be much of the same.

“Well, good morning, Trixie,” Mrs. King greeted. “It’s just the two of us, today. Edna has come down with a cold and decided to stay home.”

She pointed out the box she wanted next and Trixie retrieved it, then went back to her own task of cataloguing. The two worked together in companionable silence for some time, before Mrs. King let out a startled exclamation.

“What have you found?” Trixie asked, pushing back her chair.

“An ethical dilemma, mostly,” the elderly lady answered. “Now, what am I supposed to do with this? It doesn’t exactly fit the brief we were given, but it certainly answers the question – at least, in my mind.”

Trixie took the photograph and peered at it. “Who am I looking at?”

“It’s not so much ‘who’ as ‘what’,” her companion corrected. “This is an interior shot of the original house belonging to the Hill family – which later burned down – and those are some of the members of the family. Now, compare it to this one of the Lychfield house.”

Trixie laid the two photos side by side. The second one showed a room devoid of people and decorated in the over-the-top style of the late nineteenth century.

“There!” Trixie cried. “It’s a little treasure chest and it’s in both pictures.”

“The Lychfield Treasure,” Mrs. King murmured. “Surely, that’s what they were talking about. It must have been something of a family joke.”

Trixie stared at the two photographs, thinking. “The fact that they apparently kept it on the mantelpiece kind of suggests that it didn’t contain anything valuable, but it’s not certain.”

Mrs. King sighed. “You’re right. I’ll include copies of the two photographs in the report. I don’t have to point it out to her. She can look for herself.”

“Just like you told me to read the history for myself,” Trixie answered, smiling. “And, speaking of your local history, I have one question.”

“What did you want to know?”

Trixie pointed to the first photo. “Where was that house?”

Mrs. King hesitated. “I’m not certain. You see, before the fire, the land that St. Leonard’s Mission is on and the land Euphemia Hill’s current house is on were one and the same. I understand the current house is on an L-shaped block. The original house site might be on either side of the fence, but it’s somewhere near the corner of the L.”

“I think it’s on St. Leonard’s Mission’s side,” Trixie mused. “Someone’s been searching there.”

“I’ll bet they have,” the old lady remarked, rolling her eyes. “As if anything of worth would be left there after the fire. So many people have no sense at all!”

Trixie smiled and they both got back to work.

Feeling restless, Trixie spent much of that evening fidgeting around in the trailer. In an effort to break the destructive pattern, she had turned on the tiny television set and tuned in to the evening news, but it did not hold her attention. One news story finished and the next began. Suddenly, Trixie became fixated on the screen. A man had assaulted a camera crew outside a courthouse and, as they are wont to do, the news service was making a great fuss of the matter.

The news camera focussed on the hunched figure of Reg Hill Jr., just before his hand reached out and shoved the lens violently. The picture wobbled and then refocussed on the retreating figure. As he passed off the left of the screen, Reg appeared for a moment in profile. Trixie let out a startled gasp.

“Jim!” she cried. “Oh, Jim! It’s him! Don’t you see? If he’s the ‘ghost’, then he can’t possibly be the one who buried the body, because I saw him at the same time that I heard the digging! Quick! I need to call the police and tell them they’ve made a mistake!”

“They’re not going to like that,” Jim pointed out, reasonably. “Besides, where would you call from?” There was no telephone in the Robin. “Morning will be soon enough.”

“I guess,” she conceded, while still pacing back and forth in the limited space. “But, whether they like it or not, he didn’t do it!”

True to Jim’s prediction, the police most decidedly did not like being told that they were wrong. It took a great deal of persistence on Trixie’s part to even get to speak to the officer in charge of the case, and when she did, she found him patronising in the extreme.

“People see all kinds of things on dark nights,” he told her. “Thank you for your call. I’ll bear it in mind.”

Trixie stamped her foot and tried to think up a strong enough exclamation to express her frustration. “That… that… man!” she cried. “He didn’t listen at all. I just know that it wasn’t her son, and I’m going to prove it.”

Jim, in whose office she had made the call, raised an eyebrow. “You don’t think the police are going to solve this by themselves?” he asked.

“That man couldn’t successfully investigate the whereabouts of his own rear end,” Trixie exclaimed, still furiously angry. “I need some air.”

After half an hour’s walk, Trixie had regained her temper. Certain that she was still missing something important, she returned to the library’s newspaper archive in order to widen her search. After a weary hour, she came across a wedding notice for Mrs. Hill’s aunt and a man whose surname was the same as that of her late husband’s business partner.

“Pickering,” she murmured to herself. “Too many Pickerings in this town. I wonder if there’s a connection.”

Continuing the search, she finally came across a birth notice for that couple: a boy named George. From there, it was only a matter of time until she established that this George Pickering was the very same man who later started a business with the late Reg Hill.

Could this be a clue to the motive? she wondered, while busily making notes. Is there someone else who’s related to both parties somehow, who thinks they can gain from Mrs. Hill’s death? Trixie frowned. Unfortunately for the investigation, there was no clear familial relationship to be seen. Eight of the nine children in the original Lychfield family had been girls. Over the years, there had never been more than one son passing on that surname in a generation with the result that many families in the area were related, but none were named Lychfield.

Returning to the genealogical chart in the booklet she had purchased, Trixie traced through the generations, looking for a clue. Early on, she had identified Mrs. Hill as being the daughter of the last surviving male Lychfield. According to the chart, he was the third and final child of the second-last male survivor. Mrs. Hill’s father, then, had two older sisters. The middle child had married into the Pickering family – the aunt whose marriage announcement Trixie had found earlier. Trixie’s fingertip tapped the name of the eldest sister. I wonder…

With renewed energy, she plunged back into the archives and within an hour had discovered the eldest sister’s married name, as well as the name of her only child, Gervaise Dittman-Cox. That name had a slightly familiar ring to it from some of her earlier researches. It did not take long to track down his recent accomplishments: until his retirement a few years ago, he had been the mayor.

“Oh!” she exclaimed aloud, on seeing his photograph.

She plunged her hand into her bag and pulled out the bundle of snapshots she had taken outside the cemetery. She flicked through the unidentified ones until she found the one she sought: ‘Some kind of official; probably retired.’ Undoubtedly, this was the same man.

Trixie pencilled the name onto the back of the photo, then flipped it over to give him a speculative look. She had seen this man twice in person: once on her first day in town, when he strode around in a suit and called attention to himself; and once at the funeral, when he appeared solemn, but talked incessantly.

Satisfied with her day’s work, she headed home for the evening.

By the time Sunday morning came, a plan of sorts had matured in Trixie’s mind. Jim had brought the news that the police had received a tip-off and were on the verge of a break-through. Local rumour had it that they would be beginning a new search the following day. This was heightened by the presence of police cars in and around Mrs. Hill’s house the day before. Hoping to catch her suspect out, she set off early to undertake some surveillance. The sun was still low in the sky when she found a suitable position outside Gervaise Dittman-Cox’s residence and his house was still and silent. Trixie settled back for a long wait.

After about half an hour, the front door opened and a man emerged. Trixie recognised him immediately as Mr. Dittman-Cox himself. He was dressed in casual clothes and apparently intended to take a walk. Keeping a discreet distance, she followed along. The walker took a circuitous path through the town, stopping frequently to smell a rose which overhung a front fence, or to admire a view. After a time, he began to slow down and look at his surroundings more carefully.

Instinct warned Trixie that she should not let herself be seen, so she ducked around a corner, into a shelter of a large and bushy conifer. Parting the branches slightly, she gained a view of her quarry and saw him enter the grounds of St. Leonard’s Mission. Deciding against using the main entrance, she ran up to the boundary and climbed over the fence. Her times of exploration served her well, as she knew that she would find shelter in the thick bushes below the lawn.

It took some time to discover the whereabouts of the man she followed. He had stood still and watched at the bottom of the drive until he was sure that there was no one around. Minutes later, he was apparently satisfied, as he entered the shrubbery and approached the spot where Trixie hid. She glanced down and saw a disturbed place in the soil, right under her feet.

He’s coming here, she realised, stepping back and scuffing her footmarks away. She ducked further into the bushes just in time. A moment later, Gervaise Dittman-Cox stooped at the very same place and brushed at the dirt with his fingers.

“Where is it?” he muttered, almost inaudibly. “It’s got to be here somewhere.”

He began to widen his search, poking around under the nearby plants and brushing aside the leaf-litter. Standing up, he spent a few minutes just staring at the ground around him, a worried look on his face. He shook his head and swore softly, before tamping down the soil more firmly with his feet, then bending to spread fallen leaves across the disturbed area. Turning, he left in the direction he had come. Trixie watched for a moment, then decided that there would be no point in following him back again. His purpose, whatever it had been, had lain here.

Leaving the shrubbery, she wandered back across the lawn to the trailer, which she found to be empty. She had a decision to make, and needed a peaceful and secure place to contemplate it unhindered. Before her lay a clear choice: either she could excavate the spot herself, and possibly compromise the police investigation, or she could call them and let them have the discovery. Her own curiosity urged her to take the former path, but her sense of responsibility rebelled.

Safe inside the trailer, she tried to come to a clear decision, but the matter refused to resolve itself in her mind. Her distrust of the local police had grown so that it warped all logic regarding them. She knew in her mind that they could not possibly be as inept as she thought them, but somehow that did not change her thinking.

Frustrated, she tried to set the ethical dilemma aside and consider the other implications of what she had just seen. He buried something, she mused, as she began to pace up and down the limited space. That much is obvious. I guess he must have lost something while he did it, and that’s what he was looking for this morning. But what could he have buried? It can’t have been all that big; the disturbed spot was only about a foot square. So, something fairly small; something he doesn’t want associated with himself, since he was so anxious to retrieve whatever it was that he lost, but not so anxious that he’d risk digging it up again to find it.

Her eyes strayed to the folder she had brought back from the archive. Mrs. King had readily given her permission to make copies of some of the documents they had turned up in their search so she could study them later. She sat down and opened the folder, spreading its contents in front of her. Most of their finds she had rejected as not particularly relevant. The two photographs hadn’t copied well, but she peered at them nonetheless. They didn’t tell her much. If the little treasure chest still existed and if it really was the so-called Lychfield Treasure, it might have fit in the hole.

She grabbed her book on local history and used its index to find a page she remembered seeing. She read the headline of a newspaper article reproduced there: Lychfield Treasures Lost in Fire. The opening sentence proclaimed that countless heirlooms of the town’s founding Lychfield family had been lost when the home of Euphemia Hill burned to the ground. Mrs. Hill, before her marriage, had been a Miss Lychfield and the last of that name. Other than the headline, the article contained no obvious allusions to the Lychfield Treasure. But it did mention that a few belongings had been saved.

“So, it’s possible,” Trixie admitted to herself, with a slight groan.

She ran through the whole sequence in her mind, looking for flaws. I’m assuming that Dittman-Cox had a grudge against Mrs. Hill because she inherited something he thought was valuable and wanted for himself, she mused. But why would he wait so long to do anything about it? Did he think it had been destroyed in the fire? She shrugged and let that go. Maybe he found out lately that it had been saved. He tried to break into her house to steal it, but she interrupted him and he strangled her. He hid her body somewhere and then buried the thing he stole in the grounds of St. Leonard’s Mission in case it was missed. She frowned at this, wondering how likely that was, but decided to move on. After I raised the alarm, he decided to bury the body. Then, later still, he found that he’d lost something and wondered if he’d dropped it while burying the object.

“It’s not exactly right,” she decided, aloud. “But if it’s even partly right, I can’t risk ruining the evidence.”

The dilemma dissolved before her: she needed to call the police. Without another thought of her own investigation, Trixie snatched up the keys to Jim’s office and marched across to use his phone. She dialled the number which she by now knew by heart, and successfully got past the desk officer – fortunately a different one from that she had previously encountered. With an economy of words, she explained what she had seen and what she had deduced to the officer in charge. This time, his tone showed a little more respect – though not as much as Trixie felt she deserved.

“We’ll look into it,” he promised, and sounded sincere as he did so. “Keep right away from the area, and keep this knowledge to yourself.”

Readily agreeing, Trixie resigned herself to wait and watch.

Days passed without a sign of anything happening. Trixie’s impatience turned to frustration, and then to a renewed lack of confidence in the police. As far as she could tell, no one had been near the place where the buried object was hidden since she had left it a few mornings before. The rumours had died away, with the general opinion that the tip-off had been a prank. Her surging emotions made her irritable and difficult to live with, resulting in a number of small but fiery arguments between herself and Jim.

The worst of them happened one evening around dusk while they shared the washing up. It blew up over the otherwise unremarkable matter of a fork which had come out of the sink with a tiny fleck of spinach still adhered to it. Without saying a word, Jim had dropped it back into the water.

“What are you doing?” Trixie demanded of him. “That was clean!”

“It had a mark on it,” he explained, frowning. “You can wash it again.”

“Is this some kind of criticism of my housekeeping? Am I not doing this well enough or something?”

He shook his head. “It just needed a little more cleaning. It’s nothing to be upset about.”

Trixie pulled the fork out of the water and threw it across the trailer.

“Hey! Calm it down before you break something,” Jim snapped.

She glared at him for a moment, then pulled out a spoon and threw it straight at his chest. Soapy water flicked across his face, arms and chest; it left a large damp patch on his shirt. The spoon clattered to the floor, bouncing off his foot on the way down. He stared down at his wet shirt. At any other time, this situation might have provoked laughter, but instead Jim’s temper flared. He shifted his gaze to Trixie, struggling to keep himself from doing something he would later regret.

“I’ve had enough of you,” he declared. Then, snatching up his office keys, he stalked outside, slamming the door behind him.

“Fine! Leave me here to do all the work,” she yelled after him, not caring whether he heard or not.

Trixie made an angry noise and threw the dish cloth into the sink. The water splashed out onto the counter, but she did not clean it up. The realisation came to her that she needed to work off her frustration somehow, or it would consume her. With the feeling that she was at the end of her tether, she stormed out of the trailer and headed down the hill towards the road.

Her steps were quick and a little uneven, as she tried to force herself into a steady rhythm. Her eyes swam in and out of focus; her attention was divided between the jumbled thoughts and feelings about her argument with Jim, and those associated with the case, together with the more mundane matter of where she was and where she was going. She took a shortcut through the shrubbery, not far from the main drive, stopping with a jolt as she bumped into something solid.

She looked up into unfriendly eyes and realised that her ‘something solid’ was, in fact, a someone – Gervaise Dittman-Cox.

“Watch where you’re going,” he chided, with an attempt at geniality which did not quite come off.

That voice! Trixie recalled, all of a sudden. This is the man I heard talking to Reg Hill’s wife.

“What are you doing here?” she blurted.

“Oh, I’m just out for a pleasant evening walk,” he answered.

Among the bushes? she wondered. Her disbelief must have shown on her face as he lunged for her.

She stepped backwards, but not quickly enough. The branches brushed against her and she stumbled. Before she could correct her balance, she felt him grasp her, dragging her to himself.

An involuntary cry escaped her lips, but Trixie knew that no one would hear. She tried with all her might to wrench herself free of his grip, but Dittman-Cox was stronger than he appeared. Before she knew what was happening, his hands were on her neck.

Trixie scratched at the hands which held her, and struggled to connect a blow, but in vain. The world was beginning to fade away, and her lungs screamed for oxygen, when she felt a jolt, then a glancing blow to her shoulder. The grip on her neck loosened, and she fought free, gasping for breath. An urgent sense of self-preservation caused her to look at her attacker and see if he was preparing for another attempt at her life. Instead, she saw the welcome sight of a hefty police officer in the process of restraining the man. A moment later, a second officer joined him and the prisoner stopped struggling.

“Why are you doing this, officers?” Dittman-Cox asked, despite having been issued a warning. “This is all some kind of mistake. This young woman was attacking me. I was only defending myself.”

“That’s not right!” Trixie argued.

“Let’s take this down to the station,” one of the officers suggested. “Both of you,” he added, as Dittman-Cox began to protest.

Trixie nodded agreement. “But first, I need to let my husband know where I am.”

Jim drove her home from the station once her statement had been taken. They passed the short trip barely speaking, but Trixie could see the warring emotions in her husband’s face and the white-knuckled grip he maintained on the wheel.

“I’m sorry for getting upset with you,” she told him, just as they turned into the drive. “And I’m sorry for being so stupid as to run outside into the dark.”

He shot her a sideways glance filled with his own remorse, but then his eyes snapped back to the view ahead.

“I’m sorry too,” he told her. “But did you see that? Is someone there?”

“Oh, that’s just the ghost,” she answered, a little too casually.

“The ghost,” he repeated flatly.

Trixie nodded. “Yes. Reg Hill.” Catching sight of his face, she clarified, “Junior.”

Jim’s confusion cleared slightly, but he asked, “What’s he doing here?”

“He’s here every night with his metal detector,” she explained. “He’s looking for the treasure – the same treasure that Dittman-Cox thinks he stole.” Seeing that he still didn’t understand, she sighed. “Let’s go and talk to him. I think he can clear the whole thing up.”

Jim parked the car and got out. “Okay, I guess. But I hope this makes more sense when we’re finished than it does now.”

“It will. I promise.” She took his hand and led him up to the back edge of the lawn, finding and lifting up the tree branch which hid the path. “He’ll be through here, somewhere.”

Jim lit the small flashlight on his key chain and ducked under the branch. They followed the little path together to the back corner of the property.

“Who’s there?” a voice demanded. “What do you want?”

“We just wanted to talk to you, Mr. Hill,” Trixie told him, then introduced herself and Jim. “I’m not sure if you know, but they’ve arrested your mother’s cousin tonight.

“Michael? He never did a thing!”

Trixie shook her head. “No, I’m talking about Gervaise Dittman-Cox.”

He strode forward, dumping the metal detector on the ground. “What are you talking about?” he demanded. “Of course they haven’t arrested Gervaise. He could get away with… No. You don’t mean…”

“They’ve arrested him for the murder,” Jim confirmed, in a gentle voice.

“You don’t need to be kind to me,” Hill replied. “My mother and I did not get along. I’d hardly spoken to her in twenty years.” He took a short step back, looking thoughtful. “So, this is why they kept asking me those questions.”

“What questions?” Trixie wondered.

“About the treasure, of course.” He glanced over his shoulder. “He took the little chest, didn’t he?”

Jim shook his head, not understanding.

“There’s a local legend about the Lychfield Treasure,” Trixie explained quickly. “It passed down through Mrs. Hill’s family to Mrs. Hill, but no one outside the family ever knew what it really was. They kept it on the mantelpiece in a little treasure chest. And I’m assuming that that’s what Dittman-Cox thinks he stole.”

“Thinks he stole?” Jim repeated.

Trixie nodded. “You can help us with this part, can’t you Mr. Hill? The original chest got destroyed in the fire, right? And this was the site of the house that burned?”

“Yes,” he answered, somewhat absently. He glanced again over his shoulder. “My mother wanted to go back in and get it, but I held her back. She never forgave me for it, either.”

“But what was the treasure?” Jim asked.

“Coins,” the other man answered. “Mostly pennies, actually, but some of them over a hundred years old. It was so heavy, my mother could barely lift it. I never knew how she thought she could run through a burning building with it.” He heaved a sigh. “She had a replica chest made and started a new collection of coins – but they were just modern pennies. The original… well, there might be valuable ones among them.”

“And she kept this new collection in her bedroom, didn’t she?” Trixie asked.

He shrugged. “I never set foot in the new house.”

“It doesn’t have a fireplace,” Trixie commented. “Did something happen recently that brought attention back to this?”

Mr. Hill shrugged. “I don’t know of anything. Or, at least, nothing to do with Gervaise. My mother argued with my wife the week before she died; there was something in that about the treasure, but I told Claudia it didn’t exist.” He laughed, without humour. “I should know. I’ve been looking for it here for years and hardly turned up a thing.”

Trixie nodded, taking a step back. “I think that clears everything up. I’m sure the police will be able to get all the evidence they need. It’s nice to have met you, Mr. Hill and I’m sorry we disturbed you.”

“What does this all mean, Trixie?” Jim wondered as they neared the trailer. “Are you saying that Mrs. Hill was murdered for a box of pennies?”

Her steps slowed and she nodded. “That’s the way I’m seeing it.”

Jim opened the door and they entered. He took care to secure it behind them, his hand shaking a little as he did so.

“And I didn’t realise it until tonight,” she added, “but that argument with her daughter-in-law was probably to blame. Whatever it was that she said that day, it got repeated to the guy who killed her.”

Jim frowned. “How do you figure that?”

Trixie shivered. “That guy we just spoke to? His wife is having an affair. And just this evening, I found out that it’s with the man who tried to strangle me.”

Jim shuddered. “I wish you wouldn’t put it that way.”

“Well, he did try,” Trixie answered, stepping closer for a hug. “He tried, but he didn’t succeed.”

“I would have preferred it if he hadn’t tried at all,” Jim answered.

“Mmm, me too.” She snuggled closer. “But, you know, I set everything up to be safe. I was the one who told the police that they should be looking down there. If I hadn’t told them that, they probably wouldn’t ever have solved this.”

He shivered harder. “And they wouldn’t have saved you.”

“But I did. And they did. And we can’t change the past.”

“No, we can’t,” he admitted. Then he bent and kissed her hard.

The End