A Rupert Tillinghast mystery
“You can’t go back and change the beginning , but you can start where you are and change the ending.”
C. S. Lewis
July 1, 1867, Canada’s first birthday, Clapson Corners. A time for celebration but not for John McGregor and family. John had co-signed a loan for his friend and farming neighbour, Ben Gleason, and Ben had defaulted on the debt so John had to honour his commitment and that meant giving up his farm.
John packed up his family and moved to the neighbouring town of Goodwood and managed to secure a position with the local mill but it was difficult to make ends meet. More importantly, John was no longer a farmer which is what he was good at and longed to do. Soon after, John McGregor took his own life.
July 1, 1952, Canada’s 95th birthday, Sandy Beach. Young Brent Carson celebrated Canada’s birthday playing games, eating hot dogs and revelling in a period in his life that he would always fondly remember.
Life couldn’t get better; summer at the cottage. Never ending days enjoying the freedom of cottage life. Brent had no concept of time, a calendar never guided his days. He was only aware of the end of summer when his folks announced, ‘It’s time to pack up and return to the city.”
Sandy Beach was situated on Lake Jordon, a large body of water that didn’t encourage fishing or boating because it was seldom calm but did draw you into sunning yourself on the sand all afternoon and swimming in its clear, warm waters. You had to wait until the end of June before the waters warmed up but then you had all summer to luxuriate in the near perfect conditions. The beach faced west so it enjoyed the prevailing winds and glorious sunsets.
Cottage life at this time was pretty simple: no electricity, no indoor plumbing, no telephones, no grass cutting, none of the city’s obligations. But no matter.
Sandy Beach had a small downtown, if you could call it that: a drugstore, a summer only goods store, a post office and a sinful greasy spoon with tantalizing pin ball machines. Oh my.
You didn’t have to go all the way downtown though to get the essentials such as milk and bread. A 10 minute walk to Mrs. Jenkins convenience store got you through the week until you went into town to shop. At that time, coal oil for the stove top was the big necessity which forced Mrs. Jenkins, herself, with an audible grunt, outside to the tank around the back. It cost all of twenty five cents to fill the glass bulb which you turned upside down to let gravity feed its contents to the burners.
And the ice man visited regularly to cool down your icebox. You had a square piece of cardboard that had the figures: 25, 50, 75 and 100 on the sides which you put in your window, stuffed between the screen and sides of the frame turned to indicate how many pounds of ice you needed. What a joke, nothing would freeze. It sort of kept things cool. If ice cream was on the shopping list you knew you were having it with that evening’s dinner.
There were twin towns just under an hour away if you needed serious stuff like building materials or clothes or to do the laundry and get booze.
But it wasn’t easy to get a beer then. Prohibition still had a presence. One town, if you can believe it, was dry and the other was wet. Everybody knew why you drove to town #2. And the booze store couldn’t promote itself. If you didn’t know where it was, the locals understood why you were driving slowly and gawking out the window and they kindly put you out of your misery by giving you hand directions.
Funny. But all these things didn’t matter; it was cottage life. It couldn’t get better.
In addition to lazing on the beach, days were filled with playing tennis at a basic tennis court or trying the 9 hole golf course.
At that time, waterfront cottages rimmed the lake and everybody knew everybody. It was typical to put your name on a sign on the nearest tree to your property facing the road. Nobody locked their doors and each cottage had some sort of knocker on its door, typically in the form of woodpecker that you pulled a string to announce your presence. Or there was a wooden box, pen and pencil inside, to say you’d dropped by. Fabulous gimcracks
On one side of Brent’s cottage were the Mace’s then the Williams who had a pump that produced drinking water, which they generously shared as everyone didn’t have an underground stream ideally placed.
On the other side were Brent’s grandparents then the Cargills then the Worthingtons and so on down the line.
Grandma’s cottage was the gathering spot for her clan and their relatives, or as she called it, ‘The Breed’. Grandma’s brother had property at the end of the road so visits were common and conversations settled comfortably into good times gone by.
It’s into this lazy, peaceful scene that murder entered. Ken Cargill, next door neighbour, was found bludgeoned to death.
Chapter two
July 1st, 2020, Canada’s 153rd birthday, the city and Rupert found himself working the holiday. Even the chief was in, things weren’t going well on this holiday weekend in the city, unrest that showed picketers marching through the downtown protesting frozen wages in the midst of a recession with the threat of violence. The mayor didn’t want to leave anything to chance so all hands were on deck.
“Tillinghast”, came the bellow from the chief’s office.
“Chief,” answered Rupert as he entered the sanctum sanctorum. Rupert wondered where the chief got his taste in decorating. Granted his office didn’t give him much to work with; a box roughly 20 feet square with a single window facing north that seldom caught the sun and even more rarely got cleaned. Everything had a pallor that reminded Rupert of the dimly lit catacombs when he vacationed that week in Paris and took in the sites. The walls he had painted in shades of, to Rupert, bilious green with a throw rug of clashing colours trying hard to hide some of the well worn parts on the floor. Pictures of the chief smiling with lesser know personalities dotted the walls and a commendation for ‘good work’ from the force centred over his desk. The pièce de résistance was a brown cracked leather sofa, the only place to sit, that swallowed up its inhabitants so that the chief was always looking down on you. Rupert always stood.
“Have a seat,” ordered the chief officiously nodding towards the sofa.
“I’m good,” came the reply forcing the chief to just giving him the evil eye knowing that he’d never get Rupert to agree to playing his game.
“You’re off to Sandy Beach.”
“I know not of which you speak, is this some kind of penance?”
“No, it’s a summer vacation spot couple of hours north of here on Lake Jordon.”
“Before I thank you for rewarding my stellar service with a well deserved vacation, what about the picketers?”
“No vacation and this is more important, besides you’re a detective, picketers respond better to the reasoning of billy clubs which you don’t possess nor would know how to use.”
“And what, may I ask, calls us to Sandy Beach?”
“Murder, a miss Sarah Smith.”
“Ah, and the locals … “
“Just constabulary, no detectives. Here’s the file. You’re helping out a friend of mine.”
And with that, Rupert returned to his desk and studied the dossier.
Chapter three
The two hour drive was pleasant as all the traffic had jammed the roads the night before. Rupert enjoyed the drive, nice to get away from the city. Driving alone relaxed him. Rupert’s car didn’t have satellite radio, he didn’t drive enough to warrant it or drive any distance to appreciate having the same station wherever you were but it did have a scanning feature. Once a signal weakened, the radio went to the next stronger signal. As Rupert distanced himself from the city the music moved from rock to country; discussions went from serious with politicians or leaders of industry to light banter with the locals; even the ads seemed less immediate and dramatic.
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Once he got there, It wasn’t easy to find the Smith’s. Cottage directions rarely put names to streets and numbers to properties. Rather, owners loved to come up with cute names such as, “Bide a-way”, “Sunset Paradise” and Rupert’s favourite, “The last resort.”
Some folks kindly added their names to the signage and the Smith’s, fortunately, just posted their name. After questioning a series of locals, Rupert found the Smith’s cottage, yellow tape was still cordoning off the area and a police car stood guard. Rupert rolled down the window, introduced himself and a parking space appeared.
“Sean Nixon,” greeted Rupert, “You must be Rupert Tillinghast, thanks for coming, “I head the local force out of Bentington, Sandy Beach doesn’t have a police force.
Sean seemed like an affable fellow. All of six and a half feet and helplessly gangly. Rupert put him in his mid 50s. Light red lines on his nose, broken capillaries Rupert surmised suggesting a lifetime of not refusing a tipple. How demanding could it be working the cottage circuit?
“Thanks, I might be here for a couple of days, any suggestions on where to stay?”
“It’s the long weekend so there won’t be much here, I’ll call the office and we’ll get you something in town.”
“Thanks, when did the murder take place?”
“Yesterday, the body’s in the morgue at the hospital which doubles as a police facility.”
“And forensics?”
“We handled that, probably not with the experience you people have but I have it at the office. We don’t have murders in cottage country.”
“OK, lets visit the scene of the crime.”
Sarah Smith, born in 1983 was the younger of Trent and Gladys Smith’s two daughters. An accomplished writer of children’s stories Sarah unfortunately inherited cystic fibrosis and was confined to a wheel chair. This didn’t affect her writing but she was basically cottage bound during the summer.
Sarah met her demise with a knife through the heart. No witnesses, everybody was doing something else and no suspects; Sarah was just a great gal enjoying her time with family at the cottage.
Blood stains had darkened the wood floor; they won’t be easy to remove, thought Rupert. Rupert always enjoyed crime series on television and the movies which showed blood forever in a shade of rosy redness to make sure viewers knew that someone had done some bleeding. And while we’re on about what the entertainment world gets wrong, how ‘bout binoculars? You’d think today the viewing public would know that binoculars give you a singular view of one circle not that look that mimics the outline of binoculars. I guess whoever is using the binoculars could decide, at the last second, to switch to a telescope and confuse the viewer but I doubt it.
“Did you do a blood splatter analysis?” asked Rupert.
“Yes, as best we could, but we don’t have the results yet.”
The chief showed Rupert a series of pictures including one of the knife.
“Looks like an ordinary kitchen knife, anything missing?
“We’re not sure, we’re guessing the killer took the knife with him. Cottage kitchen cutlery can be a mish mash of various sets.”
Rupert nodded. “And she was wheelchair bound. Wait” Rupert paused, “this Sarah Smith. Is she the writer of children’s books?”
“I believe so.”
“What a loss, I loved her writing. Gave a book to my niece. She wrote for children but she spoke to adults, too. Had a good sense of humour.”
So, who was here?”
“I have a list, most of the Smith clan was here for the weekend.”
“I’ll need a list of the neighbours who were up for the weekend too, several cottages on each side. What’s the estimated time of death?”
“The call came in around 4 o’clock in afternoon. A neighbour was dropping off something, knocked, and when nobody answered, came in and saw the body. We got here within the hour.”
“So anybody could walk in?”
“Yes, that’s normal cottage life.”
“What do you know about the deceased apart from her being a writer?”
“Very little, certainly the family is in shock, no known enemies. They can’t explain it. Not a robbery. We really have nothing to go on. Oh, now that I think of it, I had forgotten one thing.”
Rupert turned slowly to the chief.
“There was another murder at Sandy Beach, in the ‘50s I believe. I wasn’t here at the time. Never resolved as I recall. I can get you the details.”
“Thanks, that would help.”
Rupert went back to his car and studied his notes. Anybody could have killed her and it was so easy. No break and enter, the victim in a wheelchair and so casual; strangers could freely visit other cottagers and nobody would suspect a thing.
“Chief, I think that’s enough for today here, can we get settled in town and I’d like to get the details on that other murder.”
“Good, follow me. And I got a call that the best hotel in town is expecting you.”
“What makes it the best?”
“Sounds better than the worst; It’s the only hotel in town.”
Chapter four
The star hotel was aptly named; it was a one star hotel. But what could you expect, thought Rupert, if it wasn’t for the men’s pub downstairs it probably wouldn’t survive. Sean left Rupert with the list of the Smiths that were staying at the cottage:
Trent and his wife who would be in their 80s. Their son Fred and his wife and Fred’s children Selina and Sarah, the victim. He’d interview them tomorrow along with the neighbour who found the body.
In the meantime, Rupert took in the town of Bentington named after a seaman who saw the potential in this natural harbour off Lake Jordon. All this and more was well displayed on historical site signs. Bentington had a population of around 13,000 and never moved too far from that number. At one time there was an active granary, still standing, and a rail line to the big city that delivered goods from ships docked from travels through Lake Jordon and connecting waterways. Now it was a growing retirement community because of the good hospital.
Rupert sought out a diner and risked the local fish dish which turned out to be quite good. He complimented the chef/owner but turned down the proffered recipe. Rupert always took the opportunity to learn as much as he could when at a site.
“You’ve been here a while?” Rupert asked of the chef.
“Herb Anderson,” offering a hand to shake, “No, my wife Alice and I moved here about a dozen years ago. Had it with the big city, had a pension and cooked in the army so I looked around and this town has been good for me. And you?”
Rupert shook his hand, “Rupert Tillinghast, here to look into the murder at Sandy Beach.”
“I heard about that. Unbelievable. Alice and I have gone there to swim on weekends; sleepy little place. Hard to accept that going on. Any news?”
“It’s early. That fish was good.”
“Thanks, hope to see you around.”
Rupert headed back to the police station and met up with Sean.
“Here’s the blood splatter analysis.”
Sarah’s body had taken most, if not all, of the blood splatter suggesting she was knifed from the back. Rupert surmised that the killer knew Sarah, came in, greeted her to her back. Since Sarah would have known who it was, she wouldn’t have needed to turn around, carrying on with what she was doing. In effect, Sarah’s body acted as a shield. No clothes to clean.
Forensics didn’t add anything that couldn’t be assumed. All the footprints and fingerprints were of the family and friends. You’d be hard pressed to conclude that someone outside the immediate family and known neighbours was involved.
“I’d like to do some interviews, when are you planning to head to Sandy Beach?”
“First thing in the morning. Please join me, I’ll handle the introductions.”
And with that, Sean and Rupert said goodnight.
Next morning, Sean picked Rupert up at the hotel and together they made the short drive to the vacation spot in the police car.
“This is Helen Henderson, she found the body.”
Helen couldn’t hide her nervousness and lingering shock. Middle age, Rupert guessed in her 40s and not prepared for any of this.
“Mrs. Henderson, this is Rupert Tillinghast of the metro detective squad from the city, here to help us out.”
Helen had trouble looking up but forced a nod.
“I know this has been quite a shock,” intoned Rupert, trying to put on his best relaxing manner, ”would you please go over the moments before you found the body.”
“I’m a guest of Judy Carson’s, we’re best friends from the city, and she’d asked me to drop off some baking that she had done that morning. Nobody answered the door when I knocked, it was a screen door, so I just walked in, planning to leave it on the table and then I saw Sarah, I didn’t know her, she was sprawled on the floor. All that blood. I almost dropped the pie.”
“Where was Judy?” Rupert queried.
“Down by the water, everyone was there.”
“Why did you come up from the beach?”
“I had to use the bathroom and I remembered Judy had asked me to drop off the pie.”
“When you were down at the water, was everyone there?”
“Well, yes, off and on, I don’t really remember. People are in and out of the water, they come and go to get something from the cottage.”
“Thank you.”
“Rupert, this is Bill, Bill Carson, Judy’s brother. Bill this is Rupert Tillinghast a detective from the city here to help us out. He’d like to ask you a few questions.”
To Rupert, Bill could have played professional football. Big and boisterous, muscular with bulging biceps and sporting the signs of a broken nose from some earlier fun. Sean’s notes said he had a construction company in the city.
“I tell ya,” Bill started, without prompting, “I’m thinking of selling. This is crazy. We now have gangs coming up here.”
“Gangs?” came Rupert’s question.
“On the weekends, especially holiday weekends. They take over the place.”
“Why would they murder?”
“I thought about that,” Bill continued, “Just to get me thinking the way I’m thinking. Cheapen the properties and buy.”
Rupert had to hide a smile, maybe Bill’s right although he didn’t think gangs were that interested in acquiring cottage property but you never know. Maybe there was some merit to that.
“But why Sarah Smith?” came Rupert’s next question since Bill was keen to express his ideas.
“Well, just her bad luck, I guess, they knew that most people wouldn’t be in during the afternoon and maybe tried a few cottages and came across a helpless cripple, liked the spot and killed her to put the owners in a panic.”
Rupert had to give Bill credit, he had a lively imagination. Rupert turned to Sean.
“Have you had gangs here?”
“Yes, but we’ve never had any problems with them, lots of innocent drinking on the beach; the residents complain about the noise. We can’t treat them any differently from the residents although the residents wished they didn’t come. They do spend, though, so the shopkeepers are of two minds.”
“OK, and where were you when the body was found, Bill?”
“Down at the beach with the others.”
“Thanks, would you send in your sister now, please?”
Sean did the introductions.
Judy McWilliams, née Carson, struck Rupert as an in-command person. Professional, no nonsense, not easily rattled; very calm. Late 40s, Sean’s notes indicated she ran a wealth management consulting firm in the city. Quite attractive and greeted Rupert warmly.
“Mrs. McWilliams, why didn’t you take the pie over to Sarah Smith?”
“I baked in the morning and I like to let things sit and I don’t usually like to visit people early in the day especially Sarah as I know she needs help getting started.”
“So what did you do after the baking?”
“It was mid to late morning, as I recall, so I did what I usually do and went to the beach to read.”
“Was anybody else there?”
Here Judy paused,
“Let me think, Bill, his clan, my folks, Brent and Lily; people came and went, I don’t think Helen was there at that time as I’d asked her to take the pie to Sarah, I can’t be sure.”
“Were any Smiths clients of yours?”
“No, why do you ask?”
“Just wondering.”
Rupert thanked her and turned to Sean.
“All the Smiths have been accounted for, correct?”
Sean referred to his notes, “Yes, they all had alibis, why would they kill one of their own?”
“Judy mentioned that Sarah had to get ready each day, who helped her with that?”
“They have a care giver but she went into town with Sarah’s mother. You’re right that we don’t know when everybody left the cottage but everybody was around at one time or another, Sarah was seldom on her own. They’ve all testified that they said goodbye to Sarah in the company of someone else. The family would have to agree to jointly kill Sarah, it just wouldn’t add up.”
Rupert turned to Sean, I’d like to go over your notes, who would know the family trees, in your estimation?
“Well, on the Carson side, maybe Brent, he’s in his 80s. And on the Smith side, Trent, I suppose, again the oldest living relative. Brent and Trent.” Sean slipped from his professional demeanor and had a chuckle.
“Let’s talk to them.”
Chapter five
“This is what I’ve got,” said Rupert to the gathering of Sean, Brent and Trent. “Is this right?”
| 1867 | John McGregor has one daughter; Sheila | Ben Gleason has two children: Jack and Beth | ||
| 1886 | Sheila marries Trevor Judson has one daughter Joan | Jack has a daughter Jen | Beth marries a Smith and has a son James | |
| 1912 | Joan marries a Scott and has a daughter Ruth | Jen marries a Shaw and has a daughter Liz | James marries, has a son Peter | |
| 1937 | Ruth marries a Carson and has a son & daughter: Brent & Mary | Liz marries a Cargill and has a son Ken | Peter marries and has a son Trent | |
| 1982 | Brent has a daughter and a son: Judy & Bill | Trent marries and has two daughters: Sarah & Selina | ||
| 2007 | Judy marries a McWilliams and has a daughter & a son |
Sean took Rupert aside.
“Why are you linking these two families, they just happen to have cottages near one another. And now you’ve opened another can of worms: Ken, I looked it up, was the one that was murdered in the 50s.”
“Seriously? Well, that helps. Is Mary Carson alive?”
“Brent,” questioned Sean, “where is Mary?”
“She died in a car accident. Trent and I agree with the lineages but why?”
Rupert updates the lineage.
“I don’t mean to upset you, I just wanted to get things straight in my mind. Thank you for your help. One last thing, where did your ancestors come from?
“Well,”came Brent’s account, “we’re 3rd generation Canadian. I believe my great grandfather was a farmer in Gloucester county.”
“That’s my understanding, too,” said Trent. Both farmers from the same county.”
“Thanks, I don’t need you anymore.”
“What now?” questioned Sean.
“I have some work to do on my own, can you drop me off at the hotel, I need my car?”
Chapter six
The next day started bright and warm with no movement on the water; a sign of a hot, lazy day to come. Rupert dropped by the police station and asked Sean if he’d like to go for a walk, Rupert wanted to discuss the case and didn’t want anybody in the station to overhear and get exited or draw the wrong conclusions.
They headed for the docks, used now only by commercial tourist boats that did day trips out to Lake Jordon and the surrounding islands.
“You’re saying it was revenge?” came Sean’s head scratching query.
They found a bench that the seagulls hadn’t freshly anointed. Rupert brought out the chart of the family trees.
“Yes, the records show that John McGregor took his own life. And you made a pivotal point which opened up the revenge line of thinking.”
“Refresh my memory.”
“When you told me there had been a previous killing in the family, Ken’s murder, I couldn’t shake that. Two members murdered from the same lineage, highly suspicious. What was the link, if any, between the two? That got me into making some calls. I was sure Judy killed Sarah.
“Why Sarah?”
“Well, she was the most vulnerable, exposed, and couldn’t defend herself. Just a bit of tough luck really which, in a sense, is what the family suffered in the beginning. Judy could plan the killing to suit here schedule and probably get away with it.
”I’m missing something, where did you go yesterday?”
“I made a trip to the land registry office for Gloucester County which is located in Clapson Corners and this is where it all started.
“As you see from the family trees, Judy and Sarah, though not family, were connected indirectly by a situation that happened a long time ago. The records show that in 1867, Judy’s ancestors deeded their property to the Gleasons, ancestors of the Smiths.”
“Why?”
“Good question. Both families were starting out in farming, why would you give up your farm? And no money changed hands. Again why? I had to conclude that John McGregor, who, records showed, owned the land outright, but Ben Gleason didn’t, must have had to give up his property to Sarah’s forefathers.”
“Sorry Rupert but I have to ask why again?”
“This is where you come in, Sean. I’d start by checking county fund transfer records which should still be around to see where the money went but I’m guessing a loan had to be repaid.”
Sean interrupted. “There has to be more.”
“I’m sure this is the reason John McGregor took his own life. It certainly put the family into hardship and let the Gleasons, if you will, off the hook. It’s a scab the family wouldn’t let heal, though. And I’m sure that wound was kept alive through the generations until someone was determined enough, and had the opportunity, to treat it. I strongly suspect Mary killed Ken Cargill. I’ll leave that to you to confirm.”
Rupert and Sean were silent for a few minutes.
“But wait a minute,” interjected Sean, “If you’re right and it is revenge then Mary killing Ken would have satisfied their macabre plans.”
“I agree, and that’s what bothered me, normally it should end there unless the family were degenerate killers. But I think Mary and Judy, mother and daughter, were in this together and when I discovered, confirming the family trees, that Ken was adopted, Judy surely knew this too and decided that the score really hadn’t been settled.”
“No, I had no idea.”
“I gather a direct descendant of Ben Gleason’s had to die. As it happened, Mary died before she could exact the biological revenge so Judy took up the challenge.”
Sean leaned back, hands behind his head, spread his long legs out and looked away in the distance seemingly in wonder of what Rupert was telling him.
Rupert turned to Sean. “She had every opportunity here at the cottage. Under questioning and with this evidence, I think you’ll be able to get her to unravel.”
“Ladies,” muttered Sean, “the weaker sex? Nice coincidence that they both have property on the lake.”
“Everybody here is from the city so it’s not too surprising that when this land was developed families who wanted a cottage knew about this opportunity. Or there was a friend of a friend to them both that got them interested. Something for you and your team for a rainy day.”
“One last question,” queried Sean, “why did you ask Judy if any of the Smiths were a client of hers?”
“I couldn’t see Judy taking a chance with a member or members of a family she knew pretty well and worked with. The more distant she was the better. Something could slip and expose her. She would then have to convince the next generation to take up her cause and who knows if her children would support her vendetta. This further convinced me that it had to be Judy.”
They both got up, shook hands and ambled away from the dock.
“You’ll be heading back now?”
“Yes, catch a bite and head home. You OK?”
Sean could hardly not stifle a laugh. “Will keep you posted. You’ve been great, love to invite you back under better circumstances, take in a day at the beach, I have property further up on the lake from where we were.
”I’d like that.”
“Welcome back,” came Herb’s warm greeting, “How goes the murder mystery?”
“Well I’ve left Sean Nixon with a few ideas. He’s a good man, he and his team should wrap things up pretty soon. What’s on the menu, have you still got that fish dish?”
“I do, glad you liked it, guys here usually go in for the ever challenging hamburger and fries.”
And with that, Rupert enjoyed his northern pike, perfectly filleted and prepared, and then headed back to the city.
Chapter seven
“Ah the vacationing detective returns,” came J. J.’s sarcastic welcome. “I didn’t see your name in the news even though you had to have been working hard …on your tan.”
J. J. punctuated this with his well known snort.
“Well, I doubt that Sandy Beach news would make it to prime time but things went well. Nice folks, enjoyed the area, something to be said for small town living especially when you can have property on a beautiful lake. No, I can’t give up the city; I miss the energy. But I did bring you back a souvenir from cottage country J. J.”
“What’s this?”
“A doorknocker, you pull on the string (Rupert demonstrated) and that whaps the woodpecker’s beak against the backing board which that makes a noise to see if anybody’s home.”
J. J. took up the gadget and fiddled with it cautiously. “But you can see that I’m here, you don’t have to knock.”
“Well, for the times you’re in but not there then.”
This time the snorts came from the room.
