Blood on the Carpet

The blood was appalling. It gushed out, thick and red, making a ghastly vivid puddle under the woman’s head. Sheila Whiteacre stood there, frozen beyond any emotion or thought. The saw was still in her hand. Blood was flowing around her shoes. Elizabeth was going to die, right there on the ground, and she, Sheila, had killed her.

It wasn’t possible, obviously. Elizabeth and she had known each other for decades; they’d been at school together. Old school friends didn’t kill each other. It was all some bizarre mistake, or a dream, or a very clever joke.

But the blood was dreadfully real. Colour, smell, movement, even a faint sticky sound as Sheila moved her foot. Could a dream or a joke or even a mistake conjure such complete sensory authenticity?

She had studiously avoided looking at her friend’s eyes, ever since Elizabeth had sunk to the floor clutching her neck. The pumping blood was more than enough to fill her view. But now she inadvertently let her gaze drift up the face, to be freshly appalled by what she saw. The eyes had become glassy, entirely lacking in feeling. No fear or accusation, no pain or panic. Just blank, like those of a doll. There were no signs of emotion anywhere on the face, either. Just a smooth flawless expanse of skin, with a nose and a mouth approximating to those of a human being. Already it had ceased to be Elizabeth in any meaningful sense.

They were in the living room. The blood was on the carpet. The grubby, hairy carpet that should have been replaced ages ago, or at least better cared for. It would certainly have to go now, thought Sheila. And she didn’t suppose the insurance people would pay for a new one. There was sure to be a tiny little clause somewhere that excluded damage wrought by criminal activity on the part of the householder. Besides, if she was serving a life term of imprisonment, the carpet would be the least of her concerns.

Slowly, her thoughts were reviving, like little seedlings finally watered after too long a period of drought. She had to do something. Make a phone call. Go outside and shout for help. Fetch a bucket of soapy water and try to remove at least some of the congealing blood. She nudged a dollop of it with her foot, finding it revoltingly spongy as it thickened. Like a living thing, it was changing as she watched. There was so much of it that it looked more like a bodily organ than a pool of fluid. A chunk of tissue, like liver or lung, wobbling and glistening and making her feel sick.

But much worse was the body itself. Five foot five inches, eleven stone, wearing quite a lot of clothes – Sheila couldn’t hope to move it without assistance. And why was she thinking of so doing anyway? What was she planning to do? Take Elizabeth outside and bury her in the garden? That was, after all, what people in films often did. Or bundle it into the car, drive to a remote clifftop and chuck it over the edge. Or put it in a bath of acid and wash all the resulting greasy sludge down the drain.

No, none of those strategies was possible, even though they were surprisingly tempting to think about. She could actually envisage one or two of them taking place – the favourite being the garden burial. There was something almost feasible in that one, if it wasn’t for Art, due back next week and sure to want to catch up with his digging.

She had barely moved since the sudden violent blow that caused the injury. She still held the bowsaw in her hand. She had been cutting up logs, out on the patio, before running in and swiping blindly at Elizabeth’s neck, with no conscious thought of what the consequences might be. The saw had very sharp teeth; she had cut her own hands with it once or twice, simply from the lightest touch. One of those teeth had snagged into Elizabeth’s jugular, ripping it open and allowing her precious blood to escape. Such a simple, effortless way to kill somebody! All the safety measures in the world could not have prevented it. A young child could have done it. And yet nobody told you to lock saws away in a secure cabinet, like a gun or a knife. The world relied on universal common sense to prevent such an injury as Elizabeth had just suffered. It assumed that nobody would ever wantonly wave the thing around in proximity to bare, vulnerable skin.

The truth of the matter was that, at that moment, she had actually wanted Elizabeth to be dead. Or at least she had wanted to stop her in her tracks, force her to listen for a change, and generally take a stand against her friend’s infuriating behaviour. Elizabeth always knew best. She took it for granted that the way she lived was the only acceptable or reasonable one. She told people where they were going wrong, warned them they were in error and gloated when proved right. She did it all in a friendly fashion, smiling and then rolling up her sleeves to take an active role in whatever she believed had to be done. Sheila had often asked herself why she maintained the friendship with regular emails and occasional phone calls. They followed each other on Facebook, commenting and sharing and taking an interest in each other’s lives.

But having Elizabeth to stay was never easy. Sheila had hoped that when her friend moved to the Shetland Isles to live, there would be no more face-to-face contact. Everything would be a whole lot easier then. But all that happened was that the visits became more prolonged. Not quite once a year, they still seemed to come around all too often. Both women having reached the venerable age of sixty, they had developed independent habits financed by substantial incomes, supplied mainly by their husbands. Sheila had Art and Elizabeth had Malcolm. Until recently, Sheila also had two children still living at home – Tiffany and Ricky. Both had moved out a few months previously, and Art had suddenly announced he was going to America for a month to catch up with long-neglected elderly relatives.

Malcolm was contentedly monitoring seabirds on the remoter islands, while his wife flew south to visit various old friends. Not only Sheila, but Diana and Jackie and Stella. She stayed three or four days with each one, making a cheap and varied holiday in the process.

Sheila had been left in charge of the big house near Cirencester. She had promised to give it a comprehensive clean, once they had all suddenly noticed how scruffy and dilapidated it had become over the years. When it was full of children, that hadn’t seemed to matter. Now, it was a source of shame.

All this filled Sheila’s mind, as she deliberated on what was to be done. At least I haven’t panicked, she congratulated herself. Which meant, in reality, that at no point had she screamed. It had been a very quiet murder, all things considered. She might have shouted ‘Stop!’ half a second before wielding the saw, but other than that, not a sound had been uttered.

Elizabeth only had one last friend to favour with her presence, and that was Stella, who lived in Carlisle. It was all very cleverly worked out, with a flight home from Newcastle at the end of the week, all her friends suitably corrected and advised for another year or so.

Sheila’s Cotswold house was a favourite with Elizabeth. On the outskirts of Cirencester, the whole area had always been popular with people of means. The houses were handsome, the gardens extensive. It was close to numerous quiet villages with lovely views, walks, gardens, pubs. All this meant it saw its share of visitors, despite Sheila’s reluctance to provide hospitality. For twenty years she had welcomed little friends of her five children, producing endless meals and a reliable smile. Since events of a few months earlier, she had no longer wanted to be seen as an ever-open door. It had not been particularly difficult to deter most would-be visitors. Her local friends had busy lives, and Sheila herself had a job that took her to Cheltenham three times a week, and kept her at the keyboard for much of the remaining days. She was the proud owner of two large dogs and a cat – each one of whom shed hair generously on all the furnishings. She had taken time off to be with Elizabeth – time that she quite deeply resented. But friendship dictated that she make no objection, prepare meals, sweep away some cobwebs and forego her favourite TV programmes.

The first day began well. It was a Friday, the sun shining patchily, perfect for a long walk. Both women took pride in their physical robustness, striding along in amicable competition. Elizabeth insisted on paying for lunch at The Plough, on a bend in the minor road that ran between Stow and Stanway. The food was more than either of them needed, and weighed them down on the walk they took afterwards, during which a wind sprang up and made Sheila irritable. Back in the house, she was acutely aware of the half-hearted job she had made of cleaning in preparation for her guest. There were greasy streaks on the kitchen cabinets, dust along the tops of pictures, and general grime on the skirting boards. But she had done her poor best with the hairy carpets, and brushed the animals in the hope of reducing their shedding. When Elizabeth lowered herself onto the sofa for the evening, the grimace of distaste at the presence of Jenny-Cat and Baxter the big Labrador on the cushions beside her was impossible to miss.

At least Bert remained on the floor. He was quite a large creature, and didn’t really fit on the sofa. There was mastiff in his ancestry, if the size of his head was anything to go by. For a short-haired dog, he made quite a lot of mess.

‘Do you want me to move them?’ said Sheila, in a voice tight with challenge.

‘No, no, of course not. I wouldn’t dream of it.’

‘You knew what it would be like. Why can’t you just relax? The hairs brush off easily enough. You’re not going to catch anything.’

The glance that her friend threw around the room implied that this might be in doubt. Sheila laughed. ‘I’ve always been a rubbish housekeeper. I’m lucky Art doesn’t mind. He always thinks it’s fine, so long as there’s enough light. He’s always polishing the mirrors – have you noticed?’

Elizabeth smiled. ‘The mirrors are dazzling,’ she said.

‘They’ve dulled a bit since he went off on his jaunt – not up to the usual standard, I’m sorry to say. It never even occurs to me to clean them, however much I agree it’s a good thing to do. I’m never going to change. And quite honestly, I’ll never understand why it matters.’

‘It doesn’t, of course,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Are we going to play Scrabble or Canasta?’

‘I rather fancied Boggle. Art gave it to me for Christmas. I’m not very good at it.’

‘All right, then. But bags we play Scrabble tomorrow night.’

The games had gone well both evenings, once Elizabeth had ostentatiously blown the dust off the Scrabble box. The dogs had got the measure of her by then, and kept their distance.

The dogs! Now, with Elizabeth in a heap on the floor, white and still, the moment the dogs came in from the garden, they’d be all over her. Sniffing, wondering, getting blood on their paws – they would present yet another insuperable complication. Quickly, Sheila went to the back and made sure the door was firmly closed. She remembered rushing through it, ten minutes earlier, without a thought of shutting it behind her. She had no idea what Baxter and Bert had been doing. They had half an acre to do it in, and she saw no reason to constantly monitor them.

Of course, there had been no need at all to cut up firewood. It was July, and the shed was already full of logs, in a jumbled heap with no concession to the usual ritual of neat stacking. The log pile was a significant element of Cotswold life, a thing of beauty in its own right. But very few sixty-year-old householders cut and split their own fallen branches, as Sheila did. Approximately a quarter of her outdoor area was devoted to trees, the little copse punching above its weight, with willow, ash, cherry and sycamore crowding together. She had planted them all herself, twenty years earlier, much to the consternation of neighbours. The trees had blocked the view, but also formed a cosy shelter against the wind and a much-loved playground for the dogs. Where Sheila Whiteacre might be a slipshod housewife, she was a deeply attentive gardener, and the trees had flourished magnificently. There were trilliums and ferns and bluebells growing at their roots; birds and squirrels favouring the upper regions. ‘It’s my own little patch of genuine wildness,’ she would say. ‘Amazing how much you can do with an eighth of an acre.’ The temptation was to expand it to twice the size, but the neighbours had pleaded with her not to do that. Many people, she discovered, regarded trees with scant enthusiasm.

The willows grew outrageously fast, needing to be strenuously lopped every autumn. So Sheila lopped them, using an electric chainsaw only for the thickest boughs. Then she set up her sawhorse and used the bowsaw to render them into logs, with Art standing by making worried comments. His talents ran more to vegetables and making wine. Sheila had been determinedly cutting up logs on that third day, as a way of showing off to Elizabeth.

The pile of branches awaiting her attention was still quite a size when Elizabeth came to the back door. ‘Enjoying your lumberjacking?’ she asked. ‘How much longer will you be?’

‘Twenty minutes or so,’ Sheila estimated. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Fine. I’ll go and read the paper.’

Sheila suspected nothing, as she set her saw to another length of willow.

 

She relived those moments now, standing there unmoving over the body of her friend. Her own rage now seemed insane, pathetic, inexcusable. Nobody would understand or forgive her. She would be deservedly cast out of normal society, locked away and forgotten. And the pity of it. The terrible finality of death was beginning to filter into her thoughts. Elizabeth was gone for ever. Her family would never see her again. The husband would be bereft, alone in the far north with his birds. Her two sons would be at first disbelieving and then furious. They would persecute and prosecute and make perfectly certain that Sheila got her full punishment. She had committed the ultimate sin, broken the one commandment that every society on earth regarded as unassailable. And for something so banal, she could not even articulate it to herself. Never could she even attempt to explain it to anybody else. If they weren’t disgusted, they’d be amused. There were some, she feared, who would laugh at her.

Humiliation was a subtle and far-reaching thing. It led to loss of self-respect, a plunge downwards of one’s status rating, becoming the object of scorn and ridicule. In the Cotswolds, it would be even worse than that. In the Cotswolds there were stricter standards than in most other places. Respectability was essential, although eccentricity was acceptable as an alternative. Sheila knew what it was to sail close to the cold wind of disapproval at times. The trees, for one thing, had made people wary of her. The strategy of seldom asking anybody into her house served only just adequately to damp down any criticisms of her dust and cobwebs.

All of which meant that she could never, ever, tell the truth of why she had killed her friend. That, she decided, was Point Number One. After that, things fell into place surprisingly easily. It could not be more than ten minutes since Elizabeth’s blood first began to gush. In a frenzy of efficiency and focus, she threw the saw down in the thickened blood, went out to call the dogs in and ushered them through the kitchen to investigate the object on the floor. ‘Sorry, lads,’ she murmured. ‘This is the only thing I can think of to do. Don’t worry, old chap. I won’t let anybody harm you.’ She grasped Baxter’s front left paw and dabbled it in the blood. Then she pushed his head right down to the floor, so he got streaks of red on his neck. After a short pause for thought, she plunged both her hands into the gore and wiped it down the dog’s chest as well. He resisted, with a puzzled whine. When Baxter resisted, nobody could gainsay him, but the job was done. ‘Now you,’ she told the other dog. ‘For good measure.’ She did the same again to him, but with lighter daubs. Then she stood back for a look. Would the police see what she wanted them to? How closely would they examine the animals?

It was important to keep blood well away from their faces – which she had successfully achieved. ‘You’ll do,’ she told them. ‘Good boys.’ She watched as they slunk warily back to the kitchen, showing considerable concern at this strange turn of events. She pushed the vacuum cleaner into a corner, and gave the room a quick inspection. Then Sheila Whiteacre dialled 999 and asked for the police. ‘A woman is dead, in my house,’ she said, in a thick whisper. ‘It was a dreadful accident. I am so sorry. The blood … there’s so much blood.’ British women did not wail and scream or go into hysterics. They clung to the illusion that by staying calm everything would be all right. Sheila’s mother, born in 1928, had rigidly upheld this approach to her final breath.

‘Are you certain she’s dead?’ asked the young man on the line who had been passed to her by the original responder. Why a young man, Sheila asked herself. How could he get the right tone without a lifetime of experience? Wasn’t it usually a woman, anyway?

‘I’m afraid so. I have a bit of medical knowledge, and I’m fairly sure it was her jugular vein. Artery, I mean. Or is it the carotid? It absolutely flooded out. I know I should have called sooner, but I was so shocked. I just couldn’t believe it had happened. I did try to stem the flow myself, but there was nothing I could do. And, quite honestly, I don’t think anybody could have got here in time, anyway.’ She allowed herself to prattle, as a small concession to a hysteria that these days might be expected.

‘Please give me the address. Your name. We’ll have somebody with you as soon as we can. I can stay on the line until they get to you, if you’d like me to.’

‘Thank you. I don’t know. Poor, harmless Elizabeth. I absolutely can’t believe it. She looks so awful.’ Rising voice, choked breath. Dawning awareness of implications. It was not difficult to convey, being close to the actuality.

‘Will your people find the house? It’s quite simple, really. You have to find the gateway, beside a big tree. Perhaps I should go outside and wait for them.’

‘You’re on a landline, I see. Is it cordless?’

‘Oh yes. I’ll take it with me.’

She kept talking, sticking to her feelings of shock and disbelief and horror, never mentioning what had caused the death. Time enough for that when the relevant people turned up. There would be a recording of this conversation, and any inconsistencies might well be noted. She was immensely proud of her clear thinking. After those first minutes, she had pulled herself together magnificently.

A police car arrived with remarkable speed, the officers assuring her that an ambulance was right behind them.

‘I don’t think they’ll be needed,’ she said, waving a shaky hand towards the house. ‘I’m quite sure she’s dead.’

It was a man and a woman, the latter apparently the senior partner. Her uniform jacket was buttoned tightly across a generous chest, and the black trousers strained to enclose substantial buttocks. Sheila reproached herself fiercely for such outdated observations. The woman could be any shape she chose, and still be excellently good at her job. Obviously. But the man was lean and good-looking and sharp of eye. It was to him that she addressed herself.

The dogs were shut in the kitchen, which made them bark much more than they normally would. ‘Poor things,’ she crooned. ‘They’ve got no idea what happened. They were only playing. But Bert really is awfully big.’

This was not intended to make any sense; she was simply preparing the ground for the story that was yet to come. A story that ran itself through her head repeatedly, despite her awareness that it was not to sound rehearsed. Broken sentences, pauses, backtracking – incoherence was key.

The woman crouched over Elizabeth, wearing latex gloves, and performed a few basic checks. ‘You’re right,’ she told Sheila. ‘I’m afraid she’s gone.’ She had approached from the top of the body, avoiding the blood that had flowed in the other direction. She looked up. ‘How long ago did this happen? The blood is drying already.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I did try to stop her bleeding. She was so terrified, poor thing. And the dogs kept getting in the way. They’ve got blood all over them. And they were only playing. She should have known that.’

‘Did the dogs do this?’ asked the man.

‘Oh no. They would never hurt anybody. That’s what I’m saying. No, it wasn’t them. It was me. With the saw. Look.’ She pointed to the tool, where it lay half in the puddle of blood. ‘Of course, I didn’t mean to.’ She stopped, afraid she was sounding rather too coherent.

‘Better not touch it,’ the woman said. ‘Till the others get here. I’ll call it in.’ She gave Sheila a long look that revealed suspicion, confusion and a dash of fear. Was this a madwoman, to take a saw to her friend’s throat? Well, yes, thought Sheila. Possibly so.

‘Better do the basics,’ said the handsome male officer. ‘The name of the deceased.’

‘Elizabeth Humphries. She has a husband … oh, God! Poor Malcolm! However will we tell him? Oh …’ A stifled sob, readily produced by allowing the image of the desolate husband on his windy island.

‘How are you spelling Humphries?’ he asked carefully.

‘What? Oh …’ she stumbled it out. ‘She lives on the Shetland Islands. She was visiting me. We’ve been friends all our lives.’ The tears welled in some profusion. ‘What’s going to happen now?’ she wailed, before reining herself in. The question, however, was a good one. How much punishment would she get? How much did she deserve?

The dogs were still noisy in the kitchen. The female officer was speaking into a phone, her back turned, voice subdued. Sheila couldn’t hear what was said. The smell of blood became suddenly acute. Metallic and organic, all at once. She’d never experienced it so rich and thick before. There was a dreadful fascination to it.

‘I can explain what happened,’ she offered, with a gulp. ‘I’m sure I should.’

‘Of course, Mrs Whiteacre. But best to wait for the ambulance, maybe. And the doctor.’ He frowned. ‘Or should we send the ambulance back? Lettie? What about that? It’s not needed, is it?’

Lettie? Was that a first or second name? Or a nickname? In any case, the woman had finished her call and was considering the question.

‘Police doctor comes next. Then she’ll have to go to the mortuary.’

This didn’t directly answer the question. Sheila blinked at her. ‘Will they take her away in it? The ambulance, I mean?’

‘Not immediately. Sometimes it’s an undertaker who does it. Depends.’ She did not reveal on what it depended. ‘They’re all on their way,’ she added, brandishing the phone that she’d used for the summoning. ‘Ambulance ought to be here by now.’

‘Perhaps it can’t find me,’ Sheila suggested diffidently.

‘They’ll see our car. It’s not difficult.’ And then it was there, obedient to Lettie’s expectations. Sheila began to understand that here was a woman of power, who felt comfortably in control nearly all of the time. Except that she was not quite sure, even now, that she was dealing with a comprehensible situation.

Closely behind the ambulance came two more cars, causing a commotion that was sure to attract attention from anyone present in the village that day. Each car contained a single man, which struck Sheila as wasteful. ‘The DI, and the doc,’ murmured Lettie, not so much for Sheila’s benefit as for her own purposes; a sort of mental checklist.

The DI was a detective inspector named Higgins, who took Sheila into the kitchen, having given the dogs a good long look. ‘That’s blood on them, is it?’ he said.

‘It must be. It was everywhere.’ She rubbed absently at Bert’s shoulder.

‘Better not do that. We need to photograph him.’

‘What? Why?’

‘Well … for evidence.’

‘The dogs didn’t do anything. At least, I suppose they started it, but it wasn’t their fault. They were just playing.’

‘I think we ought to go back to the beginning. And in the light of what the other officers tell me, I’m afraid I’ll have to caution you formally. And record everything you tell me.’

She had been prepared for this, but was careful not to let this be seen. ‘Oh! Do you mean I’m being interviewed? Here? Now?’

He paused. ‘I suppose technically I ought to take you to the station. I will, if you prefer. And you’re entitled to have a solicitor present, of course.’ He looked unhappy, his fatherly features sagging. ‘Perhaps if you just give me the gist of what happened?’

‘Yes. The thing is, Elizabeth was nervous of them both, but Bert especially, even though she’s known him for years. And sometimes he gets a bit boisterous. I was outside, cutting up some firewood, when she shouted for me to come and get him off her. He was jumping up, because I think she must have taken the lead off its hook, so he thought they were going for a walk. I’m not sure if she did. Something set him off.’ She paused, reminding herself that she ought not to sound too lucid. But prattling was good. ‘And then Baxter must have joined in. He’s not so big, but he’s heavy and very dim. He just does whatever Bert does. But it was too much for Elizabeth. She wasn’t scared, really. Just cross with them. They never believe that anybody could dislike them, you see.’

‘So she called to you. Where were you?’

‘Out on the patio. You can see where I was sawing. It’s all still there, just as I left it. I came in holding the saw. Stupid. Ridiculous. Why did I do that?’ This was a genuine question, which she would continue to ask herself to her dying day. ‘I suppose she sounded quite urgent. I was worried they might push her over. So I came in, and Bert was being rather a pest, I must admit. I shouted at him, but he just kept on trying to lick her face, and get her to play with him. And then …’ her voice cracked, tears began to erupt ‘… then I hit out at him, with the back of the saw. The smooth handle part, not the blade. Not hard, just to get his attention. And I must have swung it back, towards Elizabeth, to clout him again, and the teeth got her neck. She was bending over, fending Baxter off. And Bert was dancing about, around our legs. They are awfully sharp, you see – the teeth of the saw, that is. I cut my own hand last week.’ She showed him the scab. ‘And it seemed to catch in her skin, right under her ear. She squealed, and the dogs still didn’t get away, and suddenly the blood started. That’s it, really.’ She wiped her cheeks with bloodstained fingers. ‘All my own idiotic fault. I will never forgive myself.’ This too was true. The truth smacked her hard, for the first time. She would have an enormous albatross of guilt around her neck for ever, now. ‘Sorry,’ she gasped. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

And she was, fifteen seconds later, having managed to reach the downstairs lavatory just in time.

When she dragged herself back into the kitchen, Higgins was sitting very still, not making notes or attempting to speak. He had gone pale, she noticed. What luck to get a man so human for her interrogation. He was on her side, she knew.

 

She did have to go to the police station, but no arrest was made. They requested that she stay in the village, and be prepared for further questions. They let her wash the dogs, and herself, eventually. The post-mortem on Elizabeth, the following day, comprehensively confirmed her story. Every detail fitted like magic. An inquest was opened, and then adjourned to some far-distant date. Detective Inspector Higgins told her that the verdict, when it finally came, was almost sure to be Accidental Death, on the advisement of the police. Her carelessness was reprehensible, and many people would believe that punishment was appropriate.

‘I believe that myself,’ she said humbly.

But Higgins pointed out that no good would be done by sending her to prison. They had bigger criminals to apprehend than her. She had smiled and thanked him, and hugged her maligned dogs.

Only Elizabeth’s ghost – which never materialised – knew the truth. How Sheila had heard the vacuum cleaner going, after she had explicitly requested Elizabeth not to do any cleaning. She had heard humiliation, criticism, even disgust, in that whirring engine. She had heard her friend thinking she was a slut, incompetent, lazy, slovenly. She, Elizabeth, would show her how it was done, gathering up the dog hair and dust with easy efficiency.

Sheila had paused for perhaps three seconds, during which a great rage swelled and blossomed within her. The very rudeness of it infuriated her, but bigger than that was the sense of shame and inadequacy that she had devoted her whole life to conquering. She ran through the kitchen, saw in hand, and struck out without any other thought but to make the woman stop.

It worked.