“This agent,” said Green. “Or third party. Who was he? Solicitor?”
“No.”
“Just a moment, please,” said Masters. “Brigadier, when we came and told you we’d found Melada dead in the churchyard, you were surprised.”
“Of course I was.”
“But this morning’s papers carried news of a body found there yesterday afternoon.”
“Did they? I read my leader page this morning and did the crossword at lunchtime, but I didn’t see mention of a body being found.”
“I suppose not,” said Green. “The sort of paper you read wouldn’t splash it across the front page. A discreet little paragraph somewhere would mention a body down a well. . . .”
“Well? St John’s well? Melada was found in a well? What had he done? Fallen down the shaft?”
“Not Melada,” answered Masters.
“But you just said. . . .”
“That Melada was found dead in the churchyard.”
The Brigadier looked bewildered. “Forgive me, but I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying. When you say in the churchyard, do you mean down the well?” He answered his own question. “Obviously not because you just said Melada did not fall down the shaft.” He paused a moment and then looked across at Masters, startled. “Good God, you don’t mean to say there were two bodies?”
“One down the well, a second in a shallow grave.”
“Was one of them Heberden? You said you’d heard his name mentioned in connection. . . .”
“Not Heberden.”
“That’s a relief at any rate.”
“Why?”
“Why what? Oh, I see. You think I said that because Heberden is buying the church. No! Not that. It’s just that one doesn’t like to hear of any person one’s heard about or done business with coming to a sticky end.”
“I see. Just a general remark. Now, about the agent.”
“What about him?”
“He was not out to preserve his anonymity. There can be no reason why you should attempt to withhold his name.”
“None whatever. I had no intention of doing so. He was a man called Rex Belton.”
The silence which followed seemed to cause Alton some unease. He looked from Masters to Green and back again. “Is something wrong? Have I said something that I ought not to have done.”
“No,” grunted Green. “You’ve only confirmed what me and my Chief have been suspecting for about twenty minutes now.”
“Oh? What’s that? Rex Belton?”
“Little Tommy Thin,” muttered Green.
“Little. . . . Who pushed him in? You mean . . . the nursery rhyme. Ding dong bell! Belton? Belton was the one down the well?”
“That’s right, Brigadier. And I don’t suppose Belton happened to mention to you that he was Melada’s best mate?”
“He certainly did not. He never mentioned Melada, otherwise I might have suspected something.”
“Like what?”
“I can’t say exactly, but I would certainly have pricked my ears up if the first potential buyer had been mentioned by the second.”
Masters got to his feet and moved over to stand by the window. As he peered out, he asked quietly: “Who paid for the notices? Melada?”
The Brigadier sounded regretful. “I’m afraid so. Our legal boys sent him a bill for twelve guineas. After all, he was the one who asked that they should do the job. Five for the notices and seven for posting.”
“And Belton—or Heberden—had nothing to pay?”
“The luck of the draw. The law had been accommodated once. There was no need to repeat the gesture.”
Masters turned. “I imagine Melada was pretty bitter about that extra blow?”
“He certainly didn’t laugh when I told him. The only thing he didn’t laugh at.”
“Except, I imagine, the news that he had been outbid.”
“That, of course.”
“Of course. Now, sir, we came with the intention of borrowing the spare set of keys to the church.”
“I wonder who borrowed the one from the pub at Oakby?”
“Heberden borrowed it from the landlord and hasn’t returned it. And before you suggest we collect it from Heberden, you’d better know that he’s gone missing, too.”
The Brigadier screwed his eyes up in bewilderment.
“Missing? Heberden? What’s going on in Oakby?”
“You tell us. But Heberden has not been seen or heard of for several days, and neither has the key.”
The Brigadier got up and opened a cupboard. Hanging on cup hooks inside the door were a number of keys. He selected one and turned to hand it to Masters. “This is the only one held here. It is the vestry key—for the little door in the wall close to the well.”
Masters thanked him and promised to return the key as soon as possible.
*
“That’s the lot, I think,” said Marchant. “There may have been small amounts of other drugs that I haven’t mentioned, but as I say, speaking from memory and using the list of specialities as a prompt, that’s the best I can do for you.”
He was obviously wanting the three sergeants to leave so that he could get on with his business. This was so apparent that Iliff actually stood up ready to go, but Reed stayed seated. “A moment, please sir. I’d like to annotate this list.”
“What does that mean?”
“A lot of these things seem harmless enough to me. There’s turpentine and linseed and ointments which I suppose wouldn’t hurt a fly. But some of these medicines must be dangerous in the wrong hands. I’d like you to go through and mark those which have to be kept locked away.”
“Oh, very well. Give it here.”
“And . . . .”
“And what?”
“I don’t know much about veterinary medicine, sir, so I’d be pleased if you’d put me right on one point. Now I know that human medicines are often weight-related. You give a youngster half an aspirin for a headache whereas a fully grown woman will take two whole ones and a chap as big as myself needs three.”
“What about it?”
“You treat animals of all sizes. From pet mice to carthorses and bulls, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Well what I want to know is, do you ever use the same products for different sized animals?”
“Frequently.”
“In that case, do you give a big animal a much bigger dose than a small animal? Or do you have different strengths of drugs?”
“Both.”
“Would I be right in assuming that something which might be relatively harmless at ordinary strength, might become dangerous at concentrated strength—even though basically it isn’t classed as a dangerous drug?”
Marchant considered this for a moment and then grinned. “You’re no fool, are you? The general answer is, of course, yes. Think about your own experience with, say, an antiseptic. Put a spoonful in a bowl of water and you can safely bathe a wound with it. Put it on neat and you could well burn away the tissue, to say nothing of hitting the ceiling in the process. But antiseptics, by and large, are not considered dangerous drugs even though, topical use aside. . . .”
“Topical use?”
“External application. Leave that aside. If ingested they could cause all sorts of trouble—probably fatalities.” Marchant was warming to this subject. Evidently he enjoyed airing his knowledge. “And when we come to medicines proper, if you read the list of contents, you’ll often find that the active ingredient is as low as one per cent or less. So it follows that if pills, for instance, are compounded with an increased percentage of active ingredient they could well become dangerous, though not considered dangerous within the meaning of the Dangerous Drugs Act at their normal strengths.”
Reed thanked him for the explanation and then added: “Would you be good enough to indicate not only the scheduled dangerous items, sir, but also those which are concentrated for use in large animals.”
“Right. D for da
ngerous and F for concentrated.”
“F for concentrated?” queried Iliff, as though he had not heard correctly.
“Jargon,” replied Marchant without looking up from the list. “F for forte, meaning strong.”
Iliff nodded his understanding and raised his eyebrows at Berger. Webb was waiting for Masters and Green when they emerged from the office building after the interview with Alton.
“I didn’t come in, Chief, in case I interrupted something.”
“You missed a real good cup of chai,” said Green. “Made with lemon.”
“Don’t care for it myself. Strong, milky and sweet’s how I like it.”
“Sugar,” retorted Green, settling himself in the back seat. “Sugar, pure, white and deadly. That’s what the quacks say.”
“I saw you spooning sugar into coffee last night.”
“That was brown,” said Green. “And in any case, lad, do as I say, not as I do.”
Webb turned to Masters.
“Melada’s record, Chief.”
“What about it?”
“He hasn’t really got one.”
“You mean the sky-pilot tried to bamboozle us?” asked Green.
“No.”
“Either he has a record or he hasn’t.”
“Not in this country. He was jailed for fraud in Australia. Some shady deal he tried which didn’t come off. If it had done it would have been considered a good business deal, but as it didn’t, it was fraud. He was sentenced to three years, but after six months he was deported back to the U.K.”
“We know of it, however.”
“Yes, Chief. Of the deportation and the reasons for it, not the crime itself.”
“Anything else?”
“Like the Reverend Canning said, he was put in front of the beaks for having cannabis in his house, but it didn’t stick. Some smoker from the continent who visited him left a butt behind with traces in it. The locals evidently have long suspected Melada of shady behaviour, as he seemed to have no visible means of support, and when they got word that this continental was an addict, they went to Melada’s house. But the bird had flown, leaving behind this butt, and they put Melada up for having the stuff on his premises.”
“He got off, as the vicar said?”
“Just that, Chief, with the help of an expensive lawyer from London.”
“Thanks. Now how’s the time? What about killing half an hour or so in some tea shop and then we can call on Dr Watling in person, seeing we are in the city.”
*
“Nothing,” said Watling. “Not a sign anywhere in the body of what caused Belton’s death.”
“No marks or injuries?”
“I’ve been over his hide with a magnifying glass. Only on the back of his left hand is there a small graze. Not a hypodermic puncture or anything like that. Just a small mark such as one would find on any body at any time. Everybody knocks themselves, scratches themselves or makes some mark on the skin every day of their lives, usually without being aware of it.”
“So you attach no importance to that mark on his hand?”
“None whatever.”
“Would it help if you knew what you were looking for?”
“Not a scrap. Even if you could tell me exactly what caused the respiratory depression which led to his death, I couldn’t find it, because there’s nothing there to find. His organs and pathways are clear. So are his urine and bowel contents.”
“So you can’t suggest. . . .”
“Not a hope, I’m afraid, Superintendent.”
“But he was murdered.”
“He was dead before he entered the water.”
“That’s good enough. And Melada?”
“Depressed fracture of the skull. That one was easy. I think he fell against a solid object with the result I’ve just mentioned. But I think he was pushed.”
“Ah!”
“There were bruises about his face and chin, and the knuckle of his right hand had bled for a very short time just before death.”
“A punch-up?” asked Green.
“That is my interpretation of what I have found. The bruises were not fully formed before he died. After death, of course, they would not mature, but there were the beginnings of one or two beauties on his left cheek and chin and I think a shiner on his left eye. When I’ve finished I’ll put it all in the report.”
“Thanks. Were you present when the bodies were officially identified?”
“I was. Mrs Melada came in first. A slip of a thing with a drawl in her voice and spectacles that kept slipping to the end of her nose, no matter how often she pushed them back.”
“Was she distressed?”
“Not visibly. There was emotion there. And although I shouldn’t tell you this, because they were a wife’s private words spoken over her husband’s body and so, I believe, almost sacrosanct. . . .”
“Almost? Was there a parson with her? Called Canning?”
“No. But because of the nature of this case, I’ll tell you what she said. She merely looked at him and said quickly: ‘Silly Johnny. I knew that church would bring disaster.’ I took her words—as did the accompanying police officer—to mean positive identification of the body. But I got the impression she had sensed the coming of his death, and so there was no surprise at seeing his body. As I said, no visible distress, but an impression of well-controlled emotion.”
“And Mrs Belton?”
“Different. Very different.”
“Can you tell us?”
“Nothing factual. Only impressions. Mrs Belton was waiting outside in the little lobby until Mrs Melada had seen her husband’s body. Identification of corpses by spouses, particularly, is not a pleasant experience and the police like to get it over with as quickly as possible. As Mrs Melada left, I was just behind her and witnessed the passing of the two women in the lobby.”
“Passing?”
“I used the word advisedly, Mr Masters, because they did not meet. They passed. Now I had heard that their menfolk were great friends. It doesn’t follow that the women have to be bosom pals, too, but death is a great healer of rifts, should there be any in circumstances such as this. I paused, as did the policemen alongside Mrs Melada, expecting the two women to speak, if not to exchange a few words. But neither of them spoke. Mrs Belton kept her head down. She had been weeping and though somewhat more composed at the time, she patently did not want to see, acknowledge or speak to Mrs Melada. Mrs Melada, on the other hand, looked hard at the other woman. It would have been rather a severe stare in any case, because her glasses had again slipped to the end of her nose and so she was looking over them like a rather prim and disapproving school mistress. But there was more to it than that. As I said, I was slightly behind and to one side, so that when she turned her head towards Mrs Belton I got a good three-quarter profile view. Mr Masters, that glare was not benevolent.”
“Not benevolent could be interpreted in several ways, doctor. Was it malevolent?”
Watling paused for a moment before replying, “On a man’s face, yes, I would have described it as malevolent perhaps. But on a young woman’s? Hatred? Disdain, maybe. A mixture of the two. It was momentary and I wasn’t expecting it, but I can remember it was vivid enough to cause me to say to myself that there was no love lost between them. Quite honestly, I would almost have expected them to fall into each other’s arms and weep in mutual grief. That would have been a natural thing to do with women who must have met each other socially on many occasions. But the link of sorrow was not there.”
“Would you care to hazard a guess as to what might cause such enmity between them?”
“Not on your nelly. But there is a possibility that Mrs Melada in some way blamed Mrs Belton for Mr Melada’s death.”
“You would rule out a previous mutual dislike—during their husbands’ lifetimes?”
“Not rule out. But as I’ve said, unless such a dislike were very deep-seated, I would have expected this double tragedy to draw them together,
at least temporarily.”
Masters nodded his understanding of Watling’s point, thanked him and said goodnight. Green and Webb followed him out to the car.
“Bad blood among the women,” said Green, “could mean anything or nothing—always supposing the doc wasn’t mistaken about what he thought he saw.”
“Meaning what?” asked Webb.
“Well,” said Green, getting aboard the car and choosing a crumpled Kensitas very carefully from five or six, all in an equally disreputable state, “you weren’t with us when we had our little chat with the Brigadier. Melada and Belton may have been all palsie-walsie, but Belton did Melada dirt over the business of the church.”
“How?”
“Belton acted as agent for the bloke who outbid Melada.”
“Who was that?”
“Heberden.”
Webb drew away, whistling gently in surprise at this last piece of news. Masters turned to Green. “There are one or two questions we didn’t put to Alton. We asked him if he had mentioned Melada to Belton, but we didn’t ask if he’d mentioned Belton to Melada.”
“Or Heberden to Melada.”
“That, too. And there’s a question of timing to be sorted out. Who died first? I’ve got the impression it was Melada. But am I right? Alton may be able to tell us which of them he saw last. That won’t be proof, but it might help.”
“Hold it, hold it!” said Green. “What if Belton died first? If he did, it’s odds on that Melada was little Tommy Thin. He found out Belton had put the mockers on his deal and killed him in a fit of anger. . . .”
“How?”
“Never mind how. He killed him and bunged him down the well. That got rid of one of the three who were implicated. That leaves two. Melada and Heberden. Heberden somehow gets to know that Melada has disposed of Belton—”
“A man like Heberden would have called us in,” objected Webb.
“If he had time. Say he goes to the church expecting to meet Belton and finds Melada there instead. He is either told Belton is dead or he deduces it from what goes on. Melada menaces him. Heberden realises his own life is in danger. Melada threatens. Heberden defends himself with his stick. . . .”
“What stick?” asked Webb. “I’ve heard nothing about Heberden carrying a stick.”
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