“He was the local squire, wasn’t he?” asked Green. “All local squires carry ash plants or shooting sticks. Badges of authority.”
“I suppose we could check it out.”
“Heberden is threatened. He defends himself. Gets home a few whacks and Melada stumbles backwards, cracking his crust on a gravestone. Before he knows where he is, Heberden finds he has a corpse on his hands. He’s in a churchyard. The proper place for a corpse is a grave. He’s not thinking straight. He decides to shove Melada under the sod. . . .”
“He’d got a shovel handy, I suppose.”
“No,” replied Green. “But he knows where there is one.”
“Where?”
“In the church. They used to have a coke house to store fuel for the stove. . . .”
“You know that?”
“Everybody knows it. All churches used to have coke boilers or stoves. There was no electricity or gas at St John’s—we know that—but I bet even the faithful didn’t turn up to services in an unheated church. So there’d be a coke-heap, somewhere. And where there’s a coke-heap, there’s a shovel. And with everything being left in the church, nobody would remove a coke shovel. Heberden has the key. He lets himself in, grabs the shovel and starts to dig. He can’t get very deep, because he’s not a young man and in any case he’d need a spade to slice down very deep. So Melada goes in under nothing much more than the turves he’d had to lift. He feels safe, because he is in process of buying the property and when that happens he can stop anybody entering the churchyard, and nobody does visit the place anyhow.”
“Then why has he run away?”
“Murder’s a funny thing. I said he felt safe, but conscience raises doubts. Heberden remembers that there is one person who goes there—the vicar. A man who goes round looking for historical facts on gravestones. Then he’d buried the body near the hedge. Too near? Was there a gap? Would a passer-by notice a smell? These are the sorts of doubts he has. What is he to do? Make the classic mistake and return to the scene of the crime to put things right? Or is he to make off? He decides on the latter because it so happens that his wife is away and he’s supposed to be going away from home himself. This is his golden opportunity. He’ll get a week’s start before he’s missed. In a week he can be in Tahiti or Timbuctoo. So now he’s been reported missing. But the police are not very keen on pulling all the stops out to find a mature man who is free to blow at any time if he wants to. So the hunt isn’t even up yet.”
Masters took his pipe from his mouth as Green came to the end of his reconstruction.
“It’s got a lot going for it. I particularly liked the bits about the coke shovel and how events caused Heberden to take the course you attribute to him. But having said that—”
“You mean you didn’t think of it, so you don’t like it.”
“What I was about to say was that though I hadn’t thought about a theory in quite that light, having been, as I said, under the impression that Melada died first, I think we should keep what you have said in mind. But with a proviso. You said we shouldn’t bother our heads at the moment as to how Belton died—or how Melada killed him. To my mind, that is central to your case. The bit about Heberden carrying an ash plant is immaterial. He could have picked up a piece of wood—a piece of a branch—to use as a weapon. That’s a hurdle easily cleared, but not the way in which Melada disposed of Belton. We must know how that death came about before we can proceed with any theory—feasible though yours is.”
Somewhat mollified, Green helped himself to another cigarette and said: “Why not ask one of the leading medical professors to list every cause of this what’s-his-name? Respiratory depression? It could be that fright might cause it. If Melada threatened Belton, fear could cause him shock and shock might stop him breathing.”
“Accidental death, you mean?”
“Sort of. Brought on by Melada’s menacing attitude?”
“Then why tip him down the well? Melada would know he was in the clear. He hadn’t laid a hand on Belton. Forensic would prove that. But he must have known that if he dropped him down a well-shaft on a property in which he, Melada, was known to be interested, questions would be asked as soon as the body was discovered.”
“If it was discovered.”
“The chances of discovery must have been high. Look how we came across it.”
“Everybody isn’t a nosey-parker from the Yard.”
“But everybody looks down wells and drops stones down. Don’t they, Mr Webb?”
“I always do,” said Webb. “It’s second nature. Always did it as a kid and the habit has stayed with me.”
Green grunted to show he agreed and then lapsed into silence as the car ran into Market Rasen.
“Will you need me again tonight, Chief?” asked Webb.
“No, thank you. You get off. It’s after seven o’clock. Unless you’d like a beer first?”
“I’d better not. The missus will be expecting me for supper.”
“Lucky old toff!” said Green. “I’ll bet this pub won’t be producing anything up to the standard your old girl will put in front of you, judging by the looks of you. See you in the morning, laddie.”
Masters and Green entered The Chestnut Tree to find Reed and Berger waiting for them.
“Shall I put the car away, Chief?” asked Reed.
Masters looked at Green. “It’s a nice night. We’ll have a talk over dinner and then, while the four of us are alone, take a run in the country. We’ve never seen St John’s and now I’ve got a key it might be interesting to take a peek inside.”
“Suits me,” said Green. “It’ll keep these youngsters out of the bar.”
“Who’s talking?” asked Reed.
“I am,” retorted Green, “and what I’m saying is, mine’s a pint. I’ll be sitting waiting over by the window when you’ve bought it.”
The four of them sat only a short time in the bar before moving to the dining-room. Masters had asked Reed and Berger for a report and listened with approval while it was given.
“Here’s the list, Chief,” said Reed at the end.
Masters took it, and without looking at it, put it into his inside pocket. “I’d like to go over this later. I’d rather put you in the picture at this moment than speculate about a list—the names won’t mean much to me anyway.”
Masters left the report largely to Green who, with elephantine memory, had near-total recall. By the time they rose from dinner, Reed and Berger knew as much about the case as the other two.
“We haven’t seen the three women yet,” said Green as they made their way to the car. “We’re leaving it a bit late, aren’t we?”
Masters agreed. “It was my intention to see them today. I’m very conscious of the fact that we ought to have interviewed them at the outset, but events have led us astray. I know we shouldn’t let them divert us, but I’m not unhappy with what we’ve got today.”
“I should hope not.” Green took his nearside rear seat and Masters got in beside him. “Last night at this time we hadn’t a clue.”
“True. And I’m consoling myself with the thought that knowing what we now know, our interviews with the three wives will be that much more penetrating. For instance, if Reed gets those lenses measured tomorrow. . . .”
“Measured, Chief?”
“Yes. Take them to an optician. He’ll have a little wheel-like gadget on the end of an arm leading from a central spindle. He centres the spindle and twists the arm and the wheel somehow measures the focal length of the eyepiece. They can even do it with half a lens. They have to be able to in cases where some patient comes in with broken glasses for which they have no record. They measure the previous lenses to get a starting point for the new test.”
“What’s it going to do for us, Chief?”
“Maybe nothing. But it could mean we’d know what sort of eyesight the fire-raiser has. People don’t usually travel far from home for specs, do they? And there can’t be that many oculists locally.”
>
“What if they’re not his spectacles, Chief?”
“I won’t say they’ve got to be, but how do you get hold of at least two pairs of other people’s glasses?”
“Easy,” grunted Green. “You just pick ’em up. People always leave them lying around and they’re not the sort of articles you expect to be pinched, so. . . .” He shrugged. “But we should do it, all the same. Just in case.”
Masters nodded. “Then we ask the wives the names of their opticians. We know Happy Melada wears glasses and it’s likely Mrs Heberden and her husband do—being middle-aged. Whether Mrs Belton does or her husband did we shall have to discover. You never know your luck. Something could come up.”
The car drew up at the church gate. The young constable on duty was sitting on the top bar with his heels hooked into a lower one. He didn’t get down to begin with—presumably thinking this was a rubber-necking party—but after Reed had had a brief word with him he was on his feet very smartly.
“Any callers, constable?”
“Not since I’ve been on, sir. The party searching the churchyard had gone before that.”
“Thank you. But don’t stay at the gate all the time. Move about to keep an eye on the hedges.”
“Right, sir.”
Masters led the way up to the south door and then swung right along the overgrown path. He rounded the east end and the well, with a barrier of white tape round it, was before them. In the wall of the church, up two small steps, was the vestry door. Masters opened it. It swung back over a step just big enough to take it, and then followed two more small steps.
“This is a death trap,” complained Green. “Fancy trying to find your way in here for choir practice on a dark night without a light.”
They stood in the small robing vestry with its hanging cupboards and two bench seats. Opposite the entrance was another door into the chancel at the altar steps. To the left a third door led down two steps into the vicar’s vestry. Here were more cupboards, a rusting old safe, a variety of chairs and a table under a leaded window.
“There’s a double door here,” said Reed, from the end of the robing vestry opposite the vicar’s vestry. They were more lightly built than the other doors, and when opened, revealed two steps down into the church proper.
“There for the choir to get in and out,” said Masters. “I suppose they sometimes filed in singing the Introit and out singing the Recessional.”
“We’ve all been to church,” said Green. “We know the difference between matins and evensong.”
“I’m sure you do. But I was not aware you knew the form behind the scene. But I won’t bother with explaining the piscina and—”
“The what? Oh, come on.” He stumped down the steps.
“No smell of damp,” said Berger, sniffing the air.
“It’s musty.”
“That’s dust. Dry dust. Not mildew.”
They stood and took stock of the furnishings which had been left in the little church. The evening sun streamed in to gild certain pieces and to throw dark shadows. It seemed as though St John’s had just been locked up after one particular service and never opened again until they had come in. The pews were still there, and the font. Even the lectern, with two purple bookmarks. The bible had gone, as had all the consecrated pieces. Altar frontals, communion plate, crucifix and wardens’ staves—many such things had been removed, but Masters could appreciate that a lot of valuable material still remained and he guessed that this had not escaped Melada. In fact, Masters guessed, the contents still left were probably worth more in the open market than the two thousand Melada had bid for the property and contents.
In the main body of the church were just seven pews on each side of the centre aisle. Behind the cross-aisle leading from the south door were two more on each side of the tongue-shaped stone step which carried the font and led to the ringing chamber at the base of the tower.
The choir stalls were there, the altar rail and a prie-dieu.
“The timber here,” said Green, “is worth a fortune. Solid oak.”
“What if one were to sell the pews separately?”
“The Americans would pay a bomb. A bench from a cute little church in Lincoln Shire for a house porch in Texas! To sit on and chew a corn cob!”
Masters led the way round the pulpit, and up the chancel steps. As he arrived at the altar steps, he said to Green: “I’ve a hankering to see that empty tomb.”
Green shrugged. He followed Masters towards the altar table. The slabs were in shadow, but it was easy to see how well they had been cut. They fitted each other and their ledge exactly.
“They’re all in place,” said Green. “You’d be lucky to get a penknife between them. So how are you going to lift one?”
Masters knelt for a closer look and to run his fingers over the joins, appreciating the accuracy of the work. He suddenly stopped his hands and went back a bit with his fingers. “There’s an inequality here.”
“You don’t say!”
“Not a sharp bump, a rounded one. Here, Reed, strike a match and hold it down here, would you.”
Reed did as he was asked. Masters found the place and scratched it with his finger nail.
“It’s transparent, Chief,” said Reed. “It’s glue. Glue that’s been squeezed up by the stones.”
Masters didn’t reply. He took a small penknife from his pocket and, concentrating on his task, while Reed continued to light matches, shaved the protuberance away very slowly and carefully. At last he had it. He put it on his palm to exhibit it—a piece of greyish, translucent dried varnish or resin, barely half an inch long and a sixteenth of an inch deep, the top rounded by the natural settling flow of the glue as it dried.
“The laddo’s right,” said Green. “Any more of it down there?”
“At a guess,” said Masters, getting to his feet, “it’s on all four edges of the slabs.”
“You mean somebody has sealed the tomb with glue?”
“With epoxyresin, using it as an adhesive and a sealant.”
“Why?” asked Berger.
“Why?” echoed Green. “As an adhesive to hold those stones down so that nobody could lift one without going to great trouble—seeing there’s no handhold and they fit like a glove. And as a sealant to keep in the stink.”
“The stink?”
“Of death, boy. Death.”
“Go to the car, Reed, and fetch the torch,” said Masters quietly. “Bring the entrenching tool, too. The pick end might help. Get the constable to call up. I want a message sending to Mr Webb. I want stone-cutting tools here immediately. Got that?”
“Yes, Chief.”
“Go with him, Berger. You can bring the implements while he’s getting the message through.”
When the two sergeants had gone, Masters turned to Green. “I think this will put an end to your theory.”
Green nodded and, despite the fact that he was in church, took out his cigarette packet.
He had smoked three Kensitas, while Reed and Berger had failed to raise a slab, before Webb arrived. Masters had been insistent that the stonework should not be broken and, without this, nowhere was there a gap wide enough to take the entrenching tool.
Webb came in first, alone, dressed in slacks and a sweat shirt.
“What did your missus give you for dinner, Webby?”
Webb stared at Green, astounded. “You didn’t ask me out here to. . . .”
“No lad. Just being friendly. What did she give you?”
“Beef pie and Brown Becky.”
“What did I tell you! And I had to do with something called blanket of lamb.”
“Did you fetch a stone-cutting tool, Mr Webb?”
“Yes, Chief. It’s coming in. A petrol-driven job. Like a tree-feller really, but with one of those cutting discs attached. What’s it wanted for?”
“You heard the vicar describe the empty tomb?”
“Under the altar?”
“The slabs have been sealed down.”
“Cement?”
“Epoxyresin. We can’t get at them to lift one. Your machine should be able quite easily to cut along one of the sealed joins, widening it enough for us to get a lever in.”
Webb said: “Who’d want to seal that?”
“More to the point, why?”
Webb looked startled. “I was wondering. . . .?”
“Why we want to see inside the tomb?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you think it’s been sealed?”
“Heberden?”
“We shall soon know.”
“After all,” said Green, “it was built as a vault for his family.”
Whoever had set the stones in the epoxyresin had done a thorough job. The under-surfaces, where they were in contact with the ledges, as well as all the edges of each slab, had been liberally coated. The strength of the glue and the lack of leverage space had made the job perfect. The young country policeman who used the stone cutter had to spend a long time on the first slab before it could eventually be levered out. Even then it was only done by sawing through the glue bond on all four sides, down to the ledge. Gradually, after much levering, with Reed using his feet to get some power on the entrenching tool, the slab began to move a little. At last it was up. There was no need to ask what was inside. The stench that rose from the hole even before Berger had lifted the slab clear told its own tale. Green, Masters and Webb peered in with the torch giving them light to do so. A man’s figure in slacks and shirt, with no jacket.
“Heberden?” asked Masters, seeing the close-cropped grey hair, the neat moustache and the still well-set collar and tie.
“You knew?” asked Webb.
“Come along, Webby,” said Green. “Let the lads get the other slabs up while you tell me what Brown Becky is.”
Chapter Six
Watling arrived before the ambulance. He stood alongside Masters while the police photographers took their pictures and then stepped across to the tomb. “I don’t think I can roll him over in there,” he said. “Damn difficult to get at in fact, because there’s no room for me to get in with him.”
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