Heberden's Seat

by Douglas Clark

Green said: “And aren’t you pleased about that, doc!”

  “Not really. He’s not in too bad a shape, you know. Probably the sealing has helped delay putrefaction.” He knelt beside the tomb, considering the situation for a few moments. Then: “I think we’ll have him out, and that’s not going to be too easy.” He turned to the kit he had brought in with him, and from a sealed plastic bag, took a neatly folded bundle of plastic sheeting. “We can’t get the other side of him and these damned arches are in the way in front, so we’ll have to tackle it from the ends.” He turned to Masters. “That must have been the way he was fed in, you know. No other way possible.”

  Masters nodded. “What would you like us to do?”

  “I want to put this sheet under him and then lift him out. I propose to start from the feet. Now, if your sergeants would put the two slabs back in position at the head end, I could get under the table and lie on them. I can lift his feet and you can then slip the end of the sheet under the backs of his legs, probably up as far as his b.t.m. Then I can come back and we could probably draw him on to the sheet by pulling gently on his legs. Anyhow, let’s try.”

  Reed and Berger replaced two of the flags. Watling crept on all fours under the north-end arch of the table and lay on his stomach on the replaced stones, with his upper half over the still open portion of the tomb. Masters knelt at the southern end, with the plastic sheet pushed up into a long bundle across his knees.

  “Ready?” asked Watling.

  “Yes.”

  Green directed the torch downwards so that Watling could see to get his hands under the trousered legs of the corpse. He grasped just above the ankles and lifted. The shoes came above the lip of the tomb and the roll of plastic went under the heels. “Keep them up,” said Masters. “I’m pulling the whole lot under. Then I’ll draw out this end.”

  It was difficult work, yet it went extremely well. Reed had to pin the roll down with the entrenching tool so that Masters did not pull the whole sheet out again. But they managed it. If anything the other end was easier because the legs now held the sheet, and once the upper part of Heberden’s body was raised, the roll came out with no impediment.

  “Central lift,” warned Watling when the slabs had once more been removed. “Bring both sides of the shroud together on top.” Reed and Berger did as they were told. “Fine. Now we’ll take him out head first. Easy does it. Lift!”

  The body was heavy and the sergeants were kneeling outside the arches and lifting inside. There was no straight lift, only a straining of arms and shoulders as they sought to move the corpse in two directions at once—upwards and longitudinally. Masters helped by kneeling close by the shoulders of the dead man and, as soon as there was room, by inserting the spade portion of the stout little entrenching tool below the body. He was able to exert some leverage: enough to tip the balance in favour of the sergeants. Reed, with Watling’s help, manoeuvred Heberden’s shoulders through the arch. After that it was plain sailing. The shrouded bundle was lifted carefully and placed in the chancel between the choir stalls.

  “I’ll just take a quick look,” said Watling, squatting to open the plastic. His expert hands felt the back of the skull, the ribs and long bones for fractures and he examined the face and neck for contusions. As he finished he got to his feet. “No visible signs of injury.”

  “Meaning what?” asked Masters.

  “That we could have another Belton on our hands.”

  “Respiratory depression,” said Green resignedly.

  “That’s it.”

  “I’d like to know as soon as possible, doctor. With three corpses on my hands and no explanation as to how they died or came to be disposed of in the places where we’ve found them, I think it behoves us to get an answer at the earliest possible moment.”

  “Quite right, Superintendent. When this gets out, people will begin to panic. They’ll think there’s a madman loose, and they’ll be quite right. I’m beginning to feel spooky about this place myself. And for heaven’s sake check the church tower and every other nook and cranny round here in case there are any more victims about.”

  Masters smiled. “My guess is we’ve unearthed the lot.”

  “I’m pleased to hear you say so. Not that I think you’ve been wasting much time in the past twenty-four hours. What you’ve achieved is almost unbelievable.”

  “The job isn’t really begun yet, doctor. It only starts with the finding of the body.”

  “True. Now, everybody, wash your hands. The ambulance driver has brought in a bucket of water strongly laced with benzalkonium chloride. There’s carbolic soap and paper towels. Give yourselves a good scrub up.”

  Masters had his jacket off and his sleeves rolled up and was soaping himself thoroughly when Watling, similarly engaged, said: “I’ll work all night if necessary on this one, Superintendent.”

  “Thank you. Is there any way in which my team can help?”

  “No. You’ve got enough on your plate already. Have a good night’s kip and ring me at nine in the morning. If I’m not at the lab, give me a call at home. Webb knows the numbers.”

  “I’m grateful.”

  “There’s no need to be. You’re doing a good job for us. I’m doing mine. Don’t forget that I am, in reality, part of your team for this little show. You’ve set me a puzzle, and a challenge. I don’t intend to let either beat me.”

  *

  Because they were guests at The Chestnut Tree, they were entitled to drink even though the bar was closed, and because they were who they were, the manager made no demur at serving them after hours.

  Webb had gone to inform Mrs Heberden that her husband had been found dead. Masters had cautioned him to say no more than that. Simply to state that her husband had died—apparently of natural causes—in the church, and that she would, in due course, be asked to identify the body.

  So there were the four of them sitting in the otherwise deserted lounge. Green said, after the manager had served their beer, “I don’t know whether any of you noticed, but I felt in his pockets for the church key. Not that I expected to find it, but I thought I’d better confirm it wasn’t there. And it wasn’t on the inside of the south door lock, either.”

  “Thanks,” said Masters. “It was the right thing to do, even though the chances of it being found inside the church are a million to one against. For no matter what Watling finds—or does not find—as the cause of death, we know Heberden was certainly not capable of sealing himself in his ancestor’s tomb. That must mean, in my view, that he, like Belton, was somehow murdered and that the murderer would need the key to let himself out of the building and to lock up behind him. So the key could be anywhere. That being so, apart from the precautionary search the DCI made, I don’t propose to waste time searching for it further.”

  There was a murmur of agreement from his three listeners and then Green spoke again. “You half-expected to find Heberden there,” he accused. “All that rubbish about going for a run in the country to have a look round the church. You headed for that altar like a long-dog as soon as you decently could. And don’t deny it, because otherwise you wouldn’t have run your fingers over those cracks and found that glue. I’ve known you long enough to know that the moment you felt it you started to gloat. Unless you’d expected something, a little bump like that dab of glue would have meant nothing.”

  Reed asked: “What are you getting het up about? If the Chief had a hunch and it proved to be right, that’s a cause for congratulation, not for slanging him.”

  “Watch it, laddo,” cautioned Green.

  “I agree with him,” added Berger.

  Masters sat back to listen.

  “What I was going on about,” said Green, “was not the fact that he guessed the body was there and then found it.”

  “It sounded to me as if it was.”

  “Because you don’t listen, chum. It was the fact that His Nibs had guessed. . . .”

  “And guessed right.”

  “As it turned out.
But he couldn’t tell us beforehand, could he? Oh, no! He had to pretend he just wanted to look inside the church. And for why? Because if his guess hadn’t been right, he would have looked a fool. That’s all I’m saying. He pitched us a yarn just so’s it didn’t look as though he’d made a bloomer.”

  “What’s wrong in that? If he’d said to you at dinner time that he reckoned Heberden’s body was in that tomb, you’d have laughed at him.”

  “Who says I would?”

  “I do. Because that’s your form.”

  “All right. Maybe I would, if he’d just said it out of the blue. But not if he’d explained: made out a good case why he thought so.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Masters said to Green. “I ought to have had enough confidence in my own theory to have taken you into my confidence. But we did mention that Heberden might be there earlier, if you remember, and I assure you it was not because I thought you would scoff if I started a wild goose chase.”

  “No? What was it then?”

  “It was because it was too easy.”

  “It couldn’t have been,” said Reed. “None of us got it. If it had been so easy we’d have all been on to it.”

  “Easy once you got on to the right track. Three men missing. All three lives interlinked by the church. Two of them found at the church. Where would you expect the third to be? At the church. Whereabouts at the church, bearing in mind one of those found was in a grave and one down a well? The church is locked and the key missing. Could the third be in the church itself? Our murderer likes variety in his choice of graves. What variety would he find inside the church? No less than a ready-made tomb, empty and get-at-able. And then to cap it all, the missing man is called Heberden and the tomb was built specifically for a man called Heberden.” He paused for a moment. “Somehow it seemed, as I said, so easy, that I had my doubts. So you see, I didn’t know. If the body hadn’t been there, I’d have known it was too good to be true. In fact, that it was there was a surprise. Maybe I seemed to gloat. I don’t think I did. I was surprised. Pleasantly surprised. And I have not yet said a word to show I thought I was pulling off some smart coup.” He faced Green. “So if you think I was jammy, which in the past is an expression you’ve often used about me, I plead guilty, but I prefer to call it lucky.”

  Green had listened attentively. When Masters had finished, he said: “You know, marriage has done you good. I always said that your little missus was a cracker, now I’m even more convinced. For anybody to change you to the point where you’d make a speech like that is a miracle. Next time my good lady and myself visit you I shall tell her so.”

  Masters laughed aloud. “She’ll tell you different. But Wanda is a remarkable girl. After all, Greeny, she’s always thought a hell of a lot of you, and that’s saying something.”

  Green reddened. “We have a very special relationship, me and Wanda. She relies on me for hints as to how to manage you. That’s why she’s making such a good job of being your wife. And if you tell me you weren’t jammy to get her, I’ll clout you, big as you are.”

  Reed asked quietly: “Can anybody join in this domestic quarrel? Or do we just forget we’ve got three murders on our hands?”

  Green glowered at him. “Was there something special you wanted to say, lad? Like asking if anybody might want one of your fags?”

  Reed threw his packet on the table and said: “Yes, there was. It’s the murderer.”

  “What about him?”

  “Motive. What motive could he have? It looks as if that church itself is the reason for all three deaths. But why? If the murderer is so keen on a redundant church that he is prepared to kill off everybody who attempts to buy it, does he do it to preserve some secret connected with it?”

  “You mean is there something about the church—something sinister or illegal—that we haven’t unearthed yet?”

  “Yes. That’s what I mean. Unless somebody is going to tell me the murders are motiveless.”

  “Are you asking for a definite answer or an opinion?” asked Masters.

  “Either, Chief.”

  “Then I will give it as my opinion that the murders were not motiveless.”

  “And that,” sneered Green, “is as safe a bet as saying that a pig can’t fly.”

  “Perhaps,” agreed Reed. “But at any rate I’m satisfied.”

  “That there is something odd about the church?”

  “Yes. It’s a sort of . . . what’s the word? . . . lodestone. It’s got to be.”

  “And what do you suggest we do about it?”

  “Find out who has a particular interest in the church.”

  “I can tell you one.”

  “Who?”

  “The Reverend William Canning.” Green said it with relish. “Shall we go out and arrest him?”

  But the tone did not rile Reed. He replied: “Well, he knew all about the proposed purchase; he goes there to inspect gravestones; he knows the history of Heberden’s tomb; he’s a strongly built, youngish man, capable of the physical acts necessary to topple bodies into wells and vaults; it could be that his faith is so fanatical that he won’t permit a former sacred building to be turned over to secular purposes; it could be that there’s something in that votive thing he mentioned which cuts off half his stipend if and when St John’s falls into disrepair or is burned down or ceases to be a place of worship for any reason.”

  “Okay, okay! You’ve made your point.”

  “Very well,” added Masters. “We can’t ignore Canning.”

  “Too many ifs and buts,” grunted Green.

  “Agreed, but there are further points to Reed’s case. Canning would be accepted by Melada and by Heberden. They wouldn’t be wary of him if he suddenly joined them at the church. We don’t know whether he was known to Belton, but I don’t believe many people would be suspicious of a parson. So he would disarm them.”

  “You’ll be saying next,” said Green, “that the mysterious cause of their respiratory depression was some incantation by the sky-pilot. A sort of witch doctor’s curse.”

  “Well. . . .” began Masters.

  “Oh, no!” groaned Green. “Not the occult.”

  “Nothing like that. I was merely about to observe that most people would begin to think there was a curse on a building that had claimed three victims.”

  “That’s a thought,” said Reed. “Like that big diamond that brings tragedy to whoever owns it.”

  “Hope,” said Green.

  “I am doing,” replied Reed. “Hoping that we can get a line on whoever’s killing off the local populace. Then we can go home.”

  Masters got to his feet. “Bed,” he said. “We’re beginning to maunder.”

  “That’s a word to go to bed with,” grumbled Green.

  *

  Masters rang Watling promptly at nine from Webb’s office. The pathologist was still in his lab and sounded thoroughly tired and dispirited.

  “Not a sausage, Superintendent. Heberden died in exactly the same way as Belton.”

  “Respiratory depression?”

  “That’s it. But I can find no cause. Of course, he’s an older man, but he was in good shape, and my examination—a very thorough examination—has shown no reason why he should have died in this way.”

  “No marks on the body?”

  “Nothing of any importance. As I told you, everybody has the odd minor graze or bruise at any given moment. I’ve never yet examined a body that didn’t have some mark caused by bumping into furniture, or by gardening or scratching an itching part or some such thing. Heberden is no different. He’s got a gnat bite on his hairline, a graze on his forearm due, I would guess, to pruning roses, and a red pressure mark on his right foot. But none of them is significant. They are in no way serious.”

  “So no hypodermic marks and no signs of the ingestion of some toxic substance?”

  “None whatever. And that is puzzling me. So just in case I’ve gone gaga, I’m having a colleague of mine go over the bodies.”


  “Repeating your work?”

  “No. Starting from scratch in his own way. So as not to inhibit him at all, I’m leaving the lab now. I only stayed on to take your call. Now I’m going home for some sleep.”

  “When will I know the results of your colleague’s investigations?”

  “I’ll be back here at five this afternoon.”

  “May I ring you then?”

  “Please do. And believe me I’m as anxious as you are to clear this up. I don’t like being beaten as completely as this.”

  Green who had been standing by and had gathered the gist of the conversation, grimaced. “How the hell can we be expected to wrap up a case when forensic can’t even tell us what killed them? It’s working in the dark.”

  Webb, who was with them, said: “The fact that there are three bodies makes it bad enough. When you’ve got a job to find out what killed them before you start on who killed them makes it well-nigh impossible to my mind. I’m glad we’ve got you lot here to deal with it, because we certainly couldn’t.”

  Masters started to pack the first pipe of the day. “It’s pretty bad,” he admitted, “but not hopeless. We know how Melada was killed—not who killed him—but how he was killed. That could mean that we’ve got a foot in the door.” He looked across at Green. “As that seems to be the most likely way of entering, I suggest we concentrate on that for now.”

  “At least it tells us which of these three women we should see first.”

  “Happy Melada. I’m anxious to meet her.”

  Webb said: “Do you need me, Chief? I’ve got a few other things to do if you can find your own way about the patch now.”

  “Right you are, Mr Webb. We’ll call on you if we need you.”

  *

  The house was isolated. To get to it, Reed, who was driving, had to turn off the main road and travel two hundred yards down a track which had at one time been dressed with road metal which had prevented it from becoming nothing more than a rutted way. But there was no top dressing on the stones, and it was a fair guess that had the volume of traffic been anything other than very light, the lane would have been a morass in winter.