A Six-Letter Word for Death

by Patricia Moyes

  The skipper took the wheel, his eyes on the echo-sounder to check depth, keeping the boat as near the shore as he could. By now it was that time between twilight and night when ordinary visibility is difficult, yet is not greatly helped by artificial light. Nevertheless, the searchlight was swiveled to scan the rocky shore, probing for the small crescent beach where the boat could nose ashore. A shout went up as the first man spotted it. With infinite caution and skill, aided by charts and echo-sounder, the skipper maneuvered his vessel between the rocks and the shoals, up the unmarked channel that was the only way to the beach.

  As the lifeboat neared the sand, the skipper gave an order and an anchor was thrown out astern, with several men paying out the line. As the prow touched bottom, other men in tall sea boots jumped overboard and waded ashore to plant a second anchor firmly in the sand. Thus held fore and aft, the craft could remain steady where she was for the time being, and then back out—and what a feat that would be, Henry thought—through the sinuous channel to open water.

  Meanwhile, there was plenty of activity. Henry and Dr. Cartwright had both been provided with sea boots, in which they jumped off the prow into a few feet of water and waded ashore. Other men followed with the collapsible stretcher and powerful torches. The ship’s searchlight probed anxiously to port, and a few moments later found its target: a body, like a broken doll, sprawled awkwardly on the hard gray rocks.

  “There he is!” cried a voice.

  “Come on, lads, we can get to him from the path!” shouted another.

  With the help of the torches, it was now possible to see that a rather steep track had been hacked out among the rocks and eventually up the cliffside. Never used now and extremely dangerous, it had originally been made by smugglers for landing cargo on the beach and conveying it to the clifftop, where horsemen would be waiting for it. But that was long ago. Now, holiday-makers in small dinghies would find the little beach and explore a few yards up the rocks. Once in a while, a foolhardy adventurer would attempt the climb down. But there had been accidents, and a notice at the clifftop announced that any such attempt was formally forbidden. As for the climb up, an expert, or preferably two, with proper equipment, could do it quite easily, and sometimes did, but there was no longer any question of simply backpacking contraband up the cliff as had been done a couple of centuries ago.

  However, the job of reaching Peter Turnberry from the beach path was comparatively uncomplicated. The gang of men with the stretcher stood at a respectful distance as Dr. Cartwright and Henry approached the body, armed with powerful torches. Dr. Cartwright knelt on the sharply uncomfortable rocks to make his examination. It was not long before he stood up, shaking his head.

  “He’s dead,” said Henry. It was a statement, not a question.

  “No doubt about that,” said Bill Cartwright. There was a still moment, as if invisible caps were being removed in silent homage. Then Cartwright, wiping his small white hands on a handkerchief, said, “All right, then. Two of you set up the stretcher, and the other two come and help us get him onto it. Be very careful. The doctors at the hospital will want to do a complete examination to establish the exact cause of death.”

  So, with infinite care, Peter Turnberry was eased onto the stretcher and carried back to the boat, where the stretcher was laid on the cabin floor and covered with a sheet. Then the engines started up and the forward anchor was released from the sand. As the crewmembers who had done this jumped aboard, others hauled away on the stern line, helped by engines ticking gently in reverse, until the after anchor was also free and could be winched aboard. With the aid of a second searchlight mounted aft, the skipper negotiated the twisting channel backward with an easy nonchalance that could only have come from years of experience and an encyclopedic knowledge of local conditions. Within minutes the lifeboat was in open water again.

  Sir Robert had been as good as his word. An ambulance was standing beside the Bentley at the Carnworth jetty as the lifeboat pulled in alongside. Sir Robert was there, helping to take a line from a crewman. There was no need for words. The lifeboatman simply shook his head sadly. Oppenshaw nodded, and turned away as the stretcher was brought ashore and taken over by the ambulance attendants. The ambulance doors closed.

  Sir Robert said with a deep sigh, “Well, there’s nothing useful we can do. Best get back and break the news. Come along, Cartwright…Tibbett…where are you?”

  The ambulance was reversing now, preparing to head back to its base. Henry rolled down the window opposite the driver, stuck his head out of it, and said, “Dr. Cartwright and I are going to the hospital, Sir Robert. We’ll find our own way back to the Manor.”

  “But—”

  “Dr. Cartwright,” said Henry, “was the first to examine Peter and pronounce him dead. Obviously he must go.”

  “That’s no reason for—”

  Sir Robert’s voice was lost in the roar of the engine as the ambulance turned off the quayside and toward the main road. Thoughtfully, Oppenshaw got back into the driver’s seat of the Bentley, and headed toward Carnworth Manor.

  The hospital had, of course, been alerted and was also in radio communication with the ambulance. Consequently the driver was able to inform the operator that a doctor, who was traveling with him, had pronounced the victim dead. So, when they arrived, the ambulance drove past the hospital’s emergency entrance and straight to the mortuary at the back, where a pathologist was waiting to give his formal verdict and conduct a postmortem examination.

  As the body was carried in on its stretcher, the three men introduced themselves: Dr. Cartwright, Dr. Spenceley, and Chief Superintendent Tibbett of the C.I.D.

  “C.I.D.?” echoed Dr. Spenceley, surprised. “The police have already been called in, then? But I understood this was an accident.”

  Henry explained the coincidence of his presence, hesitated a moment, and then said, “All the same, the local police will have to be informed, and an inquest held. There are a few things about this accident that…well, that I’m not entirely happy with.”

  Spenceley gave Henry a sharp look. “What do you mean by that?”

  Henry hesitated. Then he said, “I’d like to be absolutely sure that Turnberry wasn’t either already dead or at least unconscious when he fell from the cliff.”

  “That’s not going to be easy to establish,” said the pathologist. “However, you’d better come in and take a look before I start the autopsy, and I’ll do what I can for you.”

  “What on earth is all this about, Tibbett?” demanded Dr. Cartwright querulously. “There’s not the slightest doubt what happened.”

  Dr. Spenceley said, “I think there are some formalities you have to go through concerning the death certificate, Dr. Cartwright. Perhaps you should go to the administrative office.” He beckoned an aide. “Show Dr. Cartwright to the administration wing, will you please, Jones?”

  With a suspicious look at Henry, Dr. Cartwright followed the aide toward the main building. Dr. Spenceley said, “Well, let’s go in and view the remains, as they say. I warn you, it won’t be a pretty sight—but then, you must be used to this sort of thing.”

  The doctor was right. Peter Turnberry was not a pretty sight. He had fallen on his face, which, although recognizable, was badly smashed. One of his legs and both arms had been broken, and lay at grotesque angles.

  Spenceley nodded to himself. “About what you’d expect from a fall like that onto the rocks. Not the first one we’ve had, I’m afraid—these young daredevils trying to climb down with no proper equipment. I daresay his spine is broken too, but we’ll soon find out. By the way, do you recognize him?”

  “Oh, yes,” Henry said. “It’s Peter Turnberry, all right.”

  “Nevertheless, we’ll have to get a member of his family to identify him formally. Are his parents living, do you know?”

  “Yes. He’d been visiting them at St. Lawrence, and was riding back to Carnworth along the cliff when it happened.”

  “Then we’d best tel
l the police to get his father,” said Spenceley. “Once we’ve got him tidied up a bit. It’s enough of an ordeal for the parents, without…” He stopped, realizing that Henry was not listening. He was, in fact, closely examining Peter Turnberry’s hands.

  “What are you doing?” the doctor demanded.

  “Looking for something,” said Henry.

  “For what?”

  “For something that’s not there.”

  “Could you be a little clearer?”

  Henry straightened up. He said, “His hands are quite untouched.”

  “Well, that’s a chance that—”

  “What I’m driving at,” Henry said, “is that if he’d been thrown from his horse and plunged over the cliff, he would surely have tried to use his hands to save himself. Wouldn’t you expect lacerations?”

  Dr. Spenceley was suddenly interested. “I see what you mean.”

  “Of course,” said Henry, “he might have taken such a toss that he fell clear of the cliffside—”

  Spenceley shook his head. “You don’t know that path, do you?”

  “No. I intend to take a look at it tomorrow morning.”

  “Well, I know it well. It’s a favorite walk of mine. It never comes near enough to the cliff edge for anyone to be thrown clear into nothingness. In fact, I’m wondering if his horse was on the track at all, and not on the grass between it and the precipice. You say he lived in St. Lawrence, so he must know the path well. I suppose if he was an inexperienced horseman—”

  “On the contrary,” Henry said. “He was an expert.”

  “Then what do you suppose happened?”

  Henry said, “His horse arrived home on her own and without a saddle. The theory is that the girth broke. We know that Peter was hurrying back to Carnworth, because he had an appointment. If he’d been cantering, and the girth suddenly broke, he’d have been thrown, expert or no.”

  “Yes,” said Spenceley thoughtfully, “and he might have rolled to the cliff edge before he could stop himself. But in that case, as you pointed out, his hands—Well, it’s none of my business. I’d better get on with what is my business—to find the exact cause of death, if I can pinpoint it. You’d better go and join Dr. Cartwright in the office. I imagine someone has already informed the local police.”

  “There’s one more thing I’d like to know,” Henry said.

  “What’s that?”

  “What did he have in his pockets?”

  “Well, now, the contents of the pockets and the clothing must be turned over to the local police and then returned to the next of kin.”

  “Please,” said Henry.

  “Oh, very well. Wait in the anteroom outside. Don’t say anything. One of my chaps will be bringing the things out as we get them off him.”

  A few minutes later a young assistant came out of the autopsy room, carrying Peter Turnberry’s clothes—blue jeans, rubber-soled shoes, socks, a green shirt, and a loose tweed jacket. He went through the pockets of the jeans, apparently oblivious to Henry’s presence, and found nothing. Shoes and socks were examined. Nothing. The shirt had no pocket.

  The jacket revealed very little. In the inside breast pocket was a slim wallet containing a bank credit card and ten pounds in notes. In the capacious side pockets were a handkerchief, a key ring with two keys on it, a squashed pack of cigarettes, and a book of matches. Nothing else. Henry quietly left the mortuary building and made his way to the administrative section.

  At this late hour the office was manned only by a couple of secretaries. Here Henry found Dr. Cartwright filling in forms he had probably not seen for years. Ear trouble can be acute and agonizing, but it is seldom fatal. One of the secretaries told Henry that the local police station had been informed of the death, but that no action was being taken until the results of the autopsy were known. The duty sergeant had confirmed that there would have to be an inquest. The police would notify the coroner’s office on Monday, and a date would be set. The usual machinery of medicine and law was moving smoothly, but without haste, into action.

  Henry asked the name of the duty sergeant who had taken the message, and was told that it was Robinson. Then, as Dr. Cartwright finally completed the form to the hospital’s approval, he and Henry asked that a taxi should be called to drive them back to Carnworth Manor.

  The mood at the Manor was subdued, to say the least. There was no sign of Barbara. Pamela Oppenshaw had volunteered to drive over to the Turnberrys to break the news to them in person, as she did not feel that it would be suitable to telephone. A brave decision, Henry thought. Even telephoning would have been bad enough.

  The other members of the Guess Who club were nursing drinks provided by Sir Robert, and wondering how soon they could decently say good night and go to bed. It had been suggested by Myrtle that since the meeting was due to end on Monday morning anyhow, it would be fitting for the members to go home tomorrow, Sunday, rather than impose themselves on a household bereaved by a tragic accident. This idea had won general acceptance, and while Sir Robert protested that his hospitality was completely at their service, he predictably allowed himself to be persuaded. The Guess Who club would be dissolving into its constituent parts in the morning, not to meet again until the next dinner in London in three months’ time—far enough away for Peter Turnberry’s death not to cast gloom over the proceedings.

  One by one, drinks were finished, sad good nights were said, and only Henry and Emmy remained with Sir Robert Oppenshaw. Dr. Cartwright, Henry noticed, had been one of the first to leave the drawing room.

  Oppenshaw said, “If you and your wife want to get off to bed, Tibbett, please don’t worry about me. Naturally, I’ll wait up until Pamela gets back.”

  “There are just a few things—” Henry began.

  “Surely nothing that can’t wait,” said Oppenshaw, passing a hand over his eyes.

  “No, not really,” said Henry. “I just thought I’d warn you that both Dr. Cartwright and I will have to give evidence at the inquest, and the date won’t be set until Monday. Naturally, we’d both like to know the result of the autopsy, which won’t be available until tomorrow. So if you can bear with us until the hospital telephones…”

  “My dear fellow, of course. Stay over until Monday—and when you know the date of the inquest, you must naturally come here if you’re needed to stay overnight.”

  Henry shook his head. “You’re very kind, Sir Robert,” he said, “but I can easily find out the date of the inquest by telephone, and since I presume it will be held in Ryde, which is quite a way from here, I really think it would be best if we put up at a hotel. If we have to stay the night, that is.”

  “As you wish, Henry. But you know you’re always welcome.”

  Henry hesitated before asking, “You didn’t find Peter’s saddle?”

  “We didn’t stop to look, once we’d spotted him. I’m planning to go back and look first thing in the morning, as I was telling the others while you were at the hospital. We’ll surely find it then.”

  “Well, that’s that. Come along, Emmy, let’s get to bed.” Henry and Emmy both rose, and Emmy said, “I can’t tell you how sorry we are that such a beautiful weekend had to turn out like this, Sir Robert.”

  “Very kind of you, my dear. But at least let’s be thankful that there’s no suggestion of foul play. A tragic but straightforward accident. No, no, don’t worry about me. I’ll just wait up until Pamela gets home.”

  Inside their bedroom, Emmy said, with a question in her voice, “‘A tragic but straightforward accident’?”

  Henry rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “I’d like to think so,” he said. “But—”

  “I knew there was a ‘but.’”

  “How did you know?”

  “Just watching you, darling, I can always tell.”

  “In that case,” said Henry, “don’t be surprised to wake up tomorrow morning and find I’m not here. I’m going for an early-morning walk.”

  “I’ll come with you
,” said Emmy at once.

  Henry shook his head. “No, better not. I should be back in time for breakfast, but in case I’m not, just tell everyone that I was making the most of my last day in the country with an early stroll. You can say I left before seven, and that you were too lazy to come along with me. Okay?”

  Emmy sighed. “All right. But won’t they all think it a bit odd?”

  “If I’m back for breakfast,” Henry said, “nobody will think it odd. If I’m not, they’d think it much odder to find us both missing.”

  “Missing?”

  “Missing for breakfast,” said Henry blandly.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ACTUALLY, EMMY DID wake up when Henry got out of bed at half past four in the morning, but she feigned sleep. When Henry gave instructions, it was always wise to follow them. Noiselessly he dressed in lightweight trousers, a T-shirt, and a sweater, and left the room, closing the door behind him without a sound. Emmy often thought that if he had taken to the other side of the legal fence, he would have made a first-rate burglar. She turned over and tried to go to sleep again.

  Meanwhile, Henry had gone downstairs, undone the chain and lock on the front door, and disappeared silently into the misty dawn, which promised another day of brilliant sunshine. Carnworth Manor slept on, undisturbed.

  Down the winding driveway, out of the big wrought-iron gates, turn left—and, walking briskly, by five o’clock Henry was in the small town of Ventnor. The police station was small but unmistakable, with its familiar blue lamp glowing in the fast-increasing light. Henry walked in.

  A tired-looking sergeant sat at the desk, reading a magazine. He looked up, surprised. Ventnor is not used to such early callers.

  “Yes, sir. Can I help you?”