Locked Door Shuttered Windows

by J Stafford Wright

  Peter Ryecroft was a shoemaker and cobbler, and worked in a well equipped shed at the bottom of his garden. He had requested what he needed for his trade, and the things had been brought. During the days that followed our arrival, I had begun to see what Satan had in mind over what he would provide. Tools, yes. Articles that could be made, but only if it was not possible for us to make them at present. So when someone asked for new shoes, they might be provided through the shop, or the person might be told to take the old shoes to Peter Ryecroft for repair. In this way Peter Ryecroft was building up quite a nice little business, as were other craftsmen also.

  I had met his daughter Kathleen several times setting out for long walks in the country. She was by way of being a naturalist, and she told me that she was trying to list the plants, animals and birds which of course were often totally different from those on earth. Why I should be told to ask her about the death of Bill I couldn't say. But I decided to trust the dream voice.

  I smiled as I thought I might after all score off Satan. He had helped me to develop my psychic powers, and now, when he wouldn't give me the name of the murderer, I was on the way to finding it for myself by picking up what could have been a suggestion from the mind of someone who knew the murderer.

  I called at the house soon after breakfast. Kathleen Ryecroft opened the door, and told me her father was in his workshop.

  "Thank you," I said, "but I'd like to see you first."

  She led me into the lounge and motioned me to sit down in one armchair, while she sat on the edge of the other. In what followed I couldn't help noticing that she had changed from the enthusiastic nature lover that I had met before, to a tight and restrained young woman.

  "Well?" she asked.

  "How well did you know Bill Stuckey?"

  "Bill? My father Peter and I both knew him. He lived next door."

  "I'm asking you, not your father."

  "You'd better ask him."

  "So I will, but I've found that a woman often notices more than a man. So I'm asking you."

  "Notices what?"

  "In your case, anything that might throw light on his death."

  "How should I know?"

  "Had he any enemies that you know of?"

  "You mean, you think I know who killed him?"

  I took her up. "You say 'Killed him'. Surely he was drowned, wasn't he? That means suicide or accident."

  She didn't seem in the least perturbed. "You said 'enemies' so I thought you must mean something different from suicide or accident."

  "Well, I did. Would you be surprised if I told you that he was killed before he was pushed into the water?"

  Her face flushed red. "How was he killed? Do you know?"

  "I know, Miss Ryecroft. I think you know too."

  I was taking a chance, but I saw at once I had succeeded. Her face changed from red to pale. She stood up and went to the door.

  "You said you'd be seeing my father," she said. "If you go out of the back door, you'll find him in his workshop now."

  "You haven't answered my question," I insisted.

  "What question? I don't remember you asking me one. If I remember, you merely expressed an opinion."

  Before I had time to say anything, Kathleen had gone, shutting the door behind her.

  I decided not to see her father just then, but he decided to see me. I had not been back home for more than a few minutes when he knocked violently on my door. When I opened it, Peter Ryecroft pushed his way inside.

  His face was flushed, and he shouted at me, "My girl Kathleen tells me you've been pestering her. Anyone who pesters my girl won't get away with it -- and there are some of those here."

  "I'm sorry, Mr Ryecroft. I only asked her a few questions about your neighbour who's dead. Has someone been pestering your daughter?"

  He cooled down somewhat.

  "Pestering her!" he repeated. "You'd be surprised."

  "I think I ought to know. I'm partly responsible for what goes on in the village."

  "Thank you, I can deal with him in my own way. Anyway, you can stop bothering my girl with questions."

  "I'm afraid I can't. The council is meeting shortly to investigate Bill Stuckey's death, and we'll need to ask your daughter Kathleen to tell us anything you know about him that might throw light on how he came to die in the pool."

  "There's nothing we can tell you."

  "Maybe not, but we'd like you both to come, as neighbours. You never know what may come out."

  He hesitated for a moment before saying grudgingly, "Well, if you say so, you're the boss. We'll come -- only don't expect us to say anything."

  As he left, I said, "Eleven o'clock."

  CHAPTER 13

  I will not attempt to give a verbatim report of questions and answers at our council. Dr Faber began by telling us what he had already told me, that Bill Stuckey was knocked out and probably killed by a blow from some object like a heavy stone on the back of the head, before being thrown into the water.

  I suggested that we should question any possible witnesses separately rather than have them together in the room. In particular, I impressed on the others that at this stage we should not disclose that Bill had been murdered, but continue to speak as though we were investigating a straightforward case of drowning.

  I suggested that Joan Stuckey, Bill's wife, should be asked to come first. We were naturally apologetic about asking her questions, but she was perfectly self-possessed and dry-eyed.

  In answer to our questions, she said she was not aware of anything troubling her husband. He had never threatened to take his life, and she assumed that he must have fallen into the water, perhaps after being taken suddenly ill. He was able to swim, so he must have been unconscious when he fell in.

  Peter Ryecroft came in reluctantly after Joan Stuckey had left. I told him that we wanted to ask him a few questions about Bill.

  "You mean Bill Stuckey? I imagine you didn't get anything useful from his wife."

  "Joan was certainly helpful. Now we want to ask you a few questions. Often men notice things that a wife doesn't mention."

  "Such as?"

  "Well, was there any domestic trouble that might have upset Bill Stuckey?"

  "Joan Stuckey would be the one to answer that. She was the one who lived with him!"

  "So there's nothing you can add?"

  I thought I detected some uneasiness. For some reason I felt prompted to ask a question for which I had no evidence.

  "Mr Ryecroft, were you down by the river yesterday afternoon?"

  He jumped up from his chair. "Did Joan Stuckey say that?" he asked angrily. "If she's trying to put the blame on me, I can tell you something about her. She hated him, I tell you."

  He was walking up and down the room.

  "Yes, he was a cruel man, knocking her about and abusing her. He deserved all he got."

  "What are you talking about?" put in Susan Digby, a rather formidable woman in her late fifties. I had chosen her for the trip because she seemed a sensible and reliable sort who could apply commonsense when necessary.

  "She's making out I killed him, that's what you're all talking about, isn't it?" he shouted.

  It was Dr Faber who answered. "We're investigating the case of a man found drowned. You're speaking as though someone was to be blamed for his death. Have you any reason for suggesting this?"

  Peter Ryecroft stopped walking, and stared at us before answering hesitatingly. "I didn't say anyone … killed him. I just thought you wouldn't be making such a song and dance unless you suspected something. And if so, I don't want to be the person suspected."

  I guessed he would probably now be on his guard, and we would get nothing more out of him at present. So I asked him to send his daughter Kathleen in, but to be ready to come back if we wanted him to help us further.

  Kathleen Ryecroft was obviously uneasy, but sat down ready to answer our questions. I began by saying that her father had admitted being by the river during the afternoon. She n
odded. I asked whether she knew if anyone was with him. Her reaction took us by surprise. She spoke up loudly. "Yes. He was with that woman."

  "Do you mean Joan Stuckey?"

  "Who else? My father was in and out of Joan's house all the time when her husband Bill was out working up at the turbine. Or else she was in with us -- only not so often, because I could see what was going on."

  Susan Digby spoke again. "Kathleen, that's a very serious thing to say. Didn't the neighbours talk?"

  "No. Our houses are next to each other, and there's a gap in the fence at the back. There's a hedge between us and the road, so people can't see in. It was all very private."

  Susan pressed her. "But you said they were together by the river yesterday."

  "They must have gone out separately. But I saw them together by the river."

  By now Kathleen was obviously prepared to talk, and it became clear that she blamed her father as much as "that woman". It transpired that her father had carried on secretly with other women even while her mother was alive. Yet he was continually suspicious of her, and of any men she knew, even though she was now getting on for thirty.

  I told Kathleen that her father had spoken of men pestering her. I apologised for asking, but was anyone pestering her now?

  "I suppose that's a fair question in the circumstances. Yes, Bill Stuckey was continually making suggestions, but I can assure you there was nothing on my side. To be honest, I'm not interested in sex. Sex is the body, and the body is a bar to higher things. I was doing my best to stop him for good."

  I detected a gasp from the council members.

  Kathleen blushed. "That sounds bad, but I didn't kill him. That isn't what I meant. He was always pressing me to meet him, and I agreed to see him by the river on his way back from work at the electricity station. I can see now I was stupid, and that he would put a wrong construction on my fixing a quiet place, but I honestly intended to have it out with him once and for all, and I couldn't do it at my home or his, without my dad or Joan Stuckey knowing." She paused.

  "So what happened?" asked the doctor.

  "I met him, and he suggested we should sit on the bank together. We sat above the pool, and I told him that nothing he could say or do would persuade me. He put his arm round me, and I sprang up and rushed away. I glanced over my shoulder, and he was sitting staring across the pool. He called, 'All right, Kathleen. I know you love me, and I'll wait for you to come back.' Then I heard someone coming, and I crouched down in the bushes.

  "I couldn't see him now, but I was still near enough to hear him say, 'So you've come back, Kathleen', and a voice replied 'Not Kathleen. It's Joan.' I heard a thud, and crept out. That woman and my father were bending over Bill. My dad said, 'Help me throw him in, and throw that stone in too.' Then there was a splash, and I ran away."

  She broke down and wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. I asked one more question.

  "Did you see which of them had the stone?"

  "No. By the time I looked, they were both pushing the body into the water."

  We thanked her, and I showed her into another room so that she should not meet her father.

  We were not a court of law, or even a jury, but we believed we were competent to reach a decision in the light of what we had heard. Kathleen Ryecroft's story rang true, especially since she had not known that the post mortem showed that Bill Stuckey had been first knocked unconscious. Peter Ryecroft had shown that he knew he had been murdered, and had implied that Bill's wife had as much right to be accused as he had. Admittedly she had not said anything significant when we questioned her, but she had the right to be told what we now believed to be the case.

  So we asked her to come back, and told her that evidence showed that her husband had been knocked unconscious by a blow on the back of the head before being thrown into the water. She gave what was obviously a pretence of being surprised, and her cheeks flushed red. We told her we had evidence that she was by the pool about the time of the murder, and her reaction was the same as Peter's had been. She exploded in a hysterical attack on Peter.

  "He told you, did he? He wanted my Bill out of the way. It was his idea we should meet him there on his way back from work and do him in."

  On the evidence, we decided unanimously that in effect both were equally guilty. But we were at a loss to know what to do with them. We had no prison, and none of us wanted to put them to death. We had to allow them to return home and let the rumour get out that they had murdered Bill Stuckey. Would their only punishment be a boycott by their neighbours?

  I was naturally anxious to have a response from Satan himself.

  * * *

  On my next talk with Satan, he congratulated me on the way we had handled the case. I asked how the two should be punished, or should we show them mercy.

  "No mercy. They've degraded our community."

  "But they are people," I pointed out, "and surely individuals must be treated as individuals."

  "You know very well that I set apart this community to show that a community can be prosperous without a belief in an alleged god. Murder wrecks a community, and murderers must be removed."

  Satan removed them that night, and we saw them no more. I don't know how Satan managed it, but everyone seemed to accept their disappearance. No search party went out, and their names seemed to be quickly forgotten. Even Kathleen didn't question what had happened to her father. It was as though memories had been wiped, or questioning blocked.

  The Stuckeys' house remained empty, and Kathleen continued living in her father's house next door, where she had been housekeeper to her father for many years on earth.

  When I met her, I was surprised to find how calm she seemed. I think she had come to hate her father for his carryings-on with other women, and for his domination of her in the home. Although she didn't say it, I sensed her relief that he was here no more.

  CHAPTER 14

  I had no idea that I would have such trouble over the disposal of Bill Stuckey's body. "Disposal of the body" is calling a spade a spade, but disposal it was to me. I had my first surprise when I called to see Dr Faber, and asked him to suggest a couple of men who would dig a grave somewhere outside the village, and help me to take Bill's body there after dark.

  The doctor and Sarah his wife were together, and both looked surprised. He spoke first. "My dear man, you can't bury him without a proper funeral."

  She nodded, and added, "The people would never forgive you."

  I shook my head vigorously. "I don't intend to be party to a superstitious religious hangover."

  "Why should it be religious?" the doctor asked.

  "Have you ever known a funeral that didn't bring God in somewhere?" his wife put in.

  "You can give a funeral address without mentioning God," I insisted. "This is worse and worse. First you expect me to have a funeral, and now you say I have to give an address."

  The doctor nodded. "I think you told me you read classics at university. You probably read the funeral speech by Pericles on the Athenians who fell in the war. He never mentioned God, and it was a good address."

  "Ah," I said, "Pericles was praising heroes, and exalting the good sides of Athenian life. I can't see Bill Stuckey fitting that picture."

  "Yes, I see what you mean. But you can say something about survival, without being religious."

  Thereupon we embarked on an argument about survival. Peter Faber maintained that survival, or even the immortality of the soul, had no connection with God. He quoted two examples of patients who seemed to have died on the operating table, but who came round with similar stories of having left their bodies and observed all that was going on from up above, and then had passed through a tunnel and had seen relatives who had died. They were then drawn back into their bodies. They had not seen God, nor were they religious before or after, although they had come to believe in life after death. They felt that their short experience out of the body might well be extended after dying.

  The doctor w
ent on to say he had been sufficiently interested to look for further evidence, and he and his wife had read a fair amount of spiritualistic writings. They had become confirmed in their belief that such evidence as there was, did not involve a belief in God.

  "Mediums are good and kind people," he added.

  "What about fakes?" I asked.

  "Oh yes, there have been some who have traded on human grief, or on the desire to find evidence of survival. But there are plenty who are honest. My point is that down the centuries, since the days of Moses, and probably before, spiritualism has produced no proof of the existence of God. No, I think even a humanist can be glad of the messages from the mediums. They tell us to be good boys and girls, and be assured that life will go on much the same as before. If the mediums are religious, they may describe themselves as Christians, but their god is very much an impersonal force, and Christ is an inspired teacher, but not God. I agree with that."

  He paused for breath.

  I said, "If you are even partly convinced, you must have formed some theory of where the dead are, and what they are doing."

  The doctor replied, "I can't say where they are. I'm inclined to think most of them are existing in a subjective world of their own, a kind of intelligent dreaming. So they may develop ideas that are an extension of what they held on earth. Lesser spirits continue the social life as before, dreaming their smokes and drinks into subjective reality. If you could get Bill Stuckey to communicate, you'd probably find he'd picked up a subjective girl in the beyond."

  I didn't know if he was serious about Bill, but the doctor had started a new train of thought. I began to see that a good speech at the interment might well help our cause.

  * * *

  Almost all the community turned up for the funeral. I felt a kind of inspiration laying hold of me as I spoke sympathetically of the one we were laying to rest. Admittedly the phrase "laying to rest" was traditional, but I could not think of a better. Even if Bill Stuckey had not been all he should have been, this was no excuse for the murderers. We must all strive to learn from the errors and mistakes of others.

  None of us believed that Bill Stuckey would have to go before an angry God in the skies, but there was no reason to believe that part of him had not survived, and he might be learning from his mistakes. We could wish him well. On the other hand there might be no survival, and in that case there was nothing more to say.