by Ellis Peters
“I’m not so sure,” said Chad, “that it would. But haven’t you seen already, and don’t you suppose I could have seen in advance, that Helmut dead is a more effective agent of disintegration than he was alive? My God, do you suppose you’re still the same person you were ten days ago? Do you suppose I am? They talk, oh, yes, they shout over the garden fences just as usual, and talk their little heads off, and even enjoy it in a way. But they can all feel the ground quaking under them, just the same, and they can all see, now, that the bloke next door is just about as near to them as somebody from the moon. It’s beginning to crumble apart, faster than one rather nasty young man could have prised it while he was alive. And the only way of stopping it is by catching and hanging some poor devil who probably meant well by all of us. Nobody could possibly deserve to die merely because he smashed Helmut’s head in, but I’m not all sure that he doesn’t deserve it for his damned stupidity, for what he’s done to Comerford. While he was alive, Helmut was never quite real, but, by God, he’s real enough now he’s dead!”
“You have,” allowed George ruefully, “very definitely got something there.”
“I thought by the sound of you that you had it, too. Not a nice job, yours,” he said more quietly, and even smiled in a wry, grudging way. But he had said too much already for his own peace of mind, and the less he added now, the better. He lifted his head with a gesture of putting something from his back, not without effort. “This is all a little in the air. Shall we touch down again? I loathed Helmut Schauffler, but I didn’t kill him. I object to killing, for one thing, and for another, in this case it would have been the worst possible policy, and I think there never has been a moment in my dealings with him when I failed to remember that. But you don’t, of course, have to believe me. Go ahead and ask me things, what you like!”
The voice in which he answered questions, George noticed, was not quite the same voice, but carefully flattened into a level of indifference, a witness-box voice. He had nerves which needed to be steadied by these little extra attentions; one does not drag one’s life suddenly through half a dozen phases of chaos and emerge impervious, it seems one may even come out of it with sensitivities more acutely tuned than before to the vibrations of danger and exasperation.
“You were at the Shock of Hay last Wednesday evening about the usual time for a call. When the nine o’clock news was on you were there. Any idea what time you left?”
“Not exactly. I wasn’t noticing time very much. Well before closing time, though, it was just getting really full—and a bit noisy. I’d say about twenty to ten, but somebody else might know more about it than I do. Charles might—I’d just called him something not very complimentary—and not particularly usual. In certain circumstances I tend to become polysyllabic—especially on brandy.”
“So I’ve heard,” said George. “What time did you get home?”
“You could, of course, get that from my mother. She always knows the time when everything happens, especially if the routine goes wrong.”
“I’m trying,” said George gently, “to get it from you.”
“Clever of you,” said Chad, “to be so sure I should know. She called my attention to it directly I came in. Oh, not in any very censorious manner, merely as you point out a slight error in the pence column to a junior clerk toward whom you are, on the whole, well-disposed. It’s a habit, actually. I suspect she tells the cat when he’s ten minutes late. One isn’t, of course, expected or required to take very much notice of the small reproof. It was twenty-five minutes to twelve.”
“And what happened to the two hours in between?”
“I spent them sobering up, and walking off a pretty evil temper. I bring enough moods home as it is—this one I preferred, to leave somewhere in the Comer.”
“You didn’t go swimming?”
“I did. Half-tight—rather more than half—but I could still swim. It wasn’t a cold night, and the pool’s safe as houses if you know it well. I’m not saying I’d have done it if I hadn’t been rather beyond myself, as a matter of fact—but something had to be done! I didn’t go straight there, just walked; keeping off the roads. Over the mounts, through the larch plantation, down the woods the other side. Went a long way toward the bridge along the water-meadows, then changed my mind and came back to the pool, and bathed. After that I didn’t linger, I was too damned cold, I came back into Comerford the same way, only dropped down from the mounts by the steep path through the quarry. Home—exactly twenty-five to twelve.”
“Meet anybody anywhere along this route?”
“At that hour, along this route, I wouldn’t expect to. And beyond that, I took good care not to meet anyone, that was the last thing I wanted. Nobody who isn’t drunk or in love walks by the river at eleven o’clock at night, and the lovers choose the less exposed bits, even when there are no other people there. I did pass one boy pushing a bike when I crossed the lane on top there—we swapped good-nights, but I didn’t know him, and don’t suppose he knew me from Adam. After that it was fine, I never saw a soul.”
“Might be finer for both of us now if you had,” said George. “Why did you have to choose that night to be difficult? And come to think of it, when you crossed the mounts toward the larches you must have been fairly near to the basin by Webster’s well. That would be about—let’s see!—ten o’clock or soon after, wouldn’t it?”
“About that, I suppose.”
“You didn’t see anyone hanging around there? There’s a place where the ground dips from the high paths, and you can see down into the basin behind the well. Nothing out of the way to be seen there then?”
“Not that I remember. I can’t say I do remember even glancing toward the well, really. But in the wooded part, just past the dip, there was somebody moving around. Nothing for you, though, I’m afraid. The preserve fence begins about there, and not being a gamekeeper I find it etiquette not to look in the direction of poachers when I hear ’em at work. I took it for granted that was what he was up to, but he was rather a noise of footsteps than anything I saw. Just somebody running lightly in the underbrush, away from me to get deeper in shadow. It was pretty dark; he didn’t have to go far to be lost. But it was a man, all right. Just a blur with a face and hands, and then gone, but a man. It’s happened before on occasions; and as I say, I was tactful, and went right ahead without another look.”
“That’s helpful!” said George glumly. “Nothing else to report at all?”
“No, I think not. Sorry about that, but I couldn’t know it was going to be important. And as a matter of fact, I still think pheasants were all he was after. I know the kind of running, and the place and time were right for it. Still, it’s your manhunt.”
There was no more to be had from him, either directly or by observation. They parted at the junction of the field-paths, and in a few minutes a high hedge hid them from each other. George went very thoughtfully back into Comerford’s deserted green, let himself into the station, and telephoned Inspector Logan at Comerbourne. There was something about Helmut’s tunic that he wanted to confirm; and he thought, after all, he would go over and make certain now, and not risk leaving it until the morning.
V—Second Thoughts
One
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Well,” said Selwyn Blunden, settling his considerable bulk well back in the big chair, “that was an experiment that didn’t last long. Poor young devil!—but he was a devil! Pity, it seemed to be beginning rather well, so I heard from the manager fellow down on the site there.” He nodded toward the window which lay nearest to the ravaged valleys of the coal-site, still out of sight and sound, still held at bay from the Blunden fences, but creeping steadily nearer. “Said he was an excellent worker, excellent! Well, nobody’s going to get any more work out of him now—or have any trouble with him, either.”
“Except us,” said George. “My troubles with him seem to be only beginning.”
“Yes, in that way I suppose you’re right. Bad business altogeth
er, bad for the village, unsettles everybody—bad for the boy himself, who after all might have made a decent fellow in the end—bad for your lad, and that young thing with the plaits, too, by God! How did your young man take it?”
“Oh, Dom’s all right. Stood up to it like a professional, but it’s had its effect, all the same, I wish it hadn’t. He’s taking far too proprietary an interest in the case for my liking.”
The big old man looked up under his bushy eyebrows and smiled through the thin clouds of smoke from his cigar. “What, enjoying the sensation, is he? You never can tell with children. These things simply don’t frighten them until some fool of a grown-up goes to the trouble to explain to them that they ought to be frightened.”
“Oh, not that, exactly. Dom’s rather past the stage of having to have these things explained to him. Consequently he’s quite capable of frightening himself, without any help from anyone. No, I wouldn’t say he’s enjoying it. But it happened to him, and he doesn’t want to let go of it until it’s all cleared up. Feels committed to it. Neither soft words nor fleas in his ear discourage him.”
“I see! Bound to admire his spirit, I must say, but damned inconvenient for you, I quite see that. One likes to have one’s family kept rather separate from things like murder.” He sighed deeply, and exhaled smoke like some wholesome old dragon in an unorthodox fairy tale. “Difficult times all round, Sergeant. I do appreciate your troubles. Got some of my own, but nothing to speak of by comparison. Result of that appeal should be through almost any day, and between you and me, win or lose, I’ll be glad to see it. Can’t carry this sort of war of attrition as well as I used to.”
“How do you think it’s going to turn out?” asked George with interest.
“Oh, it’s anybody’s guess—but I think the appeal will be allowed. Yes, I really expect it to go through. Site’s almost an uneconomic proposition as it is, after the run of bad luck they’ve had down there. Well, bad luck!—more likely over-confidence and over-haste, I’d hazard, if the truth be told. Put any amount of machinery out of action in a very short time, crashed one grab clean over and damned nearly killed the lad driving it—too much of it to be simply bad luck. It’s my opinion they were trying to rush this last stretch to make a good case for moving into my ground before the winter closed in, and were in such a hurry they took too many chances, and made a botch of it. But I don’t know! Their business, not mine. I’ll abide by the decision, this time, bad or good, but I admit I hope for success. Can’t expect me to enjoy the prospect of having the place torn up by the roots, can you, after all?”
George allowed that it would be rather a lot to expect. He suppressed a grin which would have done no discredit to Dominic, and asked demurely: “How’s the shooting this year? Client of mine tells me the pheasants have done rather well.”
The white moustache bristled for a moment, the bold blue eyes flashed, but he relaxed into laughter before their blueness had quite grown spearlike. “Ah, well, haven’t had too many taken yet, all things considered. And your job’s a bit like the confessional, isn’t it? So I won’t ask you for his name. Yes, they’ve done quite well. With only half a keeper, so to speak, one couldn’t ask more. Briggs is a complete anarchist, of course, won’t be ruled by owner, expert or predecessor, but he does rear the birds, heaven knows how. I’ve stopped interfering.”
“I heard the guns out for the first time yesterday evening. Sounded like autumn!”
“Oh, that would be Charles and a couple of friends he had down. I haven’t been out yet myself, haven’t had time. Perhaps this weekend we may get out together for a few hours—can’t let a whole week of October slip away without a single bird. But there won’t be any big parties this year. I can’t do with the social life, Sergeant Felse, it takes too much out of a man, and I’m not so young as I once was. And then, it needs a woman to take charge of the house, or there’s no heart in it—”
For a fleeting moment his blue eyes glanced upward at the wide, creamy expanse of wall opposite, where the best light in the room gathered and seemed to cluster upon a large, framed photograph. A woman, young but not very young, pretty but not very pretty, somehow too undecided to be very anything; and yet she had a soft, vague charm about her, too. A lot of fluffy light-brown hair, a formless yet pleasing face which looked as if it might yet amount to something if every line in it could be tightened up, a soft, petulant mouth, a string of carved imitation stones round her plump neck. Why should so vigorous, hard and arrogant an old man have lost any sleep over the flight of such a wife?
The sight of the picture never failed to astonish George with the same query. But human affections are something over which even the most practical people cannot be logical. Nobody likes to be left naked to laughter, either, even if leaves have fallen and cold winds come, especially if he happens to be the local panjandrum. And since the quick glance was never more than a momentary slipping of his guard, George was no wiser after it than he had been before. Maybe it was love, maybe only outraged dignity, that dug knives into the old man. Or maybe both had worn off long ago.
But to think of a woman with a face like that having the brains and patience to go quietly about from dealer to dealer, selling her jewellery, getting rid of her securities, telling them all—and all in confidence, of course!—that he was sending her to safety in America. If two of them had ever compared notes they would have known that she was collecting together more money than she could possibly be allowed to take out of the country; but of course every deal was private and confidential, and they never did compare notes. In a way, thought George irreverently, the old man ought to have been rather proud of her, she made a thumping good job of it. And he appreciates tactics, as a rule! Maybe, at that, it was from him she learned all she knew.
But this was not what he had come for. He pulled his mind sharply back from this most fascinating sidetrack, and asked: “You’re exhibiting at the Sutton Show, I suppose?”
“Yes, hoping to. Sending some stuff down by road, with Hollins. Pretty good prospects, I think.” He began to talk stock, his eyes kindling, and George let him run for a while, though most of it went past him and left no mark.
“Hollins came to see you about the arrangements, I understand, last Wednesday night. He says he was here about nine. Do you remember it?”
“Yes, of course. Came just after I turned the news on, I remember. Stayed maybe a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes. He was away before half-past nine, at any rate. Rather a dull stick, young Chris,” said the old man, looking up suddenly under his thick eyebrows with a perfectly intelligent appreciation of the meaning of these questions, “though a good sheep-farmer. Not at all a likely suspect for murder, one would think.”
“None of ’em are,” agreed George. “All next-door-neighbors, everybody knowing everybody, murder’s an impossibility, that’s all about it. Only alternative to thinking nobody could have done it is thinking anybody could have done it— and that’s a thing one hopes not to have to face.”
“It’s a thing nine out of ten of us couldn’t possibly face. We know enough to shut our eyes tight when it comes along, and keep ’em shut until it’s gone by. It’s that or lose hold of every mortal thing. But still—I’d put Hollins well down the list of possibilities, myself.”
“No one will be more pleased than I shall,” agreed George, “if I can account for every minute of his evening, and put him clean out of it. You’ve accounted for twenty minutes or so, and that’s something. What sort of frame of mind did he seem to be in? Just as usual? Not agitated at all? Not even more withdrawn than usual?”
“Didn’t notice anything out of the way. He talked business in the fewest words that would cover it, as always. He never talked much. Came, and said what he had to say, and went, and that was that. No, there wasn’t anything odd about him. Maybe a bit brisker than usual, if anything. He was a fellow who liked to sit and light a pipe as a sort of formal preliminary to conference, and come to the point briefly, but at his leisure. This t
ime he got off the mark without smoking. That’s positively all there is to be said about the interview, as far as I remember.”
“He didn’t say anything about where he was going when he left you? Nothing about any calls intended on the way home?”
“No, nothing that I remember.”
“Oh, well—thanks for your help, sir.” George rose, and old Blunden’s heavy bulk heaved itself out of the armchair to accompany him to the door. Again he noticed the ageing thrust of the big shoulders, the slight stoop, for all the glint of his eye which had still more devilry in it than Charles could compass in the whole range of his moods.
“I won’t ask you anything,” said Blunden, leading the way through the sudden dimness of a hall which faced away from the morning sun. “But I don’t mind telling you, Sergeant Felse, that I feel very concerned for that poor woman Hollins married. Not much of the truth ever came out, but I gathered what sort of a life young Schauffler had been leading her, all the same. Wish you luck all the more when I think about her. I do indeed! The sooner this case is closed, once for all, the better I’ll be pleased.”
“So will I,” said George with even more fervor; and went away very thoughtfully to find Jim Tugg, who was leaning on one of his hurdles at the lambing-fold down in the bowl of the fields beyond the farm, chewing a grass and contemplating a number of well-grown and skittish Kerry Hill lambs. He appeared to be doing nothing beyond this, but in fact he was calculating the season’s chances, and putting them pretty high, if nothing went wrong with the weather. He was dead sure he’d got the best tup he’d seen for years, and was looking forward to an average higher than last year. He was not thinking of the police at all, and even when he looked up from the black knees and black noses of the fat young ewes to the incongruous navy-blue figure of George, the contemplative expression of his eyes changed only very slowly and reluctantly.