Grave Matters

by Margaret Yorke

  ‘You knew who you were looking for,’ Patrick said.

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ Jane protested. ‘Nor did you, or you’d have said so and we’d have looked through the album accordingly.’

  ‘I’ve been looking for the link with Slade House all the time, and now you’ve found it,’ Patrick said.

  ‘Winifred Kent made no secret of having been at Slade House,’ Jane said.

  Patrick looked at the photograph of a slim girl dressed as a man in regency style, and wearing a full-bottomed wig.

  ‘She told you when you were alone upstairs?’ Patrick asked. ‘No one else heard?’

  ‘No,’ Jane said.

  ‘After we’d gone, they may have talked about us. Valerie had mentioned the books. It’s no secret that I was in Athens when Miss Amelia died,’ Patrick said. ‘I wonder if she said it again.’ He took a penknife from his pocket and very gently prised the edges of the photograph away from its mount. It came free quite easily, pasted in only at the corners. In faded ink on the back were written the names of the girls. He handed it silently to Jane.

  ‘We should have thought of looking on the backs,’ he said.

  ‘But with the married name – we wouldn’t have realised,’ Jane said.

  ‘We could have checked them all,’ Patrick said.

  ‘But now we know this, does it make any difference?’Jane asked.

  ‘Indeed it does,’ said Patrick.

  ‘I don’t see why. The two who might have recognised her are dead.’

  ‘And why are they dead? Because she didn’t want to be recognised,’ said Patrick.

  ‘You mean Miss Forrest was somehow pushed down those stairs ? You’ve always thought that, haven’t you?’

  ‘I mean Miss Forrest was pushed, and also Miss Amelia. That youth who jostled her did it on purpose.’

  ‘But how? Who? A hired yobo?’

  ‘No. It was much more subtle,’ said Patrick. ‘But I don’t know if I can prove it.’ He looked at Jane. ‘You said that Miss Amelia wouldn’t forgive a past pupil who trespassed against her code. If she met such a pupil in later life she might feel it her duty to expose to anyone closely involved the past misdeeds of that girl.’

  ‘If she’d made a new life – a good marriage . . .’ Jane’s voice trailed off. ‘Would she be so cruel?’

  ‘We can’t know. She might watch and wait. But the girl – woman – would never feel safe.’

  He stood up.

  ‘I’ve got to get down there, Jane. Someone else may be in terrible danger.’

  ‘What, now? In the middle of the night?’

  ‘Yes.’ In his mind was the thought of Ellen; she had collected the missing Cicero that day. Why had it been missing? Would someone else be after it too?

  ‘I’d better ring Colin before I go – that is, if I can find him,’ he said, but as he finished speaking the telephone rang.

  Jane rose somewhat ponderously to her feet and went out to the hall to answer it. She was back in less than a minute.

  ‘Telepathy,’ she said. ‘It’s Colin for you. He tried Mark’s, and when you weren’t there, thought of us.’

  But Patrick had not waited to hear her sentence end.

  She heard him say, ‘Oh God,’ to something Colin said, and then, ‘What happened?’ There was silence for a few moments while Colin spoke, and then Patrick told him about the photograph. After that a few more remarks were exchanged and Patrick came back into the sitting-room.

  ‘What is it?’Jane scarcely dared to ask.

  ‘It’s Madge Bradshaw. She’s been killed,’ he said. ‘Her body was found in the church this afternoon. It seems something was dropped on her head from above.’

  ‘Oh no!’

  ‘The church has got a spy-hole in the belfry so that the bell-ringers can see when to start ringing the wedding peal. Our villain was waiting for her up there and dropped a great stone on her as she passed below. And in case she’d only been stunned, she’d been cracked a few times on the skull with a huge brass candlestick.’

  ‘But why was she in the church at all?’

  ‘She helped a lot with church affairs, remember? She’d been cleaning some of the brass – taken bits home to clean, it seems, and was returning it. I’m going over there, Jane.’

  ‘But it’s happened – it’s awful – but surely—?’ Jane stopped talking as she saw his stricken face.

  ‘Colin heard about this because he’d got on to the local police down there and asked to be told if anything unusual came in about Meldsmead or that area. The local C.I.D. have been pretty efficient. They say the body lay face downwards on the floor of the church and the head had been smashed in.’

  ‘But it’s—it’s maniacal,’ Jane said.

  ‘Yes,’ Patrick agreed. ‘I’m afraid we’re dealing with a maniac, and it’s become a desperate situation.’

  ‘Can’t the police—?’ Jane looked at him fearfully.

  ‘They’ve done all their stuff so far – carted off the body, made enquiries in the village, closed the church up till tomorrow. Colin’s going down there right away to tell them what we know. It’s not a Yard matter yet, but I suppose it may become one. We’ve got to have proof, you see and here’s a part of it.’ He put the photograph carefully in his wallet. ‘I’m off now, Jane. I’ll be in touch.’

  She heard his car racing up through the gears as he tore out of the village without any regard for the speed limit, and she knew there was no way at all for her to help him.

  II

  Patrick’s car burnt up the miles to Meldsmead. It was another fine, dry night; a fresh breeze was blowing, keeping the clouds away, and the sky was studded with stars. Driving conditions were good and there was little traffic once he left the main roads behind. He tried to calm himself by reasoning that the murderer was most unlikely to strike again that night; the plans had all been laid long ago, the despatch of Miss Amelia carefully arranged. But Miss Forrest had been killed, he was sure, on some impulse; and now Madge Bradshaw’s death had shown a loss of nerve.

  Colin was going down to Meldsmead with the knowledge and consent of his chief; unless the Yard was called in, the investigation would be dealt with by the local force, and tactful co-operation would be needed. He had assured Patrick on the telephone that it was impossible for anything more to happen during the hours of darkness, but Patrick did not share this view. Something had been overlooked; someone was in danger, and swifter action might have saved Madge. Colin had promised to come and find him in the village as soon as he had finished with the local Superintendent.

  ‘I’ll know where to look for you,’ he’d added grimly.

  Patrick approached the village from the north-east, the direction he had taken with Jane and Michael only the evening before. He drove fast along the lanes, trusting to be warned by the headlights of any approaching car. As long as it’s not our Valerie, he thought; but she would be back by now, if she was spending tonight in the village. She’d said at the Kents’ house the night before that she was going to the office as usual today.

  He paused at the turning where the lane joined the main village street; the church lay on the left. Everything seemed quiet. Patrick pulled the car round so that the headlights illuminated the little green in front of the church; beside it was the graveyard. There seemed to be no police guard. He got out of the car and walked up to the church gate. A big padlock and chain secured it; he supposed the door into the church itself would be locked too. He turned back towards the car, sniffing: there was the smell of an autumn bonfire in the air; someone had been burning their garden rubbish. Suddenly Patrick knew that this was no ordinary bonfire. He leaped back into the car and accelerated up the lane, past the darkened houses. No one seemed to be about. He supposed the police had made enquiries about Madge’s last known movements at every house. The body had been found by the vicar at four o’clock.

  He turned into the lane leading to Abbot’s Lodge and drove down it as fast as he dared; then he stopped outside Mulberr
y Cottage, automatically switching off his headlights. At first glance everything seemed normal as he opened the gate and strode up the path. He saw at once that the curtains were drawn across the windows, unlike the night when he had found the photograph album. Someone was inside, and it was not Valerie, for there was no sign of her car.

  The smell of smoke was much stronger here. He looked up at the roof, but it seemed to be all right. Then he walked round to the westerly side of the cottage and what he saw there made his heart plummet. The thick eaves above his head were glowing red, like an inferno, fanned by the prevailing wind towards the rear of the cottage, and as he ran round he could see clouds of smoke billowing out of the thatch. Even as he stood there, horrified, tongues of flame began to dart through the weight of old straw.

  ‘Ellen!’ he shouted, frantically, first under the windows where he stood, and then at the front of the cottage, but there was no answer from within.

  The back door had panels of glass in its upper half; he was wearing gloves, and with his fist he smashed a hole in the pane nearest the door handle, reached in, and turned the key. The door did not yield. Careful Ellen had bolted it. But Patrick was heavy and with his shoulder to the frame he soon broke it open. As it burst inwards and he entered the building he feared the draught might cause a funnel of air to sweep through the house and fan the flames, but there was no sign of any fire in the kitchen. He opened its further door, which led into the living-room, very cautiously. There was a strong smell of smoke here. He knew that there were two bedrooms above. Ellen must have been overcome by the fumes as she lay asleep. He blundered his way up the stairs, groping in the dark, for his torch was in the car, and opened the first door he found, still calling her name.

  She was in the room, and did not stir as he snatched her up out of the bed and stumbled back down the stairs again, carrying her. He took her out into the garden, removed his own overcoat and wrapped her in it; she wore only a thin nightdress. Then he gave her a little shake, and she moaned slightly.

  ‘David,’ she mumbled.

  ‘Ellen, wake up! You’re all right, Ellen,’ he told her, but she seemed able only to moan. Fresh air was the best thing for her, and she could come to no more harm for a few minutes while he got help to deal with the fire. So far it seemed confined to the roof, and there was just a chance that the telephone might still be working. He laid her on the ground, near the fence in front of the cottage, well away from all flying sparks which would blow in the other direction, and went back into the house by way of the kitchen again.

  The telephone, he remembered, was on the window-sill in the living-room above a book-shelf. Arms outstretched, feeling for the furniture standing in his way, he managed to get across the room without more damage than a bruised shin. By some miracle the line was intact, and he dialled 999. Then he moved to the front door, which was close beside him. It was not bolted, merely closed on the yale lock, and the chain was not pulled across. How strange of Ellen to have bolted the back door so carefully and not this one; perhaps she had confidence in its solid oak. As he opened it and pulled it inwards the door caught against something that lay on the floor, preventing it from opening fully. Patrick’s foot brushed against something. He bent down. A solid object lay there; he felt cloth, then hair. It was a human body. Someone else was there in the room.

  Patrick dragged the body through the doorway into the garden, and Colin arrived just in time to help him.

  ‘My God,’ he said. ‘You were right.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Patrick. ‘But I didn’t think of arson. Ellen’s over by the fence. She seems very dopey, as if she’s been drugged. Perhaps it’s just the smoke.’

  ‘This one’s alive. The pulse is quite strong,’ Colin said. ‘Who is it?’

  Grimly, Patrick told him.

  ‘The fire brigade’s coming, but I didn’t call an ambulance,’ he added. ‘Why on earth aren’t there any coppers down at the church?’

  ‘Calm down, Patrick. There’s no blaze showing here yet, they wouldn’t have seen it if there had been,’ Colin said.

  ‘I smelled it,’ Patrick told him. ‘They could have done that.’

  But Colin was looking down at the victims of the fire.

  ‘This must have been planned,’ he said, thinking aloud. ‘They’ve both been doped. They’d be coughing and spluttering if the fire had made them unconscious. Look, they’re both stirring. Another half-hour or so and they’d have suffocated. This place will go up like a match-box soon.’

  ‘Christ, what a devil,’ said Patrick.

  ‘We’ll get them away,’ Colin decided. ‘Quick, before anyone else arrives here. Our villain will think the scheme worked. It’s most unlikely anyone else in the village knew that Ellen was here. She probably came with David, don’t you agree?’

  ‘Yes,’ Patrick said. ‘But to dope her and leave her here like this – wait till I get my hands on that—’

  ‘Stop. Try not to think of what might have happened,’ Colin said. ‘We’ve got to get our evidence. Our villain’s going to lie low pretending not to know what’s happened here. The whole village will be in a state of shock anyway, after the murder of Mrs. Bradshaw. You came down to see Ellen but as you could get no answer you thought the cottage must be empty. Then you found the fire, but you still didn’t suspect that anyone was here. You’ll have to stay here – I’ll get these two away before the fire brigade arrives – and for God’s sake keep your temper.’

  As he spoke they could hear the fire engine’s bell as it raced towards the village along the main road. Pretty quick, Patrick thought, bundling Ellen into Colin’s car. She was able to sit up now and murmur, and the other victim was stirring too, and groaning.

  ‘If our villain makes no move tonight we’ll pay a call in the morning,’ Colin said, getting into the car. ‘They’ll be expecting some enquiries after the discovery of two charred corpses in the cottage. Keep your head, Patrick, these two will be all right, I’ll have them at the hospital in no time, and I’ll get back as soon as I’ve sorted out the local boys.’

  He drove off, and had just cleared the end of the lane when the fire engine turned into it. Eleven minutes had passed since Patrick had telephoned.

  He could do nothing for Ellen. He thought then of the books, still stacked along the walls of the sitting-room. There might be time to save them.

  A fireman climbed a ladder to the thatch, and with an immense pair of wire-cutters tackled the wire netting which covered the roof of the cottage. It had rotted through and rusted in many places, and soon some of the men were tearing it away, then raking down the burning straw in great bundles which lay smoking on the ground, to be soused with water from their hoses. Two more fire engines arrived, more hoses were run out, and as water poured on to the building searchlights were rigged up to light the scene. Patrick carried armfuls of books to his car, and the firemen worked on. Suddenly, as they tore a great hole in the centre of the thatch in an attempt to confine the blaze to one end of the roof, the whole thing went up in a burst of flame like a very successful bonfire. It would be a miracle if even the shell of the cottage were saved, Patrick thought, plodding on.

  He noticed, almost absent-mindedly, Cicero’s Orations, the blue Oxford edition, as he carried them out, and as he laid them in his car he saw that volume five was there, restored to its proper place among the others. He got all the books out, and most of the furniture from the sitting-room, helped by Fred Brown who had seen the flames from the pub and come to lend a hand. They stacked chairs and tables on the lawn.

  Before they left the cottage for the last time, Patrick, standing in the kitchen, looked for anything else of value, and saw a coffee pot with the dregs of coffee still inside it, on the stove. On the drainer, washed and standing upside down to dry, were three cups and saucers and three spoons.

  Something struck Patrick as odd about this, but he could not pinpoint what it was. He glanced round again. The sugar bowl was on the dresser, and beside it was a book. It was volume fi
ve of Cicero’s Orations. A second copy.

  III

  Patrick and Colin spent what was left of the night in the spare room at the Meldsmead Arms. The firemen eventually stopped Fred Brown and Patrick from entering the cottage again because the ceiling might fall in. They had raked the whole roof free of straw; it lay in sodden, smoking heaps around the cottage, which looked like a stage set in the beams from the searchlights; paper peeled from the walls, and upstairs the wrecked bedroom furniture was heaped anyhow in the two rooms as the men trampled back and forth with their hoses. A few charred rafters speared upwards into the sky.

  ‘Looks like a bomb’s hit it,’ muttered Fred. ‘Glad the old lady never saw it. Pitiful, isn’t it?’

  And it was: the burnt, frayed remnants of the curtains hung sodden in the window frames, water poured from every crevice, and above all was the acrid smell of the smouldering straw.

  The lane was blocked solidly by fire-engines, and at least one of them would be remaining throughout the night in case the blaze broke out again. Patrick’s car was hemmed in by them. He locked it, and left it there, filled with the books. As an afterthought, he removed from its place in the set volume five of Cicero’s Orations. It fell open in his hand, and out dropped an envelope. It was addressed in neat copper-plate To Miss Ellen Brinton or Whomsoever Else it May Concern, and had been opened, but the letter it contained was there. Patrick took it and the two copies of the book back to the pub. A police guard was set up at the end of the lane where it joined the main road, and, belatedly, a second guard was placed at the church. Colin brought Patrick’s coat back from the hospital. He had left Ellen, half-conscious, muttering something about a letter, and was relieved when Patrick produced the one he had found in the Cicero.

  ‘Sensible girl. She put the book back in the one place where no one would think of looking for it: its proper one,’ he said. He showed Colin the second copy, and told him about the three cups and saucers, the spoons and the coffee-pot. ‘They’ll still be there in the morning, unless the firemen knock the whole lot over,’ he added. ‘The kitchen wasn’t touched by the fire. But they’re tramping in and out all the time and pouring water everywhere. The coffee-pot wasn’t washed.’