A Grave Case of Murder

by Roger Bax

  “A very good idea,” remarked the Ancient.

  Marion protested. “Surely there’s no need to drag in the police—we don’t want a public scandal on top of everything else. Can’t we get to the bottom of it ourselves?”

  “Since you all seem to be taking this preposterous story seriously,” said Neville with some heat, “I think I’m entitled to a proper investigation.”

  “Darling, I’m not taking it seriously,” Barbara pleaded.

  “No, but your people are. It’s a rotten situation for me.” Neville turned to Thomas. “Where is this woman, anyhow? Can’t we have her here again? I’m sure if I were to see her face to face she wouldn’t dare to stick to her story.”

  “Yes, that’s the obvious thing to do,” Thomas agreed. “And the sooner the better. Excuse me.” He went off to telephone.

  Barbara had covered her face with her hands as Thomas went out. “Oh, this is horrible,” she cried. “Neville, I can’t bear it.”

  He leaned over her and put his arm round her shoulders. “Take it easy, darling. It’ll work out all right, you’ll see. She must have got me mixed up with somebody else. There are lots of chaps with faces like mine.”

  The Ancient muttered something. To Marion it sounded like “More’s the pity!”

  Presently Thomas came back, looking gloomy. “No reply. I’ll have to try later.”

  “Well, that’s that for the moment,” said Neville. “We shan’t get any further until we see her …”

  Marion’s soft voice broke in unexpectedly. “You’ve told us you did a lot of secret work during the war, Neville. Did you, by any chance, ever use the name of Thornton?”

  Before he could reply, Barbara interrupted angrily. “Aunt Marion, I won’t have Neville catechized. You’re treating him as though you think he is the man—it’s insulting! The whole thing is completely fantastic, and I don’t know why we’re bothering ourselves with it for one moment.”

  Thomas looked at her in astonishment. “Good heavens, Barbara, have you gone mad? We can all understand how you feel, and we admire your loyalty, but an allegation has been made and we’ve obviously got to get to the bottom of it. It’s for your sake more than anybody’s. Surely you can see that?”

  “Your uncle’s quite right, darling,” said Neville in the same soothing tone, and his hand tightened on her shoulder. Abruptly he faced Thomas. “What exactly do you want to know, sir?”

  Thomas looked embarrassed. “Perhaps if you could tell us who else you knew in Teheran—besides Mrs. Thornton? And the name of the hotel you stayed at, and just when you were there? What unit were you attached to at the time, and what were you doing in Teheran? Where did you go when you left there? What was your army number? If Mrs. Thornton presses her charge, we shall need to know all these things.”

  Neville frowned. “I’ll do my best, but it’s a long while ago. I certainly can’t remember the name of the hotel, nor can I tell you the dates offhand. It was in early April that I was there. I was on sick leave—the woman’s quite right about that. I’d had a bad bout of fever. As for my unit and so on—that’s more difficult. As I’ve told you, I can’t talk about the job I was doing.” He sounded regretful. “All I can suggest is that I should write and ask permission to give you the information you want, confidentially. If you like, I’ll do that right away.”

  Marion began to look a little happier. “That’s a very proper attitude, Neville. I dare say we shall find an explanation of everything in the end. It may not be necessary to postpone the wedding for so very long.”

  Barbara looked coldly at her aunt. “What do you mean—postpone the wedding?”

  “Why, Barbara dear, it will have to be postponed—unless Mrs. Thornton takes back everything she said. We can’t go on with the preparations until we’re sure about everything.”

  Neville said dejectedly, “I suppose your aunt is right, darling. I can hardly expect you to marry me while all this is hanging over us.”

  “As far as I’m concerned,” said Barbara, “everything stands exactly where it did. I can tell you this, Neville—you’ll either marry me next week or not at all. Do you think I’m going to be kept hanging about the altar steps while my family goes into a huddle over you? No thank you!”

  “You can’t know what you’re saying, child.” Marion’s lips were a thin line, and a patch of red showed on each cheekbone. “It’s a good thing you’ve got us to look after you.”

  “I just want you all to keep out of this,” said Barbara with slow emphasis. Resentfully she faced Marion. “Do you think I don’t know why you want the wedding postponed? You’ve never liked Neville—you’ve always been against our marrying, and now you think you see a chance of getting your own way. Well, you’re not going to, do you understand? Neville and I love each other, we belong to each other. And I trust him absolutely. You can believe what you like, but I’m not going to say I love him one day and call him a bigamist the next. I believe in him and I’m going to stand by him.”

  “Bravo,” muttered the Ancient into his beard. He was watching Barbara with interest and admiration.

  “I think we should all try to keep calm,” said Thomas ponderously. “Barbara, as I said just now we understand how you feel, but this is no time to be quixotic. Neville himself realizes that. Your whole life is at stake. No one here is making any accusations, but until this matter is satisfactorily settled you have no right to get married. Why, the ceremony might not be valid! The family couldn’t possibly agree to it.”

  “The consent of the family isn’t necessary,” said Barbara. “If you make trouble here we’ll go off and get married somewhere else.”

  There was a cry from Marion. “Barbara you wouldn’t … !”

  “Wouldn’t I? You’ll see. Neville, let’s get out. I’m sick of this.”

  Neville looked doubtfully at Thomas. “I think it might be better, sir, if Barbara and I talked this over quietly together. Do you mind?”

  Thomas waved him away. “Very well. But understand—we’re relying on you to have nothing to do with this stupidity.”

  Barbara stalked out of the room without another word. Neville picked up his gun and followed her.

  “Oh, Thomas,” cried Marion, collapsing on to the sofa. “What’s going to happen now?”

  The Ancient snorted. “She’ll marry him, of course. She’s the only real Appleby among you.”

  Chapter Four

  A heavy storm broke over East Anglia that evening and raged throughout the night. One of the many people whose sleep was disturbed by the rain and wind was Fred Pepper, the sexton of Long Wicklen parish church which adjoined Monks Farm. Fred had professional as well as meteorological reasons for insomnia. So restless was he that as soon as the first pale of Sunday stole into the bedroom of his cottage he got out of bed and poked an anxious head out of the window. In the warm, moist air there was a threat of more rain to come, but for the moment the washed sky was cloudless. Fred quickly came to a decision. The sooner he got to the churchyard, the sooner his mind would be set at rest. He could have a look at the grave, and if he’d been lucky he need never confess his negligence to the redoubtable Mrs. Pepper, who now lay disarmed in placid sleep. He’d already felt the sharp edge of her tongue over his loss on Friday, and that was enough for one week.

  Even in Fred’s worried state of mind, the habits of a lifetime asserted themselves. Sunday morning was Sunday morning, and there was a ritual to be observed. He washed and shaved in the scullery, brilliantined his thin, short hair and plastered it down, donned his blue serge suit, brushed his hat, made himself a cup of tea, and was ready for the road. Because the fields and the churchyard would be soaking wet, he put on his rubber knee boots instead of the shining black Sunday shoes he usually wore. He planted the brown trilby firmly on his head, and closed the door gently behind him. So far, so good!

  It didn’t seem very likely that he’d stumble on his lost treasure after all this time, but he walked slowly on the off-chance, his beady black e
yes alert for any sign. He was a wiry little man, with bright red cheeks like a Dutch doll and a smooth shiny skin. Normally his face wore a cheerful expression, especially when he was grave-digging, but this morning his mouth had a melancholy droop. He muttered to himself as he walked along, his big boots slapping wetly on the road.

  On general grounds, he would have been the first to admit that it was a good thing the long summer drought had broken at last. Some of the wells in the village had been dry for weeks, and the gardens were parched. You couldn’t be always carrying water from the Lode, and anyway that wasn’t the same as a good natural downpour. There might be a chance now for his chrysanthemums. Everything looked and smelled wonderful, too, after the rain. All the same, it was bad luck that the deluge had had to come while the grave that he had dug for old George Peckitt was still open. It was no good telling himself now that he ought to have shored up the grave, knowing how loose the Fen soil was—the fact was that he’d become so used to the weather being dry and the ground firm that he’d got out of the way of using props. Well, he’d been caught out this time, and if the grave proved to be in the state that he expected, it would take him half a day to make it secure and fit for a body to rest in. He wouldn’t do the work today, of course—it was against his principles to toil on the Sabbath. He would do it on Monday morning. It was a fortunate thing that the funeral wasn’t to be held until the afternoon.

  He climbed a stile and set off across the fields toward the church, his sharp eyes still on the ground and his thoughts on funerals. It was an odd thing, he reflected, how they always seemed to come in a batch. Months would pass without there being any call for a grave to be dug or opened, and then two or three of a family might be taken one after the other. It was just the same with the old people. There’d been Mrs. Bottomley in July, and the ex-landlord of the Bull in August—the ground had been dry as dust for both of them—and now there was old George Peckitt, and it wouldn’t be surprising if William Appleby were found dead any day. It was just as though these old folk kept going by leaning on each other, and when one went they all went. Yes, one death took the heart out of them. Mr. Appleby, now, he’d probably miss old George something terrible. They’d been rare friends, those two, as long as Fred could remember. The sexton slowly wagged his head as he walked. He felt sure Mr. Appleby would be the next one to be dug for.

  He crossed a dike by a plank bridge, his spirits rising a little. He began humming to himself in a sepulchral key, trying to recall how many coffins there were already in the Appleby grave, and how deep he’d have to go when the time came. It was a long time since there’d been an Appleby death—twenty years, it must be, since old Mrs. Appleby had passed on. He hummed more confidently, kicking his way through the long rain-spangled grass beside a plowed field. A beautiful morning—it felt good to be alive.

  As he reached the churchyard stile, the clock in the belfry struck eight, mocking him. He playfully shook his fist at it. They said there was something wrong with the tower—death-watch beetle, they said—and if so the old clock would have to come out. Devoted though he was to the church that had given him employment since boyhood, the thought of the clock coming out gave him a momentary feeling of satisfaction.

  The churchyard was soaking, and for the first time in many months the nostalgic odor of decay reached Fred’s nostrils. Everything was very quiet and peaceful. No sign of life came from Monk’s Farm, or from the vicarage down the road. In the churchyard, spangles of moisture hung from cobwebs suspended between the yews, and glistened on bunches of wild flowers stuck in jam jars on the graves. The grass between the plots looked greener already after one night’s rain. Fred’s spirits continued to rise—it was difficult not to feel happy in a graveyard. With his eyes still hopefully studying the ground, he cautiously pushed aside the branches of a lilac bush so that not too many of the drops should fall on his Sunday suit.

  He passed slowly between the familiar tombstones, retracing once more the route he had taken on the Friday. Then his thoughts switched to the open grave which lay just ahead of him, close beside the Monks Farm boundary. Ten to one it would be half full of mud and water! It was a humiliating thought—people attending Divine Service that morning would almost certainly stroll over to have a look at the spot where George’s bones were going to lie, and they’d see how Fred had scamped his work. Fred was a conscientious sexton, and he writhed inwardly in anticipation of their comments. He approached the grave almost furtively. He could see already some telltale channels, where streams of water had scoured away the mound of loose earth. Still, perhaps the sides of the grave had held. He stumped to the edge and peered in.

  For a moment he couldn’t believe what he saw. Forgetful now of his Sunday clothes he dropped to his knees and stared down in horror, his ruddy cheeks slowly turning pale and his mouth gaping. The sight of the blood and the shattered head suddenly turned him sick. He staggered to his feet and leaned for a moment against a tree till the nausea had passed. Then, his heart pounding madly, he plunged off across the churchyard to the vicarage.

  Chapter Five

  As the tower of Long Wicklen church came into view, Chief Inspector James, of Scotland Yard’s Criminal Investigation Department, stuffed his pipe into his raincoat pocket and pointed ahead. “That’ll be the place,” he said to the driver. “Better pull up behind the ambulance.” The police car swept to a halt and James heaved himself out, closely followed by Detective-Sergeant Maddox, also of the Yard, and a photographer named Wilkes.

  “Looks like V-E Day!” said Sergeant Maddox out of the corner of his mouth, as though imparting a top secret. He had picked up the habit through mimicking a crime reporter he had met at the Yard, and the Police College had failed to break him of it. He was a tall, fresh-faced young officer whom James had worked with on several cases and found to be reliable and keen.

  The village population was indeed well represented at the church that morning—a striking departure from normal Sunday practice, as the vicar had already noted with sorrow. People were standing about in small groups, gaping over the low churchyard wall in the direction of the grave or discussing the tragedy in excited undertones. The blacksmith, bursting out of a ginger sports jacket and gray flannel trousers, was holding forth to the man who kept the cycle-cum-wireless shop. The barber and the wheelwright were arguing with the proprietor of the fried fish parlor. Mr. Ellis, the undertaker, had turned up out of professional curiosity, and young Tom Brinton, noticing the unusual activity, had walked across from his pumping engine on the bank of the Twenty Foot. There were lots of dogs and young people with bicycles. Fred Pepper, still a little shaken, had given his account of the finding of the corpse to Mr. Stubbins of the Judiford Echo—“so you actually found the corpse, Mr. Pepper?”—and was now going over the whole story again for the benefit of a few latecomers. P. C. Maggs, the village constable, was on guard at the lich gate, very much aware that this was his finest hour and determined to take no notice of anyone who addressed him familiarly as “Charlie bor.”

  As the Scotland Yard party turned into the churchyard, Superintendent Bell of the county C.I.D. left the graveside where he had been holding subdued conversation with a very distressed vicar, and came forward to greet them. He shook hands with James. “I’m glad you managed to get here right away,” he said in a muted voice appropriate to desecrated churchyards. “We’re up to our eyes in another job, and this looks like being a very sticky case. Some highly respected local people are involved, and Colonel Armitage was most anxious we should have you in at the start. For once you won’t be able to complain of a cold trail!”

  “That’s fine,” said James. He was a thickset man of medium height, fiftyish, with gray hair, bushy gray eyebrows and deep-set gray eyes. Lines of humor about the mouth gave his face a benevolent, almost avuncular expression. At the Yard he had a reputation for sagacity and the quiet disentangling of tortuous stories.

  Bell jerked his head toward the grave. “Better take a look at the body,” he suggest
ed, “and then I’ll tell you what I know and you can carry on from there.”

  James and Maddox approached the grave with care by way of two duckboards which the superintendent had had put down to prevent further trampling. The site was protected on three sides by thick, concealing bushes, but was open on the fourth side to the road and church. A short stepladder protruded from one end of the grave. Peering over, James silently regarded the sodden corpse. It was face downward in a crumpled position at the bottom of the six-foot hole. The knees, drawn up under the stomach, were pressed into the muddy soil. The spine was slightly arched, the head drooped forward, touching the ground, and the arms were flung out in front. The attitude had a suggestion of someone making obeisance to the East. At the back of the skull there was a gruesome wound.

  “Rough people around here,” said Maddox.

  James grunted. There was something peculiarly macabre and chilling about this uncoffined corpse dumped in someone else’s grave. He knelt and flashed a torch into the hole, studying the wound. Then he got rather stiffly to his feet and examined the ground immediately around him. Everything was still soaking wet. The grass near the grave had been trampled down, and a couple of yards away there was a patch four or five feet in length that had been completely flattened and looked as though something had rested there. Where the earth from the excavation had been piled into a mound, there were several distinct impressions of rubber boots, and a number of shoe-prints. James beckoned the photographer over and set him to work. Then he rejoined the superintendent.

  “Well, now,” said Bell, “let me give you what help I can. The dead man’s name is Neville Hutton, and he was engaged to a girl called Barbara Rutherford over at the Farm there. He’s a comparative newcomer to the district—we don’t really know a great deal about him.” The superintendent sketched in Hutton’s background as far as he had been able to discover it. “I went over with the vicar at nine o’clock this morning,” he said, “to break the news and see what the family could tell me, but as you can imagine they were pretty hard hit and they weren’t in much of a condition to answer questions. As far as they’re concerned, the last person to see him alive was his fiancée. She parted from him near the house at about half-past six yesterday evening. He was supposed to be going to his cottage across the fields. He was then carrying a shotgun.”