A Grave Case of Murder

by Roger Bax

  “Yes, Chief,” said Maddox obediently. “Any ideas where to look?”

  James smiled. “Well, it could be hidden in the garden at Osier Cottage or buried in the Fen or …” He broke off suddenly. “Good lord, I wonder …” Then he shook his head. “No, that won’t do.”

  “What won’t, sir?”

  “There’s a bit of Fen at the back of the cottage that looks as though it might have been dug up recently and I was thinking perhaps that was a place to look, but there were no marks of feet at all—no one could possibly have been there since the rain. Well, as I was saying, it could have been buried somewhere, or pushed down a rabbit hole, or chucked into a stream, or concealed in undergrowth—or, of course, it could have been taken right outside this district and disposed of practically anywhere. Pretty tough, I know, but you’ll just have to do what you can. Were you ever any good at treasure hunts?”

  “I had a grandfather who was a water-diviner,” said Maddox.

  “I’ll have the Yard send you a twig,” said James.

  Chapter Ten

  The inspector reached London soon after seven and drove straight to Scotland Yard. There he learned that Mrs. Thornton had left a note on her door indicating that she had gone away, and that neither her neighbors nor her assistant at the Courier had any idea where she had gone to. Further action had been deferred until James’s arrival.

  Leaving his parcel of damp clothes at the laboratory, and Hutton’s photograph and fingerprints at the Record Office, the inspector equipped himself with authority to make a search of Mrs. Thornton’s flat and went off to Clinton Mews with a plain-clothes sergeant to see what he could discover. The flat—one of half a dozen in a two-story terrace—proved to be the first in the row, with windows looking out both upon the street and upon the mews. The ground floor consisted solely of garages. Attached to the orange front door was a postcard on which were written the words “No milk, no newspapers till further notice, please” in an angular, spidery handwriting characteristically continental. James carefully detached the card and put it in his wallet.

  The sergeant, a handy man, had little difficulty in forcing the front door and James climbed the steep, straight stairs to the landing. It was a pleasant little flat, with a couple of rooms, a kitchen and bathroom. The place was reasonably but not oppressively tidy. A thorough search of all the rooms produced few positive results, but the negative ones fully confirmed the message of the postcard. There was no suitcase in the flat, no toothbrush or hairbrush, no dressing gown, and no sign of any slippers. Further investigation showed that Mrs. Thornton’s wardrobe was either very small or had been heavily depleted. It looked as though she had gone away with the intention of staying away for some time.

  James lingered over a pair of rather worn shoes which he found in a cupboard. They were of excellent quality and looked as though they might have been handmade on a special last. The size and shape of the soles were similar to, though not identical with, the footprint that had been left in the churchyard. He wrapped up the shoes to take away with him.

  Down below, the sergeant had already succeeded in opening the garage. As James had expected, it was empty. Wherever the lady had gone, she had taken her car with her.

  The next-door neighbor, an elderly man who was engaged in painting a window box, proved helpful. He didn’t know, he said, the registration number of Mrs. Thornton’s car, but it was a black Austin 10 of prewar vintage and it had a badly dented near-side front wing. He was informative, too, about Mrs. Thornton’s movements. He had heard her arrive in her car shortly after midnight on the previous night; he hadn’t heard her garage the car, but he had heard her running water for a bath. He couldn’t say when she had gone out again—all he knew was that the card had been on the front door in the morning.

  James left the mews with a serious face. At first it had seemed reassuring that she had gone off in her car, since that suggested a limited objective. On the other hand, he recalled that he hadn’t been able to find a passport in the flat. Surely a woman like Mrs. Thornton would have had a passport, Polish or British? And if she had taken it with her, she might already be outside the reach of the law. She could have dumped the car anywhere.

  He stopped for a moment at a telephone box to ring the Yard and ask that all ports should be contacted at once, and then drove to the offices of the Courier where, on stating his business, he was shown up at once to the picture library. Gordon Humphreys, the assistant, was plainly anxious to help, but unfortunately he knew nothing. Mrs. Thornton, he said, had behaved rather strangely on the Thursday evening, but had certainly said nothing about going away. On the contrary, he had understood that she would be in the office on Saturday morning, and she should definitely have been in today, as it was really his week end off duty and he’d had to cancel his arrangements and come in specially. It was most unlike her to be so inconsiderate.

  “Has she any friends,” James asked, “who might know something about her movements?”

  Gordon considered. “She has friends, of course, but she didn’t talk very much about them. The only ones I know about are a Polish doctor’s family who live at Golders Green. She stayed with them last week end, as a matter of fact.” He turned back the pages of a diary on the desk. “Here’s the number—Speedwell 00775. The name’s Rakovsky.”

  James nodded and reached for the telephone. “Had she any men friends, do you know?” he asked, dialing.

  “If she had,” said Gordon, “she kept it quiet. They didn’t ring up here, anyway.”

  The telephone clicked and a man’s voice spoke—Dr. Rakovsky, judging by the accent. No, he said, in reply to James’s question, they had not seen Mrs. Thornton since the previous week end. No, they had no idea where she was. They had, however, received a letter from her the previous evening, with a rather strange postscript. At the inspector’s request, he read it out.

  “I think I’d better come up and have a look at the letter,” said James.

  Half an hour later he was being shown into Dr. Rakovsky’s house. The doctor, a good-looking, middle-aged Polish Jew, greeted him with obvious anxiety. “Mrs. Thornton,” he explained, “has been a close friend of my wife’s for several years. It is very peculiar that she should have written so much, and yet so little.”

  James gave a noncommittal nod.

  “She is not in trouble with the police?”

  “As far as we’re concerned,” said James, “we simply want to get some information from her.”

  “I see. Well, here is the letter.”

  James read it through carefully. The main part of it dealt with small personal matters that were of no interest to the outsider, but the postscript, a hurried scribble in the same angular hand, said “Something extraordinary has just happened, and I must go abroad at once. I will write later.” The envelope was postmarked 9:30 A.M. and bore the date of Saturday and the Chelsea postal district stamp.

  James grunted. “Do you mind, Doctor, if I take this away with me for a little while? You shall have it back.”

  “Please,” said Dr. Rakovsky. James thanked him, and left.

  On his way back to the Yard the inspector mentally reviewed Mrs. Thornton’s qualifications as Suspect Number One. On the assumption that her story about being Hutton’s wife had been true, she had certainly had an adequate motive for killing him. During her visit to Judiford on Friday she had made it clear that she intended to see him, even if it meant coming down again. On the Saturday morning she had posted a letter indicating a disturbed state of mind and an intention to leave the country. “Something extraordinary has happened and I must go abroad at once.” That might mean, of course, simply that she had confirmed Hutton’s identity and for some reason was anxious to put herself out of his reach. But it might equally mean that she had decided to kill him and was going to flee. In that case, though, would she have posted the letter before the deed was done?—and what means had she intended to use, since at that time she couldn’t have foreseen that the gun would be conven
iently to hand?

  She had been away from home on Saturday afternoon and evening, or there would have been a reply to Thomas’s telephone calls. She might well have been at Judiford—indeed, it seemed rather more than possible that the footprint in the churchyard would prove to be hers. She had returned home after midnight, and taken a bath. Not necessarily a guilty action, of course, though if she had had anything to do with moving Hutton’s corpse, she might well have needed one. Then she had packed and abruptly departed, leaving no address. The message to the tradesmen merely made her action more suspicious, for it suggested that she wished to throw dust in the eyes of inquirers by giving the impression that she would be back fairly soon.

  But what had happened during that Saturday? Up to a point, James could envisage a possible sequence of events. She might have called at the cottage at the time when Hutton was at the Farm, and have settled down to wait for him there. On his return, she might—during a quarrel or a struggle—have succeeded in getting her hands on his gun and shooting him. Later on she might have succeeded in removing all traces and restoring the cottage to the condition in which Mrs. Pepper had left it. But in between … ? That was what strained credulity. Would she have been likely to know about the grave after one visit to the Farm? Would it have occurred to her to transport the body by water, when she was unfamiliar with the district? Above all, would she have had the strength to lug Hutton’s body to the boat, drag it up the bank and across the churchyard, dump it, and row back? James didn’t think so.

  Of course, she might have had an accomplice. Whatever her colleague at the office said, it seemed unlikely that in five years a reasonably attractive woman wouldn’t have got involved with some man. A man and a woman could have handled the corpse without much difficulty. But still, as strangers, they would hardly have thought of disposing of it in that fashion.

  James toyed with more fantastic ideas. There was young Gwynn—it wasn’t natural for a young man to be as mild about a rival as he had been. Was it possible that he had somehow run across Mrs. Thornton? Was it possible that he had gone to the cottage with the intention of killing Hutton and found her waiting there, and joined forces with her? For that matter, there was Thomas Appleby himself—a highly respected person, but that didn’t exonerate him. If he’d known that Mrs. Thornton was coming down again, he might have gone to the cottage to thrash the matter out à trois, and become involved in a scene of violence. Perhaps, after all, Mrs. Thornton hadn’t been out when he’d rung her up. There was only his word for it. It would be as well to have the call checked.

  In any case, the first essential was to find out where Mrs. Thornton had gone. Back at the Yard, James went into conference with his chief and arrangements were made to put the whole machinery of police search into immediate operation. Even if she had already left the country, the car must have been left behind and its whereabouts might give a clue to her destination. The Yard would have no difficulty in getting its registration number from the records, and with its damaged wing making it conspicuous, it should soon be discovered.

  Before returning to Judiford, James collected the report on the exhibits he had brought in. The flannel trousers, it seemed, gave no reaction to blood tests; their dampness, therefore, was still unexplained. The blood on the shirt had been checked with a sample Dr. Drake had taken from the body, and was of the same group as Hutton’s. That was as far as they could go.

  The inspector’s last call was at the Record Office. He took one glance at the typed sheet that was handed to him, and gave a long, low whistle.

  Chapter Eleven

  Long Wicklen church had been unusually full for Evensong that Sunday, but the vicar had referred only briefly to the morning’s tragedy and as the grave was still under police supervision the congregation had departed with feelings of disappointment. Fred Pepper was one of the last to leave. He joined a little knot of people who were standing near the lich gate in the deepening autumn gloom, among them P. C. Maggs, who had just come off duty.

  The constable had already made his contribution to the various theories about the crime, and it was not long before the loquacious Fred had an opportunity to take the floor again. During the day, his recollections had matured and proliferated, and he was now claiming almost psychic gifts.

  “D’reckly I heerd that rain,” he said, in a meaning tone which was intended to arouse his hearers’ curiosity, “I sez to meself, ‘Freddy, bor, I’ll lay that grave you bin an’ dug ’on’t be fit for nawthin’ come mornin’.’” He wagged his head solemnly in admiration of his own clairvoyance. “An’ so ’twore! Jest my luck, an’ th’ owd wireless givin’ us fine to mek it more aggravatin’. Rain! That kep’ me awake, that rain ded, an’ the wind howlin’ an’ I don’t know what all. Proper ole mess! I had a wunnerful queer feelin’ lyin’ there abed, jest like summat horrible wore a-goin’ on. I know’d it in me bones. Apathy, that’s what they call that—apathy.”

  “Tele-pathy,” P.C. Maggs corrected him.

  Fred sniffed. “Happen you’re right, Charlie bor—I never had no book larnin’.”

  P. C. Maggs gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder. “And you never had any tele-pathy neither, Fred. More’s the pity. If you had, you’d have been able to tell us what was going on in the churchyard last night after Mr. Hutton was shot, and maybe who fired that gun.”

  “I say ’twore apathy, anyways,” Fred insisted, “an’ I’ll telly f’r why. I had a mind to get up in the night, I jest couldn’t sleep nohow. I ain’t felt nawthin’ like that in all me born days, an’ if I hadn’t bin feerd o’ wakin’ the missus I’d ha’ walked over to th’owd chu’ch to see what wore amiss. I telly, what wi’ the apathy an’ the thought o’ the grave fallin’ in on account o’ the rain, an’ my watch lyin’ out in the wet somewheres along o’ me not havin’ me pocket sewed up proper, I could scarce sleep a wink.”

  P.C. Maggs’s stolid expression gradually gave place to a more alert and official look as it was borne in upon him that something important had been said. “Did I hear you say you lost a watch, Fred?”

  “Ah,” said the sexton, “I lost that Friday, I reckon, when I wore a-potterin’ aroun’ th’owd chu’chyard. Must ha’ slipped outa me westkit pocket, seemly.”

  “What was the watch like?” asked P.C. Maggs.

  “That wore a gold hunter, Charlie bor, an’ a wunnerful good watch. I’d liefer get rid o’ most anythin’. I’m thinkin’ of offerin’ a re-ward. Don’t, I reckon I seen the last of it.”

  The constable grinned. “How much re-ward are you thinking of offering, Fred?”

  “I ain’t decided,” said Fred cautiously. “I’ll ha’ to think ’bout that, I reckon.” He peered at P. C. Maggs with sudden suspicion. “What do you want to know fower? Ha’ ye heerd anythin’ ’bout that watch?”

  “Yes, I have,” said P.C. Maggs. “And what’s more, I can tell you where it is. They found it in the churchyard this afternoon—the Scotland Yard party. I heerd ’em talking about it. Now where’s your tele-pathy, Fred, eh? I reckon I better ring up the station and tell ’em about you. They’ll want to see you soon as possible, I shouldn’t wonder. Important witness, that’s what you are.”

  “Well, if that don’t beat all,” said Fred.

  Chapter Twelve

  At an early hour next morning, James and Maddox were sitting in their temporary office at Judiford police station, awaiting the arrival of Fred Pepper. The inspector had been deeply disturbed by the news that the sexton had claimed the watch, for that, he saw, opened up an entirely new set of possibilities. It had been too late to do anything about it by the time he had reached Judiford the night before, but now he was impatient to hear the full story. Meanwhile, he and Maddox had plenty to discuss. While they waited, James gave his colleague an account of his activities in town, and showed him the typed sheet that he had collected from the Record Office.

  Maddox thumbed through the report. “Phew! What a chap, eh? And that girl was going to take him for better or worse!
”

  James nodded. “It’s not going to make our job any easier, of course. There may be a lot more in this case than appears on the surface. I’ve asked the Yard to check on some of his old London contacts if they can find any.”

  “It makes you wonder,” said Maddox, “whether Mrs. Thornton may not be another of the same type. P’raps that story of hers was all hooey—p’raps she’d been in some racket with him, and had quite a different reason for killing him. It could have been a gang job.”

  “It could,” James agreed. “But that still wouldn’t explain why she should bother to tell that rigmarole to the Applebys, or why outsiders should think of putting the body in Peckitt’s grave. Ah, well, we’ll see. I have a feeling Mr. Pepper may cause us to revise all our notions. Tell me, how did your own inquiries go?”

  Maddox made his report. He had confirmed that Thomas Appleby had been at the dinner in Judiford until after ten-thirty on the Saturday. With the co-operation of Gertie, he had inspected and measured shoes belonging to Marion Appleby and Barbara Rutherford and had found just what James had expected—that the girl’s were smaller than those which had made the print in the churchyard, and the aunt’s wider. He had also managed to organize a squad to comb the neighborhood for the gun, and a start had already been made that morning.

  That was as far as they had got when a car drew up outside the station and Fred Pepper stepped out. He was looking decidedly pleased with himself. The smart-looking police car had been sent all the way to his house to fetch him, which was one in the eye for Mrs. Pepper and just showed what an important figure he was in the case. In addition, he was going to get his watch back. He grinned and nodded amiably to the inspector and sergeant and took the chair which Maddox pushed out for him. He sat with his cloth cap screwed up in his lap, an expectant glint in his beady eyes.