Death Walks the Woods

by Cyril Hare

  "She said it was the Family Something-or-other."

  "Not the Family Fundholdings?"

  "That was the name."

  "Good Lord!"

  "Have I impressed you at last, Frank?"

  "Well, yes, you have a little. It's just a coincidence, no doubt, but it's very odd how everything here seems to lead back to Humphrey Rose in one way or another."

  "Rose? That's the man who the police believe may be able to assist them in their enquiries."

  "Did Lady Furlong tell you that?"

  "Of course not. She may be a gossip, but she does talk English. I thought you'd recognize the style. It was on the one o'clock news. I listened to it to while away the time waiting for you to come in from your walk."

  The shaft went unheeded. Frank sat silently for a long while, his plate neglected, his nose furrowed with the wrinkles that were his characteristic sign of deep perplexity.

  "Roses, roses all the way!" he murmured at last. Then he came out of his abstraction and finished his lunch in quick time.

  "I shall do the washing-up," he announced firmly. "I want to work out a problem, and there is something about the rhythm of plate-drying that is conducive to thought."

  "Haven't you finished your essay on torts yet?" his wife asked.

  "I'm not considering torts at the moment. The study has shifted to crime—an allied subject, but very much less to my taste."

  * * *

  Trimble had had a bad morning. From an early hour he had been occupied with a mass of minor but essential business that had kept him tied to his desk until after midday. When finally he got away from Markhampton to renew his enquiries at Yewbury it was to meet with fresh disappointment. Mr. Todman, in apparent defiance of the urgent message which he had left for him the day before, was not at his home. Neither was Mrs. Todman. Even the garage hand had deserted his post at the petrol pump. A bottle of milk stood uncollected outside the front door of the house, and a Sunday newspaper was thrust halfway through the slit of the letter-box. Trimble's first instinct was to go to the policeman's cottage farther up the road, but he shrank from yet another encounter with Police-Constable Merrett. Instead he turned down the lane by the Huntsman's Inn and knocked on the door of the cottage that had once been Mrs. Pink's.

  Marlene Banks came to the door at once.

  "Oh!" she said with a start, on seeing Trimble. "I thought it was the police."

  "It is," said Trimble, equally surprised.

  He was about to go on to reel off his name and rank when Marlene said: "It is about Father?"

  "Yes."

  "Is he very bad?"

  "Bad?" Trimble echoed in bewilderment. Then, looking at her pale, anxious face, he took in the situation at once.

  "I wanted to see Mr. Todman," he said, "but he's not at home. Has he met with an accident?"

  "Yes, I thought you'd know. Mr. Merrett brought us the news last night. A smash-up just outside Bognor yesterday—the car all to pieces, he said—an emergency operation, he said, and he'd let me know as soon as there was any news—Mother's in hospital too, only badly shocked, he said—the other poor chap what was on the motor-bike was killed outright, he said—Charlie's gone down there this morning, only I couldn't leave baby, of course—not having no telephone I can't get any news, but Mr. Merrett'll let me know as soon as there is anything, he said—the doctors were giving him blood fusion or something, he said, so of course when you said you was a policeman I thought..."

  It took the Superintendent some time to get away from the distraught Mrs. Banks, and a good deal longer to establish over the telephone what the position really was. In the end the news that he was able to send back to the cottage was fairly reassuring to Mr. Todman's stepdaughter, though of small comfort to himself. Todman had had a narrow escape with his life, but would survive, in the absence of any unexpected complications, to face a charge of dangerous driving, if not worse. On the other hand, he would not be fit to be interviewed by a police-officer for some days at least.

  If Trimble had not been so disappointed by his visit to Yewbury it would never have occurred to him to stop at Pettigrew's house on his way back to Markhampton. He had, in fact, a message for him, but it was scarcely one to justify a personal call from an officer of his rank. He did not expect to gain anything by it, and in spite of all Pettigrew's protestations he still regarded him with deep distrust as an intrusive amateur; but he was now in a mood for any line of action, however unpromising. The investigation, for the time being, was at a standstill, and being irritated by this supercilious lawyer was better than doing nothing.

  Pettigrew was polishing the last of the plates when Eleanor announced the Superintendent's arrival. He went from the kitchen to the sitting-room, where he found Trimble inevitably staring out of the window at the hill opposite, now black with pleasure-seekers.

  "Good afternoon," he said. "It's a nice view, isn't it?"

  Trimble nodded.

  "Is this where you saw Mrs. Pink on Thursday afternoon?" he asked.

  "Yes. Let me lend you my field-glasses. Just where the yews start at the top of the hill. There's a man with a dog going down there now. Do you see him?"

  Trimble focused the glasses in the direction that Pettigrew indicated and took a long look.

  "Yes," he said rather grudgingly as he put the glasses down. "You could have seen her all right, just as you said. You didn't see anybody else on the hill at the same time?"

  "No."

  "Or just before or after?"

  "No. I wasn't taking any particular notice of anyone else before, and there wasn't any after. I was called away just at the moment Mrs. Pink disappeared."

  "In fact it was just a coincidence you happened to see her?"

  "Just a coincidence."

  "Pity," said Trimble shortly. He was silent for a moment or two, and then went on, "I've a message for you from Mr. MacWilliam, sir. He asked me to let you know that the inquest will be on Tuesday at eleven, at the village hall in Yewbury. He would like you to be there if you can spare the time."

  "Certainly I'll be there. If the coroner is going to take evidence I'll be prepared to do my stuff."

  "It's for the coroner to decide, of course, but I expect the proceedings will be quite formal. In that case your evidence won't be wanted, but I'll see that a place is kept for you. We shall have a crowd, I should think."

  "No doubt." Pettigrew looked inquisitively at his visitor. He seemed strangely reluctant to go, though his business was apparently at an end. "Is there anything else you wish to ask me?" he said.

  "No, I don't think so, sir," said the Superintendent, but he still seemed to be waiting for something.

  "There is one small matter I heard this morning that might be worth mentioning to you," said Pettigrew diffidently.

  "And what might that be, sir?" asked Trimble sharply.

  "I met young Godfrey Ransome today, and he——"

  "I have already taken a statement from him."

  "Quite. What he had to say did not relate to the day of the crime, but in view of the broadcast which you have just put out I thought it might be of interest, in case you chose to follow it up."

  Pettigrew then repeated Godfrey's account of Mrs. Pink's bicycle accident and its sequel. Trimble listened to it impassively.

  "Thank you, sir," he said ungraciously when it was over. "When I have the opportunity to interview Mr. Todman it will be interesting to have his version of the occurrence."

  "Todman? Yes, of course. Actually, what concerned us—Ransome and me, I mean—was the apparent connection between Mrs. Pink and Rose."

  Trimble pursed his lips. "Very likely it would," he said.

  "You see," Pettigrew persisted, "the boy has a theory that possibly—— But how silly of me! Of course you must know it already. Otherwise you wouldn't be hunting for him."

  "Meaning, sir?"

  "Meaning that Rose was Mrs. Pink's husband. After all, it's obvious when you come to think of it. Rose—pink—it stares one in th
e face."

  "It's an extraordinary thing about this case," the Superintendent suddenly exploded, "that every damned thing that I find out through hard work and investigation along the proper lines turns out to be common knowledge already to all and sundry up and down the place. I find out that Mrs. Pink was a rich woman—then I'm told that that's been village gossip for years and years. I find out that she's married to this man Rose—and there's a schoolboy in front of me with the news. I suppose I was the last man in the county to hear that Todman smashed himself up in his car at Bognor yesterday. I don't know what people think's the use of a detective these days—I really don't. Simply laughing up their sleeves at one all the time, that's what they're doing. I expect, sir, you're simply bursting to tell me now who killed Mrs. Pink and how and why he did it. All I can say is, I don't want to hear it. Not now, I don't. When I've finished the case and made the arrest and seen the man tried and convicted, then you can come along if you like and tell me you knew it all the time. Till then I should be much obliged if you'd leave criminal investigation to those whose duty it is to do it!"

  * * *

  Eleanor came into the room a few minutes afterwards to find her husband sitting back in an armchair, helpless with laughter.

  "What on earth have you found so funny?" she asked.

  "Detective-Superintendent Trimble of the Markshire County Constabulary," spluttered Pettigrew.

  "He always struck me as rather a serious sort of man."

  "He is funny because he is so serious. Also he is rather pathetic. It's cruel to laugh at him, really."

  "What did he come to see you about?"

  "That is part of the joke, as a matter of fact. He came, nominally, to tell me that Mrs. Pink's inquest is fixed for Tuesday. Actually, whether he knows it or not, it was for the express purpose of losing his temper with me. It took him a long time to manage, because I didn't give him a fair opportunity, but he did it at last, and now he's gone away feeling ever so much better. It was quite a spectacle."

  "But why should he want to lose his temper with you particularly?"

  "He had to blow off somehow. The poor chap is obviously in a state of dither. What with Rose having disappeared and Todman in hospital, his two prize suspects are out of his reach, and he's suffering from an acute sense of frustration. As to why he chose me, that sticks out a mile. You see, in spite of all my endeavours to be a good boy and keep my nose out of what doesn't concern me, I'm still public enemy Number 1 so far as he's concerned. I'm the wicked amateur who wants to go behind his back and teach him his business. He accused me just now in so many words of wanting to tell him who murdered Mrs. Pink."

  "How absurd, Frank! As if you could possibly know!"

  "Come to think of it," said Pettigrew, suddenly serious, "I do."

  * * *

  XVIII

  TRIMBLE v. ROSE (WENDON INTERVENING)

  The inquest was held in the village hall at Yewbury. The coroner sat at a table on the platform at the end of the hall; to the one side of him a row of self-conscious jurors, to the other an impressive selection of press representatives. It was an appropriate setting, for it was there that Mrs. Pink had so often figured, a quiet, unobtrusive but essential personage on every committee, prompting the chairmen of innumerable meetings with answers to awkward questions, reading the minutes of proceedings of every sort of parochial society, modestly acknowledging the inevitable tribute to her valuable work behind the scenes of this, that or the other activity. It seemed quite unnatural to the villagers who packed the body of the hall that Mrs. Pink was not present in person to see that everything was in order.

  Apart from the inevitable absence of the subject of the inquiry, nothing was lacking to make up a village occasion on the grand scale. Every resident who could possibly be squeezed into the building was there, and most of them had been patiently waiting for the proceedings to begin for an hour or more before Pettigrew slipped into the seat which the Superintendent, as good as his word, had reserved for him. The crowds of disappointed late-comers whom he had seen turned away at the doors were, he noticed, mostly composed of strangers. That was as it should be. This was, after all, a local show. It was a pity, he reflected, that it was going to be so dull and so brief. There was still a glamour about the name of coroner's courts, but their great days were over. He passed the time of waiting in trying to recollect exactly when it was that Parliament had relieved coroners from the task of amateurishly duplicating the work of the magistrates and police. He could not remember. It did not matter. Nothing of the smallest interest was going to happen today, at all events, and he could not for the life of him say why he had come there himself, except that, having finished the lecture on torts, he was at a loose end that morning, and that sitting with his neighbours in the village hall made a change from pottering round the garden at home.

  He glanced around him, picking up here and there a familiar face in the throng. He threw what he hoped was an encouraging smile in the direction of Godfrey Ransome, who had come into a reserved seat a little distance from his own, and then occupied himself in the always fascinating task of trying to read his neighbour's newspaper without too obviously drawing the attention of the owner. The headline was clear enough: WHERE IS HUMPHREY ROSE? was spread clean across the top of the front page. A blurry patch below and to one side was presumably a photograph, but the light was poor, and he had to take it on trust. By squinting vigorously he could just decipher part of a passage in leaded type. Needless to say, it resolved itself into "... believe may be able to help them in their inquiries".

  He was still absorbed in this childish game when he became aware that the inquest had begun and the jury was already being sworn. Stumbling over the unaccustomed words, in a ragged chorus they promised that they would diligently enquire and true presentment make, and so on to the end of the time-honoured formula, just as though they really had a useful function to perform.

  The coroner, contrary to all tradition, proved to be a quiet young man with a modest, almost shy, demeanour. In a voice barely audible beyond the first few rows of chairs, he informed the jury that he proposed to lay before them evidence of the identity of the deceased and then to adjourn the proceedings. Whether they would be summoned again would depend upon the result of the investigations then being conducted by the police. He called Police-Constable Merrett.

  Taking the centre of the floor with measured tread, Merrett held the Testament aloft and recited the oath in ringing tones. At nine o'clock that morning, he announced, he had proceeded to the mortuary of the Royal Markshire Hospital at Markhampton and had there seen the body of——

  "Excuse me, Mr. Coroner, but may I say a word?"

  A deep, cultured voice from the back of the hall interrupted the proceedings. Merrett stopped his evidence midway, the heads of the audience turned from the direction of the platform towards the entrance behind them, and there was a momentary hush. Pettigrew, who, like many people, had never heard but often secretly longed to hear a stranger forbid the banns in church, felt that he was witnessing the nearest approach to it that he was ever likely to experience. Looking behind him, he could see some sort of a scuffle going on near the door, where apparently the interrupter was trying to force his way further in.

  "There must be silence!" said the coroner, with an unexpected rasp to his voice. "If there is any further disturbance I shall order the court to be cleared." He motioned to Merrett. "Proceed," he said.

  But Merrett did not proceed. From his vantage-point on the platform he was looking down into the hall with an air of bewilderment on his broad, honest face. He turned to say something aside to the coroner, and as he did so the voice spoke again.

  "I have a right to be heard," it said, "and I insist upon being heard. Let me pass, please."

  A moment later Humphrey Rose, slightly dishevelled from his struggle with the doorkeeper, but otherwise perfectly self-possessed, walked up the hall. He was nattily dressed in a dove-grey suit, to which he had very properly added a
black tie.

  "Mr. Coroner," he said, "I must apologize for this intrusion, but am I not correct in thinking that it is usual for evidence of identification at proceedings of this nature to be given by the next of kin? If so, as husband of the deceased I feel that I should be called upon rather than this witness."

  The coroner, Pettigrew was glad to observe, was entirely equal to the occasion.

  "May I ask, sir," he said calmly, "whether you have seen the body of the deceased?"

  "To my regret, no. I have come from some distance and have not yet had the opportunity."

  "Then you are not qualified as a witness."

  Rose smiled amiably. "I am ashamed to say that I had overlooked that all-important point," he said. "Would it be possible for the proceedings to be adjourned so that I could qualify?"

  "Certainly not."

  "I am in your hands, sir. In that case I have nothing further to say, except to ask you once more to accept my apologies."

  And that, as Pettigrew recollected afterwards with mild astonishment, was the end of the whole extraordinary episode. Merrett resumed his evidence, his deposition was laboriously written down and signed, and the inquest was formally adjourned. The appearances were beautifully preserved. So far as the record went, there had been no more than a minor interruption, lasting a bare two minutes, which had been dealt with by the court in the only proper way. Up to the end of the brief session nobody in the assembly behaved as though anything in the least out of the way had occurred. It was an extraordinary example of English calm—or should one call it sluggishness?—in the face of the unexpected.

  The coroner announced the adjournment, gathered up his papers and left the hall, followed by the officials present. The public stood respectfully until they had gone. There was a short moment of indecision, a scraping of chairs and benches on the wooden floor as people gathered up hats and coats and handbags, and then a low murmur of talk, pitched in that toneless semi-whisper in which the inhabitants of Yewbury prefer to converse with one another in public places. They had, every man and woman of them, just experienced the greatest thrill of their lives, but nobody would have guessed it from their demeanour. Very slowly and quietly they began to file out, hampered in their progress towards the door by the pressmen, who, the only persons present uninhibited by village manners, had dashed from the platform and followed as close as they could upon the heels of the coroner and his little procession.