by James Barlow
‘With an apple? How?’
‘Bold looks, leers, nakedness … It was right to kill her. If the body doth affront thee, destroy it. See what I mean?’
‘Where did you kill her?’
‘Where she was found.’
‘And where was that?’
‘Don’t you know?’
‘Oh, I know,’ MacIndoe said, ‘but I want your statement.’
‘It was in a copse along the river; the left bank.’
‘Tell us what happened.’
‘Are you going to caution me?’
‘The constable is taking it all down,’ said MacIndoe. The man turned his head and noted this with apparent approval. ‘Then we’ll have it typed, and before you sign it I will caution you.’
‘I was walking up High Street,’ said the man. ‘It was after dinner. This girl jumped off a moving bus and nearly knocked me down. “I’ve hurt my ankle,” she said, and stood in a doorway tempting me with her flesh. “Couldn’t you walk?” I said. “Not unless there was something to walk for,” she said. It was obvious that she was a strumpet. I said, “Will you come a walk with me?” (so that I could kill her), and she was able to walk then.’
‘Where did you walk to?’
‘Along the river bank.’
‘Did anyone see you?’
‘I don’t think so. It wasn’t long after dinner.’
‘What happened then?’
‘We walked to this place where she was found. She said her name was Temptation and asked if I thought her hair was beautiful. I said, “Do you tempt men?” and she undid her blouse to prove it and to destroy me by temptation. So I killed her.’
‘You resisted the other temptation?’
‘What other temptation?’
‘The temptation of her beauty.’
‘Of course I resisted! Is not a woman’s beauty the means of damnation?’
‘What did you do afterwards?’
‘I dunno. I had an ice-cream at Joe’s café and took one home to Mum.’
‘What time was this?’
‘About four o’clock.’
‘What did you do later? Read the paper?’
‘I went to the pictures.’
‘Had you ever met the girl before?’
‘No. She jumped off the bus from Birlchester.’
MacIndoe said in weary pity, ‘What did you do with the rope and knife? We can’t find them.’
The man grinned broadly. ‘I dropped ’em in the river.’
‘What was the title of the film you saw?’
The man’s brow puckered. ‘It was Devil Maniac’s Conspiracy. It was real good.’
‘All right,’ said MacIndoe gently. ‘You can go now. Oh, wait a minute. What’s the name of your doctor?’
The man became truculent in fright. ‘What do you wanna know for?’
‘You’ve done this before, haven’t you?’
‘I haven’t! I haven’t!’
‘Do you want to go back to the asylum?’
‘I shan’t go back. I’m all right.’
‘Of course you’re all right,’ said MacIndoe quietly. ‘But you mustn’t come in here talking nonsense. There was no rope or knife. The girl was comparatively innocent. She never spoke to you, did she?’
‘It says in the papers –’
‘I know it does. But they stress the wrong things in the wrong way. The police have a very difficult job to do, and you’ve wasted our time.’
The man became completely abject, desperately humble. ‘Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir. I only wanted to help. I picked the wrong girl, sir.’
He was ushered out by a constable. The constable said soothingly, ‘Come on, Charlie. Home to Mum. Don’t do it again.’
Maddocks said, ‘I suppose that often happens.’
MacIndoe said, ‘Yes. Nearly always. He’ll probably be upset for weeks. Retarded progress.’ He concluded bitterly, ‘Another of R.’s victims.’
In the Coroner’s Court. Dark, heavy wood, a suggestion of permanency. (You may be murdered, or become mutilated by a vehicle, or drowned in a pond, or gored by a bull, or take your life because you are unhappy, but in the finality of your death we do not admit permanency. Only we, authority, exist to have permanency.) The windows of stained glass. Something about the arrangement of the seating, and a musty, incense-like smell that in any case suggests the church. Except that this building is crowded. What kind of people come to hear about the death of a girl? Impossible to say. Coming to the court seems, by appearances, to be their only common characteristic. There are burly men who must be farmers, middle-aged women who look as if they’re waiting for a train, the sallow faces of the gentlemen of the Press, young, nervous men who appear to be bank clerks, two pretty girls who might have come in for a giggle, but seem scared now in the presence of silence and tension. On the far wall which most persons present are facing is a huge clock; beside it, a calendar. Time is the final authority worshipped here. It is eleven-thirty on the morning of the twenty-eighth day of July in the year of Our Lord (the One still used for this purpose) one thousand, nine hundred and fifty-something. Olwen Hughes is about to be murdered officially.
It is done with comparative dignity.
The Coroner arrived punctually and glared with courageous contempt at the morbidly curious. He was a man of medium height, bulky, extraordinarily clean and tidy. At his direction the windows were opened and the proceedings began.
Mr Reginald Meredith, twenty-one, thirteen stone, vaguely agricultural, tall and with large, nervous red hands, explained that he and his girl had been walking along the river bank on the Tuesday evening and, desiring the privacy of bushes, encountered what they at first thought was another couple. Questioned by the Coroner as to whether another couple was present, Mr Meredith said, ‘No’, and when questioned, quite reasonably, as to why he thought so in the first place, Mr Meredith, very red and confused indeed, let slip his explanation, which was that he could see a girl’s legs. Mr Meredith, obviously a long way indeed from the bar of the George, in which he had been heard to boast of the advantages of rubber goods and the technicalities of the artificial insemination of cows, had the one consolation that his girl was not present in the court. Indeed, with the eyes of the whole court upon him, and even the simplest, most rural mind knowing exactly what he meant, Mr Meredith was very glad that his own integrity was not in question.
If the original dignity of the court was slightly infringed by Mr Meredith’s account and the nervous titters of the two girls, it was restored by a Mrs Harriet Wilson, sixty-one, widow, who was dressed completely in black, so that many persons in court presumed her to be a relative of the girl she had identified. In a whisper she explained that she had known the girl years, had believed her to be a very fine young woman, and had seen her dead body (or, rather, face) in the Almond Vale police station on Wednesday. Quite suddenly the memory of that moment wounded again and Mrs Wilson wept. There was an electric silence of sympathy in the court as Mrs Wilson was led away to a seat.
The Coroner afterwards proceeded to the medical evidence. Dr Baxter explained in technical detail that Olwen had been strangled. The cervical vertebrae was snapped at its fifth member; the hyoid bone was fractured; the brain was congested; there were also indications of asphyxia in the eyes, nose, ears, lips and the tips of the fingers. All these were symptomatic of death by asphyxia by throttling, and very probably by manual strangulation.
There was a gasp in court, a mass inhalation of breath, as the pathologist, having told how the girl died, went on to explain (to whom it may concern and hurt, if anybody did care and could be hurt, and no doubt there must be somebody) that the girl was nearly three months pregnant. He offered also the information – equally vital and fascinating for tired, incapable minds – that her s
tomach had contained undigested meat, probably lamb, and some alcohol, probably sherry; and that there was a mark on her throat which, if it did not indicate a madman (he did not believe the mark had been made by a madman), at least indicated a person of excitable and perhaps badly controlled physical characteristics.
MacIndoe, sitting by the Chief Constable, waiting with slight irritation to proceed with his work, thought: The extraordinary thing is that they do care. The shock of the words ‘three months pregnant’ was still physically present. Why? Why did sex still shock this supposedly most sordid of generations? Surely they were so saturated with it that nothing could shock, or scarcely interest them. They had come to this court for a laugh or a thrill, for a bit of what they’d call Good Theatre. Yet here were these people, including a number of that most cynical of professions, the Press, tense on behalf of the dead Olwen. They did not yet despise her. Here, in this court, in the assault of the moment their emotions were restored to a natural humanity and they felt hurt with her. No doubt the atmosphere of the court had helped to give dignity; no doubt the tears of Mrs Wilson had conveyed a reality; no doubt in their own world later on, nerves restored by ordinariness, they would laugh or smack their lips at Olwen, but here and now was a moment of truth. I am glad of it, MacIndoe thought. While people care there is always hope; it is a kind of proof of some ultimate standard.
Detective Inspector Maddocks was then called, and gave evidence of having been telephoned at eight twenty-six and proceeding with other available officers to as near the scene as a car would take them. Mr Meredith and Miss Best (in a distraught condition) were waiting by the telephone booth from which they had called. The officers were led to the hollow where there lay the body of the deceased girl (Maddocks described her as a girl, not a woman – he had seen her), face downwards, with her clothes somewhat disarranged and indications on her throat (so far as he was able to judge: Mr Coroner had now heard the medical opinion) that she had died by violence.
The Coroner: ‘Have inquiries been made?’
Detective Inspector Maddocks: ‘They have. The local police are being assisted by two officers from Scotland Yard.’
The Coroner: ‘What are the results of the inquiries?’
Detective Inspector Maddocks: ‘It is probably not in the interests of justice that these should at present be revealed …’
The Coroner then adjourned the inquest for three weeks, until August 18th. He spoke of the brutality of the crime, hoped there would be no repetition, and urged the public to assist the police in their difficult inquiries.
Coming out of the stuffy darkness of the court into the warm, excited light of the High Street, MacIndoe sighed, yawned and decided he was hungry. Then he thought: Lord, I’m callous too. I listened to all that, untouched myself, hardened by years of it to the extent of being impatient if people didn’t speak up properly or comprehend quickly enough, and then I’m quite prepared to go and eat the best meal the George can provide. I’m sorry, Olwen, my dear child, but the truth is that I must have strength to pursue this enemy of ours; in short, I must proceed to luncheon …
At the sanatorium. Cumulus clouds moving slowly over a brick horizon; a backcloth to Wagner; warm in the shafts of sunlight; a sleepy, comfortable feeling of afternoon. A bus service passed the sanatorium grounds. (It was not in the countryside – fifty thousand people lived in the suburb.) From the top decks of the buses one could see every private agony, every humiliation. The air was city air, but the rows of huts, or chalets as they were called, were surrounded by lawns and rockeries. The medical blocks and that part of the premises which housed the staff were of brick; more permanent structures than the chalets; after all, it was the patients who were the impermanent things. Concrete paths along the front of each row of chalets. Some of the beds outside. Pale heads on paler sheets and blood-red blankets. Faces looking up from magazines as the detectives passed: the fear of doctors in a few eyes. A man in a dressing-gown, thirtyish, incredibly thin, a cadaver, sat on a wicker chair, shoulders bowed, skeleton arms and wrists moving with incredible slow feebleness, polishing a shoe. A taut, hollowed, pale, intellectual face smiled at the police officers. Brown eyes in the hollowed head pleaded like a spaniel’s. Please, I’m normal. It’s true that I may die disgustingly later but at this moment I’m normal and wish to be treated as such. ‘Good afternoon.’ (A deep voice despite the Belsen face and body.) ‘Were you looking for a patient?’
‘No. We’re police officers.’ (Give him that titbit.) ‘We’re looking for Matron’s office.’
‘Over there.’ The skeleton arm revealed, as it lifted to point, the sleeve of the dressing-gown falling away. ‘Has the old devil robbed a bank?’
‘Quite probably. Thank you.’
Round the corner indicated, they seemed to walk into the female section. An ambulance drew up. The driver and a nurse came from their two seats at the front to unlock the back of the ambulance. Some girls stepped out carefully. Quite an impression of prettiness. One girl in fact was extremely pretty: quite plump, lovely, bonny arms, ash-blonde hair, a rounded pink face, blue eyes rimmed pink. The pink face became too pink and excitable in chatter. How long? MacIndoe wondered. How long? Another girl began to be sick. She continued for several seconds, recovered, and then said to the driver, ‘You drove too quick.’
The nurse led the one girl away, the others following. Another girl said over her shoulder, ‘Well, you did.’
Matron was a small, innocent-seeming woman; apparently old and as frail as a rabbit, she nevertheless took the word ‘murder’ in her stride. It was as if anything that happened outside the sanatorium, her world, was unreal, and could be discussed dispassionately, theoretically. MacIndoe and Baker found her in her office, a room as comfortable as a drawing-room. Maddocks had remained in Almond Vale to supervise the visits of police to garages, cafés, shops and the railway station; and to be available to callers.
‘You’re from Almond Vale?’ queried Matron.
‘We’re from Scotland Yard,’ said MacIndoe, ‘but we’re operating from Almond Vale.’
‘We had one of your officers here,’ said Matron. She was in no hurry. ‘What was his name now? What was it? Ah, Roberts, that was it.’
‘Is he still here?’
‘Oh, no. He died.’
MacIndoe continued his explanation and Matron, tapping her nose with her spectacles, said, ‘You’re probably after Davis. She’s from Wales.’
‘Christian name Peggy?’
‘I don’t know.’ Matron smiled at the idea. ‘We’ll ask her.’
It was soon apparent that Matron was the only member of the staff unaware of Olwen’s death and not discussing it. As Peggy Davis came into the room she said excitedly, ‘I know you’re police officers. I was going to come to see you tonight.’
‘Dear me!’ said Matron, slightly perturbed. ‘What about?’
‘Well, I saw Olwen a few weeks ago.’
‘You’d better sit down,’ said Matron, pointing to a chair. ‘I expect this will go on for some time.’ It occurred to MacIndoe that she was, despite appearances, interested.
He said, ‘You were a friend of Olwen’s?’
‘Yes,’ said Peggy.
‘She used to work here?’
‘Yes; but I knew her before that. We came from the same village. I know her parents and everything.’
‘We have Olwen’s diary, Miss Davis, and in it is mentioned your last visit to her. You had a sort of quarrel, didn’t you?’
‘Yes; we did.’
‘Is that why you subsequently sent a postcard from Weston-super-Mare saying, “My dearest, I’m sorry,” or something like that?’
‘Oh, I’m glad I sent that,’ Peggy said. ‘I should hate her to have died thinking – But I was right. I must have been right.’
‘About what, Miss Davis?’
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bsp; ‘Well, to have quarrelled. I was always very fond of Olwen because – well, because she was sort of – I know it sounds silly – sort of pure.’
MacIndoe looked at Peggy Davis. She was a big, healthy girl. There was a tension about her face which suggested that she worked and played hard. She was too fleshy to be innocent. The type of girl who would be known as a ‘good sport’; after hours of hard work she would go on to dance, drink gin and perhaps end up sprawled in somebody’s car. She would know next morning that it hadn’t really been a good time, but would be unable to resist the next invitation. (‘There’s nothing else to do.’) Olwen would represent something unattainable – a girl who never surrendered to the wrong sort of invitations, a girl who went to church, and yet a girl who was strikingly beautiful. Naturally, Peggy would not wish Olwen to be finally humiliated by someone unworthy.
MacIndoe said, ‘What was it you quarrelled about?’
‘This man she was going with.’
‘You didn’t like him?’
‘No.’
‘Then you’d met him?’
‘No.’
‘Why should you dislike him?’
‘I knew he was tricking her. She was a nice girl, but already he’d persuaded her to – well, you know – to love him.’
‘You taxed her with this?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did she say?’
‘It was hopeless. She was in love with him. She was ready to believe him before anybody.’
‘Did she tell you about him?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean from our point of view. What is his name?’
‘His name’s Harrison – Roy Harrison.’
‘D’ye know where he lives?’
‘No; but it’s locally.’
‘Where he works?’
‘He’s a traveller.’
‘For whom?’