Silent Witness (Dr. Patrick Grant)

by Margaret Yorke

  It was arranged. Sue seated herself happily between the two men; Sam seemed content; he appeared to have surmounted the inhibitions he had earlier displayed; Liz thought he might just have been shy, there was no need to seek more deeply for the reasons. The rest of them took their places at the third table and she found herself with Francis on one side of her and Professor Klocker on the other. Patrick faced her, with Hilda on his right. Barbara was on the professor’s other side, with Freddie next to her. There was one space left.

  ‘God, they’ve laid for Bernard,’ muttered Liz.

  Francis, who was nearest, spoke to the waitress who removed the extra cover with blushes of apology.

  ‘That’s a good start to the evening,’ he murmured to Liz.

  Those at the other two tables had noticed nothing; they were busy inspecting the arrival of the dishes laden with spices and garnishes, and the huge platters of raw steak, neatly cubed. Soon the room was filled with a cheerful sizzling sound as the meat, spiked on long holders, began to cook in the boiling oil.

  ‘I suppose this gives the staff a rest, putting the guests to work cooking their own food,’ said Patrick, poking about in the cauldron for a hunk of beef that had come dislodged from his skewer.

  ‘It’s a racket,’ Freddie said. ‘Making us pay for this on top of our all-in terms, and vino too. Has anybody ordered it? No? I will, then.’

  He summoned Else, and she went off, to return with two large carafes of the rough red local wine.

  ‘We’ll be sorry about this tomorrow, I feel already,’ Liz said grimly, when she had downed one glass of wine and let Francis fill her glass again.

  ‘You are a pessimistic person, Liz,’ he said. ‘You always fear the worst, don’t you? Don’t look so far ahead; we’ve got to get through the evening first.’

  ‘It’s going to be tough going,’ Liz said.

  ‘It needn’t be,’ he answered in a quiet voice. ‘Just live for the moment.’

  And the moment included him, beside her. Liz drank some more wine. It might help.

  Hilda Derrington was talking to Max about the weather, across the pan of cooking meat which separated them.

  ‘Surely it must improve soon?’ she said.

  ‘One would expect so, by the law of averages. But it is still very warm, and the glass is too low,’ the professor replied. ‘I’m afraid it doesn’t look too good for tomorrow. But it can alter suddenly.’

  ‘We were in Zermatt once when there was an avalanche that cut us off for several days. Everyone got so bad-tempered.’

  ‘It’s unpleasant, feeling that you can’t get away,’ said Max.

  ‘It’s such a waste of the holiday, too,’ said Hilda. ‘Especially when it’s the only one you get.’

  ‘You don’t have a summer vacation, then? Many people seem to take two breaks in the year.’

  ‘Not mink farmers. We’re too broke, and we’re busy in the summer with the kitts,’ Hilda answered. ‘Actually, Freddie had a week in Malta last summer, but that was because his uncle died out there and he had to clear things up. I was left at home literally holding the babies.’

  ‘And a fine job you made of it, too,’ said Freddie, overhearing. ‘When I got back half of them had been eaten by their mothers.’

  ‘That wasn’t my fault,’ Hilda protested.

  ‘What a horrible thing to happen,’ Barbara exclaimed, quite put off her bourguignonne. ‘What made them do such a thing?’

  ‘They’re temperamental brutes. Any sudden noise, like an aircraft flying low over them, upsets them and can cause it,’ Freddie said.

  ‘Did something like that happen?’

  ‘Yes. A fool friend of Hilda’s came to visit her in a helicopter, if you please. Landed on the lawn.’

  ‘Are you insured against that sort of thing?’ Patrick inquired.

  ‘It’s not an act of God,’ Freddie said. ‘And we’d been breeding for a new mutation. All that was lost.’

  ‘You were in Malta in the summer, too, weren’t you, Mrs. Whittaker?’ Patrick asked Barbara. ‘I think you told me so the other evening when we were dancing.’

  ‘Yes, I was,’ Barbara agreed. She told the others, ‘A school- friend of mine lives there. I visit her most years.’

  ‘I’m surprised you didn’t meet Freddie, in that case,’ Hilda said. ‘The place is so small, everyone seems to know everybody else.’

  ‘How could I, unless we were both there at the same time?’ Barbara replied, smoothly.

  As she spoke, the lights flickered. Then everyone heard it, a long, rumbling roar, like thunder or a prolonged explosion, that echoed on for what seemed like several minutes. The lights flickered again; then they went out.

  Under the fondue pans, the flames burned on with scarcely a waver and gave a dim light to the room. Everyone stopped talking when the noise began; then there was a sudden burst of excited speech as each began to wonder what had happened.

  ‘Do not be afraid,’ said Professor Klocker’s calm voice. ‘That was not close. There will be no danger here in Greutz.’

  ‘It sounded as if it was just outside,’ said Liz.

  Hilda Derrington calmly speared another piece of meat in the gloom and began to cook it.

  ‘The echo from the valley makes it sound near,’ the professor said. ‘That must have been at least a mile away.’

  A buzz of talk had broken out now. Some of the young men at the other tables wanted to go outside and see what had happened, and Penny was pleading with them to stay where they were. Before many minutes had passed, Frau Scholler came bustling in bearing a candle, followed by Else and the other waitress who carried more candles stuck in bottles, which they put on the tables. She said that no one knew exactly where the avalanche had fallen, but it was certainly not in Greutz; it was somewhere towards Kramms, perhaps where the small fall had been a few days before. The telephone was working normally, so there would soon be more news, but the power supply had gone.

  By the light of the candles the meal continued, though now with an undercurrent of unease. After a while Professor Klocker spoke to Patrick.

  ‘I am a little concerned for Helga,’ he said. ‘I will go home, if you will all excuse me,’ he added to the others. ‘She will telephone me, if she can.’

  ‘Of course, Max. I’ll come too,’ said Patrick, getting up.

  ‘No, no, Patrick. You stay here and complete the evening. You can do nothing. But I would like to be where I can be reached. I am too old to be of much real use if help is needed, but you are not. If there is no serious damage, you can bring me the news later.’

  The professor made his farewells to everyone and left.

  ‘At least we have a doctor in the village, if there are casualties. How awful to be just sitting here when perhaps people have been buried,’ said Barbara.

  ‘I suppose there is nothing we can do?’ Patrick asked Franci’They’ve got their routine pretty well taped in these places,’ Francis replied. ‘If they want us, they’ll say so. We’ll only get in the way if we rush about trying to find out what’s happened.’

  At the middle table Jan was lamenting.

  ‘Sue, with no electricity for the discotheque, how can we dance? No power, no music.’

  ‘You can have your music,’ Sam said.

  In a corner of the room, was an old upright piano. He crossed to it, opened it, and began to play dance music from the ‘fifties. He played with verve, and at once Jan swept Sue out among the tables and they began to dance. Soon, more couples followed.

  ‘What a man of parts Sam Irwin has turned out to be,’ Patrick observed.

  ‘Oh what a dreadful pun,’ said Liz, disgustedly.

  ‘I didn’t mean it as one. You’re ticking over just a bit too fast, my love,’ he told her reprovingly. He turned to Barbara. If Liz must after all play with fire he would let her have her chance by removing the obvious obstacle. Sedately circling round with Barbara, he had the dubious satisfaction of seeing Liz dance with Francis Whittaker in what he
thought of as a pretty close clinch.

  The Derringtons, left at the table, appeared to be arguing. The next time Patrick looked for them they had both disappeared.

  Bernard seemed to have been successfully forgotten.

  PART FIVE

  Tuesday

  I

  A small boy on his way to school the next morning dropped a marble on the covered wooden bridge. It fell between two of the planks, and the little boy squatted down to see if he could find it. Eye to a slit in the wood, he saw something strange below in the black water. It was a human arm and a gloved hand. Bernard had been found.

  The bridge was rapidly screened from curious eyes while the burgomeister supervised Bernard’s removal from the river. He lay with one arm round a boulder, and his head floated, bobbing in the gentle eddy.

  Patrick, standing on the professor’s balcony, saw the activity below and hurried down in time to see the body lifted from the water and laid on a stretcher. Someone spread a blanket over it, and it was carried into the clinic, conveniently close. Patrick firmly followed it inside.

  The burgomeister was only too thankful to have some compatriot of the dead man with whom to share the responsibility of this disaster, for he had enough on his mind already with the avalanche to think about. When Patrick, producing his passport, had demonstrated his own probity, he was allowed to look at Bernard, now lying on a scrubbed table in a bare room. He wondered if the clinic dealt with many fatalities, and thought it unlikely; there might be occasional climbing accidents, but cases of serious illness would be taken to a town.

  ‘You will undertake to inform the relatives, Dr. Grant? That would be most kind. There must be an inquiry as to what has happened – a mere formality, you understand – Herr Walker slipped in some accidental manner into the river. But first we have to clear the damage from last night’s snowfall, and get the roads open again.’

  Patrick’s German was quite good, and he had no difficulty in understanding the dilemma of the burgomeister. A small chalet had been swept away by the avalanche, burying four people; the road was blocked with an immense barrier of snow, uprooted trees and debris. Every spare man was at work clearing it away.

  A coffin would be provided, plain pine. The relatives would doubtless wish the sad cargo sent home as soon as conditions allowed. The burgomeister deeply regretted that such a thing had happened, and in Greutz of all places. The autopsy, which the law demanded, would be held as soon as possible but Dr. Wesser was not the official pathologist for the area, and this would have to wait. In any case it would be merely a matter of form.

  ‘See his shoes. Most unsuitable,’ said the burgomeister.

  Bernard wore his black laced shoes; they had leather soles and were, as the burgomeister said, most unsuitable for walking in the snow.

  ‘Being a doctor, you will understand what must have been the cause of death. He missed his footing, fell into the river, and was drowned,’ said the burgomeister.

  Patrick did not point out that his doctorate was not in medicine. As long as he was not expected to heal the sick, such a misapprehension might be useful.

  ‘May I take his papers into safe keeping?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course.’ The burgomeister was grateful for any relief to his load of worries.

  Patrick bent over the body. The sodden anorak was fastened to the chin, and on the front of the chest was a zipped pocket. Inside this was a stout leather wallet, large enough to hold a passport. Patrick removed it, scrutinised it briefly, and wrapped it in his own handkerchief. He looked at Bernard’s face. Strands of hair were plastered to the forehead. There was a slight flush over the cheekbones and around the mouth. He tipped the head gently to one side; there was no rigor. Probing, his fingers felt a bump behind one ear. He peered intently at the nose and into the mouth, which gaped open, and looked at the hands, examining them closely. Then he straightened.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said to the burgomeister. ‘I will go and tell the other English people what has happened, and make arrangements for notifying his family. Later I will come for the clothes he is wearing, if you will see to that. There may be other papers in his pockets.’

  ‘Of course. I will give instructions that everything is to be put ready for you,’ said the burgomeister, heartily thankful that the deceased was a solitary traveller, and had left no widow needing consolation.

  When Patrick left the clinic, he saw that the little cluster of people who had gathered while Bernard was being lifted from the river had dispersed; the children were now, presumably, in school, and most of the visitors would be having breakfast. Patrick turned left across the bridge and went off to the Gentiana. He went straight up to Liz and Sue’s room, where the maid was making the beds. She looked startled when he entered, but he told her briskly that he was a friend of the English ladies who would be up shortly; then he went into the bathroom and locked the door. To keep the maid happy, he turned on one of the taps. Next he took Bernard’s wallet from his own pocket and carefully unwrapped it. He unfolded it and took the contents out, spreading them about on the window sill and the basin and round the edge of the bath. After that, he pulled the plug for the maid’s benefit, and opened the door.

  The woman had finished the beds. She looked at Patrick doubtfully, but luckily Liz arrived at that moment.

  ‘Patrick! What on earth are you doing here?’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Tell the maid I’m your chum,’ said Patrick. ‘I think she’s worried about my intentions.’

  'Das herren ist mein freund, is gut,’ Liz managed laboriously. The maid nodded and smiled, gave them both a coy look, bobbed, and left them to it.

  ‘What a linguist you are,’ said Patrick. ‘I should think she takes an even more dubious view of my intentions now. Good!’

  Liz felt it was too early in the day for such talk.

  ‘Why are you here? What’s happened?’ she demanded.

  ‘Bernard’s been found.’

  ‘Oh!’ Liz sat down abruptly on one of the beds. ‘He’s dead, of course.’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’ Patrick told her how the body had been discovered.

  ‘How ghastly! What an awful experience for the child who found him,’ Liz said.

  ‘Pretty grim,’ Patrick agreed.

  ‘Oh, poor Bernard. Somehow I kept hoping he’d turn up. What happened? Did he go for a walk and fall into the river?’

  ‘That’s what the burgomeister thinks. I’m not convinced it’s quite as straightforward as that,’ said Patrick. ‘Just come in here a minute.’

  He beckoned her into the bathroom, and Liz, who had years ago given up being surprised because he never reacted to anything in the manner of most people, followed. She saw all Bernard’s papers spread around.

  ‘Have a look at them. Touch anything you like,’ he invited.

  Liz picked up Bernard’s passport and opened it. It was eight years old, showing its owner plumper and with a thicker crop of wavy hair. Some of the ink had run and blurred the information. She looked at the leather wallet and turned it over. Among the papers strewn about were a page of ski-school tickets, a ski-lift pass, a book of traveller’s cheques, a holiday insurance policy, an air ticket and meal vouchers for the return journey. There was also a crumpled wad of paper money.

  Suddenly she got it.

  ‘They’re only very damp. They’re not saturated. The wallet’s pretty sodden, but the water hadn’t soaked right through.’

  ‘That’s my girl,’ said Patrick. He pondered. ‘I wonder if we’d better show them to Sue too, or will you do?’

  ‘Do for what?’

  ‘Do for a witness.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Patrick decided.

  ‘We won’t involve Sue, she’s infatuated with that Dutchman and so not in her right mind. Liz, concentrate on this. It may help you to keep your balance. Bernard didn’t drown. If he’d been in the river since Saturday night these things would all have been so wet we couldn’t handle them. He was wearin
g a thick, padded waterproof anorak, it’s true, but such a prolonged immersion would have penetrated through it. Besides, there were other signs.’

  ‘What signs?’ Liz ignored Patrick’s reference to her emotional state.

  ‘His hands, and his mouth and nostrils. No washerwoman skin on his hands, and not a sign of foam round his nose or mouth. Without a post-mortem, it isn’t evidence, but it’s enough for me. I was suspicious already.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The galoshes. A man with such a cautious nature that he carries all his papers around with him even when he’s spending the evening in his own hotel, would never voluntarily go down the street dangerously shod.’

  ‘But he must have left his anorak about, with all this stuff in it – no, he didn’t, now I think of it. That wallet of his was always with him, he put it on the table like a woman might her purse, or else he kept his anorak on. And on Saturday he put his wallet in his shirt pocket, it bulged in a most odd way and Fiona grumbled about it when she was using his chest as a pillow.’

  ‘I’m pleased to see you’re quite observant,’ Patrick said.

  ‘But what are you driving at? I still don’t get it?’

  ‘If he’d accidentally fallen into the river, say because he was drunk, which we know he wasn’t because you all say he was moderate in his habits, he’d have drowned,’ Patrick explained patiently. ‘But there was a bruise on his head. He might have hit it as he fell, but I think someone slugged him and left him to die either of exposure or suffocation from being buried under the snow.’

  ‘Oh Patrick, no! Who on earth would want to do that to poor Bernard? He was much too insignificant to have any enemies. No friends, I know, but no one hated him. Besides, he didn’t know anyone here. You’re letting your imagination run away with you.’

  ‘Maybe I am. I hope you’re right, but I don’t think you are,’ said Patrick. ‘When Dr. Wesser gets back to the clinic – he’s down at the avalanche, helping there, some people were buried – I’m going to ask him to look at the bump on Bernard’s head. Meanwhile, the official view is that he drowned, and that’s the one we must uphold. We must tell Robin Hood and the rest of your band.’