Fire in the Thatch

by E. C. R. Lorac

  His mind busy with the problem, Macdonald examined all that was left of Little Thatch. The outhouses, apart from their thatch, were still standing. Here was the damaged remains of the electric plant, there was also the petrol engine which worked the pump by the orchard gate, and the broken greenhouse against the linhey—pathetic testimony to a man’s industry and mechanical skill. The house had gone: books, papers, furniture, clothes, everything that might have given information about the man who lived there—it was all gone, mingled with the ashes of floors and beams and rafters. There was nothing but the carefully tended garden and orchard to tell of the man who had lived in Little Thatch, those and the remains of his ill-fated electric installation and the neatly boxed-in petrol engine which worked the pump.

  2

  Alf got home to Corner Cottage in time for tea, and Mrs. Dickon gave him a good tea. He had his midday meal at school, but Alf always counted tea as his best meal. The Dickons kept hens, and hens meant eggs: there was also a beehive, and Alf liked honey. Old Mrs. Dickon was one of those women who suspected that all meals cooked in institutions were “rubbidge”—schools, British restaurants, canteens, and cafés all came under her stigma of “rubbidge,” and she saw to it that Alf got at least one good meal a day, and that meal was tea.

  When Macdonald got off his bike at Corner Cottage Alf had just come out into the garden in a state of comfortable repletion, and he gazed at Macdonald with the acute appraising stare of the Cockney boy, so different from the ruminating stare of the country children.

  “Good-evening; you’re Alf, aren’t you?” asked Macdonald.

  “Yus,” replied the imp.

  Macdonald knew quite well that it was no use trying to conceal his business and identity from this sharp-eyed urchin. Alf would guess who he was in two-twos, so the C.I.D. man went on, “You were born in London, weren’t you? Ever heard of Scotland Yard?”

  “Cripes! Yus! You a ’tec?”

  “Yes. I’m a ’tec. I want you to answer a few questions. Okay?”

  “Okay cap’n. Come inside. There’s a seat ’ere-along.”

  Macdonald accepted the invitation, much interested in this product of Shoreditch. Alf’s Cockney origin still sounded in his speech, despite the slurring burr which association with Devonshire children had developed, but the great difference between Alf and his country schoolmates was the quickness of the Cockney’s reactions. He was still as sharp as a needle.

  Sitting on a bench in the garden, Macdonald said, “Now I want you to tell me all you can about that night when Little Thatch was burnt, Alf. I know you’ve told it before, but never mind that. I want to hear about it from you, direct. Now, did you ever go to help Mr. Vaughan in the garden?”

  “Yus. I cleaned them cobbles: ’e put weed-killer on ’em, but ’tweren’t much good. Them weeds always came up agen. Mr. Vaughan, ’e paid me sixpence a week if them cobbles was clean, not so much as a blade o’ grass showing. If they wasn’t clean, well, I got nix. See?”

  “Yes—a very good idea, too. Payment by results. Any other jobs?”

  “Yus. Sticking. Sixpence a crate for kindling, dry and properly broken and stacked. If it weren’t dry—nix. No spots on ’im.”

  “I’d say that didn’t pay you quite as well as the cobbles,” said Macdonald, and Alf grinned.

  “Nope. Took a long time to collect thiccy sticks and dry ’em, but I got an armful every day, coming back from school, and I stacked ’em Saturdays. He often giv me a toffee, too.”

  “Any more jobs? Did you ever clean out the duck-house?”

  “Yus, but it weren’t done quite to’s liking. Fussy like, ’e was, very partic’ler.”

  “Did you go along to Little Thatch on the Saturday of the fire at all?”

  “Yus. Took them sticks and ’is piper. Always took the piper Saturday morning. Lent ’im an ’and with the wire for ’is fruit cages, too. It was all okay Saturday morning, guv’ner. Cheerful ’e was. Whistling.”

  “Did you ever go inside the house?”

  “Nope. Only to the door. ’Ated mud on the kitchen floor, ’e did.”

  “Think this out, Alf. Did you go to the kitchen door with his paper?”

  “Yus.”

  “Was the kitchen fire alight?”

  “Lummy! I dunno…”

  “Think again. Was there any way you could tell, apart from seeing the fire was alight?”

  “Lummy! You’re a one. I never thought o’ that there,” said Alf, and sat with his chin on his grubby hands, deep in thought. “’E didn’t always light ’is fire first thing, not these warm days. ’E’d got a Primus wot ’e boiled ’is kettle on, and sometimes ’e didn’t light the fire till tea-time, but ’e always did the range—ashes and that, and laid ’is fire ready to put a match to it. Then ’e swep’ the kitchen and left it all okay. ’E put the ashes on a path ’e was making—ashes and concrete, see? ’E burnt coal in the range and coal ashes ain’t no good for the soil.”

  “Quite true, Alf. Did Mr. Dickon go and work at Little Thatch that day?”

  “Yus. Scything nettles ’e was, in the orchard, and putting ’em all on compost ’eap in t’corner there.”

  “When he worked in the morning, did Mr. Vaughan give him a cup of tea at any time?”

  “Yus. Tea at eleven. Cider with ’is dinner, which ’e eat in the linhey. Cripes, guv’ner, you’ve got it! ’E made tea middle morning, and ’e lighted that there Primus. I remember now, I was doing them cobbles and I ’eard ’im pumping it—you know.”

  “I know,” said Macdonald. “Now how can you be sure? I want you to be quite certain.”

  “Yus. I know ’twas Saturday, ’cos that’s the only morning I go doing cobbles. I did the path front o’ kitchen door. I always watched ’im light Primus if I could: ’e said Primus was a bitch to light sometimes along ’o the paraffin and meth bein’ all mucky these days. I didn’t know ’e was goin’ to light it, ’cos I’d have axed for a drink o’ water or summat so’s I could watch, but I ’eard ’im pump and I ’eard the flame singing like. That’s true, guv’ner, honest it is—and if ’e lighted Primus, ’e ’adn’t got fire alight or kettle’d’ve been ’ot, see?”

  “That’s it, Alf—but he may have lighted the range at tea-time, when you say he generally lit it.”

  “Not ’im. Not if ’e was goin’ out all evening. ’E was careful like. Always on at me if I wasted anything; even them weeds ’ad to go on compost heap. ‘Wot you tike out of a garden, you’ve got to put back on it,’ ’e said. Always saying that, ’e was.”

  That one, pondered Macdonald, was certainly straight from the horse’s mouth—the wisdom of a gardener being handed on by an evacuee urchin from Shoreditch.

  “You want to know if ’e lit ’is fire tea-time,” went on Alf. “I’ll bet ’e didn’t, but I’ll ask t’others. We played up ’ere Saturday afternoon—on the bank there, and you can see Little Thatch chimneys up there. ’E lighted ’is fire with kindling and billets to get it going, and ’e banked it up with coal later. Wood smoke’s blue, see? If ’e’d lighted ’is fire tea-time one on us’d’ve seen it for a cert. I’ll ask t’others—but if I didn’t notice, them wouldn’t ’ave, neither—unless it were Tommy Briggs. Comes from the Isle o’ Dogs, ’e does, and ’e notices things.”

  Macdonald chuckled. He liked this evidence of London Pride.

  “Well, let’s get on to Saturday evening, Alf. You saw Mr. Vaughan pass in his car?”

  “Iss.” The affirmative was pure Devonshire this time. “Saw ’im and saw ’is car. Hadn’t got trailer on it, nor big baskets inside, neither. I could see right in, ’cause the garden ’ere’s higher than the road. Waved, ’e did, like this, same’s usual.”

  “Had he got a hat on?”

  “Yus. Always wore an ’at, even in garden, ’cause of ’is eyes. I’d know that ’at anywhere. Some ’at. Said ’e pinched it o
ff a Jew in Lime’ouse—but that was only ’is joke.”

  “Oh, he’d got his old hat on, had he. Not dressed in his best, so to speak. Had he a coat on?”

  “Yus. Old brown coat: patch on the elbows wot ’e did ’imself. ’E’d got the windows of the car down and ’is elbow was outside, like this, see?”

  “And you saw him again when he came back at nine?”

  “Iss. I’d gone up to bed, but I ’eard ’is car, ’ooting at Ridd’s cross, three ’oots ’e always gave. I watched at me window, just to see ’im go by.”

  “But you couldn’t see so much from up there?”

  “No, but I saw ’im wave, and I saw ’is elbow. Always drove like that, as though ’e were too big to get all of ’s self inside. Elbow sticking out, see?”

  Macdonald nodded. “You couldn’t see inside the car, not to see if there was a passenger?”

  “There wasn’t. I saw through the back window as ’e turned, and Uncle Roob, ’e saw t’car, and ’e knew there wasn’t nobody else in it.”

  “Right. Now we’ll get on to what happened later. You ran to Manor Thatch and woke them up?”

  “Yus. Chucked stones at t’windows and yelled. Colonel, ’e told me to run to ’Inton Mallory—phone was dead, ’e said, and I ran down t’big pasture. All thiccy beasts, cows and that, looked that big. Moonlight ’t’was. I wasn’t ’alf rattled, tell yer straight, and that cottage burning…cripes…I blubbed, I was that…”

  “I’m sure you did, and I think you did jolly well to keep your head, Alf. You woke up Mr. Hesling and then you ran back?”

  “Iss, but they caught me up before I got to cottage. I was blown, my legs wouldn’t run no more.”

  “When you got back to the cottage what happened? Did they tell you to run off home?”

  “Iss. Not me. I stayed. Mr. ’Esling ’e shouted something about the beasts, and Ted got the linhey open. I thought of they ducks. I ran round and climbed t’hedge into orchard—’twas too fierce along by the fire, so I went by the pasture—but someone’d got there first. They ducks were all in a ’uddle bottom of orchard, far away as they could get. I druv ’em into pasture.”

  “Well, you did all you could, Alf. I’d have been proud if I’d done as much when I was ten.”

  “But ’twasn’t no use, see? I woke up too late,” said Alf forlornly.

  3

  It was well on in the evening before Macdonald returned the Superintendent’s bike, and Bolton said:

  “You’ve had a day of it, and no mistake. You’ll be glad of supper and bed, seeing you were in the train all last night.”

  “I’ve had some supper and bed can wait a bit,” rejoined Macdonald. “I’ve got some extra items to add to the evidence if you’d like to hear them now.”

  “I certainly should,” said Bolton, looking keenly at the other. Macdonald’s voice did not give the impression that his “items” were negligible. The two men sat down in the well-polished room where they had consulted that morning, and Macdonald began speaking:

  “On the assumption that the fire was due to accident you suggested two probable causes: one was faulty wiring leading to a fuse: one was the uncovering of a beam in the kitchen chimney. I think it’s certain that a fused wire had nothing to do with it. I got an electrician out this evening, and the batteries in the electric plant were not charged. They had been charged, or partially charged, some time, because Vaughan had had all his lights on, but it seems probable he located a fault in the batteries. Be that as it may, the electric fittings could not have been responsible, because there could have been no current on.”

  Bolton’s face flushed uncomfortably: “I ought to have thought about that,” he said. “I hadn’t even realised that there were storage batteries…I don’t know a thing about such jobs. I ought to have got a man out before, but I only thought of the wiring inside the house—and that had gone west in the fire. Well, that’s one point settled. What about the chimney?”

  “I haven’t got any conclusive evidence about that yet, but one point is worth considering. Vaughan said he got two bricks out of the chimney—Miss St Cyres is willing to swear that he said bricks. That chimney is built of stone: it’s only the upper part of the stack that is brick. It seems probable to me that at some time the brick coping was damaged in a gale, and a couple of bricks fell in and got lodged in the bird’s nest Vaughan found on the ledge in the upper part of it. When the stack was repaired the builder didn’t bother about the whereabouts of the fallen bricks. If this idea is right it doesn’t look as though the removal of the bricks should have bared a beam—but I’m hoping to get clearer evidence about this later.”

  “Then, taking the balance, you’re disposed to believe that Commander Wilton is right?”

  “I don’t know, Bolton. If this case is not what it appeared to be—pure accident—then it may prove to be the devil of a complex business. Wilton may have been right in some of his reasoning, but quite wrong in his conclusion. However, listen to a few more of the items I corkscrewed out during a very garrulous day. About those ducks.”

  “Good lord, what about ’em?”

  “Young Alf—who struck me as a very sharp, sensible laddie—says that when he got to the duck-house that Saturday night to let the quackers out, the door was wide open and the ducks were at the bottom of the orchard—but nobody else had let them out. Another of Alf’s items, corroborated by Dickon, was that Vaughan didn’t light his kitchen fire at all that Saturday. He used his Primus.”

  “Where are you leading to, Chief?”

  “It looks like foul play somewhere, Super, but by whom there’s no evidence. Have you talked to one Thomas Gressingham?”

  “I had a few words with him, but he had no direct evidence to offer.”

  “No, he hasn’t much direct evidence now, but he’s got the deuce of a lot to say. So far as I can gather, if the verdict of accident had gone unchallenged, Mr. Gressingham would have been happy to let well alone. Now that he realises a further investigation is being made he’s very forthcoming, with a spate of queries and suggestions—proper red herrings. Mr. Gressingham wants to know what proof we have got that the remains found in the ashes are in truth the remains of Nicholas Vaughan.”

  The Superintendent swore, softly but vigorously, and Macdonald nodded. “I quite agree—but the gentleman has what counsel would call a nice point. If we don’t tidy this case up, it looks like being a cause célèbre: Commander Wilton suggests that Nicholas Vaughan met his end by foul play. I think Mr. Gressingham is going to suggest that some other chap met his death by foul play at the hands of Nicholas Vaughan.”

  “I just don’t believe it!” spluttered Bolton, and Macdonald replied:

  “I don’t either, but what we believe is going to butter no parsnips. When the identity of a victim is in doubt we generally have nice tidy methods for determining the facts—finger-prints, Bertillon measurements, old operation scars, dentistry. Even the latter will fail us, because, if old Dickon tells the truth, Vaughan told him that he had never had toothache and never been to the dentist. Now while it’s unusual for a man of thirty to have no stopped teeth, it’s not quite phenomenal. It does happen. When I was thirty I was in that happy state myself.”

  “Good God!” groaned Bolton, and his exclamation—or groan—was in no way concerned with Macdonald’s teeth. The Superintendent was just beginning to realise some of the complexities which Macdonald had perceived to be potential in the case when he first studied it. Bolton was no defeatist, however. He sat up, squared his shoulders, and spoke firmly.

  “I’ve no doubt you’re right in describing it as a ‘nice point,’ but I damn’ well don’t believe it, and the fact that Gressingham put the idea forward simply makes me ask what he has got to gain by confusing the issue. Now look here. You have had more experience of these sticky cases than I have. What can we do to kill that particular rumour?”


  “At the moment all I propose to do is to get a report from the hospital authorities, and also to ask Wilton if he can make any helpful contribution.”

  “Good. It’s up to him—he barged in with cries of Wolf. I wonder how he’ll like this development.”

  Macdonald chuckled. “Admittedly, I sympathise with your line of thought, but it looks like plenty of work ahead of us. Now leaving the fertile Mr. Gressingham for the moment, just concentrate on those ducks. It seems to me that if the ducks were not shut up in their house on Saturday night, the probability is that Nicholas Vaughan did not get back to Little Thatch. A careful chap like that would never have forgotten to shut the ducks up, would he? You ought to know more about ducks than I do, Super. Wouldn’t you say it’s true that poultry keepers do certain things by routine—that is, they do not go to bed leaving their birds on the loose?”

  “Quite true,” said Bolton, “but say, if this is the explanation, for once in his life Vaughan got drunk: that would explain everything. He forgot the ducks, and he knocked over his paraffin lamp as he staggered into bed.”

  “Yes, that would explain quite a lot, but you’ve got to remember that he drove his car home along a very awkward road: he remembered to wave in his usual way when he passed Corner Cottage, and he backed his car into a very narrow gateway in a manner which denotes sobriety of mind.”

  “Yes. All right. Since everybody else is guessing in this case, I’m going to guess too. When Vaughan got back to Little Thatch, he found somebody—or something—waiting for him which quite put his usual routine out of his mind. How’s that for a start?”