*
Leithan walked into the dining-room and found Pamela already sitting down. “Sorry I’m late.” He had told her what the police were doing to him at night-time, and she had reacted in typical manner. Ignoring everyone, including him, she practically moved into Lower Brakebourne Farm.
She pressed the bell under the carpet that would tell Mrs. Andrews to start serving. “Were you carried away by your own eloquence?” She studied his face and noted that it was a little less strained than it had been.
“I was trying to reach the end of a chapter,” he replied, as he sat down.
“I read those two chapters you gave me, Charles.”
“And?”
“You’ve made it,” Her lie went undetected. She saw the quick expression of pleasure cross his face.
Mrs. Andrews entered with a tray on which were two plates of potted shrimps. “Don’t be long, Mr. Leithan, the pheasant’ll be cooked to a turn in five minutes,” she said, as she served them.
“Right.”
Mrs. Andrews made certain the slices of lemon and the pepper mill were there, then she left the room.
Pamela helped herself to lemon and a trace of pepper. “I meant that, Charles. The book is really something new.”
“Wouldn’t it be odd if I proved you right after all?”
“Not in the slightest.”
“You always said I ought to meet some of the muck of life and turn myself into a second Dostoyevsky.” He had not spoken as lightly as he had meant. The muck of life might have helped his writing but it stank, and immortality was a pretty useless commodity to the mortal.
They finished the shrimps and the pheasant was brought in. Mrs. Andrews, self-taught, was an excellent cook. The pheasant was sweet and succulent, the roast potatoes were crisp, and even though the green peas had been deep frozen she had provided them with taste.
Following the pheasant came a very “tipsy” trifle, topped with an inch of honest Jersey cream.
They went through to the sitting-room. “Cognac?” asked Leithan.
She hesitated. “A small one, then, Charles.” She had managed to persuade him to cut down his drinking.
He poured out two cognacs and handed her a glass as Mrs. Andrews brought in the coffee. At that moment, there was the sound of a car door as it was slammed shut and all three turned and looked through the north window. They saw Herald as he walked up to the front door.
Leithan drank quickly. “Can’t they ever leave a man alone?”
“You must complain,” snapped Pamela.
Mrs. Andrews left the room. Her thoughts on the subject that was so intriguing the villagers were quite clear. Mr. Leithan might have “removed” Mrs. Leithan, but if so, she was neither concerned nor surprised. Wasn’t he an author?
“You must complain,” said Pamela, for the second time. From the way he nodded his head, she knew he would not.
Herald appeared. “‘Afternoon,” he said loudly.
Leithan opened the large silver cigarette box and offered it to Pamela, then to Herald. Herald shook his head. “I prefer to keep my wind.”
“For the porridge?” asked Pamela.
The quotation escaped the detective. “Can’t stand the stuff.” He turned. “Have you got any guns, Mr. Leithan?”
Leithan replaced the cigarette box on the small tripod table. “Why?”
“Just a check.”
“A check for what?” demanded Pamela.
Herald turned to her and was angrily reminded that she had complained of the way he had looked at her. “It’s a general one.”
“Can’t you answer the question?” Her voice was quietly contemptuous.
Herald shrugged his broad shoulders.
Leithan hastened to answer the original question and so forestall anything more Pamela might say. “I’ve a pair of Churchills and a two-two.”
“What are they?” Herald was annoyed he had to ask.
“The Churchills are shotguns, the two-two is a vermin rifle.”
“Can I see ’em, please, and your licence.”
Leithan left the room. Herald stared at the bottle of cognac and wondered if he would be offered a drink, but when he saw the expression on Pamela Breslow’s face he knew that the only thing she would willingly give him would be prussic acid.
Leithan returned with a firearm certificate and a rifle equipped with telescopic sights. “I’ll get the guns,” he said and left again.
Herald opened the certificate and found it listed ten weapons.
Leithan brought two leather cases into the room. He put them on the floor and opened them.
Herald only gave the shotguns a cursory glance. “The licence says you’ve nine pistols as well as that rifle?”
“They are hanging in the hall. Some old pistols need a licence, some don’t, and I’ve never really been able to find the dividing line.”
Herald read through the list again. “Is the Webley out there?”
“The four fifty-five? That’s in my bedroom.”
“I’d like to see it, please.”
Leithan went out, after closing the shotgun cases. Pamela stubbed out the cigarette she had been smoking. She finished her brandy.
“It’s cold outside, but more than hot enough in here,” said Herald.
“That’s because the central heating’s on.”
You bitch, thought Herald, but how snooty will you be when you learn the dog’s been found? He took a sweet from his pocket, unwrapped it, and put it into his mouth. “Not a bad little house, this.”
“I’m glad you commend it.”
“Look, lady, I’m not here because I want to be. I was sent.”
“Your explanation, of course, makes your presence welcome.”
He wished he dared be rude back, but that would probably cost him his job.
Pamela tried to hear the sound of footsteps on the stairs. There was silence. Why hadn’t Charles returned with the revolver? It had belonged to his uncle and was kept in his chest of drawers in his bedroom: a minute should have been more than enough in which to fetch it. She poured herself another brandy.
Herald looked at his watch again. “Would you think he’s having trouble?”
She desperately willed Charles to hurry up.
Despite himself, Herald spoke again and even he realised his words had been foolish. “There’s one thing, I couldn’t stand living in a house this warm.”
She ignored him. Shortly afterwards, they heard Leithan come down the stairs. He entered the room and there was no mistaking the expression on his face. Pamela looked down at his empty hands.
“I can’t understand it. It isn’t there.”
“No, sir?” said Herald.
“The holster’s empty. I keep it in a drawer I don’t normally use and…”
Herald rudely interrupted. “Have you any ammunition for it?”
“I…I’m not allowed any. If you look at the certificate…”
“I have, and I’m not asking what’s official. How many rounds have you?”
Leithan lit a cigarette.
“How many rounds have you, sir?”
“Just a few. I…I was given some years ago and I’ve always kept them. They could be useful for self-defence, even if I couldn’t hit a barn door at five paces.”
“I’d like to see them, please.”
Leithan brought down ten squat, lead-nosed cartridges which had patches of green verdigris on the brass cases.
“Is that all there should be?”
“Yes.”
But the detective had not missed the hesitation. “I’ll take them, please.” He stood up and held out his hand. “Would you like a receipt?”
“Yes,” said Pamela.
Angrily, Herald wrote out a receipt for ten .455 cartridges. “Let us know when you find the gun, won’t you?” he said, and only just managed to contain his sarcasm.
Herald left the house, and through the window they watched him climb into the battered Austin and drive away.
“The gun’s vanished,” said Leithan hoarsely. “It was there the last time I looked, I know it was. And some of the cartridges have gone.”
She shut her eyes for a brief moment. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I am.”
“You haven’t moved it anywhere and forgotten about it?”
“I never handle it, from one end of the year to the next. Why the hell should I?” The anger in his voice, which was plainly no more than fear, died away. He crossed to the chair in which Pamela was sitting.
She took his hand in hers and held on to it with the force of desperation. “Go and see Phil.”
“Why?”
“Please promise me you’ll go and see him right away.”
“But…”
“No buts.”
He looked down and saw that her eyes were filled with tears. “All right,” he said, and in his voice there was no hope.
*
Phillimore Enty was full of obvious bonhomie. There was a cheerful touch of vulgarity about him that suggested the convivial temperament of a man who enjoyed the brassier sides of life. “Well, Charles, what’s the panic you mentioned?” He sat down behind his large desk.
“Evadne.” Leithan felt like a sick man going to his doctor in search of a miracle cure in which he could not believe.
Enty’s manner became more restrained. “I can’t say I’m surprised. The police were here, asking about your financial status. I gave them the terms of your father’s will, since they can find that out any day of the week, but naturally refused them anything else.”
“They…they think I’ve killed her.”
Enty began to drum on his desk with his fingers.
“Phil, God knows what’s going to happen so I want to make certain Pamela Breslow doesn’t suffer too long. Will you draw up a new will for me, leaving her everything? After that, start worrying about me.”
“When you say everything, are you including the trust money?”
“Of course. If Evadne is…dead, the capital’s automatically mine.”
The rate at which Enty’s fingers drummed the desk increased. “I wish it were that easy, Charles — I mean the question of the money — but it isn’t. One of the rules of inheritance is that a man can’t make capital out of his crime and inherit under the will of a person whose death he caused by murder or manslaughter. By analogy, if the very worst comes to the worst, and it’s proved Evadne is dead and you are somehow found responsible, it’s unlikely you’d be allowed to take the capital of the trust.”
Leithan briefly closed his eyes. Until now, there had been one ray of light in the middle of the filthy mess: Pam would be financially all right. But now he could no longer even enjoy that sense of relief. He knew she had not been writing as much as she should have been, so that her work was behind schedule and at least one of her editors had complained, but it had not mattered. With the trust fund behind her, she would never again need to worry about money. But now…
“She’s got to have it. You must find a way.”
Enty stopped drumming and moved his hand off the top of the desk. “I’ll try,” he said, and the tone of his voice said the attempt was hopeless.
Leithan hated his wife more than ever.
Chapter XII
Roman Woods had the shape of a very disproportionate figure eight. The top circle, Frog Wood, was twenty acres in size, while the bottom circle was 200 acres. Since the head of the dog had been found in Frog Wood, the police began their search there, and those who could appreciate the size and density of Roman Woods hoped there would be no need to go farther. At the same time as the first policeman reluctantly began walking through the wood, the skull of Stymphalian was examined by a vet and a pathologist. They were both agreed that the dog had probably been killed by a heavy calibre bullet fired at very close range.
At Ashford police station, the D.I. paced up and down his room and thought about Detective-Superintendent Murch who was yelling for action. Murch was good at yelling for action, but bad at helping to provide it.
The telephone rang and he crossed to the desk and lifted the receiver. “D.I. speaking.”
“Watters, sir. We’ve found the rest of the dog by a small hole that was almost certainly meant to be its grave.”
“Have you learned anything more?”
“I haven’t investigated very closely, sir. I thought you’d rather we kept clear: that leaves you to make all the mistakes.”
“I’ll be out.” Jaeger replaced the receiver. After a couple of minutes’ thought, he went down to the divisional superintendent’s office and reported the latest development. He then left a message for the photographer to go to Roman Woods, after which he went out to his car. He thought of all the work that was piling up on his desk and sighed heavily: no matter how rushed a D.I. might be, H.Q. always wanted the paper work to be carefully attended to.
He drove rapidly along the Canterbury road until he came to the row of cars, parked on the grass verge. He climbed out of his car and went into Frog Wood. Immediately, the thick wet clay began to ball up on his shoes and he cursed himself for being so stupid as to forget wellingtons.
Watters was waiting on the ride and he led Jaeger through the tall and whippy fifteen-year growth of chestnut, elm, hornbeam, and oak, to a small pit about two feet deep, the bottom of which was filled with water. To the right of the pit was the battered and headless body of a dog.
The D.I. studied the area and he noted a patch of brambles which had been flattened in the centre. The brambles lay between the pit and the road. “Have you had a close look at that lot?”
Watters shook his head. “I’ve held everyone back, sir.”
Jaeger went over and stood in the brambles, close to the flattened strip. A body, dragged through them, would leave such a mark. He bent down and looked closely at the separate vines, with their long curved thorns, and on one he saw several hairs.
He stood up and went back to where Watters was waiting. “One of those brambles has hairs on it. We’ll photograph the hairs and then send ’em to the lab at the same time as the dog. If the bullet isn’t in the dog we can start looking for that. In the meantime, start an intensive search round here, using that hole as the centre. Call the men in and re-deploy them, and tell ’em if they put their big feet down on anything important I’ll bloody well skin them.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jaeger took his pipe from his pocket and rubbed his cheek with the bowl. The cold wet wind flapped the collar of his mackintosh against his neck. “Shot here and dragged to the road.”
“Looks that way, sir.”
The searching policemen were ordered to begin their new task, spreading outwards in an ever-enlarging circle. Soon, there was a call from beyond the brambles in which the hairs had been found. Jaeger went across and was shown a suitcase and a handbag, which were some five feet apart.
He opened the handbag and was immediately conscious of the smell of scent. Inside, were the usual things a woman carried round with her, plus a small diary in the front of which were Evadne Leithan’s name and her address. He turned his attention to the suitcase. It was a large pigskin one with the initials E.L. in gold on the top. He searched it. There were pyjamas, silk dressing-gown, slippers, a set of underclothes, a dress, a sweater, and a sponge-bag. These articles had only filled a quarter of the space and had been held in position by the interior straps. He pulled out the pyjamas which lay on top and he noted the dog’s hairs all over them and felt irritation at people who treated dogs so unnaturally as to take them to bed.
There was a second call which took him back to the hole. Close by it, previously covered by dead leaves, was a revolver. Almost certainly, it was a .455 Webley. No one could say he was surprised.
The detective-constable who was the police photographer came into sight and the D.I. ordered him to photograph the revolver first. When that had been done, the D.I. put on a pair of plastic gloves, picked up the revolver, and examined it. There was little chance
of finding fingerprints on it, but nevertheless all possible precautions to preserve them, should there be any, had to be taken. He broke the gun. There were three cartridges in the cylinder, two of which had been fired. He dropped the gun into a plastic bag.
The photographer took the last of the shots of the remains of the dog and Watters ordered Leery to bag up the corpse. Very reluctantly, Leery began his task.
The search continued, slowly spreading outwards.
*
The gun was tested for fingerprints and, as expected, none was found. The hairs, taken from the brambles, were sent to the laboratories at New Scotland Yard and by the middle of the next morning a report on them was telephoned to Kent. The hairs were human, probably from a female whose age lay between early adult and late middle-age. If comparison hairs could be obtained, it might be possible to gain a positive identification.
By 11.15 a.m. it was certain that Evadne Leithan had not been buried between the spot where the dog had been found and the road, or within three hundred yards in the opposite direction. The searching policemen, made more miserable than ever by a light drizzle, thought that in view of the evidence this would now be the end of their labours. But their hopes came to nothing when they were told that because no bullet had been found in the dog’s body, they were going to have to dig all round the hole to try to recover it. Also, a search of the rest of Frog Wood must be made.
At 3.27 p.m., a slightly misshapen lead bullet was recovered from the middle of a spadeful of thick yellow clay. It was handed to Watters who dropped it into a plastic bag.
*
The following morning, the 19th December, a constable was walking in Frog Wood close to where the handbag had been found and his foot kicked into something. This proved to be a small chemist’s bottle. How the bottle had been missed before was something of a mystery, a mystery Jaeger preferred to call bloody incompetence.
The D.I. looked at the label which was still attached. Rain had washed whatever writing had been on it, but had not obliterated the name of an Ashford chemist. He unscrewed the top and rolled into the palm of his hand two of the tablets from inside. He wondered what they were, never before having seen any in that strange greyish colour. He replaced them in the bottle and called Herald over. “Get this to the station and have it checked for prints. Then send it to the lab and ask ’em if they can bring out on the label whatever was written on it. Once you’ve organised that, take one of the pills along to the chemist and have it identified.”
The Benefits of Death Page 10