‘You tell us,’ the captain suggested.
‘She’s escaping!’ The doctor leapt up suddenly and made a dive for his bag. He was just too late. A large and beautiful butterfly, smothered in gay colours, emerged shyly from the bag and took flight; it flew tentatively, experimentally, as though unused to late hours. It fluttered drunkenly away across the bracken and by a trick of moonlight and mist it was suddenly gone.
With a heartbroken cry the doctor began to follow, then he stood still, uncertain, straining his eyes in several directions, his thin head bobbing like a turkey searching for worms.
‘What happened to her?’ he asked miserably, turning back to the others.
‘Somebody switched her off,’ said the captain.
The doctor groaned and came back to the path, collecting his bag and net. ‘All day,’ he crooned. ‘All day I’ve been chasing her.’
‘You haven’t been chasing her all night as well, have you?’ asked the captain.
‘Practically. I caught her just ten minutes and fifteen seconds past nine o’clock,’ said the doctor, climbing sorrowfully to his feet. ‘And I was so tired I went to sleep. I was miles from home. Then I woke up and found it was late and began to walk. I must have gone to sleep while I was walking. I don’t remember getting this far. I’m really very tired. Extremely tired.’
‘How very unfortunate,’ Miss Graveley commiserated. ‘Perhaps you will find her again tomorrow.’
‘If I do it will finish me,’ the doctor said. ‘I’m quite exhausted.’ He glanced down at Harry. ‘So is your friend apparently.’
Sam and the captain exchanged a glance; Sam nodded. The captain said:
‘Would you mind looking at him, doctor? We think he’s met with a bit of an accident.’
The doctor stooped and felt Harry’s pulse, absently. His gaze wandered tiredly across the bracken, still in search of the Painted Lady. He was silent for so long they thought he had fallen asleep again. Presently Sam nudged him in the back.
‘How about Harry?’ he asked.
‘He’s dead,’ said the doctor impersonally. ‘Been dead a long time.’
‘Do you think it was accidental?’ Sam asked.
The doctor raised a thin finger. ‘How can I tell? Death is so often an accident.’
‘But can’t you tell us just how he died?’ Sam persisted.
The doctor yawned and tapped his hand on his mouth politely.
‘Suppose we take him to where there’s more light,’ he suggested.
‘Good idea,’ Sam said. ‘Come, Captain, take his feet.’
AS GOOD AS NEW
Just after 1 a.m. they filed into ‘Chaos’. And sitting in an armchair was Abie, a pistol in his hand and a brave, defensive glitter in his eyes. As Sam entered the room Abie squirted him with a jet of milk from the gun.
‘Abie!’ Jennifer said, going quickly across to him. ‘Whatever are you doing?’
‘I woke up,’ Abie said. ‘I heard someone crying and I woke up.’
Jennifer looked at Sam. ‘That must have been Mr Douglas.’
‘Then I heard someone laughing and I woke up again,’ said Abie.
‘Mr and Mrs D’Arcy,’ said Sam.
Abie looked with faint curiosity at the body of Harry as they placed him on the sofa. His young memory stirred at the sight of the dead, familiar face. ‘Get up, you brute,’ he said. He redirected the pistol and a jet of milk went on to Harry’s face.
‘Abie!’ said Jennifer, catching the look of mild surprise on the doctor’s face. ‘You mustn’t do that. The gentleman’s dead.’
‘He’s a brute,’ Abie said sullenly, reaching across to replenish his pistol from the milk jug on the table.
The doctor knelt down by the body and the others gathered around.
‘H’m,’ said Doctor Greenbow, wiping some black soil from Harry’s face.
‘What’s the verdict?’ the captain asked.
Miss Graveley shivered delicately. ‘Don’t use those words, please, Captain Wiles,’ she said.
‘He’s dead,’ said the doctor. ‘Been dead some time.’
‘We know that,’ Jennifer said. ‘Can’t you tell us how he died?’
Sam, Jennifer, Captain Wiles and Miss Graveley exchanged anxious glances. Although they had decided to make a full confession, they were not eager to begin. Besides, this encounter with the doctor had complicated matters. They would now have to fashion their story to explain the midnight frolic with the dead man.
‘It was his heart,’ said the doctor. ‘He had a seizure. This hot weather—’
Sam’s mouth opened and nothing came out.
‘His heart?’ said Jennifer.
‘A seizure?’ said Miss Graveley with immense relief.
‘Well, I’ll go to sea!’ said the new captain. ‘Death from natural causes!’ He sank into a chair and sagged back.
Jennifer was looking at the corpse in disbelief. ‘But he always boasted he never saw a doctor in his life!’
‘More’s the pity, my dear,’ said the doctor, getting to his feet. ‘If he had he might have been alive now.’
‘What an awful thought!’ Jennifer exclaimed.
The doctor misunderstood her. He got to his feet and held her arm in a professionally sympathetic manner. ‘Did you know him?’
Jennifer nodded. ‘I was his wife,’ she admitted.
The doctor looked at Abie and his face lengthened several inches. ‘I’m really deeply sorry,’ he intoned, ‘for you and the little man.’
Abie squinted his eye along the barrel of his gun and took careful aim. As the jet of milk went into Harry’s face again he said: ‘Get up, you brute.’
The doctor looked hard at Abie, then rubbed his eyes. Suddenly he looked around at the others and his face was broken by a cavernous grin. He said, with sudden understanding: ‘Do you know, this is the first nightmare I’ve had in years.’
Sam popped his fingers to his ears and waggled them at the doctor while the others regarded him disconcertedly. He extended his hand to the staring medico. ‘Come, let’s go find the Painted Lady,’ he suggested.
The doctor grabbed his net and his bag and joined Sam at the door. ‘The Painted Lady,’ he said eagerly. ‘The Painted Lady!’
Sam led him out of the bungalow and up the woodland path, leaving the others staring after them. ‘The bit you’ll enjoy most when you wake up,’ he said, as they walked, ‘is where the little boy squirted milk at the corpse.’
‘Yes,’ said the doctor, giggling happily. ‘Yes, yes, yes …’
By the time Sam returned, ‘Chaos’ had the appearance of a steam laundry. Harry was stretched out on the table, his trousers were in the kitchen being sponged by Miss Graveley, his coat was being pressed by Jennifer, and the captain was fitting on him a pair of his own shoes.
Sam stood inside the door and looked approvingly at all this industry. ‘I see you got my point,’ he said.
Jennifer took his arm. ‘I think I’ve got an awfully clever fiancé,’ she claimed. ‘I was beginning to puzzle how we could explain things to the doctor. I wonder how he could tell it was Harry’s heart.’
‘Look at his face now I’ve washed it,’ Miss Graveley said. ‘It’s blue!’
‘He must have got excited,’ Sam commented.
Jennifer said: ‘He was too late. He should have got excited years ago.’
Miss Graveley bustled out of the room again, saying: ‘Well, come along. Let’s finish him off.’
‘What are you going to do?’ Sam asked.
‘Put him back where we found him,’ Jennifer said, ‘and let Abie find him again tomorrow.’
‘Then what?’ Sam asked.
‘Abie will come down here and tell me; I’ll phone the police, and everyone will be happy.’
‘What about the cut on his head?’ Sam said, viewing the body critically.
‘I’ve thought of that,’ said Miss Graveley, coming into the room with Harry’s trousers. ‘I’m going to put some plaster on it, t
hen they’ll think it was done before he died.’
Sam nodded approvingly. ‘I think that covers everything,’ he said.
‘Then let’s cover Harry,’ suggested the captain. He took the trousers from Miss Graveley and she went quickly into the kitchen again in search of sticking-plaster.
Soon they sat eating supper while Abie lay gently snoring in the next room and Harry lay clean, polished, brushed and dead on the sofa.
ANOTHER DAY
The small boy named Abie climbed the woodland path that led to Sparrowswick Heath. His body lay at an acute angle with the steep and stony way, a toy gun was clutched firmly beneath his left arm.
He left the dark tunnel of the woodland path for the broad paths of the heath. Splendid paths bordered by a tangle of blue heather and wild snapdragons; paths where rabbits could hop when the sun went out and where hares could race recklessly yet safely on bright mornings. Also a million little paths that darted and flitted and curled and twisted and climbed and tumbled about all over the place without any definite plan or notion. Paths to lead the unwary into an entanglement of brambles, or sweethearts into quiet places. They led Abie to Harry.
When he saw the corpse lying there he was surprised and annoyed because he clearly remembered coming across it before; was it tomorrow, or just now? He didn’t know. The man was sprawled on his back and Abie nearly stepped on him. A big man with a moustache and wavy hair. On his forehead there was a neatly cut piece of sticking plaster and in his breast pocket was a newly ironed white handkerchief. He was a most immaculate corpse.
Abie hesitated before turning back. He stooped and tried to lift the body by the shoulders, but found it impossible. He stood there, undecided.
On the opposite side of the path, hidden by the bracken and shrubbery, three people were staring anxiously at the small boy, trying to will him to run home and tell his mother. These three were Captain Albert Wiles, Miss Graveley and Sam Marlow. Eventually Abie did reluctantly turn and plod towards home, his gun at the trail.
When he had gone the new captain turned to his companions and winked, putting his thumbs up expressively. Sam smiled and beckoned them out on to the path.
They stood for a moment in silent farewell of the body.
Miss Graveley turned to the new captain and there was a happy light in her eyes. ‘What is your first name, Captain Wiles?’ she asked.
‘Albert,’ said Captain Wiles.
‘Albert,’ said Miss Graveley, ‘take my arm.’
Captain Wiles took her arm and cocked his head to one side. ‘Can you hear them bells?’ he asked joyfully.
‘They’re not bells,’ Sam said, leading the way into the woods. ‘I have an orchestra in my head – listen!’
He sang: ‘I want to carve your name on every tree …’
Soon they were gone, but the song remained on the heath. It dwelt in the bracken and the grassy glades; it soared through the highest branches of the trees and it whispered amongst the blue heather, gladdening the hearts of all the little creatures.
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About the Author
JACK TREVOR STORY was born in Hertford in 1917 and was published prolifically from the 1940s to the 1970s. Respected by many in the media, he wrote a weekly column for The Guardian in the 1970s and appeared on TV in the series Jack on the Box as well as writing several screenplays before his death in 1991.
Copyright
Allison & Busby Limited
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First published in Great Britain in 1949.
This ebook edition published by Allison & Busby in 2013.
Copyright © 1949 by JACK TREVOR STORY
Introduction © 2013 by MICHAEL MOORCOCK
The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978–0–7490–1467–4
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The Trouble With Harry Page 10