The Glimpses of the Moon

by Edmund Crispin

  ‘Impossible, Luckraft, impossible. You’ll be needed. Yes, even you will be needed. Quite apart from all the routine work that’s waiting to be done on this case, you may have to give evidence at the inquest.’

  ‘And if I may ask, sir, when’s that?’

  ‘Earlier today I talked to the Coroner’s Officer on the phone, and we’ve fixed it provisionally for Tuesday. It’ll almost certainly have to be adjourned, of course. We can’t even be sure that we’ll have identified the victim by then.’ Ling had for once managed to get his pipe alight while talking, and this had mollified him considerably, so that he was prepared to be mildly chatty even with Luckraft. ‘However, we’re taking the head along to Sir John Honeybourne this evening, after the press conference, and he may be able to make it recognizable for us.’

  Emboldened by these confidences, Luckraft nodded towards the sack in the corner of the office, and said, ‘Is that it, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can I look at it?’

  ‘No, you can’t. Why?’

  ‘I thought it might turn out to be someone I knew.’

  ‘In its present condition, Luckraft, its own mother wouldn’t know it.’

  ‘I see, sir. But about my leave. It had to be cancelled last time, when Mr Routh was murdered, and I’m sure I don’t know what the Missus is going to say when I tell her it’s having to be cancelled again. Set her heart on it, she has.’

  Ling said, ‘You talk to Mr Graveney about it, laddie, and see what he has to say … Besides,’ he added, with an assurance which Widger felt to be entirely premature, ‘by Sunday, chances are the whole thing will have been cleared up. And then away you’ll go. Wish I were coming with you.’

  ‘That’d be nice, sir,’ said Luckraft in a tone which failed to carry much conviction; and this time he actually did go, closing the door quietly behind him. They heard his heavy tread receding out of earshot along the corridor towards the stairs.

  4

  ’There are gaps still,’ said Ling, ‘and of course, someone, may be lying. Even so, so far it looks fairly plain sailing. Our victim meets Choommy in the Aller House grounds, and - Wait, though: they both had to get there. Did they both come in that car Scorer and the Major heard?’

  ‘Looks like it,’ said Widger. ‘Unless one of them lived fairly near by, and walked it.’

  ‘H’m, yes. Well, that’s one gap. Never mind that for the moment, though. Choommy threatens blackmail over Mavis Trent - something about a letter. Would the blackmail be about Mavis Trent’s death, d’you think, or would it just be that Choommy had been sleeping with her, and didn’t want his wife to know? She did sleep about a lot after her husband’s death, I think you said.’

  ’She certainly did. But I think it must have been about her death, because according to Scorer the blackmailer said something about the police, and you don’t go to the police to tell them someone’s been copulating or committing adultery or whatever.’

  ‘Right, then. Choommy doesn’t like being blackmailed, so he knocks the blackmailer down - perhaps coshing him with something and killing him outright, or perhaps finishing him off after he’s dragged him into the back part of the tent. He strips the body to prevent identification, and cuts off the head, and maybe he means to go on with his butchery then and there. But then the Major and his dog come along. Choommy covers up the body with that big piece of tarpaulin, wraps the head in old newspapers, bundles up the clothes and slips away to his car. Then when he gets to where he’s going, he disposes of the clothes, bashes the head about, puts it in a sack, and dumps the sack in Mrs Clotworthy’s porch to help make the crime look as if it was similar to the Routh-Hagberd affair. Then all he has left to do is clean himself up and deal with his own clothes, and get into bed for the rest of the night.’

  ‘I doubt,’ said Widger, ‘if he put the sack in Mrs Clotworthy’s porch during the night. I’m sure she’d have noticed it when she went off to see her great-niece, no matter how flustered she was.’

  ‘Well, all right, then. Riskier during daylight, though. What if she’d seen him through a window?’

  ‘He probably lurked in that overgrown garden next door until he saw her set off. Remember, it was all of two and a half hours after that before Fen came along and took delivery.’

  Ling nodded. ‘You may be right. And it’s a small point, anyway. After that, it’s a fair bet that Fen had the head until we collected it from him in the late afternoon.’

  ‘Agreed. So then?’

  ‘We don’t know. But if the medical evidence is correct, something or other made our murderer take the enormous risk of coming along, and cutting off the arm and making the incisions in the legs, actually during the Fête.’

  ‘Fingerprints,’ said Ling. ‘He wanted to prevent identification, but the Major came along before he could do anything about the dead man’s fingerprints. Then the dog was left tied up to the tent until quite late in the morning, and by that time there were people about.’

  ‘Really, Eddie,’ said Widger, a shade coldly, ‘you don’t have to chop off a whole arm just to get rid of the fingers.’

  ‘People in and out of the tent the whole morning, too, I dare say,’ said Ling, ignoring this. ‘It’s a miracle someone didn’t move that bit of canvas and find the body sooner. I wonder if …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I wonder if Choommy could have hidden himself in the tent before it, so to speak, opened for business, and then – and then …’ His voice tailed away.

  He’s getting tired, Widger thought. He’s going mad. It’s all this abortive smoking. Perhaps it’s like coitus interruptus - they say that can affect your wits …

  ‘A van brought the picture to the Aller House grounds,’ he said. ‘And the Misses Bale came with it. They’d brought sandwiches and thermoses, and as soon as they’d seen the picture hung, they took up their positions outside. And stayed there. It’s all in my report.’

  ‘What time was this? When they arrived, I mean?’

  ‘About 10.30.’

  ‘Oh … Well, yes, come to think of it, it would have been safer to do the job during the afternoon, actually at the Fête, than during the morning: ten minutes alone inside the tent, with Miss Bale to keep intruders away, and that pop group to cover up any noise. The only other thing is, Choommy could have come back in the night; I don’t believe that dog would have woken the Major up - he’d been reading this book…’

  ‘But Eddie, the medical evidence is that the arm was cut off no earlier than one o’clock, and probably a bit later.’

  ‘We’ll have to check that with Sir John, and make sure of it.’

  ‘Yes, certainly. But I still think we’ll find that the person who cut the arm off was someone Titty Bale saw.’

  ‘And that’s what I think, too,’ said Ling, to Widger’s blank amazement. ‘It’s the only possible answer,’ he said, his sang froid all of a sudden competely restored. He opened the file, and began rummaging through it. ‘Now let’s see, where’s that list?’

  In silence, Widger took the papers from him and found him the right page.

  ‘ “Evidence of Miss Titania Bale”, yes … Would you say that she’s reliable?’

  ‘Apart from being convinced that that awful great picture’s a Botticelli, yes, completely.’

  ‘And she didn’t herself go into the tent at all, during the Fête.’

  ‘She says not - not until she found the body. All she did was call through the flap to people, when their ten minutes were up. You’re not starting to suspect her, are you?’

  ‘No, no, old squire. From all the signs, this is a man’s job. And according to this list, it was all men who paid their fifty pences (except for Luckraft) and spent their ten minuteses alone in the tent: Father Hattrick, the Rector, Professor Fen, Broderick Thouless - who’s he?’

  ‘A composer.’

  ‘Luckraft, the Major, J. G. Padmore - who’s he?’

  ‘A journalist from the Gazette.’

  ‘ - You
ings the pig-farmer, Dermot McCartney - who’s he?’

  ‘The Negro who opened the Fête.’

  ‘Clarence Tully, and two strangers. Not exactly a crowd, but I suppose the Fête wasn’t nearly over when Miss Bale found the body. Also - ten minutes each. Also - the money. Charles, you’re going to have to put men on to tracing those two strangers.’

  For a moment Widger said nothing. He was visualizing the entire neighbourhood over-run like an ant-heap by blue-clad constables toting spades and notebooks. If they could be got. Recovering his voice.

  ‘I don’t quite see how we’re going to set about that, Eddie.’

  Ling gestured seigneurially with a hairy paw. ‘You’ll think of something, old squire, you’ll think of something. Start with the list of names and addresses Rankine took at the gate when the mob was leaving.’

  ‘But Eddie, Chummy may have left before the body was found. And in any case, there are dozens of other ways of getting out of those grounds, in addition to the gate.’

  ‘You’ll think of something,’ Ling reiterated exasperatingly. ’Let’s see, now, where was I? Yes. We’ve questioned some of the men who went into the … the Botticelli tent. So now we’ll question the others.’

  5

  They questioned the others.

  No one admitted to going into the back of the tent.

  No one admitted to having seen or heard anything out of the way.

  They had passed the time in various ways: Father Hattrick had read his breviary, straining his eyes over it because of the awkwardly placed lights; the Rector had wondered if Father Hattrick could be converted to honest Anglicanism, and if so, how this could be accomplished (a wife?); Fen had thought about religion, on what lines he had not stated; Thouless (who had rather liked the picture) had attempted to compose celestial relief music in his head, in vain competition with the Whirly-birds; Luckraft had thought about his injured head; the Major had fallen asleep; Padmore had wondered if there was any way, apart from resignation, of stopping the Gazette from sending him back to Africa when its crime staff got out of hospital; Youings had mentally listed the merits and drawbacks of Gloucester Old Spots; Dermot McCartney had counted his money and examined, with no great enthusiasm, the purchases he had made so far; Clarence Tully had smoked a pipe and brooded over his milk yield.

  The two strangers - the two strangers –

  Ling wrote a question mark on his blotter.

  The only mildly interesting question which arose concerned the Rector’s cricket bag.

  Yes, the Rector said, despite Titty Bale’s objections he had taken it into the Botticelli tent with him; he had wanted, he said darkly, to keep it by him. ‘And I hope,’ he went on, scowling at Ling, ‘that you’re not going to say I amputated this wretched man’s arm, and took it out of the tent in my bag. For one thing, I doubt if it would have gone in, even if you bent it at the elbow. No, I’m sure it wouldn’t. Think of a cricket bat, man: think of a cricket bat.’ Ling tried to look as if he were thinking of a cricket bat. ‘And I’ll tell you another thing,’ said the Rector. ‘It’s close on half-past five, and I’ve got to get back and take Evensong. So if that’s all -’

  ‘We won’t keep you more than a few minutes longer, sir,’ said Ling meekly. ‘If you’ll just tell us what was in the bag -’

  ‘Curiosity killed the cat, but I suppose I must,’ said the Rector. ‘You’ll have heard of F. X. Christopher.’

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t, sir.’

  ‘Good heavens, what does the higher constabulary read nowadays? Thrillers, I suppose. F. X. Christopher, Superintendent, is an expert on Charles I and his times. He’s written a lot of books about them - scholarly as well as popular, a bit like C. V. Wedgwood only not quite so good. And F. X. Christopher is really Father Hattrick.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

  ‘Not at all, Superintendent. Partial deafness must be quite a handicap in your profession. I was saying, F. X. Christopher is really Father Hattrick. I dare say the “F.X.” stands for “Francis Xavier”,’ the Rector added. ‘Popish.’

  ‘Oh ay, I get you now. Sort of an alias.’

  ‘A pen-name, Superintendent, a pen-name.’

  ‘Yes, sir. But now, if we could get back to your cricket bag -’

  ‘I was just coming to that. Superintendent, I have a lot of old junk in my attics.’

  Ling laughed feebly. ‘Most people have, sir.’

  ‘Yes, but much of mine is valuable.’

  ‘Indeed, sir?’

  ‘So, being childless, I’ve decided to get rid of most of it. Over the last few months I’ve had a number of experts down from London - Sotheby’s and so forth - to take a look at it all; and very pleased they’ve been. Some of it I’m going to have auctioned, in aid of the Church funds. And some of it - the association items - will go to museums. Among the association items, Superintendent, are four which concern Charles I: a lock of his hair, a letter, the wine-glass he drank from just before his execution (you can still just faintly make out the wine stains), and a coarse cotton handkerchief stained with his blood. They were left to my people by the Herbert family, I can’t think why.’

  ‘Ah!’ On Ling, light was dawning at last. ‘And Father Hat-trick - F. X. Christopher - ’

  ‘Exactly. He wanted to see them before I gave them away. So I said I’d bring them along to the Fête and he could look at them in the Major’s flat.’

  ‘I see. But surely, sir, if you’ll forgive my saying so, a cricket bag - for four little things like that -’

  ‘Oh, there were other things too,’ said the Rector airily. ‘Intrinsically valuable stuff, what’s more. The bag was full - no room for any human arms. That was why I’d arranged to meet my bank manager at the Fête as well as Father H. What with some of the characters you see about the place nowadays, you can’t be too careful.’

  ‘Your bank manager.’

  ‘Yes. When Father H. had seen the relics, my bank manager was going to collect the bag from me and take it straight to his bank and lock it up safely, pro tern. Only the miserable man never turned up, so eventually I had to cart the whole boiling back home with me again. Oh, one more thing: if you’re thinking I could have done some sort of a switch at some stage, you put the idea out of your mind straight away. Because when I came out of the Botticelli tent, the good Father was waiting for me, and he ran across to the Major’s flat - he always runs; seems to prefer it to walking - and I ran after him without stopping anywhere - there must be dozens of witnesses to that -and when we arrived the Major was waiting, and I opened the bag in front of both of them, and there was no human arm in it. And now I’m going back to Burraford.’

  In the small office the shadows were lengthening, and down below, the car-park was filling up again as the media men returned in good time for the press conference. Widger suddenly realized that they had had no tea. Where was Rankine, where was Crumb? Their room adjoined this one, so why hadn’t one or the other of them brought tea? What would Eddie think? Did it matter what Eddie thought? If he’d wanted tea, he could presumably have asked for it. What Widger wanted was a drink and then bed, but he realized that the day still had a long way to go.

  When the Bale sisters were ushered into the office, Widger, slightly light-headed, perceived for the first time that their names were the wrong way round: Tatty (who had mounted guard at the back of the Botticelli tent) was large-bosomed but quite smartly dressed; Titty (who had been at the receipt of custom) was flat-chested but untidy, her upper half wrapped in a variety of long, diaphanous scarves. Facially, however, they were very similar - greying women of sixty or thereabouts. And although both were a bit deaf, Widger knew that they had all their wits about them, particularly where the Botticelli was concerned.

  It was Titty who was wearing the hearing-aid, so Ling, mindful of the Major’s warning, addressed himself first to her, while she fiddled with volume control in order to get him satisfactorily tuned in. Her evidence, however, was disappointing. She was adamant tha
t her list of people who had entered the tent was complete and correçt; she was adamant that no one could have smuggled even a baby’s arm out, no matter how cunningly concealed; apart from the Rector’s cricket bag, she had neither seen nor heard anything out of the way; and finding the body when she was looking for a medicine chest had of course been a shock, but at her age one got used to such things. (How on earth, Widger wondered, had she managed to come by this particular form of induration? Was she finding naked headless bodies all the time?)

  Ling now indicated a wish to speak to Tatty, and there ensued a longish pause while Titty unscrewed the speaker of the hearing-aid from her ear, disentangled its cord from her scarves, unhooked the black microphone from the front of her blouse, and passed the whole contraption to her sister, who spent an almost equal amount of time putting it on. But Tatty, when the whole thing was adjusted to her satisfaction, proved to have even less to say than Titty. She had enjoyed the soft music (it was Titty who during the Fête had had custody of the hearing-aid), and could positively assert that no one had entered or left the tent by crawling under the back or sides, which had in any case been firmly guyed. Beyond that, nothing.

  In a last desperate bid for useful information, Ling got the aid transferred back to Titty. How was it, he asked, that Titty was so completely unable to describe the two strangers who had gone in to see the Botticelli? Titty replied that she had only really looked at them when they came out again, and then solely with a view to detecting tell-tale bulges. Both were middle-aged, she thought. Ling went on questioning her for a while about clothes, hair, height, accent and so forth, but absolutely without result. Neither of the men had stolen the Botticelli, and that was enough for Titty.

  Eventually, on both ladies’ expressing a wish to go to church, Ling gave up and sent them away, warning Titty that she would have to give evidence (about the finding of the body) at the inquest on Tuesday.

  He mopped his brow as the door closed behind them. ‘The funny thing is,’ he said, ‘that I believe them.’