by Jean Rowden
‘Mr Crimmon didn’t tell me until yesterday evening that he was fit to play,’ Miss Lightfall said, ‘it was rather naughty of him.’
‘Not to worry,’ Deepbriar said stolidly, ‘I’ll come in for the service, now I’m here. No point rushing to get back to Minecliff.’
‘So sorry,’ Miss Lightfall repeated, as Deepbriar followed her under the handsome Norman arch and in through the doorway. He sat in a pew at the very back of the church, positioning himself behind a pillar, where nobody would notice if he didn’t manage to stay awake during the sermon.
He’d not slept well, and when he’d finally dozed off he’d been plagued by vivid dreams, all of them unpleasant. In one nightmare it wasn’t Bronc who had had his throat cut, but Harry Bartle. The young man’s body lay in a pool of blood outside the NCO’s mess up at the abandoned airbase, while enemy aircraft circled high overhead. Deepbriar flinched as one aeroplane dived, but instead of dropping bombs it dropped a pig, which came hurtling towards him, squealing on a high monotonous note as it fell. He woke with a start, a split second before the animal hit him, to hear the kettle whistling in the kitchen. Mary was making tea.
Despite his fears Deepbriar didn’t sleep during the service. Father Michael’s sermon was short and to the point; he preached the virtues of love and truth, inviting prayers for the missing Bronc, and urging anyone with information about the mysterious goings on in Minecliff to talk to the police, or, if they felt that was impossible, to consult him. ‘God’s justice is certain,’ he said in conclusion, ‘but so too is his mercy.’
Father Michael stepped down from the pulpit and delivered a prayer, then with a shuffling of feet and clearing of throats the congregation rose for the final hymn. No sound came from the organ. Seconds dragged by. An uncomfortable silence descended but still the music didn’t start. As the pregnant pause dragged on, people began to fidget, until finally Father Michael coughed loudly, and said, ‘we will now sing hymn 256, “Come unto Me, ye weary, and I will give you rest.” Let us lift our voices together in praise of our Lord’s charity.’
A frantic rustle of paper could be heard from behind the curtain which screened Mr Crimmon from view; the resultant giggle from the boys in the choir was drowned as the organ’s rich harmonies filled the church.
Evidently wishing to make amends for his slip, Mr Crimmon played with more than usual gusto, and the congregation responded in kind, their singing echoing from the roof. From behind his pillar Deepbriar added his own full-throated bass, wondering if the Vicar’s appeal would bring any results.
As everyone filed out after the final blessing, the sound of the organ swelled to a new pitch, until it must surely have been audible in Minecliff. Deepbriar stayed where he was, sitting hidden in his pew, enjoying the great crashing ebb and flow of music echoing in the high roof. At last, long after the nave was empty, Mr Crimmon launched into the Adagio from Beethoven’s Pathetique, playing so poignantly that Deepbriar’s found himself almost moved to tears by the haunting theme, so different from the organist’s previous triumphal outpourings.
The last strains died away, leaving behind nothing but the drift of dust in the low shafts of winter sun that had crept in through the windows. Getting up and walking as silently as his size ten boots would allow, Deepbriar went to meet the organist as he stepped down from his high seat.
‘Mr Crimmon,’ he began.
The little man had a faraway look on his face, and coming suddenly upon the constable he stopped dead, his face blanching deathly white. ‘Ohh.’ The breath escaped from Crimmon’s lungs as if he’d been punched, and he seemed to shrink.
‘I’m sorry,’ Deepbriar said, finding it hard not to laugh at the man’s total confusion, ‘it’s lucky you’re not the criminal type or I’d think you were suffering from a guilty conscience, Mr Crimmon. It’s not surprising you were still lost in the music. I had to come and tell you how much I enjoyed your playing. I’ve never made any instrument sound the way you did this morning.’
‘Wha-a-a.’ Crimmon swallowed hard and managed to pull his wits together, although he still seemed distracted, his gaze wandering to the rank of pipes above their heads. ‘Some things,’ he said at last, ‘are more important than others, don’t you agree?’
‘Well, yes,’ Deepbriar said, though he had no idea what Crimmon was talking about.
‘This organ,’ Crimmon went on, nodding to himself with an air of satisfaction, ‘will go on playing beautiful music long after I’m gone.’
Father Michael came from the vestry then, and Crimmon gave him a vague smile and hurried away, hugging his music to his chest as if it were a buffer against the cares of the world.
‘Is he all right?’ the vicar asked. ‘I’ve never known Mr Crimmon to sleep during my sermon before.’
‘Maybe he wasn’t asleep,’ Deepbriar replied thoughtfully.
Monday morning found Deepbriar sitting in the magistrate’s court, waiting for Bert Bunyard’s case to be called. Jakes had spoken to him briefly when he reported to the police station. The sergeant told him he was going to visit the estate agent who had written to Tony Pattridge about the sale of Low Rooking Garage, to find out if the missing man had turned up for his appointment, and if he was considered to be a serious buyer.
Compared to spending hours hanging about in the stuffy courthouse, Deepbriar thought that Jakes’s morning sounded pretty exciting, and he was fighting to stay awake by the time the name of Albert Horatio Bunyard was finally read out, followed by the long list of charges. After some deliberation the magistrate ordered Bert to be tried at the Quarter Sessions, and declared himself ready to set bail for his release in the meantime, providing the police had no objection.
‘If the defendant agrees not to enter any property belonging to Ferdinand Quinn, nor to approach Ferdinand Quinn, as a condition of bail,’ Deepbriar said, ‘we would have no objection, Your Honour.’
‘You hear what the constable says, Bunyard?’ The magistrate stared over his spectacles at the man in the dock. ‘Will you promise not to molest Mr Quinn, or to trespass upon his property?’
There was an indistinct mumble from Bunyard, then a grudging agreement, though he had to be prompted by the clerk of the court to address the magistrate with proper respect.
‘Very well. Released on bail, on a recognisance of five pounds.’
Deepbriar made his escape, thankful that he had no more cases coming up. As he descended the steps outside the court he met Jakes coming the other way. ‘That’s good,’ the sergeant said breathlessly, ‘I thought I might have to come in and fetch you.’
‘Why, what’s happened?’ Deepbriar asked, his earlier lethargy forgotten.
‘There’s been a tramp seen in Derling, and the woman who telephoned us thought it might be Bronc. I didn’t want to go without you, it’s not easy to identify a person you’ve never even seen. That’s the trouble with tramps, nobody takes their photograph. Come on, I’ve got a car. It’s a bit of luck this flu, they don’t often let me drive.’
Not bothering to point out that the simplest way to identify a living human being was to ask them their name, Deepbriar followed the younger man, and folded himself into the front passenger seat of the police car. Jakes drove far too fast for the constable’s comfort; after one glance at the speedometer to see that it read fifty five miles an hour, he kept his gaze firmly fixed on the road, while his mind veered between prayer and trying to figure out how likely it was that Bronc would leave two coats and his hat in Minecliff, not to mention a couple of pints of blood, before travelling to a village some twenty miles away.
Opening his eyes again just in time to see Jakes take a blind bend on the wrong side of the road, Deepbriar decided he needed something more concrete to divert his mind from the possibility of his imminent demise. ‘What did the estate agent say?’ he asked.
‘Pattridge turned up for the appointment. And he was keen to buy. He was due to call at the agent’s office the following Monday with the deposit. Needless to say
he didn’t turn up. The agent wrote to him, but the letter was returned with “gone away” on it. Low Rooking Garage was sold to somebody else about three months later. It’s a dead end, but it’s yet another piece of evidence that suggests something untoward happened to young Mr Pattridge.’
‘Three men can’t just vanish,’ Deepbriar said.
‘It looks increasingly likely that they did. While I was in town I called on another of Joseph Spraggs’s old chums. He was a bit more wary of naming names than Mrs Spraggs, but I got the impression he wouldn’t be surprised to hear that Sylvester Rudge had something to do with Joseph’s disappearing act. Though like Ted Cosgough, he was inclined to the view that Rudge wasn’t likely to resort to murder.’
‘Rudge himself wasn’t around the day Spraggs went missing. That might make a difference. It would be murder at one remove, so to speak.’ They went speeding through a village and zipped across the arterial road. ‘Didn’t you see the lights?’ Deepbriar asked, wondering if his new-found career with the CID would survive if he gave his superior officer a caution for dangerous driving.
‘On amber,’ Jakes replied cheerfully. ‘Proceed with caution, constable.’
There was nothing of caution in Jakes’s driving, but they were only half a mile from Derling by this time, so Deepbriar gritted his teeth and kept silent.
‘We’re looking for Mrs Marshall at Derling Grange Farm,’ Jakes said, as the village green flashed by. ‘Any idea where it is?’
‘You just passed it,’ Deepbriar said. ‘On the left.’
Taking advantage of a side turning, the sergeant wrenched the car round with a squeal of brakes, and headed back the way he’d come. ‘Neat, eh?’ he asked, grinning. ‘I don’t often get behind the wheel of one of these. Stubbs prefers to use a driver from the pool; he says it’s easier for us to work on the case if we don’t have to concentrate on the road.’
Stubbs, Deepbriar decided, was a diplomat, and a sensible man.
Mrs Marshall, a plump woman dressed in a stockman’s coat tied around the waist with string, and with her head swathed in a woollen head square, told them she had seen the tramp that morning as she brought her cows in for milking. ‘I’m not absolutely sure it was Bronc.’ she said, with a sidelong look at Deepbriar’s uniform, worn that morning because of his appearance in court. ‘But I’d heard the police were looking for him, so I telephoned the police station as soon as I got back inside.’
‘Exactly where did you see him?’ Jakes asked.
She answered with a question of her own. ‘You’re not going to arrest him, are you?’
‘No, but we hope he might be able to help us with our enquiries,’ Jakes said.
‘It’s nothing he’s done,’ Deepbriar explained, seeing the woman was still hesitant. ‘He’s needed as a witness.’
‘Oh, that’s all right then. I remember old Bronc coming through here when I was a little girl, I wouldn’t want to get him into trouble.’ She pointed to a small patch of trees on a nearby hill. ‘He was on the track up there. It goes over the top and down on to the Polthrup Road. There’s a café, where the lorry drivers go, and there’s usually somebody who’s prepared to buy a cup of tea for a tramp. At this time of year with the weather being so cold, I’d guess that’s where he’d be heading.’
Jakes turned the car around in the farm yard. ‘Which way?’
‘To the right.’ Deepbriar instructed. Suddenly inspired, he added, ‘I don’t know the roads that well, you’ll need to go slow or we’ll miss the turn.’
The ABC Café lay on the junction of the Polthrup Road and the new arterial road; an ideal spot to attract the passing trade. Through the haze of steam and cigarette smoke inside, the two officers inspected the clientele. Two lorry drivers sat hunched over plates of sausage and mash, while a man in a grubby trilby and a brown mac sat by the window nursing a large mug; a parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with string lay on the seat at his side.
‘That’s not him,’ Deepbriar said, disappointed; somehow he’d hoped, against all the odds, that this might be Bronc, alive and well. ‘That’s Digger Biggins.’
The tramp looked up as the two policemen approached, and gave Deepbriar a toothless smile. ‘Howdo, constable. What brings you so far from home?’
‘What now?’ Deepbriar asked, surreptitiously easing his belt out a hole. They were heading back to Falbrough, having made the best of a bad job by inviting an overjoyed Digger to join them for a plateful of the ABC’s choicest offering of sausage, eggs, bacon and fried bread, washed down with plentiful amounts of strong tea.
‘Blowed if I know.’ Jakes was despondent. ‘Let’s face it, we’ve got nowhere. We’re looking for Bronc because he just might know something about the abduction of Joe Spraggs, which just might be linked to what happened to Joseph. That case in turn bears some similarity to the disappearance of Tony Pattridge, who vanished nearly a year ago. All we’ve done is add more mysteries to the ones we already had. We think Sylvester Rudge could be involved, but apart from a few rumours, we’ve only Mrs Spraggs’s word for that.’ He shook his head. ‘Inspector Stubbs isn’t going to be impressed.’
‘He’s not back until Wednesday,’ Deepbriar said consolingly.
‘But that’s only two days. And we still haven’t got hold of the key to the airbase. I managed to speak to somebody at the Ministry this morning. They’re waiting for the man who knows who the key holder is, but he won’t be back in town until tomorrow night.’ They had almost reached Falbrough. With sudden decision Jakes turned off towards Minecliff. ‘There’s no point waiting, we’ll go in through the fence and take another look around. I came prepared this time, I’ve got some wellingtons in the back.’
Mud clogged their boots and splashed up their legs as they trudged along the headland, past the rusting warning signs and on to Air Ministry land. The airstrip looked bleak and neglected, a grey December sky hanging low above their heads, and a cold wind blowing from the north. They looked into a concrete guard post and descended steep steps to an air raid shelter, then moved on to examine a circular gun emplacement, finding nothing but a roll of tangled barbed wire and a couple of empty beer bottles.
‘What about that?’ Jakes asked, staring at the mausoleum, prominent on its slight rise. Your friend Joe told you he was shut up in a place with stone walls, didn’t he?’
Deepbriar gazed up at the building and shook his head. There were narrow slits right near the top, glazed with panels of stained glass. ‘He said there were no windows.’
‘It was probably the middle of the night,’ Jakes said. ‘He wouldn’t be able to tell in the dark.’
‘The sky was clear,’ Deepbriar told him, recalling the starlight as he stood outside the Speckled Goose on the first of November. And by the time the audience left the village hall the moon had risen.
‘It wouldn’t hurt to take a look, though.’ Jakes led the way. The approach to the mausoleum was overgrown with weeds and brambles, but a paved area in front of the door remained clear. The door, which was decorated with carvings of a bizarre mix of skulls and cherubs, was of solid wood, probably an inch thick. There was a huge lock, only slightly rusty, with a flap that could be swung aside to reveal the keyhole. Jakes took a magnifying glass from his pocket to take a closer look.
‘I don’t think the lock’s been tampered with, though it’s clean, no dirt or cobwebs in there, so it could have been opened recently,’ Jakes said. He turned slowly, looking at the surrounding weeds and scrubby bushes. ‘That bit looks as if it could have been trampled.’
Deepbriar fought his way through the brambles to circle the building. ‘No sign of anybody forcing a way in,’ he said when he got back to Jakes. ‘The windows are too small, even if you could reach them, and it would take a tank to get through these walls.’ He bent down and scanned the patch of ground Jakes had indicated. ‘Might be animals,’ he commented. ‘There are deer up here, and plenty of rabbits and foxes.’
‘We know somebody had those gates open though
, and they brought a vehicle in,’ Jakes said. ‘Let’s suppose they were heading here. Where’s the nearest bit of roadway?’
‘Over there.’ Deepbriar pointed, and they thrust their way through the undergrowth to find the strip of concrete. Several minutes later they had reached no conclusions. If somebody had driven here they had left no obvious tracks, though the two men found plenty of places where the grass had been flattened.
‘What’s that?’ Jakes said suddenly, diving into a patch of brambles. He backed out with a scrap of paper held in his hand.
‘Well?’ Deepbriar asked eagerly.
Having had a good look at his trophy Jakes handed it to the constable. ‘If that’s a clue then it’s not much of one,’ he said, pulling a thorn from his thumb and sucking at the resulting bead of blood.
Deepbriar looked at the piece of paper. It was almost square, about two inches across, totally blank except for the corner where two rough edges showed it had been torn from a bigger sheet. Close to the torn edge was a thick line, joined by a slightly thinner one at right angles. On the very edge of the tear was a circular mark, almost like a black ink blot.
‘That’s a funny shape, it doesn’t look like any letter that I can recognise,’ Jakes commented. ‘And it’s not written on the line. Could be part of a signature I suppose.’
‘It’s not lined paper,’ Deepbriar said. ‘Yet it doesn’t exactly look hand-written. It reminds me of something, but I can’t think what.’
Jakes sighed. ‘There’s just a chance it means something. Let’s see if we can find any more of it.’
They searched until the light began to fail, then gave up and headed back to the car. ‘I’ll drop you in the village,’ Jakes said, ‘no need for you to come back to the station.’
‘And what do we do tomorrow?’ Deepbriar asked.