Bury in Haste

by Jean Rowden

  It was as if all the cogs of a piece of machinery suddenly fell into place and began to turn smoothly and soundlessly. Barney Crimmon! That was the name Sergeant Cosgough had been trying to think of, the name of the man always hanging around Sylvester Rudge, trying to impress him.

  ‘So you told Harry about seeing the Crimmon brothers. Anything else?’

  ‘Might o’ mentioned that other car, that little red un in Gadwell Lane what you asked me about. Reckon that belonged to Barney, though I didn’t see ’im clear. Wearin’ a fancy coat ’e was, fawn colour, with a soft brown ’at.’

  The description fitted that of the stranger seen talking to Bronc in the porch at the Speckled Goose on the Monday, the last day he was seen. Barney Crimmon could have been finding out where Bronc planned to sleep that night.

  ‘You’d better be telling me the truth, Bert, or you’ll be sorry.’

  ‘Fine one to talk about the truth, you are,’ Bert said, ‘makin’ threats against an innocent man. I could report you.’

  Deepbriar didn’t respond, getting back on his bike and turning away.

  ‘Don’t you go tellin’ no lies about me!’ Bunyard shouted after him, the words echoing in the empty village street.

  The afternoon was already darkening into night. As Deepbriar turned towards the aerodrome he felt a shiver run up his back; who better to dispose of a body than an undertaker, given their access to graves.… The thought hit him so suddenly he almost fell off his bike. Who was most likely to have the key to a mausoleum if it was no longer in the hands of the family?

  Deepbriar went directly to the gates, intent on not wasting time. He didn’t have any tools powerful enough to cut through the chain that held the gate shut, but a few minutes hard work with a pair of pliers provided him with a hole in the wire fence. Once he’d wheeled his bike through he paused to study the ground inside the gate. There were new tyre tracks in the mud. He went back to the gap in the fence and pushed the edges of mesh roughly back together, with some vague idea that it would be better if he left no obvious signs of his visit. Swinging his leg back over the saddle, Deepbriar set a direct course for the mausoleum.

  It was full night now. He was reliant on the dim beam from his cycle lamp to show the way as he pedalled along the cracked concrete road, and he wondered what had happened to Harry’s bright new battery lamp. Presumably his bike had been left somewhere, like Joe’s, but where? Had Harry gone to Belston looking for Barney Crimmon, or to the undertakers in Falbrough?

  A ghostly white shape flickered into the beam of light, and Deepbriar bit down an exclamation of alarm. It was a barn owl, flying low. It screeched as it swooped away towards the rows of Nissen huts to his left. Deepbriar braked. The bird had come from directly ahead; maybe it had been disturbed in some way. He turned off his lamp and for a few moments he could see nothing, then gradually his eyes adjusted, and he could make out the pale surface of the road. Cautiously, aware of every sound the bicycle made, even the slight hiss of its tyres on the concrete, he pedalled on.

  The mausoleum appeared first as a faintly grey patch against the dark sky. When he was a couple of hundred yards from it, Deepbriar dismounted and pushed the bike out of sight behind a mound of brambles, to continue on foot. He approached slowly, carrying his torch in his left hand, finger poised on the switch, while his right was gripped tight around his truncheon.

  There was no car, black or otherwise, parked anywhere near the mausoleum. No sound disturbed the silence; some instinct told Deepbriar that he was alone. He turned on the torch and inspected the ground beneath his feet. The area he and Jakes had examined the day before had been trampled since their visit.

  The grotesque carvings on the door looked menacing in the flickering torch light, the skulls staring sightlessly from blank sockets, the cherubs leering unpleasantly at him. Deepbriar shone the torch at the lock. It hadn’t been tampered with, but there was no way of telling if it had been opened recently. He pushed the cover from the keyhole and bent closer.

  A sound, as terrible and yet as sweet as any he’d heard in his life, came faintly from behind the locked door. Harry Bartle’s tuneless tenor was murdering a popular song. It took a few moments to recognise it as an attempt at ‘Tea for Two’.

  Deepbriar put his mouth to the keyhole and shouted. ‘Harry!’ The caterwauling stopped, and he shouted again, then shone the torch through the keyhole, hoping there was no flap to obscure it on the inside.

  ‘Mr Deepbriar?’ Relief and incredulity in his voice, Harry shouted back. He must have moved closer, for the words were plain and clear. ‘Is that really you?’

  ‘It’s me Harry. Are you all right?’

  ‘I am now. I never thought.…’ He paused, and when he went on the tremor had left his voice. ‘You’ve got them then? You know what happened?’

  ‘Only what I’ve guessed. Tell me how you got here,’ Deepbriar ordered. A further look at the door confirmed what he and Jakes had agreed on the day before. Without the key or a sledge hammer he had no hope of getting Harry out. He turned off the torch, half an ear cocked for sounds from the direction of the gate. ‘And make it quick.’

  ‘It was Bert Bunyard. He had a bit to drink last night, and it loosened his tongue. He told me he’d seen Aubrey Crimmon and his brother up here in a hearse, the night Bronc disappeared.’

  ‘You should have come and told me.’ Deepbriar said angrily.

  ‘I know. I thought about it, but I wasn’t sure if Bert was telling me the truth. Besides, they might have had a legitimate reason for coming here. Crimmon is an undertaker, for all I knew he could be responsible for taking care of this place. Anyway, there was something else Bert told me, about a car that he’d seen parked in Gadwell Lane. He thought it might belong to Barney Crimmon, so I decided I’d find out if that was true, and if it was then I’d have something definite to tell you.’

  Harry made a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. ‘I didn’t think about it being risky. When Mr Crimmon taught us he’d never even take a ruler to us, no matter how much we played up in his lessons. We always reckoned he was soft.’

  ‘You went to see Cyril Crimmon?’ Deepbriar was confused. ‘But he wasn’t the one Bert saw in the car.’

  ‘I know. That was the point. Anyway, I knew Mr Crimmon’s first lessons always started at eleven when I was at school, so I took a chance that he still started work late, and dropped in just before he left home. I’d got an excuse all worked out, because the last time I saw him, he told me I ought to give up singing and try to learn an instrument instead. I was going to ask where I could find somebody to teach me to play the flute.’

  Deepbriar suddenly remembered the scrap of paper Jakes had found; he knew now what it was. It had been torn from the corner of some sheet music, and nearly every time he saw Cyril Crimmon, the man had a bundle of scores clutched to his chest. Unlikely as it seemed, the music master had been here as well. Whatever was going on, he was involved.

  ‘So what happened?’ Deepbriar asked.

  ‘Well, he was getting ready to go out when I arrived, and we stood talking at the door for a bit. He told me he’d find out about tutors if I was really interested. When a car went by it gave me the chance to ask about his brother, and whether it was him I’d seen driving an Austin Healey. He looked at me a bit strange, then he sort of shook himself and asked if I’d like to come in for a cup of tea. I thought it was odd, but since he hadn’t told me about the car I said yes.’

  ‘He’d got you sussed,’ Deepbriar hazarded.

  ‘Yes.’ Harry sighed. ‘I couldn’t get him to talk about his brother at all, let alone the car. It’s all so easy when Dick Bland and Mitch O’Hara do it. Mr Crimmon just kept talking about music, and whether I might do better with the piano instead of the flute, then he started telling me how much he enjoyed playing the organ at the church. That was when he mentioned you, saying that he knew we were friends.’

  It was the constable’s turn to sigh. ‘And that didn’t ring any alarm bells?
Come on, Harry, I didn’t think you were that slow.’

  ‘Sorry, Mr Deepbriar. I made a real hash of things. I sat in the parlour like a proper nitwit while he was making the tea in the kitchen. He brought two cups in and gave one to me. I don’t think I drank more than half of it, then suddenly I felt sort of sick and sleepy.’

  ‘And the next thing you knew, you were shut up here in the dark.’

  ‘Yes. It’s the mausoleum, isn’t it? The one belonging to the Abney-Hughes family. I wasn’t sure, it’s pitch dark, but I fumbled my way around a bit, and I could feel these great stone coffins.’ He paused. ‘I don’t know what it is, but you wouldn’t believe the stench in here.’

  Deepbriar bit his lip. He’d believe it all right. Harry had probably been lucky not to fall over old Bronc’s body while he was exploring.

  ‘Can’t you get this door open, Mr Deepbriar?’ There was a sudden urgency in Harry’s voice. ‘They’ll be back, won’t they? Mr Crimmon and his brothers?’

  ‘I’m afraid they will, and no, I can’t see any way of getting you out. I brought a few tools, but nothing that will get through an inch of solid oak. Try not to worry, Harry, there’ll be reinforcements coming from Falbrough.’ Childishly, he crossed his fingers as he spoke, either for luck or to ward off the evil of telling Harry something he scarcely knew to be true. ‘It’s odd, there must have been a bit of daylight left when you came to, and there are windows in the top of these walls. Even now, the sky isn’t completely dark.’

  ‘It’s pitch-black in here,’ Harry repeated. ‘I suppose …’

  Deepbriar didn’t hear what Harry supposed, because at that moment a dim light showed in the distance, and there was the throaty rumble of a motor. Somebody was coming. Jakes must have got his message. Deepbriar breathed a sigh of relief. But then he realised that the car was showing only sidelights. Whoever was driving didn’t want to be seen from the village.

  ‘Harry,’ he said urgently, ‘I think it’s them. If we’re going to get you out of there I can’t do anything until they’ve got the door open. It might be an idea if you hide yourself. See if you can get out of sight.’ Without waiting to hear the young man’s reply, Deepbriar crept away from the door and around the side of the mausoleum. He stood with his back to the stones, trying to keep his breathing slow and silent, and listening to the growl of the car’s engine as it drew closer.

  There was a crunching sound as the car’s wheels pulled off the roadway, then the motor stopped. A hinge creaked as the car door opened. Hurried footsteps sounded, muffled by the trampled turf. Deepbriar leant cautiously from his hiding place until he could see the car; it wasn’t a hearse, but a sports car, left with the driver’s door standing wide open. It seemed that the youngest of the Crimmon brothers had come alone.

  Deepbriar relaxed as he heard a key inserted into the mausoleum’s lock. He’d soon have Harry safely back home; one man he could deal with. Flexing his grip on his truncheon and checking that his finger was ready on the switch of his torch, Deepbriar pushed away from the wall. Something snagged hard at his leg and he stumbled, his arms windmilling wildly. He pulled free from the clutches of the brambles, but he had wasted several precious seconds, and his quarry was already out of sight.

  From inside the mausoleum came a thud and a muffled cry, then the sound of something falling. His heart in his mouth, Deepbriar rushed the doorway. He had expected Crimmon to be carrying a light but he found himself facing an impenetrable darkness. With a flick of his finger he turned on his torch. The beam caught Barney Crimmon full in the face, making him squint, dragging his attention from Harry Bartle, who lay on the floor at his feet.

  The torch light reflected dully off something in Crimmon’s hand. A knife. An inch of its tip was stained red. Halted for no more than a moment by the interruption, the man lunged towards Harry’s unmoving form.

  Chapter Twenty

  * * *

  ‘No!’ Deepbriar shouted desperately. ‘Police! You’re under arrest, Crimmon. Drop that knife.’

  A slow grin lifted the corners of Crimmon’s mouth. ‘I don’t think so.’ He was standing right over Harry and his arm drew back for the fatal blow. In response Deepbriar launched himself, swinging the truncheon wildly, terrified that he’d been too slow and praying that his attack would force Crimmon to abandon Harry.

  There was a split second when it seemed that the knife must stab down into the helpless man between them, but to Deepbriar’s relief Crimmon straightened. ‘Interfering bloody flatfoot,’ he snarled. ‘You first then. Come and get it.’

  Deepbriar moved to one side, and as Crimmon followed, lured away from Harry Bartle, he turned off the torch. Moving like lightning, Deepbriar kicked back with his foot, slamming the heavy door shut. Total darkness descended and he dodged to the right, light-footed despite his bulk.

  Something thudded solidly against Deepbriar’s left arm, just below the shoulder. He grunted, flailing with the truncheon at the place he thought Crimmon must be, but encountering only thin air. Deepbriar took a cautious step, silent as a cat, then he paused, listening. There was no sound, he couldn’t even hear Crimmon’s breathing.

  Feeling faintly ridiculous, Deepbriar stretched his arms out in front of him, hoping they would impede Crimmon’s aim and save him from a fatal body blow; he had to put some distance between himself and the knife before he turned the torch on again.

  His flesh cringing at each step, expecting the knife to strike him at any second, Deepbriar crept forward, setting each foot down with exaggerated care, hoping he wouldn’t trip over Harry and give himself away. Completely disorientated, he had no idea which direction he was taking. Three steps and he was still alive and untouched. Four. Maybe he was going to live after all.

  Ears straining, he heard faint rustlings and scrapings echoing round the mausoleum’s high roof then abruptly a different sound intruded into the silence, a sound muffled by the thick wooden door. Another car was coming.

  Deepbriar kept moving until he encountered a wall. He set his back to it, hauled in a breath and turned on the torch. Barney Crimmon stood with his back to him, a few yards away, head cocked as if he was listening to the approaching car. The man snapped round as the light came on.

  ‘That will be half a dozen officers from Falbrough,’ Deepbriar said, taking a wary step back towards him. ‘Don’t make things any worse for yourself, Crimmon. Put the knife down.’

  Outside, doors slammed and there was the sound of footsteps. Two men at least, Deepbriar thought; he was glad Jakes hadn’t come alone, things could still turn nasty if the other Crimmon brothers arrived. The door opened and a bright light shone in, eclipsing that held by the constable, and almost blinding him.

  ‘I’m glad you came, sergeant,’ Deepbriar said, squinting into the light. Silhouetted against the glare was a slight figure, too small to be a police officer. The man paused for only a second then crouched down to examine Harry Bartle, who still lay huddled on the floor.

  Behind the newcomer was a much larger man. He stepped inside to set the lantern down before stepping back to block the doorway. Deepbriar’s heart sank. He was looking at the solid black-clad figure of Aubrey Crimmon.

  ‘About time,’ Barney said. He smirked at Deepbriar. ‘Looks like I’m the one with the reinforcements, constable.’

  ‘What I told you is true, more police are on the way,’ Deepbriar said. ‘If you give yourself up before they get here I’ll put in a good word for you at the trial.’

  ‘You’re bluffing,’ Barney Crimmon said. ‘But you’ve got nerve, I’ll grant you. The kid too, trying to jump me from behind the door like that.’ He scanned the floor and bent to pick up the torch Harry must have knocked from his hand. He tossed it to the undertaker, who stood silent and motionless at the door. ‘Stupid of course, but brave.’

  ‘If you’ve killed him …’ Deepbriar grated.

  ‘He’s still alive,’ Cyril Crimmon said, straightening up from beside Harry.

  ‘That can be remedied,’
his younger brother said, the blade reflecting shards of rainbow light as he tossed the weapon casually from one hand to the other.

  ‘No!’ Cyril protested. ‘He’s hardly more than a boy. You can’t.’

  From the doorway, Aubrey spoke for the first time. ‘You weren’t supposed to come here, Barney. We told you it was over, you should have gone while you had the chance.’

  ‘I’m going nowhere.’ His gaze flickered over each of his older brothers in turn. ‘You really think that would solve anything? You’re both in this as deep as I am. Were you planning to make a run for it too? I suppose you were just going to let this little meddler go, like the other one. If you’d let me deal with Joe Spraggs in the first place there wouldn’t have been any of this bother.’

  ‘He’d done nothing,’ Cyril said, sounding terrified. ‘Please Barney, it’s time to go.’

  ‘Run if you want,’ Deepbriar said, ‘but you won’t get far. Either way, there’s no point killing Harry, because we’re on to you, Crimmon. We know you’ve already killed three men.’

  ‘Three?’ Barney Crimmon shook his head mockingly. ‘You’ve got it all wrong. I didn’t kill Tony. The fool got thrown through the windscreen when he put that car in the ditch. He broke his stupid neck.’

  ‘We’re wasting time.’ Aubrey Crimmon put a hand into his inside pocket. ‘I thought we might find you here, so I brought some money, Barney. We’ll keep these two out of commission for a few hours while you get clear. Drive to the coast and find a boat that’s crossing the channel.’

  ‘I told you, I’m not going.’ The younger man, the knife still in his hand, moved towards Harry. ‘We’ll clear up here and nobody will know any different. Out of the way, Cyril.’