The Massingham affair

by Grierson, Edward, 1914-1975

  "Plant it?"

  "That's right, sir—only of course he put it different. Workin' a ruse, he called it. So Inspector Mathieson and me goes down there. Piggott, he'd been a receiver, sir—done a bit of it in his time, but he was gettin' old and almost blind by then. 'Let's see your tools, Piggott,' the Inspector says, Piggott bein' a carpenter by trade. So we turns out the cupboards, and Mathieson slips in the chisel with the rest, then hauls it out and says to him: 'Piggott, is this yer chisel? There's

  been a burglary done at Stope and a man claims he lost a chisel the spittin' image o' this. Is this yer chisel, Piggott? If it is, it can't be stole from Stope, now can it?' And Piggott, bein' nervous of us like, thinkin' otherwise we'd fix a burglary on him, identifies the chisel right away. It's mine,' he says. 'Been mine for years that chisel has.'"

  There was a long silence, and then Justin murmured almost to himself: "And you lent yourself to that!"

  "It's been on me conscience, sir," Pugh said. "I've been wantin' to tell someone. And then you come along, sir, makin' enquiries about Massingham, so I heard. 'There's me man,' thinks I. 'There's the man I can go to if I can get him alone like when no one's watchin'.' It wouldn't do if they was, sir."

  He was glancing around uneasily in the darkness, and the mare, as though aware of this, began a series of small restless movements, raising and lowering her head.

  "What do you mean? Wouldn't do if who was here? Blair?"

  "Best be off, sir," the constable said. "It's a bit outby, like, but you get folk around sometimes."

  "Will you make a statement? Here, come back!"

  But he got no answer. Pugh had turned away into the gloom, and a few seconds later the clatter of hooves sounded along the bridle path that led downhill in an arc towards the town by Benton Moor.

  XVI

  Next morning the inquest on Amy Dodds opened in the Lawnmar-ket. It was surprising what little furore the death had caused, even among the Bewley and Pelegate folk. Apart from officials and a handful of spectators, among whom he recognised Miss Kelly, Inspector Mathieson and Mr Hicks from the Mercury, the court was empty when Justin went in soon after ten o'clock, to see the jury of seven reluctant citizens herded into their places, coughing and spluttering in the fog-laden air that had crept in from the streets. Only Mr Hicks seemed to have much stomach for the occasion. "You interested in this case too, sir?" he enquired, twisting round to greet the new arrival. "Pretty universal taste for crime you seem to have. Will the Beverend Gentleman be coming?"

  The first evidence went to identification and was given by a neighbour of the deceased called Adams, who had last seen her alive on

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  the late afternoon of 18th February, five days after Justin's visit to Clay Yard. It had been bitter weather, and as she had set out towards town she had been 'arl muffled up', with 'a bit scarf like' round her head and wearing clogs.

  From that moment she had disappeared from view, though one of the girls in Preston's bakery in Hewitt Street believed she had caught a distant glimpse of her at dusk, headed towards the Bew-shaugh meadows and the river. Next morning a forester employed by Sir Miles Curvis of High Crags had been cutting timber near the Red Mill pool when his attention had been drawn to something in the river below the weir—he had thought it was a small tree-trunk with some pink material attached, till he had come down on to the path and seen the half-submerged body entangled in driftwood and rushes about six yards from the bank.

  There the Police had seen it later that morning. Afterwards they had searched the bank for footprints or any signs of a struggle, but the frost was iron hard and they had found nothing. Nor had Dr Higson discovered any bruising on the corpse beyond what might be expected from a sudden fall. "I think she went into the water some time between four and nine o'clock," he told the court. "From the general condition, and in particular from the mud under the finger nails, I incline to the view that she made a determined effort to reach the bank. That of course is consistent with her having fallen in by accident. But it is also consistent with the act of suicide. That is a crime people sometimes have second thoughts about," he added grimly.

  Last into the box came a retired pitman by the name of Snell, who at dusk on the day of Amy's disappearance had been exercising his whippets in the fields at Bewshaugh. He had just turned for home, he said, and had whistled up his dogs, when he had heard voices in the woods near the Red Mill pool. There was a man's voice and a woman's and they had seemed to be arguing. No, he had not recognised them or caught any definite words—they had been too far away from him: perhaps two hundred yards. Nor had he seen anyone in the gathering darkness. But he felt sure they had been angry voices: 'the lass's much the louder'. His dogs had heard them too and had run towards the sound till he had called them back. They were obedient dogs.

  "No doubt," the Coroner remarked tersely at this point. "The fact is, isn't it, that you were coursing them?"

  "On Bewshaugh, sir!" It appeared from Mr Snell's virtuous disclaimers that there were no hares left in that somewhat over-hunted meadow at Pelegate's back door.

  "At all events," the Coroner persisted, "the attention you paid these voices that you say you heard was cursory. You didn't investigate them or report them?"

  Mr Snell had 'niwer thowt on it'.

  "Quite. The impression that they made on you was simply of a quarrel, not the first you have heard perhaps. You had no cause to apprehend that any criminal or homicidal act was likely."

  "They was just arguin'."

  "So you called your dogs off and went home?"

  "That's right, sir. To me tea."

  When the Coroner came to address the jury he dealt caustically with this evidence. "How much it may be expected to help you is most debatable," he remarked with a sour glance at Mr Snell. "Whether the man was coursing game or not—and you may have formed your own opinions as to that— what is certain is that he paid only the vaguest attention to anything else that afternoon. That two people were talking in the wood we may accept, but beyond that all is surmise. Gentlemen, I must tell you that there is not a scintilla of evidence to show that it was the deceased's voice in the woods. Of course it may have been. That the body was found next day near the spot is suggestive, but no more than that. Still more definitely must I direct you that the fact that an unknown man's voice was heard in argument with an unknown woman is no indication whatsoever that anyone murdered Amy Dodds, whom no one, so far as we have heard, had cause to fear or threaten. You might just as well accept the obedient activities of those dogs of Mr Snell's as being probative and helpful; and indeed one can be a great deal more certain of what they and their master were about that evening.

  "Now, gentlemen, free of these beguiling but quite misleading thoughts . . ."

  Of course, the Coroner was perfectly right, and by the standards of proof demanded by the law there could be no question of the jury finding anything but Misadventure or, perhaps more appropriately, an Open Verdict. But as he went back to his office, leaving them still deliberating, Justin was remembering Mr Snell and the raised voices in the twilight by the weir. He felt quite sure that one of those voices had been Amy's. What had taken her through the

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  THE MASSINGHAM AFFAIR

  Red Mill woods? The riverside path, which had been used as a right-of-way by Smedwick folk for generations, was a notorious place for lovers, and though Amy had not put on her best clothes, and the weather had been arctic, the possibility of some rendezvous must be the most likely explanation of what had drawn her there.

  But the Red Mill path was also a convenient short-cut between Pelegate and the streets on the Warbury side of the town—including for that matter Laburnum Road. 'If she had been coming to "The Laurels" to see me,' he thought, 'she might well have come that way' —and checked suddenly as an idea obtruded itself into his mind: certainly the most unpleasant he had had to live with since the beginning of the Massingham affair. Amy's words to him in
Clay Yard, the furtive sounds behind the walls and the hurrying figure in the lamplight all seemed to merge with the voices in the wood to form a pattern, part of a wider pattern which he began to glimpse. It might not be true to say, as the Coroner had said, that no one had had cause to fear or threaten the dead girl. It might be the very reverse of the truth. Her evidence about Piggott's coat could have become a very pressing danger to some people. Her willingness to talk, and perhaps to say far more than she had done already, need only have been overheard that night by someone who felt threatened by it, for a powerful motive of fear to have arisen. And who better than the Police to have had such a motive? Far more directly than the guilty men who had broken in at Massingham, Blair and his subordinates had been threatened by Amy's words with an exposure which if proved would ruin all of them. Now it could be proved no longer— unless Miss Kelly had also known about the switch of the coats, or Piggott himself could be winkled out of his shell in the municipal workhouse.

  See Miss K—Piggott—statutory declaration in both cases, he scribbled on his memo pad, having dodged guiltily into his office through the private door in the irrational hope that Harris would imagine he had been there for some time. He had no sooner opened the nearest file in sight, however, than there came the faint rap at the door and his clerk entered with the expression winch only Flo had developed to a more poignant pitch of suffering.

  "Colonel Deverel is in my office, sir."

  He shot up from the desk, appreciating from the tone in which these words had been uttered that Harris was not reproaching him, and that in itself was alarming.

  "Has he been here long? Why didn't you show him in? Did you tell him where I was?"

  "Viewing the locus in quo, sir—of a conveyance, sir."

  Justin began to breathe more easily. "Miss Georgina isn't with him?"

  "No, sir."

  "It'll be about a codicil, perhaps. I thought last time he had a mind to add one."

  One glance at his client, however, and this particular illusion took flight and was seen no more. A formidably belted and tweeded knickerbocker suit intruded itself into his view—the most rural thing in Smedwick according to the Duke, who was privileged to joke about such things. Justin felt no desire to emulate him, however. There were positions from which everything could appear absurd, and positions from which absurd things had frightening aspects, and he was now occupying just such a viewpoint, in the presence of an irascible magistrate who was also likely to be his father -in-law.

  "What the devil do you mean by it?" the Colonel exploded the instant they were alone.

  The field of guilt, when one looked at it, was wide. Could it be anything apropos of Sugden? Or of Miss Verney? Abandonment of Georgina? The affair of the carriage? Association with Mr Lumley and the radical interest? None of these things seemed capable in themselves of causing such a turkey-cock hue in the Colonel's cheeks or such a splutter in his voice, only apparent in the presence of the most heinous and depraved criminals.

  "Suborning a police officer," the Colonel shouted with the virulence of a man who has kept something pent-up far too long.

  The victim could hardly have been more astonished: it was the one crime of which he knew himself to be innocent. "Suborning? Excuse me, sir," he was beginning in an aggrieved voice when the Colonel swept ahead of him:

  "I will not excuse you. You are the very last person one can excuse. A man of the law with professional knowledge! What can have made you do it?"

  "Do what, sir?"

  "Suborn Pugh. Are you telling me you didn't? Do you deny you saw the man?"

  "We met: that's true."

  "So you admit it?"

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  "Of course I admit it."

  "And you pressed him to say—for what reason I can't imagine-that he took part in a conspiracy with other officers to pervert the course of Justice in the case of those poachin' fellers at Massingham who shot at Verney."

  "Poor Pugh."

  "What's that?" demanded the Colonel, whose hearing had begun to fail a little.

  "I was thinking aloud, sir. May I see Pugh?"

  "Naturally you cannot see him. A most improper suggestion."

  "But if I'm accused . . ."

  "You are not accused. No action will be taken. Do you want this bruited abroad? Superintendent Blair, though as mystified as I am about the whole business, agrees with me that this is not a matter that should be aired publicly and that the best course will be to transfer Pugh to another place, as has been done already, and forget the whole distressing incident. He has seen the Chief Constable about it."

  "A very tidy and agreeable solution, I must say. Very typical of Blair."

  "What I do not find agreeable," the Colonel said, "is your attitude to this affair, which has come as a most profound shock to me. You will of course apologise."

  "I do to you, sir. I am most deeply sorry to have distressed you."

  "You will apologise to the Superintendent, which will be more to the point."

  "I'm afraid I can't do that."

  Colonel Deverel listened in silence to what followed. This was because after the first few words his emotions began to choke him, and by the time they had got to Blair's part in the affair of Piggott's chisel he had become so painfully apoplectic that Justin began to fear for him. 'J usr like that old cock,' he thought, remembering a salmon he had landed the previous summer. A too squeamish fisherman, he had felt sorry for the salmon then and he felt sorry for the Colonel now and would have liked to return him to his own element. The gaff was in, however, and the victim lashing out in convulsive movement:

  "I'll not believe a word of it. A Police conspiracy indeed! Those men were guilty, and who should know it better than me? I committed them."

  "On the evidence before you, sir."

  "Conclusive evidence. Do you imagine I've forgotten it? Conclusive of guilt. The footprints: they were enough in themselves. The paper in Kelly's pocket. There was a trouser button too. Then the Verneys' evidence. Are you suggesting they conspired?"

  "I think they were mistaken."

  "My boy, it is you who have been mistaken; you have been misled," the Colonel said with deep earnestness, moved by the pit he saw opening before a young man whom he liked. "You have listened to gossip and been deceived by a worthless scoundrel, for that is what Sugden is. That you meant well I have no doubt, but you have been used by unscrupulous people whose only aim is to cause trouble and embarrass the Police. There is no great harm done, however, apart from your approach to Pugh, and I put that down to a misguided enthusiasm which in the circumstances Blair must overlook. I ask for one thing only: your promise that you will forget this . . . this folly. Will you do that?"

  "I can't. I'm sorry."

  "I too am sorry," the Colonel said. "You are a young man and impulsive, and there is time to recognise it and mend your ways. But not much time. Do you understand me?"

  "I think I do, sir."

  "I think you do too, but let me make it quite plain. If you persist in a course which I regard as mischievous, then you do it with your eyes open. I can't help you any longer. Nor will you be allowed to see my daughter. The engagement will be at an end."

  XVII

  'Damned if I'll let him dictate to us!' thought Justin. It was a long time since he had felt so warmly and companionably of Georgina. The memories of the old rapturous days of country walks and balls at the Assembly Rooms had seemed very distant lately, and though he had not supposed that this was anything more than happened to other couples caught in a long engagement once the delirium of first love was over, he had been aware of a feeling of void and a vague longing and regret which had disturbed him greatly. Now it had gone. I'll see her,' he thought. They'll never stop me. But I must make it easy for her and not embarrass her. I must catch her alone.'

  M5

  THE MASSIXGHAM AFFAIR

  For the next two days, in every moment he could spare from his office, he haunted the Wa
rbury Road. Showers of sleet raged across the plain from hills whose crests were white in fugitive gleams of sunshine, and the roads were ankle deep in slush which the traffic churned up into a mess of the consistency of glue. He remained buoyed up with a feeling of excitement. He had written her and hoped for some sign. It would surely be possible for even the most obedient daughter to go out unchaperoned in the pony chaise, say to Cousin Emily's, which more than once had been used as a pied a terre from which visits could be launched on his office. But nothing happened. He might have been a tramp out there in the bitter weather watching the social round go by—the phaetons in the drive, the lighted windows in the dusk.

  On the third afternoon he returned home much earlier than usual, and as he came up the path between the laurels he had a vision which he had not had for years, of a small boy hurrying home from school with a satchel on his back, and Flo's pigtails as she stood under the mistletoe.

  "Is that you, dearest?" he heard her call out.

  In the drawing-room she had rung for tea. "You look quite exhausted, dearest," she remarked compassionately. "I know one must say nothing against Mr Harris, who is above criticism and can do no wrong, but in my opinion he is much to blame. You have a bad colour."

  "Are you blaming the poor chap for that?"

  "Someone is to blame. You're surely not still worrying about that man—what was his name? Sugden?—and that attempt on poor dear Mr Verney?"

  "I've not seen Sugden for ages."

  "You quite relieve me. Really I was distressed to think of you in such a company of desperadoes. How Mr Harris permitted it . . ."

  "Harris is my clerk."

  "True, but he has great influence on you, as anyone can see, and if he had wished to stop it . . ." She broke off and added breathlessly: "It's not some trouble with Georgina?"

  Once Flo had got on to a problem there was really no point in trying to dislodge her, and resignedly he waited for the lamentations to begin—'Your poor father! . . . And such a perfect match! ... so well bred ... so ladylike ... a dear good girl.' To his astonishment she said nothing, but continued to stare at him, her eyes very round