‘In an investigation of this kind it is our duty to enquire into any abnormal action.’
‘I don’t call it very abnormal to go and look at a pool,’ said Francis and drained his beer mug.
‘It depends entirely on the circumstances. And there’s another thing, Mr Worthington. Having found the body, why did you not immediately retrace your steps to the nearest telephone and inform the police of your discovery?’
‘That’s more easily explained,’ said Francis. ‘I had arranged to meet David Brown on the pass to try a traverse of the Angel. As I expect you know, the rock faces north and you need a perfect day to do anything on it in comfort. If the chap in the beck had been alive, I’d have gone down for help, of course, but thank God he was as dead as mutton.’
‘You say ‘thank God.’ Were you by any chance acquainted with him?’
‘Don’t know him from Adam,’ said Francis. ‘Will you excuse me if I beetle through for another pint? Carey and I spent most of the day on the Pillar, and that’s a thirst-making rock if there ever was one.’
Before Price could express the objection he would have liked to make, Francis, who could move very quickly, was gone. Drumming the table with impatient fingers, Price thought: well, of all the cheek . . . thinks he can do as he likes . . . but he’s only a teacher, perhaps not even that; a reader sounds more like a student. I’ll enquire into that . . . steady Ron; because the chap gets in your hair it doesn’t mean anything; he wasn’t here at the time; bet he’s got a cast-iron alibi . . . When Francis came back with a newly lit cigarette and a brimming mug, Price said, ‘There was no necessity to replenish your glass; I only intended to keep you a moment longer, Mr Worthington. You understand that I am obliged to check up on the whereabouts of everyone however remotely connected with the case at the time of the murder. It would facilitate my investigation if you would inform me where you were staying prior to your arrival in Berrinsdale?’
Francis looked into his beer mug and said nothing. Price felt his heart-beats quicken. ‘Purely a matter of routine,’ he said blandly.
Francis looked up. ‘I was a long way from here. And that’s all I propose to tell you.’
Price said, ‘That is unwise of you, Mr Worthington. With our vast organization, we can count on tracing the movements of any individual in whom we are interested, but the majority of responsible citizens realize that to do so involves unnecessary expenditure of public money and at the same time gives rise to unpleasant speculation on the part of their neighbours.’
Francis laughed suddenly. ‘Sir, I have the good fortune to live in the University of Oxford. My neighbour in the Fellows’ Building of St Crispin’s speculates exclusively on the Absolute.’
‘Very well, Mr Worthington. As you seem to be aware, I cannot at present press you for the information, but I trust you realize that, in a case like this, where we are not met with frankness we naturally commence to draw our own conclusions?’
Francis, getting up, setting his mug on the chimney-piece, replied, ‘There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats; for I am armed so strong in honesty that they pass by me as the idle wind, which I respect not.’
Now what does he mean by that? . . . Laughing at me? . . . Cassius he called me, but whatever’s Cassius? . . . In a small panic, for he hated to show ignorance, Price said, ‘Very well, Mr Worthington, as we appear to be making no useful progress, we will terminate this extremely unsatisfactory interview, but if you should think better of your decision — a course which I strongly advise — I shall be ready to hear what you have to say tomorrow morning. Now good night.’
‘Good night, Detective Inspector.’
Francis went out into the hall, hung his empty mug on the hat-rack and passed through the open door into the yard, paved with squares of yellow lamplight from the uncurtained windows. The cold air of the spring night met him like a blessing. He crossed the yard and the road and leaned on the dry-stone wall and saw the sweep of Stone Fell to the starry heavens and the North Star shining above the pass. How calm, how simple, he thought, was this life among the mountains; how quiet your mind when you had climbed from the muddle of everyday living and there were no problems but those of rock and weather, nothing to fear, no threat to life or position or property because now you saw them truly — the withered laurels, the toys you had grown out of, the long grind up to the last of the passes, the pass that would lead you to even lovelier hills. On the Angel, today on the Pillar, he hadn’t put a foot wrong; all day he had been happy, confident, at peace; but half an hour’s talk with a miserable little policeman had dragged him back to the vexations of the ant-heap and he had been clumsy, stupid, at a loss. Of course they could trace his movements; there was his car number and Harriet’s face for ever in the Tatler; the registration at the Wand and Willow of Mr and Mrs Edwards of Edgbaston, that they had giggled over before their week-end went sour on them, wasn’t the slightest protection against the police. They would enquire at St Crispin’s; they would check at Nollis Hall; and Nollis, that nice fellow, would wake up to the fact that his wife had stayed for a week-end at a riverside pub with Francis Worthington and he would never believe and no one else would ever believe that from the moment after dinner when Harriet had remarked that the Wand and Willow was poky, the adventure, so ardently planned, so long desired, had developed into a tedious and embarrassing quarrel; there had been no adultery. Nollis was a strict sort of fellow. He would divorce Harriet, which was what Francis had always wanted, but which he knew now was what Harriet didn’t want: what Harriet wanted was to go on being unhappily married to Nollis, to live in his great beautiful house and entertain minor royalties at the week-ends and once a week to drive her Jaguar into Oxford and tell all her troubles to darling Francis, who was so sweet and understanding and hadn’t got sticking-out teeth like Nollis. Of course, if Nollis divorced Harriet, Francis would marry her and they could be madly happy for a month while he spent a year’s income, but Harriet had been wise when she had refused to break honestly with Nollis; you would be crazy to exchange a Norman castle, a dress allowance of a thousand pounds a year, a Jaguar, for a few nights of love from which you would wake to find yourself a don’s wife with a daily help in Marston Ferry Road or Norham Gardens. When that had been decided, Francis, to his present shame, had steadily blackmailed her into the clandestine week-end by the river, only he hadn’t been quite as bad as that; he’d said he was a man, he couldn’t go on, the only alternative was to stop seeing one another. Harriet had wept then; she was so lonely in that great house, Edmund was old enough to be her father, everything she did or said was wrong, she’d die or throw herself into the moat if she couldn’t see Francis. But though her slim gold-brown shoulders had shaken with sobs and her eyes when she cried were like drowned violets, Francis had been adamant. As Mr Edwards of Edgbaston, he had booked communicating rooms at the Wand and Willow; Harriet was to get up early and come into Oxford by the country bus and meet him outside Elliston’s . . .
Francis sighed. Perhaps what he should do was to throw himself on the mercy of the miserable little Inspector, confess to having registered at the Wand and Willow under a false name and beg him to make his enquiries as discreetly as possible. That would serve him right, but it didn’t seem very gentlemanly; where a lady’s fair name was in jeopardy, your lips should be sealed even on the scaffold: Harriet certainly would think so. And the Inspector — the little man who had come to the hills in a suit and braces, sock-suspenders, stiff collar and natty tie and said ‘commence’ for begin, ‘terminate’ for end, ‘prior to’ for before and, until you could scream ‘in the case of’ — well, I’d sooner go direct to Nollis, thought Francis; after all, we speak the same language. That’s what I’ll do, but not yet, not while there’s still a chance that we may not be traced to the Wand and Willow. So that’s that, thought Francis, and it’s going to be fine tomorrow and there’s Scawfell, and Sebastian’s not very good . . . he almost packed up on the Nose . . . but surely I can haul him up Slingsby’s
Chimney . . .
Chapter Three – Via Dolorosa
‘Excuse me,’ said Price.
Everyone jumped guiltily. Forks, on which were impaled delicious morsels of eggs and bacon, hung in air.
‘It was Mr Worthington I wished to speak to,’ said Price.
Francis rose scowling.
Meade said, ‘Can’t you let him finish his breakfast?’
‘I am only asking for two seconds of his valuable time,’ Price said sarcastically, ‘and I am sure you, Mr Meade, will agree that it is the duty of everyone to assist the police when called upon. It is my intention to visit the scene of the crime this morning and if Mr Worthington would be so good as to conduct me to the spot, it would obviate the necessity of calling the officer who superintended the removal of the body from his duties in connection with the case of alleged sabotage.’
Francis said, ‘Well, Carey and I were going over the pass to climb on Scawfell and we’ve just arranged that Dr Ormonde and Fräulein Truffer will come with us. If they don’t mind . . .’
Dr Ormonde said, ‘I’m old and fat. I’m glad of any excuse to admire the view.’
‘To help the police — that is goot,’ said Fräulein Truffer, looking scared to death.
‘All right, then, Inspector, in about half an hour.’ Francis sat down again.
Price went out into the morning sunshine. Horrified to discover that his bed was furnished with that enemy of hygiene, the feather mattress, he had lain long awake. Crowing cocks had awakened him again at midnight; just as he was dropping off the orphan lamb in the kitchen had begun to baa and some heavy-footed individual had gone clumping downstairs to its rescue. The cocks had crowed at dawn, and no sooner were they silent than the dale resounded to the maddening cry of cuckoo. Then birds innumerable had burst into chorus; cows mooed; buckets clinked; rustic voices called ‘G’oop’ and ‘G’wan.’ Price had risen, bathed in the uninviting brown water, and then, mad with unaccustomed hunger, had waited for breakfast to be served at nine o’clock. Even now the newspapers hadn’t come; they came with the post — according to the waitress, the time that the post came depended — and the radio was out of order — again according to the waitress, the battery needed charging — and Price anticipated that it would be a long half-hour before the climbers were ready, what with the chatter that was going on about routes up Scawfell and the fact that in all the house there was only one lavatory.
Impatiently he surveyed the landscape. There was nothing to see. Across a few poor fields with sheep in them rose a great bare mountain; it dipped, and there he supposed was the pass and you went over it and got to other such places. To the left of the pass was a steeper mountain with awful cliffs; even to imagine standing on the top and looking down made him feel dizzy. That would be the sort of mountain Worthington climbed, but not up those cliffs; there must be an easier way up the back of it . . . He became aware that Francis had emerged from the house and, sitting on the bench under the dining-room window, was winding a rope into a circle.
Price said, ‘Surely that rope is very thin to support the weight of a human being?’
Francis said, ‘It’s a nylon rope. They do look thin after the others, but they’re supposed to be stronger. And lighter, of course. We could have done with them in the Himalayas.’
‘That mountain opposite to us,’ said Price, pointing to Stone Fell’s mild contours. ‘I imagine that to reach the summit would hardly necessitate the use of a rope?’
‘No. You could just walk up there,’ agreed Francis.
‘But in the case of this other one’ — he indicated the Pike — ‘some assistance from the rope would be imperative. These cliffs are, of course, unscalable, but the back of the mountain is not, I suppose, so precipitous?’
Twisting the end of the rope round the circle he had made, Francis said, ‘You’re quite right, Inspector. The back, or, as we would call it, the north side of the Pike, is not precipitous. There is an easy side to all the mountains in the Lake District; in fact, there’s not one that can’t be surmounted by a persevering child of six.’
‘In that case, it seems strange that you climbers should risk your lives in purposely seeking more difficult routes to the summits.’
Francis said, ‘Ah, but we’re strange people.’
Meade came out then and said, ‘I say, Worthington, this is a bit of a rabble you’re taking. What’s that German wench done, if anything?’
‘She can’t be too bad. She’s done your chimney.’
Price put in, ‘I think I heard Miss Truffer say that she has ascended the Matterhorn. Surely that must be a sufficient recommendation? I should imagine that it is quite an unusual achievement for a lady.’
Francis laughed. ‘Anyone with the needful Swiss francs can get themselves hauled up the Matterhorn. But we’ll be all right, Meade. Dr Ormonde has done some quite respectable things on Gable, and Sebastian’s fairish.’
The three remaining members of the party then arrived in a body, and the ladies’ appearance was really quite a shock to Price — whatever would Valerie have thought of them? Dr Ormonde had discarded her skirt; she wore a canary-coloured sweater and corduroy breeches most unbecoming to a full female figure; the German girl wore shorts and a cellular shirt, which, being several sizes too small, left nothing to the imagination. Both ladies wore fantastically heavy nailed boots and Price considered that dainty feet were essential to an attractive woman; Valerie took size three in shoes and wore high heels even for housework; he did not connect this with the fact that she suffered from corns and walked like a cat on hot bricks and no further than the nearest bus stop. He really felt quite ashamed of being seen with these travesties of womanhood and hoped that until he had shaken them off he would not meet anybody.
Having bidden goodbye to Meade, who was apparently going fishing, the climbers started at last, but at a pace which exasperated Price by its slowness. He forged ahead, and where the iron gate opened on the fell he waited for them.
‘That will be Highbeck Farm?’ he asked, pointing to the white-washed house and farm buildings in the wild valley running up to the west between the cliffs of the Pike and the serrated ridge of High Hoister.
‘Yes,’ replied Francis.
Price observed, ‘I pity the poor folk who inhabit it. The lack of social intercourse must be terrible, especially during the winter.’
Francis said, ‘The family of the little girl who waits on us inhabit it. I would like myself to inhabit it. Dr Ormonde, wouldn’t you like to inhabit Highbeck Farm — on your left there. Or are you keen on social intercourse, like the Detective Inspector?’
Dr Ormonde said, ‘Human beings interest me. You don’t, Worthington. You haven’t even an inferiority complex. Now the Detective Inspector — but I’m on holiday.’
Francis said, ‘You know, Ormonde, you could be useful to him. Not to analyse him, though that would be fun, but to tell him which of us is capable of murder.’
Price said, ‘With all due respect to Dr Ormonde’s undoubted capabilities, psychoanalysis is of no assistance to the police. We need proof, not opinion. It is on facts that we build our cases.’ He had to stand still to say it and even then he spoke breathlessly, for now they had passed the mouth of the Highbeck Valley and the track rose steeply to take the first spur running down from the buttresses of the east face of the Pike. Henceforward the track allowed only for a single file of walkers; as Price stood still, the others passed him and he fell in behind them. They had not changed their pace; it wasn’t exactly too fast for him, but he wanted to halt, to get his breath and cool down a little. To Carey’s back he gasped, ‘The sun strikes hot. I find I’m perspiring freely.’
Carey turned round and said, ‘Surely you’re glowing?’
The allusion meant nothing to Price. He said, ‘It is cold air or cold water which induce a glow. I’m feeling the heat. The strength of the sun is hardly compatible with the season.’
‘Well, take your collar off,’ said Carey.
&nb
sp; And look a sight like the rest of you, thought Price; nothing doing . . . and now, thank goodness, the track was level — indeed, it descended, but over a horrible miniature precipice of rock, which, though his companions did not seem to break their stride, compelled him to clutch with his hands and lower himself. Below the rock was a bog, through which the others in their great clumsy boots squelched unheedingly; but the black bog water rose higher than the sides of his shoes — already, he saw to his horror, badly scruffed — and ran into them. Wet feet, he firmly believed were a danger to health; as he walked on he discovered that they were also uncomfortable. He felt sure that his right heel was blistered; if the dye of his navy blue socks ran, as Valerie had mentioned that it did when she had washed them, and the blister rubbed raw, as he fancied it would, he might be in for blood poisoning . . .
Again the track ascended. At the rocks Price had dropped some twenty yards behind Carey; heads down, the climbers plodded on — they’d not notice if he paused for a breather. He stopped and turned; he would appear, he thought, to be studying the approach to the scene of the murder . . .
He looked into the sun and through watering eyes saw the toy-like white building of the so-called hotel, the little fields that lay about it, the glittering lake; nostalgically he saw the road winding down and away from Berrinsdale. Under the stone-strewn mountain which they called Silver Screes he could make out the grassy track that Hardwick had referred to as the Old Road; he traced it to a grey building in a wood, which he supposed was the Hall. He could understand that poor farmers, unsuccessful elsewhere, might be forced by necessity or even deluded into hopeless attempts to wring a living from the soil of this dreadful dale; doubtless the land here was cheap to rent or buy; but he couldn’t understand how any sane person could deliberately choose to pass their days with nothing to look at but this empty stretch of water, these still and stony mountains, no level ground, no nice smooth pavements to walk on, no bus to catch, no crowds to watch, no shop windows to gaze in . . .
The Body in the Beck Page 4