The Body in the Beck

by Joanna Cannan

  He looked down his north-east arrête and didn’t like it. The moonlight lay cold on the wet rock, but below the overhang there would be shadow. He recalled this foothold and that, and realized then that he was still in bedroom slippers. They were crêpe-soled and not for wet rock, so he pulled them off and lobbed them gently over the edge and heard them fall with a light rustle into the bracken. Then, facing outwards from the rock, he went easily down the ridge, crabwise across the slab to the ladder of footholds on the edges of the crack. Facing the rock, feeling for the toe-holds, he descended to the overhang and, groping in the shadow, found one after another the handholds on the traverse to the ‘nose.’ Here again he had the moonlight and could see the little dent in the rock which was the key to the ‘nose.’ Going up, getting yourself over the bulge of rock with only the one small finger-hold had called for considerable skill and confidence, but there was no difficulty in going down with the knowledge that the flake of rock was there to receive your feet. The flake leading off the rock was sharp to feet only protected by what remained of socks; more painful still was the last injudicious step on a hard dead stem of bracken. Francis sat down nursing his foot and swearing till the pain wore off.

  He found his slippers lying together as though placed to warm at a cosy fireside. He forced his sore feet into them and squelched off over the turf beside the drystone wall. Soon now a fire and food and bed . . . it wasn’t like going back to a bivouac on Chowolunga, and already he had reached the gap in the wall through which he had made his way to the courtyard. He paused there, looking across the orchard to the dark bulk of the house and its silvered gables, wondering what went on there that could have been discovered and used by a blackmailer. Surely to people living in such isolation the revelation of some domestic secret — bigamy, illegitimacy — would scarcely matter enough to drive them to killing; yet people had queer values and the ‘fragile elderly lady,’ though practically a recluse in Berrinsdale, might still in Ambleside, Grasmere, Bowness, lead a social life among classy friends, which she valued. Not my business, thought Francis. Price is the professional. I’ll report to him and he can have the pleasure of hauling her off to the madhouse or the gallows; and then the thought came: what have I to report . . . nothing to be seen in the well . . . a car, now probably unidentifiable . . . a broken head that I might have got falling off a crag . . . again no witness, no proof that I’m not lying. If I had gone further, gone into the house . . . He stepped lightly over the loose stones from the fallen wall and was in the orchard.

  This time, leaving the stables and barn on his right, he found an archway leading into a smaller courtyard, where, but for the stealthy pace at which he was moving, he might have suffered more than a scraped nose from a sagging wire clothes-line. If climbing in the Alps was difficult, but not dangerous, and climbing in the Himalayas was dangerous, but not difficult, and climbing in the Lake District was both dangerous and difficult, what on earth could be said about snooping round houses in the Lake District, he thought, rubbing his nose and ducking under the clothes-line. But here came a break: two windows and a door opened on the courtyard and the door was open.

  Switching on a gimcrack torch of a revolting pink, which he had borrowed from Gloria, telling her that he could never remember where light switches were and that sage and onions always upset him, he found himself in a stone passage with nothing to hear but the dismal dripping of a tap from a room on his left — the scullery. On his right was a lamp-room. Next on his left was a kitchen. A fire was dying in a huge rusty range, but he was warm now — in humiliating fact, he was sweating with apprehension. Opposite the kitchen was a pantry and next to it a larger room, crowded with junk — old-fashioned trunks, broken chairs, smashed pictures, heaps of old and evil-smelling clothing. The passage ended in a door covered with tattered red baize and Francis pushed it gently open. He was now in the hall, bright with moonlight streaming in through the uncurtained windows. He saw a gallery and a staircase; then, from behind the door a body leaped on him, hooked a leg round his knee, bore him to the ground, held him there by his arms, and, kneeling on his chest, snarled, ‘Yell, and you’ve had it.’

  Francis had spent the war in submarines and had no experience of hand-to-hand fighting, but he lifted his knees with a jerk and his opponent lurched forwards, With a heave sideways, Francis got an arm free, hit the man as hard as he could on the ear and rolled him over. Now Francis was on top and looked down into the ravaged face of Sebastian.

  ‘Good God, Sebastian!’

  ‘Oh, my ear,’ moaned Sebastian.

  ‘God, I’m sorry,’ said Francis.

  ‘Ssh,’ said David, flashing a powerful torch at the recumbent figures. ‘We were looking for you, Skipper. Where have you been all this time?’

  ‘Flat out,’ said Francis scrambling to his feet. ‘At least I think so. But damn it, it’s not morning yet. Did you follow me?’

  ‘Follow you? No. We spent the whole day searching the fells for you. Carey and I came down here tonight on our own to look for you.’

  ‘I don’t understand it, but it doesn’t matter now. I found a car they’re dismantling in a locked barn and I’ve come back for more evidence. Been through the rooms?’

  ‘Drawing-room and dining-room,’ said David. ‘Nix. But there’s a locked room. I was getting it open and I can finish it in a jiff if you’ll hold the torch for me. You stay here, Carey.’

  ‘I won’t. I’m no use now, anyway. Can’t hear anything but buzzing. Can’t see anything either. Shine your torch on the ground, Brown. I’ve lost my specs.’

  ‘Do without ’em,’ said David, who had perfect sight, but Francis switched on his torch and picked up the horn-rims from under a table. Then he followed David and found him at work on the lock of a door beyond the second flight of the double staircase. ‘Do much of this kind of work?’ Francis whispered. There was a light click and David straightened, grinning. ‘Learned it at school.’ He opened the door and, with Sebastian, who had crept up to them, they went in.

  It was a small room, lined with linenfold panelling and furnished with a fine Boulle writing table, a threadbare French carpet, a heavily carved Jacobean chair at the writing-table and two dirty late Victorian armchairs. A wood-fire was burning itself out on the stone hearth; thick dark curtains shrouded the windows and the smell of lamp-oil hung heavy on the air. ‘Looks like the room they use,’ whispered David, flashing his torch round. ‘When I found the door locked, Skipper, I thought they’d got you here.’

  Francis was opening the drawer of the writing-table. Gloria’s torch, now growing faint, revealed a stack of the cheapest kind of writing-pad and packets of inferior quality envelopes. Folded in one corner was a sheet of twopenny-halfpenny stamps. He shut the drawer and studied the surface of the table . . . a large inkstand, a pentray full of the kind of pens and nibs only to be found on the counters of post offices; Who’s Who; Debrett’s Peerage; Crockford’s Clerical Directory, an embossed leather blotter . . .

  He opened the blotter and between two of its pages came upon half a dozen sheets of paper written over in various hands. Dear Sir, said the first, and the writing looked shaky and old. I am happy to read of your good fortune and wonder if at this happy time you will spare a thought for a fellow-creature in distress through no fault of her own. I am a clergyman’s daughter and hitherto I have supported my mother, aged eighty and totally blind, by taking in sewing, but I suffer from arthritis and my hands are now too crippled to hold a needle. I would like to start a small wool and needle-work shop in the village where I live but lack the capital to purchase the necessary stock. If you could see your way . . .

  Francis handed the letter to David and took up the next.

  My Lord, I am a Christian woman with seven children, my husband having left me when they were little more than infants. I receive no pension . . .

  Your Grace, I saw your wedding pictures in the daily Press, how sweet you looked and how happy. I am a young girl hoping to get married but . . .
>
  Dear Sir, I read your beautiful poems with the greatest admiration and am emboldened by the humanity expressed therein to beseech your help for one of the great fraternity, now aged eighty and fallen on evil times . . .

  ‘What does it mean?’ asked David.

  ‘They’re begging letters,’ said Sebastian, who, in spite of David’s impatient shrugs, had been reading over his shoulder.

  ‘I got one just like these when my book was the Book of the Month,’ said Francis. ‘You feel you’ve been lucky; you send them a fiver; that’s how they live. Mine was an aged scholar. What address does she give?’

  ‘Twenty-one Gas Lane, Pressborough.’

  ‘Probably an accommodation address. Pressborough’s easy to get at from here by bus or train. I expect she goes over once a week to collect the doings. And the blackmailer got to know of it and threatened to expose her — obtaining money by false pretences.’

  ‘It’s a motive, but what about means?’ said David. ‘If she’s old and fragile, how did she manage to kill even a middle-aged man by hitting him over the head?’

  ‘Someone here hit me dam’ hard over the head, and I suppose I’m middle-aged,’ said Francis.

  Sebastian began, ‘Some old girls . . .’

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ said Francis suddenly and took the letters from David and replaced them in the blotter.

  ‘Okay, Skipper, but you keep between us. We don’t want to lose you again.’ He flashed the torch on Francis. ‘Skipper — your head!’

  ‘It’s all right now, but I could do with a clean-up. Let’s get going.’ Francis eased the door open and led the way across the hall. Mist or cloud was over the moon now; the hall was dark, and from the great house above them there came no sound. When they were through the baize door Gloria’s torch finally went out and, while David was closing the side-door and Francis held his torch, Sebastian walked into the clothes-line and let out a yelp which brought the others to his side. ‘You daft fool, now we’ve had it,’ whispered David, but still no sound or light came from the sleeping house and after waiting for a moment they set off across the outer courtyard and the orchard to the gap where David and Sebastian had left their boots. ‘If I’d noticed them,’ said Francis, ‘I might have avoided breaking Sebastian’s ear-drum.’

  ‘A clip over the ear wouldn’t do that — I’ve had plenty,’ said David. ‘What worries me is your head wound, Skipper. From what you said, you must have been flat out all yesterday.’

  Like most concussion cases, Francis was reluctant to believe that he had been hors de combat for so long, but, at last convinced, he said, ‘You hadn’t much hope of finding me. When I came to, I was on the top of the Dragon’s Tooth, catting.’

  ‘The Dragon’s Tooth? Where’s that?’ asked David.

  Sebastian explained, ‘It’s the rock from which Francis viewed the suspicious happenings. Behind the Hall. Don’t you know it?’

  ‘It’s good fun,’ said Francis. ‘You must try it.’

  ‘Then if Carey had gone further and higher up the Howe, he’d have seen you.’

  ‘My good David, I was supposed to be searching the Screes and I was strictly forbidden to go off the road unless the mist lifted. Orders is orders.’

  ‘Quite right,’ said Francis. ‘Besides, who in his senses would have looked there? I don’t know myself how or why I got there. I suppose my subconscious self took me, and I must say I don’t admire it — running away and shinning up a rock like a scared monkey.’

  ‘The ape, always below the surface,’ remarked Sebastian.

  David said, ‘Rot. Carey. It’s the instinct of self-preservation. Normally one’s in control of it, and then the amount of control depends on the extent of one’s courage.’

  ‘I don’t agree,’ said Sebastian. ‘I’m a terrible coward, but it’s not because I’m particularly keen on preserving my life which I’m sure will bore me unutterably and come to nothing. It’s because I’m a mass of nerves.’

  ‘And love to pose,’ put in David.

  Exasperated, Francis changed the subject. ‘What were Price’s reactions to my disappearance? Is he having the ports watched for me.’

  Sebastian said, ‘This morning when we were getting the search parties together, he said you were involved in the murder and had skipped it. He even made Meade and Hardwick count up their shoes in case you had borrowed a pair to skip in. Then Hardwick had to search the outhouses in case you were hanging from a beam — that would have been ‘something nasty in the woodshed.’ In the evening Price seemed to be telephoning mostly. Of course, in the meantime he’d seen your friend?’

  ‘My friend?’

  ‘Lady Nollis. An enchanting person,’ said Sebastian offhandedly.

  There was a moment of embarrassed silence. Then Francis said, ‘Ready?’ and without waiting for an answer led the way across the slope beside the wall. Sebastian made a face at David, but this David ignored as disloyal to the Skipper. If David was ever engaged to be married, he’d want, he knew, to tell the world, but then he wouldn’t be engaged to a lady anything; among the stuffed shirts there were probably a lot of formalities. Anyway, whatever the reason was, it was the Skipper’s and unquestionable.

  They reached the road and walked abreast to the cheerful clop of nailed boots on the macadam, but they had left the mere behind them before Francis cleared his throat and said, ‘As it turns out, then, my journey was unnecessary. Lady Nollis must have come to confirm my alibi for the time when that tiresome fellow got himself bumped off. So there’s really no need to report tonight’s capers to the Inspector. He wouldn’t believe me before, and this time it’s evens he’ll jail us for breaking and entering.’

  David said, ‘He was on at me about your alibi. I told him he was mad to suspect you. Of course, I couldn’t tell him where you were. I told him to ask you.’

  Francis said hastily, ‘There was more against me than my alibi. There was a black car seen in Berrinsdale. Then apparently it was suspicious that after finding the corpse I went on to the Angel instead of rushing down the dale shouting ‘Police, Fire, Murder.’ Finally I cooked my goose by telling him I’d seen a chap throwing the number plates of a car into the well at the Hall. He thought I was ‘spinning a yarn’ to divert his suspicions.’

  Sebastian cried, ‘Oh, that’s what went into the well, is it? We had all sorts of suggestions, from unwanted infants to pussies, didn’t we, David?’

  ‘I never suggested anything so daft,’ said David sourly.

  ‘You made the sordid suggestion of kitchen garbage. Francis, if only you’d told me. We should have known where to look for you and saved hours of fell-walking.’

  ‘That didn’t hurt you,’ said David.

  ‘I know it didn’t, but it was a waste of time and energy.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Francis; ‘but after all I’m a keeper of youth by profession. You could scarcely expect me to take you trespassing on enclosed premises, and if you had known that I was going you would have insisted on coming with me. I meant to get back before anyone was up, of course. I’m really angry about your search parties. I had hoped never to be the object of a search party. Who organized you? Meade?’

  Sebastian said, ‘Well, Meade, backed up by Hardwick. It was the Ormonde who said you’d gone sleuthing, and then Lady Nollis told us that Price said you’d seen something thrown into the well at the Hall. I should think that now your alibi’s confirmed, he’ll believe it.’

  ‘If he has abandoned his macabre designs on my neck, that’s that, as far as I’m concerned. I haven’t the slightest urge to assist him in his squalid investigations.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ said Sebastian.

  David said, ‘But, Skipper, I mean surely it’s up to everybody to help the police. If the car you saw in the barn is being dismantled and disposed of piece by piece, it must be the murder car.’

  ‘That’s what I indicated to Price, but he wants facts, not indications. Somehow I’ve a feeling that I did get something to pro
ve it this time. I wish I could remember . . .’

  ‘Don’t try,’ said Sebastian. ‘It’s awfully bad for you. If you keep calm and wait, it will all come back to you, but if you fuss you’ll get a tumour on the brain. You shouldn’t worry him, David.’

  ‘I’ve no intention of worrying him, but as soon as we get in everyone will be wanting explanations.’

  ‘Everyone will be in bed,’ said Sebastian, ‘and that’s where Francis should be. By the way, Francis, you’re in the room over the kitchen. Hardwick thought it wasn’t posh enough for Lady Nollis, and put her in your room. If we go in through the garden and the back door we should be able to sneak up without waking the Inspector.’

  ‘But we must wake him,’ said David. ‘Look at the dim view he took of our going on to the Angel instead of coming down and informing the police.’

  ‘He can take another dim view as far as I’m concerned,’ said Francis. ‘I’ve got a thumping headache and the shivers. Do as you think right, David, but don’t bring the bastard near me or there’ll be another murder.’

  David said, ‘I can tell him about the letters, but I can’t tell him about the car. I only got that from you, so it’s hearsay. And if you were hit on the head, the chap who did it knows you got away and there won’t be any car left if we don’t get cracking.’

  ‘Oh, shut up. Can’t you see when a person’s all in?’ said Sebastian.

  Chapter Nine – The Hills Sleep On

  When at eight o’clock next morning Price was called by Gloria, he would have liked to ask if there were any news of Worthington, but his teeth were on the chimney-piece in a dish of germicide and it would have hurt his self-respect to mumble or whistle his s’s. He drank his tea, which was weak as well as cold, and was halfway into his dressing-gown when he was surprised by a knock on the door. ‘One moment,’ he said, pulled on the gown and his bedroom slippers and inserted his denture. ‘Come in.’