Chapter 12 #2
“That’s precisely why I don’t, at this stage.
For one thing, they don’t know yet that I’m a copper.
It’s a damned uncomfortable situation, my staying at the Anstruthers’, but I don’t see any alternative at present.
Which reminds me, we’re going to have a hard time finding somewhere for you and your men to sleep.
I wonder if the Puckles have a spare room.
These village police houses usually have two bedrooms.”
“Mrs. Puckle’s already offered it, sir. There’s a bed for me and a cot for Horrocks.”
“And your constables?”
Mallow frowned around the tiny room. The floor space would cramp the slumbering form of one of the large uniformed officers, let alone two. “I suppose they’d better doss in the parish hall.”
“I should think the inn might have a spare cot or two to lend,” Alec suggested, “or at least some blankets. See to it, will you, Horrocks?”
“Yessir!”
Alec told the inspector how to find the Anstruthers’ house and sent him off.
Except for advising a close examination of Baskin’s walking stick, he didn’t insult him with precise instructions, trusting to his intelligence, diligence and discretion.
If his trust proved misplaced, he would just have to deal with the damage and reconsider calling in Tom Tring.
However, he did take the precaution of sending along one of the constables for protection, just in case Peter Anstruther should take Mallow’s questioning amiss.
“I’m going to see what Dr. Wedderburn has to say,” he told DS Horrocks. “Wait here to show Mrs. Enderby back there when she comes, then pop off to the Schooner. Constable … ?”
“Smith, sir!” PC Smith saluted sharply.
“Smith, you will wait until Puckle returns. Have him leave directions to the parish hall for the rest of us. Then take whatever useful supplies he has—paper, pens, et cetera—accompany him back to the hall, and set up tables and chairs. If you’re lucky, DS Horrocks will come and fetch you to carry a couple of cots from the Schooner. ”
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir. Uh, sir?”
“What is it?”
“Breakfast, sir?”
“Horrocks will arrange for you to get something at the inn. Great Scott, did you all miss your supper, or tea, or whatd’youcallit?”
“No, sir.” Horrocks assured him. “We stopped for a bite in Abbotsford while we were waiting for the ferry.”
Alec remembered why he so disliked investigations in isolated country places: One often spent as much time and effort billeting the troops as solving the case.
He knocked on the door at the back.
“Come in,” called Mrs. Puckle. “Oh, you’ve come for your bite o’ fish pie, sir. You must be famished.”
“I am, Mrs. Puckle, but I haven’t time right now.” And after reviewing the medical evidence, he’d probably have lost his appetite. “I’m sorry about all the tramping back and forth through your sitting room.”
“Not to worry, sir, I married a policeman for better or worser and there’s no sense fussing when your wash’se gets used for prisoners or a body. But I do hope, sir, as they won’t be cutting him up back there.”
“No, the post mortem will be in Abbotsford, I imagine.”
“Well, that’s a load off me mind, I don’t mind saying. Somehow I couldn’t fancy doing me laundry where they’d cut him up. Mind the clothes-line, sir.”
Alec went out into the yard, ducked under the clothes-line and, by the light from the windows of the house and the washhouse, found his way to the door of the latter. As he entered, Wedderburn was
washing his hands with carbolic soap at a stone sink, next to which hung a laundry copper.
“Dr. Wedderburn says I was right!” crowed young Vernon. “About Enderby being hit on the back of the neck with a piece of wood, I mean.”
“Looks like it,” the doctor confirmed. Brisk and businesslike, he seemed to have recovered his sang-froid. “But I can’t tell whether it was the cause of death, or very shortly before or after death.”
“Will the autopsy make that clear?”
“Perhaps, but I can’t guarantee it. I can tell you he didn’t drown, so you can take it he fell down the cliff. Practically every major bone in his body is broken. He must have received so many blows in such a short time that which impact caused his death may be impossible to determine.”
“I see.”
“He died between six and ten hours ago. Rigor is just beginning in the facial muscles.”
“That fits. Will you … can you … ?”
“Do I perform autopsies? Yes, Chief Inspector. By the time I’ve done a thorough examination, anything else I do to the poor devils seems—I suppose meaningless is the word.
Irrelevant. They’ve already lost all their dignity, their humanity even.
I’ll cut him up for you tomorrow if you’ll let me know when you’ve got him to Abbotsford.
And now I’m off. I won’t stay to see the widow, if you don’t mind. ”
“Have you somewhere to stay the night?”
“I motored over and will motor home. Don’t worry, I’m not inebriated. Good night.”
“Good night.” Alec shook his hand. “And thank you.”
As Wedderburn left, Alec stepped over to the table.
A neatly sides-to-middled sheet had been draped over the neatly rearranged body and turned down to reveal the upper part of the face, the lower part remaining hidden.
In addition, over the right side of the lower abdomen a hole had been cut in the sheet, through which an old, jagged scar was visible.
“Probably shrapnel, he said.” Vernon’s voice was hushed. “Not appendectomy, anyway. He said Mrs. Enderby should be able to identify it. Sir, he said I can help him with the post mortem, with your permission.”
“You have it. In return, I want to ask a favour.”
“Anything, sir!”
“Wait till you hear. I’d like to put you in charge of getting the body to Abbotsford.”
“Gosh. Er—how? I mean, do I need a coffin? Should I take the ferry or hire a car? I mean, I can’t just squish him into my little runabout, don’t you know. And where—”
“It’s precisely all that detail I haven’t time or manpower for. Can I trust you to find out the how and where, and to accomplish the task with decency and respect?”
“Right-oh, sir,” Vernon said manfully. “Just leave it to me. I’ll ask Uncle Ben.”
“That sounds like a good starting point. Keep a note of any reasonable expenses and I’ll see you’re reimbursed. Thank you. You’d better hop it now, before Mrs. Enderby arrives.”
A good lad, Alec thought. Perhaps he actually would become a second, non-fictional Dr. Thorndyke.
Alone at last, with a few minutes to think, Alec found his mind dwelling on Mrs. Puckle’s fish pie.
If he went asking for it now, Mrs. Enderby was sure to arrive when he had his mouth full.
He should have eaten the tea provided by Mrs. Anstruther, but though he had drunk from the Thermos, it had not seemed decent to consume buttered scones and fruitcake while mounting vigil over the remains of George Enderby.
What had he done with his knapsack? He remembered taking it off as he approached the police station, entering with it dangling from his hand.
He must have set it down on the floor somewhere.
The camera was in it, with the photographs which might or might not prove useful.
He’d have to get them developed in the morning.
Was there a photographer or a developing chemist in Westcombe? If
not, he’d ask Vernon to take the film to Abbotsford. Making a mental note—one among dozens—he wished he had DC Ernie Piper at his elbow with his notebook and his endless supply of freshly sharpened pencils.
Alec’s reflections on the quickest way to discover the identity of the farmer’s daughter were interrupted by a knock on the washhouse door. PC Smith ushered in Mrs. Enderby.
The proprietress of the Schooner Inn had not taken the time to change out of her working frock, but she had tied a dark scarf over her flamboyant hair.
Though her face was calm, Alec noticed her hands were clenched together tightly enough to whiten the knuckles.
Considering the errand she had come on, he didn’t read anything into this sign of tension.
“I’m sorry to have to ask you to do this, Mrs. Enderby.”
“For God’s sake, let’s get it over with.
” She moved towards the head of the table, but her attention was caught by the neat hole cut in the sheet.
She stared down and one hand went to her mouth.
“Oh, my God! It’s him. I was sure he’d turn up again like a bad penny, but that’s the scar he got when he copped a packet at Wipers. ”
“You’re quite certain?”
“I’d reckernize it anywhere. He didn’t like talking about it, but I used to tease him that he got hit by lightning, not the Jerries. ’Cause of the shape, see?” Two steps took her to the half-concealed head. “Georgie!”
She reached out to pull down the sheet but Alec had expected the move and caught her arm. “Don’t,” he said gently. “You don’t want to see any more.”
“Georgie!” Her voice came from a tight throat and tears glinted in her eyes. “I loved the bastard once, you know? Oh, he was a charmer, a smooth talker. And he helped me get the Schooner into shape, I’ll give him that. If only …”
Alec handed over his handkerchief. He usually carried a spare when on a case, but this afternoon he’d set out for a peaceful walk and a picnic tea, dammit!
Dabbing at her eyes, Mrs. Enderby turned away with a forlorn little sniff. “You want me to sign something, Mr. Fletcher? Saying it’s him?”
“If you please.” He opened the door and held it as she passed, high heels clicking on the flagstones.
“It might enable you to avoid giving evidence of identity at the inquest, though I can’t promise.
Mind the clothes-line. You’ll have to attend anyway, in case the coroner wants to speak to you.
I’ve a number of questions to put to you, but I won’t trouble you tonight.
What would be a good time for me to call in the morning? ”
The business-woman was back in control. “Breakfast eight to nine, there’s always a few lazy buggers come down at the last minute so call it ha’ past. Opening’s half eleven. Come round about ten, all right?”
A few minutes later Alec was at last alone in the police station.
His knapsack was under the table. Taking out the camera, he hesitated over the wax paper-wrapped picnic tea.
If he started to eat, Mrs. Puckle was bound to come in with the promised pie and she might be offended to find him guzzling Mrs. Anstruther’s provisions.
He couldn’t afford to have the Puckles upset with him.
The constable might not be the brightest star in the firmament but at least he was willing.
Stomach rumbling, Alec sat down at the table with a pile of blank paper and the wooden pen with the scratchy steel nib that had given Vernon such trouble.
As he started to put his thoughts in order, Mrs. Puckle brought him a huge helping of slightly dried-out fish pie topped with crisped mashed potato, accompanied by a generous heap of buttered green beans, and a pint mug of tea.
“Bless you!” said Alec.