Chapter 5 #2
Refusing to let himself be baited, if that was the man’s game, Alec walked on to the gate. He looked each way along the street before he closed it and turned back to find the sergeant staring at him suspiciously.
“Mr. Fletcher?”
“Yes. You’re Harris, I take it.”
“What was you looking for just now?”
“Just to make sure no one followed you here. An elementary precaution.”
Harris looked puzzled, as well he might. Some of the belligerence had left his voice when he asked, “Now what’s all this about finding a corpse?”
“Follow me.” Alec spoke with authority. The man was already resentful so any attempt to conciliate him was pointless. At least he didn’t argue.
Alec led him round to the open side door. Inside, the smell had mostly dissipated, though an unpleasant trace lingered. If Harris noticed it, he did not comment as the crunch of boots on gravel changed to a clatter on floor tiles.
Alec gestured towards the cellar door. “The body’s in here. Would you like to see it first, or shall I explain the circumstances that led to my finding it?”
“Circumstances be blowed! I want to see whether there really is a body.”
“All right.” Alec held his handkerchief to his nose as he reached for the door handle.
Harris gave him a scornful look. “I thought you Met people were tough.”
The door swung open. Before he had even cast a glance downwards, the sergeant gagged, his ruddy complexion taking on a ghastly grey-green tint. At top speed he lumbered to the open side door and disappeared.
Having slammed the cellar door shut, Alec went after him at a slightly more leisured pace. Sounds of retching came from the right, so he turned to the left and moved a few feet away to stand with his back to the unhappy sergeant.
“I would offer to fetch you a glass of water, Sergeant, but I don’t intend to go back into the house for a while. Are you ready to hear how it came about that I—”
“Save it for Inspector Underwood,” Harris snarled. He smirked as Alec swung round. “He’s expecting my call.”
“I wondered whether you’d rung in. Underwood, is it? High Wycombe or Aylesbury?”
“High Wycombe. He’ll be here in no time.”
“Where are you going to telephone from?”
Harris took a step towards the house, shuddered, then hawked and spat. “Not in there.”
“They aren’t connected yet, as it happens. What are you going to tell Underwood?”
“Why, that it’s no false alarm, there really is a body.”
“You haven’t actually seen it, though.”
“How do you know? Anyway, there’s no need to tell the inspector. I smelled the reek all right. That’s enough for me.”
“I’ll stay and guard the house while you go and phone.”
“No need for that. Just lock the place up before you go. Wait, where are you going? Don’t leave Beaconsfield till the inspector’s seen you.”
“If I were to go, I’d join my wife and the ladies at the Saracen’s Head. Unfortunately, they left in rather a hurry and didn’t hand over any keys. I can’t lock up, besides which the house needs airing.”
“Well, don’t go mucking about inside.”
“If I had any desire to do so, I had half an hour on my own here before you turned up, Sergeant. I’ll be here when you return.”
“Have it your own way.” Sulky-faced, Harris trudged past Alec and round the corner of the house.
Alec wished he could overhear Harris’s report.
He wondered whether Underwood would press the man about the appearance of the body.
Admittedly, he doubted that he himself would be able to give a good description.
The stench had been so overpowering, it befogged his memory, obscuring the scene in spite of his deliberate attempt to fix it in his mind.
No blowflies. That was a mercy. But it was odd. The cellar was not absolutely airtight, and carrion flies were exceptionally good at seeking out the smell of death. Although they couldn’t find a way in, he’d have expected them to cluster at the keyhole.
He tried to recall the moments before he had swung the keyhole cover aside and inserted his pick. Had he been aware of a faint odour, or was it his imagination, in hindsight?
No, there had been something, but his olfactory memory insisted it had been the smell of disinfectant, not decay. One of Daisy’s friends, most likely Isabel Sutcliffe, must be keen on hygiene—or doing her utmost to diguise the noxious emanations from the cellar.
Alec wanted to know a good deal more about the background of Miss Sutcliffe; of her companions, as well, since Isabel might have tried to get rid of the smell without knowing its source.
However, it was none of his business, he reminded himself. All he had to do was hang about until the obnoxious sergeant returned, and later give a statement to the inspector from High Wycombe.
His pondering had come full circle. What exactly had he seen on the floor below the broken rail?
A woman, lying on her back, her arms flung out, her head at that angle that speaks unmistakably of death, the obscene remains of scarlet lipstick on the devastated mouth.
The condition of the body was such that he couldn’t begin to guess her age.
Though her dark brown hair had shown no grey, these days that meant little.
Bobbed hair, or she had put it up in a knot behind her head.
Brown tweed costume; flesh-coloured stockings; one well-polished brown leather shoe, not flat but low-heeled, as if the wearer expected to do a certain amount of walking; he hadn’t noticed a second shoe.
Pearls, real or imitation closer examination would tell.
Gloves? He thought not. He had a vague impression that a hat, the usual cloche-style, had lain on the floor some distance from her head.
She had fallen backwards, or twisted as she fell.
As for the space she lay in, it was about the same size as the kitchen above it.
Three walls of mortared brick were lined with empty wooden wine racks.
The floor appeared to be the native chalk, levelled and compacted. He hadn’t looked at the ceiling.
That was all Alec remembered. He was tempted to go and take another look, but repulsion overcame temptation without much of a struggle. It was not his affair.
Except as a witness, he was reminded, as an elderly constable joined him, saying, “I’m the beat officer, sir. Sergeant Harris told me to keep an eye on you.”