Death at Hallows End (22 page)

At the end of it was a round chamber some twenty-two feet in diameter and ten foot high. Over against the far wall, lying in several inches of muddy water, was the fully clothed body of a man. Carolus had to turn it over before he recognised Duncan Humby. The face was horribly scarred and discoloured and he judged the man to be at least a week dead.

The landlord, not surprisingly, lost his head a little.

“Let's get out of here,” he whispered fervently. Then louder—“Come on. Let's get OUT!”

Carolus laid a handkerchief over the face and followed the landlord as he trundled through the passage towards the light.

“What are you going to do?” he asked Carolus when they stood in the wood free of that dank ancient world they had visited.

“Phone the police,' said Carolus, making for the car.

“Where? Over at Cashford?”

“No. The CID man on the Hallows End case. That was the body of Duncan Humby, the missing solicitor.”

The landlord looked at him with sudden suspicion.

“Did you know it was there?” he asked.

“I didn't
know.
But when you began to tell me about the place and the boys who played there, I thought there might be a chance of finding it.”

They reached the Duke of Clarence and Carolus got through, by great good fortune, to Snow, who was working in the office that day waiting results of certain tests. He told him his news.

Snow took it calmly.

“Will you wait there?” he asked. “I'll be down with a team within three hours. It's three-fifteen now so I shall hope to make it by six. Where shall I come?”

“To the local pub, the Duke of Clarence. The landlord knows where to take you if I'm not there.”

“Not there?”

“I have something else to do here in Haysdown. I expect I shall have finished it by then, though.”

As he put the receiver down he saw that the landlord, who was visibly shaken, had poured out two whiskies.

“No, thanks,” said Carolus. “Too early for me. You have those two on me. I'd rather have some tea. Then I have to go out and call on those people with the cottage opposite.”

“The Crablings? I wish you luck. You won't get far with her. I doubt if she'll let you in the cottage.”

But he was wrong. Mrs. Crabling was a forbidding-looking woman with a pinched and angry face who opened her door a few inches and said, “Yes?” very sharply.

Carolus said, “Good afternoon. May I see your husband, please?”

“What do you want with him? I saw you with that publican this afternoon. If it's to get him to play in his darts team again, he's not well enough.”

“No. It's not that.”

“He's got a bad cold. That's why he's away from work. Do you come from the quarry?”

“No. But I'd be grateful to you both for a little information.”

“Whatever about?”

“Couldn't I come in and explain?”

“Well, I suppose you
could.
Only I don't know you, do I?”

“I'm really quite harmless, Mrs. Crabling.”

“So you may be. Who's to know? Very well, come in then. Only mind those dirty boots on my clean carpet. Your coat's all over mud. Wherever have you been? I saw you going into the woods this afternoon. Come on then; he's in here.”

Seated by a warm fire, Carolus faced Mrs. Crabling and her big red-faced husband,

“Now what is it?” she asked.

“I have been investigating the case of the lawyer who disappeared over at Hallows End. You may have read about it in the papers?”

“I'm not saying we haven't but…”

“This afternoon I found him. Or rather his dead body. In the woods here.”

Mrs. Crabling seemed temporarily knocked out. “You don't mean there's a corpse out there?” she asked at last.

“It's well concealed. The police will be here presently to take it away.”

“I should think so. Suppose one of us was to have come on it? You can't have corpses left on decent people's doorsteps. It's not right. How did it come to be there? That's what I want to know.”

Crabling said nothing, but looked from his wife to Carolus.

“I'm hoping one of you may be able to help me answer that, Mrs. Crabling.”

“You're not going to make out we had anything to do with it, are you?”

“No. No. But you may have seen something without realising how important it was. Do many cars stop along this road?”

“No, because I won't have it. After one of the dances in the village, there used to be one or two, but I told the policeman here that if he didn't stop it I would. Disgusting, it was. Young fellows with girls who ought to know better. You never know what they might not get up to, do you?”

“Yes,” said Carolus but left the point.

“Has there been one lately?” he asked. “Last Saturday night, for instance?”

The Crablings exchanged glances.

“That was the night,” said Mrs. Crabling.

“Yes, that was it,” said Crabling, speaking for the first time.

“There was one of these dances in the village,” went on Mrs. Crabling. “I'd have them stopped if I had my way. People carrying on in front of everybody like that. It's not right and it's not decent. Dancing, they call it. I'd call it something worse than that.”

“What?” asked Carolus curiously.

“Never you mind. Anyway, there was one because I saw the posters about it. I said to my husband, if any of them come out here afterwards with their nasty goings-on I shall report them, I said. Well, wouldn't you?”

“No,” said Carolus. “And did any of them?”

“One did. Only it wasn't until you'd have thought they'd all been home by that time that it happened. Just after three o'clock in the morning, it was. Would you believe it? Whatever had they been doing all that time, because the dance is over at twelve?”

“I can't think,” said Carolus.

“It came along so sly, too. I happened to be awake or I should never have heard it. It seemed to switch its engine off and just glide to opposite here. I looked out of the window and before I could see anything to speak of, it had turned its lights off.”

“Tttt,” said Carolus sympathetically.

“I wasn't going to have that. Not that, I wasn't going to have. It's a public danger, let alone anything else. Out there with no lights on. So I woke my husband.”

Poor devil, thought Carolus.

“I said we can't have this right outside our front gate, didn't I, Arthur?”

Crabling nodded.

“I said, you go down and tell them to clear off or I'll set the police on them. Why, they might have been doing
anything
out there at that time. So my husband went down, but when he got there, they'd gone.”

“What, the car?”

“No. These two that were in it.”

“How did you know there were two?”

“It stands to reason, doesn't it? I've told you what goes on after these dances. So it was really worse than what I'd thought. He'd taken her into the woods. That's how you read about girls being murdered and it serves them right if you ask me.”

“So you came back to bed?” Carolus asked Crabling.

“When he told me what had happened, I made up my mind to stop it once and for all. Right outside my house! You'd think people would have more shame. So I said to my husband, you go down and take the number of that car and I shall report it, I said. Which he did, and I've got it wrote on a piece of paper in my bag.”

“Did you report it?”

“Well, what with my husband being laid up with a cold next day I never got round to it. But you let them try it again.”

“I don't think they'll do that, Mrs. Crabling. Could I see that piece of paper?”

He waited while she looked through her bag. When she showed it to him he recognised it at once. It was the index number of Hickmansworths' station wagon that had so mysteriously increased its mileage by forty during the night of Saturday to Sunday.

S
NOW CAME INTO THE
Duke of Clarence, leaving his ‘team' in two cars.

“Congratulations, Mr. Deene,” he said, with a cordiality that seemed to Carolus a trifle forced. “There must be a lot you know that you haven't told me. Or was it luck?”

“It was luck. I told you it was a long shot, but it came up. All I knew was that Hickmansworth grew up here and the Neasts used to stay with him as boys. We owe it to the landlord of this pub that he remembered the whereabout of their secret headquarters when Hickmansworth led the gang more than thirty years ago.”

“Anyway, you've found it. We'll get to work on it right away. Are you coming? Or will the landlord show us the place?”

“I'm not coming. I'm tired and sickened by this thing and I've got to start teaching tomorrow.”

“Look here, Mr. Deene. You can't just walk out like that, knowing more than you've told me.”

“If you would like to come and dine with me on Saturday, I will promise to tell you everything I've gathered about all this. But it won't be much more than guesswork with a few bits of circumstantial evidence to back it.”

“I wish you'd tell me this evening. The next two days are critical.”

“I simply can't. I've worked like a beaver on this case and I want some rest from it. It's pretty nauseating. But on Saturday…”

“All right. I'll accept that.”

“Meanwhile I have something to ask you, or advise you if you like, with all the urgency I can command.”

“What's that?” asked Snow rather indifferently. “I must get to the body.”

“Look, Snow. You don't want another murder tonight, do you? Then do what I tell you.
Arrest Cyril Neast.”

“
On what charge?”

“I don't give a damn what charge. Provided you get him under lock and key. This is not sensational nonsense, Snow. I mean exactly what I say.”

“But you're totally unreal, man. Arrest a man on
any
charge? You must be out of your mind. I should lose my job tomorrow, and perhaps face charges myself. We can't just go about arresting people for your convenience.”

“It's not for my sake, but yours. If you don't do it after this warning, I tell you you may be responsible for yet another death.”

“But I must charge him with something.”

“Charge him with the murder of Humby. Or of Grossiter. Or Darkin. It really doesn't matter, so long as you put him away tonight.”

“On what evidence?”

“His fingerprints on Hickmansworths' car will do, surely?”

“Mr. Deene, I don't know what would happen to you if you were in the CID. You wouldn't last long, I'm afraid.”

“Oh, to hell with the CID,” said Carolus. “One life at least is at stake here. Have that man arrested before nightfall or you'll regret it for the rest of your life.”

“While you quietly drive off home?”

“I can't do any more. I've no powers of arrest. You can work out the formalities, Snow. It can't be as difficult as that. Arrests have been made on lesser grounds.”

“All right. I'll do it. But you realise that it will bring every newspaper out with headlines. If I can't find the proof afterwards …”

“There'll be plenty of proof. I promise you that.”

“I thought you said you had only guesswork to offer,” said Snow rather bitterly, turning away.

“There will be plenty of proof if you make that arrest.”

On that they parted, Snow to go out with his team to the Dane-hole, Carolus to drive back to Newminster. But Carolus was satisfied that he had achieved what he intended—Cyril Neast would be arrested.

Carolus decided to return to Newminster via Hallows End and pick up the bag he had left at the Falstaff, for he hoped that he would not have to visit that grim village again. He waited only to thank the landlord of the Duke of Clarence for his vitally important help, then drove off. He felt dispirited and dull. He knew the truth about this unpleasant case, but he was not as sure as he had pretended to be that there would be a conviction.

It was an hour after leaving Snow that he entered the Falstaff and found Mr. Sporter full of news.

“I hear the police have found Humby's body in a house called Dane Hall at Haysdown. They've just arrested Cyril Neast. Detection-wise they don't let much grass grow under their feet.”

“Are you sure Cyril Neast has been arrested?”

“Absolutely cert. Saw the Black Maria go by. He's at the police station over at Cashford by now.”

“You're very well and very promptly informed.”

“News-wise I like to keep abreast,” said Sporter modestly. “The funny thing was the two brothers were in here at lunch
time today. They don't often come in; I don't believe I've seen the tall one here more than twice before. Almost teetote, I understand. I watched them pretty carefully today. I wasn't a bit surprised to hear it was Cyril Neast they've picked up. Nasty bit of work.”

“Think so?”

“Drink-wise, I mean. He was one of those types who always pretend they're drunker than they are. Tell stories about having ‘had a few' when they did this or that. Try to make you think they're dipso when all they drink is two or three pints at a time. Pretty boring, I find that, conversation-wise.”

“I agree.”

“Cyril was a bully, too. The taller brother did most of the talking but I thought today—he's scared stiff of Cyril.”

“Have you always thought that?”

“I don't know that I've ever watched them together before. I've always thought Cyril was a bully, though. Stonegate was scared of him. Old Rudd was the only one who took no notice of him. Well, I suppose he'll get life imprisonment for this. Cyril, I mean. That's what they give them nowadays, isn't it? Even if he has bumped off more than one.”