Death on Allhallowe’en (15 page)

‘Oh, well,' said Carolus pacifically.

‘Dad's trying to sell it. He doesn't want it on his land. He says the soil round there's good for nothing. Rocks and that. You can't even put sheep out there—they'd starve. Might keep a few goats, I suppose.'

‘Goats,' said Carolus. ‘Do you keep goats?'

George did not seem to like the question and evaded it.

‘What's the good of them? Milk's only good for cheese and there's no time for that sort of thing on a farm today. I believe, years ago, there was quite a lot of goats on Guys. But not nowadays.'

‘Strange animals,' said Carolus. ‘They're said to be the devil's familiars.'

‘You don't want to talk of the devil here, you know,' said
Billy with mock solemnity. ‘It doesn't do. Guys people are supposed to be in league with him. You'd believe it if you could have seen Horseman's place when I got there this morning. You've never seen such a mess in your life.'

It was Billy's turn at last. He had waited a long time to take the floor with the story of the burglary at Horseman's, on which he was an authority. George good-naturedly encouraged him.

‘Go on. Was it really? Who do you think had done it? Same person as fired the shot?'

‘Very likely. But I wouldn't be sure. It was taking a risk after getting away with the other, wasn't it?'

‘They should catch this one, anyway,' George considered. ‘Fingerprints, and that. I suppose we shall all have to have them taken. Rutters will be running round like a dog with two tails.'

A noisy group, with two women among them, came in from the other bar and George and Billy rose to leave.

‘I suppose
you
didn't do that job at Horseman's?' Billy asked George with a grin. ‘You could have got the stuff away in your old car easy.'

George took this in good part.

‘I should have made a real job of it if it had been me,' he said. ‘Besides, I hadn't got the car. The old man was in a flaming temper at being kept hanging about and cleared off in the car without waiting for me. I had to walk home.'

‘Poor old George! Well, I must run. The wife told me if I was late again this Sunday she'd give my dinner to the dog. So long, Mr Deene. Cheerio, George.'

The official who would conduct the inquest on Connor Horseman was a friend of John Stainer and came to dinner one evening not long before the occasion. He was a solicitor named Barfinney, a precise and dry little man. Clearly he would say nothing about the matter; on the other hand, he seemed quite ready to hear it discussed by John and Carolus. Perhaps he hoped, without committing himself or his office as coroner, to learn a little that might enable him to ask searching questions when the time came—a perfectly legitimate objective. Carolus was thus enabled to set him on the track of information he himself hoped to gain.

Whether or not Mr Barfinney profited from the occasion, Carolus certainly learned several things from the inquest itself. In the first place, the ballistics expert was closely questioned.

Carolus by temperament was an investigator who depended more on psychology than forensic science, but in this case, in which the actual shooting of a man in public was so puzzling, carried out as it had been without the knowledge of most if not all of those present, he was anxious to learn everything he could from an expert.

The bullet, it appeared, had been fired from a .38 revolver from within the hall. There had been some wild theorising about telescopic sights and firing from some distance through the top parts of the long windows which were open. This now seemed out of the question, however good a target Horseman had been, illuminated at his lectern. It appeared rather that
someone on the floor of the hall had killed Horseman, and according to minute calculations the shot had come from the front part of the hall. It was surmised that a silencer had been used and the fire-crackers were remembered, but even then the basic problem remained—how could anyone have aimed a revolver and fired it without attracting attention? From under a table? From behind cover of some kind? Concealed by an elaborate costume? It was a complete mystery.

Drummer Sloman was closely questioned. Enough evidence was produced to save him from being suspected of firing the shot himself, but as the coroner pointed out, there was only his own testimony to say that the pistol had been in his holster at the time. Having introduced it to the hall as an inconspicuous part of his cowboy's get-up, he could have passed it to an accomplice and have received it back before he had appeared so confidently before the police. It was undeniable that a shot of the calibre which had killed Horseman had recently been fired from it.

There was breathless attention when Drummer was asked where he got the revolver. Before answering, he glanced at the police as though seeking guidance on whether or how he should answer, but their faces remained impassive.

‘A friend lent it to me,' he said. ‘To go with the costume I was wearing. It was not loaded.'

‘What was this friend's name?'

‘Grant.'

The coroner turned to the police.

‘Is Mr Grant to be called?'

The officer acting as spokesman for the police answered.

‘Unfortunately we have not yet been able to locate him,' he said. ‘There is considerable doubt about this man. Nobody of that name has been traced.'

‘He existed all right,' put in Drummer irrepressibly. ‘I saw him a number of times. Poley Grant, his name was, and he was on some newspaper, though he didn't say which. He asked me what was the use of a cowboy's outfit without a six-shooter
and lent me this one. It was him suggested the cowboy act in the first place, come to that.'

The police spokesman gave evidence with more dignity.

‘There appears to have been an individual calling himself by that name in the village on a number of recent occasions. He has been seen with the Sloman brothers.'

‘It was him put young Charlie up to the fire-crackers,' said Drummer.

‘It would seem to be desirable,' said the coroner pompously, ‘that this person should be found as soon as possible.'

However much the statement tried the patience of the policeman, he said, ‘Yes, sir,' as he sat down.

Mr Barfinney then asked a question which startled his audience and seemed to discomfort the police.

‘Has any
other
revolver been found?'

After only a shade of hesitation, the police spokesman said, ‘Yes, sir.'

‘Oh, it has? I should like to hear details of this.'

It seemed that the police gave these rather grudgingly. Was it, Carolus wondered, a pet clue to some theory of their own which they did not wish to reveal at this moment?

A revolver, also an Army type, calibre .38, had been found in an overcoat pocket left in the cloakroom. When had it been found? After the public had left the hall—during the police search which followed. Had they identified the overcoat? Yes, it belonged to the late Connor Horseman. And the revolver? This also, according to his wife, had belonged to Mr Horseman.

Had the revolver been fired recently? No, but it appeared to have been cleaned. When? Impossible to say.

The coroner made a number of notes while this evidence was being given.

‘And was anything else found in the hall during the police search after Mr Horseman's death?'

The police spokesman answered more readily.

‘Yes. Some chalk drawings.'

'Chalk drawings?' repeated the coroner, in his turn surprised.

‘Yes. A number of chalk drawings on and near the woodwork of the lectern from which Mr Horseman spoke.'

‘Drawings of what nature?'

Carolus, like everyone else, half expected to hear the word ‘obscene', but the police spokesman was more knowledgeable.

‘In the nature of magic, what is called black magic, sir. Pentagrams and that.'

‘They have now been erased?'

‘They were thoroughly photographed before erasure. If you would care to see …'

‘I certainly should.'

A number of photographs were passed up to the coroner, who examined them most carefully, one by one.

‘Thank you,' he said at last. ‘Most illuminating, though I do not know whether we should assume that they have any bearing on the matter we are investigating. They may, of course, have been there for a considerable time.'

The police spokesman did not contradict this, but smiled a little as though he knew better.

After that there were no more surprises and the inquest dragged on to the inevitable verdict—'Murder by some person or persons unknown.'

Carolus walked back to the rectory alone, looking not much concerned. He had a theory of his own about the shooting, confirmed rather than denied by the revelations of the inquest. But the shooting was only a part of the problem, and he realised that to reach any solution he would have to go far deeper into the history of Clibburn, recent and not so recent. He explained this to John Stainer.

John had changed since the murder. Carolus felt there was a suggestion of resentment in his manner, as though he felt that Carolus's dislike of the dead man had prevented him from doing all he could to save his life. John would not, of course, have put it like that, but he had considered Horseman a friend and had consequently been blind to his faults. He was deeply
distressed not only by the loss of the man, but by the scandal and publicity of a murder in his parish.

‘I see your point,' he said to Carolus, ‘but I cannot see what you expect to gain by more delving into the past. Connor had only lived here a year or so longer than I.'

‘But most of the others have lived here all their lives.'

‘If you really think that more knowledge of Clibburn in earlier days will help you,' said John not very amiably, ‘I can arrange for you to meet old Canon Copely. He held my office here many years ago.'

‘How many?'

‘Twenty at least. He was here all through the Second World War. He's over eighty now, but he has an excellent memory. He has retired and lives with his daughter in a small house in Rochester. Would you like to go and see him?'

‘Very much.'

‘I will write to him. He does not like the telephone. So you may have to wait a day or two. But doubtless you have plenty to keep you busy here? You
are
going to find the answer to all this, aren't you, Carolus?'

‘Yes. But you may not like it. I'm afraid there'll be a lot more dirty linen to be washed.'

John looked at him uncomfortably.

‘Why? Surely it's a matter of finding a murderer and seeing him punished?'

‘It's not as simple as that. There may be more people involved.'

John shook his head and fell silent. It was obvious that he was doubtful of the wisdom of inviting Carolus here in the first place.

‘I'm sorry, John. I don't seem to have provided either prevention or cure. But I think you'll have a cleaner and more cheerful parish when it's over.'

Carolus found Canon Copely a saintly-looking old gentleman with a halo of fine silver hair. He had the amiable chattiness of the old and lonely, feeling himself full of reminiscences
which there was no one to share. His daughter, a large downright woman, treated him as a small child.

‘Father Stainer says you have been staying with him for some time,' he began, firmly using John's High Church title, ‘so perhaps you already know that Clibburn is a very odd village—or was, when I was there.'

‘It's odd in remaining rather isolated, I think,' replied Carolus.

‘More than that—it has odd people. People who don't fit into the life of today.'

Carolus was amused to hear this from a retired octogenarian, but nodded.

‘I went there in 1926,' Canon Copely went on, ‘and stayed till 1949. A long time, it seemed then, but looking back, you know, these periods shrink. When I first took over—it was my first living—the church had been allowed to go down. The living had been held by a lazy old … well, rascal I'm afraid he was; he got into trouble later … and more people crowded into old Ezekiah Smith's bethel than came to church. Ezekiah was a character.'

‘His son Ebby still carries on the tradition.'

‘Does he? Ebby was a little boy when I arrived. Poor little fellow, he never grew to man's height. But if you think he's a fire-eater, you should have heard his father. Wrath-of-God Smith, they called him, and he used to preach hell and damnation in a voice fit to waken the dead. When I tried to talk of the love and kindliness of God mine was a voice crying in the wilderness. At first, that was. They came round in time. Yes, they came round in time.'

Canon Copely's voice faltered. He was lost in fond memories of his triumph.

‘John Stainer is up against a different enemy,' Carolus observed, trying to steer him back to relevant matters.

‘Ah, yes. I know. We have talked of it. I'm afraid I blame Xavier Matchlow for that, or that infernal scoundrel Crowley. The wickedest man in the world, a Sunday paper called him
once. Xavier fell under his influence when he was quite a young man and I'm afraid he never recovered from it.

‘He was born in your faith,' went on the Canon. ‘The Matchlows had always been RC's. He lost both his parents when he was quite a young man and was left without guidance. He inherited when he was in his early twenties and lived alone in the House, which didn't seem quite natural for a young fellow. At first we thought he might marry Alice Murrain, but when her father committed suicide, some four years after I came to the parish, she disappeared and we heard nothing of her for some years. It was during this time—in the 1930's—that Xavier was taken up by Aleister Crowley and the mischief began. Some terrible stories were told of him and all sorts of extraordinary people came to stay at the House—Crowley himself on several occasions, I believe, though I never saw him.