Have His Carcase (2 page)

made a convenient objective, and one could always choose some more rural

spot for a night’s lodging. The coast-road ran pleasantly at the top of a low

range of cliffs, from which she could look down upon the long yelow stretch of

the beach, broken here and there by scattered rocks, which rose successively,

glistening in the sunlight, from the reluctant and withdrawing tide.

Overhead, the sky arched up to an immense dome of blue, just fretted here

and there with faint white clouds, very high and filmy. The wind blew from the

west, very softly, though the weather-wise might have detected in it a tendency

to freshen. The road, narrow and in poor repair, was almost deserted, al the

heavy traffic passing by the wider arterial road which ran importantly inland

from town to town, despising the windings of the coast with its few scattered

hamlets. Here and there a drover passed her with his dog, man and beast alike

indifferent and preoccupied; here and there a couple of horses out at grass lifted

shy and foolish eyes to look after her; here and there a herd of cows, rasping

their jawbones upon a stone wal, greeted her with heavy snufflings. From time

to time the white sail of a fishing-boat broke the seaward horizon. Except for an

occasional tradesman’s van, or a dilapidated Morris, and the intermittent

appearance of white smoke from a distant railway-engine, the landscape was as

rural and solitary as it might have been two hundred years before.

Harriet walked sturdily onwards, the light pack upon her shoulders interfering

little with her progress. She was twenty-eight years old, dark, slight, with a skin

naturaly a little salow, but now tanned to an agreeable biscuit-colour by sun

and wind. Persons of this fortunate complexion are not troubled by midges and

sunburn, and Harriet, though not too old to care for her personal appearance,

was old enough to prefer convenience to outward display. Consequently, her

luggage was not burdened by skin-creams, insect-lotion, silk frocks, portable

electric irons or other impedimenta beloved of the ‘Hikers’ Column’. She was

dressed sensibly in a short skirt and thin sweater and carried, in addition to a

change of linen and an extra provision of footwear, little else beyond a pocket

edition of
Tristram Shandy
, a vest-pocket camera, a smal first-aid outfit and a

sandwich lunch.

It was about a quarter to one when the matter of the lunch began to loom up

importantly in Harriet’s mind. She had come about eight miles on her way to

Wilvercombe, having taken things easily and made a detour to inspect certain

Roman remains declared by the guide-book to be ‘of considerable interest’.

She began to feel both weary and hungry, and looked about her for a suitable

lunching-place.

The tide was nearly out now, and the wet beach shimmered golden and

silvery in the lazy noonlight. It would be pleasant, she thought, to go down to

the shore – possibly even to bathe, though she did not feel too certain about

that, having a wholesome dread of unknown shores and eccentric currents. Stil,

there was no harm in going to see. She stepped over the low wal which

bounded the road on the seaward side and set about looking for a way down.

A short scramble among the rocks tufted with scabious and sea-pink brought

her easily down to the beach. She found herself in a smal cove, comfortably

screened from the wind by an outstanding mass of cliff, and with a few

convenient boulders against which to sit. She selected the cosiest spot, drew

out her lunch and
Tristram Shandy
, and settled down.

There is no more powerful lure to slumber than hot sunshine on a sea-beach

after lunch; nor is the pace of
Tristram Shandy
so swift as to keep the faculties

working at high pressure. Harriet found the book escaping from her fingers.

Twice she caught it back with a jerk; the third time it eluded her altogether. Her

head drooped over at an unbecoming angle. She dozed off.

She was awakened suddenly by what seemed to be a shout or cry almost in

her ear. As she sat up, blinking, a gul swooped close over her head, squawking

and hovering over a stray fragment of sandwich. She shook herself reprovingly

and glanced at her wrist-watch. It was two o’clock. Realising with satisfaction

that she could not have slept very long, she scrambled to her feet, and shook

the crumbs from her lap. Even now, she did not feel very energetic, and there

was plenty of time to make Wilvercombe before evening. She glanced out to

sea, where a long belt of shingle and a narrow strip of virgin and shining sand

stretched down to the edge of the water.

There is something about virgin sand which arouses al the worst instincts of

the detective-story writer. One feels an irresistible impulse to go and make

footprints al over it. The excuse which the professional mind makes to itself is

that the sand affords a grand opportunity for observation and experiment.

Harriet was no stranger to this impulse. She determined to walk out across that

tempting strip of sand. She gathered her various belongings together and started

off across the loose shingle, observing, as she had often observed before, that

footsteps left no distinguishable traces in the arid region above high-water mark.

Soon, a little belt of broken shels and half-dry seaweed showed that the

tide-mark had been reached.

‘I wonder,’ said Harriet to herself, ‘whether I ought to be able to deduce

something or other about the state of the tides. Let me see. When the tide is at

neaps, it doesn’t rise or fal so far as when it is at springs. Therefore, if that is

the case, there ought to be two seaweedy marks – one quite dry and farther in,

showing the highest point of spring tides, and one damper and farther down,

showing today’s best effort.’ She glanced backwards and forwards. ‘No; this is

the only tide-mark. I deduce, therefore, that I have arrived somewhere about

the top of springs, if that’s the proper phrase. Perfectly simple, my dear

Watson. Below tide-mark, I begin to make definite footprints. There are no

others anywhere, so that I must be the only person who has patronised this

beach since last high tide, which would be about – ah! yes, there’s the difficulty.

I know there should be about twelve hours between one high tide and the next,

but I haven’t the foggiest notion whether the sea is coming in or going out. Stil,

I do know it was going out most of the time as I came along, and it looks a long

way off now. If I say that nobody has been here for the last five hours I shan’t

be far out. I’m making very pretty footprints now, and the sand is, naturaly,

getting wetter. I’l see how it looks when I run.’

She capered a few paces accordingly, noticing the greater depth of the toe-

prints and the little spurt of sand thrown out at each step. This outburst of

energy brought her round the point of the cliff and into a much larger bay, the

only striking feature of which was a good-sized rock, standing down at the

sea’s edge, on the other side of the point. It was roughly triangular in shape,

standing about ten feet out of the water, and seemed to be crowned with a

curious lump of black seaweed.

A solitary rock is always attractive. Al right-minded people feel an

overwhelming desire to scale and sit upon it. Harriet made for it without any

mental argument, trying to draw a few deductions as she went.

‘Is that rock covered at high tide? Yes, of course, or it wouldn’t have

seaweed on top. Besides, the slope of the shore proves it. I wish I was better

at distances and angles, but I should say it would be covered pretty deep. How

odd that it should have seaweed only in that lump at the top. You’d expect it to

be at the foot, but the sides seem quite bare, nearly down to the water. I

suppose it
is
seaweed. It’s very peculiar. It looks almost more like a man lying

down; is it possible for seaweed to be so very – wel, so very localised?’

She gazed at the rock with a faint stirring of curiosity, and went on talking

aloud to herself, as was her rather irritating habit.

‘I’m dashed if it isn’t a man lying down. What a sily place to choose. He

must feel like a bannock on a hot girdle. I could understand it if he was a sun-

bathing fan, but he seems to have got al his clothes on. A dark suit at that. He’s

very quiet. He’s probably falen asleep. If the tide comes in at al fast, he’l be

cut off, like the people in the sily magazine stories. Wel, I’m not going to

rescue him. He’l have to take his socks off and paddle, that’s al. There’s

plenty of time yet.’

She hesitated whether to go on down to the rock. She did not want to wake

the sleeper and be beguiled into conversation. Not but that he would prove to

be some perfectly harmless tripper. But he would certainly be somebody quite

uninteresting. She went on, however, meditating, and drawing a few more

deductions by way of practice.

‘He must be a tripper. Local inhabitants don’t take their siestas on rocks.

They retire indoors and shut al the windows. And he can’t be a fisherman or

anything of that kind; they don’t waste time snoozing. Only the black-coated

brigade does that. Let’s cal him a tradesman or a bank-clerk. But then they

usualy take their holidays complete with family. This is a solitary sort of fowl. A

schoolmaster? No. Schoolmasters don’t get off the lead til the end of July.

How about a colege undergraduate? It’s only
just
the end of term. A

gentleman of no particular occupation, apparently. Possibly a walking tourist

like myself – but the costume doesn’t look right.’ She had come nearer now

and could see the sleeper’s dark blue suit quite plainly. ‘Wel, I can’t place him,

but no doubt Dr Thorndyke would do so at once. Oh, of course! How stupid!

He must be a literary bloke of some kind. They moon about and don’t let their

families bother them.’

She was within a few yards of the rock now, gazing up at the sleeper. He lay

uncomfortably bunched up on the extreme seaward edge of the rock, his knees

drawn high and showing his pale mauve socks. The head, tucked closely down

between the shoulders, was invisible.

‘What a way to sleep,’ said Harriet. ‘More like a cat than a human being.

It’s not natural. His head must be almost hanging over the edge. It’s enough to

give him apoplexy. Now, if I had any luck, he’d be a corpse, and I should

report him and get my name in the papers. That would be something like

publicity. “Wel-known Woman Detective-Writer Finds Mystery Corpse on

Lonely Shore.” But these things never happen to authors. It’s always some

placid labourer or night-watchman who finds corpses. . . .’

The rock lay tilted like a gigantic wedge of cake, its base standing steeply up

to seaward, its surface sloping gently back to where its apex entered the sand.

Harriet climbed up over its smooth, dry surface til she stood almost directly

over the man. He did not move at al. Something impeled her to address him.

‘Oy!’ she said, protestingly.

There was neither movement nor reply.

‘I’d just as soon he didn’t wake up,’ thought Harriet. ‘I can’t imagine what

I’m shouting for.
Oy!
’

‘Perhaps he’s in a fit or a faint,’ she said to herself. ‘Or he’s got sunstroke.

That’s quite likely. It’s very hot.’ She looked up, blinking, at the brazen sky,

then stooped and laid one hand on the surface of the rock. It almost burnt her.

She shouted again, and then, bending over the man, seized his shoulder.

‘Are you al right?’

The man said nothing and she puled upon the shoulder. It shifted slightly – a

dead weight. She bent over and gently lifted the man’s head.

Harriet’s luck was in.

It
was
a corpse. Not the sort of corpse there would be any doubt about,

either. Mr Samuel Weare of Lyons Inn, whose ‘throat they cut from ear to ear’,

could not have been more indubitably a corpse. Indeed, if the head did not

come off in Harriet’s hands, it was only because the spine was intact, for the

larynx and al the great vessels of the neck had been severed ‘to the hause-

bone’, and a frightful stream, bright red and glistening, was running over the

surface of the rock and dripping into a little holow below.

Harriet put the head down again and felt suddenly sick. She had written often

enough about this kind of corpse, but meeting the thing in the flesh was quite

different. She had not realised how butchery the severed vessels would look,

and she had not reckoned with the horrid halitus of blood, which streamed to

her nostrils under the blazing sun. Her hands were red and wet. She looked

down at her dress. That had escaped, thank goodness. Mechanicaly, she

stepped down again from the rock and went round to the edge of the sea.