Have His Carcase (5 page)

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t you think I’d better come along with you? To protect you, you know,

and that sort of thing?’

Harriet laughed. She felt convinced that the young man was not keen on

passing the Grinders.

‘As you like,’ she said indifferently, walking on.

‘I could show you the cottages,’ suggested the young man.

‘Very wel,’ said Harriet. ‘Come along. We’l have to be as quick as we

can.’

A quarter of an hour’s walk brought them to the cottages – two low thatched

buildings standing on the right-hand side of the road. In front of them a high

hedge had been planted, screening them from the sea-gales and, incidentaly,

helping to cut off al view of the shore. Opposite them, on the other side of the

road, a narrow waled lane twisted down to the sea’s edge. From Harriet’s

point of view the cottages were a disappointment. They were inhabited by an

aged crone, two youngish women and some smal children, but the men were al

out fishing. They were late back today but were expected on the evening tide.

Harriet’s story was listened to with flattering interest and enthusiasm, and the

wives promised to tel their husbands about it when they came in. They also

offered refreshment which, this time, Harriet accepted. She felt pretty sure that

the body would by now be covered by the tide and that half an hour could

make no real difference. Excitement had made her weary. She drank the tea

and was thankful.

The companions then resumed their walk, the gentleman from London,

whose name was Perkins, complaining of a blistered heel. Harriet ignored him.

Surely something would soon come along.

The only thing that came was a fast saloon car, which overtook them about

half a mile further on. The proud chauffeur, seeing two dusty trampers signaling,

as it appeared to him, for a lift, put his stern foot down on the accelerator and

drove on.

‘The beastly road-hog!’ said Mr Perkins, pausing to caress his blistered heel.

‘Saloons with chauffeurs are never any good,’ said Harriet. ‘What we want

is a lorry, or a seven-year-old Ford. Oh, look! What’s that?’

‘That’ was a pair of gates across the road and a little cottage standing beside

it.

‘A level-crossing, by al that’s lucky!’ Harriet’s sinking courage revived.

‘There
must
be somebody here.’

There was. There were, in fact, two people – a cripple and a smal girl.

Harriet eagerly asked where she could get hold of a car or a telephone.

‘You’l find that al right in the vilage, miss,’ said the cripple. ‘Leastways, it

ain’t what you’d cal a vilage, exactly, but Mr Hearn that keeps the grocery,

he’s got a telephone. This here’s Darley Halt, and Darley is about ten minutes’

walk. You’l find somebody there al right, miss, for certain. Excuse me a

minute, miss. Liz! the gates!’

The child ran out to open the gates to let through a smal boy leading an

immense cart-horse.

‘Is there a train coming through?’ asked Harriet, idly, as the gates were

pushed across the road again.

‘Not for half an hour, miss. We keeps the gates shut most times. There ain’t

a deal of traffic along this road, and they keeps the cattle from straying on to the

line. There’s a good many trains in the day. It’s the main line from Wilvercombe

to Heathbury. Of course, the expresses don’t stop here, only the locals, and

they only stops twice a day, except market days.’

‘No, I see.’ Harriet wondered why she was asking about the trains, and then

suddenly realised that, with her professional interest in time-tables, she was

instinctively checking up the ways and means of approaching the Grinders.

Train, car, boat – how had the dead man got there?

‘What time—?’

No, it didn’t matter. The police could check that up. She thanked the gate-

keeper, pushed her way through the side-wickets and strode on, with Mr

Perkins limping after her.

The road stil ran beside the coast, but the cliffs were gradualy sloped down

almost to sea-level. They saw a clump of trees and a hedge and a little lane,

curving away past the ruins of an abandoned cottage to a wide space of green

on which stood a tent, close by the sandy beach, with smoke going up from a

campers’ fire beside it. As they passed the head of this lane a man emerged

from it, carrying a petrol-tin. He wore a pair of old flannel slacks, and a khaki

shirt with sleeves roled up to the elbow. His soft hat was puled down rather

low over his eyes, which were further protected by a pair of dark spectacles.

Harriet stopped him and asked if they were anywhere near the vilage.

‘A few minutes farther on,’ he replied, briefly, but civily enough.

‘I want to telephone,’ went on Harriet. ‘I’m told I can do so at the grocer’s.

Is that right?’

‘Oh, yes. Just across on the other side of the green. You can’t mistake it. It’s

the only shop there is.’

‘Thank you. Oh, by the way – I suppose there isn’t a policeman in the

vilage?’

The man halted as he was about to turn away and stared at her, shading his

eyes from the sun’s glare. She noticed a snake tattooed in red and blue upon

his forearm, and wondered whether he might perhaps have been a sailor.

‘No, there’s no policeman living in Darley. We share a constable with the

next vilage, I believe – he floats round on a bicycle occasionaly. Anything

wrong?’

‘There’s been an accident along the coast,’ said Harriet. ‘I’ve found a dead

man.’

‘Good lord! Wel, you’d better telephone through to Wilvercombe.’

‘Yes, I wil, thanks. Come along, Mr Perkins. Oh! he’s gone on.’

Harriet caught up her companion, rather annoyed by his patent eagerness to

dissociate himself from her and her errand.

‘There’s no need to stop and speak to everybody,’ complained Mr Perkins,

peevishly. ‘I don’t like the look of that felow, and we’re quite near the place

now. I came through here this morning, you know.’

‘I only wanted to ask if there was a policeman,’ explained Harriet,

peaceably. She did not want to argue with Mr Perkins. She had other things to

think of. Cottages had begun to appear, smal, sturdy buildings, surrounded by

little patches of gay garden. The road turned suddenly inland, and she observed

with joy telegraph poles, more houses and at length a little green, with a smithy

at one corner and children playing cricket on the grass. In the centre of the

green stood an ancient elm, with a seat round it and an ancient man basking in

the sunshine; and on the opposite side was a shop, with ‘Geo. Hearn: Grocer’,

displayed on a sign above it.

‘Thank goodness!’ said Harriet.

She almost ran across the little green and into the vilage shop, which was

festooned with boots and frying-pans, and appeared to sel everything from

acid drops to corduroy trousers.

A bald-headed man advanced helpfuly from behind a pyramid of canned

goods.

‘Can I use your telephone, please?’

‘Certainly, miss; what number?’

‘I want the Wilvercombe police-station.’

‘The police-station?’ The grocer looked puzzled – almost shocked. ‘I’l have

to look up the number for you,’ he said, hesitatingly. ‘Wil you step into the

parlour, miss – and sir?’

‘Thank you,’ said Mr Perkins. ‘But realy – I mean – it’s the lady’s business

realy. I mean to say – if there’s any sort of hotel hereabouts, I think I’d better

– that is to say – er – good-evening.’

He melted unobtrusively out of the shop. Harriet, who had already forgotten

his existence, folowed the grocer into the back room and watched him with

impatience as he put on his spectacles and struggled with the telephone

directory.

III

THE EVIDENCE OF THE HOTEL

‘Little and grisly, or bony and big,

White, and clattering, grassy and yellow;

The partners are waiting, so strike up a jig,

Dance and be merry, for Death’s a droll fellow.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Where’s Death and his sweetheart? We want to begin.’

Death’s Jest-Book

Thursday, 18 June

It was a quarter-past five when the grocer announced that Harriet’s cal was

through. Alowing for stoppages and for going out of her way to the Brennerton

Farm, she had covered rather more than four miles of the distance between the

Grinders and Wilvercombe in very nearly three hours. True, she had actualy

walked six miles or more, but she felt that a shocking amount of time had been

wasted. Wel, she had done her best, but fate had been against her.

‘Hulo!’ she said, wearily.

‘Hulo!’ said an official voice.

‘Is that the Wilvercombe police?’

‘Speaking. Who are you?’

‘I’m speaking from Mr Hearn’s shop at Darley. I want to tel you that this

afternoon at about two o’clock I found the dead body of a man lying on the

beach near the Grinders.’

‘Oh!’ said the voice. ‘One moment, please. Yes. The dead body of a man at

the Grinders. Yes?’

‘He’d got his throat cut,’ said Harriet.

‘Throat cut,’ said the official voice. ‘Yes?’

‘I also found a razor,’ said Harriet.

‘A razor?’ The voice seemed rather pleased, she thought, by this detail.

‘Who is it speaking?’ it went on.

‘My name is Vane, Miss Harriet Vane. I am on a walking-tour, and

happened to find him. Can you send someone out to fetch me, or shal I—?’

‘Just a moment. Name of Vane – V-A-N-E – yes. Found at two o’clock,

you say. You’re a bit late letting us know, aren’t you?’

Harriet explained that she had had difficulty in getting through to them.

‘I see,’ said the voice. ‘Al right, miss, we’l be sending a car along. You just

stay where you are til we come. You’l have to go along with us and show us

the body.’

‘I’m afraid there won’t be any body by now,’ said Harriet. ‘You see, it was

down quite close to the sea, on that big rock, you know, and the tide—’

‘We’l see to that, miss,’ replied the voice, confidently, as though the

Nautical Almanack might be expected to conform to police regulations. ‘The

car’l be along in about ten minutes or so.’

The receiver clicked and was silent. Harriet replaced her end of the

instrument and stood for a few minutes, hesitating. Then she took the receiver

off again.

‘Give me Ludgate 6000 – quick as ever you can. Urgent press cal. I must

have it within five minutes.’

The operator began to make objections.

‘Listen – that’s the number of the
Morning Star
. It’s a priority cal.’

‘Wel,’ said the operator, dubiously, ‘I’l see what I can do.’

Harriet waited.

Three minutes passed – four – five – six. Then the bel rang. Harriet snatched

the receiver down.

‘
Morning Star
.’

‘Give me the news-room – quick.’

Buzz – click.

‘
Morning Star
news-editor.’

Harriet gathered herself together to cram her story into the fewest and most

teling words.

‘I am speaking from Darley near Wilvercombe. The dead body of a man

was found at two o’clock this afternoon – al right. Ready? – on the coast this

afternoon with his throat cut from ear to ear. The discovery was made by Miss

Harriet Vane, the wel-known detective novelist. . . . Yes, that’s right – the

Harriet Vane who was tried for murder two years ago. . . . Yes. . . . The dead

man appears to be about twenty years of age – blue eyes – short dark beard –

dressed in a dark-blue lounge suit with brown shoes and chamois-leather

gloves. . . . A razor was found near the body. . . . Probably suicide. . . . Oh,

yes, it
might
be murder; or cal it mysterious circumstances. . . . Yes. . . . Miss

Vane, who is on a walking-tour, gathering material for her forthcoming book,

The Fountain-Pen Mystery
, was obliged to walk for several miles before

getting help. . . . No, the police haven’t seen the body yet . . . it’s probably

under water by now, but I suppose they’l get it at low tide. . . . I’l ring you

later. . . . Yes. . . . What? . . . Oh, this
is
Miss Vane speaking. . . . Yes. . . .

No, I’m giving you this exclusively. . . . Wel, I suppose it wil be al over the

place presently, but I’m giving you
my
story exclusively . . . provided, of

course, you give me a good show. . . . Yes, of course. . . . Oh! wel, I suppose

I shal be staying in Wilvercombe. . . . I don’t know; I’l ring you up when I

know where I’m staying. . . . Right . . . right. . . . Good-bye.’

As she rang off, she heard a car draw up to the door, and emerged through

the little shop to encounter a large man in a grey suit, who began impatiently: ‘I

am Inspector Umpelty. What’s al this about?’

‘Oh, Inspector! I’m so glad to see you. I began to think I never
should
get

hold of anybody with any common-sense about them. I’ve had a trunk-cal, Mr