No Known Grave (2 page)

“ ’Oo’s there? Speak up, you sod. Speak up or I’ll knock your block off.”

Melrose answered for the mute Clark. “How beautifully poetic as usual, Eddie. But you can relax. It’s just Vic making sure you’re up. Rub-a-dub class this morning.”

Prescott lowered his fists. “Sorry.”

Vic grunted.

“That was his way of saying, ‘Don’t worry, old chap,’ ” murmured Melrose. “He takes no offence. As the call girl said to the bishop when they collided in the fog.”

Eddie got out of bed, his foot feeling for his slippers. Surreptitiously, Melrose kicked one out of reach. Clark saw him and wagged his finger reproachfully.

At that moment the door was pushed open and a man in a wheelchair appeared on the threshold. He was wearing a shirt and trousers in
RAF
blue. Heavy, dark glasses obscured his face.

“Morning, guys. Melly, I’m glad you’re already in top form. I could hear the quotes falling out of your mouth.”

“Morning, Jeremy,” said Melrose. “It’s good to know I can still reach the plebs in the balcony.”

Prescott hooted. “ ’Ere we go again. ’E thinks ’e’s bloody Laurence Olivier.”

“Better that, old chap, than having no aspirations at all above the gutter,” replied Melrose.

Before Prescott could respond, Clark thrust his cane between the two men. The rumblings in his throat were clear enough. He wasn’t a big man, but even his inability to speak couldn’t hide the fact that he meant business.

Melrose threw up his hands. “Don’t worry, Vic. I won’t be drawn. I have more important things to dwell on.” He turned to the man in the wheelchair. “Come on, Jeremy, I’ll take you down. Let me just garb myself more appropriately. Don’t want to embarrass the sisters.”

He removed a burgundy-coloured silk dressing gown from a hook on the door, slipped it on, then smoothed his hair with a pair of silver-backed brushes from the dresser.

“All right then, those of you who have eyes to see, speak up. Hmm. I suppose that means just you, Vic. Am I presentable? You nod? Good.” He shoved the wheelchair around so he could take the handles. “We’d better get a move on, my friend. Sarge will have our hides if we’re late again. And I will die if I don’t get my morning cuppa char, paltry as it is.”

“Oi, what about me? I’m not ready yet,” Eddie called to him.

“I cannot take responsibility for mandragora heads,” said Melrose with a flap of his hand. “Vic will help you, I’m sure.”

“See you downstairs,” called out Jeremy Bancroft as the door closed behind them.

Prescott felt for the clothes that were neatly folded on the chair beside the bed.

“One of these days, Vic, I’m going to clock that bloke. Bloody toffee-nosed snob.”

Clark grunted.

“No, seriously,” continued Prescott. “The only reason I haven’t bashed his head in is ’cos he’s older than me. I never beat up women, kiddies, or old men.”

Clark handed him his shirt and stood by while Prescott struggled to get dressed. He got into a pair of baggy black-and-white-checked trousers, a brown-striped shirt, and a paisley waistcoat.

“Do I look all right?” he asked finally. “Yesterday, Melrose made some crack about me applying to join the circus. Sod him.”

He reached for Clark’s shoulder. “Lead on. The lame leading the blind. What a bloody joke.”

2.

T
HE ROOM THAT THE HOSPITAL HAD MADE AVAILABLE
for the massage classes had once been the wine cellar of the manor house. It was awkward for the disabled students to get in and out of, there were no windows, and it tended to be too cool for comfort, but they liked having it all to themselves. Windows were irrelevant.

“Whose turn is it to be the body?” asked the orderly who had accompanied them.

“Daisy’s,” said Prestcott and Bancroft in unison.

“Oh, no,” she replied at once. “If you think I’m going to take my clothes off and lie on that table without our teacher here, you’ve got another think coming. I don’t trust you blokes as far as I could throw you. You’re always making some excuse to bump my bosoms. The tibia–fibula attachment isn’t in the middle of my chest, as you well know.”

Clark made a sort of gurgling sound.

“Don’t make poor Vic laugh, he could break his wires,” said Melrose.

“Come on now,” said Hughes. “Mr. McHattie won’t be happy, look you, if he finds you sitting around idle when he gets here. Mr. Clark, how about you being the victim … I mean, the subject? You’re the only one who will keep his mouth shut.”

“Ouch, that was unkind,” said Melrose. “I’m sure Vic will be as chatty as any of us when the doctor applies the tin opener to his jaw.”

Vic Clark waved his hand energetically at the orderly, indicating he didn’t want to volunteer.

“All right,” said Hughes. “By the authority invested in me by this hospital, I nominate you, Mr. Bancroft.”

The Canadian moaned. “Must I? I hate being the one they practise on. It’s like having four orchestras all playing different tunes at the same time. Eddie, you are far too tentative, and Melly, you and Vic act like you’re trying to scrub paint off of a piece of wood. Daisy’s the only one of you with any kind of decent touch.”

“It’s all a pile of shite, if you ask me,” said Prescott. “They just want us to keep busy. We could as easily take up bloody basket-weaving.”

“Get on the table, for God’s sake, Jeremy,” said Melrose. “I can’t take Eddie’s bellyaching this early in the morning.”

“Do I have to strip? It’s freezing in here.”

Melrose’s voice was scornful. “I thought all Canuck children were rolled in snow and ice from the moment of birth. Makes them tough as seals.”

“I was born in Victoria, I’ll have you know,” snorted Bancroft. “It’s a little England in more ways than one. It’s never cold there.”

“They’ll warm you up once they get going,” said Hughes.

“I’ll help you, Jeremy,” said Daisy. “Here. Give me your jersey. Can you manage your trousers yourself?”

Melrose whistled. “I’d say no if I were you, Bancroft.”

“Oh for goodness’ sake, do you have to dirty everything?” Daisy’s voice was angry.

“Thank you, Daisy,” said Bancroft. “I just need a shoulder to lean on for balance.”

“Here,” said the orderly. “Allow me.”

Politely, Daisy turned away as Bancroft stripped down to his underwear, but Melrose whistled again.

“Quite awe-inspiring,” he muttered. “Better than the Rockies, I’d say.”

Daisy frowned but pretended not to know what he meant.
Hughes helped Bancroft to get onto the gurney, where he stretched out on his back.

“Hurry up, won’t you, I’m freezing.”

Daisy took a blanket from one of the shelves and covered him. “We can work around it. No sense in catching your death.”

The other three moved in closer. Vic tentatively lifted Bancroft’s leg. Eddie reached for one arm, Melrose took the other.

“I have to say,” chuckled Hughes, “a less inspiring bunch I’ve yet to see. Lord help the poor patients if you ever get any. Ladies and Mr. Melrose excepted, naturally.”

“What on earth has happened to our illustrious leader?” asked Bancroft. “It’s so utterly unlike him to be late.”

“I hope he’s not been taken ill,” said Daisy. “Come to think of it, I didn’t hear his bagpipes this morning.”

“Speaking of being ill …” said Melrose. “In the interests of our mental health, can we get him to cease and desist his serenades?”

“Not a chance,” said the orderly, grinning. “It makes him very happy. And we all want the sergeant to be happy, don’t we?”

“By the way, Hughes,” continued the actor, “I do rather resent the implication that I am some sort of effeminate poufter. Not all thespians are that way, don’t you know. I’m as red-blooded as the next chap. I’ve already asked Daisy to marry me. Not to mention all our chaste sisters.”

Prescott guffawed. “That’s not what I’ve ’eard. Queer as a box of frogs, you theatre lot.”

Before Melrose could retaliate, Daisy said, “Shouldn’t you go and check up on Sarge, Mr. Hughes? He really might have been taken ill.”

“More likely he’s gone on strike so he won’t have to deal with such a sorry bunch of cripples. But I’d better pop over and see what’s keeping him. Miss Stevens, I’m leaving you in charge.”

He left.

Daisy spoke up. “Come on, chaps. We’ve got a job to do, and the faster we learn the better. Idle hands are only going to help Hitler in the long run.”

“Well put,” said Bancroft.

“As always,” added Melrose, “our Daisy is a veritable treasure trove of pithy sayings.”

3.

S
ERGEANT
McH
ATTIE AND HIS FAMILY OCCUPIED
one of two cottages that were nestled into a gentle slope about a hundred yards behind the main building. As Hughes approached, he felt a sharp twinge of uneasiness. He could see that the blackout curtains were still drawn in all of the front windows. He knew that Mrs. McHattie and her daughter always visited her family in Wem on Tuesday nights and therefore wouldn’t be at home, but where was Jock? It was so unlike him to be sleeping in. The two young laddies, perhaps, now that it was the school holidays, but not the sergeant. Hughes glanced over at the other cottage nearby, where Mrs. Fuller, the cook, lived with her son. Hughes had seen her earlier serving breakfast in the dining room, and, as he would have expected, her curtains were all pulled back and the windows were wide open.

He stepped up to the front door of the McHattie cottage and knocked. No answer. Had the sarge indeed been taken ill? He knocked again. Silence. He tried the doorknob, which turned easily. He pushed open the door and went inside.

The place was in darkness.

“Sergeant McHattie? Jock? Are you home?”

There was no response.

Hughes switched on the overhead light.

“Anybody home? It’s me, Hughes.”

There was no wireless playing, no dishes on the kitchen table, no sign that anybody had been up and about. Jock’s bagpipes drooped over a chair.

Suddenly, a cat yowled and ran out from the kitchen. “Shite,” Hughes gasped. “Bloody hell, Blackie. You gave me a fright there.”

The cat darted up the stairs and Hughes followed it to a small landing. There was a night light here, barely penetrating the gloom but sufficient for him to make out two partly open doors.

He sniffed. There was a sour smell in the air.

Cautiously, he peeked inside the first bedroom.

“Jock? Jock, you in here?”

The blackout curtains were closed here as well and it was pitch-dark. He snapped on the light.

Even though the orderly was used to the frailty of the human body, what he saw made bile rush up into his mouth. Sprawled on the floor between the door and the bed was the elder of Jock’s young sons, Ben. He was lying on his back, his arms flung out to the sides. He was dressed in his pyjamas, the top stained with blood, which had also streaked his face in dark rivulets.

Jock McHattie was in the bed, still under the covers. He had a halo of blood around his head, and there was a large, ragged tear in his pillow. Bits of white substance had spread everywhere. Brains or feathers, it was hard to tell.

Although Hughes knew there was nothing he could do for either of them, he had to make sure. He stepped closer to the boy, crouched down, and touched Ben’s hand. It was cool. There was a large, black-rimmed hole in the middle of the boy’s forehead. He had been shot at close range.

Slowly, Hughes straightened up and went over to the bed. Like his son, Jock appeared to have been shot. There was an identical wound in his temple. His skin was also cold. Death for both of them must have occurred some hours earlier.

The cat was meowing loudly and rubbing itself against Ben’s body.

Hughes backed away onto the landing, but just as he did so, he heard a sound, so soft he almost missed it, coming from the second bedroom. His knees were shaking, but he made himself go and look. Again he had to turn on the light. There was another whimper. It seemed to be coming from underneath the nearer of the two beds. He bent down. The terrified face of a young boy stared out at him. It was Charlie, the younger McHattie boy.

“Mr. Hughes,” he whispered. “Please help me, Mr. Hughes.”

4.

D
ETECTIVE
I
NSPECTOR
T
OM
T
YLER WAS SITTING IN
the kitchen, half listening to the wireless and swishing the last drop of tea around in his cup. He wished he could read tea leaves the way his gran had. She was good – uncannily accurate, although he suspected most of her predictions relied on her shrewd judgment of character and the fact that she was privy to a lot of talk from her friends and neighbours.

“Ask your question in good faith and you’ll get good guidance,” his gran would say.

On an impulse, Tyler turned the cup three times and upended it in the saucer. He righted the cup and stared at the clump of tea leaves. It didn’t mean anything to him. Just looked like a black, shapeless mess, which was, come to think of it, how he was feeling about his life at the moment. “Fat lot of help you are,” he said to the blameless china.

He gave the cup a bit of a shake, hoping that some of the tea leaves would settle into more of a pattern. Give him some sign. Maybe “What does the future hold?” was too broad a question. But what
did
it hold? The move to Ludlow was intended to be a new beginning. New town, new position. When the local inspector resigned for health reasons, Tyler had jumped at the chance to apply for his job.

“Don’t be deceived by the quaint rural setting, Tyler,” said Chief Constable Anderson during his interview. “It’s true we’ve led a quiet, peaceful life up till now, but since the war, we’ve got no end of action. There’s the
RAF
chaps from the base pulling drunk and disorderlies every weekend; constant complaints
about evacuees with ringworm and light fingers; and to add to the mix, the ever-present problem of the black market. I’d say there’s never a dull moment.”

Tyler assured the chief that this suited him just fine and he was offered the position.

When he’d told the chief he’d been separated from his wife for more than a year, Anderson had suggested Tyler bunk with Sergeant Oliver Rowell. The sergeant, a widower, was occupying the house the local council provided for the senior officers of the constabulary. “He’s got extra room, so it’s simpler all round,” were the chief constable’s words, and Tyler had agreed willingly, happy at the thought of company.