The Unburied (27 page)

I looked at him in astonishment. Before I could respond Austin said: ‘You’re saying the same thing, both of you.’

We turned to him in surprise. ‘You’re saying, Courtine, that there’s excitement and drama beneath the surface of everyone’s life. That’s all that Slattery was pointing out.’

I was about to respond when there was an interruption. A man hurried into the bar and called out to his friends in the opposite corner: ‘There’s something up across the road at the old feller’s place.’

He and two of his companions went and stood at the window beside ours. We looked out and saw that there were about a dozen people gathered around the door of a house on the other side of the street, spilling into the carriageway so that they would have obstructed passing vehicles if there had been any. Among the crowd were two police-officers, one of whom was hammering at the door with his knuckles.

‘I wonder what can be happening,’ Slattery drawled.

As we watched a man came hurrying up carrying a mallet.

‘Stranger and stranger,’ Slattery commented. Then he said to Austin: ‘Isn’t it that queer old bird’s place? What’s his name?’

Austin shook his head as if he had no idea what his friend was talking about.

‘I say,’ Slattery said raising his voice and leaning back in his chair towards the men at the other window. ‘Whose house is that over the way?’

‘That’s old Mr Stonex, the banker, sir,’ said one of the three men looking out of the other window.

‘That’s the fellow,’ Slattery said to us.

Of course! It was the street-front of the house we had just come from. I had not recognized it since I had seen it only from the rear. I looked at Austin who took a drink from his glass.

‘We were there not an hour ago,’ I said.

‘Were you indeed? Well, I’ll be damned. Do you have any idea what it can be about?’

‘Not the least in the world.’

There was a sudden loud noise and I saw that one of the officers was attempting to break down the street-door with the mallet under the instructions of the other who, I now noticed, was a sergeant.

‘Don’t you think we should make ourselves known to the officers?’ I asked Austin. ‘We might be able to help.’

He shook his head to indicate doubt or the lack of any view. But Slattery said: ‘I believe you should. It would look deuced rum to come forward later.’

Leaving our glasses of beer unfinished, we went out into the street and crossed over to where a small crowd was gathered. I pushed my way through the onlookers and approached the Sergeant who was watching the constable’s efforts to smash through the door. I explained to the Sergeant that Austin and I had been in the house less than an hour before and he was very interested. I turned to beckon forward my two companions and introduced them. The officer nodded and said: ‘I know Mr Fickling, of course. And I had the honour of making your acquaintance last Tuesday night, did I not, Mr Slattery?’

Slattery bowed deeply and gave the officer a charming smile: ‘The honour was entirely mine, Sergeant, although the occasion was less happy than could have been desired.’

‘It was at Canon Sheldrick’s,’ the officer explained to me. ‘There was an unfortunate incident in which a number of miniatures were stolen.’

‘I heard about that,’ I remarked to Austin who turned away.

‘Have they been recovered, Sergeant,’ Slattery asked, ‘as a consequence of your impressive professional endeavours?’

The officer looked at him coldly and said: ‘As a matter of fact, Mr Slattery, they have not. Though I have a shrewd suspicion as to what happened to them.’

‘Shrewdness is what I would expect of you,’ Slattery said with his most charming smile.

The conversation was punctuated by the regular crash of the mallet.

‘Where is Mr Stonex?’ I asked.

‘That’s the question, sir,’ the Sergeant replied.

An old woman who had been standing beside him all the while began to speak: ‘I’ve never knowed nothing like it. The gentleman is so regular in his ways.’

‘This is Mrs Bubbosh,’ said the Sergeant. ‘She comes every day to cook and clean.’

‘And I come as usual just now to cook the old gentleman’s supper but he didn’t answer the door, even though I hammered and hammered until my fist hurt. That ain’t never happened before.’

‘What time was that?’ the Sergeant asked.

‘Why, just a few minutes before six, as always. So I wondered if something had come up sudden at the Bank and he’d been sent for so I went down there and spoke to Mr Wattam’ – nodding at a neatly-dressed man standing beside her – ‘but he said no.’

‘Mr Stonex has never failed to return to the Bank at a few minutes after six in my entire experience,’ said the man. ‘And that goes back nearly thirty years. I’m Mr Wattam, gentlemen, and have the honour to be the managing-clerk at the Thurchester and County Bank.’

The Sergeant and the three of us shook hands all round and Mr Wattam continued: ‘I was so alarmed by what this good woman told me that I came back here. We banged on the door for some time and then went round to the back-door but found that it also was locked. Then we sent a boy to the station-house for the officers.’

As we were speaking the crowd was increasing and by now there were about twenty gawping onlookers.

‘Now you know as much as I do, sir,’ the Sergeant said to me.

At that moment the constable swinging the mallet succeeded in breaking through one of the panels of the door. He kicked it until he had made enough space to permit access. The Sergeant stooped and went in through the gap, giving instructions to his colleague that nobody else should enter until he had returned.

‘This is very strange,’ I said to my companions. ‘He was in perfect health when we took leave of him. Was he not, Austin?’

My friend nodded gravely.

Slattery smiled. ‘I dare say he was called away on sudden business. When he gets back and finds his house broken into and a crowd of idle busybodies blocking the road, I venture to suggest that even his legendary good humour will falter.’

‘Is he reputed so good-humoured?’ I began, when I realized that he was being ironic. And yet the old gentleman had seemed perfectly amiable that afternoon.

At that moment the Sergeant’s face – distinctly pale now – emerged rather incongruously at about the height of my waist as he crawled through the broken panel. He got to his feet and dusted his knees. The constable came up to him as if awaiting orders but the Sergeant seemed to be ignoring him as he glanced around at us. Almost by accident, as it seemed, his gaze fell on Mr Wattam. ‘Send for a surgeon,’ he stammered to him in a low voice. The clerk stood hesitating as if wondering whether to ask a question. ‘Quickly, man,’ the Sergeant said softly, and Mr Wattam hurried away.

‘Is the old gentleman unwell?’ I asked.

The Sergeant merely shook his head. He took a deep breath and sat down very abruptly on the doorstep. As if to conceal his superior’s incapacity, the constable began to wave the onlookers away from the door. ‘Move along, please,’ he urged. ‘Don’t block the carriageway.’

Unwillingly the crowd of mainly men and boys shuffled off and stood on the pavement a few yards away trying to look as if they had quite unrelated reasons for happening to be there. After a moment the Sergeant beckoned the other officer over. They conferred briefly in whispers. I saw the younger man’s face slacken and his mouth hang open. Then he knelt down and began to crawl through the smashed panel.

‘Dick,’ the Sergeant called out softly. ‘First thing of all, go and check the back-door is still locked.’ The constable nodded and disappeared through the gap.

‘Is there just them two doors?’ the Sergeant asked Mrs Bubbosh – his grammar deteriorating in his state of shock. She nodded.

Mrs Bubbosh caught my eye and I seemed to see in her face the sudden realization that this was more serious than the rather enjoyable experience which had briefly made her the centre of attention. Austin had put his hands over his face and turned away. I noticed that Slattery had gripped his arm and seemed to be shaking him while he whispered in his ear.

At that moment two young constables came up and one of them shouted out: ‘We got your message, Sarge, and come as soon as we could.’

The words faded on his lips as he caught sight of his colleague who rose unsteadily to his feet and beckoned both officers aside.

The crowd – now consisting of about thirty people – was talking loudly, perhaps resenting their exclusion. On the other hand, those of us in the little group nearest the door who felt we had some sort of semi-official status – Mrs Bubbosh, the man who had brought the mallet, Slattery, Austin and myself – stayed silent as we watched the three officers, straining to catch their low-voiced conversation. I was just about to demand that we be told what was happening when the constable who had been addressed as Dick crawled through the door. As he joined his colleagues I heard him say: ‘The back-door’s locked, Sergeant. And I can’t find none of the keys.’

The Sergeant nodded and said to the man who had lent the mallet: ‘Smash down the rest of it, for God’s sake, will you?’

The man took up the implement and began to swing it against the remaining parts of the door. The frame gave way before the panels eventually splintered.

At that moment a thin young man carrying a black bag hurried up with Mr Wattam and spoke for a moment to the Sergeant. Then the two of them entered the house while the three constables were left to guard the door. The Sergeant reappeared a minute later and sent one of the younger officers to the railway-station to dispatch a telegram.

When he had hurried off the Sergeant took Mrs Bubbosh by the elbow and began to lead her towards the door. As he did so he turned to the rest of us: ‘Would you come in too, please, gentlemen.’

‘All of us?’ I asked.

‘If you please. You three gentlemen appear to have been the last visitors to the house.’

‘Not this gentleman,’ I said, indicating Slattery who had shown no sign of resolving the misunderstanding.

‘You weren’t in the house with the other gentlemen this afternoon, Mr Slattery?’ the Sergeant asked.

‘Indeed I was not.’

‘Where were you, sir?’

‘Let me think. I was playing the piano at choir practice from about half-past four until five o’clock. And then the Cathedral organ for three-quarters of an hour. Rather a large number of people heard me on both occasions.’

‘Oh yes, you were playing at the ceremony for the new organ,’ the Sergeant said.

‘No, that was to have been tomorrow. In fact, it has been postponed. I was playing at Evensong as I do every afternoon at five o’clock.’

‘I understand perfectly, sir. Your movements can be fully accounted for, just as was the case last Tuesday evening.’

Slattery bowed with an ironic smile.

‘In that case,’ the Sergeant went on, ‘only Dr Courtine and Mr Fickling will be required to step inside.’

Slattery saluted us with an enigmatic grin as we left him and Mr Wattam on the pavement with the two constables. Mrs Bubbosh gasped as she entered the disordered houseplace and cried: ‘I never seen nothing like it!’ To my relief – for I was not sure what I should expect to find – the room looked just as it had when I had last seen it not much more than an hour earlier, but I supposed that she was surprised at the virtual ransacking of the place. I noticed that the Sergeant was watching us closely as we came in and looked round. In a strange recapitulation of the occasion earlier that afternoon, we seated ourselves again around the table, myself taking the place where our host had sat – or rather failed to sit since he had stood through most of the meal – Austin seating himself where he had on that occasion, with his head bowed over his crumb-strewn plate, and Mrs Bubbosh, who had fallen silent, taking what had been my place.

The Sergeant stood in the centre of the room holding his notebook and the stub of pencil. Then he said: ‘I am Sergeant Adams. I am afraid I have to ask you some questions.’

‘Before you do so, will you please tell us what has occurred, Sergeant?’ I asked.

‘That’s what I have to find out, sir.’

‘I mean,’ I said, ‘is Mr Stonex here?’

‘I don’t want to say nothing until I’ve spoken to Dr Carpenter,’ he said.

‘Then I take it the surgeon is with him now?’

‘He is. And while we’re waiting, I’d like to put a few queries to you. Now, Mrs Bubbosh, according to what you told me a few minutes ago, the last time you saw Mr Stonex was at twelve noon when he returned from the Bank?’ She nodded. ‘You had been working here all morning and when he got back you left the house?’ She nodded. ‘And that was according to custom?’

‘That’s right, sir. Oh, what a dreadful thing this is!’

Sergeant Adams waited a moment or two until she had regained some composure.

‘You had been here since he let you in at seven o’clock?’

She nodded.

‘And after he left for the Bank nobody entered the house?’

‘Nobody could have done, sir. Both the doors was locked and I don’t have no key. There is only one set and he keeps them with him always. He wears them on a ring on his belt.’

‘What about the windows?’

‘All on ’em is nailed fast.’

‘You’re certain there was nobody already concealed in the house?’

‘How could there have been? I went over every inch of the blessed place cleaning it.’

‘From your questions, Sergeant,’ I interrupted, indignant at his refusal to state the situation and increasingly alarmed by my suspicions, ‘are we to assume that ... that something quite dreadful has occurred?’

Before the Sergeant could answer, the young doctor hurried into the room and exchanged a look with him and the Sergeant moved over to join him in the doorway. They whispered together for a few minutes and then the Sergeant came back into the room and said mildly: ‘Now, Mrs Bubbosh, would you be good enough to go with the surgeon. I think he’ll want to say something to you first.’

With an expression of terror on her face she allowed herself to be escorted to the doorway where the young man took her by the arm. The meaning of what I was seeing could no longer be denied.

‘Sergeant,’ I cried. ‘I demand to be told what has happened. Did the old gentleman have some sort of seizure? Did he fall down the stairs?’