The Unburied (28 page)

‘I understand your feelings, gentlemen,’ said the Sergeant. ‘But the less I say at this moment the better. Meanwhile, I would like you to tell me exactly what happened this afternoon.’

So Austin and I explained – I doing most of the talking – that we had arrived by the back-door at twenty to five and left at a minute or two after half-past five.

‘That’s very useful, very useful indeed,’ the Sergeant said, writing in his pocket-book. ‘What I need to find out is what happened between then and six o’clock when Mrs Bubbosh arrived at the street-door.’

At that moment, the young constable who had been sent to the station came hurrying in.

‘He’s on his way, Sarge,’ he reported. ‘He telegraphed straight back.’

Sergeant Adams frowned and took him aside and they said something in a low voice. Then he indicated that his colleague should seat himself on a chair up against a wall and he continued his questioning of Austin and myself.

‘Now, did the old gentleman have any other visitor while you were here, or mention that he was expecting anyone?’

‘No, I believe not. In fact, I’m sure that he did not.’

Austin looked up. ‘The beer.’

‘The beer?’ I asked.

‘Don’t you recall, as we were leaving, that there was a knock at the door?’

‘Of course. And the old gentleman told us that would be the waiter with the beer.’

‘What waiter might this be?’ asked the Sergeant.

‘Presumably the one who brings him his dinner,’ I said, remembering what Quitregard had told me. Then I added: ‘Used to bring him his dinner.’

‘What’s his name, sir? Did he mention it?’

Austin and I looked at each other. ‘I have no idea,’ I said, and Austin shook his head to express his own ignorance.

‘As to the old gentleman’s manner this afternoon, did he seem to you to be nervous or frightened?’

‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘He was very friendly and talkative.’

‘Is that so? Friendly and talkative?’ He wrote laboriously in his notebook. ‘Would you say the same, Mr Fickling?’ Austin made no response. ‘Are you all right, Mr Fickling?’

‘Yes, of course I am,’ Austin said quickly.

The Sergeant paused and looked at him: ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to take a look at the old gentleman.’

‘Whatever for?’ Austin exclaimed.

‘It’s quite customary, sir,’ the Sergeant said.

‘The old woman can identify him better than I can,’ Austin said. ‘I only met him a few times.’

‘Nevertheless, sir, I’d like you to do so. I want everything to be done properly.’

At that moment Mrs Bubbosh was led in by the doctor and gently seated in her chair. She had a handkerchief over her face. The Sergeant said mildly: ‘Mrs Bubbosh, can you tell me the name of the waiter who used to bring Mr Stonex his dinner?’

She lowered the handkerchief and looked up in surprise. ‘Why ever do you want to know that? It’s Perkins. Young Eddy Perkins. Old Tom Perkins’s lad.’

Sergeant Adams glanced at his colleague. ‘You and Harry go and get him.’ The constable quickly rose and left the house.

‘Mr Fickling, would you follow Dr Carpenter?’

Austin got up uncertainly. The doctor smiled at him encouragingly and they went out together.

‘I must ask you if you wouldn’t mind waiting here, sir,’ the Sergeant said to me.

‘Very well,’ I answered.

He got up and went out after the other two, leaving me and Mrs Bubbosh in the houseplace. To my surprise I had to wait more than forty minutes. Mrs Bubbosh and I made desultory conversation at first, but our common topics of interest were soon exhausted. She kept saying over and over again: ‘Who would ever have thought it? Who would have thought it?’ I was wondering where Austin was and what he and Sergeant Adams could be talking about. The conversation between the officer and Slattery had given me much food for thought and various strange possibilities were passing through my mind.

At last the Sergeant came in and said, ‘Would you come with me, sir?’

I followed him into the hall. As he closed the door he took my arm and said gently: ‘I should warn you that what you are about to see may upset you.’ Then he opened the door of the study and ushered me in.

The doctor was kneeling in the middle of the little room but rose to his feet and stood back as I advanced. The first thing I saw was an axe lying on the floor, of which both the blade and the handle were smeared thickly with blood. The body was lying so that the face was turned away from me. I walked round it, stepping clear of the pools and splashes of blood that covered the floor. I looked at it from the other side and for a moment I believed I was going to faint. I have tried ever since to forget what I saw then, so let me say merely that it was a brutal reminder of the frailty of our mortal envelope.

‘Is that the person whom you last saw at half-past five here in this house, sir?’ the Sergeant asked.

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

‘How can you be sure, sir, in view of the fact that ...?’ He broke off, delicately.

‘The clothes,’ I managed to say. ‘I remember the clothes.’

The Sergeant took me by the arm and led me out into the hall. I thought we were returning to the houseplace but he escorted me down the passage and saying, ‘In here, if you please,’ ushered me into the dining-room. Then he closed the door and stood beside it.

Finding myself alone with him like this, something suddenly occurred to me which – given the highly wrought state of my nerves – made me laugh. Sergeant Adams looked at me curiously and invited me to take a seat. I had laughed because it had occurred to me that I might be under suspicion. I had had a vision of myself being kept in this room for hours while questions were fired at me by the Sergeant and his constables until I broke down and confessed.

‘Are you all right, sir?’

‘Perfectly, Sergeant Adams. Just a little upset.’

‘Quite understandable, sir.’

I seated myself at the big old table and, first turning up the gas-mantle, he placed himself at the opposite end, with his back to the window.

‘Is there anything you would care to tell me now that we are alone, sir?’

The question seemed to follow from my train of thought so precisely that I smiled involuntarily. ‘Are you inviting me to confess?’

He did not smile. ‘I’m inviting you to tell me anything at all that can cast any light on this sad matter. For example, one thing that puzzles me, sir, is the time. Are you quite sure of the hour at which you and Mr Fickling left this house? There hardly seems to have been long enough for what happened after that? Are you sure you left as late as half-past five?’

‘Yes, absolutely sure. We discussed the time as we were leaving. Why do you ask?’

‘You discussed the time,’ he repeated. ‘Would you care to explain that?’

‘No, Sergeant, I don’t think I would. This is perfectly ridiculous. I’ve had a shock and I really don’t want to have to answer a lot of pointless questions.’ He gazed at me imperturbably and after a moment I said: ‘We simply discussed the accuracy of our watches in relation to the clock in the houseplace which was fast. Mr Fickling was anxious that we should catch the end of Evensong so that I should hear Mr Slattery’s playing.’

He made a note. ‘Now I must ask you if you can tell me anything about the state of the rooms you saw? Is there anything that strikes you now about them?’

‘Nothing at all. As far as I can see, they were as they are now.’

‘You mean, sir, apart from the fact that the other room has been ransacked?’

‘No, Sergeant, I mean exactly what I said – as is always the case. I rather make a point of saying what I mean and meaning what I say. It would greatly expedite proceedings if you would be good enough to bear that in mind.’

To my irritation, he continued to gaze at me with unruffled calm. After a pause he said: ‘The rooms were in their present condition when you arrived, sir?’

‘Precisely. To be absolutely clear, this room and the houseplace – the only rooms I saw – look to me now as they did when I arrived at twenty minutes before five this afternoon.’

‘But the disarray in the other room, the drawers pulled open, papers scattered about and so on?’

‘I’ve told you, Sergeant, that was what I found on my arrival.’

‘What explanation did Mr Stonex give for this?’

‘He accounted for it very reasonably. He told us he had been looking for something.’

‘For what?’

‘A document.’

‘A legal document?’ he said quickly.

‘No. A manuscript account of the murder of Dean Freeth.’

The Sergeant frowned. ‘The murder of who?’

It took some time to explain since the Sergeant had not heard of Freeth’s murder and for a moment thought I was referring to a much more recent crime.

‘So he said that before you and Mr Fickling arrived, he had opened drawers and spilled their contents onto the floor in the way that you see now?’

‘Yes, I think so. Though it looks worse now. No, I can’t be sure that it was as much of a mess as it is now.’

He made a long note. Then suddenly he said: ‘How long have you been staying with Mr Fickling?’

‘Since Tuesday evening.’

‘Have you known him long?’

‘Mr Fickling has been a friend for more than twenty years.’

‘Have you visited him here before?’

‘No.’ Reluctantly I explained: ‘I hadn’t seen him for twenty years until last Tuesday.’

‘Has he told you anything about any personal difficulties?’

‘Mr Fickling has not told me anything about his personal circumstances which could possibly be relevant to this tragic incident.’

The Sergeant continued in the same tone: ‘And Slattery?’ he asked. ‘How long have you known him?’

‘I met
Mr
Slattery for the first time in my life about half an hour before I met you.’ It was odd how querulous I was starting to sound. It made me feel as if I were lying. And I was liking the drift of the Sergeant’s questions less and less.

‘You had never met him or seen him before?’

‘Never.’ Then I remembered the figure I had seen during the night. ‘That is to say ... No. Never.’

‘You seem to be hesitating, sir.’

‘No, I’ve never encountered Mr Slattery before.’

‘Has Mr Fickling talked about him?’

‘No. That is to say, I don’t believe so. He might have mentioned the organist before I realized he was speaking of a friend of his.’

‘The organist? Do you mean Mr Slattery?’

‘I do.’

‘Mr Slattery is the assistant-organist.’

‘In that case, I think he has not mentioned him at all. The truth is, I thought Mr Slattery was the organist.’

‘An understandable mistake, sir. Mr Slattery has been, in effect, carrying out the organist’s duties while the old gentleman who holds that position has been seriously indisposed. But his Cathedral post is not permanent.’

‘I see. And now that I consider, I believe Mr Fickling did say something about that. And Mr Slattery himself alluded to it.’ I stopped. What an extraordinary situation. I was answering questions from a complete stranger about what had passed between myself and an old friend. And all this was because of what was lying on the floor across the passage. As the memory of what I had just seen returned to me unbidden, I put my head in my hands. ‘I can’t believe that anybody could have done it. I can’t believe there can be such wickedness.’

‘It’s hard to believe, sir. It’s one of the worst cases I’ve seen.’

‘Does he have any relatives? Does anyone care?’

‘To be honest, sir, I don’t yet know if any of his relatives are still alive.’

‘He must have nephews and nieces. He mentioned a brother and a sister.’

‘All that will come out in the next few days, I imagine, sir. The estate will be large and that will be certain to bring any relations to light. Now, might I ask how it was that you came to be having tea with Mr Stonex?’

I explained that I had met him at the back-gate of the house when I went to read the inscription supposedly relating to the murder of Canon Burgoyne.

‘Another murder,’ the Sergeant remarked drily. ‘It seems quite to have been the theme of the last few days, sir.’

‘Mr Stonex and I talked about that affair and then about the case of Dean Freeth and then he invited me to come to tea in a couple of days.’

Sergeant Adams lowered his notebook and looked at me. ‘That is somewhat surprising, sir, since the old gentleman was very reclusive.’

‘It was our common interest in the death of Freeth that led him to extend the invitation. He wanted to tell me another version of that incident.’

‘So the invitation to tea was made on Wednesday?’

‘That is so.’

‘Did Mr Slattery know about the invitation for this afternoon?’

‘Not as far as I am aware. Why should he? But Mr Fickling might have mentioned to him that we were having tea with Mr Stonex when he arranged to meet him at the end of Evensong.’

The Sergeant wrote at length and at last I asked: ‘I hope I may be permitted to leave now?’

‘You may, of course, sir. But I would be very grateful if you would attend here for just a few minutes.’

I consented to this with an ill grace. He left the room and I waited. In the event twenty minutes passed before he returned and while I sat in the near-darkness and the silence – for there was no sound from the rest of the house – it came to me with the force of a revelation that
somebody
had done this thing, somebody who was probably still within a few minutes’ walk of where I was now. I tried not to think of what I had just seen. The sudden irruption into my life of an act of such brutality made me feel dizzy and as if the room in which I was sitting was not real. Since I was a schoolboy, I had not seen blood shed as a result of violence. The Sergeant’s questions about Austin were worrying. He had certainly been behaving strangely during the last few days, but I had no reason to suppose there was any connection between that and this terrible deed. He appeared to be as shocked by it as I was.

The Sergeant returned and sat down again and said: ‘Are you absolutely certain about the state of the houseplace when you arrived, sir?’

‘For the second time, Sergeant, yes I am.’