Heberden's Seat

by Douglas Clark

  HEBERDEN’S SEAT

  Douglas Clark

  © Douglas Clark 1979

  Douglas Clark has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1979 by Victor Gollancz Ltd.

  This edition published in 2019 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  For Christopher and Andrew Sweeney

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter One

  “Even I know,” said Detective Chief Inspector Green, “that you don’t switch off the engine and freewheel uphill. Downhill, perhaps, on occasion, although that is strictly illegal. So switch on again, lad, and carry on motoring.”

  The big police Rover was coasting even more slowly to a halt as the low rise took the way off it.

  “I haven’t switched off,” replied Detective Sergeant Reed through clenched teeth. “The bastard’s given up on me.”

  “Language,” chided Green, who seemed to be in an amiable mood. “Our cars don’t give up on us.”

  “This one has. There’s no ignition. No electrics.”

  While he was speaking, Reed had drawn the car into the side of the narrow country road. There was no footpath, just a lush grass verge standing too high above the tarmac for the unpowered wheels to mount and, thereby, leave the way clear for passing traffic.

  “Have a look at it,” said Detective Superintendent Masters, opening the rear offside door and stepping out. “We’ll stretch our legs for a bit.”

  It was a gorgeous afternoon in June. Masters and his team were returning from a week spent in helping the police in Middlesbrough to sort out a rather convoluted mess of theft, thuggery and murder. It would have been quicker to have taken the motorway south, but knowing Green’s innate—and growing—fear of fast and cluttered roads, Masters had suggested that they should find a scenic route and take their time over reaching London. And this is how the four of them now came to be stranded on a small, deserted, country road twenty or so miles north of Lincoln.

  Detective Sergeant Berger, who had been sitting alongside Reed in the front of the car, announced his intention of walking up to the top of the rise to see if there was a house close by should they need a phone to summon help. Reed lifted the bonnet and started to peer around inside.

  “These tall hedges,” said Green, lighting a cigarette from a crumpled Kensitas packet, “stop you seeing anything. We might as well be in the Colorado Canyon.”

  Masters, who was filling his pipe with Warlock Flake, looked about him. “If you want to look about, there’s a gate in the hedge just ahead, and a convenient tree to climb.”

  Surprisingly, Green replied: “That’s an idea. I haven’t climbed a tree for years. When I was a lad, I used to go scrumping apples.”

  “Alternator connections,” said Reed, raising his head. “The lead’s off.”

  “Can you fix it?”

  “I can put it back, Chief. But I think we’ve been going for heaven knows how long without recharging the battery. It’s as flat as a pancake now. Not enough in it to spark the plugs.”

  “In other words you need help.”

  “A car with a set of jump leads to start me up would do it.”

  “Stay with it. The DCI and I will walk up to join Berger. He may have located a phone. If so, I’ll call for a local Panda car.”

  Berger was on his way back. They met him just before the top of the rise.

  “There’s an old church here, Chief. Nothing else before the village in the next dip.”

  “How far?”

  “Half a mile, about.”

  “Keep walking, son,” said Green, turning Berger round by the elbow. “The battery’s flat. You sort that for us while the DS and I have a snooze in the churchyard.”

  Berger set off, his jacket slung over his shoulder, with a finger crooked in the hanger. Masters and Green followed more slowly. Masters would have preferred a faster pace—his long legs demanded it—but Green, heavier built and shorter, and wearing a heavy suit in rough, dark material, was beginning to sweat. The globules glistened on his forehead and on his upper lip. Two or three drops had started to cascade down from his temples to his heavy jowls by the time they reached the gate of the old church which Berger had mentioned.

  It was on the left of the road. An old, grey oak, double gate planted in the hedgerow. Fastened to the left-hand leaf was a rectangular piece of hardboard on which was stuck a typewritten sheet.

  “‘Tombstone Notice’,” grunted Green, mopping his face with his handkerchief. “What’s that when it’s at home?”

  “I’m as wise as you are,” replied Masters, stooping to read the sun-faded lettering.

  “What’s it say?”

  “In essence? That St John the Divine’s church—presumably this one—was declared a redundant church some five years ago and is now under offer to a prospective buyer who intends to use the premises for non-ecclesiastical purposes. The buyer in question proposes to sink a cesspit in the churchyard and to clear the ground for use as a domestic garden. Parishioners are informed that should they wish to have the buried remains of any near relative transferred, as a result of this proposal, from this site to other consecrated ground, it can be arranged at the expense of the Church Commissioners. Only those who are close kindred of deceased buried here may apply, and the Commissioners are empowered to refuse free transfer for bodies buried more than ten years before the date of display of this notice. And that is, the 3rd of June this year.”

  “I’m not surprised it’s redundant. It’s in the middle of nowhere. There aren’t all that many faithful left these days, and those there are won’t walk half a mile out of the village to get to church.”

  Masters opened the right-hand leaf, which was on the latch. They entered the churchyard slowly.

  “It’s sadly overgrown.”

  “You’re telling me. Grass waist-high and all ready to seed. It’s a wilderness. The bloke who’s taking this on will need a flame thrower to clear it.” Green led the way along the remnants of a path that led to the south door. It was just possible to see that the way had never been properly paved. Yellow gravel lay on top of mud hard-packed over the years by the feet of those attending services at the little church. Now the tall grasses on either side almost met above it and through it poked finer grass and weeds.

  Green forged ahead towards the porch at the west door. He reached it and lifted the latch ring. “Locked,” he said, sounding so disappointed that Masters began to wonder if Green had hidden religious leanings.

  “Closed for five years. Except that whoever is about to buy it must have looked it over before he made his bid.”

  Green grunted. “Sunny end?” he asked nodding towards the near south-west corner. “Full in the sun round there.”

  He was right. The west end was full in the afternoon sun. Here, in front of the great west door, was a semi-circle of beaten earth not yet invaded by the approaching undergrowth. On this plot, dragged across the door as though to get the maximum benefit from the sun, was an old oak bench. It had weathered down to an ashen colour, and gave the impression that it was as old as the church itself. A small plaque screwed to the middle of the top slat at the back told them different. The bench had been given by one, Alexander Heberden, as recently as 1961, to “provide a place of rest for those who would tarry awhile in the environs of the church”.

  “It’s been used quite a lot recently,” said Green. “The seat’s not mucky. It looks as if it’s been polished by quite a few backsides recently. Courting couples, I s
uppose.”

  Masters made no comment. He turned to face the sun and lifted his hand to shade his eyes. “It’ll be too uncomfortable to sit here, unless we move the seat.”

  “Let’s walk round,” said Green.

  They went in single file, clockwise round the church. As they approached the eastern end of the north side, Green said: “Another door.”

  “Vestry, perhaps.”

  It was a small, narrow door, with two stone steps up to it and a pointed arch at the top.

  “Solid oak, again,” said Green. “And it has been used pretty often. You can see the grease marks round the keyhole.”

  “What have we here?” Masters had moved a step or two from the church into the waist-high grass. “A well?”

  Green joined him. “That’s right. There wouldn’t be water laid on in a church this far out. But they’d need it for cleaning and filling the flower vases at festival times.”

  “Dangerous,” said Masters. “The surround is only two feet high.”

  “If you’d ever had to draw water from a well you’d know that getting it up’s hard enough without having a wall six feet high. There’s no windlass, you know. You just drop a bucket on the end of a rope.”

  “Still, I’d like to see it covered over.”

  “It probably was—by boards. They’ll have gone, unless they’re somewhere in the long grass.”

  Masters peered into the well. He looked for a few seconds and then turned round to search the ground. He saw what he wanted near the vestry door. Some of the yellow stones were still to be seen. He went across and selected three of the biggest.

  “Dropping stones down wells?” asked Green, with a slight sneer. “I thought you’d be over the kid stuff.”

  “Just listen,” said Masters.

  “To see how deep it is?”

  “Listen.” Masters’ tone was mandatory.

  The first stone went down. Both waited for it to strike water.

  “Anything?” asked Masters.

  Green shook his head. “It’s dry. It probably dries out in summer.”

  “I thought I saw the shimmer of water.”

  “Drop another stone.”

  Again they waited for a splash that didn’t come.

  Green leaned over the parapet. The well was barely a yard in diameter and the sun did not penetrate its depth. With a grunt of annoyance, after squinting hard down the shaft, Green took out his matches. He struck one and held it down at arm’s length.

  “There’s water,” he said, straightening up. “I could just see the sheen.”

  “Anything else?”

  Masters’ tone caused Green to peer at him. “Like what?”

  “I’ll drop another stone.”

  Again no splash.

  “Come on,” said Green. “What do you reckon is down there?”

  “Clothes,” said Masters. “A white shirt, I think.”

  “Clothes? Wait a minute. You caught a glimpse of something down there?”

  Masters nodded.

  “Well it isn’t a shirt,” said Green adamantly. “If it was and it was floating just at the surface, a stone would still splash. But if the stone were to hit a floating body. . . .” Green didn’t finish. He again leaned over the parapet and struck three matches at once to give him more light. When he straightened up he said: “I can’t be sure. I thought I saw something white. But it could have been because you suggested it.”

  Masters nodded. “But we’ve got to make sure. Stay here. I’ll get the torches from the car.”

  Without Green to slow him down, Masters made good time. He returned with a torch and a ball of thin twine from the murder bag. He handed them to Green. “You lower, while I look.”

  Three minutes later, Green said: “It’s a man. A fully grown man. He’s come to the top, but there isn’t enough room for him to float horizontally, so his body is jammed in a sort of curve.”

  “You can pull the light up now.”

  “And then do what?”

  “Wait. I told Reed that when Berger got back he was to send him here to us, together with a local bobby if he’s got one in tow.”

  *

  The local bobby was Sergeant Iliff. It was obvious from his demeanour that Berger had briefed him fully as to the identity of the visitors from Scotland Yard. He listened dutifully while Masters told him of the discovery of the body and then, very sensibly, asked if he could borrow the torch and the string to make his own inspection.

  “How’re you going to get him up then, lad?” asked Green. “There’s not much room for a man to work down there.”

  Iliff considered the problem for a moment.

  “Grappling hooks.”

  “No good,” said Masters. “You’d be able to hook into his clothes easily enough, but he won’t come up in his present posture. He’d jam across the shaft. You’ll have to extract him either head first or feet first.”

  “I’ll send for the gear, sir,” replied Iliff, obviously unwilling to stay and exchange ideas about the retrieval of the corpse. “Could I ask you, sir, to call in and see DCI Webb at the Market Rasen station? He’d best hear it from you himself, sir.”

  “You want us to go off our route for a suicide?” asked Green. “We’re on our way home after a tiring job, sergeant.”

  “Even so, sir,” replied Iliff courteously. “We like official statements from whoever finds bodies in this Division. How they came to discover the corpse and so on. And you must agree it sounds a bit odd for two senior officers from Scotland Yard to happen on a dead body in a well that nobody can see down in a disused churchyard in the middle of nowhere.”

  Masters glanced across at Green. “I do believe we’re being regarded as suspects.”

  “Nobody’s above the law, sir,” said Iliff. “I’ll send a message to the DCI to expect you. Your car will likely be started by now. We brought leads with us to start you up from our battery. PC Bannerman will have sorted it for you.”

  Masters had difficulty not smiling in the face of Iliff’s correctness. But he agreed amicably enough to do as he had been asked, and led the way from the well back to the churchyard gate, taking great care to go round the church itself in a clockwise direction.

  *

  DCI Webb was inclined to laugh when Masters said he had been ordered to report. But the local man’s mirth was not long-lasting nor, or so it seemed to Masters, very happy.

  “You’re worried,” said Masters. “This body in a well is causing you some concern. You’ve been expecting it, or looking for it. Am I right?”

  “Sit down, sir, please,” begged Webb. “All of you gentlemen. I’ll have some tea sent in.”

  “Now you’re talking,” said Green, drawing a chair up to Webb’s desk. “On a hot afternoon like this, a mug of chai is just what I need to cool me down.”

  The others settled down while Webb phoned for tea, then Masters said: “Seeing we shall be here for a few minutes, why not tell us all about it? The telling itself might help and, who knows? One of us might have a useful idea.”

  Webb nodded. He was a thickset man of forty, but his hair was still jet-black and, cut short at the sides, was brushed back flat on top. He was red-faced and already needed another shave. His eyes were those of a pleasant man slightly bewildered and troubled.

  “Out with it then,” urged Green. “It’s not as if you can have anything horrific to tell us about a nice part of the country like this.”

  “At any other time,” said Webb, “I’d have agreed with you, Mr Green. But would you believe that in the middle of all this I’ve got two mysterious disappearances and a fire-bug who’s started five fires? In this weather, when everything’s tinder dry?”

  Masters ignored the reference to a fire-raiser, although he was aware that in farming country such people are probably regarded as greater menaces than their counterparts in towns. “Disappearances? Who?”

  “Both grown men in their forties.”

  “And when we said we thought the body in the we
ll was that of a grown man, you thought one of your missing two had probably come to light?”

  Webb nodded.

  “So what?” asked Green. “Now you’ve only got one missing.”

  “Have I? The two men were great friends. And I don’t mean anything other than what I say. Mates, that’s all. One had a legal wife, the other a common-law wife. But they were real mates.”

  “I see. So now you think that as one has turned up in a well, the other will show up dead, too?”

  “Either that or—”

  “Or they had a barney as close mates have been known to have,” said Green, “and that one has killed his pal and, after disposing of the body, has scarpered.”

  “It could be what has happened.”

  “Too true. So you’d have a murder case on your hands. Unless the other one turns up dead, too. In which case you may have a double murder to cope with.”

  “Right. I’ve been thinking about it ever since Sergeant Iliff told me about the body in the well. I don’t reckon two men would make a suicide pact, do you? So I may be faced with looking for a third party who did for them both.”

  While everybody was pondering this in silence, a constable entered with a tray. “No biscuits, sir,” he whispered hoarsely in Webb’s ear, “so I’ve brought five slabs of grit cake.”

  “Thanks.”

  As the constable left the office, Masters said: “I think much will depend on the pathologist’s report.”

  “I’ve arranged for it to be done immediately. If they get the body up in time it’ll be done this evening.”

  “Good. Now you say these two men disappeared. Did they disappear simultaneously?”

  Webb gestured a request to Berger to pour the tea while he continued his conversation with Masters.

  “That’s the mystery, sir. They didn’t. Ten days apart, in fact.”

  “Ah,” said Green, striving to remove the plastic wrapping from round his slab of grit cake. “Sinister. Or could be. If the bloke in the well is one of them, which was he? The one who went missing first? Or second?” He used his teeth to tear the wrapping. “It’ll make a difference.”