Heberden's Seat

by Douglas Clark

*

  It was Reed who found it.

  “Chief!”

  His call from the south-east corner of the churchyard reached Masters clearly enough in the area near the south transept. It was even heard by Webb who was operating on the north side not too far from the well.

  They both converged on Reed as fast as the terrain and undergrowth would allow them. They came up almost together.

  “This looks to me as though it had been tampered with, Chief.”

  The long grass had dried off at that spot. It seemed that rough turves had been lifted and then replaced, but the disturbance in such dry weather had caused the roots to wither and the tops to die off. A weathered old tombstone had been tumbled slightly askew across the stricken area. Masters stared at it for a moment and then squatted to fumble among the stubble and the base of the surrounding stalks with his slim, brown fingers. He opened his hand to show his spoil. Crumbs of brownish clay.

  “There’s been digging here. Look in the hedge bottom, please, Reed.”

  The sergeant was barely a step away from the hedge. “There’s quite a lot here, Chief. He must have thrown the spare he had left over into the dip, hoping it wouldn’t be noticed before it was overgrown.”

  Webb said: “Lucky for us there’s been no rain to green this lot up, otherwise we might not have found it so easily.”

  Reed said: “If you’d give me a hand to lift the slab clear, Mr Webb, I reckon we’d be able to lift those clods free by hand.”

  “Lift the stone,” said Masters, “but leave the turves. We’ll do it properly. Your constable, Mr Webb, can do the digging, if there is any to be done, and I want a photographer present. Dr Watling, too.”

  “It’ll take time to get the pathologist here. And we don’t know that there’s anything in there for him to examine.”

  “I just squatted close to the ground. Get down there yourself and you’ll get the stench of death in your nostrils.”

  As Webb bent to help lift the stone he exhaled through his mouth. “You’re right, Chief.”

  Reed grunted as they threw the stone over: “He usually is.”

  It was over an hour before the turves had been lifted and the few inches of soil scraped away from the body. Photographs had been taken of the untouched grave. Now they were taken of the shirt-sleeved corpse before the doctor was allowed to examine.

  “Fortyish,” he muttered. “Male, of course, despite the hair. Buried—at a guess—about two weeks, probably longer. We’ll be able to be more exact later on.” He got to his feet. “No apparent cause of death from the front. Can I turn him over?”

  Masters nodded. Watling gave Reed a pair of thin plastic gloves. “Here, put these on, Sergeant, and help me to roll him on to his right side. And take it easy. I don’t want him coming to bits in our hands.”

  Watling himself manoeuvred the dead man’s shoulders and head. When the body was half turned he instructed Reed to hold it as it was. A brief examination satisfied him. “Skull crushed in. See? I can palpate it.” He demonstrated for Masters’ benefit. “A heavy blow there, right on the occiput.”

  “Depression?”

  “Maybe. But not just along one central line. I think there’s an area of splintering, and it’s my guess that it is roughly rectangular with the longer axis running across the rear of the obtrusive part of the skull, rather than vertically.”

  Masters nodded. “Confirm that for me, would you? It’ll make a difference.”

  Watling nodded. “If I’m right, it could mean there was no weapon used.” He straightened up. “He could have fallen—or been pushed—against one of these headstones.”

  “Very likely. Now, identity.” Masters turned to Webb. “I’m pretty sure it must be Melada.”

  “It is. I’ve seen him often enough. His features and his style of dressing—those tall boots and flowered shirt.”

  “Right. Could you arrange for the body to be taken to whichever mortuary Dr Watling uses? And also arrange for him—as well as Belton—to be formally identified by their wives?”

  “Before you see the women?”

  “I think so. We’re not out to hide anything from them.”

  “I’ll get going,” said Watling, picking up his case.

  “Thank you, doctor. May I still ring you this evening?”

  “At six. Not later. I’m going out tonight.”

  “Six.”

  “What are you going to do, Chief?” asked Webb, obviously anxious not to miss any of the action while dealing with the body.

  Masters grinned. “Reed and I will have a look round here while you’re away. There may still be something we’ve missed. Get back as quickly as you can. You needn’t go to Lincoln with the ambulance, you know.”

  Webb grinned his thanks. “In that case, half an hour should see me here.”

  Masters and Reed waited until they were alone in the churchyard and the constable was back on duty at the gate.

  “What now, Chief?”

  “The church, Reed. The Church of St John the Divine in Oakby. It’s like a magnet.”

  “You mean it’s attracting dead bodies?”

  “All churches have done that. God’s acre: hallowed ground.”

  *

  “Undesirable dead bodies, then.”

  “Nearer the mark. The violently dead.”

  “What are you getting at, Chief?”

  “I want to know why.”

  “Because it’s isolated and overgrown. You could kill and bury best part of an army in here without anybody being any the wiser unless a police car happens to break down just outside and an inquisitive Detective Superintendent decides to pass the waiting time by peering down wells.”

  Masters shook his head. “Not so, Reed.” They were walking slowly along the little path between the gate and the south door. “Remember the notice? The tombstone notice? It’s been up there some little time. The paper is yellowed and the lettering faded, and the date on it is twenty-three days ago. . . .”

  Reed sounded excited. “And Watling said Melada had been buried a fortnight, give or take a day or two, and Belton had been put down the well much more recently than that, so whoever put them where we found them must have known the place would be visited and cleared pretty soon.”

  “Quite. Nobody could miss seeing the notice on the gate or—” Masters stopped at the heavy door of the little south porch—“or here,” he concluded.

  Another of the notices was attached to the old grey oak, with little rectangles of cardboard under the heads of the drawing pins. “They shouldn’t have done that,” said Masters inconsequently. “They would have to use a hammer of some sort to drive them into wood that hard, and when the notice is down, there’ll be holes left. They should have used sticky tape.”

  Reed had no reply to this remark, so he waited for Masters to recollect his thoughts. He guessed that the Chief had simply made this observation to give himself time to marshal what he had to say next. He stood staring at the notice for a further few seconds before turning to the sergeant.

  “There’s got to be a reason why this churchyard has been used.” He laid his hand on the stonework. “It knows the secret, Reed. We’ve got to prise the secret out of it.”

  Reed stepped back and looked at the building with renewed interest. He was insufficiently versed in architecture to know that the little church was basically perpendicular in style: Perpendicular with a certain amount of decoration due to some local or fashionable quirk at the time of building. But he’d seen enough of churches to sense there was something missing.

  “There’s no side bits, Chief. No side aisles.”

  “No clerestory,” said Masters. Then seeing that Reed wasn’t with him, he explained: “The little windows you see down the sides of the nave above the roofs of the aisles. They normally give light to the central part of a church, but this one hasn’t got a clerestory because—I suppose—to put one in so small a church would have spoiled the aesthetic balance. As you said, there are no side aisles.
The roof comes out to the side walls whereas, customarily, it would be supported on the pillars which separate the side aisles from the nave.”

  “There’ll only be one row of pews each side of the centre aisle, then.”

  “I imagine so.” Masters lifted the wrought iron ring on the door and turned it. But the door was securely locked. “I’d like to see inside.”

  “We’ll have to, won’t we, Chief?”

  Masters nodded. “Sooner or later. We’ll ask Mr Webb who holds the key.”

  *

  “Why go to the site of the first fire?” asked Iliff.

  “Begin at the beginning,” replied Green solemnly, “and work your way through.”

  “Does that mean you’ve got some ideas about all of them?”

  “I have,” said Green decisively. “They were all started in the early evening.”

  “I told you that, Mr Green. We hadn’t overlooked it.”

  “Good. What conclusions did you draw from that?”

  “That the fire-raiser was some nutter who was at work all day and only found time to have his fun and games after knocking-off time.”

  “Grand. And?”

  “What d’you mean? And?”

  “Was that all you deduced from it?”

  “What else is there?”

  “Well, now, where shall we begin? It’s not for me to teach you locals your jobs, sergeant. But did you find out how the other fires—other than Cobb’s barn, that is—were started?”

  “The brigade said no paraffin or petrol had been used.”

  “That was all?”

  “In this drought they’ve been too busy to make detailed investigations of minor fires.”

  “Understandable. But if you knew how Cobb’s barn was ignited, why didn’t you look for the same m.o. at the other places?”

  “I told you, we did look at the vet’s surgery.”

  “Leave that one out.”

  “Why?”

  Green sighed. “Look, lad, you’ve had five fires. Four of them did no damage. You just described them as minor. Two ricks and two old barns, one of each on either side of a more serious incident. Doesn’t that suggest something?”

  Iliff looked perplexed. It was Berger who, from the driving seat, said: “Camouflage.”

  “Eh?” asked Iliff.

  “Five fires. Two similar ones on each side of a different one. Your fire-raiser isn’t a nutter. He doesn’t like causing damage, so he sets fire to four old, useless ricks and barns to cover up his real target.”

  “You mean . . . all he wanted to do was get at the vet?”

  “Seems like it.”

  Iliff turned in his seat to look at Green. “Do you go for this, sir?”

  “Why not? It’s logical. It’s what I’ve been trying to get you to see for yourself. His real target.”

  “You think I should be looking for somebody who has a grudge against the vet? A farmer he’s let down somehow?”

  “That’s a possibility.”

  “Meaning you don’t think it’s the answer.”

  “No, lad, I don’t. If he wanted to have a go at the vet, he’d have a go at him, and that would be that. A state of anger serious enough to drive a man to blow up a house is a very direct sort of anger. It wouldn’t consider disguising the blow with other fires. But somebody calm—without any anger towards the vet—who wanted to draw the wool over our eyes, he would light five fires to make us think we were dealing with a nutter.”

  “So why set fire to the vet’s place?”

  “Because the vet had something he wanted, laddie. Come on, sergeant. Think about it. He draws the vet away with a bogus call on the one night in the week his wife is out.”

  “I’m with you, sir. But why set fire to the place? Why not just break in and nick the loot?”

  “Because, son, he didn’t want anybody to know what he was after. He hoped—by raising five fires—that we would think he wasn’t after anything except lighting bonfires.”

  Iliff said to Berger. “That’s Adthorpe’s corner and the copse just ahead. Turn left there. Bannerman was coming from the other direction, so you can see why the trees hid the view.” The local sergeant turned back to Green. “Sorry, sir. You were saying?”

  “Just this, lad. If we’re right, it explains why all the fires were lit in the early evening. Chummy wanted to establish a pattern so you would link all five fires and go for the nutter theory. But it wasn’t his work that imposed the time. It was the fact that it was only in the evening that he could be sure the vet’s wife would be out.”

  “But why early evening? Anytime at night would do, up to ten o’clock or so.”

  “No, lad, it wouldn’t. Not with his chosen method of starting the fires. If he was going to use a burning glass, it had to be while the sun was still strong enough to ackle and pollock. And don’t ask why he used a burning glass, because the answer’s obvious. Isn’t it?”

  “Nothing to carry around with him. No petrol or paraffin or candles.”

  “Not even matches,” added Berger. “Right.”

  “Pull in at the gate on the left,” said Iliff.

  “And,” added Green, “there’s one other thing. You can fix a glass, I reckon, so that it takes a bit of time to work. Just a few minutes, maybe, but long enough for you to get well away from the scene before there’s any flame or smoke.” He opened his door as the car came to a halt. “And, let’s face it, son, if you saw a bloke near a hayrick and he didn’t even have any matches on him you wouldn’t nick him as a potential arsonist, would you?”

  Iliff agreed and proceeded to lead the way across the fields to the blackened remains of the old strawstack.

  *

  Webb looked hot as he rejoined Masters. It was obvious he had been hurrying in order to miss nothing of what went on, and he had done what he had to do well within the half hour he had allowed himself.

  “Who is the keyholder of the church?” asked Masters as the DI came up.

  “Ah! Now there you’ve got me. Normally, there’d be a verger, wouldn’t there? But as this church is redundant there won’t be verger or caretaker. So, I can only suppose the vicar will have a key.”

  “Vicar of a redundant church?” asked Reed. “That must be a soft number.”

  “The church may be redundant, but the parish isn’t. This is Oakby church. The parish is Oakby-cum-Beckby. The vicar lives and operates from Beckby. Name of . . . let me see, now . . . Canning. That’s it. The Reverend Walter Canning.”

  “I’d like to see him and his key. He should be present if we open up.”

  “Right, Chief. I’ll ask the PC at the gate for his address, and, if I could have the car. . . .?”

  Masters nodded. “Reed will drive you. I’ll have a little think on Heberden’s seat while you’re gone.”

  Masters filled his pipe with Warlock Flake and sauntered round to the bench at the west door. As he sat in the warm, mid-morning sunshine, he tried to visualise what sort of drama could have resulted in the discovery of two dead bodies in a disused country churchyard—apart from the rude forefathers who had slept there for many years now.

  Had the bodies been killed by the same agency? He thought not. In his experience, multiple killers were rare, but when they did go into action, their modus operandi was usually the same, or at least similar. Melada had died from a blow on the head. Probably an accidental blow caused by falling against a tombstone. Falling backwards. That argued a confrontation with somebody else. A savage somebody who had then buried the body. Belton had died from causes as yet unknown. But somebody had hidden his body, too. Would the same person bury one body and drop another down a well? Masters had a gut feeling—based on experience—that there must have been two people involved in the disposals. At different times! Two of everything . . . two bodies, two causes of death, two disposers, two times . . . he pulled himself together. Two times? Twice. No, not twice. Two different times. That sounded better. “For the sin ye do by two and two ye must pay for one by o
ne.” He shook his head. Not applicable to murder. But . . . what was that line? “Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.” That was it. Three missing men, including Heberden. Two of them dead, here, in the churchyard. Heberden could be the third, the one keeping the secret. He would have to pay some attention to the missing landowner whose seat he now occupied. Strange to think that a man should provide a bench for rest in a churchyard and then people that same churchyard with dead bodies. Too strange for truth? Maybe. He shrugged mentally and made a note to keep it in mind. Meanwhile, as his pipe had gone out. . . .

  Webb and Reed found him still sitting in the sun: the second bowlful of Warlock Flake dead, but the stem still between his teeth. He came-to at their approach and got to his feet at the sight of their companion.

  The Rev. Walter Canning was a man in his middle thirties. Though obviously one of the new brand of parsons, he was no trendy. He was dressed in slacks, brown shoes, and a faded blue shirt open at the neck. His hair was auburn and short enough to be unfashionable. He did not give the impression of having played rugger at college, but Masters could see him hiking the hills with a pack on his back, a pipe in his mouth and a small bible in his pocket. Now he seemed very perturbed.

  “Superintendent,” he said in a worried voice, after he and Masters had been introduced, “Mr Webb has told me you have found two bodies—those of two murdered men—here, within the boundaries of the church.”

  Canning was so obviously distressed at what he had learned that Masters took him by the arm and urged him to sit on the bench. Masters then sat beside him.

  “I’m sorry about this, vicar. But, upset though you must be, at least it must be some relief to you to know that what has taken place happened in the precincts of a church that is now no longer used.”

  “It is still hallowed ground, Mr Masters.”

  “True. And we shall bear that in mind during our investigations. That is why I asked Mr Webb to bring you here, as I understand this was a chapel-at-ease within your parish.”

  “Yes. Thank you. I am entirely at your disposal. Please tell me how I can help, though it would seem to me that there is little or nothing I can do—except possibly say a prayer over the remains.”