Dead Man's Bluff

by Roderic Jeffries

  ‘The constable said there were two bodies in the fire.’

  ‘There are, but we haven’t identified either body yet.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘We can’t yet get to the bodies because of the fire,’ he said patiently.

  She spoke more loudly. ‘I’ll tell you one thing. If one of them is Daniel, it’s good riddance to bad rubbish.’ She stared challengingly at him, as if expecting some sort of outraged argument, but his expression did not alter and he said nothing. After a while, she led the way out of the boxlike hall into the sitting-room.

  Phyllis Knott was lying huddled in one of the two armchairs. Miss Corrins went over and put a hand on her shoulder. ‘It’s a detective, Phyllis. Now if you don’t feel you can say anything, don’t.’

  Clayton studied Mrs Knott. Her face was slack and ugly from shock and her eyelids were swollen from tears, but he did not see the aching grief he sometimes had to face — yet experience had taught him how impossible it was correctly to interpret an expression. ‘I’m very sorry to have to worry you,’ he said formally.

  She looked up at Miss Corrins in a mute appeal for comfort and the elder woman murmured something which Clayton did not catch.

  ‘You’ve heard there are unfortunately two bodies in the fire,’ he said. ‘We haven’t yet been able to get to them. Can you help us at all to identify them?’

  She shook her head.

  He asked her the next question with a deep and obvious sympathy. ‘Do you know where your husband is?’

  ‘No,’ she answered, her voice muffled.

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘He was … here when I left this morning.’ Tears welled out of her eyes.

  After a while, he said: ‘What cars do you own?’

  ‘Just the Bentley,’ she murmured.

  Miss Corrins spoke with loud belligerence. ‘That’s enough. You’ve upset her terribly.’

  ‘I’m very sorry … ’ He stopped. How the hell could one find words to comfort a woman who’d arrived home to discover she was probably a widow — even if her husband had possibly been a bit of a basket?

  Chapter 4

  The police doctor was a rotund man with a round Pickwickian face and the kind of florid complexion that suggested either over-indulgence in good living or some degree of ill-health. He stepped clear of the jumbled mass of charred timber, broken bricks, tiles and glass, sat down, and struggled to get off the thigh boots which he had borrowed from one of the firemen. ‘By God!’ he said. ‘It’s still too hot for comfort in there.’ Sweat trickled down his face and he impatiently brushed it away with the back of his hand.

  Clayton took hold of the right boot and began to pull. ‘Can you tell me anything yet, sir?’

  ‘A little … Here, pull harder and I’ll grab hold of the grass. These boots are like a bloody plaster, easier to get on than off.’

  After a short while, they managed to remove both boots. The doctor put on his shoes and scrambled to his feet. ‘Both bodies are badly burned and partially destroyed, but there’s no doubt both are male.’ He had a habit of speaking in short, hurried bursts. ‘Not much left of parts of’em, but the back of one head escaped too much damage: it’s received a good belt from something.’

  Clayton put his hands in his pocket and began to fiddle with some coins. ‘Could it have been a falling beam?’

  ‘I’m not going to be dogmatic at this stage, but I wouldn’t think so. The position and shape of wound are wrong.’

  ‘I’ve enough work on my plate without you turning up a murder,’ said Clayton.

  The doctor picked up his battered leather case. ‘How’s the wife?’

  ‘Stunned, of course, but not completely grief-stricken. Perhaps she’s still hoping against hope that her husband isn’t one of the corpses.’

  ‘Are there any chances he isn’t?’

  Clayton shook his head. ‘I doubt it. His car is in the garage and he was at home when his wife left in the morning.’

  The doctor looked around him. ‘It’s sad to see a place like this fall into such a state, isn’t it? More especially if you knew it in the old days. My father used to get invited to some of the shoots here, even though he could hardly hit the proverbial hay-stack. That was when old Reginald Knott had it and the family still lived in the big house.’

  Clayton looked across the road at the trees and massed rhododendron bushes which hid Knott Hall. ‘Who lives there now?’

  ‘I don’t think anyone does. The place was hell to run without an army of servants and when Reginald Knott died they discovered it was riddled with worm, wet rot, dry rot, and anything else you can think of. I can remember the house being advertised for sale, but no one bought it. Still, we’re told that’s the cost of progress. Thank God I shan’t live to see very much more of it.’

  ‘That’s being a bit pessimistic, isn’t it, sir?’

  The doctor smiled, with a trace of sadness. ‘There’s nothing like dealing with a lot of dead bodies to convince one of one’s own mortality … All right, then? I’ll be getting back home. You’ll deal with the coroner, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The doctor left, walking with a slightly rolling gait. Clayton took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one. He watched the firemen rolling up the hoses of the far fire-engine and wondered if the station officer’s estimate was correct that in another hour all the debris would be cool enough for a thorough examination.

  Morris came round the end of the building and along the hard-core road that ran by the side of it. To reach Clayton he had to cross some grass and he trod gingerly, as if worried about landing in some cow muck. Clayton suffered a childish hope that he would go sprawling.

  ‘I’ve spoken to the cowman, Browland,’ said Morris. His voice became angry. ‘He’s bloody stupid — couldn’t get an ounce of sense out of him.’

  ‘When did he last see Knott?’

  ‘If you took any notice of what he said, he hasn’t seen Knott for years.’

  Clayton tapped the ash from his cigarette. He could just imagine Morris’s hasty impatience in the face of a simple countryman: Morris’s world was the city and the wisecracking villain. ‘Where’s this bloke Browland now?’

  ‘I told him to hang on in case you wanted a word with him, but one of the PCs saw him slipping off through the woods after putting out the cows in the field.’

  ‘Did you get any reaction from him when you said one of the dead blokes could be Knott?’

  ‘For all the emotion he showed, I could’ve been telling him it rained yesterday.’

  ‘That would have provoked far more, since it was fine all day.’ As soon as he had spoken, Clayton realized Morris would fail to understand what on earth he was talking about. ‘The police doctor says one of the dead men may have had his skull bashed in with a blunt instrument, so this is a murder case until we get contrary evidence. I want photos of the bodies from all angles before a single piece of the debris is touched, then photos of the buildings to give the general lay-out, and of the van. As good a sketch-map as possible and, if necessary, we’ll call in the draughtsman tomorrow. Dabs to check the van sufficient for it to be driven to the station, then give it a thorough going-over. Get on to Bob or Abe at the station and tell him that although it’s probably much too late, he’s to try to make contact with Louthy Feedstuffs and find someone who can tell us who called here in the van.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Morris, managing in just two words to suggest that all these orders were totally unnecessary since he would have seen to everything, no matter what.

  Clayton turned and began to walk away.

  ‘I suppose the pathologist has been called?’ asked Morris. ‘I’d think that’s highly likely,’ said Clayton, with mild sarcasm. He went back down the drive and spoke to one of the PCs from the patrol car. ‘Get on to HQ on your blower and ask’em to send out a pathologist.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Clayton stared at all the people who pa
tiently waited on the road. What were they really after? he wondered. Take them and show them the half-burned corpses and they’d be very, very sick.

  *

  The pathologist, a tall, lean man with an arrogant face, wore overalls, rubber boots, and rubber gloves. He had a habit of whistling as he worked, usually a cheerful waltz from some old musical comedy, making for a somewhat macabre contrast. From time to time he stopped whistling long enough to dictate to his secretary, an elderly, white-haired man with a heavy limp.

  He stepped back over a pile of blackened bricks and studied the two corpses, which lay close to each other. ‘I want a photo from here,’ he said.

  The detective-sergeant, photographic and finger-print expert, looked at Clayton. He had already taken photographs from that angle. Clayton, however, nodded. It was easier to take more photographs than to try to convince the pathologist that his wishes had already been exactly carried out.

  The detective-sergeant, muttering to himself, set up the tripod, checked the flash equipment, and took two photographs.

  ‘You can clear that rubbish away from the bodies, now,’ said the pathologist. ‘And make certain nothing lands on them.’

  ‘That’s a bit of a tall order, sir,’ said Clayton.

  The pathologist looked down his nose at such an impertinent observation.

  Wearing overalls, gloves, and boots, two PCs and Detective-Constable Burrow, who had driven out from divisional HQ half an hour before, began the dirty and laborious job of clearing away the rubble from the bodies.

  When the bodies were free, the undertaker’s van — owned by the Gertfinden firm the police usually used in such circumstances — was driven to the end of the hard-core road. The two undertaker’s assistants and the policemen carefully rolled the bodies on to plastic sheets which were then lifted on to stretchers. The stretchers were placed in the van, which drove away.

  The pathologist stripped off boots and overalls and handed them to his secretary. He spoke to Clayton. ‘I’ll do the PM tomorrow morning at ten.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘Will you please have all available facts to hand, with special reference to teeth?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good-night, then.’ The pathologist strode off towards his car and his secretary followed, lurching from side to side because of his limp.

  Clayton checked on the time: nine thirty-five. He returned to the burned-out section and made certain the searchers were taking samples of charred wood which were put in plastic containers that were numbered, with the numbers then entered on a sketch-map to show exactly where they had come from.

  He left the farm buildings and walked down to the house. The Mini was still outside and the front door was opened by Miss Corrins. She was sharply antagonistic. ‘Well — what do you want now?’

  ‘To have a word or two more with Mrs Knott, if possible.’

  ‘Certainly not. Her doctor’s called and given her a strong sedative and in any case you’ve no right to bother her … ’

  ‘I’m afraid I have a job to do.’

  She sniffed loudly.

  ‘If I can’t speak to her, would you answer a few questions?’

  ‘Why?’ she snapped.

  He continued to speak in the same calm, friendly voice. ‘I have to try to identify the bodies.’

  She said nothing and he stepped inside. Openly indignant, but uncertain what to do, she hesitated, then led the way into the front sitting-room. She slumped down into an arm-chair and stared belligerently at him.

  ‘Can you describe Mr Knott?’ he asked. ‘You know the sort of thing — height, age, weight, whether he’d any noticeable physical peculiarities? And d’you know if there are any photos of him around the house?’

  She indicated the mantelpiece. ‘There’s a photo of him up there. God knows why!’

  He walked over to the fireplace and studied the framed photograph. The man had a round, flattish face, slightly indrawn cheeks, thin lips, and a general expression of discontent. ‘May I borrow this?’ he asked.

  She obviously wanted to refuse, but finally shrugged her shoulders. He slipped the photo into his coat pocket. ‘How old is Mr Knott?’

  ‘In his early forties. I don’t know more exactly than that.’

  ‘Can you give me an estimate of his height?’

  ‘He’s just under six feet. Used to be proud of his height — as if it were anything over which he’d control!’ She snorted.

  ‘Is he at all fat?’

  ‘Not him. Herring-gutted, that’s what he is.’

  ‘Has he any physical peculiarities of any kind that you know of — scars, old wounds, that sort of thing?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ she snapped, ‘of what his body looks like.’ He hadn’t imagined they’d made a couple.

  ‘D’you know if he’s ever broken any bones?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘Does he wear dentures?’

  ‘He does and they click. If I were Phyllis, I wouldn’t have him near me until he’d had something done about them.’

  ‘There’s probably a spare set in the house somewhere, isn’t there?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘I’m sorry to keep on bothering you, but d’you think you could have a quick look for me? It would be a tremendous help.’

  She stood up, smoothed down the front of her dress which did so much to emphasise her lumpy ungainliness, and left.

  He studied the room. It had about it the air of a place that wasn’t really meant to be lived-in: nothing was out of place and even the pile of magazines had been squared up and placed exactly in the centre of a small wooden table. He had the mental image of two specks of dust meeting and celebrating wildly because now the continuance of the species was certain. The furniture and furnishings must once have been of good quality, but they now bore signs of heavy wear, the carpet was stained and almost threadbare, and the curtains were badly faded.

  Miss Corrins returned to the room. She handed him with much distaste a paper bag and when he opened it he saw inside a set of dentures. They looked either funny or obscene and he couldn’t really decide which. ‘Many thanks,’ he said.

  ‘Daniel must be one of the dead men,’ she said abruptly.

  ‘Why d’you say that?’

  ‘His car’s in the garage. He wouldn’t dream of leaving this place without going in that dirty big car which he’s fool enough to think impresses people — as if they can’t see it’s all rusty and as if they didn’t know what a hopeless failure he is.’

  ‘Why didn’t you like him?’ he asked, using the past tense to refer to Knott because he had no doubt.

  A strange expression, twisted, painful, defiant, crossed her face. ‘No one liked him.’

  ‘Why not?’

  She sat down in the arm-chair she had previously occupied. Her dress rode up her legs to disclose a thick, flabby thigh. ‘He was loud-mouthed, a boaster, and a fool. Look what he’s done here.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘He’s ruined a good farm. This place used to have some of the best grazing in the district. But what’s it now? A jungle of thistles, nettles, and weed grasses. He hasn’t dug out a ditch in years. It damn’ well hurts to see a place get in such a state so quickly.’ Her expression made it clear this was a genuine sentiment. ‘Poor old Reggie who kept the place perfectly must be turning circles in his grave.’ Her voice coarsened. ‘But then there have always been two kinds of Knotts — the good ones and the bastards. When he inherited the place, he didn’t know a Friesian from a Dexter, but to hear him talk you’d have thought he’d invented agriculture. He wouldn’t take advice, wouldn’t accept help … Still, Paul will change things.’

  ‘Paul?’

  ‘Phyllis’s nephew.’

  ‘Doesn’t Mrs Knott inherit the farm?’

  ‘Of course not. The estate is entailed through to the eldest male.’ She spoke as if no other course was possible. ‘I don’t like Paul — too crude — but he
’s a real farmer. If anyone can get this place back on its feet, he will.’

  He spoke curiously. ‘You take a great deal of interest in farming, then?’

  ‘I’d have liked to farm,’ she said.

  ‘So should I.’

  Just for a moment, there was some sort of sympathy between them. This disappeared when she snapped: ‘How ever much longer are you going to be before you tell Phyllis he’s dead? You’ve no right to make her go on and on like this.’

  ‘We’re working as hard as we know how,’ he said pacifically. ‘There’s one last question — when I came here earlier, you said that if Mr Knott were dead it would be good riddance to bad rubbish.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Had you any particular reason for saying that?’

  ‘I happen to know the way he’s treated Phyllis, that’s the particular reason.’

  ‘In what way has he treated her?’

  ‘I’m not answering that question.’

  He thanked her and left and returned to the farm buildings.

  *

  The clock below the high steeple of Gertfinden church was striking eleven when Clayton garaged his car. He let himself into the police house where he lived. The sitting-room was in darkness and he went upstairs. His wife was in bed, reading.

  She looked at him. ‘Fancy seeing you!’ she said tartly.

  ‘I know it’s a bit late, but … ’

  ‘Jim Clayton, the very last word I had from you was that you’d quite definitely be back in time to drive me over to Dawn’s for dinner. I’ve had to ring her and apologise and she says she’d arranged a very special meal.’

  ‘Oh, lord!’ he muttered.

  ‘You really are the limit.’

  ‘I remembered I had to telephone you and tell you I was delayed, but … To tell the truth, I forgot what it was I had to remember.’

  ‘You’re quite, quite impossible,’ she said fondly. She had a pleasant face, not beautiful, but one which correctly gave the impression of loyalty and compassion. She loved her husband now just as much as when they were married nineteen years ago and although she had originally hoped and believed he would rise right to the top of his profession, she had long since become peacefully reconciled to the fact that he wouldn’t because he lacked the thrusting ambition this would have needed.