“Misfortunes never come singly. You marked the car, I suppose.”
“Yes, not much, but of course it’s given the police something to take hold of. Oh, darling, do please come and support us! You couldn’t manage to get here by Monday, could you?”
“You may expect me on Sunday afternoon. I shall have George to drive me down. Book two rooms at the hotel nearest to where you are staying and when we meet you must tell me the whole story in detail. Did you yourself see the body?”
“No. The two older ones left Tamsin and me in the car while they went over to look at the bicycle. Then they cast around on the moor in case the girl had wandered off.”
“Why did they think of that?”
“Oh, darling, I don’t know. People do wander around when they’ve had a shock, don’t they?”
“People vary in their reactions. However, I suppose your friends’ intentions were commendable.”
“She’s coming,” said Hermione, emerging from the telephone kiosk and addressing Isobel, who was waiting outside. “We shall be all right now.”
“Famous last words!” said Isobel. “Come on and let’s see if we can find this tree of yours.”
The Trents’ holiday finished on the Saturday, so while Isobel and Hermione were searching for the marked tree, John Trent came to the cabin on a neighbourly visit, probably the last, he explained.
“I hope you’ve had no more trouble with that lad,” he said.
“Oh, no, thanks,” said Erica, who had answered the door.
“Good. One wondered, because one spotted a police car here.”
“Come in and we’ll tell you about it.”
“I don’t know whether we are at liberty to do that until the police release the story to the press,” said Tamsin.
“Oh, it will come out today. The police haven’t told us to keep quiet about it. Besides, that poor girl’s friends will be making enquiries by now,” Erica said. “The fact is we found a girl’s body on the moors when we were out yesterday. The police had to be told, so we went to the police station yesterday and they came this morning to ask us a few more questions.”
“Good Lord! The girl was not anybody you knew, I hope.”
“The body? Oh, no. Hermione saw a bicycle through the window of the car and then Isobel and I got out to have a look in case somebody was ill or had had an accident, and a bit further off we found her.”
“How beastly for you!”
“Yes, it was. You see, until the police got this idea that we’d run her down with our car, we thought the escaped convict must have done it, although, if so, it seemed odd that the front wheel of the bike was so badly buckled. Still, he must be desperate for money and food and there was no sign of her handbag or anything else she might have had with her. The police asked whether we had ever seen her before, which I thought was rather a silly question. Tamsin thought she might have come from the Youth Hostel at Long Cove Bay, but it was only a suggestion. Considering that the bike was lying in a slanting position with the buckled front wheel pointing away from our car, either she was cycling on the wrong side of the road or she was going towards Long Cove Bay, not away from it.”
“If she’d been hit by a car, the bike could have been knocked clean across the road, I suppose, so you can’t prove much by the position of the front wheel.”
“That’s true, so it’s not much use worrying about the bike. They will have got a doctor to look at the body and if he says the girl was knocked down and killed by a car, I expect that’s what happened. The trouble is that they think it was our car.”
“They surely don’t think so just because you reported finding the body?”
“Unfortunately there’s more to it than that,” said Tamsin. “Hermione parked the car after we got back and on the way to the carpark from unloading me here because of my wretched ankle, she had a skid and hit a tree and marked the car. She and my sister are out now, trying to find the tree.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
“I don’t think so, thanks,” said Erica. “Do you mind not mentioning any of this to anybody at present?”
“Trust me.”
“Well, I hope we can,” said Tamsin, when he had gone. “We don’t want the story to be passed round until we know where we stand, do we?”
The other two came back with mixed tidings. The skidmarks were impossible to find because so many cars had used the road to the carpark that any evidence of the kind which Hermione had hoped for was destroyed. Apart from that, she and Isobel had failed to locate a damaged tree.
“I thought I remembered pretty well where I had the skid,” she said, “but I was only thinking about the bicycle and you two finding the body, so I may be wrong about where the skid took place, and, of course, there are scores of trees.”
“We’ll all have another look later on,” said Isobel. “Anyway, Dame Beatrice Lestrange Bradley is coming on Sunday, so with her at our side the police won’t dare to bully us.”
“There’s only one trouble about that tree,” said Erica. “Even if you do find it, I can’t see how we can prove that it was Hermione’s skid that marked it. I don’t suppose she’s the only driver to have had her wheels slip sideways on wet leaves.”
After this pessimistic observation, lunch was a somewhat silent meal. At one point Tamsin said, “Are you beginning to wish we had never come to this place?” To this Erica replied with equal pessimism:
“I bet Hermy begins to wish she had never met us.”
“Well,” said the superintendent to Detective-Inspector Ribble, “the ball is in your court now, Bob. The medical evidence—and Forensic are dead certain to back it up—is that the girl didn’t receive fatal injuries by being knocked down by a car. She may have been knocked down, but that she was actually killed by repeated blows on the head is the official verdict. Probably struck from behind with a stone first of all, and then, when she tumbled down, there must have been a frenzied attack on her. Somebody wanted to make quite sure she was dead. We may know more about that when we know who she is. One of those four girls suggested she might have come from the Youth Hostel. Anyhow, the murderer made off with her gear, we think. She must have had at least a handbag, but we searched a wide area and found absolutely nothing, so, up to now, we haven’t a clue to her identity.”
“If she was on a solitary holiday and was a Youth Hosteller, sir, she may not be missed for days. Chances are she was a schoolteacher, don’t you think, sir?”
“Why, Bob?”
“Schools get a week’s half-term holiday round about now, sir. I’ve got three kids, so I know.”
“Oh, yes, of course. Doesn’t help us until somebody misses her and comes forward. Even if she taught at a local school there would be nobody there except a caretaker and the chances are that she could have come from absolutely anywhere. We shall put out a description, of course, but I think it’s just going to be a question of wait and see. We shall try the Youth Hostel, of course.”
“Even when we know who she is, sir, we shan’t be much further forward if this was one of those opportunist, unpremeditated jobs, and that’s what it looks like on the face of it, except those sort are usually sex motivated. You seem to have ruled out the chap who absconded a day or two ago. They haven’t picked him up yet and he was in for murder, wasn’t he?”
“Wife-murder, yes, but he was one of these arsenic operators. This person or these persons who attacked the girl must have gone berserk. It wasn’t in keeping with anything that’s known about the chap from Hangwood.”
“If a man’s desperate enough, sir, you can’t guarantee what he’ll do.”
“It’s the bashing he gave her. That doesn’t fit our chap: All he had to do, if it was him, was to knock her unconscious and make off with any food or money she was carrying. If she was attacked from behind she wouldn’t be able to describe him.”
“Perhaps she put up a fight, sir, and he lost his head.”
“Against that is the theory that if he struck th
e first blow from behind her, that was the blow which killed her. Even if it didn’t, it wouldn’t have left her in any condition to put up a fight. I don’t think we can query the medical evidence, you know, and that includes one curious little fact.”
“You mean we’ve got a clue, sir?”
“No such luck, I’m afraid, but it’s an odd little circumstance, all the same. The doctors found a mushroom or some kind of toadstool—it hasn’t been identified yet—embedded in the head-wound. Wherever that kind grows, it doesn’t usually grow on the moors among the heather.”
“Looks as though she was killed in the woods, sir.”
“But who would have taken the body back to the moor to hide it when it would have been much safer and easier to put it in one of the thickets? It looks less and less like our man, to my mind.”
“And those young women, sir?”
“Damned if I know. They do have one of the forest cabins. I think we’ll have to keep tabs on them. Even if they are not guilty, they may know something which they haven’t told us. There must be some explanation of how that fungus came to be embedded in the wound. To go back to our man, though, he may have been fly enough to reason that a buckled bike could have been biffed by a car, and as he can prove he doesn’t possess a car . . .”
“That raises a very interesting point, sir. She could have been knocked off her bike by a car and so badly hurt that the driver thought he had better put her out of her misery, as though she was a wounded bird. I agree we should not abandon the car aspect, sir. Those four young women might have the humanitarian urge I suggested and also a good big spanner in the boot.”
“Far-fetched, Bob, surely! Young women don’t go in for that kind of strong-arm stuff.”
“Women go in for wrestling and soccer and I believe some even play Rugby League football, sir. They do weight-lifting and run the marathon and put the shot. There’s only professional boxing and throwing the hammer still closed to them in this country. They drive racing-cars and ride horses on equal terms with men—”
“You sound like a Women’s Libber, Bob.”
“Not at all, sir. Just painting the picture, that’s all.”
“I can’t imagine any of those four young women bludgeoning another young woman to death, not even for the reason you suggested. Besides, not many women could face finishing off a wounded bird.”
“Just as you say, sir. Well, my first job, as I see it, is to do a round of the neighbourhood, including that Youth Hostel just outside Long Cove Bay, to see if anybody knows anything about the dead woman. All the same, sir, I would have thought it more typical of women than of men to have been panicked into trying to hide the body while quite forgetting to hide the bike, and then, in a fresh fit of panic, to rush off to the police and report the death. Don’t you think we ought just to keep those possibilities in mind?”
“Keep in mind whatever you like, Bob. I suppose anything is possible. There is just one thing. A chap came in and reported the theft of an anorak and a rucksack from that Youth Hostel. I don’t suppose it has any bearing on this case, but it might lead us to this escaper of ours. I would like to clear him out of our way if we can. I don’t believe for a moment that he did this job. It’s quite untypical of his line of country. He’s a poisoner, and a cobbler always sticks to his last.”
“There is that fungus which was pushed into the head-wound,” said Ribble. “Some toadstools are very poisonous, sir; and he did poison his wife.”
— 6 —
SELF-HEAL
The warden of the Youth Hostel was not pleased at being disturbed before the recognised opening time of five p.m., but when she opened her cottage door to Ribble and his detective-sergeant, although she did not recognise them immediately as plain-clothes police officers, she did realise that they were not prospective hostellers calling out of hours.
“Yes?” she said. She had been accompanied to the door by an impressive-looking Alsatian dog which reinforced her single-syllable greeting with one of its own, a short but menacing growl.
Ribble disclosed his official identity and asked for a word. He and his sergeant were invited in, the dog was ordered to retire, and the two men were given seats in what had been the cottage parlour when the building had been the lodge to a private house.
“We are interested in two people who may have stayed at the hostel recently,” said Ribble.
“We get all sorts. What have these two been up to? If it’s anything about a missing anorak and a rucksack, I was not told about either. I merely heard the boy saying to his friend that they were gone. Nothing was complained about officially, if you understand me.”
“Did that surprise you?”
“Oh, no, because I knew, and I’m sure they knew, who had taken the things. Serve them right, I thought, for having such a friend.”
“They reported the theft at Gledge End headquarters, but that is nothing to do with us, and I don’t think those are the two we’re making enquiries about. We might possibly be interested in the friend, though. Can you describe him? I suppose you’ve got his name and address.”
“Oh, yes, we have to keep careful records, of course. Half a minute and I’ll get my book. Oh, you want a description. Well, as I said, we get all sorts and so long as they’ve booked in beforehand by letter and with the fee—we don’t accept telephone messages or any promises to pay—” she laughed merrily, a very different personality from the stern-looking female accompanied by dog who had answered the door, “they’re in. I don’t ever refuse anybody who has kept the rules, especially anybody who looked as if he’d spent the night on the moors in all that rain.”
“Oh, you thought these three had spent the night on the moors, did you?”
“No, only the one you want me to describe.”
“Ah, only the one you think stole the anorak and the rucksack. Now, madam, what did he look like?”
‘Nothing on earth, poor man. He was a lot older than the other two. They would have been in their early twenties, I dare say, and quite well-spoken and just the decent, quiet type we like to have. Did his share of the chores, too, as well as their own, before they left in the morning.”
“Why was that?”
“Because he must have sneaked out of the hostel before anybody was stirring. By the way, my name is Beck—Mrs.—and, as you see, I don’t live in the hostel myself. Some wardens do, but they’re generally men, I should think. I prefer to keep myself as much out of the way as I can. I think the hostellers prefer it that way and I’m sure I do. I’ll tell you another thing: on thinking things over, I don’t believe the two younger ones knew this older fellow, else why should he have robbed one of them and then sneaked off like that? Something fishy about him to do a thing like that, wouldn’t you say?”
“An older fellow?” said Ribble. “How much older?”
“Oh, into his fifties I wouldn’t wonder, but perhaps looked older than he really was because of being so wet and tired and dirty, and not being shaved and all that. He would have been a right mean-looking fellow, anyway, and had hardly a word to say for himself.”
“But he was correctly booked in, I think you said.”
“Well, somebody was, but I’ve been wondering whether that somebody was him or somebody else. I’ll just fetch the register book. If he was a cuckoo in the nest I can’t help it. I can only go by the membership cards they hand in.”
The detective-sergeant politely opened the door for her. They heard her call the dog and then they heard the front door close. Apparently she kept the register over at the hostel itself and not in the cottage.
“Well,” said Ribble, when the sergeant had returned to his seat, “what do you make of all that?”
“Could be our man, sir.”
“I’ll lay a ducat it is our man. I’ll show her his picture when she gets back. I mean, it all tallies, doesn’t it? What with the age, the theft, the mean look, the sleeping rough, and getting wet through, it could almost add up, and I’m inclined to bet on it. Well, t
here’s one obvious line of country we can take as soon as we’ve got the addresses. We can check on all three of these chaps and see what kind of story they have to tell. Before that, though, we’ll see whether Mrs. Beck can give us any help over this murdered girl. From the fact that she was cycling between this place and Gledge End, I think it’s quite possible that she was either coming away or going to the hostel, although, of course, she may have been coming from her own home or been staying at one of the farms.”
“Or in one of the forest cabins, sir, and had been out for a spin on her bike.”
“We can ask, but I doubt whether she was one of the forest lot. She wouldn’t have booked one of the cabins all to herself. They are geared to accommodate parties of five or six people with rent appropriate to this number. If she had been a member of such a party, enquiries would have been made about her before now, and we should have found out who she was.”
Upon her return to her cottage Mrs. Beck was able to supply some information. She opened the register, but, before she could say anything, Ribble asked whether either of the younger men had stayed at the hostel on any other occasion.
“No,” she said, “but I think they had done quite a lot of hostelling. They seemed to the manner born, if you know what I mean. You can always tell the experienced ones. Here we are, look. I didn’t have a lot in that night or the night before. Time of year, you know. They mostly come in the summer, not late autumn like this, and in this part of the country.”
“Ah, yes. Now, can you tell me which of the names you have down under this date is that of the older man we require?”
Mrs. Beck could help him only a little over this. The bookings had been made and the fees sent by Steve Piggott. The other two were down as Tony Mackie and Bert Leeds, but which was which she had no idea, since Steve had handed in and, at the end of the stay, collected all three membership cards.
“All I know is that Piggott, Mackie, and Leeds are the three that came together, as you see by the way I’ve bracketed them in the book. I know which was Piggott because of the three cards being handled and all the fees paid in by him and him giving his own name to me, but none of them had ever been here before. Piggott wanted to hold some kind of gospel meeting in the common-room, but I said I couldn’t permit that, as the common-room was common to all and some members might object. He took it very well. It was a shame he was the one to be robbed, but it’s what the innocent must expect, I suppose.’”
The Death-Cap Dancers (Mrs. Bradley) Page 6
