Salt is Leaving

by J. B. Priestley

  Superintendent Hurst was very thorough, far too thorough for Dr Salt, who was impatient to explore the upper parts of the house. ‘We’ll find nothing down here,’ he grumbled.

  ‘Maybe not,’ said the superintendent, ‘but I like a bit of method. And if a thing’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well – that’s what I say.’

  ‘Well, I don’t,’ Dr Salt told him. ‘A lot of things are only worth doing if they don’t take too much time and trouble. If those two youngsters used this place, then it’s a hundred to one they went as high up as they could go. So I’m going to try the top floor.’

  ‘You please yourself, Doctor. But it’s not the way I like to work.’

  The top floor consisted of several small bedrooms and a couple of large lumber rooms still half filled with mouldy trunks, broken suitcases, piles of old magazines; and there seemed to be a scampering of rats in far corners. An immense melancholy descended upon Dr Salt as he stared about him. He wished he were somewhere else, preferably about eight hundred miles farther south, sitting at a small table in the sunlight. For the first time since he had started asking questions about Noreen Wilks, he half wished he had left Birkden without giving her another thought. Hadn’t he been overworking for years? Didn’t he need – if ever a man did – a change, a rest? Why the hell should he be poking about in this place – and with everybody thinking him a dam’ nuisance?

  As soon as he turned the handle and found the door was locked, he was ready to swear – in a still lower depth of misery – that the dead girl’s body would be somewhere in there. Feeling no excitement whatever, only this huge blank wretchedness, he went down to the floor below, where Hurst and Constable Pickles were systematically examining master bedrooms and guest bedrooms and finding nothing but peeling wallpaper and bits of felt on the floor.

  ‘No sign of anything here, you know, Dr Salt. I think we’re wasting our time.’

  ‘You may be, but I’m not. There’s one locked door on the top floor – and it’s not a heavy door – two of us could charge our way in—’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about that. There’s a question of damage—’

  ‘Oh – for God’s sake – come on, man. If they were here at all, that’s where they were. If they weren’t, then I’ll admit I’ve been wasting your time – and I’ll promise not to waste any more of it.’

  ‘That’s a fair offer. Don’t you think so, Pickles?’

  ‘I do, sir. Though, of course, I don’t rightly know what you’re looking for, Superintendent – sir.’

  ‘You will in a minute,’ Dr Salt promised him grimly. And led the way upstairs.

  Challenged by the door, Hurst suddenly lost his reluctance. ‘I’ve done this job before. No need to start bruising our shoulders. There’s a knack in this. Dr Salt, you stand there and keep your light on it. Pickles, you just hold me up on this side. Now – watch!’ He hopped towards the door, with his right leg stiffly extended, and then used his leg, ending in a heavy size-twelve shoe, as a battering ram. At the third attempt, something snapped, and the door flew open.

  ‘Now I’ll take charge here,’ said the Superintendent as all three torches swept the room. ‘A bed of sorts. Couple of old blankets. Not for sleeping, this bed. Chair of sorts. Bit of a mirror on it. Face-powder been spilt about. Smells funny — but then some of it does, nowadays. Well, I think you were right up to a point, Dr Salt. I’ll buy this. This is where they came to do their love-making. Now what about these three trunks up against the wall? Going to tell me there’s a body in one of ’em, are you, Doctor? Well, Constable Pickles and I will see about that. Leave it to us. I’d be obliged if you didn’t touch anything. This is police work now. Take that top trunk down, Pickles, and then open the other two. You can shine your torch, Doctor, and that’s all the help we need from you.’

  There was nothing in the three trunks but newspapers and odd bits of rubbish. Hurst turned triumphantly: ‘You see, you were right only up to a point, Dr Salt. If you’re looking for another trunk murder, you won’t find it here. Might as well put ’em back, Pickles.’

  ‘Just a minute.’ Dr Salt moved forward. ‘Could I have a look at those two odd-lengths of wallpaper?’

  ‘The same as that already on the wall, sir,’ said Pickles, holding them up.

  ‘I know,’ said Dr Salt, moving again. ‘Just step aside, please, Constable.’ He bent down to look at that part of the wall which had been covered by the trunks. ‘Now I’d like a little more light here, please. Could you shine your torches where I’ve got mine? Thanks.’ Then he straightened himself and looked at the superintendent. ‘I think you’d better take a closer look here. It’s the same wallpaper, of course, but it seems to me a bit newer.’

  ‘It might be – yes,’ said Hurst, after he had taken a look.

  Now Dr Salt shone his torch downwards. ‘And the floor here is interesting, don’t you think? Doesn’t it look as if somebody cleaned it thoroughly before pulling that trunk over it?’

  ‘It’s a possibility,’ said Hurst rather reluctantly.

  Dr Salt began moving his torchlight again. ‘Now let’s have another close look at the wall.’ He began knocking against it until he heard a hollow sound. ‘I think there’s only very thin board here – might be only cardboard. Certainly no solid wall. And this is where it’s been newly papered. Either of you got a good strong knife?’

  Pickles said he had, and he handed it over.

  ‘Now, steady on, Dr Salt,’ cried the superintendent hastily, ‘you can’t start damaging property—’

  ‘You can’t. I can. Look the other way.’ Dr Salt cut into the wall and pulled out a section of it, about two feet long and a foot wide, which was simply cardboard covered with wallpaper. He shone his torch into the hole, saw something there, and then stepped back, with an Ugh! of disgust.

  ‘Yes, Dr Salt, can’t mistake that smell,’ said Hurst quietly. ‘That’s a corpse all right – what’s left of it. And this is where you do nothing but look, Doctor. Come on, Pickles. Let’s get this over with. Give me that knife, Doctor. And you keep back. Police work, now.’

  Dr Salt held his own torch and the superintendent’s, giving them as much light as possible while they hastily enlarged the hole and then brought out the body. As soon as it was out, Pickles, handkerchief to mouth, hurried away, and a moment later he could be heard being sick just outside the door.

  ‘All right, lad,’ the superintendent shouted. ‘Get to the nearest phone, sharp as you can. Tell Sergeant Broadbent or whoever’s on the desk that we’ve found a body here. He’ll know what to do. D’you hear me?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ It came in a kind of gasp, but then they heard him clattering down the stairs. ‘Now then, Doctor, I can’t stop you having a look – and, anyhow, I’ll ask you to identify her – but don’t lay a finger on that body. I’m sorry, but that’s how it has to be. Is it Noreen Wilks?’

  ‘No,’ said Dr Salt harshly, ‘it’s a lump of putrefying meat. But when it wasn’t, it belonged to Noreen Wilks. Your man will give you all the details, of course, but I can tell you this – it was a nasty kind of murder. Lot of hate in it. Madness perhaps.’ He moved away, and now lit his pipe.

  The superintendent followed him, and also lit a pipe. ‘It was young Derek Donnington, of course,’ he began, almost in a whisper. ‘He brought her here as usual. And I’ll admit you were clever working that out. He brought her here, but then they had a quarrel. He did her in, put the body where we found it, then went home and shot himself.’

  Dr Salt stared at him. ‘Queer programme that, isn’t it? Why spend two or three hours hiding the body – even doing a repapering job in the middle of the night – if you’re going home to shoot yourself?’

  ‘He was going to brazen it out, then changed his mind. They often do.’

  Dr Salt still stared at him. ‘I’ve several other questions, harder to answer than that one.’

  ‘And if you’ve any sense, Dr Salt, you’ll keep them to yourself. You wanted to know what had happene
d to your patient. Now you’ve found out. And I’ll admit it was a brilliant bit of work – a lot of guessing in it, of a sort we’re not encouraged to indulge in, but all very clever guessing.’ He moved slowly towards the door. ‘But now forget it, Doctor. Just go away and forget it.’

  ‘Tell me why, Superintendent.’ Dr Salt had followed him to the door, and now spoke quietly at his elbow. ‘You’ll agree I’m entitled to an explanation, after finding her for you.’

  ‘Certainly you are, Dr Salt. And I’ll give it to you – in confidence – the strictest confidence.’ They were now out on the landing, and Hurst behaved as if the big, empty, dark house was all curious ears. ‘It’s like this,’ he whispered. ‘Whatever you may read in the papers, this case is closed – here and now. There’s absolutely no doubt in my mind that young Donnington killed her and then killed himself. But I can’t say so because we arranged for a verdict of Accidental Death. And this one will be Person or Persons Unknown. Can’t do it any other way. We’re stuck with it. Oh – we may have to pretend – to make some inquiries, perhaps bring a vagrant or two in for questioning. But as I know who the murderer was, really the case is closed.’

  ‘Will you let me see your police surgeon’s report?’

  ‘No, I won’t, Dr Salt.’ The superintendent raised his voice now. ‘I’m sorry to be disobliging. But the case is closed. And don’t try an appeal to the Chief Constable because he knows already you’ve been going round asking questions, and he’s dead against you. And you want to leave Birkden, so now you can do. Let’s see,’ he added heartily, ‘you came here in your own car, didn’t you? So now you can go home and leave me to it. Goodnight, Dr Salt.’

  ‘Goodnight, Superintendent.’ He walked down several stairs before turning and shining his torch up at the superintendent, who had not moved.

  ‘But I can’t leave Birkden just yet,’ he called up quietly.

  ‘Now why – why?’

  ‘Because I’ve a case too, Superintendent. And my case isn’t closed. Goodnight.’

  4

  As he let himself into his flat, he heard angry voices that stopped as soon as he opened the door into his sitting room. All three were still there; the girls’ eyes still sparkled with anger; and Alan looked hot and uncomfortable, a man who had just been dragged into some scene of ruthless feminine fury.

  ‘You’d better quarrel with me now,’ he told them rather sourly. ‘But not until I’ve had a drink.’ He went into the kitchen and found there was some whisky left, not much but some. He drank about half of what he had poured out before taking himself and the glass into the sitting room. ‘Has anybody had a look at my patient?’

  ‘Yes, I did,’ said Maggie, ‘only about quarter of an hour ago. Still asleep.’ She hesitated a moment. ‘What happened in that house?’

  ‘Behind the wallpaper in a locked attic room,’ he said slowly, ‘we found what was left of Noreen Wilks.’ While they exclaimed, he took a sip of his whisky.

  ‘And it wasn’t some accident?’ said Alan. ‘She’d been murdered?’

  ‘Yes. All very nasty. I’ll let you off the details. Just take my word for it. But this is how we came to find the body.’ And he described what had happened in the locked room, how he had noticed a slight difference in the wallpaper. ‘Hurst might have spotted it if he’d been looking really hard. But he didn’t believe her dead body was somewhere in that house – he thought it was all a tall story, you remember? – whereas I felt at once, as soon as we were inside the house, that we’d find her there. I’m not a psychic type—’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Maggie. ‘Because I think you are.’

  ‘Whether I am or not, I felt in my very bones she was there. I moved in that house in a black cloud of horrible conviction. Damn it – I’m in it yet.’

  ‘Yes, you are,’ said Maggie.

  He gave her a sharp glance, said nothing for a moment or two, then continued: ‘I’m a doctor, not a detective. You can say I’d given a lot of time and trouble to the job of trying to provide that girl with a reasonably healthy body. She was a special case, remember? So I didn’t enjoy seeing what was left of her taken out of a cavity in the wall, like an over-size chewed-up rag doll. She’d gone there to make love as usual—’

  ‘Oh – don’t, Salt, don’t—!’ And Maggie began crying.

  ‘I’m sorry. Forget it.’

  ‘Do you think she’d been there,’ said Jill hesitantly, ‘ever since – that night – September 12th—?’

  ‘Of course. I’d felt that all along.’

  ‘Then Derek Donnington must have done it,’ said Jill, with no hesitation now. ‘And that’s why he shot himself.’

  Alan cleared his throat. ‘That’s fairly obvious, isn’t it?’

  Dr Salt looked at him. ‘It is to Superintendent Hurst, who warned me that the case was closed, so far as he was concerned, and told me in effect to go away now and mind my own business.’

  ‘Why should he say that?’ This was Alan again.

  ‘Because I told him that my case wasn’t closed. In other words, I don’t believe for a moment that young Donnington killed her. And – as I’ve said too many times already – I’m not leaving Birkden until I know exactly what happened to Noreen Wilks.’

  Jill jumped up in a sudden rage. ‘Oh – for Christ’s sake – stop it – just stop it!’

  ‘Steady, Jill!’ And Alan got up and made a move towards her.

  ‘Steady be damned! I’m telling him he’s got to stop it – now.’

  ‘And I hate to agree.’ Maggie looked at Dr Salt. ‘We’ve been quarrelling – as you guessed. But I know what she means – and I think she’s right. Just stop it.’

  ‘Stop what?’ He was genuinely bewildered.

  ‘Let me tell him,’ cried Jill. ‘Just pack up and get out, go wherever you want to go, leave Birkden alone, and stop playing at being God.’

  ‘I see.’ He nodded, then turned to Maggie. ‘Is that what you meant too, Maggie?’

  ‘Yes, it is – more or less. Though she doesn’t really like you– and I do. And I know it isn’t just enjoying being cleverer than anybody else—’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Jill put in quickly.

  ‘Oh – do shut up – and let me say something. After all, I know him ten times better than you do—’

  ‘Oh – that’s it, is it? My dear, as soon as a woman starts saying that—’

  ‘Shut up, shut up, shut up! Alan, why don’t you take her away?’

  ‘I’ll be glad to. I’ve had enough of this screaming match—’

  ‘No doubt,’ said Dr Salt, getting up. ‘Now listen to me, all three of you.’ He spoke very quietly, but then there was something in his manner and tone that made it unlikely that he would be interrupted. ‘I know very well that young Donnington didn’t kill Noreen. It’s a very convenient explanation, but quite unreasonable. And if he didn’t kill her, then somebody else did. And I don’t want to spend the rest of my life wondering who did it – and why. The truth, you might say, will set me free. The other thing is – I’m rather obstinate, so when people start trying to bounce me out of something I feel I ought to do, I’m more determined than ever to do it. From tonight there’ll be more and harder bouncing. Better keep out of the way. You can always tell yourselves you’re against people playing God. And now, Alan, if you’re not ready to go back to Hemton yet, I’ll run Maggie home.’

  When Jill and Alan had gone and he and Maggie were in his car, but not moving yet, he said: ‘Don’t talk. You’re angry with Alan, with Jill, with me, with yourself – partly because you’ve had an exhausting day and now it’s late. Same applies to me. I seem to have had a hell of a long day. So – no talking. Do far more harm than good.’

  He said no more until he began slowing up within sight of Maggie’s front door. ‘If the shop can spare you, I suggest you come with your mother tomorrow morning. Then you’ll hear what I’ll say to her. I’ll have already told your father what I’m going to say. I’ll have to tell him about Noreen too, of
course.’

  ‘What about my father? When can he come home?’

  ‘Tomorrow, probably. But he’ll have to take it easy. However, I’ll explain what I think he ought to do – not playing God, just doctor.’ He leant across, reached out to open the door for her and said: ‘Goodnight, Maggie. And don’t talk to anybody about anything tonight. You’ve had as much as you can take.’

  And so had he, he thought as he drove off, suddenly feeling deathly tired. A hell of a long day. And he’d had hundreds and hundreds of them. When and where could he go to sit in the sunlight? And whose long and strong fingers had made sure that Noreen Wilks would never see the sun again?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Nobody Loves a Mule

  1

  Maggie awoke on Friday morning to find herself under what might be called either a weighty cloud or a cloudy weight. She then discovered that it consisted of some apprehension about taking her mother to Dr Salt’s to see her father, of a lingering horror concerned with the murder of Noreen Wilks, and of a kind of angry disgust with Dr Salt for being so stubborn and so blindly and obtusely masculine. (It annoyed her, too, to have to agree with Jill.) She put on a suit that she kept only for mornings like this, when she disliked everything in sight: a two-year-old mistake in French-mustard tweed that was always trying to put ten years and fourteen pounds on her. ‘What – that one again!’ cried her mother, as soon as Maggie was downstairs. ‘It’s all wrong for you, dear.’

  ‘It’s what I’m feeling like,’ Maggie muttered.

  Alan said he would just have time to drop them at Dr Salt’s and that was all. After that he never spoke another word, but ate a lot of buttered toast and marmalade and probably thought about subatomic particles, moths or Jill Frinton. But their mother chattered away, rapidly and rather nervously as if she were not having breakfast with her own two children but were entertaining somewhat difficult company. This may have been because she had dressed herself this morning with great care. And then Maggie saw how pathetic this was, disliked herself for being so sulky and silent before, tried to be brighter and more sympathetic but was defeated by this dislike of herself. What hard work it was being a female! Probably in all their lives Alan and Salt had never worried a moment about this sort of thing. Meanwhile, her mother was explaining that they wouldn’t have to clear and wash up as she had got a woman coming in for the morning. ‘I want everything looking nice if Dr Salt says your father can come home. By the way, I forgot to ask. Will this be on National Health or will he be sending us a bill?’