The Lately Deceased

by Bernard Knight

  ‘Sure, you’re the boss.’

  ‘OK. Get there about six, in time for drinks.’

  It was noon next day when the heavens fell in on Nicholas Meredith. He had spent the earlier part of the morning with Stammers interviewing witnesses of a smash-and-grab at a jeweller’s, and then went back to Divisional Office to hammer out the paperwork concerning the pay robbery, which was still taking up the bulk of the time.

  Nemesis struck just as he was thinking of leaving for home. Stammers handed him the phone with the words: ‘The Yard … Pepper asking for you.’

  ‘Meredith here! Hello, Pepper, what’s up?’

  ‘You know that so-called murder weapon you sent over from the Walker case?’

  Meredith frowned. ‘What do you mean, Fred, “so-called weapon”?’

  ‘Well, you had our preliminary report on the bloodstains yesterday for your inquest?’

  ‘Yes, the group was O-negative, you said, the same as the woman herself. For God’s sake, don’t tell me you made a mistake!’

  Pepper sounded hurt. ‘Come off it, we never make mistakes! They were both O-negative all right, but that’s only part of the story. We’ve just finished the full job and I can tell you, chum, that the blood on that skewer ain’t Margaret Walker’s!’

  Meredith felt sick. He sat back immobile in his chair, his eyes staring unfocused through the window.

  ‘Did you hear me, Nick?’ came Pepper’s voice. ‘I said they aren’t the same.’

  ‘Yes, I heard you, Fred,’ said Meredith weakly. ‘I was just trying not to believe you.’

  ‘Sorry, old scout, but there’s no doubt about it. We’ve just finished the genotyping tests and you can take it from men the blood on the skewer ain’t Margaret’s.’

  ‘But look, man, you told me yesterday that the two matched.’

  ‘No, we didn’t. We told you they were both O Rhesus Negative and so they are. What we didn’t know then, but do know now, is that genotyping shows Margaret’s blood to be “c.d.e.” and the blood on the skewer to be “c.d.E.”’

  ‘Hell! Hell! Hell!’ said Meredith, wearily. ‘I thought the whole case was bloody well wrapped up. There’ll be hell to pay over this! The AC will be kicking me around the Division by teatime!’

  ‘Sorry, but there it is. We’ll have the whole story ready for you by Monday, but in the meantime, just in case something unexpected crops up, you’d better make a note of these two groups.’ He read the details slowly over the telephone while Meredith noted them down.

  ‘Well, that should keep you going for the time being. If you want any more you’ll have to wait till our report reaches you on Monday.’

  ‘If I live that long!’ retorted Meredith sourly, putting the phone down.

  ‘Stammers!’ he called to the next room. His assistant came in and he repeated the news to him: ‘We’re really up the creek now, back to square one and looking bloody fools into the bargain!’

  Stammers looked as disturbed as the superintendent.

  ‘If it’s the wrong blood, how the blazes did Moore’s prints come to be on the thing?’

  ‘They were planted, boy, and it’s a pound to a penny that Moore was murdered after all. It begins to look as if that chap from Cardiff was right all the time. Someone else did write that note.’

  Meredith began to stab holes in his blotter with the long-suffering pen that he used for red ink. ‘How was that suicide act fixed, that’s the question? It must have been after the sleeping pills, but how in hell did the killer get Moore to take them?’

  Stammers shook his head, flummoxed. ‘Where do we go from here?’ he asked, despondently.

  ‘I’d better ring the Commissioner first, then the coroner. Talk about eating humble pie! I suppose the AC will give the case to the Yard now.’

  Stammers was outraged.

  ‘Damn it, you did all you could. No one else could have done any different with such a load of tripe for evidence and all the witnesses half-cut at the time!‘

  ‘Well, let’s get it over with,’ sighed Meredith, reaching for the phone. As his fingers closed over the instrument, the bell shrilled.

  ‘Hello, Meredith here. Who? Oh, yes … he has? Right, we’re on our way, thanks.’

  Stammers gaped at the sudden change in his chief’s mood.

  ‘What goes on now, for God’s sake?’ he asked.

  ‘Come on, to the hospital. Myers has come to life again, properly this time, and it sounds as if he might save our bacon!’

  On the way to the Whittington Hospital, they called in at Comber Street and found Masters still there.

  ‘I was hoping you might be here,’ said Old Nick. ‘I want you to come over to the hospital with us. Myers has regained consciousness and is apparently talkative. We’ll probably have to leave you with him for a bit if he doesn’t come across with it all at once.’

  They drove very fast and reached the hospital in a few minutes, clattering up the stairs until they neared the neurosurgical ward. The registrar was standing just inside the doors, waiting for them.

  ‘Come in, Superintendent, he’s still conscious, though he’s weak. We didn’t really expect him to recover but if he goes on like this, he may yet be all right.’

  ‘You two wait here,’ Meredith ordered his colleagues. ‘We can’t all barge behind the screens.’ He followed the doctor over to the hidden bed, disappearing behind the barricade of curtains. Stammers and Masters were left standing at the ward entrance, twitching with curiosity and anticipation.

  After what seemed like hours, Meredith came out, busily writing in his pocket notebook. As he reached Masters, he tore the page out and handed it to the expectant sergeant.

  ‘Get moving. I know it’s Saturday afternoon, but I want you to chase the Blood Transfusion Service to see if they have a record of that name on their books and, if so, whether the group is the same in all respects as the one written on that paper. Get the information any way you like. Break into the building if you have to, but I suggest you ring the Director for a start. He’s probably at lunch now.’

  Masters hurried down to the porter’s lodge to beg the use of a telephone. The name on the scrap of paper had set his mind racing, trying to imagine the ‘why’ and ‘how’ of what it obviously implied. Meanwhile, Meredith was anxiously plying the registrar with questions about Myers’ fitness to make a statement, and whether he was likely to slip back into a coma or even die.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s no possibility of him being well enough to make a full statement until Monday, at least,’ said the doctor. ‘Give us a ring then, unless you intend leaving a man with him now.’

  ‘I don’t think that will be necessary. He has already said enough to keep us busy for the time being, thank the Lord! Just in time to save my head from rolling, with any luck. There’s no likelihood of his being up the wall, I suppose? He couldn’t have invented all this?’

  ‘He’s not deluded, if that’s what you mean, Superintendent. You saw for yourself that he answers all questions quite sensibly. You can depend on what he’s told you.’

  Meredith scooped up Stammers and went down to the car, where Masters was waiting for them.

  ‘I got through to the boss-man at the transfusion depot. He’s going to ring up some chap or other and get him to go back to the records section straight away. They’ll ring Comber Street as soon as they’ve got the answer.’

  ‘Right, then you can come back with us. We’ll drop you at the station and then go on to our place. I’ve got a lot of telephoning to do. One will be to the AC and, thank God, I’ll have something more agreeable to tell him than I thought I would an hour ago!’

  At four o’clock, the long-awaited call came from the Transfusion Centre. Masters took the call in the CID office.

  ‘You’ve got a record of it? Good, and it matches those hieroglyphics we sent you from the Yard? In every detail? Splendid! This is the first decent break we’ve had. Not a common group, you say? Still, it fits in fine. Please don’t say anything
about this to anyone at all. You may be needed to prove this evidence in court. Thanks very much, goodbye.’

  Beaming with delight, Masters rang the Divisional Office and relayed the confirmation to Meredith.

  ‘Right, Sergeant! Sit tight for half an hour; we may be going out on a visit.’

  Masters was quite in the dark about the result of Meredith’s bedside talk with Myers, but guessed the injured man had disclosed something pretty damning.

  ‘Real Sherlock Holmes stuff, this!’ he muttered to himself. ‘Make the most of it, Masters lad. Next week you’ll be back to stolen bikes and indecent exposures!’

  He went downstairs to persuade the woman police constable on duty to make some tea for him.

  The headlights of the Jaguar cut a brilliant tunnel through the darkness of the Oxfordshire countryside. Torrential rain was beating down, dancing from the road to leave a fine spray over the surface. Geoff Tate had left the main road, and had dropped his speed to a mere fifty along the last lap which he hoped would lead to Long Manor.

  ‘I hope you can see something, pilot,’ said Abe, sitting on the near side of the front seat. ‘I can see sweet fanny from here. The wipers don’t keep pace with this sort of rain.’

  ‘It’s all under control, folks,’ replied Geoff with an assurance that Abe didn’t share. ‘We should soon be there. Gordon said the place was about two miles beyond that sign we’ve just passed. It should be on the left hand side, some sort of lodge with gates, so keep your eyes open for it.’

  Eve was installed in the middle of the front seat, looking very comfortable and contented, snuggled in her fur coat between the two men. In the back, Peter Morton-Smith was sitting with one arm around Lena Wright and another around Sandra Hoyle.

  ‘I don’t mind how long we take, Geoff darling,’ crooned Eve. ‘I love driving fast nowhere. It’s like being tucked up in bed when there’s a storm outside.’

  ‘What time are we expected?’ asked Lena from the back.

  ‘He said any time after six,’ replied Abe. ‘We’re a bit late, but, if his directions are right, we should make it by a quarter to seven.’

  The big car swished on through the driving rain, the bare skeletons of the trees and windswept hedges flashing past the side windows in the gloom. Other traffic was scarce, in contrast to that on the main road from London, and for the last mile no other headlights had dazzled them. The Jaguar rounded a bend and the road suddenly narrowed, the trees meeting overhead to form an arch down which their lights carved a yellow swathe.

  ‘There’s something like gates right ahead, Geoff,’ cried Eve.

  ‘This must be it, gates and a lodge affair,’ agreed Abe Franklin.

  A small single-storied house, built of grey stone seen dimly through the wet night, stood alongside high pillars carrying heavy wrought-iron gates. These last, bearing some manorial coat of arms, were firmly closed.

  ‘Locked out, by damn!’ murmured Morton-Smith.

  ‘Give ’em a blast on the hooter, son,’ advised Abe.

  Geoff did so and Eve started to giggle. ‘What a laugh if it’s the wrong place!’

  ‘No, it says “Long Manor” on the side of the lodge,’ said Sandra. ‘Look, a light’s just come on over the front door.’

  The door opened and a man emerged, muffled in a raincoat, sou’wester hat and gumboots. Without checking the identity of the visitors, he walked slowly over to the gates, unlocked them and pulled them open, straining against the wind and their weight. As the car swung into the drive, the lights shone momentarily on the lodge keeper, showing him to be giving some sort of salute as they passed.

  ‘Real feudal stuff, this!’ Morton-Smith observed. ‘Serfs tugging at their forelocks and bloody great gates! There’ll probably be a drawbridge and portcullis when we get to the house itself.’

  Beyond the gates, the heavily tree-lined drive forked, and a white wooden sign appeared in the headlights, saying ‘Keep Left’. They reached the house after driving up a long narrow, tree-lined road. A huge expanse of lawn lay in front of the building, which was a rambling manor of mixed architectural styles. It could only be dimly seen as they swept towards it, though lights came from porch lights and some of the windows. There was also a sort of street lamp at the end of the building leading to a yard with stables and garages at the rear.

  ‘What a bloody great barn!’ Geoff said. ‘It looks like something out of a Boris Karloff film.’

  ‘I bet it’s haunted!’ cooed Sandra gleefully.

  The car slid smoothly under a covered portico of nondescript design, but very welcome in this foul weather. As soon as the car stopped, the large double front doors of the house were opened and Gordon appeared in the brightly lit opening, with Pearl visible behind him in the hall. As the others entered the house and Geoff went around to the boot of the car to get out the suitcases, a buxom young woman appeared and bundled the cases away with prompt efficiency.

  ‘Shall I leave the car here, Gordon?’ Geoff called out.

  ‘Yes, for now. Come on in and have a drink. Leave your keys in her and I’ll get Bodger to drive her round to the garage as soon as he’s finished buttling.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  The hall was a large one, with a wide staircase leading upwards on the left. A few dark pieces of furniture were scattered around and several heavy oak doors led off into the ground floor rooms.

  ‘Pearl will show you later where you’re sleeping, girls,’ said Gordon. ‘Right now, we’ll go into the library and I’ll give you a drink to warm you up. Sling your coats onto that settee for the time being.’

  The library was low and warm, with a blazing log fire in a huge stone hearth. The Leighs were sitting before it on a settee large enough for five people. Webster had his face buried in a large glass.

  ‘A real ancestral home this, Gordon,’ said Geoff appreciatively.

  ‘Well, I’ve not been down here much, but I think I could get quite fond of it.’

  ‘I’m sure you could. I say, we were jolly impressed by the ceremony of opening the gates just now. Is it a regular performance, or was it just laid on for our benefit?’

  Gordon laughed.

  ‘Well, it’s been the practice in the past. Margaret had an idea that it would keep out thieves and robbers, or something of that sort. I shall have to stop it if I decide to come here regularly, but Jasper won’t like it.’

  ‘Who’s Jasper? The serf who opens the gate?’

  ‘Yes, and he loves every minute of it. He used to be the gardener and when he got past it Margaret dreamed up this gate-opening routine. Nobody can say he doesn’t make a real performance of guarding the things. He’ll get up ten times a night to unlock them and lock them if needs be.’

  The butler came over with a tray of drinks and offered one to Geoff. His name was Bodger, a large soft-featured man of forty or so, wearing an ancient shiny dinner-jacket. When all were served with drinks, he quietly left the room to help his wife prepare dinner.

  The party sat around the blazing fire and became very much at ease in a short space of time. Outside, the wind howled mournfully and the rain beat on the diamond-paned windows in a ceaseless tattoo.

  Gordon turned on the record player and the mood in the room became quietly sentimental. Geoff and Eve sat on the floor holding hands before the fire, and dreamily humming the tunes Gordon had chosen. Abe sat on the settee next to Lena with one arm pulling her fast against his shoulder. Gordon perched himself on the arm of Pearl’s chair, and Morton-Smith attached himself to Sandra.

  This cosy scene lasted until about eight thirty, when Bodger tapped on the door and announced that dinner would be ready in fifteen minutes.

  Immediately, the girls got up to freshen up before eating, and all of them, except Barbara Leigh, went off upstairs with Pearl.

  ‘Let’s have a final appetiser while we wait,’ suggested Webster. As he busied himself with bottles and glasses, Bodger came in and told Gordon he was wanted on the telephone.

  ‘Who
is it?’ Walker demanded in some irritation.

  ‘Old Jasper, sir. There’s someone at the gates and he wants to know whether he’s to let them in or not.’

  ‘Did he say who they are?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He said it was the police.’

  There was a chorus of dismay from everyone. ‘It’s a bit ruddy thick of them to follow us around the countryside with their damn fool questions!’ complained Webster. ‘Tell them to go to hell, Gordon!’

  ‘I’d better speak to Jasper,’ said Gordon, and went into the hall to the telephone.

  ‘Jasper? Mr Walker here. Who’s at the gate?’

  The voice of the old man quivered with importance.

  ‘Police, they are, sir. One of ’em showed me a card, I couldn’t read it without me glasses, but he said his name is Meredith. There’s two or three others in the car with him, sir. All of them’s in ordinary clothes except the driver. Shall I let them in?’

  ‘Yes, Jasper, and leave the gates open, they won’t be staying long.’

  Gordon rang off, and Geoff spoke from the doorway of the sitting room. ‘Who is it, Gordon, those damn chaps from Comber Street?’

  ‘Yes, Meredith and his crew are here, I’m afraid. I must say I think it’s a bit much to come down here at this time of night, especially as the whole damn business is over and done with. I feel like tearing a bloody great strip off them.’

  ‘Well, before you do, show me where I may attend to my physiology so that I may witness the rout of the constabulary in comfort.’

  ‘This way,’ said Gordon and led him into the hall. ‘Through that far door,’ he said, pointing, ‘then it’s the first door on the left.’

  He waited until Geoff had gone, and then slipped through another door leading off the hall. He was gone only a few seconds and when he came out he met Lena and Sandra walking towards him, all fresh and sparkling in their new warpaint.

  ‘Where’s Pearl?’ he asked them, quickly.

  ‘Still upstairs with Eve,’ Lena replied. ‘Doing very feminine things,’ she added with a giggle as they entered the sitting room. Sandra stopped at the door and looked in surprise at the men’s faces.