Death Walks the Woods

by Cyril Hare

"Oh, I shan't wait, thank you, Mr. Wendon. I shall walk home through the Glade. It's downhill all the way."

  Grethe appeared at Godfrey's elbow.

  "Mr. Godfree, I have put the tea for you in the drawing-room. Mrs. Ransome said not to wait for her."

  "Oh, thanks awfully, Grethe. I'll come along now." Godfrey was about to go into the house when a thought struck him. "Mrs. Pink," he said, "why don't you come in and have tea before you go? It's awfully dull having meals alone—I mean—that's a rotten way to put it, but I'd love you to come."

  "It's very kind of you Mr. Godfrey," said Mrs. Pink doubtfully, "but I don't know if I should, really——"

  "It's quite all right. Grethe always makes much more than I can eat, anyway. Grethe! Noch eine Tasse, bitte!"

  Mrs. Pink found herself being swept inside The Alps before she well knew what was happening.

  "I shan't come in, thank you," said Mr. Wendon to Godfrey's retreating back. He shrugged his shoulders as the door closed behind them. As always, he gloomily resigned himself to unfair dealing. There were, he knew, half a hundred things at his holding that required his urgent attention, but he had said that he would wait for Mrs. Ransome, and wait he would—for a few minutes, at any rate. From behind his seat he produced a flask of whisky and poured himself out a dram. The requirements at the holding began to seem less urgent. Then he took from his pocket a creased copy of the Didford Advertiser. His lack-lustre eyes brightened as he observed that the front page carried advertisements of no fewer than three farm sales. He began to read with absorbed concentration.

  * * *

  Mrs. Ransome had been to a lunch-party at Markhampton. After lunch she had been induced to play canasta, which had not been good for either her pocket or her temper. It was with somewhat ruffled spirits that she returned home, to be greeted by strange sounds proceeding from her seldom-used piano. Godfrey, who had been endeavouring to enlist Mrs. Pink's support in a campaign to induce the Vicar to revert to the Cathedral Psalter in place of its new-fangled rival, the Oxford Psalter, was at that moment driving home his point by a practical illustration which left Mrs. Pink as mystified as it would probably have done King David. The music—to give it a charitable name—stopped abruptly as she entered the room.

  "Well, Godfrey!" she exclaimed. "I see you've been having a party. And Mrs. Pink! How very, very kind of you to call. I am so sorry that I wasn't in to receive you."

  From the saccharine sweetness of his mother's manner Godfrey gathered at once that he had blundered badly in inviting Mrs. Pink into the house. In some confusion, he embarked on a rambling explanation of what had happened.

  "Oh, please don't explain!" Mrs. Ransome protested. "I always think explanations are so tiresome, don't you, Mrs. Pink? All that I do gather is that kind Mr. Wendon has brought me a dozen eggs, and that at least is satisfactory. There was rather an upset the last time he came here, and I was afraid he had deserted us. Do you find yourself terribly short of eggs, Mrs. Pink? Or perhaps you keep your own hens?"

  "But he didn't bring the eggs, Mother—that's just the point. At least, he did bring them, but I didn't like to take them. He's waiting outside now to see if you want them."

  "You didn't take the eggs? My poor Godfrey, you must be mad. And you left poor Mr. Wendon sitting outside——" And brought Mrs. Pink in, was the only too clearly understood corollary. "But where is he now? He certainly was not outside when I put the car away a moment ago." She turned to Grethe, who came in at that moment with a fresh pot of tea. "Grethe, have you seen Mr. Wendon?"

  "Oh yes, Mr. Vendon, he is gone now in a hurry. He said he could no longer wait."

  "Gone, with all those eggs!"

  "Oh no, I took the eggs from him. They are in the kitchen just now."

  "Thank heaven for that, at least!" Mrs. Ransome poured herself out a cup of tea. "I couldn't have borne to think that he had gone off with them. To lose a chance of getting anything nowadays is simply criminal. Don't you agree, Mrs. Pink?"

  "I don't know, I'm sure, Mrs. Ransome," said Mrs. Pink in her soft, slow voice. "It's hard to say nowadays what's criminal and what isn't, I sometimes think."

  It seemed to Godfrey, watching them, that Mrs. Pink had a very curious effect on his mother. It was almost as if she had in some way got upon her nerves. Normally so calm and self-possessed, Mrs. Ransome seemed flustered and uneasy in her presence. Her voice had a harder edge to it than usual, and she caught at the remark as though it contained a personal accusation.

  "What a very strange thing to say!" she exclaimed. "I should have thought it obvious that when I said 'criminal' I only meant—— Oh, must you go?" she added, for Mrs. Pink had risen and was looking at the clock that hung over the mantelpiece.

  "I ought to be on my way," said Mrs. Pink, still looking at the clock. "I wanted to call in at the Vicarage by six. That clock loses a little, doesn't it?"

  "My little French clock?" It seemed that Mrs. Ransome could not stop talking. "Yes, it does—about a minute and a half a day, I suppose. It's a pretty thing, isn't it? I've had it for years. My husband gave it to me."

  Mrs. Pink turned round and looked her full in the face.

  "Oh no, Mrs. Ransome," she said. "Not your husband."

  Mrs. Ransome's face had gone a bright scarlet.

  "I think you are trying to be impertinent," she said in a strangled voice.

  "I'm sorry, Mrs. Ransome; I'm sure I didn't mean to be any such thing. Goodbye, Mr. Godfrey, and thank you for the tea."

  With unimpaired dignity Mrs. Pink walked deliberately out of the room.

  "Godfrey, show that woman out!" Mrs. Ransome commanded.

  Godfrey reached the front door just behind Mrs. Pink. He was about to open it for her when the doorbell rang. Mr. Todman's car was outside and Mr. Todman himself stood on the step, a suitcase in his hand.

  "Mr. Rose asked me to leave this," he said. "He's on his way up from the bottom of the hill. Said he wanted a walk."

  Godfrey took the suitcase from him, but before he could say anything Mr. Todman had turned round to call after Mrs. Pink, who had slipped past him while he was speaking.

  "Mrs. Pink!" he called. "I want a word with you! Mrs. Pink, I say!"

  Moving more quickly than was her wont, Mrs. Pink had already got halfway to the gate. She paid no attention to his call.

  "Mrs. Pink!" roared Mr. Todman again. He climbed back into his car and drove furiously up the short drive. But by the time he reached the gate Mrs. Pink had already gained the road and turned sharp off it on to the footpath that led steeply downhill towards the Druids' Glade. Watching, Godfrey could see the top of her shapeless blue straw hat bobbing down the path. He could also hear Mr. Todman shouting after her, but he could not distinguish the words.

  Carrying the suitcase, Godfrey returned into the house. He found his mother standing by the drawing-room fireplace.

  "If ever you let that woman into my house again——" she began, then broke off abruptly. "What have you got there, Godfrey?"

  "It's Mr. Rose's suitcase. He's walking up the hill, Mr. Todman says."

  "I shall go down and meet him then. I must have some fresh air!"

  "Shall I come with you, Mother?"

  "Certainly not!"

  Feeling thoroughly miserable, Godfrey went upstairs, left the suitcase in the spare room, and then went to his own. Everything seemed to be going wrong, and in some way it appeared to be all his fault. That his mother should decide to take a walk of her own accord seemed the strangest thing of all. She must be very badly upset indeed.

  * * *

  Pettigrew's field-glasses were ranging the hill again.

  "Hullo!" he said. "Here comes Mrs. Pink. She's walking home by herself. That doesn't bode well for the progress of Mr. Wendon's romance."

  "Frank," said Eleanor, "I wish you'd stop wasting your time at the window. I want you to come and attend to the tap in the kitchen. I think it needs a new washer."

  "Just a moment. She's taking the steep way down throug
h the Glade, I believe. Yes, I thought so. How that blue hat of hers shows up! Now she's just reached the line of the yews. 'Beneath those rugged elms, that yew tree's shade, Where heaves the ground——' There! We've seen the last of her. You were saying, my love?"

  * * *

  VIII

  LITTER IN THE GLADE

  A little before ten o'clock on the morning of Good Friday two men were making their way up the Druids' Glade by the steep path that runs from behind the hotel to the top of the hill. They had the place to themselves, although the easier slope up the bare north face of the hill was already dotted with the advance guard of the army of holiday visitors. The Glade, popular though it is, does not really come into its own until the afternoon, when the returning multitudes scramble and slip down the steep path as the most direct route to the railway station and the bus-stops in the valley. But the way is not entirely precipitous. On and near to the path are fairly level stretches, affording admirable sites for picnics. Their popularity was attested even now by mounds of strewn paper, ice-cream cartons and empty bottles.

  The presence of the two men in the Glade that morning was directly related to the offerings with which the visitors had chosen to express their love of nature. Their mission was the important one of selecting a site and erecting thereon a litter basket. Colonel Sampson, who led the way, had been chosen for the task by his fellow committee members of the Friends of Yew Hill because, as a soldier, it was thought that he would have the requisite "eye for country". Mr. Tomlin, who followed him, his back bent double beneath the load of the litter basket, came because he had no choice in the matter. He was the Keeper of the Hill and paid for the job. To judge from what could be seen of his face, he did not think much of this aspect of it.

  Unencumbered by anything but a sense of responsibility, the Colonel strode briskly ahead, pausing now and then impatiently for Tomlin to catch up with him. He was a lean, wiry man with fierce-looking, bushy brows, beneath which he gazed out on the world through a pair of mild, innocent brown eyes. Presently he stopped, moved a few paces from the path and drove his stick into the ground beside a pile of débris.

  "This is the place, I think," he called down to Tomlin.

  Tomlin staggered slowly up the hill to where he stood, laid down his burden and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.

  "If you say so, Colonel," he said.

  "It's the strategic point," the Colonel explained. "There," he pointed to the other side of the path, "is the Arch-druid's Tree, or whatever silly name they choose to give it. Mentioned in all the guide-books and always a focus for trippers. Here," he gesticulated southwards, "is the best view on this side of the hill. You can distinctly see Markhampton cathedral spire in clear weather. I dare say you've noticed it yourself. Climbers up or down the hill stop here for a breather. You can tell that by the mess they leave behind. Then you will see that three paths converge just above where we are standing: one skirting the side of the hill down to the Didford road, one leading up to the top of the hill near The Alps, and the other—where does this path take you, Tomlin?"

  "To the car-park, sir, near the last bend of the hillroad."

  "Quite so. Well, whichever way they come, they won't be able to avoid the basket if we put it here. No, man, not there," he added as Tomlin upended the basket on the green patch where they stood. "That ruins the view. Put it behind that bush.... Steady on, though, that won't do either. It won't be sufficiently visible to people coming down the hill. They'll lose heart and chuck their stuff away before they get to it. If we were to put it there, now.... No, that looks dreadful. This is a bit more difficult than I thought. What do you think, Tomlin?"

  Tomlin showed no desire to express an opinion.

  "I don't know, I'm sure," he said doubtfully.

  "Come, come, you must have some views on the matter. It's an important question."

  "Well, if you really want to know what I think, Colonel, I don't think it makes a ha'p'orth of difference where you put it."

  "What d'you mean?"

  "They won't use it, sir, wherever it is. If you was to walk round the hill holding the basket under their noses like a collection bag in church, they still wouldn't take no notice. They'll go on throwing their filth on the ground because that's the way they've been brought up, and no amount of baskets won't teach them any different."

  "I'm afraid you're a cynic, Tomlin," said the Colonel. Having uttered what he felt to be the ultimate reproof, he dismissed the objection from his mind. "I think here would do, just on the edge of the slope."

  Tomlin shook his head.

  "No, sir," he said firmly. "That would just be putting temptation in their way. Two years ago Lady Furlong would have me put one in a place like that, and the very first week-end they just took and rolled it down the hill. I don't see myself going down to the bottom of that and fetching it up every week-end. If you're going to put it anywhere, I should have it where those cigarette cartons are now. It's handy to the path and won't be too much trouble to bring down when it wants emptying."

  The Colonel instantly found fault with Tomlin's suggestion and made a counter-proposal. After ten minutes or so of more or less good-tempered argument he finally chose a site, which happened to be the one which Tomlin had selected. The basket was finally set up in its place, and he stood back to contemplate it.

  "It looks a bit empty," he remarked. "Hadn't we better put something in—a sort of nest-egg, you know?"

  Diving beneath a bush, he brought out an armful of newspapers and a quantity of orange peel, which he ceremonially dumped into the receptacle. He was about to go for more, when Tomlin stopped him.

  "That'll be enough to give her a start," he said. "If you start trying to pick up all the muck there is lying about, she'll be full before anyone else can use it—if anyone ever does, which I doubt."

  The Colonel looked round him in despair.

  "It's hopeless," he said. "There's stuff on the ground wherever you look."

  "Well, sir," said Tomlin philosophically, "that's what they are like. All I can say is, things aren't so difficult as they are on the other side of the hill. There, the stuff lies about just anywhere. They do keep to the paths more here. It makes things easier when you come to scavenging."

  "Maybe," said Sampson. "All the same, I think you'd find some queer things if you were to look under some of these trees." Stooping down, he peered beneath the lower branches of the Arch-druid's Yew. "There you are!" he exclaimed. "Under that fallen tree. A great heap of rags, or something."

  Tomlin also stooped down and looked in the same direction. He looked long and carefully before he spoke. "I don't think it's rags, Colonel," he said, and walked slowly towards the object they had seen. The Colonel followed him, a sudden chill foreboding at his heart.

  Some twenty or thirty yards higher up the hill, a yew, smaller in size than the Arch-druid's, but of considerable girth, had stood until blown over by a gale some years previously. Not entirely uprooted, with the tenacity of its kind it had continued to live after a fashion, and a dense screen of green shoots had sprouted from the recumbent trunk. The lie of the land had left a natural hollow beneath one of the main branches. Mrs. Pink's head and shoulders fitted neatly into the depression. It was her feet, stuck stiffly out beyond the surrounding leaves, that had told Tomlin that what they had glimpsed at a distance was something more sinister than a heap of rags.

  The two men stood looking down at the body in silence for what seemed a very long time. At last Tomlin spoke.

  "She didn't get there by herself, Colonel," he said. "Somebody must have put her there."

  The Colonel nodded. "Poor woman!" he said. "Mrs. Pink, of all inoffensive people! It must have been some homicidal maniac.... Well, Tomlin," he went on, "I've seen a good many corpses in my time, and I don't need a doctor to tell me that there's nothing we can do for her. You're an ex-policeman. What's the drill now?"

  "Notify the station, sir, and meanwhile disturb nothing," replied Tomlin promp
tly. He looked back the way they had come. "I'm afraid it's a bit late in the day to talk about disturbing nothing, though," he added.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well, sir, if the body was brought here from below—and I reckon it's a sight too steep to carry it down from above—that means we must have walked over the very way the fellow took. What's more, if Mrs. Pink was killed on the path, ten to one it will be just where we've been cavorting round with that litter basket. The ground's hard enough as it is, but any prints they do find there will be yours and mine, I'm thinking."

  "Well, standing here won't improve any clues there may be," the Colonel remarked. "We'd better get a bit farther away."

  They retraced their steps carefully to the giant yew.

  "One of us had better stay here to scare off any trippers that may come along," he said. "Dash it, I believe there's one coming now."

  Sure enough, from above could be heard a rattle of dislodged pebbles and a moment later the sound of footsteps. They ceased to be heard as they reached the grassy platform where the litter basket had been erected. A moment later Godfrey Ransome came into view round the stem of the great tree. He was walking slowly now, looking at the ground, and had walked almost into Colonel Sampson before he was aware of him.

  "Oh, sorry!" said Godfrey. "I didn't see you."

  "Are you looking for something?" asked the Colonel.

  "Actually, I am. Without any particular expectation of finding it, though. But one does one's best."

  Godfrey moved on towards the farther side of the tree, still questing the ground.

  "Not that way, if you please, sir!" said Tomlin.

  "Good Lord! Why on earth not? Is anything the matter?"

  "Yes, sir, there is. You're young Mr. Ransome from The Alps, aren't you?"

  "Yes. Of course, I know you. I've seen you about on the hill, often."

  Tomlin looked at the Colonel and nodded. Sampson cleared his throat.

  "As you're by way of being a local and not one of these damned trippers, there's no harm in mentioning it," he said. "There's been a—an accident in there. I'm just on my way to tell the police."