The Woods Murder

by Roy Lewis

  But when the final sleep had come it had arrived with a screaming agony and terror, with strange, incomprehensible pain, with a scrabbling and a scrambling, harsh breathing, heavy, hard hands that had shown none of her mother’s gentleness or her father’s love. There could have been only the fearful darkness and the weight, the blood and the tearing bushes and the hard ground and the frantic, frantic beating of a terrified child’s heart.

  The thought brought the moan rising in Carson’s throat again as it always did when his mind lurched back despairingly in this way; the rising, agonized pain in his chest that all but stilled his breathing, the rasp in his lungs, the tumultuous racing beat of his pulse, as the memories and the indescribable loss and the love smothered him and demanded tears.

  But no tears came.

  They had not come that night, when Edwards had shouted, far across to his left. They had not come when James Carson had blundered his way through the bushes, throwing aside the restraining arms like an enraged bull. They had not come when he stared down at the torn body of little Jenny, neither then, nor at the inquest nor at the funeral. Nor now, nor on any of the long dark nights.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder. Carson shuddered, focused his eyes and looked over the back of the chair. Marion stood there with her ravaged face still lashed with incomprehension. She had seen him sitting here like this so many times these last months, and he knew that she felt an immense distress at being unable to help him. Perhaps a wife should be able to help a husband, perhaps he should be able to accept her help. But it wasn’t that easy. This chair, everything in the house . . . Jenny . . .

  ‘When is it going to end, Jim?’ Marion asked suddenly. She was forty-three now but her hair was greying and her light prettiness was lined and savaged as his heart had been by Jenny’s death. He could not reply to her and simply shook his head. But he sat up in the chair, and tried to wash everything away, for her sake as much as for his own.

  She handed him the cup of cocoa that she customarily made at this time and he felt her hesitation as she took the chair opposite him, in front of the fire. At last she asked the question he had been expecting.

  ‘The chief inspector was here a long time. What did he really want, Jim? It wasn’t about Jenny, was it?’

  Carson shook his heavy hand and sipped at the hot cocoa before he answered. ‘No. Not about Jenny.’

  ‘Then it was about Mr Lendon, wasn’t it? What did the inspector want, Jim? Why did he come here?’

  He sensed and understood the current of fear in her tone and did his best to lull the quick panic that would be rising in her.

  ‘It’s all right, Marion. There’s nothing to worry about. He was just checking, that’s all. You see, I went down to Lendon’s office a week ago to . . . to argue the case about the lane again. We had . . . we had a bit of a scuffle and Miss Tennant was there and saw it and I suppose she had to tell the police, but that’s all there was to it. He was just checking, that’s all. Just checking.’

  Marion was silent, staring into the fire. Her hands were wrapped around her cocoa cup as though for warmth, but the room was warm.

  ‘He’s an ugly man, isn’t he,’ she said. ‘I mean, he’s so tall, and his head is such a funny shape. He’s like a skeleton.’ She blushed in confusion even as the words came out, as though she wished they had not been spoken. She looked at him anxiously.

  ‘But there’s something about him, Jim, isn’t there. . .didn’t you feel it? He wouldn’t do anything to us, would he? You know what I mean, he was sort of . . . nice, wasn’t he? He wouldn’t do anything to us, not after Jenny was . . .’

  Carson leant forward and touched her hand with a gentleness surprising in such a large man.

  ‘There’s nothing he can do to us, Marion. Believe me, there’s nothing he can do.’

  ‘Oh Jim—’

  Doubt still struggled with the hope in her eyes, but after a moment she sat back quietly and continued to stare into the fire. They did not speak again until twenty minutes had elapsed and the two cocoa cups lay empty.

  ‘Time for bed, Marion,’ Carson said gently. He saw the pain in her face but stubbornly, insistently ignored it. She nodded, and rose with reluctance. As she walked past the chair her hand touched his shoulder again.

  ‘Jim.’ Her voice was quiet and pleading. ‘Will you . . . will you come to me tonight? Please?’

  He put his large hand over hers, tenderly, but did not look up to her.

  ‘No, girl, it’s better the way it is. You go to your room. You sleep, get your strength up. I’ll not disturb you.’

  ‘Jim—’ she began, but subsided as the pressure of his hand on hers increased. He knew she was near to tears but he could not do as she asked. Her hand slipped away, and she walked to the door. She stopped, reluctantly.

  ‘When he was here. . .that policeman. Did he ask you if you were at home the night that Mr Lendon died?’

  Carson’s hands were still. In the silent room there was only the crackle of the fire to suggest life. He did not answer her, but slowly countered her question with one of his own.

  ‘Did he ask you that question, Marion?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied in a whisper.

  ‘And you told him?’

  The answer was a long time coming.

  ‘I . . . I said to him that you were here . . . with me. Oh, Jim. . .’

  He shook his head, and rose slowly, but stubbornly. ‘I’ve told you, Marion,’ he said, as he began to remove his slippers. ‘I’ve told you. There is nothing that policeman can do to us.’ Slowly, he reached for his boots.

  * * *

  Two hours later Constable Pitt decided to make himself a cup of tea. His orders were to remain on post at the entrance to the offices of Lendon, Philips and Barrett, but it was a cold, miserable night and he was pretty certain that no one would be along to check on him tonight. And he’d seen a gas-burner in the small office on the ground floor where the typists made tea for themselves. Quietly he let himself into the offices, using the key Sergeant Turner had given him.

  He thought it best not to turn on the lights. He used his flash lamp to make his way to the gas-burner, then he put the lamp down, took off his helmet and loosened his coat, lit the gas-burner and waited for the kettle to boil. Nice kids, those typists, leaving a full kettle for him!

  He began to whistle through his teeth, a low, tuneless noise that drove his colleagues to desperation when they were in earshot. He was all alone now.

  He made the tea, poured a cupful and added milk and sugar from the basins he found in the cupboard. Home from home. He sat in the semi-darkness and listened to the creaks of the old building. Funny how boards and stairs creaked like that, it was the same in the terrace house in Manchester where he’d lived as a boy. Always noises at night.

  But not thudding. Not a regular, low, monotonous thudding. The muffled sound of a window banging, there was one like that in Edith’s room back home, always banging in the middle of the night.

  Constable Pitt picked up his flashlight, put down his cup and walked into the hallway, up the stairs to the first floor and started looking for the open window. He found it within minutes, but was puzzled to discover that the catch was broken. He closed the window and put down the lamp so that he could use both hands to secure the window. He began to whistle again, in the same tuneless tone.

  It was only at the last moment he heard the swift step behind him.

  He half turned and saw the dark figure but it was already too late. In the dimness an arm was sweeping down towards his unprotected head. He’d left his helmet downstairs. Even as he staggered back under the blow his thoughts were logical.

  There’ll be hell to pay about this, he thought.

  Chapter 9

  ‘I gather you played hell,’ Crow said quietly and stared around at Lendon’s room.

  Wilson grunted sourly. ‘What I had to say didn’t help his sore head, sir.’

  ‘Mmm. Well, there’s nothing we can do about it now it’
s happened. What’ve you got to report?’

  ‘Pitt heard a noise, came up to investigate, got hit on the head with this portable dictating machine.’

  Crow took the machine from him and inspected it critically.

  ‘It won’t be much use now. Pitt must have a hard head. Any prints on it?’

  ‘Wiped clean, sir.’

  ‘How did the intruder get in?’

  ‘There’s a window on the first floor that was forced open. Six feet below the window is a sloping roof: an easy climb from the top of dustbins at the back. He must have entered when Pitt was at the front and Pitt disturbed him when he came upstairs.’

  ‘And he’d entered this room. The lock was forced, I see. All right, better tell me the worst. What’s been taken?’

  Wilson scratched his head.

  ‘Difficult to say. Very little, I suspect, sir. The papers on the table are still more or less as they were, according to Turner. But the lock on this cabinet here has been broken, and it’s my guess that some of the files may have been taken.’

  Crow took out some files from the top drawer and riffled through them. They were all headed with individual names, and seemed to be colour-coded, but there was no immediate clue as to what the code meant.

  ‘When did Pitt raise the alarm?’

  ‘About two-thirty a.m. He was a bit concussed till then. I took the call and saw no reason to disturb you at once, sir. The details were a matter of routine, so I just went ahead.’

  ‘You’re concerned about my beauty sleep, obviously,’ Crow said and Wilson permitted himself a tight smile. ‘All right, we’ll—’

  ‘Excuse me, sir.’

  The young, fresh-faced constable who had entered the room shuffled nervously. ‘The first of the office staff has arrived. A Miss Tennant. Should she be allowed to her room?’

  ‘Oh yes, there’s no reason why she should get in our way. She works on the. . .wait a minute.’ Crow paused, reflecting. ‘Ask her if she’ll come up here for a moment.’

  Two minutes later Cathy Tennant was facing Crow. ‘You’re in early this morning, Miss Tennant.’

  Her eyes displayed surprise at the activity in the building.

  ‘I woke early, couldn’t get back to sleep. What’s . . . what’s happened?’

  ‘An intruder during the night. We think some files might have been taken. Lendon used a colour code. It occurs to me that you might know its significance.’

  She shook her head. Now that Crow had had time to look at her he realized that there were dark rings around her eyes; he suspected she had slept little last night. For a moment he wondered whether he should question her again, attempt to worm out of her the extra information he was sure she was keeping back from him, but he decided against it. She wasn’t sleeping well; perhaps time would eat away at her resolve in this way, disturb her conscience until she told him everything. He had other things to do, and the girl might come to her senses without his badgering.

  ‘Was anything taken from the other cabinet?’ she asked suddenly.

  ‘The other one?’

  ‘In the anteroom.’

  She showed it to Crow; it was locked and when he put his bony shoulder against it the weight of it suggested that it was pretty full of papers.

  ‘Keys?’

  ‘I think Turner’s got Lendon’s keys now . . . picked them up last night from the lab.’

  ‘Well, I want this opened at once.’

  ‘Perhaps my keys will open it,’ Cathy said and opened her handbag. ‘The office equipment is pretty standard and they’ll probably fit. Here, let’s try this one.’

  She inserted a key, and then exclaimed in triumph as the locking device slid back. She pulled the top drawer open with a flourish. ‘There you are!’

  ‘That’s most helpful of you, Miss Tennant. Now if you—’

  ‘Turner’s arrived, sir.’

  Wilson’s remark caused Crow to break off and turn around. He and Wilson moved away from the cabinet to speak to Turner and collect the missing keys from him, asking him whether the lab had any information to date. It wasn’t the first mistake that Crow had made in his police career, but it was his first in the Lendon case. It was while he was extending his hand for the keys from Turner that Cathy Tennant stood rigidly staring at the top drawer and the suspended files it contained; it was as he was turning back to the anteroom that Cathy Tennant saw the crumpled note stuffed into the front of the drawer and recognized its signature.

  Neither Crow nor Wilson made any attempt to detain Cathy as she made her way downstairs to her office, for neither had any reason to do so. After all, neither of them had observed her swiftly remove the single sheet of paper from the drawer and slip it into the pocket of her coat.

  Cathy kept herself busy for the rest of the day and saw no more of the chief inspector or the two sergeants. She was glad of that, for she was agonized with anxiety. She took care that it did not show. Nevertheless, when Chief Inspector Crow came into her room the next day her pulse raced, for she knew Crow to be a man of perception and she was equally aware that she was unused to subterfuge, to dishonesty, to lying.

  She guessed that Crow suspected she knew more than she had told him but he hadn’t pressed her. This frightened her as much as anything; it was as though Crow felt he could rely upon her innate honesty to tell him the truth, rely upon the sympathy that already existed between them.

  She felt that he knew her, and knew her transparency. But he did not know about the paper in the filing cabinet, and she was still appalled at her own temerity in abstracting it. She couldn’t yet be certain that she would have the courage to retain it. If he ever suspected . . .

  He was smiling at her. Gaunt and unlovely he might be in his general appearance, but he had a nice smile; it had warm edges.

  ‘Still hard at it, Miss Tennant?’

  ‘That’s right, Inspector. Mr Parnell and Mr Maxwell are handling things for the time being, and there’s plenty to do.’

  ‘I’m sure there is. Er . . . has Sergeant Turner been in?’

  ‘Yes, Inspector. He came in about thirty minutes ago and is in Mr Lendon’s room. I imagine he’s ploughing through the files.’

  ‘Ahuh. Would you mind buzzing him on the intercom, Miss Tennant, and asking him to come through to join us here?’

  Cathy complied with the request. Crow sank into a chair and stretched his long thin legs out in front of him. He ran a hand over his bald skull. His eyes were tired. ‘Now then, Miss Tennant, while we’re waiting for the sergeant, may I ask you if you’ve thought of any further points since I spoke to you last?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Inspector.’ There was no tremor in Cathy’s voice to match that which shuddered through her veins. But she was not a good liar, and she imagined she read the thought in Crow’s sad eyes.

  ‘You’ve not remembered the voice in the office . . . not thought who it might be yet?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. I lay awake for some time last night, and I kept thinking about it. It’s so silly in a sense, for I feel sure that it’s someone I know well. It lies in my head, you know, a little muffled as the voice was in the office that day. Like speaking through cotton wool.’

  ‘But it was a voice you ought to recognize?’

  ‘Indeed. It will come back to me.’

  There was a light tap on the door and the stocky figure of Detective-Sergeant Turner entered. He sat down at Crow’s invitation, and in answer to his superior’s question he replied: ‘Well, I sorted out most of the files yesterday, as I told you, sir, but there are about thirty of these red files which seem to hold pretty personal material. This is a list of them: they were all contained in the cabinet in the anteroom to Mr Lendon’s office.’

  Crow looked at her carefully, and Cathy sat still.

  ‘I’ll read the list of names to you, Miss Tennant, and perhaps you could tell me if any of them strike significant chords for you . . . you know, people who might have a strong grudge against Lendon.’

  �
�Why me, Inspector Crow? I hardly knew Mr Lendon outside the office!’

  ‘Miss Tennant,’ Crow interrupted, ‘I’ll be frank. You’ve impressed me as a young woman with some quality of foresight, some honesty, and some clarity of thought. I feel that you knew Lendon better than you yourself even imagine. I feel that you possess a naturally analytical turn of mind that may well have enabled you to see and perhaps understand things that others would overlook. I shall ask Mr Parnell the same questions, in fact, but I ask you now for the reasons I’ve given. Now, the names . . .’

  He read them slowly. There were several that Cathy recognized, but few that meant anything of significance to her.

  ‘No good?’ asked Crow.

  ‘Not really.’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘But there’s one name there . . . Charlton, he’s dead, you know.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Oh, he was killed in a road accident about six weeks ago. Hit by a bus, I think. He was a private enquiry agent, in fact, and had been employed once by Mr Lendon.’

  ‘Once?’

  ‘Well, yes, we usually use the Clan Agency, but I met Mr Charlton here in the office and in an attempt to impress me — he wanted a date — he told me that Mr Lendon was employing him. He was from out of town.’

  Cathy had already caught the glance that flashed from Crow to Turner and she placed her own interpretation on it: they would be looking closely into the circumstances of the death of Mr Charlton. She doubted whether they’d find anything there, for as she remembered it had been a straightforward accident. She watched as Crow thoughtfully extracted one file from the others and placed it on the top. The lettered heading was upside down to her but she could read it well enough. Charlton.