Silent Witness (Dr. Patrick Grant)

by Margaret Yorke

  ‘What about his family? There was a mother, didn’t you decide?’ Liz picked up the passport again. ‘Born in Newbury, in 1925. So he was as old as that, goodness. Occupation, civil servant. No address, of course.’

  ‘There were addresses on those postcards,’ Patrick reminded her. ‘I hope to have some more information about him later on today. I rang up a friend of mine in England to ask him to do a bit of sleuthing for me, and I’m calling him later to see what he’s unearthed.’

  ‘Patrick! You mean you suspected something fishy before Bernard turned up? Or are you up to your usual tricks of stirring up trouble? You love disturbing hornet’s nests.’ Liz was looking at him in horror. ‘One day you’ll go too far, meddling in what isn’t your business.’

  ‘It’s the duty of every citizen to uphold the law,’ said Patrick, austerely. ‘And if one suspects foul play one must speak up, or seek the truth, or both. It was the galoshes that made me suspicious. If the poor fellow was clobbered, you want him avenged, I hope. I thought a few background details might be helpful, just in case the worst had happened. Best to sort this out discreetly if we can, before involving the authorities. They’re much too busy at the moment, anyway.’

  ‘But who could—you mean someone among us? I can’t believe it. I won’t believe it.’

  ‘You say he was always scuttling about. Maybe he saw something he wasn’t meant to?’

  ‘You mean he was blackmailing someone?’

  ‘He might have been.’

  Liz at once remembered the glance that had passed between Barbara Whittaker and Freddie Derrington the night before, and the tension she had felt between them. At least Patrick had not been present then, so that was something he did not know to add fuel to his fire. There was Roy, too, involved with Fiona, but that was no secret; its very blatancy was one of its most distasteful aspects. She shivered. ‘No, I won’t believe it. It’s too outrageous,’ she declared.

  ‘We’ll see,’ said Patrick.

  ‘You’re not to go upsetting everybody.’

  ‘I don’t propose to. This is just between ourselves, until we have some proof,’ Patrick said. ‘Now, is there somewhere safe in here where we can put all these things of Bernard’s?’

  ‘There’s my suitcase. It’s empty except for my passport and traveller’s cheques and so on. I keep it locked. They’d dry out safely in there, I suppose. But shouldn’t you tell the police or whoever’s in charge here what you’ve just told me?’ If he did, and authority quickly proved him wrong, that would be the end of the matter.

  ‘A short delay won’t hurt. Our man – or woman – can’t escape, and the burgomeister has his hands full coping with the avalanche. There’s no policeman living in Greutz, they’d have to send in someone from outside, so it would be a stalemate anyway till the roads are cleared. Nothing will be lost, and much may be gained if I do some quiet research first. Besides, this is a British matter,’ Patrick said. ‘But we must tell the rest of your group he’s been found. We must act very normally, Liz, and not let it seem that we think it’s more than an accident. Don’t give anything away, will you? And keep your eyes open for any odd happenings.’

  Liz sighed.

  ‘I suppose I must,’ she said. ‘You horrible man.’

  II

  Sounds of music came from the stube, where Sam, spurred on by his success the evening before, was amusing himself at the piano.

  Francis was in the room, too, sitting on the hard wooden window seat and reading an old Reader’s Digest. Penny sat at a table balancing her accounts for the previous night’s fondue party.

  They listened in silence while Patrick told them about the discovery of Bernard’s body.

  ‘Well, I suppose we were expecting to hear something of this sort,’ Francis said when he had finished. ‘But it’s a shocking thing, all the same. I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s quite awful,’ said Penny. ‘I suppose I must tell London. And there will be things to do, arrangements and such-like.’

  ‘I think you’d better let London know, yes. I told the burgomeister we’d see to that side of things,’ agreed Patrick. ‘But nothing else can be decided until the roads are cleared.’

  ‘He must have some family,’ Penny said. ‘Everyone’s got somebody. How on earth do we track them down?’

  ‘Your London office will deal with all that,’ Francis said. ‘They’ll get on to the police.’

  ‘What on earth can he have been up to, wandering around in the night like that?’

  ‘I don’t suppose we’ll ever know,’ said Sam.

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’ Francis asked. ‘There must be formalities.’

  ‘There are, but they can’t be dealt with until the avalanche has been cleared from the road and things are rather more sorted out,’ said Patrick. ‘The poor burgomeister has got his hands full. Where’s everybody else?’

  ‘The girls are in the lounge, I think. Derrington’s out somewhere, and I don’t know where young Foster is,’ said Francis.

  Melancholy notes from the piano followed Patrick and Liz as they went through the hall and entered the lounge. Here they found Sue and Barbara discussing cooking with Hilda, while Frau Hiller listened to their conversation, meanwhile knitting a vast beige sweater.

  ‘You’ve got news,’ said Barbara, seeing their faces.

  Patrick told them. For a moment no one spoke; Frau Hiller knitted stolidly on and the others, even Hilda, looked stunned.

  ‘What was he doing down by the river?’ asked Sue.

  ‘That’s what everyone’s wondering,’ said Liz. ‘It seems extraordinary.’

  ‘He may have been clearing his head,’ said Patrick. ‘From all accounts he seems to have made quite a night of it.’

  ‘It wasn’t his fault,’ Sue said. ‘It was Fiona who was being so embarrassing.’

  ‘Well, thank goodness we know the answer now,’ said Barbara. ‘It would have been horrible to have gone home next weekend with him still missing.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Sue. ‘Poor old Bernard. What an awful business.’

  Penny came in then, having allowed Patrick time to break the news.

  ‘I’m just going to ring up London,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it dreadful? Maybe the priest would have a service for him. I don’t know what we should try to arrange. There’s no English church here.’ She looked at Patrick for approval.

  ‘That’s an idea,’ he said. ‘Shall I mention it to the burgomeister? I’m going back to see him now.’

  ‘Oh do. See what he thinks,’ said Penny. ‘Will you find out if he wants me to go and see him? I suppose I should. I’m responsible really.’

  ‘He’s a bit busy just now. Come down later when you’ve talked to London and perhaps got some response about his family,’ suggested Patrick, who did not want the well-intentioned Penny getting in the way of his own researches.

  ‘All right,’ she agreed.

  ‘Well, I’m off, then,’ Patrick said.

  He hurried away, head thrust forward, his fine dark hair flopping over his forehead, in just the manner in which Liz had so often seen him striding about Oxford in his gown, hurrying towards his next lecture. She was brought abruptly back to the present by Hilda.

  ‘Your friend seems to have taken total charge of this affair,’ she said, in a petulant voice.

  ‘Thank goodness,’ said Penny, fervently. ‘You expect broken legs on skiing holidays, but not anything like this. I wish he’d ring up my London office for me, but I suppose that wouldn’t be right. I’d better go and get on with it.’

  She left them.

  Frau Hiller rolled up her knitting, ran the needles through the ball of thick wool in a firm manner, and rose.

  ‘Please excuse me if I leave you,’ she said. ‘I am so sorry about this sad affair. You will all want to talk,’ and she walked away, rather flat-footed, her sweater rucked up round her waist revealing her plump back view in her black trousers.

  ‘How sweet,’ exclaimed Sue. ‘She�
��s being tactful. Now that I find rather endearing.’

  Liz had been wondering wildly if Frau Hiller could be the murderer: she had stabbed her wool so fiercely; she was brawnily built; but what possible grudge could she bear against the unfortunate Bernard? Or had he been, perhaps, the victim of moon madness? How comforting if the villain were some maniac and not a sober citizen holidaying with Hickson.

  ‘I must find Freddie,’ Hilda declared. ‘Goodness knows where he is.’ She too went away.

  ‘What an odd coincidence that your friend Dr Grant should be here,’ Barbara said to Liz. ‘Did you really not know he was coming? You seem to be such good friends.’

  ‘We’ve known one another for years, but we don’t meet very often,’ Liz answered, repressively.

  ‘He doesn’t seem to mind being stuck here,’ Barbara observed, undeterred by Liz’s cool tone.

  ‘He’s very philosophical,’ Liz told her. ‘He doesn’t believe in unnecessary emotion.’ But he noticed and understood it in others. ‘I’ve got some mending to do,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and get on with it.’

  But instead of going up to her room, Liz found herself outside the hotel, heading towards the annexe. She was aware of no conscious plan, only some urge that compelled her without reason. She was wearing light pumps, even less suited to walking in the snow than Bernard’s shoes, and she had no coat, but the snow had almost stopped; only an occasional flake was now spiralling down. A trail of many footmarks led across to the annexe, and like Wenceslas’s page, she trod in them. She went into the annexe and up the stairs. On the first landing, Bernard’s door was closed and the key hung above it as Patrick had left it. Presumably it would be Penny’s melancholy task to pack up his belongings. Liz went on, up the stairs to the next landing. Penny’s room faced her; she knew which it was for she had been here for coffee one evening the week before, an age ago as it seemed now. Penny had a kettle and supplies in her room for private entertaining.

  As she stood on the landing, hesitating, unable to account even to herself for why she had come, Liz heard voices. They came from Fiona’s room, next to Penny’s.

  ‘They’re sure to ask me. What shall I say?’ This was Fiona speaking.

  ‘They won’t. It was an accident. They’ll wrap it up in five minutes, there’s nothing to worry about.’ The second voice was Roy’s.

  ‘For God’s sake give me a drink. There’s some gin in the cupboard.’ Fiona’s voice was slurred.

  ‘You’ve had enough. Pull yourself together. We’ve got to keep our heads,’ Roy said. ‘No one need know a thing. All we have to do is keep quiet and act normally. And I’ll have to do my stuff with June.’

  Gin at ten in the morning! And what did they want to hide? And how did they know so soon about Bernard? Neither was present when Patrick broke the news. Roy could have been to the clinic already and so discovered what had happened. A possible interpretation of what she had just heard came to her, and her heart began to pound uncomfortably. She turned away and went down the stairs again as quietly as she had come, crossed back to the main hotel and went up to her room.

  There was no sign of Sue. Her anorak had gone from its hook behind the door, so presumably, she was out, probably prowling round looking for Jan. A few minutes of the Dutchman’s cheerful, uncomplicated company would be very refreshing just now, Liz thought. He, at least, was normal, healthily enjoying what was really a harmless flirtation which he would forget when it was over, though Sue would be sure to mope till she embarked on another. But not everyone in Greutz was so sanguine, alas, and as for herself, her own state was best not explored. Patrick was right: better to think about Bernard.

  She took her own anorak down from the door. It was not a new one, but neither was Bernard’s. It was still totally waterproof as a garment. She tore a thick wad from the old Figaro she had bought a few days before and put it into a pocket of her anorak, zipping it tightly. Then she ran some water into the washbasin in the bathroom and submerged the pocket and its surrounding area, festooning the sleeves and the rest of the anorak round the shelf and taps so that the whole thing did not get soaked. She wanted to prove Patrick’s point for herself.

  III

  When he left the Gentiana, Patrick, contrary to his expressed intentions, turned right at the end of the lane and took the road to Kramms. He remembered it from his drive with Max on Saturday, when they had visited an old man who had once been a celebrated pianist but who was now crippled with arthritis and spent his days in retirement among the mountains dreaming of the past during the winter, and in summer studying the flowers. The road ran along beside the river for a while, then climbed towards the col over the Wolfberg, a much smaller mountain than the Schneiderhorn but the source of a stream, which lower down, became the river flowing through Greutz. The avalanche had poured down the side of the Wolfberg forming a barrier many metres wide; it had swept into a new chalet, where the four people had been buried, but it had missed the older buildings which were sited well away from likely danger spots and well protected by trees above them.

  Patrick met no one as he walked along; he came to the barrier with its warning notice where Liz had stopped, and passed beyond it, hoping not to encounter some minion of the burgomeister. The snow was very deep here, but a few tracks through it showed where the rescuers going down to the scene of the avalanche had driven. The road looped round to the left quite soon, hugging the river; on either side towered massive banks of snow piled up by the ploughs, but after going a short way, Patrick came to a cutting between these banks on the river side; here, the snow was not so deep, and clearly until the last day or so a path had been kept open at this point.

  He turned down it.

  It was hard going through such deep, soft snow, which came well up his thighs as he floundered along leaving considerable evidence of his passage; at least, very little more was at present falling from the sky, which was some relief. But he had not far to go for the pathway ended abruptly at the river’s edge, and the reason for the clearing was now made plain; there was a narrow footbridge over the river at this point and on the far side, among the trees, was a chalet.

  Patrick did not step on to the bridge. He took off his glasses and cleaned them. Then he moved carefully along the downstream side of the bridge, treading cautiously as he sought for footholds along the bank. He went only a yard or two along the river’s edge. He saw the branch of a tree caught against a boulder in the middle of the river; as he watched it was swept free, ran on a little way and then was held up again. More boughs and twigs could be seen in the water, and suddenly a lump of snow broke away from the bank and fell in. Patrick stood still, examining the ground near his feet and looking into the clear water, which seemed so black under the lowering sky and surrounded by the brilliant whiteness of the snow.

  He saw them there, caught against a stone below the surface: Bernard’s spectacles.

  Patrick left them where they lay. He turned back and gingerly made his way to firmer ground. No one saw him emerge from the forbidden area, and very soon he was back in the main thoroughfare of the village. He went straight to the Silvretta hotel, where there was a comfortable telephone cubicle affording privacy to its user, and put through a call to England. Next, he went to the burgomeister’s office where he spent a very short time, and then he visited the clinic. He left there some time later carrying two parcels wrapped in brown paper. With one tucked under either arm, he walked back to the Gentiana.

  Liz was standing in the hall looking at a framed map of the area which hung on the wall. On it, all the surrounding peaks could be distinguished: the Schneiderhorn stood out, round and massive, and to the east of it the smaller Wolfberg, and the neighbouring masses.

  ‘Ah, Liz, there you are, good. Come back with me to lunch,’ Patrick greeted her. ‘I want to talk to you, but I promised to cook the lunch so that Max can get on with his book.’

  ‘All right,’ Liz agreed. ‘I’ve certainly had enough of this place. We’re all getting edgy, excep
t for Sam who mellows hourly, and Sue who can think of nothing but Jan.’

  ‘Let’s hope our villain’s nerves are among the jangled ones, even if it doesn’t show,’ said Patrick.

  ‘You really believe it?’

  ‘I really do.’

  ‘Come upstairs,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, Liz, this is so sudden,’ he replied, grinning.

  ‘Fool. I want you for something,’ she told him.

  ‘Better and better.’

  ‘There’s a time and a place. Your levity is tasteless,’ Liz said acidly.

  ‘Good, good. I see you’re recovering,’ Patrick approved, warmly.

  She glared at him, but said no more, simply leading the way, and he followed, hearing the dry old boards creaking under his footsteps. In the bedroom, he saw a candle in a bottle, ready for use later in case the power should still be off; the risk of fire, with ill-balanced candles stuck in bottles in this old, timber building made him shudder.

  Liz went straight through the bedroom into the bathroom.

  ‘Come in here,’ she instructed.

  He obeyed, and saw her anorak draped around the basin.

  ‘What on earth – you didn’t believe me!’

  ‘I wanted to prove it.’

  She let the water out of the basin and unclipped her anorak pocket. The newspaper within was a soggy, disintegrating mess. She consulted her watch.

  ‘Almost two hours,’ she said.

  ‘Satisfied, Dr Watson?’

  ‘Bernard’s wallet was pretty thick. It was very wet. The leather would protect the other things to some extent, for a time, but it can’t have been in the water long. Certainly not overnight. You must be right about that,’ she admitted.

  ‘I think he was in a snowdrift near the river bank. The vibration from the avalanche shook his bit of snow loose until eventually, but not for hours, it broke off and he fell into the water. He was washed down to the bridge, bumping a little from boulder to boulder which bruised his body – it is bruised, I’ve been looking at it – just before he was found, in my view,’ said Patrick. ‘The river is full of twigs and rubble which the avalanche brought down; they’re all moving along downstream.’