A Fête Worse Than Death

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  ‘I suppose I should say thank you,’ said Lawrence ruefully. ‘Though when I say I want to be alone I’d like to be alone. That guy certainly packed a punch.’

  ‘What happened?’

  Lawrence shrugged, then winced. ‘You tell me. All I know is that I stood outside the barn like a good boy and blamed fool, waiting for eleven o’clock to show on my watch. I couldn’t hear anything and was beginning to think he hadn’t come. I walked through the wicket door and – wham! Something hit me like a pile-driver. I went down and must’ve been out cold for a couple of minutes. When I came to I looked around, but there was no sign of Whitfield anywhere. So I got out and ran straight into you. When I get my hands on that guy . . .’

  ‘Are you sure it was Whitfield?’

  ‘Who the hell else could it’ve been? He asked me to come here. I guess he meant to kill me. He certainly hit me hard enough. He didn’t stay around to find out though.’

  Haldean stood up. ‘I’d better have a look at the barn. Will you be all right for a few minutes?’

  ‘I guess so, Major. But there’s nothing there.’

  Haldean left him sitting by the road and walked up the lane. As he approached the barn, he stopped to listen. Nothing. Senses alert, he walked quietly forward.

  The barn stood to one side of the road, a solid, oak-built structure bearing the signs of many winters of dereliction. A short, deeply rutted and overgrown track led to huge double doors. Years ago they had swung open to admit farm carts, but now their hinges had long rusted into place. A wicket door cut into the wood stood open. He glanced round for a weapon and, picking up a fallen branch, walked down the grassy track. He saw, with a tightening of his lips, where blood had splashed on a clump of cow parsley. It was deathly quiet.

  Using the branch he thrust back the wicket door so it slammed against the inside wall. The creak and bang of the wood reverberated into silence. If anyone had been standing behind the door they certainly weren’t there now. Very carefully, and hefting the branch like a club, he stepped over the rotting sill and into the barn. Nothing moved. He stood motionless, letting his eyes become accustomed to the dark, empty space. A rusting plough with a piled heap of sacks protruding beyond it lay at the far end. Scraps of junk – a broken bucket, odd pieces of metal, an old sink, a coil of chain and lengths of earthenware pipe – lay discarded against the wall. He stooped down, gazing at the dusty floor. His face hardened. A heavy old spade handle, its rusted iron rivets still attached, lay on the ground. The rivets were stained and there was a scrape of skin on the heads. There were definite marks of a disturbance by the door and tracks leading across the floor to the old plough. His eyes came to rest on the sacks and he gazed at them thoughtfully, eyebrows lifting.

  A sound made him whirl and he turned to find Lawrence framed in the entrance.

  ‘He isn’t here, Major. Come on, we’re wasting time. When I get my hands on that skunk he’ll know about it.’ He leaned heavily against the door. ‘I suppose I’ll have to get someone to look at my head first but afterwards he’d better –’

  ‘Wait a moment.’ Haldean walked round the edge of the barn, avoiding the signs of the scuffle in the dust.

  ‘Come on, will you,’ broke in Lawrence, impatiently.

  Haldean looked down at the sacks and nodded. They were heaped up by the old plough and at first glance seemed innocent enough, but he hadn’t been mistaken in what he thought he’d seen from the other side of the barn.

  ‘Would you mind coming here, sir? Round the edge of the walls, if you don’t mind. That’s right . . .’

  ‘I want to get out of here,’ grumbled Lawrence, coming towards him. ‘This is a waste . . . Good God!’ He stopped and gazed down.

  Lying on top of the sacks, his feet sticking out beyond the plough, was Whitfield. A livid gash shadowed his chin and his collar was torn. His blue eyes stared sightlessly at the roof and he was holding a gun in his outstretched hand. The dark stain on his temple showed how he had died.

  Lawrence made a choking noise in his throat and bent down to the body. Haldean quickly restrained him. ‘Don’t disturb it, Mr Lawrence. We’ve got to leave everything as it is. I’ll just see . . .’ He quickly touched Whitfield’s forehead with his hand. It was still warm. He ran his forefinger over the dark stained temple and delicately rubbed his finger and thumb together. The blood had congealed. He glanced at his watch. Fourteen minutes past eleven.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ broke in Lawrence. ‘He must have committed suicide. You said you heard a shot, didn’t you? He must have done it when I was unconscious. Maybe he thought he’d killed me or something. I simply don’t understand. We’ve got to tell someone about this.’

  ‘Yes . . . I don’t suppose you recognize the gun, do you?’

  ‘The gun? No, of course I don’t. Let’s get out of here, shall we? My head’s splitting and the sooner the police know about this the better.’ He leaned forward again and took hold of a corner of the sack.

  Haldean dropped his hand over Lawrence’s. ‘Don’t touch anything.’

  ‘But we can’t leave him like this. I was going to cover him up.’

  ‘I’m afraid you mustn’t, sir.’

  ‘But it’s indecent! Anyone could come in here and find him. I’m going to cover him up.’ Haldean shook his head and stood with his arms crossed. Lawrence slowly rose to his feet. ‘Are you honestly saying you’d stop me?’

  ‘If I have to.’ It struck him with renewed force what he had known before, that Hugh Lawrence was a very powerful and a very determined man who liked to get his own way. As he met Lawrence’s eyes, Haldean sensed menace. Even injured – perhaps even more so now that his physical strength was gone – his personality was compelling. Haldean. simply couldn’t risk a confrontation. Force was barred to him and he didn’t know who would win a trial of will. He smiled to try and break the tension. ‘If I didn’t stop you from spoiling all the evidence, sir, Ashley’d never talk to me again. Come on, Mr Lawrence. As you said, we need to get out of here.’ He put a hand on the older man’s elbow. ‘And, although I respect your feelings, you need a doctor and I need a telephone.’ Haldean breathed a sigh of relief as Lawrence relaxed and allowed himself to be led reluctantly away, to emerge, blinking, into the sunshine.

  ‘Now, Thackenhurst’s the nearest place,’ mused Haldean, thinking out loud. He remembered being carried through the gardens after Whitfield’s horse had downed him. Surely they’d come across this road? He walked a few steps further round the bend of the lane. ‘Mr Lawrence! We can get through to Thackenhurst this way There’s a gate.’ He jiggled the latch. ‘It’s open. We’ll call on Mrs Verrity, sir. She’ll help us, I know.’ He opened the gate on to a sweep of parkland. The house lay a few hundred yards away, snuggled down in a fold of land.

  They hadn’t gone far across the well-manicured lawns when they were stopped by a respectful gardener.

  ‘Excuse me, gentlemen, were you looking for someone?’

  ‘Mrs Verrity,’ said Haldean briskly. ‘As you can see, this gentleman has met with an accident and we were hoping to find her in. Do you know where she is?’

  ‘She was over at the glasshouses earlier, sir, on the other side of the house. I did see her in the rose garden, but I don’t rightly know where she is now. If you call at the house, they’ll tell you. Would you like some help, sir? It’s a tidy step to the house.’

  ‘I can make it,’ said Lawrence. ‘That is, if we get a move on. By the way’ he said, addressing the gardener, ‘I think you should know that –’

  ‘Come on, sir,’ said Haldean firmly, taking his arm again. ‘The sooner we get you inside the better,’ and, much to Lawrence’s annoyance, he bustled him on.

  ‘What’s the big idea?’ snapped Lawrence, freeing his arm. ‘I was going to tell that guy about Whitfield. I think you’re taking a lot upon yourself, Major.’

  ‘I know you do, sir, and I apologize, but the last thing we want is a crowd of rustics gaping at the body.’

>   ‘I was going to tell him to stand outside and not let anyone in.’

  ‘And you honestly think he wouldn’t have a peep himself? The fewer people who know about this until Ashley can get on the scene the better.’

  The steps up to Thackenhurst nearly proved too much for Lawrence, but with Haldean’s assistance he made it. They rang the bell and the door was opened by a smartly dressed maid whose eyes rounded in astonishment.

  Haldean tipped his hat to her. ‘Is Mrs Verrity at home? I’m sorry to call so unexpectedly but, as you can see, Mr Lawrence here is rather the worse for wear.’

  ‘Who is it, Norah?’ asked Mrs Verrity, stepping into the hall. ‘Major Haldean, how nice to . . .’ She stopped as she took in Lawrence’s battered figure. ‘Mr Lawrence! Whatever’s happened? Take the gentlemen’s hats, Norah, and don’t stand there staring. Come into the morning room. Norah, go and get a basin of warm, water, a cloth and some iodine for Mr Lawrence. Can you manage to walk in here, Mr Lawrence?’

  Lawrence followed her into the morning room and gratefully sank back into an armchair where he sat with his eyes closed. It took Haldean two attempts before he could get Mrs Verrity to realize he was speaking to her.

  ‘The telephone? Yes, of course, Major. There’s a cabinet in the hall. I’ll stay with Mr Lawrence.’

  Haldean stepped into the hall and, with a swift glance to ensure he was alone, rang the station. Ashley’s reaction was both colourful and predictable. ‘Make sure Lawrence stays at Mrs Verrity’s,’ he said, after he had taken in the news. ‘Can you meet me at the barn? Good. I’ll be there as soon as possible. How badly hurt is Lawrence? I see. Well, I’ll get hold of Dr Wilcott but he can come to the barn first and see Lawrence afterwards. Mrs Verrity? I’d rather you didn’t tell her anything but I can see that might be difficult. The main thing is to keep her or anyone else away from the barn until we’ve seen it. My God, Haldean, this has upset the apple cart all right. D’you think it really was suicide?’

  Haldean paused for a moment to allow the maid carrying a bowl of water to pass by. ‘It’s certainly meant to look like suicide,’ he said, keeping his voice low. ‘I’ll leave you to make the obvious assumption.’

  ‘Right you are. I’ll see you there as soon as I can.’

  Haldean replaced the ear-piece and went back into the morning room. Lawrence was still sitting in the chair but Mrs Verrity was beside him, replacing the bloodied handkerchief with a professional-looking bandage. She glanced up as Haldean entered, putting her finger on her lips for quiet. She finished the bandage and, getting up, drew him outside the room, motioned for the maid to follow and shut the door gently behind them.

  ‘He is sleepy now. I think it’s best to leave him alone at the moment. Take that bowl back to the kitchen, Norah.’ She smiled. ‘I’m sure that you, of all people, Major, can appreciate how he feels. What happened? It wasn’t another accident with a horse, was it?’

  He hesitated, mindful of Ashley’s request. ‘Look, I’m awfully sorry to trespass on your good nature in this way, but I’m afraid I can’t tell you at the moment. I’ve got to leave now but I’ll be back as soon as I can. Would you mind looking after Mr Lawrence until then? I’ll have the doctor with me when I return and I promise to tell you everything then.’

  Her smile faded as she took in his serious face. ‘Something dreadful’s happened, I know. Is it . . . No, never mind. Off you go, Major. I’ll take good care of Mr Lawrence. You needn’t worry about that, at least.’

  It was half a dozen cigarettes later before Haldean saw Ashley walking up Gallows Hill in company with Dr Wilcott, a sergeant, a constable and a young man weighed down with a big black box who turned out to be Dutton, the photographer from the village.

  ‘I’m sorry we were so long,’ Ashley apologized. ‘It took me some time to get everyone together. We’ve parked at the bottom of the lane. Who does the Hillman belong too?’

  ‘Strictly speaking it belongs to Uncle Philip, but Mr Lawrence was driving it.’ He jerked a thumb behind him. ‘He’s fast asleep at Mrs Verrity’s. I was able to get away without telling her anything.’

  ‘Good man. Ts this the barn?’ Ashley eyed it dubiously. ‘Ramshackle old place. Let’s go inside and you can tell us what you found.’

  ‘Hold on a minute, there’s something I want to show you.’ Haldean tossed aside his cigarette and took Ashley to one side. ‘Look in the dust here beside the barn. What do you make of that?’

  Ashley bent down. ‘Bicycle tracks,’ he said softly. ‘And the grass is crushed against the barn as if someone’s stood a bike up there.’ He took his hat off and rubbed his hand through his hair. ‘How far back do they go?’

  ‘I’ve tracked them to the bottom of the lane. I couldn’t pick them up after that because the road’s too hard to take a print.’

  ‘Were they here before Lawrence was attacked?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Haldean with deep irritation. ‘I’ve been racking my brains to try and think if I saw them but I simply can’t call them to mind. There was so much else going on that I wasn’t looking at the road. I could kick myself, Ashley. I’m really sorry but I just don’t know if they were here or not. I’ve been driving myself crackers trying to remember. When I think how important it could be . . .’

  Ashley stood up. ‘Never mind. It can’t be helped. It sounds as if you had enough to worry about with Mr Lawrence without looking for tracks. I suppose there’s a chance the bike could belong to someone other than Miss Vayle but I must admit I don’t think it’s very likely.’

  ‘She could have been here quite innocently.’

  ‘She could. And if she was, she’ll be able to tell me what her reasons were for coming.’

  ‘Ashley,’ began Haldean desperately.

  Ashley held his hand up. ‘Look, Haldean, I’m not jumping to any conclusions but you must admit those tracks are significant. I’ve got to act on them. Sergeant Sykes! You can drive, can’t you? I want you to go to Hesperus right away. You’re looking for a Miss Marguerite Vayle. Can he take the Tourer, Haldean?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘There’s a chance you might pass her on the way,’ said Ashley, turning back to Sergeant Sykes. ‘She’s brown-haired, about twenty, and riding a bike. You’re not arresting her or anything like that, but at the very least –’ this with a look at Haldean – ‘she’s had a nasty shock. I want you to stay with her at Hesperus. Don’t ask her any questions. All I want you to do is see she’s all right. I’ll need to talk to her, so I want you to see she stays put. Naturally if she volunteers any information, make a note of it, but at the moment that’s all I want you to do. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Sergeant Sykes.

  ‘Now then,’ said Ashley turning to Haldean. ‘Let’s see what’s in the barn.’

  ‘All right,’ said Haldean, watching the departing policeman. He made a conscious effort to put Marguerite out of his mind. ‘There are marks in the dust on the other side of the sill of the door. Follow me and be careful you don’t tread on them. It’s dark inside and easy to miss your footing.’ He stepped into the barn and stooped down beside the spade handle. ‘I’d add that to your collection, Ashley D’you see the blood and skin on it? Someone obviously hit someone else with it damned hard.’ Someone? Could Marguerite hit that hard? ‘Whitfield’s body is behind that plough. I didn’t see him right away and Lawrence denied knowing he was there at all.’

  ‘Yes . . . It’s not immediately obvious, is it?’ Ashley walked over to the body and looked at it for a few moments before giving the photographer his instructions. ‘Keep clear of this area – there are footprints I want – good. That’ll be fine,’ he said after a blaze of magnesium from the camera. ‘And if you get a picture of these prints here . . . and here. Thanks very much, Mr Dutton,’ he said. ‘I’m grateful for your assistance. Would you mind waiting outside? There are some more photographs I want you to take. If you come with me I’ll show you some tracks we need pictures of and there
’ll be a couple more after that.’ He disappeared out of the barn and they could hear him giving instructions to Dutton. A few minutes later he rejoined them. ‘Dr Wilcott? Sorry to keep you waiting, sir. Before you do anything else, just look at the way he’s holding the gun. Does that look entirely natural to you?’

  Dr Wilcott knelt down beside Whitfield and studied his hand. ‘It’s difficult to say,’ he said, with an irritated click of his tongue. ‘He’s holding the gun very loosely as you can see. It’s very common in suicides for the hand holding the pistol to grip so tightly that you have to crack the fingers to remove it but, like most things in medicine, it’s not an absolute law. However, I must say it looks odd to me. More as if – well, as if someone put the gun into his hand after he died.’ He pulled a face. ‘I won’t swear to that though, so don’t ask me. The gun was obviously fired at very close range. Look at the powder burns round the wound. They’re very noticeable. It’s obvious he’s been in some sort of scuffle. Now I suppose you want to know when he died.’

  ‘Wait a moment,’ interposed Ashley and, taking a pencil from his pocket, carefully inserted it in the muzzle of the gun and picked it up. ‘We’ll be looking at this outside, Doctor. You carry on.’

  They took the gun outside. Constable Hawley spread a white cloth on the grass and Ashley gently placed the gun on the cloth, then went back and, retrieving the spade handle, laid it beside the gun. He took out a bottle of mercury powder and an insufflator and lightly dusted the spade handle and the gun. A series of hoops and whorls sprang into view.

  Ashley snorted with satisfaction. ‘What d’you make of this, Haldean? There are some nice clear marks on that handle. Look at the muzzle. I bet that’s part of a palm. We’re on to something, Haldean, we’re really on to something.’ Ashley raised his head. ‘Mr Dutton! Can you take a photograph of the gun and the spade handle, please? Thank you.’ Dutton set up the camera on a tripod and disappeared under a black cloth. The camera clicked, then Ashley, using the pencil, flipped the gun over. ‘Now this side . . . Good.’ Under the mercury powder the gun showed more marks and one clear thumbprint on the muzzle. ‘That’s it,’ breathed Ashley in delight. ‘If that wasn’t put into Whitfield’s hand, I’ll eat it.’ He pointed to the thumbprint. A smile of grim satisfaction touched his mouth. ‘And if the prints on the handle and the gun are the same . . .’ They stepped back while the gun was photographed after which Ashley wrapped up the pistol as carefully as if it had been Ming china. ‘Now all we need to do is identify that thumbprint and we’ve –’ He broke off as the doctor came out of the barn.