Corpse Path Cottage

by Margaret Scutt

  CORPSE

  PATH

  COTTAGE

  A classic village murder mystery with a hint of romance

  MARGARET SCUTT

  Revised edition 2020

  Joffe Books, London

  www.joffebooks.com

  © Margaret Scutt

  First published in Great Britain 2018

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Margaret Scutt to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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  ISBN 978-1-78931-380-2

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER XIII

  CHAPTER XIV

  CHAPTER XV

  CHAPTER XVI

  CHAPTER XVII

  CHAPTER XVIII

  CHAPTER XIX

  CHAPTER XX

  CHAPTER XXI

  CHAPTER XXII

  CHAPTER XXIII

  CHAPTER XXIV

  CHAPTER XXV

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  GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH SLANG FOR US READERS

  CHAPTER I

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  MRS COSSETT WADDLED AROUND the corner of the road, saw that her bus awaited her, and heaved a grateful sigh. She was laden not only by the weight of a swollen shopping bag but also by that of the heavy coat which she had donned when she set out under the impression that the cold spell was continuing. On the little toe of her left foot a corn which, with more pleasing things, bloomed in the spring made its presence felt like a diabolical familiar. For half the morning she had stood in queues, obtaining as her reward little which she could not have purchased in the general shop of her own village. She would not have missed her Saturday trip to town for worlds.

  The bus, a battered affair which had once been red but whose acquaintance with paint went back to the distant past, was one of three which served the villages within a twelve-mile radius of Lake, and was fettered by none of the slavish allegiance to timetables shown by the town services. It was not due to leave for another half hour, and that it should leave on time was neither usual nor likely but already the heads of five or six occupants showed through the dusty windows. All the heads were female, and all their owners were hot, tired and as loaded as Mrs Cossett. They observed her with sympathetic interest as she heaved her considerable bulk up the steps, wedged herself into a seat, placed her bag on the floor beside her and heaved a sigh of relief.

  ‘Thank God for a seat,’ she observed, her voice slow and heavy like an underdone cake. ‘My feet be killing me.’

  ‘Ah, and so be mine, too,’ said a thin lady in a knitted hood, which gave her the appearance of an elderly pixie. ‘Outside Pinwell’s I stood for three quarters of an hour, by the High Street clock — and time my turn came, two buns was all they had left. Currant buns,’ she added, with a bitter laugh, ‘if such you can call ’em wi’ the currants so scarce as snowflakes in hell.’

  There were groans of agreement. The bus, which served three villages beyond Mrs Cossett’s own, held no-one at the moment known to her by name, but the camaraderie of the queue still held its sway — and indeed, this was the joy of the Saturday morning shopping expedition, in which perfect strangers might and did exchange intimacies of the most surprising nature. For this, if they would admit it, had they spent a morning of bodily discomfort. The social atmosphere of a club was theirs; Mrs Cossett leaned back and absorbed its pleasure.

  ‘I could stand if ’twern’t for my carns,’ said a deep voice from the back seat. ‘Do what I will for the varmints, carve’ ’em out or burn ’em out, back they come — and wuss than ever in the spring.’

  ‘So do mine,’ said Mrs Cossett, with mournful pride. ‘Fust change in the weather, and don’t I know it! This I feel now be on my little toe, and a proper devil. I don’t ’low as no-one wouldn’t scarcely believe it, but I feel it this very moment. Yer,’ she added, raising one forefinger and pressing it to her brow with a dark, dramatic gesture. ‘Right up in my head.’

  Far from being disbelieved, it appeared that all her hearers had experienced a like phenomenon, of which all were ready and anxious to give details there and then. A conversation which might have been entitled ‘Corns I have known’ continued for some moments.

  ‘But ’tis these queues as finish me,’ said Mrs Cossett, her flat voice dominating and silencing the chorus like a steamroller, slow but inexorable. ‘Week after week, I say I won’t come never no more, for tain’t never worth it. And then I think, well, this time I mid just strike lucky — and God knows we get little enough.’

  The blast of agreement was deafening. Every woman had her particular grievance to air, and none waited upon her neighbour. The bus resounded as to the outcry of a flock of starlings.

  ‘Money gone afore you can turn round, and what can you get for a pound note? What the government be thinking of . . . This stuff they call cooking fat — about so fat as our tomcat . . . Points here, and kewpons there . . .’

  Into the rising babble poked the enquiring head of a stranger. Peace fell as seven pairs of eyes fixed themselves on the first male to set foot on the bus that morning, summing him up with ravenous interest.

  ‘Is this the bus for God’s Blessing?’ he asked generally.

  ‘She be,’ answered Mrs Cossett, giving the vehicle no more than its due since the name ‘Flossie’ was stencilled on the dashboard. She added, for good measure, ‘She goes out at twelve, that is if she’ll start.’

  ‘All things,’ replied the stranger, ‘are with God.’

  He glanced at his watch and stepped onto the bus, revealing himself as a tall, broad shouldered man who might have been anything between thirty and forty years of age. He wore an ageing sports coat with bulging pockets and brown corduroy trousers, and carried an obviously weighty rucksack. A slight but sinister cast in the left eye disfigured a face which needed no handicap. A black spaniel of far more aristocratic appearance than its master followed him with decorum.

  ‘Talks like a ’vangelist; looks like one o’ they there hikers,’ said Mrs Cossett to herself. ‘Nor no oil painting, neither, though he mid look as if he thought he owned the bus. My God!’ she added aloud, leaning forward in deep agitation.

  Her voice was echoed by a muttered and unevangelistic oath. Over her bag, a good half of which projected into the aisle, the stranger had tripped. Before her horrified gaze like a horn of plenty, it now poured forth a stream of assorted merchandise. A toilet roll trundled merrily to the back of the bus; a bag of cakes burst open and scattered its contents, followed by a wire saucepan cleaner, a soggy newspaper parcel and various oddments. With an anguished squeal, Mrs Cossett bent to retrieve h
er property. The stranger bent at the same moment. Their heads met with a dull thud.

  ‘Of all places to leave a bag!’ said the culprit, evidently deeming the best defence to be attack.

  ‘Eef,’ retorted Mrs Cossett, her normally high colour deepening, ‘you was to put yourself about to find my cuke, you mid do better than blaming others for your own faults. Cukes is cukes, if only half a one, and a wicked price to pay, and if folks had more sense than to look where they be planting their great feet –’

  The hiker glared around him with a vague impression that an instrument of music was the missing article in question. At that moment, a small female who had been burrowing under a seat emerged with her hat on one side, triumphantly brandishing half a cucumber, very much the worse for wear.

  ‘Here you be, dirt and all. Old Webby hasn’t swep’ out his bus since afore the war, I should say.’

  ‘Which war?’ enquired a sepulchral voice from the back seat.

  The bus rocked happily with the exception of the hiker, who was picking up cakes and dissuading his dog from looking on them as manna from heaven, and Mrs Cossett, who was not amused. She received her battered goods with hauteur, repacked her bag and lifted it with an ostentatious effort to her lap.

  ‘That’s better,’ said the stranger, seating himself behind her. ‘Out of harm’s way now.’

  ‘’Tis to be hoped so, I’m sure,’ said Mrs Cossett distantly.

  The spaniel crawled beneath its owner’s seat, flopped, yawned, and laid its head on its paws. The stranger drew a newspaper from his pocket and became lost in it. The women behind him began talking again, but Mrs Cossett remained majestically silent.

  A tall thin woman in a tall black hat shot into the bus, startling the spaniel into a short bark.

  ‘There be mackerel in Brown’s,’ she announced.

  ‘What!’ exclaimed Mrs Cossett, forgetting her woes and sitting bolt upright. ‘They never had a thing but stinking saltfish, and that young toad in there, God forgive him, said there wouldn’t be nothing all day. Lucky to have that, he said—’

  ‘Be there much of a queue?’ interrupted a wistful voice.

  ‘Queue! They be from Brown’s to the Odeon and springing up like mushrooms every minute.’

  ‘Ah, well,’ said Mrs Cossett, sinking back resignedly, ‘they must have ’em as can. Mackerel nor no mackerel, my feet won’t take me down town again.’

  ‘Terrible tiring today, Mrs Cossett,’ assented the newcomer, settling her angular form beside her. ‘I’ve had about as much as I want my own self by now. And how be the world using you?’

  ‘Mustn’t grumble, Mrs Hale, mustn’t grumble,’ replied Mrs Cossett sorrowfully. ‘Heard the news?’

  ‘I don’t never hear nothing. What?’

  ‘Jimmy Fairfax have got himself a housekeeper. This be she coming now.’

  They both watched with interest the arrival of a thin, neatly dressed woman in black, with a nondescript pale face and mousy hair dressed in a bun which pushed out her felt hat at the back. She passed on to a seat near the back. A pretty dark-haired girl followed, who greeted the two ladies pleasantly and looked at the stranger with a faint gleam of interest. The bus filled steadily but the seat beside the one male remained vacant until a small woman bearing the invariable shopping bag and looking tired and nervous placed herself at his side. He adjusted his bulk to make room for her and returned to his paper. Beneath the seat the spaniel lay still.

  Mrs Hale glanced around, satisfied herself that the new housekeeper was some distance away, and turned to her companion.

  ‘Talking of Jimmy Fairfax, I suppose you heard as Corpse Path Cottage were sold?’

  ‘No!’ exclaimed Mrs Cossett. ‘Well, if that don’t go to show! Baldy Lovejoy, the liar, told me as Jimmy had put a reserve of 900 on it. Nine hundred!’ repeated Mrs Cossett, laughing heartily. ‘Even wi’ prices as they be — that be hanged for a tale, I said to un.’

  ‘It weren’t, though,’ said Mrs Hale.

  ‘What!’

  ‘Mrs Cossett,’ said Mrs Hale, wagging her head. ‘Jimmy Fairfax did put that reserve. And what’s more, he got it.’

  ‘He never!’

  ‘He did. Mrs Plummer, she dropped in at the sale, wanting to know what they cottages over to Fairmile made, and she heard it with her own ears. She said the auctioneer hisself was took aback.’

  ‘And well he mid be! Housing shortage nor no housing shortage, that beats all. Why, those ’vacuees they put in from London never stayed more than a week. Sooner be killed in comfort, they said. The whole place be falling to pieces — and stuck in the middle of a bog whenever the rain comes.’

  ‘Well, God knows if Jimmy don’t die a warm man ’twon’t never be for want of trying.’

  ‘And with him as he is — no chick nor child to leave it to. Only this vinegar faced housekeeper—’

  ‘Housekeeper!’ echoed Mrs Hale with a coarse laugh. ‘How long do you reckon ’twill be before if you holler “Fire!” in the night, two heads’ll come out of one winder?’

  ‘Lord, yes.’ Mrs Cossett dismissed the love life of Mr Fairfax and his housekeeper. ‘If Corpse Path Cottage be sold, Miss Faraday will be having a neighbour.’

  ‘Sh! Just behind. Next to that strange feller.’

  ‘Hope he don’t tread on her toes with those great feet,’ muttered Mrs Cossett, recalling her wrongs. ‘For pity’s sake, when be this bus going to start?’

  The bus was now full of humanity and a strong smell of fish. At five minutes past twelve, the conductor strolled up, his fingers linked with those of a blonde damsel from whom he appeared reluctant to part. A few minutes later the driver was seen to emerge without haste from an adjacent snack-bar, wiping his mouth. He moved to the driving seat and pressed the starter twice without result.

  ‘Now then, Perce,’ he called amiably to the conductor, ‘break away, there.’

  ‘Why,’ said Perce turning slowly, as one coming back from a far country, ‘won’t she have it?’

  ‘She won’t. Come and give her a swing, if so be as you can spare the time.’

  Perce passionately pressed the hand of his love and obeyed. The engine gave a shattering backfire, causing an old gentleman who was dozing on a nearby seat to leap into the air, and broke into asthmatic life.

  ‘Don’t sound too good,’ said Perce, shaking his head.

  ‘Ah well,’ said the driver philosophically, ‘we must live in hopes.’

  The conductor took his place, leaning out for a last glimpse of blonde curls. Vibrating horribly, the ancient vehicle set off.

  ‘Fez, pliz,’ said Perce morosely, and moved down the aisle.

  The hiker folded his paper, placed it in an already overcrowded pocket, and sat back. He observed Mrs Hale and Mrs Cossett bouncing and quivering before him and thought with satisfaction that the noise of their progress might serve to drown their voices, which had a peahen quality not soothing to the ear. In this hope, however, he was disappointed. Halfway up a long gentle slope, about two miles from the town, the engine began to cough and balk like an unwilling horse. The driver clashed his gears despairingly; they moved forward in a series of jerks and finally stopped dead.

  ‘I knowed it,’ said Perce, in the tone of a justified soothsayer.

  A chorus of advice, some facetious, all resigned to misfortune, was showered upon him and the driver as they lifted the bonnet and peered earnestly at the mysteries within. The passengers settled philosophically to conversation. The spaniel crawled from beneath his master’s feet and yawned loudly. The other occupant of the seat jumped.

  ‘All right,’ said the hiker, ‘he’s perfectly quiet.’

  ‘Oh yes, I’m sure. It was only that I didn’t know he was there.’

  Amy Faraday felt herself blushing, thought with bitterness that it was idiotic to do so, and nervously touched the smooth black head. The spaniel wagged politely, but with the air of inviting no further advances.

  ‘. . . I do assure you, Mrs Cosset
t . . .’ the voice of Mrs Hale rose impressively.

  ‘Mrs Cossett took a posset,’ murmured the stranger dreamily.

  ‘I — beg your pardon?’ stammered Miss Faraday, thinking with some reason that her ears misled her.

  ‘Not at all,’ replied her companion graciously. ‘Merely a poetic fragment. Listen.’

  He jerked his thumb in the direction of the unconscious pair before them and leaned forward unashamedly. Miss Faraday’s tired eyes widened, and she shot him an apprehensive glance. The stranger’s lips twitched.

  ‘. . . Corpse Path Cottage!’ said Mrs Hale, in accents of bitter scorn. ‘Corpse Path Ruin ’ud be nearer the mark.’

  ‘True enough, true enough,’ agreed Mrs Cossett, ‘but who were the loony as bought it — man or woman?’

  ‘Man. Endalott or Bendalot, or some such outlandish name. Whatever it be, the feller must be out of his mind.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said the stranger, leaning forward.

  There was a moment of incredulous silence. Both ladies started violently and turned surprised faces on the speaker. Miss Faraday, feeling for their discomfiture, smiled feebly and wished herself away.

  ‘P-pardon?’ stammered Mrs Hale.

  ‘I said, in answer to your somewhat sweeping statement — not necessarily. The gentleman, far from being a loony, might have good and sufficient reasons for his behaviour. To take only one supposition, he might be a fugitive from justice. Thief — blackmailer — forger — murderer. You pays your penny and you takes your choice.’

  Mrs Hale giggled nervously. Mrs Cosset recovered her breath.

  ‘Stuff and nonsense,’ she said.

  ‘Not at all,’ said the stranger, to whom the entire assembly was now listening with deep interest. ‘I myself have not yet seen this cottage with the intriguing name, but from your most interesting conversation I gather that it would be an ideal place for a man with a secret. Tumbledown, isolated . . .’

  His voice was drowned as, with a shattering reverberation, the engine came to life. He sat back with a satisfied smile, met Miss Faraday’s gaze and winked. She looked hastily away, feeling the foolish colour dye her cheeks again, and wishing devoutly for the end of the journey. She kept herself as far removed from her companion as the seat would allow, pointedly refraining from looking at him again, and was yet uneasily conscious of the pleased grin which creased his face.