Six Feet Under

by Dorothy Simpson

  Thanet already knew that Carrie Birch had lived in number four, Church Cottages, with her mother. Number one, next to the road, was occupied by a young couple and their baby; number two was being renovated, number three housed a family of four and number five an elderly woman. Not, Thanet thought, a particularly promising bunch of suspects. Perhaps someone more interesting might turn up.…

  Suddenly aware that his buttocks had gone numb, Thanet slid down off the gate and began to rub them, grimacing at the discomfort. He began to walk back down the lane towards the cottages.

  According to Doc Mallard, Carrie Birch had been killed between 9 pm and 11 pm the previous evening. She had been struck on the head with the traditional blunt instrument, but in his opinion it might not have been this blow which had caused her death. He was unwilling to commit himself before the post mortem, of course, but there seemed to be indications that she might have been suffocated. After the twelve or thirteen hours which had elapsed since her death the blueness of the features normally associated with suffocation had worn off, but some unpronounceable condition of the tiny blood vessels under the skin of her cheeks was apparently sufficiently marked to give him cause for suspicion.

  It seemed possible then that the murder, even if not premeditated, had been deliberate; a blow on the head could be struck in anger, but subsequent suffocation was a very different matter.

  An increasingly deafening roar from behind him made Thanet press himself back against the fence as a red tractor came trundling around the bend. Its driver grinned and raised a hand in salute as he rattled by. Thanet waved back.

  The tractor turned left on to the main road and almost at once an ambulance entered the lane, pulled up in front of number four. Behind it came Lineham, walking swiftly. Thanet moved forward to meet him.

  “That’ll be for Mrs Birch, sir,” Lineham said, gesturing at the ambulance. “There’s no one to look after her now, so the social services have arranged for her to go into hospital. Do you want a word with her, before she goes?”

  “Not at the moment, I don’t think.”

  “Don’t blame you.”

  Thanet looked at Lineham sharply. “What do you mean?”

  Lineham shrugged. “I had a word with her earlier. Couldn’t stand her, myself.”

  “Why not?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I’d guess she ran that poor little woman off her feet and never once said thank you for it. All she can think of now is herself—what’s going to happen to her. Why did Carrie have to go and get herself murdered, that’s her attitude. Makes me sick.”

  It was unlike Lineham to be so vehement. Thanet made no comment, however, and the two men strolled on past number four as the ambulance men went up to the door and knocked.

  “She last saw her daughter at just before nine o’clock last night, you said?”

  “That’s right,” said Lineham. “Apparently Miss Birch had arranged with a neighbour, the Miss Pitman who rang the station this morning, to go and look in on Miss Pitman’s father, who is also an invalid, while Miss Pitman was at the Parochial Church Council meeting. Apparently this was a regular arrangement whenever Miss Pitman was out in the evening. Miss Birch worked for the Pitmans in the mornings, too, cleaning and generally looking after the old man’s needs. Anyway, Miss Birch settled her mother for the night before leaving and that was the last Mrs Birch saw of her. She went to sleep and when her daughter still hadn’t brought her morning tea at half past eight this morning—she used to bring it at eight, regular as clockwork—Mrs Birch panicked. She tried shouting, ringing the little handbell she has in case she needed her daughter in the night, but there was no answer and in the end she managed to get help by banging on the wall between her bedroom, which is on the ground floor, and number three.”

  “Who lives there? A family of four, you said?”

  “That’s right. Name of Gamble. He’s a fitter at Brachey’s, on night shift at the moment. He was in bed and sound asleep by then and his wife and son had already left for work. His daughter Jenny was still at home, though, and she heard Mrs Birch banging on the wall.”

  “How did she get in?”

  “The Gambles have a key to number four, in case of emergency.”

  “Is the daughter usually at home in the daytime?”

  “No, she works in Boots in Sturrenden.”

  “Funny, leaving the spare key there, then, if there’s usually no one except the father home during the daytime, and he’s in bed. Why not leave the key with the other neighbour, the woman in number five?”

  Lineham shrugged. “She’s a bit of a recluse, I gather. Not the sort of person you leave keys with.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Cox.”

  “Miss?”

  “So far as I know.”

  They had reached the end of the lane now and turned to watch as a small procession wound its way out of number four: the two ambulance men, a bulky woman in a wheelchair and a second woman carrying suitcase and carrier bag.

  “Who’s that?” asked Thanet.

  “Miss Pitman. She’s been sitting with Mrs Birch until the ambulance came. When Jenny Gamble found that there was no sign of Miss Birch and that her bed hadn’t even been slept in, she ran across to the Pitmans’. The Gambles haven’t got a phone.”

  The two men stepped back against the fence as the ambulance edged its way past them and drove off in the direction of Sturrenden. Thanet looked with interest at the woman who was hurrying along the lane towards them.

  “Miss Pitman?”

  “Yes?”

  Thanet introduced himself. “I’d like a word with you, if I may.”

  She was in her early forties, he guessed, a tall woman with untidy brown hair and a harassed expression.

  She put a hand up to her forehead. “Yes, of course Inspector. It’s just that … oh, dear, everything is haywire this morning. Poor Carrie, and then Mrs Birch.… And I really must see to my father, he’s an invalid. Do you think you could possibly come over to the house with me? I must check that he’s all right.”

  Her eyes, Thanet noted, were beautiful, large, velvet-brown and expressive. He took pity on her.

  “Of course, Miss Pitman. But there’s no desperate urgency. There are one or two things I must see to here. Why don’t you go on and attend to your father and I’ll be across later? The bungalow, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right. Oh, thank you, Inspector. That’s very kind. Do you want this? It’s the key to the Birchs’ cottage.”

  Thanet took the key with a murmur of thanks and watched her go. He firmly believed in the value of courtesy to the public. There were, of course, occasions when it was a complete waste of time, but on the whole he had always found that polite consideration elicited the highest degree of cooperation from witnesses.

  “Come on,” he said to Lineham. “I want to have a look around number four.”

  As they passed number two, however, a man erupted from the open doorway, hammer in hand. For a split second Thanet wondered wildly if Fate had decided to hurl the murderer into his arms, blunt instrument and all.

  “’Ere,” said the newcomer. “You in charge of this lot?” Tall and muscular, wearing tee-shirt and jeans, he was an impressive figure. Bright blue eyes glowered at Thanet from a face barely visible behind its luxuriant growth of hair.

  “I’m in charge of the murder enquiry, yes,” said Thanet calmly.

  “Well, when am I going to be able to get at my stuff?”

  “Stuff?”

  “Been held up all morning, haven’t I? While your lot’s been poking around in the back garden. Bill and me wanted to get on with them new partitions on the first floor this morning, and so far we haven’t been able to do a bleeding thing.”

  “I’m sorry that you’ve been inconvenienced,” said Thanet, keeping his anger at the man’s manner well under control, “but a woman has been killed, you know, Mr …?”

  “Arnold,” said the man, Thanet’s mild tone having its desired ef
fect. He looked suitably abashed. “Jack Arnold. Yeah, well, I know you’ve got to do your job, but I got to do mine, haven’t I? I mean, time’s money, isn’t it? And there’s little enough profit in these sort of jobs nowadays as it is.”

  “I’m sure we can come to some arrangement,” Thanet said. He turned to Lineham. “How are the men getting on in the garden of number two?”

  “They should be almost finished by now. I’d have to check.” Lineham’s face was wooden and Thanet knew by experience that the sergeant was hiding his amusement with difficulty.

  “If you tell Sergeant Lineham what you want, I’m sure he’ll be able to arrange for you to have it.”

  “Twelve eight-foots of three by two and two twelve-foots of three by two, and them big sheets of plasterboard,” Arnold said promptly. “Thanks, Guv.”

  “Perhaps you’d better go with the sergeant, Mr Arnold, and make sure you get what you want,” Thanet suggested, seeing Lineham’s eyes glaze. “When you’ve finished, Lineham, come along to number four, will you?”

  “We can go through the house,” Arnold said, turning away with alacrity.

  “Just one or two small points,” Thanet said quickly. “That outside lavatory. Was it ever used?”

  Arnold turned back reluctantly, impatience in every line of his body. “No. There’s a toilet in the house, see. The landlord had toilets and bathrooms built on to the back of all these cottages a few years back, before he decided to sell them off as they come vacant.”

  “Are you working here alone, except for … er … Bill?”

  “Most of the time, yes. But we sub-contract the special jobs like wiring and plumbing.”

  “What time do you arrive for work in the mornings?”

  “Eight o’clock.”

  “And you get into the house which way, front or back?”

  “Front, always.”

  “Did either of you go into the back garden before the alarm was raised over Miss Birch’s disappearance?”

  “Naw. No reason to, see. We was finishing off taking out that old partition wall—the one we’re wanting to get on with.”

  Thanet ignored the hint. “Did you know her?”

  “The old … Miss Birch, you mean? Not really. Passed the time of day, that’s all, when she went past in the mornings.”

  “What was she like?”

  Arnold shrugged his massive shoulders. “Dunno. Quiet. Mousy type. Couldn’t say, really.”

  “All right. Thank you.” Thanet turned away.

  At the gate of number four he hesitated, then walked back the few paces which took him to the other side of the narrow lane. He stood looking at the row of cottages. It was obvious, from here, which of them were in private ownership and which were still rented out.

  They were Victorian, he guessed, built of ugly yellow brick with slated roofs. Except for the two end cottages which, he had noticed earlier, both had attic windows in the gable end, each had one window and a front door at ground level and two windows on the first floor. Number one, where the young couple lived, was spick and span, with gleaming white paintwork and a yellow front door. The downstairs sash window had been replaced by a curved bow window with small square panes, one or two of which were bottle-glass. A similar bow window had already been installed in number two, which Arnold was renovating, and in number three, where the Gambles lived. This house, too, looked well maintained. The other two, numbers four and five, looked dingy and neglected by comparison, the paintwork peeling, the roofs in poor condition.

  It was interesting, Thanet thought, just how much could be learned about the occupants of houses just by looking at the curtains. Young Mrs Davies sported frilly net curtains, looped back, the Gambles bright modern prints, the Birches traditional half-net curtains flanked by drab florals and the last house in the row, where old Miss Cox lived, full-length nets. Thanet looked thoughtfully at the latter before crossing the road again to let himself into number four.

  The front door, he discovered, led directly into a small living room which was spotlessly clean but depressingly furnished in indeterminate shades of brown and beige. It was dominated by a large colour television set and in the most comfortable corner of the room, away from draughts and next to the gas fire, stood an upright armchair with padded seat and back and wooden arms, flanked by all the impedimenta of an invalid’s day: footstool with neatly folded rug, round table cluttered with pill bottles, women’s magazines, water jug covered with a folded tissue, jar of boiled sweets.

  Behind the living room was old Mrs Birch’s bedroom. An ancient iron range and built-in dresser testified to the fact that this had once been the kitchen. Now, the cooker, kitchen sink and cupboards were crammed into what was little more than a narrow passage leading to the new bathroom which had been built on behind.

  Thanet did little more than glance at all this. What he was really interested in was Carrie’s bedroom. The staircase, he discovered, was hidden away behind a door beside the head of the bed in the former kitchen. The stairs were steep and narrow and led to a minute landing with two doors. Thanet pushed open the one on his left. This bedroom was at the back of the house and had no doubt once belonged to Mrs Birch. A dressing table still stood under the window, its mirror spotted with age and clouded by neglect. The overflow from the cramped scullery appeared to have crept up here; vacuum cleaner, aluminium stepladder, sweeping brush and mop stood against the wall just inside the door.

  The front bedroom, then, must have been Carrie’s. Thanet opened the door with keen anticipation. What had she been like, that little mouse of a woman? Disappointingly, her room appeared to offer little enlightenment. It was clean and neat, drably furnished with brown linoleum and a threadbare rug beside the bed. The green candlewick bedspread was bald in places, neatly darned in others.

  Thanet crossed to the bedside table. The alarm clock had stopped at twelve fifteen, presumably because its owner had not returned to wind it last night. There was also a small round biscuit tin painted blue, a pair of spectacles and a paperback book. Thanet inspected the latter. Victory For Love, it was called, and the cover depicted an extravagantly beautiful girl gazing up adoringly into the face of a suitably square-jawed hero. So he had been right. Little Miss Birch had indeed had her daydreams, her escape-hatch from the narrow confines of her life. There was a small cupboard in the bedside table and Thanet opened it, peered in. It was crammed to the top with similar books.

  The only incongruous feature of the room was a full-length mirror composed of mirror tiles stuck on to the wall beside the window. Thanet frowned, crossed to run his fingers over the satin-smooth surface. Why should Carrie Birch have taken the trouble to put up such a thing? She certainly hadn’t struck him as being the sort of person to spend much time gazing at her own reflection.

  Beside the fireplace there was a curtained alcove which presumably served as a wardrobe and Thanet went now to examine it. Yes, here hung Carrie’s clothes, a much-mended and indescribably dreary collection. Just looking at them made Thanet feel depressed. What a miserable life the woman must have had, with only her paperback romances to relieve its tedium. What, then, could have singled her out for murder? Pure chance? No, he still couldn’t believe that.

  So, there must have been something.

  He glanced again around the comfortless little room, his gaze lingering on the mirror. If Carrie had had a secret, it was not hidden here, it seemed. Unless …

  He went back to the bed, lifted the mattress and ran his hand along the springs. His fingers encountered something hard and flat. With a surge of excitement he pulled it out. It was an oblong packet wrapped in brown paper and secured with an elastic band.

  Fumbling in his eagerness he removed the band, unfolded the wrapping. Then he stared in disbelief at its contents.

  It was a bundle of pound notes. Fifty at least, at a guess.

  Carrie’s savings, hoarded for a rainy day … or for some long-desired treat?

  He put the bundle on the floor, grasped the edge o
f the mattress and heaved it aside.

  Neatly arranged in a row right down the centre of the bed were many more similar packets. A swift examination confirmed that their contents were identical to those of the first and a rapid calculation produced an astonishing answer.

  Little Carrie Birch had had almost a thousand pounds hidden under her mattress.

  3

  “Where the hell did she get it from?” Lineham’s language, like his face, proclaimed his amazement; his mother did not approve of swearing.

  “Your guess is as good as mine. Interesting, though, isn’t it?”

  “I’ll say.” Lineham grinned. “I bet her mother didn’t know about this little lot.” The idea obviously gave him pleasure.

  “No. But the point, as you say, is, where did she get it?”

  “Saved it?”

  “It would have taken her years,” said Thanet. “Cleaning isn’t exactly the most lucrative occupation in the world. Besides, I should think her mother would have known what she earned down to the last penny, from what you say of her.”

  “She won it, then.”

  “How?”

  “Football pools, sweepstake, lottery, premium bonds?”

  “She’d have had to have some sort of written notification of a win on any of those. I can’t see her keeping it from her mother.”

  “Stole it?” suggested Lineham.

  “From whom? It’s a sizeable sum not to have been missed. If she did, its loss would surely have been reported. You’d better check, I suppose. The only other possibility, it seems to me, is.…”

  “Blackmail!” said Lineham, triumphantly.

  Thanet nodded. “And in that case, of course, the question is, who was the victim?” Thanet walked across to the window and looked out across the fields. The red tractor was working in the distance and over to the left he could just catch a glimpse of the farm buildings, half hidden behind a clump of tall trees.