The Benefits of Death

by Roderic Jeffries

  “Right, sir.” Herald stood up. He put the boiled sweet in his mouth.

  “And don’t forget to be more discreet than you were the last time you went blundering after a missing person.”

  Herald silently swore as he turned angrily away. Wasn’t he ever to be allowed to forget that he had once failed to be quite as diplomatic as he ought to have been?

  *

  Ashford railway station was being repaired and a pneumatic drill was spasmodically hammering away as Herald made his way over the bridge to the up platform. He approached the barrier and the drill started once more. The ticket collector motioned with his clippers. Herald shook his head. “Police,” he shouted.

  The drill ceased.

  “Police,” repeated Herald.

  The drill resumed.

  A woman impatiently pushed past Herald and held out her ticket to be clipped. The drill ceased.

  Herald managed to speak several consecutive words to the ticket collector, who called in a companion to whom he handed over his job; then he and Herald went along the platform to a temporary wooden hut that was three-quarters of the way along the platform. Inside, a paraffin stove was burning unevenly and filling the place with acrid fumes. The ticket collector warmed his hands by the stove. “It’s ruddy cold to-day, in spite of the sun.”

  Herald did not bother to appear to commiserate with the other, he was careless of woes that did not directly concern him. “Who was clipping tickets for the eleven forty-two on the eighteenth?”

  “Jeeze, mate, I ain’t the memory man.”

  “It was last Sunday, when we had all the fog.” Herald studied his reflection in the battered mirror that hung on the wall and patted down the front of his hair.

  “Then! I was. And a bleeding day that was, with nothing on time and everyone running round in circles.”

  “D’you remember a woman with a mucky kind of a dog? First class, wouldn’t mind betting.”

  “What d’you mean by mucky?”

  “It’s small and called a Cuenca. Looks as if you’d belted it up the backside and its face had smashed into a concrete wall.”

  “One of them that was on the telly the other day and bit Stanley Dangerfield?”

  “How the hell should I know? D’you think I’ve time to watch?”

  The railwayman slowly shook his head. “That wasn’t what you’ve just said: it was a skipper something or other.”

  “Then let’s forget it.”

  “You ain’t talking about the Leithan bitch, are you? That fat old cow?”

  “How the hell?” demanded Herald.

  “Two months ago, almost to the day, I was collecting tickets and a fat woman comes panting up to me and tears me off a regular strip for making her climb up and down all them steps over the bridge. Being a peaceful sort of bloke, I just said them steps were put up without my permission, but she snorts and begins to ask me for me name and says she was going to get me hung, drawn, and quartered. I moves me foot and quite by accident, like, I kicks the thing she’s got on a lead. There’s a noise like a stuck pig and my leg gets bitten. I was about to let fly and give her what for, when she lams into me for kicking her darling dog and before I knows what’s what she’s called the station-master and is yelling for me to be sent to jug for cruelty. ’Course, no one took no notice of her.”

  Herald allowed himself the luxury of another boiled sweet. “How about last Sunday? D’you see her catch the eleven forty-two?”

  “Not her. I ain’t seen her for a month or more. Dropped down dead, has she? If so, I’ll buy me old woman a drink to-night.”

  Herald quite spoiled the other’s pleasure by explaining that, in so far as anyone knew, Mrs. Leithan had not dropped down dead.

  *

  Leithan walked round the edge of the easterly woods and as he came to the gateway in the hedge there was a clatter of wings, the harsh staccato cry of alarm, and a cock pheasant rocketed away from the hedge, voiding as it went. He watched it swing right and disappear behind the nearer wood, a glorious living mosaic of browns, greens, blacks, whites, and violets.

  He was close to the boundary of his land and beyond was the twenty-acre kale field of his neighbour. He had always wanted to buy the next-door farm and had long since promised it to himself should it come on the market.

  He began to walk in a broad sweep that would bring him to the cow-sheds. Deakin knew how to make use of every square foot of land without destroying any of it. No hedges had been ripped up, no trees had been felled simply because they upset the growth of grass beneath them. Deakin, in a subconscious manner, thought as Leithan did. The countryside was a valued heritage to be passed on as nearly as possible in the form in which it had been received.

  Leithan went down to the small stream, surprisingly short of water, and climbed the opposite slope on which bracken still grew, despite the fact it was cut at least twice a year. He reached the top of the slope and stopped, to look along his land, then went on to the cow-sheds where he watched Deakin and Alf Petrie as they milked the Jerseys.

  He returned to the house, amidst a yowling chorus from the dogs, and told Mrs. Andrews he would not be in for tea. She understood Evadne to be on holiday and was looking after him with possessive efficiency.

  He drove to the village of Cleariton and stopped at the general store which still seemed to make a living for its owner despite the rash of supermarkets in the towns. He bought a pound box of chocolates.

  He arrived at Pamela’s house and gave her the chocolates.

  “And what about my figure?” she asked, as she closed the door behind him.

  “I’ll grant it a detailed testimonial any time you want.”

  “You know perfectly well, Mr. Charles Leithan, that I asked you not to buy me any more chocolates because my spare tyre already looks half-inflated.”

  “Then use some will-power and hand them back.” He grinned as he held out his hand.

  “Like hell,” she replied.

  They went through to the sitting-room and for once it was tidy. Obviously, the mess had at last become too much for her and she had cleared it up. Now, the room would slowly be allowed to become untidy once more. He kissed her.

  “What’s that in aid of?” she asked. Her brown eyes expressed malicious enjoyment.

  “A formal greeting.”

  “I keep my two cheeks for that.”

  He put his arm round her waist and, unaware of what he was doing, held her so tightly against him that she was almost off balance. She looked up at his face and saw that the expression she could not read was back on his face.

  “We’re off to Brighton,” he said.

  “Brighton?”

  “I thought we’d treat ourselves to a night out.”

  “You don’t have to take me out, Charles. I’m quite happy here with you.”

  He shook his head impatiently and released her waist. “A touch of the bright lights would do us both a power of good.”

  “D’you honestly think you’ll find them in Brighton in November?”

  “We can try. In any case, since we’re not married, they’ll put out the welcome mats.” He walked across to the small table on which were some bottles and a soda siphon. “What’s yours?”

  “Gin and tonic, please.” She reflected that for the first time in the two years she had known him, he was acting as though he needed to drink. The previous night, he had become almost incoherent before they finally went to bed.

  He handed her a glass. “Here’s cheers.” He drank deeply.

  “Any word from Evadne?” she asked.

  He finished his drink. “No.”

  “It’s getting rather odd, isn’t it?”

  “Why?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “I should have thought you’d have heard something by now. A pompous note from solicitors telling you your wife was divorcing you.”

  “Not a thing.”

  “Has she still got Stymie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bully for S
tymie.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing, Charles. Why are you so jumpy?”

  He forced himself to speak more calmly. “The coming of spring.”

  “Spring’s a hell of a long way off, even if your thoughts are always turned towards it.”

  He poured himself out another drink. She tried not to worry, but failed.

  Ten minutes later, they left the house and drove towards the Tenterden Road. “We’ll go through Hawkhurst. I can’t stand the coast road with all the faceless hotels of Hastings and Bexhill looking out on to a dirty sea.”

  “And yet we’re heading for Brighton?”

  “It’s a town of vice. The hotels have painted faces, the harlot’s trade-mark.”

  “And that’s attractive?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’re being an absolute swine,” she said bitterly. She waited for an apology that she was certain would not come.

  Leithan slowed down behind a bus and was almost blinded by the undipped lights of an oncoming car.

  “Charles…” she began, and then became silent.

  The car passed them and he overtook the bus. He looked very quickly at her, and the reflected light from the instrument panel was just sufficient to show him her face. She looked very open to hurt. He rested his left hand on her knees. “I love you.”

  “I know and it makes me sing inside every hour of every day.” She paused, then spoke quickly. “You are certain you want her to learn, aren’t you?”

  “Learn what?”

  “That you and I are shacking up together.”

  “You get hold of some awful expressions!”

  “That one’s long out of date. But you are certain, aren’t you?”

  “Of course. Why d’you have to ask?”

  “Because…because I think the house is being watched.”

  The car suddenly swerved and she cried out.

  “Sorry. Something on the road.”

  There had been nothing on the road.

  “I saw a Mini car parked back from the house yesterday afternoon. I noticed it because its registration letters were PAM. I saw it again to-day.”

  “Cars are everywhere these days.”

  “There isn’t a house nearer than mine to where it was. I asked Old Moore if he knew anything about it and he thought it belonged to a man who’d been inquiring in the village where I lived. Yet no one’s called on me.”

  He wished he had not suggested Brighton. The journey suddenly seemed futile and ridiculous.

  Chapter VIII

  Herald arrived at the police station at eight o’clock and said good morning to Detective-Constable Leery. He held the other man in contempt because Leery was middle-aged and so clearly a failure. Herald respected only the successful.

  He went into the general room that he, Leery and the P.C. seconded to C.I.D. duties used, and looked at his desk to see if any messages had been left. There was none. He took a sweet from his pocket, unwrapped it, and sucked it. The buzzer from the D.I. sounded and he hurried through to the other’s office.

  “Well,” said Jaeger, “how’s the Leithan case?”

  Herald used his tongue to place the sweet between his top gum and his cheek. “Waiting for the banks to start up, sir, and then I’ll phone round and see where she keeps her lolly.”

  The D.I. picked up a pencil and fiddled with it. “From what you’ve told me, this chap Leithan’s taking his wife’s disappearance with unnatural calm?”

  “Quite.”

  “If she’d dropped down dead, there’d be a body: in the train, in the street, in a hotel. There’d also be a dog loose. If she really is on holiday, why hasn’t she let him know by now? And what’s she wearing?”

  “She had a few things with her, sir, since she was going to stay with those people in London.”

  The D.I. dropped the pencil. “He says he left her at the station to catch the train, but we can be pretty certain she didn’t go on to the platform. Why not? Why should she suddenly change her mind? And why didn’t he see her on to the train?”

  “No manners.”

  “If you’d any sense you’d know he’s the kind of man always to do the right thing. Herald, I’ll have a word with the banks. You get on to the local policeman and find out if he knows of any girl friends.

  “I spoke to the super about the case last night and he said the Leithans had lived in the area for some time; the father used to live at Great Chart and made a fortune at something or other. That suggests it’s him who’s got the money, not her. Tell you what: after you’ve done the other chore, ring round the Ashford solicitors and find out which, if any, manages the family affairs. If you get tied up, tell Watters to handle that one.”

  “Right, sir.”

  “And get it clear from the start that you’re only asking and not demanding. None of your bulls-in-a-china-shop.”

  “Mustn’t annoy his lordship too much?” sneered Herald.

  “Not unless you want to become a civilian and find out how difficult it is to earn an honest living,” replied the D.I., with pleasant good humour, underneath which was the snap of command.

  *

  The bank manager greeted Jaeger with a wariness that came from the experience of previous police inquiries. Jaeger spoke as he sat down. “One of my chaps was on to you earlier, asking whether you handled Mrs. Leithan’s account and you said you did.”

  The manager nodded.

  “I haven’t come for any secrets, you’ll be glad to hear.” Jaeger grinned. He had a warm personality that made him likable and liked.

  “I’ll believe you. Later.” The manager pushed across a silver cigarette-box. “D’you smoke?”

  “A pipe. But I won’t light up in here in case your customers complain.”

  “They very rarely do,” said the other, in an unusual attempt at humour.

  “I’m wondering whether Mrs. Leithan drew a largish sum of money just before the eighteenth, or whether she’s drawn any since then?”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Quite frankly, we don’t know yet.”

  “Wouldn’t Mr. Leithan be the one to help you?”

  “Not just at the moment.”

  The manager sighed. “All right. I won’t give you any figures, of course, but I’ll do what I can.” He lifted one of the three telephone receivers on his desk and spoke to someone. When he replaced the receiver, he helped himself to a cigarette. “They’re a very nice family. Been with this bank for three generations now.”

  There was a knock on the door and a man came in. He handed a piece of paper to the manager, then left. The manager read what was written on the paper, looked up. “Mrs. Leithan has drawn on neither of her two accounts in the past seven days.”

  “What was the last withdrawal for?”

  “A reasonably small sum and in accordance with her usual practice.”

  “Will you give me a buzz if there’s any movement in her account? And d’you know if she banks anywhere else or if she has a Post Office Savings account?”

  “So far as I know, we’re her only bankers.”

  *

  As Jaeger returned to his room at the station, Herald hurried in. Jaeger noted how eager the other was to show his keen efficiency.

  “I was on to the Cleariton sub-station just now, sir.”

  The D.I. sat down behind his desk and produced his pipe.

  “It was the last of eight, including the one at Piltonhurst.”

  “Shall I make a note of that for the promotions board?”

  Herald was proof against sarcasm. “The constable says a man whose description fits Leithan like a glove is a frequent visitor at a place belonging to a Mrs. Breslow. She’s a widow. He thinks the late husband was in oil.”

  “I doubt whether that aspect of the matter will concern us.” Jaeger lit his pipe. “What’s she like?”

  “Very bedable.”

  The pipe was going well for once and the D.I. was surrounded b
y clouds of smoke. “Has Leithan been there recently?”

  “A Sunbeam Rapier was parked outside the house all night on the eighteenth.”

  “When the cat’s away… Go and see the constable and get all you can out of him and then report back to me.” Jaeger began to see the pattern of the case and, as always happened, he felt excited. He wondered what kind of people these were, people who at the present were only names to him. The man might be short, tall, thin, fat, ugly, handsome. The wife was a bitch. The widow was “bedable.” It was a game of chess that might not be a game. People vanished every day of the week and many of them were never heard of again, but investigations made it perfectly clear they had disappeared voluntarily. Mrs. Leithan might be one of those. Or she might have gone on an unannounced holiday, as her husband insisted. Or she might have been taken suddenly ill and had not, as yet, been identified. Or it might be a game of chess in which the pieces would slowly change into people.

  *

  Leithan was trying to work when he heard the ring of the front-door bell. He swore. For days, the words had refused to come and he was so conscious of this failure that they retreated even further. Not for the first time, he wondered why he gave in to the compulsion to write. It only brought him pain. He laughed with others when his books were discussed, but secretly he nearly cried. Part of him went into each book and when it failed it was part of him that failed.

  He heard the mumble of voices and the clacking of Mrs. Andrews’s shoes on the brick floor of the hall. She knocked on the door of the study and looked inside, an expression close to fear on her face. She regarded his ability to write as miraculous, and had a superstitious dread of interrupting a miracle. “I’m terribly sorry to bother you, Mr. Leithan, but there’s a man says he wants to see you. He’s a detective.”

  Leithan pushed his typewriter away from himself. “What’s he want?” As soon as he had spoken, he knew the words were useless.

  “I…I don’t know,” she replied, flustered.

  He stood up. “All right.”

  “I told him you was working, Mr. Leithan, and how you was never disturbed…”

  He managed to still her fear at what she had done and then he went into the hall. He saw a man, studying the collection of arms, who at first seemed well into middle-age because of his nearly bald head, but who was obviously much less aged when he smiled.