by Heron Carvic
The rest was lost as the car left the grass to turn a tired somersault in the air.
Time was suspended, stretched and endless. Then below: a mineral explosion; an animal scream; the tintamar of metal; tinkling glass. Silence. Faintly, a mewing. A whimper wetly choked. Silence.
The bank cashier looked down; watching, waiting. It must work; it had to. Whenever you read of a car crashing from a height the big danger was fire. And with the engine running and a spare can of petrol with a loosened cap in the back, and two lighted cigarettes, it couldn’t fail. There was no sign of light: the sidelamps must have been smashed in the fall. His imagination had held him rooted there an hour when after a few seconds the darkness beneath him was flawed by a tiny flicker of red. It died. His heartbeat lurched. The flicker came again: erupted suddenly, an orange flower red-centered. The sound of the explosion came to him as the redness streaked in flames.
chapter
~9~
THE FIRE AT THE QUARRY had been seen from a farm. By the time the fire brigade had arrived and the police had been sent for, there was little to do except to wait for the debris to cool sufficiently to permit an examination. A young constable helped the ambulance men to extricate the body but when it fell apart so did he and the inspector assigned to the case sent him back to the hospital to be treated for shock. A man was left in charge and arrangements were made for the remains of the car to be trucked into Asford, where the scientific squad could examine them in the morning. The front number plate was still readable and the hospital sent over an initialed wristwatch found with the corpse; so that by the time Chief Inspector Brinton arrived after a hearty breakfast the unpleasing details and a tentative identification were waiting for him on his desk. The identification was confirmed within an hour when the scientific department produced the scorched portion of a driver’s license and a burned scrap of paper on which they had managed to bring up some figures they claimed were part of an insurance certificate. The corpse was officially recognized as that of the missing bank cashier; the explanation of his death being accredited to suicide—or plain idiocy. The case was closed. It opened again before lunch.
Maryse Palstead’s murder was discovered by her daily help when she arrived at ten o’clock. She screamed, she called for help, she called the tenants of the neighboring flats who in their turn called neighbors and, after all had had just one quick look, the daily called the porter who called the landlord who finally called the police.
The inspector who was sent to deal with the case, having scrutinized the wire and the method, rang headquarters. Chief Inspector Brinton then rang Delphick to tell him that another of his little specialties had cropped up, remarking that if the Oracle’s presence meant that wire neckties were going to be all the rage in Kent, all right, he himself was resigning as from last Monday week.
When Delphick arrived in Ashford the local inspector handed the case over to him with relief. Delphick, after a brief inspection, handed it back. Not the child strangler, he judged. An imitation; and a poor imitation at that. They would wait for the pathologist’s report, but he was fairly certain that more force and different wire had been used. He picked up the length lying near the body. The marks of the twisted strands from the picture wire were scored deeply into the neck, cutting the skin in two places. Also the bruising was more extensive. Delphick, however, agreed to assist with the questioning. From the daily help, who was by now well into her third pot of tea, they learned: that her eldest was doing nicely—worked in a garage; her second were a layabout—didn’t seem to settle; that her daughter weren’t above a bit—whatever that might mean; her youngest was still at school; and her husband didn’t above half—which clarified nothing except that his daughter appeared to be taking after him. She herself were all of a thing which was really no more than you might expect seeing she hadn’t expected, and if she had, and if only somebody’d told her, she wouldn’t’ve stayed—not a day. Come to think of it she could say, and she’d say it straight, she’d never in her life been more surprised. The Ashford inspector fumed. Delphick, by patience, elicited the information that Miss Palstead were a bit of a flighty one, which appeared to be the sum total of the lady’s knowledge of her late employer.
The porter was more helpful. Yes, Miss Palstead had had a lot of boy friends, but only one regular, specially just recent. The description of the regular and of his car tallied with a “Wanted for Questioning” notice for a cashier, posted the day before, on information supplied by a bank in Brettenden. The inspector debated. A keen constable produced his notebook in which he had made a copy of the notice. The inspector again telephoned the station. Headquarters got things moving and the suspicion was confirmed when they compared fingerprints taken from her flat and his lodgings. By teatime the cashier’s case was again closed, with the Palstead case neatly tucked inside it, and all was once more serene.
Plummergen was relieved: the storm clouds that had gathered had now passed. Too dreadful of course as Effie’s murder had been and, more dreadful because more material, the burglaries, obviously the village’s involvement, had been pure chance. Lightning, as anyone knew, never struck in the same place; which was a comfort.
It comforted the vicar’s sister. “It’s a comfort,” said Miss Treeves, “to know that everything is settled and that it was no one in the village after all. I suppose one shouldn’t think that way but I’m bound to say, Arthur,” Molly Treeves handed her brother his second cup of coffee, “it’s a relief that that awful man at the bank is dead. I must admit I never really liked him. He always had such a bored manner; as if he couldn’t be bothered. Didn’t you notice it?”
The vicar put in two lumps and stirred. “Notice?” he asked.
“Yes.” She rose and began to collect the lunch plates. “When you think that all the time with that Ashford woman . . . Naturally I’m sorry for her but I can’t help feeling in a way she got what she deserved. And then holding up the post office here and killing Effie—it must, have been insanity.” She dumped the stacked plates on a tray, the cutlery on top. “And stealing from houses too—once you’ve started I suppose you can’t stop.” She took the coffee pot. “I know we shouldn’t say so,” she put the pot and her cup on the tray, “but quite honestly I think death is the best answer, don’t you?” She picked up the tray. “Well, don’t you?” she repeated from the doorway when her brother remained silent. She went out.
Did he? Reverend Arthur wondered. The question, like so many of the riddles concerning Human Misbehavior and the Divine Aftermath, was complicated. And that it should have proved to be a woman—it made it infinitely worse. He had quite thought the police had spoken of a man. For the hundredth time he vowed that he would take more notice, pay more attention. Sternly he tried to conjure up a vision of the woman cashier with a bored manner. She refused to materialize. He sighed; acknowledged humbly, if it weren’t for Molly, he wouldn’t always know quite where he stood. What was it she had asked him? “Didn’t he?” “Oh, yes,” he told an empty room, “I do.”
The ladies of Lilikot could not of course be comforted for the too outrageous insinuations by the police regarding the value of their stolen treasures—though as everyone knew it was only too easy for certain people to hold on to the genuine articles, have them copied, and then return the imitation—but it was a relief to know that the murders had been done by someone outside the village. The robberies of course were a different matter. You tried to be fair and make allowances, but it was only too obvious, without mentioning names, that there was a lot more there than met the eye. As for that unspeakable reporter with her cows . . . That person had been told a piece of your mind that made it all too clear what you thought of her. That their own bank should have had the bad taste to become involved in the scandal through its cashier they looked upon as an affront. Miss Nuttel came up with the solution.
“I shall transfer my account.”
At Rytham Hall comfort was in question.
“It’s nice to know that it’s all finished.” L
ady Colveden handed coffee to Nigel, who passed it to his father. “Even if you don’t believe it.”
“And you don’t?” asked her son.
“Well, no, I don’t. Of course naturally I can see it from the police point of view; it saves them a lot of trouble. But having love affairs in Ashford and fiddling with funds at the bank are quite a different matter to chasing round the countryside and killing children.” Both her husband and her son’s expression queried her statement. She considered. “It seems perfectly clear to me. If you’re having an affair in Ashford—though frankly it’s not the place I should choose—and you’re getting tired of it or the other person’s being tiresome and there’s a bit of wire lying handy, I can quite imagine strangling them on the spur of the moment. And as for fiddling cash—well, anybody would if they knew how. But all that’s quite a different story to post offices and Effie.” She gave herself a nod of encouragement. “You’ll find I’m right. All the newspapers have gone home, but you notice Miss Forby hasn’t, and nor have the superintendent and his sergeant. If,” she concluded in triumph, “it was all finished they would have.”
At the Dunnihoe cottage youth was too young to question comfort.
“Oh, Len, it’s wunners, isn’t it?” Lil Hosigg cut a large portion of suet pudding, poured golden syrup over it, and handed it to him. “I mean with us in the clear with the police and everything. ’Course it’s not going to be nice with the case being done again and everything—about that man mum married and what he did coming out, or tried on anyway. You should never’ve kept quiet, I wanted to speak up, you know I did, and I could’ve made Rosie too, but it’ll blow over and I think it’s wunners.” She looked at him for a few seconds yearningly. “You’re wunners too, you know. And it’s all really because of that funny little old geyser who smiled at us when we first come here, and when that kid tried to jump in front of the car said how clever you was to stop, ’stead of creating as most would. And then when you looked after her like you did, ’stead of just saying thanks and forgetting it, went charging off to the police to tell them what she thought of you and got everything put right and did that lovely picture of you which she gave me ’cause I asked her if she’d sell it.” She glowed at him. “And it’s no good you looking po-faced, it’s a real picture by an artist just like you are and I wouldn’t be without it not for anything. I’m going to put glass over it and hang it up. I like her she’s nice. And now the police know what you’re like and that London chap’s going to see the appro business’s put right, and it wasn’t nobody here after all but somebody over to Ashford, it’s all finished and it’s all wunners.” She smiled with pride. “Isn’t it, you great gorm?”
The sullen face transformed. Wonder and love welled up to overspill in speech. “S’right,” said Len.
• • •
No comfort at Saturday Stop.
“Sweet bloshing nothing, zero, nothing, that’s all we got on this flub. You, you knows it all, don’t you? The Smoke getting too hot for us you said. Have another bash in Kent, some little place where they won’t know from their bottoms up, you said. Dead easy like falling off a log, and we clean up a bomb and back to the Smoke you said. Looks like it, don’t it?” Dick Quint was savage. “ ’Stead of which we’re stuck in this drum, spent all our gelt and near enough got tumbled by the busies.”
“Getting milky?” scoffed Doris. “Who does it all round here? Me. Slog my guts out all day casing the joints, seeing which houses’re worth a lift and setting it up. And then cooking for you two, you and the kid, and what d’you do? Sit around on your fannies doing sweet all.”
“And that’s a lot of madam,” he flung at her. “Who does the job when it comes to it? And when I done it what’s the touch, half the stuff was fake. Your trouble’s you can’t tell slap-up stuff from snide. Them two old tarts at the Nut House, they spruced you proper.”
Doris was indignant. “How was I to know? ‘It’s all too, too valuable,’ ” she mimicked. “People’s got no right to lie about their stuff, putting it on. Downright dishonest, don’t know where you are. But the haul from the other two was good enough.”
“And what good did that do to us?” he sneered. “Lost the lot didn’t we when that old trot slung her mush through the windshield and pitched us in the ditch.”
“That one, that’s twice she done us, and that brolly of hers, she’s put a hoodoo on us.”
Dick Quint shrugged. “Hoodoo, voodoo, what’s the diff? All we got for it’s fuzz all over the shop like fleas, with that Oracle round just after we got back’n catching you with your hair all wet.”
“Well, what odds?” Doris defended herself. “I chatted him up all right. I don’t go for busies with posh talk, he’s a right piece of toffee that one.”
“You chatted him,” he gibed. “He’s maybe a toff but he’s leary. Came again didn’t he? With his gorilla mucking about the garden and poking into the shed.”
“Well, he couldn’t find nothing, no tracks nor nothing, and the bikes were safe enough, the van were locked, and sergeant or no he couldn’t go poking into that, it’s against the law.”
“And did you latch on to how the Oracle was eyeing the nutcase kid?” Quint glared at his brother-in-law.
“Leave the kid alone,” flashed Doris.
“Leave him?” he retorted. “Too right I’ll leave him. A mugger for crissakes. You’re a nutter yourself to let him—a right family of nuts. What’s he want to put the mug on kids for? Whyn’t you stop it?”
“Stop him yourself why don’t you?” She gave her brother a sideways glance. “You know how he gets his rag out if you spur him.” Her hand went protectively to her neck. “Once was enough for me. If you’d not been so quick to clout him I’d’ve had it. I’m not risking that again thank you. He’s all right if you let him be—’sides,” she tossed her head, “it don’t do no harm s’long as he’s careful. Nobody’s suspected him have they? Nor likely to. And he don’t get much fun the way he is. What’s a few kids?”
“He’ll end by pushing us all through the big gates. Why don’t he grow up? Seventeen—and look at him, a Peter Pansy for crissakes. If he must be a croaker why can’t he croak somebody useful—crease that old trot with the mush, she’s earned her lot? What’s the fuzz coming to using old tarts like that?” The deaf-and-dumb youth watched their lips, straining to follow. He nodded to himself and smiled. His hand went to his pocket. “A break for us,” went on Dick Quint, “the busies’ve settled for that money pusher at the bank, puts us in the clear, but we’re flat and we got to get gelt—and I got that fixed. I’ve been touting around with the Ashford wise boys—call themselves the Choppers—’n it’s all set up. Saturday they’ve a hop on here at the village hall’n the Choppers’re coming over to break it up.”
“Where’s that get us?”
“Gives us cover. While they’re stirring it up we’ll bash a drum or two. Them Colvedens for a start, she sports a bloshing great diamond on her mitt—I seen it. There must be a mint of stuff knocking around the Hall.”
“That lot won’t be at the hop,” Doris pointed out, “you won’t catch the likes of them hoofing it with a lot of swedes.”
“We play it like the P.O. jobs,” he answered. “Rush ’em, stick’em up, lock ’em in somewhere, and if they shout crease ’em. I got a heater in Ashford—what a dump, think I were asking for gold not a gun—and this’ll be one time,” he added venomously, “the old trot won’t get no chance to stick her brolly in our backsides’n swipe the heater and the take.”
The deaf youngster sat relaxed, dreaming, a happy indulgence on the too-young face. A length of wire with a wooden grip at each end swung idly in his hand.
For Mel Forby there was comfort in the post. Returning to the pub she brooded over a suggestion from the Negative: to rename the village and to run her Pieces as a strip cartoon. A strip . . .? Maybe a broadcast diary . . .? Maybe America . . .? Looked like she’d got it made. A little old lady stopped her in the Street. Uh-huh, thought Mel, more
trouble coming up from “Cows in P.”
“So mischievous,” hissed her interceptor, “your Pieces in the paper. Such humor. It takes a stranger to see us as we are.” She wagged a forefinger. “So clever, you Americans.”
“Us which?” demanded a dumbfounded Mel.
“Yes,” said Miss Wicks. “And so discerning. A niece of mine is living in the States. You’ve probably seen her there, her name is Sybil.”
Mel patted the frail shoulder. “Nay, lass, th’art goomed. Oiye coom fra Liverpule. And that I guess’s the nearest to the States I’ve been.”
The small face puckered, the withered mouth opened—Save us, thought Mel, she’s going to cry—till “Tee-hee!” came from it. The old lady tapped her playfully on the arm, her dentures gleamed before she turned. Mel turned in turn to watch entranced as Miss Wicks crossed the Street and tee-heed her way home.
Well, there was a natural for a strip. A strip cartoon . . . Reward for virtue? Trying to give a hand to our Miss S? Meanwhile, from the news angle she was staying put. It was over? Yeah? The Oracle hadn’t shifted—or Bob Ranger. Till they went, she stayed.
So, in the comfort of normality, with danger and death receding to a town, the village was itself again, could breathe again, could now discuss the “truth” again about its neighbors without the uncomfortable feeling that the “truth” in the discussion might be the truth in fact.
In police work storm clouds rarely pass, they move, and the police move with them, to gather somewhere else; since threats to people and property are perennial. However, the Ashford Division took comfort from the fact that they had shown the Yard how to handle a case which had disturbed the whole country. That Brinton’s premise that the Choppers were involved was wrong and that, in the event, the local force had had little to do beyond mopping-up operations did not signify; what counted was the truth that emerged from the mopping. It was on this question of truth that the police were divided.
