The Search for My Great-Uncle’s Head

by Jonathan Latimer

  The colonel went over and stared out the window again. Finally I asked, “What are you going to do about him?”

  “After dinner, I think, I shall have him arrested.”

  “But you can’t think he’s responsible——” I began.

  “I don’t think anything, Peter. But I should like to hear his explanation of his actions.”

  “Can’t you just ask him?”

  “I think it would be more effective if we frightened him by arresting him.”

  I got off the bed. “I’ll stake my life that he didn’t kill Bronson. I know George Coffin well enough to be sure he didn’t do that.”

  The colonel said, “Who knows what a desperate man will do in an emergency?” He came over to me. “Certainly Bronson was afraid of someone in the house. Didn’t he tell you that?”

  “Yes,” I said, remembering Bronson’s gloomy words that day in my room. His premonitions of evil had certainly been justified. Suddenly something else he had said came back into my conscious mind. I hit the palm of my hand on my thigh and exclaimed, “Colonel!”

  “What?”

  “Bronson told me to remember the big oak in the pasture back of the barn in case anything happened to him. I had forgotten all about his telling me that. He said it was important.”

  “Damme, that was careless of you, Peter.” The colonel looked at me reprovingly. “Did he give you an idea why you should remember the oak?”

  “Not a hint.”

  The colonel moved to the door. “Come on. We’ll look.”

  In the living room we encountered Sheriff Wilson. He had been invited for dinner and had evidently just prepared himself for the event. His face shone from a lavish use of soap and water, his hands were scrubbed an angry red, his hair was slicked back damply on his egg-shaped head.

  “Where are you going, gentlemen?” he asked with a sort of jocular politeness.

  “Mr Coffin has just recalled that Bronson told him to remember the big oak tree in the pasture back of the cow barn in case something happened to him,” exclaimed the colonel. “We are about to examine the tree. Would you care to join us?”

  We went out the living-room door and down the front steps. The sun was below the tops of the dunes to the west, and while the clouds above were white and the sky a bright blue, there was already a feeling of darkness about the yard. A faint gloom, growing steadily heavier, hung over the two houses and the white barn.

  Our feet, crossing the courtyard, sank but did not stick in the damp clay. On the other side we encountered Karl Norberg. He was pushing a heavy roller, such as is employed on tennis courts, over the clay.

  “Obliteratin’ all my footprints, eh?” said the colonel as we came up to him.

  Karl’s face was surprised, then defensive. “We always roll the court while it’s still damp,” he said. “If you rather I let it go I’ll——”

  “Roll away,” said the colonel. “I’ve had my look.”

  We went through the barn and into the small pasture in back. The oak tree was almost squarely in the center of the field.

  “Where’re the cows?” asked the colonel.

  “They use the big pasture about half a mile the other side of the house,” I explained. “Don’t you remember we heard them passing the house last night after dinner?”

  “Oh yes, the tintinnabulation. I’m really quite relieved that they aren’t here. Cows are sometimes very unreasonable.”

  “You said it,” agreed the sheriff. “My wife’s cow, Bess, takes out after me every time I try to cut across her field to get to the corn patch.”

  The sheriff was apparently going to continue with a dissertation on the contrariness of bovines when we reached the tree. The dark-leaved branches spread over a wide area, and the trunk, covered at the base by coarse grass, was as thick as a fat man. From a high limb a red squirrel angrily scolded us.

  “I don’t see anything important,” said the colonel, feeling through the grass at the foot of the tree.

  The sheriff and I went around to the other side of the trunk and made a similar search. The grass was thick and hard to push aside, and the ground was uneven. The squirrel, convinced we were invading his winter storage vaults, increased his shrill clamor and came down the trunk toward us.

  “Nothing important here,” said the sheriff at last, “unless acorns are important.” He struggled to his feet. “Found anything over there?”

  “Yes,” came the colonel’s voice, low and with an angry rasp. “Something very important to Bronson.”

  “What is it?” demanded the sheriff. We both moved around the tree.

  The colonel pointed to an object half hidden in the grass a foot from the base of the oak. I felt that I was going to be ill. It was Bronson’s head, terror and surprise imprinted on his blood-spattered face.

  Chapter XVII

  DR HARVEY laid his napkin on the linen tablecloth, lighted a cigar and leaned back in his chair. “Bronson told Peter that he would find something important by the tree, and when you looked you discovered Bronson’s head.” His sharp-featured face was turned toward Colonel Black. “It sounds almost supernatural.”

  “It does smack slightly of thaumaturgy,” agreed the colonel. “Perhaps Oberon is up to his tricks again.”

  “It sounds more like the secret, black and midnight hags of Macbeth,” I said.

  “Oh! Oh!” exclaimed Mrs Harvey, her face pale. “Please talk of something else.”

  “But how do you account for it, Colonel?” persisted Dr Harvey.

  “I don’t,” said the colonel with an air of satisfaction.

  “Well, I can,” announced Sheriff Wilson, who hitherto had paid more attention to the cold consommé, the crisp roast lamb, the garden vegetables and the fresh peach shortcake than to the conversation. “My guess is that the madman put it there.”

  “You are evidently determined to have Mr Glunt involved in this affair, Sheriff Wilson,” said Colonel Black. “I am curious to know just how you arrive at your conclusion.”

  “I don’t mind telling you,” said the sheriff. “I figure Bronson saw the madman hide something by that tree—as likely as not Mr Coffin’s head. He went out to see what it was, and the madman saw him and followed him back to the servants’ house and killed him. Then the madman put Bronson’s head in the place of Mr Coffin’s and went away.”

  The colonel nodded. “Not bad, Sheriff. Not a bit bad. What you intend to convey, I believe, is that Mr Glunt had a pronounced affection for Mr Coffin’s head and feared that Bronson intended to steal it. Very good indeed. Your solution is quite within the bounds of abnormal psychology.”

  Well pleased with this praise, the sheriff enlarged on his theory. I turned to Joan and whispered, “I hope he’s right.”

  She nodded, but her face was white, and her eyes were worried. “What’s the matter?” I asked. “Aren’t you feeling well?”

  She said quickly, “I feel all right.” Then, noticing what must have been very patent apprehension in my face, she smiled. “Don’t worry about me.”

  “But what is it? Isn’t there anything I can do?”

  She leaned slightly toward me. Her perfume made me think of jasmine. “It’s about Burton.”

  “Oh.”

  She appeared not to notice the change in my tone. “He’s been so strange all afternoon. And he hasn’t touched a thing at dinner. I think he has learned something about the murders which has upset him.”

  I felt that Burton couldn’t be too upset to suit me, but I said, “That’s too bad. Why doesn’t he speak to Colonel Black?”

  “I tried to get him to, but he wouldn’t admit there was anything wrong.”

  “Maybe there isn’t anything wrong. Maybe it’s your imagination.”

  “Jut look at him.”

  I looked. “He does look pretty sick,” I confessed. “He’s a trifle green around the jowls.”

  She looked at me suspiciously, but I managed to achieve a sympathetic expression. “I’m afraid for him,” s
he said. “Bronson knew something, and he was killed. Now Burton …”

  Her beautiful oval face was frightened. I wished I knew whether her alarm was due to affection for Burton or to a natural desire not to have any further murders. I was afraid it was due to affection. I glanced at Burton again and was, I confess, unable to see what there was in his spoiled, sullen, but heavily handsome face to inspire affection. I sighed and said, “I’ll do what I can to watch him. Do you think it would be a good idea to mention the matter to the colonel?”

  “I wish you would.”

  For a second her hand touched my arm.

  The sheriff had completed a summary of his reasons for believing that Mr Glunt was responsible for all the trouble at Graymere, and he gazed triumphantly at the colonel. “I don’t see how you can get around the fact that there were no tracks in the courtyard, anyway, Colonel,” he added.

  “It is devilish difficult,” admitted the colonel. “On the face of most of the evidence it would seem that the murders were the work of either Mr Glunt or of someone living in the servants’ house.”

  Karl Norberg, who had donned one of Bronson’s suits and had been helping Mrs Bundy wait on table, bumped into Mrs Coffin’s chair, nearly upsetting over her head the silver platter on which reposed the remains of the shortcake. “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said confusedly. His face was suddenly ash pale, and he hurried from the room.

  “Hey! What’s this?” asked Dr Harvey. “Looks as if your bolt went home, Colonel.”

  “You might be frightened too,” said Mrs Coffin, “if it was said either you or the madman killed Tobias.”

  Dr Harvey grinned. “I might be, at that.”

  George Coffin, who had not said a word during the entire meal, rose from his chair. “Shall we adjourn for coffee in the living room?” he asked.

  “Coffee?” echoed Dr Harvey. He seemed to be in excellent humor. “I’ll wager your coffee begins with a b.”

  “That’s an idea.” George Coffin’s face brightened. “A little brandy for the soul’s sake.” He walked into the pantry.

  As the rest of us went into the living room there was a sound of bells outside. “Ah!” exclaimed the colonel. “The cows return from their pasture.”

  “That’s a prize herd, ain’t it?” Sheriff Wilson asked me.

  “Yes,” I replied. “They’re all pedigreed stock.”

  “How do they come in from the pasture?” asked the colonel.

  “Rob Roy brings them in,” said Joan. “He’s the collie you’ve seen around.”

  “I thought Mrs Bundy’s little boy brought them in,” objected Mrs Harvey.

  “He does when he’s here. He rides Lady Cleo out and back,” said Miss Leslie. “But he’s away visiting his grandmother.”

  This was the first I’d heard of the Bundys’ child. “How old is he?” I asked.

  “Eleven.”

  “Lady Cleo,” said the colonel. “What’s Lady Cleo?”

  “Lady Cleo,” said Miss Leslie, “is a very nice cow.”

  “Isn’t it a bit dangerous for a boy to ride a cow?”

  “Depends on the cow,” said Sheriff Wilson. “My little girl rides Bess all over the place.”

  It occurred to me that Bess must be a rather complex character, fierce enough to resent the sheriff’s use of her pasture as a short cut to his corn patch and tractable enough to be ridden by the sheriff’s daughter.

  “Lady Cleo is perfectly gentle,” said Miss Leslie.

  George Coffin returned with another bottle of Spanish brandy, followed by Karl, bearing a tray laden with large goblets. The colonel’s eyes brightened at the sight of the dust on the bottle.

  “Fifteen years old?” he asked.

  “Fifteen!” George Coffin’s voice was indignant. “Why this brandy was of voting age when Admiral Dewey sailed into Manila Bay.”

  The eleven inhalers nearly exhausted the bottle, although he filled each glass less than one third full. A strong fire burned in the fireplace, and we sat in front of it and rolled the brandy around in the goblets, letting our palms warm the golden liquid until the dry, heady aroma, faintly suggestive of grapes, was released. We sniffed, inhaled, tasted, let the brandy linger in our mouths before swallowing after the manner of fine connoisseurs. Although I have no knowledge of brandy I found the experience agreeable.

  “To think,” mused the colonel, “that the sun should have burned brightly, that soft rains should have poured down on the Spanish hills fifty years ago solely to produce this bit of pleasure for us.”

  “You seem to be a bit of an epicurean, Colonel,” observed George Coffin, speaking with more of his normal half-mocking, half-humorous tone.

  “I believe in a hedonistic world,” declared the colonel. “I am convinced that everything in the world is directed toward my pleasure, the difficulty being in finding the exact method of obtaining the proper amount of pleasure from any given event.” He took a rather larger swallow of his brandy than a meticulous connoisseur might have approved. “For instance, take the thunderstorm over the Pyrenees fifty years ago. If anyone had told the owner of the vineyard whence these grapes came that the storm was going to give pleasure to a group of people half a century later and three thousand miles away he would have been convinced of his informant’s insanity.”

  “Well, you can’t say the thunderstorm last night did you much good,” said Dr Harvey with a broad grin. “It certainly didn’t help you to any tracks in the courtyard.”

  “You seem to have touched a weak point in my armor,” confessed the colonel, “but again, it is possible that the storm will in the end be the solution of this mystery.”

  “When we catch the madman the mystery’ll be solved,” asserted the sheriff, who had finished his brandy. “He’s the boy we want.”

  “Perhaps,” said Colonel Black politely, “but don’t you think, Sheriff, that we’d better get down to our business here?”

  “All right.” The sheriff stood up and put his glass on the tray. “I got to go out and talk to my deputies soon, anyway, so let’s get this over with.” He faced George Coffin. “Mr Coffin, Colonel Black and I would like to ask you some questions.”

  George Coffin blinked at him through his thick spectacles. “Questions about what?”

  “We’d like to tell you privately,” said the sheriff.

  George Coffin’s jaw set stubbornly. “I think I’ve answered enough questions already. I don’t believe I’ll answer any more.”

  Surprise widened the sheriff’s eyes. He rubbed his chin with the palm of his hand. “I’m afraid you’ll have to, Mr Coffin,” he said firmly. “Either that, or you will be taken into custody.”

  “Have you got a warrant for my arrest?”

  “I have a John Doe warrant.”

  “What’s the charge?”

  “Complicity in the murder of Tobias Coffin.”

  Everyone immediately raised an outcry of protest. Mrs Coffin was especially loud in her protests. “This is ridiculous,” she kept insisting. “You can’t do a ridiculous thing like this.” Dr Harvey shook a finger at Colonel Black. “This is your doing,” he stated. “You must be mad to think George had a hand in his uncle’s murder.”

  The sheriff seemed a little dubious himself, and I wondered if his action hadn’t been a trifle drastic in view of the fact that I was the only witness he had.

  Colonel Black remained cool amid the tumult. “The sheriff hasn’t served the warrant,” he reminded Dr Harvey, “and if Mr Coffin can answer his questions satisfactorily the chances are he never will.”

  Mrs Harvey, her face gray and her body trembling violently, had taken a position beside her brother. They made a contrasting pair: George Coffin grim and collected, his jaw set and his face inscrutable back of his horn-rimmed spectacles; Mrs Harvey apparently at the point of collapse, her eyes wildly searching the sheriff’s, the colonel’s, mine for a ray of hope.

  Dr Harvey glared at Colonel Black. “You’ve been staying in this house without my approval
,” he said, “and you’ve done no good as far as I can see. Your silly meddling has done nothing but upset everyone. The quicker you get out, the better we’ll like it.”

  “Dr Harvey,” I said stiffly, “the colonel is here at my invitation.”

  “Your invitation? Bah!” The doctor’s face was brick red; he looked as though he was about to suffer a stroke of apoplexy. “What right have you to give invitations in this house? Do you think because there are rumors of a will, leaving Graymere to you, that you give the orders here? This house is the property of George Coffin and my wife, and they’ll decide who shall be a guest here.”

  Small men always seem capable of twice the fury of large men, and as the doctor seemed on the verge of attacking either me or the colonel, I thought it better not to reply to him.

  Colonel Black, arising with considerable dignity, said, “I shall be glad to leave at once, Dr Harvey.”

  To my very great surprise Mrs Harvey held out a hand toward the colonel. “No.” She had regained her composure, and her eyes were no longer wild. “I wish you would stay, Colonel. I’m sure my brother’s innocent, and I know we have nothing to fear from you. We’d like to help you get at the truth.”

  Colonel Black’s face relaxed slightly. “Thank you, Mrs Harvey. I, too, would like to get at the truth, and if my methods have been clumsy I should like to apologize. However, unless everyone here is willing to cooperate with me I should prefer not to remain as a guest.”

  “And you want George to answer the sheriff’s questions, Colonel?”

  “I think it highly important that he do so.”

  “Then I think George will answer them.”

  I was astonished to hear a note of authority in her voice, to see determination mirrored on her face. I had visualized my cousin as a woman of little character, almost devoid of personality and given to collapsing in times of stress. Now I saw I had mistaken ill health for a lack of personality, shattered nerves for cowardice.