Dancing Death

by Christopher Bush

  Shirleys—who of course had published The Economics of a Spendthrift—had rung him up at his sister’s place in Sussex, where he’d been spending the week-end, and had reminded him of that very tentative reply he’d given to their recent suggestion of a species of sequel. As the Isotta sauntered round the bend, he was wondering what he should really call the book—if he actually did it. But the title wouldn’t come. Half a dozen attracted, and were discarded—then things happened! There was the furious gurgling of a horn, Palmer’s hand wrenched round the wheel; there was the sound of his voice apologising, his own instinctive jamming on of brakes—and he found the Isotta broadside to the road, and a large, blue tourer with her radiator almost in the hedge on the other side.

  Travers blinked and looked decidedly foolish. He cut short Palmer’s reiterated apologies with a “Damn good job you did!”, drew the Isotta to the grass verge, then hopped out to square matters. Out of the other car came a mightily indignant figure; tallish, slightly stooping, with keen eyes that would have looked positively fierce but for the modifying, effect of the lines at their corners and the monstrous, overhanging moustache that curtained the mouth.

  “I say, sir! I don’t know what the devil you think you’re doing”—That was Wharton.

  “I say! I’m frightfully sorry about this”—Travers had begun at the same time. Then they recognised each other.

  “Hallo, George!” Travers became most solicitous. “I say! I’m most awfully sorry about this business. First time I’ve done such a thing in my life.”

  Wharton shoved out his hand and smiled—but with reservations. The unkind might have said he was remembering to reprimand the nephew of the Chief Commissioner.

  “Lucky for you we weren’t going very fast!” Then a very obvious sarcasm to relieve his feelings. “Coming from a week-end—or going on one? ”

  Travers smiled modestly. “Any way you like, George. But don’t be angry with me! I couldn’t bear it.” He fished out a ten-bob note and passed it over to Wharton’s chauffeur, with a further apology, then, “What are you doing down here, George?” He passed over his cigarette case and held the lighter while the General—as the Yard knew him—puffed and pondered.

  “Know where Frenchman’s Rise is?”

  “Frenchman’s Rise?” Travers frowned. “Yes. Back to the village, then the first to the left. About a mile and a half on—or maybe more.” No comment forthcoming, he put the question blatantly. “What’s on there?”

  “Don’t know quite. Just going to find out.” Wharton hunched his shoulders into the heavy coat as if to indicate the sooner the better.

  “The county people wouldn’t want you if it weren’t serious,” Travers told him admonishingly. Then his face brightened and he slipped his arm through the other’s. “I’ll show you the road. Palmer, run the car into the Dolphin yard and wait for me there!”

  Somehow Wharton had seen that coming. Had the approach been made at his room in the Yard, he might have been firm; at the least he might have been hopeful in promises. He might, in fact, have made sufficient of the atmosphere to have hinted a delicate acknowledgment of former favours received, and deprecated the officialdom that prevented the conferring of more. But the present situation was vastly different. Almost before he knew it, Travers was steering him into the car. In half a minute they’d backed out and were off again—and Wharton hadn’t said a word.

  “I’ll give your man the tip where to turn,” said Travers reassuringly. “Devilishly cold to-day. George; what?”

  “What do you expect in November?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Travers mildly. “I’ve known some damn good days in November, George, and I’m only a kitten compared with you. Er—what are you expecting to find when you get to Frenchman’s Rise?”

  Wharton had to smile somewhere inside. Travers was so amazingly obvious. In any case, there he was, and there, for the time being, he looked like remaining. His tone became the least bit more friendly.

  “Case of suicide—or it isn’t suicide. Mazer seems to—”

  “Colonel Mazer?”

  “That’s the fellow. Chief Constable. Know him?”

  “Oh, rather! He thinks an awful lot of me.”

  “Does he!” grunted Wharton. “He’d be thinking a damn sight less if he’d been in my car! However, what was I saying? He’s got hold of either a remarkably smart medical man or a damnably romantic one. At any rate he got us on the phone early this morning. From what I can gather it might be a mare’s nest—but then again it mightn’t.”

  “Mazer’s a bit of a fusser,” said Travers. “Awful good chap, mind you. Er—what’s the suicide? Shooting? poisoning? or what?”

  “Hanging!”

  Travers made a face. “Plebeian enough!” He tapped at the window and the car drew into a side road. It was a lane really; crudely metalled, and in summer with the hedges more dense, a death-trap for a reckless driver. “Any other of your people coming?”

  “Not unless they’re wanted,” said Wharton. “They can be along in no time if it’s necessary.”

  “Of course!” Travers smiled. “Rather fatuous remark of mine. Any other news?”

  “None—except that it’s an old man with grey whiskers, who has an American nephew, and might have been hanging there for weeks if it hadn’t been for a cat.”

  “Really!” Travers wondered if the General was pulling his leg. “Faithful things—cats!”

  Wharton didn’t rise to it. He peered out of the window.

  “Gloomy sort of road, this.”

  “Pretty enough in the summer, and too much off the track for trippers.” The car gave a jolt that nearly tipped them out of their seats. “Nearly there now. The road peters out against the house.”

  “How do you come to know so much about it?” asked Wharton suspiciously.

  “Looked it over once—for my sister. She was cottage hunting for a friend.”

  The car lurched again in a grass hollow, then stopped. Wharton stepped out and saw Frenchman’s Rise for the first time—and didn’t think much of it. All he saw was a thatched cottage with, probably, six rooms; an untidy garden, a quaint dormer window, and a low, surrounding brick wall. In the summer with its wall roses aflame and its flagged path edged with flowers, it might have had an appeal which it certainly lacked at the moment. The trees, which almost hemmed it in, looked flaunting enough in their last leaves and yet, somehow severe and oppressive, and the meadow that fronted it damp and ragged. Beyond was nothing—but more trees.

  As Travers stepped out, two men emerged from the front door; one an elderly man with trim military moustache and erect bearing, the other a youngish man, black-coated, red-haired, of florid complexion, and wearing horn-rims almost as large as those of Travers himself.

  “Hallo, Colonel! This is Superintendent Wharton!”

  Mazer forebore to ask questions as he shook hands. He indicated his companion.

  “This is Doctor Vallance, whom I mentioned to you, Superintendent.”

  “Capital!” said Wharton, then cleared his throat. “Better get inside and talk it over. Where is he? In one of those sheds?”

  “Attic room upstairs—where that window’s in the roof.”

  They passed the plain-clothes man at the door and entered a tiny paved hall, then through a low door into what looked like the living-room. It was bigger than Travers expected and its furnishings were quiet and in good taste. The diamond-paned windows, the coloured chintz, the genuine, unpretentious furniture were really delightful. Then from somewhere out at the back, a sergeant popped his head inside the far door.

  “Oh, just a minute, Ansell!” said Mazer. “Will you see them now? or the body first?”

  “Better see them first,” said Wharton

  “Them” turned out to be a local house-agent—Large by name—and a young labourer of the name of Bent. Wharton had Bent in first. His story was this: Early the previous afternoon he’d come that way looking for some bullocks that had broken bounds, and
he’d caught sight of a white kitten at the gable window. He’d known the house was empty, since in that queer way in which things in the country have the habit of getting known, he’d heard that the new owner wasn’t in yet. However, he’d knocked and knocked, then had decided to release the fastener of the window by breaking a pane. No ladder being available he’d got on the roof by means of the lean-to shed, then had got astride the gable. When he looked into the room he saw a body swinging from a rope and, scared stiff, had bolted for the police. Wharton asked no questions till he’d gone.

  “Sounds pretty fishy. I suppose he wasn’t trying to make an entry?”

  “We don’t think he’s that sort,” said Mazer. “Still we’re making inquiries. Even then it wouldn’t affect the case of the—er—man upstairs.”

  Wharton nodded. “How’d the cat get in? Left in?” The other shook his head. “It wasn’t left in. If it had been, I think the evidence will show you it ought to have been emaciated, which it wasn’t. It was merely hungry. You’ll be able to judge for yourself, but we think it got in through a window with a broken pane, just above that lean-to shed.”

  Wharton nodded again. “I expect you people are right. And, as you say, it’s immaterial. Bring the other fellow in, will you?”

  Large’s story was not in the least bit interesting. Just under a month previously he’d inserted an advertisement in the Sunday papers for letting furnished the cottage known as Frenchman’s Rise. It was his own property and had just been vacated by a tenant. The same week he was approached direct by an American gentleman—name of Strawson—who had taken an option on it for a week. He said he wanted it for an uncle of his, at present in a spa, and when he took possession, this uncle would bring his own servants. Four or five days later, the American had returned and concluded the affair, paying down a quarter’s rent. He proposed to live there himself for a few days with his own man to look after him and clean up the house, till the uncle—now down with flu—could take over. Thereupon Strawson had occupied the cottage for some days, till, in fact, about ten days before, when he’d left the district. The letter which he’d sent said that he and his man had to return to America at once, but the uncle had the keys and would take possession at his leisure. Mr. Large wasn’t to get alarmed if that wasn’t for some weeks.

  “You weren’t alarmed?” asked Wharton.

  “Why should I be?” said Large. “There was nothing unusual about the situation—and I had my money!”

  “Exactly! And you think this man upstairs is the uncle?”

  “Well, I don’t know. From what I’ve heard it might be—but of course I’ve never seen him . . . alive that is.” Wharton nodded, thought things over for a moment, then turned to Mazer. “Perhaps Mr. Large wouldn’t mind waiting for a bit till we’ve had a look upstairs.”

  Outside the door the colonel halted.

  “Something I’d like you to see in this other room.” He opened the door of what appeared to be a small sitting-room—a room as charming in a different way as the one they’d just left. Inside the door, short of the gate-legged table, stood an unopened suitcase.

  “If we believe this evidence,” said Mazer, “he left his bag here as soon as he entered the house; then went straight upstairs and did himself in. There’s no food in the house. There’s his hat and things where he’d laid ’em down.”

  “Finger-prints?”

  “Never a one—and we’ve been over the place for hours.”

  “Who drove him here?”

  “We don’t know. We’re trying to find out.”

  “And you’ve no idea who he is? You don’t even know his name?”

  “Don’t know a thing. He might be anybody.” Wharton grunted. “Well, we’ll have a look at him!” Mazer led the way up to the back bedroom where a short flight of steps went almost vertically to the attic. Wharton followed and Travers came last. The room itself would have been a perfect wedge but for its scant three foot of wall all round before it caved in to form the steep angle. It was a cleanly room, its rafters polished black and its floor spotless; its furniture a solitary chair that lay where the foot of the dead man probably kicked it after he’d adjusted the noose to his neck.

  The dead man himself was swinging from a short length of stout cord attached to a hook in a beam that ran across the narrow top of the wedge. Mazer must have touched him, for the body twirled slowly as if protesting sullenly against such a molestation. His height would be less than five foot six; his age, judging by the hair and general appearance, somewhere about sixty. As Wharton steadied the body and turned the face round, Travers took one look at it—and found it enough. The face was a horrible greyish green with a beard cut in that curious, mutton-chop fashion of fifty years ago. The clothes were navy blue, the shoes black, the collar white and the tie black. So much for the reasonably obvious.

  “How long’s he been dead?” asked Wharton, sniffing the air.

  “I should say exactly in accordance with Large’s evidence,” said Vallance. “Ten days or perhaps just under. The weather’s been very sharp or the atmosphere’d have been worse.”

  “Quite! Any footprints about, Colonel?”

  “None. And not a print of any sort.”

  “And there’s been nobody tramping around except your own people?”

  “Most decidedly not! I don’t expect they tramped around, as you call it, either!”

  “Good!” said Wharton placatingly, and contemplated the body for a moment or two. He nodded to himself, why, heaven knew.

  “Now then, doctor! What are your ideas about all this?”

  Vallance took the centre of the stage at once. You might have said he’d been straining at the leash.

  “If you don’t mind stepping up close.”

  Wharton duly went closer. Travers moved over from his retreat by the window. Vallance, like a guide in a museum, began his lecture.

  “You notice he’s been used to wearing glasses—”

  “Just a minute!” interrupted Wharton, and turned to Mazer. “Where are they? In that bag downstairs?”

  “Yes. There are two pairs in the bag.”

  Wharton nodded. “We shall have to see if they’re for long or short sight. If he wore ’em all the time you’d have expected him to place ’em somewhere close by, before he put that rope on. Sorry, doctor! Carry on!”

  “Look at the chin here. See the abrasion? Before death, as you notice.” Travers shuddered as the doctor mauled the face about with his fingers then he suddenly sniffed—and put his handkerchief to his nose and mouth.

  “Something else,” went on Vallance. “I got on the chair and found a corresponding contusion at the back of the skull, where he fell after the blow. If you don’t think I’m taking a liberty in saying so, my opinion is that he was knocked down first and hanged after!”

  Wharton frowned slightly. “Perhaps we’re getting on a wee bit ahead. What you’re implying is, in plain English, that somebody knocked him out by a blow to the point, then hanged him to make it look like suicide.”

  “Exactly!” Vallance nodded excitedly. “Now have a look here, at the whiskers. See the jagged edge? Look at this incised wound! Look at it with your glass! . . . There isn’t a bit of haemorrhage, is there?”

  Wharton continued to look, then grunted. “I get you. You think he was shaved after death.”

  Vallance smiled. “Isn’t it obvious, really? And look at the edges again, where the whiskers were trimmed. It looks to me as plain as a pikestaff. He had a full beard. After death it was shaved and cut back to this shape.” Wharton opened his mouth but the other was too quick. “And look at his hair! That’s been cut, too—by a very crude amateur!”

  “Just a minute!” Wharton got out his glass again. Those points about the hair interested him for the merest second, then he got the chair and examined the neck. “Hm! Ligature mark seems all right. No actual facial signs of strangulation, if I may put it like that.”

  “There wouldn’t be!” Vallance told him, with just a
touch of impatience, it seemed to Travers. “If the ligature was all right, he’d pop off peacefully . . . I mean if he did hang himself, which he didn’t.”

  But Wharton was scribbling in his notebook. He tore out a leaf and handed it to Mazer. “Don’t you think I’m using you as an errand boy, Colonel, but will you see that goes off to the Yard at once. Very urgent. You’ll see what it is.”

  He turned to the doctor. “Anything else?”

  Vallance looked rather hurt. “I’m afraid there isn’t. I thought that was quite enough to—er—justify a report to Colonel Mazer—and to justify us not cutting him down.”

  Wharton patted him gently on the back, and gave his most expansive smile. “You did absolutely right! If you’ll pardon me saying so, you’re a man in a thousand. That reminds me. You’ll confer of course with my own man—Menzies. Know him?”

  Vallance smiled. “Oh yes! I know Menzies all right!”

  “Good!” said Wharton. “I naturally don’t want to anticipate what you two’ll do, but you’ll soon find out if death was due to asphyxia or not.”

  Travers’ voice came almost apologetically from the window. “Oh, doctor! If he’s been dead ten days, has the body shrunk appreciably?”

  “Shrunk!” Vallance smiled. “That opens an extraordinarily big question. It depends on . . . well, all sorts of things.”

  “I just wondered,” said Travers, still very diffidently.“Don’t you think, George, that suit’s too big for him?”

  Wharton pursed his lips and ran his eye methodically from collar to shoes. “Hm! Might be. Mind you, I saw the sleeves were a bit long but I put that down to the droop of the body.”

  “Excuse me!” said Travers. “May I?” and with handkerchief well to his nose he undid the waistcoat and folded it back. What else he did Wharton couldn’t see, but when he’d finished he removed his glasses and began polishing them nervously. “I don’t know if you people will agree with me, but if that theory of the doctor’s is as right as it seems, then I’d add that the person who did the hanging was about three inches taller than the dead man”—he smiled—“always assuming he owned that suit.”