Gloria brought him a thick plate filled to the brim with mutton broth. As he sipped it tentatively, for Valerie, regarding the stockpot as a germ-breeder, only served tinned soup of brands you could rely on, an aged man, wearing a leather-patched coat, baggy grey flannel trousers and bedroom slippers, shuffled in and took the head of the long table. The maid handed him his soup. ‘Ah — good,’ he said and smacked his lips in the most ungentlemanly fashion.
Two ladies came in next — if indeed, Price thought, you could call them ladies, for one, the younger, wore corduroy slacks, and the other a shapeless skirt of hairy tweed; both wore thick knitted sweaters and their bare legs terminated in bedroom slippers and not the dainty kind that Valerie wore either. ‘Dr Ormonde!’ cried the old man, rising. ‘Mr Meade!’ cried the grey-haired woman and turned to her companion. ‘Gerda, this is Mr Meade — Meade’s Chimney that we did on Sunday. Mr Meade, this is my friend, Fräulein Truffer . . .’
Price thought, Fräulein, that’s German. You never know . . . is it possible that this Berrinsdale murder is tied up with the sabotage at Carismouth? These hills aren’t policed and communicaton would be easy for agents pretending to be climbers. The local police don’t think that way or they would have handled the murder themselves, but they’re an unimaginative lot, these country bumpkins. I’ll bear it in mind, thought Price, laying down his spoon and leaving a little soup in the bottom of his plate to show his refinement.
Dr Ormonde and Fräulein Truffer sat down, each with an empty chair between herself and Meade, and they began to talk about Meade’s Chimney; they had ‘done it’ on Sunday with a man they had picked up at Wasdale, a middle-aged man called Raeburn, who had done a lot in the Himalayas. Meade knew James . . . in the F.O . . . must be getting on now. ‘And here’s another Himalayan man,’ he said as Francis came in, stared at Price and sat down between Meade and Dr Ormonde. Meade effected introductions and all four began to talk about Meade’s Chimney and the chock-stone that wobbled worse than ever and a traverse out to the left which Francis said would ‘go’ if the chock-stone ‘went’. A couple came in — a fellow and a girl, decently dressed nice-looking normal young people; they were conducted to one of the small tables and the place between Meade and the Fräulein was filled by a pansy-looking chap wearing glasses and a pink checked shirt, curious leather shorts and the invariable bedroom slippers. Worthington introduced him as ‘Sebastian Carey, an aesthete of Maudlin.’
The maid set before Price a plateful of mutton, returned to offer dishes of cauliflower and potatoes, jugs of mint sauce and onion sauce and a pot of red-currant jelly. Whenever she set down or offered a dish she announced it: ‘Potatoes, please — thank you . . . Cauliflower, please — thank you . . .’ It got on his nerves: if he had to stay long in this hole he would tell her with all the sarcasm on the command of which he prided himself that though he might mistake cabbage for cauliflower, he had enough sense to recognize potatoes. Meanwhile the honeymoon couple — for so, on the evidence of a new suit and a shiny wedding ring, Price had deduced them to be — sipped orangeade, crumbled bread and looked out of the window; in loud voices the climbers, who were drinking beer, discussed the traverse of the Angel. ‘And then on your way down you found a corpse,’ said Dr Ormonde.
‘That was on my way up,’ said Francis.
‘Oh, I see. And what were your reactions? Did it affect your climbing? It’s only honest to warn you that I’m a psychiatrist.’
‘I know. Who doesn’t?’ said Francis and bowed to her.
‘My reactions were nil. I didn’t know the bloke. I didn’t like his looks. And to every man upon this earth death cometh soon or late.’
‘You’re of no interest to me,’ said the psychiatrist.
‘He’s dull, isn’t he?’ said Carey. ‘So dreadfully well-balanced. Do you think it is because he believes the world is flat? He does, you know. He’s a mediaevalist.’
‘I know. Who doesn’t?’ said Dr Ormonde and bowed to Worthington.
A queer lot and how silly they talk, thought Price contemptuously. As if anyone believes the world is flat — I suppose he was joking. A mediaevalist . . . that’s one who studies the Middle Ages. What a study! These old universities should be compelled to give up teaching what’s past and gone and to look to the future, concentrate on science and economics and sociology. The Middle Ages! No man worth calling one would waste his life mewed up in a dark old college, studying a period known to every schoolboy as a time of ignorance and cruelty and dirt and lack of amenities. He must have a kink somewhere — by heck, a streak of brutality — how’s that for psychology, Dr Ormonde? Price, waiting for the third course, studied the dark head attentively bent over a plate of mutton. As Francis had come in, Price had noticed that he wasn’t tall — about five feet ten — but he was dark and handsome, and that was how women liked ’em, and no doubt they’d spoilt him and he’d grown conceited . . . looks it, thought Price, not without reason, for Francis’s short, straight nose had arrogance, though it was contradicted by a mouth, that even in repose was contented, and warm brown eyes. But with all the faults Price could see in it, it was not, he admitted, the face of a traitor, and if the Berrinsdale murder proved to be linked with the sabotage at Carismouth, he’d revise his opinion that this was a chap to keep an eye on. Of course, thought Price, now eating fruit salad, I’m only kidding . . . physiognomy’s no pointer, but it’s amusing later to look back and check one’s first impressions . . .
He refused cheese, which never suited him. He took a sip of coffee, but besides being much too hot it was far too strong and, fearing the discomfort of heartburn, he set down his cup, left the room, passed along the short, dark corridor and, seeing no sign of any kind of office or reception desk, rapped on the door of the kitchen. It opened and Hardwick stood there, beer mug in hand.
Price said, ‘I’d like, if convenient, to inspect your register. And I’ve papers to go through — have you a room you could put at my disposal for the duration of my investigations? Later this evening I may require to supplement the existing statements by further questions, in which case privacy would become a necessity.’
Hardwick said, ‘There’s a small bar out back, but it’s not verra private. Ah reckon the drawing-room would be best. We’ve just lit the fire for the ladies, but I dare say they’d as soon be in the smoke-room with the gents.’
He opened a door on the opposite side of the hall to the dining-room and Price found himself in a tiny room furnished with a great variety of gimcrack tables and minute armchairs. A small bright fire was crackling under a chimney-piece draped with tasselled plush and ornamented with the cheap china figures which are won at country fairs. On the wall hung a photograph of Mr Ruskin in the garden at Brantwood, a weak water-colour of Dove Cottage, and above the chimney-piece a photograph of the Matterhorn. The small faded Axminster carpet was almost covered by the large black hearth-rug.
‘Not much room to spread out,’ said Price discontentedly.
‘There never is in drawing-rooms. If we was to move some of them knick-knacks we could put two of them tables together, Ah dare say.’
Price said impatiently, ‘Oh, I shall manage.’ If this slow-speaking, slow-moving fellow got to shifting knick-knacks he’d never be done. ‘All I require now is the hotel register.’
‘Ah’ll go for it. Would you care for a drink of anything?’ Hardwick said.
‘No, thank you — just the register.’
By the time that Hardwick returned Price was deep in the report from the police-surgeon. There was no doubt that the head wound was the cause of death; deeply indented, it appeared to have been struck by a blow from some jagged instrument similar in character to the broken-off length of iron which had been found with the body. The body had been immersed in water for approximately a week. It was the body of a well-nourished man of fifty to fifty-five years of age and showed no traces of disease.
The body had been found by Francis Edward Worthington, Master of Arts, Fellow of St Crispin’s
College, Goldsmiths’ Reader in Mediaeval History in the University of Oxford. On Sunday the fourteenth of April at approximately ten a.m. while following the track from Berrinsdale to the Black Head Pass with the object of attempting a new climb on the Angel Rock, Worthington had turned aside to inspect the condition of a pool in which he proposed later to bathe. Perceiving what at first appeared to be a bundle of clothes, he had climbed down to the pool, turned the body over and, observing that life was long extinct, had continued to the pass, where he had met Mr David Brown, who had walked over from Wasdale to join him for the climb. He had mentioned his discovery to Mr Brown and on returning to Berrinsdale in the late afternoon, Mr Brown had made a detour to inspect the body, which had floated back to its original position beneath an overhanging boulder. On arriving at the hotel, Worthington had reported his discovery to the proprietor, William Hardwick, who had telephoned to Divisional Headquarters to inform the police.
Price thought: from ten a.m. till ‘late afternoon’ . . . whatever was he thinking of? Any responsible person finding a dead body hurries with a minimum of delay to report it. He doesn’t go climbing rocks. There’s something fishy there, and here too . . . he turned aside to inspect a pool in which he proposed later to bathe. Whatever would he do that for? Well, possibly to ascertain the temperature of the water before he suggested bathing . . . or possibly because the moment had come when he wanted the body to be found. Then why delay in reporting it? Wait a minute . . . perhaps he wished to remove some evidence before Mr Brown should see it . . . then why did he mention to Brown that he had found the body . . . why not have waited and simply suggested a bathe on the way down? Perhaps he let slip that he had been to the pool or perhaps Brown from a superior elevation had observed him. It’s certainly fishy, but I’m going too fast with Worthington — he may not have been here a week ago . . .
He opened the register, a fat leather book entitled Visitors. The pages were ruled in columns headed: date; name; address; nationality and comments; according to their natures, patrons of the hotel had ignored the last column or filled it with humorous verses, fulsome compliments or lists of climbs. David Brown, 21 Brooke Street, Carismouth, had written: With F. E. Worthington (leader) first traverse of the Angel Rock from west to east, 4 hours, severe to v. severe. Francis Worthington had made no entry.
Price looked for a bell and found a black-japanned old-fashioned thing in the wall beside the fireplace. He pulled it sharply and could hear a jangle outside. After a considerable interval, Hardwick appeared.
Price said, ‘Is it not your custom to request your visitors to register on arrival at the hotel?’
‘It is and it isn’t,’ replied Hardwick. ‘The main on ’em signs the book when they goes.’
‘But that isn’t the rule. The law requires them to register on arrival. In the case of suspicious characters, it is useless to obtain particulars when they have gone.’
‘Lord love you, Inspector, we don’t get no suspicious characters in Berrinsdale.’
Price smiled. ‘You don’t? Well, you’ve had a murder . . .’
‘’Tweren’t done from t’hotel,’ said Hardwick quickly. ‘Nor from t’farms neither. Chap was a stranger and a stranger did for him. Or so Ah should say.’
‘That remains to be seen. The first step in my investigations is to establish who was in the valley at the time that the deceased met his end. Owing to the inefficient way in which you keep your register, it is of little if any assistance to me. When did Mr Worthington arrive?’
‘Saturday neet.’
‘This last Saturday?’
‘Aye.’
‘Oh.’ Price made a note. ‘You understand that it is the previous week-end I am interested in. Was there anyone staying here then who has not yet completed the form?’
‘Eh?’
‘Entered his name in the book . . .’
‘Oh, aye. Mr Meade. He coom on the first of the moonth. And that honeymoon couple, Mr and Mrs Ogden from Reading’ — he pronounced it Reeding — ‘down Berkshire way. You must have seen ’em at dinner. They coom on the Friday — Friday the fifth that ’ud be.’
‘Now mind how you answer — this is important. During that week-end there was no one but the Ogdens, Mr Meade, you, your wife and the waitress in the hotel?’
‘And Tom.’
‘Who’s Tom?’
‘The lad that cleans the boots and knives and helps me with my bit of farming. But you needn’t worry about Tom. He’s a bit simple, so I keep him under my eye.’
‘What’s his surname?’
‘That no man knows. Left at the farm he was by an evacuee.’
‘Have you adopted him?’
‘Nay. He just sticks around.’
Price said, ‘It sounds to me very irregular. However, that’s not what I’m here to investigate. Did no one call for a meal or a drink during that week-end?’
‘Nay. It was terrible weather. Raining cats and dogs down here and snow on t’pass. You ask Mr Meade. If there’d been anyone on t’fells on t’Sunday, Arnot of Highbeck Farm is the man you mun get in touch with. He went oop after some lambs.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind. It seems to me very curious that a stranger should have come unnoticed into this deserted valley — much less two strangers, as you believe. I understand that to reach the stream where the body was found they must almost have passed your door.’
Hardwick said, ‘There’s a track comes up t’dale on t’other side of the water — we call it t’owd roed. If so be as you wanted to get to the Langdales from here, you’d go down that way and turn off up t’path to Ribber Pass between Cat’s Howe and Silver Screes. That’s short of t’Hall. T’owd roed goes on and joins our roed at Dale Farm. It passes through the farmyard, so they’d have noticed any strangers goin’ by.’
‘I’ll visit these places tomorrow and, of course, the scene of the crime. Is it far? I would prefer not to trouble the Superintendent for a police car, but there must be a garage in the vicinity where I could hire a car.’
Hardwick grinned. ‘You won’t get a car oop to t’ghyll, Inspector. T’roed ends at t’bridge here and after that ’tis Shanks’s mare. Gloria’s young man gets up to Highbeck Farm on his motorbike and Dale Farm’s got a guid drive down to the high roed — they keep a car. But Berrinsdale’s not all that long. You’ll do best on your feet. ’Tis but a step from here to either of t’farms, or to t’Hall if you want to enquire there.’
‘Well, if that is so, I’ll walk it.’
Hardwick said, ‘’Twould be a waste of public money to do otherwise.’
Nettled, Price snapped, ‘Then that will be all tonight, thank you, except that I’d be obliged if you would inform Mr Worthington that I would appreciate a word with him.’
‘I’ll tell him. And would you care for a drink now, sir?’
‘No, thank you,’ said Price.
He was jotting down notes when Francis came into the room, beer mug in hand and so noiselessly that Price jumped and dropped his Biro pen.
‘Sorry I startled you,’ said Francis amiably. ‘I saw you at dinner. You’re Detective Inspector Price, I understand?’
‘Correct,’ said Price. ‘And I’m addressing Mr Worthington of Oxford. Take a seat, Mr Worthington. There are one or two questions I should like to ask you just as a matter of routine.’
‘Would you like a drink?’ asked Francis.
‘No, thank you. I do not care for beer.’
‘Something else, then? A whisky or a port? I’m afraid that Hardwick doesn’t rise to liqueurs.’
‘No, thank you. Nothing at all. Now, Mr Worthington, there are one or two points in the statement you made to the police sergeant on Sunday evening which are not quite clear. Firstly: for what purpose did you leave the track you were following to the pass and walk some considerable distance — correct me if I am wrong — to the pool where you found the body?’
Francis put a brown hand into the ragged pocket of his leather-patched tweed coat, brought fo
rth a crushed packet of Goldflakes and held them out to Price.
‘No, thank you. I do not smoke,’ said Price.
Francis lit a cigarette, exhaled, took a gulp of beer and said, ‘Well, you’ll find that from the track to the beck is only a step really. I was in good time and, as I explained to the sergeant, that particular pool is where I usually bathe when I’m here in good enough weather. I meant to suggest a bathe later on to David Brown, so I went to make sure that the pool was all right — I’ve known there to be dead sheep in the beck after the winter.’
‘Surely the shepherds see to that?’
‘They can’t see everywhere. The corpse wasn’t discovered for a week. As Mr Meade said on Sunday, fortunately our water supply comes from the High Beck.’
Price looked horrified. ‘Do I understand that in this hotel we drink the water from a stream which may at any time be contaminated by the body of a dead animal?’
Francis laughed. ‘Well, in London you drink Oxford’s bathwater.’
‘You can’t put it quite like that, Mr Worthington. Before the water reaches the Metropolis it has been scientifically purified.’
‘Well, here it’s naturally purified.’
‘It’s not the same thing. However — to continue. Surely time and energy would have been saved if you had waited to inspect the pool for possible pollution until you went there for the purpose of bathing?’
Francis said, ‘But I didn’t want to save time and energy. The way I did it, we should have been prepared to bathe higher up, if there had been a dead sheep or anything. Anyhow, does it matter?’
The Body in the Beck Page 3
