The Body in the Beck

by Joanna Cannan

  With a sigh, for though he had got his breath, his heel burned and now his thighs were aching, he turned back to his via dolorosa and saw that the climbers, who, while he rested, had covered more ground than he had expected, were waiting for him. He set off briskly, but with every painful step his pace grew slower; when at last he stood with them, he was too breathless to utter his phrase about studying the approaches and he could have struck Francis for saying in a kindly voice, ‘It’s a long pull up when you’re not in training.’

  ‘Well, let’s get on,’ said Carey.

  ‘This is where we diverge,’ Francis told him. ‘I’ll take the Detective Inspector to the pool and you people carry on into Wasdale. You see the rocks just over there, Detective Inspector — that’s the ghyll — that’s where we’re going.’

  Price saw with relief that the ground, though rough, fell slightly towards the rocks, and he set off in better heart abreast with Francis. He heard the sound of running water and planned to wet his handkerchief in the stream and cool his sweaty face. He would be more himself then . . . really at the moment he felt hardly capable of intelligent observation, what with his wet feet, sore heel, aching legs and limp collar that was beginning to chafe his neck . . .

  Francis, who had been whistling tunelessly between his teeth, said, ‘There’s an equally deep pool below the falls, but I suppose the body was brought up here because it would be less likely to be found — I’ve often seen kids from the Youth Hostel bathing in the lower one. Or do you think the chap came up under his own steam and was told to look at the nice pool and socked from behind as he stood there?’

  Price said, ‘I should like you to tell me your reason for assuming that the deceased did not meet his death by drowning,’ and with that, catching his heel in a spike of rock concealed in the grass, he pitched forward and would have fallen on his nose but for Francis, who seized him by the arm and brought him back to balance.

  ‘I caught my foot in something. The ground here is very treacherous,’ said Price crossly.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ve lost the heel of your shoe,’ said Francis, stooping to pick up the rubber-tipped thicknesses of disintegrating cardboard. ‘Hardwick’s good with boots — he’s got a last, but this ’ere seems past praying for.’

  ‘It’s most unfortunate — how can I even walk back to the hotel? And I intended this afternoon to visit both farms and the residence.’

  ‘Haven’t you another pair?’

  ‘At home I have a sufficiency, but I only brought one pair with me. I did not anticipate that I was leaving civilization.’

  Francis handed him the heel. ‘Well, take it back. Hardwick may be able to fix it. I’d go down barefoot if I were you — it would be more comfortable.’ He moved on. ‘Look, here’s the pool, and you’re standing just where I did when I first saw the body . . .’

  *

  When Price at long last limped into his bedroom and caught sight of himself in the mirror, he was appalled to see his sweat-streaked face, his collar, not only limp but filthy where he had eased it with earthy fingers. Slumped on his bed, he inspected his feet: he had been right; both heels and at least three toes were severely blistered.

  Wearily he pulled off his coat, waistcoat, sweat-soaked shirt and woollen vest, and in dressing-gown and slippers repaired to the bathroom. After a good wash he felt better, and in a clean shirt and collar was a new man again. I’m resilient, he thought; wonderfully resilient. It’s the result of the clean life I’ve led, keeping off drink and rich food and women. Worthington swilling beer . . . granted he’s tough, but if he was really whacked — as I freely admit I was — he wouldn’t have the resilience . . .

  His self-respect restored, it irked him that he was obliged to go down to lunch in bedroom slippers. He carried his spoiled shoes with him and, meeting Gloria in the hall, asked her to give them to Hardwick for repairs, which he impressed on her were urgent. On reaching his table, he found, propped against the vase of daffodils, an untidy piece of paper on which was inscribed in a childish hand: Ring Scotland Yard as soon as possible. As Gloria returned to the room he questioned her: ‘Why wasn’t I given this message before? At what time did you take it?’

  ‘You were out, so how could I give it to you?’ said Gloria. ‘It came . . . well . . . I’d just changed my dress and got downstairs again.’

  Price said, ‘As I am not cognizant of the exact hour at which you change your dress, that is not very helpful. Don’t you know how to take telephone messages? You should always put a heading recording the date and the time received — it might be important.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s quite half an hour since I came in, and all that time this urgent message has been lying on the table. Well, it’s no use bringing in my dinner now. You’ve given yourself the trouble of keeping it hot for me.’

  With a clash of dishes, Gloria said, ‘You don’t want cold ham and salad kept hot — or do you?’

  ‘Oh, it’s only a cold meal, is it?’ was the best retort that Price could think up as he hurried to the telephone.

  Scotland Yard wished to report that the fingerprints of the Berrinsdale victim were on record. They were those of a London man, Reginald Hawkins, aged fifty-five, who had served a sentence for blackmail during the war. The records denied the existence of next of kin and, since it was understood that owing to the condition of the body an early inquest was desirable, formal identification could be made by a police officer who had handled the case and remembered the man well.

  Blackmail! Price knew that many of his colleagues considered it to be a crueller crime than killing, but he could not agree with them. If a person lived a decent life no one could blackmail him; if he messed about with women, forged, defrauded, pilfered, plagiarized, it served him right if he paid for it. Price had no God; he discounted all but four of the Ten Commandments; but his moral code was ponderous and prohibitive, the stricter for his repudiation of the Divine promise, the more formidable because he must be judged on earth. With no spark of sympathy for the stag at bay, the worm that turned, he went back to the dining-room and sat down to a plateful of ham. It was excellent ham, fresh, lean and rosy, but he ate it without enjoyment, for he was thinking deeply. When Gloria came to take away his plate, he said in a very different tone of voice from that in which he had previously addressed her: ‘I’d like to have a talk with you, miss. Young people, bless them, are so alert, so on their toes, that they often notice things which escape we older ones.’

  ‘I’m not the noticing sort. Mum says I’m always in the clouds,’ said Gloria discouragingly.

  ‘But mothers aren’t always right, are they? They tend to overestimate their sons and underestimate their daughters. I don’t want you to think that because I enquire about a person I suspect him. Do you know what I mean by ‘elimination’?’

  ‘Wiping out,’ said Gloria.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Price. ‘If I eliminate a person, I erase him, as it were, from the slate where I have written the names of everyone who might be connected with the murder. Now let us begin with a gentleman who I am particularly anxious to eliminate because he seems well-liked here — Mr Worthington.’

  Gloria’s pretty face went scarlet.

  Oh-ho, thought Price, there’s a pointer, but I’ll try the alternative angle first — it seems more likely. He said, ‘Does Mr Worthington come here every Easter?’

  ‘That’s right. At Christmas too. In summer he goes to Switzerland.’

  ‘Some people are fortunate. You and I don’t get all these holidays. Now tell me, when he’s here, does he always bring a friend with him?’

  ‘Not exactly. Mr Brown comes over from Carismouth sometimes. Mr Carey hasn’t been here before. Mr Worthington brought a gentleman from Oxford at Christmas, and then Mr Brown stayed for a week. Three’s the best number for rock-climbing.’

  ‘He’s never brought a lady?’

  ‘Not while I’ve been here,’ said Gloria.

  ‘Is he married?’

  ‘I don’t
know. Ask him. Rhubarb pie or prunes and custard?’

  ‘I’ll take prunes and custard,’ said Price and sat back congratulating himself on his acuteness. For the blackmailer the easiest of victims is the homosexual . . . mustn’t rush to conclusions, he thought; the girl coloured up . . . it may just be a fancy; naturally a country lass would be ignorant of such an unpleasant subject . . . I’ll see what I can get out of the old gentleman, Meade, when he comes back from his fishing, and the girl’s mother at the farm may have an inkling. When Gloria came back with prunes, he said, ‘Well, I expect that is all you can tell me about Mr Worthington. Now think back to the week-end before last. It was wet, I believe — snowy on the hills — you would have been surprised to see any strangers?’

  ‘If people had booked they’d have come, rain or no rain. Mr Meade and those Ogdens were here.’

  ‘I don’t mean the residents. Was there anyone about on the roads or the mountains?’

  ‘I couldn’t say. I was here all Saturday. Sunday’s my afternoon off and I went home — up to Highbeck. My friend from Ambleside didn’t come on account of the weather. Mum and I were indoors all afternoon, and I stopped the night. Mrs Hardwick said I could on account of the weather.’

  ‘I see. I shall be going to your home this afternoon to see your father. I believe he was out after sheep, so he may have seen someone. Are my shoes ready?’

  ‘Mr Hardwick says he can’t do nothing with them. He says they couldn’t stand the wet. You want leather for that. They’re like cardboard.’

  ‘That’s nonsense,’ said Price. ‘They’re a very good make of shoe. They’re Strydeouts.’

  ‘You won’t stride out in them no more,’ said Gloria with a giggle. ‘You’ll have to go in what you’ve got on. They’ll take you to Highbeck. Last year Mr Worthington went up Nob’s Buttress on the Pike before breakfast in his bedroom slippers.’

  When Price saw his shoes turned about in Hardwick’s ham hands, he had to admit that they were past repair and reluctantly consent to borrow the landlord’s Sunday boots, which were several sizes too large for him and, though only lightly nailed, seemed to weigh a ton as he dragged himself up the stony track which served the Highbeck Valley. This was a dreadful place. Though the ascent was gentle, the savage cliffs of the Pike were so near to him that he was obsessed by the fear that at any moment they might fall and crash about him; escape to his left was barred by the fangs of High Hoister, rising from rank slopes of bracken, never visited by the sun. Beside the path ran a snarling stream — the water supply of the inn, from source to mouth exposed to contamination. Sheep were everywhere; with light, lunatic eyes they peered at him from the bracken; startling him with sudden cries, they rose and fled before him. Small, wild, athletic, in no way did they resemble the large, white, woolly animals which, before he came here, he had believed all sheep to be; many, he thought, must be the refining processes to which their dingy wool was subjected before it could be transformed into such high quality articles of clothing as the Liliwarme vests and pants which he always wore and heartily recommended to his friends . . .

  In a cobbled yard at the farmstead a weather-beaten man was leaning on a gate and looking at sheep penned between hurdles. Before Price was in speaking distance a crafty-looking dog with a sharp face and raised hackles darted from the yard, and ran silently and purposefully towards him. ‘Call your dog off,’ shouted Price. The man gave a short, soft whistle, which to Price’s surprise was effective; glancing at him over its shoulder, the dog slunk back and leaped on a wall, where it crouched watching him.

  ‘Is that dog all right?’ asked Price as he turned into the yard and the strong smell of the penned sheep reached him.

  ‘’Tis a bitch, mister.’

  ‘Well, whatever it is, is it under control?’

  ‘Aye. And what’s your business?’

  ‘My business is with Mr Arnot of Highbeck Farm. Kindly inform him that Detective Inspector Price of Scotland Yard would like to speak to him.’

  ‘I’m Arnot.’

  ‘Oh well . . . pleased to meet you. I’d like a word with you, Mr Arnot — preferably in private.’

  Arnot grinned. ‘’Tis private here. Sheep won’t chatter. But step inside if you like. My missus is feeding the poultry.’

  ‘I’d like to speak to her too. Thank you, I’d prefer to go indoors. The odour of the sheep is really overpowering.’

  The kitchen was cool, though a fire burned in the range and the kettle on the hob was singing. Price, whose ideal kitchen was his own kitchenette with its polished green lino, imitation white tiles, stainless steel sink, electric cooker, enamel-topped table and patent cabinet in cream and green, saw with disdain the stone-flagged floor, the wasteful and work-making range, the cluttered dresser, the sagging basket chair; with disgust the cat on the rag mat before the fire, the orphan lambs in a box under the scrubbed wooden table.

  For Price the interview was exhausting. Arnot replied to his questions readily, but in monosyllables; aye and nay and maybe. But perseverance was rewarded when to the question, ‘While you were looking for lambs you saw no sign of life anywhere?’ the farmer answered, ‘As I coom down from t’fell there was a motor car in Berrinsdale.’

  Price said, ‘Now, that’s extremely important, Mr Arnot. And I expect you can help me further — what make of car?’

  ‘I was on t’Pike. Car was at the head of Berrinsdale. I hadn’t got my opera-glasses with me that day.’

  ‘What colour was it?’

  ‘Darkish. I can’t say more. Bessie and I were looking for lambs, not motor cars.’

  ‘I thought you were alone. Who’s this Bessie? Women are apt to notice details that don’t interest the stronger sex. She might be able to supply me with further particulars of this car.’

  Arnot burst into a loud guffaw.

  ‘Bessie’s one for noticing, but you’d have a job to get particulars from her.’ While Price waited, tight-lipped and impatient, the farmer rolled and rocked with laughter, slapped his thigh, drew out a red-spotted handkerchief and mopped his streaming eyes.

  ‘Come along, my man,’ said Price. ‘Come along. A murder case is no laughing matter.’

  Arnot sighed. ‘Ah,’ getting his breath back. ‘Ah, that tickled me, that did. You should ’a known mister, that there’s one that is allus along with a sheep-farmer. Bessie’s t’little bitch that gave you a fright just now — best little bitch as ever I owned. Last year at the Trials —’

  Price held up his hand. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Arnot, but I’m not here to listen to tales of canine sagacity, remarkable though they may be. Exactly where was this car parked? By the gate at the termination of the road?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Facing which way?’

  ‘Down dale.’

  ‘And at what time?’

  ‘Past supper-time according to my stomach. T’were getting dark.’

  ‘Don’t you carry a watch?’

  ‘Nay.’

  A stout woman in a white apron over a black dress now entered the kitchen from a side door. She carried a basket of bloomy brown eggs and a large empty saucepan.

  Arnot said, ‘Moother, this is the police detective that’s coom oop from London about that chap that was found in t’ghyll.’

  ‘Good day to you, Inspector,’ said Mrs Arnot. ‘You’ve brought the fine weather with you, I will say. It’s properly bucked oop the hens — look, Will, what d’you say to that and six setting and one hatched out yesterday. Eh, but I’m sorry for the townswomen, the daft bitches, putting oop with stinking eggs from Poland and the Lord knows where. That Screechey . . .’

  ‘T’aint Screechey now, Moother. ’Tis Webb.’

  ‘That Webb then, the daft —’

  Price said, ‘Pardon the interruption, Mrs Arnot, but I am investigating a murder case and I have little time to spare. Though the body in the stream at Berrisdale was not discovered until last Sunday, we have reason to believe that the crime took place the previous week-end. I am sure th
at you are kept busy in your kitchen, but I gather that you are in and out a good deal attending to your poultry. Did you at any time over the week-end observe any strangers in the neighbourhood or, indeed, anyone at all?’

  Mrs Arnot said, ‘All day Saturday I set eyes on no one but Will here. Even the postman, Will Wallace, didn’t come near us — I remember that because I was expecting a parcel, an overall I’d ordered out of the paper, and it didn’t come till the Monday and then it was a poor skimpy thing, not like the picture at all. Sunday afternoon my daughter, Gloria, came oop and stopped t’night as Mrs Hardwick had suggested on account of the weather. Will was out looking for sheep and he brought down those two lambs you see there. Cleo and Sheba I call them; Cleo, that’s short for Cleopatra and Sheba for the Queen of Sheba. Poor little dears, they’ve lost their moother, but they’ve got their Auntie Arnot to look after them now. Cleo, she’ll do all right — took her bottle lovely this morning, but I’m not so sure about Sheba —’

  Again Price interrupted her: ‘Did you see the car which your husband informs me was parked in Berrinsdale?’

  ‘You can’t see Berrinsdale from Highbeck Farm, Inspector, nor Highbeck Farm from Berrinsdale. I’ve never lived where I could be overlooked by my neighbours, thank the Lord. Eyes and tongues all round you — it would get on my nerves. That’s what’s wrong with these townswomen. That’s why they quarrel and fight and scratch out each other’s eyes. A dreadful case there was in Ambleside —’

  Wearily, Price said, ‘Let me recall you to the still more dreadful case in Berrinsdale. There is a gentleman staying at the inn, a Mr Worthington. It was he who found the body. Your daughter, whom I questioned this morning, seems to think highly of him. I wondered if . . . well, she’s a very pretty girl . . . you’ve no reason to think there’s anything between them?’

  ‘Now then —’ began Arnot.

  ‘Eh, but you’re on the wrong tack there.’ Mrs Arnot shouted down her husband. ‘Mr Worthington’s a gentleman in a high position at Oxford and Gloria’s got a boyfriend of her own age in Ambleside. I know what she feels for Mr Worthington — hero-worship, very common at that age and quite harmless except that it’s irritating to Gordon. I can see that he feels it —’