A Bone and a Hank of Hair

by Leo Bruce

  “No,” said Carolus. “Did you know the Rathbones?”

  “The man came in here occasionally. You know, I feel sure I’ve met you somewhere. Was it in the RHF?”

  “The . . .”

  “Royal Huntingdonshire Fusiliers. My old mob. Very decent crowd on the whole. I remember just after the war broke out . . .”

  Not that, resolved Carolus, and interrupted with such firmness that even Mr Lofting was halted.

  “You say Rathbone came in. Did he ever bring his wife?”

  “Good lord, no! She was supposed to be a strict T.T. Yes, just after war broke out we were stationed outside Hastings . . .”

  “That’s the town from which the Rathbones moved here. Did he ever mention it?”

  Mr Lofting seemed a little shaken as though he recognized that the opposition was tough, but he was not giving in yet.

  “Was it? No. Scarcely spoke when he came in. Secretive type. As I was telling you, we were in this place outside Hastings and there was a fellow in our mess called Glossop, an old Attleborovian, very good scout . . .”

  Desperate remedies, decided Carolus. “I’ve taken the Rathbones’ cottage furnished,” he announced.

  This pulled up Mr Lofting, mess, good scouts and all.

  “Taken it?” he gasped. “Going to live there? You must be raving, old man. It’s a pest-house.”

  “Think so? It suits me. I shan’t move in till after Christmas, though. That’s why I want to put up here tonight, if you can manage it.”

  “The wife will be down in a minute,” said Mr Lofting shakily.

  “Good,” replied Carolus, and was about to turn away when Mr Lofting made one last rather feeble fling.

  “This chap I was telling you about,” he said.

  “Who? Rathbone? What were you going to say?”

  “No. No. Old Glossop. We were . . .”

  But just then two customers walked in and, more accustomed to Mr Lofting than was Carolus, they took no chances.

  “Pint of bitter,” said one, almost threateningly. “What you having, Ted? And a light ale.” He turned squarely to Carolus. “Mild weather for Christmas, isn’t it?” he asked.

  Carolus, moving away from the bar, agreed that it was.

  Mrs Lofting joined her husband. Admirably matched, Carolus thought. She was a sleek and soignée chain-smoker.

  “Yes, we can manage a room,” she told Carolus. “We’ve only been here a few months. Quite an experience, I can tell you. My husband’s an aircraft designer really, but we thought we’d try running a country pub. Quite fun, in a way.” She touched her back hair. “Bit of a tie, of course. No holidays for us. Still, we keep going.”

  When Fred Spender the postman came in, and had been identified in an undertone by Mr Lofting, Carolus managed to chat with him over a drink. He was the only person of whom Carolus yet knew—except the woman in the teashop—who had seen Mrs Rathbone from close at hand. He talked willingly enough.

  “Yes, I’ve seen her. Not to say often, but more than anyone else I dare say. She was a big woman . . .”

  “That’s what I want to know. There are such conflicting reports. You’re sure she was tall?”

  “Certainly I am. Tall and big-made. Funny-looking old crow. Didn’t talk much. Just ‘thank you’ when I handed her the letters. But always had a smile. I sometimes wondered whether she drank, she was that cheery-looking. She used a lot of powder on her face.”

  “Really?”

  “Thick, it looked. Grey-haired. Always wore glasses. Big ear-rings. Drove the car very well. What else can I tell you?”

  “When did you see her last?”

  “Some weeks ago now. I don’t very often have to go out there, and the last time I went it was Rathbone opened the door. He was just the opposite. Gloomy-looking. Seemed half-scared of something; but he would now and again exchange a few words. He told me that morning Mrs Rathbone had gone away. I said I supposed she’d be back for Christmas and he gave me a queer old look. ‘I suppose so,’ he said and went inside. Personally, I don’t believe he’s done for her. He didn’t seem the type somehow.”

  Fred was interrupted by the entrance of a very portly woman who bought herself a bottle of stout and sat wheezing heavily on the bench beside them.

  “Evening, Mrs Luggett,” said Fred.

  “Evening, Fred.” It was a deep and stertorous greeting. “Been mild, hasn’t it?” She had a fine collection of chins and little dark eyes. She looked as though, once seated, she would scarcely be able to rise.

  “Come on your bicycle?” asked Fred.

  “Of course I did. I can get about.”

  “She can get about,” said Fred proudly to Carolus. “You should see her on her old bike.”

  “Well, why not?” asked Mrs Luggett. “Weight’s not everything, my boy. There’s some of the skinny ones can’t do what I can.” She swallowed her stout. “There. That’s better,” she gasped.

  “This gentleman’s been inquiring about Rathbones’,” said Fred by way of introduction.

  “Oh, them!” said Mrs Luggett without interest.

  “I’ve taken their house,” explained Carolus. To his delight she was the first person to hear this news who showed no surprise or alarm.

  “Oh, you have,” she said, and gazed at her empty glass. Carolus refilled all three. He decided to go straight to the point.

  “I’m hoping to find someone to clean the place out,” he said. Mrs Luggett said “Cheerio”, but made no reply to his remark. Her eyes were towards the bar.

  “After Christmas, of course,” Carolus added.

  There was still no response for nearly a minute, then Mrs Luggett wheezed thoughtfully: “How much were you thinking of paying?”

  “A pound a day,” said Carolus promptly.

  “What do you call a day? I’ve got my own place to do.” Still her eyes never left the bottles above the landlord’s head.

  “Oh, whatever time you can give. I want to move in the day after Boxing Day.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” agreed Mrs Luggett. “I suppose they’d got everything?”

  “I’m buying new bedding,” said Carolus. “I’m going out there tomorrow morning to see what’s wanted. Then the next day’s Christmas Eve. I’ll be here on Tuesday evening.”

  “Leave me the keys when you go, then. Better leave them here. I’ll go out there and do what I can. They say he did for her, but I don’t take any notice of that. More likely she did for him by the look of them. Still, I’ll see what I can manage. You want fires lit, and that?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Well, I dare say I can do that much. I’m surprised the police haven’t been round after all the talk there’s been; but they may know more than we think. Yes, I don’t mind giving the place a dust-over. I should think it wants it after them. Not that I mind what they say . . .”

  Anticipating that he might be invited to join the Loftings in a chatty evening meal after closing time, Carolus asked for some bread and cheese in the bar.

  “Wish I could remember where I’ve met you, old man,” said Mr Lofting when he was up at the counter. “You’re not a member of the RAC, are you?”

  “No. Are you?”

  “Not actually. But I thought I’d seen you there. Used to go in with a very good type who belonged to it—Old Radcliff-on-Trentian. Must be somewhere else I’ve seen you. You weren’t in Cairo during the war? No? Ah, here’s your bread and cheese. I shall think of it in a minute.”

  Carolus went up to bed before closing time and, rising at eight, was able to pay his bill to Mrs Lofting and escape before further reminiscences were revived. He drove out to Glose Cottage. Even in the gusty daylight it looked as cheerless and bleak as yesterday. Carolus wasted no time and, opening the double gates, turned the big car into the garage and shut the doors. There was no reason to advertise his presence in the house.

  Before beginning the minute search he intended to make, he passed slowly through the rooms. The cause of the smell
he had noticed—or at least a part of it—was revealed when he opened a door in the kitchen to find a larder with decaying food in it. It seemed that whoever had last eaten a meal in the house had not waited to wash up but had shoved its remains, dirty plates and all, on the larder shelves. Mildew had formed on something that might once have been stew, and a piece of cheese was covered with a substance that resembled lichen. Drawing on gloves, Carolus made a careful examination of this, and saw that stacked on the shelves behind it were a good many tins of various foodstuffs. Yet, what surprised him was that, although all this had been left as though in panic, the bedroom was stripped to the last rag of clothing. One would have thought that something useless would have remained, old worn-out shoes, perhaps, or a battered hat. There was nothing. Not one item of masculine or feminine attire, not a broken suitcase; only the two beds with their bedding neatly arranged and the rest of the furniture.

  Carolus examined these beds and, beyond the fact that both mattresses seemed equally dented and worn, he found nothing noteworthy about them. The sheets and pillowcases of one bed were clean; on the other they seemed to have been changed recently, but slept in once or twice, perhaps.

  The top of the dressing-table was dusty and a crack in it held a residuum of dust. He scraped this out with a knife and carefully put it into an envelope. He was smiling slightly as he did so. How his more lenient critic would enjoy calling these methods “corny”! But in these rather odd circumstances they were the only methods.

  Next he proceeded to another piece of routine work. He searched the outhouse for a receptacle and found an old sack. (He was relieved as he did so to see a useful stock of coal there.) Bringing the sack in, he began very carefully to fill it with all the ashes left in the dining-room fireplace and the kitchen range. It was a long and dirty job, for no cinder was missed, and when he had finished he carried the sack across to the garage and stowed it in the boot of the car.

  Then, still wearing gloves, he began a more detailed search, turning out ornamental pots to examine their contents, opening every cupboard and drawer. He found nothing in the dining-room which he preserved, but in the so-called drawing-room was a knee-hole writing-desk with eight drawers in it. He started with the top left one, and running down that side found nothing, not so much as a drawing-pin. It was probable that, if they had been in use, they had been pulled right out and their contents tipped into some receptacle; but, when he reached the bottom drawer on the right, he found it nearly full of papers. There could be only one reasonable explanation. Whoever had emptied the desk had done so thoroughly but, at the last, some distraction or sheer forgetfulness had caused him to omit a drawer.

  Carolus did not examine these papers. He would have plenty of time to do so later. But he noticed a chequebook on the top with “Joint A/c” written on it. The cheques were printed “Westlays and Metropolitan Bank, Folkestone”. He made a mental note of that.

  But he went farther. “Might almost be wearing a deerstalker,” he thought, as he pulled from his pocket a magnifying-glass. In none of his investigations had he used such a thing, for it was entirely foreign to his usual methods. He had never believed greatly in forensic chemistry or the use of the microscope or even, except in rare cases, fingerprints; but this was a rare case.

  Slowly, methodically, patiently, he began to go over the cloth surfaces of the room, the backs of chairs and the shelves in the bathroom. It took him nearly two hours to satisfy himself, and at the end of that time all he had to show for his work was a few long hairs, which he carefully sealed in another envelope.

  He went out to the small garden at the back of the house and found it completely overgrown. Inspection of the area showed no place where the earth had been recently disturbed so far as he could see, though there was a rubbish-heap not far from the back door. This, like the papers in the drawer of the desk, could be turned over at leisure later. He was today chiefly concerned with examining all that might be disturbed by Mrs Luggett if she kept her promise to “give the place a dust” on Boxing Day or the day after.

  Finally, he looked in at the garage when he had removed his car, but nothing had been left here, not even an oily rag or an old plug. Carolus locked up the house and returned to the Stag for a drink. He wished to make a telephone call. Mr Lofting was behind the bar, almost in wait for him, it seemed to Carolus.

  “Well, old man, been out to your domain? Pretty grim, I should think. You know, I’ve been trying to remember where on earth we met.”

  “I shouldn’t bother,” said Carolus.

  “It puzzles me. I have a feeling . . . You a member of the Old Crocks’ Club, by any chance? May have been on the London to Brighton run.”

  “No,” said Carolus firmly. Those noisy bores in goggles who were allowed to monopolize a busy road once a year had always seemed tiresome to him.

  “I could have sworn you had a De Dion,” said Mr Lofting; “but it will come to me in a moment.”

  “I wonder if I might use the telephone?” asked Carolus.

  “Yes, certainly. In our sitting-room. That’s the door, on your right.”

  Shutting the door behind him, Carolus found himself surrounded by group photographs in uniform, in flannels, in shorts, in school caps, in all of which Mr Lofting at different ages figured. Carolus asked for a London number and was answered by a man’s voice.

  “Gillick? Look here, I’ve got something urgent for you.”

  Sloane Gillick, who had recently retired from the fingerprint section of Scotland Yard, was anxious that Carolus should ghost his life-story, Men I Have Helped to Hang, for which a Sunday newspaper was offering a fairly large sum. But, though he wanted to conciliate Carolus, he was not pleased to be called on at Christmas-time.

  “I’m afraid it has got to be tomorrow,” said Carolus. “After Christmas will be too late. Already the only prints we can hope for are in the kitchen, where they may have been left by someone with greasy or oily fingers. All the normal ones on the furniture will have faded days ago.”

  There was a protesting rattle in the earpiece.

  “Come on,” said Carolus. “It’ll only take you an hour or two. I’ll come and pick you up tomorrow morning and you’ll be back in town in the afternoon. It’s worth twenty quid to me and all expenses.”

  The rattle grew more indignant.

  “Be a good chap,” pleaded Carolus. “I’m really interested in this case. The house is going to be cleaned out on Boxing Day and I must have your information before that.”

  There was something like resignation in the rattle now.

  “All right. I’ll pick you up before ten tomorrow,” promised Carolus, taking advantage of this. “We can talk about your articles on the way down.”

  Back in the bar, Carolus found Mr Lofting looking triumphant. “I know where it was!” he said. “On television. You were in Guess My Gag, weren’t you?”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to try again,” said Carolus. “Now I must run. Got a murderer to catch. See you after Christmas.”

  He hurried out and drove home to face Mrs Stick.

  5

  GILLICK kept his promise and Carolus left him at Glose Cottage for a couple of hours with his equipment because, as he said, he liked being alone when he worked. Carolus asked no questions afterwards, knowing that in a few days he would receive a full report. He drove Gillick back to London where, bearing the sack of cinders which Carolus had removed from the fireplace yesterday and the envelope of dust from the dressing-table, Gillick re-entered his Battersea home. “You shall hear before the end of the week,” was all he said.

  Mrs Stick had been relieved to see Carolus return on the previous evening. “For all we was to know any different,” she observed, “you might have forgotten Christmas and everything and gone off somewhere after asking Dr and Mrs Thomas for lunch tomorrow. I’ve got everything just as it should be. Turkey. Pudding. Old English style.”

  “Not so very old,” said Carolus, “nor so very English for that matter. Before t
hat sentimental Prince Albert started all this turkey-and-Christmas-tree nonsense, it was an English feast. Boar’s head, Mrs Stick . . .”

  “Was it really? Well, I could have done that. Tate de sang liar row T. Anyway, tomorrow it’s dindy far see owe marrons, and I think you’ll like it.”

  Carolus dutifully ate some of that uninteresting and coarse-grained bird with his friends Lance and Phoebe Thomas but, like other people without children, found it impossible to make of the meal an “occasion”. He was glad when on the Tuesday, as arranged, he could set out after lunch for Bluefield, having told Mrs Stick that he would be in London for a few days.

  “Where shall I say, if anyone wants you?” she asked with quick suspiciousness.

  “Say you don’t know,” replied Carolus airily.

  “Well, it wouldn’t be any more than truth, would it? I was only saying to Stick, we’re not to know where you may be flying off to. But we can’t none of us help our thoughts, can we?” asked Mrs Stick, darkly.

  The weather remained dull and cold, without even the animation of rain or high wind. Carolus saw, as he approached Glose Cottage, that the front windows were open, while by the door was a woman’s bicycle. Mrs Luggett greeted him from her knees in the entrance passage, the linoleum of which she was wiping.

  “I’ve done what I can,” she wheezed, “but it will never be what I call fresh. There’s been fires in every room and the windows open all day, but you can’t get the nasty stuffy smell out of the place. You should have seen the larder.”

  “I did.”

  “Well, I mean! But it wasn’t only that. There’s something seems to have got right into it like damp. Your new bedding came this morning and I did the whole bed with disinfectant before I put it on. Were you going to burn the other, because if so, I could do with it after I’ve sent it to the cleaners. Ta very much. Mind this slippery lino or it’ll have you over. I nearly went down myself just now and if I had I don’t know how I’d ever have got up again.”

  Like so many fat people Mrs. Luggett could work hard when she wanted, and the place had been thoroughly scrubbed and polished. Even the pictures had been down, Carolus saw, and the ugly Wilton carpets had had what Mrs Luggett called “a good banging”. Yet, as she said, the mustiness persisted. Nothing, it seemed, could free that house of its deathly staleness.