A Bone and a Hank of Hair

by Leo Bruce

  “I’ve let the fire out in the droring-room because I didn’t think you’d want to sit in there; but you’ve got plenty of coal here.” “Here” was the dining-room. “You needn’t be afraid of that armchair, because I’ve banged all the dust out of it.”

  Panting and gasping, Mrs Luggett paddled out to the kitchen and presently returned to say doubtfully that it was about time she was off. Carolus guessed the reason for her delay.

  “Would you like me to pay you by the day?” he asked.

  “It would come in handy,” said Mrs Luggett, “because I’ve got some shopping to do.”

  Carolus had drawn from one of his suitcases a bottle of whisky and some Schweppes. “Have one before you go?” he suggested when he had handed Mrs Luggett her pound note.

  “I don’t mind,” she admitted with a sigh which sounded sorrowful, but was probably ecstatic.

  Carolus poured.

  “Whoa! Whoa!” cried Mrs Luggett, loudly but not too soon. “You’ll have me off my bike going home, then where should we be? Well, cheerio.”

  “You’ve certainly cleaned the place up,” said Carolus appreciatively.

  “I told you I’d do what I could. But it’s still not what I should call clean and never will be to my way of thinking. I can’t make out this smell that hangs about either. You don’t think there’s Anything under the floor, do you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Because that’s what I thought it smelt like today. I spoke to him once, you know.”

  This cryptic afterthought was explicit enough to Carolus, who was accustomed to meeting pronouns unattached and without relatives in conversation of those he questioned. She meant Rathbone.

  “How was that?” asked Carolus.

  “Well, as it turned out, I happened to hear they’d come from Hastings and I used to know it well. But Rathbone didn’t at all like my mentioning it. Spoke to me quite sharp. Then turned round all of a sudden, gave me ten bob and said he didn’t want it known he’d lived at Hastings because he’d left some debts there. He was a queer sort. Looked at you as though he was wondering how much you knew.”

  Carolus nodded encouragingly, but Mrs Luggett’s confidences stopped there.

  “This won’t do,” she said. “I must be running along. I’ve got my chickens to feed. I hope you get on all right. I shouldn’t care for it, but there you are.” She pulled herself to her feet and made for the door. “I’ll be along in the morning,” she said, and Carolus heard her heavy breathing till the front door shut behind her.

  Left alone, Carolus thought there was something foolhardy about his venture. He could give himself no concise or logical reason for occupying this unpleasant little house. He could not say precisely what he hoped to gain by it; yet he was convinced that it would not be fruitless. He would make a discovery which would throw light on the whole unsavory mystery.

  The thing reeked of the abnormal, if not supernatural, which was very foreign to his realistic and practical nature. From the first he had done no more than sense murder; he could find no rational grounds on which to believe in it. Local opinion, Mrs Chalk’s conviction, the uncanny nastiness of this house in which the missing couple had lived—none of this was evidence. Yet he was proceeding exactly as though a murder had been committed. He was surprised at himself.

  He had wound up the cheap alarm clock on the mantelpiece and could hear its steady metallic ticking as he stared into a bright clear fire. An hour passed before he moved, then he decided to drive down to Folkestone for a meal before turning in.

  That night passed uneventfully and the morning brought heavy rain and Mrs Luggett with a bag slung on the handlebars of her bicycle.

  “I brought something for your breakfast,” she gasped. “You never said anything, but I dare say you can do with it. Seen any ghosts in the night?”

  Carolus admitted that he had seen and heard nothing unusual.

  “P’raps you will tonight,” she said cheerfully.

  But two days passed, in which Carolus did little but examine the rubbish-heap in the back garden, turning it over slowly with a fork, but finding nothing to preserve. He went through the papers in the drawer but, except for the cheque book, those told him nothing he did not already know.

  On his third night in the house he went to bed early. He slept with a powerful electric torch beside him for no reason except that of convenience. Without electric light in the house he did not wish to fumble with matches and lamp if he had to get up in the night. He slept deeply, but awoke with a start and lay listening. He knew that something unusual had woken him, but for a time he could hear nothing at all. Before getting into bed, he had opened his window a little and drawn back the curtains and was aware of the brilliant moonlight of midwinter in the world outside; but this had a settled look and moreover did not shine upon his bed. Something else had disturbed his sleep. Then he heard the sound of a key being inserted in the lock of the front door. Of course . . . it had been the click of the gate-latch which had broken in on his unconsciousness.

  Whoever was about to enter the house was not trying to do so silently. Lying quite still, Carolus guessed the reason. He or she had not supposed for a moment that the house was occupied. Carolus’s car was behind the closed door of the garage. There was nothing outside to show that he was here. Was there anything inside? he wondered. He silently moved his arm to see his watch. Past one . . . with any luck the heat of the long-dead fire would not be perceptible to the intruder.

  The door was pushed open and closed. A torch shone in the passage. Absolutely still, yet tensed to spring, Carolus waited. It was all right. The intruder had opened the door of the “drawing-room” and entered. Now Carolus began very slowly and silently to rise from his bed. Thank heaven there were no squeaks in it! He gradually brought himself to his feet and, grasping his torch, began to move on silent naked feet towards the door. It was cold for he wore only pyjamas.

  In a few moments he stood at the door of the drawing-room and saw that the light of the intruder’s torch was on the one drawer of the writing-desk which contained papers. A hand grasped some of these. Then Carolus switched on his own far more powerful torch. A “long weasel of a man”. Carolus had time to see a terrified face and hear an appalling screech, shrill and inhuman, before the man before him dropped to the floor. He had fainted.

  Anticlimax, Carolus thought, and yet what more natural? In a house which he had supposed empty with such confidence that he had not even looked around before going about his business, the intruder had suddenly found himself in white light from a torch. Small wonder that the shock had knocked him out. Carolus went quietly to work. He hurriedly searched the inert body but found no arms. He then brought in the paraffin lamp and lit it. Finally he carried a jug of water from the kitchen and threw it lightly in the man’s face. Rathbone gasped. As consciousness returned to him he stared at Carolus from the floor, still in abject terror.

  “Better sit,” said Carolus, and helped the man to a chair. Then he brought in the whisky bottle which stood on the dining-room table and poured out a peg. “Take it slowly,” he warned.

  It struck Carolus afterwards as ironic that the first words that Rathbone spoke to him were: “Thank you.”

  “Come for your cheque book, I suppose,” said Carolus chattily, as he took a seat between Rathbone and the door. “You could scarcely write for a new one, could you?”

  Rathbone did not answer.

  “Where’s your wife?” asked Carolus as casually as he could.

  “I . . . haven’t seen her.”

  “I needn’t ask where you have been or where you’re going. The police will find you in a couple of days when they need to. But I would like to know why you rushed away from here.”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name’s Deene. I’ve taken your house furnished. I’m interested in you, Mr Rathbone. There are a lot of things I want to ask you. How, for instance, your wife managed suddenly to grow so much taller after she came to live here
? She was a small woman when you married her.”

  Rathbone stared as though he were in the mesmeric gaze of a snake. He did not speak. Perhaps, Carolus thought, he was unable to. He looked as though he might faint again.

  “Why, too, do you come here at what can fairly be called the ‘dead of night’ to look for your cheque book?”

  “I forgot it, when I left.”

  “I believe you. You overlooked the last drawer. But what was to prevent you coming openly to pick it up? What are you concealing, Mr Rathbone?”

  Carolus examined the narrow, weak face. Yes, this man could have murdered a woman. Mrs Chalk had exaggerated, but there was a timid cunning, a cowardly greed in those eyes.

  “This place is going to be pulled apart when it is searched,” said Carolus. “Every inch of the garden. Every scrap of concrete. Every floorboard.”

  Still that transfixed stare which could mean everything or nothing. The interview began to seem futile. It was scarcely likely, whatever the circumstances, that Rathbone would answer the questions put to him, and a man so obviously frightened all the time would not give himself away on any particular point. But presently he spoke. “Do you think I murdered my wife?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I don’t even know that she’s dead. But I know you’re concealing a great deal. And I know you’re very, very frightened, Mr Rathbone.”

  “I didn’t know there was anyone here,” he explained with sad resignation.

  “It’s not that. I startled you but your fear goes far deeper than that. What are you afraid of?”

  When Rathbone spoke it was in a strange faraway tone as though he was recalling something from the past.

  “I was very fond of her,” he said, and Carolus remembered that Mrs Chalk had reported the same words. “You . . . no one should think I murdered her.”

  “Is she alive then?”

  Rathbone seemed to pull himself together.

  “I haven’t seen her,” he said.

  “Since?”

  “Since she left me. Weeks ago.”

  “Why did you cancel the auction of your furniture?”

  “I thought . . . I hoped she might come back.”

  “You didn’t tell Mrs Chalk that.”

  “You know Mrs Chalk, then.” It was not a question but a wistful realization of something unpleasant—another blow of fate.

  “She is convinced that you have murdered her cousin.”

  Rathbone, looking downwards, made a curious reply. “She never liked me,” he said in a regretful voice.

  Carolus, shivering in the damp night air, went to the entrance passage and pulled his overcoat from a hook. When he returned, he saw that Rathbone had his head in his hands in an attitude of despair.

  “Who are you? Why do you ask me questions?” Rathbone said, suddenly looking up.

  “Because I am going to find out the truth. The whole truth, Mr Rathbone. About the woman you married and about the woman with whom you lived here. I don’t know yet about Hastings, but I shall. Were you there with the first or the second? Or with someone different altogether? I shall know in time. I shall also know where to look for this woman, or these two or three women . . . if they are alive!”

  A cunning look, almost a leer, came unexpectedly to Rathbone’s face. “You’re very sure of yourself,” he said.

  “I’m very determined.”

  “Why?”

  It was a devastating question and Carolus knew it. “Because I’ve made it my business to find out,” he answered rather feebly.

  “I wish you joy of that,” said Rathbone lugubriously.

  The clock on the dining-room mantelpiece was audible as the two men sat without speaking. Then Rathbone did an unexpected thing. He stood up and said, “I’m going now.” There was a finality in the words which startled Carolus. This man could be resolute, too, when he chose.

  There was nothing to be done about it. Hold him by force? Follow him? Get in touch with the police? All impossible and rather absurd. Carolus did not even know whether the police were looking for Rathbone, and it was a mile to a public telephone in the village square at Bluefield. He had no right to interfere with the other’s movements and, indeed, no desire to do so. As he had said, Rathbone could be found if necessary. Somewhere he had to cash those cheques, somewhere to carry on his queer unhealthy existence. So Carolus made no protest. At the front door Rathbone turned. “I didn’t murder Annie,” he said. “I never harmed her. I was fond of her.”

  Then slowly he opened the door and stepped into the sparkling night. Carolus heard the click of the gate, surely the sound which had woken him from sleep an eventful hour ago. He bolted the front door, but before going back to bed he pulled out his handkerchief and very carefully picked up the glass which Rathbone had held and which would show a splendid impression of his fingerprints. He would send that tomorrow to Gillick.

  6

  IN those days at Bluefield Carolus heard recollections of the Rathbones from a number of people and, although not many of these were new, here and there was a fact or a detail which had significance.

  The Rector, a splendid chap with a large pipe, had been up at Oxford with Carolus, though they had not met. Mr Lygnett had rowed in the University boat and was altogether a very virile and rather loud-voiced man. “’Fraid I’m a bit intolerant,” he explained to Carolus. “I had better say right out that I couldn’t stand the fellow. Slinking, effeminate cad . . .”

  “Effeminate?” asked Carolus. The word signified for him something he had not associated with Rathbone.

  “Yes. I don’t mean one of these dressed-up, mincing little rats you see in the West End of London. Make me sick. But there was a sort of softness or weakness in that fellow Rathbone’s face which was nearly as bad.”

  Carolus nodded, seeing what the Rector meant.

  “And grubby. Don’t believe he took a bath more than once a week. Filthy teeth . . .”

  “Really?”

  “Nobody need go about with gaps in their teeth today. National Health has stopped that. Must have been just laziness. Revolting character. Sorry if I seem unchristian.”

  “What about Mrs Rathbone?”

  “Poor woman! I don’t think he let her out very often. She used to come to church on Sundays. Always crept in late and was gone before we had finished the last hymn. Sat at the back.”

  “Did you talk to her at all?”

  “Never had a chance. I went out to call, but that slimy brute was most offensive. Wouldn’t have his wife run after by priests, he said. I’d have knocked him down if he hadn’t been such a weed.”

  “They never came to any village functions?”

  “Gracious me, no! We scarcely ever saw them. I don’t know whether the Doc was called out there. You could see him, if you like. Lives at that white house almost next door to the Stag.”

  Carolus went to see Dr Chatto, but with no more satisfactory result. The doctor was a dressy little man with birdlike perkiness, but plenty of intelligence, Carolus thought.

  “No, I was never called to the house,” he said. “Mrs Rathbone appeared to have excellent health. The man came to the surgery once—some stomach disorder. I told him to have his teeth attended to, eat less tinned food and get some good fresh milk. He admitted that they used tinned milk only.”

  “Perhaps they didn’t want tradesmen calling.”

  “Very likely. Rathbone never came back to me.”

  “Did you notice anything about him physically which might help me to piece together this affair?”

  “Let me think. Yes, his hands. Extraordinary thing. The man neglected his teeth and looked generally pretty seedy, but he had small, well-kept hands which looked as though they were powerful, too. There was something rather clawlike about them.”

  Carolus nodded. He always appreciated observation in others.

  “Pity you never had to examine Mrs Rathbone,” he said. “I might have something to go on then.”

  “I saw her once or twice. She
was a tall, heavy woman. She wore ear-rings and had a nervous trick of smiling.”

  “Oh. It was a nervous trick?”

  “It must have been. One never saw her without that toothy smile.”

  Carolus thanked Dr Chatto and went to see the only tradesman known to have called at Glose Cottage, a coal-merchant called Toffins. This was a cheery little man who worked from the goods yard of Bluefield station with an ancient lorry. He was assisted by a herculean son.

  “Yes,” he said, “I knew Rathbone and his wife. Had all their coal from me ever since they came here. It would have made you laugh.”

  “Why?” asked Carolus, who had not yet got into Mr Toffins’ idiom.

  “To have seen one or the other, I mean. Him looking like a funeral but having a word with you now and again, and her cheerful as could be but never saying more than ‘good morning’ as she handed over the key of the coal shed. I could have died laughing.”

  “Did they use much coal?”

  “From all accounts it was all they did use much of. I was the only one round here that supplied them with anything. Used to make me smile to think Wallbright and them never got a ha’penny of custom out of them and I supplied them regular. They kept fires on all the time. Must have been the damp. But that always was a cold house.”

  “Did they have much coal lately?”

  “That’s what I was just going to tell you. About a month ago, it was, Rathbone came running into my yard as though he’d seen a ghost. You’d have bust yourself laughing. ‘Mr Toffins,’ he said, ‘I’m nearly out of coal. I’d no idea we was so low.’ ‘All right, all right,’ I said to him. ‘You can have some tomorrow. How much do you want?’ He seemed to calm down a bit then, and thought he’d like a ton. ‘You shall have it tomorrow,’ I told him, and he went off. But you should have seen his face. Laugh? I thought I should never stop.”