Bertie and the Seven Bodies

by Peter Lovesey

“Is he one of your men?” Holdfast asked Pelham.

  “If he is, he won’t remain one,” said our host through grit­ted teeth. “Excuse me, while I deal with it.” He quickened his step.

  Tactfully the rest of us slackened our pace.

  Pelham approached the motionless figure, leaned over, grasped the shoulder roughly and attempted to rouse the man. Without success.

  Pelham looked up at us. “I think he’s dead.”

  “What?”

  “Look.”

  We gathered around. He was indisputably dead. He had a revolver beside him and there was a hole in his head.

  CHAPTER 6

  Things spoken in moments of ex­treme shock tend to look rather puerile written down, so I don’t propose to repeat what was said over the corpse. Rest assured that my companions and I were made aghast by our discovery. It was Jerry Gribble.

  Young Pelham was the first to make a pertinent sugges­tion. “I’d better call off the drive, sir.”

  “The drive? Good God, yes.”

  “Shall I tell the keepers what has happened?”

  “No, no. Can’t do that.” I gave the matter some rapid thought. “Say that His Royal Highness was called away on an urgent matter of State, so shooting is abandoned for the day.”

  He set off at a run.

  I picked up the fatal weapon and turned it over carefully in my hands. It was a revolver made by my own gunsmith, Mr. Purdey of Oxford Street. There were five more bullets in the chambers. Poor old Jerry, I reflected ruefully: didn’t trust his aim even at that range.

  Then Claude Bullivant reminded me that our loaders and the dogs would arrive at any minute.

  “Head them off, then,” I told him. “Which way are they coming? By the road? Get down there and stop them.” I waved the gun in that direction, giving Bullivant a moment of unease. “And one more thing, Claude.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You’d better return to the house with the loaders. Inform the ladies that we expect to be late for tea.” The commands sprang unbidden to my lips. I say it myself, I’m a first-class man in a crisis. I would have made a very able general on the battle­field. I suppose it’s in the blood.

  Bullivant lingered. “Is that all, sir?”

  “Give them our apologies, of course.”

  “But they’ll want to know why.”

  “We don’t want them to panic. Oh, for pity’s sake, Claude, you can keep a crowd of females in suspense, can’t you?”

  I was left with Wilfred Osgot-Edge and Sir George Holdfast for company. I pocketed the revolver and we sat on our shooting sticks and stared at each other.

  Holdfast rubbed at his face as if the gnats were troubling him and said through his fingers, “I’m sure you’re right to send the loaders away, sir, but it does leave us with a difficulty. What are we going to do with the body? The wagonette would have come in useful.”

  “Good point.” I wished he’d mentioned it before. “How far are we from the house?”

  Osgot-Edge almost fell off his stick trying to tell us it was a mile away.

  Holdfast said, without, I am sure, grasping the significance of the remark, “Jerry’s own house is closer.”

  I seized on it at once. “That’s exactly where I intend to take him. Let the poor fellow be laid out on his own bed.” I didn’t say so, but I instantly foresaw several advantages to the plan. For one thing it would spare the ladies—and our hostess in particu­lar—some distress. A dead body on the premises is no help at all to a house party. And without wishing to mislead the authori­ties, we would save them hours of work by letting it appear that Jerry had died on his own side of the fence. You see, when a man puts a gun to his head there has to be an inquest, and it’s fear­fully boring for all concerned if an entire shooting party has to be questioned by the police.

  Far better if he had died at home, Why, it might even have allowed the jury to bring in a verdict of accidental death. For all sorts of reasons, sentimental, moral and legal, you don’t want suicide if you can possibly avoid it.

  The chance of any other verdict but felo-de-se would depend on the medical evidence. I braced myself to look down at the fatal wound. I make no claims to pathological knowledge, but I’ve seen plenty of injured animals put out of their misery, and I do know what a bullet wound looks like. The hole in Jerry’s forehead was circular and singularly neat, suggesting that he had held the revolver at least six inches from his head. If he had pressed the barrel against his forehead, the hole would have been more in the form of a cross or star, due to the gases emitted from the weapon. This was not the case. How fortunate, I thought; anyone examining the body might be led to believe Jerry had fired accidentally. He was always a duffer with guns.

  Reader, I can imagine what you are thinking. To be utter­ly frank with you, I didn’t at this juncture entertain any expla­nation other than suicide. The possibility of murder didn’t remotely occur to me. If you had been with me that dread Tuesday and known what I did about Jerry’s desolate state of mind, you would have shared my opinion, I’m certain.

  Faint voices traveled to us from the depths of the wood, too indistinct to make sense. Marcus must have reached the line and told them their work was over for the day. An unexpected flur­ry of black and white at the edge of my vision turned out to be a magpie taking to the air. Automatically I swung my hands to the right to receive my gun, regardless that my loader wasn’t beside me, and I noticed that Osgot-Edge had done the same. He smiled slightly, then liberally dampened the back of my hand in saying, “S-sorrow.”

  “You don’t need to apologize.”

  “No, sir. I said s-sorrow.”

  “I don’t think I follow you.”

  “One m-magpie means sorrow.”

  I gave him a glazed look. “Really? Is that a superstition? It sounds appropriate, I must say.”

  “F-from Scotland.” With that, he launched into a full ren­dering of the verse, and I shall spare you the consonantal falterings:

  “One’s sorrow; two’s mirth,

  Three’s a wedding, four’s a birth,

  Five’s a christening, six a dearth,

  Seven’s heaven, eight is hell,

  And nine’s the devil his ane sel’.”

  I thanked him and said I would rather count plum stones. I didn’t mean to sound ungracious after his laborious recitation, so I asked, “Are you a native of Scotland, Mr. Osgot-Edge?”

  He looked shocked. “D-definitely not. I c-come from a very old English family. Osgot is mentioned in the D-Domesday Book.”

  There was another disturbance in the thicket and more birds took to the sky.

  Holdfast asked, “What do two wood pigeons signify?”

  “Pigeon pie if you can bag them,” I said.

  We understood the reason for their sudden flight when a few moments later Marcus Pelham came briskly from the covert. He informed us that he had spoken to the gamekeepers. The beaters were trekking back. He’d also seen Bullivant turn back the wagonettes and climb aboard one.

  “Excellent.” I took out a cigar. “Better give them time to get clear.” No one showed much inclination to speak, so I did my best to lift the assembled spirits a little. “This melancholy situa­tion reminds me of a letter I once received at Balmoral in response to an invitation. I have a sneaking impression that Jerry might have appreciated it. ‘Sir, may it please Your Royal Highness, the laird is honored to inform you that he does not mean to shoot himself tomorrow; but his gamekeepers will be ordered to accompany you and the usual dogs.’ Isn’t it priceless?”

  “Extremely droll, sir,” said Holdfast.

  Pelham asked, “Is there a plan, sir?”

  I told him what I had in mind and he saw the sense of it at once. “In the circumstances, it’s the obvious thing to do.”

  I didn’t care for the “obvious,” but
I was grateful for his support. Unfortunately there’s always some wiseacre who thinks he has a better idea: in this case, Holdfast.

  “I’ve been giving it some thought, sir. Do we really need to move the corpse so far?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why not leave him here, just out of sight in the covert? The gamekeepers will find him soon enough.”

  “You think that’s a better plan, do you?”

  “Well, sir, it has the merit of being simple. If he doesn’t have a gun beside him it will look as if he died accidentally, the victim of a stray bullet.”

  I rolled my eyes. “And what sort of nincompoop is sup­posed to have been shooting at pheasants with revolver bullets?”

  He reddened. “Ah. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  Pelham said, “Your plan is best, sir.”

  I turned to Osgot-Edge. He only needed to tip his head in support. I wasn’t asking for anything more. His recital of the verse about the magpie must have gone to his head, because he said, “In v-view of last year we d-don’t want another shooting accident.”

  “Too true,” said Pelham.

  “What happened last year?” asked Holdfast.

  Pelham registered surprise. “Weren’t you in the party?”

  “I had to miss last year. Wasn’t well.”

  “So did I,” said Pelham, and grinned. “Wasn’t invited. A beater was shot, a lad of fifteen, one of our own estate workers. Pure bad luck that somebody’s swing was out.”

  “Fatally shot?” I asked.

  “Yes. Fortunately he had no parents. Not much was made of the incident.” He glanced down at Jerry’s body. “This is another kettle of fish.” After a glare from me, he added, “So to speak. I mean, the death of the Duke of Bournemouth. Really, I’m surprised Jerry shot himself here when he could have done it at home.”

  Holdfast said, “I don’t suppose he was thinking straight.”

  Osgot-Edge managed to say, “He m-must have wanted us to find him.”

  It was a shrewd observation. “Quite possibly,” I said. “Typical of Jerry. Considerate to the last. He wouldn’t have wanted to scare some wretched chambermaid out of her wits, so he made sure his corpse would be discovered by us. Left it to the last stand so as not to spoil our shooting more than necessary.”

  Holdfast said with a sigh, “Poor old Jerry. He must have been besotted with Miss Chimes to resort to this.”

  “C-captivated,” said Osgot-Edge more poetically.

  Then Pelham, smart aleck, shamed us all with his com­mon sense by asking, “Did he leave a note? Have you searched his pockets yet?”

  Not wishing to admit that I hadn’t thought of it, I said loftily, “We’ve been too busy discussing what to do with him. Very well, let’s see if there’s anything.” I stooped to examine the body, which was dressed, like the rest of us, in a Norfolk suit. In one of the top pockets my fingers located a tiny slip of paper. I took it out. Immediately something uncomfortable stirred in the pit of my stomach.

  Holdfast asked, “What have you got there, sir? Is some­thing written on it?”

  “Just a scrap of newspaper,” I remarked, trying to sound unimpressed.

  “Anything significant, sir?”

  “I doubt it. There’s only one word here and that’s ‘Tuesday.’”

  “Strange. Why would he have that in his pocket?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “If you ask me,” said Holdfast, “it’s unimportant. Probably some system devised by his valet for putting out the clothes in the desired sequence.”

  It was an ingenious suggestion, and I was so grateful for it that I felt like shaking George Holdfast’s hand. I knew he was mistaken, of course, but I couldn’t myself think of anything remotely plausible. The great thing was that it seemed to satisfy my companions. They were unaware of the piece of paper that had been found when Queenie Chimes collapsed at the dinner table. Only Amelia, her butler and I knew about that. Even Jerry hadn’t been told, which made this fresh discovery puz­zling, not to say disturbing.

  Taking a grip on myself, I resumed my examination of the pockets.

  Nothing else of interest was on Jerry’s person. I think I found a handkerchief, some coins and his watch.

  A church clock chimed. The afternoon was fast drawing to a close, and there was a job to be done before dark. After some trial and error the four of us contrived a way of lifting Jerry’s body by employing our shooting sticks crosswise as a sort of improvised stretcher, for none of us particularly wished to take a grip on the stiffened limbs. It proved an efficient method. There was the occasional stumble, but we reached the road in quite a short time, passed our burden across a stone wall and so entered the Bournemouth estate unseen by anyone. Dense ferns delayed our progress somewhat, and it was a relief to reach a bridle path that led us more swiftly to the landscaped lawns in front of the house.

  Twilight was in session by this time and to anyone who chanced to look out a window we would have presented a weird, not to say gruesome, picture as we moved silently across the turf. Presently we came to a steep, stone-lined bank forming what landscape gardeners call a ha-ha, a shelf in the lawn con­trived to be invisible from the house. Without needing to discuss it, we lowered the body to the ground and stretched our aching shoulders.

  Holdfast said, “Shall we leave him here, sir?”

  “Good Lord, no,” I said. “Can’t do that. We must get him indoors.”

  “Break in?”

  “Really, George,” I said in a pained voice. “One of us must go to the front entrance and ask to see the house steward. You, I think, Marcus.”

  Young Pelham’s eyes whitened in the gloom, whether out of stark surprise or pleasure at being asked I couldn’t say.

  I told him, “Be sure that you speak to the house steward alone. You will break the news of his master’s death and you will say that some of his friends have brought him home and are waiting outside. If the man has his wits about him, he’ll invite us to bring the body at once to the gun room.”

  “The gun room, sir?”

  “Yes, the gun room,” I repeated as if speaking to a child. “Any steward worthy of the name would rather his master died accidentally whilst cleaning his gun than by his own hand. He won’t need telling.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  From our position behind the ha-ha we watched Pelham cross the turf and heard his feet reach the gravel drive. In a moment a light appeared at the front entrance and we dipped out of sight.

  There was a long, suspenseful wait.

  Finally footsteps crunched on the gravel again, and after an interval Pelham leaned over the ha-ha and informed us that the house steward was ready to receive the body. Between us we used the shooting sticks to hoist Jerry’s mortal remains to the higher level. My three companions stood over him.

  “What are you waiting for?” I whispered from below them.

  Holdfast cleared his throat. “Aren’t you coming with us, sir?”

  I said, “It wouldn’t be appropriate.” Nobody spoke, so I added, “I think I’ve done my share. And it goes without saying, gentlemen, that my own part in this melancholy episode must not be divulged to a living soul. I shall remain here behind the ha-ha until you emerge again from the house.”

  Another silence greeted this. They made no move to lift the corpse.

  I said, “Is there a difficulty?”

  Holdfast looked at the others to see if either of them pre­ferred to speak first. “Well, sir, with three of us . . . we’ll have to think of another way to carry him.”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake,” I snapped. “Pick him up with your hands.”

  Nothing was said for a moment. Then Holdfast squatted and placed his hands gingerly under the shins. “He’s rigid. Like a piece of timber.”

  Osgot-Edge said, “Rig
or m-m-”

  “Much easier to get a grip,” I said. You can’t be fastidious in emergencies. “What’s the matter, Pelham?” He hadn’t made a move.

  “The gun.”

  “Which gun?”

  “The fatal weapon. It’s not much help to us in your pock­et, sir.”

  He was right, but I didn’t care for the way he chose to mention it. I passed the weapon to Holdfast and said, “Now get on with it.”

  They bent to the task and took the strain.

  Left alone, I perched on my shooting stick and watched the sky turn from purple to black. A breeze was blowing up from the north. I shivered and wondered bleakly whether tea was yet finished at Desborough Hall. My hip flask was empty. My boots pinched. I wasn’t relishing an hour’s tramp in the dark.

  The next thing I heard, some twenty minutes later, was the sound of carriage wheels. I raised my head above the ha-ha in time to see a small carriage driven at a canter from the rear of the house. Three men and the driver were aboard. I was incensed. I was pretty damned sure they were Holdfast, Pelham and Osgot-Edge, and they must have been given transport back to Desborough.

  Surely they didn’t propose to abandon me?

  I snatched up my shooting stick and set off with bent back along the length of the ha-ha in the direction they were taking. The posture was humiliating. It brought to mind the vulgar riddle that I once accidentally overheard from a drunken undergraduate at Cambridge: what is the difference between the Prince of Wales and an orangutan? A nice shock I gave the fellow when I stepped out from behind a potted fern and demanded to be told the answer, which I have to admit was rather clever, though nobody laughed at the time: the Prince is the Heir Apparent and the ape has a hairy parent. Anyway, the mental picture taunted me now as I loped along with my knuckles grazing the turf. And that was not the worst of it. The carriage showed no sign of halting. In despair I threw caution to the winds, stopped, stood at my full height, shouted and waved my shooting stick, to absolutely no effect. They galloped out of sight along the drive.

  No doubt you will be as relieved as I was to find that they finally stopped for me at the end of the drive, just outside the main gates. Plodding towards them like a cab horse destined for the knacker’s yard, I heard Pelham’s voice say, “That’s him!” and then, unbelievably, “Come on, matey, stir your stumps. We haven’t got all night.”