Читать книгу The Secret of High Eldersham - Cecil John Charles Street - Страница 4

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Constable Viney, in spite of the uniform he wore, stood appalled and trembling in the face of his gruesome discovery. During the years in which he had been stationed at High Eldersham his police duties had been confined to a more or less benevolent supervision of the villagers, punctuated by occasional stern warnings to farmers guilty of the offence of allowing their cattle to stray upon the highway. In the whole of his experience he had known nothing like this. For several seconds he stood rooted to the floor of the bar, a mere ordinary mortal, utterly thrown off his balance by the sudden presentment of tragedy and horror.

It was with a violent effort that he pulled himself together and turned his torch upon the body of Mr. Whitehead. That it was a body and not a living man he knew by instinct. His soul recoiled from the idea of touching it again in the vain hope that any spark of life yet remained. His senses registered the simple facts, that Mr. Whitehead was dead, that his clothes were soaked in blood, that a pool of the same sinister fluid had spread beneath the chair and over the hearth. And then it occurred to him with sudden urgency that he must take steps, at once, without delay.

The thought was welcome, beyond anything else that he could imagine. It meant that he must leave this little low room in which he felt the numbing atmosphere of fear, and hurry to the village for help. He walked swiftly to the door and tried the handle. It was locked, as he might have known. Mr. Whitehead, law-abiding publican as he was, invariably locked the door of the bar at closing time, ten o’clock. But the key was not in the lock. For an instant Viney hesitated. In all probability it was in Mr. Whitehead’s pocket. But in his present state he could not bring himself to seek it there. He climbed out of the window as he had entered, shut it carefully behind him, and pedalled frantically along the road that led to the village. The sharp night air braced his strained nerves like a tonic.

He made straight for the house of Doctor Padfield, and rang the bell. To his relief the doctor himself answered the door, a tall spare figure, whose hand, holding an uplifted candlestick, trembled slightly. He regarded the constable with a puzzled stare, as though unable to account for his sudden appearance. It was not until after an appreciable pause that he spoke. “Well, Viney, what is it?” he asked in a curiously deadened voice. “Come in, don’t stand in the doorway like that.”

Viney stepped into the hall, in darkness but for the candle in the doctor’s hand, and closed the door behind him.

“It’s Mr. Whitehead, up at the Rose and Crown, sir,” he replied in a low tone, in which his excitement was still audible. “He’s dead, sir, covered with blood, looks to me as if he had been murdered.”

If he had expected Doctor Padfield to display any excitement at this news he was disappointed.

“Dead, is he?” said the doctor discontentedly. “What’s the good of coming to me, then? I can’t bring dead men back to life!”

Viney stared at the doctor, completely taken aback by his nonchalance. “Well, sir,” he replied, “even if you can’t do that, at least you can tell what killed him. My instructions are always to call a doctor in when a man’s found dead. But, of course, sir, if you won’t come—”

“Oh, I’ll come,” interrupted Doctor Padfield carelessly. “The Rose and Crown, you say? That’s barely a mile away. It will be as quick to walk there as to waste time getting out the car, especially as it is a fine night. Wait a minute while I get my bag.”

“May I use your telephone, sir, while you are getting ready?” asked Viney.

“Certainly, if it amuses you,” replied the doctor. “There you are, in that corner.”

He left the hall abruptly, taking the candle with him. Viney, left in the dark, had recourse to his torch, and with its assistance found the telephone instrument. He put a call through to the officer on duty at Gippingford Police Station and reported. “I’m all alone here, sir, as you know,” he concluded. “If you could send some one to take charge, I’d be grateful.”

The answer must have been satisfactory, for Viney replaced the receiver with an air of relief. At that moment Doctor Padfield returned and the two set out on the road towards the Rose and Crown, Viney leading his bicycle. Doctor Padfield seemed irritable and morose, and after one or two attempts to engage him in conversation Viney desisted from the attempt. They pursued their way in silence until they reached the inn.

“If you’ll wait a moment, sir, I’ll open the back door,” remarked Viney, as he prepared to scramble once more through the window. “The front door is locked, and I haven’t found the key yet.”

He entered the bar and cast a hasty glance at the body. It was lying in the same position as he had last seen it, and he hastened out through the back to admit Doctor Padfield. The key of the back door was in the lock and he turned it. The door opened, and Doctor Padfield strode in, apparently without taking the slightest notice of his surroundings.

“Better stay where you are till I get a lamp lit, sir,” remarked Viney. “I saw one in the back kitchen as I came through.” He fumbled with a box of matches, and appeared carrying an ordinary paraffin lamp, which threw curious and grotesque shadows on the bare walls. Followed by Doctor Padfield, he led the way into the bar, and held the lamp so that its light fell on the huddled figure of Mr. Whitehead. “There you are, sir!” he exclaimed in an awed voice.

“Put that damned lamp down on the table!” commanded Doctor Padfield sharply. “Can’t you see that it’s shining right in my eyes? That’s better. Now then, bear a hand and help me to get the man’s coat off. Ah, that’s the trouble, is it?”

They had taken Mr. Whitehead’s coat from his shoulders, exposing the back of his waistcoat. The fabric showed a cut, about an inch and a half long, and round this was soaked in blood. It was evident, even to Viney’s inexperienced eye, that the dead man had been stabbed with a broad-bladed knife, apparently driven into his left shoulder from behind.

For the first time that evening Doctor Padfield showed some symptoms of interest. “A very neat stroke,” he commented. “Very neat indeed. The man who struck that blow knew his job. It must have been almost immediately fatal. Who was it, Viney?”

“I don’t know, sir,” replied the constable, startled by the directness of the question. “I found him like this, and then came straight along to fetch you, sir.”

Doctor Padfield shrugged his shoulders. “Well, it’s your job to find out who killed him, not mine,” he said. “I can’t do anything, as I told you before. I’m going home to bed. You’ll find me in my house till ten o’clock in the morning, if you want me.” And with that he strode out of the room, without bestowing another glance at the dead man. Viney, left alone, could hear his footsteps on the road until the sound of them was swallowed up in the distance.

He glanced at his watch. It was barely midnight, and he knew that he could not expect his colleagues from Gippingford for some time yet. It was his obvious duty to remain with the body, that was certain. But not necessarily in the same room. He could not face the prospect of a prolonged vigil in that ghastly bar. He wandered out into the back passage, where his eye fell upon a barrel of beer, ready tapped. After a moment’s hesitation, he picked up a pint pot, filled it, and drank the contents off at a draught. This done, he laid the pot down with a sigh of content. He felt distinctly better.

His wits, so rudely scattered by his tragic discovery, began to return to him. Suddenly it occurred to him that here was his chance to distinguish himself. A murder had been committed, of that there could be no possible doubt. Knives did not get driven into people’s backs by accident, he reasoned. Nor could it be a case of suicide. He took out his truncheon, and, holding it as a knife, tried to stab himself with it in the back of his left shoulder. Well, it could be done, though it would be very awkward. But then, if Mr. Whitehead had done it himself, the knife would have been left in the wound, or, at all events, would have fallen on the floor somewhere near the body. No, it was a case of murder, right enough.

The thought that he was actually concerned in a real murder case thrilled him. He tried to remember, from his perusal of the sensational Sunday newspapers, how those super men, the chiefs of Scotland Yard, acted in similar circumstances. So far as he could make out, they interrogated a number of people until they found a clue. But here, in this lonely house, there was nobody to interrogate, and he felt himself at a loss. He took out his note-book and entered a few brief particulars in rather a shaky hand. Then, finding inaction impossible, he began to wander about the house, seeking rather aimlessly for traces of the murderer. At last a bright idea struck him. Motive! That was it, that was what all great detectives established immediately a crime was discovered. The till was in the corner of the bar, he knew. He had often seen Mr. Whitehead counting his takings in the evening, after closing time. He approached it eagerly, and found it locked, but with the key in place. Opening it, he found two or three notes, and a number of silver and copper coins. Definitely disappointed, he was forced to the conclusion that robbery had not been the motive for the murder.

Dawn broke at last, and the rising sun sent a pale shaft of light into the bar, shaming the feeble glow of the lamp, and revealing the pool of blood as a dark and ominous patch upon the scrubbed flagstones. In the growing light the body of Mr. Whitehead lost much of its terror and took on an aspect pitiful, almost ridiculous. Viney, in no wise enlightened by his investigations, regarded it wonderingly. Who in the world could have committed this seemingly purposeless crime?

And while he stood there, he heard the sound of an approaching car, which slowed up as it neared the Rose and Crown. Viney ran out of the house, in time to meet the car, which contained the Superintendent from Gippingford, accompanied by a military-looking man, whom Viney recognised as the Chief Constable of the county.

Viney led them into the bar, and told his story. “Stabbed in the back, eh?” commented Colonel Bateman, the Chief Constable. “That’s a bad business. The poor chap can’t have had a chance to defend himself. You say that the till hasn’t been touched? What do you make of all this, Bass?”

“It’s difficult to say, sir, at present,” replied Superintendent Bass cautiously. “What sort of a man was this fellow Whitehead, constable? Was he popular in the district? Did anybody have a grudge against him?”

“I think he was well enough liked, sir,” replied Viney. “He didn’t make any friends that I know of. Being a Londoner, it would take these village folk a long time to chum up with him. They’re terrible mistrustful of strangers, in these parts. But from what I saw of things, there was plenty of the chaps that would come up here of an evening for a drink, and he seemed to get on well enough with most of them.”

“I dare say he wasn’t above serving some of them during prohibited hours, eh, Viney?” suggested Colonel Bateman.

Viney shook his head. “No, sir, he’d never do that,” he replied. “Mr. Whitehead was very strict; you see, sir, he had been a policeman himself. He wouldn’t serve a drink a minute after closing time, and he wouldn’t have anybody on the premises who’d had a drop too much. He’s been known to turn several of the chaps out, before now.”

“Were there many people in here last night?” asked the Superintendent.

“I can’t say, sir,” replied Viney. “I didn’t pass this way during opening hours. But, being Friday night, I expect that there was a good few. The men mostly gets paid on Fridays, sir.”

“I see,” remarked Colonel Bateman. “Now, look here, Viney. There will be plenty for you to do for the next few days. You’ve been up all night, you say. Cut off home, and have a few hours’ rest. The man who drove us out can take charge here till this afternoon. Off you go, and keep your mouth shut for the present.”

As soon as they were alone, Colonel Bateman turned to the Superintendent. “I don’t know what you think, Bass, but in my opinion this is a case for Scotland Yard,” he said.

The Superintendent frowned slightly. “I don’t know, sir,” he replied. “It looks to me a simple enough murder. I have no doubt that a few inquiries round about would soon make it pretty clear who did it.”

“I don’t think so,” said the Chief Constable slowly. “That fellow, Viney, who seems to possess at least average intelligence, has obviously no idea of the criminal, and he knows the people about here pretty well, I suppose. Of course, we might track the fellow down for ourselves, I don’t deny that. But on the other hand, we mightn’t, and then we should be forced to call in the Yard when the scent was cold. You see that, don’t you, Bass?”

“Yes, I see that, sir,” replied Bass reluctantly. “It’s for you to decide, sir.”

“Very well, then. Will you stay here with the driver, and tidy the place up a bit? I’ll go back to Gippingford, and get on to the Yard on the ’phone. They’ll send a man down at once, you may be sure. Then I’ll see the Coroner, to arrange about an inquest, and I’ll look in on Thorold, and find out what he knows about this man Whitehead. I’ll be back in the afternoon, as soon as I can. And, by the way, Bass, I think I’d leave the body pretty much as it is, until the man from the Yard has seen it.”

Colonel Bateman gave the necessary instructions to the driver of the car, who relinquished his seat to him. As he drove back to Gippingford, he wondered whether at last the veil that seemed to divide High Eldersham from the outside world was about to be lifted.