Bury in Haste
Authors: Jean Rowden
Jean Rowden
C
onstable ‘Thorny’ Deepbriar sat straight backed, unaware of the hardness of the chair beneath him. Although he was witnessing the most appalling crime, his face displayed no hint of emotion; a lesser man might have closed his eyes, or covered his ears, but that was beneath his dignity. An officer of the law had to maintain certain standards of behaviour, whatever the situation.
This situation was as bad as they came. Just ten feet from him murder was being committed, and he was helpless to prevent it. The constable was no coward, but intervention was simply not an option. He could only endure.
Not everyone gathered there as witnesses to the crime had the constable’s fortitude. Some of those around him were fidgeting, while others had that far away look in their eyes which suggested they had managed to absent themselves mentally from their surroundings. The man next to Deepbriar was pulverising a pasteboard ticket between his hands, the pressure of his fingers gradually obliterating the legend ‘Tonight’s Performance – 1/6d’.
Only the individual who was responsible for the slaughter was at ease, indeed she was clearly enjoying herself. Mrs Emerson took a deep breath and reached for top C, giving it all she’d got, and only missing by a smidgen. Deepbriar winced as the glass in the windows of Minecliff’s village hall rattled ominously, wondering where Puccini was buried, and whether the ground would be heaving as the poor man turned beneath it.
Trying to distract himself, Deepbriar stared at the solitary picture on the wall, a photograph of the young Queen Elizabeth, taken at her coronation a few years ago. She didn’t have to listen to the likes of Mrs Emerson, he reflected morosely, she could go to Covent Garden and listen to the best singers in the world. That thought brought no comfort.
He tried to concentrate on something else, reminding himself of the book he’d picked up from the library that morning. He’d been looking forward to reading the latest Dick Bland mystery for weeks. Unless there was some crisis that required him to don his uniform and return to duty, he would have the whole of tomorrow afternoon to lose himself in the adventures of his favourite private eye.
Something about Dick Bland had an irresistible appeal to Deepbriar’s phlegmatic soul; his fictional life was one of constant excitement, his mental prowess being much in demand for the untangling of the most horrific murders, while a week rarely went by when he wasn’t required to face some deadly threat to his life.
Another full-blooded shriek made Deepbriar shudder; it was no good, the anticipation of future pleasure wasn’t sufficient to distract him from his present pain. More characters appeared on stage, among them the reason he was enduring this torment. Mary Deepbriar wasn’t her husband’s match in height, nor in girth, but she was well rounded, with the natural colouring of an English rose, now a little past its first bloom. No amount of make-up or generosity of spirit could make her believable as a Japanese woman. As for Mrs Emerson, with her fleshy face framed by the fringe of greying hair which refused to be hidden under the black wig, a less likely
Madame Butterfly
was hard to imagine. At least Mary could sing in tune, Deepbriar thought gloomily.
As
Madame Butterfly
approached another high note, the tension was broken by the sound of a door opening at the back of the hall, then came the soft rhythmic creak of footsteps as the intruder tried to walk quietly down the aisle between the chairs.
A slight figure came into view, ‘Psst.’ Harry, the son of the couple who kept the local pub, was gesturing wildly from the end of the row. Phyllis and Don Bartle half rose to their feet, but Harry shook his head at his parents and waved them back down. They subsided, looking disappointed.
‘Mr Deepbriar,’ he hissed.
From the stage
Madame Butterfly
glared down at Deepbriar as he picked up his trilby from under his seat and eased his six foot and thirteen stone out from among the tightly packed chairs. The naked antagonism in her stare made him suddenly clumsy and he almost fell into the empty seat at the end of the row, next to young Emily Spraggs. He recovered enough to smile an apology to Emily but she didn’t notice. She had looked up in anticipation when the door opened, doubtless hoping to see her husband. Disappointed, she was now visibly distracted, her fingers picking nervously at a button on her coat. Deepbriar shook his head indulgently; she and Joe had only been married a week, so they were still at the love struck stage.
‘What’s up, Harry?’ Deepbriar breathed out with relief as the two men stepped outside into the cold night air. ‘Not that it’s a hardship to leave, but I’m off duty.’
‘Sorry, Mr Deepbriar, but it’s old Bronc. He came to our back door a few minutes ago, in a right state. Says he was knocked down on the road, and the car didn’t stop. It sounded fishy to me, he’s sure it had no lights on. I said I’d come and fetch you.’ Harry’s eyes shone. ‘He reckoned they were up to no good.’
Harry spoke with the enthusiasm of the amateur sleuth. To date his single success had been achieved at the tender age of ten, when he proved that the rag and bone man’s pony had caused the damage to the village pump while its owner was in the pub. Now twenty-two, he lived in hopes of solving other more serious mysteries, refusing to be disheartened by the almost total lack of crime in Minecliff.
‘This had better be good, Harry.’ Deepbriar gave a none too reluctant glance back at the village hall; an excuse wasn’t to be sniffed at, but it needed to be a good one. ‘Mrs Deepbriar isn’t going to be happy if I’m not back in there for her next chorus.’
The heir apparent of the Speckled Goose looked wistful. ‘Show going well is it? I heard a bit as I came in, it sounded lovely.’
The constable sighed. There were advantages in being tone deaf, Harry didn’t know how lucky he was. ‘It wouldn’t be half bad, if only that wretched Emerson woman hadn’t taken the lead. There’s a limit to how much a music lover can take.’
‘You should worry,’ Harry said sorrowfully. ‘They won’t even let me audition for the society. That’s Mrs Emerson for you.’
Deepbriar maintained a diplomatic silence. Minecliff was a small village, and there were never enough people to fill the ranks of the chorus; Mrs Emerson probably would have welcomed old Bronc, the tramp, if only he’d been able to sing. Harry’s lack of musical talent was legendary; a sound that was a cross between a scalded cat and a hippopotamus in love could often be heard coming from the pub’s cellar. Unfortunately he was quite unaware that his voice was less melodious than a foghorn. There was even a rumour that this was why he’d spent the entire two years of his National Service guarding a fuel dump at an isolated spot in the Scottish highlands.
‘Quiet tonight I expect, Harry?’ Deepbriar tactfully changed the subject. ‘Nice for your mum and dad to have the night off. Though I suppose they’ll be home in time for the drunk and disorderlies.’
Harry laughed, acknowledging the little joke. His parents ran a decent pub, and he couldn’t remember when they’d last needed Deepbriar’s assistance to keep order. ‘It’s the quietest night of the year. Even old Bert Bunyard isn’t in yet.’
‘He’s laid up. The Colonel’s gamekeepers won’t be sorry, they’ll have a quiet time of it for a few weeks. Bert fell down the market hall steps in Belston on Monday. He’s got his leg in plaster.’
‘I hadn’t heard about that,’ Harry said.
Deepbriar grinned. ‘Really is a quiet night, when you don’t even get to hear the local gossip.’
Harry laughed. ‘Old Bronc’s a bit ripe,’ he said, as they reached the back entrance of the public house. ‘I knew mum and dad wouldn’t want him in the bar, so I put him in the back porch and gave him a cup of tea. Maybe I’d best fetch him a spot of brandy to put in it. He’s had a bit of a shock. What about you, Mr Deepbriar? Can I get you anything?’
‘Best not,’ the constable replied reluctantly. He might just get away with missing the rest of the performance, but there’d be hell to pay if he returned home with the smell of the Bartle’s best bitter on his breath.
The old tramp sat huddled on the wooden bench in the back porch of the Speckled Goose, a mug cradled between his gnarled hands. It was impossible to guess his age, and he made no claims, but there was a rumour that he’d fought in the Boer war. He was a small man, and thin, but he didn’t look it under the many layers of clothes that swathed him, evidenced by the multitude of grubby layers around his scrawny neck, making him look not unlike a tortoise.
When Deepbriar had seen him some seven months before, Bronc had sported a disreputable trilby hat, but now he wore a green deerstalker. The constable’s spirit’s lifted; as a detective, Sherlock Holmes was a little eccentric for his taste, but nevertheless the appearance of the famous man’s trademark seemed like a good omen. Maybe Harry had finally discovered a mystery.
‘Here we are, Bronc,’ Harry said cheerfully. ‘I’ve brought the law, like you wanted. You can tell Constable Deepbriar all about it.’
Bronc drained the mug and held it out. ‘Bit o’ somethin’ to warm the cockles would help, Mr Bartle, Sir,’ he said.
‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Flattered by the title most customers reserved for his father, the landlord’s son took the mug and nodded, turning to Deepbriar on his way out.
‘Thought he’d better not have anything stronger than tea till you’d seen him,’ he whispered. ‘Shan’t be a minute.’
Deepbriar seated himself on the other side of the porch and took out his notebook, trying not to breathe deeply; Harry was right, the old tramp smelt none too sweet. ‘Well now,’ he said. ‘What’s all this about?’
‘Car nearly ran me down, it did,’ Bronc said. His voice was low and gravelly from years of sleeping rough. ‘Look at the tear in me coat. Gurt black machine it was, goin’ like a runaway train an’ not a single light showin’.’ He shivered suddenly. ‘Not nice, meetin’ it so sudden. When a man gets to my age he don’t want to be thinkin’ about dyin’.’
‘No need for that sort of talk, you still look pretty lively to me, Bronc,’ Deepbriar said. ‘When was this?’
‘A while back. Gave me the fright of me life. Had to jump into the ditch.’
‘Were you hurt? Did it hit you?’
‘Naw,’ Bronc grinned. ‘Never touched me. I’m quick on me feet for an old ’un. Came close, though. Caught me coat.’
‘In the village was it, or on the main road?’
‘On the road. I landed in the muck.’ The old man looked up at the constable, his eyes pale and bright. Then his expression changed subtly as his gaze wandered to some far distance. ‘Landed in the muck,’ he repeated. ‘Came right at me it did. Just along by old Ma Fisher’s stall.’
‘Ma Fisher?’ Deepbriar frowned. ‘Must be before my time, Bronc. I don’t recall any Fishers in Minecliff.’
‘Who said anythin’ about Minecliff?’ The old man growled. ‘I’m talkin’ about Falbrough market. Hers was the first pitch round the corner from the church.’
Deepbriar’s heart sank. ‘But you’re in Minecliff now. You were telling me about a car that nearly hit you when you were on your way here.’
‘Naw, was I? I dunno ’bout that. Had to jump for me life I did. In the midden up to me knees I was, an’ them folks all laughin’. Disgrace it is, all that muck in the street.’
‘I think you’re getting muddled up with another time. Come on, Bronc. Think about it. You were on your way to Minecliff. Go on from there.’
‘Minecliff.’ Bronc rubbed his forehead with grubby knuckles and looked rather vaguely around him. ‘I’d be heading for Job Taylor’s then, would I? Pulls a good pint, does Job, not mean like some I could name, neither.’
‘Let’s get back to this car,’ Deepbriar prompted. He couldn’t remember the exact year when Job Taylor, one time landlord of the Speckled Goose, had died at the ripe old age of ninety two, but it was before the war.
‘Gurt roarin’ noise it made,’ Bronc said. ‘Scared me half out of me wits. Saw it all of a sudden like, skiddin’ sideways round the corner.’ He brightened suddenly. ‘Must’ve been on a Tuesday. Ma Fisher don’t go to market on Fridays.’
Deepbriar sighed. This was getting worse. There had been no Tuesday market in Falbrough since 1930. He put away his notebook.
‘Tell you what, Bronc, I reckon that car’s been and gone these twenty years and more. I don’t think there’s much chance we’ll see it again.’
The tramp’s brow furrowed, then his face lit up in a childlike smile. ‘Not with no lights on, eh? But it tore me coat, constable,’ he added, plucking at a strip of material that hung off the hem of the threadbare Burberry he wore as a top layer. Deepbriar inspected the damage. There was nothing to suggest how it had been done; most likely old Bronc had caught it on a barbed wire fence.
‘Maybe we can find you a new one.’
Harry arrived then with a measure of brandy. ‘Sorry I was gone so long,’ he said breathlessly, ‘somebody came in for a beer and the barrel was empty, then the bulb had gone on the stairs to the cellar. Have I missed anything?’
‘No. He’s a bit confused. Says the car knocked him into the midden, on the corner by the church in Falbrough, with everybody laughing at him. And it was a Tuesday, because Ma Fisher was at the market.’
The young man looked baffled, then deeply abashed. ‘He had it clear enough when he told me. I’m really sorry, Mr Deepbriar.’ He drew his brows together, concentrating. ‘Let’s see. He said he’d called at Quinn’s farm and had a bit of bread and cheese, then he was almost to the village when this car came at him round the sharp bend. Reckoned it didn’t have any lights on. Though come to think of it, he went on a bit about dying, I don’t know what that was all about, and he did say it was Silas Quinn he saw.’
‘That would be Ferdy’s grandfather.’ Deepbriar stood up. ‘There’s not a lot I could have done anyway, not unless he noticed the make of the car or the number. Biggest car in these parts is the Colonel’s Humber, and that’s grey, not black. Not to mention he never gets it out of second gear. No harm done anyway, except to Bronc’s coat. I said I’d try and find him something else. I thought maybe the rector might be collecting for the next jumble sale.’
‘I can do better than that.’ Harry vanished again.
