Comes a Stranger (32 page)

Killick said in an aside that was audible:—

“Cold-blooded old devil.”

Mr. Broast heard and turned and bestowed on him a charming smile.

“I'm so sorry,” he said, “but after all—well, I am old, and one day your skull and mine will be a subject for contemplation, too. It is the universal law of death.”

“Of life,” Bobby said from behind.

Mr. Broast swung around to look at him.

“Ah, our young policeman,” he murmured. “Now, I wonder what he means? Just said for the sake of saying, or do policemen sometimes turn philosophers? Anyhow, both begin with a ‘p'. An interesting thought, and no doubt policemen and philosophers both deal with mystery—insoluble mystery, I fear, very often. The unknowable, in fact, as forgotten Herbert Spencer would have said. But very fortunate for me, I imagine, it is a woman, or you would be trying to prove the missing Mr. Virtue had been found at last. Yes, I think it very fortunate, or I should be anticipating endless questioning on a suspicion that the missing Virtue had been knocked on the head—probably with his own
Dictes
—and buried here one still, quiet, moonlight night.”

“Why still, why moonlight?” Bobby asked.

“Oh, merely to be picturesque. Can't you imagine it? Someone, myself perhaps, frantically digging, perspiring, the sweat running down on each spadeful turned up. One does not perspire so easily when one is old. Every sound an agony in the silent night. The moon watching, fortunately quite indifferent, and under that tree, lying very still, a bit of bare, stripped machinery that had run down, regrettably, perhaps, but also unavoidably.”

“You might have been there,” Major Harley said.

“Oh, a scene easy to reconstruct,” Mr. Broast retorted.

“Can you tell us anything about any woman you remember disappearing suddenly from the neighbourhood?” Major Harley asked.

“My dear sir, surely you, as head of a police force, chief constable I believe, surely you know very well that girls disappear with considerable frequency. It is indeed, among girls, a not uncommon procedure. I know it happens at times to the maids employed at the Lodge. I can recollect two or three cases. One, some years ago, an unusually prepossessing girl. I forget her name. Her mother was frantic. A lad of the village had been seen in her company. He admitted a quarrel. I believe he was closely questioned by members of your admirable and persevering force. Afterwards it became known that she was doing very well in town—in the neighbourhood of Piccadilly and of Leicester Square. Very well indeed. Another girl—her name was Gladys, I remember that, it seemed somehow so appropriate—disappeared, too, a year or two later, but that was simpler, for a certain number of silver spoons disappeared simultaneously. Putting two and two together in their inimitable way. Your colleagues of the times drew certain conclusions. But in this case I understand, there's nothing in the way of silver spoons?”

“Nothing,” said Major Harley briefly. “You can't help us then?”

“My dear sir,” protested Mr. Broast, “you expect too much. What help can you suppose I should be in a position to offer? Indeed, I greatly fear you will find identification exceedingly difficult.”

“We shall do our best,” said the Major heavily.

“I am sure you will,” Mr. Broast agreed. “Do you know—all this reminds me most oddly of the grave digging scene in
Hamlet
. You remember? ‘Alas, poor Yorick,' and so on.” He looked down again at the skull where it lay so close by his feet. “Alas, poor—But your name wasn't Yorick,” he said.

None of them spoke. They were listening, watching, with a kind of fascination. Mr. Broast looked round slowly.

“I mustn't interrupt you any longer,” he said. “You have your work to do and I have mine.”

With a gesture of farewell he turned and walked away, back towards the Lodge, and again the little party stood and watched him go, and again, even after they had turned once more to their task, one or other would pause and give a glance over the shoulder at that tall, receding form.

“What I say,” declared Killick suddenly, “is he knows all about it.”

“What proof is there?” Major Harley asked. “After all this time, what chance is there even of establishing identity?”

One of the men digging paused suddenly. He was very pale, and there were beads of sweat making channels down his cheeks through the dust and grime that had settled on them. He said slowly:—

“I never thought to hear a man stand up and tell how he had done a thing like that—and us police and all.”

“Murder all right, and he done it,” his companion said; “and he knows we know, and he don't give that—” The speaker snapped finger and thumb together. “For why? because he knows he'll never hang.”

“There are worse deaths than hanging,” Bobby said, and wondered, when the others looked at him, why he had said that, for the words had come spontaneously, as if his tongue had repeated something whispered in his ear.

“We'll never even know who she was, poor soul,” Killick said.

Major Harley turned to Bobby.

“What do you think, Owen?” he asked.

“I think, sir, if we both wrote down a name, it would be the same,” Bobby answered.

“You'll write the same name, Killick, when you've had time to look through the papers more carefully,” the Major explained to the puzzled looking superintendent. “At least, I expect you will but we'll see. Only I don't know what action we can take.”

They went on with their work. The poor remaining relics were collected. The turned-up earth was examined almost grain by grain to see if anything further could be found, but without success. Not even a shred or remnant of clothing, no button or clasp or buckle, no article of jewellery, none of those more durable objects that most of us carry in our pockets or that are a part of our clothes.

“He said ‘stripped',” one of the searchers remarked. “You noticed that? ‘Stripped', he said. Means she was put in there stark naked so as to make sure nothing shouldn't ever be found. How did he know that if it wasn't him did it?”

“Never be proved,” said another, “and so he'll never swing, and if there's worse waiting for him, same as the London bloke said just now, well, I hope it won't be long.”

“Well, anyhow,” Killick said, “the poor soul will have Christian burial now.”

This fresh discovery involved a good deal of extra work. The coroner had to be notified, since an inquest would be necessary. Various other formalities of routine had to be gone through. Journalists, for the news was beginning to get about now, had to be dealt with. It was late before Bobby could slip away to get lunch—his breakfast had been no more than the hurried outline of a meal—and at the inn he found as he had hoped might be the case, Olive waiting for him.

“I suppose you've heard,” he said.

“It's so terrible,” she said, “to think all this time—and often and often I've gone there to sit. Bobby, who can she have been?”

“You heard it was a woman?” he asked. “We were trying not to let that out yet.”

“Miss Perkins told me,” Olive explained. “I met her in the drive as she was coming to work, and she told me a woman had been buried there, and you had found the skeleton.”

“Oh, yes,” Bobby said. “She came up while we were digging. I am wondering how she happened to be there?”

“She told me she couldn't sleep. I don't wonder either. She said she got up to have a walk because of having been awake all night, and she thought a walk would do her good, and then she saw you there and went to see what was happening. Mr. Broast was there, too, she said.”

“Yes, he was,” agreed Bobby moodily.

“Miss Perkins said he laughed. He said you would never be able to do anything because it was all so long ago. Then he laughed. Miss Perkins said he needn't be too sure. She was very excited and upset, almost as much by his laughing as by what you found. She said it was dreadful to hear him laughing, and I expect it was.”

“He shouldn't have laughed,” Bobby said. “He shouldn't have let her see him laughing.”

“I think it was horrid of him,” Olive said, “only I think every one is so upset, we are none of us quite normal. What's going to happen now?”

“I don't know,” said Bobby. “Major Harley's very worried. He doesn't know what action to take. Not much he can do. Does Miss Kayne know?”

“Yes. We told her as soon as she came downstairs. She didn't say anything except one thing, I don't know what it means. She said:— ‘I knew her at once.' She said that before. Does she mean she knows who it is was buried there? She went to ask Mr. Broast about it. It's the first time I've known her visit the library for ever so long. She looked awful. Bobby, how long is it since—since it was done?”

“Since the body was hidden?” Bobby asked. “I haven't much idea. Major Harley will try to get expert opinion. Good long time anyhow—some years. I wonder if Miss Kayne has any idea?”

“She won't say anything,” Olive said. “She just sits there and you can almost see her waiting, but you don't know what for. It's almost like the way you think people condemned to death sit and wait. Bobby, I don't think I can stand it much longer.”

“I don't think you ought to,” Bobby said. “I don't think you ought to have stood it as long as you have.”

“I shall tell her I can't, it's not right,” Olive said passionately. “I shall tell her she must come away to London with me. Bobby, what is Major Harley going to do?”

Bobby shook his head.

“I've no idea,” he said. “There's to be a conference.”

“Do you think—do they think this was murder, too?”

“There's nothing to suggest murder, except, of course, the secrecy of the burial,” Bobby answered. “That suggests murder, but it's not proof. There does not seem to be any injury showing to prove violence. Major Harley was talking of having the soil analysed to see if any trace of poison could be found. Doesn't sound very hopeful to me. There'll be all sorts of experts turned loose, I expect. I don't see what they can prove, I don't see how identity is going to be proved, either. You may know things you can't prove. It looks as if the body had been stripped”—he hesitated before he used the word—“stripped of everything that would be likely to resist decay and afford any clue. All we have to go on is that it was a woman of a certain height, and most likely the doctors will be able to make a good guess at her age and weight, and perhaps give some idea of her appearance—I believe they claim they can reconstruct a face from the line of the skull, though only to a very limited degree. There'll be a lot of inquiries made, but they'll have to be made in the dark. Of course, there's always the chance of someone knowing something and coming forward.”

“Will Miss Kayne have to be questioned? I don't think she's in a fit state.”

“Well, I believe Major Harley intends to see her this afternoon. I heard him say something to Killick.”

“Not to you?”

“No. My job this afternoon is to draw up a memo. I've put a theory to Major Harley he wants me to get down on paper in full details. He knows what it is, of course, but he wants it for the conference, and then I think he means to take the advice of the Public Prosecutor's office. I think, myself, we ought to act at once. I'm afraid of—well, of something else happening. I don't feel as if we were at the end yet. We ought to take precautionary action. I know it's difficult.”

“Doesn't Major Harley want to do that?”

“It would be his responsibility. It's one thing for a sergeant to advise, privately, another for a chief constable to act publicly. In this country the police have jolly well got to watch their step. English people keep a sharp eye on their police—quite right, too. A policeman can easily turn into a bully, he has a little brief authority and it's up to the public to see he plays no fantastic tricks to make the angels weep. Killick is strongly against taking any action—yet. Against precipitate action, he says, before it's ripe.”

“What does he mean—ripe?”

“Cunning old beggar. No flies on Killick. His idea is for us to lie low and wait for a mistake. It's a good plan very often. If you do nothing, then they think you must be doing something, and they get nervous, and then they do something themselves, and that's where you get them. Only—sometimes what happens isn't what you expected.”

“You've got something in your mind, Bobby? The theory you are putting in your memo?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “I've got to have a chat with Mrs. Payne first though—you know, Mrs. Somerville's friend. She's been away visiting a daughter, but I did make sure that she was about the only person in the village who isn't on the wireless.”

“Is that important?” Olive asked, and Bobby nodded, though without explaining why, and after they had talked a little Olive returned to the Lodge firm in her resolve to insist on Miss Kayne's leaving at once for London, while Bobby devoted himself to the composition of his memorandum.

It was long and elaborate, a mass indeed of small details. But now it began to seem to him that in this accumulation of detail the pattern of a logical development and plan was becoming manifest.

It was possible now, for instance, to be sure that of those points so carefully lettered from A to K that he and Major Harley had from the start thought worth careful consideration, only those they had called H and K seemed wholly irrelevant. In the others, the whole series of recent events had been implicit, if only it had been possible then to appreciate their full and true significance.

Of course, besides these, there were other incidents and details that now appeared invested with a meaning hidden at the time.

Very important, for instance, seemed that glimpse of Miss Perkins at her bedroom window he and Mills had had as they drove by on the night of the Kayne murder. Important, too, in the same connection was the fact he had just mentioned to Olive that in a village of wireless devotees Mrs. Somerville had that same night been visiting the only one of the inhabitants not provided with a wireless set.