Dead Man's Quarry (7 page)

But as they drew up outside the Tram a tall woman in a rough tweed coat and hat left the porch of the inn and came quickly towards them.

“Hullo, Felix,” she said quickly, with a glance at John. “Have you seen anything of Uncle Morris?”

Felix shook his head.

“Hasn't he come home?”

“No. So I thought I'd better come down. I wanted them to move the body to Rhyllan, but they intend to hold the inquest here.”

It was characteristic of Blodwen Price that she wasted no words in vain expressions of horror or regret; that her grey eyes were dry and clear and her low voice steady and matter-of-fact. She was a woman of thirty-six or seven, with a shrewd weather-beaten face redeemed from extreme plainness by a pair of singularly clear, deep-set grey eyes with fine dark brows and lashes. John noticed that the moody Felix seemed to become steadier and cooler at the first contact with her self-contained personality.

“When do they propose to hold the inquest?” he asked in a voice as low and matter-of-fact as her own.

“I don't know. It depends on Uncle Morris. Apparently he met Charles here last night. Did you know that?”

“Yes. This is Mr. Christmas. My cousin, Miss Price.”

Miss Price's bright eyes measured John in a rapid glance as they shook hands. Then they turned towards the inn. It was not the time for an exchange of amiable sociabilities.

Dr. Browning met them in the passage, and explaining that the Superintendent was at the moment in the bar-parlour interviewing the landlord, led the way into a tiny crowded room at the back of the house that was evidently a family sitting-room. He looked pale and distressed as he greeted Felix and Blodwen.

“I'm afraid this is a sad home-coming for you, Miss Price. Please accept my deep sympathy. And you too, Felix. Dear, dear! To think that the poor young fellow was joking over the tea-table with us yesterday!

“When was the body found?” asked Blodwen unemotionally.

“This morning. Young Hufton of Upper Ring Farm works on the railway as a plate-layer, and found the poor fellow at the foot of the quarry on his way to work. Quite early, I believe. But of course it took some time to get in touch with the police... A terrible thing. What can the motive have been?”

There was a pause. Felix looked slowly from the doctor to Blodwen, and then from her impassive face back at the doctor again.

“What's that?” he said in a low voice, and then on a sharper note:“Then it wasn't an accident?”

“Haven't they told you?” asked Dr. Browning pitifully. “I'm sorry! No, it wasn't an accident.” He hesitated, looking kindly and sadly at the boy's white face. “Nor suicide,” he finished quietly.

There was a silence.

“Murder,” muttered Felix, gazing stonily before him. He turned almost fiercely the moment after on the doctor. “How can you tell it wasn't suicide?” he cried in a strained, shaking voice.

Dr. Browning made no reply. He gave the slightest shrug to his shoulders and glanced at Christmas.

“Oh, Lord!” cried Felix, as if the full realization of what such a thing would mean had only just come to him. “What a ghastly business! Blodwen!”

He looked wildly at his cousin, then sank into the window-seat and covered his face with his hands. John, who had taken a liking to this sensitive and excitable youth, found himself wondering again why the death of a scarcely-known and unsympathetic cousin should cause this acute distress. Felix was obviously a youth of high-strung sensibilities, but he did not seem to John to be a weak or hysterical character. Patting his shoulder, John knew an almost paternal feeling for his young friend, though he had the advantage of him by certainly not more than five years.

It was not many moments before Felix recovered himself. Raising his white face he looked at his cousin Blodwen, who was regarding him with more surprise than sympathy, with an apologetic smile.

“He—he wasn't really such a bad chap,” he said to her, as if in extenuation of his own weakness, and bit his lip and seemed to make a strong effort to regain his poise.

“And now,” he went on, turning to Dr. Browning, “I suppose they're all trying to find out who did it. I suppose we shall have all Scotland Yard down here sooner or later. Is there any clue?”

“Not so far as I know,” answered the doctor. “His wrist-watch and gold cigarette-case are untouched, and there's five pounds in his breast-pocket. So robbery wasn't the motive.”

“How?”

“The poor fellow was shot in the head,” Dr. Browning replied to the unspoken question. “At the base of the skull, at very close range. And afterwards, apparently, thrown over the quarry edge. He was found lying face downwards upon the stones at the foot. He's”—the doctor hesitated—”dreadfully knocked about, poor chap. The only thing which can he regarded as a clue so far is that his gold signet-ring is missing. I noticed yesterday at tea that he was wearing a large gold ring with a blood-stone seal.”

“Yes, I noticed it too. Missing, is it?”

“Yes. Though it's hard to imagine why anybody should take it, and leave the gold cigarette-case, which is certainly more valuable.”

“It might have slipped off,” said Felix without interest. “Good morning, Superintendent,” he added, getting up, John noticed, with a sort of nervous alacrity as that officer entered the room. “This is a horrible affair.”

“It is that, sir,” agreed the officer gravely. “And a mysterious affair, too, so far as appears at present.” Superintendent Lovell was a thin, hatchet-faced man of fifty, with the sort of quiet, reserved and rather autocratic bearing that inspires confidence. John liked his looks, but thought he would be a man difficult to get on with. There was obstinacy as well as integrity in his long tranquil face, and he had the straight mouth and perfectly level eyebrows that usually imply a lack of the sense of humour.

“I'm afraid I must ask you to come and view the body, sir,” added Lovell, “as Mr. Morris Price is away. I'm afraid there's no doubt as to the identity, though.”

“None in my mind,” murmured Dr. Browning, noticing a gleam of animation appear on Felix's face, as if the policeman's words had inspired him with the hope that the dead man might, after all, prove to be a stranger.

“But we should like you to identify him for certain,” finished Superintendent Lovell, and opened the door.

Felix glanced at John as if he would be glad of his support, and John rose and accompanied him to the door.

“I think,” said Blodwen Price in her crisp, matter-of-fact voice, “I had better come too.”

The four men looked at her in surprise, and Dr. Browning with dismay as well.

“Oh, really, Miss Price,” he objected, “there is no need for you to undergo such a horrible experience!” He glanced at the Superintendent for support. He was an old-fashioned man, and while in theory he believed in the equality of the sexes, in practice he was very far from such a standpoint. He was well aware that Blodwen was a stronger, stabler character than Felix; yet her cool proposal to share her cousin's misfortune outraged his deepest feelings. “I don't think you realize,” he added earnestly, “what it will be like.”

“Yes, I do,” said Blodwen simply. “Is there any objection to my seeing my brother, Superintendent?”

‘‘None whatever,” answered Lovell with profound indifference, much to Dr. Browning's disgust. “If you can identify him also, so much the better.”

“But you can't!” protested Dr. Browning. “Surely, my dear Miss Price, if you haven't seen your brother for fifteen years, it will be quite useless—”

“I shall be able to identify him,” said Blodwen placidly. To John's eye she had the air of keeping well in check a certain impatience with the doctor's well-meant dissuasions.

She liked Dr. Browning, that was evident. But she did not feel in any need of his protection.

“I shall know at once whether it is my brother or not,” she repeated calmly, “although I haven't seen him for fifteen years. Don't worry, Doctor. You can feel my pulse, if you like, before and after.” And she led the way out into the passage.

“This way,” said the Superintendent, indicating the back door, and they passed out into the soft, beneficent sunlight of the summer morning, down a narrow, flagged path to a large shed that stood at the end of the small strip of garden. A young constable stood on guard outside the door, and saluted as Superintendent Lovell approached.

“Had any visitors, Davis?”

“No, sir. Only the young 'oman from the inn come down the garden to tell I her've had a matter of half a dozen eggs took from the hen-coops yesterday evening. Seemed to think as I'd ought to leave my post and go off looking for the thief, sir!” A broad grin overspread his good-humoured face. “Her's a caution, her is! ‘I've got a theft to report,' her says. Eggs! ‘A rat-trap'll catch the thief better nor what I should,' I says to she, and off her goes to the orchard to see whether there's any apples been taken. Her counts they apples every day, I've heard tell.”

The loquacious young man gave a guffaw and then, remembering the solemn business he was employed upon, broke it off in the middle and looked unnaturally serious, and then rueful as the Superintendent said with grave reproof:

“That'll do, Davis. That's not the way to make a report.”

They passed into the cool, dusty shed, with its earthen floor piled with potatoes, firewood and gardening tools. A mangle stood in one corner, and a bin of chicken-meal in another, and against the farther wall something lay on a long trestle table, covered with a clean, faded bedspread. John Christmas noted that of his three new acquaintances Felix looked by far the most concerned and Blodwen Price the least. Felix's hands were clenched and his lips tightly pressed together, and Dr. Browning's kindly, humorous face wore a distressed, almost fearful look. But Blodwen looked merely pensive. Could a lengthy separation make one so indifferent to one's closest kin? Or was it by some effort of self-control that the sister appeared so unconcerned at the brother's fate?

She did change colour slightly when Superintendent Lovell, with a warning to them to be prepared, drew the cloth gently from the trestle table. The dead man was not a pleasant sight. John, after a moment of quick recoil, thought that if Blodwen had not seen her brother for fifteen years she would be hard put to it to recognize him now, in spite of her confidence. Felix gave a loud gasp, and his long hands went fluttering up to his face as if to shut out the sight from his eyes. But he dropped them again, and schooled himself to stand still at the table side and look down at the still, mutilated figure.

“Yes,” he said in a low, forced voice. “It is Charles.”

John saw the body of a tall, large-boned man, dressed in a rough tweed suit and cricket shirt, still wet with the heavy dew and streaked with dust and blood. The close-range bullet had terribly disfigured the face, but the round, smooth chin, thick hair and smooth eyebrows proclaimed him a man still on the youthful side of forty. The hands, one of which was bruised and broken at the wrist, were large, rough-skinned and ill-cared-for, but shapely.

There was a silence, during which the shed seemed to be filled with the loud humming of a large bee, which was endeavouring to find a way out through the closed, cobwebby panes of the window.

“Yes,” repeated Felix. “It's Charles right enough. I'd hoped—”

He broke off suddenly and turned away.

“Dr. Browning tells me,” remarked Lovell, looking quietly down at all that was left of Sir Charles Price, “that a signet-ring is missing. Did you notice a ring on the finger yesterday, Mr. Felix?”

“Yes,” answered Felix, watching the exasperated bee with vague, unseeing eyes. “He always wore one on the little finger of his right hand. It may have fallen off.”

“Was it loose?” Lovell picked up the limp right hand and casually compared its size with his own.

“I don't know,” replied Felix. “I didn't notice that it was. But it may have been.”

“Large knuckles,” remarked the Superintendent. “It would have to be a very loose ring that would slip off that finger.” He turned to John. “You're wearing a ring, sir. Would you lend it me a moment? That is,” he added, perceiving something gruesome in his request, “if you don't mind.”

John, not quite sure whether he minded or not, obediently slipped off the ring he wore on his little finger and handed it to Lovell. But the demonstration came to nothing. The ring would not go over the joint. Lovell handed it back.

“You can take my word for it, though,” he remarked. “A ring that would slip off that finger would have to be so loose its owner would never dream of wearing it there. The ground's been searched both at the top and bottom of the quarry, too. Well, it may turn up. I should be glad if you would look over the contents of the pockets, Mr. Felix, and tell me if anything is missing as far as you know. You'll find them all set out on the bench over there. I've made a list.”

While Felix glanced over the array of small objects set out on the dusty bench, Superintendent Lovell read from the paper in his hand.

“A gold cigarette-case, two boxes of matches, a note-case containing five pounds in paper, seven and twopence in loose cash, a silk handkerchief, a bunch of keys, a silver pencil-case, a fountain-pen filled with red ink, a small photograph, a tube of cold cream, a few strands of wool, two cigarette cards and a handkerchief which has been used as a bandage.”

Felix looked vaguely at the small collection, which had a look of pathos set out thus neatly and incongruously on the dusty bench.

“I don't know what he had in his pocket,” he said. “As far as I know, nothing's missing. I recognize some of the things. The handkerchief, and the cigarette-case, and the photograph. And I remember he had a tube of cold cream, for sunburn. And a fountain-pen with red ink in it. Yes, all those things are Charles's, I think, and I don't remember seeing anything that isn't there now.”