Fall of a Philanderer (12 page)

Authors: Carola Dunn

BOOK: Fall of a Philanderer

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Alec went out into the yard, ducked under the clothes-line and, by the light from the windows of the house and the washhouse, found his way to the door of the latter. As he entered, Wedderburn was
washing his hands with carbolic soap at a stone sink, next to which hung a laundry copper.

“Dr. Wedderburn says I was right!” crowed young Vernon. “About Enderby being hit on the back of the neck with a piece of wood, I mean.”

“Looks like it,” the doctor confirmed. Brisk and businesslike, he seemed to have recovered his sang-froid. “But I can't tell whether it was the cause of death, or very shortly before or after death.”

“Will the autopsy make that clear?”

“Perhaps, but I can't guarantee it. I can tell you he didn't drown, so you can take it he fell down the cliff. Practically every major bone in his body is broken. He must have received so many blows in such a short time that which impact caused his death may be impossible to determine.”

“I see.”

“He died between six and ten hours ago. Rigor is just beginning in the facial muscles.”

“That fits. Will you â¦ can you â¦ ?”

“Do I perform autopsies? Yes, Chief Inspector. By the time I've done a thorough examination, anything else I do to the poor devils seemsâI suppose meaningless is the word. Irrelevant. They've already lost all their dignity, their humanity even. I'll cut him up for you tomorrow if you'll let me know when you've got him to Abbotsford. And now I'm off. I won't stay to see the widow, if you don't mind.”

“Have you somewhere to stay the night?”

“I motored over and will motor home. Don't worry, I'm not inebriated. Good night.”

“Good night.” Alec shook his hand. “And thank you.”

As Wedderburn left, Alec stepped over to the table. A neatly sides-to-middled sheet had been draped over the neatly rearranged body and turned down to reveal the upper part of the face, the lower part remaining hidden. In addition, over the right side of the lower abdomen a hole had been cut in the sheet, through which an old, jagged scar was visible.

“Probably shrapnel, he said.” Vernon's voice was hushed. “Not appendectomy, anyway. He said Mrs. Enderby should be able to identify it. Sir, he said I can help him with the post mortem, with your permission.”

“You have it. In return, I want to ask a favour.”

“Anything, sir!”

“Wait till you hear. I'd like to put you in charge of getting the body to Abbotsford.”

“Gosh. Erâhow? I mean, do I need a coffin? Should I take the ferry or hire a car? I mean, I can't just squish him into my little runabout, don't you know. And whereâ”

“It's precisely all that detail I haven't time or manpower for. Can I trust you to find out the how and where, and to accomplish the task with decency and respect?”

“Right-oh, sir,” Vernon said manfully. “Just leave it to me. I'll ask Uncle Ben.”

“That sounds like a good starting point. Keep a note of any reasonable expenses and I'll see you're reimbursed. Thank you. You'd better hop it now, before Mrs. Enderby arrives.”

A good lad, Alec thought. Perhaps he actually would become a second, non-fictional Dr. Thorndyke.

Alone at last, with a few minutes to think, Alec found his mind dwelling on Mrs. Puckle's fish pie. If he went asking for it now, Mrs. Enderby was sure to arrive when he had his mouth full. He should have eaten the tea provided by Mrs. Anstruther, but though he had drunk from the Thermos, it had not seemed decent to consume buttered scones and fruitcake while mounting vigil over the remains of George Enderby.

What had he done with his knapsack? He remembered taking it off as he approached the police station, entering with it dangling from his hand. He must have set it down on the floor somewhere. The camera was in it, with the photographs which might or might not prove useful. He'd have to get them developed in the morning. Was there a photographer or a developing chemist in Westcombe? If
not, he'd ask Vernon to take the film to Abbotsford. Making a mental noteâone among dozensâhe wished he had DC Ernie Piper at his elbow with his notebook and his endless supply of freshly sharpened pencils.

Alec's reflections on the quickest way to discover the identity of the farmer's daughter were interrupted by a knock on the washhouse door. PC Smith ushered in Mrs. Enderby.

The proprietress of the Schooner Inn had not taken the time to change out of her working frock, but she had tied a dark scarf over her flamboyant hair. Though her face was calm, Alec noticed her hands were clenched together tightly enough to whiten the knuckles. Considering the errand she had come on, he didn't read anything into this sign of tension.

“I'm sorry to have to ask you to do this, Mrs. Enderby.”

“For God's sake, let's get it over with.” She moved towards the head of the table, but her attention was caught by the neat hole cut in the sheet. She stared down and one hand went to her mouth. “Oh, my God! It's him. I was sure he'd turn up again like a bad penny, but that's the scar he got when he copped a packet at Wipers.”

“You're quite certain?”

“I'd reckernize it anywhere. He didn't like talking about it, but I used to tease him that he got hit by lightning, not the Jerries. 'Cause of the shape, see?” Two steps took her to the half-concealed head. “Georgie!”

She reached out to pull down the sheet but Alec had expected the move and caught her arm. “Don't,” he said gently. “You don't want to see any more.”

“Georgie!” Her voice came from a tight throat and tears glinted in her eyes. “I loved the bastard once, you know? Oh, he was a charmer, a smooth talker. And he helped me get the Schooner into shape, I'll give him that. If only â¦”

Alec handed over his handkerchief. He usually carried a spare when on a case, but this afternoon he'd set out for a peaceful walk and a picnic tea, dammit!

Dabbing at her eyes, Mrs. Enderby turned away with a forlorn little sniff. “You want me to sign something, Mr. Fletcher? Saying it's him?”

“If you please.” He opened the door and held it as she passed, high heels clicking on the flagstones. “It might enable you to avoid giving evidence of identity at the inquest, though I can't promise. Mind the clothes-line. You'll have to attend anyway, in case the coroner wants to speak to you. I've a number of questions to put to you, but I won't trouble you tonight. What would be a good time for me to call in the morning?”

The business-woman was back in control. “Breakfast eight to nine, there's always a few lazy buggers come down at the last minute so call it ha' past. Opening's half eleven. Come round about ten, all right?”

A few minutes later Alec was at last alone in the police station. His knapsack was under the table. Taking out the camera, he hesitated over the wax paper-wrapped picnic tea. If he started to eat, Mrs. Puckle was bound to come in with the promised pie and she might be offended to find him guzzling Mrs. Anstruther's provisions. He couldn't afford to have the Puckles upset with him. The constable might not be the brightest star in the firmament but at least he was willing.

Stomach rumbling, Alec sat down at the table with a pile of blank paper and the wooden pen with the scratchy steel nib that had given Vernon such trouble. As he started to put his thoughts in order, Mrs. Puckle brought him a huge helping of slightly dried-out fish pie topped with crisped mashed potato, accompanied by a generous heap of buttered green beans, and a pint mug of tea.

“Bless you!” said Alec.

D
aisy kissed the girls good night, turned out their light, and went back downstairs. Baskin had his two-inch Ordnance Survey map spread out again.

“I thought I'd show you where I went today, Mrs. Fletcher.” He turned up a couple of lamps. “You'll see that if you let the girls go up the stream with me, I shan't take them very far. As the crow flies, it's about a mile and a quarter to the head-spring. The stream winds around a bit, of course, and as I said, it's quite a scramble in places, so we might not get so far.”

Studying the map, Daisy said, “It looks to me as if I could walk that way by these lanes. And there are three bridges upstream where I could meet you to see how much farther you intend to go.”

Baskin grinned. “The lanes are farm tracks and two of the bridges are water-splashes, but that sounds like a good idea.”

“Where did you go today after you reached the source of the stream?”

“By farm tracks and footpaths, this way to the mouth of this river.” With a propelling pencil as pointer, he indicated his route across the peninsula. “The River Avon, you see, one of many such. Did you know
Avon
, or
Afon
, is the Celtic word for river?”

“No, is it?”

“Sorry! The schoolmaster escapes my control now and then. I got there in time to have a pint with my lunch, at the Ferries Inn, then took the ferry across and back, just because I like ferries. Then back along the coast.”

“Gosh, that's quite a walk!” Daisy didn't see how he could possibly have reached the cliff-top in time to push Enderby off before she and Alec and the girls arrived on the scene.

“Farther than it looks, actually. Not infrequently one starts along what looks like a well-trodden footpath, only to have it fade out. Or a farmer who dislikes hikers will plough over what should be a public right-of-way. As a matter of fact, I'm a member of the Commons and Footpaths Preservation Society, and I shall report to them. Then, there's a marshy bit that didn't help, down here by this stream I had to cross. I did quite a bit of backtracking.”

Mrs. Anstruther brought in coffee. She leant over the table, saying, “Do you know, I've never seen a map of this district before. At school we had maps of the British Isles and of the world, with the Empire all in red, but nothing of Devon, let alone this bit of it. Would you mind if I called Peter to have a look?”

“Do,” Daisy said cordially, only too pleased to have a chance to find out where Peter Anstruther had spent his afternoon.

He came in with two mugs of coffee. “I brought yours, Ceci. It's getting cold.”

Taking the cup, she thanked him with a look of love and gratitude. “Have you ever seen a map like this, Peter? Look, here's Westcombe. And here's North Sands beach, so this little black square must be our house!”

“The farthest south in the townâyes, that'll be it, won't it, Mr. Baskin?”

“I imagine so,” said Baskin, smiling.

“I'm accustomed to sea charts. Though navigation is not my business, the elevationâthe height above sea-level, as you might sayâof points on the shore often is. But I'll be damnedâ”

“Peter!”

“Dashedâsorry, Mrs. FletcherâI'll be dashed if I can make this out. Too many lines! I know the area like the back of my hand, from roaming about when I was a boy, but this don't look anything like the lanes and cliffs and fields and trees I know.”

“Not like the back of your hand.” Baskin resumed the role of teacher. “You see the back of your hand all at once, like the map, whereas you find your way about by means of familiar landmarks viewed individually as you come upon them. But it's just a matter of learning the conventions.” He explained the contour lines, the various lines for footpaths and different grades of roads, the symbols for cliffs and woods and the marshy area in which he had been bogged down that afternoon.

Anstruther was fascinated. He pored over the map, pointing out things to Cecily.

“Where is Sid's shack, Mr. Baskin?” Daisy asked.

“Just about here, in a sheltered nook on the south side of Bolberry Down.”

“There used to be a shepherd's hut there,” said Anstruther. “A tumbledown stone shelter. You're talking about Sid Coleman?”

“I don't know his last name,” Daisy admitted. “The beachcomber. The girls met him and were rather taken with him. Do you know his history?”

“His father was a farmer. He died a couple of years ago?” He looked at his wife.

“Nearer four, I think. He was a very old man. Sid's about my age, so his parents must have been getting on when he was born.”

“His mother died when he was born and his father had no use for him. He was a brute. The older son, Alfred, has the farm now, and he's no improvement on the old man. It's amazing Sid survived his childhood. He's a harmless chap. So that's where he's living, in the old shepherd's hut?”

“He's made a good, sound cabin of it,” Baskin told him, “patchwork but weatherproof, with a view out to sea.”

Anstruther laughed. “A view of the sea is no treat to a sailor. I haven't been up on the cliffs in years.”

To Daisy, the statement had the ring of truth, and if true, it meant Anstruther had not killed Enderby. Catching Baskin's eye, she wondered if he was thinking the same. Then she wondered whether he had brought out his map with the aim of getting Anstruther to talk about the cliffs, in hopes of obtaining clues to his guilt or innocence.

Or perhaps Baskin had been practising the story he meant to tell the police. If so, he was word-perfect and very convincing.

They all sat down to finish their coffee, and the talk turned to Anstruther's travels around the world. He and Baskin discovered a mutual acquaintance, an officer on a ship that had evacuated Baskin's Army unit from Gallipoli in '16. Anstruther's ship had taken part in the early naval attacks of the Dardanelles campaign, and they were exchanging reminiscences when someone knocked on the front door.

Alec! Daisy thought, and Alec as detective chief inspector or he would not have knocked. This was going to be a nasty shock for the Anstruthers. She wouldn't blame themâwell, not muchâif they threw her and the girls out into the night.

Cecily started to get up. Anstruther put his hand on her shoulder and went himself to answer the door. He came back a couple of minutes later and said with resignation, “It's a police inspector.”

Not Alec. Eviction postponed.

“About last night?” Cecily asked, troubled. “Is
he
pressing charges?”

“I don't know. I was going to take him into the kitchen but he wants to speak to you, too, Baskin. Do you mind coming â¦ ?”

“That's all right, sir, this'll do nicely.” The inspector had followed him to the sitting room. With his black suit and kindly smile, he looked disarmingly like a parson about to pronounce a blessing, Daisy thought. But behind him loomed a uniformed constable with the inevitable notebook.

Anstruther shrugged and moved aside. He seemed worried
enough for someone facing an assault charge which would do his career no good, but not for someone facing suspicion of murder. Of course, he had had plenty of time to prepare himself for questioning. His beard made it difficult to read his expression. Daisy couldn't guess whether he knew of Enderby's death or not.

She glanced at Baskin. His face was grim. He knew the inspector had not sought him out merely as a witness to last night's assault. Whether he was more concerned for himself or for Anstruther was not apparent.

“Detective Inspector Mallow, Devonshire Constabulary,” the officer introduced himself genially. He looked around the room, his gaze passing over Daisy as if he didn't see her. She tried to make herself small and invisible. He went on, “I have aâ”

“It's all my fault!” cried Cecily Anstruther, jumping up. “Can't you arrest me instead of my husband?”

“Balderdash.” Peter went to her and made her sit down, perching himself on the arm of her chair with a hand on her shoulder. “I lost my temper and if the blackguard wants to make trouble, I'll take my medicine.”

“I'm not arresting anybody just now, madam,” said Mallow in a soothing voice. “Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling me what it is you want to take the blame for?”

“Why, last night, of course.” Cecily's forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. “Isn't that why you're here?”

“Not exactly. I have a few questions for the gentlemen. Mr. Anstruther, would you mind telling me where you were between two oâclock and four o'clock this afternoon?”

“This afternoon!” Cecily exclaimed. She looked up at her husband. “What happened? Peter, you didn't â¦ ? He was here with me,” she said fiercely to the inspector.

“I'd like Mr. Anstruther to answer for himself, if you please, madam,” Mallow said, his mildness unimpaired.

“No, I didn't go and give him the thrashing he deserves, Ceci. I went to see an old friend, Inspector. He lives over near South Huish.”

“I'm not familiar with this part of the county, sir. I see you have a map there. Perhaps you wouldn't mind showing me where that is.”

Daisy was dying to go over with the others to the table where the map still lay spread out, but she was afraid of drawing attention to herself in case Mallow asked her to leave. He hadn't asked who she was, so she assumed he guessed she was Alec's wife. The poor man must be in quite a quandary over what to do with her.

“South Huish,” said Baskin, putting his finger on the map. “I walked through the village myself, this morning.”

“A matter of three or four mile,” the inspector observed. “More by road. You walked there, Mr. Anstruther?”

“No, I bicycled. Borrowed a bike from a pal in the village. In Westcombe, that is. You can ask him.”

“We probably will. What time did you leave?”

“I don't know. After dinner. Lunch, if you prefer.”

“About quarter past two,” said Cecily.

“I borrowed the bicycle in the morning, though.”

“Which way did you ride?”

“I didn't go back into town. I tookâlet me seeâ” He puzzled over the map for a minute, keeping his arm around Cecily's waist. “I'm not too good at reading a map, but it must have been this lane here, to Malborough. Then this lane, it's not much more'n a farm track. After that, you can see, it gets a bit muddlesome. There are several ways you can get to the village, to South Huish, but I didn't go there anyway. He doesn't live actually in the village and I can't quite make out from the map â¦ .”

“I see, sir. What time did you get to your friend's house?”

“I wasn't wearing my watch, but it must have been about three.”

“No doubt your friend can confirm that.”

“He wasn't there,” Anstruther admitted.

“Is that so? A servant?”

“He has a daily woman from the village, who wasn't there on a Sunday, of course. At least, he used to. I haven't seen him since my last leave.”

“Name and address, please.”

“Paul Pritchard. Sea View Cottage, South Huish. Don't go bothering him if you don't have to, Inspector. He was rather badly shot up at Jutland. What's this all about, anyway? I've told you I didn't see him today, so I can't see you need trouble him at all.”

“That's not for me to say, sir. Finding your friend out, you came straight home, I take it?”

“No, as a matter of fact I went up to the old camp.”

“Camp?”

“Fort, or whatever you want to call it. It's Iron Age or Bronze Age or something. We used to go up there when I was a boy, to play Ancient Britons fighting the Roman invasion.”

“But you wouldn't be playing soldiers today, sir.”

“Of course not. I just wanted somewhere quiet to sit and think.”

“And where exactly is this old fort?”

Anstruther stared perplexedly at the map. “I couldn't rightly say.”

“Here,” said Baskin, pointing. “Where it says âCamp.' I went there the other day to take a look. Nothing left but a few mounds.”

“No one about to see you, I suppose, Mr. Anstruther?”

“Not a soul. That's why I went there.”

“Pity.” Mallow bent over the map. “Now, Mr. Baskin, I expect you can show me on this whereabouts George Enderby went over the cliff.”

“What the devil?” Anstruther gasped. “Cecily!”

Pale as a ghost, Cecily Anstruther drooped against her husband's shoulder. As he supported her to the sofa, Daisy jumped to her feet.