Dead Man’s Quarry: A Golden Age Mystery Page 5

  “Do you remember what time it was when you saw them going across the fields?

  “Well, it might be half after six,” said the innkeeper thoughtfully, getting heavily to his feet. “Half-past six to seven, I couldn’t say. The young chap was in here drinking and talking a while, and then he went outside, p’r’aps to sit on the bench, p’r’aps for a spin on his bike, I couldn’t say. And some time arterwards I sees him going across the field along of the elderly gentleman. Well, I be going to bed. Many a hearty chap’s been cut off in his prime through having less night air than what I’ve had to-night. Good night, masters. Thank you, sir. Ada, see the gentlemen out and bolt the door.”

  He departed with unsteady dignity up the stairs. The girl followed John and Felix to the door with an anxious look on her plain, pale face.

  “I hopes you won’t think as Father’s allus like this, sir,” she said timidly. “It’d do us harm if it was to get about as he took too much of his own liquors, they’re that strict with the licensing nowadays.”

  Reassuring her, they left the inn and went back to the car where Rampson was patiently awaiting them.

  “Probably,” said Felix, “Charles met my father on the road and came back with him. . .” He paused. “No, he can’t have done that, because we should have seen my father’s car if it had come along this road. I wonder what the dickens Charles was doing hanging about here all that time? We left at half-past five.”

  “Your father might have overtaken him going down the hill,” suggested John, “and he might have got off his bicycle and walked back. Though it’s a nasty hill to turn a car on, I doubt if it could be done, in fact. Anyhow, we’ll probably hear all about it when we get back to Penlow.”

  But there was no sign of Charles at the Feathers, and Felix, after ringing up Rhyllan Hall and learning that neither Charles nor Morris had returned there, spent, in spite of his endeavours to reason himself out of his anxiety, an uneasy night.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE DREADFUL QUARRY

  The sun rose the next morning shrouded in those soft mists that at such a time of year are the presage of a bright, warm day. Christmas, Rampson, and Felix stood in the doorway of the Feathers Inn, smoking their after-breakfast cigarettes and discussing plans for the day.

  “You don’t really expect me to turn towards London on such a day as this, Sydenham? I am sure the laboratory won’t miss you for another week or two. And it seems a pity not to explore Wales a bit further. Besides, you haven’t had nearly enough fresh air yet.”

  “The air I get in London is quite fresh enough for me,” answered Mr. Rampson composedly, and indeed with his plump, fresh-coloured face and well-built, sturdy body he did not look particularly in need of country air nor any other restorative. “But I don’t mind staying a bit longer. I have seen less attractive counties than this.”

  “I must get my bike out and start for Rhyllan,” said Felix, throwing his cigarette-end away, “and see if my troublesome cousin has put in an appearance yet.” The bright morning sun had dispelled his vague anxiety of the night before, and made him feel a little ashamed of his alarms. He hesitated. “I suppose,” he went on diffidently, “you wouldn’t care to come over and see Rhyllan while you’re in the district? It’s only four miles away, and it’s supposed to be worth seeing. Part of it—a very little part—is fifteenth century. Blodwen and my father would be delighted if you came to lunch, I know. And so,” he added quickly, remembering that Rhyllan Hall had now a new owner, “would Charles.”

  John Christmas, in whom the circumstances of Charles’s disappearance had roused a mild curiosity, accepted the invitation heartily.

  “That’s very kind of you. We shall be delighted, and we’ll follow you to Rhyllan in an hour or two. Meanwhile we’ll have a look round this old town, shall we, Sydenham? It’s market day, judging by the number of sheep I’ve seen going through the town. And here’s a sergeant of police coming to regulate the traffic. No, he’s coming here.”

  “Mr. Felix Price here, sir?”

  Felix, on his way upstairs to fetch his haversack and pay his bill, turned at the sound of his own name.

  “Yes, Sergeant?”

  “Could I have a word with you a moment, sir?”

  “Certainly,” said Felix cheerfully. Sergeant Dew was an old friend of his. But at the stolid, unsmiling look on the officer’s face, his own expression changed. His anxiety of the night before returned. “Come in here,” he said, and opened the door of a small sitting-room likely at that hour in the morning to be deserted.

  It was not long before he came out, followed by the sergeant. He hesitated a moment in the hall, with a vague startled look on his face, as if he did not know where he was, nor what to do next. Then, catching sight of John leaning against the lintel and watching him sympathetically, he stepped quickly over to him. His pleasant young face looked suddenly white and lined.

  “A terrible thing has happened,” he said in a low voice. “My cousin’s been found dead in the quarry. I—” He stopped and passed his hand over his forehead. “He’s at the Tram Inn. I—I must go there. But first I must ring up Rhyllan and let them know, I suppose. God! It’s ghastly!”

  “A messenger’s been sent to Rhyllan Hall, sir,” said Sergeant Dew sympathetically. “No need for you to telephone, if you’d rather spare yourself. No need for you to go to the Tram, either. The inspector can call and see you at Rhyllan later in the day. My orders were just to let you know what’s happened.”

  “Thank you,” said Felix mechanically. “No, I must go. I feel—poor Charles! We ought to have gone back for him yesterday! I knew we ought to go back. It’s my fault this has happened.”

  “Oh, come,” said John gently, recognizing in his new friend one of those ultra-conscientious souls who have an endless capacity for tormenting themselves, “that’s nonsense. You couldn’t possibly have foreseen such a thing.” He glanced at the kind-faced sergeant, who was looking at Felix with a sad and embarrassed expression as if, being the bearer of ill news, he felt himself responsible for its nature. “You’d much better do as the sergeant suggests—go home and await developments.”

  “No, no! I must go and hear how it happened. I must. One of the family must be there.”

  “Mr. Morris is sure to be there, sir,” pointed out Dew deferentially.

  “Is he?” said Felix rather wildly. “No. He’s away, I think... I don’t know! Anyhow, I must go! Get me Morgan’s car, Sergeant.”

  “I’ll take you over,” said John quietly. “I’ll get the car out at once.”

  He went round towards the garage, followed by Felix. Sergeant Dew looked after them and then glanced at Rampson, who had been a silent witness of this conversation.

  “A dreadful thing to happen, sir. Poor Sir Charles had only been back from Canada six weeks.”

  “A very extraordinary thing,” agreed Rampson. “One wouldn’t imagine it was easy to fall over a quarry edge in daylight, or during such a clear night as last. And there seems to have been no reason why he should go near the quarry.”

  The sergeant shook his head non-committally, and was silent for a moment. Then his interest in the mystery got the better of his professional calm.

  “Looks like murder,” he said in a low voice near Rampson’s ear.

  “Indeed!”

  “Yes, sir. All them injuries was never done by a fall. Shocking.”

  “Really.”

  “Yes, sir. It’s a shocking business.”

  A little disappointed at this stolid young man’s reception of his news and rather regretting that he had cast this pearl before so unappreciative an audience, he suddenly resumed his professional dignity, said briskly: “Well—good morning, sir!” and departed.

  The little grey car backed into the road. In response to John’s interrogative look Rampson shook his head.

  “You’ll find me hereabouts when you get back. I shall go and have a look round the town.”

  There was almost complete silence betw
een John and Felix during the nine-mile drive to the Tram Inn. Glancing occasionally from the corner of his eye at his young companion’s face, John found it always the same, white and troubled, with a gloomy frown on the brows and a set droop to the lips. John could not help being a little surprised at the boy’s apparent depth of feeling. A nasty shock, of course, to hear suddenly of the death of a man who, only yesterday, had been the companion of a happy holiday. But the acquaintance, in spite of the cousinship, had lasted only three days. And John had gained the impression that Felix and his cousin had not been by any means twin souls.

  As they approached Rodland Hill Felix said, looking across the fields to where, some distance away, a grey face of rock showed through a gap in the trees:

  “That’s the quarry.”

  His voice was strained and strange. There was no lightening of the gloom on his face. He became more animated as they approached the top of Rodland Hill, sitting upright in the car and looking eagerly ahead of him. But when the Tram Inn, standing among its tall trees a little way back from the road, came into view, he sank back with a sigh. There was a handful of people standing about outside the small timbered building, and three cars were drawn up outside its door. A large green car, John noted, was not among them.

  “That red car’s Dr. Browning’s,” said Felix listlessly. “He does the police work in this district. And the little blue one looks like Blodwen’s.” His face cleared for a moment. “My father may have driven over in that.”

  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,” s
aid 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.