IX

Resurrection

PIET COULDN’T SEND his own men to investigate Miss Wells and her green Fiat because the printers were not in his constabulary, but he had only to ask the Oxfordshire police to do so. He was on good terms with his neighbours, rang up the Chief Constable of Oxfordshire, Sir Nigel Bryant, to say he had a problem, and was promptly invited to lunch. By the time he got there the news of the finding of Sir Gordon had already been on the radio, and, of course, it had been reported first to the Oxford police.

‘Good work finding that old Colonial Governor of yours,’ Sir Nigel said. ‘In the nick of time, too – seems he could have lasted only a few more hours.’

‘Simon Begbroke is a thundering good man and we’ve got a good team,’ Piet said.

‘Will you ever know exactly what happened?’

‘I rather doubt it. The doctor says he’s had severe concussion, and remembers nothing of how he came to be where he was.’

‘No weapon?’

‘Not so far. The trouble is it could be anything – a spanner from the tool kit of a car, even a heavy stick. We’ll go on looking, but I haven’t much hope. I’ve only talked to Simon on the phone, and I don’t know all the details yet. But from what Simon has been able to piece together it looks as if the old boy was knocked down for his wallet and his watch, a mugging rather than a political kidnapping, which is what we feared at first. Whether we’ll ever get the mugger is anybody’s guess. We haven’t much to go on – signs of a struggle where we found his hat, no tyre marks on the grass, but the place is not far from a road, and the mugger could easily have gone off by car. It’s rather a lonely spot, and we’ve found no witnesses to anything.’

‘Well, you found Sir Gordon, and that’s the important thing. What brings you here now?’

‘I’ve got a confession to make. I’ve been trespassing on your manor.’ Piet told him about the mysterious stamp, the doubts that had arisen over the conviction of Eric Marshall, and of the activities of the Post Office security man.

‘Don’t see that you could have done anything else, and it’s good of you to come to me so promptly. The Marshall case was tried in Oxford, and I was in court for the main part of it. It seems to me you’re going to have a hell of a job to upset the evidence on which he was convicted. Do you really believe that he could be innocent?’

‘How can one know? What I do know is that there is a great deal still to be explained. There is that extraordinary stamp, and presumably 199 like it on the sheet from which it came. Those stamps have not been found. And there is now evidence that a green Fiat, which is not local, was seen outside the Post Office on the evening before the murder, and on the morning of the murder. I’ve talked to Eric Marshall in prison, and he repeats the story he has told from the time of his arrest with absolute consistency. I know subjective impressions are dangerous things, but it’s hard not to be impressed. I can’t help feeling that we accepted the face value of the evidence against him much too easily.’

‘What about the money found in his room?’

‘That cuts both ways. It’s damning evidence against him, but if he took the money at the time of the murder there ought to be at any rate some blood stains on it. And you can’t argue that he threw away blood-stained notes, because the total of money found tallies with the Post Office accountant’s estimate of the money taken. Assume, though, that the boy is guilty – there remains the apparent forgery of a postage stamp, which has still got to be investigated.’

‘What do you want us to do?’

‘I’m interested in every green Fiat that we come across. When I was having lunch at the security printers I noticed a green Fiat in the staff car park there, and took the number. It belongs to a Miss Rebecca Wells, who is the managing director’s secretary. There’s no evidence that she has ever been to Netherwick, but I want to know more about her. Could you put a man on to finding out everything he can – where she comes from, how long she’s lived at Lime Kiln Cottage, when she joined the security firm, what she did before that?’

‘Shouldn’t be too difficult. I know the people at the security firm, because we have special arrangements for keeping an eye on their place. They’re a high risk, and we take precautions accordingly. But you will know all about that. I’ll talk to my CID superintendent myself, and get him to arrange for someone to investigate the young woman’s background. I take it you don’t want her interviewed directly?’

‘No. I don’t want her to know anything about it. If possible, I’d like some sort of general inquiry that didn’t involve her directly in any way at all. And I don’t want anything said about the forged stamp or stamps. At the moment the only people who know about it, apart from the forger, are the Post Office, ourselves, and the managing director of the printing firm. His attitude is that his firm couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with it, even in the most innocent way, and he has reasonable evidence to support him. Since we don’t want to start damaging rumours, and perhaps alert the forger to what we know, I’d be happier if your man were not told about the stamp and asked to investigate Miss Wells and her car for some quite other reason.’

‘What do you suggest?’

‘Well, you know these Continental terror-gangs whose ex-members keep turning up in respectable jobs in other countries. Could we say that the Special Branch has passed on rather vague information that a girl terrorist, or ex-terrorist, with perfect English, and possibly English by birth, is believed to have a job as a secretary in a printing works? Your man could simply say that he’s been instructed to make a routine check on such secretaries, and he can go on to make discreet inquiries from there.’

‘You’re an incurable romantic, Piet, with a romantic attitude to storytelling, though maybe it sometimes helps detection. Yes, I think your tale will do. Would you like to send one of your people to work with our man?’

‘Nice of you, but two detectives on such an inquiry seems excessive. I’m more than ready to leave things to you. Your people know the locality, and the printing works, and you know exactly what wants doing. When you’ve made some inquiries, though, it would be helpful if we could talk directly to whoever has been making them.’

‘No problem about that. I don’t know, Piet – it seems to me that you’re batting on a very sticky wicket. I’m on your side, but I’m not sure that you can win. I can only wish you luck – and if there’s anything else you want us to do, you’ve only got to ask.’

*

Piet took the opportunity of being in Oxford to visit Sir Gordon Gregory in hospital. He found him sitting up in bed reading a somewhat tattered copy of The Odes of Horace. ‘Been my constant companion for over sixty years,’ Sir Gordon said. ‘Aequam memento rebus in arduis servare mentem. Appropriate in our present circumstances, don’t you think?’

‘My Latin is not as good as yours. I went to an art school, not a university. But I’ve brought you a bottle of good malt whisky.’

‘Well, you can say it means roughly “When things are difficult remember to think straight”. Thanks for the whisky. Do you think we could have a drink now, or would we be thrown out of this place?’

‘We could risk it. You’ve got a glass by the water jug on your bedside table, and there’s another glass on the washbasin. I’ll open the bottle.’

Sir Gordon savoured the whisky. ‘Admirable,’ he said. ‘Was that Chief Superintendent of yours ever in the make-up business in the theatre? He takes his job horribly seriously. There not being any convenient rain he had a jerrycan of water in his car, made a puddle of mud, and rolled me in it. He also ruined my best suit.’

‘I want to talk about that. You must let me have a note of all your expenses, including the suit, and everything will be refunded.’

‘Nice of you, but I don’t think I can remember them all. I’m not exactly penniless, and I want to make my contribution. Who would have paid, anyway?’

‘I have control of certain police funds. But it might have been rather difficult for the auditors in this case, so I thought I’d pay myself. After all, your disappearance was my idea.’

‘Then I’ve certainly forgotten what it cost. And it seems to have paid off. Have you got that boy out of prison yet?’

‘No. And unless we can solve the mystery of the stamp, and everything else, it’s not going to be easy. Thanks to you we’ve made an enormous step forward in finding the poker. All this, of course, is completely confidential, but stains on the poker have been analysed. They are human blood, of the same group as Mrs Denny’s blood.’

‘Where was the poker found?’

‘In a ditch, about two and a half miles from Netherwick.’

‘Isn’t that enough? Eric couldn’t possibly have put the poker in a ditch two and a half miles away. There wasn’t time before he was arrested.’

‘No. But I’m afraid it isn’t enough. It probably is enough to get permission to put fresh evidence before the Court of Appeal, but there is nothing so far to link the poker directly with the crime, and all the old evidence against the boy remains strong. The Court of Appeal is always reluctant to upset a jury’s verdict, and in this case there doesn’t seem to be any legal point on which to appeal. The judge’s summing up was scrupulously fair, and the boy hasn’t contested any of the statements taken from him. We must find out more before we can take any action.’

‘Have you identified the poker as coming from the Post Office?’

‘No. We’ve said nothing publicly about having found the poker, and I don’t want to, yet. I’ve seen the other fire-irons in the grate at the Post Office and as far as I can tell the poker exactly matches them. You told me that you’d actually used the Post Office poker. When you’re better, I’ll ask you to have a look at this poker and see if you can identify it.’

‘Dammit, man, I’m perfectly well.’

‘You’ll have to stay in hospital for a few more days. I’ve arranged for a police car to bring Mrs Morgan to see you this evening.’

‘That’s good of you. Well, you know your job, and I pray that God may guide you to the right outcome. By the way, can you find some safe way of getting Jim Coverdale’s passport back to him? It’s very much on my conscience.’

‘Yes, if you like to give it to me I can have it sent as a security document. It will go to the security branch of our embassy in Washington, and I can arrange for an official to deliver it to Mr Coverdale personally.’

‘That takes a weight off my mind. I shall be very bored here, but it could be worse. That doctor of yours is an intelligent man to talk to, the nurses all are nice, and I’ve still got Horace.’

*

The police finding of Sir Gordon was a big story, but the hospital saw to it that he was protected from being interviewed. Grahame Stevenson’s official statement said exactly what Piet wanted.

As a result of a widespread search by North Wessex police, assisted by many local volunteers, Sir Gordon Gregory was found early this morning in isolated woodland about twenty miles from his home at Netherwick. Sir Gordon was suffering from the effects of concussion, apparently caused by a blow on the head, and he was in an acute state of exhaustion. He is now in hospital in Oxford, where it is hoped that he will make a complete recovery from his ordeal. His wallet and gold watch are missing, and it seems probable that any political motive for the attack on him can be discounted. Police effort is now concentrated on trying to find the weapon used to attack him, in the hope that this may lead to the identity of his assailant, or assailants.

North Wessex police would like to thank members of the public for their help in the search for Sir Gordon, and appeal to everyone in the area around Netherwick to look out for any heavy instrument which may have been used to attack him. It is possible that the weapon was thrown into a ditch or hedge anywhere in the vicinity, perhaps from a car. Anyone coming across any such instrument, a poker, hammer or heavy spanner, is asked to get in touch at once with the nearest police station, or to telephone North Wessex police at 0027 996330.

Further examination of the poker revealed nothing useful, and there were no identifiable fingerprints – after six months weathering there scarcely could be. The blood remained because a small quantity had lodged and dried between the shaft and the working end of the poker, and it had been protected by the way the poker had lain in the ditch. Piet had it sent back to him from the forensic laboratory and he asked the pathologist who had given evidence about Mrs Denny’s injuries to come to see him. ‘Think back to the Marshall case, the Post Office murder at Netherwick,’ he said. ‘You examined the dead woman. I know you have your notes made at the time, but have you any personal recollection of her injuries?’

‘Vividly. It was a particularly brutal case, some of the most dreadful injuries I’ve seen in my professional life. To an extent doctors get hardened to these things, but only up to a point. Even a pathologist is human. She had been hit repeatedly, and the right side of her skull was smashed almost to pulp.’

‘You were shown a bush knife, or heavy cutlass, and agreed that the injuries might have been inflicted by it.’

‘Yes, but by using it as a club. The injuries were those of a heavy blunt instrument, not a knife edge.’

‘Have a look at this poker. From what you recall of the injuries, could they have been caused by it?’

The pathologist took the poker, and swung it gently. ‘It’s certainly very heavy,’ he said. ‘Yes, I have no doubt that Mrs Denny could have been killed by it. But you could say the same of any heavy weapon, a household hammer for instance. In Mrs Denny’s case I recall that her blood was found on the cutlass.’

‘Yes. The defendant’s story was that he had put it down in a pool of blood beside her. There are blood stains on the poker. They have been analysed, and show blood of the same group as Mrs Denny’s. Would you say that the poker was as suitable an instrument as the cutlass to inflict the injuries you saw, or more suitable, perhaps, or less suitable?’

The pathologist studied the poker for some minutes, swung it again, and felt the weight of its poking-head. ‘It’s a nearly impossible question,’ he said. ‘Had I been shown this poker at the time, as an alternative to the cutlass, I think I should have said that it was a more likely weapon than the cutlass to cause Mrs Denny’s injuries. The smashing of the skull and temple bones was consistent with a blow from a hammer-like instrument, like the heavy end of this poker. They could equally have been caused by the flat of the cutlass, which was undoubtedly heavy enough. Theoretically, one might expect somewhat more diverse injury from a broad flat blade than the concentrated damage to her skull, but she was struck several blows, and there’s no rule-of-thumb certainty about how the human frame will respond to such battering.’

‘Other things being equal, you’d accept the poker as a more probable weapon than the flat of a cutlass?’

‘Other things being equal – but they’re not equal, they never are. If I have to give evidence about the poker, I’d say that the injuries were compatible with repeated blows from it. I couldn’t say more. Have you got any reason for thinking that the poker may have been used, and not the cutlass?’

‘No hard evidence – it’s a possibility, no more. I wanted your views about it.’

‘Well, you have them. I might add that Mrs Denny’s blood group, while not exceptionally rare, is by no means common. If the poker has identifiable blood on it from her group, that would be evidence to support the theory that it was used to kill her.’

*

Late as it was after seeing the pathologist, Piet still wanted to talk to Simon Begbroke. Neither had eaten since lunch, and they met at Piet’s home for sandwiches at a time when those who lead more normal lives are thinking of going to bed.

‘You did brilliantly, Simon,’ Piet said. ‘Sir Gordon was much impressed by your artificial mud.’

‘He’s a gallant old boy. Entered into the spirit of the act, and suggested that his hair would do better with some matted leaves on it.’

‘That particular act is over. It has produced a poker with traces of blood in Mrs Denny’s blood group on it. I think we can probably show that the poker came from the Post Office, but there’s absolutely nothing to link it with the killing. What are we going to do next?’

‘Follow up the green Fiat. There’s good evidence now that a green Fiat was seen near the Post Office on the evening before the murder, and on the morning after it. I’ve now got a list of the owners of green Fiats with addresses between Reading and Oxford. I think we should interview the lot.’

‘Oxford police are going into the background of Miss Wells, who is the owner of the green Fiat I told you about. She’s got a marginal link with the case in that she’s secretary to the managing director of the stamp-printing firm. I think we might hold off general inquiries into green Fiats until we know a bit more about her. I’ve got another idea I want to put to you. It’s going to be tiresome to carry out, though.’

‘A policeman’s lot is tiresome.’

‘Suppose we’re right in our general thinking – that someone out to market a set of reversed-head stamps was involved in the Post Office murder, and used Eric Marshall’s appearance on the scene as a brilliant cover-up. We have heard evidence from Sir Gordon’s friend, Jim Coverdale, that he bought the stamp on his postcard from the Post Office at Netherwick. I haven’t had time to tell you, but when I was in Netherwick I did a small experiment, and succeeded in putting an envelope into the stamp book without the Postmaster’s having the slightest idea of it. If I could do that with an envelope, someone else could do it with a sheet of reversed-head stamps. That would get them into the ordinary sales book, from which they would be sold as ordinary stamps. I’ve no evidence that this happened – all I say is that it could have happened. Except for the one sold to Mr Coverdale we don’t know where these stamps are. Money from the Post Office was found in Eric Marshall’s cottage, but not the stamps, which at least suggests that he was not mixed up with the stamps. We don’t know why, but suppose for some reason connected with the stamps someone broke into the Post Office in the early morning, was disturbed by Mrs Denny’s coming downstairs, grabbed the poker and killed her. If you had done that, Simon, what would you do next?’

‘Get away – and get rid of the poker.’

‘Precisely. If there was any such someone who knows that he got away, because he or she has never come on the scene at all. And I think we can say that the poker was thrown away, because it was found in a ditch.’

‘Well?’

‘You’ve got away with everything so far. Then comes the irrelevant disappearance of Sir Gordon Gregory, and a police hunt for him. That doesn’t worry you very much. But now the police say they are looking for a weapon. If you’ve got a guilty conscience about a poker, wouldn’t you want to get it back and put it safely out of harm’s way?’

‘I might.’

‘Assume whoever threw away the poker does want to get it back.’

‘Wouldn’t he have done so already? As soon as the police hunt for Sir Gordon started?’

‘He didn’t, because it was there to be found by the blackberry picker. He may have thought that a search for Sir Gordon wasn’t likely to come across the poker, or there may be another reason. That means looking at a map.’

Piet got the Ordnance Survey sheet covering Netherwick and put a pencil on the road from Netherwick to Foldworth. ‘The poker was found just about here,’ he said. ‘What does the position indicate to you?’

‘That it’s an odd road to be on for a man running away from murder.’

‘That’s just what I thought. You can get to the main Hungerford road by going through Foldworth, but it’s several miles farther than going straight from Netherwick. It’s not a road that goes anywhere in particular, and a car in a hurry is more likely to be noticed in a tiny place like Foldworth than on a main road. It suggests to me an element of panic, of taking the first turning to get away from Netherwick without bothering much where it takes you. The Foldworth road –it’s a lane rather than a road – is this first left turn, just past the Post Office. Now if you’ve committed a murder and have a blood-stained poker in your car, what do you do with it?’

‘Wait till I get to a lonely bit of road, make sure there’s nothing in my mirror, open the window and chuck the thing into a ditch.’

‘Do you stop, or do you throw it without stopping?’

Simon considered this. ‘Acting rationally,’ he said, ‘it would be wiser to stop and get out of the car. Then you could be sure that the poker went into a ditch in a place where it wasn’t likely to be found. But on your assumption of a certain amount of panic, I think you might throw it away into what looked like a good ditch without stopping.’

‘The way the poker was lying rather suggests that is what happened. The point of it was actually driven into a sort of cavity in the bank, perhaps an old rabbit hole. If he slowed down to even twenty miles an hour before throwing it out, the poker would have hit the bank with considerable force. And he may have been driving much faster than that, which would increase the penetrating power of the poker.’

‘Seems quite a sound argument. But I’m still not clear what you’re getting at.’

‘If you throw a poker out of a moving car in a winding country lane, you may not know exactly where you threw it. My guess is that whoever is involved is likely to go looking for it.’

Simon now was keenly interested. ‘That means keeping a watch on the ditch,’ he said.

‘Yes. Sergeant Clifford marked the location with some bits of string. I’ve had the string removed, and the place photographed as unobtrusively as possible. I don’t think it matters much during the day, for I should expect our man –or woman – to go hedge hunting by night, and I’ve gambled on nothing happening last night because it was only today that we gave particular publicity to concentrating on our search for the weapon. Before that the news was all about the hunt for Sir Gordon. In any case, whoever is involved can’t find the poker because we’ve got it, and if I’m right in thinking that he doesn’t remember exactly where he threw it, he’ll go ditch-crawling again. Tonight is a kind of zero-hour. And I feel that you and I should do the watching ourselves.’

‘I’m not complaining, but why do you think that we shouldn’t deploy people in the ordinary way?’

Piet didn’t reply at once. Then he said slowly, as if he were thinking aloud, ‘Because only you and I know what we’re really looking for. We’ve kept the new evidence in the Post Office case to ourselves, and we’ve gone to great lengths not to link Sir Gordon’s disappearance with the murder. Perhaps I’ve too much respect for the detective ability of some of our people. It wouldn’t be difficult to start putting two and two together.’

‘Would it matter?’

‘I don’t know. Yes, I do know, it would matter. We have reason to doubt the outcome of the trial of Eric Marshall, but we’ve not reopened the case officially. Two of our officers have been commended for their part in the Marshall boy’s arrest, and I don’t want people to think that we’re not satisfied with what they did. I’m not at all satisfied with the way they made inquiries, but I may never have enough real evidence to justify saying so. I’ve got to consider the morale of the force. If I spend a few nights without much sleep and waste my time, well, nobody’s going to know about it. But I can’t spend whole nights crouching behind a hedge and carry on with all the normal business of the day. That’s why I’m dragging you into it. It’s tough on you, Simon, and maybe I’m wrong. Perhaps the best thing would be for you to arrange to have the place watched in the normal manner.’

‘I don’t think you’re wrong. I think your theories may be wrong, but they’re all we’ve got, and certainly worth working on. I’ve not got your load of responsibility, but I carry a fair bit myself, and I do understand something of the loneliness of command. I’m with you all the way. I suppose we ought to be starting about now?’

Piet held out his hand. ‘Thank you, Simon,’ he said simply. ‘God knows what will come of it, but we’re doing what we can.’ Becoming brisk again, he went on, ‘Yes, I think we ought to start. I don’t doubt your map-reading at night, but if you don’t mind I’d like us both to go to the Netherwick-Foldworth road. We can decide where to put ourselves, and what to do with our cars. Once we’ve settled things, you go back home and get some sleep, and you can relieve me at 04.00. I’ll take the first watch because I can put on some warm clothes, while you’ve got to get yours. Thank Heaven it’s not winter – but it can still get damned cold at night.’

*

Piet, in a heavy sailing pullover and a windproof smock, was additionally fortified by a vacuum flask of hot soup produced by Sally. The run to Netherwick took about half an hour, and by 22.30 Piet and Simon were on the winding lane to Foldworth, at the spot where the poker was found. ‘The hedge here is particularly thick,’ Piet said, ‘and anyone behind it is quite out of view of the road, though of course you can see through the hedge to what is going on. The main problem is the car. It’s not so much getting here, because we could organise that, but we don’t know what may happen, and we may need a car for a pursuit. Let’s see what offers.’

With torches they studied the lie of the land. What offered was quite convenient. About thirty yards to the left of the place where the poker came to light was a gate into the field behind the hedge. It had been cut, and there was nothing but stubble, no animals, and nothing to inhibit leaving the gate open. Inside the gate was stubble, on hard earth because there had been so little rain. A car could turn into the gate quite easily – it was normally used by tractors – and once a few yards inside was invisible from the road. ‘If we turn round so that we can make a quick getaway, this seems ideal,’ Piet said. ‘I don’t see why one shouldn’t sit in the car. No one can go ditch crawling without a torch, and any light in the road will be visible from here. Well, Simon, you push off now, and leave me to it. I shall expect relief at 04.00.’

‘What are we going to do during the day?’

‘Gamble on no one’s coming in daylight. Our strong card is that we know that he can’t find the poker. I agree that our imagined thrower-away of the poker would probably do better to search in daylight, but if I’m right in guessing at his panic, he won’t come in daylight.’

‘How long do you want me to stay?’

‘If you’re on watch until 07.00 I think we can risk the rest. If you leave here at 07.00 you can be home by 07.30 and at least lie down for an hour or so before starting the day’s work.’

‘Right. Good luck, Piet. I’ll be back at four.’

*

The hard stubble was no problem to the car, and by driving a few yards into the field the car was completely screened by the thick hedge. Piet opened the door, so that he could get out in a moment without making any noise, and sat with his torch on the seat beside him. It was a comfort to be able to sit in the car, but without the engine running there was no heat, and the open door added to the chill. He was glad of his thick clothes. The vigil was tedious. At 23.30 a car came from the direction of Netherwick, but it was travelling fairly fast, the driver clearly more interested in getting home than in ditch crawling. Another car passed soon after midnight, but again it seemed part of the normal night traffic of the countryside. At 02.00 Piet drank Sally’s soup. Between then and his relief at 04.00 nothing whatever happened, though there were some interesting night cries from owls. Piet wished that he knew something about owls, but he didn’t, and he had no idea which kind of owl made which hoot. He was glad to see Simon, but felt somehow guilty about having nothing to report.

He got home for a couple of hours’ sleep, and was in the office by 09.00 in the normal way. Simon’s watch also produced nothing. He had had some sleep after leaving Piet, and didn’t bother to go to bed again on getting home. He looked into Piet’s office to say that he had neither seen nor heard anything in the least out of the ordinary. ‘For a couple of night-shift workers I must say we’re good day timekeepers,’ he said. ‘Don’t know that the union would approve, though.’