This obvious suggestion was acted upon at once. But at the Findlaters’ house they drew blank. The family were at the seaside, with the exception of Miss Vera, who was staying in Wellington Avenue with Miss Whittaker. No anxiety was expressed by the parlour-maid and none, apparently, felt. The investigators took care not to arouse any alarm, and, leaving a trivial and polite message from Sir Charles, withdrew for a consultation.
“There’s nothing for it, so far as I can see,” said Parker, “but an all-stations call to look out for the car and the ladies. And we must put inquiries through to all the ports, of course. With four days’ start, they may be anywhere by now. I wish to Heaven I’d risked a bit and started earlier, approval or no approval. What’s this Findlater girl like? I’d better go back to the house and get photographs of her and the Whittaker woman. And, Wimsey, I wish you’d look in on Miss Climpson and see if she has any information.”
“And you might tell ’em at the Yard to keep an eye on Mrs. Forrest’s place,” said Wimsey. “When anything sensational happens to a criminal it’s a good tip to watch the accomplice.”
“I feel sure you are both quite mistaken about this,” urged Sir Charles Pillington. “Criminals—accomplice—bless me! I have had considerable experience in the course of a long life—longer than either of yours—and I really feel convinced that Miss Whittaker, whom I know quite well, is as good and nice a girl as you could wish to find. But there has undoubtedly been an accident of some kind, and it is our duty to make the fullest investigation. I will get on to Crow’s Beach police immediately, as soon as I know the description of the car.”
“It’s an Austin Seven and the number is XX9917,” said Wimsey, much to the Chief Constable’s surprise. “But I doubt very much whether you’ll find it at Crow’s Beach, or anywhere near it.”
“Well, we’d better get a move on,” snapped Parker. “We’d better separate. How about a spot of lunch in an hour’s time at the George?”
Wimsey was unlucky. Miss Climpson was not to be found. She had had her lunch early and gone out, saying she felt that a long country walk would do her good. Mrs. Budge was rather afraid she had had some bad news—she had seemed so upset and worried since yesterday evening.
“But indeed, sir,” she added, “if you was quick, you might find her up at the church. She often drops in there, to say her prayers like. Not a respectful way to approach a place of worship to my mind, do you think so yourself, sir? Popping in and out on a week-day, the same as if it was a friend’s house. And coming home from Communion as cheerful as anything and ready to laugh and make jokes. I don’t see as how we was meant to make an ordinary thing of religion that way—so disrespectful and nothing uplifting to the ’art about it. But there! we all ’as our failings, and Miss Climpson is a nice lady and that I must say, even if she is a Roaming Catholic or next door to one.”
Lord Peter thought that Roaming Catholic was rather an appropriate name for the more ultramontane section of the High Church party. At the moment, however, he felt he could not afford time for religious discussion, and set off for the church in quest of Miss Climpson.
The doors of S. Onesimus were hospitably open, and the red Sanctuary lamp made a little spot of welcoming brightness in the rather dark building. Coming in from the June sunshine, Wimsey blinked a little before he could distinguish anything else. Presently he was able to make out a dark, bowed figure kneeling before the lamp. For a moment he hoped it was Miss Climpson, but presently saw to his disappointment that it was merely a Sister in a black habit, presumably taking her turn to watch before the Host. The only other occupant of the church was a priest in a cassock, who was busy with the ornaments on the High Altar. It was the Feast of S. John, Wimsey remembered suddenly. He walked up the aisle, hoping to find his quarry hidden in some obscure corner. His shoes squeaked. This annoyed him. It was a thing which Bunter never permitted. He was seized with a fancy that the squeak was produced by diabolic possession—a protest against a religious atmosphere on the part of his own particular besetting devil. Pleased with this thought, he moved forward more confidently.
The priest’s attention was attracted by the squeak. He turned and came down towards the intruder. No doubt, thought Wimsey, to offer his professional services to exorcise the evil spirit.
“Were you looking for anybody?” inquired the priest, courteously.
“Well, I was looking for a lady,” began Wimsey. Then it struck him that this sounded a little odd under the circumstances, and he hastened to explain more fully, in the stifled tones considered appropriate to consecrated surroundings.
“Oh, yes,” said the priest, quite unperturbed, “Miss Climpson was here a little time ago, but I fancy she has gone. Not that I usually keep tabs on my flock,” he added, with a laugh, “but she spoke to me before she went. Was it urgent? What a pity you should have missed her. Can I give any kind of message or help you in any way?”
“No, thanks,” said Wimsey. “Sorry to bother you. Unseemly to come and try to haul people out of church, but—yes, it was rather important. I’ll leave a message at the house. Thanks frightfully.”
He turned away; then stopped and came back.
“I say,” he said, “you give advice on moral problems and all that sort of thing, don’t you?”
“Well, we’re supposed to try,” said the priest. “Is anything bothering you in particular?”
“Ye-es,” said Wimsey, “nothing religious, I don’t mean—nothing about infallibility or the Virgin Mary or anything of that sort. Just something I’m not comfortable about.”
The priest—who was, in fact, the vicar, Mr. Tredgold—indicated that he was quite at Lord Peter’s service.
“It’s very good of you. Could we come somewhere where I didn’t have to whisper so much. I never can explain things in a whisper. Sort of paralyses one, don’t you know.”
“Let’s go outside,” said Mr. Tredgold.
So they went out and sat on a flat tombstone.
“It’s like this,” said Wimsey. “Hypothetical case, you see, and so on. S’posin’ one knows somebody who’s very, very ill and can’t last long anyhow. And they’re in awful pain and all that, and kept under morphia—practically dead to the world, you know. And suppose that by dyin’ straightaway they could make something happen which they really wanted to happen and which couldn’t happen if they lived on a little longer (I can’t explain exactly how, because I don’t want to give personal details and so on)—you get the idea? Well, supposin’ somebody who knew all that was just to give ’em a little push off so to speak—hurry matters on—why should that be a very dreadful crime?”
“The law—” began Mr. Tredgold.
“Oh, the law says it’s a crime, fast enough,” said Wimsey. “But do you honestly think it’s very bad? I know you’d call it a sin, of course, but why is it so very dreadful? It doesn’t do the person any harm, does it?”
“We can’t answer that,” said Mr. Tredgold, “without knowing the ways of God with the soul. In those last weeks or hours of pain and unconsciousness, the soul may be undergoing some necessary part of its pilgrimage on earth. It isn’t our business to cut it short. Who are we to take life and death into our hands?”
“Well, we do it all day, one way and another. Juries—soldiers—doctors—all that. And yet I do feel, somehow, that it isn’t a right thing in this case. And yet, by interfering—finding things out and so on—one may do far worse harm. Start all kinds of things.”
“I think,” said Mr. Tredgold, “that the sin—I won’t use that word—the damage to Society, the wrongness of the thing lies much more in the harm it does the killer than in anything it can do to the person who is killed. Especially, of course, if the killing is to the killer’s own advantage. The consequence you mention—this thing which the sick person wants done—does the other person stand to benefit by it, may I ask?”
“Yes. That’s just it. He—she—they do.”
“That puts it at once on a different plane from just h
astening a person’s death out of pity. Sin is in the intention, not the deed. That is the difference between divine law and human law. It is bad for a human being to get to feel that he has any right whatever to dispose of another person’s life to his own advantage. It leads him on to think himself above all laws—Society is never safe from the man who has deliberately committed murder with impunity. That is why—or one reason why—God forbids private vengeance.”
“You mean that one murder leads to another.”
“Very often. In any case it leads to a readiness to commit others.”
“It has. That’s the trouble. But it wouldn’t have if I hadn’t started trying to find things out. Ought I to have left it alone?”
“I see. That is very difficult. Terrible, too, for you. You feel responsible.”
“Yes.”
“You yourself are not serving a private vengeance?”
“Oh, no. Nothing really to do with me. Started in like a fool to help somebody who’d got into trouble about the thing through having suspicions himself. And my beastly interference started the crimes all over again.”
“I shouldn’t be too troubled. Probably the murderer’s own guilty fears would have led him into fresh crimes even without your interference.”
“That’s true,” said Wimsey, remembering Mr. Trigg.
“My advice to you is to do what you think is right, according to the laws which we have been brought up to respect. Leave the consequences to God. And try to think charitably, even of wicked people. You know what I mean. Bring the offender to justice, but remember that if we all got justice, you and I wouldn’t escape either.”
“I know. Knock the man down but don’t dance on the body. Quite. Forgive my troublin’ you—and excuse my bargin’ off, because I’ve got a date with a friend. Thanks so much. I don’t feel quite so rotten about it now. But I was gettin’ worried.”
Mr. Tredgold watched him as he trotted away between the graves. “Dear, dear,” he said, “how nice they are. So kindly and scrupulous and so vague outside their public-school code. And much more nervous and sensitive than people think. A very difficult class to reach. I must make a special intention for him at Mass tomorrow.”
Being a practical man, Mr. Tredgold made a knot in his handkerchief to remind himself of this pious resolve.
“The problem—to interfere or not to interfere—God’s law and Caesar’s. Policemen, now—it’s no problem to them. But for the ordinary man—how hard to disentangle his own motives. I wonder what brought him here. Could it possibly be—No!” said the vicar, checking himself, “I have no right to speculate.” He drew out his handkerchief again and made another mnemonic knot as a reminder against his next confession that he had fallen into the sin of inquisitiveness.
CHAPTER XX
MURDER
SIEGFRIED: “What does this mean?”
ISBRAND: “A pretty piece of kidnapping, that’s all.”
BEDDOES: DEATH’S JEST-BOOK
PARKER, TOO, HAD SPENT a disappointing half-hour. It appeared that Miss Whittaker not only disliked having her photograph taken, but had actually destroyed all the existing portraits she could lay hands on, shortly after Miss Dawson’s death. Of course, many of Miss Whittaker’s friends might be in possession of one—notably, of course, Miss Findlater. But Parker was not sure that he wanted to start a local hue-and-cry at the moment. Miss Climpson might be able to get one, of course. He went round to Nelson Avenue. Miss Climpson was out; there had been another gentleman asking for her. Mrs. Budge’s eyes were beginning to bulge with curiosity—evidently she was becoming dubious about Miss Climpson’s “nephew” and his friends. Parker then went to the local photographers. There were five. From two of them he extracted a number of local groups, containing unrecognisable portraits of Miss Whittaker at church bazaars and private theatricals. She had never had a studio portrait made in Leahampton.
Of Miss Findlater, on the other hand, he got several excellent likenesses—a slight, fair girl, with a rather sentimental look—plump and prettyish. All these he despatched to Town, with directions that they should be broadcast to the police, together with a description of the girl’s dress when last seen.
The only really cheerful member of the party at the “George” were the second policeman, who had been having a pleasant gossip with various garage-proprietors and publicans, with a view to picking up information, and the Chief Constable, who was vindicated and triumphant. He had been telephoning to various country police-stations, and had discovered that XX9917 had actually been observed on the previous Monday by an A.A. scout on the road to Crow’s Beach. Having maintained all along that the Crow’s Beach excursion was a genuine one, he was inclined to exult over the Scotland Yard man. Wimsey and Parker dispiritedly agreed that they had better go down and make inquiries at Crow’s Beach.
Meanwhile, one of the photographers, whose cousin was on the staff of the Leahampton Mercury, had put a call through to the office of that up-to-date paper, which was just going to press. A stop-press announcement was followed by a special edition; somebody rang up the London Evening Views which burst out into a front-page scoop; the fat was in the fire, and the Daily Yell, Daily Views, Daily Wire and Daily Tidings, who were all suffering from lack of excitement, came brightly out next morning with bold headlines about disappearing young women.
Crow’s Beach, indeed, that pleasant and respectable watering-place, knew nothing of Miss Whittaker, Miss Findlater, or car XX9917. No hotel had received them; no garage had refuelled or repaired them; no policeman had observed them. The Chief Constable held to his theory of an accident, and scouting parties were sent out. Wires arrived at Scotland Yard from all over the place. They had been seen at Dover, at Newcastle; at Sheffield, at Winchester, at Rugby. Two young women had had tea in a suspicious manner at Folkestone; a car had passed noisily through Dorchester at a late hour on Monday night; a dark-haired girl in an “agitated condition” had entered a public-house in New Alresford just before closing-time and asked the way to Hazelmere. Among all these reports, Parker selected that of a boy-scout, who reported on the Saturday morning that he had noticed two ladies with a car having a picnic on the downs on the previous Monday, not far from Shelly Head. The car was an Austin Seven—he knew that, because he was keen on motors (an unanswerable reason for accuracy in a boy of his age), and he had noticed that it was a London number, though he couldn’t say positively what the number was.
Shelly Head lies about ten miles along the coast from Crow’s Beach, and is curiously lonely, considering how near it lies to the watering-place. Under the cliffs is a long stretch of clear sandy beach, never visited, and overlooked by no houses. The cliffs themselves are chalk, and covered with short turf, running back into a wide expanse of downs, covered with gorse and heather. Then comes a belt of pine-trees, beyond which is a steep, narrow and rutty road, leading at length into the tarmac high-road between Ramborough and Ryders Heath. The downs are by no means frequented, though there are plenty of rough tracks which a car can follow, if you are not particular about comfort or fussy over your springs.
Under the leadership of the boy-scout, the police-car bumped uncomfortably over these disagreeable roads. It was hopeless to look for any previous car-tracks, for the chalk was dry and hard, and the grass and heath retained no marks. Everywhere, little dells and hollows presented themselves—all exactly alike, and many of them capable of hiding a small car, not to speak of the mere signs and remains of a recent picnic. Having arrived at what their guide thought to be approximately the right place, they pulled up and got out. Parker quartered the ground between the five of them and they set off.
Wimsey took a dislike to gorse-bushes that day. There were so many of them and so thick. Any of them might hold a cigarette package or a sandwich paper or a scrap of cloth or a clue of some kind. He trudged along unhappily, back bent and eyes on the ground, over one ridge and down into the hollow—then circling to right and to left, taking his bearings by the police-car; over the next
ridge and down into the next hollow; over the next ridge—
Yes. There was something in the hollow.
He saw it first sticking out round the edge of a gorse-bush. It was light in colour, and pointed, rather like a foot.
He felt a little sick.
“Somebody has gone to sleep here,” he said aloud.
Then he thought:
“Funny—it’s always the feet they leave showing.”
He scrambled down among the bushes, slipping on the short turf and nearly rolling to the bottom. He swore irritably.
The person was sleeping oddly. The flies must be a nuisance all over her head like that.
It occurred to him that it was rather early in the year for flies. There had been an advertising rhyme in the papers. Something about “Each fly you swat now means, remember, Three hundred fewer next September.” Or was it a thousand fewer? He couldn’t get the metre quite right.
Then he pulled himself together and went forward. The flies rose up in a little cloud.
It must have been a pretty heavy blow, he thought, to smash the back of the skull in like that. The shingled hair was blonde. The face lay between the bare arms.
He turned the body on its back.
Of course, without the photograph, he could not—he need not—be certain that this was Vera Findlater.
All this had taken him perhaps thirty seconds.
He scrambled up to the rim of the hollow and shouted.
A small black figure at some distance stopped and turned. He saw its face as a white spot with no expression on it. He shouted again, and waved his arms in wide gestures of explanation. The figure came running; it lurched slowly and awkwardly over the heathy ground. It was the policeman—a heavy man, not built for running in the heat. Wimsey shouted again, and the policeman shouted too. Wimsey saw the others closing in upon him. The grotesque figure of the boy-scout topped a ridge, waving its staff—then disappeared again. The policeman was quite near now. His bowler hat was thrust back on his head, and there was something on his watch-chain that glinted in the sun as he ran. Wimsey found himself running to meet him and calling—explaining at great length. It was too far off to make himself heard, but he explained, wordily, with emphasis, pointing, indicating. He was quite breathless when the policeman and he came together. They were both breathless. They wagged their heads and gasped. It was ludicrous. He started running again, with the man at his heels. Presently they were all there, pointing, measuring, taking notes, grubbing under the gorse-bushes. Wimsey sat down. He was dreadfully tired.