Westmorland Alone Read online

‘And it certainly suggests that she did not die here. In this pit. Or in this field. My guess is her body was moved here. But from where?’ He looked around. As far as I could see the pit was no more than a few feet wide. He was fiddling around with something in his pocket. You never knew what he might produce. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had the original architectural plans for the place. Or a stepladder. ‘Mmm.’ He had in fact produced a pencil, which he used to lift what appeared to be some kind of thin gauze material covering the poor woman’s face. I had no desire to see her face.

  ‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘I wonder why her face has been covered.’

  ‘You probably shouldn’t touch it, Mr Morley,’ I said.

  ‘It?’

  ‘Her, I mean. You’d be tampering with the evidence.’

  ‘Indeed. I am taking precautions, Sefton.’ He brandished the pencil. ‘Remains the most useful tool in any workman’s toolbox. I’ve said it before. The 2B. Essential. But I am glad you’re thinking like I am. This is clearly a crime scene, is it not?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Suppose? She didn’t climb down here by herself now, did she? Someone brought her down here.’

  ‘I think I need to get out, Mr Morley,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, yes, all in good time, Sefton. But first of all I need you to take some notes, if you wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘Down here?’

  ‘Indeed. Do you have your notebook and pen?’

  I began half-heartedly hunting in my pockets, but he quickly thrust a notebook and pen at me.

  ‘You can use mine. But you really must get into the habit of keeping your notebook to hand, Sefton. I have mentioned this to you before, haven’t I? Girdling, the ancient medieval practice of—’

  ‘Yes, Mr Morley.’

  ‘Right. Now …’

  ‘I can hardly see here to make notes,’ I said.

  ‘Hardly is more than enough in such circumstances, wouldn’t you say?’

  I took the pen and paper and began to make cursory notes as Morley spoke.

  ‘Cause of death – broken neck, it looks like. Some sign of rigor mortis, which suggests she has been dead for more than twenty-four hours. But not much more by the smell of her. Which …’ He sniffed closely at the body. ‘Isn’t bad, actually, all things considered. What do you make of this sheet over her face, Sefton?’

  I didn’t make anything of it.

  ‘Mmm. And look at this.’ He indicated something on the shelf beside her. ‘A candle, if I am not mistaken, in a rather fetching jam-jar holder. Quite ornate. Take a note. Very interesting. Whoever came down here lit their way perhaps with the candle, placed the gauze across her face, and then snuffed out the candle, just as the poor girl herself had been snuffed out. Or … Or! Ah! Perhaps they lit the candle in order to lead her into the other life. Which do you think, Sefton?’

  ‘No idea,’ I said.

  ‘I’m sure I’ve read something about it somewhere. It’s just remembering where … One has to learn to think like a murderer, you see, Sefton. Come on. You can do it.’

  ‘I need to get out,’ I repeated. I was in Spain. I was in the crash. I was outside Marlborough Street Magistrates’ Court.

  ‘What about her hands?’ said Morley.

  ‘I don’t want to look at her hands.’

  ‘Come on. Here. Look. What do you see, Sefton?’

  I reluctantly looked at the woman’s hands. Even in the shadows and darkness it was clear that her hands were blackened.

  ‘So?’

  ‘Black marks,’ I said. ‘Bruises.’

  ‘Black marks. Yes. Bruises. No. And what stains the skin in this manner?’

  ‘I really don’t know, Mr Morley. I think I’m going to be sick actually.’ Spain. London. Lucy. It was all too much.

  ‘Nonsense! You’re made of sterner stuff than that, man. And you’re a photographer. Come on, think.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Hands, black stains?’

  ‘Silver nitrate?’ It was something we’d started using in the makeshift darkroom back at St George’s.

  ‘Precisely!’ said Morley. ‘Now we’re in business!’

  ‘So?’

  At which point, thank goodness, I could hear voices from up above. Miriam and Nancy, very wisely, had clearly gone to fetch help.

  ‘Quick,’ said Morley. ‘Hold this.’ He produced a specimen jar and a brush from one of his capacious pockets. ‘Come on, before the police get here. You know what they’re like. Terram coelo miscent.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hold it here, please.’

  ‘What the hell is this for?’

  ‘Here, please, Sefton.’

  I held the specimen jar by the woman’s shoes while Morley proceeded to brush dirt from her soles.

  ‘What on earth are you doing? Where did you get that from?’

  ‘Free with every Children’s Encyclopaedia of Archaeology. They’ve been terribly popular actually. I knew it’d come in handy.’

  We were pulled up out of the pit by a couple of Jenkins’s students. An ambulance had arrived, and the policemen who were investigating the train crash in Appleby, and there were more policemen down at the site of Jenkins’s dig. Miriam stood over by the Googleby Stone, her arm around Nancy’s shoulder – the poor thing seemed quite upset. Our policemen weren’t exactly delighted to see us.

  ‘Mr Morley,’ said the policeman. ‘We meet once again under difficult circumstances.’

  ‘I’m afraid so, Officer.’

  ‘Unfortunate.’

  ‘Quite.’

  He introduced a man in a thick black overcoat, an awkward-looking fellow, physically – was it a hunchback? A war wound? – with an unlit pipe clamped in his mouth.

  ‘This is Chief Inspector Banks, from Penrith.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Morley.

  ‘It was you who found the body? Is that right?’

  ‘In fact it was my assistant, actually, Mr Sefton,’ said Morley.

  ‘Ah, yes, the notorious Mr Sefton?’

  I smiled nervously. ‘Yes?’ I said.

  ‘I’ve heard a lot about you. I was looking forward to getting to talk to you this afternoon, sir. But I suppose events have rather overtaken us now, haven’t they?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose they have.’

  ‘So. Now is probably as good a time as any then, isn’t it? Do you want to tell me what happened?’ Morley was about to speak. The chief inspector held up a finger to silence him. ‘In your own words, please, Mr Sefton? You’ll get a chance in a moment, Mr Morley.’

  I did my best to explain to him what had happened. He did not look at all convinced by what I said, but then I suppose that was his job.

  ‘Well. Yesterday’s hero finds himself once again at the very centre of an unfolding drama. Very interesting. We’ll need to take a full statement at the station, obviously.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said.

  ‘Speaking on behalf of myself and Mr Sefton,’ said Morley, interrupting, ‘if I may?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Morley?’ said the chief inspector wearily.

  ‘Can I just say that as the first on the scene, as it were, we are of course more than willing to help the police in whatever way possible.’

  ‘I’m not sure that you can help us very much at the moment, sir, except perhaps as potential suspects.’

  ‘As suspects?’ said Morley. ‘Witnesses, do you mean?’

  ‘Suspects, Mr Morley.’

  ‘Really? I’m afraid I rather fail to see the logic, Officer.’

  ‘Well, put yourself in my position, Mr Morley.’ The chief inspector removed his pipe from his mouth and used it rather as a conductor might use a baton. ‘You’re two days in Westmorland and you and Mr Sefton here have already been involved in a train crash in which a young girl died and now you’ve gone and found yourselves a dead body. One might perhaps view that as rather suspicious, don’t you think?’

  ‘Or unlucky,’ said Morley.

  ‘I don’t believe in l
uck, Mr Morley. I only believe in innocence or guilt.’

  ‘Ah, well, that’s where we differ then perhaps. I do believe in luck, Officer, you see, in the sense of meaningful coincidences, rather than prescriptive fate, of course.’ The chief inspector looked nonplussed. ‘And as for innocence and guilt, one might ask, which of us is not stained? “For though thou wash thee with nitre, and take thee much soap, yet thine iniquity is marked before me, saith the Lord God.” Jeremiah 2, verse 22.’

  ‘There’s no need to bring the Scriptures into this, Mr Morley, thank you.’

  ‘Oh, but there is, Officer, there is. I thought you might be interested to know that we detected traces of silver nitrate on the victim’s hands.’

  ‘You examined her hands?’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t say we examined her hands exactly.’

  ‘Did you touch her hands?’

  ‘No, no, no.’

  ‘Or any other part of her body?’

  ‘Goodness me, no!’ said Morley. ‘But you see I wonder if the silver nitrate might suggest she was involved in the pharmaceutical industry in some way? If one needs to identify the body. Silver nitrate is used extensively in the preparation of wart creams, you see, as I know to my own cost—’

  ‘Right, thank you,’ said the chief inspector.

  ‘I just thought it was important to present all the evidence before jumping to conclusions or determining innocence or guilt.’

  ‘As I say, Mr Morley, we’ll doubtless be talking to you and your colleague in much more detail later, bearing all the evidence in mind. We just need to establish the identity of the body first.’

  Another man had arrived: burly, middle-aged, with a ginger beard. He reminded me rather of those rather forbidding portraits of Henry VIII, and looked equally unhappy.

  ‘Dr Harris,’ said the policeman. ‘Thank you for coming at such short notice.’

  ‘Hmm. Where’s the body?’

  The chief inspector pointed over towards the souterrain.

  ‘Right. I’ll have a quick look. I can probably perform the autopsy this afternoon.’

  ‘Really?’ said Morley. ‘Might I attend? I am thinking of writing a guide to pathology, actually.’

  The doctor looked at Morley, as people often looked at him, utterly appalled and perplexed. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Swanton Morley, sir, at your service.’

  ‘He’s the writer,’ said the chief inspector.

  ‘He’s a damned cheek,’ said the doctor, ignoring Morley entirely and walking over towards the souterrain.

  ‘He’s got his hands full at the moment,’ said the chief inspector.

  ‘Of course,’ said Morley. ‘Though if I could attend the autopsy?’

  ‘Absolutely out of the question,’ said the chief inspector, exasperated. ‘I’ll need you and Mr Sefton just to sit tight in Appleby, if you wouldn’t mind. You’re staying at the Tufton Arms, aren’t you?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well, we’ll be along to take statements from you in due course. All you need to do is remain here in Westmorland for the moment. I hope that won’t be an inconvenience. You’ve got your guidebook to be getting on with, I believe?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Morley. ‘We have. Plenty to do. And we have made extensive notes, Officer, from when we discovered the body, which we can make available to you?’

  ‘I think it’d be best for you to leave us to do our job, Mr Morley, and you can get on with yours, eh? You keep your note-making for your book, eh?’

  The woman’s body began to emerge from the souterrain, hoisted up on a stretcher by the two ambulancemen and several of the students. Our little crowd by the Googleby Stone instinctively drew closer as the body emerged from out of the earth. The cloth that had covered her face had been removed.

  ‘Oh my God,’ said Nancy, turning quite pale. ‘I know her. It’s Maisie – Maisie Taylor. She works in the chemist.’

  ‘Taylor’s Pharmacy in Kirkby Stephen?’ said Morley.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Daughter of the pharmacist?’

  ‘Wife,’ said Nancy. ‘She’s Gerald’s wife.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Morley. ‘That’s a shame.’

  Nancy began sobbing.

  ‘Though it does explain the silver nitrate,’ he said, in the general direction of the chief inspector.

  Suddenly from behind, Jenkins appeared, trailed by his students, clearly having finished his own discussions with the police down at his dig.

  ‘What on earth is going on here?’ he thundered. ‘Morley, I blame you for this! Turning my dig into a bloody fiasco! Nancy, why didn’t you stop them? I told you they—’

  And then he saw the body of Maisie Taylor and stopped in his tracks.

  ‘Maisie?’

  ‘Do you know who this is, Professor?’ asked the chief inspector.

  ‘Yes. I mean no. I mean, not really. I do know who she is. But I have no idea what she’s doing here.’

  ‘And where do you know her from exactly?’

  ‘She works in the pharmacy in Kirkby Stephen, and I … We sometimes … That’s where I met her anyway.’

  Nancy suddenly flew at him and began beating him about the face, her fists flailing. Jenkins made no attempt to protect himself, but merely stood with his arms outstretched as she punched and pounded at him. It took two policemen to drag her off.

  ‘You bastard!’ she was screaming. ‘You bastard! You filthy bastard!’ She was like a thing possessed, writhing around in the arms of the police. ‘Everyone knows he was at it with her! They know!’ She was nodding furiously at the terrified students, who were cowering in the shade of the Googleby Stone. ‘They all know! He’d bring her up here at night. To the tent. He tried it with all of them. All of us! He was … the filthy bastard! Look what you’ve done to her! You bastard!’ It looked as though she might break free from the grip of the policemen at any moment.

  ‘Right, that’s enough,’ said the chief inspector, raising his hands – and his pipe – to calm things down. ‘Enough!’ He pointed at Nancy. ‘Enough!’

  ‘You murdering bastard!’ she screamed.

  ‘All right, you don’t say another word, miss. Understand? Not another word, or I’ll have you arrested for a breach of the peace. You don’t want that now, do you?’ Nancy was still struggling in the arms of the policemen, but she remained silent. ‘And you’ – the chief inspector turned and pointed to Jenkins – ‘you, sir, are accompanying me to the station.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No ifs or buts. Now.’

  ‘And we—’ began Morley, picking – as usual – an inopportune moment.

  ‘Get out of here,’ said the chief inspector.

  CHAPTER 10

  MERRIE ENGLANDE

  ‘MR TAYLOR’S WIFE,’ said Morley. ‘The pharmacist’s wife.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Miriam. ‘Very sad.’

  ‘Poor man,’ said Morley.

  ‘Poor woman,’ said Miriam.

  We were back in the Lagonda, ready to head to Appleby. Morley was rubbing his fingers and thumbs together, in a gesture he sometimes used when trying to work out something difficult, as if literally sifting ideas through his hands.

  I was looking forward to a stiff drink back at the Tufton Arms.

  ‘Where did he say he was going this morning, when we saw him?’

  ‘Who?’ said Miriam, reapplying her lipstick in the car’s rear-view mirror: there were times when the Lagonda came to resemble a kind of mobile beauty parlour.

  ‘Mr Taylor, the pharmacist. The poor widower.’

  ‘Can’t remember, Father,’ said Miriam, checking her application of make-up. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘In exornando se, multum temporis insumunt mulieres,’ muttered Morley.

  ‘I heard you,’ said Miriam.

  ‘What did he say?’ I asked.

  ‘Just ignore him,’ said Miriam.

  ‘Where did Mr Taylor say he was going?’ asked Morley again, trying to summon u
p the answer from between his fingers.

  ‘It was the Egremont Fair, I think, Mr Morley,’ I said.

  ‘Whatever that is,’ said Miriam, puckering her lips together and blowing herself a kiss.

  ‘Ah, yes, the Egremont Fair, that’s right!’ said Morley. ‘Or the Crab Fair, strictly speaking.’

  ‘Something to do with crabs, presumably?’ said Miriam, manipulating an eyebrow and glancing in my direction.

  ‘Crabs?’ said Morley. ‘Crab apples, Miriam! The Lord of Egremont traditionally distributed crab apples to the people, I think. What’s the date?’

  ‘It’s the eighteenth of September, Father. All day.’

  ‘There we are then!’ said Morley. ‘Third Saturday of September. The Egremont Crab Fair! One of the great remaining English medieval fairs! Traditionally took place on the feast of the Nativity of St Mary, I believe, but was moved for practical reasons during the last century, probably to do with changing working patterns and—’

  ‘Fascinating I’m sure,’ said Miriam, starting up the car. ‘Anyway.’ We set off in the direction of Appleby.

  ‘Yes, he said he was going for the wrestling, didn’t he?’

  ‘That’s right, Mr Morley,’ I said.

  ‘I bet you’d like to see a bit of wrestling, Sefton, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I bet he would,’ said Miriam. ‘But no chance.’ She smiled sarcastically, her lipstick underlining the emphasis.

  ‘Egremont,’ said Morley. ‘Strictly outside our boundaries, of course, over in west Cumberland—’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Miriam, clearly foreseeing where the conversation was going. ‘No way.’

  ‘No way where?’ said Morley.

  ‘We are not going to Egremont, Father. If that’s what you’re thinking.’

  ‘How do you know what I’m thinking?’

  ‘Because I always know what you’re thinking.’

  ‘Always?’

  ‘Invariably.’

  ‘Not always then,’ said Morley. Another small linguistic victory. ‘It’s only a couple of hours’ drive.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What would it be …?’ Morley consulted the map of the British Isles that he seemed to have on permanent display in his mind’s eye. ‘Penrith. Keswick. Whitehaven even? Or up to Cockermouth and then the road south … Mmm. Beautiful scenery. While we’re here, you know, it would be a terrible shame not to take the opportunity.’