The Complete Short Stories Part 27

'On what I thought was my last night on earth,' Moon continued, 'I took a walk over Hampstead Heath. We had closed the doors of the Remarkable for the last time and were all prepared for the last Uprise of our Downfall. Dolores was to come with us. We were both sorry and glad to go. We felt sad about leaving Hampstead, but the place and people had changed under Johnnie's influence, and also largely under our own in the last seven years.

'I brooded on these things and was turning back to our quarters where I was to meet Dolores, when suddenly I heard a curious sound on my right.

'As I walked towards the place, I became aware that a number of people were gathered together hidden from my sight behind a large boulder. Presently I could hear more clearly what the noise was: these people were chanting together the old refrain. Tum tum ya, tum tum ya. Silently, I peered round the boulder, and stopped short, sick and terrified and appalled by what I saw.

'Before I describe what I saw, I must tell you that Johnnie Heath had recently revived the Tum Tum Times. One of its columns was regularly devoted to a plea for a return to what was described variously as "the native purity of our customs", or "the purity of our native customs", or else "the customs of our native purity". I had not thought very much about this, for Johnnie's ideas were always rather cranky. But one day I had chanced to read in this column a reference to an organization which was recommended as offering "an outlet through a cla.s.sical mode of expressions of our most pure and primitive pa.s.sions". On reading this, I shuddered, then thought no more about it.

'I remembered this some time after the incident on Hampstead Heath.

'Now,' said Moon Biglow, 'I will tell you what I saw there.

'A group of young men and women, well known to me, and many of whom had been close friends, were seated cross-legged in a circle round a stone slab. By the light of the Moon I saw them led by Johnnie Heath clapping their hands to the rhythm of tum tum ya, tum tum ya. On the slab inside the circle lay the dead body of Dolores, with a knife stuck in her throat. The blood was congealed on her neck, where it had flowed and ceased to flow.

'Then I saw, watching from behind them, two of my Moon Brothers. They moved round silently to where I was standing. Hand in hand we fled home.

'My five Moon Brothers left the earth secretly during the night. I could not, myself, face the Moon without Dolores. I felt it necessary to remain on earth and die here where she died.

'Of course, I cleared out of Hampstead.

'But the strange thing is, that our mission wasn't a failure, after all. The revival of the tum tum ya cult did not last. It still crops up from time to time here and there, for these things spread. But the absence of the Changing Drama of the Moon began to be felt. The sense of loss led to a tremendous movement of the human spirit. The race of the artist appeared on the earth, everywhere attempting to express the lost Moon drama. Long after the people who had frequented the old Remarkable Playhouse were dead and forgotten the legend survived; and long after the legend was forgotten, the sense of loss survived.

'So it happens,' said Moon Biglow, 'that whenever the tum tum ya movement gets afoot, and the monotony and horror start taking hold of people, the artists rise up and proclaim the virtue of the remarkable things that are missing from the earth.

'And so,' said Moon Biglow, 'you owe your literature, your symphonies, your old masters and your new masters, to the Six Moon Brothers and Dolores. It was a good thing we had to go. We could never have induced you to s.h.i.+ft for yourselves by any other means.

'You and your littery friends,' said Moon Biglow, 'ought to know the true position, which is what I've told you. And if ever you produce a decent poem or a story, it won't be on account of anything you've got in this world but of something remarkable which you haven't got. There is always a call for the Remarkable from time to time, simply because we closed the doors of the Playhouse called Remarkable, and because the Young Remarkables have gone off home, and because there is nothing left Remarkable beneath the visiting Moon.'

Chimes Tonight is the anniversary of one of my most puzzling murders. It was the autumn of 1954, when life was sleepier than it is now. Sat.u.r.day, the second of October, to be exact.

For a detective, I haven't a particularly good memory as a rule. But you will see presently why I remember this particular date. It was nearly an unsolved murder. Old Matthews was a farmer of the village of Mellow in the West Country. He was found dead on the morning of the third of October in an outhouse of his own farm, lying at the foot of the ladder leading to the hayloft. He was eighty-two.

At the inquest the local doctor gave evidence that Matthews's death was due to a fractured skull. It was a.s.sumed he had been up in the hayloft during the night and had fallen down the ladder. The verdict was death by misadventure.

You will wonder what old Matthews was doing in the hayloft during the night.

He slept in the hayloft. It is true he owned the farm. And there was a large farmhouse where his wife lived. You must understand that Matthews was rather peculiar. So was his wife. They didn't get on together and he preferred to sleep in the outhouse. Situations like that are not unusual in the deep country.

The inquest was soon over and Matthews was buried on the sixth of October. A fortnight after the funeral the police received an anonymous letter accusing Harold Matthews, the son, of having murdered his father.

It was not generally known at the time, but in fact Harold was not old Matthews's legitimate son.

The police frequently receive anonymous letters and so they took no great notice of this one. They tried to trace the author, whom they suspected to be some village woman, but they were unsuccessful. Before long, however, rumours were going about the village to the effect that Harold had murdered his father. The police questioned Harold. He was unhelpful, but that wasn't his fault, for he was rather simple.

Within three months the rumours had increased, and a reporter from a national newspaper was said to have visited the area. The police had to act. They disinterred Matthews's body. The Home Office pathologist found that the fracture on his skull had been caused by a blow. It was now certain that Matthews had been murdered during the night of the second-third of October.

Poor Harold tried to explain to the police that he could not have killed his father, since old Matthews was not his father. That's how the police came to know about his illegitimacy. But in any case, they didn't waste time trying to get sense out of Harold, for the man had a perfect alibi.

During the night of the murder he had been watching the others playing cards in the kitchen, and then had gone to bed in a room which he shared with one of the farm hands.

It was at this point in the investigations that we from London were called in. First we were presented with a number of established facts. On the afternoon of the second of October Matthews had gone to a farm two miles from Mellow to help with a difficult calving. He left this place just after nine that night and was seen to cross some fields, slowly because of his age. This would bring him to the main road at about 10.20. The doctor was pa.s.sing in his car and stopped, apparently to give Matthews a lift. Matthews entered the car, where he sat talking to the doctor. A courting couple who pa.s.sed them at 10.30 said they seemed to be arguing rather violently. No one observed the car drive off.

You will wonder how the witnesses remembered these encounters three months after the event. Well, mainly because it was the night old Matthews was killed. People said, when they heard the news of Matthews's death, 'Why, I saw him that very night!' and so on. It's surprising the things people remember and what they forget, especially in this case, as you'll see.

Everyone at the farmhouse was equally clear about what had happened that night, with the exception of Harold who wasn't clear about much. They had been playing cards in the kitchen - some farm labourers who lived at the house, and Mrs Matthews - with Harold looking on. At midnight they heard a car drive up the farm lane and stop outside the outhouse. They a.s.sumed that old Matthews had got a lift home. They heard him, as they supposed, enter the outhouse, the door of which had a noisy hinge. A few seconds later the car drove off.

This was at midnight. They all swore they heard the church clock strike twelve when the car arrived. By our reckoning, it was not old Matthews whom they heard entering the outhouse, but the murderer dumping the body. A murderer with a car. Now Matthews had been seen arguing with the doctor at 10.30, only a few minutes' drive from the farm. Yet these noises were not heard till twelve.

We questioned the doctor, of course. His name was Fell. He lived in another village - Otling, three miles from Mellow along the main road. His story was that he had sat chatting to Matthews - a patient of his -for over half an hour in the car. They had had a little argument about politics. He had then driven Matthews to his farm, arriving there at eleven o'clock. After that he had proceeded home where he arrived at ten past eleven.

There he found an urgent message to visit a sick patient, and set off immediately. He attended to his patient - a childbirth case - and was home again just as the church clock struck midnight.

Dr Fell's manner was extremely helpful. He actually wrote out a statement for us, giving all his movements that night and citing his witnesses. We checked up on everything and could find no flaw in his alibi. There was no doubt he had visited his patient at twenty past eleven, for the child was registered as having been born at ten minutes to twelve. His housekeeper's niece, who had just returned home from a dance, as well as his wife, gave evidence of his return home as the clock struck midnight. He couldn't have been both at Mellow and at Otling as the church clock struck midnight.

And I was a.s.sured that the church clock always kept perfect time.

And you will say, were the farm people lying? Did they really hear those noises at the outhouse at midnight?

Do you know, it was a strange thing - we are all of us experienced in detecting lies - but we couldn't break down one of those witnesses, either at Otling or at Mellow, in the slightest detail. We had no evidence against Dr Fell. It was quite a puzzle. Three months after the event, you know, there isn't much physical evidence to go by - fingerprints and so on.

But we suspected Dr Fell. Our investigations had brought another important fact to light. Old Matthews had been receiving monthly payments from Dr Fell for thirty-odd years.

Of course, we thought of blackmail. We questioned Mrs Matthews about this. She denied knowledge of the money, but eventually told us that Dr Fell was Harold's real father. It looked very much to us that the monthly payments were made to keep old Matthews quiet. A country doctor can't afford to lose his reputation.

And we found that a few months before the murder these payments had increased. The increase coincided exactly with Dr Fell's marriage to a much younger woman. If our theory was correct Matthews had seized the opportunity of the marriage to increase his demands, for in those days - perhaps even now - a doctor would not wish his bride to know of an illegitimate son in the neighbourhood. Here, then, was a clear motive for murder. But Dr Fell had his alibi. We could not prove it.

I questioned him again. His eyes fixed themselves on me. I was almost hypnotized. I must say I felt very uneasy in his presence. But of course in our profession we are trained to discount most of our personal feelings when dealing with a suspect. Still, the old rhyme went round my head as I drove away from his house: I do not like thee, Dr Fell.

The reason why I cannot tell.

But this one thing I know full well: I do not like thee, Dr Fell.

Shortly after this a member of the local police made a discovery which earned him promotion. He was looking through the statement which Dr Fell had written out for us when he noticed a peculiarity in the writing which coincided with that of the anonymous letter they had received accusing Harold of the crime. The letter had been written in a disguised hand, but still the experts confirmed the suspicions of that clever policeman. Now, at least, we had something concrete to tax Dr Fell with - and a concrete charge is always a help in a murder case.

He was, of course, upset at our discovery. Eventually he admitted writing it, said he had genuinely suspected Harold but could not bring himself to say so at the inquest. We suggested to him that the letter was written as a defence against blackmail on the part of Harold. The doctor denied it.

However, I went off to interview Harold, hoping to discover what he knew about Dr Fell. With simple people it is best to be direct. I said, 'Harold, why did you try to get money out of Dr Fell?'

He said, 'Eh?'

I said, 'You think he killed the old man, don't you?'

He said, 'That's right, sir, I do.'

But, like ourselves, poor Harold had no evidence to produce against the doctor. There were probabilities, but simply no answer to the fact that he had been seen at Otling at the very time the car had been heard at Mellow.

I can't tell you how disappointed I was after that interview with Harold. There was no further point in our men hanging on at Mellow. We were to return to London next morning, our criminal in sight but not brought to justice.

I was so disappointed that I said, half to myself and half to Harold, 'If only we could shake his alibi for that particular midnight!' Harold didn't seem to take this in. I went my way.

But in a moment Harold was running after me. 'You'll never get him, sir,' he said.

I said, 'No, that's just what I mean.

He said, 'You see, sir, there was two midnights, like, that night. That's why you'll never get him. You can't get a man between two midnights.'

'Two midnights?' I said.

'Right you are, sir,' Harold said. 'It was end of summer time, wasn't it? And they put the clocks back. Old Fell done it between the two midnights, and you'll never get him.'

'Harold,' I said. 'You're a genius.'

'You'll never get him,' he said.

I went to see the verger who recalled, yes, come to think of it, the church clock wasn't put back till a couple of days after the official date. The town clerk, on the other hand, was proud to declare that he had arranged for the town hall's clock to be put back on the afternoon of the previous day, 1 October. 'You don't catch us napping!' said the Clerk.

'Won't we?' I said.

It didn't take us long to put our point of view over to Dr Fell. He confessed to the murder. It had taken place in a field. He had hit old Matthews over the head with a wooden leg. He had the wooden leg in his car, for earlier that week he'd been getting it mended for an old pensioner in the village. In some ways Dr Fell was quite a kindly man. Well, having killed old Matthews he dumped his body in the outhouse at eleven o'clock by Winter Time, twelve by British Summer Time and the church clock. These were the days of capital punishment, but his sentence was commuted to life imprisonment. The law doesn't like blackmail.

Ladies and Gentlemen Author's note: The following is based on a true incident, perhaps made more macabre by the fact that the man in question was afraid of being seen with a girl by his mother, not his wife. In the true version the man was not caught, only observed as he crept round the public lavatory in a way that struck the author as being quite hilarious.

Past the Cathedral, past the 'Fighting c.o.c.ks' which will not be open till later, past the ice-cream stand, past the mill-race, past the lake which was once a monastic fishpond, they come. The year is 1950. June Flinders is her name, Bill Dobson his. The ancient site of Verulamium is the place. Arm in arm they advance towards us.

Miss Finders was still a student at a university in the north of England. Mr Dobson was a teacher of domestic science at a technical college in the Midlands. They had met at a holiday course. There was a Mrs Dobson but she was far from their thoughts.

They dallied awhile by the mill-race, leaning over the bridge. A cow came down and stepped daintily into the water farther up where the river was calm. Silent and patient as a tree standing in its own shadow, she stood and accepted the cool water about her feet. Where the stream broke up noisily at the mill-race a few barefoot boys were playing. Neither June nor Bill were fond of children, but they felt pleasantly inclined towards these boys. Because they were two together, illicitly, and in secret, a sentiment of indulgence entered their hearts and caused them to buy five cones at the kiosk, and distribute them among the children.

The boys took the ice-creams and deserted the mill-stream right away as if they felt this unforeseen treat might be s.n.a.t.c.hed away.

'Don't go, boys,' said Bill. But that finished it. They recognized the teacher in him, and were gone.

'It must be funny,' said June, 'suddenly inheriting a fortune.'

He was glad she had opened the subject. There was something he wanted to tell her.

'I couldn't believe it,' he said, 'at first.'

'I'm sure,' said June.

'I showed Maisie the letter. Maisie couldn't believe it,' he said; 'at first.

A look of sad reflection overcame June's face. Maisie was Bill's wife and June felt sad and reflective whenever she was mentioned. Moreover, this expression was one to which June was adapted by nature. She wore her light hair parted in the middle and drawn back in a bun, and she had rather a long white nose, think of this, and you will understand how the dolorous look fitted in with the whole.

She pursued the subject, however.

'It will make it easier when we break the news,' said June.

'Yes,' he replied eagerly, 'that's the important thing about the money. Maisie won't be dependent upon me, now or later.

'As a matter of fact, June,' he said, 'I have left her the lot in my will. I'm sure you will agree, that's the best thing in the circ.u.mstances. But, of course, we shall have enough to live on, June. Only, I thought it only right, June, to leave her the lot in my will. It will make it easier when we break the news.'

'The lot?' said June.

'Yes,' said Bill. 'It will make it easier for us, you see.

'It's a great deal of money,' said June.

'The tax would come off it, the death duties,' he said pacifically. 'But we ye got our life ahead of us, and who knows who will die first?

'Don't let's talk about it,' he added.

'Let's live and make the most of it,' he added further.

Bill was forty-two. To June who was eighteen, he did not seem to have his life ahead of him. But then, she was in love with Bill; surely that was all that mattered. His ways were almost exactly like the ways of the Professor of Botany, with this exception, that Bill had run away with her and the Professor of Botany had not and never would.

It worried June that Bill had not made a clean break with his wife. Indeed, Maisie knew nothing about her husband's romance, and fancied he was gone to give a series of lectures.

'I wish you had made a clean break with Maisie,' said June, 'I always hate deception in cases like this.'

'Why,' said Bill, 'have you done it before?'

'Oh no,' June said swiftly, 'I just meant that I always hate deception.'

June had not done it before. This worried her. They had left their luggage in the hotel bedroom. Bill had signed 'Win and Mrs Dobson' in the book. Suppose he ceased to want to live with her always? Suppose he only wanted her for one thing. If he only wanted her for that, it would explain why he had not told Maisie. It would be too late afterwards. What a muddle.

'I always hate deception,' June repeated.

'I thought we should see how we get on together before doing anything final,' Bill was careless enough to say.

'You said it was all over between you in any case, said June.

'It is,' said Bill. 'It is.'

'Bill,' she said, 'will you do something for me?'

'Of course,' he said.

'Just for tonight,' she said, 'I'd rather we didn't - I'd prefer not to - I mean let's not -'

June sought round in her mind for the correct phrase. She was anxious to convey her meaning without seeming either coa.r.s.e or prim. With relief she lit on the words she wanted.

'I would rather we were not intimate tonight,' she said.

Bill looked put out. There were some very surprising elements in June.

'Don't you want to stop at the hotel?' he said.

'Oh yes,' said June impatiently, 'but I'd rather we waited. Don't you see. It's a very important and big thing for me.