Bodies from the Library 2, page 30
part #2 of Bodies from the Library Series
‘Meaning me?’ asked Tess with customary bluntness.
‘Yes, Tess.’ Lockwood’s face was grim with resolution. ‘Why won’t you face the facts? The most successful marriages are founded on mutual interest—and you and I have the same tastes. How will you make out with an artistic bloke like Dodd?’
‘Oh, not again, Ted,’ pleaded Tess wearily.
She had no further chance to brood for she always worked at high pressure. As the subject of the dictation was technical matter which exacted her entire attention, she welcomed a break, in order to freshen herself with a wash. The men’s and women’s cloakrooms were built off a central domed hall with a white marble drinking-fountain, which was a popular meeting place.
When she entered it, a group of employees were talking in excited undertones as they gathered around Clement Dodd. He was a tall slim-waisted youth who would have made a pretty girl, but for thin mobile lips. He spoke with a stressed Oxford accent while his manner to women of all ages was that of a courtier.
‘Heard the latest casualty?’ he asked Tess. ‘Poor old Don’s got the K.O.’
As Tess stared at him in dismay, he lit a cigarette.
‘Afraid he asked for it,’ he said casually. ‘Too big for his boots. That line does not appeal to our lady-boss.’
‘It’s a real tragedy,’ exclaimed a woman who dyed her grey hairs. ‘He was nearly due to retire. Now he’ll lose his pension. What will become of him?’
‘Hush,’ whispered a typist. ‘He’s coming in.’
His head held high, the old scientist approached the group. He cleared his throat before he made an announcement after the fashion of a Headmaster addressing his school.
‘I have just resigned my position. I have never been happy in a non-scholastic atmosphere. Now I shall hope to resume my academic career. I wish to take this opportunity to thank you for your loyal support and cooperation.’
Although his lips quivered. he managed to make a grand exit.
As she watched him, Tess grew suddenly hot and giddy.
‘It’s cruel—hateful—abominable—’ she stormed. ‘That horrible woman has thrown him out just to save his pension.’
‘Cool off, you young volcano.’
Tess felt herself pushed down on a chair. Although she recognised Lockwood’s voice, she barely saw him through a shifting mist. She gulped down the glass of water which he drew for her and then gave him a grateful grin.
‘O.K.?’ he asked. ‘What was the matter? You went first red and then white.’
‘Temper,’ she replied frankly. ‘Only it’s a bit more than that. Just before I left Canada, I was in an air crash. Since then, if I get too steamed up, I have a blackout. The doctor told me I’d grow out of it very soon, but he warned me not to get excited.’
‘What’s it like?’
‘Foul—and frightening. Everything turns black and I drop into a sort of sleep. The doctor explained that sleep was my salvation, but it scares me because when I wake up, I can remember nothing. I go right out.’
The rest of the morning dragged itself out. Worried about Don, she forgot to concentrate on her work with the result that she had the greatest difficulty in reading back her outlines. As she was typing her notes, she noticed that Miss James—Ratcliffe’s secretary—had entered the room and was whispering to the supervisor.
Although she vaguely expected it, her heart knocked at the summons.
‘Miss Leigh. Please report at once to Miss Ratcliffe.’ …
Seated at her desk, Miss Ratcliffe looked a model of impersonal Administration—correct to form and polished in every detail. Her dark suit was perfectly built and her silver-blonde wave faultless.
‘Miss Leigh?’ Her voice was languid. ‘Ah yes. I am sorry that your services will not be required after today. You will receive a week’s wages in lieu of notice. This is no reflection on your work—but we have to reduce the staff.’
‘But Miss Ratcliffe,’ gasped Tess, ‘there must be some mistake. My speeds are the highest in the office and—’
‘This is not a personal matter.’
‘But it is personal.’ With characteristic courage, Tess dared to interrupt the tyrant. ‘If it were not, I should be expected to work out my notice. I have a right to know the reason.’
‘The reason is this,’ she said. ‘You have been disloyal.’
With a guilty recollection of unguarded remarks, Tess could not deny the charge. Instead she sank her pride to make an appeal.
‘I don’t want to inflict a sob-story on you, but I really need this work. I came over here from Canada when my parents died and I have no friends in England. Jobs are so scarce at present. Will you give me a second chance? I promise you I’ll do better in future.’
Miss Ratcliffe looked at her with cold impersonal eyes as she touched her bell.
‘My decision is final,’ she said.
As Miss James bustled into the office and opened the door pointedly, Tess had a sudden vision of the eagle beating his great wings over the mountain top. The memory flooded over her, filling her with a wave of power.
She realized that she too was free and able to meet Ratcliffe on equal ground.
‘You are a cruel, petty woman,’ she said. ‘The most junior typist has more right in the Peninsular than you have. You’ve bought your power—not earned it. And instead of using it, you abuse it. When worthwhile people are dying every day, it is a crime for you to be alive.’
She was conscious of passers-by in the corridor who paused to look into the office before Miss James pushed her outside and shut the door.
On her way to the cashier’s office, she met Don in the corridor—stooping like a defeated man.
‘The Gestapo’s got me too, Don. I’m sacked.’
‘I’m deeply grieved,’ he told her. ‘But your conscience is clear, while I have something to regret … When I first had news of my—my resignation, I was so stunned that—in trying to save myself—I threw someone to the lions. That hurts most.’ He added regretfully with a lapse of his grand manner, ‘Besides, it did me no good.’
As the admission sank in, fitting the circumstances of her own dismissal, Tess felt that she had been struck by the hand of a friend.
‘You,’ she muttered as she turned away.
The second shock made her feel numbed to reality. After she was paid off, she went to the cloakroom and mechanically changed into white slacks and a rose-red pullover. Her hair was beginning to get bushy, as she drew her white cap over it, in an instinctive desire to look her best when she met Clement.
She waited for Clement for a long time in the canteen, but he did not appear. Presently she accepted the disappointment with dreary fatalism. Too overwrought to eat, she went out of the Peninsular grounds. All she wanted was to escape to the Steepes and climb the rough ascent to the Spike—to stand on the mountain-top and meet the healing friction of the wind.
Owing to its precipitous quarried sides, the Steepes were accessible from the town by a small funicular which carried patrons up the face of the cliff. The girl at the turnstile who collected the tickets was a local character. Abnormally sharp, although she looked a child, her mop of red hair had gained her the obvious title of ‘Ginger’.
‘Does it bring you luck?’ she asked as her quick eyes noticed the white heather brooch on Tess’s cap.
‘You may have the lot at bargain-price,’ Tess told her bitterly.
On the summit of the Steepes stretched a wide level expanse of threadbare turf where a cafeteria as well as chairs and tables were provided for the community. The bulk of the holiday-makers used to congregate there, eating, drinking, reading and playing games; but it was deserted that afternoon owing to a circus performance in the town.
Tess struck off along a narrow path which wound, like a pale green ribbon, amid clumps of whinberry and stems of uncurled bracken. Farther off, on the left, the ground sloped down to the Rifle-Range.
She threw herself down on the heather. She wanted the consolation of contact with primeval things. With a springy cushion of twigs supporting her head, she gazed up into the clear blue sky, when she noticed the flicker of wings.
Again the eagle was circling around the summit of the Spike, reminding her of her impulse to climb to the mountain-top. It was a long rough walk, for the steep track zigzagged continually across natural obstacles of bog and rock. Even the optimistic guide-book stated that two-and-one-half hours were required for the ascent.
Swinging to her feet, she had a clear view of the path leading to the Rifle-Range. Two figures—pressed closely together—stood upon the slope. Even at that distance, it was impossible to mistake the sunlit shimmer of the woman’s silvery-blonde hair or the slack grace of her companion.
As she watched them, Dodd threw his arm around Miss Ratcliffe and bent his head, as though seeking her lips … At the sight, the blood rushed to Tess’s head. Again she felt the blast of furnace heat while a wheel seemed to spin remorselessly inside her brain.
Recognizing the terrifying symptoms which heralded a temporary extinction, she fought with all her strength to resist them, but while she was struggling, a rush of darkness swept over her like a black rocket. As she fell—face downward—on the heather in her last moment of consciousness, she noticed the watch on her outstretched wrist.
It was 3 o’clock.
It was 4 o’clock. Tess stared at her watch with frightened eyes. Only an instant before it was 3 o’clock. A whole hour had been rubbed out of her life …
She pressed her fingers to her eyes as the memory of Clem’s treachery overwhelmed her. The knowledge made her feel not only miserable, but cheap and ashamed, so that her dominant instinct was to hide. Soon the holiday-makers would be spreading fanwise over the lower slopes of the Steepes.
Shrinking from the ordeal of meeting someone from the Peninsular Factory, she rose stiffly and looked around for her cap. To her annoyance, she could not see it and, after pulling apart the nearest clumps of heather, she had to give up the search. Stampeded by the sound of distant voices, she ran over the rough until she reached a slippery bank of turf which dropped sheer to a narrow ledge above a worked-out quarry.
A perilous climb along the rocky rim brought her to a shallow depression in the hillside which offered her sanctuary. When she leaned back in the hollow, she seemed perched upon a lip of some bottomless abyss. For a long time she lay there—watching the pageant of clouds which rolled past like a stormy sea.
When she forced herself to look at her watch, she grimaced.
‘Gosh, it’s late. Well—I’ve got to face people again.’
In spite of this resolution, she made a circle to avoid passing the crowd around the cafeteria. She could not understand the force of the instinct which warned her to remain hidden.
As she clicked through the ‘OUT’ turnstile, she noticed that Ginger was staring at her. The scrutiny alarmed her vaguely for it revived her dormant dread of her lost hour.
‘Where did I go?’ she questioned. ‘What have I done? Do I show the marks of it in my face? Why does that girl stare at me? Oh, dear heart, I wish Ted was with me.’
Now that her infatuation for Clement had been shrivelled by the knowledge of his treachery, her heart turned instinctively towards Lockwood. On the homeward journey, while she sat upon the hard wooden seats of the tram and watched long lines of mean houses slide past, the lines of Kipling’s poem swam into her mind.
‘The Thousandth Man will stand by your side
To the gallows-foot—and after!’
She lodged in a comfortable house which belonged to a florist. It welcomed her like a haven, that evening. The flowers had never looked so beautiful in the sunset glow when she walked through the garden. The shabby dark green sitting room was cool and a meal was spread on the table, so that she had only to make her tea from the electric-kettle.
She was feeling refreshed and stimulated when her landlady entered the room to remove her tray.
‘What news?’ she clicked. ‘Is it really true she’s been murdered?’
‘Who?’ asked Tess, with a pang of foreboding.
‘Your Miss Ratcliffe, of course. It’s all over the town that she’s been shot dead.’
As Tess stared blindly at her landlady, the scrape of the gate made the woman glance through the window.
‘It’s Mr Lockwood,’ the announced. ‘I’ll go let him in.’
‘I knew he’d come. I knew he’d come,’ Tess told herself.
As he entered, she turned away and stood with clenched fists and locked jaws, fighting for self-control. She heard his step beside her but he did not speak until they were alone.
‘Tess … Darling.’
The new tenderness of his tone broke down her defences. Clinging to him, she pressed her face against his shoulder.
‘We mustn’t waste time,’ he said. ‘A copper will soon be here to question you. First of all, remember I’m with you, whatever you’ve done … Did you kill her?’
Her face grew suddenly white as she repeated his question with stiff lips.
‘Did I kill her? I don’t know … Tell me, has my cap been found?’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s gone. I had a blackout. I can’t remember anything … But my cap might tell me where I went.’
Lockwood’s face grew grim as he heard her incoherent story.
‘I know you are innocent,’ he told her. ‘But this is not exactly a water-tight yarn. Keep off it as much as you can. Don’t lie, but let the police fish for themselves.’
‘But why are they coming to me?’
In her turn, Tess listened to his account of the tragedy. A member of the Rifle-Club had found Ratcliffe’s body lying in the rough beyond the targets, about 4.30. She had been shot through the heart at close range. The doctor estimated the time of death as between 3 and 4—but probably about 3.30. As Tess’s rifle was found lying near, the police had made inquiries about her at the Peninsular Works, when they had learned about her dismissal and her subsequent threats.
He had just finished his story when the garden gate scraped again.
‘It’s the detective-bloke,’ Lockwood warned Tess. ‘Don’t forget I’m standing by.’
Inspector Pont reminded Tess of an uncle who grew prize dahlias. He was big and dark, with sleepy brown eyes which revealed nothing of his mental process.
Tess met him with the desperate courage of one mounting the scaffold.
‘I am Tess Leigh. I am prepared to sign a statement.’
‘Not so fast,’ said the inspector. ‘You’ll be warned when I’m ready for that. I want to know if you remember making any of these remarks about the deceased?’
As Tess read the typewritten paper he handed her, her face flamed.
‘Only one person could have told you these things,’ she said. ‘That’s Clement Dodd … Yes, I did say them. All of them—and more. They are true. She was a cowardly tyrant for she hit people who could not hit back. Cruelty or injustice always make me see red.’
‘The turnstile girl at the Steepes has told me you were up there from between 2 and 6,’ Pont said. ‘What were you doing during that time?’
‘Walking,’ replied Tess.
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know … It’s no good asking me. I’ve been in an air crash which has affected my memory. I was terribly upset … But I walked.’
‘Did you lose your cap during your walk? The turnstile girl tells me you were wearing one when you clicked-in, but that you were bareheaded when you returned.’
‘That’s right. But I don’t know where I lost it. I tell you—I don’t know.’
‘I’d like a description of it.’
After the inspector had entered the particulars in his notebook he turned towards the door. Lockwood noticed the glint in his eyes when he spoke to Tess.
‘That cap’s got to be found. I’ll have bills out tomorrow. Meantime, a notice goes up on the Station-board. I don’t expect any results tonight, but hold yourself ready to come and identify it.’
Directly the door closed, Lockwood held Tess tightly in his arms.
‘I’m standing by you,’ he said. ‘We’ll wait together.’
She was not comforted because she knew that he too was feeling the same strain of suspense. She felt his start when the telephone bell began to ring in the hall.
‘I’ll take it,’ he said quickly.
When he returned, his smile was unnaturally broad.
‘We’re going for a joy-ride,’ he told her. ‘My bus is parked outside.’
The journey to the Police Station had a nightmare quality. The lines of smoke-grimed houses seemed to flash by so that Tess—who was dreading the end of the ride—caught her lip when the car stopped under the blue lamp. Still in an evil dream, she stumbled into a tiled hall, when an open door gave her a clear view into a room.
Standing under the glare of an unshaded electric bulb, Clement Dodd was smoking a cigarette. He appeared entirely at his ease until he saw Tess. His face grew red and he turned his back to avoid meeting her eyes.
‘This way,’ said a constable.
Supported by the pressure of Lockwood’s arm, Tess followed the man into another office where Inspector Pont was seated before a table littered with official papers.
‘Yours?’ he asked, holding out a white Angora cap for her inspection. She glanced mechanically at her name printed inside the band and nodded assent, before she realised that he was smiling at her.
‘My congratulations,’ he said. ‘This cap was brought in by two hikers—strangers to the district—who chanced to see the notice on the board. They say they picked it up among the rocks on the top of the Spike, soon after 4 this afternoon. As the official time for the ascent is two-and-one-half hours and the deceased was alive at 3, according to medical evidence, it stands to reason that you could not have committed the murder and afterwards climbed the mountain, all within an hour.’
As she listened, Tess’s head reeled, for she realized that the story was full of holes. Before she could protest, Lockwood grabbed her arm.
‘Miss Leigh’s our champion athlete,’ he told the Inspector. ‘Thanks very much. I’ll run her home now.’
