The sinners congregation, p.14
The Sinner's Congregation, page 14
Part Four
Monday
11
It was the time of year when the birds belied their bird-brain reputation and showed a brighter intelligence than the two-legged mammals who lumbered below. Swallows flocked on overhead wires and housemartins gathered on rooftops to plan epic journeys to the south. If they could avoid the guns in Spain, they would follow the sun all the way to Africa.
On the other side of the river the leaves on the silver birch trees were turning yellow, and the sandy slopes that encouraged the pine trees and the heather were covered in flawless pine cones that people collected and saved for Christmas decoration.
It was the inhospitable sand which sent eighteen hours of rain down to the river, producing a volume which the banks could not contain. It was a gentle irruption compared with some of the great floods of the past but it was still sufficient to invade my land because once the footpath at the side of the river was breached the water discovered a leisurely downhill journey to the Bali’s grounds.
My marrow patch was the first to go, and then the vegetable garden, which I had begun as an economy and continued as a labour of love. Cabbages, beetroot, carrots and some potatoes that I was planning to lift vanished beneath the invasion. The lawn, which separated the garden from the patio, came next. It trickled across my newly mown grass, not even reaching the bottom of the children’s swing seats, which were especially low for toddlers. Progress would have been easier when it reached the stone floor of the patio, washing the legs of my white plastic furniture and carrying twigs and leaves and mud round to the yard where Adam had hidden his van and empty beer kegs awaited the draymen’s collection.
But the flood’s inexorable progress was still not spent because some time that night, when it washed up against the walls of the hotel itself, it discovered a natural escape in the air vents at the top of the cellar’s wall.
I woke in a panic, knowing something was seriously wrong. It came to me at once –I had not released Catchpole.
I jumped from the bed with a force that wakened Laurel and went, as usual, to the window. I stared aghast at the flooded garden. If an Irish warrior priest had been arriving in a coracle I wouldn’t have been more surprised.
‘Christ!’ I said, hurling my clothes on.
‘What is it?’
‘Floods,’ I told her.
She got out of bed herself to have a look but I was already leaving the room.
I had time to think going downstairs, and I realized that whatever had happened a display of panic by me would be hopelessly incriminating. By the time I reached the ground floor I was my usual placid self.
The breakfast-eaters had already left the restaurant and I went through to the kitchen to see Scott.
‘The sun has come out for us motor-cyclists,’ he said.
‘Won’t it be too wet?’
‘We love it wet. Have you seen the floods?’
‘Yes, how bad are they?’
‘They’re nothing compared with the last one, but I expect the cellar’s a bit wet. I went to check but you seem to have locked it.’
‘Did I lock it? I must have been drunk. I’ll go and check it myself.’
I steeled myself to walk calmly down the cellar steps, afraid of what I might find. The water that had poured through the air vent was not deep but it covered the floor. I waded through it, not thinking of my shoes and socks, and unlocked the cell. Catchpole lay in the far corner.
To reduce the number of people who were buried alive, they used to fasten bells to the toes of corpses and leave them for forty-eight hours. This would not be necessary in the case of Edwin Catchpole.
Lying on his back he would have emerged with little worse than a soaked suit. But he was lying face down on the floor and he had drowned in three inches of water. I turned him over to make sure that he was dead. His face was bluish and several small spots had appeared on his cheeks.
‘Who the hell is that?’ Laurel’s voice asked.
I turned to see that she had followed me into the cellar and was standing now on the bottom step, an inch or two above the water level.
‘It’s a customer,’ I said coolly.
‘Is he all right?’
‘He’s exhibiting what the CIA call a hundred-per-cent mortality response,’ I said.
A guilty man wouldn’t reply so lightly.
‘Why was he locked in?’
‘Locked in?’
‘Yes, locked in.’
‘He wasn’t locked in.’ I tried to remember my story. ‘He obviously came down here to pinch some whisky, got drunk and fell asleep.’
‘There’s a key in the door. You had him locked in there, didn’t you?’ Her voice had risen since her arrival. ‘What the hell are you playing at, Martin?’
I abandoned Catchpole and waded back to my accuser.
‘He is a resident who has been missing since yesterday morning. Perhaps he’s been here since then. Perhaps he’s had a heart attack.’
‘He was locked in,’ she repeated. She had got hold of the one relevant fact in a confusing situation and seemed reluctant to let it go. Her tone was now a chilling mixture of fear and anger.
I put a hand on her shoulder.
‘Let’s make sure we’re singing out of the same hymn book,’ I said. ‘He was drunk. There are two whisky bottles by his body.’
She turned her back on me and climbed the steps.
‘We’d better call the police,’ she said.
‘Of course we must,’ I replied, and followed her.
We went into my office, my feet dripping, and I dialled the police station. Laurel sat on the edge of my desk and watched.
I decided to persist with my performance of guiltless observer. I cupped my hand over the receiver and told her, ‘I’ve now got three months’ supply of wet roasted peanuts.’
She gave me a long, strange look, and I knew that whatever else was going to come out of this, our romance was over.
A day that had started so badly was beyond saving. By lunchtime a dose of bilharziasis would have been a welcome distraction.
A detective constable arrived first in a black Ford Granada. He assured me, as if I cared, that the police surgeon was on his way. The detective took off his boots and socks, rolled up his trousers and waded round the cellar taking photographs.
I expressed surprise and concealed alarm.
‘We always take pictures of the body if there is a faint possibility of foul play, Mr Lomax,’ he said.
‘Foul play?’
‘Where death in unusual situations occurs the police always have to consider foul play. Have you moved the body?’
‘I turned him over to see if he was dead.’
‘A pity.’
His eyes roved round the cellar and settled on the lock on the cell door. I felt a wave of fear then. Tenacity was not the quality I was seeking in this man.
‘He was drunk,’ I said. ‘He had obviously been stealing my whisky.’
‘How do you know he was drunk?’
I began to see how people can talk themselves into trouble: there was really no reason for me to say anything at all.
‘It’s just an educated guess,’ I said. ‘There are two empty whisky bottles alongside the body.’
The police surgeon arrived soon afterwards. He was a small, grey-haired man who was surprisingly cheerful, given his macabre calling. In the midst of life, he was in death.
‘Epileptics and drunks die this way,’ he said, when I ventured to point out how shallow the water was. ‘Epileptics have been known to have a fit, fall into a puddle and drown.’
He threw me a smile which seemed to say that it would be a long time before I heard anything half so whimsical, but nobbled by a mixture of fatigue and nausea I could only stare back.
‘Has the cellar flooded before?’ the detective asked.
‘Several times,’ I said. ‘But there wasn’t anybody in it then.’
‘Why is there a lock on the door?’
‘My father used to lock his precious wines away.’
‘Where’s the key?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said, feeling it in my pocket. ‘I have a more trusting attitude to my staff.’
‘And you think – ’ he looked at his notebook ‘ – Mr Catchpole came down here for some quiet drinking and got drunk?’
‘It looks like that to me.’
‘The post mortem will soon tell us,’ said the police surgeon. ‘There are no gunshot wounds or blows to the head.’
‘Any daggers in the back?’ I asked.
‘I’m afraid not. It’s very disappointing.’
‘I imagine the whisky could have killed him before the cellar flooded,’ I suggested.
‘It could, but I don’t think it did,’ said the police surgeon. ‘The most likely cause of death here is asphyxia, because he was not able to draw in air through the mouth or nose. Can you phone for a wagon, George? We’ll take him in for the PM.’
He stared down at the late Mr Catchpole, while the detective sat on the steps trying to dry his feet.
‘What happens at a post mortem?’ I asked. I had often wondered – you never know where you are going to end up.
‘We cut him up,’ said the police surgeon with a sort of relish. ‘We inspect all the organs, record all the findings. In this case the main objective will be to determine the blood-alcohol level.’
‘Actually the pathologist cuts him up,’ said the detective, pulling up his socks.
‘Ah, but I’m there,’ said the police surgeon.
My mind moved on to the next immediate problem. Carrying a corpse out of the front door of a hotel was traditionally regarded as bad for business, alarming residents, discouraging visitors and reflecting adversely on the establishment’s cuisine.
‘Can you ask the wagon to pull up at the back?’ I asked.
‘Certainly,’ said the detective, tying up his boots. ‘Can you show me to a phone?’
We went up to my office. The hotel was empty. It was too early for the bar to be open and the first sun in four days had evidently dispersed the guests.
The detective phoned the police station and then sat down with his notebook. A much chewed pencil appeared from his pocket.
‘Now what about next-of-kin?’ he asked. ‘Have you got this joker’s address?’
‘It’s in the visitors’ book,’ I said. ‘He was here with some friends from Yorkshire, playing golf.’
‘It wasn’t his weekend, was it?’ said the police surgeon.
I picked up the house phone and rang through to Gordon Hammerdale’s room.
‘Hallo?’ he said. I had woken him up.
‘Mr Hammerdale? We’ve found your friend Catchpole. Can you come down to reception?’
‘Where did he get to?’
‘He’s dead.’
There was a long silence on the phone and I hung up.
‘One of his mates is coming down,’ I told the policeman.
‘I’ve known a bottle of whisky kill a man,’ said the police surgeon, while we waited. ‘How many singles are there in a bottle?’
‘Thirty,’ I told him.
‘Eighteen gives you a blood-alcohol count of about three hundred milligrams to a hundred millilitres of blood. That puts you in danger of death.’
‘I don’t know where you police get your figures from,’ I said. ‘I have several customers who drink ten double whiskies and drive home apparently sober.’
‘I must tell our traffic patrol,’ said the detective constable.
Gordon Hammerdale arrived soon afterwards, pale and unshaven.
‘Did you say dead?’ he asked.
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Are you a member of Mr Catchpole’s party?’ asked the detective.
Hammerdale nodded. He looked as if words were beyond his powers at the moment. The detective told him what had happened. Hammerdale listened carefully and when he finally spoke it took no little control to restrain myself from throwing my arms round him and kissing both cheeks.
‘He’s done it before,’ he said.
‘What?’ said the detective.
‘He was found drunk once in the cellar of a pub at home.’
‘What happened? Be precise.’
‘He was drunk at closing time one night and they wouldn’t serve any more drinks. He said he was going for a pee and slipped down to the cellar instead. The gaffer found him plastered an hour later when he went down to clean the pipes. He treated it as a joke – Catchpole was one of his best customers.’
I could feel the doubts and suspicions which my nervous pessimism had sensed in the office evaporate.
‘That’s it, then,’ said the detective. The notebook, with its sinister overtones, was restored to his jacket pocket. He stood up. ‘It will be necessary for you, as a personal friend, to identify the body.’
Hammerdale nodded sadly. Just then a young policeman arrived at the door.
‘I’ve brought the wagon,’ he said.
‘Take it round the back,’ said the detective.
The four of them filed out of my office but I didn’t feel up to following them. Too many unconnected thoughts were clamouring for my foggy attention. Where was Laurel? How did I get the water out of the cellar? Would I soon be appearing in the witness-box at an inquest?
I tried to re-establish some connection with the real world by picking up that morning’s copy of The Times, which lay on the desk in front of me. I was surprised to discover that it was Bank Holiday Monday – I was losing track of time. There didn’t seem to be much news. In Castelgandolfo the Pope had made a controversial call for world peace. There was a funfair on Hampstead Heath, a carnival in Notting Hill and a festival in Edinburgh. It was hot in Ajaccio, but cool in Cape Town.
I put down the paper and another stray thought filtered through: I was supposed to be cooking the lunch.
I specialized in the sort of menu which curbs a man’s appetite. When I was substitute chef at the Bali it took a certain resilience to eat there: we who are about to dine salute you.
The eight-ring stove was less important than my Philips micro-wave oven and the vegetable-warmer and plate-warmer alongside. But my main aids were two six-foot fridges and an even larger freezer in the corner of the room.
After five minutes in the kitchen I had decided on my menu and I went back to my office to type three copies: soup of the day (whatever that meant); steak, chips and peas; coq au vin; scampi and chips. Ice cream or apple pie followed. Every one of these items, except the soup, came out of the freezer or the fridge, and I marvelled at how easy Scott’s life could be if his professional pride was not offended by the use of frozen chips.
Mrs Newman, housewife, mother of three and aspirant waitress, arrived at twelve and laid the tables. She spent her life on the Bali’s substitute bench and was always ready to deputize for someone.
‘Tell them it’s a limited menu because of the holiday,’ I said. ‘If they get shirty, smash them over the head with the water jug.’
Mrs Newman, a small, prematurely grey lady, chuckled away quietly. She enjoyed it at the Bali because it got her out of the house.
‘Why were the police leaving here as I arrived?’ she asked.
‘A routine visit, Mrs Newman,’ I said.
She went out and returned with an order.
‘Two soups, two steaks. They’re residents.’
‘Has Lisa opened the bar?’
‘Yes, but there’s only Mrs Stapleton, Adam and Rodney Pym’s wife in there.’
I wanted to be with them, feeling particularly in need of a drink, but as I have constantly to remind myself, it’s the people who put work first who have money in this world.
‘I wonder what he’s doing with her – Adam with Rodney Pym’s wife?’
‘Is he with her?’
‘They’re holding hands.’
Thank God that’s all they’re holding, I wanted to tell her. Instead, I said, ‘I think you’ve come across some scandal there, Mrs Newman.’
‘That’s what I thought. She only married Rodney Pym last year.’
‘I should think a year is a long time to be married to Rodney Pym.’
‘He’s a very ambitious and successful man.’
‘Yes, I don’t like him either,’ I said. ‘What was that order again?’
‘Soup.’
‘In a basket?’
Mrs Newman chuckled her quiet chuckle and I decided that it was time to work. I fetched two soup plates from the pile and tried to concentrate on the job in hand. In Andalucia they may have produced a memorable soup by using the technique of the cocido to marry the broad bean to the cuttle-fish, but round here it was less exotic.
I reached for the can opener.
Gordon Hammerdale’s dampened golfing party were the last group to come in for lunch. By the time they were on the ice-cream I was able to abandon my chef’s role in the kitchen and join them. They were understandably subdued: golfing parties were not normally rained on for two days and then decimated.
‘We were just wondering whether we ought to telephone Edwin’s father,’ Gordon Hammerdale said.
‘The police will probably have sent someone round,’ I told him, ‘but if you want to ring him you can use my phone.’
‘Perhaps I should.’ He made no move to get up. ‘Now the sun has come out none of us feels like golf.’
‘What’s his father like?’
‘He’s a bastard. A big bullying bastard.’
‘A bit like Edwin,’ said a man across the table.
‘Edwin was all right,’ said Gordon Hammerdale quickly, ready to stifle any posthumous reservations about Catchpole’s character. ‘But if you ring his dad up and tell him his son’s dead, he’ll probably say, “Well, bury the bugger.”’
This harsh estimate of Catchpole Senior’s exiguous seam of human kindness reduced us to a thoughtful silence, and eventually I stood up to leave.
‘When are you all going?’ I asked.
‘We’re driving up later this afternoon,’ said Gordon Hammerdale. ‘I’ll settle the bill now.’
