Distant Voices. Barbara Erskine

       Who Done It?

      Flakes of snow blew in through the door with him as Jenkins pushed his way into the warmly lit bar of the Dog and Duck. It was early yet and only old Fred and Mr Denby were in.

      ‘My usual, Sam,’ said Jenkins. He was full of importance. Leaning his elbows on the bar he looked sideways at Mr Denby. ‘Heard the news, have you?’

      ‘No Jenks, what’s that then?’ Sam slid the pint glass expertly across the polished counter.

      ‘They found a body up Highfield way.’

      ‘A body?’ Mr Denby straightened up sharply and looked at the newcomer for the first time. ‘A dead ’un you mean?’

      ‘’Course I mean.’ Jenkins was indignant. He took a long drink at his glass. ‘Huddled up under Jeffrey’s barn he was, in all the puddles and melting snow up there.’

      ‘Who was it then, Jenks?’ Fred spoke for the first time. His hand was shaking slightly as he raised his own glass to his mouth.

      ‘Don’t reckon they know yet.’ Jenkins drained his beer and waited expectantly, his fingers casually nudging the glass across the bar. ‘He was pretty soggy, so they say.’

      ‘He would be.’ Mr Denby nodded sagely. ‘It’s been thawing the last twenty-four hours.’

      ‘Snowing again now, though.’ Jenkins nodded towards the dark windows. The glass was as far as it would go without pushing.

      Mr Denby noticed at last. ‘Same again all round, Sam, please.’

      ‘What do the police say, Jenks?’ Fred was lighting his pipe, sucking the flame down into the encrusted bowl.

      ‘They reckon it was murder.’

      Fred dropped the match and blew on a burnt finger. ‘Murder? What makes them think that?’

      ‘He had a hole in his head, that’s what. And blood all over him.’

      ‘Poor chap.’ Sam produced three brimming glasses. ‘I wonder if it was old Everett. He used to sleep rough in the barn sometimes.’

      ‘No, it wasn’t him.’ Jenkins clasped his glass happily. ‘It was Everett as found the body.’

      ‘Do they reckon he did it?’ Mr Denby looked at him sharply.

      ‘Nope. He’s got an alibi.’

      The four men were silent for a while, listening to the fire hissing round the logs in the hearth, then Fred slammed down his empty glass on the counter and turned for the door.

      ‘Goodnight all,’ he called and was gone.

      ‘I think he knows something,’ said Jenkins quietly. ‘Did you see how his hand was shaking?’

      ‘And he burned hisself on that match.’ Mr Denby nodded. ‘Do you think we ought to tell Constable Conway?’

      ‘No.’ Sam shook his head vehemently. ‘If he did it he had good reason. Fred never does anything without a very good reason.’

      Fred plodded slowly up the hill. The lights in Constable Conway’s cottage were blazing as he went up the slushy path and knocked on the door. Mrs Conway showed him into the parlour where the constable, his blue shirtsleeves rolled up above the elbow, was sitting at the table, eating a large bowl of stew.

      Fred sat down opposite the young man and waited until his host’s mouth was empty. ‘That body you’ve got. Know who it was?’

      Conway shook his head without speaking and spooned up some more stew.

      ‘Did he have a red shirt and a townified tie?’ Fred was twisting his cap round between his fingers on his knee.

      Constable Conway choked slightly. ‘How do you know that?’

      ‘I seen him before. He was heading up Highfield way. Looking for hammer beams, he said.’

      ‘Hammer beams?’ The constable’s mouth dropped open. ‘What are they when they’re at home?’

      ‘Don’t rightly know, but Jeffrey’s barn’s got ’em. He had a camera with him.’

      Conway nodded. ‘Yes, that was still there. There wasn’t no robbery. The chap had quite a bit of money in his wallet.’

      ‘Was it by the door you found him?’ The casualness of Fred’s question did not fool the constable. He had risen and, buttoning on his tunic was already reaching for his notebook.

      ‘Now see here, Fred. You’d better tell me everything. What do you know about all this?’

      ‘Nothing much. But a few days back I was up that way. I saw one of those great icicles fall over that doorway. Like a sword it was, three or four foot long. That would kill a man if he were standing underneath.’

      ‘I reckon it would.’ The constable nodded thoughtfully. ‘Could have been that.’

      ‘And the icicle would have melted long since.’

      ‘I reckon it would.’

      Fred left the cottage well satisfied.

      There was no one left in the village now who would remember the slick fancy architect fella who had seduced and then abandoned Fred’s pretty daughter. Only old Mrs Hennessy, and she was blind. And you can’t fingerprint a puddle, now can you?