Her conclusions, so far as the kitchen and the bedroom were concerned, proved to be correct and, as the third window was made of opaque glass, she decided that she was right about that also. It was the only sash window, she noticed; the other two were casements. It was almost as though it had been put in especially for her purpose.
‘Oh, well, here goes for the bathroom, then,’ thought Laura. ‘Better take my shoes off.’ She did this, laid them on the sill of the adjacent bedroom window and, taking a stout bowie knife from the pocket of her anorak, she slipped back the catch of the bathroom window. ‘Here, I expect, is where I break my neck,’ she thought, as she pushed up the lower sash.
Kneeling on the narrow sill, she shone her torch into the room. Fortunately the window was fairly wide and it was not above either the bath or the washbasin. The lid of the WC, which was directly under the window, was down. This was an unexpected bit of luck. Her stockinged foot slipped on the wooden lid of the WC but she held on, retained her balance and stepped down on to the bathroom floor.
The bathroom door was locked on the inside. This seemed a curious circumstance.
It looked as though the last occupant of the bungalow must have left it by the same means as Laura had managed to enter it. She turned the key, waited and listened and then opened the door.
Feeling that in for a penny was in for a pound, she tried the door which was next to the bathroom. It opened into a bedroom and here all was confusion. The bedclothes and two pillows were on the floor, the mattress was half on and half off the bed, a small cupboard on the wall was wide open and so were the drawers of a dressing chest.
Laura shone her torch round and about, took in the scene and then continued her exploration of the bungalow. But for the sitting-room, which appeared to have no key, all the rooms (the bathroom having been the sole exception) were locked on the outside, so at every door she listened carefully before she turned the key and went in, but nowhere else was in the same state of disorder as the bedroom she had entered.
‘Wonder whether they found what they were looking for?’ she said aloud. She returned to the bedroom. As it overlooked the hillside and not the road, she judged that it would be safe to switch on the electric light. She did this and then noticed what the beam of her torch had been too limited in scope to disclose. The tumbled bedclothes were stained with blood.
‘Here’s a nice how d’ye do!’ muttered Laura. The thought that she was unlawfully on enclosed premises with every chance of being in company with a dead body was not an encouraging one. Still less encouraging, because it changed speculation into certainty, was the sight of a black shoe and a sock-clad ankle sticking out from under the tumbled bed.
CHAPTER 11
Pistol and Dagger
« ^ »
There was a telephone in the hall. Laura’s first instinct was to ring up the police, but she realised that Dame Beatrice, whose hearing remained unimpaired by age, would have heard her leave her room. She would probably sit up and read until one o’clock in the morning and, long before that, would anticipate Laura’s return, so she looked up the number of the hotel and rang the office.
‘I want to speak to Dame Beatrice Lestrange Bradley,’ she said.
‘Who is that speaking?’
‘Her secretary, Mrs Gavin.’
‘I will put you through.’
‘I say, Dame B,’ said Laura, when they were connected and she heard her employer’s voice come over the line, ‘I’m stuck here at Carstairs’ bungalow until the police come, so don’t worry if I’m kept here half the night. I’ve found a body.’
‘Whose?’
‘I don’t know. I only saw a man’s shoe and a bit of his sock, but there’s blood all over the place.’
‘I see. You have kept all the rules except that against breaking and entering, I hope.’
‘I haven’t touched a thing except a window sash, door-keys and one electric light switch, if that’s what you mean. I’m now going to ring the police.’
‘Do nothing so foolish. Wipe your fingerprints off that telephone and come back here at once.’
‘And my other prints?’
‘Wipe them off if you know what you have touched, but hurry here. I will explain when I see you.’
‘Right.’ Laura did as she was told, left the bungalow by the bathroom window, which she had left open, and returned to the hotel.
‘Why hadn’t I to ring up the police?’ she asked.
‘Because I have just done so myself. There is no point in your having to confess to an illegal act, still less that you have been on premises which house a dead body. Your telephone call to me must be regarded as an anonymous one. You may leave the necessary evasions to me. Meanwhile, change those clothes for the dress you wore at dinner. When the police arrive…’
‘Won’t they go straight to Carstairs’ bungalow?’
‘I think not. I have told them that the dead man may be the coach-driver we are looking for and, if so, that the manager here will be able to identify him and that, with the information I have gained, I should be able, with your help, to confirm that identification.’
‘Why should anybody ring you up and not ourselves?’ asked the inspector, when he arrived in company with a sergeant.
‘I should imagine that whoever it was left me to communicate with you rather than involve himself directly. Besides, by this time, everybody in the neighbourhood probably knows my errand, which is to find this missing coach-driver.’
‘And ye’ll be thinking that somebody else has found him?’
‘It is not impossible. He disappeared from this hotel.’
‘Aye.’ The hotel manager, who was drinking a quiet nightcap in his private sitting-room, was told to stand by in case he was wanted and, accompanied by Laura, Dame Beatrice went with the police to the bungalow. The inspector cut a small pane of glass out of the front door, reached for the knob inside which operated the lock and in they all went.
‘Did your caller say in which room the body was to be found?’ the inspector enquired when he had closed the front door and switched on the hall light.
‘No,’ Dame Beatrice truthfully replied, for this information had not been supplied by Laura over the telephone. (‘I admired that answer of yours. It was given, like Kipling says, “with steadfastness and careful truth,” ’ Laura commented later).
‘Oh, well, the bungalow isna a’ that lairge. We’ll find it soon enough if it’s here,’ the inspector remarked. ‘Will ye kindly bide here while I look around?’
He was back with them in a few minutes.
‘It is true, then?’ Dame Beatrice enquired.
‘Och, aye, it is true enough, although I’m not surprised ye were sceptical. Whoever did it had pushed the body under the bed. It’s naebody we ken, so maybe you would tak’ a look at it yourself, ma’am and tell us do you recognise it. It’s no sie a terrible sight. A quick stab in the back by somebody wha kenned juist whaur to plant a knife. The doctor will be here directly, but there’s nae doubt about what happened.’
‘No signs of a struggle?’
‘The mon was taken unaware, maist likely, but the intruder was a burglar. The room’s in an awfu’ mess.’
‘Have you found the weapon?’
‘We have not. We dinna look for that kind of help frae murderers.’
Dame Beatrice and Laura followed him into the bedroom. The bed had been pulled away from the wall by the police, leaving the corpse where it had been so rudely thrust. It was clad in pyjama trousers, shoes and socks, and was lying on its face so that the angry gash in its back was clearly visible in the strong electric light.
‘Do ye put a name on him? ’ asked the inspector. Dame Beatrice and Laura exchanged glances, but said nothing. ‘There is no reason not to move him,’ the inspector continued, ‘since he has been moved already. Turn him over, sergeant.’ The sergeant obliged, and both Dame Beatrice and Laura recognised the man immediately. The inspector went on: ‘We’ll need to get MacDonald frae the hotel to take a look at him, I daresay, and I maun rouse the couple next door. They should be able to help us, I think, to put a name on him.’