Cyril Hare - Untimely Death aka He Should Have Died Hereafter

“Well then, sir, it is the same man, and he’s been lying there ever since Saturday. You made a mistake about the place when you went back, that’s all.”

“I didn’t make a mistake,” said Pettigrew stubbornly. “He’s in the same spot now that he was in when I first saw him-the place I went back to with Percy Percy when he wasn’t there. You can mark it by those boulders. They’re the only ones anywhere near the place.”

“Well, then…” said Eleanor, and stopped abruptly. “Mr. Mallett,” she went on, with a hint of desperation in her voice, “what do you really think?”

“I think,” Mallett replied, “that we should all be the better for a little snack, madam.”

The snack, as Pettigrew had expected, turned out to be a gargantuan meal. Such time as they were able to spare from the food that was continually pressed on them they devoted to contemplating the proceedings on the Tussock below, which followed very much the pattern that Mallett had foretold. He, meanwhile, kept up a running commentary on the spectacle, blending appreciation with criticism as the procedure of police investigation took its course. The meal and its accompaniment came to an end at about the same time. In the circle of rocks, the full fed guests made their final refusals of another helping, and brushed the last crumbs from their clothes. On the moor, the corpse, having been photographed from all angles, had been removed to the mortuary, and behind their screens junior policemen were settling down to a routine search of the surrounding ground. There was nothing more to see and nothing more that they were able to eat. It was peaceful among the rocks-peaceful, and decidedly warm. For the second time since his holiday began Pettigrew began to doze after a picnic meal. And once more, it was his wife’s voice that jerked him awake.

“Have you considered precognition, Frank?”

“Considered-what?”

“Precognition. It’s a possibility, you know.”

Pettigrew reluctantly forced himself to consider it.

“You mean,” he said, “that I might have seen what wasn’t there at the time but was going to be there later?”

“Yes. Like the man who wrote An Experiment with Time.”

“I don’t think I’m a bit like the man who wrote An Experiment with Time. Things like that don’t happen to me. I’m simply a normal bloke, with normal senses.”

“Perhaps. But you weren’t in an altogether normal state on Saturday afternoon. You were thinking about something you had seen on Bolter’s Tussock fifty years ago-something that had made a tremendous impression on you at the time. You found yourself more or less reliving that experience. Subconsciously-if that’s the right word-you were expecting to see it again. Nobody could have been surprised if you had seen it-or fancied that you had seen it, which is exactly the same thing. And all unknown to you, only just round the corner in time, something just like it was there, waiting to be seen. You took a jump forward three days, instead of backwards fifty years, and saw that instead. It seems a possible theory to me. Doesn’t it to you?”

There are those who boast that they have second sight. There are even said to be families-mostly on the western fringes of the British Isles -in which any individual lacking it is regarded as eccentric. To Pettigrew, the idea that he might even for the space of a single afternoon, have been visited with the gift was utterly repellent. It was quite inconsistent with the character of logical formality that he had built up in a lifetime of hard work. The knowledge that deep down within him lurked a strong vein of fantasy made him all the more anxious to disclaim the possibility. But even as he opened his mouth to blast his wife’s ridiculous theory, the devil tempted him and he saw its manifest attractions. It was neat, it was comprehensive, above all it absolved him once and for all from the duty of taking any action. He had only to concede that for once in his life he had been “fey” and… He found himself looking at Mallett. “What is your opinion?” he asked. Mallett was engaged in strapping up the picnic basket. He pulled hard at a recalcitrant strap, and the effort made his face rather red.

“You’ll excuse me, sir,” he said, “if I prefer not to have any opinion on that subject. It’s not in my line at all. I’ve never seen anything before it happened. It would have saved me a lot of trouble if I had sometimes, I dare say. But I can guess what’s coming as well as the next man, and if that’s what precognition is, then I precognose that we shall find things rather badly upset when we get back to Sallowcombe.”

“Why is that?”

“Has it occurred to you, sir, that in all the questions we’ve been asking about the poor devil they’ve just taken away in the ambulance, we never thought to ask who he was? Well, it’s difficult to be certain at this range, but I had a good look at him through the glass, and it’s my belief that he’s none other than Jack Gorman.”

I’m afraid it’s not very much to look at,” Mallett said apologetically as he stopped the car outside his house.

Pettigrew said nothing but privately he disagreed heartily. Sunbeam Cottage-such was its regrettable name-was a lot to look at-one might say, a great deal too much. In a country of soft colours and smooth curves it stood out, vivid, angular and irredeemably ugly. Happily the distressing exterior was redeemed by a cheerful, comfortable interior. Mallett insisted on taking them all over it while the kettle boiled for tea. Back in the sitting-room he said:

“Well, now, Mrs. Pettigrew, what do you think of it?”

Eleanor murmured something that she hoped would satisfy an obviously house-proud owner, but Mallett brushed it aside.

“I’m speaking of the spare room, of course,” he said. “It’s not so large as the one at Sallowcombe, but do you think it will do?”

“Do? For what?”

“For you and Mr. Pettigrew. Unless, of course, you’ve given up the idea of an Exmoor holiday altogether. You’ll hardly get in anywhere else at this time of year.”

“But why-?” Eleanor began. “Oh, I see. You’re assuming that Mrs. Gorman is-will be-”

“I’m assuming that Mrs. Gorman is now a widow, that she’ll be too upset to be wanting to bother with boarders and that in any case you won’t care to stay in a house with that sort of trouble about. And I’ve gone so far as to assume that you and Mr. Pettigrew might care to stay with me for a few days. I’m sorry to be so blunt about it, but as I told Mr. Pettigrew yesterday, I’ve lost my finesse living in the country.”

“It’s extremely kind of you, Mr. Mallett.”

“You’ll come, then? Good! As my guests, mind. I don’t want any nonsense about paying your way. You can leave a present for the housekeeper at the end of your stay, but that’s as far as I’ll go.”

Mallett accompanied his words with a ferocious tug at the ends of his moustache. Thoroughly overawed, the Pettigrews agreed to his proposition, provided that his basic assumption proved to be correct.

It was correct. Mr. Joliffe’s little car was standing in the farmyard when they returned to Sallowcombe, and it was Mr. Joliffe who received them when they entered.

“My daughter is in bed,” he said heavily. “She has had some news that has upset her. I was sent for from Whitsea.”

“We have heard the news,” said Pettigrew. “I should like to express our deep sympathy.”

“That’s very good of you, sir, but frankly I don’t regard it as an occasion for sympathy at all. Rationally speaking, it’s a very happy release for her. My daughter, however, isn’t rational. She doesn’t see it in that light at all. She has not so much as set eyes on her husband for six months, and now she chooses to be prostrated. Women are strange creatures, if you’ll excuse the phrase, Mrs. Pettigrew.”