Dale Andrews - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 134 & 135, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 817 & 818, September/October 2009

“Yes, sir.” Yellich shifted again for the S.O.C.O. “No indication of any other resident.”

“Cause, as you say, seems obvious.” Hennessey turned to Dr. D’Acre. “Would you be prepared to estimate the time of death?”

“Time elapsed since death, you mean?” D’Acre smiled warmly at Hennessey and for a brief instant their eyes met. “That would be a better way of putting it. I’d say about forty-eight hours. Rigor is well established, as are the flies. But that’s an estimate.”

“Sunday?”

Dr. D’Acre looked at the body. “Possibly. Possibly Saturday, possibly yesterday. Establishing the cause is the exact science. The when cannot be exact, too many variables. I’ll have a look inside his stomach, look at the degree of digestion of his last meal, that might be a pointer, but frankly, you’d be better asking his neighbours when they saw him last, that will be more reliable than any scientific analysis.”

“He came about a year ago. July now.” The man mopped his brow. “He came in the winter months, so more than a year.” The man stood in his garden, talking to Yellich over the fence which divided his property from that of the deceased. About the two men were lush green suburban gardens, a high blue sky, and a relentless sun. “In the winter of last year. He bought his house through the White Rose agency. I remember their For Sale sign in the front garden. They’ll be able to tell you his exact date of entry.”

Yellich wrote “White Rose” on his notepad. “Kept himself to himself, you say?”

“I would say. Hardly spoke at all, but over the months, from spring onwards, when he spent a lot of time in his garden, we’d chat over the fence. I’m retired now, spend my days in the garden. He was younger than me but didn’t work. He too seemed to spend his days in the garden, growing things, weeding. At first I thought he was an American, had a strange accent at first, a mixture of North of England and American, the States, I mean, but rapidly settled down to North of England, but with a slowed form of speech, a ‘drawl,’ I think it’s called. Like the way you hear Yanks talk on TV. He spoke with an economy of words but spent a long time saying each word.”

“I see.”

“Then there were the Americanisms. He ran a small car. That’s his...” The man pointed to a red Nissan parked against the kerb, in front of the house, by which were also parked police vehicles and a black, windowless mortuary van. A few people, local residents, had gathered in ones and twos looking on. This was the suburb of Dringhouses, York, little of interest happended in Dringhouses, but the incident at the house of Phillips was a clear exception. “His car’s bonnet was a ‘hood,’ the bumper was a ‘fender,’ the boot was the ‘trunk.’ Women were ‘dames,’ men were ‘guys.’ In the evenings he’d walk to the ‘bar,’ not the pub. He once came to my house with a ‘package’ wrongly left at his house by the ‘mailman.’”

“As opposed to a parcel left by the postman?”

“Exactly. He’d clearly lived in the U.S.A. for a considerable length of time, but never talked about it. He gave me the impression of being a man with a history.”

“Source of his income?”

“Could never tell. Bought his house, though, and had a car, fed himself, went out for a beer in the evening. He lived modestly, as we all do round here, but he had enough to meet his needs. You know, the impression I had of him was that his life’s fight was out of him... ‘Fight’ is perhaps the wrong word. I don’t mean aggression or violence, but that energy you need to bring up children, to pay off your mortgage, that seemed to me to be out of him. It’s out of me; that’s all behind me and I think I recognised the same in him, sitting at home, sitting in his garden, except that he’s twenty years younger than me. He was a pensioner in terms of his attitude.”

“Any visitors?”

“His girlfriend and then the two men. I told the other officer about that, after I reported his front door was wide open and had been like that for two days. Suspicious, I thought.”

“Tell me about the two men?”

“They looked to be American. You can tell Yanks by their trousers... Oh yes, he once referred to his ‘garden pants.’ I thought he was talking about his garden panting for breath but he meant his gardening trousers... But American men always seem to wear trousers the bottoms of which are an inch or two higher than is the fashion in Britain. And their suits were loud, a light blue suit, very light blue, and the other had a sports jacket with a very loud check, yellow in places, whereas Englishmen would never wear clothing that brightly coloured. Trilbies, and both carrying briefcases; arrived by taxi.”

“When was that?”

“Sunday, about lunchtime. I thought they were visitors from the States, just caught sight of them arriving. Didn’t see them leave, but on Monday, yesterday, I noticed his front door was wide open, still open this morning, so I called the police. It didn’t look right.”

“You were correct to do so, clearly. Do you recall the taxi company?”

“The blue-coloured ones, nice colour scheme, dark blue — royal blue, I believe it’s called-with a white stripe off-centre, running the length of the car, bonnet, roof, and boot.”

“White Stripe Cabs?”

“Is that what they’re called?”

“That’s their colour scheme. What do you know about his girlfriend?”

“Younger than he was, nice-looking lass, honest face, works at a place called Redmill House. Don’t know what that is, but she drove up in a minibus with some adults in the passenger seats, got out, ran up his drive, popped something in his letterbox, and ran back to the minibus and drove away. But it was definitely Redmill House on the side of the van. A lass who worked with vulnerable people. Nice lass.”

“Wait and return. Real tippers.” The young man sat in the chair with his feet on the desk. He was thin-faced, ginger hair worn in a ponytail, faded denims. Behind him was a scantily clad female underneath whom was that year’s calendar. “Don’t forget tips like that in a hurry...”

The phone rang. The youth excused himself and answered it. “About five minutes, sir.” He replaced the phone and reached behind him for the microphone, switched it on, and said, “Town centre to Selby... any car?”

“Car six,” came a crackly response. “I can take it.”

“Car six... Station Hotel to Selby, two passengers, name of Jenkins. Thanks.”

“Car six... out.”

“Yeah... serious men... Sunday... I was on the rank outside the station waiting for the London train. They got in... slid into the rear seat, gave me an address... Dringhouses... street name and number. Knew exactly where they wanted to go. Got to the address, they said, ‘Wait here.’ Watched them go up the drive, ring the doorbell. A guy answered... He stood looking at them, then he nodded his head and walked into the house. The two guys walked after him. Moments later, they came back, leaving the front door open, told me to take them back to the station, paid the fare, tipped me fifty quid. For a ten-pound fare. Very serious attitude, didn’t talk on the journey other than to tell me where to go. But fifty quid, for a ten-pound fare?”

The phone rang again.

That evening George Hennessey stood in the garden of his home in Easingwold talking to Jennifer, his wife.

“We watched the CCTV videotape from the railway-station monitor, and sure enough, they were there, two men, mid thirties, trilbies, smartly dressed, dark glasses, each carrying a briefcase.” He sipped his tea as he gazed out over the garden to the flat landscape beyond. “Caught them on the platform monitor boarding the London train. They’ll be back in the States by now.” An observer would see a tall man in his late middle years standing in his garden drinking a mug of tea and talking to himself. The observer would not know that the man’s wife had died young, many years earlier, that her ashes were scattered in the garden, and that each day, rain or shine, the man would stand in the garden and talk to her.