Peter Turnbull - Deliver Us from Evil

Fifteen minutes later the man, having dialled three nines from a classic red Gilbert Scott telephone box, stepped from the box and viewed the buildings of the village of Middle Walsham which he felt very rightly enjoyed conservation area status: grey stone cottages with slate roofs, a village green, a pub with the intriguing name of the ‘Shepherd’s Retreat’, a row of shops with convex windows made up of small, individual panes of glass. He groped into his pocket for his pipe and was standing by the telephone box contentedly drawing on his favourite dark shag mixture when the police patrol car arrived, slowing to a halt beside him. After the preliminaries the man gave the constables his name and address and told them where they could find the corpse of the middle-aged lady. He was quietly amused when overhearing one of the constables who spoke on the car radio describing him as ‘seeming to be genuine’. The constables then walked from their car towards the towpath and the man hurried home. He had quite a story to tell his wife.

Reginald Webster carefully considered the body. He saw a small woman. Perhaps, he thought, about five feet tall, certainly not much taller. He saw a round and well nourished face beneath the neatly kept dark hair and a slightly opened mouth. He saw rings upon her slightly stubby looking fingers and an expensive looking gold watch on her left wrist. He noted rings on the fingers of both her hands. He glanced to his left at the police surgeon.

‘Life extinct,’ Dr Mann spoke softly in response to Webster’s questioning glance, ‘but no obvious cause of death that I can detect except that she perhaps froze to death. It is a distinct possibility. It’s getting a little warmer now, the frost is beginning to thaw as you see, but during the night it was well below freezing. . well below. . a late frost, but a frost just the same. She, the deceased, has nothing but her clothing to separate her from the ground, no useful groundsheet, for example. It was a still night and so there would have been no chill factor to aggravate matters but it would have been quite cold enough, sufficiently cold to separate her body from her soul.’ Dr Mann paused and glanced around at the white-coated fields, still devoid of any movement and sound. ‘She appears to be insufficiently clothed for this weather and this level of exposure. We see nylons below the slacks but nylons are not thermal underwear and who here is not wearing thermals? I certainly am.’ He looked at Webster and then at the two constables who had responded to the three nines call. None replied. ‘You see all four of us are in thermals and speaking for myself, and myself only, it still feels damn cold.’ He paused. ‘Well. . the deceased might have walked here, just walking along the canal towpath, she stopped, perhaps feeling fatigued and in need of a rest, she sat and. . and that’s all it would have taken, just sitting down on cold ground in sub-zero temperature wearing nothing but flimsy, fashionable clothing. Frankly, this could even be a suicide: such is not unknown.’

‘Really?’ Webster again glanced at the tall turbaned police surgeon.

‘Oh, most certainly, yes, deliberately inducing hypothermia is a tried and tested means of suicide and has a number of advantages: it’s clean, certain, doesn’t involve anybody else. The pain of the cold is intense, that is the one drawback. . but only initially so. . the feeling of the cold passes as the body becomes numb and the blood is pulled from the extremities to keep the inner organs insulated, but the body doesn’t recognize the brain as a vital organ and so drains blood from the head into the chest cavity. Thusly the person begins to experience light-headedness and a wholly unfounded sense of euphoria and consequently the last moments of consciousness are of emotions which are deeply happy and content. You see the good lady’s mouth? That might even be a smile we see, formed as she sat here feeling deeply content and at peace with the world as her body stiffened. I can think of worse deaths. Much, much worse, as I imagine you can.’ Again he paused. ‘Well, I can do no more. . death is hereby confirmed. She is life extinct. I asked for the pathologist to attend before you arrived, Mr Webster, and. .’ Dr Mann fell silent as he looked along the length of the towpath, ‘I do really believe I see Dr D’Acre coming now. . this is her, is it not?’

Webster turned and saw four figures walking as a distinct group with determination and a sense of purpose, he thought, towards them from the direction of the village of Middle Walsham. Webster made out the tall, slender figure of Dr D’Acre in the lead, behind her was the well set figure of DCI Hennessey, and behind him two constables walked, one of whom carried Dr D’Acre’s black leather Gladstone bag. Four dark figures striding strongly against a white background beneath the low, grey cloud cover.

It took fully a further five minutes for Dr D’Acre’s group to reach Webster and Dr Mann, the first two constables and the corpse. After acknowledgements, Webster said, ‘Deceased adult of the female sex, sir. No apparent injuries. Life extinct confirmed just now by Dr Mann. Could be misadventure, but I don’t think we should be closing any doors on other possibilities, certainly not this early in the piece.’

‘Quite right.’ George Hennessey also considered the body and he too saw, as Webster had seen, one short, early middle-aged lady who sat as if smiling and was yet deceased. He also noticed her to be woefully ill-dressed for the weather and the remoteness. ‘No handbag,’ he commented, refraining from mentioning her inappropriate clothing, believing it to be too elementary and obvious a comment to pass, ‘an unusual absence since her watch and jewellery have not been removed by her or by another. Did you see a handbag anywhere?’

‘No, sir,’ Webster spluttered.

‘Strange, don’t you think?’

‘Very strange, sir. . confess I did not notice the absence of one but as you say, strange. What woman who dresses like this lady is dressed would not have a handbag with her? Very strange.’

‘It’s a suspicious death.’ Dr D’Acre, who was not at all concerned by the absence of a handbag, had knelt and had been carefully examining the deceased. She leaned forward and pulled the silk scarf further away from the neck and exposed linear bruising. ‘They are ligature marks,’ she announced in a calm, matter-of-fact manner. ‘Do you see?’ She knelt closer and pulled the scarf still further from the neck. ‘Very clear. . see them?’

Hennessey and Webster advanced and stood either side of Dr D’Acre and looked at the linear bruising which seemed to them to fully encompass the neck of the deceased. ‘Yes,’ Hennessey murmured, ‘yes, I see.’

‘Not misadventure at all,’ Webster added.

‘Could still be. .’ Dr D’Acre turned and smiled warmly up at him. ‘The bruising may not have been fatal; it could even be a few days old and utterly unconnected with what it was that brought her to die at this lonely place. There is suspicion but all avenues still remain open.’ She looked around the immediate vicinity. ‘There is no sign of a struggle that I can detect, no sign of her being taken by force here. So, if the bruising is relevant, it means she was attacked in some other location and carried here in an unconscious state and left for dead, or left to die in the cold. She possibly regained consciousness and sat upright but was by then dangerously hypothermic and would have rapidly succumbed to hypothermia. If I am correct, she would have survived if she had been left here on a warm summer’s night. . unless, of course, unless the murderer knew what he was doing and left her out here for the frost to finish the job for him. . or for her. So. . I have seen all I need to see, little point in taking any temperature either of the deceased or the ground because both will show a reading of zero.’ Dr D’Acre stood. ‘If you have taken all the photographs you wish to take, Chief Inspector, you can have the body removed to York District Hospital for the post-mortem.’