Vince May - Presumed Dead

Feeling much better, he walked up to the doctor’s house, only to find after knocking repeatedly and ringing the bell that although there was a light on, no one was at home. After thinking for a moment, he decided to try the pub and made his way through the door into the warm interior.

As he walked into the public bar the landlord looked up and said with surprise. ‘Why, it’s Sir Ross isn’t it? We haven’t seen you around these parts in years. What can I get you? On the house of course!’

Ross could see the doctor wasn’t in the bar, but decided that although he really wanted to get out and find him, he also really needed another drink. Making his choice, he instantly switched into his condescending, hail-fellow-well-met mode that he always adopted when dealing with people he considered to be yokels. ‘That’s very kind of you Landlord,’ he said heartily, walking up to the bar. ‘I’ll have a large brandy if I may.’

Seated along the bar were the regulars, the same collection of old men who spent most lunchtimes and every evening in the pub. Now, they slid from their stools and crowded around Ross, holding out their hands. ‘Remember me sir?’ one of them was saying, ‘Forbes? I used to be one of your gardeners up at the manor.’

‘Of course,’ Ross lied, shaking the gnarled, arthritic hand enthusiastically, ‘how have you been keeping?’

One by one the old men introduced themselves and Ross pretended to remember each one. Although he felt he was wasting his time, he couldn’t resist playing the lord of the manor: it was a role he missed. Getting his wallet out, he slapped a fifty pound note down on the bar and said, ‘A round of drinks for my friends here Landlord, and one for yourself. While you’re at it put another large one in my glass too.’

The old men all smiled and said ‘God bless you, sir,’ as they raised their glasses and drank his health. Warmed by the brandy and the feeling of self-importance, he smiled back at them like a benevolent father.

When the accolades had died down and the old men had returned to their stools, Ross called the landlord over and asked nonchalantly, ‘Whatever happened to Doctor Mason?’

‘He was in earlier,’ the landlord told him, ‘but was called out to old Mrs Plummet. He should be back shortly.’

‘I didn’t realize he was still practicing,’ Ross said with surprise.

‘He’s only got a few patients now, mostly the old ones he’s been treating for years. All the younger people go up the clinic.’

Ross decided to wait in the pub and had had another two large brandies by the time Mason got back at around nine-thirty.

As the doctor walked in he saw Ross and stopped dead, looking like he’d seen a ghost. Within a second though, he’d regained his composure and called out a greeting. ‘Sir Ross, what a surprise! It must be what… twenty years?’

Ross stood up from the barstool a little unsteadily and shook the doctor’s hand. ‘At least… what will you have?’

‘A whisky, please.’

‘Landlord, a large whisky for the doctor, and another brandy for me.’

‘What are you doing in this part of the world?’ Mason asked.

‘As a matter of fact, I came up to speak with you,’ Ross said, making sure no one else heard. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk in private?’

Mason was nervous. He knew exactly what Ross wanted to talk to him about. In fact, he knew a great deal more than Ross did. On Friday afternoon, he’d been summoned to the coroner’s office in Hertford where he’d been questioned about the late Freda Webley and asked to repeat everything he’d said to Wiseman. After that, they had informed him that they intended to exhume Freda Webley’s body the following night, and that there would be a full autopsy performed. Since then, he’d been wishing he’d kept his mouth shut and dreading meeting up with Ross.

Mason glanced at the clock over the bar nervously, he knew the exhumation team would be arriving any moment and he really didn’t want to be around Ross when he found out what was happening. Seeing that he’d obviously had a few drinks already, Mason decided the best bet would be to get Ross out of the pub and back to his house where they could sit in the back room and hopefully avoid the activities in the churchyard.

‘Why don’t we get a bottle and go back to my house?’ Mason suggested as they finished their drinks.

‘That’s a good idea,’ Ross slurred. ‘Landlord, a bottle of brandy if you please.’ He paid for the bottle, bade farewell to the landlord and his fellow drinkers then followed Mason out of doors.

They had just stepped out of the pub into the cool night air when, to Mason’s horror, a convoy of police cars and vans sped by, heading towards the church.

‘I say,’ Ross remarked, craning his neck and standing on tiptoes to look down the road towards the church gates where the convoy had just pulled up. ‘What do you think they’re up to?’

Mason grabbed his arm saying, ‘Just chasing the local vandals I expect. Come on, let’s get started on this bottle.’

Ross shrugged him off. ‘No,’ he said firmly, ‘I want to see what’s going on.’

‘Give me the bottle, then,’ Mason said. ‘I’ll wait for you at my house.’

Ross handed him the bottle then walked cautiously towards the church. By the time he reached the end of the road, the vans had been unloaded and a pair of uniformed police officers had sealed the churchyard gates with blue and white plastic tape and were standing guard.

Staying in the shadows on the opposite side of the road he quickly made his way down towards the old abbey then crossed over and entered the abbey grounds. It was pitch dark and he was having difficulty seeing where he was going when suddenly, he heard the sound of a generator starting and the entire area was lit up from the direction of the church by brilliant arc lights. Holding his arm up against the glare, he ducked behind one of the ruined walls and made his way up the cloister arcade until he could see clearly into the churchyard.

Several men were milling about. One was wearing a white overall and was just pulling on a pair of thin rubber gloves while speaking to another, who Ross thought he recognized as Hubbard. He watched on in absolute horror as a team of men joined them, unfolded a large white marquee then erected it over the entrance to his family vault. Next, there was the sound of power tools and the unmistakable zing of a grinder against metal. They’re going into my vault, he thought incredulously. That means they must be investigating Freda’s death too! Oh my God… they’re going to get me this time for certain.

Unable to stand any more, Ross staggered back across the abbey grounds and out onto the road. He headed up the High Street towards his car, then remembered Mason. He had unfinished business there. He ran to the doctor’s house and pounded on the door. After a few seconds Mason opened the door. Ross pushed past him into the hall. ‘Where’s that bloody bottle?’ he demanded.

Mason, trembling with nerves, led him into the living room and poured him a large measure. Ross swallowed it down in one, then shouted, ‘What the hell did you say to that American? Do you realize the police are down there opening my family vault?’

Mason tried to calm him down by pouring him another drink. ‘Look here Sir Ross, I’m sure there’s nothing at all to worry about. It’s just a misunderstanding, that’s all. They won’t find anything…’

‘What do you know?’ he snarled, gulping his drink down. ‘Your bloody big mouth could send me to jail!’

Mason was suddenly alert. ‘What are you saying?’ he asked.

Ross’s eyes seemed to lose focus as he started to totter. ‘I’m not saying anything,’ he slurred badly, ‘especially not to you!’ Then, without warning, he half stepped and half fell backwards and plonked down heavily on the sofa.