James Chase - No Business Of Mine

I pulled up outside the pub, went in.

It was a quaint box-like place, almost like a doll’s house. The

woman who served me a double whisky seemed ready to talk,

especial y when she heard my accent.

We chatted about the surrounding country and this and that, then

I asked her if she knew where a cottage called Beverley hung out.

“Oh, you mean Miss Scott?” she said, and there was an immediate

look of disapproval in her eyes. “Her place’s about a mile farther on.

You take the first on your left and the cottage lies off the road. It has a

thatched roof and a yellow gate. You can’t miss it.”

“That’s swell,” I said. “I know a friend of hers. Maybe I’ll look her

up. Do you know her? I was wondering what she was like. Think I’d be

welcome?”

“From what I hear, men are always welcomed there,” she said,

with a sniff. “I’ve never seen ‘er. No one in the village sees ‘er. She

only comes down for the week-ends.”

“Maybe she has someone to look after the cottage?” I suggested,

wondering if I had made the journey for nothing.

“Mrs. Brambee does for ‘er,” the woman told me. “She ain’t much

‘erself.”

I paid for my drink, thanked the woman, returned to the Buick.

It took me only a few minutes to find Beverley. I saw it through

the trees as I drove up the narrow lane. It stood in a charming garden,

a two-storied, thatch-roofed, rough-cast building, as attractive as any

you could wish to see.

I parked the Buick outside, pushed open the gate and walked up

the path. The sun beat down on me, and the smell of pinks, roses and

wallflowers hung in the still air. I wouldn’t have minded living there

myself.

I went up to the oak nail-studded front door, rapped with the

shiny brass knocker, feeling a curious uneasy excitement as I waited. I

was uneasy because I didn’t know if Netta’s sister had heard about

Netta, and I wasn’t sure how I should break the news. I was excited

because I wondered if Anne was like her sister, and how we would get

on together.

But after a few moments, I realized, with a sharp feeling of

disappointment, that there was no one in, or at least, no one was

going to answer my knock. I stood back, glanced up at the windows of

the upper floor, then peered into the first window within reach on the

ground floor. I could see the room stretching the length of the house,

and the big garden through the windows at the back. The place was

well furnished and comfortable. I moved around the house, until I

reached the back. There was no one about, and I stood for a moment,

hat in hand, looking across the well-kept lawn and at the flower-beds,

a mass of brilliant colours.

I passed the back door, hesitated, tried the handle, but the door

was locked. I moved on until I reached another window, paused as I

noticed the curtains had been drawn.

I stared at the curtained window, and for no reason at all I

suddenly felt spooked. I took a step forward, tried to see into the

room, by peering through a chink in the curtain. I could see it was the

kitchen, but my view was so limited I could only make out a dresser

from which hung willow pattern cups and plates in rows along the

ordered shelves.

Then I smelt coal-gas.

Feet crunched on the gravel. I swung around. Corridan and two

uniformed policemen came striding towards me. Corridan’s face was

dour, his eyes showed irritation and anger.

“You better bust in quick,” I said, before he could speak. “I smell

gas.”

Chapter V

I SAT fuming in the Buick outside the cottage, and watched the

activity going on in and out the front door.

Corridan had been extremely curt and official when he had

recovered from his surprise at seeing me.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he had demanded. Then he,

too, smelt the gas. “This is no place for you. It’s no good glaring at me.

This is police business, and newspaper men are not wanted.”

I began to argue with him, but he brushed past me, saying to one

of the policemen, “Escort Mr. Harmas off the premises, please, and

see he keeps out.”

I felt inclined to clock the policeman on his beaky nose, but I knew

it wouldn’t get me anywhere so I returned to the car, sat in it, lit a

cigarette and watched.

Corridan and the other policeman succeeded in breaking down

the front door. They entered the cottage, while the second policeman

remained at the gate to scowl at me. I scowled right back.

After a few moments, I saw Corridan opening the windows, then

move out of sight. The sickly smell of gas drifted across the lawn. I

waited a quarter of an hour before anything else happened. Then a

car drove up and a tal dismal-looking guy carrying a black bag got out,

had a word with the policeman at the gate, and together they went

inside.

I didn’t have to be clairvoyant to guess the guy was the village

croaker.

After ten minutes, the dismal guy came out. I was waiting for him

near his car, and he gave me a sharp, unfriendly look as he opened his

car door.

“Pardon me, doc,” I said, “I’m a newspaper man. Can you tell me

what’s going on in there?”

“You must ask Inspector Corridan,” he snapped back, got into his

car, drove away.

The policeman at the gate grinned behind his hand.

After a while the other policeman came out of the cottage,

whispered something to his colleague, hurried off down the lane.

“I suppose he’s gone to buy Corridan a toffee apple,” I said to the

policeman at the gate. “But don’t tell me. Just let it mystify me.”

The policeman grinned sympathetical y. I could see he was the

gossiping type and was bursting to talk to someone.

“E’s off to get Mrs. Brambee wot looks after this ‘ere cottage,” he

said, after a quick look around to make sure he wasn’t overheard.

“Someone dead in there?” I asked, jerking my thumb to the

cottage.

He nodded. “A young lady,” he returned, moving closer to the

Buick. “Pretty little thing. Suicide, of course. Put ‘er ‘ead in the gas

oven. Been dead three or four days I should say.

“Never mind what you say,” I returned. “What did the doc say.”

The policeman grinned a little sheepishly. “That’s wot ‘e did say as

a matter of fact.”

I grunted. “Is it Anne Scott?”

“I dunno. The doc couldn’t identify ‘er. That’s why Bert’s gone for

this ‘ere Mrs. Brambee.”

“What’s comrade Corridan doing in there?” I asked.

“Sniffing around,” the policeman returned, shrugging. From the

expression on his face I guessed Corridan wasn’t his favourite person.

“I bet ‘e’s trying to make out there’s more to this than meets the eye.

The Yard men always do. It ‘elps their promotion.”

I thought this was a little unfair, but didn’t say so, turned around

to watch two figures coming down the lane. One of them was Bert,

the policeman, the other was a tall, bulky woman in a pink sack-like

dress.

“Here they come,” I said, nodding in their direction.

The woman was walking quickly. She had a long stride, and the

policeman seemed pressed to keep up with her. As they drew nearer,

I could see her face. She was dark, sun-tanned, about forty, with a

mass of black greasy hair, rolled up in an untidy bun at the back of her

head. Straggling locks of hair fell over her face, and she kept brushing