Colin Watson - Coffin Scarcely Used

Chubb put on his bowler with the air of an overdrawn patron of the arts and stepped into the corridor, which was darkened at that moment by the approach of the enormous Sergeant Malley.

The Coroner’s Officer squeezed his bulk respectfully to one side and allowed the Chief Constable to pass. Then he lumbered up to Purbright’s door, knocked and went in.

“Ah, sergeant,” Purbright greeted him, “I have a little commission for you.”

“Yes, sir?”

“The day before yesterday we were anxious to have a word with Nab Bradlaw. He couldn’t be found. I rather think he was out of town. Now, then, you’re persona grata with the undertaking trade, I take it—in the way of business, so to speak?”

“Bradlaw’s fellows know me.”

“Fine. Well, I’d like you to try and tap somebody at his place now. See if you can find out where he went the other day. Don’t scare them, though—Nab least of all.”

Malley grinned. “You don’t have to worry about that, sir. I’m pretty unobtrusive. If Ben or Charlie know anything, I’ll worm it out of them.”

On his way out, Malley turned. “By the way, inspector, do you reckon this little lot is nearly tidied up? Old Amblesby’s in a terrible state. I can’t do anything with him. He’s like a kid who’s lost his hoop.”

“Why? What’s the matter?”

“Well, he’s never had two inquests hanging fire at one and the same time before. There’s Gwill, of course. He would have forgotten about that but for the adjournment on Gloss the other day. That reminded him. Now he’s going around muttering that half the town’s been murdered and his books are cluttered up with corpses.”

“Would that Her Majesty’s Coroner were among them,” piously declared Purbright, closing his door.

At half-past nine exactly, the inspector and Sergeant Love presented themselves at Dr Hillyard’s surgery. Purbright informed him with the greatest respect that he was being arrested and explained some of the implications of that surprising circumstance.

Dr Hillyard glowered a good deal but made no comment.

Shortly before ten o’clock, the three men entered the police station and, on a cue from the assistant clerk to the magistrates, walked into Purbright’s office where Mrs Popplewell, J.P., was waiting to make the best of a redeemed opportunity. She was accompanied by a Mr Peters, a comatose draper whose shop was so near the police station that the kindness of leading him off for an airing whenever a little uncomplicated justice needed doing had become traditional.

Dr Hillyard regarded Mrs Popplewell with acid amusement throughout the brief formalities of the assistant clerk stumbling through the charge, Purbright giving evidence of arrest, and Mrs Popplewell herself announcing lamely and with every sign of nervousness that he, the defendant, would be remanded in custody for a week. Then he drew back his lips from the dog daisy of his splayed teeth and grinned a contemptuous and malevolent farewell before turning to accompany the station sergeant to the cells next to the table tennis room.

“Dear me!” said Mrs Popplewell to Mr Peters. “And to think that his late wife was once chosen by the Association to entertain Mr Baldwin to supper.”

Chapter Nineteen

“How did you make out?” Purbright asked Malley, whom he found awaiting him.

“I kept clear of Nab Bradlaw. He was busy in that chapel-cum-fridge of his. But I had a word with Ben and Charlie, and they said he’d been out with the van all that day and most of the night. Charlie lives nearly opposite the yard and he heard him coming back about five yesterday morning.”

“Did they know where he’d been?”

“No, sir; but Ben thought the van’s mileage gauge had clocked on nearly four hundred.”

“He couldn’t give an exact figure?”

“No, they’re none too fussy about log books, it seems.”

“Will Bradlaw be there now, do you think?”

“Should be, sir. He has a job at the Crem. at twelve, though.”

“Only the one?”

“Aye, that’s all. Ben was rather taken up with it, as a matter of fact. Said he’d never known things so slack in what he calls good felling weather like this. And even the one they have got was only staying here temporary, he said.”

“That applies to all of us by Nab’s reckoning.”

Malley grunted.

“A visitor, was he?” asked Purbright.

“Seems he was an uncle of that housekeeper, or whatever you’d call her.”

“Bradlaw’s housekeeper?”

“Yes, sir. I spoke to her, as well. She told me the same as Ben. Only the one funeral—her uncle’s. He must have been ill here for a bit and under a local doctor, else they’d never have got a certificate straight off like that.”

“Was the girl upset about her uncle?”

Malley scratched his chin. “Well, not as you might say prostrate with grief.”

“She didn’t mention the man’s name, by any chance?”

The sergeant shook his head, then looked thoughtful. “Wait a bit...Charlie was the one who called him something. He’s a bit disrespectful, is Charlie. Now what was it he said?” Malley gazed at the ceiling and made little popping sounds as if expelling invisible smoke rings.

Purbright watched him patiently for a while, then glanced at the clock. It was a little after half-past ten. He suppressed a yawn and rubbed his face.

Distracted by the movement. Malley looked down again. Suddenly he chuckled. “That’s it. Of course. Fuzzy-chops!”

“I beg your pardon?”

Malley waved a plump hand. “No, sir. Not you. The uncle bloke. Charlie called him that. Fuzzy-chops. He must have...”

The inspector, uttering something between a neigh and a groan, pushed past him, seized hat and coat from the peg, and disappeared through the door.

Ten minutes later, Purbright, Love and a couple of uniformed constables descended by car upon the place of business of Mr Bradlaw.

They entered by the side gate, and Purbright and Love left the constables in the yard staring around at the stacks of elm and oak, while they went into the workshop.

At first it appeared to be empty. Then the joiner, Ben, who had been nodding in a corner until the sound of footsteps penetrated his doze, rose suddenly and bade them a challenging “Good morning”.

“We are looking for Mr Bradlaw,” announced Purbright sternly.

Ben blinked. “Ain’t ’ere,” he retorted unhelpfully.

“Where is he, then?”

“Down at Crem., ’less he’s back.”

Purbright gave Love a quick, anxious glance, then to Ben: “Are you sure of that?”

“Course. Why not?”

“I thought he had only one funeral today.”

“S’right.”

“At eleven o’clock.”

“Was to ha’ been. The missus was that upset though, they put it forrard a bit. The boss said grief like ’ers ’d take the nature out of ’er and oughter be got over quick. So that’s...” He stopped. His audience had gone.

Those of Mr Bradlaw’s near neighbours who happened to be watching the street were intrigued to see two purposeful-looking men in raincoats shoot out of the undertaker’s yard, followed, but not pursued, by a pair of policemen. All four piled into the car that had brought them two or three minutes earlier, and drove away, the men in uniform crouching like big blue frogs in order to keep their helmets from penetrating the roof.

As he urged the suffering vehicle forward at what speed it would make, Purbright said to Love: “I am a thickheaded, complacent fool.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” replied Love, a little doubtfully.

“Yes, I am. If what I think has happened—and I could have prevented it easily enough—we might as well drive straight over that parapet.”