~ The Day Of Rest ~

by

Keith Slater

"Mum, there’s a dead man down by the river!"

"Yes, dear. Go and wash, then tea will be ready."

Margaret Thorne pushed a strand of brown hair from her forehead and continued her vain efforts at tidying up the toys scattered round the cluttered living room. She was used to wild flights of fancy from boisterous sons. Best to be matter-of-fact, so they’d stop bothering her. Christopher, a sturdy twelve-year-old with his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his favorite pair of jeans, wasn’t put off easily.

"It’s true, Mum. We found him, didn’t we, Jem?"

"Chris is right, Mum. We’re not kidding you."

"Jeremy, now don’t be silly."

Her younger son, two years Chris’ junior, was even more fertile in imagination. He loyally backed up unbelievable fantasies.

"But Mum, it’s true. Honestly. We were stalking two ducks so you could cook them for our dinner. We got near by crawling along under the willows, and we crawled under two or three, and then we crawled under another one, and then... well, there he was."

Margaret shook her head in helpless annoyance. "Really, Jeremy, you are the limit! I wish you--"

"But it is true, Mum," Christopher interrupted. "He was lying with his head right next to the water, and there were a few flies crawling in and out of his nose and--"

"Christopher, don’t be so revolting!"

She looked from one innocent, grubby face to the other. A pang of doubt struck her. It was nonsense, but... well, they did seem convincing. Not like their usual stories, full of impossible happenings and sinister characters. She took the easy way out.

"Your father will be back soon. You can tell him. In the meantime, straight up those stairs and get those dirty old clothes off. And make sure your hands are washed properly before tea."

"Yes, Mum."

The two boys left reluctantly. Donald was visiting one of his only three patients who worked strange hours and apparently found Sunday afternoon the only convenient time for a yearly check-up.

Margaret sighed. If only he’d be as callous with them as he seemed to be with her! Surely it wasn’t necessary for him to do examinations on Sunday? Wasn’t that what National Health was all about, letting doctors use time more efficiently?

Anyway, he’d be home by six, as usual when he had to go out on these annoying Sunday visits. Just enough time to feed two voracious appetites and get a meal on the table for Donald and herself. Perhaps the two of them could snatch an hour to eat together in peace while the boys watched television. Once Donald had sorted out their tall stories!

Four

The telephone rang in the cozy little living room of Sergeant Northolt’s new brick house in the main street of Greater Haleford. He eased his well-upholstered frame reluctantly out of the wing chair in front of the solid oak television cabinet that was his pride and joy.

"6:40 on a Sunday evening. Who could this be?" asked Molly in surprise.

"Dunno. But don’t you fret yourself by stirring, now," replied her husband placidly. "Probably a kitten stuck up a tree. Funny how folks always sends for the police or the fire brigade to ’andle these things." Molly turned the volume down as he lifted the receiver. She watched his weather-beaten face curiously, her ears striving to pick up snippets, as the conversation began.

" ’Ello? Sergeant Northolt ’ere."

The line crackled for a few moments.

"You sure, doctor?" Northolt’s thick, grizzled eyebrow lifted. Molly strained to hear words instead of the incomprehensible crackling.

"Right you are. I’ll be there in ’alf an hour or so."

The policeman replaced the receiver, a puzzled look pulling at the corner of his pale lips. He puffed out lined red cheeks.

"What was that about, then?" Molly’s brown eyes, accustomed by nearly thirty years of marriage to analyzing every nuance of her husband’s behavior, saw creases that she couldn’t explain at the corner of his blue ones.

"Fraid I’m to go out, m’dear. Seems there’s a body turned up at Lesser ’aleford. That was Dr. Thorne on the phone. ’e found it. Or, rather, ’is lads did and took ’im to where it was."

"Hmm. On a Sunday evening? Day of rest? Fine rest you’ll get, I must say, this night. Shall you be long?"

"That I don’t know. You get yourself up to bed if I’m not ’ome by ten, and mind you lock up. Not as safe as it used to be, it ain’t, and I don’t ’old with doors being left on the catch. I’ll take my key and try not to wake you."

"Are you calling Percy?"

"No, taint necessary the both of us ’ave our peace spoilt. Like as not it’s somethin’ simple. Though I do say as ’ow doctor seemed worried, like."

~ * ~

Chief Inspector Terence Gilling, of CID Western Division, wasn’t pleased. Being called out at 10:30 on Sunday evening was bad in itself. When the case was at some tinpot little place in the middle of nowhere, that was enough to make a man furious.

Displeasure marked his freckled face as the car whisked them further from Bristol. He was a town copper, if such a thing existed any more. Give him a nice break-and-enter or a bank robbery. Or even a mass killer stalking the streets. He’d tackle that cheerfully, day or night. When a man had to venture beyond civilization, to a place that looked as much like the back of beyond as this, it just wasn’t reasonable. He glared out of the window, sparse eyebrows knitted in annoyance, as they drove along the road that meandered through the village.

"Slow down, Henry. If I’m not mistaken, that light’s what we’re looking for. If it’s not, we’ll be clean through this dump without a hint of a corpse!"

Detective Sergeant Henry Comfort, a stolid West Country man with a penchant for dressing like a gentleman farmer, moved a leg like a tree trunk to the brake. The Jaguar glided to a halt as a dim figure, matching Henry’s for ungainly bulk but resplendent in a well-kept uniform, loomed in the lights to salute smartly as Gilling climbed out.

"Evening, sir. Sergeant Northolt."

It was well past midnight, but the inspector let it pass.

"Hello, Sergeant. I’m Chief Inspector Gilling, and this is Detective Sergeant Comfort. Got a puzzler for us, have you?"

"Well, sir, I don’t properly know. There’s a body down by the water there, and it don’t rightly belong in the village, that I do say. I never seen ’im before, and neither do the doctor ’ere, as found ’im. On top o’ that, sir, it do seem as ’e ’adn’t no way of getting ’ere. There’s no sign of any car or such-like."

"Any indication of the cause of death?"

Sergeant Northolt pursed his lips and sniffed. He didn’t want to admit he’d never seen a human corpse before, saving his grandmother’s. And she looked as if she’d been attended by an undertaker with shares in a cosmetic company, so that hardly counted. He consulted a notebook, taken slowly and deliberately from his breast pocket and fell back on simple country logic.

"’Twas Dr. Thorne, the gentleman over ’ere, as found ’im nigh on six-thirty, sir, and ’ad doubts. Not being in a position to argue, like, I thought it best to call in the CID while the trail were still warm, so to speak."

"Quite right, Sergeant."

So this was the country bumpkin who’d hauled him away from a snug armchair. Couldn’t recognize death from natural causes. He turned to the tall, thin man a few steps away.

"What made you unhappy, Dr.--Thorne, wasn’t it?"

"Yes, that’s right. I should say at the start my sons found the body. I’ve questioned them, and they both swear they never touched it. And yet the corpse was lying on its back, out of the water. As far as I can make out, it was a drowning, but--"

Dr. Thorne shrugged angular shoulders expressively.

"We’d best have a look," decided Terence. "Did you move it?"

"Well, yes, but not much. I took a peek to see if I could do anything when the boys brought me. As soon as I looked at him, I saw he’d been dead some time."