The Progress of a Crime Read online

  Two other reporters from local papers, both of them weeklies, sat at the little table provided for the Press. One wrote half a dozen personal letters, the other read a book by Graham Greene. Hugh would have liked to return to Anna of the Five Towns, but he remembered a maxim that he had read somewhere in Arnold, that all material was useful to a writer. This material, then, must somehow be useful too. By half-past five, when the court finished, he felt less sure about this.

  Far Wether consisted of one long, straggling street with houses and shops placed randomly along it, opening out into a large and pretty village green. Houses were dotted round this green. and on the edge of it stood the local pub, the Dog and Duck. He went into this pub, ordered a pint of beer, and asked what time the bonfire would be starting.

  “’Bout half an hour’s time,” the landlord said. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Corby?”

  “Six-fifteen on the dot,” said Mr. Corby. “All laid on. Be trouble if Joe Pickett’s late.” He was a big man, a very big man, rising some three inches above Bennett’s six feet, and broad into the bargain. He had a fleshy face with a big, pushing nose and bright, inquisitive eyes. A jovial, smiling man, but one to keep the right side of, Hugh Bennett thought, perhaps a bit of a Squire Oldmeadow in his way. As if to confirm his thoughts, Mr. Corby rapped out quite sharply: “Come down for the bonfire? Worth seeing.”

  “I’m from the Gazette. My name’s Bennett. I’ve just been covering the valuation court and thought I’d stay on for a bit.”

  Mr. Corby’s potential frown changed to an actual smile. “Glad to have you. George, give the young man a drink. Yes, we put on a pretty good show for a little village. Burn the old squire in effigy. You’ve heard of Squire Oldmeadow?”

  “Of course.”

  “Ha,” said Mr. Corby, slightly disappointed. “He was a real bad ’un. Can’t do with ’em like that in these days, can we, Rogers?” he barked to a man at the other end of the bar.

  The man, old and weatherbeaten, shook his head.

  “Not by no means, Mr. Corby.”

  “Certainly can’t. Have a drink.”

  “Thankee, Mr. Corby. I won’t say no to a half of bitter.”

  “Can’t understand you newspaper chaps.” Mr. Corby roasted his big behind in front of the fire. “Fill up the paper with all kinds of stuff nobody wants to read, and often miss what’s right under your noses. The Gazette, now, that’s a local paper—”

  “An independent paper.” Hugh Bennett could not quite keep the pride out of his voice. “And we’re really competing with the nationals in this area. We try to give a full coverage of national and local news.”

  “Ha,” Mr. Corby said again, expressively. He was obviously a man not much given to argument. “More news from the districts, that’s what people want to read. Keep up local tradition. ‘Field and Farm,’ now, that’s a good column, I enjoy that.”

  “We had a piece about Far Wether a week or two back. About a little trouble you had here.”

  “Gang of young hooligans. Told them to mind their manners and then said, ‘We don’t want your type here thank you very much, prefer your room to your company.’ When they still wouldn’t move I used a little gentle persuasion.”

  “They said they’d come back. You don’t think that’s likely?”

  The big man threw back his head and laughed. The laughter, picked up by others, rippled through the bar, the militant laughter of those protected by beer and warmth.

  “They won’t come back,” said a bottle-nosed farmer wearing a big check muffler. “Jim here could take on three of them with one hand behind his back. They had enough the first time.”

  The door opened, and a little man with his head fixed as it seemed permanently on one side, his general look one of idiot cunning, came in. “Fire’s a beauty, Mr. Corby.”

  “Good man, Joe. Have a pint. George, bring out the Squire.”

  While Joe Pickett cocked his head sideways over beer, the landlord brought out from somewhere at the back a rather over life-size stuffed figure, wearing a billycock hat and dressed in nankeen jacket and leggings, and heavy boots. The face had been painted on canvas, and wore a look of red-cheeked moustachioed fury. Mr. Corby affectionately slapped the figure on the shoulder.

  “There he is. Have him made up exactly according to the clothes he wore in an old print I’ve got at home. Costs more than a tenner every year. See what I mean, Bennett, about the importance of local traditions? Got to keep ’em up. Are we all ready?”

  The ceremony that followed was conducted with perfect seriousness. Four men carried the squire on their shoulders, Mr. Corby and the bottle-nosed farmer at the front, and lopsided Joe Pickett with a tall, thin, lugubrious man at the rear. As they came out of the pub and turned on to the green, boys with torches met them and surrounded the procession. On the middle of the green, figures were visible round a bonfire, and towards this bonfire the group from the pub steadily moved. Once Corby stumbled over a hillock and cursed. Somebody threw a cracker under Hugh Bennett’s feet, where it snapped at him furiously.

  The people round the fire, most of them men and children, gave a scattered cheer as the squire reached them and was placed upright on the grass, with Mr. Corby’s arm round his shoulders. A rocket sizzled skyward and burst into a flower of stars. Mr. Corby’s voice roared out.

  “Who are we burning here to-night?”

  The reply came, ragged but enthusiastic. “We burn Squire Oldmeadow, who lived here in the Manor House.”

  “Why do we burn him?”

  “He was a bad squire. He cheated those who trusted in him.”

  “How did he cheat you?”

  “He stole our land and our women.”

  “And what was his end?”

  “He was killed in fair fight by the freeman Francis Drake.”

  “Which of you to-night will be Francis Drake?” shouted bull-voiced Corby.

  “I will.” Lopsided Joe Pickett came forward.

  “Then, Francis Drake, I pass to you this effigy of Squire Oldmeadow. Make sure that he is well and truly burned.”

  The effigy was evidently fairly heavy. Joe Pickett staggered slightly as he lifted it to his shoulder. Then he took two steps forward towards the fire, and threw the figure. It landed almost in the heart of the bonfire. There was another cheer.

  Mr. Corby peered round and saw Hugh Bennett. “How about that, eh?”

  “Very interesting.”

  “Someone’s got to keep up the old customs. Though they don’t take the interest they did.”

  “Who lives in the Manor House now?”

  Mr. Corby stared hard at him. “I do.”

  Faintly, in the distance, Hugh Bennett heard the hum of motor-cycles.

  3

  The sound became louder, developed to a roar. Suddenly half a dozen searchlights were focused from the road by the green onto the scene beside the bonfire. The searchlights went out, the engines of the motor-cycles were cut off. This stopping of the engines gave some curious quality to the scene, a quality that made Bennett shiver. It was not silence, for beside him the bonfire blazed and crackled, and all around children were waving sparklers and golden rain. A voice beside him said, “I want a light. Have you got a light? Can you light these?”

  He looked down at a small dark girl who held half a dozen fireworks. “Which one?”

  “All of them.”

  “Not all at once.”

  “Yes—all at once. It’s my own firework show.”

  “I’ll light two, one for each hand. Put the rest in your pocket.” A firework banged loudly, so near him that he almost dropped the box of matches he had taken out. The whole scene was dipped in green light.

  Nearby, somebody said, “That’s him.”

  The fireworks were alight. He gave them to the little girl, turned, and saw a youth, pale-faced and slim, pointin
g. The youth’s finger pointed beyond him to where Corby stood lighting a catherine wheel tied to a post.

  Another voice said, “Now.” Then a ragged volley of lighted fireworks was thrown at Corby. A Roman candle threw up its blobs of fire beside his feet, a flying torpedo whizzed round his head, a mine of serpents struck his coat and exploded almost in his face. Corby stood still for a moment, bewildered, then roared with anger and rushed forward. As he did so his attackers—there were at least three or four of them, ranged roughly in a semi-circle—retreated, and lighted and threw more fireworks. The scene, in the flare of green fire, was like a parody of a bullfight, as Corby rushed forwards and sideways.

  “They’ll never come back,” one of the boys called in a falsetto voice. “They’ll never come back.”

  Now Corby knew who his assailants were, but he did not call for help. One of the youths slipped in the mud and almost fell, and in an instant the big man was on him. The disturbance had been noticed by only a few people standing on this side of the fire, but Bennett felt that he should take some part in it. He put one hand on the shoulder of the youth beside him, the one who had pointed, and began to say something. The hand was struck away. He put his arms round the youth, and felt something hard in his pocket. Then the other pulled himself free and stumbled over the little girl whose fireworks Bennett had lighted. They went down together, the little girl crying out something. Hugh Bennett lunged for the youth but missed him. He ran away towards Corby. The green flare went out.

  After that, several things seemed to happen simultaneously. He helped the little girl up, and tried to stop her crying. A voice shouted, “Get him, King.” Another voice, one that he had heard before—was it Joe Pickett’s?—cried out, “You stop that, now. I’m calling the police.” Another still, and this he knew to be Corby’s, shouted, “Put that knife down.”

  There followed a cry, a long wailing animal cry. Dark figures ran over the green. There was the sound of motor-cycles starting up and roaring away down the road. And after that, in spite of the fire’s crackle and the spit and bang of fireworks, there was what, to Hugh Bennett, seemed very much like silence.

  “What’s your name?” he said to the girl.

  “Maureen Dyer. My coat’s dirty. That man pushed me over. And I’ve dropped my yellow dragons.”

  “Yellow dragons? Oh, I see.” He groped in the muddy grass, found thin, long shapes. “They’re a bit wet, but perhaps they’ll still light. Let’s see.”

  “He was a horrible man,” the girl said, as he put a match to the touch-paper.

  “Wasn’t he? I’m afraid this won’t—” A spurt of flame came from the firework. “Oh yes, it will. Here you are. I’ve got some of the others too.”

  She waved the yellow dragon at him. “I’m going to find Mummy.”

  Even before she merged with the other grotesques who danced and played in the bonfire’s flame, he had been uneasily aware of something going on in the place from which that cry had come. Voices called confusedly, a group of people could be seen moving about, busy and apparently purposeless. He moved over, and was stopped by somebody who seemed to be grinning up into his face. It was Joe Pickett.

  “Where’s Doctor Mackintosh? Oh, you’re the reporter.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I think Mr. Corby’s had a fit or something.” He moved away, calling out “Doctor Mackintosh.”

  A few yards farther, and he was with a dozen people who stood about something lying on the ground. “It’s those boys out from the city on their bikes,” a woman said.

  “What’s happened?”

  Nobody answered. A man in a duffle coat said, “Mind you, Corby asked for it. The way he threw them out that night was rough, very rough.”

  “And why should they come pestering our girls?” the woman asked.

  “What’s happened?” Hugh Bennett asked again.

  “Couple of these young toughs set on to Corby, knocked him out,” duffle coat replied. “He’ll be all right in a couple of minutes.”

  “Did you see it?”

  “Too dark to see much. Here’s the doctor.”

  Doctor Mackintosh proved to be the tall, lugubrious man who had helped to carry Squire Oldmeadow. Joe Pickett was with him. “Don’t crowd round now,” the doctor said rather pettishly. “Please don’t crowd round.”

  By the torch in Pickett’s hand it was possible to see a figure lying still, covered by an overcoat or rug. The doctor knelt by him and then spoke again, in a voice sharp but no longer pettish. “Joe.”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  “Run to the Dog and Duck and ask George to ring for an ambulance. It’s urgent.”

  “Yes, Doctor. Is he bad?”

  “He’s badly hurt. Some of you help me lift him.”

  Bennett was one of those who helped to carry the big man back to the pub from which, so recently, they had brought Squire Oldmeadow. They took him into the back parlour, and as they put him down on a sofa, Bennett saw the dark mark on his tweed overcoat. The landlord came in.

  “I’ve phoned the hospital. Is there anything else?”

  “Bandages,” the doctor said. He had the overcoat off, and was undoing Corby’s jacket and waistcoat.

  “Bless me, he looks bad. Is it an accident?”

  “He’s been stabbed. More than once, I think.” The doctor’s hands were stained red.

  “Stabbed,” Hugh Bennett exclaimed.

  “By one of those young thugs from the city.” He spoke as though the reporter were in some way responsible.

  Hugh looked at the red face that was now the colour of dough and at the probing nose, now a chalky promontory.

  “You mean—”

  “I mean I’m doing what I can for him, but that’s nothing at all.” At that moment Corby opened his eyes and looked about. The doctor spoke gently. “Easy does it, Jim. Don’t move.”

  Corby opened his mouth as if to speak. Blood gushed from his mouth and nose. His eyes closed again. Bennett turned away his head.

  “I’d like to wash my hands, George,” Doctor Mackintosh said.

  “Is he gone, Doctor?”

  “Yes,” the doctor said. “He’s dead.”

  4

  The hour that followed was perhaps the most confused period of time in Hugh Bennett’s life. It was vitally important for him to get back to the Gazette office as quickly as possible, so that he could write his story, yet it was at the same time essential that he should wait for the police to arrive, and get an idea of what sort of man Corby was. He rang up from the pub and told Lane, who was still in the office, what had happened.

  “You really stepped in it to-day, didn’t you? When can you get back?”

  “I want to get some background stuff on Corby. I ought to talk to Joe Buckley, he’s the constable round here. And probably it would be a good thing to go over and see Madge. I shall be a couple of hours, maybe more.”

  “—Madge,” Lane said. “She won’t tell you anything. And—Buckley, too, while you’re about it. He won’t know half as much as you do. I tell you what you do. Get what you can on Corby, go and see Mrs. C. if there is one, then get back here by eight-fifteen. Take a taxi.”

  “A taxi?” he said incredulously.

  “It’ll come out of linage,” Lane said, and laughed.

  In his excitement he had forgotten about the linage, but he could understand Lane’s concern, since he held the linage for the paper. This meant that, when Hugh got back, he would telephone all the national dailies one by one, dressing up the story a bit differently for each of them. Then he would telephone the news agencies. Sometime in between telephone calls he would write his Gazette story, but from the cash point of view the linage was the thing. Even after Lane had taken his whack out of it the story would be worth—what? At least twenty-five pounds, possibly nearer fifty. Hugh Bennett sighed. It occurred
to him, not for the first time, that the life of a provincial reporter was extraordinarily unromantic.

  Mrs. Corby was a thin-nosed grey woman who talked to him composedly, rather as if her husband had broken a leg and was bound to be incapacitated for a few weeks. Three or four times she referred to him in the present tense, and then corrected herself with no sign of emotion. Bennett still felt a little uneasy and ashamed when met by tears, and was grateful for her calm. He made notes in an abbreviated long-hand scrawl:

  James C. Age 52. Local res. Partner in timber merchants, C. and Jenkins. Liked in village??? says no enemies. V. strong, had been amateur boxer. Married 20 years, no family. Bt. Manor Ho. 1946…

  He put down a page of such notes, then checked them by talking to people in the pub. As he expected, Corby had not been greatly liked in Far Wether. Through the mist of praise that surrounds anybody recently dead, criticism could be discerned—he had done a lot for the village, mark you, never minded what he did or how much trouble he took, but he had taken too much on himself, always wanted to be number one. But the pub regulars didn’t want to talk about Corby so much as about the youths, the destroyers who had roared in on their motor-bikes and killed a man and roared away again. Joe Pickett confidently maintained that they were the boys who had come to the dance, he would recognise them anywhere.

  “Don’t be such a bloody fool, man,” said duffle coat, whose name turned out to be Morgan. “It was dark, wasn’t it? How could you see a bloody thing?”

  “I saw enough,” Pickett said obstinately. “I’d have known them anywhere. Recognised their voices too, some of ’em.”

  “And what did they say?”

  “There was two of ’em on to him, and they was flashing their knives.”