The Dancing Druids

Chapter Six

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‘ “Heaven rest his soul! … He has lain these ten years in a house that he’ll never leave.” ’

Ibid. (Peter the Goatherd)

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I want you,’ said Mrs. Bradley, fastening her brilliant black eyes upon those of the Chief Constable, ’to have your young men look up all the cases in which people have disappeared during the past few weeks.’

‘Past twenty years, you mean,’ said the Chief Constable. ‘We don’t go in much for disappearances in these parts except disappearances under ground in the usual regrettable course of events, you know.’

‘When was the last disappearance of the kind I mean?’

‘In 1939, I think, just after war had broken out—or just before. I can’t remember.’

‘None since?’

‘None that have been brought to my notice.’

‘And before 1939?’

‘I’d have to look up the reports.’

‘I wish you would. What happened in the 1939 case?’

‘Officially we’re still looking for the fellow. He disappeared in what the Irish call “the dark of the moon,” and has never been heard of again.’

‘It was a man, then?’

‘Yes, I believe it is mostly men who disappear. Debts, or bigamy, or get tired of their homes, I suppose. Crime, sometimes, of course… suicide… drowning. It was rather odd about this chap, though, because, so far as we could tell, he didn’t come under any of the known headings. As a matter of fact, we didn’t even know he’d disappeared until the following-year, when some relatives in London wanted to billet themselves on him during the blitz. He couldn’t be found, so they asked us to try to trace him. We had no luck, and as there was nothing against him, so far as we knew, we gave it up.’

‘How old a man was he?’

‘Twenty-seven, I believe. Youngish, anyhow.’

‘Didn’t you think he might have joined the Army?’

‘He had a bad heart, it turned out. According to his doctor, there wasn’t the slightest chance of his having been accepted for any of the Services, or of his having been able to do much good, even for A.R.P.’

‘Why did nobody mention his disappearance sooner? A year seems a very long time.’

‘Since the death of his father in 1932, he seems to have lived by himself. He was an artist and a bit of an archaeologist. The people who were enquiring for him were his uncle and aunt. They had quarrelled with his father and had lost touch with the son, but when the fun began in London, of course, they wanted somewhere to go, and thought of this nephew, only to find his place deserted.’

‘Was there no clue at all to his disappearance?’

‘Never a one. I never knew such a case. We began our enquiry according to routine, but beyond establishing the fact that he’d left word with the tradespeople that he wouldn’t want anything delivered after some date or other in March— that was the March of 1939, of course—we got nowhere. As there was nothing criminal about the case, we weren’t particularly worried… after all, a man has the right to shut shop and clear out of his home if he wants to… but there was just one odd thing. The uncle said that his nephew had written to them at the time of Munich, and, after a few facetious remarks about gas-masks, had stated soberly that he was certain war was coming, and that if they ever wanted a refuge he was perfectly willing to put them up at his cottage. ’The uncle even produced the letter. We still have it, and, as it happened, the grocer the fellow used to deal with had kept the note telling him to ease off sending supplies. When we compared the two, though, there was no doubt that they had been written by different people. We got the uncle to write a piece for us, and put the handwriting experts on to all three scripts. There was no doubt that all three had been written by different people. We then recorded the fingerprints on the various documents, and also those in the empty cottage. There were the young man’s prints, of course, all over the furniture, and it seemed, from the comparisons we were able to make, that the letter sent to the uncle was genuine and had come from the nephew. There were other prints in the cottage, but none which corresponded to any of the prints on the scrap of paper sent to the grocer or to those made, at our request, by the uncle and aunt. We got no further.’

‘Dear me!’ said Mrs. Bradley. ‘And what happened to the uncle and aunt? Did they return to London?’

‘No. They were given billets in the village of Little Dorsett, and, for all I know, are still there.’

‘What is their name?’

‘Allwright. William and Caroline Allwright.’

‘Had the nephew the same surname?’

‘Yes. The uncle was his father’s brother.’

‘Oh, yes, of course.’

‘But he used to sign his pictures with the name Toro. Thought they’d sell better under a foreign label, probably.’

‘Did they sell well?’

‘He made some sort of living. According to the uncle he had inherited very little from his father, but used to manage to keep the wolf from the door. I saw one or two of his pictures in the cottage, but I’ve no idea whether they were any good.’

‘Why didn’t the uncle and aunt take over the cottage? Why have gone to another village?’

‘The aunt was an invalid. There’s a doctor at Little Dorsett, and they thought she ought to be within easy reach of one. The blitz had upset her nerves and brought on heart attacks, I believe.’

‘Where was the nephew’s cottage?’

‘A couple of miles outside the village of Easey. Do you know it? The cottage was in a lane off the Salisbury road.’

‘A lonely situation?’

‘Yes, although it was very near the main road. A group of trees screen it from that side, and the nearest house is half a mile away. Are you thinking he was abducted?’

‘I am wondering whether he was murdered,’ said Mrs. Bradley. ‘I shall be very glad to have the reports of any other disappearances.’

She recounted to the Chief Constable the strange story she had had from young O’Hara. It was then the Chief Constable’s turn to ask the questions.

‘You’ve consulted your son and he thinks we ought to take it up? Well, so do I, but where do we begin? The young fellow couldn’t say for certain that the man was dead, you say?’

‘Nor that his companions were not taking him to hospital. On the other hand, the man, if he was not dead, was either badly hurt or was suffering from severe haemorrhage, and, that being the case, it seems strange that neither of the local hospitals was asked to admit him. Besides, it seems likely, from Mr. O’Hara’s account, that the driver of the car simply drove round about the farm.’

‘It does seem strange. Yes, that’s right enough. Can your young man describe the fellow whom he helped to carry the sick man to the car?’

‘Not sufficiently to serve any useful purpose, I am afraid. It was rather dark, you know.’

‘Did he notice the number of the car?’

‘Apparently it was too dark for him to notice anything particularly. The only thing he feels certain about is that the car did not come out on to a road.’

‘Well, look here, I’ll get Superintendent Thomas on to it. It all sounds a bit queer. And we’ll have another go at the Toro-Allwright business, although I feel rather helpless over that.’

‘Will your Superintendent Thomas frighten these people? I would not like Mr. O’Hara to come to any harm. He may not have seen much of them, but they may be able to recognize him. Cannot you act unofficially and with great discretion? I tell you frankly that I don’t like the look of this case. Oh, and by the way, suppose that it should turn out to be murder, how will that affect an