2
A man’s body lay on the flagstones at the foot of the ladderlike stairway which led to the upper floor. There was no staircase proper in the house, only the steep wooden steps which ran up to a rectangular aperture in the kitchen ceiling.
“He must ha’ slipped and fallen forward and broken’s neck on the flags,” said Brough, “but who can that be? ’Twill be a job to know, poor chap.”
Macdonald knew that the body must have lain there for months—if not years: the flesh of face and gnarled hands was shrunken and corrupted to a degree that made recognition impossible. Drawing back to the fresh air for a moment, Macdonald asked:
“Could that be Sam Borwick’s body, Mr. Brough?”
“Nay, that’s not Sam. Sam’s a redhead, proper carrots. But as to who ’tis, it’d be hard to say. Can’t even tell how old the chap was. And what’s that press been moved for? Stood against t’ wall, that did.”
The oak. “press,” as Brough called it, was a big piece of furniture, cupboards above, drawers below. It had been pulled forward at one end and now stood athwart the floor.
“ ’Tis as I said,” went on Brough, “someone came thieving. That’s a fine piece, that is. He must ’a gone upstairs, to move the dower chest maybe, and he pitched forward down them steps, plaguey dangerous them steps.”
He had moved outside the door to escape the stench within, and as though the fresh air brightened his wits, he added, “But how came it the doors were locked on him? ’Tis a proper puzzle.”
“It is that,” agreed Macdonald. “Now this is a job for the local police, Mr. Brough, and you’ll have to go and notify them. I shall stand by here. Drive down to the constabulary and report and tell the constable to ring his superintendent at Camton before he comes up here—and the sooner you get there the better.”
“Well, I’ll do as you say, but the poor chap’s waited long enough before he was found,” said Brough. “Months ago he must have fallen down them steps.” He turned away, adding, “I’ll get on and tell young Tucker to ring Camton.”
“And tell him to say they must send their technicians and the mortuary van and stretcher men up here,” said Macdonald.
“Aye, I’ll tell him. ’Tis a shocking business and all.”
As soon as Brough had hurried away, Macdonald went into the farmhouse kitchen again. There was no mystery about how the dead man could have got into the locked house without any keys at all. Behind the oak press, at floor level, a hole had been made through the wall, which consisted of rubble rather than solid masonry. On the far side of the wall was an outbuilding, a dairy Macdonald guessed, which had stone walls. It was closed by a sturdy door which stood at right angles to the house wall and which had two steps leading down to the door. Being quite sure that this was the way access had been obtained to the house, Macdonald examined the door and its huge old keyhole. He soon ascertained that the door could be dealt with by lifting it off its hinges. He had a similar door to the old dairy at Fellcock: the door was hinged like the five-barred gates, with two upright iron spikes (called gudgeons locally), on the doorposts, over which fitted rings attached to the door. Doors and gates swung easily by this means, but they could be lifted off the gudgeons: the door would then (while still locked) open sufficiently to admit a man. He was satisfied that he had found out how access to the dairy was obtained: once inside, a man could have worked away at the rubble wall until he had made a large enough hole to crawl through. Since the hole would have been blocked by the heavy wooden press, it was to be assumed that the housebreaker had managed to shift the press away from the wall to the position the press now occupied.
Macdonald continued his observations thus far but without touching anything. This investigation would be the job of the local police: unless his assistance were asked for, Macdonald was only in the position of a witness and he was punctilious about police procedure. After another glance at the sorry remains on the floor, he went outside and lighted a cigarette. Inevitably he surmised: if Brough’s suggestion were right, and it proved that the man could have met his death by falling headlong from the steps on to the stone floor, it looked like being an inconclusive case. As he pondered, Macdonald wondered if there could have been any rumours in the district about “valuables” hidden at High Garth: secret drawers in the old furniture, a secret hoard, hidden years ago and never discovered? Was that the basis of Brough’s “idea” he wondered—and then turned quickly as he heard Jock’s voice shouting his name.
3
Jock came running round the barn. “Mr. Brough’s hurt himself: tripped over that stony ridge and knocked himself out. Heck. . . . Whatever be that? ’Tis a dead beast, long dead.”
“Long dead, but not a beast. There’s a dead man in the house, Jock. Mr. Brough was going for the police. Go back to him, I’ll just lock this door and then I’ll come and see to him.”
The farmer lay face downwards in the tussocky grass, not much more than a hundred yards from High Garth Hall. He lay just beyond a rocky outcrop, one of those tiresome ridges which had determined long ago why the land between High Garth and Fellcock was not cultivated. Before Macdonald bent to turn Brough over, he wondered both why the farmer had tripped up on land he knew well, and, if he had tripped, how he had hit his head on the rock on which his feet now rested. It all looked a very improbable accident, but Mr. Brough’s head injury was plain enough: a cut and
