Have His Carcase

THE road, when Harriet reached it, seemed as solitary as before. She turned in the direction of Wilvercombe and strode along at a good, steady pace. Her instinct was to run, but she knew that she would gain nothing by pumping herself out. After about a mile, she was delighted by the sight of a fellow-traveller; a girl of about seventeen, driving a couple of cows. She stopped the girl and asked the way to the nearest house.

The girl stared at her. Harriet’ repeated her request.

The reply came in so strong a west-country accent that Harriet could make little of it, but at length she gathered that Will Coffin’s, over to Brennerton, was the nearest habitation, and that it could be reached by following a winding lane on the right.

‘How far is it?’ asked Harriet.

The girl opined that it was a good piece, but declined to commit herself in yards or miles.

‘Well, I’ll try there,’ said Harriet. ‘And if you meet anybody on the road, will you tell them there’s a dead man on the beach about a mile back and that the police ought to be told.’

The girl stared dumbly.

Harriet repeated the message, adding, ‘Do you understand?’

‘Yes, miss,’ said the girl, in the tone of-voice which makes it quite cleat that the hearer understands nothing.

As Harriet hurried away up the lane, she saw the girl still staring after her.

Will Coffin’s proved to be a small farmhouse. It took Harriet twenty minutes to reach it, and when she did reach it, it appeared to be deserted. She knocked at the door without result; pushed it open and shouted, still without result; then she went round to the back.

When she had again shouted several times, a woman in an apron emerged from an outbuilding and stood gazing at her.

‘Are any of the men about?’ asked Harriet.

The woman replied that they were all up. to the seven-acre field, getting the hay in.

Harriet explained that there was a dead man lying on the shore and that the police ought to be informed,

‘That do be terrible, surely,’ said the woman. ‘Will it be Joe Smith? He was out with his boat this morning and the rocks be very dangerous thereabouts. The Grinders, we call them.’

‘No,’ said Harriet; ’it isn’t a fisherman — it looks like somebody from the town. And he isn’t drowned. He’s cut his throat’

‘Cut his throat?’ said the woman, with relish. ‘Well, now, what a terrible thing, to be sure.’

‘I want to let the police know,’—said Harriet, ‘before the, tide comes in and covers the body.’

‘The police?’ The woman considered this. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, after mature thought. ‘The police did ought to be told about it.’

Harriet asked if one of the men could be found and sent with a message. The woman shook her head. They were getting in the hay and the weather did look to be changing. She doubted if anybody could be spared.

‘You’re not on the telephone, I suppose?’ asked Harriet.

They were not on the, telephone, but Mr Carey at the Red Farm, he was on the telephone. To get to the Red Farm, the woman added, under interrogation, you would have to go back to the road and take the next turning, and then it was about a mile or maybe two.

‘Was there a car Harriet could borrow?

The woman was sorry, but there was no car. At least, there was one, but her daughter had gone over to Heathbury market and wouldn’t be back till late.

‘Then I must try and get to the Red Farm,’ said Harriet, rather wearily. ‘If you do see anybody who could take a message, would you tell them that there’s a dead man on the shore near the Grinders, and that the police ought to be informed.’

‘Oh, I’ll tell them sure enough,’ said the woman, brightly. ‘It’s a very terrible thing, isn’t it? The police did ought to know about it., You’re looking very tired, miss would you like a cup of tea?’

Harriet refused the tea, and said she ought to be getting on. As she passed through the gate, the woman called her back. Harriet turned hopefully.

‘Was it you that found him, miss?’

‘Yes, I found him.’

‘Lying there dead?’

Yes.’

‘With his throat cut?’

‘Yes.’

‘Dear, dear,’ said the woman, “Tis a terrible thing, to be sure.’

Back on the main road, Harriet hesitated. She had lost a good deal of time on this expedition. Would it be better to turn aside again in search of the Red Farm, or to keep to the main road where there was more chance of meeting, a passerby? While still undecided, she arrived at the turn. An aged man was hoeing turnips in afield-close by. She hailed him.

‘Is this the way to the Red Farm?’

He paid no attention, but went on hoeing turnips.

‘He must be deaf,’ muttered Harriet, hailing him again. He continued to hoe turnips. She was looking about for the gate into the field when the aged man paused to straighten his back and spit on his hands, and in so doing brought her into his line of vision.

Harriet beckoned to him, and he hobbled slowly up to the wall, supporting himself on the hoe as he went.

‘Is this the way to the Red Farm?’ She pointed up the lane.

‘No,’ said the old man, ‘he ain’t at home.’

‘Has he got a telephone?’ asked Harriet.