Dead for a Spell by Raymond Buckland Page B

think, must I?”
    â€œNo, sir.” I hastened to explain myself, but he would have none of it.
    â€œScotland Yard has spoken!” He tapped the letter with his spectacles. “I might as well be a mere constable on the beat, so far as they are concerned. ‘Afford Mr. Rivers every courtesy,’ they say. ‘Every courtesy.’” He paused briefly to take in a deep and noisy breath. “They’ll be telling me to offer you a cup of tea next.”
    I cleared my throat. We were not getting off to the friendly cooperation for which I had hoped. “Again, I apologize, sir. But we do have a very similar murder in London, and I—we—were rather hoping that . . .”
    â€œAye! Aye!” He sat silently for a long moment, staring off in the direction of an ordnance survey map of the area, drawing-pinned to the wall close to the door. I swallowed and again prepared to speak. Again I was beaten to the post. “Well, Mr. Rivers, it is no fault of your own, I suppose. High-handed of Scotland Yard, but I expect no more from them. All right.”
    He rose to his feet and came out from behind his desk. He put on his cap and tucked a short baton under his arm.
    â€œCome!”
    He marched out of the room, and I had to break into a run to keep up with him as he moved briskly along the passageway and out past the sergeant at the front desk. We emerged from the police station and stood for a moment on the topmost of the five stone steps leading up to the double doors. Whittaker pointed his baton in the direction of the church, visible at the far end of the road off to our right.
    â€œSaints James and John,” he said. “Did you know those two always go together?” I shook my head. “Heaven knows why, but they do.”
    â€œIs that where the girl’s body was found?” I asked, feeling it was time I made my voice heard.
    â€œThere is a barn close by the church—you cannot see it from here—and that’s where we found the body. Aye.” He seemed to have mellowed very slightly, I thought, now that we were outside and on the case.
    â€œMight we proceed there, that I may view the site?”
    He mused for a moment, once again gazing off into the distance, tapping his baton on his gloved hand. Finally he turned back as though to return into the police station.
    â€œI have work to do. Important work. I shall have Constable Hudson escort you to the murder scene. You will interfere with nothing, of course. Merely observe—make notes if you so wish—and return here if you have any questions. Do I make myself clear?”
    He disappeared inside, through the doors, before I had a chance to respond. I stood there for a long moment, wondering if I had been meant to follow him. Eventually, one of the doors opened again, and a large-girthed police constable emerged, carefully positioning his helmet on his head.
    â€œConstable Hudson?” I asked.
    â€œP.C. Hudson it is, sir. Am I to understand correctly that you was wantin’ to be escorted to the Scott crime scene, as it were, sir?”
    I smiled and nodded. “You are correct, Constable. Thank you.”
    â€œFollow me, sir.”
    He labored down the steps and then set off at a leisurely pace along the road. I matched strides with him and tried to engage him in conversation, hoping for greater success than I had had with his superior. He seemed to be of a friendly disposition, stroking his large black mustache and beard as he walked and nodding in friendly fashion to occasional passersby.
    â€œYou are a native of Warrington?” I hazarded.
    â€œHoh yes, sir! Born and bred, as they say. Man and boy. Twenty-nine years come Michaelmas.”
    â€œAnd did you know the murdered girl?”
    â€œMost everyone knew Lizzie,” he said. “Been selling ’er flowers in the square as long as I can remember.” He shook his head sadly and let out a long sigh.