Free Close Quarters by Michael Gilbert

Pollock, who had seen a good deal of violent dissolution, was surprised by the benignity of the verger’s expression. Replacing the head, he got both hands under the body and lifted it slightly on one side. It struck him that it was quite dry underneath, and he was about to roll the body still farther on to its side when a loud and authoritative voice announced: ‘Here, you mustn’t do that, young man.’
    The local police had arrived.
    The ‘homicide squad,’ as the Dean mentally dubbed them, consisted of a solid-looking sergeant, a solid-looking constable, a thin gentleman with a toothbrush moustache and a motor coat (police doctor, diagnosed Pollock correctly) and a photographer. Pollock introduced himself briefly. He felt that he could spare any longer explanations until the inevitable hour arrived when he had to tackle the Chief Constable.
    Sergeant Parks and Constable Potter accepted his credentials affably, but he fancied they looked relieved when he suggested that he would leave them to get on with the job whilst he “just had a poke round.” This consisted of a minute inspection of the surrounding paths and lawn. Apart from the tracks which Hubbard and Morgan were now busily covering with a selection of pots, dishes, and soap-boxes (to the amazement of MacFisheries and the Home and Colonial, who had been arrested by this unusual spectacle on their morning delivery round), the results were entirely negative.
    He went back and found the photographer concluding his task with three close-ups of the wound. Sergeant Parks was seated on an upturned section of drain-pipe complacently finishing his notes whilst Constable Potter drove in skewers to mark the positions after the body had been removed. This crucial operation was performed soon after his arrival, and the mortal remains of Appledown were laid on the Dean’s garden truck for removal to the police ambulance and thence to the station mortuary. This part of the job the sergeant handed over to Constable Potter; he himself seemed to be in no hurry to leave the scene of the crime. Reinforcements in the shape of two more uniformed policemen arrived at this juncture and were posted – one at the corner of the Chapter House and the other at the south-east corner of the cathedral, to ward off casual intruders. The sergeant reseated himself on the drain-pipe and watched Pollock, who was making a second and even more thorough search of the terrain. As he watched he sucked hard at his pencil. It seemed to afford him some comfort.
    The engine shed outside which the body had been found was the one which housed the little electric engine which supplied the power for the cathedral organ. It was an ugly plank and studding affair – plain twentieth century and contrasting oddly with the Gothic pile against which it rested – and it occupied the angle formed by the north wall of the cathedral and the east wall of the transept. The whole arrangement formed a narrow cul-de-sac to which the lower bulk of the Chapter House made a third side. It was almost entirely floored with what is commonly called asphalt but is really only tarred chips. The exception was a narrow strip along the wall – though it was not quite clear whether this had been designed as a flower-bed or was merely the result of the workmen running short of material before finishing the job.
    â€˜Come and have a look at this,’ said Pollock. The two sergeants stared for some time in silence at his discovery; it was nothing very exciting – sixteen little holes had been made in this patch of hard damp earth. They were close together, almost up against the shed, about an inch deep and a third of an inch wide. They looked fresh.
    â€˜Very odd,’ said Sergeant Parks who clearly made nothing of it. ‘Very odd indeed.’ He returned to his seat. ‘In fact,’ he concluded, ‘you might call the whole thing very odd.’
    â€˜Quite a rum