Free The Body Politic by Catherine Aird Page A

that he couldn’t sleep in spite of being flaked out.”
    â€œHe was all right on the Sunday morning first thing,” said Mrs. Rebble, “because he stood in for poor Mr. Rauly and got killed instead of him.”
    â€œReally, madam?” said Sloan politely. They’d stopped teaching the story of Damon and Phythias in schools these days, but it had featured in the curriculum when Sloan had been a lad.
    â€œMr. Rauly had sprained his ankle on the Saturday evening after the Garden Meeting,” explained Hazel Ottershaw, “and so he couldn’t take part in the Battle of Lewes that was staged here on the Sunday.”
    â€œAh, I see.” He now realised that distant rumblings of the reenactment of the battle had been audible in the Police Station canteen at Berebury. They had emanated from Inspector Harpe of the Traffic Division. Inspector Harpe—known as Happy Harry because he had never been known to smile—had had a great deal to say on the subjects of medieval conflicts, narrow country lanes, and modern motorists.
    â€œAlan happened to be there on the spot at Mellamby Place on the Sunday morning,” said Hazel Ottershaw, “with me——”
    â€œHazel was a beautiful Queen Eleanor,” put in Hazel’s mother. “She looked lovely in a kirtle.”
    â€œâ€”and without a role,” said Hazel, “because, of course, nobody knew he was going to be back here in Mellamby at the time of the reenactment.”
    â€œOf course,” murmured Sloan.
    â€œGreen has always suited Hazel,” said Mrs. Rebble fondly, “and those old-fashioned head-dresses are very stylish.”
    â€œSo,” said Hazel Ottershaw rather desperately, “Alan played the part which Mr. Rauly had been going to take.”
    â€œAnd he wasn’t ill on the Sunday morning, I can assure you,” said Mrs. Rebble warmly. “He fought like a Trojan all morning. I saw him myself. I shall never forget the great fight he had with the King—that was Adrian Dungey really. And Adrian was good, too. He’s one of my husband’s junior partners, you know. Their fight was marvellous to watch.”
    Detective Constable Crosby brightened visibly at the mention of fighting, his wandering attention engaged at last. “Who was he being?”
    â€œWilliam de Wilton,” said Mrs. Rebble, the light of battle clearly still in her eye. “He had to be killed before luncheon, you know.”
    This last was too much for Hazel Ottershaw.
    Her self-control snapped suddenly. She burst into tears and fled from the room.
    â€œYou want me to examine what, Inspector?” asked Dr. Dabbe. The consultant pathologist was sitting at his desk in his office attached to the mortuary at Berebury District General Hospital.
    â€œSome human ashes, Doctor,” said Sloan. He and young Detective Constable Crosby were sitting opposite the pathologist, who seemed to be in one of his merrier moods.
    â€œThat’s what I thought you said,” replied Dr. Dabbe. “Well, if it’s those pesky archaeologists excavating outside the old Roman wall down by the river again, I should tell them to——”
    â€œIt isn’t, Doctor.”
    â€œThey’re always coming up with cinerary urns full of ashes.”
    â€œAre they?” Detective Inspector Sloan seized on this as a beginning. “And what exactly can you tell from them, Doctor?”
    â€œThat there’s been a cremation burial,” said the pathologist jovially.
    â€œAnd anything else?”
    Dr. Dabbe hitched a shoulder. “Precious little.”
    â€œPity, that.”
    â€œNot nothing at all, of course. I’m not saying that, Sloan. There’s always something to be got even from, as the poet put it so well ‘A handful of grey ashes, long long ago at rest.’”
    â€œGood.” It would be going against the grain for the doctor, anyway, to admit defeat: