The World's Finest Mystery Part 32

He pointed to the other side of the ca.n.a.l, the back of the housing estate. "I were over there," he said. "Sometimes people chuck out summat of value, even these days."

"But you did see Johnny?"

He paused, then said, "Aye."

"On this side of the ca.n.a.l?"

Woodruff nodded.

"What time was this?"

"I don't have a watch, but it weren't long after that daft bloke had gone by."

"Do you mean Colin Gormond?"

"Aye, that's the one."

So Johnny was still alone by the ca.n.a.l after Colin had pa.s.sed by. DS Longbottom had probably known this, but he had beaten Colin anyway. One day I'd find a way to get even with him. The breeze s.h.i.+fted a little and I got a whiff of stale sweat and worse. "What was Johnny doing?"

"Doing? Nowt special. He were just walking."

"Walking? Where?"

Woodruff pointed. "That way. Towards the city centre."

"Alone?"

"Aye."

"And n.o.body approached him?"

"Nope. Not while I were watching."

I didn't think there was anything further to be got from Ezekiel Woodruff, so I bade him good morning. I can't say the suspicion didn't enter my head that he might have had something to do with Johnny's disappearance, though I'd have been hard pushed to say exactly why or what. Odd though old Woodruff might be, there had never been any rumour or suspicion of his being overly interested in young boys, and I didn't want to jump to conclusions the way Jack Blackwell had. Still, I filed away my suspicions for later.

A fighter droned overhead. I watched it dip and spin through the blue air and wished I could be up there. I'd always regretted not being a pilot in the war. A barge full of soldiers drifted by, and I moved aside on the towpath to let the horse that was pulling it pa.s.s by. For my troubles I got a full blast of sweaty horseflesh and a pile of steaming manure at my feet. That had even Ezekiel Woodruff beat.

Aimlessly, I followed the direction Ezekiel had told me Johnny had walked in- towards the city centre. As I walked, Jack Blackwell's scornful words about my inability to find Johnny echoed in my mind. Book learning. That was exactly the kind of cheap insult you would expect from a moron like Jack Blackwell, but it hurt nonetheless. No sense telling him I'd been buried in the mud under the bodies of my comrades for two days. No sense telling him about the young German soldier I'd surprised and bayonetted to death, twisting the blade until it snapped and broke off inside him. Jack Blackwell was too young to have seen action in the last war, but if there was any justice in the world, he'd d.a.m.n well see it in this one.

The ca.n.a.l ran by the back of the train station, where I crossed the narrow bridge and walked through the crowds of evacuees out front of City Square. Mary Critchley's anguish reverberated in my mind, too: "Mr. Bashcombe! Mr. Bashcombe!" I heard her call.

Then, all of a sudden, as I looked at the black facade of the post office and the statue of the Black Prince in the centre of City Square, it hit me. I thought I knew what had happened to Johnny Critchley, but first I had to go back to his street and ask just one important question.

It was late morning. The station smelt of damp soot and warm oil. Crowds of children thronged around trying to find out where they were supposed to go. They wore name tags and carried little cardboard boxes. Adults with clipboards, for the most part temporarily unemployed schoolteachers and local volunteers, directed them to the right queue, and their names were ticked off as they boarded the carriages.

Despite being neither an evacuated child nor a supervisor, I managed to buy a ticket and ended up sharing a compartment with a rather severe-looking woman in a brown uniform I didn't recognize, and a male civilian with a brush moustache and a lot of Brylcreem on his hair. They seemed to be in charge of several young children, also in the compartment, who couldn't sit still. I could hardly blame them. They were going to the alien countryside, to live with strangers, far away from their parents, for only G.o.d knew how long, and the idea scared them half to death.

The b.u.t.toned cus.h.i.+ons were warm and the air in the carriage still and close, despite the open window. When we finally set off, the motion stirred up a bit of a breeze, which helped a little. On the wall opposite me was a poster of the Scarborough seafront, and I spent most of the journey remembering the carefree childhood holidays I had enjoyed there with my parents in the early years of the century: another world, another time. The rest of the trip, I glanced out of the window, beyond the sc.u.m-scabbed ca.n.a.l, and saw the urban industrial landscape drift by: back gardens, where some people had put in Anderson shelters, half-covered with earth to grow vegetables on; the dark ma.s.s of the town-hall clock tower behind the city-centre buildings; a factory yard, where several men were loading heavy crates onto a lorry, flushed and sweating in the heat.

Then we were in the countryside, where the smells of gra.s.s, hay, and manure displaced the reek of the city. I saw small, squat farms, drystone walls, sheep and cattle grazing. Soon, train tracks and ca.n.a.l diverged. We went under a long noisy tunnel, and the children whimpered. Later, I was surprised to see so many army convoys winding along the narrow roads, and the one big aerodrome we pa.s.sed seemed buzzing with activity.

All in all, the journey took a little over two hours. Only about ten or eleven children were shepherded off at the small country station, and I followed as they were met and taken to the village hall, where the men and women who were to care for them waited. It was more civilized than some of the evacuation systems I'd heard about, which sounded more like the slave markets of old, where farmers waited on the platforms to pick out the strong lads, and local dignitaries whisked away the nicely dressed boys and girls.

I went up to the volunteer in charge, an attractive young country-woman in a simple blue frock with a white lace collar and a belt around her slim waist, and asked her if she had any record of an evacuee called John, or Johnny, Critchley. She checked her records, then shook her head, as I knew she would. If I were right, Johnny wouldn't be here under his own name. I explained my problem to the woman, who told me her name was Phyllis Rigby. She had a yellow ribbon in her long wavy hair and smelled of fresh apples. "I don't see how anything like that could have happened," Phyllis said. "We've been very meticulous. But there again, things have been a little chaotic." She frowned in thought for a moment, then she delegated her present duties to another volunteer.

"Come on," she said, "I'll help you go from house to house. There weren't that many evacuees, you know. Far fewer than we expected."

I nodded. I'd heard how a lot of parents weren't bothering to evacuate their children. "They can't see anything happening yet," I said. "Just you wait. After the first air raid you'll have so many you won't have room for them all."

Phyllis smiled. "The poor things. It must be such an upheaval for them."

"Indeed."

I took deep, welcome breaths of country air as Phyllis and I set out from the village hall to visit the families listed on her clipboard. There were perhaps a couple of hundred houses, and less than fifty percent had received evacuees. Even so, we worked up quite a sweat calling at them all. Or I did, rather, as sweating didn't seem to be in Phyllis's nature. We chatted as we went, me telling her about my school-teaching, and her telling me about her husband, Thomas, training as a fighter pilot in the RAF. After an hour or so with no luck, we stopped in at her cottage for a refres.h.i.+ng cup of tea, then we were off again.

At last, late in the afternoon, we struck gold.

Mr. and Mrs. Douglas, who were billeting Johnny Critchley, seemed a very pleasant couple, and they were sad to hear that they would not get to keep him with them for a while longer. I explained everything to them and a.s.sured them that they would get someone else as soon as we got the whole business sorted out.

"He's not here," Johnny said as we walked with Phyllis to the station. "I've looked everywhere, but I couldn't find him."

I shook my head. "Sorry, Johnny. You know your mum's got a speech impediment. That was why I had to go back and ask her exactly what she said to you before I came here. She said she told you your father was missing in action, which, the way it came out, sounded like missing in Acksham, didn't it? That's why you came here, isn't it, to look for your father?"

Young Johnny nodded, tears in his eyes. "I'm sorry," he said. "I couldn't understand why she didn't come and look for him. She must be really vexed with me."

I patted his shoulder. "I don't think so. More like she'll be glad to see you. How did you manage to sneak in with the real evacuees, by the way?"

Johnny wiped his eyes with his grubby sleeve. "At the station. There were so many people standing around, at first I didn't know... Then I saw a boy I knew from playing cricket on the rec."

"Oliver Bradley," I said. The boy whose name Johnny was registered under.

"Yes. He goes to Broad Hill."

I nodded. Though I had never heard of Oliver Bradley, I knew the school; it was just across the valley from us. "Go on."

"I asked him where he was going, and he said he was being sent to Acksham. It was perfect."

"But how did you get him to change places with you?"

"He didn't want to. Not at first."

"How did you persuade him?"

Johnny looked down at the road and sc.r.a.ped at some gravel with the scuffed tip of his shoe. "It cost me a complete set of 'Great Cricketers' cigarette cards. Ones my dad gave me before he went away."

I smiled. It would have to be something like that.

"And I made him promise not to tell anyone, just to go home and say there wasn't room for him and he'd have to try again in a few days. I just needed enough time to find Dad... you know."

"I know."

We arrived at the station, where Johnny sat on the bench and Phyllis and I chatted in the late afternoon sunlight, our shadows lengthening across the tracks. In addition to the birds singing in the trees and hedgerows, I could hear gra.s.shoppers chirruping, a sound you rarely heard in the city. I had often thought how much I would like to live in the country, and perhaps when I retired from teaching a few years in the future I would be able to do so.

We didn't have long to wait for our train. I thanked Phyllis for all her help, told her I wished her husband well, and she waved to us as the old banger chugged out of the station.

It was past blackout when I finally walked into our street holding Johnny's hand. He was tired after his adventure and had spent most of the train journey with his head on my shoulder. Once or twice, from the depths of a dream, he had called his father's name.

I could sense that something was wrong as soon as I turned the corner. It was nothing specific, just a sudden chill at the back of my neck. Because of the blackout, I couldn't see anything clearly, but I got a strong impression of a knot of s.h.i.+fting shadows, just a little bit darker than the night itself, milling around outside Colin Gormond's house.

I quickened my step, and as I got nearer I heard a whisper pa.s.s through the crowd when they saw Johnny. Then the shadows began to disperse, slinking and sidling away, disappearing like smoke into the air. From somewhere, Mary Critchley lurched forward with a cry and took young Johnny in her arms. I let him go. I could hear her thanking me between sobs, but I couldn't stop walking.

The first thing I noticed when I approached Colin's house was that the window was broken and half the blackout curtain had been ripped away. Next, I saw that the door was slightly ajar. I was worried that Colin might be hurt, but out of courtesy I knocked and called out his name.

Nothing.

I pushed the door open and walked inside. It was pitch dark. I didn't have a torch with me, and I knew that Colin's light didn't work, but I remembered the matches and the candle on the table. I lit it and held it up before me as I walked forward.

I didn't have far to look. If I hadn't had the candle, I might have b.u.mped right into him. First I saw his face, about level with mine. His froth-specked lips had turned blue, and a trickle of dried blood ran from his left nostril. The blackout cloth was knotted around his neck in a makes.h.i.+ft noose, attached to a hook screwed into the lintel over the kitchen door. As I stood back and examined the scene further, I saw that his downturned toes were about three inches from the floor, and there was no sign of an upset chair or stool.

Harmless Colin Gormond, friend to the local children. Dead.

I felt the anger well up in me, along with the guilt. It was my fault. I shouldn't have gone das.h.i.+ng off to Acksham like that in search of Johnny, or I should at least have taken Colin with me. I knew the danger he was in; I had talked to Jack Blackwell before I left. How could I have been so stupid, so careless as to leave Colin to his fate with only a warning he didn't understand?

Maybe Colin had managed to hang himself somehow, without standing on a stool, though I doubted it. But whether or not Jack Blackwell or the rest had actually laid a finger on him, they were all guilty of driving him to it in my book. Besides, if Jack or anyone else from the street had strung Colin up, there would be evidence- fibres, fingerprints, footprints, whatever- and even DS b.l.o.o.d.y Longbottom wouldn't be able to ignore that.

I stumbled outside and made my way towards the telephone box on the corner. Not a soul stirred now, but as I went I heard one door- Jack Blackwell's door- close softly this time, as if he thought that too much noise might wake the dead, and the dead might have a tale or two to tell.

Edward D. Hoch.

The Haggard Society.

EDWARD D. HOCH is having one of his more memorable years. In addition to writing his usual monthly story for "Ellery Queen," he is also receiving two of the most prestigious awards in crime fiction: The Mystery Writers of America Grand Master Award and the Bouchercon's Life Achievement Award, Bouchercon being the annual convention that gathers writers and readers from around the world. And as if that weren't enough, just a few months ago he received another important award, The Eye, for Lifetime Achievement citation from the Private Eye Writers of America. After reading "The Haggard Society," first published in the anthology The Night Awakens, you'll see why he deserves all these accolades.

The Haggard Society.

Edward D. Hoch.

The first time Jean Forsyth heard of the Haggard Society, she was at her desk at the radio station, checking the advertising log for the previous night, trying to establish whether they needed to schedule make-goods on any of the thirty-second spots that were supposed to run during the baseball game. As always, a loudspeaker carried the station's current programming to every office in the building, and though it could be turned off if necessary, none of the people in the billing department was ever brave enough to do it.

So Jean heard the brief public service announcement along with everyone else: "Tonight's monthly meeting of the Haggard Society has been rescheduled for tomorrow evening at eight o'clock at Fenley Hall. The guest speaker will be Eugene Forsyth."

Jean turned to the young woman in the next cubicle. "Marge, what's the Haggard Society?"

"Beats me. I never heard of them before. Maybe one of those self-help programs. Why the sudden interest?"

"Their guest speaker is my brother. I haven't seen him in two years. I didn't even know he was back in town."

"Maybe it's just someone else with the same name."

"Maybe," Jean agreed. But there couldn't be that many Eugene Forsyths around these days. Her brother was three years older than she, and all through their growing-up years he'd resisted using "Gene" as a nickname because it would be confused with her name, something that had never occurred to their parents when they were christened. Eugene had gone off to college in Ohio when he was eighteen, then dropped out after a couple of years. He told them if he worked a year and established residence there, he could attend Ohio State at a lower tuition. But he never went back, and his letters home became less frequent.

Two years ago, Jean had gone out to Cleveland where he was living. Their parents had moved to Florida, and it was a summer when she was feeling especially lonesome. She wanted to see Eugene, to establish the old ties that had withered since he left home. He had an apartment in an older part of the city, an area that had once been middle-cla.s.s but was now on the fringes of poverty. From his window, Jean could see drugs being sold openly on the street corner.

Eugene professed to have a job as a camp counselor, but it was the middle of July, and he didn't seem to be working at all. She didn't ask him too much about it. After three days, she cut short her visit and returned home. She hadn't seen him since, and her trip to Cleveland didn't even prompt a Christmas card.

Now, if this was really him, he was speaking to something called the Haggard Society. Jean thought about that, wondering if it might be an organization of sickly folk. Might her brother have AIDS? She considered phoning their mother in Florida but decided that would accomplish nothing. First, she should go to the meeting and see for herself if it was really him.

Fenley Hall had been known originally as the Labor Lyceum, a meeting place for union members during the 1930s and the postwar years. The neighborhood had changed during the '60s, and it became less expensive for unions to rent a party house when they needed to hold a rally or take a vote. The Labor Lyceum became simply Fenley Hall, named after some forgotten politician. It was rented now for wedding receptions, political rallies, and various lecture series.

When Jean Forsyth arrived shortly before eight o'clock, the first thing she saw was her brother's picture out front on a sign advertising the event: "The Haggard Society presents a talk by Eugene Forsyth followed by an open discussion. Admission free!" He looked older with gla.s.ses and a mustache, but it was clearly Eugene. The hall itself was about half full, with more than a hundred people seated on the folding chairs provided for the occasion. One or two appeared to be street people merely looking for a place to sleep, but most were young or middle-aged and middle-cla.s.s. Some walked to the front of the hall, where a slender black-haired woman was accepting books that they returned. Jean almost asked a man seated ahead of her what the purpose of the society was but decided she might appear either flirtatious or stupid. Besides, she would know soon enough.

Promptly at eight o'clock, the black-haired woman walked onto the stage and lit a single candle by the rostrum. She was quite slim, and her makeup seemed too severe for the occasion, whatever that might be. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the July meeting of the Haggard Society. I am Antonia Grist. As most of you know, we gather here monthly to discuss our mutual interests. We were hoping tonight to hear from one of the newer members of our group, Eugene Forsyth, but he is indisposed. We plan to reschedule his talk very shortly. Instead, may I present my husband and president of the Haggard Society, Martin Grist."

The audience applauded politely, and Jean half rose from her seat, ready to leave. Then she abruptly changed her mind. Since she'd come this far, she might as well learn the nature of the group and possibly something of her brother's involvement.

Grist was slender, like his wife, with a lined middle-aged face and thinning hairline. He crossed to the microphone with a purposeful stride. "Thank you, Antonia," he said in a surprisingly deep voice. "I am hardly a replacement for Mr. Forsyth, whom we hope to have with us at a future meeting, but I'll do the best I can. I apologize in advance to those of you who have already heard my views on this subject."

He paused for a drink of water and then continued. "She Who Must Be Obeyed is H. Rider Haggard's greatest creation, a woman at once beautiful, erotic, headstrong, and selfish, cruel to her enemies yet tender to her lovers. Ever since her first appearance in Haggard's 1886 novel She, readers have found her as irresistible as she is deadly. I first came upon Haggard's writings when I stumbled onto a well-thumbed copy of King Solomon's Mines in my high school library..."

Jean could hardly believe her ears. It was a literary society devoted to the writings of a British author from the last century! And her brother, who'd hardly finished a book in his life, had been scheduled to speak there. She began to think there was some mistake. Surely, this was a different Eugene Forsyth, despite the picture out front.

Martin Grist droned on for some thirty-five minutes, covering H. Rider Haggard's life and works in the most general way. Jean, who'd read a couple of the books during her teens, remembered them as being more exciting than the talk, which Grist finished by recalling the novel's most vivid image. "It is fire," he told his audience, "the Flame of Life that is supposed to bring immortality but instead brings only a withering, terrible death."

There was polite applause as Grist concluded his talk and asked for questions. One man inquired about the possible value of a first edition of She. "There was a misprint in the first issue of the first British edition," Grist explained. "Line thirty-eight, page 269, has 'G.o.dness me' instead of 'Goodness me.' That version is valued at around six hundred dollars. The corrected version is worth only half as much."

A woman asked about Haggard's early adult years in Africa and the long-rumored affairs with native women. Grist seemed a bit taken aback by the question. "We don't go into those matters here," he replied. "This is strictly a literary society."

It was the answer rather than the question that caused Jean to turn in her seat and look at the woman, seated three rows behind her. She was in her twenties, brown-haired and wearing pink-rimmed eyegla.s.ses. She'd stood up to ask her question. Unsatisfied with Grist's response, she continued standing and said, "I have one more question."

Martin Grist seemed momentarily taken aback, and his wife suddenly appeared onstage. But before she could reach the microphone, the young woman asked, "Why wasn't Eugene Forsyth allowed to speak tonight?"

"Mr. Forsyth was taken ill," Grist answered.