# The Viaduct Murder/Chapter 2

CHAPTER II
IN THE ROUGH
The view from the third tee was one which even a golfer might pause to admire. Let the Wordsworthian say what he will, railways ennoble our landscape; they give to our unassuming valleys a hint of motive and destination. More especially, a main line with four tracks pillowed on a sweep of tall embankment, that cannot cross a meandering country stream without a stilt-walk upon vast columns of enduring granite, captivates, if not the eye, at least the imagination. Such was the railway that stretched far into the distance, paralleling the course of your drive on the right: such was the great viaduct, some hundred feet ahead of you, that spanned laboriously, over four giant arches, the little river Gudgeon, most insignificant of streams. Shallow and narrow it ran, fringed by willow-herb and meadow-sweet, a paddling-place for cows and for unoccupied caddies. Here and there it threw out a patch of osiers—one in particular, that nestled at the foot of the railway-arches, was especially dreaded by golfers. In front, just visible above the railway where it receded northwards, were the thatched and tiled roofs of Paston Whitchurch, ​the next station down the line. To the right lay the old house, in its melancholy grandeur, behind it the village and church of Paston Oatvile. A superb avenue of elms connected the old house with the road between the two villages. The sun had newly come out, showing grass the greener and earth the browner for the late rain; elemental scents of turf and furrow greeted its restoration.
It may be doubted whether Mordaunt Reeves was particularly sensitive to such influences; if he was, it may have been this distraction which made him slice his drive. The ball dwindled down the gradual slope towards the river; cleared in a couple of bounds the tussocks of thick grass that dotted the little valley, and buried itself at last in the osier bed at the foot of the arches. Gordon and he⁠—they were partners⁠—set out at once to retrieve it, distrusting the efforts of an inefficient caddie, who was nearer the spot. It was only a closer view that showed how well-chosen a lair was this for a golf-ball hard pressed in the chase. The ground was all tussocks of rank grass, with hidden runlets that made islands of them; stubborn little shoots of willow arrested the searching club. They might have spent a full half-hour in vain scrutiny, had not Reeves’s eye lighted suddenly on something he never looked to find there, a darker patch among the surrounding green, close to the foot of the first arch. It showed the outlines of a man.
A dog sleeps on the alert, with the visible threat of waking at any moment. A man’s sleep is like ​the sleep of the horse; it imitates death. Reeves's first idea was that this man who lay so still must be a tramp who had strayed off the London high-road, and was taking his siesta in the lee of the viaduct. Then a gleam of more than military intelligence assured him that on such an afternoon of downpour a man composing himself to sleep would have been under the arch, not by the side of it. "Hello!" he shouted uneasily to Gordon, "looks as if there was something wrong here." Together they approached the prostrate body; it lay face downwards, and there was no movement of life. The thrill of distaste with which healthy nature shrinks from the sight of dissolution seized both of them. Gordon had served three years in the army, and had seen death; yet it was always death tricked out in the sacrificial garb of khaki; there was something different about death in a town-coat and striped grey trousers—it was a discord in the clear weather. The sun seemed to lose a shade of its brightness. Together they bent, and turned the body over, only to relinquish it again by a common instinct. Not only did the lolling head tell them that here the architecture of the human frame had been unknit; the face had disappeared, battered unrecognizably by some terrible and prolonged friction. They looked upwards, and knew at once that the sloping buttress of the arch, all of rough granite, must have intercepted a fatal fall, and added to its horror. Little about the head could be distinguished except closely-cut grey hair. ​"Poor devil," said Gordon huskily. "Down from the line, I suppose."
"I say," said Reeves, "we mustn't let the caddie see this. Send him across to fetch the other two." Marryatt and Carmichael were now close behind them, and came up almost immediately.
"Is there somebody dead?" asked Marryatt. "I say, how awful." He kept on walking up and down as if thoroughly unnerved, repeating to himself, "How awful." Carmichael, for once, was dumb. It was a new voice that summed up the situation, in the words, " 'E's got 'is properly, ain't 'e?" and they turned round to find the caddie obviously enjoying a new sensation.
"Look here, we must move this somehow," suggested Gordon. "What about the tool-house under that arch?"
"I'm not quite sure I could lift it," said Reeves.
"That's all right, sir," said the caddie, "I'll whistle across to Ginger; in the scouts 'e was; they teach 'em what to do with bodies and that. 'Ere, Ginger!" and as his fellow-caddie approached, "Bloke fell off of the railway-line and smashed hisself up something cruel." Ginger whistled: "Dead, is 'e?" "Not half 'e ain't; shamming, that's what 'e is; go and 'ave a look at 'im."
Ginger satisfied his curiosity on the point; and these two cold-blooded young persons proceeded to hoist the body on to an ingenious arrangement of sticks, and so carried it off, under Gordon's directions, to the tool-house.
​As the spell of the uncanny presence was removed, Reeves's horrified embarrassment ebbed from him a little, and left him with the sense that he ought to take command of the proceedings.
"Where's Beazly likely to be?" he asked⁠—Beazly was the doctor.
"He went out in the rain," said Marryatt; "I should say he'd be about the tenth or eleventh by now. Look here, I'll nip across and get him," and in a moment he was running across the fairway.
"Seemed glad to get away," said Reeves; "well, it's too late for visiting the sick, and too soon for burying the dead. Carmichael, you're looking a bit on edge, too; would you mind going across to Paston Whitchurch station and phoning up the police? Binver, I suppose, is the nearest place to get a bobby from. You will? Good." And as Carmichael too made off, "Look here, Gordon, what are we going to do about it? I've got the feeling that there's something wrong here. What do you say to doing a bit of detective work on our own⁠—or are you feeling rotten?"
"Oh, I'm feeling all right," said Gordon, "only what about the police? Won't they want to look through the man's things first? It would be awkward if we put ourselves on the wrong side of the law. Funny thing, I've no idea whether there's any law against searching a dead body; yet, if there isn't, how do the police ever get their clues?"
"Oh, rot, the police can't be here for a good half-hour, and Beazly won't mind if he comes along. ​Let's take a bit of a look round, anyhow. He fell off the arch, and smashed up his face against the buttress, that looks pretty clear. Now, did he fall off the line, or off a train?"
"If you ask me, I should say he fell off the parapet. I've noticed, sometimes, what a long way it really is from the door of one's carriage to the parapet⁠—a man falling from a carriage would never reach the edge."
"Ah," said Reeves, looking up, "but you're imagining the train stationary. He would be hurled forward some way by the impetus, if he jumped off a moving train. And I should say he could have started falling down that bank to the right, just before the parapet begins. He'd roll forwards and sideways, if you see what I mean, till he got to where the stonework begins, up there, and then, plop."
"I dare say you're right. Anyhow, we'd better be quick and look at the body."
As they went towards the tool-house, Reeves gave a sudden exclamation. "By Jove, his hat! And it's⁠—let's see⁠—I should say fifteen yards to the north of the body. Now why?"
"How do you mean?"
"There was no wind this afternoon. If his hat fell with him, it would lie with him. If it lies a dozen yards away, that looks as if⁠—as if it was thrown after him. The considerate fellow-passenger hardly does that, does he?"
"You mean there's been dirty work?"
​"I mean it looks as if there'd been dirty work. Now for the tool-shed."
To search a dead body is not an easy performance, unless you are in a hurry and have got to do it. Gordon did most of the work, and Reeves checked his results for him. The pockets contained a handkerchief, marked with the name "Masterman," a cigarette-case, of a common pattern, containing a cigarette of a brand smoked by every second man in the neighbourhood, a half-empty box of matches, a pipe and an empty pouch, two florins, a letter and a business communication both addressed to S. Brotherhood, Esq., and a watch and chain. They also found, written on the back of the letter, a pencilled list of goods, as if to remind a man of his shopping needs.
"It's a queer thing," said Reeves, "that watch; because he's got one on his wrist too. How many people, I wonder, carry a stomach-watch as well as a wristwatch? It's stopped, I suppose?"
"Blessed if it isn't going! An hour fast, apparently, but going. Good advertisement for the makers, what?"
"But the wristwatch?"
"That's stopped."
"When?"
"Six minutes to five."
"What did I say about trains? The 4:50 from Paston Oatvile would be just passing here at six minutes to five. How's that for deduction?"
"Looks all right, anyhow. And, by Gad, here's ​a third single from town to Paston Whitchurch. Is today the sixteenth? Yes, then that's quite on the square. Now, stand by while I see if his clothes are marked."
But neither coat nor shirt, neither collar nor trousers bore any mark of ownership. The suit was from Messrs. Watkins in New Oxford Street, the shirt and collar were of a brand which it would be mere advertisement to mention. During all this time, Reeves was making a transcript of the three documents, not without a certain sense of intrusion upon a dead man's confidence. As Gordon began to look into one of the boots, Reeves gave a whisper of warning, and a policeman (for they have motorcycles even in the police force) came into distant view. Panic seized the forces of Baker Street, and (forgetting that they had a perfect right to be in charge of the dead man's body) they resumed, very shamefacedly, their search for the lost ball. It seemed incongruous somehow, to be worrying about a golf-ball⁠—ought there to be a local rule about what happened if you found a corpse on the links? Certainly the game had been abandoned, and the caddies, to their great regret, sent back with the clubs.
"Good evening, gentlemen," said the policeman, eyeing them narrowly. It was not that he suspected them or anybody of anything; he merely sized them up by force of habit to see whether they were the kind of people you touched your hat to or the kind of people you told to move on. The scrutiny be​ing favourable, he allowed them to slash about in the undergrowth and watch, with ill-concealed curiosity, the official proceedings of Scotland Yard.
Scotland Yard did very much what they had done, only with a splendidly irrelevant thoroughness. Not only the destination, class, and date of the ticket had to be registered in the notebook, but its price⁠—there even seemed to be a moment's hesitation about the Company's regulations on the back. Nor did the names of the cigarette-importer and the collar-maker go unrecorded; both watchmakers, the postmarks on the correspondence, the date on the florins⁠—nothing escaped this man. Tired of waiting for the doctor and the inevitable ambulance, Gordon and Reeves abandoned the truant ball, and made their way thoughtfully to the dormy-house.
Wilson, the club gossip, met them at the entrance. "Heard about old Brotherhood?" he asked, and went on, before they had time to gasp: "He's gone bankrupt; heard it today in the City."
"Really?" said Reeves. "Come and have a drink." But if he thought that he too had the telling of a story, he was mistaken; the door opened on a well-known voice:
"Yes, sliced his drive badly, did Reeves. A curious thing, that,⁠—you 'slice' a ball in golf and you 'cut' a ball at cricket, and it's the same action in either case, and yet it's nothing whatever to do with the motion of cutting a cake. What was I saying? Oh yes. Right against the viaduct⁠—did you ever ​see the big viaduct they've got at Welwyn? A finer one than ours, even—he found . . . "
Which made it evident that Mr. Carmichael was telling, in his own way, the story of the day's adventure.