The Moor - Laurie R. King [85]
"Don't need doctor for that'n, missus."
"A doctor needs to declare him dead. It's a legal requirement. Did you send for them?"
"Mr Arundell went to fetch'n." Baring-Gould's curate lived in the house overlooking the lake.
"Good. Now, we can't use the boat again in case there are fingerprints on it. Can we find another boat? I'd like to take a look at the body."
They were shocked. "You baint wantin' to be doing that, missus."
"You're quite right, I don't particularly want to, but I think I ought to."
"Thicky be Miz Holmes," the familiar-looking man said to the other two in explanation, and that indeed seemed to explain and excuse all manner of misbehaviour, because they suddenly became cooperative, even eager.
"You feel free to use thicky boat, missus. Baint nobuddy else 'as used'n in weeks. He were dry as an ole bone."
"Well, in that case, good. Now, if you, Mr…?"
We paused for introductions: Andrew Budd was the young gardener, Albert Budd his older cousin, and Davey Pearce the third and eldest, an uncle of some sort. We shook hands gravely, and resumed.
"If Mr Andrew Budd would come and handle the boat for me, and you, Mr Budd the elder, would take up a position on the top of this ramp and stop anyone from coming down, perhaps, Mr Pearce, you could make your way around to the top of the other ramp and stop anyone from interfering on that side. And if you see any footprints, any hoof or tyre marks, any scuffs, give them wide berth. Yes? Good."
It was bitter cold out on the slate-coloured water of the submerged quarry. A layer of mist clung low to the surface of the lake, causing my inadequate clothes to go clammy against my skin, while over our heads the half-bare trees rose up in watchful disapproval, the flares of intense yellow from their remaining leaves the only colours in this tight, closed-in little universe. Budd rowed the short distance over to where the body floated, facedown in the water. A hat, sodden but not yet completely waterlogged, had lodged against a submerged branch ten feet away, and as soon as I saw the thin hair floating like pond weed around the head, I knew who this had been.
My thoughts were echoed in an imperious shout that would have had me in the water beside the corpse had it not been for the strong arm of Andrew Budd.
"Who is it?" The call came from high above, and I turned carefully and saw, to my amazement, Baring-Gould with half a dozen others, perched on the rim looking down. There was a chair in back of him, I saw; he had travelled here by the simple expedient of having himself carried, seat and all, in a makeshift litter.
"It's Randolph Pethering," I called back, and began to shiver. Budd saw it, and began to take off his coat, but I waved him away. "Keep it on, I'll just get it wet. Can you get us a bit closer, please?" We eased up until the prow was touching the antiquarian's sleeve. He was only resting among the floating twigs and leaves against the bank, not lying up on it, and looked to be settling down into the water. Having said we must wait for the police officials to supervise the removal of the body, I was hesitant to interfere, but at the same time I did not wish them to be forced to drag this pit for a sunken corpse, and after all, it was highly unlikely that the constables in charge of recovering the body would pay the slightest attention to the niceties of investigation, anyway. I took a deep breath, gritted my teeth against the reaction of my ribs, and reached down my right hand to take hold of the back of Pethering's jacket. Budd made an inarticulate protest.
"I have to do this," I told him. "He's about to sink in the water. Back us away from the bank a little, please."
When the body was free from the rocks, I rolled him over, taking care not to add any scrapes or marks to those he might already possess, and taking care too not to let go of him lest he disappear into the depths. As I moved him, however, I noted that this did not actually seem an immediate likelihood, which was in itself interesting. Furthermore,