The Case Of The Berkshire Hog by Robert F. Clifton (ink book reader .TXT) 📕

way, parked his automobile and after getting out walked to the front door of the undertakers parlor.

Entering, Basham heard the sound of a buzzer which was meant to alert those in the rear of the establishment that someone had entered. Moments later, a tall, thin man attired in a black business suit entered the room. “Good day sir. May I be of service?, asked the man.

“I hope so. I’m Doctor Alistair Basham, Professor of Sociology at Harrow. I’ll come right to the point. What I’m looking for is information about a funeral that this mortuary performed back in 1926.”

“Nineteen hundred and twenty six? My good man if our mortuary did in fact provide service then it had to be conducted by my grandfather. Back then the business was located in Chelmsford.”

“I realize that. I’m hoping that you have the name and records of one Roger Fleming,” said Basham.

“Our files don’t go that far back sir.”

“Of course not. I was just hoping that they did.”

“Just what were you looking for?”, asked the mortician.

“The man I mention was a victim of a homicide. The indication is that he died as a result of a crushed skull. I need to verify that fact”

“You say the man was a victim of a homicide?”

“Yes.”

“There is a possibility that some sort of record might exist. If we are engaged in making arrangements for those types of victims we keep records just in case we are summoned to court at a later time or in dealing with insurance companies. It was a system instituted by my grandfather. Please, make yourself comfortable while I look through what we call, “Pending Legal Issues.”

“Thank you very much,” said Basham.

Fifteen minutes later the mortician returned, walking into the room. “Sorry to have to make you wait sir”, he said.

“No problem Mister? Mister?”

“Parsons, Simon Parsons.”

“A pleasure meeting you sir.”

“What I found Doctor is a record of a bill for fifty pounds sent to the county of Essex, back in 1926,” said Parsons.

“Excellent. Could you tell me what services your business rendered?,” asked Basham.

“It seems that the company sold an inexpensive, white pine coffin. The body was found to have had a crushed occipital was not embalmed and was buried twenty four hours after receiving it.”

“I see. Since the man’s skull had been crushed could you tell me how that injury would be treated in the mortuary?”

“Off hand I’d say back then, since there was no viewing that the remainder of the brain would have been removed. Had there been a viewing the brain would probably been removed and the cavity in the skull hidden by cosmetics and the position of the body in the coffin.”

“Was that done with Roger Fleming?”

“Knowing my grandfather, I’d say yes except that cosmetics were in all probability not used.”

“I see. Well. Thank you very much, Mr. Parsons.”

“You’re quite welcome sir. Are there any other questions?”

“Yes, did the County of Essex pay the bill?”

“Oh yes. Yes indeed.”

The next day Alistair took the bus from Harrow into London. Joyce needed the motorcar to attend a faculty meeting being held in Nottingham. After entering Basil Morgan’s, private office he took a seat and said. “As you know I went to Blackmore yesterday.”

“Yes, for what purpose, I have no idea,” Morgan replied.

“Simply put, I cemented the fact that One, Roger Fleming was struck from behind. Two, his skull was indeed crushed. Three, it was the back of his head that was compacted. And, since there was no viewing and he was buried within twenty four hours of being at the mortuary, one gets the impression that dear old Roger was not very much liked”

“Forget his personality. What you have just told me so far is that your suspect is a short bloke with twenty to twenty five inch arms and attacked Fleming from behind several times resulting in Fleming having a crushed skull,” said Morgan.

“I say, now you’re getting it old boy, bravo.”

“So what have we now?”, asked Morgan.

“Just a bit more information casting doubt on Mercer as the killer.”

“Where do we go from here?,”asked Morgan.

“I under estimated Fillmore. Have him talk to the blokes in and around Chelmsford. See if he can connect who the chap is named Henry who Fleming refused to allow on his property.”

Anything else?,” asked Morgan.

“Yes. Also have him talk to this Miller person. See if he can find out where Fleming kept his money in the house.”

“Personally, I think the facts about the money are long gone and we will never make a connection, although it would support a motive.”

“You may be correct, still I say we try.”

“And, when it comes to the missing money you don’t have any suspects?”, asked Morgan.

“Oh, to be sure old boy. Keep in mind that Fleming was reported to be a loner, almost a recluse. Fillmore after talking to John Miller reported that the man stated that his father had said that several hundred pounds were missing from the house. Sergeant Draper never mentioned money missing. The other field hands in Flemings employ knew of money being in the house and more or less indicated that the investigating police detectives took the money. However, who else would have known about the money? Albert Miller would have certainly known. Albert Miller found the body. Albert Miller went into the office to use the telephone to call the police. Albert Miller was the one that said money was missing, but also said how much money was missing. How did he know? My suspects then come down to two individuals, Albert Miller and the killer.”

“I must say, you make a good point,” Morgan replied.

“Do not place too much emphasis on the money. I doubt that it is even mentioned in the court transcripts. Let us concentrate of this Henry chap. I feel that he is the man we are looking for.

“I’ll get Fillmore right on it,” said Morgan.

“Good, now I must be going. I have to take the bus back to Harrow,” said Basham.

“Please, let me drive you home,” said Morgan.

“No. Taking the bus keeps me humble. I used public transportation all of the time before I got married. My wife owned a motorcar so not to be outclassed by her I learned to drive. I’ll take a seat on the bus as I use to do and read the newspaper on the way home. Cheerio.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Six

Gunnister Man

 

 

On Sunday morning, June 24, 1951 Alistair and Joyce Basham sat quietly in their living room, both reading the morning newspaper. Their quiet was interrupted by the ringing telephone. “Blast it to hell! Who would be calling this time of the day and on a Sunday!”, said Alistair loudly.

“Just calm down. I’ll answer the telephone and see. Are you expecting a call?,” asked Joyce.

“Of course not,” Basham replied.

As Joyce answered and then spoke on the telephone Alistair attempted to regain the place in the newspaper where he had been reading. After a short while Joyce came back into the room.

“Well, who the bloody hell was it?,” asked Basham.

“The university. The call was for me,” she answered.

“What did they want?,” he asked.

“Do you recall last month when I told you they had found a body of a man buried in a bog in Scotland?”

“Vaguely.”

“Well, it seems that what two men digging peat found the remains of a man estimated to be from the 1600’s or 1700’s. The remains consist of a piece of his skull with some dark hair, finger and toe nails and fragments of bone found in a sleeve and stocking. The university chair wants me to go to Scotland and take a look at what was found.”

“I thought that you are a paleoanthropologist.”

“I am.”

“Since when was the sixteen and seventeenth century in the paleo period?”

“They’re not of course.”

“Then why you?”

“Because I work for the university, just as you do. If you were told to lecture in Tibet and you wanted to chase some criminal you would travel to Tibet. I’m no different then you love.”

Basham sat quietly for a moment then said, “You’re right of course. Where in Scotland will you be going?.” he asked.

“First to Edinburgh, then to Shetland where the remains were found.”

“And, let me guess, you don’t know how long you will be away.”

“Not really.”

“Will you be taking the motorcar?”

“No, I’ll be taking the train.”

“I see. Well what must be, must be. When will you be leaving?”

“Tomorrow or the next day. It depends on the railroad schedule. As a matter of fact I should be on the telephone now making arrangements.”

“Make sure that the train stops at Belmont Station in Harrow. It should be the Metropolitan Railway, but it’s been sometime since I’ve used a train,” said Alistair.

“I’ll look into it love,” Joyce replied.

“If so I’ll drive you to Belmont Station.”

“I should hope so. What will you be doing while I’m away?,” asked Joyce.

“ I really can’t say. There’s no summer classes for my subject matter. I could perhaps bring my lecture material up to date, but actually what I have right now is rather good, you see.”

“You could try gardening.”

“That means getting one’s hands dirty. Seems rather egregious, all for a flower or vegetable if you were to ask me.”

“Suit yourself. I should know that you’ll never change after all your years.’

“Why is it that after a woman marries a man she sets out to mold him into what she considers, proper?,” he asked.

“Probably because it’s our way of improving civilization.”

Later, as Joyce packed for her trip Alistair sat at his desk. He opened the file containing the notes he had made in relation to the Mercer/Fleming Case. As usual he started at the beginning, not wanting to omit anything. As he read what by now could almost be considered a journal he re-examined everything he had written up to this point in the case. He stopped reading. Deep in thought. “It keeps coming back to the hog hair. That’s the key. Find the answer to the hog hair and it will lead you to the killer. Blast it! Why can’t I make a connection? And? Who is this Henry chap?” he thought to himself.

The next day, Monday, Alistair drove the automobile to Belmont Station and after opening the motorcar’s boot, removed the two suitcases Joyce had packed to take with her to Scotland.

“Are you sure you packed enough? I’ll bet when I get home the telly will be missing,” he said.

“You do exaggerate, don’t you?”

“At times perhaps, but you must admit that you in all likely hood have packed more then you need.”

“Really, I could pack as you often do. One shirt, one pair of underwear and a pair of socks.”

“You make me sound like some unwashed vagrant.”

“How’s that for exaggeration?”, she asked.

“I should know better then to go toe to toe with you. Now, here comes your train. Go to Scotland, get your hands dirty and enjoy what you like to do most. I’ll miss you love,” said Alistair.

“Good by darling. I’ll give you a ring once I get settled. I made a Cottage Pie for supper. I hope you enjoy it.”

“I’m sure I will.”

Basham watched the train to Scotland until it disappeared from sight, then walked slowly to the automobile. On the ride home, he missed her already.

After speaking with Morgan on Tuesday, Alistair motored into London to meet with him and to have lunch. Arriving at Eight Hoxton Square Morgan requested a table in the rear of the room more or less guaranteeing the two men privacy during their conversation over a meal. While Morgan ordered a martini Basham ordered a Sherry and as they looked over the menu Morgan said, “It appears as if my brief is finally moving up on the court calender. Have you come up with anything new?”

“As a matter of fact I have. This Henry chap, the one we can’t come up with. We know from talking to Harry Mercer, Stanley Cook and the mortician in Blackmore that after the death of Roger Fleming his house and farm was put up for auction more or less to pay his debts