She looked at her watch. All this had taken her about twenty minutes from the time that she first saw the body. She thought she had better, while she was about it, spare time to make sure that the footprints belonged to the body. She removed one shoe from the foot of, the corpse, noticing as she did: so that, though the sole bore traces of sand, there were no stains of sea-water upon the leather of the uppers. Inserting; the shoe into one of the footprints, she observed that they corresponded perfectly. She did not care for the job of replacing the shoe, and therefore took it with her, pausing as she regained the shingle, to take a view of the rock from the landward side.
The day was certainly clouding over and the wind getting up. Looking out beyond the rock, she saw a line of little swirls and eddies, which broke from time to time into angry-looking, spurts of foam, as though breaking about the tops of hidden rocks. The waves everywhere, were showing feathers of foam, and dull yellow streaks reflected the gathering cloud-masses further out to sea. The fishing-boat was almost out of sight, making for Wilvercombe.
Not quite sure whether she had done the right thing or the wrong, Harriet gathered up her belongings, including the shoe, hat, razor, cigarette-case and handkerchief, and started to scramble up the face of the cliff. It was then just after half-past two.
Chapter II. The Evidence Of The Road
‘None sit in doors,
Except the babe, and his forgotten grandsire,
And such as, out of life, each side do lie
Against the shutter of the grave or womb.’
— The Second Brother
Thursday, 18 June
THE road, when Harriet reached it, seemed as solitary as before. She turned in the direction of Wilvercombe and strode along at a good, steady pace. Her instinct was to run, but she knew that she would gain nothing by pumping herself out. After about a mile, she was delighted by the sight of a fellow-traveller; a girl of about seventeen, driving a couple of cows. She stopped the girl and asked the way to the nearest house.
The girl stared at her. Harriet’ repeated her request.
The reply came in so strong a west-country accent that Harriet could make little of it, but at length she gathered that Will Coffin’s, over to Brennerton, was the nearest habitation, and that it could be reached by following a winding lane on the right.
‘How far is it?’ asked Harriet.
The girl opined that it was a good piece, but declined to commit herself in yards or miles.
‘Well, I’ll try there,’ said Harriet. ‘And if you meet anybody on the road, will you tell them there’s a dead man on the beach about a mile back and that the police ought to be told.’
The girl stared dumbly.
Harriet repeated the message, adding, ‘Do you understand?’
‘Yes, miss,’ said the girl, in the tone of-voice which makes it quite cleat that the hearer understands nothing.
As Harriet hurried away up the lane, she saw the girl still staring after her.
Will Coffin’s proved to be a small farmhouse. It took Harriet twenty minutes to reach it, and when she did reach it, it appeared to be deserted. She knocked at the door without result; pushed it open and shouted, still without result; then she went round to the back.
When she had again shouted several times, a woman in an apron emerged from an outbuilding and stood gazing at her.
‘Are any of the men about?’ asked Harriet.
The woman replied that they were all up. to the seven-acre field, getting the hay in.
Harriet explained that there was a dead man lying on the shore and that the police ought to be informed,
‘That do be terrible, surely,’ said the woman. ‘Will it be Joe Smith? He was out with his boat this morning and the rocks be very dangerous thereabouts. The Grinders, we call them.’
‘No,’ said Harriet; ’it isn’t a fisherman — it looks like somebody from the town. And he isn’t drowned. He’s cut his throat’
‘Cut his throat?’ said the woman, with relish. ‘Well, now, what a terrible thing, to be sure.’
‘I want to let the police know,’—said Harriet, ‘before the, tide comes in and covers the body.’
‘The police?’ The woman considered this. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, after mature thought. ‘The police did ought to be told about it.’
Harriet asked if one of the men could be found and sent with a message. The woman shook her head. They were getting in the hay and the weather did look to be changing. She doubted if anybody could be spared.
‘You’re not on the telephone, I suppose?’ asked Harriet.
They were not on the, telephone, but Mr Carey at the Red Farm, he was on the telephone. To get to the Red Farm, the woman added, under interrogation, you would have to go back to the road and take the next turning, and then it was about a mile or maybe two.
‘Was there a car Harriet could borrow?
The woman was sorry, but there was no car. At least, there was one, but her daughter had gone over to Heathbury market and wouldn’t be back till late.
‘Then I must try and get to the Red Farm,’ said Harriet, rather wearily. ‘If you do see anybody who could take a message, would you tell them that there’s a dead man on the shore near the Grinders, and that the police ought to be informed.’
‘Oh, I’ll tell them sure enough,’ said the woman, brightly. ‘It’s a very terrible thing, isn’t it? The police did ought to know about it., You’re looking very tired, miss would you like a cup of tea?’
Harriet refused the tea, and said she ought to be getting on. As she passed through the gate, the woman called her back. Harriet turned hopefully.
‘Was it you that found him, miss?’
‘Yes, I found him.’
‘Lying there dead?’
Yes.’
‘With his throat cut?’
‘Yes.’