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Roy Glashan's Library
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WHEN Tess Leigh washed her hair, one June evening, she involved the issue of life or death... On the surface it seemed merely a matter of a trivial change of habit. Instead of going bare-headed to work, she had to wear a cap.
The reason was that her thick wavy hair became unruly if she exposed it to the open air too soon after a shampoo.
The turban was made from a white Angora scarf and was ornamented with a lucky brooch of green-and-white enamel in the shape of a sprig of white heather. Inside the band was stitched a laundry-tape marked with her name in red thread.
It was a glorious morning when—disdaining the trams—she set out to walk to the Peninsular Dye-Stuffs Corporation, where she was employed as a stenographer. The industrial town was built upon rolling moorland whose natural beauty had been destroyed; but the Council had acquired a range of hills—the Steepes—as its lungs and playground. About 1,000 feet in height, they were dominated by the mountain-peak—the Spike—which rose another 3,000 feet into the air.
Tess walked with the rapid ease of youth, swinging the suitcase which held her holiday-kit. From time to time she looked up at the Spike—sharply outlined against a cloudless blue sky. It helped her forget the smoking chimneys of the factories and also to calm her spirit—for all was not well either with her work or her love.
She had only herself to blame for her heart-trouble. No one at the Peninsular could understand why she had been taken in by the cheap glamour of Clement Dodd. She was attractive, athletic and possessed of a sweet yet strong character. Fearlessly outspoken, she had deep sympathy with the underdog and always rushed in to champion any victim of injustice.
As she approached the majestic pillared entrance to the factory, she felt a reluctance to enter which was becoming a familiar sensation.
She knew that she was not the only employee to feel that suddenly sinking heart and lagging foot, in spite of the fact that old John Aspinall—who founded the Peninsular Works—had striven to make it a model factory. He had arranged for the health, comfort and recreation of his workers. There were extensive grounds, a swimming pool, an excellent canteen and various athletic clubs.
These good things remained after his death when his son—Young John—went to the USA to study American methods, leaving his brother to direct the corporation. Brother Eustace was a lazy inefficient man who was content to sink to the status of a puppet government after Miss Ratcliffe had bought a controlling interest in the Peninsular.
She was a wealthy, keen-witted woman with a lust for power. Soured by lack of social sovereignty through her failure to marry a titled husband, she strove to become a Power in commerce. Part of her policy was to use the brains and experience of the men employed by the Peninsular. While she was professing interest in them, her keen brain was mincing up their suggestions and theories until they emerged as facts—for which she took all the credit.
Unfortunately the process was accompanied by corresponding human wastage, when gradually the atmosphere became poisoned because employees feared for their jobs. Most of the small-fry were too insignificant to be vulnerable, but Tess stood out from the bulk of the stenographer-staff, because of an unlucky incident.
The Peninsular ran a rifle club in connection with the municipal shooting-range. One day, Miss Ratcliffe visited them and gave what practically amounted to a demonstration in marksmanship. Tess, who was also expert, welcomed her only as a worthy opponent and challenged her to a match which she won by a narrow margin.
'Bad show,' commented her friends. 'After this, she will have her knife in you.'
In addition to anxiety for her job, Tess was beginning to fear that Miss Ratcliffe was developing her specialized interest in Clement Dodd. As chief accountant of the Finance Department, he frequently visited her office although he denied any personal element to Tess.
Tess's frown deepened as she passed through the gates and entered the grounds—gay with lilac and laburnum. Although it was the half-holiday, the model factory repelled her like a prison. As she gazed wistfully up at the soaring Spike, she suddenly saw a bird circling over its rocky summit.
'Don,' she called to a tall stooping man with grey hair and a classical profile, 'Don, do you see what I see?'
He shaded his eyes with a shaking white hand.
'It must be an unusually large bird to be visible at this distance,' he remarked. 'Can it be an eagle?'
'Of course it's an eagle,' cried Tess exultantly. 'Oh, isn't he a real king of birds? So free and splendid. I've a passion for eagles. The sight of one in captivity makes me see red.'
The old man did not respond to her interest for he was gazing eagerly at an impressive black saloon-car which had just driven up to the main entrance. As a majestic blonde ascended the steps, he glanced at the clock tower.
'Miss Ratcliffe sets us an example in punctuality,' he remarked. 'In confidence, I have an appointment with her. My poor wife has resented the overtime I have given to the corporation. The fact is I was staying late to work out a system of reorganisation for several of the departments, to submit to Miss Ratcliffe ... Now I believe I am going to reap my reward. My letter states that the subject of the interview is "important clerical changes".'
As she looked at his flushed triumphant face, Tess had a sudden pang of misgiving. Originally a schoolmaster, Don was a man of superior education. For the sake of a delicate wife and daughter, he had commercialised his scientific knowledge in the Peninsular Laboratory. He was intensely proud of his intellectual family and his cultured surroundings, where every book and picture was the result of selective taste.
'Don't count on it,' she warned him. 'Everyone knows that Ratcliffe is a rat.'
A short girl with a dark fringe and an important air looked at her sharply as she hurried past. She had chosen an unfortunate moment for her remark, since the energetic damsel was Miss Ratcliffe's secretary. Donovan, too, was visibly distressed by her imprudence.
But Tess smiled at him and entered the great hall to clock in.
A young man came forward to meet Tess as though he had been watching for her arrival. Ted Lockwood made no secret of his feeling for her. It was one of Nature's mysteries why she had rejected him for Clement, since he was so suited to be her opposite number. She had a mechanical mind so could appreciate the fact that he was a clever engineer. Like her, he was a fine athlete while he seasoned his sound qualities with a sense of humour.
'Will madame lunch with me?'
'Sorry, Ted,' replied Tess. 'I'm eating with Clem. Have you seen him around?'
'In the sick-bay. He's got a hangover and Matron's fussing over him. If a woman wants to be maternal, it beats me why she doesn't marry and set up her own outfit.'
'Meaning me?' asked Tess with customary bluntness.
'Yes, Tess.' Lockwood's face was grim with resolution. 'Why won't you face the facts? The most successful marriages are founded on mutual interest—and you and I have the same tastes. How will you make out with an artistic bloke like Dodd?'
'Oh, not again, Ted,' pleaded Tess wearily.
She had no further chance to brood for she always worked at high pressure. As the subject of the dictation was technical matter which exacted her entire attention, she welcomed a break, in order to freshen herself with a wash. The men's and women's cloakrooms were built off a central domed hall with a white marble drinking-fountain, which was a popular meeting place.
When she entered it, a group of employees were talking in excited undertones as they gathered around Clement Dodd. He was a tall slim-waisted youth who would have made a pretty girl, but for thin mobile lips. He spoke with a stressed Oxford accent while his manner to women of all ages was that of a courtier.
'Heard the latest casualty?' he asked Tess. 'Poor old Don's got the K.O.'
As Tess stared at him in dismay, he lit a cigarette.
'Afraid he asked for it,' he said casually. 'Too big for his boots. That line does not appeal to our lady-boss.'
'It's a real tragedy,' exclaimed a woman who dyed her grey hairs. 'He was nearly due to retire. Now he'll lose his pension. What will become of him?'
'Hush,' whispered a typist. 'He's coming in.'
His head held high, the old scientist approached the group. He cleared his throat before he made an announcement after the fashion of a Headmaster addressing his school.
'I have just resigned my position. I have never been happy in a non-scholastic atmosphere. Now I shall hope to resume my academic career. I wish to take this opportunity to thank you for your loyal support and cooperation.'
Although his lips quivered. he managed to make a grand exit.
As she watched him, Tess grew suddenly hot and giddy.
'It's cruel—hateful—abominable—' she stormed. 'That horrible woman has thrown him out just to save his pension.'
'Cool off, you young volcano.'
Tess felt herself pushed down on a chair. Although she recognised Lockwood's voice, she barely saw him through a shifting mist. She gulped down the glass of water which he drew for her and then gave him a grateful grin.
'O.K.?' he asked. 'What was the matter? You went first red and then white.'
'Temper,' she replied frankly. 'Only it's a bit more than that. Just before I left Canada, I was in an air crash. Since then, if I get too steamed up, I have a blackout. The doctor told me I'd grow out of it very soon, but he warned me not to get excited.'
'What's it like?'
'Foul—and frightening. Everything turns black and I drop into a sort of sleep. The doctor explained that sleep was my salvation, but it scares me because when I wake up, I can remember nothing. I go right out.'
The rest of the morning dragged itself out. Worried about Don, she forgot to concentrate on her work with the result that she had the greatest difficulty in reading back her outlines. As she was typing her notes, she noticed that Miss James—Ratcliffe's secretary—had entered the room and was whispering to the supervisor.
Although she vaguely expected it, her heart knocked at the summons.
'Miss Leigh. Please report at once to Miss Ratcliffe.' ...
Seated at her desk, Miss Ratcliffe looked a model of impersonal Administration—correct to form and polished in every detail. Her dark suit was perfectly built and her silver-blonde wave faultless.
'Miss Leigh?' Her voice was languid. 'Ah yes. I am sorry that your services will not be required after today. You will receive a week's wages in lieu of notice. This is no reflection on your work—but we have to reduce the staff.'
'But Miss Ratcliffe,' gasped Tess, 'there must be some mistake. My speeds are the highest in the office and—'
'This is not a personal matter.'
'But it is personal.' With characteristic courage, Tess dared to interrupt the tyrant. 'If it were not, I should be expected to work out my notice. I have a right to know the reason.'
'The reason is this,' she said. 'You have been disloyal.'
With a guilty recollection of unguarded remarks, Tess could not deny the charge. Instead she sank her pride to make an appeal.
'I don't want to inflict a sob-story on you, but I really need this work. I came over here from Canada when my parents died and I have no friends in England. Jobs are so scarce at present. Will you give me a second chance? I promise you I'll do better in future.'
Miss Ratcliffe looked at her with cold impersonal eyes as she touched her bell.
'My decision is final,' she said.
AS Miss James bustled into the office and opened the door
pointedly, Tess had a sudden vision of the eagle beating his
great wings over the mountain top. The memory flooded over her,
filling her with a wave of power.
She realized that she too was free and able to meet Ratcliffe on equal ground.
'You are a cruel, petty woman,' she said. 'The most junior typist has more right in the Peninsular than you have. You've bought your power—not earned it. And instead of using it, you abuse it. When worthwhile people are dying every day, it is a crime for you to be alive.'
She was conscious of passers-by in the corridor who paused to look into the office before Miss James pushed her outside and shut the door.
On her way to the cashier's office, she met Don in the corridor—stooping like a defeated man.
'The Gestapo's got me too, Don. I'm sacked.'
'I'm deeply grieved,' he told her. 'But your conscience is clear, while I have something to regret ... When I first had news of my—my resignation, I was so stunned that—in trying to save myself—I threw someone to the lions. That hurts most.' He added regretfully with a lapse of his grand manner, 'Besides, it did me no good.'
As the admission sank in, fitting the circumstances of her own dismissal, Tess felt that she had been struck by the hand of a friend.
'You,' she muttered as she turned away.
The second shock made her feel numbed to reality. After she was paid off, she went to the cloakroom and mechanically changed into white slacks and a rose-red pullover. Her hair was beginning to get bushy, as she drew her white cap over it, in an instinctive desire to look her best when she met Clement.
SHE waited for Clement for a long time in the canteen, but he
did not appear. Presently she accepted the disappointment with
dreary fatalism. Too overwrought to eat, she went out of the
Peninsular grounds. All she wanted was to escape to the Steepes
and climb the rough ascent to the Spike—to stand on the
mountain-top and meet the healing friction of the wind.
Owing to its precipitous quarried sides, the Steepes were accessible from the town by a small funicular which carried patrons up the face of the cliff. The girl at the turnstile who collected the tickets was a local character. Abnormally sharp, although she looked a child, her mop of red hair had gained her the obvious title of 'Ginger'.
'Does it bring you luck?' she asked as her quick eyes noticed the white heather brooch on Tess's cap.
'You may have the lot at bargain-price,' Tess told her bitterly.
On the summit of the Steepes stretched a wide level expanse of threadbare turf where a cafeteria as well as chairs and tables were provided for the community. The bulk of the holiday-makers used to congregate there, eating, drinking, reading and playing games; but it was deserted that afternoon owing to a circus performance in the town.
Tess struck off along a narrow path which wound, like a pale green ribbon, amid clumps of whinberry and stems of uncurled bracken. Farther off, on the left, the ground sloped down to the Rifle-Range.
She threw herself down on the heather. She wanted the consolation of contact with primeval things. With a springy cushion of twigs supporting her head, she gazed up into the clear blue sky, when she noticed the flicker of wings.
Again the eagle was circling around the summit of the Spike, reminding her of her impulse to climb to the mountain-top. It was a long rough walk, for the steep track zigzagged continually across natural obstacles of bog and rock. Even the optimistic guide-book stated that two-and-one-half hours were required for the ascent.
Swinging to her feet, she had a clear view of the path leading to the Rifle-Range. Two figures—pressed closely together—stood upon the slope. Even at that distance, it was impossible to mistake the sunlit shimmer of the woman's silvery-blonde hair or the slack grace of her companion.
As she watched them, Dodd threw his arm around Miss Ratcliffe and bent his head, as though seeking her lips... At the sight, the blood rushed to Tess's head. Again she felt the blast of furnace heat while a wheel seemed to spin remorselessly inside her brain.
Recognizing the terrifying symptoms which heralded a temporary extinction, she fought with all her strength to resist them, but while she was struggling, a rush of darkness swept over her like a black rocket. As she fell—face downward—on the heather in her last moment of consciousness, she noticed the watch on her outstretched wrist.
It was 3 o'clock.
It was 4 o'clock. Tess stared at her watch with frightened eyes. Only an instant before it was 3 o'clock. A whole hour had been rubbed out of her life...
She pressed her fingers to her eyes as the memory of Clem's treachery overwhelmed her. The knowledge made her feel not only miserable, but cheap and ashamed, so that her dominant instinct was to hide. Soon the holiday-makers would be spreading fanwise over the lower slopes of the Steepes.
Shrinking from the ordeal of meeting someone from the Peninsular Factory, she rose stiffly and looked around for her cap. To her annoyance, she could not see it and, after pulling apart the nearest clumps of heather, she had to give up the search. Stampeded by the sound of distant voices, she ran over the rough until she reached a slippery bank of turf which dropped sheer to a narrow ledge above a worked-out quarry.
A perilous climb along the rocky rim brought her to a shallow depression in the hillside which offered her sanctuary. When she leaned back in the hollow, she seemed perched upon a lip of some bottomless abyss. For a long time she lay there—watching the pageant of clouds which rolled past like a stormy sea.
When she forced herself to look at her watch, she grimaced.
'Gosh, it's late. Well—I've got to face people again.'
In spite of this resolution, she made a circle to avoid passing the crowd around the cafeteria. She could not understand the force of the instinct which warned her to remain hidden.
As she clicked through the 'OUT' turnstile, she noticed that Ginger was staring at her. The scrutiny alarmed her vaguely for it revived her dormant dread of her lost hour.
'Where did I go?' she questioned. 'What have I done? Do I show the marks of it in my face? Why does that girl stare at me? Oh, dear heart, I wish Ted was with me.'
Now that her infatuation for Clement had been shrivelled by the knowledge of his treachery, her heart turned instinctively towards Lockwood. On the homeward journey, while she sat upon the hard wooden seats of the tram and watched long lines of mean houses slide past, the lines of Kipling's poem swam into her mind.
'The Thousandth Man will stand by your side
To the gallows-foot—and after!'
SHE lodged in a comfortable house which belonged to a florist.
It welcomed her like a haven, that evening. The flowers had never
looked so beautiful in the sunset glow when she walked through
the garden. The shabby dark green sitting room was cool and a
meal was spread on the table, so that she had only to make her
tea from the electric-kettle.
She was feeling refreshed and stimulated when her landlady entered the room to remove her tray.
'What news?' she clicked. 'Is it really true she's been murdered?'
'Who?' asked Tess, with a pang of foreboding.
'Your Miss Ratcliffe, of course. It's all over the town that she's been shot dead.'
As Tess stared blindly at her landlady, the scrape of the gate made the woman glance through the window.
'It's Mr Lockwood,' the announced. 'I'll go let him in.'
'I knew he'd come. I knew he'd come,' Tess told herself.
As he entered, she turned away and stood with clenched fists and locked jaws, fighting for self-control. She heard his step beside her but he did not speak until they were alone.
'Tess... Darling.'
The new tenderness of his tone broke down her defences. Clinging to him, she pressed her face against his shoulder.
'We mustn't waste time,' he said. 'A copper will soon be here to question you. First of all, remember I'm with you, whatever you've done... Did you kill her?'
Her face grew suddenly white as she repeated his question with stiff lips.
'Did I kill her? I don't know... Tell me, has my cap been found?'
'Why?'
'Because it's gone. I had a blackout. I can't remember anything... But my cap might tell me where I went.'
Lockwood's face grew grim as he heard her incoherent story.
'I know you are innocent,' he told her. 'But this is not exactly a water-tight yarn. Keep off it as much as you can. Don't lie, but let the police fish for themselves.'
'But why are they coming to me?'
In her turn, Tess listened to his account of the tragedy. A member of the Rifle-Club had found Ratcliffe's body lying in the rough beyond the targets, about 4.30. She had been shot through the heart at close range. The doctor estimated the time of death as between 3 and 4—but probably about 3.30. As Tess's rifle was found lying near, the police had made inquiries about her at the Peninsular Works, when they had learned about her dismissal and her subsequent threats.
He had just finished his story when the garden gate scraped again.
'It's the detective-bloke,' Lockwood warned Tess. 'Don't forget I'm standing by.'
INSPECTOR PONT reminded Tess of an uncle who grew prize
dahlias. He was big and dark, with sleepy brown eyes which
revealed nothing of his mental process.
Tess met him with the desperate courage of one mounting the scaffold.
'I am Tess Leigh. I am prepared to sign a statement.'
'Not so fast,' said the inspector. 'You'll be warned when I'm ready for that. I want to know if you remember making any of these remarks about the deceased?'
As Tess read the typewritten paper he handed her, her face flamed.
'Only one person could have told you these things,' she said. 'That's Clement Dodd... Yes, I did say them. All of them—and more. They are true. She was a cowardly tyrant for she hit people who could not hit back. Cruelty or injustice always make me see red.'
'The turnstile girl at the Steepes has told me you were up there from between 2 and 6,' Pont said. 'What were you doing during that time?'
'Walking,' replied Tess.
'Where?'
'I don't know... It's no good asking me. I've been in an air crash which has affected my memory. I was terribly upset... But I walked.'
'Did you lose your cap during your walk? The turnstile girl tells me you were wearing one when you clicked-in, but that you were bareheaded when you returned.'
'That's right. But I don't know where I lost it. I tell you—I don't know.'
'I'd like a description of it.'
After the inspector had entered the particulars in his notebook he turned towards the door. Lockwood noticed the glint in his eyes when he spoke to Tess.
'That cap's got to be found. I'll have bills out tomorrow. Meantime, a notice goes up on the Station-board. I don't expect any results tonight, but hold yourself ready to come and identify it.'
Directly the door closed, Lockwood held Tess tightly in his arms.
'I'm standing by you,' he said. 'We'll wait together.'
She was not comforted because she knew that he too was feeling the same strain of suspense. She felt his start when the telephone bell began to ring in the hall.
'I'll take it,' he said quickly.
When he returned, his smile was unnaturally broad.
'We're going for a joy-ride,' he told her. 'My bus is parked outside.'
THE journey to the Police Station had a nightmare quality. The
lines of smoke-grimed houses seemed to flash by so that
Tess—who was dreading the end of the ride—caught her
lip when the car stopped under the blue lamp. Still in an evil
dream, she stumbled into a tiled hall, when an open door gave her
a clear view into a room.
Standing under the glare of an unshaded electric bulb, Clement Dodd was smoking a cigarette. He appeared entirely at his ease until he saw Tess. His face grew red and he turned his back to avoid meeting her eyes.
'This way,' said a constable.
Supported by the pressure of Lockwood's arm, Tess followed the man into another office where Inspector Pont was seated before a table littered with official papers.
'Yours?' he asked, holding out a white Angora cap for her inspection. She glanced mechanically at her name printed inside the band and nodded assent, before she realised that he was smiling at her.
'My congratulations,' he said. 'This cap was brought in by two hikers—strangers to the district—who chanced to see the notice on the board. They say they picked it up among the rocks on the top of the Spike, soon after 4 this afternoon. As the official time for the ascent is two-and-one-half hours and the deceased was alive at 3, according to medical evidence, it stands to reason that you could not have committed the murder and afterwards climbed the mountain, all within an hour.'
As she listened, Tess's head reeled, for she realized that the story was full of holes. Before she could protest, Lockwood grabbed her arm.
'Miss Leigh's our champion athlete,' he told the Inspector. 'Thanks very much. I'll run her home now.'
'I may ring you later,' remarked the Inspector. 'I am going to chat with another party. If you're interested, you could take your time going out.'
Tess understood the reason for his wink when they reached the hall, for after the detective entered the room where Clement Dodd was waiting, he left the door slightly ajar.
'There's just one point I want cleared up, Dodd,' he said in a loud, cheerful voice. 'It's common knowledge that two articles were found on the scene of the crime. One—a rifle—has been identified as the property of a stenographer—Tess Leigh. The other article has still to be identified.'
'But her name's inside the band.' Clement spoke quickly and confidently. 'Besides, everyone knows her white-heather brooch.'
'I was referring to a pencil stamped with "PENINSULAR",' remarked the Inspector. 'The cap you describe was picked up at the top of the Spike at 4 o'clock this afternoon.'
'That's a damned lie. I saw it—'
'You saw it?' prompted the Inspector as Dodd broke off abruptly. 'Go on. Now that Miss Leigh has a perfect alibi, I must go further into your own movements.'
He shut the door and Lockwood dragged Tess outside to the car.
As they reached the front door of Tess's lodging, they heard the telephone bell ringing in the hall, when, once again, he rushed to receive the call.
When he rang off, his face was beaming.
'Dodd's confessed to the crime,' he said. 'The Inspector said he was in such a state of nerves after he made that slip that he cracked directly they got to work on him. It appears that old Donovan—when he was ratting for Ratcliffe—found out that Dodd had been embezzling money from the accounts. He told Ratcliffe and she taxed Dodd.
'As usual, she pretended that she alone had been so clever as to discover the fraud, so he reasoned that if he bumped her off, no one would know. I am assuming old Don blew the gaff from something he said to me. Dodd admitted that he got Ratcliffe to come with him to the Range, to talk it over, so it was a cold-blooded crime.'
As she listened. Tess felt almost light-headed with relief.
'Oh, it's wonderful to know I never killed her. And I'm glad Don didn't give me away. It was Clem he "threw to the lions" ... I was feeling that I could trust no one. And then—you walked with me to the gallows-foot. And after—'
Lockwood began to laugh as he interrupted her.
'I've some good news for you. It didn't matter before. Nothing mattered then but you... But Eustace has asked Daddy to carry on until young John returns from America. Looks as if the good times are coming back to the Peninsular... But what's the girl frowning about now?'
'My cap,' replied Tess. 'If it had been found near the body, I should be convinced that I had killed her. I should have confessed to it—and Clem would not have been brought into it. I should have cleared him... But how did that cap get on the top of the Spike? I passed out between 3 and 4. Besides, no one on earth could have made the climb in that time.'
'No one on earth,' said Lockwood. 'But what about someone in the air! There's a simple and natural explanation. My hunch is that Dodd saw you asleep after he shot Ratcliffe—in that white rig you'd be conspicuous on the heather—so he stole your cap and placed it beside the rifle, to frame you. That's why he crashed so badly. Nothing rattles a liar so much as to be disbelieved when he is telling the truth—and he knew it was inside the range. There was no wind, but probably it stirred a bit in the breeze.
'Enter Mr. Eagle. He sees something white and fleecy moving on the heather. He swoops down on it, soars up again, realises he's been fooled and drops it again in disgust... By the luck of the air currents, it fell on the top of the mountain instead of the lower slopes. You owe your perfect alibi to your friend—the eagle.'
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
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