Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 5: Died in the Wool, Final Curtain, Swing Brother Swing

‘I’ve never bought dead wool in my life. Least of all from Mount Moon. And the smell of dead wool goes off after it’s plucked. You know that as well as I do. Dead rat, more likely. Have you looked?’

‘Yes, I have looked, Mr Joseph. I shifted her out the other day. It’s in the bale. You can tell.’

‘Split her up,’ Mr Joseph commanded.

The storeman pulled out a clasp knife, opened it, and dug the blade into the front of the bale. Sammy Joseph watched him in a silence that was broken only by the uneasy sighing of the rafters above their heads.

‘It’s hot in here,’ said Sammy Joseph. ‘There’s a nor’west gale blowing outside. I hate a hot wind.’

‘Oppressive,’ said the storeman. He drew the blade of his knife downwards, sawing at the bale. The strands of sacking parted in a series of tiny explosions. Through the fissure bulged a ridge of white wool.

‘Get a lung full of that,’ said the storeman, straightening himself. ‘It’s something chronic. Try.’

Mr Joseph said: ‘I get it from here, thanks. I can’t understand it. It’s not bellies in that pack, either. Bellies smell a bit but nothing to touch this.’ He opened his cigarette case. ‘Have one?’

‘Ta, Mr Joseph. I don’t mind if I do. It’s not so good, this pong, is it?’

‘It’s coming from inside, all right. They must have baled up something in the press. A rat.’

‘You will have your rat, sir, won’t you?’

‘Let’s have some of that wool out.’ Mr Joseph glanced at his neat worsted suit. ‘You’re in your working clothes,’ he added.

The storeman pulled at a tuft of wool. ‘Half a sec’, Mr Joseph. She’s packed too solid.’ He moved away to the end wall. Sammy Joseph looked at the rent in the bale, reached out his hand and drew it back again. The storeman returned wearing a gauntleted canvas glove on his right hand and carrying one of the iron hooks used for shifting wool bales. He worked it into the fissure and began to drag out lumps of fleece.

‘Phew!’ whispered Sammy Joseph.

‘I’ll have to hand it to you in one respect, sir. She’s not dead wool.’

Mr Joseph picked a lock from the floor, looked at it, and dropped it. He turned away and wiped his hand vigorously on a bale. ‘It’s frightful,’ he said. ‘It’s a godalmighty stench. What the hell’s wrong with you?’

The storeman had sworn with violence and extreme obscenity. Joseph turned to look at him. His gloved hand had disappeared inside the fissure. The edge of the gauntlet showed and no more. His face turned towards Joseph. The eyes and mouth were wide open.

‘I’m touching something.’

‘With the hook?’

The storeman nodded. ‘I won’t look any more,’ he said loudly.

‘Why not?’

‘I won’t look.’

‘Why the hell?’

‘It’s the Mount Moon clip.’

‘I know that. What of it?’

‘Don’t you read the papers?’

Sammy Joseph changed colour. ‘You’re mad,’ he said. ‘God, you’re crazy.’

‘It’s three weeks, isn’t it, and they can’t find her? I was in the last war. I know what that stink reminds me of – Flanders.’

‘Go to hell,’ said Mr Joseph, incredulous but violent. ‘What do you think you are? A radio play or what?’

The storeman plucked his arm from the bale. Locks of fleece were sticking to the canvas glove. With a violent movement he jerked them free and they lay on the floor, rust coloured and wet.

‘You’ve left the hook in the bale.’

‘– the hook.’

‘Get it out, Alf.’

‘–!’

‘Come on. What’s wrong with you. Get it out.’

The storeman looked at Sammy Joseph as if he hated him. A loose sheet of galvanized iron on the roof rattled in the wind and the store was filled momentarily with a vague soughing.

‘Come on,’ Sammy Joseph said again. ‘It’s only a rat.’

The storeman plunged his hand into the fissure. His bare arm twisted and worked. He braced the palm of his left hand against the bale and wrenched out the hook. With an air of incredulity he held the hook out, displaying it.

‘Look!’ he said. With an imperative gesture he waved Mr Joseph aside. The iron hook fell at Sammy Joseph’s feet. A strand of metallic-gold hair was twisted about it.

CHAPTER ONE ALLEYN AT MOUNT MOON (#ulink_1710b330-11c4-589c-9e0e-2611b418a276)

I

May 1943.

A service car pulled out of the township below the Pass. It mounted a steep shingled road until its passengers looked down on the iron roof of the pub and upon a child’s farm-animal design of tiny horses tethered to veranda posts, upon specks that were sheep dogs and upon a toy sulky with motor car wheels that moved slowly along the road, down country. Beyond this a system of foothills, gorges, and clumps of pinus insignis stepped down into a plain fifty miles wide, a plain that rose slowly as its horizon mounted with the eyes of the mounting passengers.

Though their tops were shrouded by a heavy mask of cloud, the hills about the Pass grew more formidable. The intervals between cloud-roof and earth-floor lessened. The Pass climbed into the sky. A mountain rain now fell.

‘Going into bad weather?’ suggested the passenger on the front seat.

‘Going out of it, you mean,’ rejoined the driver.

‘Do I?’

‘Take a look at the sky, sir.’

The passenger wound down his window for a moment and craned out. ‘Jet black and lowering,’ he said, ‘but there’s a good smell in the air.’

‘Watch ahead.’