COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

      Copyright © 1940, 1957 by John Russell Fearn.

      Copyright © 2011 by Philip Harbottle

      DEDICATION

      To the memory of Carrie Fearn

      BURY THE HATCHET

      NOVELIZED BY PHILIP HARBOTTLE FROM THE TELEPLAY BY JOHN RUSSELL FEARN

      CHAPTER ONE

      It was 6:45 on a November evening in 1957. Mrs. Ruth Carter was in her living room, putting the finishing touches to an almost laid table for four. The room was in a state of ‘orderly untidiness’. On the settee lay the comic strip section from a newspaper, and the cheerful room typified those used by thousands of families throughout Britain. There was a large table, a sideboard on which stood a radio, and doors that led to hall and kitchen. There was a coal fire burning and curtains drawn across the window. On the back of the hall door reposed a coat hanger.

      In the midst of her table preparations, humming a tune to herself, Mrs. Carter turned at the sound of her husband George entering by the hall door. He was a quiet businesslike type, wearing a soft hat and overcoat, and carrying an evening paper. Ridding himself of his hat and coat, he hung up his suit jacket behind the door and struggled into a pullover.

      “Everything all right, dear?” Ruth enquired.

      “Oh, not so bad,” her husband sighed, “Looks as though I’m first home for a change.” He crossed to his favourite armchair and seated himself, opening his evening paper.

      Mrs. Carter hovered busily in the kitchen doorway. “Seems so.… But it doesn’t matter. We can start without the girls. You know what they are! Being Friday night and wages in their handbags, they might go anywhere. Anywhere!”

      George frowned, then said vaguely, “Seems silly to me. When you get paid you expect to come home and—”

      “Not at seventeen and nineteen you don’t! I know I didn’t. Come on, dear—get on with your meal.”

      George crossed to the table and sat down rather gloomily, leaving his paper in the armchair. Ruth started to pour tea, then hesitated as she noted his expression.

      “Is there something the matter, George?”

      “Yes, plenty! To cut a long story short, I didn’t get that promotion I was hoping for, or the raise that would have gone with it. I’m still head salesman and not the production manager, as I’d hoped.”

      Ruth resumed pouring the tea. “That’s too bad, dear.… Here, have a drink.”

      George took the filled cup. “I’m just as I was. Me! A man of my talent. It’s downright disgusting. Look, Ruth, do you realize—?”

      His wife smiled faintly. “Yes, dear, I do. With your knowledge of chemistry and crime, you ought to have been a backroom specialist helping Scotland Yard. Your test for bloodstains is the most efficient in history.…” She bustled off to the kitchen and returned with a plateful of food. “Irish stew, dear. I know you love it.”

      “Thanks.” George grasped his wife’s hand. “I’m sorry, dear. I really thought promotion was in the bag. Makes me look a shocking failure.”

      “Oh, get away with you.” Ruth sat down to her own meal. “As a matter of fact, I never thought you’d get it. Not this year, anyway.”

      “Oh, you didn’t? Then why on earth did you let us get that washing machine on the never-never? We only risked it on the strength of my getting that raise. We could have waited. I don’t know how we’re going to meet it.”

      Ruth smiled complacently. “But I do. I was prepared for this. The whole thing’s taken care of in the newsagent’s window.”

      “Newsagent’s window? What are you talking about?”

      “An advertisement, George.… Like the stew?”

      “Yes, dear, lovely. But what’s this about an advertisement?”

      “Simple enough. Er—you have an upstairs room specially for chemistry experiments, photography, and whatnot, haven’t you?”

      “Well?” George’s voice held an ominous note.

      “Well you haven’t anymore.” Ruth gave a casual shrug. “I’ve put all your bottles and things in the wash-house, and Laboratory Number One is now a double bedroom, available for renting.”

      “Is it now? And when did all this transformation take place?”

      “Oh, it’s been going on for days! Trudy has a rough idea what’s coming, but you haven’t. You haven’t experimented for some time, so that gave me the opportunity to clear things out. I’m going to offer board-residence or bed-and-breakfast. The money will make up the extra you would have got, and by the end of the year you’ll surely have got promotion.…” She paused, thinking. “If our prospective lodger should be a fat man it won’t matter, being a double bed.”

      “How do you know it will be a man?” George asked, archly. “It might be a very attractive young woman.”

      “George!”

      “Sorry. It is possible, though.”

      “If that happens, I’ll take care of it.… Now, I’ve got a double bed rolled up behind the pantry door, and the old one is dropped in a corner of the kitchen ready for—” She broke off as Trudy, their eldest daughter, came in from the hall doorway. Clad in outdoor clothes, she tripped over the mat at the inside of the door.

      “So help me,” Trudy muttered to herself, “I’ll fix that thing yet.” She tugged off her hat and coat and threw them carelessly aside. “How’s everybody? What’s to eat, mum?”

      Ruth got to her feet. “Irish stew.”

      “God bless the Irish.” Trudy switched on the radio on the sideboard, and came across to the table. “Well, anything happened?”

      “Why should it?” her father asked dryly. “What did you expect—royalty?”

      “I’m only trying to be sociable, dad,” Trudy pouted.

      Her mother got up to go back into the kitchen. “No, nothing’s happened. Nothing ever does that’s worthwhile reporting.”

      George glanced at Trudy. “You’re late, aren’t you?”

      “Yes,” the girl admitted, “but I didn’t do it on purpose—not with an appetite like mine. We had overtime to do, and being Friday we just had to finish it.”

      “You’ll be paid for it, of course?”

      Trudy sighed. “Not as far as I know. Only a few minutes extra.”

      George frowned. “And those few minutes tote up to a sizeable amount by the end of a year. Capitalists! That’s what they are. I’ve a good mind to tell them that my eldest daughter is a stenographer and not a slave. Huh! Who do they think they are?”

      “My bread and butter. And they’d be quick to say so!”

      Ruth came back in with the stew for Trudy, then paused to listen to the radio announcer.

      “…There is still no solution regarding the Uphill murder, although Scotland Yard is working on several lines of inquiry. It will be remembered that Christine Ashton, aged seventeen, was the victim of a brutal hatchet murder recently.”

      The bulletin continued as the three at the table tackled their meal.

      “From traces found so far, the police believe the killer is carrying the dismembered head and legs of his victim around with him in a suitcase with a broken handle. The public is warned that this maniac is dangerous. As near as can be estimated he is nearly six feet tall, dark-haired and blue-eyed, with a deceptively pleasing manner. His conversation is queer at times, but otherwise may be regarded as normal. Anybody winking at him may cause him to lose control. The same effect is produced by uttering the word ‘Asparagus’.

      “Anybody