And Death Came Too

by Hull, Richard

  “Do stop talking nonsense. You mustn’t mind him, constable. When he’s in this mood it’s quite impossible to get a word of sense out of him.”

  “So I’ve noticed, ma’am. If he hadn’t been that way, and if I hadn’t tried to be too clever, perhaps I should be sitting down comfortably now or going round my beat without fussing myself.”

  “Instead of which, the unfortunate man is being made to listen to your and my chatter, Angela. Yet that misfortune has only just dawned on you. Why, oh, why this intense interest in that rather ragged hedge that has become embedded in the semi-urban surroundings of Trevenant?”

  “Just doing my duty.” Reeves became wooden.

  “Indeed? Then it is something connected with the crime I failed to commit for the sake of filthy lucre?”

  “I couldn’t say, sir. Perhaps, sir, if the lady were to move her car on. It might block the traffic there.”

  Salter looked up and down the entirely empty road.

  “It might,” he agreed, “if there were any traffic to block. Meanwhile, why don’t you co-opt us in the search for the bloodstained putty-knife?”

  The sharp glance and the slight start which Reeves gave were by no means lost upon Salter.

  “Indeed!” He whistled and then turned chuckling to his companion. “Did you see that, Angela? It is the bloodstained putty-knife. Angela, we join the search-party.”

  “You’ll do nothing of the kind, sir, and I’ll ask you not to interfere with a policeman in the execution of his duty.”

  “We are doing nothing of the kind. On the contrary, I have every intention of helping you. Alternatively, you can’t prevent me from searching for the halfpenny that I lost here last Thursday—or whenever it was.”

  “Quite, sir. ‘Whenever it was.’ You know there was no such thing.”

  “I may do or I may not. But you don’t. For all you know, there may be a halfpenny—”

  “Not if I know the kids round here.”

  “And so you cannot prevent my looking for it.”

  “I think I can have a very good try. But, as luck would have it, here comes the sergeant, and you can ask him. I hope you’ll do me the justice to say that I didn’t ask you to come or invite you to stay.”

  “I will undoubtedly give you the fullest credit for your lack of hospitality. Angela, let me introduce Detective Sergeant Scoresby, Mrs Featherstonhaugh. I don’t think you met when the sergeant came to visit our holiday retreat.”

  “Good morning, ma’am.” To Reeves’s annoyance Scoresby seemed to be entirely amiable, a fact which was all the more surprising as having walked up the hill he was definitely out of breath, and that was well known by his subordinates to be one of the few things which put him out of temper. “I was wanting to see you, sir.”

  “Were you, now?” Salter stood on one leg and regarded Scoresby quizzically. “Now our mutual friend here who is engaged in contemplating the hedgerow made rather a point of it that he did not. He even seemed to think that such a course would find commendation in your eyes.”

  “He was doing his duty, which didn’t include talking to you; but mine does.”

  “And I thought that it was for my own charming conversation that you wanted to see me! Instead of which you want to talk about the bloodstains on my shirt, which, by the way, I hope I am going to be allowed back soon.”

  “The other one’s quite dirty,” Mrs Featherstonhaugh put in with mock solemnity. “In fact, I doubt if it ever was clean.”

  “It must have been some time. Unless I got it shop-soiled. I forget. But actually, when you came I was proposing to help our young friend in his search for the bloodstained putty-knife. I had imagined such a nice little dramatic scene. I was to walk a few yards down the road like this”—he suited the action to the words—“my eyes fixed on the ground with one of those intense magnetic stares that are so popular nowadays. Then, with a cry of amazement I was to throw my left arm into the air, and with my right hand seize from the undergrowth here—” As he spoke he walked a yard or two, acted the part he was burlesquing; but on the last words he stopped suddenly and converted the slight but exaggerated stoop into a real motion. “Well, I’m damned!” he said slowly. “I suppose you put it there yourself, sergeant, to see what my reaction would be.”

  “Put what, sir?”

  “The bloodstained putty-knife, of course. Minus, I imagine, the bloodstains.”

  Almost rudely Scoresby pushed Salter aside and bent over to the tuft of grass where Salter’s hand had been. In it was a small object, which was at least the duplicate and probably the actual knife for killing game which it had been stated had been lost by Hands. It was fairly well hidden in the grass, so that a casual observer might well not have seen it and a passer-by certainly would not. All the same, it was only lying there, and by no stretch of imagination could it be called buried. In fact, it could hardly be termed hidden, and it might well have only just been dropped. Scoresby finished making a careful mental note of its position and then, bringing out his handkerchief, wrapped it round it carefully and picked it up.

  “I think I know what this is,” he said when he had straightened himself up again; “but I should like to know how you knew it was what you are pleased to call the bloodstained putty-knife—why even you connect it with the crime at all. For that matter, how did you know it was a knife?”

  Salter blinked a bit.

  “I could have sworn I saw a blade sticking out. Trick of light, I suppose, coupled with the fact that our friend here was obviously searching the hedge, and still more obviously started when I used the word ‘knife’.”

  There was a short silence while Scoresby looked from one to the other.

  “Had you searched this place?” he asked Reeves.

  “No, sir. Hadn’t got there. I was working from the top downwards.”

  “I see.”

  “He sees, Angela. We are once more completely unmasked. Clearly I must have put the weapon down as I stooped. A little sleight of hand, and the trick could easily be done. It only remains to prove that you were the unknown woman—disguised, perhaps—”

  “It would take a bit of an effort for me to look twenty years younger and weigh a couple of stone less. I wish I knew how to.”

  “I’m sure I wouldn’t put it beyond you.”

  “Flattering, no doubt, but I wish you would realise that your entirely misplaced sense of humour is wasted on the sergeant.”

  “Not at all, ma’am. I’m listening.”

  “Angela, there is nothing for it. He has been listening. Hand me the Continental Bradshaw and the list of countries with which we have non-extradition treaties. Don’t grin, constable. This is serious.”

  “I wasn’t grinning,” Reeves answered, quickly altering his expression to an over-elaborate seriousness. He was well aware that he had been at least internally amused, but he had no wish that Scoresby’s attention should be drawn to the fact.

  Fortunately, however, Scoresby had not apparently been listening to the last few sentences.

  “List,” he said. “Yes, that reminds me. Look here, sir, I shall say nothing more about this knife at present; and I advise you not to, either. If you ask me, you’ve already said a great deal too much; only it is difficult to sort out what you mean and what you don’t when you just talk—”

  “That’s a nasty crack,” Salter put in.

  “—But I do want you to help me about a list.”

  “Now, that isn’t fair. When I offered to help him to search the hedge, our friend here practically told me to run away and play; when I did, despite him, give you a hand, it was received in a manner which I can only call definitely ungrateful, and then you turn round and calmly say, ‘Now I’m going to ask you to help me.’ Why should I?”

  “It’s the duty of every citizen—”

  “I said that just now—well, I practically said it—and all the thanks I got was to be told not to interfere with the police in the execution of their duty.”

  “Ther
e are times to help and times to stay away,” Scoresby began sententiously and cutting short Salter’s “Not really!” He asked Mrs Featherstonhaugh to drive them back to the station. A minute or so later Reeves was left standing by himself in the road.

  “Sleight of hand?” he said to himself. “Not impossible in a man who deals cards out like that. Wonder if the sergeant noticed. Probably he did. He’s no fool; but I’ll see he’s reminded of it. Meanwhile I suppose I needn’t go on looking at this blasted hedge any longer.”

  There was no need for Reeves to have worried himself. It was not a point which Scoresby had missed, but he did not intend to call Salter’s attention to it. Scoresby liked to keep that type of thing to himself and produce it after due consideration in what he considered to be the right moment and at any rate on prepared ground. You could not, he felt, be too careful how you went with Salter, a man who was very sharp in perceiving things and who clearly liked using words as a smokescreen, so that it was quite impossible to know when he was being serious and when he was not.

  Reading through the list of car owners was, however, something which Salter did take seriously.

  “I am not,” he said, “quite such a good witness as to this as I should like to be. You must remember that a schoolmaster has a continuous flow of urchins passing before him, all of whom their parents believe to be unique, but all of whom seem to him to fall into one of a limited number of well-defined categories. I must have known, or known of, boys of every ordinary name in England, and a good many unusual ones. Now you, I understand, want me to pick out the names connected with Finchingfield. There are at least a couple of dozen here which I think come under that heading, but some may be really remembered from the previous school I was at. However, for what it’s worth—and leaving out the very common names—I think there were boys of the following names there.” He read out a dozen while Scoresby wrote them down and briefly marked the degree of confidence that there appeared to be in Salter’s voice.

  “Any of the same name as any of the masters?” Scoresby asked.

  “Yes, three. There’s a Henderson there now, and there was a Westbury, I believe, and there certainly was a Voyce.”

  Scoresby looked at the list he had made of those whom Lansley had ticked off.

  “Westbury,” he said. “Tell me more about him.”

  “I can’t, I’m afraid. If my recollection is right, he had a house before my time and died rather suddenly.”

  “Any family?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Voyce?” Scoresby prompted.

  “Retired a year or two ago as a result of not seeing eye to eye with our dear friend Kinderson. By the way, have you seen anything more of him?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Your state is the more gracious, but I gather from his last letter to me that, as Yeldham is safely dead and there is no further annuity to be paid to him, he is prepared to negotiate about the unpaid arrears. We shall have Yeldham’s executors after us soon, I suppose.”

  “Very likely, sir. The chief constable is, I think, in touch with his solicitors. Now about the rest of these boys, can you give me some more facts?” Very patiently Scoresby noted down such further details as Salter could give him. That the method of resection between Lansley and Salter had resulted in both of them mentioning the same name in only one case might be a coincidence, and therefore it was as well not to lose the opportunity of getting any further information that might be available. Moreover, he had no desire that Salter should know how eager he was to go to the address given as that of Maud Westbury.

  Finally he decided to give one more thing to think about.

  “Going back to that knife, sir. When you saw it, you said, ‘Minus, I imagine, the bloodstains.’ Why?”

  Salter looked distinctly taken aback.

  “I haven’t the faintest notion. I thought I saw a blade, you know. I suppose I must have thought that what wasn’t there was clean, if you follow me.”

  “No, I don’t. You said you imagined there were no bloodstains.”

  “Did I? I think I was thinking that lying in the open air the dew would wash them away or—or something like that.” Neither of them pretended that it sounded exactly convincing.

  Just as he was going, Salter made one more attempt to make the matter sound better.

  “I think,” he said, “that it must have been the conversation we had immediately before about the bloodstains on my shirt.”

  “Which made you think that there weren’t any on the knife?”

  Salter scratched his head. “I give it up,” he remarked amiably.

  17

  Correspondence

  It was now some days since Maud Westbury had read through what she had written of the letter which she was just composing in her untidy, sprawling hand. She did not like it in any way. Neither its contents nor the fact that she had to write it pleased her at all, but it had to be done.

  “For reasons which you can well understand,” it began, “I must necessarily be a little vague. For one thing, I am not sure of your address, and some people (you know whom I mean) are quite capable of opening our letters. Of course I’ve done nothing, but I do hate having my affairs pried into. You will probably agree that I am pretty good at lying doggo.

  “I came to this country to find out a straight answer to a question. You can easily guess what that was; it was rather an intimate question, and as our mutual friend used to look after me—a good thing that he destroyed all the papers, by the way, or I might have had unpleasant visitors before—I have had one such caller, but he didn’t seem to matter much—anyhow, as he used to look after me, I thought he might know. But I told him to find out and also that he was to burn the letter I wrote to him.

  “I don’t know if he did find out, but he did start playing the fool, as he always did, and making silly rules about arriving secretly. Like an ass, I played up. I should think he did find out. Anyhow, he got in touch with you, I suppose. Or why, when I arrived into an empty dining-room, did I see you in the hall? I wonder if you saw me there? I thought it was best you shouldn’t. Of course, later—well, didn’t we both behave well?

  “Anyhow, seeing you gave me the jitters. I nearly brained that gawky country miss with the black hair. I could see she wanted to ask questions and behave just like people who can’t mind their own business do. Who is she? I think I can guess. It would be just like you. Anyhow, you ought to thank me for bolting.”

  Maud bit the end of her pen meditatively and noticed that she had begun four sentences in rapid succession with “Anyhow.” “Well, why the hell not?” she said aloud. “This isn’t a literary competition, nor am I one of father’s small boys.”

  “Anyhow,” she wrote, and then crossed it out. There were limits. “But what to do now?” she went on writing. “You probably don’t thank me for not giving you away, it being your habit to take things for granted all through life. You see, our mutual friend failed to give me the information for the best possible reason, and I don’t know if he gave it to you. If he did, you will realise that we’re in a bloody awful jam. You see, I have seen a solicitor since then, and though I think he was half-witted, he found a reference book, somebody’s laws of England, something ’berry, Halsberry might it be? It doesn’t matter who it was, nor how it’s spelt, and he read it out to me. Even that little cock-robin Twistleton in the intervals of ogling me saw what it meant.

  “Of course he didn’t know why it was particularly awkward for me, though I think he did see through my alleged ‘friend’ for whom I was supposed to be finding out. He just went all paternal and wanted to help me. If I’d let him he’d have patted me. All English lawyers,” she went on viciously, remembering the barrister in whose chambers she had arrived, “seem to have minds like drains, and I’m glad I’ve gone to live in France, where they are just as bad, but at least we recognise it. However, what are you going to do about it? If either of us takes the ordinary course, these nosey parkers will put two and two togethe
r, and you will be—well, something unpleasant will happen to you (which would be a solution, and I shouldn’t mind a bit—at least I’m not so sure), and I expect something frightful would happen to me, too, for keeping too quiet.

  “The consequence is, as I said, that we’re in a jam and—how shall I put it?—in some ways I have the same intentions as you have, perhaps. Bit vague and uncertain, though.

  “So what are you going to do? I think I deserve some consideration (for once). Goodness knows I’ve no reason to be grateful to you, and up to a few days ago you would have said the same, but now I don’t think even you can do that. I might have spilt the beans quite easily the other night. I wonder why I didn’t?”

  Indeed as she sat writing as rapidly and carelessly as she thought, Maud Westbury did have great difficulty in deciding why she had not. For some minutes she stopped writing and wondered whether to make a totally different ending to her letter; but finally, with a definite “No,” she picked up her pen and again wrote, “So what are you going to do about it?” and underlined it twice so heavily that the nib gave way under the strain. Then before she had time to change her mind, she hurried down to the village post office and sent it off.

  During the time which elapsed before an answer came she was in a ferment of apprehension. Every day that she lingered before going back to France she felt to be dangerous. Her conjectures as to the consequences of making herself an accessory after the fact, though short of the reality, were reasonably vivid and alarming, but she did not want to go until she had cleared up the point about which she had come to England and which she had found to be in some ways worse, but in one respect better than she had thought.

  She had not, however, long to wait. By return of post a letter arrived for her in a typed envelope which she guessed contained the reply. The inside, too, was typed and, unlike her letter, was short, sharp, and to the point.

  “Go home at once to France,” it said, “and stay there permanently and carry out your intentions and never mind about mine. He wasn’t really the British Consul.”