To Love and Be Wise

by Josephine Tey

  "It was arranged like that before they set out on this trip. Mr. Whitmore's contract calls for a month off in August, when broadcasting has its 'off season; so there was no question, it seems, of passing up this week's broadcast just because he was canoeing on the Rush-mere. They had arranged to be in Wickham today and to spend the night there. They had booked two rooms at the Angel. It's the olde-worlde show-place in Wickham. Very photogenic. Then this happened. But since there was nothing Mr. Whitmore could do here, he went up to do his half-hour, just as he would have if they had reached Wickham."

  "I see. And he is coming back tonight?"

  "If he doesn't vanish into thin air."

  "About this vanishing: did Whitmore agree that there had been disagreement between them?"

  "I didn't put it to him. That's what-------" The Inspector broke off.

  "That's what I'm here for," Grant said, finishing the sentence for him.

  "That's about it, sir."

  "Where did the 'disagreement' story come from?"

  "The Swan. Everyone who was there on Wednesday night had the impression that there was some kind of tension between them."

  "No overt quarrel?"

  "No, nothing like that. If there had been anything like that I could have taxed him with it. All that happened was that Mr. Whitmore left early without saying goodnight, and Searle said he was angry about something."

  "Searle said! To whom?"

  "To the local garage-keeper. A chap called Maddox. Bill Maddox."

  "Have you talked to Maddox?"

  "I talked to them all. I was in the Swan last night. We spent the day dragging the river in case he had fallen in, and making inquiries all around the neighbourhood in case he had lost his memory and was just wandering. We couldn't find any body, and no one had seen him or anyone answering his description. So I finished up at the Swan, and saw most of the people who had been there on Wednesday night. It's the only pub in the place, and a very nice respectable little house run by a Joey; an ex-sergeant of Marines; and it's the meeting-place for the whole village. None of them was exactly anxious to involve Mr. Whit-more-------"

  "Popular, is he?"

  "Well, popular enough. He probably shines by comparison. There's a very odd crew lives here, I don't know if you know."

  "Yes, I've heard."

  "So they didn't want to get Walter Whitmore into trouble, but they had to explain why the two friends didn't go back to their camp together. And once they broke down and talked they were unanimous that there was some sort of trouble between them."

  "Did this Maddox volunteer his story?"

  "No, the local butcher did. Maddox had told them about it on the way home on Wednesday. After they had seen Searle go away by himself down the lane. Maddox confirmed it, though."

  "Well, I'll go and see Whitmore when he comes back tonight, and ask for his story. Meanwhile we'll go and see the place where they camped on Wednesday night."

  NINE

  "I don't want to appear in Salcott just yet," Grant said as they drove out of Wickham. "Is there some other way to the river bank?"

  There's no way at all to the river bank, properly speaking. There's about a mile of field-path from Salcott to where they were. But we could reach the place just as easily from the main Wickham-Crome road, across the fields. Or we could turn off the road by a lane that goes to Pett's Hatch, and walk down the river bank from there. They were moored about a quarter mile below Pett's Hatch."

  "On the whole, I'd rather walk across the fields from the main road. It would be-interesting to see how much of a walk it is. What kind of a village is Pett's Hatch?"

  "It isn't a village at all. Just a ruined mill and the few cottages that used to house the workers there. That is why Whitmore and Searle walked into Salcott for their evening drink."

  "I see."

  The ever-efficient Rodgers pulled a one-inch Survey map out of the pocket of his car, and studied it. The field opposite which they had stopped looked to Grant's urban eye exactly like any other field that they had passed since leaving Wickham, but the Inspector said: "It should be about opposite here, I think. Yes; there's where they were; and here is us."

  He showed the lay-out to Grant. North and south ran the road from Wickham south to Crome. West of it lay the Rushmere, out of sight in its valley, running north-east to meet the road at Wickham. At a point level with where they were now halted, the river ran back on itself in a wide loop over the flat bed of the valley. At the point where it first curved back, Whit-more and Searle had made their camp. On the farther side of the valley, where the river came back level with them, was Salcott St. Mary. Both their camp and the village of Salcott were on the right bank of the river, so that only a short mile of alluvial land lay between their camp and the village.

  As the three men reached the third field from the road, the countryside opened below them, so that the relevant section of the Rushmere valley was laid out for them as it had been on Rodgers's map: the flat green floor with the darker green scarf of the Rush-mere looped across it, the huddle of roofs and gardens on the far side where Salcott St. Mary stood in its trees; the lonely cluster, back up the river to the south, that was Pett's Hatch.

  "Where is the railway from here?" Grant asked.

  "There is no railway nearer than Wickham. No station, that is. The line runs the other side of the Wickham-Crome road; not in the valley at all."

  "Plenty of buses on the Wickham-Crome road?"

  "Oh, yes. But you're not suggesting that the fellow just ducked, are you?"

  "I'm keeping the possibility in mind. After all, we know nothing about him. I'll admit there are more likely possibilities."

  Rodgers led them down the long slope to the river bank. Where the river turned away south-west two large trees broke the line of pollarded willows: a tall willow and an ash. Under the ash were moored two canoes. The grass still had a trampled look.

  "This is the place," Rodgers said. "Mr. Whitmore spread his sleeping-bag under that big willow, and Searle put his round the other side of the ash where there is a hollow between the roots that makes a natural shelter. So that it was quite natural that Mr. Whitmore should not know that he wasn't there."

  Grant moved over to where Searle's bed had been, and considered the water.

  "How much current is there? If he had tripped over those roots in the dark and taken a header into the river, what would happen?"

  "It's a horrid stream, the Rushmere, I admit. All pot-holes and under-tows. And a bottom of what the Chief Constable calls 'immemorial mud.' But Searle could swim. Or so Walter Whitmore says."

  "Was he sober?"

  "Cold, stone sober."

  "Then if he went into the water unconscious, where would you expect to find his body?"

  "Between here and Salcott. Depends on the amount of rain. We've had so little lately that you'd normally find the river low, but they had a cloudburst at Tunstall on Tuesday—out of the blue in the good old English fashion—and the Rushmere came down like a mill-race."

  "I see. What became of the camp stuff?"

  "Walter Whitmore had it taken up to Trimmings."

  "I take it Searle's normal belongings are still at Trimmings."

  "I expect so."

  "Perhaps I had better take a look through them tonight If there was anything interesting to us among them it will have gone by now, but they may be suggestive. Had Searle been on good terms with the other inhabitants of Salcott, do you know?"

  "Well, I hear there was a scene about a fortnight ago. A dancer chap flung a beer over him."

  "Why?" asked Grant, identifying the "dancer chap" without difficulty. Marta was a faithful recorder of Salcott history.

  "He didn't like the attentions that Toby Tullís was paying to Searle, so they say."

  "Did Searle?"

  "No, if all reports are true," Rodgers said, his anxious face relaxing to a moment's amusement.

  "So Tullís wouldn't love him very much either?"

  "Perhaps not."


  "You haven't had time, I suppose, to get round to alibis."

  "No. It wasn't until early evening that we found it might be more than a simple case of missing. Up till then it was a simple matter of drag and search. When we found what was turning up we wanted outside help and sent for you."

  "I'm glad you sent so soon. It's a great help to be there when the tapes go up. Well, I don't think there is anything else we can do here. We had better get back to Wickham, and I'll take over."

  Rodgers dropped them at the White Hart, and left them with assurances of any help that was within his power.

  "Good man, that," Grant said, as they climbed the stairs to inspect their rooms under the roof—rooms with texts in wools and flowered wall-paper—"he ought to be at the Yard."

  "It's a queer set-up, isn't it?" Williams said, firmly taking the pokier of the two rooms. "The rope trick in an English meadow. What do you think happened to him, sir?"

  "I don't know about "rope trick,' but it does smell strongly of sleight-of-hand. Now you see it, now you don't. The old conjurer's trick of the distracted attention. Ever seen a lady sawn in half, Williams7"

  "Many's the time."

  "There's a strong aroma of sawn lady about this. Or don't you smell it?"

  "I haven't got your nose, sir. All I see is a very queer set-up. A spring night in England, and a young American goes missing in the mile between the village and the river. You really think he might have ducked, sir?"

  "I can't think of any adequate reason why he should, but perhaps Whitmore can."

  "I expect he will be very anxious to," Williams said dryly.

  But oddly enough Walter Whitmore showed no anxiety to put forward any such theory. On the contrary, he scorned it. It was absurd, he said, manifestly absurd, to suggest that Searle should have left of his own accord. Quite apart from the fact that he was very happy, he had a very profitable deal to look forward to. He had been enormously enthusiastic about the book they were doing together, and it was fantastic to suggest that he would just walk out like that.

  Grant had come to Trimmings after dinner, tactfully allowing for the fact that dinner at Trimmings must be very late on broadcast day. He had sent in word to ask if Mr. Whitmore would see Alan Grant, and had not mentioned his business until he was face to face with Walter.

  His first thought on seeing Walter Whitmore in the flesh was how much older he looked than he had expected; and then wondered whether it was that Walter looked much older than he had done on Wednesday. He looked disorientated, Grant thought; adrift. Something had happened to him that did not belong to the world he knew and recognised.

  But he took Grant's announcement of his identity calmly.

  "I was almost expecting you," he said, offering cigarettes. "Not you personally, of course. Just a representative of what has come to be known as the Higher Levels."

  Grant had asked about their trip down the Rushmere, so as to set him talking; if you got a man to talk enough he lost his defensive quality. Whitmore was drawing too hard on his cigarette but talking quite freely. Before he had actually reached their Wednesday evening visit to the Swan, Grant deflected him. It was too early yet to ask him about that night.

  "You don't really know much about Searle, do you," he pointed out. "Had you heard of him at all before he turned up at that party of Ross's?"

  "No, I hadn't. But that isn't strange. Photographers are two a penny. Almost as common as journalists.

  There was no reason why I should have heard of him."

  "You have no reason to believe that he may not be what he represented himself to be?"

  "No, certainly not. I may never have heard of him, but Miss Easton-Dixon certainly had."

  "Miss Easton-Dixon?"

  "One of our local authors. She writes fairy-tales, and is a film addict. Not only did she know about Searle but she has a photograph."

  "A photograph?" Grant said, startled and pleased.

  "In one of those film magazines. I haven't seen it myself. She talked about it one night when she came to dinner."

  "And she met Searle when she came to dinner? And identified him?"

  "She did. They had a wonderful get-together. Searle had photographed some of her pet actors, and she had reproductions of them too."

  "So there is no doubt in your mind that Searle is what he says he is."

  "I notice you use the present tense, Inspector. That cheers me." But he sounded more ironic than cheered.

  "Have you yourself any theory as to what could have happened, Mr. Whitmore?"

  "Short of fiery chariots or witches' broomsticks, no. It is the most baffling thing."

  Grant caught himself thinking that Walter Whitmore, too, was moved to think of sleight-of-hand.

  "The most reasonable explanation, I suppose," Walter went on, "is that he lost his way in the dark and fell into the river at some other spot, where no one would hear him."

  "And why don't you approve of that theory?" Grant asked, answering the tone that Whitmore used.

  "Well, for one thing, Searle had eyes like a cat. I had slept out with him for four nights, and I know. He was wonderful in the dark. Secondly he had an extra-good bump of locality. Thirdly he was by all accounts cold sober when he left the Swan. Fourthly it is a bee-line from Salcott to the river-bank where we were camped, by the hedges all the way. You can't stray, because if you walk away from the hedge you walk into plough or crop of some kind. And lastly, though this is hearsay evidence, Searle could swim very well indeed."

  "There is a suggestion, Mr. Whitmore, that you and Searle were on bad terms on Wednesday evening. Is there any truth in that?"

  "I thought we should get to that sooner or later," Walter said. He pressed the half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray until it was a misshapen wreck.

  "Well?" Grant prompted, as he seemed to have nothing more to say.

  "We had what might be called a—a 'spat,' I suppose. I was—annoyed. Nothing more than that."

  "He annoyed you so much that you left him at the pub and walked back by yourself."

  "I like being by myself."

  "And you went to sleep without waiting for his return."

  "Yes. I didn't want to talk to him any more that night. He annoyed me, I tell you. I thought that I might be in a better humour and he in a less provocative mood in the morning."

  "He was provocative?"

  "I think that is the word."

  "About what?"

  "I don't have to tell you that."

  "You don't have to tell me anything, Mr. Whitmore."

  "No, I know I don't. But I want to be as helpful as I can. God knows I want this thing cleared up as soon as possible. It is just that what we—disagreed about is something personal and irrelevant. It has no bearing whatever on anything that happened to Searle on Wednesday night. I certainly didn't lie in wait for him on the way home, or push him into the river, or subject him to violence."

  "Do you know of anyone who would be likely to want to?"

  Whitmore hesitated; presumably with Serge Ratoff in his mind.

  "Not that kind of violence," he said at length.

  "Not what kind?"

  "Not that waiting-in-the-dark kind."

  "I see. Just the ordinary sock-in-the-jaw kind. There was a scene with Serge Ratoff, I understand."

  "Anyone who gets through Life in close proximity to Serge Ratoff and doesn't have a scene with him must be abnormal," Walter said.

  "You don't know of anyone who might have a grudge against Searle?"

  "No one in Salcott. I don't know anything of his friends or enemies elsewhere."

  "Have you any objection to my looking through Searle's belongings?"

  "I haven't, but Searle might. What do you expect to find, Inspector?"

  "Nothing specific. A man's belongings are very revealing, I find. I am merely looking for suggestion of some sort; help of any kind in a very puzzling situation."

  "I'll take you up now, then—unless there is anything else you wan
t to ask me."

  "No, thank you. You have been very helpful. I wish you could have trusted me far enough to tell me what the quarrel was about-------"

  "There was no quarrel!" Whitmore said sharply.

  "I beg your pardon. I mean, in what way Searle riled you. It would tell me even more about Searle than it would about you; but perhaps it is too much to expect you to see that."

  Whitmore stood by the door, considering this. "No," he said slowly. "No, I do see what you mean.

  But to tell you involves-------No, I don't think I can tell you."

  "I see you can't. Let us go up."

  As they emerged into the baronial hall from the library where the interview had taken place, Liz had just come out of the drawing-room and was crossing to the stairs. When she saw Grant she paused and her face lighted with joy.

  "Oh!" she said, "you've come with news of him!"

  When Grant said no, that he had no news, she looked puzzled.

  "But it was you who introduced him," she insisted. "At that party."

  This was news to Walter and Grant could feel his surprise. He could also feel his resentment at that flash of overwhelming joy on Liz's face.

  "This, Liz dear," he said in a cool, faintly malicious tone, "is Detective Inspector Grant from Scotland Yard."

  "From the Yard! But—you were at that party!"

  "It is not unheard of for policemen to be interested in the arts," Grant said, amused. "But------"

  "Oh, please! I didn't mean it that way."

  "I had only looked in at the party to pick up a friend. Searle was standing by the door looking lost because he didn't know Miss Fitch by sight. So I took him over and introduced them. That is all."

  "And now you've come down here to—to investigate—"

  "To investigate his disappearance. Have you any theories, Miss Garrowby?"

  "I? No. Not even a rudimentary one. It just doesn't make sense. It's fantastically senseless."

  "If it isn't too late may I talk to you for a little when I have been through Searle's belongings?"

  "No, of course it isn't too late. It isn't ten o'clock yet." She sounded weary. "Since this happened time stretches out and out. It's like having—hashish, is it? Are you looking for anything in particular, Inspector?"