A Six-Letter Word for Death

by Patricia Moyes

  “Certainly. But I told you that I thought Vandike had a reason for every word he used. He must have wanted to introduce the name ‘Peter.’ It’s obvious from the clue. Peter holds the keys to something. To what?”

  “I wish I knew,” said Henry.

  “Well, ask him.”

  “I can’t. You see, he’s dead.”

  “The death you mentioned?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well,” said Edwin Manciple, “you’re the detective, but if I were you, I’d have a word with Professor Harold Vandike, and right speedily. He deliberately put that name into the puzzle, and he wrote that clue. Vandike knows what this mysterious key is all about, you mark my words.”

  “Right as usual,” said Henry. “Thank you very much, Edwin. Good night.”

  “Good night, Henry. Keep in touch, won’t you? This is really becoming rather exciting for an old fogey like me. A very good night to you.”

  Harry Vandike, however, proved elusive. When Henry finally contacted his Oxford college the next day, he was told that Professor Vandike was away. Yes, certainly, he lived in rooms at the college, but it was the summer vacation, and the professor had left for a mountain-climbing holiday in Wales. He would not be back for at least ten days, maybe longer. No, he had left no address. He called the college every few days for messages. Henry added his name to the list of those who had been anxious to contact Vandike.

  He put down the telephone thoughtfully. A mountain-climbing holiday in Wales, doubtless in the company of one or more of his undergraduates, just as he had taken Peter Turnberry on similar holidays some years earlier. He remembered the little sailing boat disobeying Sir Robert’s orders and leaving the shelter of the bay, in the direction of Smuggler’s Cove, and the cliffs. An accomplished mountain climber could have scaled that cliff—or another, equally expert, could have climbed down it. Master and pupil might well have met that afternoon.

  Oh, well. Back to the Limehouse stabbing, which was no mystery, but meant a lot of work, all the same. The next day and Wednesday, office as usual, and then the train to Portsmouth Harbor in the evening, for the inquest on Thursday morning. Henry had booked himself and Emmy a double room at a good but unpretentious hotel in Ryde. He had no intention of taking up Sir Robert’s invitation to stay at Carnworth. He did, however, do a certain amount of wondering why he had not heard officially from Sergeant Hemming, or been subpoenaed to give evidence.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE INQUEST WAS a sleepy and extraordinarily dull affair. The courtroom was stuffy and conducive to drowsiness, and while the coroner himself was an alert and obviously intelligent man, the jury sat stodgily in their box, regarding the witnesses with cowlike gazes.

  In the body of the courtroom, Henry noticed Sir Robert and Lady Oppenshaw, with Barbara; Dr. Cartwright, Dr. Spenceley, Sergeant Robinson, and Detective Sergeant Hemming, as well as the captain of the lifeboat, were also present. The Turnberrys were there too, holding hands and showing the only outward signs of distress. A bored-looking young man with a stenographer’s pad in his hand was presumably a cub reporter from a local newspaper. There was no sign of Timmond.

  The evidence was given in due form, each witness testifying to what he or she had actually seen and done. Any signs of straying into hearsay were promptly rapped into silence by the coroner. All the salient and undisputed facts were laid before the jury.

  When Sir Robert was describing how he and Barbara had spotted the body from the clifftop, maps were produced and handed to the jurors—quite unnecessarily, because they were all local people and knew the terrain like the backs of their hands. Nevertheless, Sergeant Hemming was obviously determined that everything should be done properly. Sir Robert went on to describe his ride home and his summons to the lifeboat. He added that when he was unable to contact the local doctor, he had suggested that Dr. William Cartwright, one of his houseguests, go along in the lifeboat. Mr. Tibbett had accompanied him.

  “Mr. Tibbett? Who is he?” The coroner’s eyebrows went up a fraction, in a way Henry did not like.

  “Chief Superintendent Tibbett of the C.I.D.,” Sir Robert amended. “He was another of my houseguests.”

  “And why did he go with Dr. Cartwright?”

  “It was at his own request, sir,” replied Oppenshaw. “I saw no harm in it.”

  The coroner grunted, asked Sir Robert to stand by, and continued to hear the witnesses.

  And so, in due course, the whole story unfolded. The saddle was produced as evidence—the spot where it was found being marked with an X on the maps. The coroner himself then asked Sir Robert’s opinion as to why the mare had taken so long to get home. Sir Robert said that he could only make a guess, but that the animal was in such distress that she had probably galloped off in panic and lost her bearings.

  The coroner then turned to the jury and asked if they felt they had heard enough evidence. It seemed to be a case of a straightforward and tragic accident. Did the detective sergeant wish to call any further witnesses? Hemming rose to reply that he did not. He was in complete agreement with His Worship. As he sat down, he gave Henry a smug smile from his suet-face. Without leaving the box, the jury returned a verdict of accidental death.

  Outside in the sunny street, Emmy turned to Henry in fury.

  “How dared they?” she demanded. “They didn’t even call you!”

  To her surprise, Henry smiled. “If they had been going to,” he said, “I’d have received a subpoena. I think it was foolish of them.” He paused reflectively. “I wonder who ‘they’ are? Just the police, or—ah, good morning, Sir Robert…Lady Oppenshaw…”

  “Well, that’s that,” said Sir Robert flatly. “I’m afraid you had a wasted journey from London, Mr. Tibbett.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” said Henry, with a smile. “It was all very interesting. I thought Sergeant Hemming handled the whole matter most efficiently, didn’t you?”

  “We are proud of our local police force,” said Sir Robert, a little stiffly. Then, “Well, mustn’t keep you. I daresay you’ll be wanting to get back to town. Lots to do, and so forth.”

  “Yes,” said Henry gravely. “I expect to be pretty busy.”

  The Oppenshaws were just leaving in the chauffeur-driven Bentley when Dr. Cartwright came up to the Tibbetts.

  “Well, that all went off very smoothly,” he remarked, rubbing his small white hands together. “These things are nearly always prosaic in real life, don’t you find? I’m glad Miss Twinkley wasn’t there to make a mystery of it,” he added with a sort of giggle.

  “Perhaps she was,” said Henry. “I noticed an old lady in the back row with flowers on her hat, who might easily have been your—”

  “Now, now,” said Dr. Cartwright, embarrassed. “Don’t forget our pact. Not a word outside the club.”

  “Not a word,” Henry agreed.

  “What I really wanted to say,” Cartwright went on, “was that I shall be driving back to London, and I wondered if I could persuade you and your wife to accept a ride with me this time.”

  “I think we’d be delighted,” said Henry. “Wouldn’t we, Emmy?”

  “We certainly would,” said Emmy.

  “Saw as much of the island as you needed to last time, eh?” said Cartwright.

  “Quite as much,” said Emmy.

  “Well, there’s a ferry leaving soon, so if you’re all set…”

  In the car, conversation naturally turned to the inquest, and to Peter Turnberry. Henry said, “By the way, Timmond tells me that you took your car out that afternoon?”

  Cartwright did not appear to react, except with faint surprise.

  “Timmond told you? What an extraordinary thing. Why should he?”

  “Probably because I asked him,” said Henry.

  Cartwright sniffed, indicating his opinion of Henry as an officious busybody. He said, “Yes, you’re perfectly right, I did. Much earlier in the afternoon. I’d been for a walk, and remembered that I was out of cigarettes.”

/>   “Cigarettes?” said Henry, remembering the constantly refilled boxes all over the Manor.

  “Tobacco, I should say. I like a certain brand of pipe tobacco, which the village store fortunately stocks. So I took the car and nipped down to get a couple of ounces.”

  “Oh, well, that’s simple enough,” said Henry. He could not remember ever seeing Dr. Cartwright smoking a pipe.

  “I didn’t see Timmond,” added the doctor, sounding piqued. “What was he doing—spying, or something?”

  “No, no.” Henry was reassuring. “He was going to have a cup of tea in the kitchen when he heard the car starting up. He got to the stable door just in time to see you driving out of the gate.”

  “Timmond should stick to his horses,” said Cartwright snappishly. “The cars are the chauffeur’s concern.”

  “Of course,” said Henry, and changed the subject.

  A little later he remarked, “I believe we go through Myrtle Waterford’s home town.”

  Cartwright looked surprised. “Yes, we do. Great Middleford. About half an hour’s drive from here.”

  “It’s extraordinary,” said Henry, “that someone like her should write those tough, violent books. I wonder where she gets her ideas.”

  “From other authors,” said Cartwright, a little grimly. “You don’t imagine Myrtle’s ever been nearer to violence than an argument at the Women’s Institute, do you? She simply reads all the hard-hitting American authors, transposes the scene to Britain, and changes the hero’s name to Tex Lawrie. Talk about plagiarism! But it’s very difficult to prove—or so Harry Vandike says. Nevertheless, between you and me”—Cartwright broke off to hoot his horn angrily at another motorist—“see that? Cutting in when it was clearly my road…what was I saying? Oh, yes. Between you and me, I’ve been told that Sir Robert is getting worried. There used to be a certain originality about Myrtle’s work, but lately it’s been so obviously derivative—to use a kind word—that I understand he’s seriously considering the possibility that there might be lawsuits. Not the sort of thing that Oppenshaw and Trilby needs at the moment, when publishing in general is in the doldrums. Yes, Myrtle had better watch her step.” Dr. Cartwright spoke with gloomy relish. Henry had heard of professional jealousy, and presumed that this was just another manifestation of it.

  He said, “How well did you know Peter Turnberry, Dr. Cartwright?”

  “Know him? I didn’t know him at all. Never met him until the Carnworth week. Vandike knew him at university, I believe, and of course Barbara was engaged to marry him, but as far as I know, neither Myrtle nor Fred had met him before, either.”

  “So you have no idea what he wanted to see me about the day he died?”

  There was a little pause as Cartwright accelerated to pass a dawdling car ahead. Then he said, “No. No idea. But it seemed to me that he was worked up over that ridiculous crossword puzzle, for some extraordinary reason. Can’t imagine why. It had nothing to do with him.”

  “You noticed that too?” Henry was interested. “His name appeared in it, you remember, and there was that clue about Peter holding the keys.”

  “I really can’t remember the puzzle,” said Cartwright, “but it struck me that the word ‘Peter’ was just a filler-up, as you might say. The important names for Vandike to work in were the ones connected with possible mysteries.”

  “Yes,” said Henry. “Yes, I know.”

  It was a few minutes later that a sign informed drivers that they were entering the town of Great Middleford, and the car made its way into a broad street, lined with attractive Georgian and early Victorian houses, most of which had been converted into shops. The centerpiece, as it were, was a beautiful Elizabethan timbered structure, the Tabard Inn, which did not seem to have changed either its name or appearance for over four hundred years.

  Henry said, “I wonder if you’d mind dropping us off here, Doctor?”

  Cartwright grinned. “Have you got some rooted objection to my driving you into London, Tibbett—or are you thinking of paying Myrtle a visit?”

  Blandly, Henry said, “I’ve often heard about the Tabard at Great Middleford. I thought we might have lunch.”

  “Wish I could join you,” replied the doctor, equally bland. “Unfortunately, I have to get back to my surgery. Good-bye, Tibbett…Mrs. Tibbett. I don’t imagine that we shall meet again—unless you need my services professionally, of course.”

  “Good-bye, Dr. Cartwright,” said Henry. “You’ve been very kind. It would be a pleasure to meet you again—but in a nonprofessional capacity. On both sides,” he added with a smile.

  The Lancia moved off toward London, and Henry and Emmy, with their one small suitcase, walked into the oak-beamed bar, festooned with horse brasses and warming pans, of the Tabard Inn.

  The Tabard lived up to its reputation. Even though it was nearly two o’clock, the Tibbetts were welcomed warmly, told that they were certainly not too late for lunch, and invited to take a drink at the bar while they studied the menu. This was in the best tradition of old-fashioned English cooking, featuring grilled Dover sole, prime ribs of beef, local roast lamb, and steak-and-kidney pudding. With some difficulty, because everything was so tempting, Henry and Emmy placed their orders and started on two glasses of dry sherry.

  Henry said to the pretty, dark-haired barmaid, “Do you have a telephone I could use?”

  “Of course. Just through that door over there.”

  “And a local directory?”

  “There’s one in the phone booth, unless somebody’s pinched it again,” said the barmaid. “People are awful, aren’t they? Take anything that isn’t nailed down.”

  Her pessimism was unjustified, however. The directory was there, and only one Waterford was listed—Gerald, The Chimneys, Rabbit Lane. Just right, Henry thought, and dialed the number.

  Myrtle answered the phone almost immediately, as if she had been waiting for a call. “Mrs. Waterford speaking.”

  Henry said, “Oh, sorry. I was hoping for Jack Harvey.”

  There was a sharp intake of breath, but before Myrtle could slam down the receiver, Henry added, “Just a joke, Mrs. Waterford. This is Henry Tibbett. You remember me from Carnworth?”

  The breath was exhaled—a long sigh. Then, unruffled and impeccably upper class, Myrtle said, “Why, of course, Mr. Tibbett. How nice to hear from you. But you really were naughty to play that trick on me.”

  “Is your writing identity really such a dark secret?” Henry spoke lightly, amused.

  “It’s not…well, no, not exactly that, although I wouldn’t like the local people to know—”

  “Mrs. Waterford,” said Henry, “I’ve just come from the inquest on Peter Turnberry.”

  “Oh?” Myrtle’s voice expressed no more than polite concern. “What was the verdict?”

  “Accidental death,” Henry said.

  “Of course. What else could it have been?”

  “My wife and I,” Henry went on, “are in Great Middleford at the moment, on our way back to London. In fact, we’re about to have lunch at the Tabard.”

  “An excellent choice, Mr. Tibbett.”

  “And afterwards,” Henry went on, “I wondered if we might drop in and see you.”

  There was a distinct pause. Then Myrtle said warmly, “But of course. How very nice. What time can I expect you?”

  “About half past three?”

  “Splendid. Gerald won’t be—that’s to say, I’m afraid my husband will still be at work then, but I’d be delighted to see you both.”

  “You’re very kind,” said Henry. “See you later.”

  The lunch was delicious. It was not a meal to be hurried, and the dessert, bananes flambées, was well worth waiting for. Consequently, it was after a quarter past three when Henry returned to the bar, closed now, but doubling as a reception desk. He asked, first, whether he might leave the suitcase until later in the afternoon and, second, if a taxi could be ordered.

  The Chimneys turned out to be a small but exq
uisite Elizabethan farmhouse on the outskirts of the little town. It had been restored with expert and loving care, and the garden was immaculately tended. As the taxi drove in through the open wrought-iron gates, Henry was doing a little mental calculation. A small-town bank manager, while a respected and by no means indigent citizen, could hardly afford to live in a place like this, unless he had some source of income beyond his salary. It could be a private fortune, but if so, why soldier on as a bank manager? The source must surely be Myrtle, or rather Jack Harvey.

  The front door was opened by a maid, who ushered the Tibbetts into a comfortable drawing room with a huge fireplace, unlit but piled with logs.

  “Madam will be down in a moment,” said the maid, and withdrew.

  Emmy looked at Henry, eyebrows just slightly raised. He grinned back, guessing correctly that they had both had the same thought. Jack Harvey was doing well.

  Then the door opened and Myrtle came in—the Lady of the Manor, country-wholesome in a striped cotton dress and cashmere cardigan. Neat gray hair, strong hands, sensible shoes. As unlike the world of Jack Harvey and Tex Lawrie as could be imagined.

  She said, “Mr. and Mrs. Tibbett! This is a delightful surprise. May I offer you a cup of coffee?”

  Emmy said, “Not for me, thanks. We’ve just had a magnificent meal.”

  “Yes. The Tabard has a very fine cook, I am told. Of course, Gerald and I hardly ever eat there. Rather like living in London and never visiting St. Paul’s.”

  Henry and Emmy smiled politely, and then Henry said, “The inquest this morning was interesting, I thought.”

  “Really?” Myrtle sounded bored, a shade too bored, perhaps. “I should have thought it would be a mere formality.”

  “That’s what was interesting,” said Henry.

  “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand…”

  Henry said, “There were people with important evidence to give who were not called.”

  “Such as?”

  “Myself, for one,” Henry said.

  There was an awkward pause, and then Myrtle said, “Would you care to see the garden? The roses are at their best just now.”