A Six-Letter Word for Death

by Patricia Moyes

“I’ve never even heard of him.”

  “So you didn’t know that he was—”

  At this point the front door opened, slammed shut again, and Professor Frederick Coe came lumbering up the stairs, shouting good-naturedly as he came.

  “Late again! Late as usual! Apologies, my good people!”

  Fred Coe’s bearded face appeared as he hurried up the stairs, still in the process of divesting himself of an old rain coat. “Sorry, Alice. Just stopped at a pub with a few of my students to thrash out a couple of points…didn’t realize how the time was going by… Hello, Henry. How are you, Emmy? This is my wife, Alice…”

  “I have already had ample time to introduce myself,” said Alice coldly. “You’d better go upstairs and comb your hair. What will you have to drink—or have you had enough already?”

  Fred Coe gave a great roar of laughter. “Hell hath no fury like a woman whose husband turns up late. Pour me a stiff whisky, Alice dear. Be down in a moment.”

  With that, he went at a shambling run up the flight of stairs leading to the bedroom floor. Alice prepared his drink in a silence alive with hostility. A minute or so later, Professor Coe reappeared minus raincoat and rubbing his hands. If he had combed his hair, the fact was not apparent. Alice handed him his drink.

  “Thank you, my dear. Henry and Emmy—your good health.” He sat down. “Now, what’s all this about Peter Turnberry? Nothing mysterious, surely?”

  Before Henry could answer, Alice Coe said, “The Chief Superintendent seems to think that between us we murdered Aunt Felicity for her money.”

  “Mrs. Coe,” Henry protested, “I said no such—”

  “Ah, you’re thinking of the crossword puzzle,” boomed Fred cheerfully. “I don’t think I told you about that, Alice.”

  “You certainly didn’t, and I’m not surprised. To think that a group of grown and intelligent people—”

  “It was only a joke,” said Coe, shuffling his feet a little.

  “Not a very funny one,” remarked Mrs. Coe. “In any case, the Chief Superintendent seems to have solved it very competently, and now we are all suspects.”

  Henry said again, “Please, Mrs. Coe, I said no such thing. But I do want to talk to your husband about Peter Turnberry.”

  “Of course.” Alice became gracious again, with an obvious effort. “Would you care to see our little garden, Mrs. Tibbett?”

  “I should love to,” said Emmy.

  So the two women went down the stone steps to the small backyard, and the men were left alone in the elegant drawing room that Miss Felicity had so kindly financed.

  Henry said, “First of all, had you met Peter Turnberry before the Carnworth get-together?”

  “I…er…no. Goodness me, no.”

  “Then why did you say on the telephone that he wasn’t very bright?”

  “I’m a teacher, you know,” said Fred. “A week is quite long enough to spot a bright young fellow—or one who isn’t.”

  “And yet both Sir Robert and Vandike seemed to rate him very highly, intellectually.”

  “Oh, that.” Coe lit a pipe and puffed at it, fanning away the smoke with a contemptuous gesture that seemed to encompass Peter Turnberry’s mental ability. “He was one of Harry’s protégés, you know. Any young man who will go mountain climbing with Harry automatically becomes a genius, whatever the evidence to the contrary. If he ends up with a bad second or even a third, Harry will find an excuse for him. I have no idea what kind of degree Peter Turnberry got, but you can be sure it wasn’t a first, dear fellow.”

  “Mr. Vandike isn’t married, is he?” said Henry.

  Coe roared with laughter again. “You don’t have to pussyfoot around it, old man. Harry’s as queer as a three-dollar bill—but don’t quote me. He keeps his nose clean, and I wouldn’t want to be sued for slander. Or would it be slander nowadays,” he added, puffing reflectively, “now that it’s no longer a crime? Interesting point. You’d know more about that.”

  Henry smiled. “Slander would come under civil law,” he said. “I’m not a lawyer, only a policeman, and my field is crime. And talking of crime, did Peter Turnberry come to you during the Carnworth week with a suggestion for a plot—I mean, a plot for a Miss Twinkley book?”

  Fred Coe looked surprised. “Funny you should say that,” he remarked. “Yes, as a matter of fact, he did.”

  “I thought he might have,” said Henry. “When was this?”

  Coe thought for a moment. “It was a couple of days before you arrived. He cornered me and—”

  “You and Dr. Cartwright, I suppose?”

  “No, just me. Actually, Bill thinks up the plots and I do the writing, but Peter didn’t know that.” Fred Coe chuckled. “I must say I’m glad I’m not generally known to be a mystery writer. I’m told that if you are, the world and his wife come pestering you with ideas for plots, most of which are completely useless.”

  “And was Peter Turnberry’s useless?”

  Coe hesitated. “I thought there just might be something in it,” he admitted, “although it was ridiculously complicated. However, I did go so far as to mention it to Bill, but he turned it down right away. Said he wouldn’t touch it.”

  “What was the plot?” asked Henry bluntly.

  “Oh, I can’t remember the details. The usual thing—wills and inheritances and something about an illegitimate child…the usual rigmarole…”

  “And what was to be the method of murder?”

  “Very unoriginal,” said Coe. “Drowning. Made to appear accidental. Very difficult to prove without actual witnesses. That’s why it’s popular with writers—and maybe in real life, for all I know.”

  Henry said, “The third set of crossword clues concerned the accidental drowning of Barbara Oppenshaw’s stepsister.”

  “That’s obviously where he got the idea,” said Coe. “He must have known the story, and I suppose he thought one could make some sort of a mystery novel out of it. I’ve never heard the whole story myself—only the snippets that came out at the Guess Who dinner, when we got the idea for the crossword.”

  Thoughtfully, Henry said, “If you thought the plot had possibilities, why do you imagine that Cartwright was so much against it?”

  “Several reasons. First, because it wasn’t very good. Second, because it didn’t seem to be a Miss Twinkley story at all. But mainly, I think, because of something I had no idea of until then.”

  “What was that?”

  “Simply that Bill, quite by chance, had been visiting Carnworth and was there when the elder girl drowned. If Sir Robert were to get a Freda Wright manuscript with a drowning in it, he might assume that Bill was in some way drawing on his own experience of the girl’s death. Being a doctor, and on the spot, he was naturally involved. Well, Oppenshaw and Trilby are very good publishers, my dear Henry, and we certainly didn’t want to risk upsetting Sir Robert. So that was that.”

  “You told Turnberry you couldn’t use the story?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “What was his reaction?”

  Fred Coe rubbed his chin. “I’d quite forgotten until now,” he said. “He made an odd remark.”

  “What was that?”

  “He said, ‘Then I’ll just have to wait for Tibbett.’ Struck me as peculiar at the time, but then I forgot all about it. Oh, well, poor young fellow, nobody’ll write his story for him now.”

  “No,” said Henry. “Nobody will. Unless he told it to Harry Vandike. He might make a Gothic of it.”

  “No, no, no. He obviously took it first to Harry, since they’re such friends. Or were. Harry must have handed him the pink slip before anybody else.” Coe paused. “Did he try it on anyone else, do you know?”

  Henry said, “This is in confidence. He tried to sell a plot idea to Myrtle Waterford. She turned it down, and refused to tell me what it was about. Maybe the same one. Maybe not. Well, thank you very much, Fred. You’ve been a lot of help.”

  “Help? Help in what? The whole thing’s closed no
w, surely?”

  “I hope so,” said Henry.

  Fred was puffing noisily at his pipe. “Damn thing always goes out,” he complained.

  “By the way,” said Henry, “I knew there was something I meant to ask you. Does Bill Cartwright smoke a pipe?”

  “If he does, I’ve never seen it,” said Coe. “The occasional cigarette, that’s all.”

  Just then, Alice and Emmy came back from the garden. Alice seemed in a much better mood.

  “If you two men have had your mysterious discussion,” she said, “I suggest we all have another drink and talk about pleasant things.”

  And so they did.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  FOR THE NEXT few days, Henry concentrated on routine work and office matters. He had a feeling that the Turnberry affair would somehow seek him out, rather than the other way around. He had slipped enough ferrets down holes to start a scamper of rabbits, and the thing to do now was to wait. Besides, Harold Vandike was still somewhere up a mountain in Wales.

  Bearing this in mind, it was no great surprise when his office telephone rang on Friday, and he was told that Professor Vandike was on the line and wished to speak to him. He grinned to himself.

  “Tibbett? This is Harry Vandike.”

  “Nice to hear from you. I thought you were in Wales.”

  “I am.”

  “What did you want to talk to me about?”

  Vandike chuckled. “The other way round, dear fellow,” he said. “I check with the college by telephone every few days for messages, and I’ve just heard that you’ve been trying to contact me. Naturally, I’m curious to know why.”

  “Oh, that.” Henry sounded offhand. “That was before the Turnberry inquest.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “Oh, just a notion I had—but the jury had no difficulty in coming to a verdict of accidental death, so the matter is closed.”

  There was a short silence. Then Vandike said, “As a matter of fact, I have to make a quick trip to London next week, Tuesday, to be precise, just for the day. Then I’ll come back here and finish my holiday. I thought perhaps we might lunch together, if you’re free.”

  “What a delightful idea,” said Henry blandly, “I won’t suggest the canteen at Scotland Yard, unless you’re interested in a tour of—”

  “Certainly not.” Vandike sounded almost alarmed. “My club. The Explorers, in Pall Mall. I daresay you know it.”

  “From the outside only,” Henry said. “My explorations are of a rather different nature from those of your members.”

  Vandike ignored this remark. He merely said, “Will twelve o’clock be too early for you? I have an afternoon appointment.”

  “Twelve will be fine.”

  “Splendid. Just ask the porter for me.”

  “I look forward to it,” said Henry.

  When Vandike had hung up, Henry took up a notebook and began making some jottings, doing quite a bit of serious thinking at the same time. Then he sent for Inspector Reynolds.

  “Sit down, Derek. Got a moment?”

  “Yes, sir. You heard about the Limehouse fellow? Open-and-shut case, if the prosecution doesn’t bungle it. So, for the time being…”

  “Derek, you remember that crossword lark, and the weekend that Emmy and I spent at Carnworth, on the Isle of Wight?”

  “Yes, sir. And some poor young man was thrown from his horse and killed. Bit of bad luck, that.”

  “Extremely bad luck,” said Henry. “Look, I’d like to tell you all the facts, as I know them, and get your reactions.”

  “You’re not happy about the inquest verdict, then?”

  “I didn’t say that. I just want you to listen.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Henry spoke for about half an hour. Derek Reynolds was a good listener. Only occasionally did he interrupt to ask for a point to be clarified. When Henry had finished, there was a long silence.

  Henry said, “Well?”

  With no hesitation, Reynolds said, “There’s a cover-up going on, sir.”

  “Cover-up? Of what?”

  “Young Turnberry was never thrown from his horse because the girth broke, sir. Why he went over the cliff, nobody knows—or rather, somebody knows and isn’t saying. If you ask me, Mr. Turnberry knew something that was inconvenient to someone…no, I’ll be more definite. To someone important. So it was fortunate that he had a fatal accident just when he did. And that local man, Hemming—he’s in on it.”

  “In on it?”

  “Well, any decent copper would have subpoenaed you, sir, and Timmond the groom too, and at least let the jury hear the evidence. So the ‘someone’ is someone local. Or someone local covering up for yet another person.”

  “This begins to get awfully complicated, Derek,” Henry remarked.

  “Obviously it’s complicated, or it wouldn’t have happened,” said Reynolds enigmatically. “Now, who’s the most important local person involved?”

  “Sir Robert Oppenshaw—or his wife.”

  “Exactly, sir.”

  “But they both have perfect alibis, Derek.”

  “They do, do they? If I were you, sir, I’d get down there and see if you can’t break them.”

  “They were taking tea with the Dowager Lady Whitstable, who lives near Ventnor. Drove themselves over in the Jaguar.” Reynolds made a note. Henry went on, “I can’t take that idea seriously, Derek. But it is possible that Sir Robert might be trying to protect one of his authors. Don’t forget that these people are his bread and butter.”

  “Are they, sir?”

  “He’s the publisher, and they’re all best-sellers.”

  “Yes,” said Reynolds, “but he has money of his own, as I understand.”

  “Why did Peter ride to his parents’ house?” Henry asked. “That’s to say, we know he had to ride, because his driving license was temporarily revoked. What I mean is, why was he so anxious to go there?”

  “Simple, sir. He picked something up—papers, probably—to bring back and show you at five. And he never got to see you, and there were no papers on his body when it was found. Somebody removed them.”

  “The same person who moved the saddle, and tethered the mare so that she wouldn’t get home until much later?” Henry asked.

  “That I couldn’t say, sir,” admitted Reynolds. “But it looks like it, doesn’t it?”

  Henry beamed. “I’m delighted,” he said.

  “Delighted, sir?”

  “That you’ve reached the same conclusions I have. The question is, what do we do now?”

  Reynolds sighed. “You tell me to go and do some bloody dull work that you know I don’t enjoy, sir.” They grinned at each other.

  Henry said, “Okay, Inspector Reynolds. Off you go and do it. And if it’s humanly possible, get me the results by Tuesday morning.”

  Searching through old records is a time-consuming business, even with police authority and a charming staff doing their best to help. Derek Reynolds, however, went at it like a beaver, and by Monday evening he had photocopies of the documents he needed. As he followed the trail he had set for himself, he began to experience a rising excitement. It was leading somewhere. Just where, he wasn’t sure, but at least he would have something to show the Chief Superintendent that might make him think.

  Consequently, it was with some satisfaction that he knocked on Henry’s door on Tuesday morning and entered with a file in his hand. Henry looked up from the papers he was studying.

  “Hello, Derek. Anything to report?”

  “Yes, sir. Some positive, some negative.”

  “Well, sit down and tell me.”

  Reynolds pulled up a chair and said, “I’ll give you a bit of negative for a start, sir. The Oppenshaws’ alibi seems watertight.”

  “So you checked on it, did you? How?”

  “I got on to that Robinson bloke at Ventnor, and he’s a pal of Lady Whitstable’s gardener. He made a few discreet inquiries, and it seems that th
e gardener is deputed to look after the guests’ cars during these parties of Her Ladyship’s, which are pretty big affairs. It so happens that he—the gardener—is especially interested in Jaguars, and he swears to Robinson that the Oppenshaw car was there from half past three until a quarter past five. What’s more, sir, the gardener remembers that at about half past four, Sir Robert came out to the car to get some cigarettes for his wife, and they started chatting about the Jag. Then Sir Robert looked at his watch and said he must get back inside or there’d be trouble.”

  “I told you so,” said Henry. “All right. What about the positive?”

  Reynolds opened his file. “It’s hard to know where to start, sir. I think the best place is with Lady Oppenshaw.”

  “Pamela Oppenshaw?”

  “Yes, sir. You see, I got the impression from what you said that Sir Robert owned Carnworth Manor.”

  “So he does,” said Henry. And then, thoughtfully, “And yet come to think of it, he never said so in so many words. I remember him saying something that gave me the idea the place was his…what was it? Oh, yes. That after he married Lady Oppenshaw, he naturally had her stepdaughter, Jean, come and live with them at Carnworth—” Henry suddenly slapped his hand to his forehead. “I am a blithering idiot, Derek.”

  “Sir?”

  “Lady Oppenshaw owns Carnworth, doesn’t she? Barbara Oppenshaw told me so herself, but I didn’t take it in at the time.”

  “How was that, sir?”

  “We were talking about her relationship with Jeannie, and she got upset and started to cry. Among her tears, she said, ‘From the moment we went to live at Carnworth…’ If Sir Robert had owned the place, Barbara would have been living there all along, and she’d have said, ‘from the moment she came to live at Carnworth.’ I apologize, Derek. I’ve given you a lot of work to find out what I should have known all along.”

  “You’d still need the proof, wouldn’t you, sir?” said Reynolds soothingly.

  “You’re very tactful, Derek. Okay, tell me about it.”

  “Well, sir, Lady Oppenshaw inherited Carnworth from her late husband, a Mr. Francis Warfield, who was a very rich man. Made a fortune in copper or zinc or something shortly after the war. I haven’t had time to find out too many details, but there’s no doubt that he bought Carnworth Manor in the 1950s. Then, ten years later, he died of a heart attack.”