The Snark was a Boojum

by Gerald Verner

  Gale scowled at me. “Rubbish!” he cried.

  The train, heralded by a piercing and prolonged scream from its whistle, roared into a tunnel and darkness descended upon the compartment. A musty smell, like mildewed leather, seeped in from the window and mingled with the smoke of Gale’s acrid tobacco—then the lights came on.

  “You won’t get me to believe all this Snark stuff was done solely for the purpose of hoodwinking Bellman? He’s no fool. He’d have seen through it . . .”

  “Perhaps he has,” I broke in. “He’s not likely to broadcast that knowledge is he? He’d have kept it to himself.”

  The train exited the tunnel and into a steep cutting. I leaned forward and opened the window as Gale rolled another cigarette. “Ursula’s bored to death in that place,” he said. “She’s just looking for excitement—that doesn’t make her a cold-blooded murderess. You’ve got to be depraved to commit murders like these. It takes a special type of person to treat human beings like that . . . There’s another snag . . . Neither of ’em could be certain that getting rid of Baker would have the desired effect. It might only postpone their little love in a cottage from being discovered—all far too risky.” He lit his cigarette and flicked the used match out of the window. He drew in a deep inhalation of smoke and let it trickle slowly through his nostrils. “For all they knew Baker could have already made his report.”

  “Who’s this fellow James Lawson?” I asked, thinking aloud.

  “Someone who’s heard about the goings on in Lower Bramsham and is worried for Baker’s safety,” he answered.

  Chapter Twelve

  Gilder’s Court was a dingy little cul-de-sac about half-way up the left hand side of Fetter Lane. Apart from the fact that it was more grimy and lacking in paint, it differed little from the innumerable courts and alleys with which this part of the City of London abounds.

  Next to a small shop selling office equipment, with a window filled with bargains in typing paper, envelopes, files, and all sorts of office equipment, was a wholly uninviting doorway. On the cracked glass transom had been painted 16a.

  “This must be the place,” said Simon Gale, scowling at the unprepossessing doorway with obvious distaste. “Bit of a dump, hey?”

  We entered a narrow and very short passage at the end of which was a smarter-looking door painted gloss black. On the upper portion of the door, of ground glass, was displayed in gold letters: St. Dunstan Investigations.

  I noted that in contrast to the shabby nondescript exterior this door looked quite smart and newly painted. I had no idea what to expect.

  Gale turned the door handle and entered.

  The door opened onto a vestibule that led to inner offices and stairs to upper floors. The office furniture in the reception looked good quality and new. Everything was clean and tidy. The impression I got was of a medium sized, prosperous business. An attractive dark-haired girl, I estimated to be in her late twenties, was seated behind an enquiries desk busy typing. She stopped her typing as we came in, looked up at us, and did her best to smile. I visualised this girl typing the addresses on the letters sent to Baker at Lower Bramsham, and posting them at a WC2 post-box. I produced my own business card, and in my best superior manner handed it to her.

  “Trueman, Hartly, Ward and Trueman,” she read out, looking from one to the other of us.

  “I’m Mr. Trueman,” I said smiling with as much confidence as I could muster.

  Noting I represented a well-established firm of London solicitors, she behaved in a respectful manner, but slightly wary, as if she expected me to hand her a subpoena at any moment. “How can I help you gentlemen?”

  I cleared my throat, aware I was about to embark on a charade that could conceivably end my short career.

  “We’re here to see Mr. Baker . . .” I began.

  Her face went ashen . . . I could almost feel her struggling to pull herself together.

  She knows . . . I thought.

  “Mr. Baker . . .?” she repeated hesitantly, staring at my card and frowning.

  “Mr. William Baker,” I clarified in my best solicitor voice.

  “Are you certain you’ve come to the right address?” she asked me rather feebly.

  “Quite certain,” I replied, sensing she was unsure of her ground and beginning to feel uneasy myself.

  She took a deep breath, looked again at my card, and shook her head. “Well . . . nobody called William Baker works here.”

  I stood frozen, as my heart sank. All I could immediately think of was that we had come all this way for nothing, due to Simon Gale’s impetuousness. This had turned out to be a dead end.

  “You probably don’t know him as William Baker,” boomed Gale, butting in. “I think he is working incognito . . . at Lower Bramsham . . .”

  “Lower Bramsham?” Now she looked positively alarmed. “Where those murders have been committed . . .?”

  To say I felt we were treading on thin ice would have been an understatement. I could feel the ice cracking beneath us and expected to sink into freezing cold water at any moment.

  Gale didn’t seem at all bothered. “I think you’ve hit the nail on the head,” he cried. “A very nasty business . . .”

  “What has this to do with us?” quizzed the dark girl, tears gathering in her eyes. “What exactly is it you want?”

  “It’s confidential,” answered Gale.

  “Everything here is confidential . . . Mr. er . . .”

  “Simon Gale.”

  “What can we do for you, Mr. Gale?”

  “I want to see James Lawson in connection with the murder of William Baker in Lower Bramsham,” he replied bluntly, blowing sky-high any further pretence. “It may not be a good time, but it’s very important I see him.”

  She looked shocked, pulled herself together, pushed her chair back, picked up my card, and stood up defensively. I felt proud for her. “Please wait here. I’ll be back in a moment.”

  I had no idea how much they knew, but I was certain they knew something of what had happened. I gave Gale a look that implied wait and see . . .

  The girl climbed the stairs to the next floor. We heard her give a gentle knock on a door, a voice from inside, and the door open and close. Low voices escaped from within. We waited expectantly. When the receptionist returned she was subdued, but had that look of relief that comes when responsibility has been handed over to a higher authority.

  “If you will follow me gentlemen, Mr. Lawson has agreed to see you now.”

  I exchanged glances with Gale. We both realised we were about to meet the sender of the telegram to William Baker. From the way she spoke, I had the feeling that he was reluctant to see us, but in the circumstances couldn’t refuse. This reluctance was quite understandable if they had already been informed of the fate that William Baker, presumably one of their own, had suffered. This entire office must be in mourning—in a state of shock. I couldn’t help feel a small boost in my confidence that our journey had not been for nothing, and that we were in the right place, and on track.

  Who was this James Lawson we were about to meet?

  We were shown into an elegant room with polished wooden filing cabinets along one wall. The man sitting behind a large mahogany desk was obviously shattered. His face looked white and drawn, haggard as only the recipient of devastating news can become in a very short while.

  “Please take a seat, gentlemen,” he suggested grimly.

  He glanced at my business card then at me. “I respect your firm,” he said, “and I have respect for your father, whom we have worked for on several occasions . . . If we had met in different circumstances things would be different . . . As it is, I have recently received a call from the City of London Police, who confirmed my worst fears. My nephew has been murdered in the most despicable way. You will know him as William Baker I think, but that is a name he works under, a pseudonym. His real name is Robert Lawson.”

  I sat, digesting this news, acutely aware both of us had blundered into
a sensitive situation under false pretences, where if our presence were handled in Gale’s usual tactless way, we could be shown the door, not only by St. Dunstan Investigations, but by Chief Detective Inspector Halliday, and possibly my own firm. Gale looked like the cat that got the cream.

  “We are helping the police with their investigations . . .” I opened hastily. “We have to try and unravel this mystery . . . catch this killer before anyone else dies. Do you have any idea what Baker . . . your nephew, was doing in Lower Bramsham?”

  “I can only tell you Felicity received a telephone call . . . Felicity from reception . . . the girl who showed you in just now . . . The caller wouldn’t give their name and insisted the call was private. I do know it was a woman.”

  Gale and I exchanged glances. I could feel his excitement building . . .

  “Robert took the call . . . I gather from Felicity it went on for some time . . . Immediately following it he came to see me and requested three weeks off. He wouldn’t say what it was about and I didn’t pry. He left Felicity the post office at Lower Bramsham as a forwarding address for any ongoing mail, and expressly requested that no one from this firm try to contact him directly.”

  “You have no idea what business he was about . . .?” Gale began.

  “None! But if I did I would not discuss it with you. How long do you imagine our firm would continue in existence if we discussed our clients’ private investigations with the first people who walked into my office?” He looked at me pointedly. “Your father would understand, and wouldn’t expect me to betray confidences. I can tell you he was one of our best investigators. He blended in—always managed to convey a nondescript personality as a front—beneath that he was as sharp as a razor—like a hunting dog on the scent . . . And to be murdered in this horrible way he must have discovered something . . . something that involved the gravest issues and a powerful motive.” He put his head in his hands. “My worst fears have been realised . . . Forgive me gentlemen, I am not myself today . . .”

  With a humility I didn’t know he possessed, Simon Gale waited patiently until James Lawson recovered sufficiently to look up. Looking him in the eye, Gale said: “Will you work with me to find the killer of your nephew, Mr. Lawson? I give you my word that I will leave no stone unturned until I bring him to justice.”

  James Lawson looked bewildered at this pledge. “I would willingly work with you Mr. Gale, but I have no idea who you are?”

  For once I saw Simon Gale at a complete loss. He turned to me and said:

  “Tell him everything.”

  *

  As we emerged from 16a Gilder’s Court, Gale headed, as if by instinct, for a pub called The White Swan. He paused outside.

  “This is what I need,” he said, as he pulled me inside. “Beer!”

  I had done my best to introduce Gale to James Lawson and give him credibility, as well as describe the events from the dinner last Friday at Hunter’s Meadow, to our arrival at Fetter Lane. He had listened without a word of interruption, making a few notes on a pad. No doubt, as soon as we had left, he would instigate his own investigation.

  Gale and I both agreed Lawson knew more than he was letting on. He knew for what purpose his nephew Robert Lawson, masquerading as William Baker, had gone to reside incognito at Lower Bramsham for three weeks. After all, what was the regular mail from the London office to Lower Bramsham, if it wasn’t the fruits of some sort of investigation Baker was working on? We had come away with only one real lead; a woman had made the initial call, had been put through to Baker—I still have to think of him with that name—and he had respected or known the caller well enough to engage in a lengthy conversation and responded with immediate action.

  “If you were going to employ a private detective would you want anyone to know about it, hey?” stated Gale devouring his first pint. “He’d made up his mind by the end of the conversation to go straight away to Lower Bramsham. The woman on the other end of that telephone had a powerful control over him. I’d give my eye teeth to know who it was. Who d’you think, hey? The attractive Mrs. King; the curvaceous Mrs. Hope; the beautiful Ursula . . .? Or, perhaps you prefer the delicate Agnes Beaver or,” he cocked one eyebrow, “the impish Zoe . . .”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I interrupted feeling outraged. “How could Zoe have had anything to do with it? She wasn’t there at the dinner, and arrived after Baker had vanished . . .”

  “Did she?” demanded Gale, delighted he’d got under my skin. “How do you know? Oh, I agree it seems that way, and she’s a likeable enough . . .”

  “Don’t be absurd,” I retorted angrily.

  “Absurd—ridiculous?” he snapped his fingers and scowled. “They’re not reasons. She could have arrived earlier; she could have engaged Baker for some purpose of her own, d’you see? Maybe that was the real reason she came to Lower Bramsham . . .”

  “You know very well she came to visit Ursula,” I broke in. “You know that perfectly well . . .”

  “I only know that’s what she said,” he emphasised, summoning a kindly expression. “It might have just been an excuse . . .” He saw the anger on my face and went on quickly: “Oh, I know you like the girl . . . But see reason, Trueman . . . We’ve got to consider every possibility, d’you see?”

  “I can’t think of a single logical reason why Zoe would engage Baker to go to Lower Bramsham . . .” I argued feeling myself flush red.

  “Of course you can’t,” agreed Gale. “That’s why it’s a mystery . . .” He finished his beer and ordered another. “We’ll concentrate instead on thimbles, forks, railway-shares and soap!” he said, with a gleam in his eye, and a hint of wickedness. “That is the proper and recognised formula for hunting a Snark!”

  I stared at him. Was he playing with me? Did he know Zoe Anderson’s family business was soap?

  *

  We caught the three-fifty-six to Marling Junction and during the journey Gale hunched himself up in a corner of the compartment and only moved to roll an occasional cigarette.

  It was raining when we arrived back, a thin, cold, wetting drizzle. As we came out of the station we ran into Miss Agnes Beaver. She looked very fragile and delicate in a mackintosh with a hood that covered her silver hair.

  “Have you just arrived on the London Train?” she asked, when we had exchanged the usual greetings. “I’ve been shopping—just a few things for my lace work. If I’d known the weather was going to turn out like this I’d have postponed it. Are you on your way to Lower Bramsham?”

  “Yes,” answered Gale. “We shall have to organise a car . . .”

  “I have my own little car just around the corner,” said Miss Beaver. She looked at Gale a little doubtfully. “Mind you, it’s very small and you might find it a squeeze, but . . .”

  “That’s very kind of you,” broke in Gale, with alacrity.

  She led the way round by the side of the station entrance to a small car park. The car was very small and very ancient, but we somehow managed to wedge ourselves in by redistributing Miss Beaver’s parcels.

  Agnes Beaver was a careful driver. It may have been that the car was incapable of greater speed, but we never exceeded twenty miles an hour throughout the journey. As we came to the outskirts of Lower Bramsham eventually, Miss Beaver suggested we might like to have some tea with her.

  “I have some homemade scones and jam,” she said persuasively.

  I wasn’t too enthusiastic about this idea as I was beginning to worry about my absence from Hunter’s Meadow and old Bellman’s acquisition. However, Gale accepted her invitation instantly, so there wasn’t much I could do about it. I realised, of course, that her invitation provided the perfect opportunity to find out more about one of the dinner guests and see if she had any motive for employing William Baker.

  We turned off into a pretty little lane and arrived outside a charming cottage cheered up with Michaelmas Daises and Chrysanthemums. The interior was neat and not over cluttered. I had expected the place to be littere
d with specimens of Miss Beaver’s hobby but, with the exception of a single exquisite lace runner on a side table, there was no sign of it.

  “Please make yourselves comfortable while I get the tea ready. Can I ask you not to smoke . . . the pollution, you know.”

  I grinned at Gale who sat in a chair while I took the settee. He suddenly looked petulant, like a little boy refused sweets.

  “Not the kind of person likely to employ a private detective,” I whispered maliciously.

  Gale leaned forward. “That’s where you’re wrong,” he retorted irritably, “completely, utterly, and absolutely wrong! If it was the only way to attain a desired objective there would be no hesitation. The whole thing would be considered calmly and dispassionately, d’you see?”

  “I don’t see,” I argued. “In my opinion you’ve picked the two most unlikely candidates to have a reason for consulting Baker—Zoe and Agnes Beaver!”

  “I haven’t picked anybody,” answered Gale. “I agree neither is likely, but you can’t wash them out for that reason . . .”

  “The obvious candidate is Bellman,” I asserted. “Occam’s razor—the simplest reason is usually the correct one!”

  “All served up on a plate, eh? The eternal triangle—husband, wife and another man . . . What about Gifford? He could be the hub of this whole business—in which case neatness and tidiness goes out the window.” He got up and stood by the window glowering out into the wet garden, and tugging irritably at his beard.

  “What was the reason for Baker coming to Lower Bramsham? Was he murdered because of that, or because he stumbled on something else?”

  “Well if it was because he stumbled on something else accidentally, it’s not going to help us much if we do discover his original purpose, is it?” I reasoned.

  “If he discovered something accidentally it’s going to be a mighty head cracker to find out what it was,” he confessed, crossing from the window over to stare at a glass display cabinet. “Do you see this?” he said excitedly, ruffling his hands through his hair, “a collection of old English thimbles!”