The Snark was a Boojum

by Gerald Verner

  Before I could express my astonishment, Miss Beaver came in with a lovely old Georgian tray that looked to be solid silver, with a beautiful Rockingham china service. “Do you both take milk and sugar?”

  When she had poured out the tea, and we had helped ourselves to buttered scones and jam, she said:

  “I find it terrifying that anyone in Lower Bramsham could be capable of these terrible crimes. Who’d want to kill Franklin Gifford?” She considered her own question for a few moments. “I can think of several!”

  We all sat up as if given an electric shock.

  She shook her head sadly. “Mr. Gifford used to live at Marling with his wife, Mary. He was manager of a large bank then. As a bank manager he was quite ruthless, refused help to several people I know . . . people he turned down for no good reason . . . people with assets . . . A nice house he had there in Marling. He had assets . . .” She suddenly turned quite spiteful. “I never liked him and I never trusted him.”

  “You knew him quite well then, eh?” asked Gale.

  She nodded. “He was in the war, you know?”

  “That’s interesting,” murmured Gale. He stuffed a whole scone into his mouth, much to my horror. “I didn’t know that . . .”

  “Oh yes. He was injured badly . . . Wounded in the head . . . Blown up! Quite badly injured, he was. It was while he was convalescing at a requisitioned country house outside Marling that he met his wife. She was a nurse. Mary was a lovely girl . . . I watched her fall for him . . .”

  “You were there?” Gale coaxed her on.

  “Oh yes. I was matron. I didn’t like him, and advised her against the marriage. He was only interested in himself.”

  “What happened to his wife?”

  “She died about three years ago.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” answered Gale, not at all sorry. This was what he was after, background information, better collected in his opinion without officialdom. “What happened?” he asked.

  “Well, it’s generally thought she committed suicide.” Agnes Beaver slapped her thin bony hands together. “She didn’t commit suicide! She may have swallowed some pills but Franklin Gifford was the reason she took them!”

  Gale leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner. “Why?”

  “He was a philanderer. Always having affairs with someone or other . . . He met these women at the bank—they got the loans they wanted, assets or no assets, and often got Gifford as well! He broke her heart and his son’s—they don’t get on. Young Michael was devastated and blames his father for his mother’s death. He’s in the R.A.F. you know?”

  “Ah, his son . . .” Gale raised one shaggy eyebrow and cocked an enquiring glance at her. “Do you know any reason why Gifford would want to draft a new will?”

  A flash of alarm went across her faded grey eyes.

  “I’m sure I don’t . . .”

  We both noticed that moment of alarm. I’m sure you do, I thought, and I could see Gale thought the same.

  “I’m sure his son will inherit . . . Franklin’s supposed to be quite wealthy you know?”

  Gale nodded. “I’d heard that,” he said, with a glance in my direction.

  “When his wife died he sold up and came to live here above the bank. I mean, we hardly need a bank in Lower Bramsham do we?”

  There was few moments silence until Simon Gale dropped his little bombshell: “Did you know William Baker was a private detective?”

  Agnes Beaver, in the act of transferring a portion of scone from the plate to her mouth, suddenly stopped, holding it poised in mid-air and her faded grey eyes opened very wide as she stared at Gale with a blank expression. Too blank, I thought.

  “He was a detective?” She asked innocently, placing the piece of scone carefully back on her plate. “What was he doing in Lower Bramsham?”

  “We don’t know,” answered Gale. “Only that the person who hired him was most likely a woman.”

  “Why do you say that?” she asked with a troubled expression.

  Rather unwisely, I thought, Gale told her. I was sure Chief Detective Inspector Halliday would strongly disapprove of this wholesale scattering of information. If such a thing had crossed Gale’s mind, he ignored it.

  Miss Beaver’s troubled expression faded completely, when Gale had finished recounting our adventures.

  “What a pity after all that trouble you didn’t learn more.”

  “We collect trifles, hey?” grunted Gale. “But, d’you see, when you’ve collected enough trifles you can build up quite a large picture. You’ve lived here quite a long time?”

  Miss Beaver looked a little bewildered at the abruptness of the question. She wasn’t used to Gale’s habit of suddenly going off at a tangent.

  “Nearly sixteen years,” she answered, sipping her tea. “I was here long before most of our small community.”

  “That’s what I thought . . .” Gale leaned forward and ungraciously grabbed the last scone. “Of all the people at that fateful dinner who do you think ’ud be the most likely to engage the services of a private detective, and why?”

  I formed a picture in my eyes as clear in memory as it had been in reality. Old Bellman at the head of the table, peeling a peach; Ursula, facing her husband, her lovely face expressionless; Lance Weston, dark and supercilious, gently twisting the stem of his wine glass; Arnold Hope, fat and shiny, droning huskily that interminable shares story; Mrs. Hope, bulging out of that revolting dress; Franklin Gifford, neat and dapper; Agnes Beaver, delicate as a piece of her own china, with a hint of sadness in the depths of those gentle eyes; Edward Cranston, heavy-jawed and pompous; Mrs. Hilary King, vivid and colourful; Jack Merridew, owlish and lantern-jawed . . . And of course, William Baker—Robert Lawson as we now know him to be—acting nondescript and nervous while all the while on a mission . . . an investigation . . .

  The troubled look reinstated itself upon Miss Beavers features.

  “That’s a question I’d prefer not to answer, Mr. Gale.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  We set off to walk back to Hunter’s Meadow.

  “I noticed you left your tea,” I mentioned.

  “Tea!” he repeated, contorting his face into an expression of disgust. “Hay-water! I never touch the stuff!”

  I remarked that for the amount of time we’d spent with Agnes Beaver we hadn’t got very far.

  “You don’t think so, hey?” Gale gave me a quick sidelong glance. “We’re getting a picture of Franklin Gifford and it’s not so rosy—if everything Agnes Beaver said was true, and we don’t have reason to believe it was not, hey? Somebody disliked him enough to kill him, d’you see? Then there’s the money. There’s those successful investments of his . . . We’re led to believe there’s a pile of cash sitting somewhere . . .”

  “Probably in his bank,” I ventured, with a smile.

  “Probably!” cried Gale. “Then there’s the small matter of the will—the reason he asked you up to his flat. If he didn’t want to leave all his money to his son what changed his mind? A very important question this . . . Who does he now want to leave it to? Did you notice that flash of alarm in Miss Beaver’s eyes when I asked her why?”

  “I did notice it. You’re right,” I conceded. “We’re building up a picture.”

  “On the button, young feller—everyone we meet and talk to. That’s exactly what we’re doing—uncovering the layers—collecting trifles . . . Then there was that troubled expression of hers when I mentioned it had been a woman who had telephoned Baker? When I asked who she thought would engage a private detective. I’m sure she had a pretty good idea, but she refused to divulge. Then there was that glass cabinet,” Gale went on, increasing the length of his stride so that I had difficulty in keeping pace with him.

  “The thimble collection . . . Isn’t that the strangest coincidence? They sought it with thimbles . . .” he quoted. “And Agnes Beaver with her thimbles is wittingly or unwittingly helping us hunt the Snark!”

  I made up
my mind. “Slow down a moment,” I called to him, so I could speak normally instead of shouting. “Did you know Zoe’s family owns Anderson Soap?”

  “I wondered when you were going to tell me,” he growled.

  “How did you know?”

  “Ursula told me,” answered Gale. “I think at one time she was a little envious of your Zoe’s wealth.”

  My Zoe? I smiled to myself. I rather liked the sound of that . . .

  Gale went on: “Maybe that’s one reason she married old Bellman. To even up the score . . .”

  “You don’t think there’s anything in it do you? They charmed it with smiles and soap?”

  Gale roared with laughter. “Well young feller, she does have a charming smile and she’s got plenty of soap! We’ll have to wait and see . . .”

  Gale picked up the pace again and we lapsed into silence. In spite of Gale’s assurances that he would make it all right with Joshua Bellman I wasn’t so convinced. With every yard that brought us nearer to the house I grew guiltier like a boy skiving off school. We should arrive in time to dress for dinner, and I dreaded the prospect of facing Bellman’s shrewd, beady brown eyes. In order to offset this fear I thought of Zoe Anderson . . . Her presence would more than compensate for any unpleasant remarks Bellman might make. I hoped that Ursula had not carted her off anywhere that evening.

  I needn’t have worried for the first person I saw, after Trenton had admitted us, was Zoe. She was coming quickly down the wide staircase and when she saw me she stopped with her hand on the rail and her impish face crinkled into a grin.

  “Well!” she said coming down the remainder of the staircase. “So, you’ve finally come back!”

  “Like the prodigal son,” said Gale, stripping off his coat and flinging it at Trenton. “I’m going up to wash and change. I’m starving. Nothing to eat since breakfast except scones and jam . . .”

  “Dinner will be served in twenty minutes,” murmured Trenton solemnly for anyone who wanted to listen, as Gale bounded up the stairs in great strides, three at a time. “Drinks are being served in the drawing room.”

  “Where have you been all day?” Zoe asked. “Everyone has been wondering what had happened to you.”

  My heart sank. “Bellman?” I asked anxiously.

  She nodded.

  “Was he annoyed?”

  “I don’t think so,” she answered. “We haven’t seen much of him. Several newspaper reporters have called. They were disappointed that they couldn’t see Mr. Gale . . .”

  “Just as well he wasn’t here.” I said.

  “Where did you go?”

  This was awkward. I wasn’t at all sure that I ought to tell her—certainly not until I had Gale’s permission. She must have seen my uncertainty for the quirk at the corner of her mouth deepened, and a dancing light of amusement was in her green eyes. “All right—you needn’t answer that. You’d better dress or you’ll be late for dinner.”

  She turned away with a little wave of her hand and I hurried up the stairs. At the top I almost collided with Joshua Bellman. He looked like a man on the verge of complete nervous exhaustion. His wrinkled face was of an unhealthy pallor and there was a strained expression in his small, monkey-like eyes. He greeted me, however, pleasantly enough—rather to my relief. Apparently he’d seen Gale who had taken full responsibility for my absence. I started to apologise but Bellman cut me short.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ve had a telephone call from your father.” He looked at his watch. “He should be arriving any time soon. We’ll both put in a full day tomorrow—so that lets you off the hook to go sleuthing with that maniac Simon.”

  It took all my restraint not to jump with joy. I was forced to admit quite candidly to myself that I was far too interested in this Snark business to concentrate on a series of legal clauses and deeds that totally lacked human interest. This was probably not a very promising attitude for a lawyer and the only excuse I can offer is that close contact with murder changes a person. If they had been straightforward murders I might not have been affected in the same way and not so intensely interested. My imagination was seething away like a boiling pot and I resented the legitimate reason for being here. I resolved to speak to Gale who could approach Bellman with a request for me to stay on for a few days. Leaving now to return to London for good would be unbearable. Not just because I wouldn’t be able to help Simon hunt the Snark, but I might never see Zoe again.

  While I was washing and hurriedly climbing into my dinner suit, I thought I heard a car come up the drive. A few seconds later there was a knocking at the big outer door below and the faint sound of voices.

  The dinner gong echoed through the house as I finished dressing and ran down the stairs. There in the hallway shaking hands with Joshua Bellman was my father. I could see at once the chill he had suffered had pulled him down. His face was thinner and his eyes more deeply sunken; there were lines of fatigue running from the corners of his thin lips to the high, curved nostrils and repeated under tired eyes. It was with something of a shock that I realised how old he was looking . . . It was with relief that I also saw how pleased Joshua Bellman was to see him. I knew I was no substitute for my father’s great experience, and I felt inwardly elated that I was now let off the hook . . .

  *

  My father’s arrival at Hunter’s Meadow had coincided with the almost immediate serving of dinner and, afterwards, Bellman monopolised my father for the rest of the evening.

  Simon Gale, suddenly falling into one of his morose moods, had retired early, barely bothering to wish us goodnight, and I had been dragged into a rubber of bridge with Ursula, Zoe, and Jack Merridew. It was after twelve when we broke up and by this time Bellman and my father had disappeared, most likely to Bellman’s study.

  I had a hot bath, got into my pyjamas and dressing gown, and was on the point of going in search of my father when he forestalled me by tapping on the door of my room.

  It was very late. The big clock in the hall below had faintly struck one some minutes ago, but this was the first opportunity I had of talking to him alone.

  “Your letter worried me, Jeff,” he opened, stretching out his slippered feet to the electric fire. “Having seen the headlines on the newsstands, a double murder in this little village . . . I became even more alarmed. Then yesterday afternoon I had a call from James Lawson, who filled me in on your visit, and I resolved to come down here as soon as possible.”

  “James Lawson telephoned you?” I asked in surprise.

  “He has done work for me in the past, city fraud, that kind of thing . . . He’s a good man, Jeff, and he was very worried for your safety. That’s why I’m really here, so you can return home, and I can finish up this acquisition for Joshua.”

  I couldn’t restrain my alarm. “I have no intention of returning home,” I told him, “I can’t walk out leaving Simon Gale in the lurch . . . Besides I . . .”

  I stopped short of blurting out my feelings for Zoe Anderson.

  My father gave me stern look. “I don’t think you realise what you’ve got yourself into, Jeff. This is a very nasty business . . .”

  “I’m aware of that,” I broke in defensively.

  “Lawson thinks so too. You and Simon Gale could be in grave danger. If you get too close to this Snark . . . whoever it is . . . Do you think they’re going to sit and wait until you knock on their door or give the police enough information to catch them? They might come after you . . .”

  “I can take care of myself,” I said. “I’m not a child any longer . . .”

  “Please don’t be silly, Jeff,” my father looked at me in astonishment. “This is a serious business—a very serious business. You could get killed.”

  “I promise you I’ll do my best not to!” I answered.

  “It’s not a joke,” he retorted.

  “We all thought it was once,” I answered, thinking back to that first moment when William Baker had vanished.

  My father turned to me and low
ered his voice. “Now, it’s not just these murders that worry me—it’s this situation between Ursula Bellman and this man, Weston. That’s another situation that could explode right in our faces . . .”

  “We don’t know the murders aren’t part and parcel of all that,” I replied and immediately regretted saying it.

  “What grounds have you for thinking that?” demanded my father sharply.

  I hesitated for a moment, and then told him.

  “But . . . there’s no actual proof, Jeff,” said my father cautiously. “Eye contact between two people, however revealing, is not proof of an affair—as you well know.”

  “Zoe Anderson saw it too,” I put in quickly, “and interpreted it the same way I did.”

  “You think the dead man, James Lawson’s nephew, may have obtained irrefutable evidence?” He pursed his lips. “James told me his nephew was here for three weeks but wouldn’t go into further detail. Are you telling me during that time any agent worth his salt wouldn’t have got the evidence of an affair, presented the file, wrapped it up, and the consequences of whole thing would have exploded by now . . . Bellman isn’t the type to sit back and do nothing . . .”

  I remembered something Zoe had said to me during our walk back from the village on the day Gale and I visited Weston’s cottage.

  “This isn’t the first time our Ursula has been at this game . . .” I recounted our conversation.

  “It doesn’t surprise me,” answered my father. “She is a stupid, vain, woman. But I do not think she is involved in murder—not just the murder of James’s nephew, but this other chap the banker . . .”

  “Franklin Gifford,” I prompted.

  “I don’t think this possible amorous interlude on the part of Mrs. Bellman has any connection with these dreadful murders. They’re of a different order . . . I urge you again to return home tomorrow.”

  *

  I had no intention of returning home. I came down to breakfast ready for battle, and excited to have the day to myself without feeling guilty. I had just poured myself some coffee, and was considering what to eat, when Trenton came in to announce Chief Detective Inspector Halliday was waiting for Gale in the drawing room.