The Sad Variety

by Nicholas Blake

  ‘This is the most abominable interference with my affairs! How dare you intercept a private telegram I sent!’ The woman’s face had gone peony-red.

  ‘You refuse to divulge any information about this message?’

  ‘Most certainly I do. And I shall see that the chief constable hears of this.’ The Admiral’s wife stormed out of the room, Deacon following her.

  Nigel grinned. ‘Burnt your fingers there, mate. What’s it all about anyway?’

  The telegram, said Sparkes, had been sent to a Mrs Hollins, who kept a dress shop in Belcaster. Nothing was known against her, except that her business was a bit rocky: interviewed by the police, Mrs Hollins had said that she could not discuss the telegram without her client’s permission.

  ‘Unlike Miss Cherry What-have-you, Mrs ffrench-Sullivan has a record—or ought to.’

  ‘Good lord, what for?’ asked Nigel. ‘Assaulting a Labour politician with an umbrella?’

  ‘Shop-lifting. In the next county. During the war. The Admiral was in the Med—may never have heard about it. Her classy friends used influence, and the matter was hushed up. No conviction. But a friend of mine who handled the case told me there was little doubt about it. There was another woman involved, I seem to remember; but she gave a false name and address, and slipped out——’

  ‘The real name being Hollins, perhaps?’ Nigel gazed meditatively at a hunting print on the wall. ‘You know, Mrs ffrench-Sullivan seems to bit too Blue to be true. She’s a snob. But she’s also greedy, and can’t afford all the things she’d like. The shop-lifting bears that out. The sort of person the other side could easily put pressure on. Just do this little thing for us and you’ll get £50: refuse, and we’ll reveal your horrid slip-up in the past: what would the neighbours say?’

  ‘Where the hell’s that sergeant of mine got to? Could you round him up, and ask him to bring the Admiral along?’

  Nigel found them in the drawing-room, with Deacon standing beside them rather at a loss: he had been instructed that no one who was still to be interviewed should communicate with anyone who had been; but the Admiral’s air of authority, together with the unstaunchable flood of resentment his wife poured out, had inhibited Deacon from the performance of his duty.

  ‘Been getting my wife’s back up, eh?’ said the Admiral, when Sparkes had introduced himself.

  ‘I can’t understand why she should be so annoyed, sir. I only asked her to tell me a bit more about a telegram she wired from here yesterday morning. This is a copy of it.’

  The Admiral put on reading glasses and took the paper. ‘Mrs Hollins? Well, it could be the widow of my Jimmy the One. Poor fellow got killed in the Med. Muriel and she were quite thick during the war: shared a cottage in Devon. We lost sight of her after 1945. Didn’t take to her very much myself. So she’s living in Belcaster now?’

  ‘If it’s the same person, sir. Keeps a dress shop. Can you tell me any reason why Mrs ffrench-Sullivan should be so upset about this?’

  ‘Can you tell me what it has to do with the case you’re in charge of, Superintendent?’

  ‘I’m concerned to check every outgoing call made yesterday morning. The kidnappers have a contact here. He tipped them off about our plans. It’s a matter of eliminating the rest of you.’ Sparkes trod as gingerly as if he were in a minefield.

  ‘I see. “Do not accept offer.” Yes, it could look quite sinister.’ The Admiral gave his gentle smile. ‘I can assure you my wife is not an enemy agent, though. Dress shop, you say? Will you keep this quite confidential, if it is not relevant to the case?’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’

  ‘Of course it’s only a guess; but it might be Muriel’s mink.’

  ‘Muriel’s mink?’ stammered Sparkes, utterly dumbfounded.

  ‘Yes. Haven’t seen it lately. Perhaps she asked your Mrs Hollins to dispose of it for her privately. Muriel wouldn’t like to advertise, you see: she worries about keeping up social position—all that sort of thing. Fact is, I lost a lot of money—hers and mine—speculating in the fifties—and we’ve had to shorten sail pretty drastically. Comes hard on a woman, y’know. Different for me: never minded roughing it.’

  Nigel had a wild impulse to embrace the old fellow: he had such gentleness, dignity, decency.

  The Superintendent was asking him about their fellow guests. No, he had seen or heard nothing in the least suspicious. ‘You’ve come to the wrong man, though, Superintendent,’ he lisped. ‘My head’s rather in the clouds these days. Don’t notice things like I did. Comes of reading the eastern mystics. Ever tried Buddhism, my dear fellow?’

  ‘No, sir, I can’t say I have.’

  ‘Wait till you get old and useless like me. Perhaps I ought to take up that chap Leake’s idea. Write a gossip column.’

  Sparkes looked as if he had been struck by a torpedo. ‘Gossip column?’

  ‘Yes. Well, not exactly write it. Send stuff in. Leake knows some journalist-johnny who runs a column. Gets stuff in from all over the place. They pay you for it—everything they use—quite a decent sum: five or ten pounds maybe.’ The faded blue eyes beamed at them. ‘This johnny apparently hasn’t got anyone sending in from our part of the world. And I know the county folk and so forth. What d’you think, Strangeways?’

  Nigel thought it was easy to imagine how this lovable innocent had lost all his money. The Admiral continued, not without relish:

  ‘Bit of extra cash’d come in useful, y’know. Trouble is, they’d want the dirt. Saucy pars. Local scandals. Don’t think I could manage that—not that I don’t know plenty. Eh?’

  ‘I’d stick to Lao-tze,’ said Nigel. ‘But don’t decide yet. Keep Mr Leake on a string.’

  ‘Might raise his offer? Ha. Very sound advice.’

  ‘And don’t tell him you’ve discussed it with us.’

  ‘No? No, of course not.’ The Admiral gave Nigel a crafty wink, and took his leave.

  Nigel turned to Sergeant Deacon. ‘When Mr Sparkes has recovered his power of speech, he’ll probably want to interview Mr Justin Leake.’

  Forehead in hand, Sparkes nodded, and the sergeant went out.

  ‘What is it about the Navy?’

  ‘Jane Austen was affected in the same way,’ Nigel answered.

  ‘Captain Wentworth is my favourite. Four-square chap, and intelligent. You remember that bit——’

  The pair were launched on a discussion of Persuasion when Justin Leake entered. The Superintendent, who varied his tactics like a good fly-half, was evidently going to play this one close, and give the man no inkling of previous witnesses’ curious evidence about him. Full name? Address? Occupation?

  ‘I run an inquiry agency,’ was the reply.

  ‘What sort of inquiries, sir?’

  ‘Things people don’t want to put into the hands of the police. Search for a missing person, for instance. And of course a certain amount of divorce work. Snooping.’ Justin Leake said it in his usual colourless way, with no trace of embarrassment or self-defensiveness.

  ‘I take it your telegram to Sir James Allenby was on professional business?’

  ‘Surely.’

  ‘The nature of this business, Mr Leake?’

  ‘That is a confidential matter between my client and myself.’

  ‘You told him you were on a possible trail.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Of a missing relative?’

  ‘My clients would cease to have any confidence in me, Mr Sparkes, if I divulged their private affairs. It’d be as good as my job’s worth to betray them.’

  ‘I understand.’ The Super dropped this line of questioning—to Leakes’s not quite perfectly disguised relief—and began to take him through his movements in Belcaster on the crucial morning.

  Nigel studied the witness. He was certainly a cool card. Almost inhumanly so. The head went straight up at the back, with no bulge. A bald spot on the top of it. Unobtrusive dark suit: shirt cuffs a little grubby: fingers tobacco-stained. A voice almost without inflectio
ns. And that attentive, oddly neutral gaze.

  An inquiry agent, thought Nigel, would have unrivalled opportunities for blackmail. Blackmail today was a notorious weapon of persuasion in espionage work. If Leake himself were not the X they were looking for, he could be the one who had put pressure on this X, to organise the Guest House end of the kidnapping. But, if so, Leake would be unlikely to show up here in person: unless he was killing multiple birds with one stone. Who would the X be, then? Cherry? Lance? The Admiral’s wife?

  Leake’s account of his visit to Belcaster tallied with the Atter-sons’. The Super suddenly abandoned his safety tactics. ‘Do you suspect the Attersons of complicity in this kidnapping affair?’

  ‘The Attersons? Not particularly. Why?’

  ‘You go about with them a lot. You’re in a better position than I am to pick up anything they let slip, and you’re a trained observer. Are you sure they did not communicate with anyone in Belcaster?’

  ‘As far as I can tell. I wasn’t watching them all the time.’

  ‘Nothing abnormal in their behaviour? Suppressed excitement? Nervousness?’

  ‘Can’t say there was.’

  ‘Yesterday morning before breakfast—who was the woman you were talking to in your bedroom?’

  For the first time, Justin Leake showed positive animation. ‘Woman? I had no woman in my room. Where on earth did you get that idea?’

  ‘Information received, sir.’

  ‘Damned unreliable information. Wait a minute, though. I had a brief chat with the maid who brought my early-morning tea. At eight o’clock. Would that be it?’

  ‘No. Just before nine.’

  ‘That’s absurd. Nobody in my room then.’

  ‘Nothing that would account for this evidence? You weren’t playing the radio, or a tape?’

  ‘Oh lord, I’d quite forgotten. Yes, I have a transistor set. I believe I put that on while I was dressing.’

  ‘Which programme? Home or Light?’

  ‘Blest if I can remember. I wasn’t really listening, anyway. Light, I should think.’

  Should you indeed? thought Nigel. The Light always broadcasts a weather report at 8.55, which would not have sounded to Mrs ffrench-Sullivan like a woman’s voice, ‘rather distressed or angry perhaps’.

  ‘But surely you can remember if the programme you listened to had a woman’s voice in it?’

  ‘Most of them do. Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention. I’m a background listener.’

  An appropriate designation, Nigel reflected, for this unobtrusive, shadowy fellow.

  ‘Well, thank you for your help, Mr Leake. I’ll be seeing you.’

  ‘When shall we be allowed to leave this place, Superintendent?’

  ‘How long had you planned to stay, sir?’

  ‘Oh, another few days.’

  ‘Your agency can look after itself?’

  ‘I have a competent assistant, and a secretary.’

  ‘Well, that’s fine. Of course, nobody can leave till the main London road is unblocked. Good morning to you.’

  Sparkes watched the man out of the door, then said: ‘They ought to keep him on a table in an express restaurant car.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘The one thing that couldn’t be rattled.’

  ‘Who’s telling the truth about that woman’s voice in his bedroom?’

  ‘We’ll find out,’ said Sparkes grimly. ‘Get a Radio Times, Deacon boy, and see what the programmes were yesterday morning. And verify that he has a transistor … You know, Mr Strangeways, we’re getting nowhere: and it’s not as if we had time to play with.’

  CHAPTER 7

  * * *

  Little Girl Lost

  DECEMBER 29

  AT 10.30 THAT same morning, P.C. Hardman was plodding up the hill from Eggarswell towards Mr Thwaite’s farm and Smugglers’ Cottage. He walked in one of the grooves made through the snow by the great farm tractor, casting an eye now and then at the sky, which to his countryman’s instinct threatened more snow. Small birds huddled in the snow-laden hedges, their plumage fluffed out, too cold and disconsolate to take alarm as the constable walked past. Above him lay the ridge, shaped like the body of a woman lying on her side beneath a white coverlet.

  As he neared the farm P.C. Hardman heard two explosions, followed by a wild clapping of wings. It was Jim Stocks, in his red woollen hat, Wellingtons, and Army great-coat, shooting at the hordes of starving pigeons which marauded amongst his master’s brussels sprouts.

  The noise of the shot-gun alarmed Paul Cunningham. He and Annie Stott had taken turns during the daytime, since they had heard on the news that police would be searching all outlying houses in the country, on the lookout from a window upstairs. If the visit came at night, the plan was for Paul to keep the police in conversation downstairs while Annie made the necessary arrangements.

  Paul now saw a constable entering the farm gates. He hurried to tell his companion. Thirty seconds later, Annie was in Lucy’s room, holding out a glass of orange juice to the child. Lucy drank it eagerly. The knock-out drops in it took effect almost immediately. Annie stripped the unconscious child, put the pyjamas on her, carried her into the room that had been Evan’s, tucked her into the bed, safety-pinned round her neck a cloth soaked in camphorated oil and laid a similar dressing on the child’s chest under the pyjama jacket. Lucy was flushed now and breathing heavily.

  Before closing the curtains, Annie took a quick glance round the room. Everything seemed in order. No, it was much too cold for a sick-room. She should have kept the electric fire on permanently: her childhood poverty had trained her never to waste fuel—that was the trouble. She switched on both bars of the fire, inwardly blanching at the disastrous mistake she had so nearly made: they must not let the policeman in here till the room had warmed up.

  Annie Stott was aware that, since Evan’s disappearance, the whole position had altered. There’d been nothing about him on the radio or in the newspapers. Which could mean that the wretched boy had blown the gaff, and the police were here to inquire about him, not to search for Lucy. The anxiety set up by this dilemma impaired Annie’s mental efficiency: she kept parting the curtains and peering right towards the farm buildings, forgetting that the bed in Lucy’s room was not yet made.

  P.C. Hardman entered the farm kitchen. ‘Morning, Mr Thwaite. Another bad one. You been kidnapping any children lately?’

  ‘Not bloody likely, Bert. Got enough of my own. Nasty business, though.’

  ‘When’s this weather going to break? My missus’ chilblains are playing her up fair horrible.’

  ‘We’re in for a longish spell, if you ask me. Mother!’

  Mrs Thwaite came bustling in. ‘Thought I heard your voice, Mr Hardman. What’s to do? Master been filling up his forms wrong again?’

  ‘Give Bert a cup of tea, mother. He’s chasing after this kid that’s been stolen.’

  ‘Well, he won’t find her here, poor little thing. A downright shame, I call it. Three lumps, Mr Hardman?’

  ‘Thank ’ee.’ Hardman sucked the tea noisily through his shaggy moustache. ‘Your kids not seen anyone about answering to the missing child’s description?’ he portentously inquired.

  ‘You’d have heard from us if they had,’ replied Mrs Thwaite a little sharply. ‘You want to search the place?’

  ‘’Tis not what I want, missus. ’Tis what I’m ordered to do.’

  ‘Don’t take on, mother. Bert has his duty.’

  ‘A process of elimination, like,’ said Hardman, blowing out his moustache. ‘Just a quick look round presently, see? What about the folk at Smugglers’?’

  ‘They don’t have much truck with us,’ said Mrs Thwaite. ‘That Dr Everley—a proper old pill she is. Thinks her nephew too good for my kids.’

  ‘Now, now, mother. Evan’s delicate. Ill in bed again today, Jim says.’

  ‘They been here long?’

  ‘A fortnight. Young Mr Cunningham—that’s her brother—he came down first, a few days
before Dr Everley and the boy. Quite a nice-spoken gentleman. Funny, him and that sour-faced creature hatching out of the same egg.’

  ‘Twins, are they?’ asked the literal-minded Bert.

  ‘No. You know what I mean. He doesn’t favour her at all.’

  ‘Ah. Heredity. Queer do sometimes, Mrs Thwaite. Look at our Dudley and our Marlene—never think they were brother and sister, would you now?’

  ‘Cuckoo in the nest, Bert?’ said the farmer jovially. His wife looked shocked. Bert Hardman shook with silent laughter. ‘Remember when I first joined the Force—Charlie Pearce—used to farm Knowhill—he married one of old squire’s daughters. Flighty piece she was too. Well …’ The anecdote wound itself to a laborious end. Bert Hardman reluctantly rose. ‘Thank ’ee for the cup, missus. I’ll just have a look round, then I’ll walk along to Smugglers’.’

  ‘You’re wasting your time, Mr Hardman,’ said Mrs Thwaite tartly. ‘Sir Henry wouldn’t let his cottage to a gang of kidnappers, would he now?’

  ‘Never know. What you read in the papers nowadays, some of these Oxford and Cambridge bigwigs are no better than Bolsheviks.’

  ‘Well, listen to him!’ Mrs Thwaite chuckled maliciously. ‘Maybe you’ll get promotion at last, Bert.’

  P.C. Hardman’s intelligence quotient was not a high one. But he possessed a faculty which had served him well enough in his undistinguished career—a countryman’s instinctive reaction to certain types of human beings and behaviour. He had not been with Paul and Annie above a minute or two before this instinct told him that the pair were frightened of something, and that, while Mr Cunningham was a gent, Dr Everley was not what he recognised as a lady. On the other hand, he knew by experience that even the gentry—especially its younger members—could be nervous in the presence of the Law.

  He faced them stolidly in the sitting-room, refused a drink, and took out his notebook.