by Joyce Porter
‘You’re putting your money on the husband, are you?’
‘Certainly not!’ Mrs Lickes endeavoured to look as though butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. ‘They’re a very nice young couple, both of them, and I’m sure they’d never dream of hurting a fly. All I’m saying is that I just don’t see Millie Hooper having the strength to murder a grown man in the middle of an earthquake. She’s six months pregnant, you know, and by all accounts she’s not having an easy time of it. Of course, she’s always been a rather sickly-looking little thing.’
For once in his life Dover put two and two together and got the right answer. ‘Six months?’ he repeated. ‘I thought you just said she hadn’t been married as long as six months?’
Mrs Lickes lowered her eyes. ‘I was only speaking in round numbers,’ she said. ‘Of course, with Millie Hooper being so enormous, you do tend to think she’s further gone than she actually is.’
‘ ’Strewth,’ guffawed Dover, ‘they must have hit the blooming jackpot pretty quick!’
‘I suppose in their case there was nothing much to wait for,’ murmured Mrs Lickes. ‘Most young couples have got all kinds of financial problems and nowhere proper to live. The Hoopers hadn’t any problems on that score.’
Dover sniggered. 'Maybe they jumped the gun a bit, eh?’ Having, at last, got Dover under starter’s orders, Mrs Lickes could afford to wax indignant. ‘I don’t know what you mean!’ she protested. ‘Millie Hooper isn’t that kind of girl at all.’
‘It’s these innocent ones that usually get caught.’
‘They don’t get caught if they don’t do something wrong in the first place,’ retorted Mrs Lickes hotly. 'And Millie Hooper just wouldn’t have dared. Her father would have killed her. Why, if he’d suspected for one second that that baby had been conceived out of wedlock, he’d have thrown Millie and her husband out of that house so quick their feet wouldn’t have touched the ground!’
Five
Dover had hoped to make it downstairs to the bathroom and back before the next witness arrived but things took a little longer than he had anticipated. He laboured, panting and blaspheming, up the precipitous stairs to find a grim-faced Wing Commander Pile already standing bolt upright in the middle of the bedroom.
‘I believe,’ said Wing Commander Pile, squinting disdainfully down his nose, ‘that you wished to see me.’
Dover removed his overcoat and dropped it by the side of his bed. ‘Got to see all the murder suspects,’ he explained as he bent down to kick off his unlaced boots. ‘Where’s the girl?’
Wing Commander Pile’s closely shaven jaw tightened as he watched Dover clamber back into bed and tug the sheets up. ‘You are not proposing to conduct this interview on your back, I trust?’ he asked icily.
‘I can understand you being surprised,’ grunted Dover, digging about under the bedclothes for something that was sticking into him. ‘Most men in my state of health’d be in hospital, not flogging themselves to a shadow doing their duty. Of course,’ – he brought out a piece of toast and examined it morosely – ‘that’s always been my trouble – too bloody conscientious.’ He sighed and shoved the piece of toast in his mouth. ‘Where did you say the girl was?’
‘Linda is downstairs in her room and that is where she is going to stay.’
‘But I want to see her.’
‘So I have gathered. Unfortunately, I cannot permit it.’ Dover goggled and gulped down the last of the toast. ‘Why the hell not?’
‘My daughter may have the appearance of a mature woman but she has the mind of a child. You would not, I imagine, cross-examine a five-year-old girl about a murder.’
‘Kids have been questioned before,’ objected Dover. ‘Of course, it needs handling with tact and delicacy by an expert but.. .’
‘What has happened in other cases is of no concern to me. I have my daughter’s interests to consider and I have no intention of standing idly by while you revive memories whose horrors are now mercifully beginning to fade into the background.’
‘ ’Strewth,’ Dover grumbled, ‘I’m not going to eat the girl!’ Wing Commander Pile remained perfectly calm. ‘You are not going to interview her, either. I don’t know how far your powers extend, chief inspector, but I am fully prepared to make an issue of this. I have already been in touch with Linda’s medical advisers and they all, without exception, agree that she should not be subjected to any form of police interrogation.’
Dover sighed. This joker spelt trouble. He looked the sort of bastard who not only knew all his own rights but everybody else’s as well. Of course, in normal circumstances, Dover would have flattened him quicker than that but, what with his stomach and this cold . . . A somewhat tatty olive branch was offered. ‘I’d have no objection to you being present.’
Wing Commander Pile contented himself with a curt shake of his head.
‘It is a murder case,’ Dover pointed out dejectedly.
‘My daughter could tell you nothing which would help you in your enquiries. She was well away from the scene when Mr Chantry was killed.’
‘Oh?’ said Dover, rallying a bit. ‘And how do you know when Chantry was killed?’
‘I don’t – but it was certainly after Mrs Lickes had escorted Linda back to this hotel.’ Wing Commander Pile expertly and effortlessly swung a chair into precisely the right position and seated himself upon it with a crisp economy of movement. ‘When you are ready, I will make my statement.’
‘I’m ready now,’ said Dover.
Wing Commander Pile’s eyebrows rose. ‘Aren’t you going to take notes?’
‘Notes?’ Dover sank back with a suppressed groan of fury. What did this snooty beggar think he was – a bloody shorthand-typist? ‘I have a sergeant to take notes!’ he growled.
‘But your sergeant isn’t here.’
‘He never bloody well is when he’s wanted,’ snarled Dover. ‘Still, it makes no odds. I’ve got a photographic memory.’
Wing Commander Pile’s eyebrows went higher.
‘It’s true!’ insisted Dover, over-elaborating his lies as usual. ‘You ask anybody up at the Yard. I’m famous for it. They call me What’s-his-name of the Metropolitan Police.’
‘I can well believe it.’
‘So you don’t have to worry.’ Dover laughed with touching modesty and tapped himself on the forehead. ‘Anything you say’ll be stored up here. Word for word. Like one of those computer things. Now, you just go right ahead and tell me what happened. Start from the earthquake.’
‘Well,’ – Wing Commander Pile frowned as he marshalled his thoughts before recording them for ever in the self-proclaimed human memory bank – ‘we were in bed, of course. Asleep. I suppose the first tremors partially woke me up but, before I could realize what was happening, my bed, the bedroom, the whole house appeared to slide and then tip over towards the rear. Then I heard this ominous cracking sound over my head and somehow I knew that the roof was collapsing. One does have these peculiar flashes of comprehension in moments of crisis – I’ve noticed it before. Well, I remember calling out – a warning to Linda, I suppose – and the next minute the entire ceiling just fell down on top of me. I lost consciousness. Something hit me on the head, I think. A tile? A beam? I don’t know. I don’t think I was knocked out for more than a minute or two. When I came back to my senses I found myself buried under all this debris and rubbish. I was just beginning to try and free myself when I heard somebody shouting my name.’ The wing commander paused to let the suspense build up. ‘It was Walter Chantry.’
Dover, who was desperate to get his own back, didn’t even open his eyes.
‘Walter Chantry!’ repeated Wing Commander Pile. ‘He saved my life. It is thanks to him, and to him alone, that I am sitting here today.’
Dover refrained from comment.
‘I am making it my business,’ Wing Commander Pile went on grandly, ‘to get a posthumous George Medal for him. I feel it’s the least I can do.’
‘He ought to get somet
hing,’ agreed Dover. ‘Well, what happened next?’
‘I called out to Chantry not to bother about me but to help Linda. He shouted back that he had already got her out and that she was all right.’ Wing Commander Pile broke off his narrative to stare suspicously at Dover. ‘You are taking all this in, I hope?’
The chief inspector, suddenly envisaging letters of complaint winging their way straight to the Assistant Commissioner (Crime), opened his eyes and assumed an expression of alert intelligence. ‘Every word,’ he assured Wing Commander Pile earnestly.
‘Good,’ came the stem reply, ‘because I can promise you I have no intention of repeating it. Well, I then heard Mr Chantry scrambling in through the window – most of the glass had already fallen out – and he started trying to extricate me. Eventually, he succeeded. I cannot emphasize Mr Chantry’s bravery too much. The back part of the house had already gone and the part I was trapped in could have collapsed at any moment. It is not every man who, in that terrifying darkness, would have risked his own life to save that of a friend.’ Dover’s facial muscles were already beginning to ache with the unaccustomed exercise but he nodded his head unflinchingly and urged the wing commander to continue.
‘There’s little more to say. Mr Chantry assisted me outside and I joined Linda who, very distressed and bewildered, was waiting for me on the pavement. Naturally I was chiefly concerned with her welfare but I did, thank God, thank Walter Chantry most sincerely. Just as I was expressing my gratitude, rather incoherently I fear, we heard cries coming from the direction of the public house by the old Sally Gate. All the buildings in that direction seemed to have disappeared, as far as one could tell through the rain and the darkness, but there were these cries. Immediately Walter Chantry, with a resolution typical of the man, broke into my speech of thanks and said that he must go and do what he could to help the other victims of this terrible disaster. I attempted to dissuade him – the hazardous nature of the operation was self-evident – but to no avail. He hurried off into the night.’
‘Did you see him again?’ asked Dover. ‘I did not. At that time Linda was my first concern. She was only wearing a nightdress and, as we could hear more buildings collapsing around us, I began to lead her away from the danger area. We had barely gone more than a few yards when we encountered Mr and Mrs Lickes.’
‘Yes, I know all about that.’ Dover had met some pompous bores in his time but he reckoned Wing Commander Pile took the biscuit. ‘Mrs Lickes brought your daughter back here and you returned to your house to get some clothes or something. And Chantry’s son-in-law turned up, didn’t he?’
‘That is correct. Mr Chantry had sent him back to get some assistance. Lickes went off with him and I returned to my house to salvage what I could in the way of clothes for myself and Linda. I had intended then to join Mr Chantry but there seemed to be a lot of noise and confusion coming from the opposite direction. I went over there to see what was happening and the chaos I found was quite unbelievable. It was only to be expected, of course. Civilians have very little idea of proper organization. What was lacking was firm overall control and direction. That sort of thing is somewhat less glamorous than digging through piles of stones and bricks with your bare hands but it was absolutely essential in the kind of emergency we were faced with.’ Wing Commander Pile’s face took on a glow of noble self-sacrifice. ‘Since I had the experience, I felt I had no choice but to take control until the proper authorities arrived.’
‘Bully for you,’ said Dover.
‘I am glad you think so. Others, unfortunately, were not so appreciative.’
Dover was sympathetic. He’d been accused of shirking too often himself not to understand what it felt like. ‘There’s always some unco-operative bastard standing around and criticizing,’ he observed.
Wing Commander Pile agreed. ‘There were several that night,’ he said grimly. ‘However, it is not my habit to be deflected from doing my duty by petty jealousy. I made a quick appreciation and came to the conclusion that the area on the far side of East Street was the one on which we should concentrate. The damage was nothing like so severe there, but that merely meant that the prospects of finding survivors were enhanced. I set about organizing my working parties and continued directing the operations in that area for the rest of the night.’
‘So you didn’t see Chantry again?’
‘No. I assumed he was still working over Sally Gate area. When I was relieved of my command responsibilities by the arrival of the professional squads, I naturally made my way directly back here to the Blenheim Towers. I still had Linda to consider.’
‘Hm.’ Dover heaved himself up in bed and tried to think of something keen and penetrating to say. ‘Was Chantry a friend of yours?’
Wing Commander Pile considered the question with the solemnity of a High Court judge. ‘Yes, I think you could say that he was. Not an intimate friend, perhaps, but a friend none the less. I have only been living in Sully Martin for a few months and Mr Chantry was one of the first people I met. I bought my house from him, as a matter of fact. Our business relations were extremely cordial and, as I got to know him better, my respect for him grew. He was a man of real integrity, moral stature and strength of character. I may tell you, chief inspector, that those are qualities for which I have the highest regard. It is the tragedy of modem society that it has lost all sense of decency and honour. You may have heard that Mr Chantry had great plans for Sully Martin? Ah – I imagined that Mr Lickes would have something to say on that subject. Well, you must understand that Mr Chantry was not only, or even primarily, concerned with bricks and mortar and landscape gardening. He wanted to create an environment of moral beauty as well. This, he knew, was not going to be easy to achieve. There are subversive elements in this village which must be tom out by the roots. Immoral elements! Don’t let the smooth exterior of Sully Martin mislead you! Beneath the surface is filth! There are people in our midst who, in happier days, would have been burnt at the stake. Perverts, fornicators, adulterers!’
Dover wriggled uncomfortably. He was dying for a cup of tea and he resented being addressed as though he was a revivalist meeting. Blimey, fancy getting worked up into a muck sweat over a bit of bucolic slap and tickle! The pompous git ought to thank his lucky stars he’d nothing more serious to worry about.
Wing Commander Pile extracted a spotless white handkerchief from his sleeve and wiped the palms of his hands. ‘I don’t want you to think I am exaggerating,' he went on in a calmer voice, ‘but I am quite convinced in my own mind that this is why Mr Chantry was killed. He had made enemies. Those who attack sin and the forces of darkness frequently do. They seized their opportunity and struck him down.’
‘Who?’ asked Dover shortly.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Let’s have a few names, mate! Vague accusations don’t amount to a row of tuppenny damns in my job.’
‘I am not making any accusations,’ countered Wing Commander Pile quickly. ‘I was merely indicating an area which you might find fruitful to investigate further.’
‘Who was Chantry sticking his knife into in particular?’ Wing Commander Pile ran his tongue over his lips. ‘I don’t know that I really care to mention any specific person.’
‘You can stuff that!’ roared Dover, highly delighted at being able to browbeat the wing commander in a good cause. ‘I want facts!’
‘One has no wish to be sued for defamation of character.’
‘Defamation of character, my Aunt Fanny! Look, you want whoever snuffed Chantry out caught, don’t you?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well, start singing then! There’s nothing to worry about. Whatever you tell me’ll stay within these four walls.’
‘I have your word on that?’
‘Cross my heart and hope to die!’
‘Very well.’ Wing Commander Pile capitulated with an air worthy of a defeated general surrendering his sword. ‘I accept that I have a moral obligation. I owe it to poor Chantry’s m
emory to . . .’
‘Tell me!’ screamed Dover.
‘You’ve heard of the Studio?’
Dover frowned. ‘Where this first-aid centre was?’
‘That is the place. Ironically, it was poor Chantry himself who was responsible for importing those dreadful people into the village. He had some rather naive ideas about artists, I’m afraid. He thought an artists’ colony would give tone to the place and be an additional tourist attraction. He also had some vague notion that they would enrich the social life of our small community here. Well, to cut a long story short, he acquired the house which is now known as the Studio and did it up. There was no question of selling it, of course. Even poor Chantry realized that artists have no capital, so he decided to rent it. I believe it was the villain called Oliver who turned up in answer to the advertisement. He managed to convince Mr Chantry that he was a respectable citizen of good moral and financial standing and was granted a long and very advantageous lease on the property. This happened over a year ago, you understand, before I had moved into Sully Martin. Otherwise I might have been able to give Mr Chantry the benefit of my somewhat wider experience of this type of person. Well, no doubt you can guess for yourself what happened. Within a matter of weeks Oliver was not only behind with his rent but he had imported two more layabouts to join him. Permanendy, that is. On high days and holidays, of course, threequarters of the scum of Chelsea move in.’
‘Chelsea?’ queried Dover.
‘Or wherever these parasites hang out nowadays. However, we needn’t bother about them at the moment. On the night of the earthquake only the three principal ruffians were in residence. Oliver himself, a woman called Wittgenstein and another man – Lloyd Thomas.’
‘And you reckon this bunch had a grudge against Chantry?’ asked Dover, trying to speed things up. According to his stomach it was getting time for his afternoon tea.