Aloud he said:
‘P’r’aps they’d let me in if I knocked? When I tell ’em ’ow fur I’ve walked. Orl the way from Lunnon. That’s right. ’Unded and somethink miles, and not a car to give yer a lift. I’ll ’ave a shot any’ow.’
He staggered to the front door. Once you start acting ill, it grows on you. He knocked. The seconds immediately after he had knocked were not pleasant. Suppose, after all, this was not the right cottage? Or suppose it was, and the whole thing was a trap? They might have found out he was double-crossing them, and planned this visit to get rid of him. Mr Smith’s suggestion might be to lie down and have a knife stuck through his middle. ‘Body Found in Boston.’ ‘Body with a Hole through it.’ ‘Police looking for the Legs.’ Lugubrious posters flitted through his mind while he waited.
Then the door opened, and an elderly man with grey hair and a grey moustache stood before him.
For a few moments they stared at each other with mutual suspicion. Then the man said, rather curtly:
‘Well, what d’ye want at this time of night?’
‘Saw yer light, guv’nor,’ replied Ben. ‘I’m fair done.’
‘I’m sorry, but what can I do about it?’
‘Thort p’r’aps yer might be a Christian and give me a crust or somethink.’
‘What made you think that?’
‘Took a charnce, guv’nor.’
‘I see. And you’re hungry?’
‘That’s a fack.’
The elderly man peered closer at his visitor. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Wilkins, sir. Charles.’
‘And your work?’
‘Any I can git. One o’ the unimployed, see? Walked from Lunnon.’
‘That’s a long way.’
‘Yus, sir.’
‘A very long way.’
‘Yus, sir.’
‘What made you come all that long way?’
‘Lumme, ain’t ’e corshus!’ thought Ben as he answered, ‘Well, see, I was told there was more work goin’ in the north, but I ain’t come across it. I don’t s’pose you know of a job, sir? I can clean knives.’
‘Knives,’ repeated the elderly man. ‘Knives.’ The word seemed to have a vague fascination for him. ‘Well, perhaps—come inside, anyway. Maybe I can find you something to eat. Though, mind ye, it’s late, it’s late.’
He stepped back into the passage, and Ben entered.
‘Close the door, and come in here,’ ordered the elderly man.
‘I was lucky ter find yer up,’ said Ben, as he obeyed.
‘This way. In the parlour. Ay, you were. But I’ve a little business … often stay up after wise folk are abed. Now, then. Let’s see.’
He spoke in a nervy, disjointed manner, though his eyes were placid. Going to a cupboard, he opened it, and gave a little exclamation.
‘Ah! Just what we want!’ he said. ‘Just what we want. Bread—butter—cheese—you eat cheese?—and a knife.’ He produced the items as he mentioned them. ‘You can clean the knife when you have finished with it. Now, then, fall to. But not too fast, if you’re famished, or you’ll get pains.’
‘Very kind of yer,’ murmured Ben, securing the knife first. He preferred it in his own hand.
‘Not at all—I’m always sorry for the unemployed,’ answered his host. ‘I have been unemployed myself—though now I have a little business. Oh, ay, I mentioned that. By the way, my name is Smith. Mr Smith, of Boston. Not that this is of any importance to you. To you I am merely a Good Samaritan who is providing you with a meal. There’s water in that jug over there—I’m sorry it’s all I can offer ye, but I’m teetotal. If you’re not, I advise it. Now I’ll leave ye for a bit, and come back when you have finished … Arrangements to make …’
He left the room. Ben made hay while the sun shone. Mr Smith returned in ten minutes, and raised his eyebrows.
‘I see you do like cheese,’ he observed. ‘Well, it’s made to be eaten. Now, then, about this job.’
‘Yer don’t mean yer’ve got one fer me?’ asked Ben.
Mr Smith’s eyes were on the window. The streak of light across the road was not quite so distinct. The first hint of dawn was beginning to banish the blackness of the night.
‘No, I don’t mean I’ve got a job,’ replied Mr Smith. ‘They don’t grow on bushes like blackberries. But—I wonder—I think I know a good district.’
‘Yer mean, not in Borston?’
‘No. Not in Boston.’
‘It ain’t fur off, is it, sir?’
‘Would that matter? Work is work, and you want it.’
‘Well, I was jest thinkin’, would I ’ave another walk?’
‘Ah, I see. It so happens that—I wonder—now, I wonder—’
He paused. Ben thought, ‘’E ain’t wonderin’, ’e knows orl the time. Why don’t ’e git on with it? Funny ’ow ’e gits on me nerves.’
‘I’m afraid it’s a long way off,’ said Mr Smith. ‘In fact, in Scotland. Muirgissie … You know it?’
‘Never ’eard of it,’ Ben assured him.
But he had heard of the initial M, and the name of Muirgissie completed the proof, if completion were necessary, that he was on the right track.
‘Ay, the last time I was in Muirgissie, I was told there was work going,’ Mr Smith resumed. ‘I forget what. Farming, would it be? Or building? maybe building. Yes, I think it was building, but you must remember, Mr Wilkins, that I am not sure. Really, I know nothing about this work, nothing at all—no more, for that matter, than I know about you. It is for you to decide, not me, whether you would care to undertake the—er—risk of going to Muirgissie. You have called here in the night. I hear your story. And I make the suggestion. Well?’
‘Yus, ’e’s corshus orl right,’ thought Ben. ‘Won’t tike no rersponserbility!’ Aloud he said, ‘I’ve on’y one thing agin’ the suggestion, sir.’
‘What is it?’
‘’Ow am I goin’ ter git there.’
‘Ah, now that is where I come in,’ exclaimed Mr Smith. ‘In a short while—in a few minutes, in fact—I am starting for Muirgissie. I have a little business in the neighbourhood. Scottish connections and so on. Are you surprised that I should be going there? Come, come, why? It is because I go there—not often, I admit, but now and again, now and again—yes, that is how I hear of local conditions, and I mention them to you because I am just going there. Now would ye call that a coincidence, Mr Wilkins? And surprising that, as you have walked all the way from London, I should offer you a lift?’
‘Everythink jest like yer say, sir,’ answered Ben.
‘Then provided you say the same, what more is there to wait for? The car is ready in the garage. If we start at once, we can have covered several miles by sunrise. Sunrise—the best time of the day—don’t you think?’
He switched out the light as he spoke. In semi-darkness they made their way to the little garage beside the cottage. Two minutes later, Ben was travelling north again in a prehistoric Ford.
10
Exit Mr Smith, of Boston
The journey from Boston to Muirgissie was very different from the journey from London to Boston. It was twice the distance, and it was accomplished at half the pace. It was undertaken in daylight, from the first greyness of morning to the first greyness of night, and the country through which the ancient Ford passed lacked the convenient flatness of England’s Eastern counties. When Lincoln lay behind, hills rose; before Scotland was reached, the hills became mountains, which seemed to Ben to grow higher and higher, and grimmer and grimmer, and lonelier and lonelier with each new range.
But in one particular the two journeys possessed a similarity. Conversation was at a discount, and the hours passed silently saving for the various voices of the gears. At his cottage Mr Smith had been spasmodically voluble, but the nervous energy that had propelled his words was now diverted to propelling the car, and it soon became evident to Ben that Mr Smith was propelling his car for all he and the car were worth, wit
h possibly a little bit over.
‘Whippin’ the ’old ’orse, aintcher?’ Ben ventured once, as they chugged fiercely up a hill.
‘What?’ answered Mr Smith.
The chug had drowned Ben’s voice.
‘I sed she’ll blow up,’ he roared.
‘Ay, she’ll go up,’ replied Mr Smith.
You couldn’t continue that sort of thing, so Ben relapsed into silence again.
They did not get out for meals. At midday they stopped in a lane to munch sandwiches and to wash the sandwiches down with tea out of a thermos. At four o’clock they repeated the process, in a valley. After tea Mr Smith began glancing about, and he redoubled his efforts.
‘Anythink wrong, guv’nor?’ inquired Ben.
‘What should there be wrong?’ retorted Mr Smith.
‘No good arskin’ me, but the noise she’s makin’ I thort she might ’ave sprung a sprocket or somethink.’
‘Do you know what you’re talking about?’ demanded Mr Smith.
‘No,’ admitted Ben.
Later, however, he was convinced that something was wrong, though he was still uncertain whether the trouble were inside or outside his companion’s brain. Mr Smith’s nervousness increased painfully, and at last he stopped on a narrow moor road. There was not a habitation or, apart from themselves, a person in sight.
‘Is this Muirgissie?’ inquired Ben.
‘Eh? No, of course not!’ snapped Mr Smith. ‘But it’s not far now—I’m just thinking.’
‘That’s orl right,’ answered Ben. ‘I’ll look at the scenery.’
The scenery was hardly more soothing than Mr Smith. They had halted on the verge of another deep dip, which somehow seemed to Ben particularly sinister. What lay in the dip? The cause of Mr Smith’s anxiety? Beyond the unseen contents mountains rose again, their bases already smudgy with evening shadows, their heights glowing with unnatural colour. A gleam of water flashed somewhere. If there was a road through the mountains, Ben could not see it.
‘Yes, yes, I think that’s the idea,’ muttered Mr Smith presently, to himself.
Ben waited for the unfolding of the idea. Mr Smith scratched his nose, then turned to him.
‘I think, perhaps, it will be best for ye to get out now, Mr Wilkins,’ he said.
‘Wot—walk agine?’ exclaimed Ben.
‘Yes, and I will tell you why,’ continued Mr Smith. Ben would have taken any odds that he was not going to hear the real reason. ‘Why did I take pity on ye? Why have I gone to all this trouble for ye? Ay, tell me that? It was because you turned up tired. “Done in,” you said. Walked from London. Now, if you had arrived at my cottage by car, would my sympathy have been aroused? Is that so likely?’
‘P’r’aps not, sir,’ admitted Ben.
‘Very well, then!’ There was a little note of relieved triumph in his voice. ‘There we are! If you arrive in Muirgissie by car, you will deprive yourself of your best chance of help from—from the next person. You want work? You are not likely to get it if you drive up like a millionaire.’
If the ancient Ford possessed a soul, it must have smiled at the unexpected compliment.
‘You agree?’ asked Mr Smith.
‘Wot you ses goes, sir,’ replied Ben. ‘O’ny I ’ope I ain’t gotter walk far?’
‘No, no. Perhaps a mile or two. Of course, if you are pressed—if someone has seen us together—you could say you had received a lift. A short lift. But, to volunteer it—why?’
Ben considered for a moment. On the whole, perhaps he was not sorry to shake off Mr Smith, but the absence of his present companion would throw him back on his own initiative again, and he could not steer the ship unless the departing pilot gave him some navigational instructions.
‘Are you goin’ on a’ead o’ me?’
‘Ay. To do that little business of my own I mentioned.’
‘Oh, I see. Well, wot ’appens if I meet yer in Muirgissie?’
‘Ah, I don’t think that is very likely. My business is not in Muirgissie—I mean, not actually in the place itself—and it will only take a short time.’
‘Yus, but where’s this ’ere work? I’ve gotter arsk some ’un, ain’t I?’
‘Of course—I’m not forgetting that. There is an inn at Muirgissie. It’s called the Black Swan. Black Swan. You can remember that?’
‘If I try ’ard.’
‘Go there and inquire. The innkeeper will know if there is any work going. Tell him your name, of course.’
‘That’ll ’elp?’
‘Eh? Well, it won’t do any harm. I think I’d mention it. Gives confidence, you know.’
‘Oh! And that’s the lot?’
‘No, just one other thing,’ answered Mr Smith. ‘The post office. No one will know your address here. Well, how can they? And if you get work, you may be moving about. But one can always call for letters at the local post office.’
‘Ah! Some ’un goin’ ter write ter me?’
‘How do I know? I know nothing about you or your affairs—nothing whatever. But if you think anybody may write to you, I am just telling you that you can call each day at the post office—and perhaps it would be as well … What is that? You have dropped something!’ He stooped suddenly, and rose with a small card in his hand. ‘It must have slipped out of your pocket. You will want that, for identification, when you call at the post office.’
Ben took the card. On it was printed, ‘Mr Charles Wilkins.’
‘One o’ them quincidences,’ he commented dryly.
‘Ay, very odd. Well, I think that’s everything. Excepting, of course, that you will not mention anything about me, or this trip, unless you have to. You can’t lose your way. There is only one road. You will be there in half an hour.’
Ben accepted the cue, and alighted. As Mr Smith prepared to depart, Ben suddenly grinned.
‘I nearly forgot ter thank yer,’ he said.
‘Not at all, not at all,’ replied Mr Smith. ‘I—er—well, good luck.’
The car moved on. It descended into the dip and was swallowed up.
Lighting a cigarette—the best thing Mr Smith had done was to present him with a packet during the journey, and he had four left—he followed leisurely in Mr Smith’s wake. He was in no hurry, and his anxiety to reach Muirgissie did not increase as he went down the narrow, winding hill and entered the region of shadows. If the half-hour were spun out to an hour, he wouldn’t cry about it. Until he reached the Black Swan, he was his own master again, and the sensation, while smoking a complete Gold Flake from end to end, was pleasant.
It was so pleasant, in fact, that Ben passed through the first period of wavering since he had entered a silent London flat with the intention of carrying on the work of a dead detective. He had eight pounds in his pocket. So far he had not had to spend a penny of his earnings, and those eight pounds would last a man who could sleep under the stars and eat with his fingers, eight months. What about losing himself for half a year? If it was cheating, his employers themselves were cheats!
It is to his credit that he decided to see the matter through before he remembered the sinister suggestion of his employers that he was being watched by invisible eyes. This suggestion had been made to him both verbally and in writing, and it occurred to him that to lose himself would probably be an impossibility, even in this lonely district. ‘They’d ’ave me,’ he reflected, gloomily, ‘so I might as well go on. Besides, I sed I was goin’ ter stick it, didn’t I? Orl right!’
The road continued to descend and to wind. It was pouring itself off the moor into a black saucepan. Not a round saucepan, though. A long one, with a smudgy bottom. The smudges were shadows. In a valley night comes fast, slipping along like a dark tide.
But before the dark tide had completely enveloped the lane, Ben received a shock. Had the tide come a little faster, he would have been spared it. He had been walking, he reckoned, for about a mile and a half when he noticed another lane descending from another part of the moor, and forkin
g into his. Reaching the point where the two lanes joined into one, he turned his head idly and glanced up the second lane. A dark object blocked his view.
Despite the fact that its outline was blurred by shadows he recognised it immediately as a car, and a moment later he also recognised the car. It was the ancient Ford he had lately ridden in.
‘That’s rum!’ he thought. ‘’As ’e bin ter Muirgissie already and come back? And wot’s ’e stopped for?’
He was looking at the back of the car. It was heading uphill in the direction of the moor. Would Mr Smith welcome his intrusion if he approached? The Boston man had been anxious to separate himself from Ben and to end the association as completely as possible; still, nobody was about, and he might be in trouble.
‘Better ’ave a squint,’ he decided. ‘Mindyer, I don’t like the bloke, but if ’e wants a ’and, well, there yer are.’
He found Mr Smith sitting in the car, staring ahead of him. Ben stared, also, but couldn’t see anything.
‘Wot’s up?’ he asked.
Mr Smith paid no attention to him, but continued to stare.
‘Oi! Wot’s up?’ repeated Ben. ‘See a ghost?’
But it was Ben who was looking at a ghost. For the second time within a week, he found himself talking to a dead man.
For a few moments it just seemed impossible. While he knew it was true, his logic informed him that it could not be. Once, yes. On a bridge in London. But not twice—and the second time on the edge of a moor in Scotland. Over three hundred miles away. Oh, no! Why, even if such a thing could happen twice over, it wouldn’t happen both times to the same man. Fate would choose another victim for the second dirty trick!
Then logic faded, and fact remained. However you argued, there was the fact—sitting back in the driver’s seat and gazing ahead with unseeing eyes. And even logic returned presently, ruthlessly condemning its previous faults. These were not two isolated occasions in which Ben had been selected to participate. They were links in the same chain. The chain stretched from the bridge in London to this spot in Scotland—and beyond, to the Black Swan at Muirgissie!
Detective Ben Page 7