‘Lemon or milk? They’re both there. Help yourself, my dear chap.’ The Judge and Treasure were seated opposite each other at a tea-table prepared for three on the sheltered, south terrace. ‘Room all right? Everything you want up there? If not tell Mrs Evans. Whatever it is, she’ll have it. Marvellous woman. Marvellous.’ Nott-Herbert returned his full attention to something he was arranging below table height.
The apartment provided for Treasure was elegant by any standard. The exquisite furnishings in both the bedroom and dressing-room he approved as warmly as he did the totally up to date arrangements in the carpeted bathroom. He too liked his comforts, and whatever the true reason for the summons to Panty, he was already regretting that the stay was scheduled to be short—also that his wife had not come with him.
He had taken longer than had been strictly necessary before joining his host. After concluding that the signed Vuillard lithograph over the fireplace in the bedroom and the small Utrillo painting beside the tallboy in the dressing-room were exactly what they appeared to be, it had been necessary as a penance for vulgar doubting to stop to admire them properly.
‘The arrangements are delightful and—’
‘And surprisingly civilized,’ the Judge interrupted, looking up with a wry smile. ‘One may live in the back of beyond but that’s no reason . . . Got it. Watch this.’ His right hand appeared first from beneath the table, a golfball clasped between thumb and first finger. The Judge extended his whole right arm upwards. ‘See. Nothing up my sleeve.’
That there was evidently nothing up the Judge’s right sleeve served only to accentuate that there was almost certainly something up the left one. His next move was to tug at his right sleeve to prove its innocence with a left hand conjoined to an arm that appeared in some way to have shrivelled or become deformed. It was obviously key that the left elbow should remain tightly crooked while the tugging was going on—an effect that the Judge was sadly unable to sustain.
A trickle of golf-balls emerged from the general area of the Judge’s inside upper left arm. They cascaded on to the stone-flagged terrace bouncing in all directions and by their behaviour declaring that they were simulated golfballs made of celluloid. The last fact was confirmed by the action of an immense Irish wolfhound recently arrived on the scene.
Devalera was not concerned to chase the balls: any that came close enough to where he was standing to be arrested without effort he stamped on, flattened with a huge front paw and ate.
‘Damn!’ the Judge exploded. ‘That trick is far from perfect.’
Treasure was hastily retrieving the errant balls that had escaped the notice or reach of the dog, which had now lowered itself in to a sitting position. ‘That animal looks as though he’s come out without his saddle,’ the banker observed brightly. He placed the recaptured balls in the empty slop basin.
‘It’s really a very simple trick,’ said the Judge, ignoring the dog. ‘It’s called the multiplying ball trick.’ He looked from the slop basin to the object in his right hand which had now become two objects—one simulated golf-ball, and half a simulated golf-ball, the latter having earlier fitted over part of the former. ‘Of course it’s easier if you don’t use so many balls. This half one looks like a whole ball if you handle it well.’ The Judge promptly dropped it in his tea.
There followed a few moments of embarrassed silence, then the Judge observed ruminatively. ‘Tomorrow I’ll just stick to my ventriloquist performance. Should go down well with the children. The new dummy ought to be quite a draw.’ He glanced without too much confidence at the object in question which was now lying, still boxed, on an empty chair beside him.
‘What’s happening tomorrow?’ Treasure was sipping his tea vaguely conscious that he should somehow be bringing the conversation round to the purpose of his visit.
‘Annual opening of the garden to every Tom, Dick and Harry in aid of the Lifeboats. Nothing much to see for 50p really.’ Nott-Herbert gestured across the lawn.
Treasure had, on the contrary, been impressed by both the size and attractiveness of the big walled garden first viewed from his bedroom and now at closer quarters. On ground falling seawards the two or so cultivated acres were protected from the north by the house and in other aspects by judiciously placed, matured trees and hedging. Heather beds were islanded in the lawn which was thickly bordered by flowering shrubs. Below the terrace well-kept rose-beds were beginning to show colour. This most formal part of the garden was dissected by wide paved walks.
‘I think it charming and well worth the money.’
‘There’s tea as well, bunfight here on the terrace. That’s another 75p. Usually we have a Punch and Judy for the children but he’s left the area. Thought I’d stand in. Been practising.’ The Judge looked doubtful. ‘No charge for that, of course,’ he added defensively.
‘Very sporting of you, and in a good cause. Anyway it sounds as though you have a busy time ahead. I wonder when we might touch on this Hutstacker business?’
‘The what?’
‘The question of Hutstacker Chemical buying Rigley & Herbert.’ Treasure gave a smile. ‘The reason I came down.’
‘Oh, that. Do whatever you like, my dear chap. Clarence was absolutely confident in your judgement as well as in the more important matter . . . Bit of luck the old boy was here . . . knowing you and all that. We were exact contemporaries at the University. “Get Treasure down here”, he said to me. “Straighten you out in no time”. And here you are.’ The Judge looked eminently pleased and ready to be straightened out.
‘Very good of Clarence to say so, but I am advising Hutstacker’s.’ Treasure felt it incumbent he should make the point.
‘Americans.’ Nott-Herbert wrinkled his nose. ‘All right, are they? Not had much to do with Americans.’ He looked up. ‘Produced some great jurists, of course.’
‘These are first-rate people. I think they want to develop the business, and the price is . . . er . . . quite attractive, not to say generous.’ Though whether this would matter to a man who hung original Neo-Impressionists in his guest rooms, Treasure could only conjecture.
‘To be sure. I was against it at the start, you know.’ Treasure hadn’t known. The Judge seemed momentarily disarmed. ‘It’s your view I should sell. It’s also the view of the lady to whom I am . . . er . . . the widow lady who has consented to become my wife—and bless my soul, here she is, absolutely on cue.’
The dog had already stirred itself and was advancing amiably, gaze fixed in the same direction as the Judge’s, which was over Treasure’s shoulder.
The banker turned and began to rise, expecting to greet a lady of mature years, younger perhaps than the widower Judge, for that was usually the way of things, but a seemly consort in old age.
A moment later Treasure found himself facing a breathtakingly, even thrillingly beautiful young woman.
CHAPTER 8
The trouble with beautiful women is that, like Everest, they are there, thought Treasure.
In the ten minutes since Anna Spring had first appeared he had been attempting, without any marked success, to regard her objectively and dispassionately as the future Mrs Nott-Herbert: he recognized that the mental challenge was more to do with mild envy than plain incredulity—and that both instincts were unworthy.
Here was a truly delicious woman—tall, slim, boyish figure; long, nearly blonde hair; exquisitely chiselled features; big, searching blue eyes and a mouth that was just gently provocative. She moved like a dancer: her voice was soft and husky—the accent German-American, the English phraseology at times charmingly pedantic.
Her clothes were simple and casual—a silk shirt, jeans, sandals, a cashmere cardigan draped across the shoulders: simple, casual and expensive.
‘You believe it can be left in this way, Mr Treasure, so . . . so inconclusive?’ The tone indicated real concern. The expressive hands cupped the exquisite chin, levelling and steadying the gaze in the banker’s direction.
‘Certainly not,’ said
Treasure, against his better judgement, ‘and, please, do call me Mark.’ He defied Molly, his wife, to classify this exceptional creature as common.
‘But the police have lost interest already. Very un-British, I think.’ She smiled.
‘Not these days, I’m afraid. They’re understaffed and the crime rate is rising.’ He was being worldly, not pompous.
‘This follows, of course.’
‘I think you’re probably right, though it’s not . . .’
‘Not axiomatic, you’d say. Is that correct?’
‘Perfectly.’ It was of course axiomatic that Molly considered all women he found as attractive as Anna to be common: even the ones with inherited titles.
‘And you’re ready to do a bit of sleuthing.’ The Judge beamed. ‘My dear chap, I can’t tell you how grateful we’ll be.’
‘Mrs Ogmore-Davies is so very sweet.’ This was Anna. ‘And she is very upset. She is believing that people think her stupid which she is not. She was so kind to me when I came back. When it was difficult for me.’
‘Quite so, my dear. I’m sure Mark will do all he can.’ Nott-Herbert glanced benignly at his guest. ‘Local constable’s a decent sort of chap, by the way, just ineffective. Wife’s a harridan. Left him twice. Back now I think— more’s the pity. Got his own cross to bear. Even so he should have taken the whole business further at the time. Couldn’t be bothered.’
‘The police took the view that Mrs . . . er . . . what’s her name . . . Mrs Ogmore-Davies was mistaken in what she saw—or thought she saw?’ Why was he going along with the notion, he wondered, that he was some kind of latter-day Sexton Blake? He should have been protesting that the Judge had fetched him to West Wales under entirely false pretences—on the suggestion of a meddling old prelate. ‘And there were no other witnesses—or possible witnesses?’ It would be churlish, perhaps, not to hum for his supper at least. And the Hutstacker business seemed to be wrapped up.
‘See. I told you so.’ The Judge was triumphant. ‘Mark’s got it in one. Did the police look for other witnesses? People who wouldn’t come forward unless pressed? I’ll wager they didn’t.’
‘They may have done,’ Treasure offered cautiously.
‘They didn’t ask me.’ Anna looked from Treasure to the Judge. And then she looked back again. ‘I could have been strolling along the harbour, at six in the morning, in the rain, and happened to see a naked man.’ She smirked.
‘I’ll vouch you were doing nothing of the kind, my dear.’ The Judge was mildly shocked, and curiously adamant.
‘But if you had, you’d have said so. Two kinds of people wouldn’t,’ Treasure continued sagely. ‘The guilty for one reason or another, and those not wanting to get involved, also for one reason or another. It wasn’t that early in the morning, and I’d be surprised if Mrs Ogmore-Davies was the only possible witness to what she said she saw.’ He paused. ‘Anyway, tomorrow’s a Saturday and I’ll see for myself who the early birds are.’
‘Bully for you, Mark. But Anna will tell you there’s a lot more activity now in the harbour than there is at Easter, at all times of the day—and half the night.’
‘It’s also a lot lighter at six than it was two months ago. Would you like to meet Mrs Ogmore-Davies at five-thirty today?’ Anna asked efficiently. He nodded. ‘Then that’s arranged.’
‘I’d like to do that, and see the harbour—and this lovely garden, and the church opposite.’
Anna looked puzzled. ‘But the garden and the church, they have nothing to do with—’
‘With Mrs Ogmore-Davies’s dead body. It happens I enjoy gardens and old churches. They’ll be my reward.’
‘And Anna, my dear, you shall be his guide because I have to rehearse for my performance tomorrow.’ The Judge began to turn stiffly in his chair towards the so far neglected dummy. But Anna was quicker, springing from her seat to kneel beside the box.
‘He is hardly—would you say—endearing?’ She picked up the dummy gingerly: not like a baby. ‘So you can have him,’ she began, passing Stanley to the Judge, ‘but may I have the box, Henry? I have a small business where packing materials cost a fortune.’
She had turned to make the last remark to Treasure and in doing so by accident knocked the box with her arm. It slid off the chair and on to the ground where it was immediately pounced upon by Devalera. The dog was evidently used to being awarded such discards: this one seemed actually to have been aimed to drop at his feet.
The animal began cavorting around the lawn, the unwieldy box grasped firmly in his giant maw.
‘Oh Henry, darling, stop him!’
‘Devalera, you awful dog, sit. SIT!’
The dog’s response was to stop in the centre of the lawn and to lower his front half to the ground. The box he firmly pinioned with his outstreched forelegs while his huge jaw began tearing away at its centre. Ferocious growling accompanied the demolition process while suspicious canine eyes glowered to left and right, watching for hostile approaches.
Devalera’s tail meantime wagged contentedly at the elevated end of his monstrous being, where rear legs were braced for instant flight. Altogether, one box was worth any number of simulated golf-balls in an afternoon that had offered few enough distractions.
The Judge rose from his seat at the tea-table and strode purposefully towards the animal. ‘Devalera, drop it. Stupid name for a dog. Stupid dog. Drop it, I say.’
As his master grew close the animal reared back on all fours, side-stepped the approach with booty still intact and bounced a few yards before adopting his former position and dissolute occupation.
Since Treasure had been at some pains earlier in the day to safeguard this box as well as its contents, and since Anna had declared a nobler future for it than destruction by Irish wolfhound, the banker stepped forward heroically.
‘Here, dog,’ he said, firmly brandishing a chocolate digestive biscuit. ‘I’ll have that, old boy.’
If Treasure had been marginally quicker grasping the temporarily abandoned box or if Devalera had taken the decent interval usually required even by hungry dogs to consume a whole chocolate digestive biscuit, the contest between man and beast could have been over there and then. Unfortunately Devalera swallowed biscuits whole, and instead of walking away with the box Treasure found himself for the second time that day hanging on to one end of it while the gigantic dog gnarled and pulled at the other, delighted with the game.
This second tug-of-war was doomed to end quickly. Devalera had already nearly tom through the middle of the box and before even Treasure had time to give up the unequal struggle the thing parted in the centre.
‘I’m so sorry,’ the banker turned laughing towards Anna Spring, holding his piece of box while the dog strutted around head high trying to keep his half aloft. It was then that the small, flat object slid out of the wrappings and fell to the ground. Treasure picked it up.
‘It’s a passport,’ he said to the others. ‘Property of . . .’ He studied the cover and then began to leaf through the front pages. ‘Property of Mr D. E. Rees . . . Mr Dylan Emrys Rees, clerk by profession and born in Panty thirty-five years ago tomorrow.’
‘Gemini,’ the Judge announced loudly. ‘Surprising number of old Panty people were born in June. Consequence of the warm Septembers we get here.’
The others were more interested in the passport than the commentary on local mating habits. ‘Issued recently and so far unused for travel abroad. Either of you know him?’ Treasure displayed the photograph of D. E. Rees to his two companions.
‘It’s not Dai Rees the postman. He was here today. Could have dropped it. But it’s not him.’ Nott-Herbert finished uncertainly. He gave Anna an enquiring glance.
‘The first name is Dylan, and anyway it doesn’t look a bit like the postman, Henry. But there are many other Reeses.’ Anna’s tone was almost jaunty. ‘We should perhaps give it to the police?’
‘I just wonder how it got in that box. There’s nothing else in my half except the remain
s of the tissue paper.’
‘Nor in this.’ The Judge had retrieved the other piece of the box now abandoned by Devalera in the fickle manner of dogs.
Treasure studied the photograph again. He had never understood why some people knowingly settled for passport photographs technically indifferent and personally insulting. His own was mildly flattering.
The photograph before him had been badly lit and offered a washed-out image of what seemed a half-witted subject. Conceivably the subject was a very pale half-wit. Alternatively, the poor definition and blank expression could both have been contrived.
Treasure considered the obvious—that the passport belonged to the vanished Australian cleric from the train. Someone in the habit of wearing disguise at least had a reason for avoiding good photographic likenesses of himself. The clergyman could have found a way of slipping the passport into the parcel and the face in the picture, decorated with wig and moustache, could just be Treasure’s mysterious travelling companion.
The passport should be handed to the police as Anna had suggested. Treasure wondered whether it should be given to Detective-Inspector Iffley rather than the local constable described by the Judge as ineffective. He then recalled he had no way of making contact with Iffley. He had so far given no one in Panty an account of his adventure on the train: he balked at the notion of resurrecting the narrative for the local bobby and for the purpose of illustrating a probably bogus theory about a mislaid passport.
It was just that he could not credit how a parcel that had been in his charge for most of the day had acquired a passport unless . . .
‘On the hall table, Your Honour. It could have been there, brought in lost, like, and sort of been dropped into the box.’ Mrs Blanche Evans had come to clear the tea things and had her own notion about where the passport had come from. ‘Proper lost and found department we are, Mr Treasure. Some think we’re the Vicarage, and Constable Lewin lives right down at the bottom of the hill, so people can’t be bothered. Was it for signing, like? They do come to have their passports signed by His Honour. Cheek.’
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