The Case of the Abominable Snowman

by Nicholas Blake

  ‘That’s hardly evidence.’

  ‘And they were together a great deal. Oh, I know it was supposed to be just professional services, and, of course, Dr Bogan has his reputation to look after – though I can’t see he’s anything so marvellous – anyway, I knew a girl who went to him and she was supposed to be cured, and a few months later she was taking dope worse than ever. But you can get away with anything in Harley Street.’

  Blount brought her firmly back to the point. ‘But you have no actual evidence of an improper connexion between Dr Bogan and the deceased?’ he asked frigidly.

  Eunice Ainsley lit another cigarette, her fingers holding the old stub in a taloned gesture. ‘Depends what you mean by evidence.’ She puffed out a cloud of smoke. ‘I happened to hear him saying to her, about a fortnight ago, “It’s no use fighting, Betty, I’ve got you body and soul now, for ever”.’

  This statement created a sensation, evidently not displeasing to its maker. Blount had a professional scepticism about statements made by neurotic women, but she persisted, in the face of all his attempts to shake her, that it was true.

  ‘Did anyone else hear this? Did you pass it on to anyone?’

  ‘Nobody else heard it. But I told Mr Dykes – I mean, I don’t like him, but it was only fair to let him know how the land lay, don’t you think?’

  ‘How did he react?’

  ‘Oh, he didn’t believe me.’ She crushed out her cigarette angrily on the table-top. ‘He wouldn’t hear a word against her, the silly little man. He was most offensive.’

  ‘And this took place some days after you’d heard her tell Dykes she couldn’t go through with it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Blount tapped his teeth with the edge of his gold-rimmed pince-nez, and raised an eyebrow at Nigel. Uncoiling himself from the window seat, Nigel walked over to Eunice Ainsley.

  ‘Did anyone else in this household know about Elizabeth’s drug-taking or the situation between her and Bogan, do you think?’

  ‘I can’t say. Of course, they’d only to use their eyes.’

  ‘Or their ears,’ put in Nigel, with quiet malice.

  Miss Ainsley’s voice took on a whining undertone. ‘Well, I can’t help it if I hear things. Betty was so indiscreet – I often warned her, but she didn’t pay any attention.’

  ‘You were just thinking of her best interests. Is that the reason why you have your knife in Will Dykes, too? Or is it just plain jealousy?’

  Blount coughed deprecatingly. Eunice Ainsley flushed. ‘You can’t really imagine that anyone could be jealous over Will? It’s fantastic,’ she said. ‘Why make a dead set at me? I suppose I had a right to try and stop my best friend from making a disastrous marriage.’

  ‘Oh well, let it go. Did Elizabeth ever talk to you about her schooldays?’

  ‘What a curious question! No, she didn’t much. I gathered she’d been expelled from some seminary in the States, but I don’t know why.’ Miss Ainsley’s eyes popped hopefully at Nigel, eager for enlightenment.

  ‘She never made a more explicit reference to it?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Oh, there was one rather funny thing she said to me once – she was a bit tight at the time, and I thought she was ravers – she said: “I’d be an honest girl to-day, Eunice, if it hadn’t been for a stick of tea.” Well, I ask you! Stick of tea! But she used to invent the silliest pet names for her men. I suppose some men like that sort of thing. Trust Betty to know what the gentlemen liked, poor sweet.’

  ‘On what terms was Mr Restorick with his sister?’

  ‘He liked her just about as much as a – well, a load of dynamite. I mean, he never knew when she mightn’t explode some howling scandal in the ancestral home. Hereward’s very kind, of course, in his way, but such a stick-in-the-mud. He’d turn himself inside out to avoid a blot on the family scutcheon. But he couldn’t do much about Betty, you see, because she had two thousand a year of her own. Which, incidentally, will help to swell the family coffers now. And do they need it!’

  ‘Why, isn’t Hereward well off?’

  ‘Oh dear!’ exclaimed Miss Ainsley kittenishly. ‘What have I done now! Forget it. Hereward is far too respectable – no, honestly he is, I’m not being cynical – even to think of that. But, of course, the money will come in handy. It takes a packet to keep up a place like this nowadays the way Hereward does, and Charlotte has lost a good deal through the war.’

  After a few more questions, Miss Ainsley was dismissed.

  ‘Bloody women,’ said Nigel, distastefully sniffing the powder-scented air.

  Blount smoothed down imaginary hair on either side of his skull. ‘Dear me. Dear me,’ he said. ‘No, indeed. Not an altogether charming representative of her sex. But useful. She’s helped to establish one of your theories. Mustn’t look gift horses in the mouth.’

  ‘One of my theories?’

  ‘Yes, sir. “Stick of tea” is American slang for a marijuana cigarette.’

  ‘My goodness, Blount, your general knowledge is breathtaking. Is that really so?’

  ‘It is. But you can’t get away from it – things look worse for Mr Dykes. We know now that he had a motive for killing Miss Restorick. He had a better chance of being admitted to her room in the middle of the night than anyone else –’

  ‘Except Dr Bogan.’

  ‘– and a cord from his dressing-gown tassel was found there.’

  ‘No, I still think it’s wrong emotionally. You agree the evidence of the rope proves the crime was premeditated. I can see Will Dykes strangling his girl in the heat of the moment, but not planning it all out beforehand.’

  ‘Well, we must agree to differ. You’ll have to find me something stronger than an argument based on the character of a man you’ve only met two-three times.’

  ‘And you’ve got to find something stronger than the cord of a dressing-gown tassel. If Dykes did the murder in the heat of passion, he’d not have cut a length of rope and brought it with him. If he had already planned out a murder, do you seriously think he’d take the risk of walking from one wing of the house to the other, before midnight, when there might still be people moving about the passages or awake in their rooms?’

  ‘You forget the medical evidence, which gave the time of death as between ten p.m. and two a.m. We can’t lay too much stress on the Special Constable’s seeing the light turned off at 12.10 a.m. She may have turned it off herself, and her lover may have entered the room later. He’d expect to find the house quiet after 12.30 or so, at any rate. But I admit it’s a bit of a facer – the way nobody heard any movements that night.’

  ‘All sleeping-dosed?’ suggested Nigel.

  ‘No. I inquired.’

  ‘Anything on the Hereward Restorick angle? Is he really hard-up?’

  ‘We’re making discreet inquiries about the financial position of everyone concerned in the case. But, as you know, that sort of investigation has to be done pianissimo.’

  Blount’s fingers played a sprightly little tune on the table in front of him, in odd contrast with the sedateness of his expression.

  ‘But I don’t think much of that line,’ he went on. ‘You may call me a snob. But these old country families have certain traditions – they’re used to being hard-up nowadays and they don’t murder for money.’

  ‘There’s something in that. Though I shouldn’t let Will Dykes hear you producing that argument. We’ve heard about Hereward’s violent temper, too; but his having half-strangled a man in rage is irrelevant to a premeditated crime like this. I believe Hereward might plan out a murder if it was the choice between that and family disgrace; but, even if we’d accepted Elizabeth’s death as suicide, it would have been almost as bad a scandal as whatever it was meant to cover up. In fact, her violent death was bound to start an investigation and stir up mud, so I can’t imagine any set of circumstances which would justify it for Hereward.’

  ‘Well, I must get to work.’ Blount rose and shepherded Nigel to the door. ‘We’ve just g
ot to stick at it till there’s more evidence – What the devil!’

  Blount’s exclamation was wrung from him by the pain of his nose, which had collided with Nigel’s shoulders. Nigel had stopped dead on his way to the door. He now swung round on Blount, muttering, ‘Stick at it. Stick it. Stick it, E. Crikey, Blount, I’ve remembered something! Miss Cavendish told me that, after the cat episode, she overheard Bogan whispering to Elizabeth, “Stick it, E.” But no one here called her “E” – “Betty” was the only abbreviation. See? He was whispering something rather different. He was whispering “Stick o’ tea.” He recognized that the cat had been doped with marijuana; and he automatically used the American slang for it. Now watch my dust.’

  ‘Hey, where are you off to?’ cried Blount. But Nigel was already out of the room.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘Goin’ up State Street, comin’ down Main,

  Ho, ho, honey, take a whiff on me.’

  ANON.

  THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN Andrew Restorick and the rest of the people at the Manor – Nigel had noticed it before – was Andrew’s capacity for filling in time. ‘Filling in’ was an accurate enough phrase, since time yawned like a chasm of boredom and uncertainty for the household during these early days of the investigation. The rest of them sat about, fidgeted, started games or bits of work or conversations which they never finished, irritable or lapsing into a fatalistic coma like passengers at a remote junction who have missed their connexion and lost the rhythm of their lives. But Andrew always seemed self-contained and occupied. One might almost have thought he had some sort of command over the situation and was only awaiting the right moment to exercise his authority, seeing him now in Hereward’s study with a complicated game of patience spread out before him. Whereas Hereward, gnawing his moustache and looking up eagerly from his account-books as Nigel entered, had evidently only been waiting for someone to come and do something normal, tell him something, ask his advice – anything to restore the impression that one lived in a world where the landowner, the gentleman, the practical man carried some weight.

  ‘Could I have a word with you?’ said Nigel to Andrew.

  Andrew placed a card in position, gave him a charming smile and said ‘Private?’

  ‘I think you could both help. Yes, I’d like to talk to you both. It’s rather a difficult subject. You see, I want to know the details of that affair when Miss Restorick was expelled from school in America.’

  Hereward’s blue eyes went blank for a moment, then kindled with anger. He half-rose from his swivel-chair.

  ‘Really! I know we should be grateful to you for the help you’ve given, Strangeways, but raking up these wretched things out of the past – I don’t see –’

  ‘I wouldn’t if it wasn’t necessary. It’s painful for you both. But Miss Cavendish told me your sister had had a baby when she was a schoolgirl over there –’

  ‘She’d absolutely no business –’

  ‘– and, if we’re not careful, there’s going to be a grave miscarriage of justice.’

  Andrew, with a swordsman’s turn of the wrist, flipped over a card. ‘Miscarriage of justice?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. The police are, I should say, within distance of arresting Dykes for the murder.’ Nigel told them about the clue that had been found and Miss Ainsley’s statement.

  Andrew was frowning. ‘What a woman for making trouble! To think Betty should be pursued by one of her lame dogs even after she’s dead. Lame bitches, more likely.’

  ‘I wondered why she was friendly with the Ainsley.’

  ‘Yes. Eunice didn’t have much of a chance. Her parents divorced when she was a girl, and she lived a ghastly hotel life with her mother. Betty was sorry for her. And Betty was the kind of person who didn’t stop at feeling sorry.’

  ‘So I imagined. But we’re getting off the point. I’ve an idea that the solution of the problem lies a good way farther back in her life. Marijuana.’

  Andrew’s long lashes, which reminded Nigel of the dead woman, concealed the expression in his eyes, but his body betrayed him a little; it did not grow tense, as Nigel might have expected, but seemed to relax, to be relieved of a long tension. He swept the cards into a heap and gave Nigel all his attention.

  ‘Marijuana. You’ve got something there.’

  ‘What the devil are you two talking about?’ exclaimed Hereward. ‘Sorry, Strangeways. But this last day or two I’ve been so utterly in the dark –’

  ‘Like Betty! Like Betty!’ murmured Andrew, his voice charged with momentary sadness.

  ‘When your cat behaved in that extraordinary way, it had been doped with marijuana, which is home-grown hashish.’

  ‘Good God! D’you mean the stuff was grown here, on my land?’ said Hereward.

  ‘No. Miss Ainsley informed me your sister had once told her that this drug was the original cause of her downfall. It’s a vile business. But there are people who peddle it outside high schools in America, in the form of sweets or cigarettes. The drug creates erotic hallucinations.’

  ‘Erotic? Oh, I say, this is too much!’ Hereward muttered, flushing with embarrassment.

  ‘My dear Hereward,’ said Andrew patiently, ‘this is no time for shying away from unpalatable facts.’

  ‘What I want to know first,’ Nigel continued, ‘is whether either of you knew about this.’

  There was a pause. Andrew inclined a little derisively to his brother, as though inviting him to lead the way.

  ‘Obviously, I didn’t,’ said Hereward at last. ‘I mean, I was told about Betty, of course. Didn’t see her for some time afterwards, though. In the army then. But I’d never heard of this marijuana stuff.’

  ‘What about you?’ Nigel turned to Andrew. ‘You were Betty’s confidant, weren’t you, for a long time?’

  ‘Oh yes, I was at school with her when it happened. It was my last term there. I knew a good deal about it.’

  ‘You’d better tell us then.’

  ‘Yes, I think I’d better.’

  Andrew Restorick rose in a single lithe movement, went over and stood by the mantelpiece, looking – with his Savile Row suit and the quick eyes beneath the girlish lashes – even less like a rolling stone and black sheep than his brother.

  As Andrew talked, the Elizabeth whom Nigel had seen dangling upstairs in the snow-dazzled room was slowly transformed into a schoolgirl, mischievous, captivating, young, with a red ribbon in her hair. She was wild then, Andrew said, full of vitality, impatient for some experience beyond the chatter of her friends and the four walls of the school. But it was only just outside the school’s four walls that it came to her. A knot of them were hanging about there during the recess one morning when a youngish man approached. He fell into conversation with the boys and girls. Presently he produced a cigarette-case and lit up. ‘None of you babes smoke, of course.’ Well, that was enough for Elizabeth. She never refused a dare, and the rest of the gang were watching. She took a cigarette. She strutted up and down the sidewalk, outside the school gates, puffing away in full view of all the townsfolk passing.

  That cigarette, of course, was a perfectly harmless one, as were the candies the stranger distributed to the rest of the gang. But he began to turn up quite often, same place and time, and, after a while, he took a few of the children aside and promised them – if they would swear to tell nobody – something special in the way of smokes and candies. That was the start of it. He was an ingratiating sort of man, treated them as equals, in a pleasant off-hand way. Before long, his victims had developed a taste for these very special luxuries he brought, but their effect was such that no boy or girl dared tell anyone what was happening to him.

  And, of course, they had to pay for their pleasure. The stranger was not at all pressing about it, at first. But presently they found they owed him sums of money they couldn’t hope to pay. He was nice about it. But he made it quite clear that it would be unfortunate all round if their parents discovered about these debts. Not that his victims would
have been likely to tell, in any case. The vice took root and sprouted with atrocious rapidity. They needed the stuff and they had to go on getting it. Then the mild petting-parties in which some of the older ones had indulged changed character. Elizabeth, who had never bothered her head about such things, was drawn into them. And Elizabeth’s exceptional vitality, played upon by the drug, could only lead one way.

  Andrew himself had never fallen a victim to the stuff. ‘I was rather a prig, those days,’ he said. ‘I even objected to Betty’s smoking what I assumed were ordinary cigarettes. But you couldn’t be angry with her, she could twist iron bars round her finger, the darling.’ But, when the habit got a grip on her, she became sullen and secretive. Everything he was telling them now had been confided to him by her two or three years after the calamity took place.

  What she had told him at the time was that she was going to have a baby. He assumed that its father was the cigarette-providing stranger and, meeting him one day outside the school, went for him. There was a stand-up fight, in which the man got considerably knocked about, and after that he was never seen in the town again. But Elizabeth assured her brother soon afterwards that the stranger was not responsible for her condition. ‘It might have been anyone,’ she had said wearily, ‘what does it matter who it was?’

  ‘I was more shocked by her saying that than by anything else,’ said Andrew. ‘God, what a callow prig I was! I went cold on her. Poor, sweet Betty, poor child, trapped like that – and then to find her best-loved turned against her!’

  The scandal soon had to come out. Betty was sent to a nursing home in another State, then brought home to England by her parents. Andrew ran off and got work in a lumber camp: he had been a wanderer ever since.

  That was the gist of Andrew Restorick’s story. Nigel had heard a good many queer stories in his time, but none in so paradoxically inappropriate a setting – this country gentleman’s study with its sporting prints, leather chairs, reference books and trophies of the chase, its smell of tobacco smoke and beeswax, and its view over the uneventful Essex landscape.