“You astound me, Bull, you really do! The only thing is that I’m pretty sure it’s been done already, you know—this autobiography of a public executioner.”
“Oo by?”
“I couldn’t say off-hand.”
“So nor couldn’t nobody else, then, could ’em? Look, supposin’ as how whoever it is and me gets the book wrote up and put in typin’, what’s the chance you’ll take it on and see it through for us?”
“It would depend entirely upon how good a book it was, and I warn you that our standards are high. We’re not in the market for duds. We have our reputation to consider. Look here, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. If I can find you a reputable ‘ghost,’ I’ll let you know; and if we recommend a ghost-writer, it will be a good one. I would have to arrange a meeting, though, to make sure that the journalist is willing to take the job on. I’ve got somebody in mind, as a matter of fact, but I’m not sure that yours is a job which would appeal to a woman.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “Thanks, Mr. Melrose. Be seein’ you. Thought you might be interested.”
“All right, Bull. I’ll look into it. By the way, what makes you think that, when hanging was done away with, they would make you a screw at one of HM prisons?”
“Why wouldn’t they? I’d given good service, hadn’t I? Got testimonials, haven’t I, for all they’re writ in a foreign langwidge.”
“I shouldn’t have thought you were tall enough to take a job as a prison warder. You weren’t tall enough to put that electric lightbulb back without a ladder, were you?”
I could see he thought the reference to the past was rather tactless. As soon as he had gone, I called in Sandy and Elsa. When Elsa had finished laughing, she said, “Why don’t you kill two birds with one stone?”
“As how?”
“Stick him on to Dame Beatrice’s granddaughter and so get your psychiatrist interested in Carbridge’s murder from a personal standpoint. We’ve got Miss Lestrange’s name on our books. She has published a couple of novels, but they didn’t do much good, so she trained as a journalist and works on her local paper. Now and again she gets a piece accepted by the Sunday papers and women’s mags, and she does quite a bit of ghosting. She is down under the Stone House address, but that is given merely to inspire confidence and impress Sally’s clients. I don’t suppose Dame Beatrice has anything to do with it except to give permission for her address to be used. I expect her secretary is told to re-address any letters which come for the granddaughter and send them on. It’s just a family thing. Blood is thicker than water, after all.”
“Oh, well,” I said, “the connection with Dame Beatrice makes my job easier in a way. I shall ring up and ask where I can get in touch with Sally Lestrange and explain why I want to see her. Of course there isn’t the slightest chance that we shall sponsor Bull’s book and attempt to wish it on to a publisher.”
“Why not?” said Elsa. “Mycroft and Holmes might take it if it’s any good at all. They specialise in that sort of thing.”
“Anyway, I’ll ring up and find out what’s doing,” I said. “Obviously the Stone House is only an accommodation address, as you say. I suppose Miss Lestrange’s own isn’t very impressive.”
I rang up at four. As the song says, everything stops for tea. Laura answered, so I told her why I was calling the Stone House and asked where I could get in touch with Miss Sally Lestrange.
“Hang on a minute,” she said. The next voice was that of Dame Beatrice, so I explained myself again to her.
“How enterprising people are!” she said. “A hangman’s assistant, you say. I wish you would come and see me, Mr. Melrose, before you tackle Sally. To quote Oberon—unless Shakespeare was making it all up—‘this falls out better than I could devise.’ When may we expect you?”
“Whenever is convenient to you.”
“Come to lunch tomorrow, then.”
“Thank you very much.”
So, once again, I found myself at the Stone House. Before lunch, Laura gave me Miss Lestrange’s address and after lunch we sat in the garden in upholstered cane chairs—deck chairs are one of my abominations—and talked about Bull and the death of Carbridge.
I referred to the complaints of Trickett and Bull that they were still being harassed by Bingley and I also mentioned that, if Carbridge had been dead for at least four hours when the police surgeon first looked at the body, he must have been on the premises at four in the afternoon or earlier. “And I can’t think why,” I said.
“I wonder how long the students took in the preparation of their party,” said Laura. “An hour, two hours, three?”
“Not more than two at the very outside, I should say. It wasn’t like Christmas, for example. I mean, there were no decorations to put up, no elaborate cooking to be done. So far as I could see, the food was nothing but hamburgers, cocktail sausages, potato crisps, and salted peanuts. There was nothing which could not be handed round more or less on the spot. There were mugs and glasses set out, but that could have been done in less than ten minutes and all the drinks were in bottles, so there was no preparation needed there.”
“In any case, as one of the invited guests, Mr. Carbridge would hardly have been asked for help in getting the party ready,” said Dame Beatrice.
“I still don’t know how he found out how to oil into the place without anybody else’s knowledge. I suppose he may have heard the students mention the back entrance at one of the youth hostels and simply stored up the information. He could even have arranged to meet one of the students there, but it would need to be early on, because later the other students would be getting the party ready.”
“You mean cherchez la femme, then,” said Laura.
“But les femmes knew nothing about the geography of the hall of residence. It’s a pad for men students,” I said. Laura laughed and said that she had been a student, too, in her time. “Not that we went in for present-day capers,” she added, “but there was a men’s college not so far from ours and bets of various kinds were offered and, from time to time, accepted. Besides, if Carbridge wanted to meet one of the girls and couldn’t meet her at his digs for some reason, what was to prevent him from sending her a note and suggesting they met at the back door of the hall and he would take her in with him?”
“I think it must have been the other way round, if it happened at all,” said Dame Beatrice. “I think your reconstruction is unarguable, but, as you have indicated, the women students probably knew more about the men’s hall of residence than the authorities may have thought suitable. Therefore it is more likely that the assignation was made by the girl than by Mr. Carbridge. Had it been suggested by him, she might or might not have agreed to it.”
“She wouldn’t, if we’re talking about Patsy Carlow,” I put in. “Todd was interested in her, too, or so I was told, and anybody who could have Todd wasn’t very likely to bother about an ass like Carbridge. I even had to keep an eye on Todd and Hera, if you want to know.”
“The plot thickens,” said Laura. “Suppose Patsy makes the ploy, Carbridge is flattered and goes blithely to his doom?”
“Oh, no, of course he—I mean, I’m sure Patsy didn’t do anything of the sort,” I said. “Why should she? Carbridge was pretty frightful in a back-slapping, ‘old boy, old boy’ sort of way, and a bit of a nuisance to women, perhaps, but he was utterly harmless, I’m sure. If he was lured into that house and murdered, it had nothing to do with young Patsy Carlow. She is as silly as a wench can be, but—”
“Then you mean somebody sent Carbridge a note in her name,” said Laura, “and he fell into the trap.”
“Dear me!” said Dame Beatrice. “No wonder Sally’s novels had so little success with the public! Her plots must have been singularly inadequate. Let us hope the story told by the hangman’s hanger-on will prove more profitable to her.”
“Is there any chance that this Bull’s reminiscences will get published?” asked Laura. I replied that I would have no idea until I had read them, but th
at our secretary, a knowledgeable young woman, thought there might be a hope.
“It depends upon what Miss Lestrange can do with the material and, of course, how much of it the old chap can supply,” I said. “People who don’t know the ropes have no idea how much and what kind of information is needed to make a full-length book. Personally, knowing what I do about Bull, I doubt very much whether Miss Lestrange will find the job worth her while. All the famous murderers have been done to death—well, I don’t quite mean that. I mean, they’ve been written up and their crimes dissected and their trials analysed and goodness knows what-all. I can’t imagine that Bull will have anything fresh to say and, in any case, he was hardly a principal figure, I gather.”
“I don’t know how they could ever find anybody willing to hang another person,” said Laura, “but I believe I would have hated even more to be the judge who had to pass sentence, than I would to be the hangman.”
“Both are in the hands of a higher power, to wit, the jury,” I said. “It is the twelve good persons and true with whom the verdict of innocent or guilty rests. The judge merely passes sentence and the hangman merely used to carry it out. Personally I would rather be hanged than serve a life sentence. I’m very sure of that.”
“You say that now, but only because you are in no danger of either,” said Laura. “You might feel differently if you were in the condemned cell.”
“The trouble with juries,” said Dame Beatrice, “is that they have no conception of what really constitutes evidence. If they had, I, for one, should not be with you today.”
I stared at her, but she cackled, so I concluded that she had not meant what her sinister hint implied. Anyway, I had found out what I wanted to know. Because of the connection Sally had formed with my agency, Dame Beatrice was prepared to take an active part in solving the mystery of Carbridge’s death.
13
Suggestions for a Replay
It was Laura who kept the ball rolling. “It’s a long time since we saw much of Sally,” she said. “She has popped in for an occasional lunch, but she hasn’t stayed here since you both went to Sir Humphry Calshott’s house and she let herself in for hunting a Loch Ness monster at Tannasgan. Do you remember?”
“It is not an experience to be forgotten,” said Dame Beatrice, “and, when it was over, Sir Humphry—against his better judgement, I suspect—published Sally’s first novel. Time passes like an ever-rolling stream, but the flotsam it leaves behind stays with us. I wonder what arrangements can be made for Sally and Mr. Bull to get together over this autobiography?”
“I think there is only one course open to them,” I said. “Miss Lestrange is a free agent; Bull is not. It looks to me as though she will have to go to the hall of residence to jot down his reminiscences if she takes on the job. Once term starts, Bull won’t be able to get away from his duties and he lives in.”
“And all those wild-eyed, frenzied male polytechnic students will be back,” said Laura. “The girl must be chaperoned.”
“Exactly,” said Dame Beatrice, leering at her secretary.
“Ah!” I said. “So that’s it, is it? Well, I’m delighted to hear it. It’s high time someone with an open mind investigated the circumstances of Carbridge’s death.”
“I had the impression you didn’t like him much,” said Laura.
“It’s because of that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, the police never really had anything on Bull, and Bingley knew it. He only arrested him as a gesture. Now he’s got to find somebody else to stick the label on. As soon as somebody—probably under pressure—blows the gaff and tells him I knocked Carbridge for six at Crianlarich, I’m in the cart.”
“Yes,” said Dame Beatrice, “you had attacked him. You probably had the best of reasons, but those will not weight the scales of justice in your favour; you were present at the students’ party and it was you who found the body.”
“I have an alibi from the midday onwards. Carbridge must have been dead long before Hera and I showed up at the party. We shopped, had a late lunch together, and went to a cinema. I’m sure I can prove all this. Besides, until I was told of the unlocked back door, the students’ entrance to the hall of residence, I knew nothing about how to get into the house except by ringing the front-door bell.”
“What?” said Laura. “That plea won’t hold water. Oh, not that I don’t believe you, but the police will argue that you could have heard about a way in by a back door from the students who walked The Way with you. They’ll say they don’t remember talking about it, but things do come out in conversation and seem so trivial at the time that nobody takes any notice unless something blows up later.”
“Where, in London, is the hall of residence to be found?” asked Dame Beatrice. I gave her the address and Laura wrote it down. She said that she would get in touch with the warden. “I take your point about the autobiography,” she said. “As Mahomet cannot, by reason of his occupation, go to the mountain, Sally must go to Mahomet. But I shall see to it that she does not go alone.”
“Sally would hardly relish being called a mountain,” said Laura. “I wonder what the warden thinks about this autobiography business?”
“I wonder how much he knows about the whole project,” I said.
Next morning at the office Sandy spoke to me on a subject which had crossed my own mind more than once, but which, because of Hera, I had never raised. He came into my room, waited while I finished dictating a letter to Elsa, gave her some envelopes, and said, “I’ve looked through this lot and some of it needs a woman’s tactful approach. Tell Minster and Wynn that, if they think Tacitus Player will agree to staying on the same advance for his next three books, they’ve got another think coming; and, if Latter and Day don’t pay up soon on that textbook they commissioned from Seppie Leveret, proceedings are jolly well going to be taken which will make them as sick as mud. Put it all in your own winsome way, dear. We don’t want any hard feelings. All the same, tell M. and W. that Player can sell his stuff anywhere nowadays, and that if they don’t want him on their list there’s plenty as does. As for Seppie Leveret, the poor woman has been an angel of patience. She spent two years writing that damn book for them and she has to eat and clothe herself and keep the home fires burning, just like the rest of us. Sock it to them good and proper, but always the kid glove, not the iron gauntlet, on the hand which manipulates the hosepipe.”
“Don’t he talk lovely!” said Elsa. She blew him a kiss and went out, taking her sheaves with her. Sandy waved me to a chair, went to a cupboard, and took out bottles and glasses.
“Those letters will keep her busy for a bit,” he said. “I wanted to get her out of the way. Comrie, don’t you think it’s time we offered that girl a partnership?”
“I think it is. I’ve thought so for a long while. Anchor her down, you mean.”
“Oh, I didn’t know she’d had offers to leave us.”
“Lord, yes. She told Hera so when she took Hera home the other day, and Hera told me. She thought it was a plank in her platform and said as much. She said that, if Elsa went, there would be a hole which she herself could fill.”
“Did she say that to Elsa?”
“I shouldn’t think so.”
“It isn’t like Elsa to talk about her own affairs.”
“Oh, you know what women are. Even the best of them, given the chance to let their back hair down, will let it toss in the wind like the mane of Odin’s horse.”
“I don’t believe Elsa would. If you don’t mind my saying so, I think Hera made the whole thing up.”
“Quite possibly. You can see what a spot I’m going to be in, though, if we do make Elsa a partner. I’m all for it, mind you, but I’m in for a pretty rough time when it happens.”
“Still, fair’s fair. She didn’t tell Hera about any offers she’s had, I’m certain of that. Her whole training is geared to her never talking out of turn. All the same, I’m prepared to bet that she has had offers and
, human nature being what it is, one of those offers has only got to be big enough, if you see what I mean—”
“Perfectly. Right, then, let’s go ahead. That’s what I meant when I talked of getting Elsa anchored here. We can’t afford to lose her.”
“What about the name of the firm? Won’t she expect to have hers added to ours?”
“Not at first, anyhow. I like the name Alexander Comrie and don’t want it altered. We could make that a condition, I think, but she’ll probably see for herself the point of keeping the name we’re known by. She’s a very sensible girl.”
So Elsa, obviously delighted, was added to the managerial strength and was adamant that the name of the firm should not be changed.
“It wouldn’t inspire confidence,” she said. “Alexander Comrie has such a nice, solid, Scottish sound about it and it’s known and respected all over the place.” So Alexander Comrie we remained and all was gas and gaiters until Hera found out that we had made Elsa a full partner and that her name, although not in our trade title, was on our stationery.
“What’s all this, and since when?” she demanded one evening. She was spending the evening at my flat and turning it upside down as usual on one of her tidying-up blitzes.
“What’s that?”
She had been tidying the shelves in my wardrobe—an operation I thought completely unnecessary, but one which she insisted upon carrying out from time to time, and had come upon a piece of paper on which I had scribbled down a list of things for my charwoman to send to the laundry. I had meant to copy the list on the official card the laundry always enclosed in the package when the washing came home, but had procrastinated.
“What’s this on the agency’s notepaper?” She came towards me and held out the scribbled-on sheet. I took it and looked it over.
“Only a tentative laundry list,” I said, as off-handedly as I could.
Cold, Lone and Still (Mrs. Bradley) Page 14