Nothing Like Blood

by Bruce, Leo

  Carolus sighed. He knew that readiness.

  “It’s very kind of you,” he said.

  “We make it a principle not to concern ourselves with other people’s affairs. We lead very much our own life here, as you will observe. But in my years in the army …”

  “What branch?” asked Carolus.

  “Actually, the Pay Corps. In my years in the army I formed certain habits of observation which have stood me in good stead. We both, in fact, while never wishing to be inquisitive, cannot help but see and hear. We are only too anxious that all our doubts shall be relieved.”

  “Was Sonia Reid a friend of yours?”

  The question seemed to shock, if not horrify, the Natterleys. The Major was the first to regain his composure sufficiently to speak.

  “We cannot make it too plain,” he said, “that we have never had anything approaching friendship with anyone in this house. We believe in civility, but there we wish it to end. Such friends as we have, and they are few, are in no way associated with Cat’s Cradle—people of a very different stamp. We are not, we hope, snobbish but anything more than the merest acquaintanceship would be quite impossible for us with other members of this household. The unfortunate girl you mention may on occasion have been one of a conversational circle of which we have briefly, quite briefly, formed a part. Nothing more.”

  “Pity. I’d like to know something about her.”

  “It is not impossible,” said Major Natterley, “that we can, from remote observation, give you some information on that score. But do not ask us, pray, for intimate knowledge of her character or antecedents.”

  “I won’t. What about Lydia Mallister?”

  “There again, our habit of retiring to our own sitting-room …”

  “Quite. Well, I hope we can have a talk some time. I appreciate your co-operation.”

  Before the evening was over Carolus had met the entire household, except the staff. He was warned that he would find Steve Lawson a man very much changed since his appearance in Helena’s diary as a fleshy and properous youngish race-horse-owner. He found, in fact, a surly fellow whose clothes looked as though he had lost weight. He was not exactly uncivil to Carolus, but he made it clear that he should not seek his acquaintance. Carolus did his innocent blunderer act.

  “I gather you were very friendly with Sonia Reid?” he said blandly.

  “Sorry, Mr Deene. I don’t talk about Sonia.”

  This was curt and to the point and left even Carolus at a loss for a moment.

  “I expect you’ve had quite enough of it with police inquiries. I’m sorry if I …”

  “That’s all right. You’ve got a job to do, I suppose. But I don’t talk. I hope you understand that. Not in the witness box, not when the police ask questions, and not chattily with you, or anyone else.”

  “You make it very clear. I only hope you will be able to keep to your resolve.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I could imagine circumstances in which it would be difficult. But not with me, Mr Lawson. You won’t be badgered by me.”

  Lawson looked surly and puzzled, but said nothing.

  Carolus met James Mallister and Esmée Welton together, as they were usually found nowadays. He had the impression, which they had also given to Helena, that they were quite hopelessly and sincerely in love.

  “I wish you would get rid of this wretched business,” said Mallister in his rather sad voice. “It’s been appalling for us, you know.”

  The ‘us’ was a quieter and less aggressive thing than the repetitive ‘us’ of the Natterleys.

  “You’ve probably been told already,” said Esmée, “that James and I want to get married.”

  “Indeed I have. By more than one person,” smiled Carolus.

  “You probably wonder why we don’t. But, you see, neither of us has any relatives or roots anywhere else to speak of and to get married from this house as it is at present would be rather ill-omened, wouldn’t it?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “You’ve probably been told all the rest,” said Esmée—“how heartless we were to think of one another when Lydia was dying, and all that. The truth is, James was a saint with Lydia, Mr Deene. She had a wicked tongue and you don’t know what he had to put up with.”

  “At all events,” said Mallister, “do try to find out what it is that has made us all feel and behave like this since her death.”

  “I’m really as much concerned with Sonia Reid’s death. Do you think there was any connection?”

  They seemed to think about this and answered reasonably.

  “I don’t see how there can have been,” said Mallister. “But it came while everyone was still talking about Lydia and …”

  “The whole thing is beastly,” said Esmée. “I don’t suppose it will be any less so when we know the truth, but at least then we shall know where we are, as we used to say. I for one am glad you’ve come.”

  “Thanks for that. I get rather tired of being looked on as a sort of vulture, swooping down on dead bodies.”

  Esmée smiled. “You don’t look much like a vulture,” she said. “If there is to be any talk of vultures, I should have thought ‘Phiz my dear’ qualifies splendidly.”

  “Now, Esmée, don’t be bitchy,” said Mallister.

  “You’ve only got to look at her,” said Esmée. “I don’t know what kind of a noise vultures make, but it can’t be very different from that voice and the things she says. However, I’ll do as James says and try not to be bitchy.”

  10

  SO the first impression Carolus had of Cat’s Cradle was not like Helena’s. He saw, that day, very little sign of tension and none of fear. Either these had passed with the death of Sonia Reid and the inquest which followed it, or everyone was putting up a show of confidence and indifference for his benefit. But he had not been long in the house before he understood what Helena had meant.

  During the morning he persuaded Christine to let him make a thorough examination of the house, noting who occupied which rooms. She took him first to her own, ‘the room in the tower’, and he spent some time there.

  “What on earth is this huge table for?” he asked, for the centre of the room was occupied by a square deal table over which was an old-fashioned table-cloth.

  “Sonia asked for it,” said Christine. “She used to bring work home from the business and had a typewriter here. I haven’t got rid of it because I’m not staying long.”

  He went out to the little balcony and sat on its stone balustrade as Sonia must have done. “She must have felt very confident,” he remarked.

  “She often sat there, apparently,” said Christine. “As you see there’s not room for a chair out here, and the view’s rather fine, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. If you don’t look down.”

  Christine smiled. “I thought you were a paratrooper,” she said.

  “I was, but I don’t like heights.”

  The only other room which occupied him long was the Mallisters’ and here he opened the door of a built-in cupboard.

  “Yes, it’s a solidly built house,” said Christine. “The walls can take these. They’re too narrow for clothes, though.”

  “Have all the rooms got them?” asked Carolus.

  “Most of them. There’s one in the next room to this, which must be about here.” She tapped the wall near the cupboard doors.

  “Let’s see, who lives there?”

  “The Gee-Gees.”

  They completed their round of the house and walked down the cliff path to where the body was found. Carolus made no relevant comment.

  In the afternoon he drove over to the Merrydown Holiday Camp. At five o’clock he reached the imposing entrance, built in concrete to represent the gateway of a mediaeval castle, complete with imitation watch-towers and imitation drawbridge. He drove in without impediment, however, and, parking his car, went to the central reception desk. A smooth gentleman looked up from his papers.

  “C
an you help me?” asked Carolus. “I want to find some people named Grimburn.”

  The receptionist’s reaction was violent. “God!” he said. “Not another! I thought every blasted newspaper in the country had done them. What are you. The Methodist Recorder or the Catholic Herald? Or Sports and Hobbies? They’re the only ones left.”

  “I’m not a newspaperman,” said Carolus mildly.

  “Police, then?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t start telling me you’re just an old friend of theirs? We’ve had that one till we’re sick of it.”

  “No. I’ve never met them. I’m staying at Cat’s Cradle. I just want a chat with them.”

  The receptionist eyed him cunningly. “Advertising? “he suggested. “They saw the whole thing through Somebody’s field glasses or something?”

  Carolus shook his head and waited patiently.

  “I tell you what,” the receptionist said. “They can’t be called over the loud-speakers again. There’s strict orders from the Top about that. The other campers are sick of it. Grimburns wanted all day long. If you can find them you’re welcome. I can’t do any more.”

  “Could you tell me the number of their room … hut … tent …

  “Their chalet is number 1017. In the East Block. But they won’t be in it now.”

  “Where will they be?”

  “How on earth am I to know? They may be taking part in the All-Europe Athletic Sports in the Chattaway Stadium. They could be watching the Inter-Block Cricket Match. There’s a lecture by Bubbles Flynn in the Montgomery Lecture Hall. The Swimming Gala is going on in the Woodland Pool, and the Junior Competition in the Bluewater Baths. Of course, as Grimburn apparently knows how to row, they may be in the Grand Trafalgar Regatta. If they were older people, I’d say they were in one of the cinemas or at the concert in the Jazz-Philharmonica Hall or watching the Snooker Championship.”

  “Mightn’t they be in their own quarters?”

  “Not likely. No television in the chalets, you see. Only in the Olde Television Inne. We found it ruinous to the bar trade. You can try, of course. It’s only about half a mile’s walk from here. Then they might have gone on the Mountain Ramble. Or the Mass Picnic. Or the Anti-Nuclear Jamboree. There’s the Ice Rink, too, but the show’s not on till tomorrow—Strip Glace. Do they play tennis, do you know? The Inter-House Finals are on today.”

  “There seems to be quite a choice,” said Carolus.

  “You might try the Bingo Palace. Or the Repertory Theatre.”

  “Couldn’t I catch them at a meal-time?”

  “Very difficult, old man. We’ve got eight dining-halls, you know.”

  “Eight?”

  “Yes. All different. There’s the Parisian, the London Particular, the Neapolitan, the Yorkshire …”

  “You mean to say …”

  “Hold it, old man. The Delicatessen, the Samovar, the Valenciana and the Viennese.”

  “You mean you have eight kinds of catering?”

  “Well, between you and me, there’s only one kitchen. It’s the decorations of the rooms that vary, and the wording of the menu. It wouldn’t do to have them all the same. People would call that regimentation, and that’s what they complain about with holiday camps. Must give them variety.”

  “I see.”

  “It’s all right till it comes to finding anyone. Then you don’t know where you are, because there are three shifts with each restaurant. Take these Grimburns you want to find. How’s anyone to know which they fancy? You don’t happen to know if they’ve got a yen for anything Viennese, do you? Or good old English? Or Frenchified? We might have a try if you knew that.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “There you are. They’re probably like all the rest of them, popping from one to another. Italian one day, Spanish the next.”

  “But you say the food’s the same?”

  “It’s the names that vary, old man. There’s a lot in a name, you know. Call something cótelette a la Milanaise and nobody’s going to think it’s a mutton cutlet, except those in the London Particular restaurant who say they do like this good old English fare. See what I mean? You need a bit of psychology.”

  “You seem to have it. You should go far,” said Carolus admiringly.

  “Well, I’ve got some ideas of my own. Nobody’s thought of introducing Speed Trials here, yet. Still, you want to find the Grimburns. I shouldn’t waste time on the dining-halls if I was you.”

  “What about in a bar this evening?”

  “That’s possible. But if you don’t know what they look like, it won’t be easy. There are six Olde Innes, you see. There’s the Falstaff Olde Inne, the Sputnik Olde Inne, the …”

  “Yes, yes. I see the idea.”

  “Sorry I can’t be more helpful. Only, as I say, we’ve got strict orders not to use the buzzer. Best hope is through inquiries. They’ve become pretty well known through all this publicity. Try asking our Campers’ Pals. They’re the ones wearing orange-coloured trousers and green shirts. They may be able to help you.”

  “Thanks,” said Carolus and went off to try his luck. Coming to a long row of shops he decided to try an inquiry at the Antique and Souvenir Arcade and found a helpful young woman.

  “Yes, I know them,” she said. “Had their pictures in the paper last week, didn’t they? They were in here only this morning buying some postcards and a miniature souvenir warming-pan. I think they said they were going to the Wigan Pier Pierrot Show this afternoon. That’s in the Palm Pavilion, about twenty minutes’ walk towards the sea.”

  “Thanks. I’ll try their … chalet first. It’s in the East Block, I understand.”

  “Yes. You go down here, past the Indian Fortune-Teller’s Kiosk and the Elizabethan Ice Cream Parlour. Then turn right by the New Eiffel Tower and there you are. All those rows of chalets are the East Block. You’ve got the number?”

  Carolus followed these instructions and found himself in a vast chessboard of identical bathing-huts painted orange and green. After a quarter of an hour of hard walking he stood triumphantly before Number 1017. Its door was closed but he decided to knock. The only response was the opening of the door of 1019, beside it. A thin woman, whose skin had turned a fiery red in the sun, looked at him disapprovingly. “They’re not in,” she said.

  “No. I wonder whether you could help me …”

  “No, I couldn’t. We’ve had quite enough of the newspapers and that coming to take pictures of them just because they happened to be out there at the time.”

  “I suppose it made them news,” said Carolus bravely.

  “News? I should think it did. There’s Her in the Daily Mirror, grinning on both sides of her face as though it was something to be proud of, and Him in the Daily Express with an oar in his hand, as though he was in the Oxford and Cambridge. It’s enough to make you sick. Who was looking after the children all the time, that’s what I should like to know. And little Doreen not telling me she wanted to Go Somewhere so that I had it to clear up.”

  “Are you Mrs Wickers?” asked Carolus gratefully, remembering the name from Helena’s journal.

  “That’s right. However did you know? No one’s been to ask me anything about that evening, though we never got a wink of sleep till they came home full of it about a girl jumping out of a window. I don’t see much in that. When there was a fire three doors from me, they was all jumping out of the windows like grasshoppers.”

  “Perhaps there isn’t much to it,” agreed Carolus. “That’s really what I want to know. I think it has all been rather exaggerated. I’ve been sent to investigate.”

  “You mean, you think it may all be a lot of talk, and them walking about as though they’d been to the North Pole?”

  “Undoubtedly a girl died that night after falling from a window, but whether …”

  “She says it was like a film. She says they saw it all as clear as a picture. I don’t see how they could have done from that way away. So you want to see how much
they’ve been exaggerating, do you?”

  “That’s about it. Do you know where I could find them?”

  “Not now, I don’t. They may have gone to listen to the Connaught Rangers Band down on the Camp Promenade, or perhaps they’re in the Treasure Hunt. But I tell you what. My husband and I always go with them to one of the bars about eight o’clock as soon as they’ve put the children to bed. They’re all right when they’re not on about this girl jumping out of a window. Quite nice people till their heads got turned by all those reporters. We’ve been about together quite a bit. So when we go up for a drink tonight I could look out for you and introduce you. Then perhaps you can make them see it’s not the end of the world when someone has a bit of an accident and they happen to catch a glimpse of it.”

  “Thanks. But which bar will you be in?”

  “Oh, that’s the trouble. We like to get round a bit. We don’t usually stay in one place. They’re all done out different, you see. There’s the Rock an’ Roll Olde Inne, where Bugs Wriggly and his Band play. And the Space Travel Olde Inne, where it’s all got up with rockets and that, and the barmen wear space suits. Or we might be in the Beatnik Olde Inne—that’s proper old-fashioned but a bit quiet because the older people seem to go there. You can’t tell, really. But I’ll be looking out for you.”

  “It’s very kind of you.”

  “Well, I hope you take them down a peg, that’s all.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Wickers. I’ll try to find you this evening.”

  “I’d ask you to wait for them, only there’s nowhere to sit, really. Just the two beds in our chalet and they’re all untidy at the moment. Besides they’ll only just pop in and put Doreen and Elizabeth to bed and out they’ll go again.”

  Carolus started on his walk back towards the entrance round which the Olde Innes were clustered. It was past six now and he entered the Major Gagarin Olde Inne for a much-needed whisky-and-soda. He found it a barn-like place in which a bar ran down the entire length of the room—some sixty feet long. The walls were stencilled with suitable designs and the barmen wore what he could only suppose was the uniform of Russian space-travellers off duty, a curious mixture of the Martian and the Cossack.