Death on Doomsday

by Elizabeth Lemarchand

  “It’s gone stale on us with this endless chewing over,” he remarked. “We could do with a shot in the arm.”

  They were to get one with unexpected rapidity. On arriving at the police station they were triumphantly informed that the trail of a grey Austin Princess with a scrape on her near side had been picked up.

  CHAPTER TEN

  In the cold light of day the news of the damaged grey car seemed less exhilarating. Inspector Diplock explained that after getting Pollard’s call from Warhampton, he had immediately altered the local force throughout the area and ordered enquiries to be made. An enterprising Crockmouth constable had thought of one Henry Tubbs, a pensioner who frequented the town’s large free car park in the hopes of picking up tips from motorists for small services. He was known to be perfectly honest, so the police were accustomed to turn a blind eye to this practice. In reply to questions Tubbs had stated without hesitation that there had been a grey Austin with a nasty bash on her near side in the car park on Wednesday morning. He clearly remembered seeing it at about ten-thirty. Asked why he had noticed it particularly, he replied that it was badly parked, right over the white line, stopping somebody else getting in. The loss of a potential employer had obviously rankled with him. No, he hadn’t taken its number. He wasn’t a cop, nor yet a dratted boy with a notebook, running all over the park and getting in people’s way. Finally the constable extracted the information that the car had gone when Tubbs returned from his dinner, at just on two, and he hadn’t seen it since.

  Pollard congratulated Inspector Diplock on being so quick off the mark, and highly commended the constable. He learnt that further enquiries were being energetically pursued, but so far, unfortunately, without result. The inspection of the sandpit had confirmed Dick White’s statement in every respect. Casts had been taken of the two sets of tyre tracks, and the ground had also been carefully photographed. A few drops of oil behind a big clump of brambles where the grey car had been hidden, suggested that it had not stood there for any great length of time.

  “If it turns out to be anything to do with us,” Pollard said, “that fits in with the probable timing: between just after nine-forty, when those phone calls were made, and midnight, which Dr. Netley obviously thinks is the latest time of death.”

  He hurried off to the conference with the Chief Constable, which Superintendent Perry had been unable to ward off any longer.

  It began inauspiciously, Major Egerton appearing to feel that the initially wrong identification of the body found at Brent was in some way a reflection on his men, and Pollard had to use all his tact to convince him that this was not the case. He then embarked on the evidence provided by George Snell, but without touching on the question of Peplow’s real identity. Major Egerton listened incredulously.

  “Preposterous!” he snorted. “Of course a chap who’d skulk out there while decent men were fighting for their country would do anything. This Snell seems a pretty rum customer, too. Glad to hear you’re checking up on him. Still, you say your handwriting wallah says the chap who signed the Peplow passport wrote the air letter. We don’t want any of this coming out until you’ve heard from the Argentine people. We’d better see Richardson again about the further adjournment. About this car, now.”

  Pollard gave a resume of his visit to Warhampton, and Superintendent Perry an account of the findings in the sandpit.

  “I think all this rules out young White,” Pollard said. “And in my own mind I’m certain Emmett wasn’t directly responsible for Peplow’s death. If he was fixed to lock up after somebody, well, there must have been two men on the job, and the other one went for Peplow, and could have been the driver of this car we’re looking for. Smart work of that constable of yours to pick up its trail so quickly. Do you think there’s anything to be gained by broadening the search area? I don’t want a broadcast appeal yet: it’ll only put the chap on his guard, if he’s really our man.”

  “Lull him into a false sense of security, eh?” suggested the Chief Constable picturesquely. “Yes, we can step things up with our neighbours. We’ll get on to that right away. See to it, Perry, will you?”

  Realising that he was about to tread on dangerous ground, Pollard broached the subject of alternative suspects. “You know, sir,” he said. “I find this idea of the second chap difficult to swallow, although we’ve obviously got to consider it carefully, and follow up this car clue. What would have been Peplow’s idea in bringing somebody along with him? He could perfectly well have carried through the robbery on his own.”

  The Chief Constable subjected him to a penetrating stare. “Have you formed an alternative theory, then?”

  “Nothing so definite. But I’m bound to take note of the fact that, quite apart from Emmett, Lord Seton and Mrs. Giles Tirle had access to the miniatures room that night. On paper it’s possible that one of them heard a noise or saw a light in the room, went to investigate, was threatened by Peplow, and accidentally killed him in self-defence. It’s a situation lending itself to panic moves.”

  “You can’t be serious, Pollard!” The Chief Constable stared at him in stupefaction. “Seton panic? It’d take a damn sight more than accidentally killing a burglar to rattle him. I should have thought it was obvious. As to Felicity Tirle, have you ever seen a woman trying to kick a football? Enough to make a cat laugh! It’s out of the question that a woman’s involved. And if she were the panicking sort she’d be dead, let me tell you. She worked in the Resistance in Occupied France.”

  “I entirely agree with what you say, sir,” Pollard replied, making mental reservations with regard to Felicity Tirle’s physical capabilities. “I merely said that it was a theoretical possibility, and as such, we had to consider it. So we come back to this inexplicable second chap, and at the moment our only lead is the car.”

  “Quite,” said Major Egerton, recovering himself. “Well, you can count on us to go all out. We’d better be getting along to the inquest.”

  The coroner’s court was not large, and already packed to suffocation point. As Pollard slipped into one of the seats kept for the police he caught a glimpse of Lord Seton, accompanied by Robert Tirle, and wished that he were better placed to observe the former. It was soon clear that members of the public who had hoped for a morning of sensational disclosures were again doomed to disappointment. Discussion of the legal implications of the problem of the deceased’s identity dragged on interminably. The only flicker of interest arose from the appearance of George Snell in the witness box. He made a good impression, stating without any hesitation that the body he had just viewed was that of the man he had known for over twenty years in the Argentine as Raymond Peplow, and that he had no knowledge of the deceased’s real name. Asked by the coroner if he had known in advance of the deceased’s trip to England, he replied in the negative. He himself had been away with his work, and on his return had gathered that it was a business trip in connection with a real estate deal. On hearing of the disaster at Brent, he had anticipated a projected visit to England to see if he could be of any assistance. Yes, he would describe himself as a friend of the deceased’s, although not a very close one.

  To Pollard’s relief George Snell was permitted to stand down, and the enquiry moved on to the medical evidence as to the cause of death. This mainly took the form of an exhaustive statement by Dr. Netley. At last the coroner announced himself prepared to issue a burial certificate, George Snell’s offer to be responsible for the funeral was accepted, and the police request for a further adjournment of a month granted.

  When Pollard was able to extract himself he saw George Snell besieged by newsmen, but apparently holding his own successfully.

  “Let’s beat it,” he said to Toye. “Diplock’s going to see if he wants any help over the funeral arrangements. I could do with some grub. We’ll just look in to see if anything’s come through about that car.”

  There was no further news. Over lunch Pollard realised that the case had reached a stage which he always detested and fo
und exceedingly trying: that of inactive waiting for results from enquiries being carried out by other people. For the moment there was nothing to do beyond the endless chewing over of stale facts.

  “We’ll go over and have a look at the sandpit ourselves,” he said suddenly over coffee.

  The expedition was unrewarding, however, beyond confirming all the information gathered by Inspector Diplock and his men. Pollard had noted the absence of houses along the road as they approached from the direction of Crockmouth. On coming out of the sandpit they walked in the opposite direction, and found none there either. To the south of the minor road stretched the park of Brent, and open fields lay to the north.

  “No hope of anybody having heard a car start up,” he remarked.

  They paused at a padlocked gate leading into the park, and leant on it, resting their arms on the topmost bar. The sky had clouded over, and the great house loomed forbiddingly. A surprising amount of activity was in evidence. Rows of coaches and cars were visible in the car park, and a constantly changing crowd could be seen round the tea room and the shop.

  “Cashing in, from the look of things,” Toye remarked.

  “They’ll soon make up for the closure,” Pollard agreed.

  He wondered how Lady Seton was making out under the continuing strain, and if there were still delphiniums in the fireplace of the great hall. He stared at the house. How many furtive approaches had been made to it under cover of darkness in the course of its long history? Peripatetic priests in the first Elizabeth’s day. King’s men, and perhaps Parliament men during the Civil War. Even Charles himself on the way to the Channel coast after Worcester, with a price on his head, but still not in too much of a hurry to forego a spot of dalliance with the lady of the house…

  “Come on,” he said, rousing himself. “We’d better go back. If nothing’s turned up we’ll take an hour or two off.”

  The Yard had telephoned confirmation received of George Snell’s authenticity and relations with Peplow, but there was no news of the wanted car. Toye went off to a cinema, which was showing one of his favourite westerns, and Pollard set off on a solitary walk to the far end of Windle Point, on the east side of Crockmouth Bay. He soon left the holiday crowds behind, and entered a grey solitude of sea and sky. Arriving at his destination he dropped on to his stomach, and crawled forward to a spot from which he could gaze down on the surging waves far below without a sense of vertigo. Slowly and relentlessly they were demolishing the great rocky bastion. A weak place had been discovered and tunnelled through, forming a natural arch under which the white foam came thundering in rhythmic bursts. After a time the swirl of the water, reiterated by the wheeling of the gulls overhead, became hypnotic… Roused by a maniac scream in his ear, he looked at his watch. He had slept for over an hour. Hastily scrambling to his feet, he started back to the town.

  There he learnt that the funeral could not be held before Wednesday, and that no reports of a damaged grey car had come in.

  The evening and the following morning dragged interminably, divided between further unproductive brooding over the files of the robberies, and the continual reviewing of the pros and cons of issuing an appeal for information about the car on the air and in the Press. Inspector Diplock was strongly in favour of this.

  “Trouble is, the whole place is lousy with cars this time of year,” he said. “Why, even the filling stations just bung in the juice without hardly looking at you and hustle you off to make room at the pump for the chap on your tail. Don’t even try to sell you some gadget or other.”

  “If nothing’s turned up by tonight,” Pollard said, suddenly coming to a decision, “we’ll run up to the Yard, and get something out on a nationwide basis.”

  The afternoon crawled like the morning. This time Toye accompanied Pollard on the walk out to Windle Point. For most of the way they strode along in silence, conversational topics exhausted. It was heavily overcast and sultry, with thunderclouds building up on the far horizon.

  As they returned to the town and were walking along the seafront, they ran into George Snell outside the Hotel Magnificent. He greeted them with obvious pleasure, and invited them in for a drink.

  “I sure need one,” he said, as they sank into chairs in an opulent lounge. “Going all round this place Brent this afternoon put me in mind of a ride I once took on the New York subway in the rush hour.” He broke off to order drinks from a waiter. “Boy, oh boy,” he continued, “was there a crowd? The cops’ve got a chap on point duty out there.”

  “It won’t last like this,” Pollard told him. “Some other place will hit the headlines, and draw off the sensation-seekers.”

  George Snell, however, was clearly impressed by the profit potential of Brent. “I’ll grant you there’s a boom right now,” he said, “but I figure that set-up more than earns its keep the way they’ve got everything lined up. I’ve been backstage. Young Tirle took me round the whole place: house, grounds, tea place, market garden — the lot. Nice lad. Nothing upstage about him.”

  Pollard looked his surprise. “Young Robert Tirle? How did he get on to you?”

  “Came up and spoke to me after the inquest. Nice friendly young chap. He was interested in Peplow, and what’d made him pick on Brent. I told him about the magazine article. Kept quiet about that damn bet, of course. Then he said he’d show me round if I cared to turn up. So I hired a car and went along. The driver told me the place was a gold mine, with so many people going on holiday these days. No competition anywhere near, he said.”

  Without being able to pinpoint the reason for it Pollard was aware of being alerted. Puzzled, he groped in his mind without result, while continuing the conversation with George Snell. “Are you staying over here long?” he asked.

  “Coupla weeks, just to look up my folk down in Devon. I’m hiring a self-drive car from a garage the hotel’s put me on to.”

  Their talk flowed on easily, and a second round of drinks was ordered. At last Pollard felt that he could decently make a move, and after arranging to meet George Snell after the funeral on the following morning, emerged once more on to the seafront with Toye.

  Crockmouth seemed strangely deserted, and he realised that most of the visitors must be having the early evening meal of the smaller hotels and the boarding houses. The empty beach looked dreary. He reflected that it ought always to be sunny at the seaside, and slumped down into a deck chair.

  “Let’s park here for a bit,” he said. “It’s stifling. I don’t feel like eating yet, do you?”

  “Not me,” replied Toye. “Feels like an outside thunderstorm cooking up. Shall I ring the station, sir, just in case? There’s a kiosk across the road.”

  “Better, I suppose.”

  A few minutes later Toye returned, and shook his head briefly. They relapsed into silence.

  “Funny thing,” Pollard said presently. “Something Snell said rang a bell. It didn’t click with you, too, did it?”

  “Was it to do with Brent?” Toye asked, a puzzled expression on his pale, serious face. “Or about Peplow?”

  “I can’t remember — that’s the trouble. Let’s see if we can piece the conversation together. For some reason it’s bothering me.”

  Bit by bit they reconstructed what had been said. The crowds at Brent had been discussed, and the chap on point duty mentioned.

  “Young Tirle,” interrupted Pollard. “This isn’t it, but doesn’t it seem odd that Robert Tirle made a dead set at Snell? He’s a bright lad. Can he possibly have his suspicions that Peplow was really his uncle?”

  “I wouldn’t think it’s likely,” Toye said, after consideration. “Wouldn’t you expect a young chap of his age to show a bit of curiosity, seeing what’s happened?”

  “Perhaps you’re right. Where did we leave off? I know. Snell said he’d hired a car and gone out to Brent.”

  “That’s it. And the driver said the Tirles were on to a gold mine, and there was no competition —” He broke off as Pollard uttered a strangled excla
mation, and brought his right hand down on his knee.

  “That’s it!” he almost shouted. “No competition! Now, where did we hear that before? I’ve got it, Toye! It was Lord Seton’s secretary, last Thursday morning.” In his excitement he swung round, gripping the back of the chair. “Remember? She was in a tiz because there was a chance that a rival show might be starting up in the neighbourhood. Then that professional adviser chap came in with Lord Seton, the one they’d had at Brent. He’d been to see this other place. Whitesisters, that’s what it’s called! The chap’s name was Corden, from some firm called Stately Homes Limited. Then they went on talking as if nothing in the world mattered except opening these bloody great houses to the public.”

  “I remember all right,” said Toye, looking baffled. “Then the consultant fellow said Whitesisters wasn’t on, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, he did. After all, I don’t think it adds up to anything. Or does it? I’m not sure. Toye, if Corden had decided the place was no go, he must have spent some time there. When did he get there?”

  Toye blinked. “Meaning he might have slept there Tuesday night?”

  “This is it. If he did, could he have slipped out and gone over to Brent, either to join up with Peplow/Lambrooke, or even to break in on his own?”

  At this Toye looked reproving. “Pretty hefty coincidence, two separate break-ins in the same night.”

  “Never mind about that,” said Pollard impatiently. “Let’s focus on Corden. Professionally he gets first-class opportunities of finding out everything about these houses and what’s in ’em. Why, man, the owners pay him for coming along and going over the place with a toothcomb. Don’t tell me that smart chap couldn’t find a chance of taking impressions of keys while he was on the job. Now then, when I was doing that analysis of the robberies I noticed that two of the houses besides Brent had employed Stately Homes. One had some other firm, and two haven’t opened… Wait a bit, though. What a nit I am — of course, he could perfectly well have vetted them, and advised against opening!”