The Dreadful Hollow

by Nicholas Blake

  “The same figure?” muttered Blount, and audibly swallowed; he made an irritable movement, as if brushing a cobweb from his face. “What the devil do you mean?”

  “Just that. The figure in the carriage was my father, and the figure pushing it was my father. It was a dream. I couldn’t see their faces; but I didn’t have to. I knew. The figures were identical. Both wore dark overcoats and those curly-brimmed Homburg hats—the Edwardian fashion that has come in again. Pop was quite a dandy. Well, Father started pushing Father away, and I woke up.”

  There was an uneasy silence. Nigel felt Stanford’s eyes upon him, a cryptic urgency in them.

  “You’re suggesting—e-eh—you saw the crime in your dream?” said Blount at last. “Pity you didn’t see the criminal’s face.”

  Something impelled Nigel to ask. “What time was it you woke up from this nightmare?”

  “I looked at my watch—you know, sort of to shake myself free of the dream, get a grip on normality again. It was nine minutes past eleven. The next minute, I went to sleep again.”

  16 O Father! O God! Was It Well?

  “WELL, WHAT DID you make of that?” asked Blount, as they drove, a quarter of an hour later, toward Moreford.

  “Rather instructive, the dream, I thought. And disagreeable. Made my flesh creep.”

  “Och, the dream! No, what interests me is the time he told us he awoke. Nine minutes past eleven. Just about the very time yon Durdle said he heard sounds from the Little Manor—slow footsteps, you remember?”

  “Do I not! Stanford seems to have dreamed the murder at exactly the time it was taking place. Supports his theory of telepathy.”

  “Telepathy my foot! I’ll ask you two questions, Strangeways. How did he come to fix on that precise time? And why did he tell us the creepy tale at all?”

  “I see you’re bursting to answer your questions. Well, why?”

  “I’ve had tabs on Stanford Blick, and you can take it from me Durdle’s not been in communication with him. So how could Stanford know that eleven-nine was a crucial moment in the night’s doings, unless he was there, on the spot, himself? And why should he come out with that rigmarole about a dream except to give himself an alibi, for that very time?”

  “A dream is not such stuff as alibis are made of.”

  “I disagree. It’d be of no earthly value in a court of law. But it could be a devilish subtle way of suggesting to an average clever policeman that one was at home and in bed when really one was somewhere else. He’s got the ’fluence, yon laddie. I’ll confess he almost had me crossing him off the list—it was all so weird, and so natural forbye, you couldna begin to suspect he was making it up.”

  “But, because it was so natural, your nasty, perverse mind goes assuming it must have been faked.”

  Arrived at Moreford, they went first to the police station, where Blount was closeted awhile with Inspector Randall. In the meantime, Nigel perused a carbon copy of Randall’s report on the investigations into the new batch of anonymous letters. A good deal of work had been done upon this. There seemed to be no possible doubt now that they had not been posted by Daniel Durdle or his mother. Moreover, the field was narrowed to those who could have known, on the previous day, that Sir Archibald Blick was coming down from London. This eliminated the possibility of the letters having been written by some other Prior’s Umborne free-lance inspired to emulate the original poison pen. Apart from the servants at the Hall, who had been too busy making preparations for Sir Archibald’s arrival to go down to the village and gossip, the only people cognizant of it were Stanford and Charles Blick, the Chantmerles and the vicar.

  Randall’s inquiries disclosed that any of these could have posted letters in the New Inn box during the relevant period. Stanford and Charles denied having done so; Mark Raynham said he had posted several in the main box, but none in the other one; Rosebay had posted in the New Inn box three of her sister’s letters and one of her own. These letters had been traced to their recipients, and all was in order. Finally, a Scotland Yard handwriting expert, after comparing the three latest letters with specimens of Daniel Durdle’s efforts, had given the opinion that they were by a different hand. The pertinacious Randall had collected specimens of the handwriting of all six suspects, and these were now under examination at Scotland Yard.

  Twenty minutes after their arrival at the police station, Blount collected Nigel and they set off, with Detective Sergeant Reid, for the factory. Blount was uncommunicative on the way and at his grimmest when they got there. Charles Blick’s office, a smallish, functional room on the upper floor, had a pleasant view over the railway sidings to the green and brown patchwork of country beyond. Charles himself, neat, watchful and worried-looking, seemed more of a personality here on his own ground. He gave a number of instructions to his secretary before he dismissed her and indicated that he was now at Blount’s disposal for a quarter of an hour.

  “I hope we shall not need to take up any more of your time,” the Superintendent replied smoothly. “And I must warn you, Mr. Blick, that anything you say will be taken down and may be used in evidence. You are, of course, under no compulsion to make a statement. You understand that?”

  As always, when the official warning was uttered, Nigel felt a constriction of the heart, a mingled apprehension and excitement such as one feels when the bell rings for the first round of the major contest.

  Charles had bowed his head affirmatively, saying nothing.

  “In view of evidence that has recently come to light, sir, I think you may wish to alter your original statement, made to Inspector Randall.”

  “What evidence is this?” asked Charles.

  “You told Inspector Randall you went to bed on the night of the twentieth, shortly after ten-thirty, and were at home all that night. We now learn you had made an appointment to meet Miss Rosebay in the upper meadow, at some time after eleven P.M., and were in fact seen there a few minutes before the hour.”

  Charles Blick sighed, and drew down the corners of his mouth ruefully. “Yes, I suppose it was bound to come out. Who saw me? Rosebay never turned up, you know.”

  “You admit your first statement was false then?” Blount’s voice and face were bleak as his native hills.

  “Oh yes. I—well, I didn’t want her to be mixed up in—”

  “Mixed up in what, sir? When you made that statement, the cause of your father’s death had not been established.”

  “I never supposed he walked over the edge of the quarry on purpose, or accidentally.” Charles gave a wry little smile, which reminded one of his brother. “It was stupid of me to lie about it. The fact is I was fagged out, overwrought. And of course a bit windy too—I knew I’d be under suspicion if it came out I’d been up there that night.”

  “Just so.” Charles’s boyish, charming candor had broken as ineffectually as a wavelet upon Blount’s granite front. “I understand you quarreled with your father about Miss Rosebay?”

  “Well, no. There would have been a quarrel, no doubt, but it never came to that. He went out before I could have a talk with him.”

  “You’d arranged to meet Miss Rosebay later so as to tell her the results of that talk. You never had it. But you still went up to the rendezvous?”

  “Naturally. I wouldn’t want her to be waiting about there—”

  “Wouldn’t it have been simpler to put off the appointment by telephone?”

  “I dare say,” Charles replied dryly. “If it had been a business appointment. But it was a meeting with my fiancée. I’d want to see her anyway. Nothing unnatural or criminal in that, is there?”

  “But you gave your brother to understand you were going up to bed. You wished to keep the—e-eh—rendezvous a secret from him?”

  “If you like to put it that way, yes.”

  Charles is a more orthodox duelist than his brother, thought Nigel, but not ineffective. Odd there should be no photograph of Rosebay on his desk. Or is it odd? Perhaps he put it away for Sir Archibald’s v
isit, and just hasn’t put it back.

  “So you went out, sir, to keep this appointment. At—?”

  “About ten to eleven.”

  “Hat and overcoat, I suppose?”

  “Overcoat. No hat.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Quite sure. I usually wear a hat. But Rosebay’s trying to get me out of the habit. Says it looks starchy in the country.”

  “You’d go out by the back door and across the court—the quickest way?”

  “No. By the front. Then through the kitchen garden. Didn’t want Stanford’s hounds to wake everyone up. He’s trained them to bark only if people go near his workshop. I came back the same way, for the same reason. O.K.?”

  By luck, skill or pure innocence, Charles seemed to be neatly sidestepping Blount’s minor pitfalls. But the region he now approached was a thickly-sown minefield. Led on into it by the Superintendent’s questions, he described how he had walked across the upper meadow, smoking a cigarette. At the rendezvous, he threw it away and lit another. He heard someone moving on the far side of the road, but did not call out, in case it was not Rosebay. It evidently had not been, for the person went away at once. Shortly after this, it struck eleven. According to his statement, Charles waited for about ten minutes—time to finish his second cigarette. He then moved off.

  “You didn’t wait for—e-eh—your fiancée very long?”

  “No. You see, our arrangement was that she should be there at eleven, and wait for me; I didn’t know how long my talk with father would go on, and I’d said I might be a bit late. As you know, things turned out differently. Father went up to the Little Manor before I could have my talk with him. Rosebay is usually very punctual, so I assumed she was being detained by him at the house and wouldn’t be able to get out.”

  “I see. Did you hear any sounds from the Little Manor while you were waiting? Or anyone else on the road?”

  “No.”

  “And about eleven-ten you moved off?”

  “Probably a bit earlier. Time always seems so much longer when one’s hanging about.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “Through the gate into the road. Turned left. Walked to the crossroads—Fenny Cross, it’s called—then turned left again onto the road which takes you down past the Hall. I got home about a quarter to twelve.”

  “A long walk, Mr. Blick.”

  Charles glanced sharply at the Superintendent. “What do you mean by that?”

  “You couldn’t wait more than ten minutes for your fiancée. But you could spare half an hour for walking the night. Why didn’t you go straight home?”

  “If I’d known I was going to be mixed up in a criminal investigation, no doubt I would have.”

  “You’ve not answered my question, sir. Are you unwilling to do so? I have no powers to compel you to answer.”

  Charles Blick, looking at Nigel markedly, as if normal human understanding could not be expected from any other quarter, said, “I was in rather a state. I felt I’d failed Rosebay by not having it out with my father. I wanted to get it all straight in my mind.”

  “Get it straight whether you really loved her enough to go through with the consequences of your father’s opposition?” asked Nigel.

  “No, of course not . . . Well, not exactly.” Charles was ill at ease and confused. “It’d have meant poverty for us, if . . . Damn it, one must have some prospects to offer one’s wife.”

  “Did you meet anyone in the course of your—e-eh—ramble?” inquired Blount.

  “No. Those roads are deserted at that time of night.”

  “And you didn’t go through the wood above the Little Manor, or anywhere near the quarry?”

  “No. I’ve just told you I—”

  “Have you been there, in the wood, any time during the last week?”

  “No. Why?” Charles sounded genuinely mystified by this last question.

  “Do you recognize this handkerchief?” Blount spread it out on the desk at which Charles was sitting.

  “Yes, indeed,” said Charles slowly. “It’s my monogram. However did it get so dirty? Where did you find it?”

  “In the wood. Near the scene of the crime. Have you any explanation how it came to be there?”

  Nigel could almost pity Charles Blick at that moment. His face was blank, all emotion sponged off it by the shock; only his eyes were desperately alive, with the look of one who has to do a complex, lightning calculation in his head, against time.

  “I simply can’t understand it,” he said at last.

  Blount pointed to the handkerchief. “There seems to be a bloodstain just there. It’s very faint; and frankly, our analyst may not be able to get anything from it. It looks as if the handkerchief had been rubbed very hard on the ground—on a patch of grass or moss—to hide the stain. Have you any comments to make?”

  “Comments? Good God, man!” There was dawning horror on Charles Blick’s face; and as if to conceal it, he buried his head in his hands, bowed over the desk. At last, in a muffled voice, he said, “Am I supposed to be defending myself? Are you charging me?”

  “Not at present, Mr. Blick. I am only asking for an explanation.”

  “Now look. If I—if I’d killed my father, and got his blood on my handkerchief, do you really suppose I’d leave it lying about, for you to find?”

  Nigel could almost hear counsel for the defense hammering home the argument. It would sound singularly convincing to the less imaginative jurymen. But was it not just what a murderer might well have done? Particularly a murderer with his father’s blood on his hands? Out, damned spot! Rub the blood off your hands. But there it is on the handkerchief. Rub it off the handkerchief. But it’s dark. You can’t see. You only felt it on your hands. You know you can’t rub it off, ever; and physically, you can’t even rub it off the handkerchief—only rub it in, hide it with moss stain, earth stain. The bloodstain is still there: you know you ought to take the handkerchief away and burn it; but you simply cannot bear to put it in your pocket, with your father’s blood upon it. A terrible revulsion makes you thrust it away—out of sight, if not out of mind, into the bracken roots.

  Blount had held a long silence. The old trick: the best way to break down defenses was to let silence undermine them. Finally he said: “It wasn’t exactly left ‘lying about,’ you know. It was hidden among the stems of a clump of bracken.”

  Charles was staring at the handkerchief. “How do you know it’s blood? I can’t see anything. It just looks dirty to me.”

  Nigel wondered too. Was it a bluff on Blount’s part? Surely not? Blount didn’t go in for dubious maneuvers like that.

  “We’ve done a preliminary test here. Microscopic examination seems to show something besides the obvious green staining. The handkerchief will be sent to Scotland Yard this evening for the analysts to work on. I don’t say it is necessarily blood. I’m not specially interested in that. What I’m interested in is how your handkerchief came to be there at all.”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Have you missed a handkerchief lately? Lost one anywhere?”

  Charles Blick’s head came up. Again there was that look of feverish calculation in his eyes.

  “No,” he said. “No, I haven’t. Not as far as I know. I’m sure I haven’t.”

  “You leave me no alternative, sir,” said Blount, after a pause. “You say you have not been near the wood lately, and have not missed one of your handkerchiefs. Do you suggest somebody stole one from you?”

  “I don’t suggest anything.” Charles’s voice had the rough edge of exhaustion on it. “I simply don’t understand.”

  “Could anyone have access to the drawer where you keep them?” Blount was leaning over backward to be fair.

  “Not a drawer. A big inlaid-wood box. My mother gave it to me when I was a boy. It’s not kept locked.”

  “What is it, Strangeways?” asked Blount sharply. “Have you a question you—”

  “No. Not just now. It can
wait.” Nigel was staring at the handkerchief. But what gave him that mesmerized look was the point of light he had just seen at the end of a dark passage. Carefully, in his mind, he began to walk toward it. Yes, he believed he was on the right track now. The pinpoint grew larger, was opening out into an incredible yet inevitable solution. He hardly heard the rest of Blount’s inquiry, or his warning that Charles Blick must notify the police should business require him to travel out of the district.

  Absentmindedly he rose to follow the Superintendent and Reid out of the room. At the door, he turned. Charles Blick, standing by his desk, was gazing at the spot where the handkerchief had been spread out; his lips were firm, his shoulders squared; he looked a picture of stubbornness—the weak man who, having made a decision, clings to it as a drowning man to his proverbial straw.

  Nigel closed the door quietly. Charles looked up, a wincing expression on his face.

  “Tell me,” said Nigel, “you must have talked it all over with your brother—about your father’s death. What did you make of his dream?”

  “Dream?”

  “The nightmare he had the night your father was killed?”

  “I—nightmare? He never mentioned it,” Charles replied in a dazed way.

  “Stanford is the only person who seems to have been really hard hit by your father’s death,” said Nigel musingly. “That struck me from the start.”

  “He got on with him. Better than I did. Yes, he’s genuinely cut up. But I can’t make out what you’re driving at.”

  “What’s his relationship with Miss Chantmerle like?”

  “Relationship? Well, he’s very fond of her. Sort of favorite uncle. She always goes to him when—”

  “No, I meant Celandine Chantmerle.”

  “Oh, Dinny? I don’t think he likes her very much. Why?” Charles looked more puzzled than ever.