CHAPTER TWENTY
WHAT NELLIE HEARD
AFTER Beryl and her uncle, Basil and Inspector Caird, had left the Frampton, Betty retired to her room. She had spent an anxious day, wondering how Basil’s affairs were progressing, and just when it seemed probable that she and Cissie would get away from the office early, Mr. Jamison, her boss, had come in with a long screed which must be typed immediately. Cissie, realizing that Betty was under the weather and also hoping for Mr. Jamison’s favourable consideration of her plans for getting a specially long week-end at Easter, volunteered brightly to do the extra work. So Betty was able to return early and Cissie was not yet home when Nellie brought Betty’s second course up to her room at about a quarter to eight.
Betty had asked for her dinner to be sent upstairs, for her appetite was usually impervious to worry and she had a theory that a headache may be cured by a meal. But she could hardly touch the food.
“Your favourite honeycomb mould, miss,” said Nellie sympathetically, setting down a plate.
“Nellie, I’ve been thinking about you and your young man and that brooch.” Nellie started and blushed.
“Nothing bad,” Betty reassured her. “But there’s something odd about that brooch that hasn’t been explained. I can’t think why Miss Pongleton had it with her on that morning!”
“Queer that you should ast me that,” Nellie commented. “I allus thought it funny meself, seein’ that Mr. Slocomb ’ad that brooch on Thursday night, an’ I’d’ve thought ’e’d’ve kep’ it.”
“Mr. Slocomb had it? But why? I thought he didn’t know anything about it till afterwards.” Betty was so surprised that she forgot the caution she would ordinarily have exercised in remarking to Nellie on matters connected with the other boarders.
“Have you told anyone else about this?” Betty asked.
“Why, no, miss; the p’lice didn’t ast that, an’ Mr. Slocomb’s bin very kind, I didn’t ’ardly like to bring ‘is name in; an’ besides, I didn’t ought to’ve known.”
A bell rang downstairs. “Oh, miss, I mus’ go——”
“Come back again to take away my plate, and bring me some coffee, very strong, please.”
Betty prayed that Inspector Caird would not return at this moment to see her. Nellie was soon back.
“Tell me why you think Mr. Slocomb had that brooch,” Betty demanded.
Nellie stood twisting her fingers and shuffling her feet.
“I think it’s very important, and it can’t make things worse for Bob,” Betty urged her.
“Well, miss, I know I didn’t ought ever to ’ave done it, but I was that put out about Miss Pongleton ’avin’ got that brooch an’ ’er threatenin’ to tell the p’lice, so I thought maybe I could get ’old of it an’ Bob would send it back to its rightful owner—which ’e would’ve done an’ willin’ by then, bein’ in a proper state about it all. So Thursday night, when she was downstairs, I went up to ’er room an’ ’ad a look. But she took it into ’er ’ead to go to bed early that night, ’cos of goin’ to the dentist’s nex’ mornin’—she went on about that too, how Mr. Slocomb had made the appointment for ten, though she said eleven. Well, she comes up to ’er room jus’ as I was lookin’ in ’er work-basket, an’ she says, quite pleased-like, ‘It’s no good you lookin’ for that piece of stolen joolry, my girl, for I’ve given it to Mr. Slocomb an’ ’e’ll ’ave it locked up safe.’ Oh, miss, you won’t tell on me? Mrs. Bliss would be that wild!”
Betty hardly seemed to notice Nellie’s distress. “Mr. Slocomb,” she was thinking. “If he had it...?”
“But, Nellie, you don’t know that he really had the brooch. Miss Pongleton may have said that to prevent you looking for it again.”
“She knew it’d be safe with ’im,” Nellie declared. “Besides, she ast ’is advice about it—she told me so—what she ought to do an’ all. She thought a lot of ’im an’ ’is advice, an’ ’e do know what’s what, now don’t ’e?”
Betty was beginning to think that emphatically he did.
“Well, Nellie, I don’t see exactly how this affects the case, but I’m sure you ought to tell the police about it. We must help them by telling them all we know.” She said this without a blush, but hoped she would not have to follow her own advice. Or would it perhaps be a relief to tell her own story and not to have to make up any further “explanations”?
“I mus’ go down, miss, or Mrs. Bliss’ll be at me,” said Nellie uneasily.
“Very well; but come back again to fetch my coffee-cup; and don’t talk to anyone else about this.”
Nellie was back before long and still the inspector hadn’t reappeared—thank heavens! thought Betty.
“Nellie, I’m quite sure the way to help Bob is to tell the police everything. They won’t take any notice of a little thing like your having looked in Miss Pongleton’s work-basket.”
“Are you sure, miss? I thought as ’ow they might get me for that.”
“I’m perfectly certain they won’t. But isn’t there something more—it’s best to get it all over at once, you know. About Thursday night; I thought...”
Nellie became very apologetic. “Oh, miss, I wouldn’t tell about that, not for anyone. Don’t you fear!”
“Nellie, whatever do you mean? I insist on you telling me!” Could Nellie have come down the stairs and seen Basil kissing her? Well, what of it? It wasn’t criminal. But of course she had told the inspector that Basil had not come inside the door; however, Basil might be confessing even now that he had done so. She must get it cleared up. At least she must know what Nellie knew.
“Reelly, miss, I don’ think no wrong, but men are—well, silly, aren’t they? An’ why should Mr. Basil be blamed for bein’ in the ’ouse when that leash was took?”
“I suppose,” Betty began slowly, trying to be dignified and not to feel like a schoolgirl caught in some misdemeanour—“I suppose you mean you saw me and Mr. Basil—come in—on Thursday night?”
“No, miss, I didn’t see nothin’—I was in my room—but I ’eard.”
A wave of relief swept away Betty’s embarrassment. Nellie slept on the second floor in a little room at the top of the stairs, just along the corridor from Betty’s room in which they were now talking.
“But what did you hear?”
“Well, miss, you see, I was layin’ awake. I couldn’t sleep for worry about Bob an’ that brooch. I ’eard the front door when you come in an’ I ’eard steps come along pas’ my door up ’ere, an’ I jus’ thought to meself, ‘That’s Miss Betty goin’ to bed’.”
“And so it was, I suppose. But what else?”
“After a time, I ’eard steps go down agin; it weren’t so very long after. Then they come up agin, a second time. The steps goin’ down I thought was only one person; it was jus’ a step now and agin like, an’ a creak of the boards; but when I ’eard a step comin’ up agin an’ wondered what it all was, I thought of the door—and sure enough it was bolted on the inside when I went down in the mornin’. So I thought to meself, ‘It might’ve bin two comin’ up and two goin’ down, and one comes back alone.’ I couldn’t ’elp guessin’ ’oo it would be, knowin’ you was out with Mr. Basil.”
Betty stared at the girl and deep colour flooded her face and neck as she grasped what Nellie was thinking. Basil’s steps! That was the conclusion Nellie had jumped to.
“Nellie, it’s dangerous to guess and you have guessed wrong. I see now why you didn’t say anything about this before, but what you heard doesn’t mean what you think it means. You say you heard the front door shut when we—I—came in. Didn’t you hear the bolts? You know what a noise they make?”
“That’s the funny thing, miss. I ’eard the door and the bolts shot to when you come in. They do make a noise, you’re right. They ought to be seen to, but it’s my belief Mrs. Bliss likes to be able to ’ear when people come in at night.”
“And later, when you heard the steps go down again, did you hear the bolts again, or the door?”
“No, miss, not a soun’, though I gen’rally ’ear the front door from my room, let alone the bolts, bein’ jus’ above it like, an’ I was list’nin’ too.”
“Nellie, I don’t know whose steps you heard, but the only time you heard me was when I came up to bed. No one came up with me and I didn’t go down again. I shut the door when Mr. Basil left and bolted it.”
“Lor’! Miss Betty! You mean-ter-say it wasn’t you arter all?” Nellie gasped at her. “A-course, I couldn’t reckernize the steps; it was jus’ a sort of little noise like someone creepin’ along, an’ a creak or two.”
“It was only because you imagined so much that you ever thought it was I,” Betty pointed out severely. “Now those other steps—there’s only one other room on this floor occupied now——”
“Mr. Slocomb’s,” said Nellie, almost in a whisper.
“It looks as if you had been making a great fuss about nothing,” said Betty brightly. “Mr. Slocomb may have gone downstairs for something. But I think you ought to tell the police about this.”
Slocomb, thought Betty—what could he want to fetch from downstairs at dead of night? What had been fetched from the hall mysteriously, no one knew when or how? The leash! Could it be possible?
Nellie stood expectantly before Betty, the empty coffee-cup in her hand, waiting for more definite instructions. Steps—not faint, creeping steps in the night, but quick, thumping steps—came along the corridor. Cissie burst in, in her outdoor clothes clutching an evening paper.
Betty thought wildly, “Basil must have been arrested!”
“Betty!” Cissie exclaimed in great excitement taking no notice of Nellie. “The brooch was found in Pongle’s bag, not in her pocket!”
“Good heavens! Have you gone off your chump? What difference does it make?”
“It all came out at the inquest.” Cissie waved the mauled paper. “The judge—no, he wasn’t a judge—well, never mind—he said he wanted to clear this up because wrong statements had been made in the papers——”
“But why shouldn’t it be in her bag? As a matter of fact, I don’t believe she had any pockets.” Betty was exasperated.
“Don’t you see, it wasn’t in her bag when she started!”
“What do you mean? How do you know? It must have been!”
Cissie seated herself violently on the bed. “It wasn’t. I can swear to it! I was going along Pongle’s corridor that morning, on my way to put on my hat and coat, and as I passed her door there was a sort of scuffle and clatter inside and Pongle called out: ‘Cissie, is that you? Please come and help me—so tiresome—I’ve upset my bag!’ You know that mammoth reticule she always lugged about with her? She’d caught it on the door-handle and turned it all upside down, and there were pennies and hankies and notebooks and pencils and veils and goodness knows what, all over the floor. She sat down and emptied what was left into her lap and said—you know her fussy way—’Now we must pick everything up’—we was me, of course—’and put them back in their right order.’ I had to pick the things up and hand them to her one by one, and she packed them all in, and I’m absolutely positive there was no brooch!”
“But it was in an envelope, I think,” said Betty doubtfully.
“Yes; with Bob’s name on it. There wasn’t any envelope. It’s about the only thing there wasn’t. She repeated everything she wanted to take, to make sure there was nothing forgotten. I never thought about it before, when I read that the brooch was found in her pocket, but now I come to think of it, you’re right—she hadn’t any pockets—had she, Nellie?” Cissie realized the existence of the girl who stood behind her, gaping in a dazed way with the coffee-cup still in her hand.
“No,” Nellie agreed, with a little shake of her head as if she were just waking up.
“And Pongle went off as soon as she’d repacked the reticule,” Cissie continued. “I saw her go down the stairs.”
“Yes,” said Betty slowly. “Do you remember, I was waiting for you at the front door and Pongle passed me just before you came down? She certainly didn’t turn back. Do you see what this means?” she continued, very impressively. “Someone must have put that brooch in Pongle’s bag after she was killed. The one who killed her perhaps; the one who had the brooch!”
Nellie gasped and put up her hand to her mouth, as if to suppress her secret knowledge.
“But who——?”
“Have you told anyone else?” Betty enquired severely.
“Not a soul! I simply tore home because I was so hungry—too ravening!—and rushed up here to tell you.”
“But didn’t you tell the police in the beginning about the bag being upset?”
“No, I didn’t. The inspector was so sniffy and kept snubbing me when I wanted to tell him lots of things about the Frumps and Pongle. And, anyway, I didn’t think much about the bag being upset. There have been so many other things to think about—too distracting!”
Betty was on her feet and had seized her hat. She pulled it on decisively with quick, neat fingers.
“You’ll have to come to Hampstead police-station this very minute—and Nellie too—and tell the inspector. Nellie, put on your things, quick!”
“But, I say,” Cissie protested, “I haven’t had any supper. It’s after eight; that typing took me years and years, and I’m starving.”
“This is desperately important. What you have to say and what Nellie has to say fit together in the most marvellous way, and we can’t wait a moment. Take these biscuits—you can munch them on the way.”
No one asked whether Nellie had had any supper. In a few minutes the three were hurrying down the hill towards the police-station, leaving Mrs. Bliss in a state of bewilderment, her self-assurance shattered by Betty’s explanation, fired at her like a round of cartridges: “Nellie has to go immediately to the police-station with Cissie and me, to interview Inspector Caird. It’s urgent. They had better have some supper when they get back. Don’t say anything to the others!”
“Well, really now, who’d think I’m mistress here?” Mrs. Bliss lamented to herself. “And my poor nerves...”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“SOME VALUABLE INFORMATION”
MRS. DAYMER and Gerry stepped out of a taxi outside Hampstead police-station at a quarter to eight. They were startled by the warm welcome—with an undercurrent of surprise in it— which they received.
“I want to speak to Inspector Caird as soon as possible,” Mrs. Daymer announced importantly to the constable. “I have some valuable information to give in connection with the Pongleton case.”
“I never thought a policeman would be so glad to see me,” Gerry remarked, when Constable Potts had gone to inform the inspector of their arrival. On his way the constable met a colleague to whom he remarked that Mr. Plasher and Mrs. Daymer were here, “cool as you like”, and Mrs. Daymer was offering “some valuable information”.
“If you ask me,” Constable Waterton replied, “everyone comes telling us far too much in this case. We might get on a great deal better without all this vall-you-bull hinformation.”
Basil was sitting in Inspector Caird’s office, struggling to explain “the pearls business” without involving Beryl in any way, and exonerating Betty as far as possible, and leaving Mamie out of it altogether, and not admitting that he had been on the stairs on Friday morning. The truth oozed from him in reluctant driblets.
Constable Potts entered with the news that both Mrs. Daymer and Mr. Plasher had reported themselves. Basil did not hear exactly what was said, but he gathered that someone wanted to see the inspector.
“Look here, Inspector,” he suggested. “Let me sit by myself and write this story down. I can spew it out better that way.”
Inspector Caird considered the suggestion. It might not be a bad idea.
“But don’t leave anything out,” he admonished Basil sternly. “I know a good deal more than you think, and I’m less easily fooled than you imagine.”
“I’m sure you are,
” Basil agreed. He was conducted to another room and there provided with paper and left in charge of Constable Waterton, who sat stolidly looking at nothing with an air of not having been introduced to Basil. The constable had an unfinished look without his helmet, and yet was somehow more alarming, and Basil did not find his presence conducive to literary facility.
The inspector had said he would see Gerry first, but when he turned at the sound of his door opening again he saw Mrs. Daymer. Constable Potts had been quite unable to cope with her without using force, and he had no authority to do that. He hoped, however, that the inspector might order her immediate arrest.
Inspector Caird, recovering from his annoyance, looked at her feet. His hopes wilted. Mrs. Daymer’s unvarying devotion to Trutoze footwear—wide and rounded and peculiarly inelegant—for once stood her in good stead.
“Good evening, Inspector,” she greeted him cordially. “I must plead guilty”—the inspector started and Constable Potts involuntarily prepared himself to whip out his handcuffs—“to kidnapping Mr. Plasher, but we have been carrying out a little enquiry of which we will now report the results.”
She seated herself squarely in the chair just vacated by Basil, with her feet—those exasperatingly innocent feet—planted widely apart, and began her story.
“Thirty years ago,” announced Mrs. Daymer brightly, “a young man of obscure origin, living in Coventry, strangled his landlady’s dog with its own leash.”
“Really, Mrs. Daymer,” the inspector protested, “we are very busy at this moment, and unless your information is relevant to the Pongleton case I must ask you to tell your story later, or to someone else. I am dealing with very urgent matters.”
Murder Underground (British Library Crime Classics) Page 22