‘Not her day.’
Charters closed the offending bedroom door. Then he paused, frowning, his hand still on the doorknob while he belatedly registered what he had seen on the bedroom floor. ‘Caldicott,’ he said finally, ‘There’s a body in there.’
‘No there isn’t, old chap.’
‘I think you’ll find there is, old chap.’ Charters opened the door. Caldicott glanced past him, then strode into the bedroom and bent over the body.
‘Stabbed,’ Charters diagnosed.
‘Dead as a doornail.’ Caldicott stood up and went to telephone for the police.
Charters heard Caldicott introduce himself over the telephone as he wandered in a bemused fashion over to the bookshelves. He reached instinctively for the 1979 Wisden and sought solace in its statistics.
CHAPTER 2
Inspector Snow took charge of investigations. He was unexpectedly young, immaculately dressed and fastidious to the point of obsessiveness.
Leaving his sergeant to take care of the body in the bedroom, Snow concentrated his own inquiries on the activities of Charters and Caldicott. Standing side by side in front of the fireplace, hands behind their backs, ex-military men at ease, the pair watched as Snow laid out his notebook and pen with precise neatness on a side-table, then arranged round them the ashtray, a couple of ornaments and other bits and pieces that lay to hand in an exact, geometric pattern. Satisfied that everything was in order, Snow smoothed down the pages of his notebook, flicked open his ballpoint pen and glanced at his watch before writing his first note in a copperplate hand.
‘Two fifty-eight. Mr Caldicott and Mr Charters. Let me just get down what we’ve established so far. The knife belongs to you, Mr Caldicott.’
‘That’s correct, Inspector.’
‘It’s a Malayan kris, you say?’
‘Yes.’
‘How are you spelling that, Mr Caldicott?’
Caldicott’s spelling was no better than his arithmetic. He appealed to Charters who obliged the inspector.
‘It’s a souvenir of your travels which you now use as a paperknife?’ Snow asked.
‘That’s right.’
‘And you keep it sharpened for slitting open envelopes?’
‘I don’t keep it sharpened, Inspector. I mean to say, it’s never gone blunt.’
‘Now as to the body. You say you knew her, Mr Caldicott. You say you think you knew her, Mr Charters.’
‘No, I said I thought I knew her,’ said Caldicott. ‘But I’m dashed if I can say from where.’
‘I may have said I knew her. What I meant was, I recognised her,’ said Charters.
‘We both did, but we can’t place her, d’you see?’
‘That’s what we meant to say,’ said Charters, satisfied they’d made themselves plain.
‘That’s what you meant to say,’ Snow repeated, wearily resigning himself to the prospect of a number of similar exchanges as the case progressed. ‘But you don’t know who she is?’
Caldicott shook his head. ‘It’s not even on the tip of my tongue.’
‘Nor mine,’ said Charters. ‘It’s someone we’ve met but we don’t know where or when.’
Sergeant Tipper came out of the bedroom and put in front of Snow a plastic bag containing most of the contents of the dead girl’s handbag. He handed her papers separately to the inspector who laid them down on the table with great care, touching only the edges. It wasn’t the risk of smudging fingerprints that worried him but the fear of loitering germs.
‘Jenny Beevers,’ Snow read. ‘Does that ring a bell?’
‘Good God!’ and ‘Oh no! Poor girl!’ Charters and Caldicott exclaimed together, shocked.
‘Then you did know her?’ Snow asked. Caldicott agreed that they did. ‘A moment ago you said you didn’t.’
‘We said we recognised her but we couldn’t place her,’ said Charters. ‘Not surprisingly – we haven’t set eyes on her for, what, twelve years?’
‘She was only a schoolgirl last time we saw her,’ said Caldicott.
‘Twelve or so years ago. Yet you don’t seem altogether astonished that the body on your bedroom floor turns out to be her,’ said Snow suspiciously.
‘Ah, but you see, I knew she was back in London and was trying to get hold of me,’ said Caldicott.
‘Back in London from where?’
‘I don’t know where she lives these days. Home base would be her father’s place in Hong Kong. He died very recently.’
‘What was he doing in Hong Kong?’
‘He was in Trade.’
‘Shopkeeper?’
‘The British Trade Commission,’ said Charters severely.
‘Your connection with him being what?’
‘We were at school together. If you want anything on his background, I did a short appreciation in The Times.’ Charters produced his wallet hopefully and took a cutting from it.
Snow shook his head. ‘I’m more interested at the moment in what his daughter was doing in Mr Caldicott’s flat.’
‘I can answer that, Inspector,’ said Charters. ‘Her father was due to retire. He sent some of his books and papers for Mr Caldicott to keep in storage against his return.’
‘In the event,’ said Caldicott, ‘I passed them on to Mr Charters. No room here, d’you see.’
‘Whereas I have a loft.’
‘So no doubt Miss Beevers was interested in reclaiming her late father’s effects. Does that answer your question, Inspector Snow?’
‘Not really, Mr Caldicott. The question was, what was she doing here? In other words, how did she get in?’
‘Oh, I see! The porter, I expect. I’d told him if she came back while I was out and she cared to wait, he was to let her in.’
‘Yet when he does let her in – always supposing he did – and you find her body, it doesn’t even cross your mind who it might be.’
‘But you see, I instructed Grimes that if Miss Beevers did turn up, he was to ring me at the Club at once. Since he did no such thing, I simply didn’t put two and two together.’
‘Reliable, is he, this porter?’
‘No,’ said Charters, bitterly.
‘Has Grimes surfaced yet, Sergeant Tipper?’ Snow called through to the bedroom.
Tipper appeared in the doorway. ‘I’ve told the man on the door to send him straight up, guv. Due back any minute.’
‘From his osteopath’s. He has a slipped disc,’ said Caldicott.
‘I don’t think Inspector Snow’s interested in that, old chap,’ Charters murmured.
‘Could I be the judge of that, sir?’ said Snow, unwarily encouraging Caldicott to continue,
‘It gives him gyp, apparently.’
Snow, in truth as uninterested as Charters in Grimes’ health, changed the subject. ‘Can we discuss your own movements today, gentlemen? Would anyone have had prior knowledge that you would be vacating the flat at lunchtime, Mr Caldicott?’
‘It’s conceivable. They’d only have to notice it was the first Friday.’
The inspector looked blank. Charters explained. ‘When we have a standing lunch engagement.’
‘I see. Returning home generally about what time, Mr Caldicott?’
‘Sixish, as a rule.’
‘From lunch?’ Snow asked, amazed.
‘We always go to the cinema. That’s the main purpose of the exercise, truth to tell.’
‘You see, Inspector, neither of us has a television,’ said Charters.
‘All right, so you meet on a regular basis and visit a cinema.’
Charters was anxious to avoid any misunderstanding. ‘A moment, Inspector. In case there’s any doubt in your mind, perhaps I could make it clear that it’s the legitimate cinema we’re talking about.’
‘Oh, indeed yes!’ said Caldicott. ‘None of your Soho junk. Those Agatha Christie films, that’s about our mark. In fact, we’d made up our minds today to see that one at the Empire, Leicester Square.’
‘I think that should be on record, Inspector,�
�� said Charters.
‘Mr Charters, Mr Caldicott – it’s no concern of mine which cinema you intended to visit. What’s more to the point is that whatever film you meant to see, you didn’t.’
‘No, we had a change of plan and plumped for the Odeon, Kensington High Street,’ said Caldicott.
‘Calling back at the flat on the way,’ said Snow.
‘To settle an argument,’ said Charters.
Snow pricked up his ears. ‘An argument? Who with?’
‘Each other,’ said Caldicott. ‘Well, not so much an argument, more a difference of opinion. As to whether the late Jock Beevers’ batting average in his last year at Grimchester still stands as a school record.’
‘I’m sure the Inspector doesn’t want to concern himself with batting averages,’ said Charters pompously.
‘I’m concerned with everything for the moment, Mr Charters. So you were discussing the late Mr Beevers?
‘Colonel, actually.’
Inspector Snow, a patient huntsman, had his prey in his sights and was anxious not to startle him. ‘You return to the flat and who should you find dead on the bedroom floor but this same Colonel Beevers’ daughter, whom you haven’t set eyes on for twelve or thirteen years.’
‘If it comes to that, we hadn’t set eyes on either of… Oh, I see what you’re driving at,’ said Caldicott uneasily. ‘Long and fishy arm of coincidence. I thought we’d explained that. Jock Beevers’ death being the cause of Jenny Beevers turning up here.’
‘What you haven’t explained,’ said Snow, ‘is why you chose to break your routine by coming back to the flat.’
‘Wisden,’ said Charters, feeling himself to be on firm ground again.
‘Come again?’
Caldicott explained. ‘That argument or difference of opinion I mentioned. About Jock’s batting average. We decided to check our facts with Wisden – er, that’s Wisden’s Cricketers’ Almanack – in the Club library.’
‘Only to find that the relevant volume had walked,’ said Charters.
‘Whereupon, unexpectedly, you came back here to consult your own reference books,’ said Snow.
‘Precisely,’ said Caldicott. ‘But too late, unfortunately, to prevent murder being done.’
Charters sighed. ‘A few minutes earlier and we might have been in time. You know, Caldicott, I shall regret ordering that welsh rarebit to the end of my days.’
‘No point in reproaching yourself on that score, old man. After all, if that Wisden hadn’t been missing from the Club library we shouldn’t have come back here at all.’
Inspector Snow closed his notebook, placed it precisely in the middle of the table and meticulously squared off its edges. ‘Unofficially, now, any theories who might have been responsible?’
The old friends gave the matter their serious consideration. At last Charters said with a sigh, ‘One of the members, I regret to say.’
Caldicott nodded. ‘I certainly wouldn’t point the finger at any of the Club servants without evidence.’
‘Oh, no, no, no,’ said Charters, adding, for the benefit of Snow who looked puzzled, ‘Foreigners, you see.’
‘Spanish mainly. No motive,’ said Caldicott.
‘Quite,’ Charters agreed. Then a thought struck him. ‘Although. Although – what about that relief steward they bring in on Ladies’ Night? He’s a Pakistani.’
‘No, I don’t think so, old man.’
‘You don’t think he’s the culprit?’
‘I meant, I don’t think he’s a Pakistani, actually. Korean, I’d say.’
‘Then he wouldn’t be our man. Koreans don’t play cricket.’
‘That’s what I just said, old man.’
‘No, you said you didn’t think he was Pakistani, you didn’t say he wasn’t the culprit.’
‘It comes to the same thing. Whoever stole that Wisden must be interested in cricket,’ said Caldicott, adding patronisingly to the inspector, ‘Not that I’m trying to do your job.’
Snow took a deep breath and may even have counted to ten before saying with heavy irony, ‘Excuse my momentary puzzlement, gentlemen. Wrong sense of priorities, I expect. I was thinking not so much of your missing cricket almanac as about the murder.’
‘Oh, the murder. Of course,’ said Charters with diminished interest.
Just then, the police constable on duty outside the flat opened the front door to admit Grimes. For some reason, the porter was a very worried man. He’d almost outstripped his escort in his anxiety to reach the flat and find out what was going on. Sergeant Tipper took him into the bedroom and lifted up the corner of the blanket that covered the dead girl.
‘You’re definite this is the lady you admitted to the flat?’ Tipper asked.
‘Definite,’ said Grimes, sweating.
‘And you’re definite about the time?’
‘Three and a half minutes past on,’ Grimes said firmly.
‘Yet phone call to the Club came there none. Why?’ Caldicott demanded.
‘Could just one of us ask the questions, Mr Caldicott,’ said Snow.
Caldicott apologised. ‘Carry on, Sergeant.’
Inspector Snow took over the questioning himself. ‘What time have you got now, Mr Grimes?’
‘I don’t carry a watch, sir.’
Observed by Charters and Caldicott, Snow resumed his seat at the occasional table and repeated the performance with notebook and pencil. ‘For the record, it’s threeeighteen,’ he said, consulting his own watch and making a note. ‘And it’s Mr Frederick Grimes, correct? Well, Mr Grimes?’
Grimes licked his lips nervously. ‘You mean, why am I so sure of the time, sir? The lady told me.’
‘You having asked her. Why?’
‘Ah well, you see. I had an appointment at the osteopath’s. Only if he doesn’t fit me in at half-past one sharp, he can’t fit me in at all. So that means leaving ten past one latest.’
‘You see, it’s her way of expressing herself I find rather puzzling, Mr Grimes. “Three and a half minutes past one.” Very precise way of putting it. Wouldn’t you say?’ His own sense of precision bothering him, Inspector Snow readjusted the position of an ashtray on the table and eyed it critically. ‘I mean, if you ask most people the time they tend to give you a round number “Just gone one o’clock.” “Nearly five past.” Do you see what I mean?’
‘Ah, well, I didn’t exactly ask her the time, sir.’
‘You just said you did,’ Snow pointed out. ‘Try to be a little more careful what you’re saying, would you, Mr Grimes? Now I’m sure there’s no great mystery to it – just tell me what took place.’
Grimes took a deep breath. ‘I’ll tell you just what happened, sir – and I’m sorry for any trouble I’ve caused, Mr Caldicott. I was due to go out, as I said, at ten minutes past, and my clock downstairs being sometimes that little bit fast it was showing just coming up to ten past as she came through the door. I said, joking like, “You cut it a bit fine there, Miss, you had me worried.” And she looks at her watch and says, “Nonsense. You said before ten past and it’s not five past yet. In fact, it’s exactly three and a half minutes past one.”’
Caldicott’s bewilderment at Grimes’ tale turned to amazement. ‘Well, I’m blowed!’
‘Do you mind,’ said Snow.
‘Yes, but this is something you ought to know about, Inspector,’ Caldicott insisted. ‘Are you saying, Grimes, you let Miss Beevers in by appointment?’
The name startled Grimes badly but before he could reply, Snow tapped imperiously with his pen. ‘Mr Caldicott! I’m conducting an inquiry here! Any more of that and I shall ask you to wait in the corridor.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Sorry? Hang it, Caldicott, he can’t turn you out of your own flat,’ Charters exploded. Then, feeling Snow’s eyes on him, he added uncertainly, ‘I’m pretty sure of that.’
‘Can we get on,’ said the inspector. ‘Now you can answer Mr Caldicott’s question, Mr Grimes. Did you let Miss Beevers in
by arrangement?’
Thoroughly rattled, Grimes looked to Caldicott for guidance, but no help came from that quarter. ‘Yes, I’m sorry to say I did,’ he admitted.
‘She was anxious to get into the flat while Mr Caldicott was safely out of the way?’
‘That’s about the size of it,’ said Grimes even more reluctantly.
‘I don’t believe it. I simply do not believe it,’ said Caldicott indignantly. ‘I’ve known that girl for years, Inspector! She simply wouldn’t do such a thing! Now look here, Grimes, I don’t know what your game is…’ His voice tailed off as he remembered the inspector’s warning but it was too late.
Inspector Snow had carefully laid down his pen. He completed the adjustment of some of the items on the table to maintain their symmetry before saying with a sigh, ‘Sergeant Tipper!’
Hands behind their backs and smartly in step, Charters and Caldicott retreated down the corridor, the picture of wounded dignity. The constable on duty outside Caldicott’s flat watched them go and smirked to himself.
‘I should complain to the Commissioner, if I were you, Caldicott,’ said Charters as they about-turned at the end of the corridor with the formality and precision of Buckingham Palace sentries and began to retrace their steps.
‘Oh, I don’t know, Charters. The chap’s only doing his job.’
‘And enjoying every minute of it. Jumped up little pipsqueak! You know what’s the trouble with that young man, Caldicott? Too hasty promotion – it’s gone to his head.’
‘Yes, he is rather fresh-faced for an inspector, isn’t he? One’s always heard one would know one was getting on when the policemen started to look younger, but I never realised it would include senior ranks.’
They continued to pace up and down for a while in silence, mulling over the afternoon’s events, then Charters said, ‘Bad business this, old chap.’
‘Very. Such a pretty little thing she’d grown up to be. Thank God we don’t have to break the news to poor old Jock Beevers.’
‘That’s one mercy of a sort. What’s at the bottom of it? Any ideas?’
Caldicott shook his head. ‘I can’t begin to make head nor tale of it. Why should Grimes want to make up that cock and bull tale about the poor girl wanting to get into the flat?’
Charters and Caldicott Page 2