Somebody at the Door

by Raymond Postgate

  “He made his own arrangements about that. The position was quite clear. The money was in the assistant cashier’s charge until it was delivered to the various branch managers. In consequence, the loss of this particular sum is the concern of the late Mr. Grayling’s estate. I have been endeavouring to make this point clear to his representatives, but have not succeeded.”

  Holly was used to callousness, but this was too much. “I had heard,” he said, “that Mr. Grayling’s widow was being pestered by telephone calls of some such kind, immediately after her bereavement. I am glad to say I have arranged with the telephone exchange that the nuisance shall cease.”

  The manager made a strangled noise.

  “One more question,” continued Holly. “To how many people was this arrangement known?”

  “I—um—that is to say,” replied the manager more subduedly, “it was not a secret in any way. I could not say how many knew of it. Anyone who chose, of our headquarters staff, that is.”

  “But your staff was paid on Saturday at midday, not on Friday.”

  “And why not?” said the manager, recovering himself. “Our business is run to suit the convenience of our customers, not of our employees.”

  “No doubt, I was not interested in that aspect of the matter. I was remarking that your outside staffs, also, would presumably know of the arrangement.”

  “Yes. I suppose so,” agreed the manager reluctantly.

  6

  The Vicar. Not a troublesome man, like the manager, Inspector Holly had no difficulty with him. Only the smallest amount of guile was needed in approaching him.

  The inspector sat in his study, tastelessly furnished by a multiple store, and said:

  “I’ve come to you for help, sir, because you know the parish so well. I’m relatively a newcomer, and I’ll have to rely on you. I’m sure I can trust in your discretion if I speak to you a little more freely than I would to the ordinary man.”

  The Vicar’s large, rather pink face beamed at him. It gave the illusion of literally shining. Nothing could be more flattering to its possessor than this approach. Though he was far from being High Church, and regarded Anglo-Catholicism with deep suspicion, the Vicar had a strong sense of history and an elevated estimate of the importance which he should possess in the life of the community. In Croxburn, he was the parish priest. His position should be no less—it should indeed be greater—than that of the Mayor, the M.P., the Medical Officer of Health, and other functionaries whom everyone knew. But what were the facts? Very few people even knew of him. He ministered in an ugly, dark, middle-sized church, rebuilt and spoilt in 1851; he lived in a false Tudor-timbered semidetached house, differing only from its neighbours in that the freehold was held by the Ecclesiastical Commissioners instead of a building society. His congregation was small, and its members were chiefly ageing. His attempts to advertise himself, his church and his religion were unsuccessful, and on looking back at them he often found them humiliating. He would have been able to bear it if the citizens of Croxburn had attended the synagogue, the Wesleyan Methodist Chapel, the Pillar of Fire Gospel Hall, or even Our Lady of Sorrows with its detestable, shifty Irish “Father.” That would have meant that heresy was rampant, and he could fight heresy, ramp how it might. But they did not: they passed them all by. The Vicar felt himself like a man sitting by the wayside, dressed in sacred raiment, each piece of which had a noble and ancient history, offering eternal truths; and the people ignored him and went to the pictures.

  Now, for the first time, a man in charge of the civil power, having the right to bind and to loose, was calling on him for advice and help, deferring to him as one who knew the truth about the parish. (How wise Holly had been to use the word “parish,” how nearly he had forgotten to do so!)

  “My dear Inspector, I am so glad you have come to me. I will give you every help I can. And most certainly I shall treat as absolutely confidential anything you think you should tell me. Please tell me what I may do.”

  Campbell would talk anyway, reflected the Inspector; it was as well to make a virtue of necessity.

  “I expect you have guessed already what it is about, sir,” he said. “It is the death of Councillor Grayling. We are completely at a dead end. The strangest thing has happened. The doctors do not know how he died. We are having to call in specialists, and hope that they will tell us. I have never known such a thing; we simply do not know if the death was natural or not.”

  “But Dr. Hopkins was with him when he died.”

  “Why, yes, sir, strictly speaking we do know how he died: lung trouble, as I understand it. But what caused this sudden attack—that is what the doctors cannot say.

  “Now, sir, we all hope it was a natural death. But, as policemen, we may not take chances. It might not be a natural death. I hope, sir, you will not let it be known I said this.”

  “Of course not.”

  “If it isn’t a natural death, then we shall have to find the murderer, to put it bluntly. We shall in due course, there is no doubt, be told whether it was natural or not. But meanwhile we had better proceed on the assumption of the worst. Clues are evanescent: men’s memories are short. But if it came to anyone’s ears that I was investigating and that the police entertained a suspicion of murder—consider the scandal! And then if after all, we were to find out that our alarms were baseless. We might have done untold damage.”

  “Quite. Exactly so.” The Vicar removed his eyeglasses and fixed on the Inspector a strained glare which was intended to suggest both concentrated attention and phenomenal acuteness. It gave him a slight squint.

  “So I am going to ask you, sir, to tell me all you can about two subjects. The first is—Councillor Grayling himself. Give me an idea of the man, tell me what he did, what enemies he had, and anything in his life that was—well, in any way irregular or likely to lead to consequences. The second is more easy. I want as full an account as possible of his journey back home with you last night.”

  “The man himself …” The Vicar abandoned his stare and looked pensively up at the electric chandelier, whose glass had a pattern of Greek keys in orange on it. He must be honest, but charitable; fair but precise. “That is a very hard question. I will do my best. Henry Grayling was a churchwarden, but I never felt he was a man of strong religious views. I regarded his wardenship as a tribute to the conventions. We never had any conversation on serious subjects, and that I think was not only because he was a silent man. His wife, as you may know, is an infidel.”

  “I did not,” said Holly, surprised by the antiquated word.

  He himself was what used to be called a worldly man and, since you have asked me to speak freely, I suppose I should say that I have had laid before me some evidence about him that might have become your affair later in any case. There were three different cases which had been brought to me. You probably know that Grayling is, or was, Chairman of the Gas Committee of the Council. Both the manager and the majority of the committee belong to a clique which, in the opinion of many citizens, runs our municipal affairs to its own private advantage. These three cases refer to the Light and Power Station.”

  “Don’t you think,” asked the Inspector, “that you ought to be more explicit? You said they were a police matter.”

  “I said they might become one. Frankly, I can’t say more, because I haven’t proof. I will go so far as this: two cases allege the giving of secret commissions to three Councillors, of whom Grayling was one, to secure contracts either for repairs or for the supply of necessary raw materials. If and when I get evidence amounting to proof, which I have not got now, I was going to expose the matter at a Council meeting. I shall do so still.”

  “Well,” said Holly, “I won’t press you, sir at the moment. I may have to do so later. Is there anything more that you can tell me? About his private life, for example?”

  The Vicar looked highly embarrassed. At last he said: “There is nothing else that I know.” There was just a faint emphasis on the last word.
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br />   Holly said gently: “If you have any suspicion, I think you should tell me. We are speaking in confidence, after all; and I have learned to be discreet.

  Cornered, the Vicar thought unhappily of the figure of Mrs. Buttlin, once the Grayling’s cook, housekeeper, and still a regular attender at his church. “A whore, and the wife of a churchwarden. You shouldn’t be afraid of a scriptural word, a person shouldn’t. A whore, that’s what I said.” Indeed, that had been what she said, but not by any means all that she said. He made up his mind.

  “A servant who left them brought me a detailed and unpleasant story charging Mrs. Grayling with adultery. She added that Mr. Grayling was refusing a divorce on religious grounds. I did not, and do not, believe that. And as for the main allegation, I told my informant—as soon as I could get a chance to speak—that I would not listen to gossip.”

  “You gained no idea of who might be the guilty man— if there was one?”

  “No, indeed.”

  “But would you tell me who it was who spoke to you?”

  The Vicar scratched his head and then ran his finger round his neck inside his dog-collar. Well, I suppose. Yes. Mrs. Adelaide Buttlin; she lives at 34, Chamberlain Gardens, with her niece; but I believe she is away at the moment. I would rather you did not mention my name.”

  “I certainly will not. Now, about my other question. Would you give me an account of your journey home with Mr. Grayling?”

  The Vicar’s relief was obvious. “With pleasure, with pleasure. I can remember the carriage and its occupants well. In fact, if you wish, I could do more.”

  “Hm?”

  “I could identify the carriage. I could point out in it precisely where each person sat. I think I could also recite everything that occurred on the journey, such as it was.”

  “Identify the carriage! May I ask how you could manage to do that?”

  The Inspector thought that after all there might be traces in the carriage. Traces of what? Heaven knew. Not of vitriol, anyway. Confound this case.

  “But certain—er—marks that I noticed,” the Vicar was saying rather archly.

  “I think I will take advantage of your offer,” said the Inspector. “If I may use your telephone? Tell me, first, what part of the train was your carriage in.”

  “By all means. We were in the very first coach.”

  “Thank you.”

  The Inspector took a little time in getting on to the Traffic Superintendent from the local station, and then back to the local station. Eventually he had unexpected good fortune. The coach in question was easily identified, it was standing in a shed at Croxburn and had not been used since the previous night. Saturday traffic being noticeably less than other days, trains were shorter, and it was not wanted.

  “If you will be so very kind as to come with me,” he said to the Vicar, “I’ll put your promise to the test. The stationmaster says we can go over the coach now, if we choose. It is not being used to-day; it’s in a siding.”

  A little while later, accompanied by the inspector and an inquisitive stationmaster in a hard hat, the Vicar gleefully picked his way across the railway tracks. For the most part he was as excited as a schoolboy, but once he was badly frightened. His umbrella caught in the loose stones between the sleepers and nearly tripped him. At that moment a light engine, roaring and blowing like a dragon, rushed towards him and appeared to be about to crush him. “Steady, sir!” said the stationmaster, and pulled him up; the engine swerved on to a side line and ran fuming away about its own affairs.

  At last they arrived at the coach. Standing alone, away from any platform, it seemed unexpectedly tall. The Vicar had to be hauled up into it. He inspected first one carriage then a second, pursing his lips and wagging his head to and fro. At the third, he said triumphantly: “This is it.”

  “Are you certain?” said the Inspector.

  “Yes. I am certain.”

  “Do you mind my asking why?”

  Slightly less triumphantly the Vicar answered: “Because of the, um, modifications of the inscriptions.”

  “The what, sir?”

  The Vicar pointed to notices which said:

  Wait until the rain stops.

  Please restrain your ticket.

  “Ho!” said the stationmaster. “I wouldn’t go much by that. You’ll find them in most carriages of this type, I’m afraid. Passengers have been doing that for years. Especially schoolchildren, on these local trains.”

  “I am aware of that,” said the Vicar, a great austerity filling his countenance. “But I had reason to notice that these mutilations were carried to a greater extent than usual. There is, for example, that notice which was behind my head as I sat, and which seemed to amuse some of my fellow passengers.”

  The notice originally dealt with the pulling down of blinds. But it now said: DURING THE BLACKOUT, BLONDS MUST BE PULLED DOWN AND KEPT DOWN. The stationmaster, a man of noticeable vulgarity, who had risen from the ranks, let out a horse-laugh. “Ha, ha, ha! Hoo, hoo, hoo! Blonds must be pulled down. I should shay sho!”—an ancient Edwardian catchword which vexed the Vicar exceedingly. “It’s a very unusual one, that,” he continued, speaking to the clergyman as one collector to another. “It’s a long time since I saw it.”

  Holly intervened.

  “Could you tell us where you sat, sir, and, as far as possible, how the rest of the carriage was filled?”

  “I can tell you with great exactitude,” replied the Vicar, turning with pleasure from the gross-minded railwayman. “I sat here. Immediately to my left sat Councillor Grayling. To his left, in the corner, sat a young man smoking a rather foul pipe. I think he was known to the Councillor personally. When the train started it jerked a bag or parcel off the rack on to Grayling’s head and this young man retrieved it. They exchanged a few words, and I think Grayling called him ‘Everitt’ or ‘Evetts,’ I am not sure which.

  “On my other hand, on my right, sat two young men of the artisan class. They were rather boisterous. I did not know them, and as they did not leave the carriage at Croxburn I suppose they lived further up the line. Those were all the passengers on this side of the carriage.”

  The Inspector looked at the long seat and fixed its population in his mind. From one corner to the other it had been as follows:

  Young man with pipe, Evetts or Everitt.

  Grayling.

  The Vicar.

  A boisterous workman.

  Another of the same.

  Five on the one side, a full complement, especially as the Vicar was a Broad Churchman physically as well as theologically.

  “Here was where you said Mr. Grayling sat?”

  The Vicar nodded.

  Holly inspected the place carefully. He could see no traces of burning, discoloration, or anything to indicate the presence of an acid. However, he was no expert, and after all he did not know what he was looking for.

  “I’ll ask you to let one of my men go over this thoroughly,” he said to the stationmaster.

  “When? Can’t keep this coach out of commission indefinitely: it’ll be needed Monday,” said the stationmaster.

  “To-day or to-morrow. And now the other side, sir.”

  “Yes,” said the Vicar. “Now, in the corner opposite the young man with the pipe, there was a man whom I didn’t see clearly. There were only two lamps in the carriage, as you see, and they were encased in those two black cones, because of the black-out rules. They made two sorts of circles of light, and this man, who was rather a small fellow, was mostly outside the light. I have an idea that I’ve seen him before, in Home Guard uniform, but I’m not sure.”

  “Directly opposite the Councillor was a man whom I know well by sight, a dark, square largish man with glasses. A refugee, I have been told. I have been told his name, too, but didn’t remember it.

  “Next him was a fair young man, good-looking, but with an injured foot. He is an acquaintance of the Graylings, and his name is Hugh Rolandson. You will find him easily. Then there was
a middle-aged lady with a schoolgirl of about thirteen with her. I didn’t know them: they also went on past Croxburn. I can’t remember anything distinctive about them except that the girl had a bad cold and sniffed continually. A little disagreeable, still, we nearly all had colds and were coughing or sneezing most of the time.”

  “Thank you.”

  Holly memorized this side of the carriage too.

  Slight man, possibly Home Guard.

  Large Refugee.

  Hugh Rolandson.

  Unknown woman and her daughter.

  As they picked their way home, he asked the Vicar: “You were going to tell me about the journey, would you do so?”

  “I think I’ve told you most. The train was late and the platform was crowded. I don’t remember seeing Mr. Grayling there. But a rush was made to the far end of the train, and when I got into the carriage he was already sitting down next to the young man with the pipe. I am not sure if I spoke to him, or if I merely nodded. The German refugee sat down opposite, and Mr. Grayling did a curious thing, which I thought rather offensive. He drew out his handkerchief and held it before his nose, as if the poor man smelt. But I may be doing him an injustice: he certainly had a cold and blew his nose more than once. I couldn’t tell you, otherwise, in what order the others sat down.

  “When the train started, it did so with a violent jerk. First backwards, as if the engine had charged it, and then forward again. I cannot imagine how engine drivers manage to do such complicated things with their machines. Certainly, the two men opposite were flung almost into the arms of myself and Grayling, and then, when they were jerked back, the young man Everitt or Evetts’ bag fell on his head. Everitt or Evetts apologized and rescued it. I got a good sight of him and could recognize him.