The Case of the Running Mouse: A Ludovic Travers Mystery

by Christopher Bush

  In the Thirties and Forties British abortion advocates and opponents alike deplored illegal medical procedures which placed women’s lives in unnecessary jeopardy, but they offered very different solutions to the problem, one side more restriction by tightening the enforcement of anti-abortion laws, the other greater liberty by making abortion “safe, legal and rare.” Where Christopher Bush stood on the matter is not clear from the text of The Case of the Running Mouse, but my own guess, given Bush’s personal history and his sympathetic presentation in the novel of the plight of Georgina Morbent, is that he thought British women like Helen Pickwoad deserved better options for securing their health and well-being than those which British law then sanctioned.

  Curtis Evans

  About The Author

  Christopher Bush was born Charlie Christmas Bush in Norfolk in 1885. His father was a farm labourer and his mother a milliner. In the early years of his childhood he lived with his aunt and uncle in London before returning to Norfolk aged seven, later winning a scholarship to Thetford Grammar School.

  As an adult, Bush worked as a schoolmaster for 27 years, pausing only to fight in World War One, until retiring aged 46 in 1931 to be a full-time novelist. His first novel featuring the eccentric Ludovic Travers was published in 1926, and was followed by 62 additional Travers mysteries. These are all to be republished by Dean Street Press.

  Christopher Bush fought again in World War Two, and was elected a member of the prestigious Detection Club. He died in 1973.

  By Christopher Bush

  and available from Dean Street Press

  The Plumley Inheritance

  The Perfect Murder Case

  Dead Man Twice

  Murder at Fenwold

  Dancing Death

  Dead Man’s Music

  Cut Throat

  The Case of the Unfortunate Village

  The Case of the April Fools

  The Case of the Three Strange Faces

  The Case of the 100% Alibis

  The Case of the Dead Shepherd

  The Case of the Chinese Gong

  The Case of the Monday Murders

  The Case of the Bonfire Body

  The Case of the Missing Minutes

  The Case of the Hanging Rope

  The Case of the Tudor Queen

  The Case of the Leaning Man

  The Case of the Green Felt Hat

  The Case of the Flying Donkey

  The Case of the Climbing Rat

  The Case of the Murdered Major

  The Case of the Kidnapped Colonel

  The Case of the Fighting Soldier

  The Case of the Magic Mirror

  The Case of the Running Mouse

  The Case of the Platinum Blonde

  The Case of the Corporal’s Leave

  The Case of the Missing Men

  Christopher Bush

  The Case of the Platinum Blonde

  “It’s about a murder. . . . Here. Five Oaks, they call it. . . . A man, he’s murdered. . . . Oh, no, it isn’t a joke. I wish it was. . . . I said I wished it was. . . . You’ll send someone at once?”

  Ludovic Travers, still in the army, is obliged to combine his military duties with being an invaluable private sleuth on behalf of Scotland Yard. Now Inspector Wharton has asked Ludo to track down a man in a village rife with blackmail and skulduggery. A problem soon arises however—murder, and that of the very man Travers was sent to find. Travers eventually faces a moral quandary about what to conceal and what to reveal about his discoveries—which could lead to someone’s execution.

  This classic English village murder mystery involves a large number of suspects, and a breathtaking series of twists, some if not all involving the Chief Constable’s wife—the novel’s “platinum blonde”.

  The Case of the Platinum Blonde was originally published in 1944. This new edition features an introduction by crime fiction historian Curtis Evans.

  “Readers who have asked ‘Why?’ impatiently at the beginning of this book will be twice shy.” Times Literary Supplement

  Part One

  FIND THE LADY

  CHAPTER I

  A JOB FOR WHARTON

  I have got to write this book more quickly than I ever wrote one in my life. A highly efficient stenographer whom I implicitly trust is to take it straight on the machine at my dictation, and I have bargained with myself that the job shall take a fortnight, and no more.

  In order to run no risks whatever, I am disguising the names of places and people; except three of the people—George (Superintendent) Wharton, my sister Helen, and myself. And I’m also writing this foreword myself and am incorporating it in this first chapter unknown to the stenographer. She will think that everything is just fiction, but when the book is finished, and if I think she has been intrigued, I may ask her what she thinks, for that may help me to make the vital decision.

  But all this must be mystifying you. What decision, you may ask, and why all the hurry to get the book finished? To that I would say that it isn’t a question of hurry for hurry’s sake. I am certainly not looking forward to the end of the fortnight and the making of that vital decision, for there is little real satisfaction in putting off an evil day when that day is inevitable. Conscience insists even now that a decision could be made before I dictate a single word, but one cannot reconcile divided loyalties as easily as that. As for the decision, it will affect someone’s life; perhaps I should say death, and a death by hanging at that.

  In writing the book, then—setting down the facts of the case, if you prefer it—I am throwing out a kind of challenge to myself. I am keeping conscience at arm’s length by solemnly swearing that after a fortnight’s respite the decision shall definitely be made. In other words I have a fortnight in which to make up my mind.

  When you get to the end of this book, you may find yourself in something of the same dilemma. But you will not have a decision to make. All you may have are sympathies and hostilities, but I have got to make up my mind. I shall have to act or not act, and either way it’s going to be tough. Maybe at the last moment I shall choose the coward’s way, and the one to be let down will be myself. And that’s that, and all that remains is to get on with the story.

  That story begins on a June morning of 1943, when I called at the Yard and asked if Wharton was in. They told me he was in his room, so I went straight up. They know me well enough at the Yard—possibly as either George’s shadow or his stooge—and my six-foot three and horn-rims are recognisable enough and proof against impersonation.

  George was sitting at his desk, poring over some papers, and he stared at me over the tops of his antiquated spectacles as if I were a ghost. Maybe he thought I was one, for the last time he had seen me was in hospital, after an operation which had found me remarkably near the pearly gates.

  Then his wrinkled old face beamed and he was getting to his feet, hand held out.

  “Well, well, well. This is a surprise. And you’re not looking too bad, either.”

  “I’m pretty well all right now,” I told him. “A fortnight in the country will put me clean on my pins again.”

  He fussed round me and actually put a cushion on my chair.

  “Well, it’s good to see you,” he said, and I think he meant it. George and I spar like fighting cocks when we aren’t pulling each other’s legs, and yet I suppose that somehow our fifteen years’ association has become a something which we should be horrified to disrupt.

  “And what’s it feel like to be out of the Army?” he wanted to know.

  “I don’t know yet,” I told him. “But after four years of red tape and routine I think it’s going to be pretty good.”

  “Maybe,” George said dubiously, and then I switched the conversation to what he himself was doing, and then we got to talking about old times. Then I said I’d have to be going, for my train left in an hour.

  “Give my best wishes to your sister,” George said, “and to her husband. Some time I’d like to go down to Pulvery ag
ain myself.”

  “It isn’t Pulvery,” I said. “My brother-in-law’s been in the Middle East for the last couple of years, so Helen let the Pulvery place and has taken what she calls a cottage, at Cleavesham. That’s about two miles from Porthaven.”

  “Porthaven,” he said, and pursed his lips till that walrus moustache of his looked like the half of a fringed sunshade. “I know the Chief Constable there, if you’d like to meet him. A very nice fellow indeed. Chevalle’s his name. Major Chevalle, D.S.O., M.C., and gawd knows what else. I think you’ll like him. He’s a really good chap.”

  The upshot was that he sat down there and then, and wrote me a letter of introduction!

  “Mind you,” he warned me as he tucked in the flap of the envelope, “I’m not giving you this so that you can go poking that nose of yours into his office. This is what you might call social. He knows everybody there is to know.”

  “Very good of you, George,” I said. “As soon as I get settled in I’ll look him up. But what about your running down for a day or so? There’d be tons of room for you, and a holiday’d do you good.”

  “Impossible,” he said, but I knew he was wavering. “They tell me that country round Cleavesham is some of the loveliest in Sussex,” I went on. And then something peculiar happened. He had been replacing the spectacles in their battered case, and then all at once he was goggling at me and thrusting the spectacles under my nose.

  “Cleavesham,” he said. “I didn’t catch it at first. About two miles north of Porthaven.”

  “But not on the London road,” I said. “The main road is a bit more east.”

  “I know,” he told me impatiently. “But it’s a good road, though, and you can dodge the traffic if you know the lanes. That’s what I was doing.”

  “What is this, George?” I said. “Some lurid episode from your past?”

  “It’s something you can do for me,” he said. “Did you ever know me forget a face?”

  “I wouldn’t go so far as that,” I said, “but I will admit you have a staggering memory.”

  “Well, I saw a face at Cleavesham that I ought to have remembered,” he told me. “Sit down again. You’re not in all that hurry for a minute.”

  This was his story. He had been to Porthaven on business, and as the main road was full of military traffic, Chevalle advised him to take the Cleavesham route. George was driving his own car and just as he was approaching Cleavesham his near hind tyre went flat. So he drew in on the wide grass verge and prepared to put on the spare. There was a stile in the hedge right against where he was working, and as he was manipulating the spare into place he saw a man getting over the stile, and had a first-class view of him.

  “You know how I am,” he said. “I collect faces, the same as you collect china and all that rubbish you fill your place up with. And this cove’s face was one I ought to have known. I tell you I knew it as if it was my own, and yet I couldn’t put a name to it. That was about a year ago and if I’ve thought of it once I’ve thought of it fifty times. It worries me. It’s a face I know and yet I can’t place it.”

  “Describe the cove and I’ll see what I can do,” I told him. “Mind you, he mayn’t be a local inhabitant.”

  “Then that’ll be bad luck,” George told me philosophically. “But he was an elderly man. Between sixty and seventy, we’ll say. He’d a grizzled sort of beard and a face with those purple markings on it as if he suffered from blood pressure. He was about five foot eight and thinnish. Not that we all aren’t these days. And he limped the slightest bit, as if he had arthritis in his knee.”

  “And his social class?”

  “Oh, a retired sort of cove. Quite neatly dressed, I remembered. Might have been a retired anything. School-master or bank cashier for example.”

  “And his voice?”

  “There you’ve got me,” George said, and grimaced. “I spotted him before he saw me and as soon as I knew I knew him—so to speak—I kept my head down. He didn’t speak and neither did I. He kept on walking towards Porthaven once he was over the stile. That’s when I noticed his lameness.”

  “Well, I’ll do what I can for you, George,” I said as I got to my feet again. “But just one little thing. The sort of faces you pride yourself on remembering are criminal faces. Those you’ve seen on trial or had up yourself. So tell me. Did you place this particular man in that category?”

  “Damned if I know,” he told me bluntly. “It was a sort of intuition, if you know what I mean. I said to myself, I know that fellow!’ Just as quick as that. Then I started puzzling my wits. I tell you it worried me. It’s gone on worrying me. Once when I was down that way I nearly went a few miles off the road to make some inquiries for myself. I shouldn’t have felt like that if it hadn’t been something important.”

  It was important to him and I’ll tell you how I knew. George calls me the world’s prize theorist. Throughout our long association he’s been living on and profiting by my theories, though he has never stopped pouring scorn on them at their initial propounding. I admit frankly that my average is one theory right in every three, and I claim that that average is remarkably good. George forgets the happy one, or annexes it as his own, and instances the other two. But now when I began to theorise, all he did was to listen attentively.

  “An old criminal,” I said. “And with a beard. That’s why you can’t place him, George. You knew him years ago when he hadn’t that beard, or that limp, and maybe he wasn’t thin then, either. Think of all that when you search your memory again.”

  “I reckon you’re right,” he said. “All the same I’d very much like to know just who he is.”

  “Right,” I said. “When I run him to earth I’ll send you his finger-prints.”

  “My God!” George said, and tried to look horrified. “They’d have the coat off my back if they found out that.”

  “You’re a damned old humbug,” I told him. “But you leave it to me. Tell you what. I’ll bet you a new hat we know inside a week who he is.”

  “No you don’t,” he said, and gave what was meant to be a look of infinite wiliness. “But I will bet you a couple of drinks.”

  And on that amusing note we left it. Amusing because it was generally I who paid in any case unless George saw a way clear to wangling the expenses account.

  It was half-past three when I arrived at Ringlands, which was the name of my sister’s Cleavesham cottage. And on the eve of all the happenings I want to make something clear. Throughout this book I am aiming to be direct to the point of terseness. You don’t want to wade through descriptions of scenery or listen to local chit-chat, and I have no wish either to live the one again or listen to the other. Everything then that I relate will be very relevant to the story. The rough map will help you to get Cleavesham clearly in your mind, and if a particular piece of scenery happens to be mentioned, then prick your ears at once, for it will be mentioned for a purpose and not for padding. And of the nine hundred inhabitants of the village, you will hear perhaps a half-dozen talking, and what they say will be very relevant too.

  To begin with Ringlands, then. Unexpectedly it turned out to be a cottage and no more, with three bedrooms and two so-called reception rooms, one of which Helen was proposing to set aside for my sole use. She had brought her old maid with her, and a man—an octogenarian whose dialect I do not propose to imitate—came on three days a week to see to the rather large garden.

  Helen is as far removed from me as it’s possible for a brother and sister to be, and by that I don’t mean that we haven’t a considerable affection for each other. But I’m inquisitive—largely as a result of association with George Wharton—flippant, restless, and mercurially minded. I’m certainly not a man’s man, though there are the devil of a lot of men with whom I get on remarkably well. But Helen is a man’s woman: even-tempered, hating fussiness, broad-minded and always on the spot when most needed and well away from it when not. Perhaps that may explain why she comes very little into this story.

&nbs
p; Tea was on within ten minutes of my arrival, and as we gossiped I didn’t ask her about George’s forgotten face.

  Most of the talk was about the village, which was considered a suburb, and a highly refined one at that, of Porthaven. She knew the Chevalles, for instance, who lived well out of the village on the Porthaven side. Him she liked very much but for his wife she had very little use. Helen, I regret to say, is the least bit of a snob, though only where unpleasant people are concerned, and so I don’t think she disliked Thora Chevalle solely because she was the somewhat promiscuously educated daughter of a wealthy jerry-builder; what she disliked was the particular brand of unpleasantness. What that was I didn’t learn till later. There was a daughter—Clarice, aged just over four—so Helen told me, and a delightful child she was. There was also a poor cousin of Thora Chevalle’s—Mary Carter—who acted as nurse-companion, and I gathered that Helen rather liked her.

  “How do you come to know the Chevalles so well?” I wanted to know.

  It turned out that although Helen had been in Cleavesham only four months she had already been roped in for war work as responsible for the war savings of a third of the village. Mrs. Chevalle did another third, and the people’s warden, a man named Bernard Temple, did the rest. In charge of the whole district, including Porthaven, was a Lieut.-Commander Santon, who had been wounded in the knee at Crete and was now retired. I gathered that not only did the three local savings people have conferences with each other but also once a week with Commander Santon, who luckily lived in Cleavesham too, though on the Porthaven side.