Throstle complied. Belcher’s Novelties covered a very wide range of aids to public and private amusement from streamers, crackers, whistles, false noses and conjuring tricks to seaside souvenirs and dribble glasses. Small illustrations made the pages as crowded as an Edwardian draper’s shop.
A cross in red pencil caught his eye and he began to read aloud:
‘Hiroshima Demon Masks. The very latest, directly imported from Japan. Surprise your friends with this unique and humorous spine-chiller. Trimmed with genuine goat’s hair. A real wham for any party.’
‘Recognise it?’
Throstle snorted. ‘So that’s where they came from. A very tasteful item as you say. It may help the Narcotics boys in some way but I don’t see that it does us much good. Dashwood could be a pedlar—he’d have plenty of opportunity and a very good cover story—but it doesn’t quite relate him to Hector Askew. Or have I missed something?’
‘You have, you know. Here, give me the book.’
The old man retrieved the list, flicked through the pages and pressed one open with a heavy thumb. Again a scarlet cross pointed the way.
‘The Gresham Super-Improved Catapult. In heavy all-aluminium frame with leather pocket and new (patent applied for) sighting adjuster. Powerful square-cut heavy duty rubber cord gives great range and accuracy. Not a toy but a true sportsman’s instrument. Kills birds, vermin, etc. at long range.’
‘A true sportsman’s instrument, Mr Throstle. That’s what it says. Now I wouldn’t know about that, but it does so happen that I’ve got one of these little old play things right here in this office and it might just give you an idea. An offensive weapon we called it when we took it off a boy who was doing a wonderfully mischievous bit of damage to windows in the Nine Ash Primary. Seeing it in that list and remembering the trouble we had gave me a sort of an idea.’
He re-opened the drawer and produced a modern and vicious version of the ancient device. The Y-fork was of metal and the leather centre-piece, shaped to hold the missile, had a flange which could be gripped so that aiming it became remarkably simple. The window of the office faced into the yard and the old man opened it wide.
‘I’ve been hankering to do this all day,’ he admitted. ‘Picked up a couple or three likely stones out of my garden this morning in case you dropped by.’ He fitted a pebble carefully into the socket and took aim towards the opposite roof. ‘We don’t run to a weathercock so a chimneypot will have to do duty.’
The clang of stone on metal cowling announced a direct hit and Branch closed the window guiltily. ‘Makes you think, doesn’t it?’ he said and laughed so that the years dropped away from him. ‘Powerful smart, I call that. Target couldn’t have done better himself.’
Throstle took the weapon from the old man and stretched the thick black rubber tentatively.
‘Ought to have seen that one coming,’ he said at last and swore gently to himself. ‘A ruddy catapult—a toy a child could use. Anyone could have been scaring the pants off Saltey by this trick—Dashwood or any man, woman, or child in the place. Bang goes Target Burrows.’
The Inspector was still laughing. ‘You don’t want to be so sure of that. I doubt Target’s good eye would be so clear now as it was twenty odd years back. But he was a smart old boy in some ways and up to any trick he could lay his hands on. He could have bought one of these things for himself if he’d a mind to. Had you thought of that now?’
Morty reached the first point in his journey after a three mile detour. At eleven o’clock on Wednesday night he had retired to his bedroom at The Demon, keeping his lamp burning for another half hour in case his movements were attracting attention. Then he escaped from the silent inn into a night that was chilly and dark, for the moon was hidden behind the banks of low cloud and the scurrying wind coming in from the sea carried a threat of rain in the salt.
He was wearing a dark green pullover with his most sombre trousers and carrying a long torch more for protection than use. He moved quietly along the sea wall beyond the Bowl and then struck inland picking his way cautiously beside wide ditches where water sucked and reeds hissed and rustled together.
A dog at Cheffin’s Farm heard him over a distance of three fields and made a surly complaint about the trespasser but no light appeared in the house. Still by way of fields he passed the unwelcoming bulk of barns and outbuildings which marked the corner of the road into Saltey. Presently he arrived at the hump backed bridge which crossed the narrow Rattey river before it finally emerged above the Bowl. This was his turning point and here he was to wait, if necessary until dawn.
An open fronted cart shed whose pantiled roof was dangerously decayed provided a little shelter and he sat for some time listening to the faint lap of the stream punctured by the hunting call of brown owls in the elms which bordered the road.
In the half hour before one in the morning, two cars passed him heading for Firestone, their headlights blazing strange traceries throug the gaps in the weatherboarding, but a third beam suddenly faded as it approached, though an engine continued to purr. The car halted on the road within a few yards of him and above the throb he heard the click of a gate which creaked as it swung back and scuffed the ground in its path. A door closed and the car rustled slowly into the field.
Morty followed cautiously through the opening, judging his distance by his ears. The grass track over the water meadows followed the turns of the river and three more gates were opened before the engine spluttered into silence. He knew now that the car had two occupants for both doors opened and closed. Footsteps in long grass whispered for a moment and were swallowed into the night.
To his right the ground rose slightly. Beyond this field lay the copse which marked the boundary of The Hollies property: an overgrown thicket where limes, chestnuts and thorns fought dourly for survival. He reached the outlying bushes and paused to listen.
Ahead of him a twig cracked and another. He was closer than he had guessed, but the quarry was still moving. A sapling whipped him sharply across the face and for a moment he floundered nearly off balance. Brambles clawed at his ankles: a terrified rabbit darted between his feet and was gone.
Above his head there was a sudden clatter of wings as a pair of ring doves wheeled away into the leaden sky and he took advantage of the commotion to get clear of his entanglements and edge his way towards a track which he knew must lie very near. There was a clearing beyond him centring on a Victorian summerhouse, a Gothic-rustic affair of split logs with stained glass windows and a conical roof and he crept towards it feeling his way, pace by pace, to defeat the traitorous undergrowth.
Ahead the footsteps continued, less cautious and more purposeful now. He was very close, too close for safety and he waited to give them time to reach the clearing. A half fallen branch barred his way and he stepped crabwise towards the trunk of the tree to avoid the obstacle.
For a minute he waited, straining his ears and eyes. The copse had settled into silence. Again a snapping twig ahead of him brought a respite. He took a long pace, recovered his balance and halted in mid stride. Someone, an arm’s length from him, was leaning against the tree.
Almost in the same second he knew that it was Dido. The uncomplicated flower scent which she used so sparingly came clearly into his nostrils betraying her as vividly as if she had spoken. He had only to put out his hand to touch her.
The thought that to do so might make her cry out held him back; even a whisper could bring its terror. He waited scarcely breathing. A pencil of light flickered in the clearing, distorting shapes, shadows and silhouettes, bringing into sudden brightness a meaningless glimpse which was so vivid that it lingered on the retina as his eyes blinked.
Dido stiffened and began to walk steadily towards the blackness where the gleam had been. Following her, he began to count the paces. Seven, eight, nine, ten.
A torch in her hand sprang into life to show two faceless black figures frozen for a second by the glare.
‘What are you doing on my proper
ty?’ said Doctor Jones. ‘I don’t like trespassers.’
The moment of hesitation passed. The taller of the two bounded beyond the circle of light and crashed wildly into the undergrowth, but the other turned slowly, almost imperceptibly and looked straight into the beam, so that the distortion of features covered by a silk stocking was grotesquely emphasised.
A knife glinted like a diamond as the figure crouched, gathered strength and leapt forward bearing Dido to the ground.
Morty flung himself at the creature, grasping wildly at what ever his fingers touched. Suddenly there were lights from four directions, the rush of feet, a young excited voice and the struggle was over.
Dido held out a hand to Morty and he pulled her gently to her feet.
‘I—I’m all right,’ she said. ‘Just a bit winded. What a melodramatic lot you are.’ She swayed uncertainly and Morty’s arm tightened about her waist. ‘I am all right—really I am. No cuts or broken bones. Now, who or what is this thing on the ground?’
The figure had not moved since the tussle had ended. It lay spreadeagled, face downwards, pinned out by a tow headed young man in a disreputable jacket. He picked himself up without releasing his grip, dragging his capture with him.
Mr Campion emerged quietly from the ring of torches and taking hold of the silken mask slipped it swiftly over the dark head.
‘Meet Miss Doll Jensen,’ he said. ‘Her other claim to fame is that she is the daughter of James Teague.’
19
Death of a Legend
A SERIES OF crashes in the undergrowth followed by a cheerful shout in a strong Cockney accent made the group in the clearing turn their heads.
‘Charlee-ee. . . . Got him.’
The tow-haired youth who had led the party of surveyors continued his grip on the girl and lifted his voice in answer.
‘Don’t make such a row about it. People sleep here, you know.’ To Campion he said: ‘Silly bastard. That’s Wonderboy—I told him to keep his trap shut. Does it matter now?’
The thin man did not reply for a moment but focused the beam of his torch so that it made a tunnel of bright green along twenty yards of the track. At the far end two figures in denims emerged grasping a third between them, a black leather clad bundle limp as a roll of carpet. They halted as the light caught them and Mr Campion turned to Lugg who had been standing behind him.
‘Nip down and see what they’ve got. If it’s the one called Moo Moo, just see him off the premises.’
‘Letting ’im off the ’ook, are you? Thousands wouldn’t.’
‘He’s just a stooge and the lady had several more young things like him who do little services for her. Charlie, would you mind running your hands over Miss Jensen in case she is carrying a gun as well as a pocket knife?’
For the first time the girl flared into life.
‘I’ve got no bloody gun. Keep your lousy hands off me.’
Charlie’s delighted grin suggested he had enjoyed himself. ‘I frisked her just now. Just a flick knife and a torch. That’s the lot, isn’t it, darling? What shall we do with her?’
‘In that case you can relax your grip. She won’t run away because we have something she particularly wants to see.’ Mr Campion’s tone was as conversational as an invitation to a tea party. ‘Perhaps we should go into the house. It’s a trifle chilly out here.’
The garden room at The Hollies had undergone a remarkable change since Morty had last seen it. The two glass walls had been covered with dusty black curtain material stretched over wooden frames, evidently a survival of wartime blackout arrangements, and shades which he had not noticed before had been drawn to ensure that no light escaped from the roof. He led Dido to the big cane chair and sat on its broad arm, his right hand still caressing her shoulder. In the more normal lighting he could see Doll Jensen’s face very white beneath the mop of tight coarse curls. She was breathing rapidly, her teeth clenched as if to prevent them from chattering.
She hesitated in the doorway, her eyes wide with excitement and curiosity, took in the scene and walked deliberately to a corner where a slatted bench for potted plants offered a seat. She sat very still, her head bowed and her hands gripping the wooden edge.
Mr Campion leaned over a ladderback chair at the head of the table, awaiting the return of the rest of the party. In the minute of stilted silence the senior surveyor pulled out a packet of cigarettes, offered them without success and finally lit one for himself.
When the group was complete Mr Campion addressed himself directly to the four young men who were staring at the girl on the bench with uninhibited curiosity.
‘You haven’t met our guest before, so it might be as well to put you in the picture. I doubt if she’ll confirm the details for us and one or two of them only came in this afternoon. If she takes my advice she won’t bother with protests because nothing she can say now is any business of ours.
‘Her full name is Dorothy Marilyn Jensen. Her mother was Jane Felgate who was born just up the road and who married a Norwegian sailor before the war. He was killed in 1942. There’s not much doubt about who her real father is for the excellent reason that she takes after him in more ways than one and is proud of the fact. The physical likeness is very strong.
‘An old man called Mossy Ling spotted it and was silly enough to say he’d seen a ghost. She frightened him to death, in my opinion. Hector Askew probably let on that he recognised the likeness when he caught her exploring in this house.’
Morty leaned forward. ‘Are you saying that this . . . that Doll . . . killed Askew?’
The girl in the corner raised her head to Campion in a long straight glare of speculative venom. When she turned to Morty her voice became urgent and intimate. ‘It’s a bloody silly lie. You know it’s not true—it couldn’t be. The first time I ever clapped eyes on you was when you were coming down here with your godalmighty girl friend—just as I was. I ran into all that glass only just ahead of you. I was never in the blasted house until this minute. You know that. You’ll tell them if you’ve got the guts of a louse. The police aren’t bloody fools—they know I couldn’t have done it. You’re listening to a raving nut who fancies himself as some sort of private dick. Be your age. He’s round the bend!’
Mr Campion intervened. ‘Fortunately for us all I don’t have to prove my theory about her guilt. But this afternoon I performed an experiment for my private satisfaction. I walked from here through the copse and along the meadows to the bridge by the same route that the trespassers used tonight and drove from there to the corner by Ponder’s Farm. It took twenty minutes. I allowed myself another twenty in which to smash bottles, had I been in the mood for it. A total of forty minutes and it could have been done in under half an hour. I’m afraid Miss Jensen’s alibi doesn’t exist.’
The girl was still prepared to fight. She opened her mouth as if to speak but waited, angry and watchful.
‘Dislike of being recognised runs in the family. Jonah Woodrose found that out, but he has a guilty conscience about smuggling so it was easier to stop him talking.
‘There is a very good reason for her to be sensitive on the subject and it goes back a very long way. I think Miss Jensen was brought up on a legend, the legend of James Teague, the great lover, the great pirate, the hero who was her true father. There are two nights in his final adventure which are not accounted for. I think he spent them in Harwich with Jane Felgate and her daughter who must have been about a year old. He probably gave a pretty colourful but not necessarily truthful account of his exploits and I expect he boasted of his adventures, implying that he had hidden a fortune somewhere in Saltey and told them that when the storm blew over they would all be richer than Croesus. Unfortunately for them he was caught.
‘I think that mother and daughter talked and dreamed about that boast to the exclusion of everything else in the world. They moved from town to town over the years so that they could never be traced, waiting for the great moment when their hero was free.
‘In
the mean time a lot of people suspected that Teague had come ashore from the barge Blossom that night and had hidden something in Saltey—possibly at The Hollies. Jonah Woodrose and Wishart for example.
‘The only person who refused to share in the dream was Teague himself, once he was arrested. Every sort of pressure was put upon him but he never spoke.
‘Jane Felgate died but her daughter watched and waited. She refused to believe that her father would keep his secret once he was free. She arranged for him to disappear as soon as he came out and paid for his board with a woman called Medway, who is the mother’s half-sister, by the way.’
The girl was now crouching on the bench so that only the swarthy curls at the nape of her neck were visible. Again she flung up her head as if she were about to protest but her breath caught in her throat and no words came.
Mr Campion’s diffident murmur continued.
‘I think I should explain that Miss Jensen is not short of money. How her income is made is not my business but I suspect that the police are investigating it rather carefully and her time is running short. A man called Dashwood has been arrested and they are looking for the woman he worked with. When they discover, as they will, who she is, they are bound to make other deductions about Askew’s death. But what matters to us now is the sequence of events.
‘Miss Kytie’s death and her unexpected bequest to Dido upset everyone’s calculations. It seems she was a mischievous old thing and it’s on the cards that she may have had a shrewd suspicion that something had been hidden at The Hollies. She had a curious sort of aunt-and-nephew relationship with Teague. He did odd jobs for her and gave her presents. In return she may have turned a blind eye to any use he made of the house when she left it untenanted. It might—just might—explain why she decided to put everyone’s nose out of joint and leave the place to a stranger. Villagers have very long memories and I think half the population of Saltey was waiting for her to die so that the house could be forced to give up its secret—if it had one.’
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