He'd Rather Be Dead

by George Bellairs

  “… and raise your glasses with me in a toast to our Mayor, Sir Gideon Ware. His Worship the Mayor!”

  There is a shuffling of feet and a scraping of chairs. The Canon just manages to raise himself by swinging on the table.

  “HIS WORSHIP THE MAYOR!”

  The crowd mutters it like a response in church.

  The clatter subsides.

  Sir Gideon rises. He doesn’t look well. His face is pale and he seems like one in the first stages of influenza. Whether he has taken a chill, too much wine, or the food’s a bit “off”, it is hard to say. However, he rallies.

  Ware’s diction is good. Not in vain has he spent a few hundred pounds and five years’ study on courses in elocution and “the art of psychological speech.” His private secretary, too, is a past-master of speech-writing.

  He renders formal thanks and then turns to his right-hand neighbour and proposes “Our Visitors.”

  Mr. Wilmott Saxby gives Sir Gideon a sidelong, upward glance. He has not been brought here for nothing and well he knows it! Hinster’s Ferry is the last U.D.C. in the district to hold out against the encroachments of the new Westcombe. In the river Swaine, Hinster’s Ferry has its “moat,” its protection against the assaults of the sprawling, upstart resort. It is a small fishing village, with little or no promenade, but a certain type of visitors like it immensely, for it is quiet and unspoiled. A tiny harbour with a few yachts, an annual regatta, good fishing in the river and the Swaine Deep beyond, and little besides. The ferry-boat crosses every quarter-hour, taking visitors to and fro, and the last one goes at ten-thirty. After that a deep peace descends, broken only by the sea and the rustle of winds across the salt flats. Hitherto the river has acted as a sanitary cordon against the vulgarity of Westcombe.

  Sir Gideon, unable to extend the promenade and absorb the tempting resort over the water, wants to build a bridge, and the Hinster’s Ferry U.D.C., headed by Mr. Wilmott Saxby, have resisted like mad, and with success.

  But when Sir Gideon is intent on anything he concentrates every power of his mind, wind, limb and purse on the task.

  Wilmott Saxby is the bastion. For years he’s held out. To yield would ruin Hinster’s Ferry and all its charm. But lately, Ware has been gradually getting his yes-men on the U.D.C. In fact, Wilmott Saxby has now only a majority of one on his side against the amalgamation and the bridge.

  Is Ware now going to announce publicly his final triumph?

  “… of course, Mr. Wilmott Saxby and I differ on minor matters. Who doesn’t? For example, the joining of our two communities and the building of a bridge …” (loud laughter).

  Sir Gideon pauses. What’s the matter? He eases his collar, mops his sweating brow, and wipes his lips. He clutches the table and, by a supreme effort of will, goes on.

  “You all know I’m a man of progress. Progress. Progress. Progress or perish. As Pericles said, ‘We do not copy our neighbours; we are an example to them.’ Rather than stagnate … rather than stagnate …”

  He is in great distress. The Town Clerk rises and fills a goblet with Mr. Gaukroger’s water. Ware waves it aside.

  “Stagnate! I’d rather be dead!”

  And with that, he collapses, slips down in his chair, sprawls there for a moment and slides to the floor beneath the table.

  The assembly rises in great confusion. McAndrew, the Medical Officer, rushes to Sir Gideon’s side and they move the Mayor behind his chair. Ware is convulsed. His body arches and becomes shockingly contorted. His breath comes and goes with great labour and in painful jerks.

  “Is it a fit?” asks Wilmott Saxby.

  Hastily, the doctor sends the first man he sees as he raises his head for the ambulance.

  “We must get him to hospital right away …”

  “What’s the matter, McAndrew?” asks the Town Clerk with a trace of impatience.

  But the M.O. is not committing himself. It is Father Manfred who breaks the tense silence.

  “Looks like strychnine to me, doctor.”

  McAndrew purses his lips and nods. He has sent for his bag to his room in the building and this arrives just as the orderlies from the ambulance enter with their stretcher. Even as they bear out the wretched Ware, the doctor continues in his efforts to administer an emetic.

  The Chief Constable, a heavy, officious man, takes charge of the situation.

  “Close all the doors,” he bawls. “Nobody’s to leave unless I say so.”

  “Where are you going, Father Manfred? Nobody’s to leave.”

  But the priest thrusts him aside.

  “I am going where I’ll be needed before Sir Gideon reaches his journey’s end,” he says and strides from the place with purposeful steps and enters the ambulance with the patient.

  The good priest was right. On the way, Sir Gideon Ware died.

  CHAPTER TWO - A BREATH OF EVIL

  The Chief Constable of Westcombe County Borough was a huge man, with a face like a bulldog and a militant manner. The latter arose out of half-conscious feelings of inferiority, for he had risen from the ranks and possessed none of the inborn advantages of breeding and impudence which characterise some of the holders of sinecure headships.

  Boumphrey, as Superintendent of Police in a distant seaside place, had recovered with remarkable speed a pearl necklace stolen from Lady Ware. When the former Chief Constable retired, full of years and honour, from Westcombe, Sir Gideon made up his mind that Boumphrey was the man for the job, focused all his powers on the end in view, and secured his election without even the compilation of a short-list.

  That does not mean to say, however, that Boumphrey was pitchforked, inefficient, into a ready-made job. He was a competent, painstaking, conscientious and ambitious official. His force was as smart as any in the land and carried out its duties, often under difficult conditions, with the greatest skill and zeal.

  The Chief Constable’s main stumbling-block lay in his education. He had to acquire polish and savoir-faire in the hard school of experience. Trial and error and plenty of hard knocks and false steps on the way. For example, the time when, mounted on a white hack hired from a livery stable, he rode at the head of his men in the Jubilee procession …

  Boumphrey’s blustering manner and loud voice concealed many doubts and misgivings.

  He took over the situation following Sir Gideon Ware’s suspicious collapse at once. He dived in at the deep end and, irrespective of the rank and prestige of the assembled guests, closed all the exits of the Town Hall. Nobody at all was allowed to leave, except the Medical Officer and Father Manfred.

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry to appear officious at this unfortunate juncture, but I shall have to ask you all to remain where you are until we take a list of those present,” he said, mounting on the dais where Sid Simmons was still sitting with his pustular face looking like cold rice pudding. “After which, you’ll all be able to go about your lawful occasions.”

  “But haven’t you a list of the guests already, Chief Constable?” drawled the Town Clerk, ever adept at explaining the law, but very contemptuous of its executive machinery.

  “I beg your pardon, sir, but you’ll kindly leave me to handle this. There is a list, but there may be more or less in the way of guests here than it contains.”

  “Dear me!” replied Mr. Kingsley-Smith, and drained a goblet of black-market Vougeot, whilst his deputy could hardly restrain his joy at thus hearing his boss put in his place for perhaps the first time.

  Mr. Boumphrey issued loud and rapid orders to a small posse of his men who had appeared on the scene like genii of the lamp.

  “You, Jacques and Williams, take the names of all the ladies and gentlemen present.” Then, to the assembly, “Those concerned will be interviewed later.”

  “And you, Hibbert and Schofield, go to the kitchens and see that all the pots, pans and dishes are left just as they are.” Again to the waiting throng: “Nobody’s to touch anything on the tables from now on, if you please.”


  “Winrow and Faragher, … you search the building for anybody hangin’ round and not connected with the proceedings, takin’ names and addresses ….”

  And so on. The Chief Constable deployed his troops like a general in action and many there gaped in silent admiration.

  It was past tea-time when the army of officials presented their reports to their chief.

  The tide had gone far out on Westcombe Sands, leaving a vast expanse of shining shore glittering under the setting sun. Children in hundreds fell-to with buckets and spades, erecting sand-castles and pies or grubbing among the seaweeds and in rock pools for treasure. Some caught crabs and shellfish, others poked at starfish or mussels on the rocks, and a few fell headlong into one or other of the hundred and one salt-water streams and were hustled off howling to their hired beds. Boumphrey stood at the window of his office in the Town Hall watching with unseeing eyes.

  A breath of evil swept over Westcombe. A special edition of the Gazette bore an eye-witness’s account of the tragedy. “DEATH STALKS IN WESTCOMBE!” Boumphrey had forgotten to place a seal on Liptrott’s lips, and he was terribly annoyed with himself for his oversight.

  The visitors to Westcombe waited eagerly for something to turn up. The Mayor had been done-in. What a sensation! Better than a side-show or an evening at the pictures! Perhaps it would be the Town Clerk next!

  Sid Simmons and his Hot-Dogs, who had enjoyed seats in the dress-circle for this shattering event, played as men possessed that night at the Winter Gardens, tearing apart Tchaikowsky, Chopin and César-Franck like savages on the warpath, to the exaltation of all the dancers present.

  The multitude of diverse organs and loud-speakers on the pleasure beach continued their harsh, blaring accompaniments to sensations of bobbing-up and bobbing-down swinging, flying, gyrating and quaking eccentrically provided in plenty for all who came. The Corporation undertakings, consisting of the Winter Gardens, the two Pier Pavilions, the Botanical and Zoological Gardens, and the Municipal Restaurant, had not closed down, in spite of the decease of the civic head. Too dangerous to leave the teeming crowds of holidaymakers with nowhere to go and nothing to keep them occupied. Dolce far niente might be all right in working hours, but on holidays would be an outrage and would certainly cause trouble for already harassed officials and probably bring in a crowd of embarrassing sightseers and amateur investigators to confuse the trails of the Ware murder case.

  Boumphrey glanced through the reports on his desk and groaned.

  All the washing-up done before His Worship collapsed! Or, at least, all the dishes were immersed in water and the pans scrubbed.

  Wine-glasses and goblets tested with negative results. Banqueting-room meticulously searched for poison bottles or packets, in vain.

  Portions of remaining food carefully analysed for poisons. Nothing.

  Mr. Kingsley-Smith, who combined a good memory with excellent powers of observation, had given precise details of the courses and wines taken by the Mayor.

  Those dishes and the stub of Ware’s cigar had been diligently gone through by the County Analyst and his staff. The dregs of the mayoral goblet, too. No good.

  How had the poison been administered? Admitting, of course, that it was poison. May have been a fit, heart failure or apoplexy. But McAndrew had stuck to his provisional diagnosis and the police-surgeon had concurred. The body of Sir Gideon was now in the mortuary awaiting their further attentions.

  Boumphrey cursed under his breath. Why hadn’t they heeded him when he applied for a proper laboratory and pathological department? Instead, Sir Gideon had been foremost in brushing him aside. Fantastic nonsense; better spend the money on advertising the town! Now, the viscera of the very man who’d opposed him would have to be shipped-off to the Home Office pathologist for examination whilst the grass grew under Boumphrey’s feet.

  Boumphrey picked up the list of guests at the luncheon and ran his eye over it. In imagination he saw them all again assembled in the great hall and as he read their names, little pigeon-holes seemed to open and disgorge their unsavoury contents into his consciousness. Facts and incidents half-forgotten, but now grown tremendously important. A bright lot some of the guests and no mistake! Hate, fear, envy, jealousy stalked everywhere. Sir Gideon was truly surrounded by his enemies when he died!

  The Chief Constable was a keen student of other Chief Constables and their methods, from the high-lights of detective fiction to men like M. Chiappe, deceased, and Herr Himmler, unfortunately still alive. In the room adjoining his own, Mr. Boumphrey kept a vast system of card-indexes, dossiers of all and sundry in Westcombe and district. Presided over by the best little rooter he’d ever met, Horace Powlett, a sort of minor replica of M. Fulgence Tapir, of Anatole France’s Penguin Island. Some of those files would now come in useful. Boumphrey licked his lips and stretched in his chair like a huge cat. There were few indiscretions committed by the bigwigs that he hadn’t caught and imprisoned in Horace’s steel cabinets. A breath of scandal confirmed by a little private investigation; a scrap of strange behaviour, added to another scrap or two like the pieces of a puzzle; a chance word dropped in a public house and overheard; a secret meeting after dark and mentioned jocularly by the constable on the beat. These and a lot more, recorded, pondered over by Boumphrey, a few notes or deductions added and then tucked away by Powlett for future use. Dangerous as dynamite and as unsavoury as a charnel-house! But Boumphrey placed great store by these records. They might, in the future, save him a lot of trouble in more ways than one.

  The Town Clerk’s mistress in London …

  The time when the Borough Treasurer was £1,200 short in his books, visited his wealthy aunt, and “found” the mistake the day after.

  Father Manfred’s fearful row with Sir Gideon about the appointment of Gaukroger as chaplain … threats of fire on his head, damnation, striking him down dead by thunderbolts from an angry God …

  The Chief Constable rubbed his great red hands as though preparing publicly to wash a lot of dirty linen.

  He paused and pondered. This wasn’t to his taste at all. He’d forgotten that the one man who’d support him in his unholy investigations was now lying on the slab of the morgue. No Sir Gideon to back him now ! Henceforth, he was alone. His manner of conducting this case would make or break him in Westcombe. Without exception, every one of those in the list of interviews was a power in the land. And one of them must have killed Ware. How many corns was he going to stamp on before he reached the right one? If he ever did!

  Boumphrey burst into a cold sweat, straining at an ebony ruler until the veins of his hands stood out like cords. Even if he put subordinates on the job, the repercussions would be on his own head.

  How could you question impartially a lot like the Town Clerk, Mr. Wilmott Saxby, Canon Wallopp, Mr. Oxendale, Father Manfred, without causing offence and endangering your position?

  “You owed Sir Gideon quite a lot in private loans, didn’t you, Mr. Kingsley-Smith? I saw a letter from him once on your desk. A snorter it was, too. Good grounds for quietly killing him, eh?”

  Imagine the Town Clerk’s reactions!

  Or, “Hasn’t Sir Gideon been threatening to get your Head Office to move you from Westcombe Branch to a smaller one for incompetence, Mr. Oxendale? He’s a big shareholder in your bank, you know. Only his death would prevent your disgrace … and you’ve only four years before your pension, too.”

  Mr. Oxendale, who nervously prefaced almost every sentence with “It’s all a case of this …” would start spluttering indignantly and go straight to his wife’s brother, who was an M.P. and was sure to talk to the Home Secretary about Boumphrey.

  Or Mr. Oliver, the Borough Treasurer, who, Oxendale fashion, constantly introduced a parrot phrase in his speech. “Fr’instance …”

  “You’re in Sir Gideon’s bad books, eh, Mr. Oliver? As likely as not he’ll get you the push as soon as he finds a chance. You remember how, in righteous indignation, you stopped him from beating a setter
-dog with a putter one day on the golf-links before a large audience …?”

  And Oliver would say, “Well, fr’instance …” and make things awkward through his uncle on the Watch Committee!

  A vision of Oxendale and Oliver, once irreconcilables, now drawn together in relief, standing on the Town Hall steps after their release from the death-chamber, came before Boumphrey’s mind. Both of them, eased of great burdens, palavering almost jocularly about the case.

  “It’s all a case of this, Oliver …”

  “Fr instance, Oxendale …”

  Outside on the promenade, a group of young men and women on their way home to tea trooped by singing and wearing paper hats. A girl detached herself, flushed, from the throng and a man chased her. A nymph pursued by a battered faun! Or was it a centaur? The pair of them tore along the concrete, the woman regulating her pace so that the man eventually came up with her. He seized her in his arms and they halted, stared stupidly into each other’s eyes, panting from their exertions and strange emotions, gawked at each other, and didn’t know how to pass it off …

  Boumphrey turned away in disgust.

  The beach had cleared for tea and a melancholy light was settling over the distant sea. Gulls squabbled and cried like lost souls. A few sailing boats bobbed over the water, heading for harbour in the old town. Fishermen were digging for sand-worms on the tide-line.

  For once, Boumphrey wished he could take a long holiday and contemplate the sea in peace. Here in this mecca of holidaymakers, he felt like one faced with a delectable feast of choicest food and wine yet who longs only for a crust of bread and a cup of spring water.

  His hand groped for the telephone.

  “Give me Whitehall 1212, please. And hurry,” he said. “Yes, I want Scotland Yard.”

  CHAPTER THREE - “THE CHIEF CONSTABLE IS A TIME-SERVER”

  Littlejohn’s instructions were brief and to the point.

  “Sir Gideon Ware, Mayor of Westcombe, has been poisoned. The Chief Constable’s got the jitters and wants our help. You’d better go and look after him. The sea air will do you good.”