He propped the cycle up against the “Craile Arms” and noted with a certain amount of satisfaction that it had contracted a slow puncture in the luggage van. He hoped it hurt it. And giving the punctured tyre a vicious little kick, he went in by the bar entrance, ordered a bottle of beer from what was obviously the village idiot, drank it at a gulp, came out into the street again, gave the cycle another kick, and re-entered the “Craile Arms” by the hotel entrance.
There was a complete absence of life about the place, unless you count a number of stags which looked down glassily from their wooden plaques on the walls of the entrance hall, and a stuffed salmon in a glass case. Derek peeled off his cape and draped it over the salmon. He then caught sight of a leather-bound visitors’ book lying on the hall table. Suddenly remembering what he had come to Craile for, he opened it and took a look at the last page. Mr. and Mrs. Smith was the final entry, written in a neat, unashamed handwriting. It might be; and again it might not. Noticing that the date when the Smith family had stayed at the “Craile Arms” was May 15, 1927, Derek decided that it probably was not. When he saw that Mr. Smith had written Meagre and thin we entered in, Contented and stout we staggered out, in the Remarks column he was quite sure that it wasn’t. And still no sign of life apart from the deer and salmon. Derek found a bell-push and pushed.
“Was you wanting something, sir?” said a small maid with very prominent front teeth, appearing suddenly round a door.
“Yes,” said Derek, “I was.”
“’Igh tea, or just plain, sir?” asked the maid.
“As a matter of fact, I wanted a room for the night.”
But this was outside the small maid’s province, for she ogled at Derek for a moment as though he had asked for a loan of a zeppelin, and then said, “I’d better fetch the missus, sir.”
The small maid exited and was heard calling “Missus!” in a shrill soprano all over the “Craile Arms”. Mr. Wilson, junr., went and had another beer while the hunt was on. When he came back to the hotel proper he found what he presumed to be the proprietress waiting with a teapot in one hand and a clean towel in the other.
“Was it just for one night, sir?” said the woman.
“Yes…I think so. I’m just passing through.…I say! …”
“Yes, sir?” said the proprietress.
Mr. Wilson, junr., realized with a bit of a jolt that he was talking to the little woman he had met after the inquest. Brandon Baker’s wife, in fact.
Chapter Nine
Meet, at this rather late stage, Miss Prune. You come out of the “Craile Arms” by either the wet or the dry exit, you turn left, you march a hundred yards or so down the Main (and only) Street, you pass the pump, and you stop at a microscopic shop with a small-paned bay window. And in case you are in any doubt about it, you cock your head upwards and read on the green wooden sign over the shop entrance, “Craile Post Office, Ethel Prune, Postmistress, Public Telephone Inside, Money Order Business Transacted, Licensed to Retail Tobaccos, Boarders Kept, Mineral Waters, Picnic Parties Catered For.” Yes, all that; every word of it.
And inside the shop there are a great many more notices: “Choice Bon-Bons, 4d. per qtr.”, and “Local Views 1d. Each” and “Suits and Costumes Cleaned and Dyed, Mod. Charges, Returned in Four Days as Good as New”; and something about the Shop Acts of 1923 forbidding Miss Prune to sell Postal Orders (but allowing her to sell Choice Bon-Bons) after two o’clock on Thursdays.
Wasn’t it Lord Dunsany who wrote a queer play about an odd little shop where the customers came to exchange their private troubles across the counter? One came in and handed over his toothache and got back someone else’s nagging wife in exchange. Well, Miss Prune’s establishment was run on rather similar lines to that. At five to ten it was Mrs. Twigg for a packet of Lux and a two-shilling postal order. In exchange for which, Mrs. Twigg parted with two-and-sevenpence and the latest news about Matilda Martin and that new policeman at Aylesbury. At ten past ten it was Mrs. Haliburton in search of a two-shilling book of stamps, some toilet soap, and a fresh lettuce. All of which were handed across the counter plus the Matilda-policeman gossip as a sort of free gift; and Mrs. Haliburton gave back in exchange three shillings and twopence and the very latest about that painter person who had taken Hawthorn Cottage for the winter. Stuffing her purchases in her string-bag, Mrs. Haliburton left the post office, having a difficult job to negotiate past the vicar’s sister in the narrow doorway. Notepaper and the Christian Herald and a packet of hairpins for the vicar’s sister, getting both the Matilda-policeman and the Hawthorn Cottage stories as a bonus, and giving (as her own small contribution to the feast) the text of her brother’s sermon for the following Sunday morning. And so on. Bureau de Change…that was the name of Dunsany’s play. Well, Miss Prune was a sort of proprietrix de bureau de change in the village of Craile.
Mr. Wilson, senr., had been born and bred in a village with a pop. not much larger than that of Craile. Almost the last thing he said to his oilskin-clad son and heir as the latter cocked his leg over the saddle of his cycle was, “There’s sure to be an inquisitive bisom at the local post office. Don’t ’phone unless you have to. And don’t send postcards unless you’ve nothing to say. And if you telegraph, use fictitious names if you find out anything.” Which more or less accounts for this series of highly provoking (to Miss Prune) telegrams which began to shoot briskly back and forwards between the village of Craile and the city of London shortly after the arrival of Derek Wilson in the first-named place:
(i)
Handed to Miss Prune at 9.10 a.m. on the morning after Derek’s arrival:
Arrived safely but aching in all possible limbs hotel mattress composed entirely barbed wire also no grapefruit proprietress turns out Nebuchadnezzar’s wife whom met at inquest Derek
(ii)
Handed in at London an hour later:
Sorry hear aches mattress grapefruit try pumping proprietress any signs Belshazzar Salome Dad
(iii)
Handed to the Prune just before lunch the same morning:
Proprietress gives many interesting sidelights Nebuchadnezzar’s private life Henry Eighth family man in comparison Belshazzar Salome both here but Salome returning London this afternoon send ten quid incidental expenses beer excellent Derek
(iv)
To the Prune’s younger sister, the Prune herself being away at the midweek meeting of the Dorcas Society:
Belshazzar Salome had hell of row hotel lounge Salome not returning London after all quite certain Belshazzar mixed up Nebuchadnezzar’s death suggest search his flat Derek
(v)
In London early the next morning:
Searching of Belshazzar’s flat somewhat hampered by Belshazzar not being at Craile but in London all the time suggest you visit oculist oftener and hotel bar rather less Dad
(vi)
To the Prune, immediately on receipt of this:
Thanks ten quid cannot understand your last tele-gram Belshazzar definitely here all night stand by for possible further developments immediately Derek
(vii)
Half an hour later, to the Prune:
Absolute sensation here come at once Derek
(viii)
In London again:
Sorry cannot get down to-day Chief holding conference re new designs constables helmets will try to-morrow what has happened anyway Dad
and (ix)
To the now hysterical Prune, 11.30 that morning:
Your presence here essential on my way to local gaol arrested by nitwit policeman Derek
Now, you cannot send a series of telegrams like that in a small village like Craile without causing a fair amount of discussion and eyebrow-elevation. Even in busy, sophisticated London telegrams (iv), (vii) and (ix) created something of a stir among those officials of the General Post Office who had to do with their reception and
dispatch. But in Craile the whole series was a riot.
To begin with, the idea of substituting certain Old Testament characters for the names of Mr. Baker, Mr. Watcyns and Miss Astle turned out not nearly so simple a matter as it had seemed before Derek Wilson left London. This was chiefly due to the fact that on the one day of the week when she was not serving inhabitants of Craile with postal orders, lettuce, and Lux, Miss Ethel Prune attended divine service at the local parish church at intervals from eight a.m. onwards and spent her Sabbath afternoons presiding over the infant class in the Sunday-school.
Miss Prune consequently had a pretty fair knowledge of matters Biblical. She knew perfectly well, for one thing, that Nebuchadnezzar belonged to quite a different generation than either Belshazzar or Salome, and that these three personages had no right at all to figure in the same telegram much as though they were bosom pals.
“Nebuchadnezzar?” said Miss Prune, coming up gradually from the level of her counter.
“Nebuchadnezzar,” said Derek firmly. “N for pneumonia, e for eucalyptus, b for bisurated magnesia, u for—”
“Thet’s quaite all raight, sir,” said Miss Prune sternly. “Ai’m perfectly well aware of the spelling. Only it’s rether an unusual word for a telegram, is it not, sir?”
“Not at all,” said Derek. “Nebuchadnezzar? Personal friend of mine. Dear old Nebby.”
“Quaite, sir,” said Miss Prune. “…Nebuchadnezzar’s waife whom met at inquest—Derek. Two shillings and eightpence, if you please, sir.
“Good morning, sir,” said the Prune, and was left to brood over this extraordinary telegram and to wonder whether it was blasphemy or merely the high spirits of the modern youth. Certainly it was very odd. “Proprietress turns out Nebuchadnezzar’s wife.…” That was presumably the proprietress of the “Arms”, for Mrs. Twigg had mentioned that this young hiking gentleman had arrived there last night. But the proprietress of the “Arms” had been known and respected as a single woman for twelve years now, hadn’t she? And Nebuchadnezzar, of all people. Miss Prune sent telegram (i) on its first hop towards Mr. Wilson in London with an uneasy feeling that she was conniving at something that wasn’t altogether naice.
Outside the post office, Derek inspected the pump. And a sort of mental telepathy functioned suddenly as he realized that if you lowered the handle sufficiently far, then sure enough a miserable little trickle of water came out of the spout on the other side and dribbled down into the gutter. “Try pumping the proprietress” Mr. Wilson, senr., was going to write in telegram (ii), and Mr. Wilson, junr., gave the pump-handle a last vicious jab and set off to anticipate his father’s suggestion.
He found the proprietress of the “Craile Arms” in the act of going over the carpet of No. 7 bedroom with a “Kleenkwik” vacuum cleaner. He noted that when she had finished with No. 7 she passed No. 8 bedroom respectfully and went on to knock hell out of the commercial room carpet. On the mat outside No. 8 there still lay one pair of gentleman’s shoes and one pair of lady’s ditto. Derek followed the lady of the house into the commercial room and said, politely enough, that it was a fine morning for the time of year.
“I wondered when you’d start,” said the proprietress.
“I beg your pardon?” said Derek.
“You’re a journalist, aren’t you? You’re the young man who came up and spoke to me at the inquest. Well, carry on now you’ve found me out. I can’t think why you people have to ferret folk out after anyone famous dies, though.”
“Look here,” said Derek. “You’ve got me all wrong. Honestly. I am a journalist. It’s a dreadful confession to make, I know, but I admit it freely. But I’m not down here on business. I’m on holiday. Look at these trousers—you don’t think I’d wear things like these if I were working, do you?”
The proprietress stopped her vacuum manœuvres and inspected the trousers carefully for a moment.
“Why did you speak to me that day?” she asked. “I’ve often wondered that.”
“Well—you seemed to be about the only person in all that crowd who really cared.”
“I expect I was,” said the proprietress, and sat down on one of the commercial room armchairs as though sitting down was both a luxury and a rarity.
“I suppose you wouldn’t like to tell me something about it?” asked Derek.
“Front page a bit bare?” said the proprietress.
“I wish you’d forget that idea. I’m not after news—really. Only somehow I got the idea you are rather anxious to get it off your chest. Wrong again, it seems, I’m sorry.”
“No,” said the rather tired-looking woman, “you weren’t wrong. I would like to talk to someone about it. No one down here knows anything about it at all.…”
“Well?” said Derek, feeling rather uncomfortable at the success of the pumping operations.
“I met Brandon Baker first in 1909. We were both on the stage. At least, I don’t know if you would call it being on the stage. It was mostly concert-party work at the seaside towns. I was a soubrette and dancer in a troupe—‘The Merry Monarchs’ we called ourselves. Brandon joined the troupe at the beginning of the season. He was a light baritone and dancer—pretty bad at it, too. I expect I was pretty bad as well, but I certainly didn’t think so then.…”
“Yes?” said Derek, realizing that a little careful prompting was going to be necessary to keep the proprietress away from that vacuum cleaner.
“We got married in August at Eastbourne. They gave us a benefit-night. We got eight pounds ten, I remember. We were terribly happy and absolutely broke. Just before Christmas we signed on with a touring company of a musical comedy—I forget the name…The Girl from Somewhere-or-other. We were both in the chorus, but Brandon was understudy to the juvenile lead. The juvenile drank an awful lot—fortunately for Brandon. We were up in some dreadful town in the Midlands when he had rather more than he could hold and broke his leg trying to climb down from a hansom. Brandon got the part, and he did it pretty well. At least, it seemed pretty well in comparison with the other fellow. When the tour ended he was offered the lead in another musical show. After that he got a leading part in London. Twelve quid a week. We could hardly speak for happiness. We took a flat in London, and Brandon went into the rehearsal, and I gave up the show business and started to learn all about boiling eggs and having babies and that kind of thing. Then the trouble started.”
The tired little woman’s eyes roamed back in the direction of the vacuum, and Derek put in another “Yes?” to egg her on with the story.
“There was a woman in the show—Doris Fraser. Brandon fell in love with her. I got to know all about it, but I didn’t say anything until one night I heard that things were getting a little too warm to be comfortable. We had a pretty good row about it, and Brandon promised that he would never see her again. A week later he told me he was leaving me.”
Feeling that “Yes?” had been overworked by now, Derek made a series of clucking noises with his teeth.
“They lived together about a year. Then she left him. I think that sort of embittered Brandon. It changed him, anyway. After the War, when he came back into musical comedy and got right up to the top of the tree, he led a pretty hectic life. He hadn’t a very good reputation, I’m afraid, right up to the time of his death. Not that that’s any business of mine. Or of yours, Mr.…”
“Hopkinson,” said Derek.
“Oh, Hopkinson? It looked like Hepplewaite in the register.”
“Thank you,” said Derek. “And did you never see Brandon Baker after you—after he left you?”
“Oh, yes. Often. As a matter of fact, we got to be quite good friends. It’s funny, that, but we did. I worked with him in a lot of shows—he in the leading parts and me in the chorus. And then I got a bit old and a bit short of wind and my figure started running away with itself, and I decided to chuck the stage and settle down. I’d managed to save a little mon
ey, and I bought this place up cheap and started to lead the simple life. Brandon was very kind. He tried to help me with money when the hotel wasn’t doing too well at the start, but I always managed to get along without it. There was an awful lot of good in Brandon Baker, Mr. Wilson, though you mightn’t think it. It’s funny, that, isn’t it?—that there’s usually a lot of good in bad people?”
“Quite,” said Derek. “Er—have you heard anything about him recently. Before his death, I mean?”
“I hadn’t seen him for over three years when I read about his death in the papers. But I’d heard a good deal about him. I used to hear from one or two friends who are still on the stage, though they oughtn’t to be, poor dears. He wasn’t behaving himself very well, I’m afraid. Drink—and women. Now I’ve taken up quite enough of your time, Mr. Wilson, and in any case I don’t hold with speaking that way about the dead.”
“Just one other thing,” said the persistent Mr. Wilson. “Did you ever hear Brandon Baker’s name linked with that of…Gwen Astle?”
The proprietress got up from the chair and set off on a renewed attack on the commercial room carpet.
“Brandon was living with Gwen Astle at the time of his death,” she said over her shoulder.
“Then…” said Derek. And stopped.
The commercial room door opened suddenly. A head of unbelievably golden hair shot around it, followed by a pair of large eyes framed in carefully groomed lashes, a small nose, and a brace of brilliantly scarlet lips. Miss Gwen Astle, celebrated musical-comedy star and late leading lady of the Douglas B. Douglas production Blue Music.
“Hi!” said Miss Astle through the wheeze of the vacuum. “Is everyone dead in this place? I’ve been ringing the bell in my room since ten past nine, and nothing’s happened so far. What’s on to-day, eh? Everyone away at the local flower show, or what?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Wright,” said the proprietress, stopping the wheeze. “I think something’s wrong with the bell in Number eight. Were you wanting something?”
“Was I wanting something?” said Mrs. Wright née Astle. “What the hell d’you think I’ve been keeping my finger on the ruddy bell for, eh? Listening to the pretty music, eh? I want a taxi for two o’clock and a double gin-and-ginger right now.”
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