Who was it? An Unknown Female, that was what Miss Twigg had said. And who had found her? Well, Miss Prune wasn’t quite sure, but she thought it had been the girl Matilda Mowitt, the maid at the hotel. And when? Oh, but Miss Prune really had no idea, but it must have been pretty late, because she understood from what Miss Twigg had said that the girl Matilda was…er…enjoying the evening with her fiancé, who was a policeman in Aylesbury. And it was on their way home that they just happened to come on the body suddenly, you see, so that would be either just before midnight or just after midnight, because the girl Matilda was one of those modern girls, and many a time she’d had her aunt in the shop complaining about the hours she kept when she was out with men.
And where was the body now? the strange young man had demanded. Well, Miss Prune had really no idea at all, but she imagined the police-station—wouldn’t that be the usual place to take the…er…the deceased? Right, then where was the blessed police-station, the young man had asked—quite snappily, as though his life and death depended on knowing. Miss Prune’s suspicions soared again. She must remember every detail of this conversation for the inquest. “He appeared haighly egitated, sir, and when I pointed out the police-station to him he left the shop at once and disappeared in the opposite direction at a great speed.” But as a matter of fact, he didn’t. He said, “Thanks very much,” and, “Here—send this wire, same address as before,” and out of the shop and across the street and over the little gate at the foot of P. C. Root’s garden without even bothering to unlatch the latch and open it, and up the drive, and was both ringing a bell and knocking a knocker before Miss Prune could find her long-distance glasses to bring him back into focus. And, what’s more, inside P. C. Root’s cottage, alias the police-station.
Miss Prune was left with telegram (v):
Thanks ten quid cannot understand your last wire Belshazzar definitely here all night stand by for possible further developments immediately Derek
Not that that told you much. “Possible immediate developments”, though. Promising, that. And sure enough within another ten minutes the strange young man shot out of P. C. Root’s cottage, and took the gate in a leap, and bounded across the road into the shop again. With P. C. Root standing at the door of his cottage shouting, “’Ere, ’ere, ’ere, ’ere, ’ere!” over and over again.
“Another telegram,” said the young man. “Come on, get a move on!”
Miss Prune got a move on.
Absolute sensation here come down at once Derek
The poorest so far by a long way from the financial point of view, but definitely the most exciting of the series. “Ebsolute sensation” read Miss Prune, her hand shaking just a little. “Is anything wrong, sir?” “Nothing,” said the young man, with one of his attractive smiles, “Nothing at all. One-and-a-penny? Thank you so much.” And out of the door again, and off along the Main Street in the direction of the hotel as fast as his legs could carry him. And, “Millicent!” Miss Prune had yelled—“Millicent, come and mind the shop!” and had followed the young man out (the first time in her life she could remember being seen in the village without her hat on), and had crossed over to P. C. Root’s cottage and done her level best to get something out of that massive lump of the law. Unsuccessfully, though: for P. C. Root was obviously in one of his aloof moods and was giving nothing away. Indeed, he managed to get rather more out of Miss Prune than Miss Prune got out of him.
“Do you happen to have any idea as to who that man what was inside of your shop just now is?” asked P. C. Root laboriously.
“No,” said Miss Prune. “Yes. At least, he’s a young man staying at the ‘Arms’, I understand. What has happened? Is he mixed up in this ghestly business, Constable?”
“I’m not so sure as how he isn’t,” said P. C. Root.
“But tell me—is it true, really? Have you any idea, Constable, as to who the unfortunate woman may be?”
“Maybe I have and maybe I haven’t,” said P. C. Root.
“Is the…is she inside?”
“I’m not saying as how she is or isn’t,” said P. C. Root.
“Well,” said Miss Prune, exasperated, “why on earth don’t you go efter that young man? Stending there shouting: ‘Here, here, here,’ laike thet!…Do something, men!”
“All right, all right,” said P. C. Root. “They’ll be plenty doing when things start doing, don’t you fear. P. C. Lightfoot’s gone down to Aylesbury on his bike to get up the Inspector. Then I suppose Scotland Yard’ll be in on it. We’ll all be in the papers to-night, you see if we’re not, Miss Prune.”
“Do you heppen to know how the person was…er…killed?” asked Miss Prune.
“Maybe I does. And maybe I doesn’t. None of your business, that, if you don’t mind my saying so. What was that young man after in your shop, Miss Prune?”
“He gave me a telegram.”
“Tellygram, eh? And what was the wording of same, might I enquire?”
“I really have no raight to tell you, Constable—”
“Come on, come on, come on!”
“Ebsolute sensation here come down at once Derek.”
“And who was the tellygram addressed to, Miss Prune?”
“To—oh, dear, this is all against the regulations, Constable—to Wilson, Fifty-eight Park Terrace, London. He’s sent quaite a number since he arraived yesterday—all to the same men. It’s may belief that he’s in league with—”
“Maybes,” said P. C. Root, retiring inside his cottage. “And maybes not. I shall probably require you again for interrogation, Miss Prune, when I am able to leave the cottage—”
“I see,” said Miss Prune, going rather pale. “You’ve got to stay and keep guard over the…the Body. Thet’s it, isn’t it?”
“Maybes,” said P. C. Root heavily. “In the meantime, kindly let me know if any further happenings…er…happen,” ended the constable rather lamely.
There had been all that excitement, then. And then—good gracious, it made her go quite faint to think of it—there had been the reappearance of the young man. About an hour and a half later, that must have been; but the time had simply flown, for there had been one customer after another, and the story to tell to them all, for most of them had seen Miss Prune talking to P. C. Root and just dropped in to get the real story. Then the young man. Looking very worried, Miss Prune thought, and not a bit like himself, quite stern and never smiling at all. Hadn’t there been any answer to his last telegram? No, not yet. But at that very moment the ’phone had rung and the answer come through, and here it was:
Sorry cannot get down to-day chief holding conference re new designs constables helmets will try tomorrow what has happened anyway Dad
Miss Prune couldn’t make head nor tail of it, but it had a dreadful effect on the young man. “Hell!” said the young man. “Hell and damn and blast the ruddy conference!” said the young man. And then, “I’m very sorry. I beg your pardon. Could I use the telephone, please?” said the young man politely, as though language like that could be cancelled out merely by a smile and an apology. And inside the telephone-box he’d stepped and put through a trunk call to London. Miss Prune heard him distinctly, because the door of the telephone-box didn’t close properly unless you gave it a good bang, and Miss Prune had never had it attended to because it was rather interesting to…
“Whitehall one-two-one-two. Personal call for Detective Inspector Wilson, of the Criminal Investigation Department.…” Miss Prune dusted the pyramid of soap packets busily, her best ear towards the ’phone-box. “That you, Dad?”…And then the young man on the other side of the glass door had given her such a look and banged the door shut, and that had been the end of that. But not the end of the day’s excitements. Good gracious, no!
Enter P. C. Root while the young man was still busy inside the telephone-box. And P. C. Lightfoot of the Aylesbury Constabulary. And another P. C. who
m Miss Prune had never seen before. “Good morning,” said Miss Prune weakly, “And…er…what can I do for you, gentlemen?” Doing her best to appear as though she thought it was postage stamps or even Choice Bon-Bons that had occasioned the invasion of the law into her shop. But knowing perfectly well that it wasn’t, even before P. C. Root said heavily: “That’s all right, Miss Prune. We’re not requiring you at the moment. It’s this young gent here as what we’re after.” And then…“Oh, dear. More smelling-salts, quickly, Millicent, please.”
For out came the young man from the telephone-box, looking much more pleased with life than when he had gone in. And, “I’d like a word with you, sir,” P. C. Root had said.
“Splendid!” said the young man. “First of all, I’d like one with you. My name’s Wilson. My father is Inspector Wilson of Scotland Yard. He sent me down here to look into a matter that he’s rather interested in at the moment—look into it in quite an unofficial kind of way. Well, it’s ended up rather differently to what we expected, see? And at present you don’t know who the murdered person is, do you? And you definitely don’t know who the murderer is, do you?”
“’Ere, ’ere, ’ere—” said P. C. Root.
“I must warn you that anything—” said P. C. Lightfoot.
“Never heard tell of such a thing,” said the anonymous member of the trio.
“Shut up!” said Derek. “And stay shut up. Here’s a bit of news for you. I know who was the woman who was found dead in Craile Woods last night. And I know who the man was who killed her.”
“’Ere, ’ere—”
“Exactly. Hear, hear. Glad you agree with me.”
“Come on, then, young fellow-me-lad,” said P. C. Lightfoot, taking charge. “Who the ’ell are they, then—you that knows everything?”
“Under the circumstances, I’m not going to tell you that.”
“Oh,” said P. C. Lightfoot. “Oho. Refuses to give the information when requested so to do, eh? Come along, come along.”
“There’s only one way of getting actual proof of this murder, and that is to do nothing. Just carry on being your own sweet selves without an idea in your three heads.
“There’s more in this business than just finding the murderer of the woman whose body you found last night. Much more.”
“Do you know that Scotland Yard are coming down here right away?” asked P. C. Root viciously. “Doing nothing, indeed!”
“No, they’re not,” said Derek. “I’ve just been speaking to Inspector Wilson of Scotland Yard, and they’re doing nothing of the sort.”
“Are you trying to make out that you’re Inspector Wilson’s son?”
“There’s no need to try to make it out, my good man. Nothing like that in our family. I am Inspector Wilson’s son.”
“Then why are you registered at the ‘Craile Arms’ under the name of J. Hopkinson?” demanded P. C. Root.
“For perfectly good reasons of my own.”
“Is that so? Miss Prune…”
“Yes, Constable?” Miss Prune appeared from behind the soap-flake pyramid looking rather flushed.
“Know anything about this young man here?”
“I’ve already told you all I know, Constable. He keeps sending odd telegrams to a Mr. Wilson in London.”
“What d’you mean—odd telegrams?”
“Er…telegrams with odd names in them. Biblical allusions, as a metter of fect.”
“Arrr!…” said P. C. Root, seeing all in a flash. “Never showed no signs of violence in the shop at no time, has he, Miss Prune?”
“Er…no. He used haighly abusive language when he came into the shop helf an hour ago.”
“Such as might be used by a religious fanattick, as you might say, Miss Prune?”
“I really have no idea…it was certainly not the kaind of language a normal person would use, I’m sure.…”
“Arrr!” said P. C. Root again, satisfied.
“Umum,” said P. C. Lightfoot, corroborating.
The anonymous P. C. contented himself with tapping his helmet with his forefinger in a way Derek did not at all approve of.
“We’ll have to ask you to accompany us to the station, young man,” said P. C. Root.
“Anything you say may be used—” said P. C. Lightfoot.
“No need for violence,” said the anonymous arm of the law.
“Are you three birds trying to arrest me?” asked Derek.
“Come along, come along, now.”
“Of all the—”
“’Ere, ’ere, ’ere, ’ere!…”
Mr. Wilson, junr., was led quietly but firmly to the door of the post office.
“Miss Prune!” he called out.
“’Er…yes?”
“Send this telegram, will you:
“Your presence here essential on my way to local gaol arrested by nitwit policeman, Derek.”
“’Ere, ’ere,” said the idiot policeman.
“Same address as before,” said Derek.
“One-and-eightpence, sir,” said Miss Prune, just conscious enough to realize that business should never be refused even in the queerest of circumstances.
“There’s half a crown,” said Derek. He was shuffled out, across the road, up the drive and into P. C. Root’s cottage. He noticed for the first time that there was a little illuminated sign tucked away in Virginia creeper above the door which remarked: “Police Station”.
Well, there was all the excitement. Miss Prune dithered for a good while about the telegram. Should she send it? Or hadn’t she better ask P. C. Root about it? But after all, she’d received the thing and been paid for the thing, and so off the thing went to London. With the result that in rather less than two hours Detective Inspector Wilson of Scotland Yard landed in person in the village of Craile in an Austin-seven several sizes too small for him.
“Police-station,” said Mr. Wilson, senr., brusquely.
“Beg pardon, sir?” said Miss Prune.
“The police-station, woman. Where is it?”
“Just across the road, sir. Thet house with the creeper, sir.”
“No, no—you don’t understand. It’s the police-station I want.”
“Thet’s it, sir. Straight across.”
“My God!” said Mr. Wilson, senr., and went straight across.
At which point Miss Prune staggered back against her counter and called weakly for smelling-salts and her younger sister. And, there, as it happened, ended her brief, but exciting, connection with the affair. Not that she allowed the matter to drop then and there, of course; there was all the fuss in the papers to come yet, and for quite six months afterwards it was Miss Prune’s main source of conversation. But her actual contact with the case dried up abruptly at the moment when Mr. Wilson, senr., bounded out of her shop and across the road. There were no more visits from the strange young man, no odd telegrams informing the gentleman in London that Nebuchadnezzar’s wife had turned out to be Belshazzar’s sister Salome—or whatever it was. From that moment on Miss Prune had to give up actual participation in the business, and drift back into her old rôle of proprietrix du bureau de change. Ten to ten—Miss Twigg, cucumber and Home Chat, and was there anything fresh about the Murder this morning? Ten past—the vicar’s sister, notepaper and photographic paste, and had she read in the paper the queer way in which the Murder had ended up? And so on.…
Mr. Wilson, senr., in the meantime, was well inside Craile Police Station (née Laburnum Cottage), and was throwing his weight about to fairly good effect. Constables Root, Lightfoot and Anon. appeared to be in a distrustful mood this morning, and it was only after a heavy argument and the display of a few indisputable credentials that Mr. Wilson was able to convince them that he was Inspector Wilson of the C. I. D. Once convinced, Constables Root, Lightfoot and Anon. grovelled, mumbled sheepish apologies, r
emoved their helmets in the Presence, and were apparently struck dumb.
“Well?” said Mr. Wilson, senr. “Come on—speak, one of you. Is my son here?”
“There’s a young gentleman here, sir—” said Constable Root guardedly.
“Under arrest?” barked Mr. Wilson.
“No, sir,” said Constable Lightfoot, shocked. “We just thought as how it would be better, in view of the somewhat suspicious-like conduct of the gent, to—”
“Oaf!” said Mr. Wilson. “Produce him.”
Oaf Lightfoot disappeared into the bowels of the police-station and produced Mr. Wilson, junr.
“Good morning,” said Derek. “Nice to see you. How’s Martha’s sister’s neuritis?”
“Damn Martha’s sister’s neuritis,” said Mr. Wilson, senr. “What the blazes are you doing here?”
“Ask the Prides of the Force,” said Derek. “They seem to think I’m mixed up in something.”
“And what’s happened? What’s the ‘absolute sensation’ you burbled about in your telegrams?”
“Gwen Astle was found murdered last night in the woods just outside the village.”
“Good God!”
“She’s in there, if you want to look at her. Shot through the abdomen. Watcyns took her away from the hotel a bit after ten last night—said she was going back to London and he was driving her to the station. He came back alone about eleven. I went out afterwards and saw his car standing empty at the entrance to the woods. She was found round about midnight by Exhibit B here, who was studying bird-life at eventide with one of the lasses of the village.”
“Dangerous way of keeping her mouth shut, wasn’t it?” said Mr. Wilson, senr.
“What d’you mean?”
“It looks to me as though Gwen Astle knew the real truth about Brandon Baker’s death. She rings me up, and is removed to this nice quiet spot before I can get to her. And once here she still refuses to keep her mouth shut—and has the job done for her. Doesn’t it strike you that way?”
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