The Complete Dangerous Davies

by Leslie Thomas

  ‘The derivation of words and phrases,’ corrected the priest. ‘I am writing an illustrated book, for young people, showing how some of the things we say came to be.’ He turned on the projector. ‘This is a solan goose, otherwise known as a gannet. You know that to be a gannet is a phrase for being greedy.’ Once more he flicked the switch. A snarling wolf appeared. ‘And another phrase is to be a glutton. This is a glutton, the Scandinavian wolf.’

  People’s private, sometimes secret, interests, sometimes passions, never ceased to intrigue Davies. The priest shut off the projector again and blew on it as if in an attempt to cool it. ‘Now,’ he said in a businesslike way. ‘Father Fergus’ files. They are in here.’

  He led the way once more from the room and into an adjoining smaller room which was as ordered as his own had been in disarray. ‘My housekeeper, whom I inherited with this house, keeps these filing cabinets dusted. I even found her polishing them one day.’ He winked at Davies. ‘I think she has a suspicion that he may come back some time.’

  He turned on the light. It beamed powerfully over the cabinets. ‘He put that in,’ said Father Ignatius. ‘It’s like the Light of God, isn’t it.’ He began sniffing along the labels on the outside of the cabinets. He tutted. ‘Look at that will you,’ he said without enabling Davies to do so. ‘He kept lists of everything. From who was born to who was wedded to who died and who scrubbed the vestry floor. Amazing.’ He glanced sideways at Davies. ‘But this day it all may be justified.’

  He sniffed along the files. ‘There it is. Easy. Youth Club. It’s divided into years. Five years ago you say, Mr Davies. Here we are.’

  The small man tugged violently at the metal drawer. Davies leaned to assist him but it was already opening. The priest stepped aside in invitation. ‘See if you can spot it,’ he suggested. ‘This light is too much for me. I’ll never get used to Heaven.’ He went towards the door. ‘I’m going to ask Mrs Finnister to make some coffee. Would you like a cup?’

  Davies thanked him and said he would. His hand went into the cabinet and he lifted out a file. He checked the year. Nineteen eighty-eight. That was it. He put it on a small table which took up most of the rest of the space in the room. There was a wooden chair and he took this away from the table intending to sit to study the file. But it was not necessary. Almost the first document that he took from the folder was the one he sought. It was headed: ‘Youth Club volunteer beach party’ and was a list of a dozen names. He could feel himself smiling gratefully as he looked down at them.

  He took the list and then went through the rest of the file. There were letters and memos and further lists headed ‘Duty Rosters’. He picked out the list for 16 September, the date that Dulciman’s shoes had been found. There were a dozen names on it. He checked them with the original document. They were all included.

  Davies returned to the priest’s study. Father Ignatius was sitting behind the desk which had been all but concealed by other objects, some of which he had now pushed to one side. He had taken some vestments from the back of a chair and he now invited Davies to sit down. Two mugs of coffee were standing on the desk. ‘It’s instant,’ he said half apologetically. ‘Mrs Finnister made proper coffee for Father Fergus. His general food was a good deal better too.’ He leaned forward confidingly. ‘An inherited housekeeper is like a woman married twice. Always making comparisons, usually unfavourable.’ He looked at the two pieces of paper in Davies’ hand. ‘You found something. That was quick indeed.’

  ‘Father Fergus’ filing system,’ said Davies.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ shrugged the small man. ‘I suppose that orderliness has its concealed virtues. Like cleanliness.’

  Davies began reading down the names. ‘Andrews, Arthurson, Ferris, Gannet, Milford, Mulligan, Ling …’ The priest began to nod at them. ‘All these families are still here,’ he said. ‘Although I’m not too sure about the Mil-fords. They have stopped coming to church. They may have moved away.’ He looked at Davies brightly. ‘Can I help you to contact them?’ he suggested.

  ‘Now that would be a great help.’

  ‘I think coming from me the inquiry would be less startling than from a detective, don’t you think?’

  Davies agreed. The priest studied the names on the list. ‘Of course, this was five years ago, and these young people will be nineteen, twenty, even older by now.’

  ‘There are plenty of holes in it,’ conceded Davies. ‘After this time they may not be able to recall anything. Although finding a pair of floating shoes is not an everyday occurrence.’

  Father Ignatius rubbed his small, cherry nose. ‘Did this person realise, at any time, that the floating footwear might be connected with a murder?’

  ‘You would have made a good CID man,’ smiled Davies. ‘It’s possible they did not. As far as they were concerned they found the shoes and took them up to the hotel and that was that. End of story. The porter at the hotel took the shoes but did not take the name of the young person and I don’t know whether the police traced him, or even tried to trace him. He simply found the shoes.’

  ‘But why take them to the hotel?’ asked the priest.

  Davies eyed him with appreciation. ‘Exactly. Why didn’t he just leave them floating? What’s a pair of waterlogged shoes? Perhaps he was astute enough to realise that they ought to be reported, that somebody might have drowned. A pair, not one. So he headed for the nearest place where an adult might take over – the hotel.’

  Father Ignatius studied the list again. ‘What questions do you want me to ask?’ he glanced up. ‘If I can contact these people, that is,’ he warned. ‘They ought to be out working now, or studying somewhere. But these days, you never know.’

  ‘Let’s hope we’re lucky,’ said Davies. ‘If not I’ll call them later. This evening.’

  ‘Maybe we’ll be lucky,’ echoed the priest. ‘Now, the questions …’

  ‘Right,’ said Davies. ‘Well, first of all ask if the person can remember a pair of shoes being found on that occasion, 16 September five years ago, and who found them. It’s just the sort of thing that might stick in someone’s mind.’

  Without asking anything further the priest discovered the telephone below the pile of soiled roller towels screwed up on the desk. He uncovered the telephone directory from the same area and handed it to Davies. ‘You read the numbers,’ he suggested. ‘The print gets smaller every day for me.’ He handed Davies the list.

  Davies said: ‘We’ll try the less common names. Arthurson. That will do for a start.’ He looked through the directory. ‘Only two entries.’

  ‘It will be the one in Holdenhurst Road,’ said the priest. ‘The father died.’

  Davies read the number and watched Father Ignatius dial with exaggerated care. The call was answered quickly.

  ‘Hello, is that Mrs Arthurson? It is. Good. This is Father Ignatius from the church … No, there’s no trouble.’ He turned his eyes up to Davies and rolled them. ‘No, no. I wanted to have a word with young Brian. Is he there? Oh, good …’ He covered the mouthpiece and whispered to Davies. ‘They think because it’s a priest that it’s bad news.’ He returned to the phone. ‘Hello young Brian. What are you doing these days? Not much. Well, I expect something will turn up. I want to ask you an odd question, but it’s important to see if you can remember. You know the beach patrols that Father Fergus used to organise, picking up the litter and suchlike …? Right, that’s it. Can you cast your mind back some way, five years, 1988, 16 September. Someone, one of the members of the youth club, found a pair of shoes floating in the sea … Do you recall that? You don’t. Think hard. No, you don’t. Well, thank you Brian. Hope your life improves soon.’

  Shrugging, he put the telephone down. ‘He doesn’t remember,’ he said. ‘But knowing the confusion in his family I’m not surprised. His sister had a baby and was supposed to have it christened. Everybody turned up and they forgot to bring the baby, can you believe.’ He sighed. ‘What’s the next name?’

  ‘Ferris,’ said
Davies. ‘Ferris, Ling, Gannet …’

  ‘It’s Garret … Father Fergus’ handwriting. But it looks like Gannet, doesn’t it, the solan goose. Sometimes these things are signs. Anyway I know where they live. They come to church regularly and they’re a clever enough family. Although in that case the lad will be out at work or at his studies, I imagine.’ Davies found the entry in the directory and told him the number. He dialled it.

  ‘Is that young Andrew Garret?’ asked the priest. ‘It is. Fine. This is Father Ignatius … No, no trouble. I just wondered if you could remember something from some time ago …’

  Davies watched the priest’s face as he recited the questions. At once his expression lightened. ‘You do? Who was it? Ah, yes, I know them. The Howells, right, Old Christchurch Road. Yes I do. Thank you Andrew. Hope you’re better soon and back to work.’

  Slowly he put the phone down and turned smiling towards Davies in the same movement. ‘You heard that,’ he said. Davies was already searching for the number. He gave it to Father Ignatius. ‘What question this time?’ he inquired.

  ‘Ask him if he remembers picking up the shoes.’ He thought about it. ‘Then I think I’d like to meet him. Perhaps you could come too, Father.’

  ‘I will,’ said the priest rubbing his small hands together. ‘I’m enjoying this.’

  With pedantic care he dialled the number. ‘Now, hello there, Mrs Howells. How are you? No, there’s no trouble. It was young Peter I wanted. No, nothing to worry about. Ah, good for him. I see. Well perhaps I could call about then. Right. Thank you. Oh … yes, God be with you also.’

  He replaced the telephone. ‘He’s got work,’ he said to Davies with a touch of triumph. ‘The lad that is, not God. He comes home about four.’ He studied rather than looked at the wall clock. The hands were large but it was an hour slow. ‘I can’t put it right, I daren’t touch it,’ he forestalled Davies. ‘Father Fergus put it there. As you already know he was a thorough man and when he put it on the wall, that is where he meant it to stay. Only God could shift that clock.’

  ‘But it’s only slow,’ pointed out Davies. ‘You could move the hands.’

  The priest looked a trifle annoyed as if he wished he had thought of that. ‘I’ll wait until summertime,’ he decided. ‘My hours are too full to keep altering clocks.’ He looked at his watch held by a strap like a dog collar on his wrist. ‘This has stopped. Last week,’ he said.

  ‘It’s three thirty,’ said Davies looking at his watch.

  ‘We could have our cup of coffee and make our way down there,’ the priest said. ‘We must continue with our investigation.’ His small face wrinkled. ‘In the meantime perhaps you could tell me the details. I would like to know exactly what it is we are investigating.’

  Mrs Howells had put on a new dress for their visit. There was still a label hanging from the back. When her son came home from work he silently went to the sideboard drawer, took out a pair of scissors and cut off the label. ‘Look at that,’ exclaimed Mrs Howells, ‘and I’ve been wearing this dress like that for ages.’

  She brought them tea. Peter Howells was a tall, thin youth with sandy hair and a haunted expression. ‘Nice to see you’ve got a job,’ said Father Ignatius. ‘So many haven’t.’

  ‘I did training,’ said Peter tiredly. ‘Also I did retraining. You know. Carpentry, plumbing, interior decorating, roofing.’

  ‘You’re well qualified,’ put in Davies. They had not told the boy why they were there and he had not asked.

  ‘I’ve got a job in Perkins,’ he said.

  ‘The pork pie manufacturers,’ beamed the priest as if the youth had said the Stock Exchange. ‘And how is it?’

  ‘All right,’ shrugged Peter. ‘If you like killing pigs.’

  The priest glanced uncomfortably at Davies. ‘Yes … well … they have to … well.’

  ‘He thought it was a job in the Dispatch Department,’ said Mrs Howells putting the teacups on the table.

  Her son regarded them bleakly. ‘Like sending off the pork pies. Dispatching, that’s what I thought it meant. But it turned out to be killing them and gutting them afterwards. I can’t stand it any longer. I quite like pigs.’

  ‘With all that training you should get another job,’ encouraged Davies.

  ‘I’m overqualified,’ muttered Peter. ‘The only thing I can get is in the chicken processing place. You only slaughter hens there. I might as well join the army. At least you only have to kill something now and again.’

  Sympathetically his mother poured the tea. ‘His dad was an undertaker, you remember, Father.’

  ‘So he was,’ agreed Father Ignatius who had forgotten.

  ‘At least the people were already dead,’ said the youth. He seemed suddenly to realise that they had come especially to see him. ‘What was it about?’ he asked.

  ‘A murder,’ said Father Ignatius tactlessly.

  Davies put his hand across his eyes. ‘A possible murder,’ he corrected.

  The boy looked alarmed. ‘Why me?’ he asked. ‘What did you want me for?’

  ‘He’s a detective,’ said the priest.

  Davies got in before Father Ignatius could say anything else. ‘It’s about those shoes you found on the beach five years ago.’

  Peter looked puzzled but then his face cleared. ‘Oh right,’ he said firmly. ‘I found them in the water. But it was ages ago.’

  ‘Five years,’ repeated Davies. ‘I am a private investigator and I am trying to clear up the disappearance of a Mr Vernon Dulciman. They were his shoes.’

  For the first time the young man looked interested. ‘Were they? Well, what about that then. Did he end up in the sea then?’

  ‘He may have done,’ put in the priest, patently feeling the matter was drifting away from him. ‘Or he may have been done away with.’

  The youth laughed nervously. His mother stood with her fingers to her mouth. ‘But all I saw was his shoes,’ he said. ‘I didn’t even know whose they were until now. Nobody told me. That was the last I heard of it.’

  Davies blew out his cheeks. ‘You didn’t leave your name,’ he said. ‘It did not seem that important at the time, I know.’

  ‘Not to me,’ said Peter. ‘And nobody asked for my name. I just took them up to the chap in the hotel.’

  ‘They were floating in the shallows were they?’ Davies asked him. ‘Floating about?’

  The young man frowned. ‘That’s right. I didn’t actually see them first, now I remember. There was a woman there and she pointed them out to me and when I got them she told me to go up to the hotel with them because they might be important. I was only fourteen and I used to do what my elders told me. So I did.’

  Davies was staring at him. ‘This woman … What was she like?’

  ‘Not very old. I’ve seen her in the disco and around Bournemouth. Not very old but quite fat. She just said to take them to the hotel.’

  ‘Mildred,’ breathed Davies to himself.

  ‘She’s gone,’ said Bertie spreading his hands.

  ‘Gone? Where?’ asked Davies. The porter had been standing on the steps outside the hotel when Davies arrived. Now he looked up and down the street as though seeking an answer.

  ‘Goodness knows, Mr Davies, I don’t. Nor anybody else here. She just up and went. No notice, no anything. Everybody was put out. We’re just starting to get busy.’

  That’s not like Mildred, is it,’ said Davies. They walked into the lobby. A new, confused-looking girl was behind the reception desk.

  ‘Not one bit,’ said Bertie. He paused. Sometimes Davies had watched people do this, a stiffening of the face, an expression of surrender, when they were about to say something they thought they might later regret. Bertie took a step closer. ‘I’ve got to tell you something, sir,’ he whispered. ‘In private.’

  ‘Where?’ said Davies. Bertie indicated with his hand and they went down the stairs to his quarters. Davies could feel his excitement gathering; things were starting to happen. Bertie unlocked
his room and Davies followed him in. The porter sat heavily on the armchair and indicated the couch to his visitor. Davies chose to sit on the arm. ‘What was it, Bertie?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve been tossing up whether to tell you. But I have a sense of loyalty, you know. If somebody does me a favour, and I say I’ll do something for them, I try to do it. And if they say it’s secret then I try not to tell anybody. But I think I’ve got to let you into it.’

  ‘What’s the secret? Tell me.’

  ‘It’s Mr Dulciman.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve got some stuff of his.’

  ‘What sort of stuff?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s in a suitcase.’ He nodded across the room to where, as Davies had seen on his first visit, suitcases and boxes were lined against the wall. ‘One of them. The big brown one.’

  ‘He asked you to look after it.’

  ‘Right. Well he did me a favour once. Like I told you I didn’t care for him, nobody did, horrible man, but he did me this one favour and I kept the case for him in return. I was in trouble with the bookies. You know me, Mr Davies, a hot shot at backing favourites to lose. Three hundred pounds I was down. Owing. And that was a lot of money for me. And it was five or six years ago.’

  ‘So he helped you out.’

  ‘Gave me the lot,’ said Bertie shaking his head. ‘I couldn’t believe it, sir. I must have said something, like half joking, like I do, about being in bother with my betting, and the next day he asked me quietly if I needed any help. I just could not believe what I was hearing. But I said I was in trouble, and how much, and he gave me the money. Just like that. He said it was a loan and I could pay him back when I had it, when I had a big win. In a funny way I thought he was, well … lining me up … in case he needed help at some time.’

  Bertie shook his head. ‘That was not long before he disappeared,’ he related. ‘So I had no chance. But he asked me to look after that suitcase for him.’ He nodded towards the wall. ‘And naturally I did. And he said it was highly confidential, that I was never to mention it to anybody. And naturally again I said that I would not. That’s why I’ve taken so long to tell you. I like you and I know what you’re trying to do for Mrs Dulciman but I’ve always kept my word up to now and I gave Mr Dulciman my word.’