Mad About the Boy?

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  ‘Well, you can’t blame Arthur for Tim’s death,’ said Isabelle.

  ‘No, although he did keep insisting that Tim committed suicide. He had the opportunity, I think, but he discovered the empty Goldflake packet.’

  Isabelle wriggled. ‘I hate talking about people we know as if they’re specimens in an experiment,’ she said crossly.

  Haldean grinned. ‘Play along, old thing. If we can’t do it like they do it in detective stories, I wouldn’t know where to start.’

  ‘If you were writing this, who would be guilty?’

  ‘That’s easy,’ said Haldean. He broke off impatiently. ‘Look, old prune, stop twitching. Why don’t you stop wriggling, put your ankles on my knees and get comfortable?’ Isabelle grinned and swung herself round. ‘That’s better,’ said Haldean. ‘If I was writing this I’d be the mysterious villain.’

  Isabelle giggled. ‘Don’t.’ She reached out. ‘Give me a cigarette, Jack. Now – you’d just decided Arthur didn’t kill Tim.’ She leaned forward as he struck a match. ‘And, to be fair to him, Malcolm didn’t either. He thought the world of Tim. He wasn’t putting that on. Besides that, he was in the ballroom all the evening. If he wasn’t talking to Dad he was with me.’

  ‘I can’t see Bubble or Squeak in the role of First Murderer, either. As it happens, I’m not guilty, so that leaves, apart from Uncle Philip and Aunt Alice, whom I refuse to consider, your Uncle Alfred, Mrs Strachan and Lady Harriet.’

  ‘What about the Russian who was here on Sunday? He could have murdered Tim by mistake on Saturday night.’

  Haldean raised an eyebrow at her. ‘How d’you mean?’

  Isabelle frowned. ‘He sounded, from what I heard, a murderous sort. He clearly had something going on with Lord Lyvenden. What if his visit on Sunday wasn’t his first? He could have sneaked in on Saturday night and up to Lyvenden’s room. When Tim came in, he mistook him for Lyvenden and shot him.’

  ‘I think we’re back to Arthur and his ideas about chaps popping down the chimney,’ said Haldean drily. He held up placatory hands. ‘All right. I’ll grant you it’s just about within the bounds of possibility that the Russian saw Tim off on Saturday, but how would he have been able to get to Lord Lyvenden yesterday? He certainly didn’t come through the front door and the side door’s out as well. We were all milling around in the hall before lunch and someone would have seen him. I can’t think that Lyvenden would have opened the french windows for him. He’d have been scared stiff.’

  ‘I don’t know, Jack. The Russian may have threatened him with a gun through the window, or he could have broken in beforehand and lain in wait.’

  ‘True, O Moon of my Delight. And since Arthur’s bust the window, we can’t have a dekko to see if the lock’s been tinkered with. I wish we could find the key to those ruddy windows.’

  ‘Let’s say that the Russian had come back,’ said Isabelle thoughtfully. ‘He’d be quarrelling with Lyvenden and Arthur walked in on them. The Russian snatches up the knife that Arthur’s holding, stabs Lyvenden and then gets out of the window. Poor Arthur would be so horrified he couldn’t do anything.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Haldean doubtfully. ‘I can’t say I really believe it, but maybe. That Russian bothers me, though. There’s no doubt Lyvenden was scared stiff of him. I’ve asked Ashley to check the local telephone exchange. If the Russian was part of a gang of the sort so beloved by the newspapers, then he might have rung up for instructions. I’m not sure he’s our man, though. He struck me as the melodramatic type who’d want to write Death To All Imperialists! on the wall in blood after doing the deed. There was enough blood in that room to have written a novel.’

  Isabelle clicked her tongue. ‘It’s difficult, isn’t it? What about Lady Harriet? I can’t see why she’d kill Tim but she might have a reason. After all, Tim was part of the household and he could have known all sorts of things about her. I certainly think she could have killed Lord Lyvenden. I think she hated him and she could have slipped out of the ball on Saturday night. Where does she say she was yesterday morning?’

  ‘That’s just it,’ said Haldean in frustration. ‘She won’t say, and while the police are convinced that Arthur’s the criminal, they aren’t pressing her. She might just be being obstinate, or she might be up to something. After all, if she refuses to talk, she can’t be proved wrong. I’ll tell you something funny about her, though. Do you remember when that Russian chap on Sunday said that it was worth his while coming, because he’d learnt something? God knows what he meant, but he was gazing at the stairs where she was standing when he said it.’

  ‘But what on earth could he know about her?’ Isabelle frowned impatiently. ‘Never mind. You mentioned Mrs Strachan but I can’t see her stabbing Lord Lyvenden. What about poor Uncle Alfred?’

  ‘Your poor Uncle Alfred has some explaining to do,’ said Haldean, rather grimly. ‘He went out with that weird Russian on Saturday night and he was out yesterday just before lunch. And, although he’s here because he’s meant to be broke, he was throwing money about at the Derby and at a very exclusive and highly expensive card club called the Ultima Thule. What d’you think of that?’

  ‘Not much. He might have had a lucky streak at Epsom. That could happen to anyone. I don’t know about the card club, but the same could apply, I suppose. And as for Saturday night, if he was supposed to be out all evening, why should he bother to plant a squib?’

  ‘He might have wanted to cover his exit in case anyone saw him leave Lyvenden’s room.’ He broke off disconsolately. All their reasoning was so much hot air. Not only did Arthur have the knife, if he had merely witnessed the murder or simply discovered the body why hadn’t he gone for help? Haldean had written a few locked room mysteries in his time but he’d never done an unlocked room story, and neither, as far as he knew, had anyone else. The blasted door was unlocked. He couldn’t get away from it.

  Isabelle put her hand on his arm. ‘Don’t worry, Jack. To be honest I can’t understand it either but Arthur’s bound to turn up again. When he does we’ll know exactly what happened.’

  And, thought Haldean, in the interests of family relations he’d leave it there.

  Out of Stanmore Parry proper, on the lane down to the beach, the village straggled to an end in a row of run-down fishermen’s cottages and a pub with dirty windows, flaking paint and a sign which was so faded Ashley could hardly make it out.

  ‘It’s called the Pig and Whistle, sir,’ said Sergeant Ingleton quietly.

  It had been Sergeant Ingleton who had alerted Ashley to the fact that Alfred Charnock had, without drawing any attention to the fact, left Hesperus. On the grounds that anything Alfred Charnock did was suspicious, Superintendent Ashley and Sergeant Ingleton had followed him across the park, through the Home Farm and now to this seedy pub. Charnock had admitted, Ashley remembered, going to a pub yesterday.

  ‘It’s got a bad reputation,’ continued Ingleton. ‘It’s owned by a man called Burrows. He’s a rough customer, all right. He’s been behind bars a couple of times for assault. I’d like to see this place closed down. We’ve done him a few times for after-hours drinking, gambling and so on. We think he receives stolen goods, but we’ve never been able to pin it on him. It’s a rum place for a gentleman like Mr Charnock to come, I must say. I’d have thought if he wanted a drink he’d go to the Wheatsheaf. Nice, respectable place, that is.’

  ‘I don’t think he’s here because he’s thirsty, man,’ said Ashley. ‘I don’t suppose he can get out the back, can he? You’re the one with the local knowledge.’

  ‘No, sir. The back leads round on to this lane. We’d see him. Why don’t we just go in the pub, sir, if you want to see what he’s doing?’

  Ashley shook his head. ‘No. I don’t want to let him know we’re here.’

  They stood patiently in the shelter of the trees across the road from the Pig and Whistle for nearly half an hour. Ashley was beginning to think he was wasting his time, when he felt a firm tap between his should
er blades.

  He spun round and found himself looking into the cynically smiling face of Alfred Charnock.

  ‘Hello,’ said Charnock in a well-bred drawl. ‘Looking for me?’

  ‘How did you get here?’ said Sergeant Ingleton with an indignant gasp.

  ‘I’m good at that sort of thing,’ said Charnock. ‘I could give you a few tips. You might find them useful. Are you out for a stroll or are you keeping tabs on me?’

  ‘Just a matter of routine, sir,’ said Ashley, falling back on the well-tried formula.

  Charnock’s eyebrows rose. ‘Is it a matter of routine to check on my visits to the pub? You’ll never catch your murderer that way.’

  ‘We have our own method of doing things, sir,’ replied Ashley, woodenly. ‘We usually find it works in the end. May I ask what you were doing in there, sir?’

  ‘Having a drink, of course. What else? Now do excuse me.’ Charnock repressed a yawn with a slim but powerful hand. ‘It’s been too charming speaking to you, but I must dash.’

  ‘Are you going back to Hesperus now, sir?’

  ‘To Hesperus?’ Charnock looked highly amused. ‘To the bosom of my loving family? I can’t face them for at least another hour. I have a hip-flask with me which I intend to take to the beach. You’re about to ask me why, aren’t you? To reflect, to think. Why don’t you try it? You might find your work improved if you lavished some thought on it.’ With a little bow, Charnock walked away, leaving Ashley fuming in the road.

  ‘Whew,’ breathed Sergeant Ingleton. ‘He’s a cool one and no mistake. Nasty, sneering manner he has with him, too. I hate people like that. You know they’re doing you down but you can’t catch them at it. It’s not what he says so much as his manner, isn’t it, sir?’

  ‘He’s up to something, Ingleton. I want to know what it is. It’s something to do with that pub. For all his talk, he made a mistake when he led us here.’

  ‘It’s not an offence to go for a drink, sir. You can’t stop him doing that.’

  Ashley clenched his fists in frustration. ‘He’s not just having a drink. I want a man in there, watching the place.’

  Ingleton shook his head. ‘We can’t do that, sir, not without Burrows knowing all about it. They’ve got their own regulars and a stranger would stand out like a sore thumb. Besides that, Burrows can spot a policeman a mile off. I told you he’d done time. He knows what’s what.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Ashley tightly, ‘I want a round-the-clock watch kept on that pub and I don’t want our men to be seen.’

  ‘But we can’t do that, sir,’ protested Ingleton. ‘We haven’t got the men. We’re stretched as it is, looking for Captain Stanton.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to be stretched a bit further,’ snapped Ashley. ‘I’m going to nail that sarcastic swine’s hide if it’s the last thing I do.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Haldean geared down as he took the Spyker round the corner, stretching his arms and straightening his back as a length of straight road opened up in front of him. He could do with getting to bed. Despite the rush of the cool night air and the growl of the engine, he felt very tired. Smith-Fennimore in the passenger seat beside him seemed to be half asleep and he was sure that the girls in the back had dozed off.

  Brighton had been a very qualified success. So qualified, Haldean thought, that as an evening of entertainment it could be described as, variously, a flop, a frost, and a complete damp squib. They had gone to the Grand Hotel where there were soft lights, champagne, good music and dancing. In amongst the groups of cheerful pleasure-seekers the Hesperus party must have looked as if they’d set off to go to a funeral and taken the wrong turning.

  Smith-Fennimore had tried to conceal his wounded feelings but couldn’t quite manage it. Every so often he’d attempt to start a conversation, Isabelle would answer with stiff politeness, and then the silence would close over them once more. He’d been edgy and unusually ill at ease in Isabelle’s company, lost so much in his own thoughts that he often didn’t hear what was said to him, staring at Isabelle with a hungry intensity. Then, as if unable to stand it any longer, he would leave the table for unexplained and lengthening absences.

  Isabelle, for her part, spent most of the evening gazing past him, avoiding that intense stare. Every so often she’d make an effort and talk to Bubble and Squeak, but then she, too, would relapse into her own thoughts. Bubble and Squeak were, thank goodness, Bubble and Squeak, but even they couldn’t make much headway against Smith-Fennimore’s and Isabelle’s impenetrable gloom and ended up spending most of the evening with Bunny, Lance and Sue Cotterell and their friends whom they’d chanced upon a few tables away.

  Haldean, who liked the Cotterells, wished he could join them but he’d promised Isabelle he wouldn’t leave her alone with Smith-Fennimore.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Belle,’ he said as they foxtrotted round the dance floor, ‘will you cheer up a bit? We’re all sitting there as if we’d been translated from a Russian tragedy. Much more of this and I’ll go and hang myself in the Old Barn.’

  She’d smiled thinly. ‘I can’t do much if all he does is stare at me, can I?’

  Haldean was frankly relieved when it was time to go.

  They hadn’t far to go now. They turned off the main Brighton road, drove through the sleeping Stanmore Parry, out of the village and up the deserted road to Hesperus.

  Haldean braked as he approached the gates, then accelerated as he saw they had been left open. Although the newspaper men had now gone, bought off by statements from Ashley, Sir Philip and Haldean and a promise that they would be kept in touch, the gates should have been closed. Haldean idly registered the fact as unusual. It was the first note of warning.

  Gravel crunched under the tyres and all the leaves of the bushes and trees were picked out in black-edged relief in the passing gleam of the headlights. Haldean, his mind on his bed, saw the tangled branches just in time. He slammed on the brakes and slewed the car to a juddering halt. It was the second note.

  Smith-Fennimore sat up and rubbed his eyes. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘There’s a tree across the drive,’ said Haldean. ‘We nearly ran into it. Let’s have a look, Fennimore. We may need some help to shift it.’

  They climbed out of the car. It wasn’t really a tree that had stopped them. Some branches had broken off in yesterday’s storm and the gardeners had piled them neatly to one side of the drive. Now the orderly stack had been roughly scattered across the road as if by a mischievous giant hand.

  Smith-Fennimore whistled. ‘I’m glad you saw that little lot in time. It would have made a nasty mess of the car. Who on earth could have put all that stuff there?’

  Haldean slipped off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. ‘I don’t know. It’s a rotten sort of trick.’ He yawned and glanced at Smith-Fennimore. ‘It’s too late to do anything about it now. Let’s get the girls and walk up to the house. I could drive the car over the lawn but I don’t think Uncle Phil would be very happy. I’ll put the hood up and leave it here overnight.’

  They strolled back to the Spyker and . . . it happened.

  An engine roared into life, headlights blazed out, and a car raced across the grass straight for them. Haldean leapt to one side, flinging up his arm to shield his eyes. The car jerked to a halt, missing him by inches. Figures bundled out, his shoulders were seized by strong hands and a blinding torch was shone in his face.

  There was a confusion of sounds: a woman screaming, an engine revving, Smith-Fennimore shouting and, mixed in with it all, a sound as if someone was banging a stick along a line of iron railings very loudly and very quickly, a sound which Haldean incredulously identified as machine-gun fire.

  He struck out, driving his fist into the dark face behind the light, and was rewarded with a sharp yelp. He was flung to the ground and writhed to one side as bullets tore into the ground beside him, sending up a spray of earth. He raised his head and saw Smith-Fennimore being seized by two black shape
s, outlined in the glare of the headlights. A third man stood near them holding a machine gun and a fourth stood with his foot negligently on the front suspension, a machine gun slung across his knees. Haldean half rose, staggering to his feet as Isabelle ran past him towards Smith-Fennimore. The man by the car levelled the gun at her. Haldean leapt forward and forced her to the ground as bullets spat overhead, covering her with his body.

  Smith-Fennimore fought like a man possessed. ‘Isabelle!’ he screamed, then crumpled across the car bonnet as the gun butt smashed into the side of his head.

  Isabelle threw off Haldean and the gun fired again. She heard Haldean yell out, then he jerked convulsively and lay silently beside her, eyes closed and arms flung wide.

  Smith-Fennimore’s limp body was flung into the back of the car, tyres squealed, and the car raced off down the drive, swerving wildly to avoid the Spyker. The night and silence closed in on them once more.

  Isabelle was on her knees beside Haldean as Bubble and Squeak ran up. ‘I think they’ve killed him,’ she said in a voice which didn’t work properly. ‘I don’t know what to do.’ She shook him helplessly. ‘Jack, please don’t die. Jack, don’t die.’

  ‘Let me see him,’ said Squeak Robiceux quickly, and knelt down beside him, taking his wrist in her hands.

  ‘Is he dead?’ gulped Isabelle. ‘Bubble, go and get the lodge-keeper. Please. We need some help. Is he dead?’

  Squeak had undone the stiff cuff and found the pulse with relief. ‘No, thank God. He needs a doctor, quickly. I’ll stay with him. Isabelle, run and get your father. We’ll need someone to go for the doctor and we have to tell the police. They may be able to stop the car and rescue Malcolm.’

  Isabelle ran. Painfully hampered by her evening shoes, she tore them off and, heart racing, she saw lights flare as she panted up to the house. The front door was flung open by her father, flanked by two menservants, who had been awakened by the noise. Sir Philip listened to her story and promptly barked out a set of instructions to the men: fetch the car, telephone the doctor, telephone the police. Then he ran down the drive, Isabelle following.