These Names Make Clues

by E. C. R. Lorac

  “I do,” said Vernon promptly. “We’re bound to pass a garage somewhere, and you can tell ’em to go and salve the bits”—pointing to the melancholy Rover.

  Seated in the M.G., progressing towards the main road with the intention of finding his bearings, Vernon said:

  “About swapping yarns—I’ll make first move. I went to the Gardien-Elliott proceedings and so did you. Then I followed a chappie who has also taken an intelligent interest in said proceedings. I lost him through being a mutt, and happened on you. Seems to me we must all three be after the same thing, only you know what it is you’re after and why you’re after it, and I don’t. I hitched my wagon to a hunch…”

  “And got heaved into a haystack backwards,” put in Vale. “I know the journalist game of fishing in obscure waters, but before I swallow the fly I want to know if it’s edible. Was the chap who heaved you into the haystack young Strafford?”

  “Got it in one. Not too difficult, when you think it out,” said Vernon. “What’s Strafford doing which won’t bear watching, and why is Mr. Coombe’s party reassembling down here?”

  “Is it?” inquired Vale.

  Vernon chuckled. “Well, there’s Strafford, and there’s you, and there’s Miss Woodstock.”

  “Is there, by jove?” Vale’s voice sounded heartily surprised. “This is the main road we’re coming to. D’you think your friend’s left any maps in this outfit? I shall feel more disposed to be confidential when we’ve found my pub. It’s a good pub.”

  Rummaging among Fatty Gleeson’s belongings, Vernon found a map, and with Vale’s assistance their position was located and they worked out the route to The White Dog, the inn near Bishop’s Wraden which Vale had been seeking when he ditched his car.

  “You know this part of the world pretty well,” Vernon observed as Vale folded up the map, and the latter nodded.

  “I was raised hereabouts, as the Yanks say,” he replied. “Strafford knows these parts, so does Miss Woodstock, so did Elliott, so did Gardien, I imagine. The latter opinion is based on surmise. The same mental process which makes me assume that you are an optimist.”

  “Umps. So-so. Why that comment in conclusion?”

  “How do you know I didn’t account for both Gardien and Elliott? How do you know I didn’t meet Strafford and leave him in the ditch? How d’you know I’m not leading you to a lonely grave?”

  “Well, if it comes to that, I don’t know,” replied Vernon cheerfully. “One must take risks sometimes. I’m out for NEWS. If in the process I become news myself, they’ll be able to put: ‘He perished for his paper’ on the headstone and ‘One more fool gone west,’ in the headlines.”

  XIV

  When Vernon followed Ashton Vale through the ancient door of The White Dog, the journalist perceived at once that he was entering one of those hostelries which knowledgeable Englishmen—and women—are developing from the downfallen village pub. A huge fire blazed in the open chimney of the lounge; old oak furniture gleamed with polish; copper and brass glimmered in dark corners; and the whole atmosphere of the place had that air of comfortable sophistication which only the cultured seem able to impart to the hotel-keeper’s craft. A tall grey-headed fellow in ancient tweeds strolled towards the visitors, and Vale said:

  “Hallo, Charles. Got a couple of beds? Lord, you keep shrewd winds in these parts. I’m cold through.”

  “We’ll soon have you unfrozen,” growled mine host in a deep bass. “Want a meal? There’s a bird in a casserole which isn’t any the worse for stewing in its own juice. Are you having a conference for cultural relations, or what d’you call it in these parts? We haven’t had any one but a lost commercial in the place for days, and now you’re rolling up in couples.”

  “Like that, is it?” said Vale. “Get your bird on the table, Charles. I’m half starved, and so’s Vernon. My own car’s in a ditch waiting for a crane to lift it out—God knows where—and this chap’s given me a lift. Who are your couples, by the way?”

  “Pair of high-browed dames in there,” replied mine host, tilting his chin towards a door farther along the lounge. “I expect they’ll be off to their beds shortly and leave us the fire to yarn by. You can have numbers three and four, up on the right there. Like a wash before you eat?”

  He met Vernon’s eye and the journalist grinned. He had just caught sight of his own reflection in a mirror and realised that the suggestion of a wash was not inapposite.

  “Had a bit of a spill,” he observed.

  “Item, he’s got no pyjamas and no tooth-brush,” added Vale. “You might see to it, Charles. He’s picked me out of a ditch, so to speak, and he’s my pigeon.”

  “That’s all right,” replied the other. “Nothing we can’t supply here. I’ll see to it.”

  He strolled off towards the end of the lounge and Vale grinned at Vernon. The latter was staring at the door which mine host had indicated as concealing his “high-brow dames,” and Vale knew that the journalist was longing to open the door and look into the room. Vale slapped the younger man on the shoulder. “Look here, if you realised what you look like at the present moment—”

  “I do realise it,” said Vernon. “I’m the world’s beauty chorus complete, and I don’t care a damn. Lots of people may know of this pub—it’s obviously a corking good pub, and I lift the lid to Charles and his bird—but I’m going to unsport that oak, because I’ll bet my last non-existent sou that one of the dames—if not both—is leading lady in the present show. It’d be too good to find a couple of highbrows in this spot on this particular evening who’re not mixed up with Coombe’s party. You see!”

  He walked to the door and opened it cautiously, closing it a moment later.

  “What did I say?” he demanded. “You bung in and keep ’em talking. I’m all for a wash now I know the worst.”

  He hastened towards the stairs at the end of the lounge, and Vale walked to the sitting-room door, not without some feelings of trepidation. Closing it behind him, he walked towards the fireplace, murmuring:

  “Good-evening. Jolly chilly outside, but cheery enough in here.”

  The calm courtesy of the “good-evenings” with which the two ladies replied spoke volumes for the breeding and self-control of the two “high-browed” dames. Valerie Woodstock was standing by the fire, having just lighted a cigarette, and Mrs. Etherton was leaning back in a comfortable chair, toasting her toes by the good woodfire.

  As Vale came towards the fireplace, Mrs. Etherton said pleasantly, “This inn almost restores one’s belief in the ‘Merry England’ tradition. I first heard of the place from James Child, and I’ve been meaning to sample it for a long time.”

  “Ah,” said Vale. “Child was partner to Belton—who keeps this inn. They ran a coaching establishment together in Bloomsbury for years. Marvellous man, Charles Belton.” He caught sight of the Morning Post cross-word lying beside Mrs. Etherton’s chair.

  “Completed?” he inquired, and the white-haired lady shook her head.

  “No. I’m off my form this evening, somehow. Held up by a long anagram, of all things. Perhaps you can see it for me, Mr. Vale—‘Red lorry in a taxi.’ One word, apparently.”

  Vale laughed and glanced at the paper. After a pause of only a few seconds he replied, “‘Extraordinarily’ will fit, I fancy.”

  Valerie Woodstock looked at him thoughtfully.

  “Can you see any anagram at a glance like that?” she inquired.

  Vale met her eyes steadily. “Generally I can. It’s a sort of visual gymnastic facility, I suppose,” he replied, almost apologetically. “If you have the knack, you see the transposition of letters almost automatically. Nothing clever or even reasoning about it. It just happens.”

  “Like the major events in most people’s lives,” said Mrs. Etherton reflectively. “One plans out a reasonable course of action and then something happens and the letters re-sort themselves and spell something one never intended. All very vexing when you have a tidy mind, as I have. Do you
often come down here to enjoy the amenities of The White Dog, Mr. Vale?”

  “No. I’ve only been here once since Charles Belton took it on,” replied Vale, “though I know the neighbourhood pretty well. I was born in Langbourne, and I went to the grammar school there.”

  “And you’re paying a visit to your boyhood’s haunts. How pleasant!” murmured Mrs. Etherton in her deep, tranquil voice, and Vale turned to Valerie Woodstock, who still stood by the mantelpiece, fiddling with an ancient pair of snuffers.

  “And Miss Woodstock is contemplating a visit to the old playing fields where she once captained the lacrosse team?” he inquired.

  “I didn’t. We played hockey,” she retorted. “My old school closed down shortly after I left, Mr. Vale. It was unable to stand the shock of my departure, you see—or perhaps unable to weather the financial crisis of the early 1930’s which you have expounded so clearly in Popular Economics. Mr. Coombe told me that the book was a best seller for weeks.”

  “I’m afraid his use of the term ‘best’ was a publisher’s euphemism,” said Vale. “I doubt if the circulation of my pot-boiler was more than fifty per cent of Gardien’s last thriller, for example.”

  Valerie Woodstock frowned, her fair face looking so weary and troubled that Vale felt compunctious, and was glad when the door opened and Peter Vernon strolled in.

  “Good-evening,” he said airily, and grinned at Vale. “Damage repaired to some extent,” he burbled, “thanks to kindly assistance of friend Charles. Recent intimate contact with barn doors, ditches, and the like relegated to the far-off unhappy past.”

  Vale looked inquiringly at the two ladies.

  “I’m not sure if you have met Vernon?” he inquired, and the journalist bowed, saying:

  “Miss Woodstock was kind enough to give me an interview at the St. Elizabeth Settlement in Southwark. Mrs. Etherton chastised me under the editor’s very nose…”

  “For poking your own where it was not wanted, young man,” interpolated Mrs. Etherton firmly. “I think that I then told you my opinion about journalistic intrusiveness, and the rights of an author to his or her own privacy. My opinions have not changed since. With that proviso, I am very pleased to continue our acquaintance.”

  Vernon bowed again, very meekly, and Miss Woodstock observed: “It might be as well to ascertain Mr. Vernon’s convictions—or conventions—on the privileges of pressmen in the service of publicity. They may not coincide with your own, Mrs. Etherton. I’m sleepyish. I think I’ll go up to bed.”

  She walked across the room and Vernon, neat-footed and nimble, reached the door in time to hold it open for her, and make another of his polite bows as she passed.

  Charles Belton came into the room as Miss Woodstock left it, mine host saying:

  “If you two fellows want to eat, the bird’s waiting. Better get down to it.”

  “Thanks, old boy, we will,” said Vale cheerfully, and Mrs. Etherton looked up.

  “Miss Woodstock didn’t seem to like the cut of your jib, young man,” she observed to Vernon. “Since I have an open mind on most subjects, I shall be interested to hear you give an account of yourself after you have eaten your supper—likewise Mr. Vale. Convictions, conventions and coincidences to be the subjects for discussion.”

  “Delighted,” said the two men in chorus, and hurried out after Charles Belton to the dining-room.

  Vernon was silent, save for casual remarks commending the building and the service, until he and Vale had put away the greater part of the contents of the casserole before them. At last the journalist remarked, “I thought my capacity for surprise had been exhausted long ago in my days of innocence. I was all wrong. The bird we’re eating is the sort of surprise you don’t expect to get in England. The White Dog ought to be called The Improbable Inn. Dash it all, man, did you expect all this, complete with company?”

  Vale shook his head. “The company leaves me guessing,” he replied. “If I’d known who were to be our fellow-guests, it’s likely I shouldn’t have brought you here. I didn’t know. I’ve butted in—followed a hunch, like you—and now I wish I hadn’t.” He screwed up his face in a queer grimace. “I feel as though there’s another surprise in the offing. What if all the lights go out, as they did at Coombe’s party, and another corpse is found under the table?”

  “Curiously enough, that wouldn’t surprise me at all,” said Vernon calmly, “though I tell you straight, the corpse isn’t going to be mine if I can help it. Is there any ferocity to beat that of the logical pacifist? I doubt it.”

  Vale stared. “Did you get a crack on the nut when you landed into that barn?” he inquired, and Vernon shook his head.

  “No. I landed into a hank of hay. Head quite intact,” he replied cheerfully. “It gave the old grey matter a bit of a jolt, and it’s been functioning quite well since. I’ve got an idea of sorts, and I’m just wondering if the same notion brought you tootling down here.”

  Vale’s eyes were very wary. “Fishing with fat worm, old copy-scrounger?”

  “Not more than usual. It’s my living, anyway. Don’t you think it’d have made more sense if we’d found Miss Susan Augusta Coombe sitting warming her toes in there? Mrs. Etherton doesn’t seem to fit the bill—unless—oh, great goop that I am!”’

  “I expect Charles has got a clinical thermometer somewhere; he’s got everything any one could ever want,” replied Vale. “Come up to bed, old chap. To-day’s been too much for you.”

  “Thank you for nothing,” retorted Vernon. “The more you pretend to be dense, the more certain I get that I’m seeing daylight.”

  “I’m not pretending to be dense. Honestly, I’ve not the least notion what you’re driving at,” said Vale, and Vernon said coolly:

  Well, I’ll tell you bang out. First, I don’t believe you killed Gardien.” (“Thank you,” murmured Vale.) “Not because you’re incapable of it in the abstract, but because if you’d done it, your calculations wouldn’t have miscarried. I know you’re one of the peace-at-any-price push, so far as modern warfare’s concerned, anyhow. So is Strafford. His principles preclude him fighting for his king and country under any conditions. Doubtless Miss Woodstock is of the same way of thinking, and so is Miss Susan Augusta Coombe.”

  Vale sat up, his face looking really animated.

  “Sorry I took so long to follow you, my child,” he said cheerfully. “You’re really being quite interesting. Pacifism as a basis for murder, all comrades to assist with the euthanasia outfit. I grasp that bit—also that, for reasons at present unknown, we happy few—we band of brothers—are having our monthly reunion at The White Dog. I pass that. But why, oh ingenious journalist, should we have gone to the trouble of removing Gardien and Elliott from their late sphere of usefulness? Cui bono? The motivisation is the weak point in the drama.”

  “Yes,” admitted Vernon. “But there’s some funny stuff going on in what might be called the sewerage of the diplomatic system. The Fascist countries would do anything to discredit Great Britain—all sorts of dodges like touting for arms orders, proving supplies have been sent by this country to Abyssinia and Spain, and low tricks of that kind. There’s always some nasty blackguard who’s at the root of these calumnies.”

  Seeing Vale’s expression of sceptical amusement, Vernon went on doggedly:

  “You’ll tell me I’m talking puerile rot. All the same, aren’t there always some lowdown blackguards who’ll make a living out of embroiling countries in war if they get the chance?”

  “Oh, that I grant you,” replied Vale. “You, as a journalist, probably hear more queer stories than ever get published in the press of this country; and in the present state of the world’s politics a good deal of scum boils up on the surface and attracts attention. You argue that Gardien and Elliott were secret agents of the most poisonous kind. I won’t dispute that. You may have prior information. But answer me two questions. You said just now, after you had mentioned Mrs. Etherton, ‘Great goop that I am.’ It did occur to me to wonder
what you meant. Why were you a goop over that particular point?”

  “I was trying to reason out the ‘motivisation’ of this reunion of literary lights in the remote village of Bishop’s Wraden,” said Vernon. “Miss Woodstock, Strafford, you—all members of the ‘Peace in our Time’ campaign. Susan Augusta’s one of the most active women in the movement, but I’ve never heard of Mrs. Etherton in that connection. I forgot she’s a friend of yours.”

  “Who told you that?” inquired Vale, and to the journalist’s observant eyes it seemed that the older man had lost something of his complacency.

  “I saw you together at Burlington House last year,” said Vernon, “and you obviously weren’t chance acquaintances.”

  Vale’s face was a study. “Your observant habits may lead you into trouble one day,” he observed. “Say if you answer my previous question. How do you account for the fact that we select this very inconvenient locality for our rendezvous?”

  “Who is the most famous among pacifist internationalists in England?” inquired Vernon. “Who has been imprisoned for urging mutiny in the army? Who has a price put on his head in Italy and Germany? Isn’t it Randolph Ramovell? And doesn’t he live at Ingham-under-Isis, quite close to Bishop’s Wraden—about five miles from here?”

  Vale sat silent, his brows knitted in thought, his eyes cast down on the table, while he made patterns with the salt which he had spilled by an abrupt movement of his hand. When he raised his eyes he looked Vernon full in the face.

  “You’ve done quite a nice bit of logical reconstruction,” he said. “There are holes in it, as you’re probably aware, and I don’t think it would look very convincing after counsel had pulled it to pieces; but still it’s the nucleus of an idea. And why you’ve chosen to air the great surmise to me, I simply cannot understand. If you’re merely being funny, I think your humour is of a questionable kind. If you’re serious, you appear to lack a bump of caution. You’ve been locked up in a barn once this evening, but that doesn’t seem to have taught you the elements of self-preservation.”