It was gratifying to discover that Sergeant Cribb was a sensitive listener, tolerant of others’ little whimsies, not in the least disparaging about the optical experiments. The interview at Grafton Street lasted more than two hours and he was treated throughout with the utmost civility. He told the sergeant everything he thought he should know about Zena—of course, there were things one did not need to go into—even offering at the end to look at the severed hand, but Cribb explained that it was now in formalin and would be difficult to identify unless one were accustomed to such things.
‘For the present,’ said the sergeant, ‘I’m quite content with the information you’ve volunteered, Mr. Moscrop. You don’t mind if I go over one or two points again, so that Constable Thackeray here can check his notes?’
‘Please do.’
‘Very good, sir. The last time you saw Mrs. Prothero yourself was last Friday, when you met her by the croquet-lawn at the Albemarle to collect the sleeping-draught and get it analysed, is that correct, sir?’
‘On Friday, yes.’
‘And she seemed in good spirits then?’
‘Oh yes. There was an air of conspiracy about the whole thing which seemed to excite her. I found it rather taxing, myself.’
‘She arranged to meet you outside the hotel the following evening, to get the results of the analysis?’
‘Yes, at half past eight.’
‘But you were met by Bridget, the maid, instead. What time was that?’
‘Later. I remember looking at my watch. It was about nine o’clock. I had almost decided to leave.’
‘You’ve got that, Thackeray?’ said Cribb. ‘And what did Bridget say about her mistress, Mr. Moscrop?’
‘I understood that she was prevented from coming to meet me by her husband announcing that he was going out and insisting that she took her sleeping-draught before he went. However, she was reluctant to take the preparation without having seen the formula, so she pretended to have taken it—”foxed” was Bridget’s expression, I remember— and feigned sleep when Dr. Prothero looked in on her. Of course, it was impossible afterwards, even though she was awake, to dress again in the short time remaining and come to meet me.’
‘I can appreciate that, sir. So you gave the slip of paper with the formula on it to Bridget instead?’
‘Yes. I explained that it was chloral hydrate she had been taking, and quite harmless. Then we were interrupted by the fireworks, I recall.’
‘Ah yes. The night of the regiment’s home-coming. There was a crowd to watch, I expect?’
‘One soon materialised, Sergeant. People came from the hotels and lodging-houses and down the Old Steine to watch. Many were watching from the hotel balconies, young Guy Prothero included.’
‘Not his stepmother, though.’
‘No. She may have been watching from inside, however. Soon after that, Bridget left me to rejoin her and I made my way back along the front towards my lodgings.’
‘You didn’t stop to see the end of the fireworks, sir?’
‘Pyrotechnics do not impress me over-much, Sergeant.’
‘Nor me, sir. What time was it that you started your walk back?’
‘About half past nine, I would estimate.’
‘And when did you get back?’
‘Oh, I cannot remember. Perhaps an hour later. I was in no hurry.’
‘Possibly your landlady would recall?’
‘Perhaps. No, I don’t believe I saw her. I let myself in. I have a key, you know. Why are you interested?’
‘I must get my times straight, sir. Sometimes it’s crucial in a case like this, you know.’ Cribb spoke with the air of a man imparting official secrets. ‘A level-headed witness such as yourself can make all the difference when we’re obliged to give evidence in court. There’s a lot of reliance placed on times.’
‘I’m quite sure.’
‘Anyway, sir, you got back to the lodgings and went to bed. What happened next day?’
‘It was Sunday, Sergeant. I went to church. I did not see the Protheros all day. I rather hoped that they might promenade or join the carriage parade after church, but I saw nothing of them. Nor was Zena—Mrs. Prothero, I should say—in her usual place on the beach the following day, although the weather was ideal. I did see the doctor on Monday, however, and in compromising circumstances which seemed not to perturb him one whit.’
‘Really, sir? What was he doing?’
‘Taking lunch at Mutton’s with Miss Floyd-Whittingham, the young woman with copper-coloured hair. Afterwards they walked along the front to Lewes Crescent. Sergeant, they were arm in arm! It was as though he already knew— what we now know.’
‘And you’ve seen him since then?’
‘Several times. Twice with the young woman. Did you know that she is said to be a colonel’s daughter? I would hazard that he spends each afternoon with her. His routine is inflexible, if my observations mean anything. He rises late, bathes at Brill’s, has lunch at Mutton’s or the Aquarium and then walks along the upper promenande to Lewes Crescent. Sometimes his son, Guy, has lunch with him.’
‘What does the boy do with himself for the rest of the day?’
‘He bicycles a good deal, and bathes.’
‘What about the second son—the child?’
‘Jason? I have seen nothing of him or his nursemaid since Saturday. Good God, Sergeant, the most appalling thought has occurred to me. You don’t think—‘
‘No, sir, I don’t. Not when I’m on a job like this. I just leave every possibility open. They could have been sent back to Dorking. One thing’s certain—if you haven’t seen ’em in four days they ain’t in circulation here, we can depend upon it.’
He took the emphasis for a compliment. ‘There isn’t much that I miss, Sergeant. I shall naturally communicate everything else of significance that I observe. Dr. Prothero is still in ignorance of who I am, you see. My services as an observer are at Scotland Yard’s disposal.’
Cribb coughed. ‘Much appreciated, Mr. Moscrop, much appreciated. Now that you’ve given us this information, however, I think you’re entitled to enjoy the rest of your holiday and leave the investigations to us. I’ll get a statement of what you’ve told us neatly written out and I’d be obliged if you’d call in tomorrow to put your signature to it. Lovely sunshine outside, sir. Pleasant afternoon for a dip.’
CHAPTER
11
THE INCIDENT IN BRILL’S next morning was so alien to the good-humoured atmosphere traditionally engendered in swimming baths for gentlemen that everyone was caught unawares. Several patrons whose sorties from the side had them facing the wrong direction at the crucial moment frankly refused to believe that it had happened. Its onset was unimaginably sudden: a thrashing of water sufficient to suggest that a harpoonist had scored a hit near the centre of the pool, a frantic striking for the side, a cascading emergence of Dr. Prothero on the tiled surround, and an outraged challenge to the man standing in front of his changing-cubicle, ‘That is my towel you are holding, sir!’
The defaulter, tall, sharp of feature, with a waspish look about him, not unconnected with the colours of his costume, said, ‘No, sir. It is mine.’
‘Good God!’ said Prothero. ‘I know my own towel. Return it to me at once, sir!’
The other unconcernedly applied the towel to his left arm-pit. ‘You’re mistaken. This is mine. I left it hanging over the cubicle door.’
Plainly shaken by the confidence of the performance, Prothero looked to right and left to get his bearings. ‘But this is my cubicle and my green and white towel.’
‘Perhaps your memory is at fault. Look around you. There are at least a dozen towels hanging over doors.’
‘But none of them is green and white!’ said Prothero, just refraining from stamping a bare foot.
‘Exactly. You must have brought one of another colour with you. Easy to make mistakes about such unimportant things.’
Prothero stood like Alice in the presence of the M
ad Hatter.
‘If someone has taken yours,’ the other advised him, ‘we should tell the attendant. I could lend you this one, of course, but it’s rather wet. Don’t stand there getting cold. Walk around the edge of the pool at a sharp step and you’ll be dry in no time. When I’m dressed I’ll speak to the attendant for you. Things like this shouldn’t be allowed to happen.’ He towelled his hair vigorously. ‘I don’t know what Brill’s is coming to when a man can’t leave his towel hanging over a door without some scoundrel helping himself to it.’
‘Would you believe me if my clothes were in the cubicle?’ Prothero appealed. ‘A silk hat and a frock-coat?’
‘That’s not all, I trust,’ said the man with the towel, ‘or you will feel a draught. Certainly have a look. We’re all liable to make mistakes. The door’s unbolted, you see . . . Oh, my stars!’
‘There!’ said Prothero, vindicated by the contents of the cubicle. ‘Now perhaps you will kindly return my towel.’ The satisfaction of confounding such arrant self-righteousness quite made up for the state of the towel.
‘How can I begin to apologise?’ said the other. ‘My own towel must have been taken—or did I leave it inside the cubicle? Good Lord, sir, I’m cut to the quick. Mortified with shame. It must be the circular shape of the building, you see. Lost my bearings.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Prothero loftily.
‘But it does. The things I said. You must allow me to stand you a meal. If you don’t, I shall never be able to hold my head up again.’
‘It isn’t necessary.’
‘My name’s Cribb. Shall we go to Mutton’s?’
‘Prothero—Dr. Prothero. There is really no need—‘ ‘I’ll find my cubicle and see you in a few minutes. The least I can do.’
So Sergeant Cribb presently sat with the doctor at a central table in Mutton’s main dining-room, a monument to the glazier’s craft, with mirrors along every wall, a domed skylight and chandelier above them and statuettes and wax flowers encased in glass on a buhl cabinet at one end. A third place was reserved for Prothero’s son, after the doctor explained that they had arranged to meet there.
‘There are just the two of you in Brighton, then?’ Cribb ventured.
‘Guy and myself, yes. My wife and younger son were here until Sunday, but they had to return to Dorking prematurely. The child was unwell.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. Some childish malady, I expect?’
‘Oh, yes. I think the food upset him, or the change of air. He is not yet three. I told my wife to let the nursemaid take Jason home, but she was most insistent on going with them. It is her first child and she is devoted to it. Shall we order? Guy won’t object, I’m sure. He is late, anyway—throwing an eye over the fillies in the King’s Road, I shouldn’t wonder. The two-legged ones. Are you here for the season, Mr. Cribb?’
‘No, no. Business brings me to Brighton. What will you order, Doctor? I believe the turtle soup is just about obligatory.’ When the waiter had gone, he said, ‘I arrived here only two days ago. Missed the return of the regiment. Did you see them?’
‘A stirring sight,’ said Prothero. ‘First-rate band, too. I don’t think there was a soul left on the beach on the morning of the march-past. Are you a military man, Mr. Cribb? There’s something of the soldier in your bearing.’
‘Yes, I took the shilling in my time. Served a few years until the home comforts began to beckon. Did you get to the ball at the Dome? I suppose you wouldn’t have been invited, not being resident in the town.’
‘As a matter of fact, I was,’ Prothero said, in a voice that suggested Cribb was making unwarranted assumptions again. ‘It was the outstanding night of the season. Everyone was there.’
‘How splendid! It must have made a fitting climax to your wife’s holiday.’
‘My wife was not present.’
‘Oh. You took your son?’
‘A friend. Guy has not enough manners yet for these occasions. My wife does not attend evening engagements for reasons of health. She is of a nervous disposition. Ah! Here comes the boy.’ He signalled with a table-napkin. ‘He’s somewhat short on the social graces, Mr. Cribb, as you’ll presently see. Had a rather narrow upbringing. I blame the school.’
Guy was wearing his red blazer. ‘I thought we were taking lunch alone,’ he told his father, with the merest glance at Cribb, who had stood to receive him.
‘Mr. Cribb, this is my elder son, Guy.’
Cribb extended his hand. Guy produced his snuff and charged each nostril, ignoring the sergeant.
‘Mr. Cribb met me in Brill’s—‘ ‘In circumstances too embarrassing to recall,’ said Cribb, putting down his hand. ‘I’m standing the lunch. Order whatever you wish.’
In a few minutes they were all busy with soup-spoons.
‘Have you left school?’ Cribb inquired conversationally.
‘Ask him,’ said Guy.
‘It’s a sensitive point at the moment,’ Prothero explained. ‘Guy has left one school and is about to start at another.’
‘A boarding establishment?’
‘Yes. This is by way of a farewell holiday. He starts in two weeks.’
‘Where is the school?’
‘He won’t tell you where it is while I’m here,’ Guy informed Cribb, ignoring his father. ‘He doesn’t want me to know. I’m treated no better than Jason. I’ll have a sirloin steak next, cooked rare. It’s probably in the Outer Hebrides.’
‘Guy has a well-developed sense of humour which does not endear him to schoolmasters,’ said Prothero. ‘Or his family, on occasions.’
‘It’s true!’ said Guy. ‘When have you ever treated me with anything but suspicion? You’re fearful all the time that I’ll embarrass you and your quack theories. I can’t even come on holiday without being forbidden to bathe in the sea because you think it’s teeming with typhoid germs.’
‘My quack theories, as you term them, are supported by a substantial correspondence in The Lancet, my boy,’ retorted Prothero. ‘Any other lad in your condition would be grateful that he had a doctor for a father. He suffers from asthma, you know,’ he added, for Cribb’s information, ‘and I have made the disease my life’s work. Don’t so lightly dismiss the efforts I have made to alleviate your attacks, Guy.’
‘How can I, when I have a bruise on my arm as big as half a crown to remind me? That’s a father’s loving care for you. I began to wheeze a bit on Sunday,’ Guy told Cribb, ‘so he gave me an injection of atropine. He might be a specialist on asthma, but he handles the needle like a punt-pole.’
‘How long do you expect to be in Brighton, Mr. Cribb?’ asked Prothero, in a way that indicated that so far as he was concerned the insults had gone far enough.
‘Oh, as long as my business detains me.’
Guy turned sharply and looked at Cribb and then turned back to his father. ‘What did you say his name was?’ he asked.
‘I told you,’ said Prothero with a glare. ‘This is Mr. Cribb.’
‘I thought that was it! And you’ve only been in the town a day or two? You’re the man from Scotland Yard, aren’t you?’ demanded Guy triumphantly. ‘Investigating the body they dug up on the beach. I’ve read it in The Argus. What do they call you—Inspector Cribb?’
‘Sergeant only, I’m afraid.’
‘You’d better watch out, Father. Sergeant Cribb’s looking for a murderer. Better get home quick and pour your poisons down the wash basin. Business! You’re a fly one, Sergeant Cribb, aren’t you?’
‘It’s never been the custom of detectives to give cards to everyone they meet,’ said Cribb, matching the sarcasm. ‘Perhaps you think I should give you an account, item by item, of what we uncovered the other morning. It’s not my notion of lunch time conversation, but if you can enjoy a slice of sirloin at the same time, I’m sure I can. What would you like to know? Ah, here’s the waiter. Are we all for steak, gentlemen?’
‘I think the soup was quite sufficient,’ said Prothero, palely.
Guy shook his head. ‘I’ve changed my mind. I’ll have a cold collation later.’
‘Steak for one, then. Well done, if you please,’ said Cribb. ‘As it happens, gentlemen, it’s the victim I’m concerned to identify. I’ll find my murderer later. I want to know who the unfortunate woman was. There isn’t much to go on, you see. Dark hair. Age about thirty. Small to medium height. Slim in build. Wearing a sealskin jacket and black skirt. Could be every other woman you pass in the street. That’s why I have to know about women who haven’t been seen in the town since Saturday—for whatever reason. It’s my job to investigate every report.’
Prothero frowned. ‘Am I to infer that you are concerned for the safety of my wife?’
‘Yes, sir, since I have it on quite good authority that she hasn’t been seen in Brighton since Saturday.’
There was a moment’s uneasy silence.
‘Your wife didn’t accompany you to the ball,’ Cribb added as if to strengthen the point.
The colour rose in the doctor’s cheeks. ‘I told you. She doesn’t go out in the evening. She was in one piece on Sunday, dammit, and if you’d asked me in the first place I could have told you so.’
‘You accompanied her to the station on Sunday morning?’
‘Er—no. They took a cab.’
‘Your wife, the maid Bridget and Jason?’
‘Good God, man! Do you even know the name of my servant?’
‘Did the three of them travel together, sir?’ persisted Cribb.
‘Naturally.’
‘You saw them leave?’
‘Of course! After a late breakfast. They would have caught the half past eleven train. If the change at Horsham didn’t delay them, they must have been home by one.’
‘That’s good news, then,’ said Cribb, leaning back in his seat as the steak was placed in front of him. ‘Would you be so kind as to pass the French mustard? Whoever this young woman was, she was killed on Saturday night. Not far from your hotel, so you can understand my concern.’
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