“Will he be at home, do you know?”
“Let me see. What’s today—Saturday? Usually gets here sometime Saturday morning.”
Melchett said grimly:
“We’ll see if we can find him.”
II
Basil Blake’s cottage, which consisted of all modern conveniences enclosed in a hideous shell of half timbering and sham Tudor, was known to the postal authorities, and to William Booker, builder, as “Chatsworth”; to Basil and his friends as “The Period Piece,” and to the village of St. Mary Mead at large as “Mr. Booker’s new house.”
It was little more than a quarter of a mile from the village proper, being situated on a new building estate that had been bought by the enterprising Mr. Booker just beyond the Blue Boar, with frontage on what had been a particularly unspoilt country lane. Gossington Hall was about a mile farther on along the same road.
Lively interest had been aroused in St. Mary Mead when news went round that “Mr. Booker’s new house” had been bought by a film star. Eager watch was kept for the first appearance of the legendary creature in the village, and it may be said that as far as appearances went Basil Blake was all that could be asked for. Little by little, however, the real facts leaked out. Basil Blake was not a film star—not even a film actor. He was a very junior person, rejoicing in the title of about fifteenth in the list of those responsible for Set Decorations at Lemville Studios, headquarters of British New Era Films. The village maidens lost interest, and the ruling class of censorious spinsters took exception to Basil Blake’s way of life. Only the landlord of the Blue Boar continued to be enthusiastic about Basil and Basil’s friends. The revenues of the Blue Boar had increased since the young man’s arrival in the place.
The police car stopped outside the distorted rustic gate of Mr. Booker’s fancy, and Colonel Melchett, with a glance of distaste at the excessive half timbering of Chatsworth, strode up to the front door and attacked it briskly with the knocker.
It was opened much more promptly than he had expected. A young man with straight, somewhat long, black hair, wearing orange corduroy trousers and a royal-blue shirt, snapped out: “Well, what do you want?”
“Are you Mr. Basil Blake?”
“Of course I am.”
“I should be glad to have a few words with you, if I may, Mr. Blake?”
“Who are you?”
“I am Colonel Melchett, the Chief Constable of the County.”
Mr. Blake said insolently:
“You don’t say so; how amusing!”
And Colonel Melchett, following the other in, understood what Colonel Bantry’s reactions had been. The toe of his own boot itched.
Containing himself, however, he said with an attempt to speak pleasantly:
“You’re an early riser, Mr. Blake.”
“Not at all. I haven’t been to bed yet.”
“Indeed.”
“But I don’t suppose you’ve come here to inquire into my hours of bedgoing—or if you have it’s rather a waste of the county’s time and money. What is it you want to speak to me about?”
Colonel Melchett cleared his throat.
“I understand, Mr. Blake, that last weekend you had a visitor—a—er—fair-haired young lady.”
Basil Blake stared, threw back his head and roared with laughter.
“Have the old cats been on to you from the village? About my morals? Damn it all, morals aren’t a police matter. You know that.”
“As you say,” said Melchett dryly, “your morals are no concern of mine. I have come to you because the body of a fair-haired young woman of slightly—er—exotic appearance has been found—murdered.”
“Strewth!” Blake stared at him. “Where?”
“In the library at Gossington Hall.”
“At Gossington? At old Bantry’s? I say, that’s pretty rich. Old Bantry! The dirty old man!”
Colonel Melchett went very red in the face. He said sharply through the renewed mirth of the young man opposite him: “Kindly control your tongue, sir. I came to ask you if you can throw any light on this business.”
“You’ve come round to ask me if I’ve missed a blonde? Is that it? Why should—hallo, ’allo, ’allo, what’s this?”
A car had drawn up outside with a scream of brakes. Out of it tumbled a young woman dressed in flapping black-and-white pyjamas. She had scarlet lips, blackened eyelashes, and a platinum-blonde head. She strode up to the door, flung it open, and exclaimed angrily:
“Why did you run out on me, you brute?”
Basil Blake had risen.
“So there you are! Why shouldn’t I leave you? I told you to clear out and you wouldn’t.”
“Why the hell should I because you told me to? I was enjoying myself.”
“Yes—with that filthy brute Rosenberg. You know what he’s like.”
“You were jealous, that’s all.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I hate to see a girl I like who can’t hold her drink and lets a disgusting Central European paw her about.”
“That’s a damned lie. You were drinking pretty hard yourself—and going on with the black-haired Spanish bitch.”
“If I take you to a party I expect you to be able to behave yourself.”
“And I refuse to be dictated to, and that’s that. You said we’d go to the party and come on down here afterwards. I’m not going to leave a party before I’m ready to leave it.”
“No—and that’s why I left you flat. I was ready to come down here and I came. I don’t hang round waiting for any fool of a woman.”
“Sweet, polite person you are!”
“You seem to have followed me down all right!”
“I wanted to tell you what I thought of you!”
“If you think you can boss me, my girl, you’re wrong!”
“And if you think you can order me about, you can think again!”
They glared at each other.
It was at this moment that Colonel Melchett seized his opportunity, and cleared his throat loudly.
Basil Blake swung round on him.
“Hallo, I forgot you were here. About time you took yourself off, isn’t it? Let me introduce you—Dinah Lee—Colonel Blimp of the County Police. And now, Colonel, that you’ve seen my blonde is alive and in good condition, perhaps you’ll get on with the good work concerning old Bantry’s little bit of fluff. Good morning!”
Colonel Melchett said:
“I advise you to keep a civil tongue in your head, young man, or you’ll let yourself in for trouble,” and stumped out, his face red and wrathful.
Three
I
In his office at Much Benham, Colonel Melchett received and scrutinized the reports of his subordinates:
“… so it all seems clear enough, sir,” Inspector Slack was concluding: “Mrs. Bantry sat in the library after dinner and went to bed just before ten. She turned out the lights when she left the room and, presumably, no one entered the room afterwards. The servants went to bed at half-past ten and Lorrimer, after putting the drinks in the hall, went to bed at a quarter to eleven. Nobody heard anything out of the usual except the third housemaid, and she heard too much! Groans and a blood-curdling yell and sinister footsteps and I don’t know what. The second housemaid who shares a room with her says the other girl slept all night through without a sound. It’s those ones that make up things that cause us all the trouble.”
“What about the forced window?”
“Amateur job, Simmons says; done with a common chisel—ordinary pattern—wouldn’t have made much noise. Ought to be a chisel about the house but nobody can find it. Still, that’s common enough where tools are concerned.”
“Think any of the servants know anything?”
Rather unwillingly Inspector Slack replied:
“No, sir, I don’t think they do. They all seemed very shocked and upset. I had my suspicions of Lorrimer—reticent, he was, if you know what I mean—but I don’t think there’s anything in it.”
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Melchett nodded. He attached no importance to Lorrimer’s reticence. The energetic Inspector Slack often produced that effect on people he interrogated.
The door opened and Dr. Haydock came in.
“Thought I’d look in and give you the rough gist of things.”
“Yes, yes, glad to see you. Well?”
“Nothing much. Just what you’d think. Death was due to strangulation. Satin waistband of her own dress, which was passed round the neck and crossed at the back. Quite easy and simple to do. Wouldn’t have needed great strength—that is, if the girl were taken by surprise. There are no signs of a struggle.”
“What about time of death?”
“Say, between ten o’clock and midnight.”
“You can’t get nearer than that?”
Haydock shook his head with a slight grin.
“I won’t risk my professional reputation. Not earlier than ten and not later than midnight.”
“And your own fancy inclines to which time?”
“Depends. There was a fire in the grate—the room was warm—all that would delay rigor and cadaveric stiffening.”
“Anything more you can say about her?”
“Nothing much. She was young—about seventeen or eighteen, I should say. Rather immature in some ways but well developed muscularly. Quite a healthy specimen. She was virgo intacta, by the way.”
And with a nod of his head the doctor left the room.
Melchett said to the Inspector:
“You’re quite sure she’d never been seen before at Gossington?”
“The servants are positive of that. Quite indignant about it. They’d have remembered if they’d ever seen her about in the neighbourhood, they say.”
“I expect they would,” said Melchett. “Anyone of that type sticks out a mile round here. Look at that young woman of Blake’s.”
“Pity it wasn’t her,” said Slack; “then we should be able to get on a bit.”
“It seems to me this girl must have come down from London,” said the Chief Constable thoughtfully. “Don’t believe there will be any local leads. In that case, I suppose, we should do well to call in the Yard. It’s a case for them, not for us.”
“Something must have brought her down here, though,” said Slack. He added tentatively: “Seems to me, Colonel and Mrs. Bantry must know something—of course, I know they’re friends of yours, sir—”
Colonel Melchett treated him to a cold stare. He said stiffly:
“You may rest assured that I’m taking every possibility into account. Every possibility.” He went on: “You’ve looked through the list of persons reported missing, I suppose?”
Slack nodded. He produced a typed sheet.
“Got ’em here. Mrs. Saunders, reported missing a week ago, dark-haired, blue-eyed, thirty-six. ’Tisn’t her—and, anyway, everyone knows except her husband that she’s gone off with a fellow from Leeds—commercial. Mrs. Barnard—she’s sixty-five. Pamela Reeves, sixteen, missing from her home last night, had attended Girl Guide rally, dark-brown hair in pigtail, five feet five—”
Melchett said irritably:
“Don’t go on reading idiotic details, Slack. This wasn’t a schoolgirl. In my opinion—”
He broke off as the telephone rang. “Hallo—yes—yes, Much Benham Police Headquarters—what? Just a minute—”
He listened, and wrote rapidly. Then he spoke again, a new tone in his voice:
“Ruby Keene, eighteen, occupation professional dancer, five feet four inches, slender, platinum-blonde hair, blue eyes, retroussé nose, believed to be wearing white diamanté evening dress, silver sandal shoes. Is that right? What? Yes, not a doubt of it, I should say. I’ll send Slack over at once.”
He rang off and looked at his subordinate with rising excitement. “We’ve got it, I think. That was the Glenshire Police” (Glenshire was the adjoining county). “Girl reported missing from the Majestic Hotel, Danemouth.”
“Danemouth,” said Inspector Slack. “That’s more like it.”
Danemouth was a large and fashionable watering-place on the coast not far away.
“It’s only a matter of eighteen miles or so from here,” said the Chief Constable. “The girl was a dance hostess or something at the Majestic. Didn’t come on to do her turn last night and the management were very fed up about it. When she was still missing this morning one of the other girls got the wind up about her, or someone else did. It sounds a bit obscure. You’d better go over to Danemouth at once, Slack. Report there to Superintendent Harper, and cooperate with him.”
II
Activity was always to Inspector Slack’s taste. To rush off in a car, to silence rudely those people who were anxious to tell him things, to cut short conversations on the plea of urgent necessity. All this was the breath of life to Slack.
In an incredibly short time, therefore, he had arrived at Danemouth, reported at police headquarters, had a brief interview with a distracted and apprehensive hotel manager, and, leaving the latter with the doubtful comfort of—“got to make sure it is the girl, first, before we start raising the wind”—was driving back to Much Benham in company with Ruby Keene’s nearest relative.
He had put through a short call to Much Benham before leaving Danemouth, so the Chief Constable was prepared for his arrival, though not perhaps for the brief introduction of: “This is Josie, sir.”
Colonel Melchett stared at his subordinate coldly. His feeling was that Slack had taken leave of his senses.
The young woman who had just got out of the car came to the rescue.
“That’s what I’m known as professionally,” she explained with a momentary flash of large, handsome white teeth. “Raymond and Josie, my partner and I call ourselves, and, of course, all the hotel know me as Josie. Josephine Turner’s my real name.”
Colonel Melchett adjusted himself to the situation and invited Miss Turner to sit down, meanwhile casting a swift, professional glance over her.
She was a good-looking young woman of perhaps nearer thirty than twenty, her looks depending more on skilful grooming than actual features. She looked competent and good-tempered, with plenty of common sense. She was not the type that would ever be described as glamorous, but she had nevertheless plenty of attraction. She was discreetly made-up and wore a dark tailor-made suit. Though she looked anxious and upset she was not, the Colonel decided, particularly grief-stricken.
As she sat down she said: “It seems too awful to be true. Do you really think it’s Ruby?”
“That, I’m afraid, is what we’ve got to ask you to tell us. I’m afraid it may be rather unpleasant for you.”
Miss Turner said apprehensively:
“Does she—does she—look very terrible?”
“Well—I’m afraid it may be rather a shock to you.” He handed her his cigarette case and she accepted one gratefully.
“Do—do you want me to look at her right away?”
“It would be best, I think, Miss Turner. You see, it’s not much good asking you questions until we’re sure. Best get it over, don’t you think?”
“All right.”
They drove down to the mortuary.
When Josie came out after a brief visit, she looked rather sick.
“It’s Ruby all right,” she said shakily. “Poor kid! Goodness, I do feel queer. There isn’t”—she looked round wistfully—“any gin?”
Gin was not available, but brandy was, and after gulping a little down Miss Turner regained her composure. She said frankly:
“It gives you a turn, doesn’t it, seeing anything like that? Poor little Rube! What swine men are, aren’t they?”
“You believe it was a man?”
Josie looked slightly taken aback.
“Wasn’t it? Well, I mean—I naturally thought—”
“Any special man you were thinking of?”
She shook her head vigorously.
“No—not me. I haven’t the least idea. Naturally Ruby wouldn’t have let on to me if�
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“If what?”
Josie hesitated.
“Well—if she’d been—going about with anyone.”
Melchett shot her a keen glance. He said no more until they were back at his office. Then he began:
“Now, Miss Turner, I want all the information you can give me.”
“Yes, of course. Where shall I begin?”
“I’d like the girl’s full name and address, her relationship to you and all you know about her.”
Josephine Turner nodded. Melchett was confirmed in his opinion that she felt no particular grief. She was shocked and distressed but no more. She spoke readily enough.
“Her name was Ruby Keene—her professional name, that is. Her real name was Rosy Legge. Her mother was my mother’s cousin. I’ve known her all my life, but not particularly well, if you know what I mean. I’ve got a lot of cousins—some in business, some on the stage. Ruby was more or less training for a dancer. She had some good engagements last year in panto and that sort of thing. Not really classy, but good provincial companies. Since then she’s been engaged as one of the dancing partners at the Palais de Danse in Brixwell—South London. It’s a nice respectable place and they look after the girls well, but there isn’t much money in it.” She paused.
Colonel Melchett nodded.
“Now this is where I come in. I’ve been dance and bridge hostess at the Majestic in Danemouth for three years. It’s a good job, well paid and pleasant to do. You look after people when they arrive—size them up, of course—some like to be left alone and others are lonely and want to get into the swing of things. You try to get the right people together for bridge and all that, and get the young people dancing with each other. It needs a bit of tact and experience.”
Again Melchett nodded. He thought that this girl would be good at her job; she had a pleasant, friendly way with her and was, he thought, shrewd without being in the least intellectual.
“Besides that,” continued Josie, “I do a couple of exhibition dances every evening with Raymond. Raymond Starr—he’s the tennis and dancing pro. Well, as it happens, this summer I slipped on the rocks bathing one day and gave my ankle a nasty turn.”
Melchett had noticed that she walked with a slight limp.
The Complete Miss Marple Collection Page 26