Dead Man’s Shoes

by Bruce, Leo

  “You’re a bore. Come to the point.”

  “That is the point. Daddy won’t be back from Italy till he’s tired of this model he’s got. I haven’t seen her, but I gather she’s quite a piece. I haven’t seen mummy since her last wedding. So I’ve got to have a tutor this holiday.”

  “Don’t look at me.”

  “Why? Any other of the ushers would love to take it on. Twenty guineas a week, to include my keep. Mr Hollingbourne would leap at it.”

  “I certainly shan’t deprive him of it.”

  “But think how useful I should be. Who checked up on those chocolate boxes in the Pipford case? You’re obviously going to solve this Willick problem and you don’t want to do it alone.”

  “I do.”

  “Have a heart, sir. You can’t leave me to the Hollingbourne family. I should have to play beach rounders or something.”

  “Very good for you.”

  “I’ve worked like a beaver all the term. Besides, you like my merry prattle.”

  “I detest it. But I suppose if I don’t take you, you’ll become even more of a juvenile delinquent than you are now.”

  “It’s a bet, then?”

  “If your father agrees.”

  “I told him what I was going to do. He appears to be relieved that it is on the investigating side of crime.”

  “What about the headmaster?”

  “Don’t let’s be cynical, sir. When do we start for Barton Abbess?”

  “I haven’t decided about that. I’m really not sure that it’s my case.”

  The telephone rang. It was Mrs Roper’s call from the Badmington Ladies’ Club. When Carolus put the receiver down he was smiling.

  “Yes. We might just go and meet the Packinlays,” he said. “You had better go home and pack.”

  When the boy was gone Carolus sat quite still for about twenty minutes. For the first time he applied serious thought to the case as far as it had been revealed. So far its only promise of being unusual lay in Mrs Roper’s last words on the telephone. If it was a simple case of murder followed by the suicide of the murderer it was not likely to interest him much. But if Larkin, too, had been murdered it might be the most intriguing case he had touched.

  He rang for his housekeeper.

  “Oh, Mrs Stick, I’m going away tomorrow. Will you get Stick to pack a couple of suit-cases for me?”

  Mrs Stick, a small, severe and terribly efficient person who had been with Carolus since the death of his young wife, strongly disapproved of his detective activities. She looked at him now with suspicion.

  “I shall need to know where you’re going, sir. To know what to pack.”

  “Oh, the country,” said Carolus vaguely.

  “Yes, sir. Will you require a dinner-jacket?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m going to stay with some old friends in Gloucestershire. Barton Abbess.”

  “Isn’t that where that gentleman was murdered the other day, sir?”

  “Was it, Mrs Stick?”

  “I hope you won’t take any risks, sir. And I do hope you won’t be bringing anyone here connected with it. I’m sure we do our best for you but it is….”

  “Come now, Mrs Stick, I’m just going away for a holiday.”

  “I know what your holidays are though, sir,” said Mrs Stick darkly as she left the room.

  Carolus returned to his yogi-like attitude of thought.

  5

  “SO WE’RE back on the old game,” said Rupert Priggley as the Bentley Continental was running out of High Wycombe.

  Carolus, who was inclined to regret that he had given in to the boy’s pleading, said nothing.

  Rupert was not easily suppressed.

  “Like me to drive?” he suggested.

  “No.”

  “Bit sour this morning, aren’t you? Never mind, you’ll soon have the scent of blood in your nostrils. Wait till you’ve interrogated a couple of people down at Barton Abbess; you’ll be a new man.”

  They lunched at the George in Oxford and pressed on through Witney and Northleach to arrive at Barton Abbess about half-past three.

  The village consisted of a few dozen grey stone cottages, a very small church and a cottage whose front room served as a post office. There was no shop and no inn. Nor was anyone in sight.

  “Busy, isn’t it?” said Rupert.

  They drew up in front of the post office and waited for some sign of life. After a few minutes a woman’s face appeared at a closed upper window. She looked down at the car, yawned and disappeared. But presently there was the sound of a waggon coming slowly up the road and at last it came in sight with a man dozing on its seat.

  “Hey!” shouted Carolus when it was near them.

  The man’s reactions were not very rapid, but in time he said “Wo!” to his horse and in another few yards the waggon stopped.

  “Where does Mr Packinlay live?” asked Carolus.

  This took thinking about. Presently the man said, “Who?”

  “Mr Packinlay.”

  “Ah!”

  Rupert turned to Carolus.

  “Do you think the penny has dropped?”

  “Hard to say. Be patient.”

  A window opened above.

  “Who do they want?” asked a woman of the carter.

  “Packinlays.”

  “Oh.”

  “We’re getting on,” said Rupert.

  The carter looked at Carolus and said, “Up at the Place.”

  “Where’s that?”

  The carter indicated one of the two roads ahead of them.

  “Thank you,” said Carolus.

  The man made a big effort.

  “They’ve got the Old Lodge,” he said. “Before you come to the Place.”

  “Thank you very much,” said Carolus.

  “Ah,” responded the carter.

  The woman up at the window grew almost animated.

  “Have you come about the murder?” she asked.

  Rupert replied before Carolus could.

  “Ah,” he said.

  They drove on. The house was easily found. A lodge beside some huge wrought-iron gates had been enlarged to make a comfortable-looking dwelling with a large garden. Barton Place itself was not visible from here, but a well-kept drive ran up towards it and turned in among some tall beech trees.

  Gilbert Packinlay himself came to the door and immediately appeared to recognize Carolus.

  “Hullo, Deene!” he said. “Come in, my dear chap. It’s a long time, isn’t it? The wife said I should know you.”

  He was tall and had a long, flat chin, long teeth and a long, narrow head. He was shaking Carolus’s hand vigorously and smiling.

  “One of your pupils? How d’you do? Come in. The wife will be down in a moment to get you some tea. So glad you were able to come. I only hope it’s interesting enough for you. Pretty easy to solve on the face of it. The wife says it’s a waste of time looking any farther now that Larkin has committed suicide. Well, well. We shall see. Do sit down.”

  “It’s not certain that it was suicide.”

  Packinlay looked up in an almost startled way.

  “Not? What else could it have been?”

  “Murder,” said Carolus.

  There was a short pause, then Packinlay began to laugh.

  “You’re pulling my leg,” he said, “or else seeing double. Two murders. You chaps are never satisfied. I’ll go and tell the wife you’re here. Cigarette? I always smoke a pipe myself.”

  “He would,” said Rupert when Packinlay had left them. “Just the type. Those long chins can only mean one thing—agonizing bores. We’re in for a bright few days.”

  Packinlay returned.

  “The wife will be here in a moment. She always says it’s men who keep women waiting. When do you want to start making enquiries?”

  “No particular time. Just let me hang about for a few days and I’ll get all I want.”

  “Just as you like. Well, it’s a long time since we we
re in Buzzard’s house, isn’t it? Do you remember Potter? I shall never forget the day he tied a blue ribbon on old Scurvy’s mortar-board! I can’t realize it’s twenty-five years ago. Talk about time flying. The wife always says it’s jet-propelled. I think I hear her getting the tea. I’ll go and carry it in.”

  “Oh God!” cried Rupert. “Do you remember him at all?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Odd, that. You could surely never forget him. ‘The wife always says.’ I should think she’s going to be worse, if anything.”

  When Packinlay returned he was carrying a large tray. He put it down before introducing the rather handsome woman who was with him.

  “This is the wife,” he announced rather superfluously. “Carolus Deene, dear, and a pupil of his, Mr Priggley.”

  Ethel Packinlay smiled a greeting and busied herself with the tea-things.

  “Why do you say it’s an easy case?” Carolus asked Packinlay, perhaps to avoid more school reminiscenes.

  “Well, isn’t it? The man so obviously did it….”

  “With what motive?”

  “The usual one. Money. For some years Gregory had been paying sums to Larkin in Gibraltar. I don’t think he was a relative, but an old friend of the family. He was in Gregory’s Will, too, till about a month ago, when Gregory made a completely new one and cut him out. He probably didn’t know he was out—people rarely do, when that happens. Oh yes, he had motive all right.”

  “I see. I should like to start at the beginning and know a bit more about Gregory Willick and the whole affair.”

  “Certainly. The wife always says I’m never happier than when I’m telling a yarn, and there wasn’t much about Gregory I didn’t know.”

  Carolus was beginning to wonder when Packinlay’s wife made all the remarks he quoted, for so far she had not spoken a word and did not seem likely to do so.

  “Gregory was one of two brothers, the sons of a man who made a big fortune in Calcutta. The other brother, Dennis, married and had one son who is still alive, Lance. Dennis and his wife were killed in a plane smash and a few months later the old man died. When they came to examine his Will they found it had been made twenty years previously, before Lance was born, and left everything to the two sons equally without mentioning their heirs and assigns. So, as Dennis had pre-deceased his father, the whole lot went to Gregory. I’m telling you this in detail because for all I know it may be important.”

  “I’m always interested in Wills, anyway,” said Carolus.

  “This, you will admit, was hard luck on Lance, who was then a boy of about eighteen. The old man had liked his grandson, and it was sheer carelessness or forgetfulness which had caused him to be left out of the Will. But Gregory did the proper thing. He sold all the property in Calcutta and re-invested the proceeds. He then paid Lance a lump sum and promised him an assured income of a thousand a year. It was also pretty clear that Lance would inherit most of the money. But what Gregory did not do was make anything over or lose any control over his capital. The lump sum was a gift, the thousand a year was a voluntary allowance and he made no legal undertaking to continue it or to leave any specific sum to Lance. Everything depended on Gregory’s sense of honour and justice and fortunately for Lance these were high. I expect you’re wondering when I’m coming to Larkin.”

  “You’re telling it very well, if I may say so. Please don’t hurry.”

  “Lance did well in the war, then went to settle in Tangier, where his thousand a year would go farther and not be taxed. Gregory bought this place as soon as he came to England after his father’s death, which was in 1930 or 1931. He spent a lot of money on it and took great pride in it. Indeed for some years it was almost his only interest. We’ll go over some of it tomorrow and you can see for yourself. My wife always says that some of the credit’s mine, but I tell her I couldn’t have done much without Gregory’s money.

  “Then, about five years ago, he met a girl called Marylin Sweeny. You will meet her yourself, so I need not go into details, but there is no question about her beauty. My wife thinks she’s the most beautiful woman she has ever seen. I am not repeating hearsay or making scandal when I say that she and Gregory lived together. They made no secret of it. The only thing that people did not understand was why they did not marry. Actually Marylin was already married to a man whom she left but who refuses to divorce her. High Church, I gather. Strict ideas about divorce. But her relationship with Gregory was like a very happy marriage. Of course there was a big difference in their ages, but that only seemed to strengthen the ties. You know how it is when a man falls in love late in life? Well … but you’ll see Marylin tomorrow. Or this evening if you like.”

  “Personally, I can’t wait,” said Rupert.

  Gilbert Packinlay ignored this.

  “Soon after Gregory met Marylin he started making payments to Wilbury Larkin on a bank in Gibraltar. Fairly large sums. It was no business of mine, though, of course, doing the accounts I had to know about it. Gregory was not a man to appreciate a lot of questions about his affairs, but I did just say once, ‘Is this Mr Larkin a relative of yours?’ Gregory answered quite casually, smiling to himself, ‘No. An old friend. A family friend.’ That was all the information I had. I never thought very much about it. Gregory was very generous. Some former employee, I imagined.”

  “You say these payments to Larkin started soon after Gregory Willick had met Mrs Sweeny? You didn’t connect the two?”

  “No, it never occurred to me. I’m not an inquisitive man. My wife is always telling me that I should notice things more. But I like to mind my own business.”

  “You never saw any letter from Larkin?”

  “I did not see Gregory’s personal letters. He dealt with them all himself and invariably destroyed them.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “It was one of his little fads. He burnt every document except business things, which he handed to me. On the fire when there was one, in the empty grate of his study when there wasn’t. When they came to go through his papers there was nothing of a personal nature at all.”

  “What about his Will?”

  “No surprises. He had about a quarter of a million to leave. He had already made a settlement for Marylin in the hope of avoiding death duties, but I’m afraid they won’t succeed in that. There are very generous bequests to me, to Ridge the chauffeur, who had been with him for a good many years, and to Socker, his gamekeeper on the estate here, whose family have had the job for generations. There were a number of smaller, but still very acceptable bequests to the other servants and to the Vicar of the parish. The residue goes to Lance. It will be a very large sum indeed.”

  “Nothing whatever for Larkin?”

  “No. As I say, he was cut out about a month ago. Otherwise he was to have had the same as I get.”

  “I see. Now may we come to the murder itself?”

  “Certainly. It’s a very simple matter. Gregory as he got older became very much a creature of habit. He would start doing a thing—some quite ordinary thing like coming across here for a cup of tea in the afternoon—then continue it daily for years, perhaps. That is exactly what happened. He came in here one afternoon to see me about something, and the wife asked him if he would like a cup of tea. She always says that other people’s bread and butter taste better than your own. He accepted, and after that day took to coming here as regularly as clockwork for his char and wad, as we used to say in the army. He came by a rather roundabout way, through a wood called Burghley’s Wood and across the big meadow. He always brought Copper, his old spaniel, with him. He could be relied on to stick to his schedule and time-table.”

  “Who would know about this habit of Willick’s?”

  “Everyone up at the Place. Marylin Sweeny, the servants, Ridge, Socker and of course the wife and I.”

  “But probably not anyone down in the village?”

  “Unlikely. They’re not very bright in the village. Could be, of course, but I doubt it.” />
  “What I’m getting at, Packinlay, is this. Whoever murdered Gregory Willick must have known of this habit of his. If you are so sure it was Larkin, how do you account for his knowing?”

  “Never thought of that, I must say.”

  “He was staying at the local hotel. Where is that?”

  “Out on the main road. About a mile away.”

  “How long had he been there?”

  “He only arrived on the night before the murder.”

  “Then presumably he must have questioned one of the household?”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t think he went out till the afternoon of the murder.”

  “If he had no opportunity to learn about Willick’s daily walk it will go a long way towards clearing Larkin. In my mind, at any rate. However, do go on with the story.”

  Ethel Packinlay had gathered up the tea-things and with a warm smile left the room. She returned to join them now, taking her previous seat without speaking.

  “That afternoon Gregory Willick did not turn up, I need scarcely say. The wife waited half an hour, then made the tea.”

  “You didn’t look to see if he was coming across the meadow?”

  “Well, as a matter of fact I was not in myself that afternoon. I had to go to one of the estate cottages to see about an old man who doesn’t want to give up his tenancy. He’s over eighty and on his own. His son’s quite willing to have him. A difficult case.”

  “Did you resolve it that day?”

  “No. I didn’t see him. Whether he was asleep or had toddled off somewhere, I don’t know. He’s very deaf. But I’m wandering from the point. When I got home I was surprised to hear from the wife that Gregory had not been that afternoon. She said she supposed that meant he wouldn’t come again. He’d form a habit of not coming, in other words. Poor old Gregory. Of course, he never did come again.”

  “Well, no,” said Rupert Priggley.

  “It wasn’t until about eight o’clock that evening that anyone grew anxious at all. Then Marylin phoned me to know if he was here, and I said he hadn’t been here that day. She said he had left the Place at about three as usual with Copper at his heels. The wife suggested that he might have met someone he knew and gone off with them somewhere. Marylin said that was scarcely likely, as he did not have to cross a road at all. What acquaintance could he meet on his own grounds? She wondered if he had fallen or was ill or anything.”