The Belting Inheritance

by Julian Symons

  “You’ll have to go to New Zealand. She married an engineer after the war, and went out there. And you realise my father talked to her at the time. Why should she say things to you that she wouldn’t say to him?”

  I had no answer, and returned to something she had said in the office. “You said your father lost his job. How did that happen?”

  She spooned her soup. “With Ted and Hugh both dead, of course the firm couldn’t be carried on. Lady Wainwright swooped down with an accountant, and he discovered that there was practically no money left. This came as a bit of

  a shock to everybody, and my father really couldn’t understand it, but anyway she was quite good about it. And it turned out, by the way, that she knew about the two hundred pounds borrowed from Uncle Ted, she’d given that as part of the capital for the business. However, she paid my father back all the money he’d lost, and I suppose you could say that was generous.”

  “I should certainly think so.”

  “But my father was one of the awkward squad, and he got it into his head that she was bribing him to keep quiet about Uncle Ted’s death. When the war was over he kept pestering the police to start up inquiries again, and then tried to start them himself. Within a few weeks the owner of the firm he was working for then called him in and sacked him, saying he wasn’t doing his job properly.”

  “Perhaps he wasn’t.”

  She glared. “He was a good mechanic, and they were in short supply. The owner was a man named Gibson. He was a friend of Lady Wainwright.”

  “Excuse me. I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. I wonder whether I might be of assistance.”

  A man was standing beside our table. He was plump rather than tall, a round-faced smiling man of about forty, dressed in neat dark clothes. “You were talking about the tragedy that took place ten years ago, and it is a subject in which I am personally interested. You see, I was there.”

  “Where?” Elaine asked aggressively.

  “Where else but at the Duck and Drake, on the fatal evening.”

  “And who are you?”

  “My name is Ulfheim.” He smiled broadly, with a gleam of gold teeth.

  “You didn’t give evidence at the inquest.”

  “Indeed I didn’t.” By now Mr Ulfheim had drawn up a chair and was sitting down. “You don’t mind if I join you? The more who share the feast the greater the store of wisdom at their command, is I believe an old Confucian saying.” He leaned over and transferred a large shabby suitcase from the next table. “But in reply to your question, I had good reasons for absenting myself from the inquest.”

  “What sort of reasons?” I asked.

  “A difficult question. I am, what shall I say, a traveller. A traveller in clerical vestments masquerading under the name of the Reverend Strawman. You don’t believe me?” He opened the suitcase and drew from it what did certainly seem to be some sort of black cassock-like robe. There was something clerical, too, or the caricature of something clerical, about the plumpness of his cheeks and the whiteness of his hands. Below the robe I glimpsed briefly a number of wooden objects, with thin wires or loops attached to them. Then, with a sly look at me, he closed the case again. “I can see that you don’t believe me, you think I am telling you a traveller’s tale. Shall I say then that I have a splendid line in pornographic postcards which I sell under the pretence of being a traveller in clerical vestments? But here come our dishes. What a great deal of food.” He began to help himself with zest.

  Elaine put on her spectacles. The effect intimidated me, but appeared to afford only amusement to Mr Ulfheim. “If you’ve got anything to tell us, I suggest you tell it.”

  “All in good time, Miss Sullivan. It is Miss Sullivan, isn’t it? Sweet and sour pork, my favourite. Of course you are lunching with Ulfheim, that is understood. And Mr Christopher Barrington, I presume. Stirring times at Belting, aren’t they, Mr Barrington? What do they make of the return of the native?”

  “If you mean David Wainwright, his brothers don’t believe it is David.”

  “Don’t they, now? What about his mother, is she a sceptic too?”

  “No. She says it is David.”

  “Well, well, a house divided. That’s distressing.” Mr Ulfheim was adept with his chopsticks, darting about here and there among pork and chicken and noodles while he glanced quickly from me to Elaine and back again. “And Thorne’s death, that’s distressed everybody too, I expect.”

  “It’s obvious that the police think David did it.”

  “He’s worried, eh, would you say he was worried? I can see you would. Poor David. If it is David.”

  Adept though Mr Ulfheim was with the chopsticks – and Elaine was not far behind him – I outpaced them with my fork and spoon. I put them down now. “Mr Ulfheim, the idea was that you were going to tell us something, do you remember? Not that you should pump us. You haven’t told us anything yet, not even how you know our names.”

  “Ah, you’ve seen through my little stratagem. Never trust a traveller in clerical vestments, who calls himself Strawman, that’s a motto of antique wisdom. Especially when he tells you that his real name is Ulfheim. You’d guessed that wasn’t the truth, I expect. Yes, I see you had. You will have to accept that I know your names when you haven’t had the pleasure of knowing mine, but I really have got something to tell you.” He paused, and said with dramatic emphasis, “Miss Sullivan, your uncle was not killed by David Wainwright.”

  “You mean he was killed by somebody else?” Elaine said sharply.

  “You catch my drift. And who was the somebody else? That’s the question, or so you may think. But you would be wrong. The question is, why was Ted Sullivan killed? And I can give you the answer to it. He was killed because he knew too much about a certain group of people who were very active here at that time.”

  “What sort of people?” I asked.

  “People, shall I say, who were not anxious that we should win the war.”

  “Do you mean pro-Germans? Here, in Kent?” Elaine asked incredulously.

  “And what is so surprising about that, my dear young lady? What do you know about life during the war? The question is rhetorical, for it is plain that you are not of an age to know anything at all.”

  “I can read.”

  “I don’t dispute it. Have you heard of the Link?”

  “It was a sort of pro-German organisation, isn’t that right? But I thought it was really quite respectable.”

  “And so it was, my dear, so it was. Respectable gentlemen were members of it, MPs and retired admirals, entirely innocent people who in some cases suffered for being credulous about Hitler’s Germany. But these people were used by the real agents. Folkestone is on the coast, you can imagine the importance of that. There was a Link group here, and some members of it were interned for the duration. But behind the Link in Kent there were other people, and they were not interned.” He scooped up the last grains of rice, the last piece of pork. “Your uncle stumbled across them, Miss Sullivan. That’s why he died.”

  We both sat looking at him. “Why are you telling us this?” I asked.

  “Because you are amateurs, my dear young people. You may cause trouble to professionals.”

  “What professionals?” Elaine said.

  “Ulfheim, shall I say? Or Strawman?”

  “You want us to give up trying to find out what happened to my uncle?”

  For the first time Mr Ulfheim showed signs of irritation. “What happened to your uncle is over and done with. I am concerned about what is likely to happen in the next few days. As for you two, of course you will do what you like, but don’t blame me if you run into danger, and don’t expect any help.” He looked at his watch. “I must go. Thank you for the pleasure of your company. Do you think the police really suspect David Wainwright?”

  “I don’t see how they can fail to,” I replied.

  “I must have a word with Arbuthnot.” He called for the bill. Elaine and I looked at each other and then
she spoke for both of us.

  “You can’t just leave it at that. You’ve got to tell us more of what it’s all about.”

  “But indeed I can leave it at that, and I shall.” He rose.

  Something about him suggested a character actor slightly overplaying his part. He seemed about to say something, and then waved a hand – the hand that was not holding his shabby suitcase – and was threading his way among the tables. I was prepared to sit back, sip the tea that had come to us in cups without handles, and discuss him, but Elaine said: “Come on.”

  “Where?”

  “After him. He’s not English.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The general look of him. And that tie came from France.” Meekly I followed her determined figure as she moved towards the exit. How could she say with such enviable certainty that a tie came from France and not from the Burlington Arcade? Later I learned that this was part of her personality, that dogmatic assertiveness came as naturally to her as atrocious punning did to Uncle Miles. Above ground, we looked to left and right. Then she cried out, “There he is.”

  Sure enough, Mr Ulfheim was turning a corner into one of the streets that led down to the harbour. We walked after him, turned the corner ourselves, and saw him some thirty yards ahead. He walked quickly, but in a slightly pigeon-toed manner, and I was thinking that we should have no trouble in keeping track of him when he suddenly dashed across the road and disappeared into a narrow side turning. Our reactions were typical. I stopped and said, “How on earth did he know we were following him? He never turned round.”

  Elaine did not reply but began to run. Again I followed her. As we ran she gasped out, “They have periscopes, things they hold up to see behind them.”

  We had almost reached the corner when I bumped into a man coming the other way. A well-known voice said, “What do you think you’re doing?” and then, with recognition,

  “What’s your hurry, why the flurry?”

  I found myself clasped in the arms of Uncle Miles.

  Chapter Nine

  Scene in a Courtyard

  “You almost knocked me over.” I was held effectively in Uncle Miles’ arms, and even Elaine paused for a few seconds before running to the corner of the alley. She came back. “He’s gone.”

  I attempted explanation. “It was a man, he crossed the road suddenly and ran down there.”

  Uncle Miles looked at us as if we had taken leave of our senses. “What man? Who was he?”

  “He said his name was Ulfheim. Or it might have been Strawman.”

  “Strawman?” Uncle Miles began to giggle and then the giggle turned into a laugh. He pointed to the name on the corner. It said Brick Alley. Between gasps of laughter he asked, “Do you suppose he’s a bit of the straw they make bricks out of? He’s vanished into the bricks, that’s where he’s gone. Strawman into Brick Alley.”

  I began to laugh too. Elaine looked at me in amazement.

  “Strawman,” I said. “Went into Brick Alley. Can’t make bricks without straw, do you get it?”

  “Yes. And that’s funny?”

  I gave up. Uncle Miles coughed. I introduced him and explained, as I felt I had to, that she was the niece of Ted Sullivan.

  He looked hunted. “I told you I wasn’t at home, I don’t know anything about it.”

  “No Wainwright wants to remember it or know much about it, isn’t that right?” Elaine demanded militantly. She had put on her glasses. “It’s no good going after that man now, whatever his name was. And anyway, I must get back to the office.”

  “Shall I see you again?” I was aware that I wanted to.

  “You’ll find the number in the book.”

  Uncle Miles gazed after her. “What a forceful young woman. Whatever were you doing together? I don’t suppose you’ll tell me. But I have a bone to pick with you, Christopher. Let us find somewhere to pick it in peace.”

  Five minutes later we were settled in the tea lounge of one of Folkestone’s stuffier restaurants. While we were talking there, and Uncle Miles was ordering coffee and sweet biscuits, of which he was very fond, I had been trying to solve a problem. Had Mr Ulfheim bolted down Brick Alley because he wanted to avoid Uncle Miles, had Uncle Miles put his arms round me in order effectively to check our pursuit of Mr Ulfheim? Or had Mr Ulfheim simply been engaged in getting away from us? I could not ignore the fact that through meeting Uncle Miles we had lost Mr Ulfheim, yet looking at his red face and bald head, considering his air of pettish annoyance and the way in which it was assuaged by the sweet biscuits, it was hard to associate him with anything that required even a small amount of devious cunning.

  “We should have had tea,” Uncle Miles said abruptly.

  “Why?”

  “Because you need tannin.” I laughed dutifully. “You didn’t tell me you’d been to see that woman.”

  For a moment I couldn’t think what he was talking about. “You mean Betty Urquhart?”

  “That terrible woman.”

  I said mendaciously, “I thought Stephen would have told you.”

  He bit into another biscuit. “Stephen’s conduct was absolutely – ” Words failed him, and it was not often that words of a sort failed Uncle Miles. He began again. “He told me late this morning, when it was unavoidable. She is coming down to Belting this afternoon. I said that I should not be there, it was quite impossible for me to meet her. And I told him what I thought of his behaviour. I did not even stay for lunch.” That was serious indeed. It was almost unknown for Uncle Miles to be away at lunch-time, unless he was going to a cricket match or a race meeting. “I ate here in Folkestone, very poorly I may say.”

  “I’m sorry.” And I did feel contrite, almost responsible for the poorness of that lunch. “I meant to say something, but didn’t know how to. And then everything seemed to happen at once, and I really forgot about it.”

  “Aren’t you going to eat those biscuits?”

  “No. Do have them.”

  His acceptance of them signified the making of peace between us. “What did you think of her? What did she say about me?”

  I gave him a carefully edited account of our meeting. Miles sighed, with a note both of regret and of relief. “Marrying her was the greatest mistake of my life.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I liked her.”

  “I dare say you did. She was always mad about men. That was her trouble.” He spoke as if it were something chronic, like indigestion. “She seemed to be happy, then?”

  “I think so. She’s naturally gay, isn’t she?”

  He looked at me, and pushed away the last biscuit with distaste. “Kent are playing Derbyshire here at Folkestone, did you know that? I shall spend the afternoon there. If you’d like to come – or would it be too much of a fag?” I must explain at this distance of time that Arthur Fagg was then Kent’s opening batsman.

  “No, I shall go back to Belting. I want to see what happens when Betty and Doctor Foster meet David.”

  I regretted calling him David as soon as I had spoken, but Uncle Miles didn’t notice. “Give her my kind regards.” He seemed conscious of the inadequacy of the phrase. “Don’t tell her I went away because of her coming, she was always saying that I ran away from things. I suppose you think she’s right.”

  It seemed impossible to answer this. I described Ulfheim and asked Uncle Miles if he had met him.

  “No, I don’t think so. In fact I’m sure I haven’t. I don’t know what you’re playing at, but don’t do anything silly.” He smiled with a sort of wistful unhappiness. “That’s a silly thing to say, isn’t it? I shall do what people always do in their dotage, go and watch the cricket.”

  The bus got me back to Belting by three o’clock. Neither Betty Urquhart nor Foster had arrived, and in fact there seemed to be nobody about. At least, that was my impression until I found Inspector Arbuthnot in a corner of the drawing-room. In the daylight he looked less grey, but not much less ill-at-ease. He greeted me with what might almost have been c
alled warmth, and asked what I had been doing in Folkestone. I did not want to tell him about Mr Ulfheim, for fear that he would warn me off making any further investigation, and so said that I had been shopping. He asked when the visitors were coming.

  “Some time this afternoon, I don’t know when. That’s why you’re here, is it, to see what happens when they meet him?”

  “Of course.”

  “And if they confirm that it is David you’ll arrest him? But for which murder?”

  He stared at me. “What d’you mean?”

  “I’ve found the details of Ted Sullivan’s death. I’ve talked to his niece, Elaine Sullivan – ”

  “So that’s what you were doing in Folkestone.”

  “I know you suspected David of killing Sullivan then, but I suppose you hadn’t got enough evidence. So if this man had been David he wouldn’t have come back, knowing that a murder charge might still be hanging over his head.”

  He took out his pipe, looked at it, and said, “Damn it, I’m going to smoke my pipe, even if I am in the Wainwright home.” When he had lighted it with an air of defiance he went on, “So you think I had David Wainwright marked down for Ted Sullivan, do you? It wasn’t my case, you know that, it was Greensword’s, and he was a cautious old devil. They lied themselves silly up here, you may have heard that if you’ve been talking to the Sullivan girl. If it’d been me in charge I’d have put them through the mill, but it’s easy to say that when you’re just a sergeant and don’t have to carry the can. Greensword was cagey, he was thinking of his pension. Let’s go in the garden. In here I feel as if I ought to swallow all the smoke.”

  We walked out into the big courtyard and down by the tennis court. Arbuthnot puffed at his pipe. I noticed that his grey suit was shiny at the elbows. “Supposing I was to tell you that I never suspected David Wainwright of killing Sullivan, would you be surprised?”

  “Very surprised. Is that what you are telling me? What about Margaret Clay?”

  “Margaret Clay.” He dismissed her with a wave of the pipe. “That’s not the way things were. I mean, that’s not the thing that mattered.”