Nightmare

by Lynn Brock

  He arranged the newspaper conveniently and read the quarter column devoted to the tragedy on the last page. A housemaid named Agatha Judd, in the employment of Mrs Greville at ‘Ivanhoe’, Abbey Road, had left the house at half-past seven on the preceding evening. Her subsequent movements had not yet been traced. Mr and Mrs Greville and their daughter had dined with some friends and returned in their car shortly after midnight, when their chauffeur had noticed, by the light of his headlamps, a purse lying in the drive close to the gates. When he had put away the car he had gone back along the drive with a pocket-torch and, while picking up the purse, had noticed that the shrubs bordering the drive had been pushed aside at one spot so as to leave a narrow path along which some large heavy object been dragged recently. His curiosity had been aroused and, after a brief search, he had come upon the body of Agatha Judd lying beneath the bushes some ten yards in from the drive. Neither the purse, which had been identified as hers, nor the bag from which it had fallen or been taken, and which had been found close to her, appeared to have been disturbed by the murderer. The hurried report, which was given in the ‘Late News’ column, concluded with the statement that the police were already in the possession of sensational information.

  Very unpleasant indeed for the Grevilles—the police coming to the house, asking questions, people gaping in through the gates—Mrs Greville, a nervous woman, might have to attend the inquest. What a nuisance for them.

  There hadn’t been a murder in Rockwood for a long time now. It was rather interesting that, when one did happen, the heroine of it should have lived in the same house with one for quite a considerable time. Hopgood had seemed to think that she had been largely responsible for the performance of the gramophone—an impudent-looking little piece. Battered to death—h’m. But really there was so much of that sort of thing now …

  Not a murder for robbery, apparently—though the chap who killed her might have got frightened and thrown away the purse. But more probably one of those murders that had been committed all over the country during the last year or so—women attacked in lonely places. Just the sort of girl that sort of thing might happen to—good-looking, ready to pick up with anything in the shape of a man. She had got hold of Chidgey—persuaded a sensible chap like Chidgey to take her into the garage at night.

  So that sort of thing had begun to happen in quiet old Rockwood now. Already in possession of sensational information. But the police always were in those cases—and then nothing happened. There had been a list in the Post a couple of days ago—ten or eleven recent murders which had baffled the police completely.

  Someone moving about up there—

  Mr Knayle dropped his newspaper to his lap and looked up at the ceiling of the sitting-room when he had taken off his glasses. A gentle melancholy mingled with his comfort. How often he had listened, looking up at the ceiling from his armchair. He waited, glasses in hand, half hoping, half fearing that he would feel again the stilling desolation which had descended upon him when he had looked up at it last—on the morning on which he had started on his trip. But he felt only a gentle melancholy which was not altogether disagreeable. He was disappointed. Often, sitting in his deck-chair looking up at the unfamiliar stars, he had thought about what he would feel when he sat in his sitting-room and looked up at its ceiling. He had expected something sharp—a pang. But the ceiling interfered somehow with what he felt and made it dull and soft.

  But he had only just got back.

  He must run up and see Whalley tomorrow or next day—give him a day’s shooting now and then—persuade him to come down for a game of bridge now and then.

  And old Ridgeway, too. He must look up old Ridgeway one day. Was he lying down there on his sofa now in his old dressing-gown, thinking that he would never tell her that he had performed an illegal operation and been in prison? Poor old devil—not quite normal, of course.

  Well, well, it was very pleasant to be back. Perhaps the wipe-out of the Socialists did mean something more than that the country was panic-stricken. Perhaps old England was going to wake up.

  Mr Knayle rose, switched off the lights and then settled himself again comfortably in his chair before the fire. He hadn’t slept at all well in London; he never did sleep well there. He dozed off gently.

  What had Hopgood’s voice said? ‘… see you.’

  He opened his eyes, turning his head sharply, and saw Hopgood standing by the switches regarding him doubtfully.

  ‘A police-inspector to see you, sir.’

  2

  Inspector Bride, a stalwart kindly man in mufti, with completely expressionless grey eyes, came to the point at once when he had seated himself at the other end of the hearthrug. His eyes had taken possession of Mr Knayle the moment they had fallen on him and Mr Knayle was a little annoyed to find that their fixity made him slighty uneasy.

  ‘I’ve come to make some enquiries, sir, about a man named Albert Chidgey, whom you have in your employment at present as chauffeur.’

  Chidgey? Before Mr Knayle’s eyes grew a vision of Chidgey’s face as he had seen it that afternoon outside the station—white and peaked and pinched.

  ‘Yes. My chauffeur’s name is Chidgey.’

  ‘He has been with you for some time as chauffeur, I think?’

  ‘Yes. For over three years.’

  ‘May I ask, Mr Knayle, what sort of character you would give him—generally?’

  ‘Character? Oh, an excellent chap. A good driver—very steady—most satisfactory in every way.’

  ‘Does he drink? I mean, have you ever known him the worse for liquor?’

  ‘Never.’

  The inspector rubbed his forehead with two fingers for a moment, and then glanced at the newspaper which lay on the arm of Mr Knayle’s chair.

  ‘I believe you have been abroad for the past month or so, sir—so your man told me just now?’

  ‘Yes, I only got back this afternoon.’

  ‘You may have seen that a young woman named Agatha Judd was found murdered in Abbey Road last night.’

  Confound those eyes. ‘Yes,’ Mr Knayle replied stiffly. ‘I have just read the account.’

  ‘For some time, I am informed, she lived in the top flat of this house, during the past year, as servant of a Mr and Mrs Prossip who occupied the flat from, I think, January until the end of September. You probably knew her by appearance?’

  ‘I remember that the people in the top flat had a maid, yes.’

  ‘Naturally you wouldn’t pay any great attention to servants belonging to the tenants of the other flats. This was a good-looking girl—very smart in her appearance—’

  ‘Yes, yes. I remember.’

  The inspector was discouraged. There was nothing in Chidgey. He hadn’t thought there was anything in him. His head was aching a good deal. There had been trouble down in East Dunpool during the elections and he had received a severe blow on the forehead from a stone which had left behind an ugly dull pain behind his eyes. And anyhow the case would be taken out of his hands and passed on to the Detective Division.

  ‘What I wanted to ask you, sir, was, whether you had any reason at any time—say within the past six months—to suppose that there was any sort of intimacy between your chauffeur and this girl?’

  ‘Intimacy?’ Mr Knayle’s tone sharpened. This was really too much of a good thing—the very afternoon one got back. ‘No. I’ve seen him talking to her occasionally out there in the garden. Nothing more than that. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Well, I may as well be frank with you, sir. One of the maids at the house where this girl was employed has stated that Agatha Judd told her that she was going to be married to Chidgey. This other girl knows Chidgey well, owing to his having been at Mr Greville’s house when he drove you there in your car. She states that she saw Chidgey on three occasions lately talking to Judd near the house at night—twice in the road, outside the gates, and once in the drive. Now, the medical report is that Judd was going to have a child. So that you’ll underst
and, sir, that we’ve found it necessary to make full enquiries about Chidgey and his relations with her.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Of course.’

  ‘I’ve seen Chidgey, and he denies that he was going to be married to her or that he had anything to do with her being pregnant, though he admits having been with her over in Abbey Road at the times when the other maid says she saw him. According to his statement, from what Judd told him herself, another person—I won’t mention his name—was responsible for her condition. Of course, that’s only Chidgey’s statement—though we have information, I may say, which goes to show that it may be the fact. I’m bound to say that Chidgey strikes me as a respectable, decent fellow. Your man Hopgood, too, gives him a good character, and says he never noticed anything at all special between him and Judd. However, there it is, sir. You understand, of course, that we have to follow up every clue in a case like this. I may take it, then, that so far as you are aware, there was no special intimacy between Chidgey and this girl—say, round May and June last.’

  ‘None whatever, so far as I am aware, Inspector,’ said Mr Knayle, pulling down his waistcoat and rising.

  He was annoyed by this stupid, large alien force that had taken possession of his sitting-room and his rights interrupted the comfort of his homecoming. He was annoyed by his big stupid, shapeless hands and his fixed, expressionless eyes—annoyed by his dogged questions and his habit of rubbing his forehead with his fingers when one answered them, as if to see that he didn’t believe one. Let him get on with his clumsy prying and poking. What was he looking at now? The ceiling? What the deuce was he looking at the ceiling for?

  ‘Who lives above you, sir?’

  ‘A Mr Whalley.’

  ‘Does he keep any servants?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And underneath?’

  ‘A Mr Ridgeway.’

  ‘Does he keep any servants?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Mr Prossip occupied the top flat. It’s to let at present, your man tells me?’

  ‘He would know.’

  ‘Very well, sir, thank you. I needn’t trouble you any further. Good afternoon.’

  Mr Knayle settled himself again in his chair before the fire. But his comfort had gone. A crumb had lodged between his plate and his gum; the fire had died down, and, when he picked up the Daily Times, he saw only Chidgey’s face—a close-up of Chidgey’s face—dirty-white, set, and shadowed under the eyes. It was absurd to think of Chidgey battering the life out of anything—raining one ferocious blow after another— And yet, without doubt he had been carrying on with her in the car that night—

  Curious that the last time he had seen her she had been with Chidgey.

  What an infernal nuisance—the very day one got back.

  Hopgood came in to ask if Mr Knayle would like the lights off again.

  ‘Did you ever notice anything between Chidgey and the Prossips’ maid, Hopgood?’

  ‘No sir.’ Hopgood permitted himself a faint smile. ‘He didn’t get anything out of me.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Mr Knayle. ‘Yes. You can switch them off.’

  It was quite dark outside, and Inspector Bride stopped at the head of a little flight of steps leading down to the basement flat to light his pipe and think about things for a moment. There was no reason he could think of why, if Mr Knayle and his man had seen anything going on between Chidgey and Judd, they shouldn’t have told him so. But they had both choked him off. There had been something—and they both knew that there had been something. Well, he wasn’t going to be choked off. He didn’t think that Chidgey had the guts for a job of this kind. And it was certain that—quite apart from Prossip—she had had a number of chaps hanging after her—that clerk at the West Counties Bank, a fitter at the Oriel Garage, this chap she used to talk about as ‘Jim,’ a tram conductor named Allenby, a young fellow with a green and yellow sports car. But, on the other hand, where had Chidgey been last night from half-past seven on? At a picture-house, he said, alone. Of course he would say that.

  He’d have to go up to Guildford and see Prossip about that wire of his. Prossip looked fishy. The wire hadn’t been signed, but it had come from Guildford—and Prossip was living in Guildford now. Nice place Guildford; nice up along the river in a canoe on a summer evening—

  Someone coming down the steps—probably the Mr Whalley who lived in the first floor flat. The inspector’s pipe had not lighted properly and he struck another match as Whalley passed close to him. No use asking him. He kept no servants—he’d know nothing about Judd’s carryings on with Chidgey.

  ‘Good evening, sir.’

  Whalley stopped. ‘Are you looking for anyone?’

  ‘Well, I am, sir.’ Inspector Bride laughed. ‘But I don’t think you can help me to find him. Turned cold now.’

  ‘Yes. Quite sharp.’

  3

  A little way down Downview Road Whalley looked back. A large figure stood outside the gates of No. 47, facing towards him. A little way further on he glanced back again. The figure was following slowly. But when he looked back a third time it had turned and was moving away from him.

  He had remained indoors all day, waiting until the evening papers would be selling in the streets, working desultorily about the flat, and smoking continuously. The sudden encounter at the foot of the steps had startled him for a moment. Only the striking of the match had averted actual collision with the darkness that had suddenly become a man. What had he been doing there? Why had he laughed that way? Hopgood had come back; perhaps a friend of Hopgood’s, waiting for him. His voice and face had belonged to that class—a respectable-looking fellow, like a small shopkeeper. But if he was looking for Hopgood, why hadn’t he asked where he would find him? Why had he stood there, waiting? Why had he laughed that way as if it was a joke of some sort that he was looking for someone?

  But he hadn’t been following. Probably merely trying to make up his mind which way he would go. If he had been following, one oughtn’t to have looked back. That must be remembered.

  Perhaps someone looking for the Prossips. But no one had gone up the steps to their door. Why had he been waiting?

  The report in the evening newspaper was merely an elaborated version of the Daily Times story. He read it in a little restaurant while he swallowed tea and stale buns, propping the paper against a vase filled with artificial asters and turning it over whenever the waitress approached the table. As she made out his bill her eyes rested on it.

  ‘That’s a dreadful business over in Abbey Road, sir, isn’t it? Two buns? I was along there myself only two nights ago with my young man and we were only just saying what a lonely road it was at night. Two pats, isn’t it? Thank you very much, sir.’

  Just what he would have made a waitress say.

  Mr Knayle came up to see him next day and thought him looking much fitter. The conversation concerned itself chiefly with Mr Knayle’s trip and it was only when he stood outside the hall-door again that he made any allusion to the Abbey Road tragedy in his own thoughts. He had come up resolved to make no reference whatever to the Prossips or anything connected with them. But as he turned away to descend the steps he forgot his resolution for a moment

  ‘By the way, Whalley, did you have a police-inspector up here yesterday afternoon?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘Oh, I had a chap bothering me with enquiries about my shover—you know him—Chidgey. Er—I thought he might have come up to you. Now, look here, I shall be seeing Burdon at the club tonight. Do let me tell him that I’m bringing another gun out on Tuesday. He’ll be delighted. Do you no end of good, my dear chap. You’ll come? Good. That’s a fixture, then.’

  Whalley shut the hall-door and stood looking at it as if this sudden danger stood at its other side. At once the connection which had seemed to him impossible had been made. At once they had viewed that thing which they had found under the Grevilles’ laurels not as Grevilles’ maid, but as the Prossips’. At once they had begun to search for her kill
er, not in Abbey Road, but in Downview Road. The first time he had gone out he had found a searcher—outside the door—waiting.

  Chidgey—how was it possible that he hadn’t thought of Chidgey?

  But Chidgey would be able to clear himself. He would be able to account for his movements that night. They would have found plenty of footprints to compare with his; that would clear him—he was a small man. And when they had failed with Chidgey they would turn away from Downview Road. No searcher would come up the steps. If Chidgey talked about Prossip, the Prossips were in Guildford.

  For a few days the sharp whirr of the hall-door bell stiffened every muscle of his body. Sometimes he waited until the tradesman’s messenger rang a second time before opening the door. When he went out, he went down the outside steps slowly, despite himself, expectant of a burly figure standing waiting at its foot. When he returned, he went up them slowly. The top flight cut off his view of his own hall-door until he was within a few feet from it. There was, however, no personal apprehension in this vigilance; his fear contemplated solely the possible disruption of his plan. He slept well, ate well, felt his body and his mind stronger than he had felt them for several years. To occupy his time, he repapered the bathroom.

  The days passed, and nothing kept happening. The Abbey Road murder disappeared from the Daily Times. He had his day’s shooting with Knayle and shot well. On the way home Knayle told him that Chidgey’s little trouble had passed over, and then began to talk about something else.

  ‘What about another day next week?’ he asked as they parted outside his flat. But Whalley said that he would be away for the following week—Mr Knayle understood, at Bournemouth, though he was not quite sure about this because Mr Ridgeway came up his little flight of steps just then and began to tell them about the mice which had suddenly become very troublesome in his kitchen. When Whalley left them and went up the steps, the two elder men looked after him.