Tip was driving. Berger turned round in his seat to report. “The pool is cleaned out pretty regularly by Mrs. Hookham’s husband. Evidently Carlyle’s physiotherapist is very insistent on frequent changes because they can’t put chemicals in the water to keep it clean.”
“On account of the old boy’s illness?” asked Green.
“That’s the reason. They have to be pretty careful with his limbs, apparently. Anyhow, Mr. H. cleaned and refilled the pool on Friday and then on Saturday night his missus went home and told him he had to do it again on Sunday morning and he had to make sure the bottom was swept clear of all broken glass and everything well scrubbed out.”
“I’ll bet he was pleased,” said Green. “He’d have to be up early to do it. Those pools take a long time to fill.”
“According to Freda he cleaned it out and turned on the water and then went in for his dinner. He kipped in a deck chair until time came for him to turn off, then he went off. A few days later his missus came in and said he’d got a mild attack of flu which he was building up into the biggest catastrophe of the century and blaming it onto the fact that he’d had to work on Sunday.”
“That’s the lot?”
“That’s all there was, Chief. Freda says he probably slopped some of the water into his wellies when he got down into the pool. Evidently his wife is always telling him to work in his bare feet but he won’t do it though he’s always grumbling about the mucky footprints his boots make on the wet tiles.”
“He was wise to wear boots that time,” said Green. “Seeing there was broken glass about.”
“Does all that help, Chief?”
“I think so. Now, I know we all had a cup of tea at the Carlyle’s, but I noticed nobody ate anything, so let’s get home and tackle that Chantilly cake that’s waiting for us.”
“Hear, hear,” grunted Green.
6
The Greens were staying on for supper. So it was after the sergeants had gone off in the Yard car that Wanda said to her husband: “Darling, there was something Margot wanted to mention to you and William, but didn’t want to do it in front of Hugh.”
“So she told you while the pair of you were discussing the best place to buy curtains?”
Wanda smiled. “We really did talk about shops.”
“I’ll bet,” grunted Green.
Doris asked: “Was it something about the house?”
“No. I think that’s all settled now except for whether or not you want this cottage.”
“Oh, we want it,” said Doris.
“Have to wait until tomorrow for the final answer,” said Green.
“You’ll have to advertise your house, won’t you, William?”
“Private sale, you mean? Evidently not. My solicitor says you’ve only to mention it to somebody in the city these days and you’ve got immediate takers. So we’ll see what happens. But he says he’s already put out feelers and has had a nibble or two. But tomorrow we shall have the full surveyor’s report for insurance. He’s told us roughly, of course, but once we have it on paper we’ll be more sure of our ground and Harkness can go ahead and sell if he can get what the surveyor says it’s worth.”
“Cash sale?”
“These bankers in the city can borrow at low rates from their employers, so if it does go that way there should be very little delay.”
“Oh, I am pleased,” said Wanda. “But please don’t rush and do something silly on our account. We don’t mind waiting a few weeks, do we, George?”
“As long as we can get into Housmans by the autumn, there is no hurry. I’ve arranged that with Hugh. Talking of which, what was it Margot wanted to say out of her husband’s hearing?”
Wanda looked serious.
“Hugh has been getting anonymous letters.”
“Threatening ones?”
“Threatening and abusive.”
“How many?”
“Five or six so far, Margot thinks.”
“Tell us the story, love,” counselled Green.
“It’s quite simple, really.”
“It always is.”
“The room with the French window and ramp is basically Hugh’s office at home. Margot goes in to tidy up and so on, though she has nothing to do with the business. Hugh leaves letters on the desk sometimes if he opens them in the morning and then goes off before he has time to deal with them. Margot just straightens them up on the blotter and weeds out any junk stuff offering double-glazing and so on. A few weeks ago she saw one printed by hand. It looked odd, so she read it.”
“Threatening and abusive, I think you said.”
“Yes. Sometime later she tackled Hugh about it because by then two more had arrived. Hugh didn’t show them to her, but she had made sure she was downstairs to take in the post each morning and she’d recognised the printing on the envelopes.”
“Did she say what Hugh’s reaction was?”
“According to her he just laughed, like he always does these days.” She turned to Doris. “It’s one of the usual signs of his illness, you know.”
“Laughing is?”
“Happy, carefree temper, yes.”
“How very odd.”
“Never mind all that,” snarled Green. “What about the letters?”
“Hugh just told Margot they were from some crank and that they would stop eventually.”
“Did she get to know who they were from?”
“She said she asked Hugh and he swore he didn’t know. She believed him because she says he tells her the truth. They have complete trust in each other.”
“But he didn’t tell her about the letters. She had to find out for herself,” expostulated Doris.
“I don’t think you are quite right about that, Doris,” said Masters. “I imagine Hugh didn’t tell Margot about the first ones because he didn’t want to worry her, but he didn’t go to any great lengths to conceal the matter from her. After all, he left the letter open on his desk for her to find.”
“True enough,” said Green. “And what happened to the letters—as if I didn’t know?”
“You are quite right, William. Hugh destroyed them and he refused to yield to Margot’s plea to tell the police.”
“A pity, that,” said Masters.
“Why?” asked Doris. “They couldn’t have anything to do with Carla Sanders’ death, could they?”
“As to that, I can’t say. I must admit I can see no clear connection at the moment, or even an unclear one if it comes to that, but I’d still have liked to have seen the letters.”
Wanda smiled at him. “Margot played a small trick on Hugh. As he wouldn’t keep them to show the police, she didn’t show him the last one that came. It was about a fortnight ago, and since then there have been no more, so she is beginning to think Hugh is right, and that they have stopped coming.”
“What was the point of not showing him?” asked Doris.
“She kept it to show to George.”
Masters sat up. “She did? Good for Margot. When can I see it?”
“Now,” said Wanda, opening her bag. “She gave it to me for you.” She handed the very ordinary white envelope across to her husband.
“Unopened?”
“Yes. Margot says she’s read that the police prefer threatening letters not to be handled too much.”
“Quite right,” breathed Green. “Here, George, give it to me and I’ll perform, if I can borrow the dining table and a knife.”
Masters handed the letter across and they all followed Green to the table where, with the help of the cutlery there, he split open the envelope, carefully extracted the single, folded sheet of paper and held it down with two dessert spoons.
“All yours,” he said. “But don’t touch, anybody, and I’ll want a pair of eyebrow tweezers and then a large envelope for taking it away in.”
They all bent over it to read:
YOU ARE ALREADY LOADED YOU RUTH
LESS BASTARD A WASH OUT
WITH YOUR CRIMINAL SET UP FOR
MAKING DISHONEST MONEY FROM OTH
ER PEOPLES INVENTIONS WHY DO
YOU WANT MORE YOU WILL PAY
FOR IT SOONER THAN YOU THINK
YOU GREEDY SOD YOU
“Not a bit of the world’s outstanding writing, perhaps,” said Green, “but at least it gives us a clue to the author. Some disgruntled inventor is accusing Carlyle of pinching his idea and making a mint out of it.”
“So much is obvious,” agreed Masters. “The question is, is the accusation true?”
“George!” Wanda sounded outraged.
“Don’t be upset, darling. I’m not calling Hugh a crook. But he’s an inventor, or probably more precisely, an improver of inventions. Inventions are ideas, and all ideas spring from whatever is put into the mind by what a person hears and sees. Those who have the ability to look ahead to a possible need, or to collate information into a new or even different, but useful, form are called inventors.”
“I don’t see what you mean, George,” said Doris.
Masters looked across at her and smiled. “Look at it this way, Doris. A man produces a very useful article for you to use in your kitchen. A mixer, say, in which are combined among other things a hinge, an electric switch, two whisks and so on. The man has invented the mixer for you, but he hasn’t invented the hinge, or the electric switch, or the beaters, or probably anything else in the mixer.”
“I see what you mean, now.”
“Good. Now say Carlyle has produced a piece of earth-moving equipment which has some very good feet for clamping it to the ground. Unique feet, combining corkscrew-shaped teeth for biting into soil. Where has the idea for the feet come from?”
“Somebody else’s idea?”
“Probably not directly. The idea probably comes from the fact that he has seen ordinary feet slipping at times. So he sees a need to dig the feet in. What digs in? A corkscrew. Carlyle didn’t invent the corkscrew, he is simply making use of somebody else’s idea. Fair enough. But say somebody had come to the same conclusions as Carlyle, not about an earth mover, but about the feet, for a patent form of scaffolding tower. Feet with corkscrews combined in them. Carlyle had seen the scaffold tower. Indeed, it had been submitted to him, and though it was a good implement, it was too heavy, clumsy and expensive for the ordinary local builder to invest in. So it failed to become a commercial success. Two or three years later Carlyle launches his new earth mover embodying the idea of corkscrew-held feet. Rich Mr. Carlyle makes more money, poor Mr. Inventor makes none, even though part of his brainchild is being used.” He turned to his wife. “So you see, darling, it is possible that Hugh has lifted an idea from somebody else. And why not? Is humanity to be forever deprived of corkscrew-held feet just because the originator failed to put them to good use?”
Wanda smiled at him. “I understand what you mean. I’m sorry I sounded so outraged.”
“So where have we got to?” demanded Green, lifting his empty glass from the dining room table as an indication that he would like another gin and tonic. “Carlyle has been getting rude letters accusing him of utilising or pinching some other chap’s idea. But the letters have now stopped. No demands have been made, though there is a hint of a threat at the end.” He looked across at Masters. “It looks as though it’s just one of those things, George, and if Carlyle himself doesn’t want to involve us I don’t see what we can or should do about it.”
“Quite right. If any police are involved it should be the local force down in Kent. Not us at all.”
“So you are going to hand this letter over to them, are you?” asked Wanda.
“Not on your life, girlie,” said Green. “Carlyle doesn’t want to involve the cops, so we have no right to pass the letter on.”
“You want me to give it back to Margot?”
Green grinned at her and shook his head. “I’ll hang on to it, love.”
“But you and George have just been saying that it’s a trivial business and of no interest to you.”
“On paper, sweetheart. But you know us. Or George, rather. He’ll hang on to this just in case.”
“In case what?”
“Dunno, love. Just in case. And for that reason I shall put the letter away very carefully and have it tested for prints tomorrow. So, if you’ll get me a big envelope while I get another drink, we can put this table to its proper use.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Doris.
“If I’m not mistaken I can smell liver, bacon, onions … ”
“Greedy guts. In a moment you’ll be quoting something about how good liver is for you so you’ll eat twice as much as anybody else.”
“Well, let me see now.”
“Chesterton on bacon,” said Wanda. “Talking about the Englishman. ‘Unless you give him bacon, You must not give him beans.’ Those are the only two lines I know.”
“Good enough,” applauded Green. “Onions?”
“ ‘Recipe for a Salad,’ ” suggested Masters. “ ‘Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl, And, scarce-suspected, animate the whole.’ ”
“I like it,” admitted Green, “except the scarce-suspected bit. I like ’em in noticeable proportions.”
“Sorry, can’t help, though I suspect Chaucer could.”
Green turned to his wife. “ ‘Is life worth living?’ ” he asked.
“Now what are you on about?”
“ ‘He suspects it is, in a great measure, a question of the Liver.’ ”
“You made that up,” she said scornfully.
“No, I didn’t, and you didn’t spot the mistake.”
“What mistake was that?” asked Wanda.
“That Liver had a capital L. It means the one who lives, not the delicious dish I can now smell and which I propose to do ample justice to.”
At half past nine the next morning Masters called Green into his office at the Yard. For more than a quarter of an hour the men discussed a problem Masters had been mulling over ever since the Greens had left him the previous evening.
“So,” finished Masters, “I am going to see Edgar Anderson, ostensibly to report progress, but really to make sure I’ve put up an umbrella for myself. He will learn of any possible involvement I could have in this case through my dealings with Carlyle. My guess is he will disregard them once he knows the score.”
“He can’t do anything else,” agreed Green.
“So, Bill, will you and Berger go off to see Mrs. Carlyle? You can say you’ve tested the letter and lifted a print which is unknown to us, but we’d like to keep the document just in case the print does get into our files. After that, I want you to ask her for the complete guest list for Hugh Carlyle’s birthday party and, somehow, get to know from her if any of them are Scots or have lived in Scotland for some time and, if so, where.”
“Can do,” grunted Green. “It’s another lovely day for a run in the country.”
After Green had left him, Masters called for Tip.
“I want you to go to the library of the Royal Society of Medicine. You have to get a ticket from Admin. This is what you ask for, and go armed with enough cash to pay for photocopies if you’re successful.” He pushed across his desk a sheet of paper with several two- or three-line notes on it. He explained these to her in detail and finished by telling her not to be afraid to ask the library staff for help. The more assistance she got from them the quicker the job would be done and the more comprehensive the information.
Then he went to see Anderson.
“I don’t see what the hell you are wittering on about, George,” said the AC (Crime) when Masters had finished his report. “You are buying a house from a friend—an eminent businessman without a blemish on his record—into whose swimming pool a nubile blonde fell a few days before she died of some obscure disease. Nobody can suggest that you are involved in any skull-duggery because, as I see it, Carlyle is as clean as a whistle and too much of an invalid to be an active villain anyway.” He looked straight at Masters. “Or are you going to tell me I’m wrong?
”
“You could be, sir.”
“Ah! Then you’d better let me know how and where.”
Masters explained. Anderson listened gravely.
“I see,” he said at last. “You are merely listing a possibility, but at any rate you have foreseen it and reported it to me.” He sat back in his chair. “How far has this multihouse transaction gone?”
“Bill Green has got to know this morning how much his house has been valued at and his wife is going along to their solicitor with the surveyor’s report today.”
“So Bill has still to find a buyer?”
“It is unlikely to take very long.”
“How long?”
“From two days to two weeks.”
“Then you know how long you’ve got at your disposal for sorting this Sanders business. No house purchase by you from Carlyle until you’ve got the answer, George. If and when we know that Carlyle is in the clear, you can steam ahead.” As he got to his feet, he said: “Don’t worry about it, George. You know what solicitors are like. They can waste more time than Rip Van Winkle had at his disposal. And that over simply making a phone call. When it comes to finalising a deal, they can really hold things up.”
“Thank you, sir.” Masters moved towards the door. The AC said: “My missus and I will miss our visits to your little house, George.”
Masters grinned. “In that case, you and Beryl will have to cultivate the Greens. They’re good company, and … ”
“Out!” commanded Anderson. “An evening’s conversation with Bill Green would drive me crackers.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing,” smiled Masters as he left the office.
Green and Berger reached the Carlyle home soon after eleven o’clock. Margot Carlyle, in royal blue slacks and white shirt, was busy with a pair of secateurs in the front garden.
“Morning,” called Green, as she came across the grass towards them. “Doing the flowers for the house?”
“Dead-heading, actually. But good morning to you, too. Is George with you?”
Bitter Water Page 15