Mr. Winkley glanced questioningly at her, and waited.
“Have you ever tried to make love in a hotel?” she went on. “No, on looking at you, I’m pretty sure you haven’t. Well, it isn’t exactly easy – even the Major could tell you that – and when you have a doting parent hanging around you, it’s practically impossible. Oh, I know that Piggy and I kiss each other in dark corners, or on the sand-dunes, but all the time, we keep looking over our shoulders in case someone may be looking. We’ve got the ‘Iron Lung’, of course, but it’s a two-seater, and the clutch gets in the way, and whenever it’s drawn up in a lane anywhere around here, that long-nosed policeman always seems to smell it out. Besides, it’s too cold to sit out in it in this weather. So we just got desperate and decided that we must do something about it. After all, how am I ever to decide whether to marry Piggy or not if he never makes love to me? Well, we booked the small lake on the day that the Merry Widow passed out, just to encourage Mother to go out herself, and stay out. She goes out walking, with a packet of sandwiches, if she has neither of us to lunch with. We stayed up there just long enough to give her time to get well away from the hotel, then we packed up, paid the ghillie, dropped him at his cottage, and came back here.”
“And then?” asked Mr. Winkley.
“Then we went to my room. That’s why the maid couldn’t get in.”
This was one of the few things that Mr. Winkley had not guessed, and he looked suitably shocked.
“Now you can see,” Pussy finished blandly, “why Piggy couldn’t tell you where he was at that time. He was afraid of giving me a bad reputation if it leaked out. Even he is old- fashioned enough to worry about that.”
“Yes, oh yes,” jerked out Mr. Winkley. “But of course I wouldn’t dream of telling anyone that anything like that occurred.”
“Anything like what?” demanded Gunn.
“Like – well, like that,” was Mr. Winkley’s inadequate reply.
But his face was expressive, and Gunn read it correctly.
“Look here!” He grew belligerent, while Pussy’s green eyes mocked at the two of them. “We told you because we thought you were a sensible sort of chap who wouldn’t misunderstand us as most of the others would. We thought you knew us better, but I suppose all people of your generation are too full of prejudices to see the truth in certain things. We locked the door, and we made love to each other, but nothing happened for you or anyone else to get het-up about. I can see now that the worst possible thing we could have done was to refuse to tell you about it when you asked. You were bound to think that we had more to hide than we really had. I’d have told you that day, after she’d been attacked, but I couldn’t tell you without her consent, and – well, you know what she was like then. She tried to make you suspicious because she was mad with me, but she didn’t mean it really. You see, she’s such an awful tease.”
Mr. Winkley nodded wisely.
“Strip-tease,” he amended.
Chapter 33
On the following morning, Mr. Winkley received a letter from London. He read it carefully, and looked thoughtful when he set out as usual for The Big Lake.
It was a wild day, and the wind whipped the surface of the lake into white-tipped waves, so that the boat had to crawl crabwise under the lee of the shore to reach the head of a drift, and then was blown down it in less time than it takes to land a well-hooked trout. Had any ghillie been foolhardy enough to venture to row out into the open water in the middle of the lake, his boat might have capsized.
Mr. Winkley shouted a remark to his ghillie, but the wind blew the words around his head and away to the seething water as soon as he had uttered them. It was bitterly cold, and he drew his knitted fishing mittens, which covered the backs of his hands, leaving the palms free for handling the rod, over his cramped, purpling fingers.
Before lunch-time, it began to hail, and the regular swishing sound of the hailstones echoed across the water with the precision of belted machinery. Luncheon itself was a miserable affair, consisting of wet lobster and sodden sandwiches snatched in the boat under the meagre shelter of an over-hanging bush. To catch fish under such conditions as these, held no charm for even such a keen fisherman as Mr. Winkley, and at three o’clock he signalled to the ghillie to return to the head of the lake. Leaving the man to tie the boat securely, and wedge her sides with slats of wood and rocks, he walked sharply towards the hotel, chin tucked inside the turned-up collar of his black waterproof coat, and water dripping on to the end of his nose and chin. The dull thud of his heavy rubber waders mingled at every step with the cheerful rattle of tins in his pockets.
The wind blew directly in his face as he turned the corner of the lake road, and he wondered whether he dared risk appearing at dinner in the presence of ladies, without shaving. He had a delicate skin, and the very thought of running his safety razor over the tingling surface of his chin and lip made him shudder.
No fisherman, he thought, was likely to see anything poetic in the epithet “wind-kissed” – nor in “sun-kissed”, for the matter of that. Unless you indulged in lake-fishing it was impossible to estimate the strength of the sun’s rays in the British Isles. In the bad summer a few years ago, he had returned to work after a holiday in Wales, looking as healthily tanned as any cowboy, and to this day his colleagues at the Yard believed that he had been involved in some romantic escapade abroad.
It was all a matter of reflected light from the water. You got the same kind of thing in Switzerland, where the dazzling light from sunlit snow was strong enough to cause snow-blindness. Hats could protect you from the direct rays of the sun, but were useless to shade you from the glittering reflection from the water. Men suffered more than women. Contrary to popular opinion, their skins, being unprotected by expensive foundation creams, were more sensitive than those of the sex, which nowadays likes to be called fairer, but not weaker.
In October last year, alternating days of sunshine and wind had wrought such havoc with their faces, that he and the others had been forced to improvise face-masks with linen handkerchiefs or scarves. Major Jeans, he remembered, had made himself even more impregnable by wearing, under a hat of plaited rushes, a long piece of black material which hung down to his shoulders like the protective veil of a beekeeper. He had two slits for his eyes, and it gave him the appearance of a negro minstrel. Black, with two slits to see through, like the eye-sockets of a skull only they were white...
The thought vibrated a chord in his memory. That was it, of course. Why hadn’t he thought of it before?
The wind slung a snatch of conversation to his ears, and looking up he saw Mrs. Partridge and Major Jeans, bending towards each other, and talking earnestly. They were a few yards away, and he quickened his steps, having by this time no qualms about eavesdropping, and caring not at all if he heard no good of himself.
“...But I tell you I am doing the best I can to make her fond of me,” Major Jeans was shouting. “She only looks at me as if I were a salmon suffering from furunculosis. It can’t be because of my age. Look at the way she encourages that fellow Winkley, inviting him into her bedroom when she had that sore throat, and all that sort of thing. If I walked into her bedroom, she’d probably scream and go all Victorian. No, she just hates the sight of me, and I’m terribly cut up about it. My fault? How can it be? I’ve been as nice as pie to her, given her chocolates, made flies for her. I tell you it’s no good. Why, she even slapped my face when I tried to kiss her! You can laugh if you like, but it was all your idea. I told you it would be best to pop the question right away! She’d have got used to the idea by now, and we should have had no more trouble from her. As it is, people are beginning to talk, damn their eyes, and I’m working against time! If I don’t get her on my side within the next few days...”
They turned into the hotel drive, and Mr. Winkley heard no more. He waited for some minutes before following them into the hotel, and when he at last entered the hall, he found it deserted. He divested himself of his wet cloth
es and gave them to Taffy, the porter, to hang in the furnace-room. Then he ordered tea, and went upstairs to get his red leather bedroom slippers.
When he entered the smoking-room, which, like the bachelors’ table, was reserved for men only, he was somewhat surprised to see that another tea-tray had been placed beside his own on the red plush cloth which covered the large centre table. He decided that Sir Courtney Haddox had at last succeeded in evading his sister’s close vigilance, and intended to go to ground for a brief respite. He was unprepared for the appearance of Major Jeans.
“Well, well,” exclaimed that gentleman, rubbing his hands together as he made his way across the room to the fireplace, “if it isn’t the all-conquering Winkley himself! Do any good?”
“Not a bite,” Mr. Winkley replied. “It was too rough. I had a few rises, but the wind blew the flies out of their mouths. Did you have any luck?”
The Major shook his head.
“I cracked off half a dozen new flies, and lost a brand- new cast round the gunwale of the boat. What a day!”
He sat down in a large leather arm-chair, and, with a concentrated air, dropped five lumps of sugar into his cup.
“What are you doing in here?” asked Mr. Winkley. “Have you grown tired of the ladies?”
The Major finished pouring out his tea before replying.
“No. They’re tired of me,” he said. “I’m beginning to think that I’ve lost my touch. Used to be considered a regular ladies’ man at one time, but women want too much these days. I don’t wonder they wear trousers.”
He began to eat his tea in gloomy silence, but Mr. Winkley reflected that he did not appear unduly upset, as he watched him finish hot scones, sandwiches, bread and butter, jam, biscuits, and half a large currant cake. At length he gave a replete sigh, and accepted one of Mr. Winkley’s cigarettes.
A year ago, thought Mr. Winkley, I should have said that this man was to be trusted. We’ve met in this same hotel year after year, and I could have sworn that he was a decent, honest fellow. But what do I know about him really? Very little. I don’t know for a fact that he’s entitled to be called “Major”, though I imagine that General Haddox would have found him out by this time if he were masquerading under a false title. There’s no doubt about the General, that’s certain; he’s well-known all over the country. But the Major is up to some little game, innocent or not.
He took from his pocket the letter which he had received in the morning. From it he abstracted the two flies which he had left at the Police Laboratory a day or two earlier. “Can you tell me anything about these?” he asked, casually. Major Jeans placed the two flies on the padded leather arm of his chair, and fumbled in the pocket of his Donegal tweed jacket for the combined compass and magnifying-glass which he habitually carried with him. He examined each one with the careful intentness of a watch-maker. Then he looked up.
“Thought you’d catch me, eh?” he chuckled. “D’you think I don’t know my own tying?”
“You’re sure that they’re your own flies?”
The Major grunted.
“Huh! I ought to be sure. I’ve been tying flies since I was a boy, and that’s more than forty years ago. Why, what’s wrong with ’em? Clues for murder or something, eh?”
“Not exactly,” replied Mr. Winkley, thinking hard. “The one with the new hook is the one you made for Miss Partridge; the other one killed Mrs. Mumsby.”
Major Jeans jumped as if he had been shot, and banged the open palm of his hand on the arm of the chair. When he lifted it again, one of the flies was sticking up from the flesh of his hand.
“Now look what you’ve done!” he exclaimed. “Do you mind getting it out for me? These barbs are the very devil when they get under the skin.”
Mr. Winkley manoeuvred the hook out with experienced ease, and dabbed the wound with the iodine pencil which most fishermen find it necessary to carry in their pockets for this purpose.
If Major Jeans had wanted to prove his innocence of Mrs. Mumsby’s death, he could not have devised a more effective method. Mr. Winkley had been watching his face closely, and could have sworn that no flicker of fear had shown in his eyes when the barbed hook struck his flesh.
“I believe that you’ve some idea that she didn’t die naturally,” said the Major. “The doctor won’t be too pleased with that, I fancy, and, mind you, he’s by no means the frowsty old fogey that he pretends to be. In my opinion, he’s good enough for Harley Street, only he’s too fond of fishing and shooting to settle in a town.” He stared at Mr. Winkley for a few seconds, and then began to laugh until he shook in the chair. “Ho-ho-ho!” he roared. “You don’t think that I bumped the old sheep off with a fly-hook, and then left it in her hand so that you could identify me, do you? Upon my soul, that’s rich! It’s such a lady-like way of murdering her that I shouldn’t wonder if you’d expected me to wear white kid gloves while I was doing it, like old Dicky Wagner used to do when he conducted Mendelssohn. I admit that I hated the sight of the woman. She made my life in the hotel a positive misery with her ogling, and her ‘dear Major’ this, and ‘dear Major’ that. I might have hit her a conk on the head with a priest, but a fish-hook...! Good God, Winkley! What will you think of next? That’s the worst of being at Scotland Yard; you’re always looking for a mystery, like an eel looking for a salmon pea.” He suddenly held out his arms, hands clenched. “Well, here I am. Where are the handcuffs?”
“There’s no need to take it like that,” began Mr. Winkley.
“I think I’m taking it damned well,” returned the Major. “It isn’t every man who gets accused of –”
It was now Mr. Winkley’s turn to interrupt.
“No one’s accusing you of anything, Major,” he said. “I just want to ask you a few questions to help me to clear up this matter, and I want you to promise not to let this go any further.”
Major Jeans grinned.
“All right. Carry on, Sergeant.”
“Let’s go back to the day of Mrs. Mumsby’s death. Did you notice anyone behaving strangely during the time when we were all supposed to be having lunch?”
“I didn’t see anyone at all until her ghillie came running along to say she was dead.”
“Not even Mrs. Partridge?”
The Major glared at him.
“So you know that, do you?” he snapped. “Well, what of it? Why shouldn’t I invite her to meet me for lunch? I had something private to discuss with her. There’s nothing wrong in that, I suppose?”
“No,” replied Mr. Winkley. “But why did she run away when the others went to look at Mrs. Mumsby?”
“Run away? Good God! What nonsense! She walked away. As a matter of fact, I walked a short distance down the road with her, and it was when I returned that I heard all the commotion about the Merry Widow. We didn’t want the whole hotel to gossip about us. We were discussing a – business matter, and wanted to keep it to ourselves. How the hell did you come to hear of it?”
Mr. Winkley smiled.
“You’ve forgotten that Miss Haddox was also lunching there.”
“She would see her,” exclaimed the Major in disgust. “She’s well-named Fish-eyes; she can see all round her like the trout. Now, I warn you, Winkley, don’t let any breath of suspicion fall on Mrs. Partridge, or I shall certainly become a murderer. She’s one of those dainty, frail little women who have to be protected from such things.” He paused for a moment. “At least, I used to think she was,” he added rather ruefully.
“There can’t be any suspicion attached to either of you, if you were together as you say,” Mr. Winkley pointed out. “You give each other an alibi, of course.”
“Calloo, callay,” chortled the Major with a sudden return of his normal manner. “Oh, call me early, mother dear, for I’m to be Queen of the Mayfly!” He got up from his chair, and pirouetted round the room, holding out the sides of his loose jacket in an imaginary ballet skirt. “And on every box, the picture of a dancing lady!” he sang out in the showman’
s stentorian voice.
Mr. Winkley looked annoyed.
“Look here, Jeans,” he said stiffly, “this is a serious matter, and I want your help. Did Mrs. Mumsby ever fish for salmon?”
The Major became more serious, and strolled back towards the fireplace.
“Never. She hadn’t either the skill or the patience. It requires a different technique altogether. Any fool can catch an occasional sea-trout, and there are brownies which hook themselves, and are highly prized by the novice. But catching salmon is a different kettle of fish altogether. Mrs. Mumsby would never have had the patience to cast for hours with a two-handed rod, and she would not have held on to a twelve-pound salmon. She’d have cut the line, and gone home after ten minutes of it. Why, she had little enough patience for trout. Most of the time, she lay in the bottom of the boat, while the ghillie fished. The night you arrived, she’d caught more trout to her own rod than she’d ever caught in her life.”
“And yet on that night of all others, she went straight upstairs without looking at the fish in the hall. Queer. But you see, Major, it was strange that she should be found with a salmon fly sticking in her hand, if she never fished for salmon. Did you ever give away any flies like that?”
“Lord bless you, yes!” replied the Major. “It was a good killer, and I suppose I gave one to anyone in the hotel who ever fished for salmon. Big-hearted What’s-his-name, that’s me!”
“I suppose you can recognize that both of those are your own flies by some peculiarity in the tying – the winding of the hackle, or the waxing of the thread,” went on Mr. Winkley.
A knowing look spread gleefully over the Major’s sunburnt face.
“It’s easier than that,” he said. “I can tell you a bit more about it, too. Both those flies were made within the last three weeks. You see, when I first invented that pattern – I called it the ‘Avenging Murderer’, by the way – I used fur off a rabbit’s face for the body. But, as it happens, I didn’t bring any of that particular fur with me, so I had to find a substitute.” He began to chuckle. “Well, I just grabbed a handful off the face of that monkey of young Weston’s. You should have heard the little devil swear!”
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