Ask a Policeman

by Detection Club

  “Nothing is known of any offer,” said Roger eagerly. He felt that he was at least on the track of something. Simony, perhaps. He did not know what it was, but believed it to be a crime appropriate to an archbishop. “My dear Muggleton-Blood”—he emphasized the name, in haste to cover up his former indiscretion—” nothing is known of the interview, except that high words passed on both sides and that Lord Comstock used the expression ‘clap-trap’; after which he apparently threw a chair at the Archbishop, or the Archbishop at him, and the meeting broke up in confusion. If you can tell me anything further, Muggleton-Blood, I beg you will do so. You really must. You have already said too much not to say more.”

  Roger thought this last sentence rather a good one. He had found it in a detective story by Morton Harrogate Bradley,4 and had stored it up for use on some such occasion as this.

  “Well,” said the Rev. Hilary, “well, my dear Snotty—I do not know that there is any objection to my telling you, particularly as the matter will soon become public property. That is, if the contract holds good, as I suppose it does, in spite of Lord Comstock’s decease. The fact is that, after a somewhat heated discussion, Lord Comstock—who, after all (and we must in charity do him that justice) was always ready to put the interests of his newspaper before his private feelings—said to Dr. Pettifer: ‘Damn it all, Doctor,’—I repeat his colloquialisms as Dr. Pettifer reported them to me—‘you’ve got a damned good story there—why waste it on me? I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give you the leader page of the Bugle for it any day you like, and make it a first-class feature. We’re never afraid to let a man defend himself, and we’ll do the thing in style, with photographs of yourself and your Cathedral and everything handsome about it. Your name would put it over big—it would be worth five hundred guineas to us—and that’s as much as we pay the world’s champion heavyweight. What do you say? We can guarantee you a circulation of nearly two million, and that’s a pretty fair-sized congregation. How about it?’ His Grace was at first somewhat staggered by this proposition—I confess I thought it a piece of effrontery myself when I heard about it—”

  “Good lord!” said Roger, “I should think so.”

  “But he considered that it might be advisable, in these days, to fight the Mammon of Unrighteousness with their own weapons—and there’s a text for you, if you want one.” Muggleton-Blood chuckled again. “So he agreed to do it.”

  “But he didn’t take the money, of course?”

  “Now, my dear boy,” said Mr. Muggleton-Blood, “where would have been the sense of refusing the money? If you must have a text for everything, I can refer you to the passage about spoiling the Egyptians. His Grace accepted the offer, whereupon Lord Comstock playfully called him a great old bluffer, and in the excitement of the moment, overturned several volumes of the Encyclopædia. At this point His Grace recollected that he had a train to catch, and hurried away.”

  “But look here, Muggleton-Blood,” expostulated Roger, really shocked, “how did the Archbishop come to fall into so patent a trap? What capital Comstock would have made of it! The Archbishop of the Midlands taking money from Antichrist! Surely, surely—”

  “Not a bit of it, my dear fellow, not a bit of it. Lord Comstock’s cheque would, of course, have been gratefully acknowledged by the Treasurer of the Church of England Crusade for Combating the New Paganism, of which body His Grace is, naturally, the president. You see, by this means the Church would secure, not only four columns of really unpurchasable advertising space, but also a valuable donation, which, incidentally, would have the effect of very considerably discrediting Lord Comstock in the eyes of his supporters. The Archbishop could not be blind to the advantages of such a proposition.”

  “Well,” said Roger, “I’ll be damned! The wily old devil!”

  “What you do not appear to grasp, my dear boy,” pursued Mr. Muggleton-Blood, “is that a dignitary of the Church is obliged to be, before all things, a statesman. Or rather, a Churchman first and foremost—that goes without saying, but before everything else, a statesman. And, since texts appeal to you, there is an expression about the wisdom of the serpent which is singularly apt. So you will appreciate that His Grace is really very much distressed by the sudden demise of Lord Comstock, which may mean the loss of this exceptional opportunity for propaganda.”

  Roger sat for a moment speechless.

  “Look here, Muggleton-Blood,” he said, when he had recovered his breath, “can you prove all this? Because it’s rather important. I mean it, so to speak, lets the Archbishop out.”

  “I hardly know what you would call proof,” replied the chaplain, “but you might, perhaps, like to see the Archbishop’s letter confirming the arrangement. You will treat it, naturally, as a confidential document. I have it here. I was about to seal it for the post when the news of Lord Comstock’s death reached us.”

  He hunted through a sheaf of correspondence, and handed Sheringham a sheet of paper. It was dated on the previous evening, and written from Lambeth Palace, where the Archbishop was being entertained during his stay in London:

  “MY DEAR COMSTOCK.—In confirmation of our conversation this afternoon, I write to say that I shall be happy to write a four-column article for The Daily Bugle on the subject: ‘The Peril of the New Paganism.’ The remuneration mentioned by you, viz: five hundred guineas (£525) will be quite satisfactory and will be acknowledged to you from the proper quarter.

  “Thanking you for this opportunity of presenting the case for Christianity to the many readers of your publication.—I am, Yours faithfully,

  “ANSELM MEDIUM.”

  Roger was crushed.

  “I am really very much obliged to you, Muggleton-Blood,” he said humbly.

  “Not at all,” said the Rev. Hilary. “Very glad to have been of service to you. You must be off? Another glass of sherry? No? Well, good-day, my dear fellow, good-day. It has been delightful to see you again after all these years.”

  Mr. Roger Sheringham crept away from the presence of Mr. Muggleton-Blood in so unnerved a condition that only after consuming a pint of mild-and-bitter at the Teg and Turnip was he able to sort out the halfpence from the kicks so liberally bestowed upon him. For a short time he dallied with the idea that the Rev. Hilary had been pulling the wool over his eyes—but then, the recollection of that firm and flourishing signature, “Anselm Medium,” put all his doubts to flight. An Archbishop might (as he had learnt) suppress an inconvenient truth, but he could not, surely, pledge his wedded and consecrated title to so plump a lie as that letter. And how, reflected Roger, abashed, could he have supposed that one of the Heads of the Establishment could flounder about a rich man’s residence in a flurry of religious enthusiasm, mouthing scripture denunciations, and calling upon the wrath of Heaven like a street-preacher? Oh, shameful and ridiculous mistake!

  But, if Dr. Pettifer had never spoken of the wages of sin, how had Mills come to be so precise about it? Had he really mistaken a vague muttering about the 12.16 for that sinister quotation? Or had he, supposing (as Roger himself had supposed) that a twentieth-century Archbishop was in the habit of behaving like John the Baptist, put words into the churchman’s mouth to suit some hidden purpose of his own? And if he had—and if Muggleton-Blood spoke truth—this was not the secretary’s only lie, for he had himself arranged the visit which, afterwards, he declared to have been wholly unexpected. Something was here for thought.

  And then it struck Roger how odd—how almost incredible—it was that no less than three distinguished and improbable people should have chosen, out of all days and hours in the year, precisely the same hour and day to swoop upon Hursley Lodge for the express purpose of quarrelling with Lord Comstock. Could such a thing be chance? Sir Charles Hope-Fairweather had denied—almost with fury—that he had gone to see Comstock by appointment. If the denial was true, why the fury? There was something to be investigated here. But how to do it? One certainly could not ask Hope-Fairweather, for he would assuredly only get a still m
ore furious denial. And, of course, it would be absurd to ask Mills. But how about the lady? Who was the lady?

  At this point Roger hurriedly drained down the remainder of the mild-and-bitter and became very active. He buzzed about, like a questing bee, from club to club and from pub to pub, until at length, in a hotel bar much frequented by journalists, he discovered one Mr. ffulke Tweedle, a gentleman who specialized in social omniscience, and who was, in fact, gossip-writer to the Comstock weekly organ, the Sunday Trumpet.

  Mr. ffulke Tweedle had apparently been designed in a moment when nature, having mislaid her ruler, had no instrument handy but a pair of compasses. His head, his eyes and his spectacles were all round and all shining; his cheeks were round and pink; his mouth was the up-curving segment of a circle, bounded on the east and west by handsomely-curved parentheses. His form was pleasantly globed in front; when he stooped, he presented a rear aspect almost perfectly circular, and his voice was rounded and fluting. He encircled Roger’s hand with a cushiony clasp, beamed genially upon him and called in mellow accents for refreshments.

  “And what can I do for you, my dear Sheringham?”

  Roger explained that he wanted a little information about the Chief Whip, and had therefore come, as fast as horse-power could convey him, to Mr. Tweedle, “as you know everything about everybody.”

  “Now, that is very flattering of you, my dear Sheringham,” said Mr. Tweedle. “Say when. What is troubling you about dear old Hope-Fairweather?”

  “I expect you can guess,” said Roger, “or you will, when I tell you that I am officially investigating the murder of Lord Comstock.”

  Mr. Tweedle hurriedly depressed the corners of his mouth, and made an inclination of the head as though he had just stepped into church.

  “The poor old skipper,” he burbled, dropping his flute-notes to bassoon register, “a most melancholy business, Sheringham. I do not know when I have seen the Street so shaken. The fall of a colossus. The blow to me, personally, has been quite shattering. He had his peculiarities, poor old chap, but he was a great man, Sheringham, a really great man. It was a bad day for all of us when Comstock went west. …”

  He spoke with sincerity; as why should he not? The death of a great newspaper proprietor usually means the violent upheaval of his staff, and in these lean days, who does not dread the axe and the sack?

  “Quite so,” said Roger, “and that’s why I feel pretty sure you’ll be ready to help me put his murderer where murderers should be put.”

  “Certainly,” said Mr. Tweedle, “generally speaking; that is, most certainly. But I must say, my dear Sheringham, that I trust your investigations will be made discreetly. Dear old Hope-Fairweather is a fellow for whom I have a particular regard; the last time I saw him, we happened to be standing side by side at the reception given to the Bolivian Ambassador, and he remarked to me, ‘What a curious thing it is, ffulke, that the—’”

  “I quite see your point,” interrupted Roger, recognizing that Mr. Tweedle was about to rehearse his next Sunday’s gossip-column,” absolutely, of course. I’m not thinking at all of fixing anything on Sir Charles. What could be more ridiculous? No, but the evidence of a certain lady is very urgently required—and that is where I think you may help me.”

  Mr. Tweedle looked as portentous as his physical conformation permitted.

  “My dear Sheringham—you put me in a difficulty—these matters are a little delicate—”

  “I know, I know. But perhaps you haven’t got all the facts. If you haven’t, they’re not for publication, but I know I can rely on your journalistic discretion.”

  “Of course you may,” said Mr. ffulke Tweedle, licking his lips.

  Roger gave him a brief outline of Sir Charles Hope-Fairweather’s movements at Hursley Lodge.

  “Now, you see, Tweedle,” he went on, “there can be nothing indiscreet in Sir Charles’s relations with the lady, taken by themselves. If there had been, why should she have accompanied him in the first place? Her presence was not required at the interview with Comstock. And besides, if Mills is telling the truth when he says that Sir Charles wanted a message taken to his car, then it’s clear that at that time, he wasn’t concerned to hide the lady’s identity. Now, obviously, it’s different. He doesn’t want her mixed up in it, and he’s adopting a very chivalrous and proper attitude. But we needn’t—we mustn’t—take that attitude. Can you tell us, Tweedle, who the lady may have been—tall, dark, slimmish woman, I’m told, on the more interesting side of thirty—with whom Sir Charles might quite openly and honourably have taken a little motor-run?”

  Mrs. Tweedle’s smile was almost semi-circular.

  “We—e—ll, my dear Sheringham, I really—no, I really see no reason why I should not divulge—in the strictest confidence of course—a little item of social intelligence which will probably be made public before very long. It is whispered among those who know that Sir Charles Hope-Fairweather, who, I need not remind you, lost his charming wife six years ago in the same disastrous aeroplane crash which deprived Society of the witty and genial Major Arthur (‘Dart’) Polwheedle and the exquisite Lady ‘Bat’ Stukeley, will shortly lead another bride to the altar. The name that is mentioned is that of Lady Phyllis Dalrymple, eldest daughter of the Marquis of Quorn, one of the most brilliant of our Society leaders. His first wife,” added Mr. Tweedle, “was, of course, a Pytchley.”

  “Ah!” said Roger, wagging his head.

  “Mind you,” said Mr. Tweedle, “I go no farther than that. I cannot pretend to say whether Phyl Dalrymple is, or is not, the lady you are looking for. But the description—so far as it goes—would apply to her.”

  “Thanks enormously, Tweedle,” said Roger. “I always knew you were the man to come to.” He rose from the little table in the corner at which he had isolated his informant and sought for his hat and stick.

  “Now, I do hope,” cried Mr. Tweedle in some alarm, “that you are not going to do anything precipitate. And above all things, I beg you will not mention me. My discretion is, if I may say so, my livelihood, and—”

  “My dear Tweedle,” said Roger reassuringly, “wild horses would not drag your name from me. I will be most meticulously careful. And believe me, I am extremely grateful. I’ll do as much for you if I get the opportunity. You must lunch with me one day.”

  “Delighted, delighted!” said Mr. Tweedle.

  “You’ll excuse me now, won’t you?” said Roger, and bustled rather importantly away.

  His next appearance was at the town residence of the Marquis of Quorn in Berkeley Square. He pranced up the imposing steps and rang the bell with assurance. A footman answered the door.

  “Is Lady Phyllis Dalrymple at home?” demanded Roger, with the air of one who has no doubt of his welcome.

  “Not at home,” said the footman, as one who had no doubts either.

  “Not?” said Roger, much astonished.

  “No, sir,” said the footman. “Her ladyship is not at home, sir.”

  “Dear me,” said Roger, “that is very—Oh, well. You say she isn’t at home?”

  “No, sir,” said the footman.

  “Not to anybody?” said Roger.

  “No, sir; not to anybody.”

  (“Aha!” thought Roger acutely; “she is at home, then.”)

  “Could I take any message, sir?”

  “Er—well!” said Roger. He pulled out his pocket-book, extracted a sheet of paper (which happened to be a little statement of account from his dentist), and frowned at it. “This is Wednesday, i6th, isn’t it?”

  “Excuse me, sir, but was her ladyship expecting you?”

  “I rather thought she was,” said Roger mendaciously, “but it doesn’t matter.”

  “Her ladyship, sir, is seriously indisposed, and has cancelled her engagements for to-day. But if you desired to leave a message, sir—”

  “N—no,” said Roger. “Or, wait—perhaps I might speak to her maid—Mademoiselle—hum, ha.”

  “Mademoisel
le Célie, sir?”

  “Célie, of course.”

  “I will make inquiries. What name shall I say, sir?”

  “I hardly expect she will remember my name,” said Roger, “but you might say that I have come up from Hursley Lodge.”

  “Very good, sir. Will you step this way?”

  Roger, a little surprised at his own daring and resource, was shown into an elegant and forbidding little room, furnished with three black cubes and four tubular chairs. Here he sat, cooling his heels on a waxed scarlet floor and dazzling his eyesight against four aluminium walls and a prickly nude of the modern French school, until, after an interval of some five or ten minutes, the door opened to admit a very smart and very plain and very Parisian lady’s maid.

  “Ah!” said this young person. “You are Monsieur Meelss, yes?”

  For one agonizing and indeterminate second, Roger hesitated whether to be Mr. Mills or not. Then he said, “Yes.”

  “Ah, bon! My lady say it is ver’ kind of you to come. She quite understand it is all finish’ with the death of ce pauvre Lord Comstock. She is sorry that she cannot see you herself, but she has an atroce headache and beg you to excuse her.”

  “Naturally, naturally,” said Roger. “Of course, she must be very much upset.”

  “Comment? Upset?”

  “By all this,” said Roger. “I mean, it must have distressed her very much.”

  “I do not understand. My lady is indispose—not well.”

  “I am very sorry to hear it,” said Roger hastily, feeling that he had missed a cue somewhere. “I only meant that the murder of Lord Comstock must have given her a shock.”

  “Oh, that?” Célie appeared to dismiss Lord Comstock. “Mais, oui, it was ver’ shocking,” she amended. “Naturally, to you it is extremely grave.”

  “Terribly so,” said Roger, remembering that he was supposed to be Mr. Mills. “A most frightful blow.” It suddenly struck him that the bereaved Mr. Mills ought not to be capering about town in a pale grey suit with a rather lively tie. However, he could not alter that now. “Just so,” he added vaguely; “quite. Er—ah! So long as her ladyship—”