Dead to the World

by Francis Durbridge

  ‘No. Julie can play the reception hostess. I suggest you make yourself scarce.’

  Antoinette gave a mocking smile. ‘Don’t you want me to meet the remarkable Mr Holt?’

  ‘I don’t consider it wise for our names to be linked, that’s all. Now run along, Antoinette, please.’

  ‘Run? In this skirt? Impossible!’

  The Professor watched her glide from the room. It was something well worth watching. Then he hastened to his desk and began strewing it impressively with papers.

  When the buzzer on his internal phone rang and, a few moments later, Philip Holt and Ruth were shown into the room, the Professor was giving a convincing performance of a scholar up to his eyes in work. Peering over thick hornrimmed spectacles he greeted his visitors and waved them towards two chairs. The young blonde girl, in heavy mourning, who had shown them in started to leave, but Dalesford stopped her.

  ‘This is my secretary, Julie Benson. We’ve been expecting you sooner or later, Mr Holt. As I expect you know, Julie was engaged to be married to Vance Scranton.’

  The pretty, fluffy little thing (as Inspector Hyde had very aptly described her) blushed and shook hands with them. Ruth moved particularly close to the younger girl and held her outstretched hand rather longer than was usual.

  Holt frowned at Dalesford’s words. ‘I don’t quite follow. How could you have been expecting us, Professor?’

  ‘Well, Julie’s brother-in-law, Mr Wade, mentioned that the Scrantons had put you on this case, so naturally we’ve been expecting you here any day.’

  Dalesford had a confident, ringing voice, ideal for addressing a lecture hall full of students. Holt judged his age as about forty-five. He was fairly tall, thin and stooping, and untidily dressed in a baggy tweed suit. There was a slightly bad-tempered expression on his otherwise quite handsome, large-boned face.

  ‘Has Mr Wade been in touch with you recently?’ Ruth enquired innocently of Julie Benson.

  ‘Yes. You see … he’s my sister’s husband, you understand,’ she ended rather lamely.

  Ruth gave a sweet smile which seemed to set Julie at ease.

  ‘I hope your brother-in-law hasn’t been telling too many people that I’m helping Mr Scranton,’ Holt said evenly. ‘My investigations are of a very private nature; I’d much prefer to work without fuss or publicity of any kind.’

  ‘Don’t worry about Jimmy, he’s the soul of discretion,’ Dalesford assured him in hearty tones. ‘He has to be, in his line of business. No, the chappie who needs watching is this Abe Jenkins reporter fellow. That’s obviously his work in this morning’s paper. I expect you’ve seen it?’

  ‘No,’ said Holt. ‘Have you got a copy?’

  ‘Yes, I think it’s here on my desk somewhere.’ The Professor rummaged around, nearly knocking over a clay jar stuffed with pencils and pens, and succeeded in dislodging a pile of magazines. Despite his protests Ruth went on her hands and knees to help him pick them up. They were all different issues of the New Feature.

  She favoured him with her guileless smile. ‘Do you take this magazine, Professor?’

  His reply was oddly confused. ‘Yes, I … er … I take it. That is to say … Ah, here’s the Abe Jenkins article. I’ve marked it – there, in green ink. Of course, it’s a tremendous sensation for a tiny hamlet like Deanfriston to have its own murder. Frankly, the people down here just love it!’

  Holt nodded as he took the newspaper. ‘It can’t have been very pleasant for you, though.’

  ‘Well, there’s been a lot of publicity, of course, but I don’t know that it’s so very harmful. It might even do a bit of good in some circles – may make a few nabobs sit up and realise we do have a branch of the University here. I’m almost inclined to say that any publicity is better than none, as far as our neglected part of the backwoods is concerned.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking so much of the notoriety as—’

  ‘Ah, you mean the police? Yes, of course, they were an infernal nuisance, quite disrupted the lecture rota.’

  ‘No,’ persisted Holt, ‘I was thinking more of what it must have meant to you, personally, to lose a brilliant scholar like Vance Scranton.’

  ‘Oh. Oh yes, I see what you mean … Yes. Yes, indeed …’

  ‘He came directly under your tuition, didn’t he? And by all accounts he was pretty bright.’

  Dalesford cleared his throat importantly; it was as though he were about to make the Chairman’s speech to a full Board meeting.

  ‘Nature abhors a vacuum, and Professor Dalesford abhors hypocrisy, Mr Holt. So I must warn you, in case you’re expecting me to cry on your shoulder, that this young American was never exactly a favourite of mine. In fact, if you want my unvarnished verdict, he was a self-opinionated young bastard! Clever, I’ll grant you, but practically a Fascist in his ideas. There are many other students whose minds I prefer, and whose future careers interest me to a far greater degree. Forgive me if I speak too candidly – I’m afraid I’m rather well known for it.’

  He ended his speech with a self-indulgent chuckle.

  Ruth had been watching Julie Benson while the Professor’s voice droned confidently on. The young girl had a blank, uninterestingly pretty face, for the most part devoid of emotion. But suddenly, half-way through Dalesford’s speech, a spasm of hatred darted across her features like a streak of summer lightning. Ruth was shocked by its intensity. Then, as swiftly as it came, the hatred faded.

  Holt unfolded the newspaper and began to read the article by Abe Jenkins. His brow darkened and with difficulty he held himself in check till he had reached the end. ‘How the devil does this fellow get his information?’ he exploded at last.

  Dalesford adjusted his spectacles and gave a wordly-wise smile. ‘I can’t imagine,’ he said. ‘Unless he has a friend in the police force?’

  Holt shook his head. ‘I doubt that, but I must admit I don’t see how he could have linked the Lewisham murder with the Brighton cliff crash and the Scranton case.’

  He banged the newspaper down on the desk and Julie pounced on it. ‘Is there something new in it about Vance?’ she asked fearfully.

  Dalesford looked surprised. ‘You mean you haven’t read it yet? You’d better sit down, my girl, before you read the last paragraph.’

  Julie Benson immediately scanned the final paragraph and its effect on her was dynamic. She gave a short, choking cry and crumbled to the floor.

  As Ruth hastened towards her the Professor stood to one side with a complacent, detached smile on his face. ‘I warned her, didn’t I? I said she ought to sit down before she read this piece of nonsense about Scranton being alive.’

  A sharp retort was on the tip of Holt’s tongue, but he bit it back.

  ‘Well, Mr Holt, I expect you’d like to see the scene of the crime, wouldn’t you? Isn’t that where all good detectives start?’

  ‘I’d like to see Vance’s study, if I may?’

  ‘Naturally – the now-famous study in the now-famous Scholars’ Row. Many is the litre of midnight oil that has been burnt there, many the hours of studious scholarship. But it took a murder to put us on the map, Mr Holt. Come alone, I’ll take you on the Grand Tour …’

  Holt and Ruth stood leaning into the wind as they stopped to admire the marvellous view of the Channel and the Seven Sisters.

  ‘What a remarkable bunch of characters this case seems to involve,’ he had said as they drove away from Deanfriston. ‘I feel I need a good clean through with a stiff Channel breeze. Let’s go for a walk along the Downs.’

  They had driven down to the sea and parked the Mustang in the hollow of Birling Gap.

  ‘Well, Ruth, what do you make of it all?’ he asked as they turned from the seven white cliffs and continued over the soft green turf.

  She summed up her impressions briefly. ‘Liars, knaves, ex-convicts, intellectual snobs! Even little Julie Benson could turn out to be a vicious piece of goods, I imagine.’

  ‘Really? What makes you say that?’


  Ruth described the frightening look of hatred that had passed across the secretary’s blue eyes.

  Holt laughed.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ Ruth asked.

  ‘It’s only that, quite independently of each other, you and Hyde have come up with the same verdict on fluffy blue-eyed blondes. I begin to wonder what the other one will be like.’

  ‘Which other one?’

  ‘Antoinette Sheen.’

  ‘Oh, she’s not in the least fluffy.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I’ve seen her – I think.’

  ‘You’ve what?’

  ‘She was there, at the College.’

  ‘Nonsense! I asked Dalesford if he knew where we could get in touch with her and he was hopelessly vague. He said he hadn’t seen her since the night of the murder.

  ‘Professor Dalesford,’ said Ruth, with very precise diction, ‘was lying. Add that to his other charms – such as his odious candour, his thirst for publicity, and that ugly chip on his shoulder at not being Master of some Cambridge College …’

  ‘Steady on, Ruth! I didn’t much take to him myself, but we’ve no reason to suppose … Anyway, to get back to Antoinette Sheen. How do you know she was there? And where was she?’

  ‘She was in Dalesford’s office, just before we arrived.’

  ‘Have you got second sight, or do your eyes penetrate walls?’

  ‘No, but I’ve got a darn good nose. I smelt her perfume. The room was strong with it as we came in.’

  ‘Perhaps it was Julie Benson’s.’

  ‘No. I got up close to Julie Benson, just to make sure.’

  ‘M’m … It’s still only a hunch, though. The trace of perfume in Dalesford’s room doesn’t mean it was necessarily Antoinette.’

  ‘All right, I can’t prove it, Philip. But in my bones I’m not only certain she was there, but I’m positive we’ve actually seen her.’

  ‘Ruth! Where?’

  ‘I don’t suppose you noticed her, because you never do notice women until they’re right in front of your eyes, but we passed a tall girl with a superb figure as we came up the stairs. I hate to admit it, but she really was rather super. I caught a faint whiff of her scent as we passed, and that same scent was lingering in Dalesford’s office when we arrived a minute later.’

  Holt burst into a peal of laughter. ‘You really are quite a girl at times! Supposing you’re right: why should Dalesford deny it?’ He glanced at her sleeve. ‘And what else did you notice?’

  ‘That pile of New Features. Judging by the size of it, the Professor must have been a reader for quite some time. But if he’s just a reader why keep such a large number of back numbers?’

  ‘Well, it’s not all that unusual. In fact, it’s quite reasonable for a man in his position. But I see what you’re getting at. You think he’s a contributor? In other words, that he’s Prospero. “If you want to know who murdered your son ask Prospero.”’ He paused to give it thought. ‘It’s a possibility. Political Science is his field, and that’s what Prospero’s articles are about. Also he made no bones about disliking Vance Scranton.’

  ‘He also goes in for green ink,’ Ruth observed. ‘I noticed that. It wouldn’t have been hard for his secretary to pinch his pen and scribble her insinuations on the magazine, then send it to the Scrantons whom she presumably knew always stayed at the Savoy.’

  ‘One thing doesn’t fit,’ Ruth pointed out. ‘She was surely at Deanfriston when that magazine was posted.’

  ‘Yes, that much has been confirmed. But perhaps Jimmy Wade, that soul of discretion, posted it for her.’

  ‘Perhaps he did. They seem rather chummy, don’t they?’

  Holt nodded. ‘Jimmy Wade and Julie Benson. Does your woman’s intuition detect a liaison there?’

  ‘It stands out a mile,’ said Ruth. ‘I wonder what Mrs Wade thinks about the arrangement?’

  ‘She’s a wheel-chair cripple, so the Inspector was telling me.’

  ‘Oh. If Julie is having an affair with her brother-in-law, why does she try to give the impression that she’s still in love with her ex-fiancé – dead or alive?’

  ‘To cover up, perhaps?’ suggested Holt. ‘Don’t forget, fainting isn’t necessarily a sign of true love. Perhaps Julie was horrified by the idea of Vance being alive. She would be, for instance, if the murderer had told her he’d done a good job and blown her ex-fiancé’s head to bits.’

  ‘Using the current lover to get rid of the discarded one? What a morbid mind you have, Mr Holt! I admit I don’t trust Jimmy Wade, but that would make him not merely in the undertaking business but actually supplying his own customers! Aren’t we going a little too fast?’

  ‘Walking too fast, do you mean – or theorising?’

  ‘Well, both.’

  They stopped again to admire the view and Holt took off his jacket and loosened his tie. It was surprisingly warm for the time of year. Below and stretching out in front of them the English Channel was steel-blue, whipped into a curious pattern like pages of shorthand by the rhythm of the wind on white-tipped waves. Gulls circled above their heads, white against the cobalt sky. Holt found it hard to reconcile the beauty of the scene with the ugly events occurring only a few miles inland.

  Ruth broke into his thoughts. ‘What impressions did you get out of Vance’s study?’

  ‘The Professor made pretty certain that I didn’t get any.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, he took me down to Scholars’ Row all right. But he never left my side! I wanted to look around, get the feel of the place, examine Vance’s books, and so on. I needed peace and quiet to breathe in the atmosphere of the place and wait for a flash of inspiration about what really happened that night. But it was quite out of the question with Dalesford buzzing about like a zoo keeper showing off his favourite animal. Honestly, I don’t think he cares sixpence who’s been murdered as long as he gets his name mentioned in the press. One thing’s certain: I shall have to go back again.’

  ‘Won’t Dalesford always be there to show you around?’

  ‘Not after midnight,’ said Holt tersely.

  Ruth looked awed. ‘You mean you’re going prowling?’

  He nodded.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Tonight.’

  Within sight of Belle Tout lighthouse and a glimpse of Beachy Head they decided it was time to turn back. On the return half of the walk, with a strong wind behind them, they made rapid progress. Soon the full curve of the Seven Sisters came into view again, and then the lonely hotel, closed for the winter, which nestled in the hollow of Birling Gap.

  Ruth, who was marching ahead, called out as she breasted the final slope, ‘There’s someone down there on horseback, Philip – poking round the car.’

  Despite the distance, it seemed almost as if her voice had carried on the wind. The rider looked up in their direction, then moved away from the Mustang and cantered out of sight. Clad in jodhpurs, with a flash of yellow which might or might not have been long hair, neither Ruth nor Holt could decide afterwards if the lone horse-rider had been a man or a woman.

  Some five or six minutes later they descended the last stretch and hastened to the parked car. Holt circled it cautiously, examining the bodywork for scratches; it was not unknown for car-haters whose minds were unhinged to do stupid, superficial damage to cars parked in lonely spots, sometimes going so far as to slash tyres and break windows. But there seemed nothing amiss with the Mustang. Perhaps it had simply invited admiration from a car enthusiast. However, remembering Curly’s acquaintances at Brighton, Holt took the precaution of opening the bonnet and taking a brief look at the engine.

  ‘Searching for time bombs?’ asked Ruth.

  He grinned and somewhat shamefacedly shut the bonnet. He slid behind the wheel and the great engine sprang into life at the first touch of the ignition.

  ‘Must be getting windy in my old age,’ he remarked as they drove slowly inland along the narrow lane.

/>   … It happened very swiftly, despite the fact that they were dawdling …

  A flock of sheep broke unexpectedly from the steep hedgerows and spread across their path. Holt gasped with fear, stamped on his brakes, and swung the wheel hard in a frantic attempt to avoid them. Two of the animals bleated their disapproval and just managed to jump out of the way as the car ran with a soft, crunching thud into the bank, half climbed it, then tilted at a sharp angle and stalled its engine.

  Neither of them was hurt. They were just blinking at one another in surprise when a farmer’s lad came bursting through the hedge to help. By good luck he was a frustrated car-fan. Swearing roundly at his sheep and uttering a series of commands and piercing whistles to a bright-eyed dog, he bent his brawny shoulders to the task of righting the Mustang and getting it back on to the road.

  His Sussex brogue was almost unintelligible to Holt and Ruth, but it was obvious, once he had satisfied himself that neither of the car’s occupants was hurt, that his chief concern was for the car’s damaged bumper and mudguard.

  It did not take Holt long to discover the cause of the accident. After squirming briefly under the nose and examining both wheels from the inside, he rose to his feet, a thunderous expression on his face.

  The farmhand looked at him anxiously. ‘Yew reckon someone been tinkerin’ with her, guv’nor?’

  ‘See for yourself. Some bright character has taken a stout pair of wire-clippers and cut through the hydraulic brake tubes on both sides. A nice clean incision with practically no oil drops to show for it. Might have been done by a surgeon!’

  The farmhand squatted down to confirm this, then gave a slow, significant whistle as he straightened up. ‘Which way was yew thinkin’ of takin’ up at the crossroads, guv’nor? Newhaven or Eastbourne?’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure really …’

  ‘It don’t make no difference, anyway. There’s terrible steep hills immediate, whichever way yew was goin’. Just like switchbacks at the fairground, they are. Either way yew’d have been killed for sure.’

  Chapter Seven

  There was a message in Philip Holt’s pigeon-hole at the reception desk when they got back to their hotel in Eastbourne. It was a simple request to ring a local number as soon as possible.