Bismarck Herrings (Timothy Herring)

by Gladys Mitchell

  “The Gytrash is in Yorkshire, isn’t it? The ghosthound is known as the Shuck Dog in these parts, I believe. Anyway, I’m glad we know what haunted Herrings, and yet it’s a disappointment, in a way. I did hope we’d got a real ghost.”

  “It’s a very strange thing about you. On a journey which I know like the back of my hand, you don’t utter so much as a yip, but now that I really do need a pilot, and one who won’t say anything except ‘Sharp left at the next crossroads and I think we’re nearly up to them,’ you babble like Tennyson’s brook.”

  “I’m sorry.” She transferred her attention to the map which was open on her knees. “I think I’m feeling keyed up on account of meeting this Lorrimere. If he does turn out to be the third man, what are you going to do?”

  “Drink his gin, eat his canapés, and behave in all respects like a gentlemanly guest, I hope, unless or until we’re interrupted.”

  “You don’t think his house will be raided?”

  “Oh, I’ve known stranger things happen.”

  Lorrimere Court had been built on a rising knoll out of the reach of floods, and the approach to it was by a gently-ascending drive from the banks of a stream crossed by a broad wooden bridge. It was not a large house and was approached, at the end of the drive, between two tall pillars crowned with stone balls. A broad, short path, the width of a minor road, then led between lawns to a double staircase with a curved but plain iron rail. Plainness was, in fact, the keynote of the whole façade, which was broken and made interesting only by the built-out central front containing a broad front door supported by two Ionic columns which upheld the usual cornice and pediment. There were three rows of tall, narrow windows symmetrically placed on either side of the doorway front, one row being at the ground-floor level, the others belonging to the first and second floors of the house.

  The door was wide open and there were several cars on the gravel. Timothy parked his own car, opened Alison’s door, and handed her out, and they approached the house. The proceedings appeared to be formal, for, having given their names as soon as they reached the doorway, they were announced in ringing tones and moved forward to meet their host.

  “It’s him all right,” said Timothy, as they accepted drinks from a passing tray, “and have you spotted who one of the waiters is?”

  “Yes, it’s Jabez,” said Alison. “It only needs Macbeth to give us a full hand.”

  At this moment Colquhoun was announced, and the fleshy Caesar, accompanied by an improbable blonde, advanced towards Mr. Lorrimere.

  “I have no doubt about Lorrimere,” said Timothy. “Nobody could mistake that long thin face or those remarkably fine hands.”

  “He looks far too decent to be mixed up with Colquhoun and Jabez Gee.”

  “I know. That’s what I told you, if you remember. Of course, one can’t go by appearances, but I can’t believe he peddles dope or murders old women, whereas I can believe anything of the other two. I wonder whether we’ll ever come up with the answer?”

  Kilbride Colquhoun joined them.

  “Why,” he said in his unctuous voice, “if it isn’t my Lady Macbeth! How did the little show go?”

  “It went,” replied Alison. “Fortunately we found a most adequate stand-in for you.”

  “Did you, indeed? And who may that have been?”

  “Young Mr. Davidson.”

  “Oh, your callow red-headed boy friend?”

  “He certainly has red hair, but I don’t recognise the rest of the description,” said Alison coolly. “I had better introduce you to my husband. Tim, this is Mr. Kilbride Colquhoun, whom I met for a couple of rehearsals at Miss Pomfret-Brown’s school, and who walked out on us before the performance.”

  “That be hanged for a tale, my dear lady! I was forced to throw up the part owing to major commitments elsewhere. I made a full explanation and offered my profound apologies to Miss Pomfret-Brown. Anyway, I’m glad the little show went off all right.”

  “It was most enjoyable,” said Timothy, “and the dressing-room conversation of two gentlemen whose names escape me, but who played the parts of Ross and Banquo respectively, was both interesting and illuminating.”

  “Yes? Oh, well, if you’ll both excuse me, I see some people I really must go and talk to. See you later, I hope.”

  “He didn’t want to know about Bobby Eaves and Francis Downwell,” said Alison. “Look, we don’t know anybody here except him, so how long need we stay?”

  “I’d like a quiet word with our host before we make our final farewells.”

  “Incidentally, we don’t appear to have a hostess, so I suppose that means he’s not married.”

  “He seems to be getting on well with Colquhoun’s dizzy blonde. What do you think she is?—a leading lady in a strip-show, or a chorus girl in a musical?”

  “I wouldn’t have the faintest idea. Ah, he’s pushing her off on to that long-haired couple who are rooted to the table where the whisky is.”

  “Right. That leaves him alone for a minute. I’ll take my chance before he gets tangled up with somebody else.”

  “What are you going to say to him, Tim?”

  This remained a mystery, for just as Timothy began making his way, with Alison, through the room, which by this time was becoming congested, a servant came up to Lorrimere and they went out through a curtained archway.

  “Don’t look now,” said Alison, no longer concerned with any answer her husband might have been going to make to her last question, “but I have an idea that the real party is about to begin.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I saw the servant say that the police are here.”

  “You’re pulling my leg! You couldn’t have done!”

  “Yes, really!”

  “Since when have you been a lip-reader?”

  “Oh, it’s one of the tricks of a schoolmistress’s trade, like having eyes in the back of one’s head. Tim, you scheming brute, you brought the police here! That’s why you knew it was safe for me to come!”

  Jabez Gee, bearing a tray of drinks, came up to them. Alison put an empty glass on the tray; Timothy did the same and took a full one.

  “Beg pardon, sir,” said Jabez very quietly, “but the boss says would you spare ’im a minute in the ante-room?”

  “Oh, all right,” said Timothy. He turned to his wife. “Back in a minute, darling. Lead the way, Gee.”

  In the ante-room, a small apartment which separated the entrance hall from the salon, Lorrimere was alone and the other door to the salon was closed.

  “Ah, here you are,” he said, as Timothy came in and Jabez slipped away to carry on his duties as waiter. “There’s a police superintendent here, name of Dunne. He wants a word with us, my dear chap. It seems there’s been some funny business going on around these parts, and he’s looking into it. Seems to think you and I may be mixed up in something shady.”

  “Oh, yes?” said Timothy. “What sort of something shady?”

  “Well, do you own a boat, a motor-cruiser?”

  “Now, look,” said Timothy, who had made up his mind to speak bluntly, “if it’s anything to do with harbouring illegal immigrants, I’m putting the onus of explanation on you and Colquhoun and Gee. I know all about your meetings at Warlock Hall and the preparations you made to receive these coloured chaps.”

  “Illegal immigrants?” said Lorrimere. He laughed. “Good lord, if that was all, I wouldn’t turn a hair. My dear fellow, the blighters are looking for dope. They claim to have had a tip-off. They’ve got search-warrants and God knows what-all, and when they’ve finished with this place and my servants and—blast their officiousness!—my guests, they’re going over to Warlock Hall to turn you inside out. Thought I’d just tip you off. Neighbourly feeling and all that sort of thing. Well, perhaps you’d better push along to them through that door there, or they’ll begin to think we’re in collusion or something.”

  “Right, but I’d like another word with you later, if we get the chance,” sa
id Timothy.

  Dunne was accompanied by a detective-inspector and a couple of plain-clothes men.

  “Mr. Herring?” he said. “Just so, sir. There are a few questions we’d like to ask you. You will understand that any information you can give us will be treated in strict confidence . . .”

  “Unless it needs to be produced in court as evidence. Oh, yes, I quite understand,” said Timothy. “By the way, I’m staying in Cambridge tonight. I don’t live in this neighbourhood, although I do happen to own a house here.”

  “Yes, of course, sir. We have no intention of inconveniencing you and we’re grateful to you for the tip-off. When we’ve finished here—I’m afraid it may take us some time—we should like you to accompany us to Warlock Hall. We shall be very much obliged to you for your continued co-operation, and will undertake to keep you there no longer than is absolutely necessary. You see, if the information you’ve given us is correct, the stuff we’re looking for may still be hidden there. It certainly doesn’t seem to be here.”

  “I’ve got my wife with me. I’m not leaving her here alone.”

  “That will be quite all right, sir. We’ll certainly take her with us. Have you any objection to being searched? In your case it is merely a matter of form, but we don’t think it advisable to leave anybody out.”

  “It will be more convenient for you to drive your own car, sir,” said the detective-superintendent, some two hours later, “but I’ll have to send one of my men with you and a couple more in a police car to follow up. I can’t afford to take any chances. Not that I’ve any reason to suspect you, sir, of course.”

  The cocktail party had been allowed to go on, but it had gradually petered out as the flustered and confused guests had been searched, cleared, and freed. Dunne had planned a full-scale raid. The house appeared to be full of uniformed men in addition to the plain-clothes officers. They searched the mansion, they were unobtrusively posted at doors and french windows, and when Timothy took Alison out into the vestibule for a breath of air which was not heavy with cigar and cigarette smoke, he found a policeman on duty there, too.

  At last, however, they were free to go. They took leave, somewhat ironically, of their host, whom they found moodily drinking whisky with Colquhoun and several people who, it appeared, were staying in the house, but he put down his glass when they approached and went with them towards the door.

  “I’m awfully sorry about all this,” he said. “I don’t have the faintest idea why I should be raided. I imagine the police got a tip-off from somebody who doesn’t like me much. As it happens, they’ve drawn a blank. Still, it doesn’t do a fellow any good with the friends and neighbours to have his place raided for dope. Puts ideas into their heads, don’t you know.”

  “Quite,” said Timothy. “Well, no hard feelings so far as I’m concerned, although I do resent having had my wife subjected to all this—being searched and so forth. Not at all what one expects on an evening out.” He hoped he sounded hurt; he merely felt hypocritical and rather foolish, realising that he had brought the police on a wild-goose chase.

  “She was an extremely nice woman, the police matron, or whatever she’s called,” said Alison. “Well, good-bye, Mr. Lorrimere. It’s been a most interesting and unusual party, and it was very kind of you to invite us.”

  “Well,” said Timothy, when he had settled her in the car and two plain-clothes men were occupying the back seat, “you’ve taken it all pretty coolly, I must say.”

  “How did you think I would take it?”

  Timothy could think of half-a-dozen ways, but mentioned none of them, and they drove by the roundabout route to Herrings. Timothy opened the front door, took the policemen into the great hall, and briefly explained the lay-out of the house, including the way to get up to the attics. He also mentioned that he believed a secret stair led to the state bedroom, but that, so far, he had not found it.

  “A secret staircase, sir?”

  “Yes. We spent a night here some weeks ago, and there’s no doubt that somebody managed to get into our room in spite of the fact that there was a spring lock on the door.”

  “Somebody must have had a key, sir, don’t you think?”

  “Could be, I suppose.”

  “You told the super you suspected your caretaker of harbouring illegal immigrants.”

  “Well, I know the fellow Gee, my caretaker’s son, was involved, but I don’t think he was the head of the gang. He hasn’t the brains. I think the business was run by Mr. Lorrimere and that chap Colquhoun, the actor fellow who was at the party tonight.”

  “Well, sir, if you and your wife will make yourselves comfortable for a bit, we’ll have a look round. But if there’s a secret staircase it may take us all night to find it.”

  “You’ll have a job, anyway. I’m having electric light installed, but I haven’t got around to it yet.”

  “Oh, well, in that case, sir, we’ll just ask you to come with us to the gatehouse, as that’s where the caretaker lived, and we’ll have a look round with our torches. Then you’d like to go back to your hotel. Cambridge, I think you said, sir. Will you be staying there more than one more night?”

  “I hadn’t planned to, but I’m at your disposal, of course.” He gave the name of the hotel and confirmed his home address and then he and Alison were escorted to the gatehouse. Timothy produced the key and they all mounted to what had been Mrs. Gee’s sanctum before Timothy’s workmen had taken down the partition and a pantechnicon had removed Mrs. Gee’s belongings to her new home, wherever that was.

  “Hm!” said one of the officers, flashing his torch around the bare, stone-walled room. “This the whole premises, sir?”

  “Unless you count the roof.”

  “This stair goes up to the roof, does it? Well, there’s nothing more we can do here tonight, or in the house itself, come to that. Well, look, sir, I’m going to leave a man in charge and we’ll comb out the whole place tomorrow.”

  “Any objection if I come along?”

  “Certainly not, sir. Just as well you should be here . . .”

  “So that I’m on hand if anything awkward turns up, I suppose? I think it’s highly doubtful, you know. If there ever was anything here to interest you, I’ll bet it’s been moved before this. Anyway, expect me some time during the morning. Good night.”

  “Tim,” said Alison, when they were on their way back to Cambridge, “I know you tipped off the police to raid the cocktail party, but what made you think of doing it?”

  “Oh, just one of those things. I merely let Dunne know that we should be among those present and that I hadn’t the smallest glimmer of why we had been asked, and one thing led to another. Well, it seemed as though he was glad of the information about the party, and that’s as much as I know.”

  “Don’t hedge. You knew he’d be glad of it. Why?”

  “Well, I know that when I heard Lorrimere, Colquhoun, and Gee talking together that first time, Lorrimere was against moving their headquarters from Herrings to his place, which we now know to be Lorrimere Court, but it seemed to me that they had no alternative.”

  “That’s not a logical thought. They may have half-a-dozen possibilities.”

  “Be that as it may, if Mrs. Dasti was mixed up in anything—and, according to the evidence we have in our possession, and it includes her death and that of Mrs. Plumb, she most certainly was—she was most likely peddling dope. It certainly wasn’t illegal immigrants.”

  “But, from what you told me, it was the illegal immigrants that Lorrimere refused to have at his place. The dope exists only in your imagination, so far.”

  “I know, but it exists in the super’s imagination, too, and I think, when I mentioned the cocktail party and my suspicions concerning it, that what had already occurred to me occurred to him also.”

  “And that was?”

  “That the social occasion was not only a cocktail party, but that when ‘the county,’ if you know what I mean, had left, the real business of the evening wou
ld commence.”

  “Yes, but the materials for what you call ‘the real business of the evening’ weren’t there.”

  “Apparently not. Oh, well, you can’t win them all.”

  “So now the police suspect us of trying to pass the buck, and that the stuff, whatever it is, is hidden at Herrings.”

  “I don’t suppose Dunne believes I’m guilty, even if he finds the stuff there. And we’re involved, anyway. There must be some connection between Herrings and Lady Matilda’s Rest, apart from ourselves. I mean, look at the facts. The minute I go down to what was then Warlock Hall, things begin to happen. I then go to Lady Matilda’s Rest and an old woman whom the other inmates suspect of some kind of under-the-counter trafficking in Horsebridge market gets murdered, and when another of the old ladies tries to tell the coroner something he doesn’t want to hear because he thinks it’s irrelevant, she gets knifed in a cinema in Ipswich. There must, I repeat, be a connection.”

  “Why do you think we were invited to the cocktail party?”

  “To be carefully vetted and sounded, I think. Gee will have tipped Lorrimere off, weeks ago, about us . . .”

  “But they don’t know of our connection with Lady Matilda’s Rest, because Gee doesn’t know about that, so he couldn’t have told them.”

  “He does, and he could, if his mother had told him that I once mentioned Lady Matilda’s Rest to her.”

  “That only holds good if you can prove that Mrs. Dasti was working for them and—”

  “I know, and until Dunne finds out who murdered her and why. I can’t prove it, but, all the same, I’ve no doubt Lorrimere and Colquhoun have looked up me and my activities, and they’ll know of my connection with Phisbe. They’ll also know that young Coningsby is Phisbe’s dog’s-body and that Miss Coningsby-Layton is Coningsby’s aunt. Well, doesn’t it begin to add up?”

  “Yes, it does. Do you think the police will find anything at Herrings? And to what extent shall we be involved if they do? I mean, dope found on the premises . . .”

  “I think we’ll jump that particular fence when we come to it.”