by Bruce, Leo
Carolus followed her to a Victorian sitting-room on the first floor where he was eyed incuriously by a Pomeranian dog lying on a cushion.
“Yes, Ursus approves of you, and he is a good judge of character. Please sit down and tell me what you wish to see me about.”
Carolus introduced and explained himself, and asked if Miss Pilkin wished to say anything.
“I wish to say a great deal,” she announced. “Things which I have said to no one. I have instincts in these matters, Mr. Deene, I have guidances, which are not to be ignored.”
Carolus would have preferred facts, but nodded gravely.
“It may be you have, too. It may be that you have been guided to me. For I can help you.”
“That’s good. You know the people opposite, I believe?”
“I knew them, but I fear I always mistrusted them, or rather the man. I have acute perceptions in these matters and everything told me he was bad, bad. I was sorry for his wife and remained on friendly terms with her until she behaved with terrible cruelty to Ursus, my… I won’t say my dog, for he is so much more than that, as you can see. My companion.”
“How was that?”
“She was taking her child out in its wheelchair. I was on my way home from my afternoon walk with Ursus. It happens that he is devoted to children, a taste I do not altogether share. If he sees a child he likes to greet it. That is what he did on the afternoon I am recalling. He went across to the wheelchair and said ‘Good afternoon’, as dogs do. As plain as could be, he was saying ‘good afternoon’ to the child, smiling at it, wanting to play, or perhaps be no more than polite. But the wretched child, instead of smiling and saying ‘Good afternoon, Mr. Ursus’ as any sensible child would, set up a howl, and the mother, this woman Pressley, began to belabour poor Ursus with an umbrella. It was not only from the blows he suffered. His feelings were hurt. To be struck and abused when all you have done is to be courteous and friendly was too much for him.”
“Oh dear,” said Carolus. “Yes. I see it all.”
“I remonstrated, of course,” continued Miss Pilkin. “Somewhat forcibly, in the circumstances. ‘Don’t you dare strike my dog!’ I said. The woman’s reply was unforgivable. She used language that would shame a costermonger. I could see this developing into a vulgar street-scene so I called Ursus and came in here, extremely angry. But that was not the end of the matter.”
“No?”
“Not by any means. A few days later I was in the street alone on my way home from a meeting of the Theosophical Society when the man Pressley approached me. What he said I have written down because I subsequently complained to the police and did not care to use the words. You may, however, read them.”
She fumbled in her bag and gave Carolus a worn piece of paper. On it he read “If your filthy, flea-bitten dog ever comes anywhere near my baby again I’ll wring its bloody neck, and yours, too, you old bitch.”
“So you see,” said Miss Pilkin, “why I am no longer on speaking terms with these people.”
“But you still know something of their movements?”
“I know everything of their movements. I have made it my business to know. I owe it to Ursus to know. I have told the police a certain amount, I am prepared to tell you more, for you, I feel, will recognize that things are not just black or white, fact or fancy, but are subject to intuitions and perceptions such as mine.”
“That night …”
“Long before that night, Mr. Deene, there had been trouble in this family. There had been angry disputes between Harry Pressley and Mrs. Crabbett…”
“Mrs. Crabbett?”
“Certainly. I have seen, nay heard, them shouting at one another in the most disgraceful way.”
“What about?”
“Money, principally. There was a dispute on the night, on the very night of Mrs. Crabbett’s death. I do not know the details. I heard nothing. But I saw. Pressley seemed to be threatening his mother-in-law with violence and then flung out of the house in disgust.”
“At what time?”
“Half past six, I should say.”
“And what time did he return?”
“It must have been nearly ten, and the worse for liquor. His walk was unsteady. When the police car first drew up at ten-thirty I wondered if he was sober enough to receive them. He must have been for it was he who opened the front door.”
“Does he often go out at night like that?”
“I should not say often, but there are occasions.”
“You have not, I suppose, taken note of the dates on which he has done so?”
“I have not. But there were other disputes, sometimes between Pressley and his wife. Sometimes between mother and daughter.”
“More than with most families, would you think?”
“My father was a clergyman, Mr. Deene, and our home was free from bickering. I have no experience of such things. My good Mr. and Mrs. Wilson downstairs never have a cross word. These people opposite were for ever quarrelling.”
“That is perhaps why Crabbett rarely accompanied his wife on her visits?”
“I cannot say. He would bring his wife in their car and stop a little way down the road.”
“Why, I wonder?”
“I could only surmise that he did not wish to be involved in these family disturbances.”
“You could see his car then?”
“Not always. But when Mrs. Crabbett walked up to the door I could observe it turning to drive away. Then later Mr. Crabbett would return for her.”
“But not that last night?”
“Oh yes. But later than usual. He came to the front door and left almost at once. Evidently his daughter told him his wife had left.”
“That was before Pressley’s return?”
“Oh yes. Considerably. I was, of course, most upset to hear about Mrs. Crabbett. A terrible way to enter the Great Unknown. Far be it from me to wish ill to anyone, even to these unruly and cruel people. It was most distressing, particularly as I had seen the man who committed the crime.”
“You saw him?”
“Oh yes. I told the police that. I saw him waiting about there.”
“But how do you know •.. what makes you think it was the murderer?”
“Instinct, Mr. Deene. My instincts are infallible. The man I saw in Salisbury Gardens that night was waiting to plunge a knife into a woman.”
“You mean, you knew at the time?”
“Ah, if only it were as simple as that! In a sense I did so. I saw an aura of evil round him. I felt he was bad. But I did not foresee that within an hour he would have blood on his hands.”
“He was a tall man?”
“No. He seemed to be of average height or perhaps a little smaller. But he was wearing a tall man’s raincoat. It was visibly too large for him.”
“You saw his face?”
“Not at all distinctly. I saw that he wore spectacles. His features were in the shadow of a cloth cap.”
“Had you ever seen him before?”
“Not to recognize. Yet I was conscious of some sense of semi-recognition. Perhaps I had known him in a previous incarnation.”
“You say he was waiting about?”
“That was the impression he gave. His hands were in the pockets of his raincoat. He disappeared more than once, up or down the road, into what shadowy places I know not. I saw him for the last time not long before Mrs. Crabbett emerged.”
“Then did he disappear up or down the road?”
“Down. In the direction Mrs. Crabbett would take.”
“That is all you saw?”
“I think so. Is it not enough? It is as though I saw that poor woman murdered before my eyes.”
“Do you know many people in the district by sight, Miss Pilkin?”
“I believe I am as observant as most and I do not hold myself aloof. I gladly greet my fellows when I see them.”
“Do you for instance know many from Crabtree Avenue on the other side of the park?”
“Anyone else?”
“My good Mr. and Mrs, Wilson are related to the caretaker at St. Olave’s Ladies College and have occasionally asked them here. I know no more.”
“You take your dog in the park sometimes?”
“Daily. On a lead. Mr. Slatter insists on that, though the good fellow sometimes turns a blind eye when I give Ursus a little frolic on the lawn at the far end of the park.”
“Thank you, Miss Pilkin. You have been most helpful.”
A far-away look came into Miss Pilkin’s bony face.
“Look for the murderer, Mr. Deene, in the faces of the dead women. They will tell you all. I had never to my knowledge seen the doctor’s wife, but both of the others were hard, hard women, dominating women, bringing unhappiness to others.”
“You don’t think they were chosen by chance, then?”
“There is no such thing as chance and those we call insane are particularly sensitive to influences. They may be guided to acts of retribution. Cruelty can never go unpunished. The cruelty of one human being to another, continuing perhaps for years, is greater than the cruelty of a single blow. So I say look into the cruel and wicked faces of the dead and you will find the clue you want.”
“Thank you.”
“Study, also, the living,” went on Miss Pilkin in the voice of a prophetess. “Particularly those in the house opposite.”
“Yes. I’m going there now,” said Carolus.
“Remember then that every line in every face says something to him who understands. You will be successful. I see it in your eyes. Ursus, if he could speak, would say so too. But you mustn’t let them hang the poor wild creature when you find him. He is under a compulsion such as you or I, thank God, can never imagine. He must be restrained, yes, but not hanged.”
“He is a murderer,” said Carolus.
“He is a madman,” retorted Miss Pilkin, “and the Mohammedans say the mad are the children of God.”
On that note Carolus left her and went to the house opposite. He found Isobel Pressley in a very different mood from yesterday.
“No. I can’t ask you in,” she said. “My husband was ever so cross when I told him. He’ll be home any minute and I shouldn’t like him to find you here, especially after you’ve been across the road.”
“But you asked me yesterday …”
“I know I did. But that was before I told him. I shouldn’t like to tell you what he said. Oh my goodness, this is him coming now.”
Carolus turned to face a sour-looking man with grey ginger hair and a well-worn tweed overcoat. He was carrying a despatch case.
“What do you want?” he asked Carolus aggressively.
“A word with you,” said Carolus.
“Oh? On what authority?”
“None at all. Your wife was kind enough to say that I might call when you were here.”
“She did? Then she had no business to say anything of the sort. See what it says on the gate? ‘No Hawkers, No Circulars’—that means you.”
“Thank you,” said Carolus. “You left the house shortly before your mother-in-law was killed, I believe? I wonder why you didn’t tell the police that.”
Pressley’s face did not change.
“Are you trying to be funny?” he asked menacingly.
“Now, Harry,” said his wife.
“Oh no,” said Carolus. “I never try to be funny. I’m in deadly earnest. You were out of the house that evening, weren’t you?”
“What’s it got to do with you?”
“Nothing. But it had a lot to do with Dyke and you didn’t tell him. Where did you go?”
“Look here. Clear off, will you? I’ve never heard such cheek in my life. Asking about my movements. You must be out of your mind.”
“But why didn’t you tell Dyke?” persisted Carolus.
“Because it’s no damn business of his what I do, or yours either. Now, if you don’t…”
“What time were you at the King’s Head?”
“Who told you I’d been to the King’s Head?”
Carolus thought of the little bird at Mr. Gorringer’s ear but said blandly, “Oh things get about, you know. Why don’t we talk sensibly about this?”
“Have I got to be questioned by every lay-about that comes to my door?”
“That’s for you to decide.”
Pressley hesitated then glanced at the windows in the house opposite.
“Come in,” he said with no welcoming smile at all.
He hung his coat in the hallway and faced Carolus in the room in which Carolus had been yesterday.
“Now what is it you want? What are you up to?”
“Nothing, really. Just satisfying my curiosity.”
“You’re not such a bloody fool as to suspect me of these crimes, are you?”
“I haven’t got what you could call a suspect yet. But you were out of your home when your mother-in-law was stabbed. And you had had a row with her that evening.”
“It’s that old bitch opposite again,” shouted Pressley. “She put you up to this. I’ll charge her with slander very soon. The whole thing’s ridiculous, anyway. I went to the pub that night, yes. I often go. So would you if you had a mother-in-law like mine. Trying to tell me how to lead my life. Interfering between my wife and me. No one could stand her.”
“What about the man most likely to know her true character? Her husband?”
“Poor old chap. He’d gone under to her long ago. I make no bones about it. Dead or not, I say straight out I couldn’t stand her. That’s not to say I did her in, as you should know if you’ve got any sense at all. It’d be too obvious, wouldn’t it? Besides, what about the other two? Think I popped over to Crabtree Avenue and did them as well just for the fun of it? Don’t be silly.”
“All the same, Mr. Pressley, you didn’t tell the police you were out that night, did you?”
“They never asked me. Why should I tell them anything unless they ask? I don’t like them anyway. And my movements can be checked, as you found out when you heard I was in the King’s Head.”
“See anyone there you knew?” asked Carolus casually.
“One or two from Crabtree Avenue I’ve seen there before. Man called Turnwright, who can’t stand most of the others over there.”
“Was the park-keeper there?”
“Old Slatter? No. He uses the Mitre.”
“Thanks, Pressley. You’ve been a good witness, after all.”
“Well, don’t come round again, that’s all, because I’ve had about enough of it.”
Nine
CAROLUS decided to leave for his home in New-minster for a couple of days away from the depressing atmosphere of Albert Park. He wanted to sort things out in his mind before he proceeded to the third murder, the second in order of incidence. The beginnings of a notion were beginning to form in his mind and he wanted to review his facts and see what evidence he had for it.
Perhaps ‘facts’ was too strong a word for what had guided him to his embryo theory. Perhaps, he admitted wearily as he drove home, he never would have more. It was unlike previous cases in more senses than one. A homicidal maniac broke all precedents.
He slept soundly but was awakened in what seemed to him the small hours by a knock on his bedroom door, not the sharp purposeful knock of Mrs. Stick but a casual-sounding, unfamiliar knock with loose knuckles. He called “Come in!” to be faced with unwelcome entry of his least favourite pupil, Rupert Priggley. This precocious youth with his intolerably sophisticated manner and air of condescension to the adult world had more than once associated himself with Carolus’s investigations, for his parents, long since divorced, had a way of leaving him for the holidays at a loose end but amply provided with pocket money.
“What
on earth do you mean by disturbing me in the middle of the night?” Carolus demanded.
“It’s nearly 8 o’clock,” returned Priggley, “and I bring news that will make you leap with boyish excitement.”
“Get to hell out of here. Where are your parents?”
“Mummy’s on a yacht at Ibiza with a Greek, I understand. As for daddy, the least said the better.”
“What do you mean, news?”
“You wouldn’t be interested in anything connected with Albert Park, would you, sir? No I thought not. Creeping off there at the end of term without a word to the only human being who has ever been in the least helpful to you in what you so cornily call your investigations.”
“You’re an impertinent little wretch. Call Mrs. Stick.”
“It’s all right. I’ve told her. She’s bringing your tea. She was delighted at my news, I can tell you.”
Carolus looked about for something to throw.
“What news, you hell-hound?” he shouted.
“It’s over. Finished. Wound-up. You’ve been wasting your time. They’ve got the Stabber.”
“What do you mean?”
“I went over on the motor bike last night. I thought you might need keeping an eye on.”
“Don’t end sentences with prepositions. Well?”
“Well, the whole place was in a ferment. The Stabber had been caught. In flagrante delicto, I gathered.”
“You mean there has been another murder?”
“Really, sir,” said Priggley reproachfully. “Your lust for blood in insatiable. No, not another murder. But as near as, dammit. The man was actually arrested concealed in a front garden of Crabtree Avenue with the famous butcher’s knife under his coat. What more do you want?”
“Who was it?”
“Total stranger, apparently. No one connected with any of the cases. Man from New Cross. I can’t tell you his name yet.”
“You wouldn’t be trying to pull my leg, would you?”
Priggley sighed elaborately and produced a morning paper with large headlines—ALBERT PARK: MAN TAKEN TO STATION. Carolus began to read “Residents in the district of Albert Park slept more peacefully tonight for …” “Quick action by Police Constable Golding …” “The man was still at the station at a late hour …” No name was mentioned.