by Bruce, Leo
“You know, in a way, sir, Gorringer was right.”
“You mean ‘ Mr Gorringer’ or ‘ the Headmaster ’.”
“Yes, but we’ve started the summer holidays. Mrs Stick thinks you ought to relax and you won’t do that by trying to be a schoolmaster. No, I mean he was right in what he said yesterday. ‘Here you have instead of a murderer to be traced, a murder.’ Gorrin … the headmaster called it ‘unique’. It’s not that, but it is a variant. Do you think we shall find a corpse at Marling Flats? ”
“I don’t know,” said Carolus seriously.
“I’m all for something washed up on the beach, though I suppose we should miss our swim. There hasn’t been a bit of real excitement since that copper took a pot at you in the Purvice affair. Plenty of fun but you need hairbreadth stuff for your reputation’s sake. We can’t have that in this case since it’s all retrospective and the murderer’s dead. But you might be lucky enough to come on something rather nasty and grim, like a corpse left by the tide.”
“Stop babbling, will you? ”
“I suppose you want to Think.” Priggley yawned. “The master brain, and all that.”
Marling Flats was one of the few ‘unspoilt’ areas of coastland in the South, chiefly because there was nothing to spoil. Miles of uninteresting marshland were divided from the shore by a tall embankment along which was a railway line, so that the sea was invisible from the low ground behind it. Planners had graciously left this wasteland to the purpose for which it had been used for centuries, grazing. The bungalow built by Lady Drumbone was a bleak little red brick affair standing alone.
“We’ll leave the car on the road by the railway,” said Carolus, “and walk across.”
“Walk? Why? Not stealthy approach stuff? ”
“Hardly in this open country. But there’s no point in advertising our visit. We may want to remain inside for some time.”
“I detest walking,” said Priggley. “Such an unnatural form of activity.”
No one was in sight as they approached the bungalow. Even in sunshine it looked sad and ugly in its four-square slated isolation. It was not improved by a barbed-wire fence round a neglected garden in which a few windswept flowers grew among the weeds. The windows were closed and no smoke came from the chimney, but its paintwork was fresh and there were curtains in the windows, so that it combined the desolate with the genteel.
“Just right for a murder,” said Priggley.
A rough carriage-way led across to the road on the landward side of the bungalow, but there was no car to be seen. Carolus looked for a bell-push, but finding none knocked on the door. There was no sound of movement from within and when he had repeated his knocking in vain he produced the key and inserted it. The door opened easily. Carolus entered and locked it behind him, removing the key.
At first it seemed that the place must be occupied. A woman’s raincoat was across the back of a chair and on the table of the sitting-room a cloth had been laid for one and there was some dirty crockery. Opening a door to his left Carolus found an unmade bed with some silk pyjamas on it and the articles on the dressing-table suggested that a woman had spent time before its mirror.
There were two other bedrooms, but in these the beds appeared not to have been recently used, blankets being folded neatly on their mattresses. The kitchen was tidy, though a frying-pan which had not been cleaned was on the electric stove. Beside it was a kettle and Carolus found this was still slightly warm.
“Don’t know about yesterday,” he said, “but it looks as though a woman slept here last night, had her breakfast and went out less than an hour ago. She’s coming back, I suppose, so we may as well wait.”
Having made this preliminary survey Carolus now proceeded to a more careful examination of the bungalow during which Priggley watched him with an assumed expression of cynical amusement. Carolus looked at the rubbish in the bin outside the back door, opened each of the kitchen cupboards and the refrigerator, in which was recently-opened tinned food and milk. He returned to the bedroom which had been occupied and went through the cupboards but found no suitcase or spare clothes.
“Whatever she brought her things in, she has with her,” he said. “I don’t think she meant to stay more than a night and she’s been here two unless she’s a very greedy girl or had someone with her yesterday.”
“You’re deduction’s impeccable,” said Priggley, “but I was expecting a corpse, not a girl with a good appetite. She’s probably gone for more food.”
“Or to a call box. Lady Drumbone has managed to get electricity connected but no telephone.”
“Could be.”
Carolus continued to examine every cupboard in the house, even opening a large oak chest in the sitting-room.
“Still looking for corpse? Ah, well, youth must have its fling.”
“Don’t light that cigarette.”
Priggley asked for no explanation but returned the cigarette to its case. But a moment later he whistled—a long wolf-call.
“And don’t make that repulsive noise. What’s the matter with you? ”
“Nothing at all. Only I’ve seen what you haven’t. Look what’s coming! ”
From the window Carolus saw hurrying up the long track from the road a girl in her early twenties. There was time to see that she was blonde and had a good figure but no more.
“In here,” Carolus said, opening the door of one of the unused bedrooms. “Settle down comfortably and don’t move. I think she’s going to clear out and needn’t know that we’ve been here at all.”
“What a bore you are, sir! She looked delicious.”
It seemed a long time before the key was heard in the lock and the girl began to move about the bungalow. She appeared to be a conscientious person or else wanted to leave no sign of her occupation of the place. They heard the rattle of crockery, then sounds from the kitchen indicating that she was washing-up. But before she had finished this a car drew up outside and she ran to the front door.
The conversation which followed sounded rather shrill, for both the girl and the man who had arrived were excited. The doors were thin, for every word of it was plainly audible to Carolus, who remained motionless in his chair.
“Keith! Keith! Where have you been, darling? Why didn’t you come? ”
“I couldn’t. I’ll tell you. Something frightful’s happened. Oh, darling! ”
There was a silence during which Priggley’s face showed that he at least knew the explanation for it—a long kiss.
“I waited. I didn’t know what to do yesterday. I’ve just phoned the house—I was so desperate.”
“They didn’t know it was you? ”
“No. I held my nose while I talked. That disguises your voice. I asked for you, but Mrs Runciman said you had gone out. What happened, Keith? ”
“It’s Richard.”
“Richard? What …”
“He … he committed suicide. God, it’s been frightful.”
“But Richard …”
“Yes, I know. The last person.”
“When did it happen? ”
“On Saturday night, they think.”
“That’s why you couldn’t come. Oh, Keith, it wasn’t you who found him? ”
“No, thank God. Alan found him on Sunday morning. Since then it’s been hell. Police. Everything.”
“But, darling, if he wasn’t found till Sunday morning …”
“Why didn’t I come? It wasn’t that. It was Pippa. She suddenly turned up on Saturday. In a state. She wanted to make it up with Richard but wouldn’t go round there till Alan had seen him. She paced about the lounge like a tigress and wouldn’t go to bed. I tried everything. Offered to take her round to Richard. Offered her sleeping-pills. She simply wouldn’t move. In the end I had to give up. It would have been too risky to come to you in the small hours. Had you given up hope by then, too? ”
“Darling, don’t be absurd. I’d no idea what time it was till it started getting light. You knew I hadn’t a watch. You were taki
ng it to …”
“Poor darling.”
“Darling.”
There was another significant silence. Keith continued.
“Of course I meant to come down yesterday. But I couldn’t. Alan came to tell us about this frightful thing. I couldn’t get away. Couldn’t let you know, either. This is the first chance I’ve had.”
“I suppose She’s wondering where I am.”
“She’s not thinking of anything much but the Richard thing. You see, it’s worse than just suicide.”
“What do you mean? ”
“He shot himself. But he didn’t leave a note—he made a recording which Alan found.”
“How awful! ”
“In it he said, this is the fearful part, he said he was doing it because he had killed someone. A woman.”
“Oh, Keith! ”
“I don’t believe it, do you?”
“Of course not. Not Richard.”
“It was beastly to hear the thing. He gave all the details. How he had strangled her.”
“But who? Who was he supposed to have strangled?”
“We don’t know. He didn’t say anything to indicate that. Alan’s brought in a man called Deene who is supposed to be frightfully clever. He’s going to try to find out.”
“But he can’t have done it. Richard, I mean.”
“I know. Yet when you hear him describing it, it’s pretty horrible.”
“Poor sweet. What you’ve been through.”
“What you’ve been through. Down here alone. Wondering what had happened to me. I’m glad you waited, though. I’m glad you didn’t come back in the middle of it yesterday.”
“So am I, in a way.”
“We’ll have to tear back. I’m only supposed to have gone out for an hour.”
“What shall I tell Her? ”
“Oh, anything. Your mother’s ill or whatever you like. She won’t ask questions. There’s going to be an inquest and all that. Besides, she’s scared of the publicity. K by any chance it’s true, if Richard went out of his mind that evening and did kill someone, they’ll take it out on her. You can imagine. I’ll drop you near the station and you can walk round.”
“I’m to know nothing about it?”
“Not unless it’s in the papers this morning. I never thought to look.”
“I must finish cleaning up here. Oh, Keith, what a ghastly thing to happen! ”
There were sounds of hurried movements in the kitchen.
“Don’t bother too much. Next time we come down nothing will be noticed.”
“I must put the bed-clothes back as they were. Help me fold them.”
In another five minutes they had left the house. Carolus heard the key in the lock, but motioned to Priggley to remain in his chair while the car was started and driven away.
“A nice little idyll, I must say,” was Priggley’s comment as he lit a cigarette. “Who were the dramatis persona? “
“He is Keith Bourne. Younger brother to the nephew of Drumbone who has dragged me in. She, I think it’s safe to assume, is Wilma Day, Drumbone’s secretary. I was waiting for him to use her name but he didn’t.”
“He didn’t use any name. Only that sickening’ darling ‘darling’ all the time.”
“Jealous? ”
“You wouldn’t let me see her properly. She looked pretty good in the distance. Now what? ”
“Now we eat our sandwiches. There’s some beer in the kitchen.”
They settled down in the sitting-room and for a time were content to eat, for one of Mrs Stick’s accomplishment! was sandwich-making.
“It’s disappointing, in a way,” said Priggley. “We come down to find a corpse and all we get is a rather sugary love-affair.”
“Don’t be facetious,” said Carolus. “Murder is not funny.”
“But since you’re convinced that there has been a murder it may just as well be you who finds the body.”
“I suppose so.”
They were as scrupulous as the lovers had been in clearing away evidence of their visit, leaving only two empty beer-bottles to show someone had been in the bungalow.
“I don’t like this place,” said Priggley, looking about him. “There’s something rather sinister about it.”
Carolus looked up.
“What makes you say that? ”
“Oh, I don’t know. Expensive furniture ordered as a lot. That hideous green carpet. Can you imagine people coming down here for a week-end and enjoying themselves? ”
“I can’t imagine much fun where the Drumbone is, certainly. Let’s get away.”
“Maresfield? ”
“Yes. I have to see the woman who was ‘in a state’ on Saturday before her husband’s death had been discovered, but who seemed perfectly calm last night. Let’s go.”
1 Our Jubilee is Death by Leo Bruce
6
ON reaching Maresfield Carolus disembarrassed himself of Priggley.
“Go to a cinema or find someone in a pub who will listen to your sparkling chatter,” he said. “I want to see Mrs Hoysden alone.”
“Like that, is it? All right. What time shall I meet you? ”
“Half-past ten outside that curious town-hall. If I’m a little late, hang on. I’m going to take Mrs Hoysden out to dinner.”
“God! Where?”
“There’s a restaurant a few miles away which is supposed to be good.”
“What kind of good? Roast beef of old England or phony French? ”
“I don’t know. But at least it will enable me to get her out of that flat of Drumbone’s.”
He telephoned and asked for Mrs Hoysden, then explained quite frankly that he did not want to come to the flat just yet, and suggested that she should dine with him, not in the town but at a restaurant some miles away. She seemed quite calm and agreed at once. Her readiness for a tête-à-tête might mean that she had nothing to conceal or it might mean, Carolus thought, that she wanted to give the impression that she had nothing. He agreed to call for her at seven o’clock.
“Get the porter to phone up when you arrive,” she said; “it will save you coming to the flat at all.”
She came out to the car looking splendid. She wore black but no one would have supposed it was mourning. Yes, noted Carolus, the eyes were green—it had not been the effect of light yesterday. She seemed curiously serene for a woman involved in a tragedy.
“I don’t know what you’re going to ask me,” she said as Carolus drove away, “but I’ll try to be as frank as a woman can when she discusses her husband.”
“Thank you. I’ll leave it to you to tell me what you want. Naturally, anything about Richard Hoysden is helpful, especially coming from someone who is not by birth a member of his family.”
They found the Escargot de Bourgogne a Victorian villa standing back from the road with a restaurant beside it, built chiefly of metal-framed glass. A great many rose-shaded lights were visible in this and the proprietor lay in wait for them in the doorway, a large bald Londoner with a manner of speech found only in old numbers of Punch as the language of English-speaking Frenchmen.
“Would madame wish to have a table near ze centre? “he enquired. “Or perhaps she would prefair au coin? ”
“This will do,” said Pippa.
A vast menu was produced.
“Oh, I just want something …
“We ‘ave only ze table d’hotel, madame.” Then, coming to business. “Two pounds. You ‘ave cantaloup glacé à la Due de Rochefoucauld …”
“Did he like melon? “asked Carolus.
“Zat is ze name, sair. Or Saumon Fumé Monseigneur”
Tinned or frozen, thought Carolus.
“Or Crême de Tomates Marquis de Polignac.”
Heinz, thought Carolus, but perhaps the best bet.
“Then,” continued the proprietor triumphantly, “we ‘ave Morue Grillée Saint-Germain, or Vol-au-Vent de Volatile à la Benedictine, or Omelette aux Champignons …”
It went
on inexorably to the inevitable Glace Vantile, a totally uninteresting menu with pretentious trappings. The wine list was worse.
At last, however, they were alone.
“The awful thing about Richard,” said Pippa, “was that he would have liked this. In certain ways he was as credulous as his aunt. A la Due de Rochefoucauld would have got him. He had taste only in music. He was in some things a very conventional man, which makes this all the more incredible.
“I met him less than two years ago in London. We got on at once and saw a good deal of each other before he told me he was Lady Drumbone’s nephew. I thought that was a pretty dreadful thing to be and said so, a remark that didn’t go at all well. None of the family have much sense of humour, you know. He wasn’t a fool but he was fond of Drumbone.’ Whatever may be said about my aunt,’ he told me rather stiffly in reproach for what I had said, ‘she is absolutely sincere. No one can doubt that, even if she is a little misguided sometimes.’ ‘ Misguided?’ I said, ‘she’s led up the garden. She can’t really believe all the stories she trots out.’ But he wouldn’t have it. There was a lot of truth in what she said, he would have me know. He was quite upset and we didn’t see each other for a week after that.
“I ought to have seen the red light. I ought never to have met him again. But I was fond of him then and couldn’t believe the old girl dominated him like that. Then I agreed to come down to Maresfield and meet her.”
Pippa was interrupted by the waiter, but Carolus did not speak. He was listening intently.
“What is nothing short of terrifying about the Drum-bone,” continued Pippa, “is that she does believe these stories. Richard was quite right; the woman is sincere. Of course, once she has that reputation she can be led on by any charlatan or any malcontent. She really goes to places and listens to people telling her how they have seen torture camps and what not. She has no discrimination at all. But she is also very fond of her family. She’s a sort of baulked matriarch. Alan, Richard, Keith and Olivia—you haven’t met Olivia yet—and, I suppose Alan’s wife Anita and me and her secretary Wilma Day. She wants to run all our lives for us. It’s genuine enough and not altogether selfish.
“But I still did not realize it when I agreed to marry Richard. I knew I should be one of the family, as it were, but I did not know how much.