by Leo Bruce
John Moore told Carolus of Sitwell’s observations, including his meeting with Lobbin, whom Moore described as a very good chap.
“We’ve traced the woman with large feet, and her husband. She certainly would look rather mannish beside him at night. Their name’s Bullamy and they’re visitors to the town. We also know the man Lobbin, a local newsagent. But we can’t trace a man Sitwell sent to the phone. Small, fat and muffled up is all I can get from him. Sitwell’s a keen young man and annoyed with himself for not having seen the man properly and asked his name. He was so anxious to get someone to put a call through that he let this go. He remembers a young man without a hat or overcoat whom he saw on his second visit to the promenade. There are also a few people whom Sitwell saw earlier, but I’m only giving you the gist of the thing now. The real point seems to me that none of Rafter’s family, no one in fact who could have the smallest motive so far as we know, was seen on the promenade that evening.
“Unless one of the two unidentified ones, the fat muffled man or the youth, belonged to the family.”
“Exactly. We’re checking on that, of course.”
“Had the body been robbed?”
“Not unless it was some special object. Rafter had seven pounds in his pocket-case and a good watch.”
“Have another drink, John. Mrs Stick won’t be ready for us yet and I want to hear about the family.”
“Thanks. First there’s his elder brother Bertrand. About fifty, quiet, apparently quite unperturbed about the whole thing. He’s a widower with a pleasant flat overlooking the sea. Good war record—temporary Colonel. Make no bones about it, he hoped never to see his brother again and truly believed him dead.”
“Live alone?”
“There was a rather handsome girl there when I went, referred to as ‘my secretary’.”
“Then?”
“An unmarried sister. Emma Rafter. Horsey type. Cheerful, rather downright. She seems almost amused at being questioned. Then there’s another sister with two sons, one grown up, a Mrs Dalbinney. Living apart from her husband but not divorced. A bit grande dame but apparently quite an ordinary sort of matron.”
“What about the grown-up son?”
“I haven’t met him yet. I gather he’s clever. I believe the younger son, a boy of fifteen or so, is in your school here.”
“I never know their names,” admitted Carolus. “Is that all?”
“There is another brother, the only one, it seems, who does any work. He’s a solicitor in Bawdon, our county town. Wife younger than he is and three small children.”
“Not a very promising lot, John. But I see your point. Motive’s the only wear. Can they all ‘account for their movements’, as they say, at the time of the crime?”
“Oh yes. They were quite good-natured about it. Spoke as though they were indulging me in a whim when I asked them. Bertrand had gone to bed. Emma and Mrs Dalbinney went together to the pictures and afterwards back to Mrs Dalbinney’s flat for a nightcap. Emma stayed the night there as they were both alone. I haven’t see the solicitor yet. He had been to see his sister in Selby that afternoon. I feel sure he’ll be able to say exactly where he was.”
“You’re not regarding these as alibis, are you?”
“No. I haven’t got so far. There would have to be a great deal of checking on them before we did that. But they sound perfectly reasonable.”
“Have you tried to find anyone else with a motive for killing Ernest Rafter?”
“We’re going into that now. All his movements since landing. A report’s coming through from the Australian police, too. It may point to someone else. But he had come to the town to see his family.”
“Yes. It’s very, very tricky. From what you’ve already learned about him, would you say that Rafter might have been blackmailing anyone?”
“Not, strictly speaking, from what I’ve learnt. But it seems to me that a man who would collaborate almost voluntarily, before there was any sign of torture or anything of the sort, would do pretty well anything.”
“I agree. I think we should know a great deal more about Ernest. The family doesn’t sound promising.”
“You’ve got no suggestions, Carolus?”
“On what you’ve told me, none at all. But I have a feeling that I may be spending Christmas in Selby-on-Sea.”
Moore was silent.
“You know,” he said presently. “If you do come you’re on your own. This is a private chat, but if you’re in the town you get no information from us. It has to be like that. I can’t discuss the thing with you again.”
“Of course I realize that.”
“On the other hand I don’t deny I shall be glad if you do come. We can’t work together but this is a case where I’d be glad of one of your startling theories. I’ve got none at all at present, startling or otherwise. In fact there’s only one thing certain in this case.”
“And that?”
“It was murder. In other cases I’ve tackled it could be suicide or an accident. This was murder.”
“Yes, Mrs Stick?” said Carolus, for the little woman had come quietly into the room.
She glared at the two men, her lips tight and her small figure drawn up taut.
“Your dinner, sir,” she brought herself to say.
Neither Carolus nor John discussed the matter which interested them till they were back in the study with their brandy and cigars.
Then Carolus said—”You mentioned some people seen by your man. Any of them interesting?”
Moore smiled.
“Interesting? You don’t know Selby in winter. It’s a parish pump sort of place. He saw four people in all, at least according to his report, and knew them all quite well. There was the Vicar of one of the town’s four churches, the Reverend Theo Morsell and his wife.”
Carolus sighed.
“There’s always a parson,” he said. “Who else?”
“Character called Bodger. Sort of professional Old Salt. Takes the visitors out in his boat in the summer. Troublesome but nothing serious known against him. Little bits of trouble, I believe. If we’re going to be far-fetched I would add that his son died on the Burma Road. But he says that he had never heard of Ernest Rafter and I don’t for a moment disbelieve him. There was also a man called Stringer, an assistant in an ironmonger’s shop.”
“I must say I don’t envy you, John. And there’s been plenty of publicity given to the case, I don’t quite see why. The coal hammer, perhaps. It’s always some detail like that which appeals to public imagination. They’ll leave it in your hands?”
“I think so. But I’ve got to produce what are oddly called ‘results’ fairly soon. When does your school break up?”
“On December 19. Early this year. I’ll be there on the 20th.”
“You’d better stay at the Hydro. It’s supposed to be the best hotel.”
“What about the Queen Victoria? That’s where Rafter stayed, isn’t it?”
“Yes. It’s possible. Old-fashioned commercial.”
“It’ll suit me. I’ll book a room.”
Carolus returned once more to the matter of the murder by asking a direct question on policy.
“What line are you working on, John? You must have the beginnings of a theory.”
“Scarcely even that. But it’s obvious that the murderer could not have been at that shelter by chance, or have met Rafter there by chance.”
“Or killed him by chance.”
“Of course not. Therefore Rafter must have gone there by appointment, probably made on the phone when he said he couldn’t get through. I think if we had an idea whom he called we’d be on our way. So we’ve more or less got to concentrate on the family.”
“I wish you luck,” said Carolus enigmatically and the discussion was closed.
5
THE interest of Carolus Deene in the Selby-on-Sea murder was heightened next day when one of his pupils, a cheerful spluttering boy called Dalbinney, came to him in the Break just as
Carolus was hurrying to the masters’ common room.
“Excuse me, sir. Could I ask you something?”
Not one of these keen youngsters, Carolus prayed, with a question arising out of the morning’s history hour.
“Well?” he said discouragingly.
“You go in for detection, don’t you, sir?”
By now, Carolus thought, his favourite chair and The Times crossword would have been appropriated by Hollingbourne, who would be writing in ink the two clues he usually got wrong.
“Well?” he said again.
This curtness seemed to reduce the boy to the greatest confusion.
“You see, sir, I live at Selby-on-Sea. I thought … you see my mother …”
Light dawned.
“Your name’s Dalbinney, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir. That’s why I thought … you see, it appears that the bumped-off man … my mother says …”
“Oh your prophetic soul! Your uncle,” said Carolus rather fatuously.
“Well, yes, sir, I suppose he was. I mean I’d never heard of him … except that he died in the war … my mother thinks …”
“Does she? That’s unusual for a mother.”
“No, but I mean I told her … you see, she’s read your book … she’s coming to see you.”
“Let’s get this straight. You told your mother I had the misfortune to teach you.”
“Yes, you see the police … I mean it being her long-lost brother … so I wrote and explained.”
“That’s more than you seem able to do now. What did you explain?”
“About you going in for crime….”
“But I don’t.”
“Investigating I mean and all that … because my uncle …”
“Which uncle?”
“Bertrand. Uncle Locksley’s a solicitor in Bawdon … only the police seem to think … because they’re related you see … they’ve questioned mother already … so she’s coming to see you.”
“That seems to be the salient fact—your mother’s coming to see me.”
“Yes sir. Today I think it is … she’s not worried or anything … only the police…
“This is where we came in,” said Carolus firmly. “Thank you for warning me, Dalbinney.”
He was right. Hollingbourne had written ‘Lopper’ for ‘Does he make short work of things at the stern? (6)’
“Nonsense,” said Carolus looking over his shoulder. “‘Docker’, obviously.”
“Thank you, Deene, for your brilliant intervention,” said Hollingbourne with seething sarcasm. “But I happen to prefer my own interpretation. ‘Short work’ is clearly ‘op’.”
“Think so? What about ‘the stern’?”
“Anagram of the remaining letters,” said Hollingbourne huffily.
“LPER. What’s the word?”
“Perl,” said Hollingbourne, committed now. “Old term for the rudder of a ship.”
“Your vocabulary’s better than mine,” said Carolus, adding” or than any lexicographer’s. How’s the wife?”
“Splendid, thank you. The baby’s not expected till January. I saw young Dalbinney cornering you. I suppose he wants you in on this murder?”
“I couldn’t quite gather what he wanted. ‘Regal form of justice (5-5)’ is ‘King’s Bench ‘.”
“I think not. ‘Royal Court’ I fancy. Are you going to investigate the Selby murder?”
“I may spend Christmas down there. ‘Royal Court’ would upset 13 down. ‘Low country relative’ must be ‘Dutch Uncle.’”
Hollingbourne handed Carolus The Times.
“You’d better do it, since you are so ingenious. The headmaster won’t be pleased at your going to Selby.”
“Not? Pity. What sort of boy is young Dalbinney?” said Carolus, busy correcting Hollingbourne’s two entries.
“Very ordinary. The mother’s a formidable woman.”
“Indeed?”
“Formidable. She came to see me once about the elder son Paul who was in my house.”
“Oh yes. He is now a young man in his twenties, I gather.”
“Tiresome boy. I suggested extra coaching for him but his mother would not hear of it. Far too mean.”
“Mean?”
“To a degree.”
“How was the elder son tiresome?”
“Rowdy. Assertive. Precocious. A dangerous influence, I felt. Is he involved in this murder?”
“I don’t know.”
“Almost certainly I should think. He was extremely rude to my wife.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“A lampoon, of sorts. In a diary he kept. Obscene, we considered it, though I have to admit it was not ill-written. He was intelligent. The younger brother is a better type altogether.”
“More commonplace?”
“Much. Much,” said Hollingbourne, conveying the highest praise he knew.
Mrs Dalbinney was waiting for Carolus when he reached his home after school that afternoon. It was evident from the manner of Mrs Stick when she met him in the hall that the name had conveyed nothing to her.
“There’s a lady waiting to see you,” she said with a suggestion of emphasis on the word ‘lady’.
“Young, I hope?”
“I don’t know about young, but she is a lady, which is more than I can say for some who have been here. Her son’s at the school so I expect she has come to see you about his lessons. I’ll bring the tea.”
“Thank you, Mrs Stick. Yes, I expect that is what she has come for,” said Carolus and went in to where Mrs Dalbinney had taken the chair in which John Moore sat yesterday.
Mrs Stick was right—she was a lady; so much so that she could not forget it for a moment. The rich intonations in her voice, the highly-tailored clothes and neat expensive jewellery, the quiet self-confidence all proclaimed it.
“I trust my son warned you that I meant to intrude on you this afternoon?” she said.
“Your son is not the most articulate of messengers but I managed to gather that.”
Mrs Dalbinney smiled.
“I wish he had his brother Paul’s brilliance,” she said. “Peter is rather scatter-brained. But I haven’t come to see you about him.”
Mrs Stick entered with the tea-tray, and Carolus sought to avert a crisis by patter about it. Mrs Dalbinney would have a cup of tea, wouldn’t she? In this cold weather….
But Mrs Dalbinney was not to be deterred.
“I’ve come to see you about this terrible murder,” she stated firmly.
For a moment Carolus thought the tray would be dropped. But Mrs Stick, with an air meant to indicate that the show must go on, managed to put it down on the appointed table. Her lips were tight as she left the room.
“It isn’t that we feel any anxiety in the matter,” said Mrs Dalbinney. “But it is highly unpleasant to have the police asking questions about one’s movements at certain times. When I mentioned to my brothers and sisters what my son had told me about your successful intervention in several of such cases, we decided to enlist your aid. I may say that we are all in agreement about this. We want the sordid affair disposed of to relieve us of any further embarrassment.”
“You can scarcely blame the police for questioning you,” Carolus pointed out. “After all no one except his family could have wished this man out of the way. The police, quite rightly, have first to look for a motive.”
“Oh, I don’t blame them, Mr Deene. Not in the least. They have their duty. But to a family like ours it is very distressing and humiliating. You see we had no idea this unhappy brother was still alive. We had long since cast him out of our memories. And for him to be murdered on our very doorsteps was …”
“Inconsiderate?” suggested Carolus.
“If you put it like that. At all events we would like you to discover who murdered him.”
Carol us considered. Then, remembering Holling-bourne’s comment, for the first time in his life as an investigator he made an extraordinary statement.<
br />
“I’m afraid my fees are rather large,” he said.
This took Mrs Dalbinney by surprise.
“I see. Of course. We shall be delighted. But I understood from my son that it was a hobby of yours.”
“It is. But in this case I shall charge heavily.”
Mrs Dalbinney’s shoulders rose and fell in a discreet shrug.
“Of course if you need the money,” she said.
“I don’t. In fact when I get it I shall drive to the gates of Wormwood Scrubs prison and divide it, with no questions asked, between the men being released that morning.”
“You put us in a difficult position. I am sure I speak for my family when I say we should not wish to help so unworthy, so ignoble a cause.”
“Think so? Poor devils have had the world against them, whatever they’ve done.”
“Your ideas of humanitarianism are curious and sentimental,” pronounced Mrs Dalbinney. “But we want you to act for us.”
“Then I will. I’ll come to Selby-on-Sea on December the 20th, the day after the end of term.”
“Won’t that be too late?”
“For what?”
“No. I see. Of course not. We have nothing to fear. You will be with us for the holiday, then?”
“Yes. I’m sure you’re all hoping for a white Christmas.”
“You say most unaccountable things, Mr Deene. It cannot be much of a Christmas for us.”
She rose and Carolus was surprised to find that she had not the stately figure one would have expected from her manner. She was in fact short and dumpy.
When she had gone Carolus waited rather apprehensively for Mrs Stick to come for the tea-tray. This, he considered, might really be the last straw and she would do what she had so often threatened—give notice.
But no. She looked fierce but said nothing. Was she at last becoming resigned?
Certainly, as he discovered next day, the headmaster of the Queen’s School, Newminster, was becoming nothing of the sort.
Mr Gorringer, a large and important-looking man with a pair of huge crimson ears whose hairy cavities were marvellously attuned to passing rumour, had more than once found the peace of what he called the academic backwater of his school threatened by Carolus Deene. He considered that the incursions of his senior history master into the world of criminal investigation might bring ‘unwelcome publicity in their train’ and had tried with ponderous persuasiveness to divert the interests of Carolus.