Georgette Heyer

by Why Shoot a Butler?

  ‘It sounds to me as though it’s going to be a funny sort of a case, sir.’

  ‘I think it is, Sergeant. Very funny,’ said Mr Amberley.

  ‘And what I don’t see,’ pursued the sergeant, ‘is what a young drunk has got to do with it. Because that’s what he is, sir. A proper young drunk. Scandalous I call it, at his age. Evening after evening it’s the same tale. Down he comes to the Blue Dragon, drinks himself silly, and has to be put outside at closing-time. I’m sorry for the young lady, but what I say is, why don’t she have him put into one of these homes you read about where they set out to cure people of wanting liquor? Not but what that does seem a crool sort of thing to do, but there you are! What can you do for such a young boozer? Because it’s no good her thinking she can manage him. Mrs Jones, who does for them at the cottage, says that when he gets the craving it’d take a regiment of soldiers to keep him in.’

  ‘Goes to the Blue Dragon every night, does he?’ said Amberley thoughtfully.

  ‘Regular as clockwork. It’s common knowledge, and even old Wagge, who’s been in the lock-up for drunk and disorderly I don’t know how many times, gets shocked to see a kid of his age making so free with the bottle.’

  ‘Does he talk?’

  ‘Not as I’ve heard. I believe if anybody asks him a civil question for the sake of making a bit of conversation, he acts silly, and says it’s no good anyone trying to get anything out of him. I’ve known a lot of drunks that only had to have four or five before they’d start behaving as though they’d got a whole lot of wonderful secrets which everybody was trying to get out of them.’

  ‘Oh, he says that, does he?’

  ‘Not in so many words, he doesn’t. No, he just sits and drinks, and if ever he gets talking it’s the usual sort of rubbish. But he soon gets past that stage, does young Brown. Well, if he didn’t Mr Hawkins would put him outside. He gets very quiet and sits staring in front of him in a very ugly way. Very ugly indeed, so I’ve heard. I don’t say he wouldn’t like to go and murder someone when he’s drunk, but I should be very surprised if ever he done it. Very surprised, I should be. Because how he manages to get himself home without being run over, let alone shooting anyone, fairly beats me. And when he’s sober he’s not the sort of chap who’s got the guts – if you’ll pardon the expression, Mr Amberley – to do a murder. Leastways, not to my mind. However, I daresay you know your own business best, sir, and in any case it won’t do any harm to have him watched.’

  ‘I’m rather hoping it’ll prevent harm,’ said Mr Amberley, and took his leave.

  He went out to his car and drove off across the Market Square. But he was not destined to return immediately to Greythorne. From the pavement Shirley Brown hailed him. He drew up alongside her obligingly. She said in a voice quivering with indignation that she wanted to speak to him. He replied with some humour that that was a pleasant surprise.

  She paid no heed to this remark. Wrath blazed in her dark eyes; she even stammered a little as she spoke. He had dared to set a plain-clothes man on to watch her brother! She told him it was no use denying it; he merely laughed. She accused him of double-dealing, for had not he asked her to trust him, while all the time he meant to spy on Mark? With a sudden change of front she poured scorn on the constable who was shadowing Mark; it was obvious to the meanest intelligence that the man was a policeman. The whole thing was an outrage, and she never wished to see Amberley again as long as she lived. With that she swung on her heel and strode off, furious because she knew that he was laughing at her.

  Next day Mr Amberley sustained a second visit from the chief constable, who was plainly restive. He had expected something to happen; he thought he had better look Amberley up. Amberley, who was oddly irritable, said tartly that the colonel might be thankful that nothing had happened; and when the colonel, looking exceedingly nervous, ventured to ask what he meant, he gripped his pipe between his teeth, thrust his hands in the pockets of his grey flannel trousers, and continued to wander round the room without vouchsafing any answer. Pressed more closely, he said that until he received the answer to a cable he had dispatched he could give the colonel no information.

  The answer arrived that evening just before ten. The butler brought it into the drawing room where Amberley was sitting, listening to Sir Humphrey on the subject of preserving. Sir Humphrey, quite uninterested in local murders, was justly incensed by the presence of poachers in the district. He told Amberley what his keeper had said and what old Clitheroe-Williams thought ought to be done, and how he himself had heard a shot at five o’clock the other morning, and Amberley gave abstracted answers and did a complicated Patience. Sir Humphrey had just announced his intention of speaking to that fellow Fountain about his head-keeper, who was an incompetent ass if ever there was one and lazy to boot, when the cable was brought in.

  Amberley swept the playing cards into a heap, and getting up without waiting to hear the end of Sir Humphrey’s monologue, went off to decode it in private.

  Felicity, agog with curiosity, made an excuse to follow him presently to the study and begged to know whether the cable had something to do with Dawson’s murder. Without looking up Amberley replied that it had not.

  Felicity was disappointed. ‘You seem fairly pleased with it anyway,’ she said.

  ‘I’m always pleased to find my theories are correct,’ said Amberley. He got up and glanced at his wrist watch. ‘I shall have to leave you, loved one. Back soon.’

  He went round to the garage and got his car out, and for the second time that day drove into Upper Nettlefold and to the police station. The sergeant was just coming off duty when he arrived, but he readily accompanied Amberley back into the station and led him into his little office.

  ‘It’s about Mark Brown,’ Amberley said, without waste of words. ‘The inspector is inclined to pooh-pooh the necessity of watching him, and it occurs to me that that attitude may have communicated itself to Constable Tucker. Get this, Sergeant! It’s absolutely vital that Brown should not be allowed out of the police’s sight. Detail a man to relieve Tucker tonight; I’ll take the responsibility.’

  The sergeant responded nobly. ‘I haven’t got anyone free, sir, but if you want it done I’ll do it myself, that’s what I’ll do. Yes, what do you want?’

  The constable who was on duty had come in in a hurry. ‘It’s Tucker, Sergeant. At least, it ain’t him exactly, but there’s an urgent message. He wants you to go at once. It is on the Collinghurst Road.’

  ‘Well, what is it?’ said the sergeant. ‘Come on, let’s have it!’

  ‘That young fellow he was watching, Sergeant. He’s gorn and fallen in the river.’

  ‘Well, you needn’t make such a to-do about that,’ said the sergeant testily. ‘Anyone might have known that was bound to happen one of these days. More fool Tucker to let him.’

  The constable said simply: ‘He’s dead, Sergeant.’

  ‘Dead?’ The sergeant’s jaw dropped; he looked blankly across at Mr Amberley.

  Amberley, who had turned quickly at the constable’s entrance, stood perfectly still for a moment. Then he drew out his cigarette case and took a cigarette from it with extreme deliberation. His eyes met the sergeant’s; he shut the case with a snap and felt in his pocket for matches.

  The sergeant sat gazing at him somewhat numbly. Mr Amberley lit his cigarette and flicked the dead match into the grate. He inhaled a long breath of smoke and glanced at the constable. ‘Who sent the message?’

  ‘I dunno his name, sir. He was a gentleman, all right. He said he had passed in his car and Tucker asked him to drive to the nearest house and get through to us.’

  ‘I see. I’ll run you out there, Sergeant.’

  The sergeant roused himself. ‘Yes, sir. Harmer, get hold of Mason and Philpots, and tell them to bring the hand-ambulance along.’ The constable went out. The sergeant got up, looking at Amberley. ‘Lor’, sir was that why you wanted him watched?’ he said. ‘Was this what you was expecting?’

&
nbsp; ‘It was what I was afraid of. Damn that fool Tucker!’

  The sergeant dropped his voice lower. ‘Is it murder, Mr Amberley?’

  Amberley gave a grim smile. ‘Getting quite acute, aren’t you? You’ll find the coroner’s jury will return a verdict of accidental death. Are you ready to start?’

  Not until he was seated beside Amberley in the car did the sergeant speak again. Then he said: ‘If it was murder are you going to let it go at that, sir?’

  ‘Did I say it was murder?’ said Amberley.

  The big Bentley tore through the town but slowed as it drew clear of the last straggling houses. The ground dipped here, and they ran into a thick mist which grew denser as the road approached the river.

  ‘Steady, sir!’ besought the sergeant. ‘Get a lot of fog here at this time of the year. It’s the clay.’

  ‘Yes. You could almost bank on running into fog, couldn’t you?’

  A little farther along the road they saw a figure loom up through the mist, waving. Amberley ran the car into the side of the road and stopped. The mist was floating in wreaths across the glare of the headlights; through it they could see the blurred outline of a second man and of a figure lying face downwards on the ground.

  The sergeant got out of the car as quickly as his bulk would permit. ‘Is that you, Tucker? How did this happen?’

  Mr Amberley suddenly put up his hand to his spot-lamp and switched it on. Its beam swung to the left and rested on the second man. It was Collins, dripping wet, and in his shirt-sleeves. ‘How very interesting!’ said Mr Amberley, and got out of the car.

  The sergeant strode up to Collins. ‘And what might you be doing here, my man?’ he inquired.

  The valet’s face was grey; sweat stood on his forehead; he seemed exhausted.

  ‘It was him got Brown out,’ Tucker said reluctantly. ‘When I – when I come up, he was trying to bring him round. We’ve been working on him solid, but it’s no good, Sergeant. He’s dead.’

  ‘Yes, and that’s something you’ll explain back at the station,’ said the sergeant. He looked at Collins. ‘As for you, you’ll come along too, and explain yourself. Keep your eye on him, Tucker.’ He turned away and went to join Amberley, who was on his knees beside Mark’s body.

  The boy’s head was turned to one side, and his arms were stretched out.

  Amberley spoke without looking up. ‘A light, Sergeant.’

  The sergeant produced a torch from his pocket. Amberley took it and turned it full on to Mark’s head, searching closely. ‘Help me to turn him over, will you?’

  They shifted the limp body on to its back; Mark’s eyes were closed, and his jaw sagged slightly. Amberley pushed the wet hair gently off his brow and brought the torch nearer. After a moment he switched the light off and rose.

  ‘Not a sign of a blow. Accidental death, Sergeant.’

  ‘What, with that Collins standing here?’ muttered the sergeant. ‘We’ll see about that!’

  ‘I’m afraid we shall,’ said Amberley. He walked back to the car. ‘You’d better get inside and put that rug round you, Collins.’ He got into the car himself as he spoke, and sat down at the wheel, looking frowningly ahead of him.

  The sergeant wanted to know whether Collins had been cautioned, and upon hearing that he had not, promptly cautioned him himself. The valet said nothing.

  The sergeant spread Tucker’s discarded coat over Mark’s body and stood beside it, waiting for the ambulance to come up. Tucker began to stammer out an explanation and was sternly checked. ‘We’ll hear all about that up at the station,’ said the sergeant.

  It was very cold on the road, and the mist spread a depressing dampness. The valet was shivering in the back of the car, his pale eyes fixed on the dead man. He raised them to the sergeant’s face for a moment. ‘And,’ said the sergeant afterwards to Mr Amberley, ‘say what you like, if ever a man looked like murder it was him. Dived in to rescue him, did he? Dived in to push him under, more likely. I tell you, sir, when I caught his eye he was looking like a fiend. And I’m not exaggerating neither.’

  The hand-ambulance came up at last, and Mark’s body was lifted on to it and covered with a rug. The two policemen who had brought it set off with it towards the mortuary, and the sergeant climbed into Amberley’s car again.

  The drive back to the police station was accomplished in silence. When they arrived Collins was sent off under escort to get a change of clothing, and Tucker and Amberley went off with the sergeant into his office.

  Tucker’s account of the accident was necessarily incomplete, as he had not been near enough to witness it. In obedience to his instructions he had followed Mark to the Blue Dragon earlier in the evening and had hung about outside for some time. He had looked in after a while and observed that Mark was, as usual, sitting at a table in the corner in a kind of huddle, too drunk to get up to any mischief. He had understood from the inspector that Mr Amberley suspected Brown of meaning to do something that would have some connection with Dawson’s murder; he had not thought that in that fuddled state the boy could need much watching. Besides, he never came out till closing-time. He had only gone a few steps up the road to get himself a cup of hot tea, and he had not imagined any harm would come of sitting for a bit in the warm and having a chat with the man who kept the eating-house. He had returned to his post only a few minutes after closing-time to find that Mark had already set out for home. He followed, not that he had seen much sense in it, but those had been his orders. Brown must have left the Blue Dragon before it closed, for although he had walked along at a brisk pace he had not caught up with him. It was just as he had approached the bend in the road that brought it alongside the river that he had heard someone shouting for help. He had broken into a run and arrived on the scene of the accident just in time to see Collins, obviously in an exhausted condition, drag Brown’s body up the bank, turn it onto its face, and start to apply artificial respiration. He had joined him at once; they had worked like niggers to bring the young man back to life. He himself had felt sure after ten minutes that it was too late, but Collins cursed him and made him go on. Collins had kept on panting that the boy hadn’t been under long enough to be drowned, that they must bring him back to life. But they had not succeeded in getting so much as a flicker out of Mark.

  It was Tucker who had stopped the first car that passed them. He had not liked to leave Collins with the body and he had told the owner of the car, who was Mr Jarrold, from Collinghurst, to ring up the police station and deliver a message.

  Tucker told his story straightforwardly, but took care not to look at Mr Amberley. It was plain that he expected censure, for he said several times that the inspector had never told him that Brown was not to be let out of his sight.

  ‘You’re a fool,’ said the sergeant, and rang for Collins to be brought in.

  The valet had been fitted out with a suit of clothes only a little too large for him, and given a hot tot. The grey shade had left his face, and his eyes, which the sergeant had thought murderous, were as cold and as expressionless as ever.

  He recounted his share in the night’s happenings quite composedly. He had been some little way behind Brown, whom he had just been able to see lurching along through the mist. The young gentleman seemed very intoxicated; several times he had stumbled and he had not been able to keep a straight course. So erratic had been his footsteps that Collins had hurried to come up with him, fearing that some car, its driver unable to see clearly in the fog, might run him over. It had been equally hard for him to see clearly, though he had had his torch in his hand. They must have noticed that the fog was particularly thick down there in the hollow where the road ran immediately beside the river. He thought the boy must have wandered off it and stumbled over the edge of the bank. He had seen him disappear and heard him cry out as he fell. There had been a splash, and he had at once run to the spot where he had last seen the young gentleman. He had shouted to him, but there was no answer; not a sound. Knowing in what condition the g
entleman was, he had feared that he would not be able to swim to shore. He had thought it his duty to go in after him and he had done so, only stopping to take off his coat and boots. He had dived in and swum about for what seemed hours. He thought the gentleman must have sunk at once; if he struggled at all it could not have been for long, since there was nothing but silence when he, Collins, entered the water. He had almost despaired of bringing him up when he had grasped something in the water and knew it for a hand. He was not a great swimmer, but he had managed to get the body to the bank and to drag it up on to the road again. He had shouted several times for help, as he himself was exhausted and had hardly enough strength to apply artificial respiration. He had done the best he could until Tucker came up; he thought that Tucker would bear him out over that.

  The sergeant listened to this tale in sceptical silence. At the end he said: ‘That’s how it happened, is it? And what might you have been doing on the Collinghurst Road at that hour of night?’

  The answer astonished him. ‘I was following the young gentleman,’ said Collins.

  The sergeant, who had been sure of it, was nonplussed. ‘Oh you were, were you?’ he said rather feebly. ‘And why?’

  Collins glanced fleetingly at Amberley. ‘I have been endeavouring to get into touch with the young gentleman since a very unpleasant little affair took place at the manor three evenings ago. I think Mr Amberley will know to what I refer.’

  ‘Never you mind what Mr Amberley knows,’ said the sergeant. ‘What was this unpleasant affair?’

  Collins moistened his lips. ‘Well, Sergeant, Mr Brown being under the influence of spirits, came up to the manor and upon my opening the door to him, addressed me in a threatening way which I could not at all account for. He seemed to mistake me for someone else.’

  ‘He did, eh? And what made you think that?’

  ‘I could not suppose, Sergeant, that the young gentleman had really any grudge against me.’

  ‘You didn’t know him at all, did you?’