“I want to have Mr. Smith’s home address,” she said. “Naturally your receptionist was chary of giving it to me, but I must appeal to you to let me have it.”
It did not take long to find the entry. Paul Camber’s signature and particulars were dated a mere couple of days before those of Smith. He had described himself as Alexander Smith of Girvan.
“Although, if he knew anything of Girvan except by hearsay…” said the manager darkly. Dame Beatrice nodded.
“Do you not require a full address to be entered in your Visitors’ Book?” she demanded. The manager shook his head and smiled.
“It should be so, according to the regulations, but we do not insist, as we have usually had a previous communication,” he said.
“By letter? You always have written evidence of where your guests come from?”
“Well, no. We accept telephone bookings, of course. Motorists, you know, and that sort of thing.”
“So that there is, in fact, no clue to this man’s home address?”
“He would have been recommended to us, no doubt.”
“In this case, by Mr. Paul Camber?”
“I suppose so. I will look that up.”
He came back, accompanied by the receptionist. She said:
“Mr. Smith booked in personally. I remember it quite well. He booked for one night, but said he might stay longer if we had the accommodation to offer him, and if he liked it here. He mentioned Mr. Camber’s name and said he believed he was staying with us.”
“Did he give you his full address?”
“No more than is in the register.”
“Just Girvan?”
“Yes, just that he came from Girvan and was of British nationality.”
“But you had some reason to suspect that Girvan was not where he lived?”
“Now that the question has come up, I don’t know that I thought of it one way or the other. He was not a Scot, that I know.”
“Thank you so much. One more question, if I may. Can you describe, any more clearly, the way he spoke?”
The receptionist shook her head as she glanced at the manager for confirmation.
“I’m very sure he was not a Scotsman,” she repeated. “We get them here from all parts for the fishing and, although there are plenty of variations, a Scots accent, well, you cannot mistake it—not if you are Scottish yourself. I would not be deceived about that.”
Dame Beatrice nodded slowly and rhythmically.
“But you cannot suggest where he might have come from, of course?” she said.
“It was not a tone I have ever heard before,” said the girl.
“And I am not prepared to put a leading question,” said Dame Beatrice.
“You think Smith was a Norfolk man, don’t you?” said Laura, when they were alone.
“I think it very likely.”
“That rules out—whom?”
“Mr. Maitland and the Reverend Arthur Tolley, both of whom have public-school accents.”
“Couldn’t they have imitated a Norfolk accent? They live in Norfolk and have a lot to do with Norfolk people.”
“Oh, dear, oh, dear!” said Dame Beatrice.
“It could be that farmer—”
“Beresford?”
“Yes, but he’d hardly be likely to spend a holiday with the man who had taken droit du seigneur with his daughter.”
“One never knows. There are always wheels within wheels. But the identity of Mr. Smith is of academic interest only, since we are told that he caught a train at Strathpeffer before Paul Camber was killed.”
“Any competent detective-story writer would bust an alibi of that sort wide-open!”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Love Apples
“But forbear, I say:
He dies that touches any of this fruit
Till I and my affairs are answered.”
Shakespeare
Dame Beatrice and Laura returned to the former’s narrow, tall house in Kensington.
“I suppose that, by now, you know who done it, and how, and why,” said Laura, as, after dinner, they sat by the fire in the high-ceilinged, large drawing-room on the first floor.
“Well, there is certainly a good deal to go on,” Dame Beatrice equably agreed. “We have had one bit of sheer good luck, of course.”
“As I know you don’t mean the salmon we took out of the Osseuch Water, I presume that you refer to the curious episode of Ethel and the stolen tomatoes. They were meant for Paul, I should think, as they were placed on the sideboard in the dining-room at Camber, but where was the point? It is clear that they contained atropine, but, even if the doctor hadn’t been at hand, Ethel wouldn’t exactly have died, would she? I mean, the tomatoes weren’t lethal; they were merely a bit poisonous.”
“No, she wouldn’t have died.”
“Yet she ate three. Paul wouldn’t have eaten more than three at a time, either, would he?”
“I should not suppose so.”
“Then whoever put them there could not have expected to kill him.”
“Hardly.”
“Then I don’t see any point at all in the business of the tomatoes, unless they were meant for young Stephen, who, as we know, did take some with him on his picnic. All the same, Stephen didn’t die from poison. He was drowned.”
“Yes, there is no possible doubt about that, and nobody looked any further and therefore the presence of the atropine was not suspected in spite of Tom Teek’s evidence. But we’ve already agreed about that.”
“Do you really think Stephen was hooked into the dyke in the way you made me demonstrate at the Falls?”
“That is what I think happened.”
“And the elusive Mr. Smith did it? If that is so, couldn’t one account for the death of Paul Camber in the same way?”
“Well, there are difficulties about that.”
“You mean that at the dyke the murderer could await his opportunity because you can see for miles across those marshes, whereas, at the Falls, with all those rocks and things, you could never be certain that a head might not pop up from somewhere and spot what you were up to? Yes, I see that all right. And then, those summer coach-parties rolling up every other minute…Besides, there would be the question of freeing your victim from the hook. It would be one thing to do that in a slow-flowing Norfolk dyke, but quite another at the Falls of Osseuch. Think of trying to pull an inert body, weighing anything up to eleven or twelve stone, out of that raging torrent! Oh, yes, much better to await your opportunity, knock the victim on the head, and push him in quick. The only snag would be…” said Laura, working it out.
“I thought we were told that the raging torrent did not apply. The body was only partly submerged, it was in calm water and, of course, was recovered and produced at the proper time.”
“And hadn’t been knocked on the head?”
“I looked up the accounts in the Scottish papers before we left Edinburgh on our return journey. The body showed no injuries.”
“Well, did he fall or was he pushed?” commented Laura. “Could be either. What do we do now?”
“You stay here and I go back to Camber.”
She drove to Norfolk on the following day, lunched rather late in Norwich, and reached Camber Abbey at half-past three. Hugh had been notified by telephone and was awaiting her in the library. She gave him an account of her visit to Scotland and allowed him to infer that, if her enquiry was to be carried any further, an exhumation of Stephen’s body might be necessary. He considered the matter and she was silent, gazing at the backs of the modern volumes of poetry, history, and detective fiction which formed the bulk of the books on the library shelves.
“Yes,” said Hugh, at last. “The point is whether the stink is going to be worth the candle. If what you think is true…that the boy was poisoned so that he would be certain to drown if he fell into the dyke…that’s how you see the thing, isn’t it?…well, then, I suppose, as public-spirited citizens, we ought to see the thing through, howeve
r unpleasant it may be…and I do think an exhumation would be rather unpleasant.”
“Yes,” said Dame Beatrice, “but, on the other hand, if, thinking as we think and knowing what we know, we leave a murderer free…”
“Yes, I know; but this particular murderer isn’t going to murder anybody else—unless he tries his hand on me!” He laughed awkwardly, and added, “What did you make of Hildegarde Salaman and her intruder?”
“I do not think he was dangerous.”
“What do you think happened, then?”
“I think that Miss Salaman’s visitor came into her room (not for the first time, by any means) by invitation and by way of the open window and the fire escape. Then I think the two of them were disturbed, either by Mr. Jacob Salaman or by the unknown donor of tomatoes.”
“If it was the tomato chap, Hildegarde must have seen him. He could only have disturbed her by using the fire escape to get into the house. That means she may know who he was. At any rate, she ought to be able to identify him if she sees him again.”
“I might perhaps have a word with her about that. Where can I find her?”
“In front of the fire in their living-room, I expect. She hates going out, even as far as the shops. But, if Jacob’s there as well, it’s going to be awkward, isn’t it?”
“Yes, indeed it is. Would you mind very much…?”
“No, of course not. I’ll send Ethel to ask her to come along here. What excuse can I make, so that Jacob suspects nothing?”
“I will go myself and bring her.”
She came back with a volubly-chattering Hildegarde. Dame Beatrice, it appeared, had some unresolved difficulty with a knitting pattern. Hugh removed himself to the library and left them immersed in K.1., p.2., p.s.s.o., m.s., c.4 b., continue in st.st. (beg.k.), slip t.b.l., s.c., and so forth.
“And now,” said Hildegarde, “for the real reason why I am to come here away from Jacob.”
“Ably thought out and admirably rendered.”
“Please?”
“I hope you are going to tell me all about the man who brought the tomatoes.”
“The tomatoes which injured Ethel?”
“The same. Everything in strict confidence, if you wish.”
“In confidence from Jacob?”
“Certainly.”
“There are no tomatoes, I think. I know nothing of those. But…I am visited in secret.”
“By way of the fire escape?”
“I see that you know all about it.”
“I guessed that you had a secret visitor. I do not know who it was and probably there is no need for me to know that. What I do want is a description of this other man…the man against whom you armed yourself with the poker.”
“But I did not see any other man. The screaming and the poker were dust in the eyes of Jacob. He comes to my door at a very inconvenient moment, so I need a subterfuge.”
“How did those poisoned tomatoes get on to Mr. Paul Camber’s dining-room sideboard?”
“But how am I expected to know that? We were living in the lodge when—”
“So you do know the tomatoes were poisonous!”
The sharp, intelligent black eyes met the melting, but equally intelligent, dark-brown ones.
“The walls have had ears. I always listen,” said Hildegarde. “It is not safe not to know what goes on.” She nodded vigorously. “To you,” she said, “I unburden my heart. I will tell you everything. You have promised not to tell Jacob. You see, it is Mr. Tolley.”
Dame Beatrice was not often completely taken aback, but this naïve statement certainly astonished her.
“Er—what is Mr. Tolley?” she enquired. “You do mean the vicar of this parish, I take it?”
“Certainly. It is because of Jacob. We are not strict Jews, as you will perhaps know, and me, I love Mr. Tolley and I prepare myself to marry him.”
“This is incredible, my dear Miss Salaman! Do you tell me that a gentleman in holy orders visits you in your room, and at night?”
“Oh, it is very up and up; quite, quite U, I assure you, Dame Beatrice. He knows nothing of my love. That would be most improper. He is converting me to the Church of England, that is all. Of two evils, we choose the lesser. I say to Mr. Tolley that I am prepared to enter his church when he convinces me that it is the best for me, but I also tell him that Jacob will make an awful damn stink if he knows, and perhaps even kill me. So Mr. Tolley has the hard choice. He comes and preaches at me in secret, which is in my room at night. You see, he wishes very much to get me converted. He has argued about the time and place at first, and if he knows I have the intention to marry him later on, he will not come at all, although everything is most proper and my bed is only a studio couch and there is nothing to show that the room is where I sleep, because I take great care not to let Mr. Tolley know that I sleep in the same room where we talk. He would not like it at all. It would be a big embarrassment to him. You believe me now?”
“You have explained a good deal. Does Miss Tolley know that her brother visits you in this way?”
“That I do not know—and I do not care, either. So long as we are pure and good, what does it matter to her any more than, really, to Jacob?”
“I see. Well, may we now return to what I shall call the Night of the Tomatoes?—not that I have any proof that they came here by night.”
“I am very sorry, but I cannot help you. You mean that there is nothing to show when the tomatoes were placed in the dining-room, and that it would help you to know when it was?”
“Exactly. However, perhaps the opportunist but unfortunate Ethel can tell me more about that.”
“She will not care to be questioned.”
“People who help themselves to other people’s tomatoes must expect to be questioned.” She rang the bell. “Thank you, Miss Salaman. I have undertaken to promise that your brother shall know nothing of this conversation, but I cannot help thinking—Oh, Gertrude, will you ask Ethel to spare me a few moments when she is at liberty?—I cannot help thinking that his missionary zeal, admirable though it may be, has caused Mr. Tolley to place himself in a decidedly equivocal position. Suppose that one of his parishioners, especially one of the humbler sort, should see him climbing in at your window?”
“Oh, he does not wear his petticoats. No one would recognise him in the dark, I think.”
“Well, for his own sake it is to be hoped not.”
Hildegarde went out and almost immediately Ethel came in. She was obviously ill-at-ease and was ingenuous enough to blurt out, before Dame Beatrice could speak:
“Oh, madam, please don’t hold them tomatoes against me! I never help myself to anything before, and never will again, I promise faithful I won’t.”
“I have no intention of censuring you, Ethel. I am in quest of information. When did you first notice that the tomatoes had been placed in the dining-room? You wait at table, so you are the most reliable witness I can find. You see, the tomatoes were obviously intended to harm Mr. Paul Camber, not you.”
“You mean I took poison, madam?”
“There is no need to look so frightened. They would not have killed you unless you had eaten a great many more than three. Now?”
“They come over without any message, madam. On the Monday that was. But I didn’t see the master when they come because he was out, and I put them in the dish, meaning to tell him there was a present from someone, but I forget all about it and he never ask and he didn’t touch them or anything—thought they were too small, or didn’t like the deep colour, perhaps—and it seem a shame, like, to leave them there to go bad, so I take three, thinking nobody notice, there are so many, and I reckon it was a judgement on me, madam, and that’s all I can say.”
“Who brought them?”
“A little lad, madam, one of Sarah Piercey’s, it was.”
“Where does he live?”
“Number twenty the village, madam.”
“All right, Ethel, that’s all. And now you may stop wor
rying.”
Thankful for the words of dismissal, Ethel said that she was much obliged and added, unnecessarily, that it had all been a lesson to her, that she had been “brought up strict” and that she would never again stray from the paths of honesty and virtue. She would remember “to keep my hands from picking and stealing, and my tongue from evil-speaking, lying, and slandering—not that I’ve ever done that, madam, I do assure you.”
Dame Beatrice walked into the village and knocked at the door of the Piercey cottage. A woman looking, after the fashion of some mothers of large families, considerably older than she was, said she did not know whether Tom had been up to the manor house with any tomatoes. She could not think of anybody who would present Mr. Paul with tomatoes unless it might be Farmer Beresford, and that was not very likely because it was all over the village that Farmer Beresford blamed Mr. Paul because that Mr. Verith up at the Abbey had got his daughter in trouble.
“I’d like to speak to Tom,” said Dame Beatrice. “It is possible that he can tell me whether the man has any more tomatoes to sell.”
“He’ll be home from school in a few minutes, mam. Would you care to come in and set down?”
Dame Beatrice accepted this invitation and it was less than ten minutes after she had been given a chair in the parlour that his mother put her head in and announced that Tom was “round the back” and that she would send him in as soon as he had wiped his boots and given his face a lick.
Tom turned out to be an urchin of about ten with adenoids and a hoarse voice. His evidence was that Mr. Adams had handed him the basket of tomatoes and told him to take them up to the house. They were a present from a friend. As the only person Tom knew for a certainty grew tomatoes was Parson, Tom had concluded that it was Parson who had sent them, but they had actually been put into his hands by Mr. Adams—young Mr. Adams. Young Mr. Adams was burning rubbish down behind the shed at the time, or else Tom supposed that he would have taken them up to the house himself.
“I see. Well, when you have time, Tom, I want you to call at the vicarage…”
“Vicar don’t live there no more.”
“I know what you mean. Call at the cottage where the vicar and Miss Tolley live and ask whether he has tomatoes for sale. If he has, ask him to let you bring two pounds of them up to Camber Abbey and you can also ask the price. There will be sixpence for you, even if you only come and tell me that Mr. Tolley does not sell tomatoes. Understand?”
The Man Who Grew Tomatoes Page 14