The Man Who Grew Tomatoes

by Gladys Mitchell

  “I don’t love you.”

  “Nobody asked you, sir,” she said. “Pop off.” She extended a sinewy claw and, stretching it to its fullest extent, she studied it thoughtfully. Peter, taking the hint, gathered up his dressing-gown and fled.

  “He’s the most horrible kid I’ve ever encountered,” said Hugh, when breakfast was over and Peter had been sent out to play beside the lake, where a watchful eye could be kept on him from the morning-room windows.

  “Poor child,” said Dame Beatrice. “I shall take him down to Wandles immediately after lunch and Laura will cope. She has a great hand with small boys and I have already warned her that he desires to see pigs and must be given a week-end at my nephew’s pig-farm in Oxfordshire. So all is prepared.”

  “It’s very good of you. Oh, Peter is shouting to Tom Adams. Is he allowed to talk to Tom?”

  “If he treats Tom to what appears to be his idea of conversation, I doubt whether they will be together very long.”

  Tom’s voice came clearly across the intervening pasture.

  “No, I hev no time to make fishing-rods! No fish in the lake, anyhow. There never was more than two, and old Noah, that ketch them for the Ark.”

  “I don’t believe it!” yelled Peter.

  “That wholly true.”

  Hugh laughed.

  “Tom’s had some of Master Peter before,” he said. “I’ll go out and help the kid fish. Must keep the wretched little blighter amused, I suppose. After all, he’s not had a square deal since his father died. Héloïse is no sort of person to bring up a child, especially a rather sickly boy.”

  He went out whistling. Dame Beatrice sought out Tom, whom she found in the kitchen garden admiring some very fine strawberry plants. He touched his cap.

  “Good crop this summer, mam.”

  “I rejoice to hear it.”

  “You fond of strawberries?”

  “No, but I always like to hear that the goodly fruits of the earth are multiplying.”

  “Mr. Paul, that used to count the strawberries.”

  “As he did the hot-house fruits, I understand. Tom…”

  “Not that old tomato-plant again, mam!”

  “It wasn’t a tomato-plant. It was a deadly nightshade plant in the beginning, if you remember. Where did you get it, Tom?”

  “In the woods.”

  “How did you get it, Tom?”

  “Parson tell me where that is, so I go and dig it up and bring it home mixed up with some sticks I cut for plant-props.”

  “So that clears up that bit. And are you absolutely positive that you told nobody but Mr. Tolley about the grafting?”

  “No, mam, nobody at all.” But he avoided her eye as he made this declaration.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Stolen Child

  “He was neglected in his education, so that his knowledge from books is superficial. Yet he has picked up an infinite variety of knowledge from conversation. He has at the same time a flightiness…”

  James Boswell

  At half-past two Peter was kicking gravel on the front drive. At twenty-five to three he was throwing stones at the ducks on Hugh’s lake. At a quarter to three he was at the lodge gates and at ten minutes to three, when Dame Beatrice’s car, ordered for three o’clock, was brought to a standstill below the terrace, he had vanished.

  For some time old Mrs. Maidon, dispossessed of her new cottage by the skilled labourer Deems and his wife, had been occupying the lodge and to her Dame Beatrice addressed herself.

  “Where did the little boy go?”

  “That was picked up in a car.”

  “What sort of car?” (Useless to ask the number.)

  “Oo, just a car. One of they motors.”

  “Do you know the driver?”

  “Oo, yes. That was Titmuss.”

  “Titmuss? You mean Beresford.”

  “I mean Titmuss. That live nineteen the village.”

  Dame Beatrice hastened to the cottage. A young woman answered the door. Yes, she was Mrs. Titmuss. Yes, a car had been ordered over the telephone to call at Camber Abbey. No, she did not know at what time the call had come in. Bob had taken it. During the summer there were always calls. Fishing gentlemen mostly or those who had hired boats and wanted to go to Wroxham or Horning or maybe to Potter Heigham. Bob got plenty of work come the summer. In winter it was different. No, she did not know when Bob had gone off in the car. It was no business of hers when Bob went. He had his job to do and she had hers. Yes, she sometimes took the telephone calls, but she had not taken this one. Bob had said that he was to go to Camber Abbey and he had added that he supposed Mr. Hugh’s car had had a breakdown, but, beyond that, he had said nothing. He had just swallowed down his dinner and gone off. At what time did they usually have dinner? The woman stared in surprise. Why, at midday, of course, unless Bob was out on a job. No, he had not been out on a job that morning, so they had had dinner at the usual time, between a quarter to twelve and twelve. A man needed a meal at midday when he had had his breakfast at six. What was Bob doing between dinner-time and a quarter to three? The woman had no idea, but thought he might have been “down that old garage.” What garage? Why, there was only the one. That Crick, who used to work for Mr. Paul Camber, worked there.

  This seemed fairly promising. Crick, Dame Beatrice imagined, was intelligent. A useful chauffeur and mechanic had to be. She got into her own car and left George to find the garage. As, long before this, he had made friends with the proprietor, he knew perfectly well where to go.

  It was a main-road filling station on the road to Cromer and looked prosperous. George pulled up and a girl in white overalls came to the pump.

  “Two gallons of the usual,” said George. “How’s your dad?”

  “Oo, that get about again. Fair to middling, that is. Go off to Great Yarmouth with a party of four this morning. Back about eleven.” She suddenly dropped the Norfolk lilt and added, with a dazzling smile, “Yew wanna meet up with Pop, kid?”

  Dame Beatrice was intrigued, although not astounded—for she knew him to be a man of parts—when she heard George reply:

  “That sure is so, Baby.” Then his tone altered. “Bob been in this morning, Susie?”

  “This afternoon it was. Soon after two. Fill up, right up, and pay cash.”

  “Say where he was going?”

  “Only that he have a fare waiting at Camber Abbey.”

  “Crick anywhere about?”

  “Sure, Big Boy.” She smiled again and went off to find him. Crick was in oil-stained brown overalls and had a smear down one cheek. His hands were black.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Straker.”

  “Afternoon, Maurice. Seen Bob Titmuss today?”

  “Ah. Come in about two. Filled up and a pint of oil. Checked the tyres. Paid cash. Must have come into a fortune. We reckon to wait two months to collect from him!”

  “Say where he was going?”

  “Only that he had a fare waiting at Camber Abbey.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Nowt.”

  “Did he come back past here with the fare, do you know?”

  “Ah, soon after three—about ten past, maybe. Doing fifty, I reckon. Too fast for this road with them worn brakes of his.”

  “Didn’t happen to tell you when he expected to get back, I suppose?”

  “Said if he wasn’t back for supper his old woman would create, but he wouldn’t be surprised if he wasn’t.”

  “His number’s in your log, I take it?”

  “Yes. What’s all this in aid of?”

  “A kidnapping charge, most likely. We rather think the Camber kid has been snitched.”

  Crick went white, and drew in his breath.

  “The Camber kid’s dead. What are you talking about?” he said.

  “Mrs. Hal Camber’s kid,” said George, affecting to notice nothing extraordinary in Crick’s reaction. “Staying at the Abbey. Waiting to be taken out in this car, along with Dame Beatrice
. Snitched from under our very noses, as you might say.”

  Crick recovered his poise.

  “Oh, I see. You give me a turn, talking about the Camber kid. I thought for the minute you meant Mr. Paul’s boy.”

  “Well,” said Dame Beatrice, lowering the window and putting her head out, “you deserved to be given ‘a turn’ if you allowed Titmuss to take out a car and ply for hire with defective brakes. If anything happens, I shall take care that you share the responsibility.”

  “Here!” began Crick, angrily. Then, catching Dame Beatrice’s eye and exchanging it for George’s cold stare, he capitulated hastily. “Can’t come to any harm if he don’t go through Cromer,” he said. “Go by way of Saxmundham and Holt, can’t go all that fast and there’s no hills to speak of.”

  “Well, we’ll hope that all will be well,” said Dame Beatrice. “There’s one thing: I don’t suppose the man Titmuss realises that he is assisting a kidnapping gang, so he probably won’t go faster than he should. Drive on, George.”

  She shut her window and looked out of the one at the back of the car, but Crick had disappeared. Gone to telephone the news to someone and tell him that he had given a clue to the route which Titmuss had taken, she supposed, or (with equal probability) to boast to someone that he had put the pursuers off the scent. It was anybody’s guess (in Laura’s idiom) she decided.

  “Where to, madam?”

  “Holt. You can get there without keeping to this road to Cromer?”

  “Oh, yes, madam. I need not go anywhere near Cromer if I turn off at Aylsham and proceed by way of Saxthorpe—not Saxmundham, as Crick suggested. I can get to Holt quite easily then. What do you wish me to do from there?”

  “I really don’t know, George. Perhaps we had better explore the north coast. What about Blakeney? I have always liked Blakeney—a most charming place, I think. But we had better make some enquiries in Holt. You have the number of Titmuss’s car and can describe the man himself?”

  “Certainly, madam.” George pulled up in the large open market-place at Holt and left Dame Beatrice while he went off to make enquiries. She kept her eyes open but saw nothing of any significance. George came back, looking serious.

  “Can’t find out a thing, madam. I’ve tried the police and I’ve tried two chaps with stalls. I’ve described the car and the driver, given the number, and said that the passenger may be a small lad, but there’s no response anywhere.”

  “I think we are on the wrong tack, George.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised, madam. That Crick’s a fool. He’s given us the wrong dope.”

  “Never mind. About turn, and back to Camber.”

  “Very good, madam. And then—where?”

  “To Beresford’s farm, I think. Not that I expect to gain precise information there, but it will do for a starting-off point. It seems to me that we were misled deliberately by Crick. I doubt whether Titmuss did pass the garage to take the Cromer road.”

  George turned the car and they sped back to Saxthorpe and past Blickling, a larger edition of Camber Abbey and not as old by about fifty years, to reach Aylsham at just after half-past five. Here George swung off and the car was passing Crick’s garage as the clock on Camber church tower was striking six.

  Once through the village Dame Beatrice changed her mind.

  “Never mind Beresford,” she said. “We will drop down there later on.”

  “What about going to Attlebridge, madam, to make for the ring-road round Norwich? There are a dozen roads leading off from it. We could enquire at every one and, if we don’t get a pointer, we could then put the case in the hands of the City of Norwich police, and leave them to find the little boy, unless you thought we ought to get back to Camber Abbey, madam, to find out whether there’s any news?”

  “That was my notion, George. The child may be back there by now, with Mr. Hugh.”

  Hugh, however, was not at home, and there was still no sign of the boy. Hildegarde Salaman brought wine and cold roast beef into the dining-room and begged Dame Beatrice to take some refreshment. Dame Beatrice herself was not hungry, but she realised that George should have a rest and something substantial to eat before they continued the search or informed the police, so she ate a couple of sandwiches and drank a glass of wine while George was regaled in the servants’ hall. She was to ring for him when she was ready.

  “And the boy is still lost?” said Hildegarde. “That Crick is bad, bad! Will they kill Peter, like the other boy?”

  “Whom do you mean? Who killed the other boy?”

  “I give it much thought. When I am doing things I like not, I think morbid thoughts and one of my thoughts is that the farmer whose daughter has had the baby kills Paul Camber’s son.”

  “Hoping that his daughter’s baby would inherit the property, do you mean? That might work if the estate was entailed, but it isn’t.”

  “Entailed? Please?”

  “An entail means that the estate must go to the next male heir. But Camber Abbey estate doesn’t have to go to anybody in particular. The owner, whoever he is, can leave it to anybody he likes.”

  “To Jacob? To me?”

  “Apparently. So, you see, Mr. Beresford’s motive for removing Stephen Camber to make way for his daughter’s child to inherit this property simply does not exist.”

  “Not good enough for sticking his neck out, anyway, you think?” said the Jewish girl, nodding. “I agree. Who, then? Mrs. Hal, to get the property for this little miserable Peter?”

  “There is the same objection, don’t you see?”

  “So to nobody’s advantage to kill Stephen Camber. Why, then, has he died? Revenge? It is not like the people here, that is all I can say. And that stupid woman, Mrs. Hal—no, I do not think so. Little mean things and a lot of weeping if she gets not her own way, but a killing—no. She has not the guts, nor, I think, that kind of wickedness.”

  “I entirely agree. Did Paul Camber ever make any advances to you?”

  “To me? Oh, no! What an idea!” She laughed heartily, showing splendid teeth slightly stained with scarlet lip-stick. “And, talking of men and women, but not, please, of advances, why have you stopped my poor dear friend Tolley from coming to see me?”

  “I have done nothing of the kind. I understand that he is carrying out the instructions of his bishop. You knew he went to see his bishop, didn’t you?”

  “How can I know? Simply, after that fuss I make to throw Jacob off the scent, my Tolley comes no more to my room to read me Epistle of Paul to the Corinthians. This epistle is quite enthralling and I am missing it all the time.”

  “Well, why do you not tell your brother, quite firmly, that you are having instruction in the Christian religion? Then you could join the vicar’s confirmation class or Bible class, my dear girl, and get on with your conversion in an open, sensible manner.”

  “With all those dreadful village girls? No, thank you! Besides, Jacob is not to know until I marry my dear Tolley. Then it will be too late for him to do anything about it.”

  “Forgive me for saying so, but I cannot imagine you as the wife of a country vicar.”

  “Oh, but I shall not be the wife of a country vicar for very long, dear Dame Beatrice. I have push and go. I shall make my Tolley the bishop. I have been in Norwich. The cathedral is very fine and the bishop’s throne, it is nice also. And the bishop’s wife would be very important, I think. I shall like to be the bishop’s wife.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t build on it, if I were you. Thank you very much for the sandwiches. When do you expect Hugh Camber back?”

  “Oh, I have no idea. He is like you, hunting the little boy.”

  “Which direction did he take?”

  “Left out at the gate and towards Beresford’s farm.”

  “Do you think he actually went to Beresford’s farm?”

  “Well, he went that way, and Beresford is the most suspicious person, I think.”

  “Why should you think so?”

  Hildegarde waved
plump, be-ringed hands.

  “To whom else is the advantage of kidnapping little Peter Camber?—Oh, I know you say the owner can leave everything as he pleases, but who would refuse to leave it to his own family?”

  “You must remember that your Jewish tradition would make any other arrangement almost impossible for you and your brother, but other people may think differently.”

  “Very well; but in the library—only it is in the long gallery now, since Hugh changed the books—I have made much study of the Camber family affairs. I gain nothing for myself, of course, but it is interesting. There have been nothing but Camber family here since the year 1661, when Charles II gave the estate to the Camber who was on his father’s side in the Civil War. To that time the owners were for Oliver Cromwell. All Norfolk was for Oliver Cromwell in the Civil War and when it was known that Charles II is to be the king, the owner here fled to America, to New England and his estates were—forfeited?—is that right?”

  “It would amount to that. Why on earth did not the owner sell them before Charles II could get his hands on them?”

  “Ah, that!” An avaricious gleam came into Hildegarde’s handsome and expressive face. (How unlike her secretive and self-contained brother she was, thought Dame Beatrice.) “So I myself would have done, but it seems that the owner was a minor, a boy of fourteen, so his friends hustled him away.”

  “I cannot imagine Charles II victimising a boy of fourteen, but I suppose his friends thought the boy might be made a ward in Chancery. So that’s the story of Camber Abbey? I suppose it changed its name when the new owners took over in 1661.”

  “Please?”

  “No matter. Well, if you think Mr. Hugh has gone to Beresford’s farm I had better get along and see that he has plunged himself into no mischief. Farmer Beresford has a reputation for quick temper and I doubt whether he will take kindly to a suggestion that he kidnaps young children.”

  She rang the bell and Ethel answered it.

  “My car, as soon as possible, please, tell George.”

  George beat her to it by about twenty seconds.

  “Are you rested, George?”

  “Thoroughly, madam.”

  “To the Beresford farm, then.”