Close Quarters

by Michael Gilbert

  ‘No,’ said Hazlerigg, when their visitors had departed, ‘I wasn’t pulling the journalistic leg. Not entirely, though I don’t think it’s quite as simple as I made out.’

  ‘Rather an odd aspect of the case you put to them.’

  ‘Didn’t it convince you, Sergeant?’

  ‘I think it convinced them,’ said Pollock diplomatically.

  Then it may serve its turn – start some more hares. Keep the old ones running. I understand that the Melchester Times has a wide circulation, here and in Starminster. Pass the salt.’

  In a private sitting-room upstairs, an hour later, the serious business of the evening began. Papers were spread out, pipes were lit, and the committee of two went into session.

  ‘First these canons,’ said Hazlerigg. ‘I spent most of my afternoon with them – seeking the bubble reputation, as you might say – and this is what I got. Canon Beech-Thompson was at Evensong; you probably saw him. He wasn’t in residence, but feels it to be his duty to go as often as possible as an example to the younger clergy. He meant Prynne, whom he can’t stand at any price. He got back at six-thirty and sat with Mrs. B.-T. until seven-thirty. He was preparing a sermon. She was painting in water- colour. Aequabiliter et diligenter. Next came nice Canon Trumpington. He was not at Evensong. He spent four-thirty to six-thirty at the Foxes, having tea and helping to bath the baby. Left the Foxes at six-thirty, picked up Bloss, and took him home for a chat. When Bloss left him at seven-fifteen, he was dressing for dinner. He was going to dinner with the Beech-Thompsons, whither he duly proceeded (at seven-thirty approximately). Left for his own house a little before ten. Bloss, you remember, had departed from “chez Trumpington” at seven-fifteen. He went straight home to his own evening meal, which was served by his ancient female retainer at half-past seven. After dinner – say eight o’clock – he fell into a profound meditation on the Inner Causes of Action (a meditation which he obligingly retraced for me in detail). As far as he can recollect it would seem that he returned to the surface about half-past nine, made a few careful notes on “Hibernation in the Hive,” and retired to rest. Canon Fox, as I have told you, had Trumpington to tea. After he left at half-past six, Mrs. Fox put the rest of the brats to bed, and Canon Fox read a detective story for half an hour. Dinner in the Fox household is seven o’clock. Coffee was taken in the drawing-room at about ten to eight, and at five past eight the two Foxes trotted off to visit Halliday, where they drank further coffee and played contract bridge. Is that all clear?’

  ‘Beautiful,’ said Pollock in the enraptured tones of an artist appreciating a piece of rare virtuosity. ‘Simply beautiful. They practically cancel each other out. Barring a complete canonical conspiracy, the only person not vouched for the whole time by at least one independent witness is Canon Bloss – from eight o’clock onwards. Of course, if Canon and Mrs. B.-T. were in league—’

  ‘Don’t forget that they were two of the very few people who couldn’t have had anything to do with the writing on the wall. I think that’s important.’

  ‘Then Canon Fox may have slipped out whilst Mrs. Fox was bathing the children. He had half an hour.’

  ‘Not he,’ said Hazlerigg. ‘The sensible man sat in the dining-room, and the maid was in and out every other minute, laying the table.’

  ‘Anticipating trouble?’

  ‘It’s funny that you should say that,’ murmured Hazlerigg. He told Pollock of his conversation with Prynne and of the latter’s peculiar insistence on the rather obvious alibi afforded to him by the cinema commissionaire.

  ‘We shall have to check it, of course.’

  ‘It does seem a bit too good to be true,’ agreed Pollock. ‘If you can’t be good, be careful – that sort of idea. Well, now, I’d better give you an outline of my afternoon’s work.’

  He dealt in some detail with Dr. Smallhorn, Junior Verger Morgan, Vicar Choral Halliday, Second Verger (acting head verger) Parvin, Mrs. Parvin, and Precentor Hinkey, and the long hand of the clock flew round, and quarter after quarter chimed out – faint but distinct – from Melchester spire.

  ‘Very good,’ said Hazlerigg at last. ‘Very good indeed. I think we can feel our way forward a little now. Stop me if you disagree. Evensong on Tuesday finished almost on the stroke of six-thirty. Most people were clear of the cathedral within the next five or ten minutes. Mickie was one of the last away at twenty to seven. Appledown finishes clearing up, turns out the lights, locks the doors, and walks over to his own house. Time, a quarter to seven. Witnesses, Prynne and Mrs. Judd. He goes into his front room – his custom being, according to that brother of his, to smoke a quiet pipe after the day’s labours. Very nice and natural. Did anyone come to see him then? We don’t know. Next definite information shows that Appledown has moved into the kitchen and is “pecking and picking” at his supper – witness, Parvin.’

  ‘Parvin, by his own account, left Appledown’s cottage at about ten to eight—’

  ‘That’s been checked,’ said Pollock, ‘after a fashion. The local force have been busy, and amongst other reports’—he picked up a paper from the table—’we have Mr. Silas Begg of the Victoria and Albert. He remembers Parvin coming into the public bar at eight o’clock. It appears that Parvin made some jocular allusion to the hand being exactly on the hour.’

  ‘Oh, Lord, another of them,’ groaned Hazlerigg.

  ‘Furthermore, he swears that his clock is the last word in accuracy. Rather unusual for a pub clock, don’t you think?’

  ‘If you want to know what I think, I should say that that whole issue collaborated in murdering the poor old man, having first taken care to provide themselves with carefully interlocking alibis – like a silly novel I once read. Never mind, let us persevere with Appledown’s movements. At a minute to eight he has finished with his dinner and leaves by the front door, first pinning up a note for his brother. Witness – the whole choir. By process of reasoning (I think your deductions from Halliday’s evidence were sound on that point) we know that he turned to the left outside his front gate, and then he walks out of our ken. Not for long, though. He was dead before ten past eight.’

  He paused.

  ‘I don’t think we need indulge in any fancy speculation about the next bit, when the explanation is so plain. Someone or other had induced Appledown to meet him behind the organ shed. He kept the appointment and was killed.’

  ‘That’s how it happened,’ agreed Pollock. ‘I’ve never felt much doubt about it. And I think I can give you a little bit of corroboration. The murderer did the job with an ordinary walking-stick, possibly one with a rather heavy knobby head. Whilst he was waiting for Appledown he stood behind the opened shed door, and he must have been a little bit nervous, because every now and again, as he waited, he drove the ferrule of the stick into the hard earth behind him. He himself was standing on the asphalt and left no footmarks, but I found the marks of his stick this morning.’

  ‘Well done,’ said Hazlerigg, ‘you must be right. And when Appledown shut the door he would present the right side and back of his head. A sitting shot, eh?’

  ‘Rather a cool customer, your murderer.’

  ‘Cold-blooded and efficient. I’ve thought that all along. Well, now, allowing time for Appledown to walk round the cloisters, we can put the murder at not before eight-five, and certainly not after eight-ten, when the rain started. There’s no means of telling exactly how long the murderer had been waiting for his victim – say ten minutes at least. Allow him five minutes afterwards to get back home. That gives us an overall period of approximately twenty minutes between five to eight and a quarter past eight. We might do worse than start by checking over the people without definite alibis for that period. I’ll tell you what; let’s chalk them in on that plan of yours. It’s always easier to see a thing if you write it down.’

  ‘I’ve done that roughly,’ said Pollock. ‘Here you are. Bloss was in meditation, Hinkey somewhere in the country, Prynne in the cinema (I don’t entirely trust that commissionai
re), Malthus in the train – so he says – and Morgan at home, and alone. Mickie has only his wife to vouch for him from a few minutes to eight and onwards. According to the doctor the women are out of it The only two resident men-servants in the Close are Artful Appledown, who was with his brotherhood in Windsor – I’ve had a check up on that – and Hubbard, the Dean’s gardener, who was being the life and soul of the saloon bar at the Cock.’

  ‘At first sight not a very likely collection,’ assented Hazlerigg, but Pollock could tell by his voice that something had pleased him. ‘I’ll take them separately. Malthus is rather a special case. I’m expecting a phone message about him, so we’ll leave him for the moment. First, Canon Bloss. He has an ancient retainer, as I told you – a lady of some four-score years, a little tottery on her pins but still extremely sound and sensible in her observations. She says that “the master” retired to his study at about eight o’clock. Pressed further, she said not quite eight o’clock. It’s a bit of a squeeze but he might have done it. Hinkey has no sort of alibi, but we do know he was out of the Close—’

  He was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone.

  ‘Yes,’ said Hazlerigg into the mouthpiece. ‘Yes.’ And, ‘You don’t say!’ … ‘No, not at all.’ After a long period, during which the instrument buzzed and crackled inanely, he added, ‘Thank you very much. We’ll expect that in writing some time tomorrow. Good night.’

  ‘Malthus!’ he said simply. ‘Listen to this. As soon as I had finished with Prynne I telephoned the Bournemouth police, gave them the address of Malthus’ ailing sister, and told them to get on with it. Their report, which they phoned back to the station here, is in front of you. Nothing doing. Miss Malthus seems to have been surprised but firm – unconvincing but unassailable. Then I had another bright idea from something I saw in the evening paper. So I again telephoned Bournemouth and told them to get on to the railway authorities. That was the result which came in just now.’

  He rubbed his hands on over the other in a general, circular motion, but his eyes were hard.

  ‘There was an accident on the Bournemouth-Overton branch line yesterday evening. Nothing serious; the up line was blocked by a fall of earth. Train services were held up, though. The six o’clock from Bournemouth didn’t reach Overton until after nine o’clock.’

  ‘So,’ said Pollock, ‘and yet Malthus managed to catch an eight fifty-five connection. How very agile of him.’

  ‘Some explanation would seem to be needed,’ agreed Hazlerigg. ‘How do you work it out then?’ asked Pollock. ‘Suppose that Malthus did catch an earlier train – an afternoon train – the four-fifty, for instance, which gets in at six. He wouldn’t know about the hold-up on the line then, unless he happened, like you, to see it in the paper. What does he do next? Let me see. Why, of course, he walks in through the gate unobserved – it’s still open – and he lurks about behind the cloister wall. Appledown has been asked to meet him there on some pretext or other. He kills him according to plan at some time after eight, and then …’ He paused.

  ‘And then,’ went on Hazlerigg helpfully.

  ‘Why, then he finds what we have got to find – a way out of the Close! After that he returns by back streets to the station, where he has left his bag – collects it, and walks down as if he had come by the eight fifty-five.’

  ‘Not bad,’ said Hazlerigg. ‘Check up on the earlier train; he might have been seen. And that bag – he must have left it somewhere, as you say. Probably not in the cloakroom, though. It’s only got one thing against it, and that is Malthus himself. He didn’t strike me as possessing that sort of nerve. And you have still failed to produce a motive.’

  ‘I think the motive, when discovered, will be somehow mixed up with the first attacks on Appledown – and, come to think of it, Malthus was in as good a position as anyone with regard to that part of the business. In fact, better than most. As vicar choral he would have the anthems under his hand, and I believe he is supposed to be attached to the school as a master. Always assuming, of course, that the anti-Appledown campaign is connected with his murder.’

  For the first time that evening Hazlerigg’s equanimity appeared to have deserted him. He was clearly troubled. ‘There is a connection,’ he said doggedly. ‘I know there’s a connection, if only we were clever enough to see it. But we must be terribly careful. We mustn’t half see it, or see it from the wrong angle, or it may blind us to what we really do want to see.’

  Pollock was so unused to this defeatism on the part of the inspector that he must have showed a startled face, the immediate effect of which was to make Hazlerigg laugh.

  ‘We’re not done yet,’ he said, ‘though the immediate future is obscure. We have a conference with the Chief Constable tomorrow at ten, in order that we may report progress – if any. I propose to set out the bare bones of the case against Malthus; all his movements must be checked. We can hand all that over to them; they’ll do it better than we can. But there are one or two things I meant to look at before then. Are you very tired?’

  ‘Not a bit,’ lied Pollock loyally and suppressing an aching desire for bed. ‘Never felt more awake in my life.’

  ‘First, then, about Appledown’s private affairs. It seems that he was either a very methodical or else a very secretive man. You may remember seeing a desk full of papers in the old chap’s sitting-room; it looked as if we had a heavy job in front of us there. Well, I handed it over to the local men and I got a report from them this evening. Apparently there’s nothing there at all! Nothing at all private, that’s to say. Piles of bulb and seed catalogues and newspaper cuttings about everything and nothing, and old service lists from the year dot, and a bundle of receipted bills – all local tradesmen and for small amounts. But as for letters or notebooks or diaries or writings of any sort – they drew a complete blank.’

  ‘Didn’t his brother show us some specimens of his handwriting?’

  ‘He did,’ answered Hazlerigg, ‘they were lists of household duties which he had made out at some time for his brother – rather a nice domestic touch, don’t you think? I sent them up to headquarters with the note we found pinned up beside the door. I’m rather anxious to have an expert opinion on the writing. Well, as I was saying, the men who searched the desk had found nothing; in fact they had finished and were giving it up as a bad job when one of them saw a pink edge of paper sticking out at the corner of one of the small escritoire drawers. Something had slipped down behind the back of the woodwork, and they had the devil of a job to fish it out, but I think it repaid their efforts. Here it is.’

  He pushed over to Pollock a very much crumpled scrap of pink paper. It bore the royal arms and the heading “Post Office Savings Bank,” followed by a serial number, and it ran: “The Postmaster-General has been notified of the sum of £300 by cheque for the credit of the above described account in the books of this department,” followed by Appledown’s name and address.

  ‘Acting on the hint contained in the words “by cheque” they did what we ought to have done already, they went round to see the manager of Appledown’s bank. He must have been less obstructive than the genus usually are, for they soon had the information they wanted. Appledown was a wealthy man. He had a current account of over a hundred pounds, and nine hundred pounds on deposit. Further than that, the manager volunteered the information that Appledown had in the past bought a good deal of rather speculative stock through him, though what had become of the certificates he was unable to say.’

  ‘And the man who gets it all is that rascal of a brother, I suppose. There’s motive enough and to spare.’

  ‘But it won’t hold water,’ replied Hazlerigg with a grin. ‘Wait a minute; I haven’t finished with the bank manager yet. He further produced what is indubitably the last will and testament of Daniel Appledown; by it he gives, devises, and bequeaths his entire estate (real and personal) to the Friends of Melchester Cathedral for the restoration and upkeep of the fabric.’

  ‘But his brother m
ayn’t have known—’

  ‘The witnesses,’ went on Hazlerigg smoothly, ‘were the bank manager himself and Artful Appledown.’

  ‘Game, set, and match to Appledown,’ conceded Pollock. ‘But what a fantastic situation! It amounts to this; if there was one person in the whole wide world who would want to keep Appledown alive and healthy, that person was his brother. Yet he didn’t appear very worried this afternoon.’

  ‘Artful’s deep. As deep as the Atlantic Ocean and about as difficult to cross. But he didn’t commit this murder.’

  ‘Surely,’ said Pollock, branching off on a new train of thought, ‘if Appledown was really a man of wealth and means he must have had private papers – unless he kept them all at his bank. Do you think he carried a pass-book with him?’

  ‘I know he didn’t.’ Hazlerigg unlocked his dispatch case and took out of it a gold half-hunter watch, a cheap fountain pen, a wallet containing five one-pound notes and a ticket to the free library, a handful of small change tied loosely in a rather dirty handkerchief, and last of all a bunch of steel keys of all shapes and sizes – some new, some with their wards and barrels worn thin and shiny. Each one had a little bone label, and Pollock read “West Door,” “Library” and “Cloisters,” cheek by jowl with “Front Door,” “Coal Cellar,” and even “Larder.”

  ‘A careful man, the late head verger,’ remarked Hazlerigg. ‘Careful of his own and his master’s property. Fast bind, fast find.’