“Yes, that is strange. So, what exactly happened to this man who was killed, whoever he was?”
“I don’t know. They didn’t tell me.”
“Didn’t you ask?”
“I would’ve done, but then you came marching in with your solicitor.”
“Oh. Yes.”
“Thanks, by the way.”
She smiled, but it was a weak smile, and Max knew it, and knew that she knew he was lying.
Martha stood abruptly, and smoothed her skirt. “Max, we need to find out what happened last night. What if it is your friend?”
“It might be in the morning newspaper. If not, I’ll call Joe Pollard on the City desk. He’d know.”
“You do that. I’m going to have a word with Flora about dinner tonight.”
Max looked through the morning editions and then, failing to find anything about the killing, called the Chronicle and spoke to Joe Pollard, who didn’t know anything either. He said he’d check and call Max back, which he did.
“They’re keeping very quiet about it,” Joe said. “Probably means they don’t know anything more than you do. Or it could mean they do, and they’re not saying yet. I got hold of a contact at the Yard and all he told me was that they were investigating a death.”
Max explained all this to Martha.
“That was a waste of time, then. I can call Mr Mutton and ask him to look into it.”
“Bacon.”
“Yes. Bacon.”
“I think we should let the police handle it.”
“But they think you’re guilty. Don’t they?”
Max thought about that for a moment. “Yes,” he said, “I think they might.”
Chapter Six
Of course, it was Saturday. Martha hadn’t considered that. In fact, once she’d sprung Max, as she insisted on putting it, she hadn’t thought any more about Mr Gammon, or whatever his name was. Once they’d determined that Max was only a witness, it hadn’t seemed necessary to delay Mr Whatsit, who was evidently impatient to get away and enjoy the rest of his weekend.
Now that Max was a suspected murderer, Martha was regretting not taking more notice of the poor little man.
“He kept looking at his watch,” she told Max. “Daddy phoned him and he met me at the café, came in a cab. And all the way to Scotland Yard he kept looking at his watch. So, I didn’t think to detain him more than was required.”
Max nodded. “Why would you? Do you know where he went?”
“Oh, he mentioned something about a villa on a bridge, or near a bridge. Maybe it was Stourbridge. Although I can’t imagine why he’d have a villa in Stourbridge. Awful place.”
Max thought about that. “What time did you arrive at Scotland Yard?”
“Well, it must’ve been about an hour after Flora came into the café. That was just after lunchtime, so, about two o’clock or probably half past. Thereabouts.”
Max went off in search of the paper, which he found rolled up and stuffed down the side of the sofa. He pulled it out, glanced at the last page. Then he looked at his watch and smiled. “I know exactly where he is,” he said.
Martha arched her left eyebrow. “But you don’t know him. How could you possibly know where he is?”
“It wasn’t a villa near a bridge, or even in Stourbridge. It was Villa at The Bridge.”
To Martha, that made less sense than having a villa in Stourbridge. “You’re talking in riddles,” she announced.
“Aston Villa are playing Chelsea at Stamford Bridge. Three o’clock kick-off. No wonder he was worried about the time. And since it’s now twenty minutes past three, I’ll lay a pound to a penny that he’s surrounded by Chelsea supporters, cheering on his team.”
Max smiled again, and felt rather pleased with himself. Martha, meanwhile, seemed shocked.
“Mr Bacon a football supporter? I never would’ve guessed. He seemed such a decent little chap.”
Max’s eyes narrowed and he was about to tell Martha that she was being a snob, but he didn’t get the chance because she said, “That was very clever of you, Max. Come on, then. Let’s go.”
And she grabbed her handbag, opened the door and marched out before Max could explain that they’d never be able to find Mr Bacon at a football game.
Chapter Seven
“I don’t know how you plan to find him,” Max said, as they were bumping along the Fulham Road in a cab. “They had over eighty thousand for the game against Arsenal a few months ago.”
“Well, we could go on to the pitch or something, stop the game and demand that Mr Liver come to us.”
Max rolled his eyes, but elected to stay silent. Surely even Martha wouldn’t try a stunt like that.
“How did you know all that?” Martha asked him. “About Villa and how many people might be at the game?”
“I like football,” he said reasonably.
“Since when? I thought you were a cricket man.”
“You know, it is possible to like football and cricket. Besides, whenever I mention anything about sport, you go into a trance.”
Well, Martha thought, that was true enough. “Football and cricket,” she muttered. “Well, well.”
*
“This is an urgent call for Mr Harold Sausage. Would Mr Harold Sausage please make himself known to any member of the ground staff.”
Mr Bacon was, at that moment, standing in the Fulham Road End, trying to eat a steak and kidney pie, which was proving hard to do with all the people pressing into him. He’d been forced to miss his lunch on account of the pointless business with that woman and her husband over at Scotland Yard. If it hadn’t been for the call from Mr Ronson himself, well, he would’ve done what he often did on Saturday; have a leisurely meal at a greasy spoon he liked, followed by a pint in one of several pubs, and a nice stroll to the game. Instead, he’d missed lunch, missed his pint, and almost missed the kick-off. In fact, that blasted woman had almost made him miss this, George Mills and Chelsea fighting for something. Imagine if Mills scored and he’d been forced to miss that. Oh, it was too much. George Mills was something of a hero to Mr Bacon. He represented the epitome of Britishness. Mills wasn’t one of those spectacular players who could burn brightly for a while, and then fade. He wasn’t a big star, hadn’t been a high-profile signing. What George Mills was, though, was dependable and loyal and hard-working. What more should a man aspire to?
The announcement was one of the strangest things Mr Bacon had heard at a football game. As the speaker went quiet, Mr Bacon resumed his pie-eating. The game had been flat for most of the time, with both Villa and Chelsea scrapping it out in the middle of the park. But now it looked promising, and it looked as though Mills and Burgess were finally getting the measure of the Villa defence. Tenacity. That’s what Mills had.
Just as Mr Bacon was about to take another bite from his pie, the speakers started up again: “Correction. This is an urgent call for Mr Harold Bacon. Would Mr Bacon, not Sausage, please inform a member of our ground staff of his presence. Thank you.”
Mr Bacon stared at the pitch, the pie an inch from his gaping mouth.
*
“Ah, there he is,” Martha said when a man opened the door and showed Mr Bacon in. “We’ve found you.”
“Mrs, um, Dalton,” Mr Bacon said, staring down forlornly at the steak and kidney pie in his hands. “What… uh…”
Max, who had been standing against the wall, pushed himself forward and touched Mr Bacon on the shoulder. “I’m very sorry about all this,” he said, pointedly glancing at his wife. “We really didn’t mean to spoil your game.”
“There’ll be other games,” Martha said. “You can watch your team any time, but this is far more important.”
“Oh,” Mr Bacon said, not entirely agreeing with her assessment.
The office was small and had wooden walls and a
wooden door with a glass panel at the top. The desk was more like the kind you’d find in a school. On top of the desk was a microphone on a stand, a pencil and a clipboard to which was clipped a piece of paper with some kind of table of statistics being charted.
A man sat at the desk, and viewed the game through a window. Mr Bacon tried to glimpse the game, but didn’t have the right angle. “How can I help?” he asked Martha.
“It’s all about this dreadful business last night. About that poor man’s death. Max and I thought we’d try to find out a little about it, but it’s not in the papers and the police aren’t revealing any details. We wondered whether, as a member of the bar and so forth, you might have contacts at Scotland Yard.”
“Oh,” Mr Bacon said. “Um, well, I’m not a member of the bar, you see, but, yes, I could look into it for you, although I wouldn’t be able to do much today. I could try, I suppose.”
“Splendid,” Martha said, handing over a card. “Our address and telephone number. Anything you can do would be wonderful.”
At that moment, the small office was rocked by a huge roar from the crowd.
“Mills just scored,” the man at the desk said.
Max glanced at Mr Bacon and half-shrugged sheepishly. Martha was also looking at Mr Bacon and wondered if he was ill. He seemed to be suffering some kind of seizure.
Chapter Eight
Max couldn’t find his dinner jacket and was starting to believe that Martha had hidden it deliberately, just to send him mad. He’d tried the bedroom and his study, and the dining room and sitting room and bathroom.
He went into the kitchen and interrogated the women, but Martha claimed that she hadn’t seen it either, and it fell upon Flora to confess that she’d forgotten to pick it up from the cleaners. “What with all that stuff happening,” she said.
“It’s all right, Flora,” Martha said. “Max, you can wear your navy-blue suit.”
“I left the jacket at the paper. On Monday, I think.”
“Why would you do that? Surely you didn’t go out in just a shirt.”
“I wore a coat. I fully intended to collect my jacket, but I went to the pub with Bobby Rollins and—”
“Say no more,” Martha said, holding up a hand. “Well, wear your dark grey one, the charcoal one you were wearing this morning, when I found you on the floor. It’s the closest you have to black. It’ll be creased, but Flora can iron it quickly. With a cold iron, Flora.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
With that in hand, and most of the food prepared and waiting to be rewarmed and served, Max decided to treat himself to a drink, just to relax a little. In truth, he didn’t like this kind of affair. Having a meal with friends was fine, having a drink with friends was better, but this was too close to being formal, and he felt uncomfortable with formalities. Besides which, those who came to the dinners were almost invariably friends and acquaintances of Martha. Max had few close friends, and most of those were at the paper. He invited them sometimes, and sometimes they came, but mostly, as tonight, they didn’t.
But Martha liked hosting, and Max didn’t want to spoil her fun, so he bore these things with as much good humour as possible, taking his pleasure vicariously from Martha. Besides, it had been his suggestion that they have a dining room in the flat, rather than a second bedroom, which is what it would otherwise have been. He reasoned that if it were a bedroom, it would be used several times a year for guests, but if it were a dining room, it would probably be used once or twice a month. This was sound logic, and Martha agreed, but the real reason Max didn’t want a second bedroom was that it would inevitably encourage Martha’s mother to visit for days at a time.
“Who’s coming tonight?” Max said, trying to sound interested.
“Well, let’s see, Rosamunde’s coming, with her new beau. Quite a catch, apparently. American, I think she said. Rich too. Or maybe African. Or Australian. And Alice Dunaway, you know, dear old thing, lived near us when we were children, gave us cake…”
Rosamunde was an old school friend of Martha’s. However, as far as Max could recall, Martha had never before mentioned to him anyone by the name of Alice or Dunaway, although clearly Martha assumed that she had, and it was easier to say nothing.
“So, now, that’s Rosamunde and partner, old Mrs Dunaway, Mr Frost. Oh, and Lindsey, of course…”
“Lindsey?” Max said. “I didn’t know he was coming.”
“Well, he called up, asked if he could. Probably to say hello.”
Max and Flora exchanged glances, with Max crossing his eyes and sticking his tongue into his cheek, and Flora concealing a smile, all of which passed Martha by.
“And Mrs Wilson,” Martha was saying. “So, with me and Max—”
“Oh, Gawd,” Flora said. “I forgot to tell you.”
“Tell us what?” Martha said.
“Mrs Wilson telephoned to say she couldn’t make it. She said she was very sorry.”
“Damned old bat,” Martha said. “I knew she was going to cancel. She’s done it deliberately, you know, right at the last minute, and all because we cancelled on her last month. Now we’ll be short one woman.”
“No, ma’am, ’cos Mr Frost asked if he could bring a friend. Someone called Mr Hart. So you’ll be short two women, ma’am.”
Martha sighed dramatically. “It’ll be a disaster. Now I’ve said yes to Lindsey, there’ll be five men and three women. That means we’ll have three single men. And poor Mrs Dunaway will be unaccompanied.”
“Quick, Flora,” Max said, “notify the government. One unaccompanied old lady. Tell them to send the army.”
Martha punched Max on the arm while Flora tried to look genuinely appalled by the idea of poor Mrs Dunaway fending off suitors.
At this point, Max left the women to discuss arrangements and strolled into the sitting room and over to the drinks cabinet, where he mixed himself a large Martini. Then, noting that it was only seven o’clock, he decided he’d better make this his final drink for a while. Until eight o’clock, at least, when their guests would start arriving.
Max considered this for a moment and, realising eight o’clock was a whole hour away, he decided to make another large Martini, which he poured into a different glass, telling himself that it wasn’t two drinks at all, but only two halves of a very, very large one.
He was trying to seem cheerful, to tease Martha and joke with Flora. But it wasn’t working, and his mind kept sabotaging him and reminding him of Burton. And of the past, when he’d known Burton about as well as he’d ever known anyone.
He didn’t hear Martha come into the sitting room, but he knew she was there. He turned and saw her standing, watching him, her eyes large and sad. He didn’t know whether she was sad in herself, or whether she was reflecting what he felt.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s stupid of me to worry so much about a dinner party when, well, your friend…” She went to Max and put her arms around him, pressing her cheek to his chest. He stroked her hair.
“It’s not stupid,” Max said. “It’s just who you are. You live for the moment, and I’ve always loved that about you. I spend too much of my time in the past.”
“And I love that about you,” Martha said, the words an inch from his heart. “But you destroy yourself over it, the past.”
“Maybe.”
“Should we cancel the dinner?”
“No. It’s too late now, anyway. We’ll just carry on, as normal.”
“It might be good for you,” Martha said. “Mrs Dunaway was such a lovely creature. I have such fond memories of her when I was a child.”
“It’s nice to have fond memories,” Max said.
Martha pushed herself away from him, looked up into his eyes. “Sometimes I think looking back is the only thing you look forward to.”
“It’s not.”
“Perhaps, one d
ay, you’ll tell me about it.”
He nodded. “Perhaps. Meanwhile, let’s get ready for the party, shall we?”
Chapter Nine
Tony Lindsey was the first to arrive. He came in, hung his coat on the hat stand and collapsed on to the sofa.
“Drink, Tony?” Martha said, already on her way to the drinks cabinet.
“Just a small one. Don’t want to have too many.”
Max smiled inwardly, knowing that Lindsey would have finished off half the bottles in the flat by the time he left. Lindsey was an old friend of Martha’s, and had courted her years before she and Max had even met. He was tall and slim, athletic and handsome. He had straight blonde hair and blue eyes, and a permanent suntan from an apparently endless holiday.
Martha handed Lindsey a Scotch on the rocks and it occurred to Max that she hadn’t needed to ask what Lindsey would like.
“How are you, Tony?” Max said.
“Brilliant,” Lindsey said. “Just got back from Linz. Couple of weeks ago. Went there for the skiing. Had a very bad fall. Quite serious.”
“Did you die?”
“Sprained an ankle. Damned annoying. Off trekking next week.”
“When do you find the time to work?”
“Work?”
Next came Alice Dunaway, who was a small lady with glasses and curly grey hair. According to Martha, Mrs Dunaway was in her early seventies, but she seemed older, well past a hundred. It wasn’t a physical thing that aged her – she looked as a woman in her early seventies might – but there was an uncertainty and hesitation about her actions, and she walked slowly and with small steps, as if she were in constant danger of being blown over.
When she entered, Lindsey stood and shook her hand and said, “How do you do, madam.”
Mrs Dunaway smiled and said, “How nice to meet you, Mr Dalton. Martha has written to me about you and I must say I think you’re even more handsome than she said.”
Murder Under A Green Sea Page 4