Price said, ‘The climatic conditions are certainly not conducive to the development of the district as a holiday resort, yet it is regularly patronized by discriminating individuals such as your good self and . . .’
‘Year after year like an old hound returning . . .’ murmured Meade.
. . . ‘and Mr Worthington. Am I right in supposing that the latter is quite well-known to you?’
‘He is,’ said Meade, and unexpectedly added, ‘So what?’
Price remained silent while Gloria brought in his tea tray. Then, ‘Thank you, miss,’ he said and, as the door shut behind her and, seating himself, he picked up the tea-pot: he went on; ‘I dislike asking these questions, but in a murder case there is no room for the finer feelings; whenever Worthington comes here, he seems to bring a series of considerably younger men with him — now, Mr Meade, you’re a man of the world. What implication do you place on it?’
Meade said, ‘You err in several respects, Inspector. Firstly, I’m not a man of the world, but a retired school-master. Secondly, it is not a fact that Worthington always has young men with him: he prefers to climb with Hartopp or Larson-Smith, men of his own age and climbers of his own standing, but as Hartopp is an Army officer at present in Malaya, and Larson-Smith is in the Foreign Office, they are not always available. Thirdly, I place no implication on your wholly fallacious premises. I know for a fact why Worthington climbs with these youngsters, who cramp his style, endanger his life and often bore him dreadfully. Worthington is an idealist. He believes that it is his duty to hand on whatever torch it has pleased the Almighty to put into his hand.’
Price gaped. The metaphor meant nothing to him. He ran with a torch indeed — the torch of life — but this he had extinguished when, even before his marriage, he had made up his mind that kiddies lower your standard of living, spoil your wife’s figure, ruin your furniture and before they are old enough to repay you by contributing to the upkeep of the home are taken by Tory governments for gun fodder. He did not, however, wish to seem slow in the uptake, and to gain time he said, ‘Pardon?’ But Meade had been forty years a schoolmaster. He said, ‘Do you mean that you didn’t hear or that you didn’t understand?’
Price said, ‘I didn’t quite get that last bit.’
‘I was referring to Worthington’s climbing. Any man who is sound in wind and limb and has a head for heights and a normal quota of courage can pull himself up or lower himself down the climbs we class as moderate or difficult. Severe climbs call for a little more aptitude. But to be able to climb as Worthington climbs is a gift; he is grateful for it, and believes that in gratitude he should pass on to younger men the joy he has had of the mountains.’ Meade peered across the room at Price. ‘Perhaps you’re not like that. Perhaps you like to keep what you have of knowledge and ability?’
Price said, ‘Well, I can’t say I’m an idealist. There’s no place in my job for ideals. Then, in your opinion, Mr Meade, Worthington’s association with these young men is entirely innocent?’
‘Not in my opinion. I know it.’
Price sighed. It would have fitted so neatly. Still, there was another hope. ‘And with reference to women?’
Rather sharply Meade said, ‘I’m ready to help you in any way, but why this interest in Worthington? My grapevine tells me that the body had been in the beck for a week before it was discovered, and surely you’ve taken the trouble to inform yourself that Worthington only arrived here on Saturday last?’
Price said, ‘Naturally I’ve taken that trouble, but Worthington has only himself to blame for my interest. There’s nothing to prove that the man was killed where he was found, and Worthington refuses to reveal his whereabouts prior to his arrival in Berrinsdale.’
‘That’s silly of him. Term ended on the sixth. Perhaps he was with a lady.’
‘You think he’s that kind?’
‘It isn’t a kind. It’s the norm again.’
‘I’d be sorry to think so,’ said Price primly. ‘However . . . I suppose, Mr Meade, you cannot by any chance name the lady?’
‘Good God, no. Worthington’s love-life — if he has one — is of no interest to me. I suggested a woman because I can think of no other explanation for his refusal to answer your question. But why go further? That he was on an unofficial honeymoon is no reason to connect him with your crime.’
‘I’ll take you into my confidence, Mr Meade,’ said Price beginning on the cakes. ‘but I must ask you to remember that what I tell you is at this juncture for your ear and your ear alone. I have been in telephonic communication with Scotland Yard and the deceased has been identified by his fingerprints, which are on record. He is known to us as a blackmailer who has already served a sentence for that crime. In seeking his murderer, it is only common sense to look for a person who has something to hide. One is inclined also to look for a person of substance. Members of the lower income groups are scarcely worth the risks run by a blackmailer; they have little to lose by the threatened exposure of some blot on their past, which in any case is usually known to their neighbours. Moreover, the previous victims of this Hawkins were in the main professional people — it was a Harley Street surgeon, I remember, who finally had the perspicacity to call in the police. Now, Mr Meade, Worthington has something to hide — he drew my attention to that himself; he is well-acquainted with the course of the stream in which the body was disposed of; he runs a large black car, such as was seen in Berrinsdale exactly when, with a twelve-hour margin either way, the medical evidence places the crime.’
Meade was silent. He had known Francis for years, but, after all, what did he know of him? He had taken to him at the beginning because he had seemed to be a civil young man with Meade’s own passionate love of mountains and because, brilliantly promising though he was, he could talk climbing without making Meade feel a ‘has-been.’ Later, Meade, then nearing his seventies, had climbed with him: over-persuaded, he had gone out expecting to find himself slow, breathless, a burden, but Francis’s consideration had been such that he had had one of the best days of his life on the newest and most talked of climb on his old stamping ground, the Pillar. Bound for the Himalayas, Francis, in an age when to be young was to know everything, had motored two hundred miles with maps and a notebook to pick the brains of the ageing mountaineer; from Tibet, from his base camp, he had written to Meade and later had sent him an inscribed copy of The Ascent of Chowolungi, in which the advice he had had from E. G. Meade of the Alpine Club was gratefully acknowledged.
Meade, then, could swear that Francis was kindly and courageous; that he was neither vain nor boastful; that he had intelligence and an unusual sensibility; but the rest was guess-work, and now he guessed uneasily at some kind of St George and the Dragon set-up . . . the murdered man was a blackmailer and Francis was a mediaevalist, besides being as self-reliant as the mountains can make a man. Then came a happier thought, and Meade said, ‘I know that you can’t type a murderer, so I won’t say that Worthington’s not the type, but — a bash on the back of the head, wasn’t it — Worthington’s an extremely brave man and I don’t see him bashing a chap from behind.’
Price wiped cream from his fingers. ‘Was he a Commando?’
‘No. I rather fancy he was in the Navy. Look here, Detective Inspector, supposing that before you unleash your hounds, you let me talk to him? It may save you the time and trouble of the wild-goose chase which I could almost swear you’ll be in for. I’ll advise him most strongly to be frank with you.’
‘That was my advice to him. Still, you’re welcome to try, Mr Meade; it’ll do no harm whether he’s innocent or guilty. I’m leaving here tomorrow for London to take up the other end of the tangled skein, if you’ll pardon the metaphor. As you say, it will save time if you can persuade Worthington to talk, though with all the facilities we have at our command we cannot fail to ultimately trace him.’
‘Oi,’ said Meade.
‘Pardon?’
‘Only a split infinitive. It seems that the pedago
gue has survived my fifteen years on the shelf.’
Price made a noncommittal sound. Then, rising, he said, ‘Well, Mr Meade, I must thank you for this talk we’ve had and for your last suggestion. I’m leaving as soon as I can get away tomorrow — I shall endeavour to tactfully persuade our Hebe to serve my breakfast at eight o’clock — so if Mr Worthington decides to talk, you should advise him to immediately get in touch with me.’
Speaking as though his teeth were on edge, Meade said, ‘I’ll talk to him like a schoolmaster . . .’
*
Francis said, ‘It’s quite clear now. There’s a rather pregnant-looking moon coming up and the Pike looks positively alluring. Surely, Meade, it’s long past your bedtime?’
‘It is,’ said Meade. ‘I’ve been waiting for the others to go. I want a word with you.’
Francis, kicking at the dying fire, said, ‘That sounds ominous. What have I been doing? Kicking the little chaps or rolling the porter’s daughter?’
Meade said, ‘It’s no business of mine, but you seem to have behaved rather stupidly. While you were having your tea in the dining-room I was hobnobbing with the detective in here. He tells me that that corpse of yours has been identified as a blackmailer, and he is therefore looking for someone among us who has something to hide. Now you, Francis, besides knowing the district and owning a large black car, which apparently fits in somewhere, flatly refused to offer the detective an alibi for the week-end before last, which is the time which interests him. You are now his chief suspect, and in the circumstances you can’t blame him. He’s only doing his job.’
‘I wish he’d do it without saying ‘pardon’ and ‘excuse me’ and ‘Mister Worthington’ every time he opens his mouth.’
‘And splitting his infinitives. But that’s neither here nor there,’ said Meade.
Francis kicked the fire again, sighed and said, ‘I’m not proud of my week-end of April the sixth. In intention, it was discreditable, and it was ridiculous in fact. As an alibi it’s cast-iron, but it involves other people . . . Well, the truth is I’ve been caught on the wrong foot. I don’t propose to risk a miscarriage of justice, but I’m hoping that friend Price will get on the right lines before he starts to enquire into my murky past.’
‘It doesn’t occur to you that it’s your duty to help him, that in allowing him to waste his time on you you’re practically obstructing the police?’
‘You don’t know me, Meade,’ said Francis. ‘I may pass on the fells, but elsewhere I’m not up to your standards. I’m not a public-spirited man. I was never the prefect type, and you know what Oxford does to us: buzz, buzz, but we ‘choose to await . . . ignoring clamours of the moment and the market.’’
Meade got out of his chair. ‘Well, I’m an old man and, as you pointed out, it’s long past my bedtime.’ He shuffled towards the door. ‘Price is leaving us tomorrow — breakfasting at eight, I believe.’
Francis said, ‘Sebastian and I are having a bye-day. If it’s fine we might walk down the Old Road and do a little scrambling in the afternoon. He’s curiously helpless on slabs, and there are some quite good ones above the old quarry. You’d better come along with us, Meade . . .’
Chapter Five – Civilization
Though he would not feel himself until he had changed out of his crumpled suit, it was wonderful, Price thought, to be back in London, to see, instead of a handful of mountain-mad cranks or lone, half-witted shepherds, crowds and crowds of people like yourself hurrying to and from their gainful employment, to hear the sound of the wheels which sped them, to hail a taxi and be driven between buildings devoted to productive business or the welfare of the State instead of wasting valuable man-hours and rubbing your feet raw as you dragged yourself along between dangerous, deserted and undeveloped mountainsides. Before his interview with Superintendent Armstrong this morning he had bought a pair of shoes and changed out of Hardwick’s boots in the shoe-shop, but he had been unable to obtain his favourite Strydeouts; the new shoes pinched him, but that merely increased his thankfulness for the smooth pavements and the mechanical transport of the town.
At the Yard, news awaited him. It was now known that Hawkins had been living in a flat near Earls Court, that he banked at the nearest branch of the London and Home Counties, that he rented a lock-up garage for his large black Enslow car. His flat had not yet been searched, but a search warrant was ready for Detective Inspector Price, and the proprietress of the flats, who occupied the basement, was reported to be co-operative. Detective Sergeant Byles, with whom Price liked to work, was at hand, but Price, as he expressed it to himself, had no intention of walking about London looking like something cast up by the sea: he firmly announced that he had been on the job since dawn, was whacked and must call it a day.
His wife greeted him with a sharp scream. ‘Whatever have you been up to, Ron? Have you been sleeping in that suit or falling into the Lakes? You don’t half look a dream!’
Valerie herself was immaculate in a pink house-coat, acquired during the January sales. She had been lying on what she called the couch in the lounge and reading Forever Amber, extracted after a long wait from the Public Library. She was not really pleased to see her husband, for now she must put her book aside, change out of her house-coat for fear of grease-spots, cook a meal and wash it up, a task which, no matter how daintily accomplished, was almost sure to damage the varnish on her newly manicured fingernails. But from the women’s magazines, which she was in the habit of reading, she had learned how necessary is a welcoming face at evening to her who would keep her man, and Valerie firmly intended to keep Ronald, who, though a fusspot for health and hygiene, a bit of a prig about sex and a meagre lover, was a good provider, never grudged the money she spent on dress and felt the same way as she did about kiddies. So she smiled and smiled while her husband recounted his adventures, and when she had changed into a dress which would wash, she went to the kitchen and opened a tin of soup, a tin of baked beans, a packet of banana-flavoured dessert and a tin of condensed milk to stir into it. As Price always told his friends, she was a good manager . . .
He did not sleep well — he dreamed he was back in Berrinsdale — and he wakened sneezing. After a breakfast of cereals from a packet and pilchards from a tin, he set off for the Yard and, joined there by Sergeant Byles, drove in a police car to Earls Court. Number twenty-nine, Liphook Square, was a tall drab narrow house, cheaply converted into flats, and Mrs Simcox, the tall drab narrow proprietress, proved to be as co-operative as Price had been promised. ‘I’m not one to snoop and spy on my tenants, but you can’t go around with your eyes shut. This Hawkins was out a lot, but not at regular hours, so I knew he must be self-employed, as they call it. When he came here first he had nothing much, but then there was a motor car and then the painters and decorators and then a three-piece suite and then a bearskin rug and then a cocktail cabinet — you could see he was doing well — and my friend Miss Sprigge, what lives with me, and I, we come to the conclusion that he was a bookmaker, especially as people used to call to see him after dark in a way that Miss Sprigge thought was most secretive. He got a good many registered letters too, many more than is usual among my tenants. Miss Sprigge blames a race gang for the murder. Here we are . . . Flat C., Inspector.’
Price went in, kicking and scattering a number of letters which were lying on the doormat. He left them for Byles to pick up and passed into the living-room. In so mean a building the luxury of the flat was a surprise to him; he admired the peach-coloured walls, the luxurious off-white armchairs and sofa, which were already a little dingy, the huge white bearskin rug stretched on the plain pile carpet, the colossal glass-topped writing-table which stood between the windows, the enormous glossy cocktail cabinet and radio-gramophone. He did not deplore the absence of books or pictures; like his own taste and his wife’s, the taste of the man who had furnished the flat had been formed at the cinema.
Indicating the writing-table, he told Byles, ‘Get those drawers open,’ and went through i
nto the bedroom, small, high and square, with an outlook on a backyard festooned with unclean washing. The furniture consisted of an elaborate dressing-table built round a full-length mirror, and a matching chest-of-drawers, containing underclothing, some of it cheap and shabby and some expensive and apparently as yet unworn, and a hanging wardrobe where Price found the same odd mixture of good and inferior suits. The bedroom opened into a narrow passage, which, with the bathroom and kitchenette, had been clumsily contrived from a third room. Neither the bathroom nor the kitchenette had been redecorated and both were in a state of squalid disrepair.
Price went back into the living-room. Byles had all the drawers of the writing-table open, but in a disappointed voice he told Price, ‘Nothing much here, sir.’
‘No list of addresses?’ asked Price.
‘No, sir. Nothing but receipted bills. He seems to have paid his way all right,’ said Byles.
Price said, ‘The absence of private papers can be as significant as anything they could tell us, Byles. If Hawkins had been unknown to us, I should have been convinced that he was engaged on some criminal activity by the obvious fact that his correspondence had been systematically destroyed. I myself am neat and methodical, but papers accumulate in my bureau — addresses, recipes, holiday snaps and so on. However, we have these letters delivered since Hawkins’s death, and I would like you to proceed forthwith to the branch of the London and Home Counties Bank in Liphook Street which we passed in the car on our way here. See the Manager, explain that we are anxious to trace the next of kin and the deceased’s solicitors, and find out if Hawkins had any papers deposited at the bank for safe keeping. Don’t worry about his account — I can tell you now that all cognate transactions will prove to have been cash ones. When you have finished there, get back to the Yard. I’ll go through these letters here, and later I may be travelling down to Oxford, in which case I’ll ring you from Paddington.’
The Body in the Beck Page 7