The Man That Got Away

by Lynne Truss

  ‘Calm down, dear.’

  ‘And meanwhile the inspector is completely uninterested in everything except for this bally woman Adelaide who might not be his niece, because she might not! And Sergeant Brunswick has just disappeared into the Black Cat, just disappeared. Does he not understand what going undercover means? It doesn’t mean becoming a professional trumpet player. And we’ve recovered this vital dossier, but it’s got so much in it I hardly know where to start. And then, on top of all that, to find that my arch enemy – my flipping nemesis, if you’ll pardon my language – is now popping in and out of Colchester House as if she bally owns the place! Well, it makes me so cross!’

  She patted his arm.

  ‘You’re all worked up, dear,’ she said, kindly.

  ‘I know! That’s what I’m saying!’

  Mrs Groynes got up and locked the door. Then she dropped the key into the pocket of her overall and came back to sit beside him. For a fleeting moment, Twitten thought she was going to calm him down for good by pulling out a gun and killing him. Unsurprisingly, the idea had quite a sobering effect.

  ‘Now look,’ she said. ‘I’m very sorry to see you like this. Have you got a hanky, dear?’

  ‘No.’ His voice was suddenly very small.

  She opened her handbag and handed him a freshly ironed man’s handkerchief, monogrammed with ‘PH’.

  ‘I’ll explain later,’ she said. ‘Go on, have a good blow.’

  He applied himself to the hanky, and then steadied his breathing. He was not unaware of the position he was in: showing his weakest side to his Great Enemy was so foolish, and yet it had seemed the natural thing to do. Where else but to Mrs G could he turn?

  ‘You’re being very kind, Mrs G,’ he said.

  ‘Well, dear, to be honest I feel some of this might be my fault.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Do you remember I was quite annoyed when you refused my offer of help – do you recall that, dear? The other day, when I offered a very generous mutually advantageous arrangement between us, but you got all hoity-toity about the bleeding quid pro quo?’

  ‘I do remember, yes.’

  ‘Because you see, dear, I can help you. And it seems to me that I ought to help you. Because I know things you don’t know. For example, dear, Deirdre Benson has gone missing.’

  ‘Oh, no.’

  ‘And at the Black Cat, they spotted the sergeant straight away as an imposter, because between you and me he just won’t get the shoes right ever. But the good news is that they think he’s working for Terence Chambers, so they’ll probably leave him alone. Ooh, and you’ll like this. They’re saying his trumpet solos are out of this world; they’re calling him the Harry James of the South Coast.’

  Twitten managed to smile. He felt better for getting this stuff off his chest.

  ‘The trouble is, I can’t let you help me, Mrs Groynes,’ he said. ‘I just can’t.’ But he said it weakly, like a child protesting that it won’t go to sleep, just before it nods off.

  ‘Look, dear,’ she said. ‘Let’s have a nice cup of tea, and then I’ll help you sort the wood from the trees a bit, what do you say? I bet you’ve got everything you need right here – everything you need to work this out. Whoever did this horrible thing to that nice boy, we’ll get him, you mark my words.’

  ‘And will you tell me why you were in Colchester House with Lord Melamine, Mrs G?’

  ‘If it means you’ll pull yourself together, yes, I will. And if you’re a very good boy, I’ll also tell you what I’ve found out about Miss so-called Adelaide so-called Vine.’

  That Inspector Steine had no doubts whatever concerning Adelaide Vine should not be surprising. He was a man with an almost superhuman capacity for accepting things at face value. He had been utterly taken in by the Panorama hoax about the bumper spaghetti harvest on the Swiss–Italian border; he had been taken in by the transparently fraudulent ooh-la-la nonsense at the Maison du Wax. He had also, let’s not forget, been taken in by Mrs Groynes the harmless cockney charlady for many years, even when (on occasion) he stumbled across her piling unexplained bags of bullion into a taxi at the back entrance of the police station.

  But, in his defence, he had pretty good reasons to believe in Adelaide’s legitimacy. As far as he was concerned, no one but a member of the family could possibly know the story of his parents’ momentous meeting all those years ago in Gordon Square. As he had said to Mrs Groynes, Adelaide had even known the make of the car! Moreover, she had been extremely stand-offish with him to start with, and had actually run away from him at Victoria Station when he dared to suggest that the story meant as much to him as it did to her. But most of all, why would anyone go to such lengths to defraud him? What on earth would they have to gain?

  Meeting her had been very disturbing: no wonder he had been preoccupied ever since. When he had written those chapters about his childhood for his memoir, he had hoped to dispose of many painful memories – but with the advent of Adelaide, they’d been horribly raked up again. That awful trip to Swanage when Grandfather Penrose had met them on the drive with a shotgun, refusing to let them in. That children’s Christmas party at Hammersmith Police Station that Mother had angrily dragged them away from because they were enjoying the company of ‘common’ children. The time Gillian announced firmly she would be walking backwards from now on, and kept it up for a week or more – just because the sole of her little shoe was flapping, and she wanted to keep it a secret from Mother (who, once she found out, would take it out on Father).

  It was interesting that Gillian had told her daughter none of these other stories – after all, she was a year or two his senior, and more likely to remember. But as Adelaide explained to him, in that sweet, soft voice of hers: ‘If these things were painful for you, Uncle Geoffrey, they were painful for Mummy, too. That’s why she ran away from home. The only part of her family history she wanted to pass on to me was that happy day when out-of-control Bloomsbury-ites terrorised her mother and brought her parents together.’

  On the morning of Twitten’s breakdown at the police station, Steine told Adelaide some news. He said he had written to his mother in Kenya.

  They were breakfasting in Luigi’s, and from the way she clunked her coffee cup in her saucer, he could tell she wasn’t pleased. Those almond-shaped eyes of hers (coloured hazel) flashed with annoyance.

  ‘Oh, I do wish you hadn’t done that, Uncle Geoffrey,’ she said, in a reasonable tone.

  ‘Yes, well. I know you didn’t want me to, but it’s done now.’

  ‘I did ask you to wait for a bit, until – well, until after the ceremony at the wax museum. It’s only next week. I’m sure that hearing you’ve been modelled in wax would have made her so proud.’

  ‘How little you know of her, my dear,’ Steine said, shaking his head. ‘But on the other hand, surely she has a right to know she has such a beautiful and charming granddaughter?’

  Adelaide patted her swept-up chestnut hair, as if to acknowledge the compliment. ‘Oh, Uncle Geoffrey.’

  She finished her coffee. She needed to go; Phyllis, who had been away for a few days, would be waiting on the corner.

  ‘Well, off to the fray, I suppose. By the way, my solicitor in London needs to talk to you about that will of Mummy’s. It’s a bore, but he says now you’ve turned up it’s possible you’ll be getting everything instead of me, so I might have to stay a humble Brighton Belle forever!’

  ‘What? But that’s terrible, Adelaide. I would never allow that.’

  ‘He thinks there’s a way round it, if you’re agreeable. Actually, now I think of it, he said he could meet you today – this morning, even – as he happens to be in Brighton.’

  ‘Of course. I can see him whenever you like.’

  ‘Good. I’ll telephone his office now and find out where he is.’ She smiled. ‘I’ve always wondered, Uncle Geoffrey. Do letters take long to reach a place like Kenya?’

  ‘About a week, I think.’

 
‘And the same for a reply to come back?’

  ‘I suppose so, yes.’

  Adelaide buttoned up her jacket and prepared to leave.

  ‘Have you been to Kenya yourself?’

  ‘Yes, once. A few years ago. But I’d rather not talk about it.’

  ‘Why? What happened?’

  ‘Well, if you must know, there was an accident.’

  He squirmed.

  ‘Look, I accidentally shot dead the man my mother was in love with. But in my defence, he was lurking in some undergrowth wearing an old animal hide at the time – playing at Tarzan, apparently – it was entirely his own silly fault.’

  With difficulty, Adelaide kept a straight face, but anyone better than Inspector Steine at reading expressions would have noticed the way her lips twitched and her eyes danced as she struggled to remain solemn.

  ‘What a terrible story,’ she squeaked, turning a laugh into a little cough.

  ‘Mother was inconsolable, of course. She’s never forgiven me. But then, when I think back, I don’t think she’s ever forgiven anyone for anything. Not even Virginia Woolf.’ He thought about what he had said. ‘Actually, I’m not sure I forgive Virginia Woolf completely either.’

  Twitten was feeling better. He had not only drunk a restorative cup of tea, but also washed his face and done up his buttons. Ethically, he was very uncomfortable about accepting help from a villainess who could lock a door and pocket the key in such a sinister manner (and who, in his experience, had no qualms about murder). But pragmatism enters all our lives at some point or other, and today it was entering his.

  ‘Now, that’s better, dear,’ she said, when he returned from the lavatory. ‘You look much more like your usual annoying clever-clogs self.’

  ‘Thank you very much for saying so, Mrs G.’

  ‘So, I’ve been thinking about the killing of this Dupont,’ she said. ‘And I think your main mistake, dear, is that you’ve allowed motive to be your main concern at the expense of method. In short, you’ve neglected to think about the manner in which this particular murder was done, dear.’

  ‘You mean, the actual throat-slitting?’

  ‘Precisely. Throat-slitting in broad daylight, with potentially hundreds of witnesses. I mean, let’s look at that list of suspects of yours.’

  Twitten handed her a sheet of paper headed ‘Suspects’. It said, at the top, THE BENSONS, and then underneath, in smaller letters: Frank Benson, Bruce Benson, Ma Benson. It was a very short list.

  ‘Just all the Bensons, then,’ she said.

  ‘They’ve got so many reasons, Mrs G. One: Peter Dupont knew about Kenneth. Two: he was taking Deirdre away. And three: he knew about them bribing the council.’

  ‘But you see this is what I’m talking about, dear. They might have had reasons, but be sensible: people like the bleeding Bensons don’t go about slitting people’s gizzards in public in broad daylight.’

  ‘Don’t they?’

  ‘Of course not. They lure you up an alley at midnight and pump you full of lead. I mean, maybe occasionally they’d opt for hit-and-run, but – ’ here Mrs Groynes, with head on one side, considered the running-over method ‘ – well, you see, speaking as a professional, running people over is messy, dear, because the daft sods often sprint off when they spot you coming; and even when you hit them bang, straight on, it’s not a hundred per cent if you don’t get the speed right. No, midnight up an alley, that’s the best. Then shooting if you don’t care who hears; stabbing or garrotting if you do. Do you see? No, I think you’ve got to cross off the Bensons, dear. Trust me, it wasn’t them.’

  Twitten reluctantly took the sheet from her. It was hard to let go of an idea he’d treasured since Day One.

  ‘Tear it up, dear. Go on.’

  Sulkily, he obeyed, and put the pieces in the metal waste-bin.

  ‘You’ll be telling me next that they didn’t kill Uncle Kenneth,’ he muttered, petulantly.

  ‘Good point, dear. Nor did they.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Mrs Groynes, you can’t say they didn’t kill Kenneth. I heard Deirdre tell Peter that they did! I heard it with my own ears!’

  ‘Well, this is only a theory. But I reckon I know who was really behind that.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Terence Chambers.’

  ‘Chambers?’

  ‘Yes, dear. Legendary criminal and my own erstwhile – how can I put this? – inamorato.’

  Twitten frowned. ‘Why would Terence Chambers kill Deirdre’s Uncle Kenneth?’

  ‘As a warning, dear! To keep the Bensons in line. Blimey, Terry’s done that sort of thing a dozen times. He’ll have sent them the head, you see, as a nice little present. And then he’s left the torso in the suitcase at the station covered in clues, so the whole world knows he’s got the Bensons in his pocket.’

  ‘So you think Deirdre perhaps saw the head and got the wrong end of the stick?’

  Mrs Groynes nodded firmly. ‘Absolutely, dear. Well done.’

  This was all fascinating to Twitten. Much as he liked to work things out for himself, he was also fully prepared to rethink a case entirely if presented with new information. In fact, he enjoyed it. He just would have preferred it if the new information didn’t keep coming from Mrs Palmeira ‘Nemesis’ Groynes.

  ‘What’s Terence Chambers’s interest in the Bensons, then? Why does he want them in his pocket?’

  ‘Well, wouldn’t I like to know! I’ve had a man inside that club from the very start, hoping to find out.’ She lowered her voice. ‘There’s a cellar by all accounts, dear, but so far no one knows what goes on in it.’

  At the mention of a cellar, Twitten brightened. Peter Dupont’s dossier had pointed him towards the underground polygonal room that was formerly in the grounds of Colchester House. Was it still there? Was it perhaps the cause of the drain smell? Was it to protect the unknown contents of this secret subterranean room that key people at the council were bribed in such an extravagant fashion never to investigate the drains or allow the development of Colchester House? Good heavens. This felt like a significant breakthrough.

  ‘I can hear the cogs whirring,’ said Mrs Groynes, kindly.

  ‘Sorry, Mrs G. But this is bally exciting.’

  ‘Well, I’m pleased to hear it.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He remembered his manners. ‘This is very good of you, Mrs G.’

  ‘Oh, you just needed a fresh eye on it, that’s all. But back to the murder of Peter Dupont. There’s something else telling you that the murderer didn’t give a hoot about his investigation of the council stuff: after doing the deed, he put the dossier in that old holdall and left it at the railway station, full of incriminating evidence, instead of destroying it, do you see?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘So I reckon you can narrow it right down, dear. By the method, this is either someone with military training, or a very, very hardened criminal. As for motive, my money’s on it being personal. It was brutal and it was bleeding reckless. So I reckon it was someone who was in love with Deirdre himself and couldn’t bear to see her go off with a boy – especially a weedy one. Who else was soft on her, do you know? Anyone a bit muscly?’

  Twitten’s eyes widened. The words ‘soft on her’ rang a definite bell. It was a phrase Peter had used a few times in his notebooks in relation to other men who knew Deirdre. He thought back to what he’d read.

  ‘Well, Dickie George the singer. Dupont said he was very soft on her.’

  ‘No. He was just very soft, poor bloke. I bet he wouldn’t know one end of a shiv from another.’

  ‘Then if memory serves there was someone called “Drumsticks Tommy”.’

  She laughed. ‘No. Drumsticks wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t dare.’

  Twitten searched his memory. ‘I’m sure there were more,’ he said. ‘I’ll look again. But the thing about Deirdre, Mrs G, is that she seems to make everyone want to protect her, so although I like your theory, it doesn’t narrow it down very much.’

/>   Mrs Groynes had a little think, and then smiled. ‘Well, how about this, then? If you can’t work it out that way, how about a stratagem? You take that holdall back to the Left Luggage office.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Listen and I’ll tell you. You take it back to Left Luggage and you get your pet Argus bloke to write a story saying that the mighty brains at Brighton Constabulary blah blah are searching high and low for the package of papers stolen from Peter Dupont blah blah – because they have reason to believe that the identity of Peter Dupont’s murderer is indicated in those papers. You could even offer a reward. Then you stake out the Left Luggage office and wait to see who panics and collects it, dear!’

  ‘That’s jolly devious, Mrs G.’

  ‘I know. I can’t help it.’

  ‘It pains me to say this, but you’re a bally genius.’

  ‘Oh, go on. But I bet it works, dear. Whoever collects that holdall, that’s your man.’

  Back at Colchester House, at eight o’clock, Captain Hoagland opened the wardrobe in his attic bedroom and found that the clothes he’d been wearing the previous day had already been hung up neatly on his behalf by a feminine hand. The discovery made him dizzy.

  Sitting down on the bed, he considered the implications. It was of course a positive thing: on the basis of one night together, Palmeira was displaying considerate – even wifely – virtues. Perhaps this was her way of telling him that – this time – she wouldn’t let him get away.

  But the idea of her seeing inside his wardrobe seriously troubled him.

  ‘Mrs Rogers?’ he said. The housekeeper had appeared suddenly at his bedroom door, somewhat breathless, having run up four flights of stairs.

  ‘His lordship needs you in the morning room,’ she panted. ‘He seems upset!’

  ‘At once,’ he said, but as he closed the wardrobe door on his suits and old uniforms, he still looked thoughtful.

  ‘Look at this, Hoagy,’ Melamine said, holding out a sheet of paper as his two trusty staff members approached. ‘You can stay, Mrs Rogers,’ he added, seeing her hesitate at the threshold. ‘We have no secrets from you.’