by Leo Bruce
“That’s the kind,” Mrs Luggett said to Carolus, explaining her hostility, “that go into Court and swear anyone was drunk and disorderly when all I’d had was a couple of pints of mild. That’s the kind that take their oath you was singing at the top of your voice and waking all the neighbors when I’d done no more than hum a bit of Annie Laurie as I walked home.”
There was a crash from the drawing-room.
“Whatever are they doing in there?” asked Mrs Luggett. “I had that carpet right out the back yesterday, now they’ll go and tramp all over it. It isn’t right, you know. And what do they expect to find? I suppose they think there’s a skelington under the floor. Hark at that! That sounds as though one of the chairs had gone over.”
“I tell you what,” said Carolus consolingly. “We’ll have a little Scotch while they’re busy.”
“I didn’t know you had any,” said Mrs Luggett rather too quickly and eagerly.
“Yes. I brought a bottle down last night.”
“Oh, I see,” said Mrs Luggett. She was clearly relieved. She had been afraid that it had lain undiscovered in the house during Carolus’s absence in London yesterday.
“Will you have one, Mrs Luggett?”
“I don’t mind. You need something to keep you going, with them doing I don’t know what in my clean droring-room. Cheerio, then.”
They were interrupted by Fred Spender with the post. Carolus was pleased to see a fairly bulky letter from Battersea, and knew that Gillick’s report on the fingerprints, the ashes and the dust from the dressing-table had arrived.
When Mrs Luggett had drunk, said: “That’s better”, and gone out to the kitchen, Carolus opened the envelope. He found a lengthy report using a good deal of technical phraseology. The house, it seemed, had probably been wiped almost clear of fingerprints before Carolus had occupied it, trouble being taken by someone who had spent time in wiping and polishing every likely surface. In fact the first print that Gillick found was one of Carolus’s own, and for a long time he had feared that he might find no other. But, expert in finding prints in places likely to be overlooked by someone deliberately wiping them out, Gillick had eventually discovered three. All were from the same hand, and that hand was the one which had held the glass sent by Carolus—in other words the hand of Rathbone. (Gillick congratulated Carolus on securing this very clear set.) There were no fingerprints discoverable in the house from any other hand. Gillick found nothing extraordinary in this. He did not know how much Carolus had studied the subject, but he would remind him that an ordinary print on a polished surface lasted at the most twenty-four hours, while one on a good surface like that of a looking-glass might be recognizable after three days. The only prints he had expected to find in the house were those left by someone with oily or greasy fingers which would last for weeks. Normally in any house such prints were to be found in the bathroom or kitchen, but in this case there had been a deliberate attempt to clean them up.
The ashes came from coal fires, probably lighted with wood. There was no trace among them of anything such as Gillick presumed Carolus expected to find. No bones or flesh had been burnt in these fireplaces during the time the ash had fallen. But there was evidence of a considerable quantity of cloth having been burnt and, most interesting, a pair of shoes. Gillick had recovered bootmaker’s small nails sufficient for at least one pair as well as other evidence that leather had been burnt. Of the dust from the crack in the dressing-table Gillick said simply that it contained a considerable quantity of face-powder.
Immersed in these details, Carolus had not noticed that noises from the drawing-room had ceased. He looked up to see the face of that “good scout” Detective Sergeant Cromarty in the doorway.
“We want to come in here now,” he said.
“Well, you can’t!” said Mrs Luggett, appearing in the doorway behind him, “because I’m just going to give the gent his dinner and he doesn’t want you kicking up the dust while he’s eating. I suppose,” she went on, obscurely so far as the policemen were concerned, “I suppose you’re going to put your hand on the Bible and swear someone couldn’t walk and had to be assisted when all I’d had was a small port-and-lemon on Christmas Eve? That’s what you’d like to do, I dare say. I know your sort.”
“We could do the bedroom first,” said Cromarty to Carolus, and so it was arranged.
“You should just see how they’ve left my droring-room after I Did It Out yesterday! But what can you expect? Assisted! I should like to see one of them trying to assist me. I’d give him some assistance he wouldn’t forget. Saying anyone was reeling all over the place and knocking on doors when I never done such a thing in my life! They’d swear your life away, some of them.”
It was not until the next morning when some floorboards had been taken up in the entrance passage that another cause of The Smell was discovered. A rat had died there; probably, Carolus told Mrs Luggett, of old age.
Carolus was fairly certain that nothing of any interest had been found by the police. He had himself searched the rooms, and beyond the ear-rings the garden had yielded nothing.
“Of course,” he said mischievously to Cromarty, “there’s the cement floor of the garage. It looks newly laid to me. Then there’s the coal-shed. The coal has only been put in recently.”
These gave Cromarty’s two assistants a few hours of healthy exercise but revealed nothing. Carolus felt it was time to leave Bluefield. He was unlikely to hear any more of interest and he had seen all he wanted of Glose Cottage. There were other lines of inquiry which he was anxious to follow. He told Mrs Luggett that he would be leaving on the following day, and she accepted this philosophically.
“I was afraid you might, as soon as ever I saw those coppers nosing round. No one’s going to stay where they start looking under the bed every five minutes. I shall be sorry in a way. I can get work, but it’s not everything that suits me. Besides, I’ve got my own place to look after. Of course, I’ve got my pension from my husband, but it doesn’t go very far. Will you be coming back?”
“I dare say I shall have to.”
“I’ll pop in tomorrow then and see you off. But I dare say you’ll be in at the Stag this evening?”
“Yes.”
He did not reach the little bar until nearly nine o’clock and found it crowded. He was surprised at the number of customers he had met in his short stay. There were Mrs Luggett herself, Fred Spender, Mr Toffins and his large silent son, while in a corner in solitary dignity sat Mr Wallbright, the postmaster.
“Well, how did you get on with old Cromarty?” asked Mr Lofting breezily.
“Not well,” said Carolus.
“Not? Pity that. Plays cricket for our team here. His mother lives in the village. I saw him knock up a dam’ fine 82 last summer on a wicked pitch.”
Carolus ordered his drink.
“Perhaps that’s where I’ve met you,” reflected Mr Lofting. “Do you go to the Canterbury Week?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what it is.”
Mr Lofting laughed. Carolus’s disclaimer was not to be taken seriously.
Carolus went over to greet Mr Wallbright, who looked as though he was overcome with mourning the tragic fate of all mankind.
“I’ve been told,” he said after a minute or two, “that you’re trying to find out what has happened to the Rathbones.”
“Yes.”
“I could tell you something, only it’s against regulations.”
“Pity!”
“If I could be sure it wouldn’t be repeated . . .”
“You mean, a letter has come for them?”
“For her, yes. Came this morning. I shall have to send it back ‘Gone Away. Address Unknown.’”
“I suppose you will.”
“It’ll go back to the sender if there’s an address in it. If not to the Dead Letter Office.”
“That sounds very suitable.”
“You mean she’s no longer alive?”
“It depends whom we mean by ‘she’. I mu
st go over and talk to Mr Toffins.”
He found the coal-merchant in the throes of laughter.
“I was just saying to Fred here,” he said, controlling himself, “it makes you split your sides to think of those coppers digging up all that garden and not finding anything.”
“What did you expect them to find?”
“Her, of course. What do you think? What else were they digging for?”
“That, I take it, would have been an even greater joke?”
“I don’t know about that,” said Mr Toffins. “I like to think of them doing all that work for nothing.”
“I see.”
“Moving all that coal! I bet they were black as chimney-sweeps when they’d finished. It tickles me. I could have told them she wasn’t under there because she gave me the cheque for it when we’d finished.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“Quite sure. I remember saying to my son, I wonder where the old man’s gone, because it was him opened the door when we first arrived.”
“That’s very funny,” said Carolus.
“I don’t see anything funny about that,” regretted Mr Toffins.
When he drove out of Bluefield next morning, Carolus hoped that he would not have to return. Almost the only pleasant thing in the village was the gross and bubbling personality of Mrs Luggett. In Grimsgate he returned the keys to Mr Drubbing, who whispered a secretive inquiry. “Not satisfactory?”
“Most. But I have had as much as I wanted.”
“Between you and me, I feared you might not stay. It isn’t a cheerful house, is it?”
Carolus was delighted to enter his own comfortable home in Newminster, even if he had to find some explanations for Mrs Stick.
“There’s been several inquiries,” she said when she brought in his tea. “I had to say I didn’t know when you’d be back.”
“Well, here I am,” said Carolus with cheerful fatuity.
“I can only hope you’re going to stay, sir,” said Mrs Stick.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible just at present. I need some sea air, Mrs Stick.”
“You’ve always said Newminster was so healthy.”
“No. No. Hastings is the place. Strongly recommended. I leave tomorrow.”
“I don’t know what to think, I’m sure. I said to Stick last night, one doesn’t know what to think, does one? Of course, if it really is a blow of sea air you want and not anything else, I’m sure we should be the last to say anything. But whenever you get down to the sea something always seems to happen. Look at that time down at Oldhaven when you nearly got yourself murdered! And what about Blessington-on-Sea when those bodies kept turning up? I don’t know that Hastings will be any better.”
“I’m sure the whole Corporation would reassure you, Mrs Stick.”
“We can only hope for the best, can’t we? I must go and see about your dinner. I’m glad you sent me that telegram this morning or we shouldn’t have had anything in. I’ve got some nice rizzdy vow.”
“What?” asked Carolus, genuinely baffled.
“Sweetbreads,” said Mrs Stick severely, and left him.
8
BALACLAVA GROVE, as its name suggested, was a row of small houses built just after the Crimean War. Apartments were let in some of them, others were unplacarded. They were overshadowed by the high walls of a large commercial hotel which backed on to them.
Carolus found number 47 but, instead of ringing its bell, tried that of the number 45 next door. After he had waited some time, the door was opened a few inches and a feminine face became partially visible.
“I wanted to make an inquiry,” began Carolus.
“We don’t answer opinion polls. My husband says it’s a waste of time.”
“It wasn’t that . . .”
“We never buy at the door.”
“I assure you . . .”
“We don’t believe in hire-purchase.”
“No. No. It’s just . . .”
“Besides, we get all our things from the Co-Op.”
“I dare say. I . . .”
“Well, what do you want? I’m doing my ironing.”
“I wished to inquire about some people called Rathbone who lived at 47 next door.”
“How long ago?”
“About three years.”
“We’ve only been here since the summer.”
“I see. I’m sorry.”
But the door did not shut.
“I tell you what.”
Carolus waited.
“The lady on the other side, number 49, might be able to tell you something. She’s been here a long time.”
“Thank you.”
It was always the same. Once the flood-gates were open, there was no stopping the flow. The door remained almost closed, but the voice continued:
“If not, them in the house now, number 47 I mean, ought to know something.”
“Yes. I’ll inquire.”
“Of course, you could always go to the police station.”
“Quite.”
“But the lady at 49 would know. She’s been here a good many years.” The dark inquisitive eyes continued to stare from the obscurity behind the door. “You’ll find her at home now. She doesn’t go out till the afternoon.”
“It’s very kind of you.”
“You want to give a good knock because she may be right upstairs.”
“Of course.”
“I expect she knew these you’re talking about. She seems to know everything.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t say she’s nosy, mind you, but she’s lived here a long time.”
There was only one thing to be done, Carolus decided. He must forget his manners and simply walk away. He gave a quick nod and went. As he knocked at Number 49, however, the face which had remained hidden obtruded from the doorway of Number 45.
“That’s right,” his late informant said, “give a good knock. She’ll be down in a minute.” It was evident that she intended to see the meeting she had suggested safely made. “I should knock again if I was you; she may be out the back.” Carolus did.
“She ought really to have a bell, like we’ve got. It’s awkward, waiting about, isn’t it?” It was, watched by those dark eyes.
“I’m sure she’s not out. I should have seen her go. She always comes by this way.” Carolus waited.
“You can’t hear the dog barking, can you?”
Just then the door of Number 49 was flung open wide and Carolus faced its occupant. Miss Ramble was a sinewy person with an ochreous complexion and chaotic clothes. Carolus had the impression—he thought afterwards that he must have been mistaken—of lace round the thin neck and a display of old-fashioned jewellery. There was a sort of aqueous fire in the eyes and altogether too much fluttering movement.
“Oh, good morning,” began Carolus. “I have a small favor to ask. I believe you may have been acquainted with some people called Rathbone.”
Miss Ramble looked Carolus in the eyes, then with a gesture said: “Come in!”
He was shown, ushered rather, into a room which made him gape. It could not have been arranged, he realized, for a joke or a film set, it must be real. There were pampas grass and antimacassars, beadwork foot-stools and papier-mâché tables; there were ornamental china and plush curtains, wallpaper with pink lilies-of-the-valley threaded by green ribbon with bunches of yellow violets; there was a picture-rail from which hung by copper wire a selection of mezzotint engravings of the works of Lord Leighton and Holman Hunt; there was a crocheted tablecloth over a plush one and there was an ebonized upright piano.
“Sit down!” cried Miss Ramble, indicating with a sweeping gesture a chaise-longue covered in a patchwork. “The Rathbones? Indeed I was acquainted with them. It seems only yesterday that they were in this room. We were, for a time, something more than neighbors.”
“Only for a time?”
“Yes. Towards the end there was a rift. I blame myself for giving confidence to
o readily. My weakness. But tell me, why do you come to inquire from me about the Rathbones?”
“They have disappeared.”
Miss Ramble received this as though it were a shock, violently jerking back her head. “Terrible! You mean they have absconded?”
“I don’t know. A relative of Mrs Rathbone’s has asked me to trace them. So I have come to you.”
“But,” said Miss Ramble, her every word spoken with emotion and emphasis, “it is three years since I saw them!”
“Yes. Still, I would ask you, if you will, to remember what you can about them. It will certainly help. Could you, for instance, describe them?”
“I could! He was of middle height, with a small moustache. His hair was greying and there was a strange watchfulness in his rather melancholy eyes. It was not a handsome or a forceful face.”
“And Mrs Rathbone?”
“She was a dumpy little thing.”
“Little?”
“Petite.”
“And stout?”
“Plump.”
“Did she smile often?”
“She had a very cheerful disposition and laughed easily, but I don’t think she smiled particularly often.”
“You describe them very well. I should like you just to go on telling me what you remember of them as it comes to you.”
“I will. They lived next door for about three years. They were Christian Scientists.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes. Don’t you know that? When they arrived here, Mrs Rathbone was so ill that she had to be carried into the house from the motor-car. For many weeks she was not seen, but her husband cared for her so well that, when she at last emerged, she seemed in excellent health. Thereafter, while they were here, neither of them had a day’s illness. I was impressed. I asked them about their religion, but they did not seem anxious to discuss it, and referred me to a Christian Science Reading Room, where my interest wilted and died.”
“So they never called a doctor?”
“Never. It was against their principles.”
“Was there anything of the recluse about them?”
“Not in the least. On the contrary, Mrs Rathbone was most sociable and her husband seemed to enjoy our little occasions of merriment in his quiet way. My Voice had not then deserted me and many was the evening when I rendered them the ‘songs and snatches’ of my earlier days. It was, in fact, over one such occasion that our memorable rift occurred.”