Step in the Dark

by Elizabeth Lemarchand

  ‘All right, we’ll buy that. Did you see something that scared you, then? No? Heard something frightening?’

  At last, with infinite patience, he got at the facts. The latch of the door with the funny handle had made an awful noise. There had been moving about inside the room, a sort of scuffling. Somebody screeched and called out. There were some bangs, then a big crash. ‘And then a door shut, quiet like.’

  ‘What did you do then?’ Pollard asked.

  ‘I wur afeared to run fer it, thinkin’ I ’eard a car. Then I wur that scared I ’opped it, an’ ran fer the bushes over the road.’

  ‘Was there a car outside?’

  ‘I couldn’t see none.’

  Pollard paused.

  ‘Ernie, you’re being a lot of help,’ he said encouragingly. ‘Now, this question I’m going to ask you is especially important. Don’t answer till you’ve had time to think carefully. While you were in the bushes, did anybody come out of the door, or the yard, or go into either of them?’

  ‘A girl came along in a car. Drove straight into the yard, an’ a woman came runnin’ out of the ’ouse and there wur a lot o’ kissin’ an’ ’uggin’.’

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘She locked ’er car an’ took ’er bag an’ they went in the ’ouse.’

  ‘Did they shut the doors?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Pollard inquired about the church clock and learned that it had struck seven before the girl drove up. After the two women had disappeared into the house, Ernie had emerged from the bushes and made his way home, getting back just before his mother returned.

  Sounds outside announced the return of Flo Dibble. She was ushered into the room by a constable, and slammed a pound note and a small semi-transparent envelope on to the table.

  ‘I’m not sayin’ it’s all ’e took, mind,’ she said.

  ‘Was there anything else, Ernie?’ Inspector Cook asked, pushing the envelope towards Pollard and Toye.

  ‘Pen,’ the boy replied, glancing at the table.

  ‘What did you do with the pen?’

  ‘’E must’ve fallen outer me pocket when I wur in the bushes. I felt for ’un on the way ’ome, and ’e wur gorn.’

  Ignoring Flo Dibble’s snort of disbelief, Inspector Cook promptly dispatched a constable to make a search. He cleared his throat. ‘Anything more you’d like to ask Ernie, Mr Pollard?’

  ‘No thanks, Inspector. He’s helped on our inquiry by being so frank about last Wednesday evening, you know.’

  ‘That’ll go on record, Mr Pollard. Before you go, I regret that Mr Moggs won’t be available until tomorrow night. He went off in his car and the house is shut up.’

  ‘Oh, thanks very much for finding out. Good evening, Mrs Dibble.’

  She made no reply, and the Yard pair went out. As Toye turned from shutting the door of their temporary office, Pollard looked in astonishment at the excitement in his normally solemn face.

  ‘What’s bitten you?’ he demanded.

  ‘Those stamps...’

  ‘What about ’em?’

  ‘I reckon they’re worth thousands. The top one in the packet’s a Mauritius twopenny blue. I swear it is!’

  ‘How the devil do you know?’ Pollard asked incredulously.

  ‘My eldest’s mad keen. He’s built up quite a decent little collection. Reads books on ’em and I’ve glanced at one or two.’

  Pollard had a brief vision of the Toye family’s estimable private life, incorporating worthwhile hobbies. He stared at Toye.

  ‘If you’re right, it’s damned rum. Why on earth does the Escott woman carry around stamps worth thousands in her handbag? Not that it need have anything to do with what we’re supposed to be investigating. All the same... Hell! Come in!’

  He swung round irritably as the door opened, this time to admit Superintendent Daly, with slightly squared shoulders.

  ‘Sorry to butt in, Mr Pollard, but the fact is, Mr Westlake is asking for a word with you. He’s Chairman of the Trustees of the Ramsden Literary and Scientific, and of our Bench, too. And the most valuable book that’s gone is one of his.’

  Pollard groaned.

  ‘OK, Super. Bring him along. I know how it is — only too well!’

  Chapter 7

  As an obviously relieved Superintendent Daly went out, Pollard turned to Toye.

  ‘So what? Local king-pin? Fancies himself as an amateur sleuth? Wants us to drop everything and go all out to find his blasted book? Any more of this, and he’s got another think coming — p.d.q., too!’

  ‘You said this morning we’d be seeing him as soon as we could get round to it,’ Toye pointed out reasonably. ‘On the chance of picking up something about the party.’ Pollard grimaced at him hideously, as footsteps came along the passage. The next moment, he found himself confronting a tall white-haired man in Harris tweeds, who came forward with hand extended.

  ‘Superintendent Pollard? I’m Westlake. It’s good of you to see me. I won’t waste your time, I promise you.’

  Avoiding Toye’s eye, Pollard introduced the newcomer and organized seating. He recognized the type: a shade authoritative from a lifetime of public responsibility and assured social status, but too experienced to be inflated with self-importance. Dead straight in his dealings. Sometimes a bit unimaginative. Pollard sensed, from numberless encounters with witnesses in the past, that here was someone who felt obliged to give the police information, but was reluctant to do so because of an existing loyalty. He decided to give Westlake time to play himself in.

  ‘As a matter of fact, Mr Westlake,’ he said, ‘we’re grateful to you for turning up here and now. We were going to contact you, for some information about the party at the Athenaeum last Tuesday. I take it that, as Chairman, you’d have been there most of the time?’

  James Westlake looked surprised.

  ‘Most of the time, yes. I got there early, but left while there were still a few people around. A bigwig who’s just joined the Society had to be given dinner. What particular information do you want?’

  ‘Nothing particular. Just an overall picture of the evening. Anything special that you noticed about people there... Yes, do smoke, by all means.’

  There was a short hold-up while James Westlake got a pipe going.

  ‘Right,’ he said, puffing contentedly. ‘You’d better have the general context first. It was a drinks party to celebrate the centenary of the Ramsden Literary and Scientific Society, of which I’m Chairman at the moment. We got under way soon after half-past six. About 130 people turned up, all members and their guests: we’re a bit restricted for space, so it wasn’t exactly a public function. I made the inevitable speech, and proposed the health of RLSS. After that, things took the normal course for an affair of this kind: people drifting around and chatting. Nothing in the least out of the way happened, to the best of my knowledge.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Pollard said, ‘that’s got the evening in focus, so to speak. You’ll have gathered that we think it’s possible that there’s a connection between the party and what happened at the Athenaeum the following night. As Chairman, you’ll have kept a general eye on proceedings, and may possibly have seen something relevant without realizing it. Just take us through the evening as you saw it.’

  ‘Well, let me think... When the speechifying was over, I stood for a bit talking to Professor Thornley, the bigwig I mentioned just now. He’s an Oxford Professor of Social History. Alastair Habgood, our librarian, was there, too. After a bit I felt I ought to round up the Escott family and introduce them to Thornley. They’re the descendants of Evelyn Escott who founded and endowed RLSS.’

  James Westlake paused and looked across the table with a grin.

  ‘It was damn hard going! Colin Escott and his wife haven’t a clue on what RLSS is about, and Thornley is a complete egghead. Mercifully, Peter Escott, Colin’s boy who was up at Cambridge, intervened and took Thornley off to see the ceilings in the Habgoods’ flat. They’re well-known example
s of decorative plaster-work, as you’ve probably gathered by now.’

  Pollard, listening with interest, decided that, on the face of it, the partnership of Professor Thornley and Peter Escott seemed unlikely to have lent itself to funny business with keys.

  ‘After that,’ James Westlake went on, ‘I started circulating, and talking to all and sundry. I was looking out for Miss Evelyn Escott, another member of the family, and capable of talking Thornley’s language up to a point. I ran her to earth and fixed with her to come and be introduced when Thornley came back from the flat. Then I went on doing the round. The trompe-l’oeil is always a draw and I demonstrated it interminably to various groups of people.’

  ‘That clears up one point, I expect,’ Pollard put in. ‘There’s a recurring set of fingerprints on it which are probably yours, and which we’d like to eliminate. Would you mind if we printed you?’

  ‘Good lord, no! Go ahead.’

  Toye produced the necessary apparatus and began operations.

  ‘Carry on, Mr Westlake,’ Pollard invited. ‘You’re giving us just the gen we want.’

  ‘There really isn’t much more to say, I’m afraid. Just the mixture as before. When I eventually saw that Thornley and young Escott had come down again, I collected Evelyn and took her along. She and Thornley clicked at once. I left them chatting, and they were still at it when I went back to take him off to dinner at the Castle Hotel. That was just before eight. He’s an interesting chap if a bit pedantic, and we nearly missed his train. I dropped Habgood off at the Athenaeum on the way back from the station, but didn’t go in again myself... Thanks,’ he concluded, accepting a rag from Toye, and beginning to clean his fingertips.

  ‘When I started on the job,’ Pollard said, after a short pause, ‘I thought it looked pretty straightforward — I couldn’t have been more wrong. Unexpected ramifications keep sprouting out. One of them is that X, as we’re calling the chap who broke into the book cupboard, almost certainly got into the boiler house by way of the library during Wednesday. He spent a considerable time there, sitting on one of your stacking chairs, all nice and cosy by the boiler. One of the people we’re anxious to contact is this Miss Evelyn Escott, who was working in the library most of last Wednesday. It’s possible that she may have noticed who came in.’

  As he talked, Pollard saw a small upward jerk of James Westlake’s chin. He’s come about something to do with this Escott woman, he thought, and waited. No remark was forthcoming, however, so he went on.

  ‘Of course it would be surprising if there were no link between the break-in and Annabel Brown’s death, but up to now there is no conclusive evidence that she was in on the job with X. But if she wasn’t, it raises the question of how X, acting on his own bat, got hold of the key to the door of the boiler house. He had to have it in order to get out after nicking the books. One possibility is that he managed to take an impression of the key at an earlier date and get a duplicate cut. Another is that he managed to abstract the key, unlock the door and put the key back during the party, banking on the fact that it was most unlikely that anyone would discover that the door wasn’t locked during the next twenty-four hours. We’d like your opinion on this.’

  James Westlake smoked in silence for some moments, a worried look on his usually cheerful face.

  ‘In my opinion it’s extremely unlikely that anyone could have pulled it off,’ he said at last. ‘In the first place, it’s generally accepted that members don’t go through the trompe-l’oeil. It’s an unusually skilled specimen, and one doesn’t want all and sundry messing it about. Besides, the last thing one wants is people going into the boiler house — on safety grounds. The stacking chairs are only needed for large gatherings, so there was no need for any individual to go through and fetch one for personal use: they were all out in the library, anyway. What I’m getting at is that anyone going through alone during the party would have been noticeable, if you get me. There’s been a lot of local publicity about the details of the break-in, and if anybody had been seen at the trompe-l’oeil, I’m pretty confident that we should have heard about it. Another thing is that I myself was standing near it for a considerable part of the evening, either showing people how it worked, or just chatting. Then, of course, getting the key, coming down, and going up to the flat again to replace it, would mean two trips each way: a bit conspicuous for a chap on his own, perhaps. I think it might well have been noticed casually and remembered since.’

  ‘None of this is conclusive,’ Pollard said, ‘but on the whole I’m inclined to agree with you.’

  Silence descended, which he allowed to become prolonged before he broke it.

  ‘Mr Westlake,’ he said at last. ‘What did you really come to see us about?’

  James Westlake removed the pipe from his mouth and contemplated it.

  ‘Evelyn Escott,’ he replied. ‘Do I take it that you know she’s gone away, leaving no address, and having put her house up for sale?’

  Pollard nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We want to see her, as I told you: we went round there this morning, too late to get the estate agent’s office before it closed for the weekend. Inspector Cook tried to contact him for us, but he seems to have gone off into the blue until tomorrow night.’

  ‘Did Cook tell you anything about her past history?’

  ‘A bit, yes. I gather her father couldn’t make the grade, and she’s had a hard life, more or less disowned by her prosperous relations here.’

  ‘There’s more to it than that. She’s a natural academic, if you follow me. All her inclinations are that way. The tragedy was that she didn’t get to a university, but was given a third-rate secretarial training and pushed out to earn at the earliest possible moment. Eventually her parents died, and by sheer determination she got herself to London, went to evening classes, and on pure merit managed to get and hold down good jobs. But all through, her one aim was to get back here with enough to live on and identify herself with RLSS, founded by her forebear, old Evelyn Escott. We welcomed her, of course, and encouraged her to write a little history of the Society. She was thrilled to bits.

  ‘As I told you, I put her on to Thornley. He’s a decent old scout, and took to her. Gave her useful advice, and a general bibliography, and told her to keep in touch, and send her stuff along for him to vet. I got all this from him over dinner on Tuesday night. She spent the whole of Wednesday working in the library. It wasn’t until Friday that I managed to ring her and ask her how she was, having heard that she’d been knocked down and had had her bag snatched on Wednesday night. I rang twice and got no answer, and again on Saturday morning. Then I felt a bit uneasy, went along to the house and saw that it was up for sale. I was staggered, then realized that all the windows were shut; also I found a note stopping milk deliveries.

  ‘By this time I began to feel really disturbed, and decided to go and see Moggs, the agent. I made a few judicious inquiries, and learnt that Miss Escott had put the property on Mogg’s books, telling him she was going away for a few days, and would ring him when she got back. She hadn’t given him an address.’

  James Westlake paused, as if uncertain about how to go on.

  Pollard realized that the moment of truth was imminent. ‘And did you leave it at that?’ he asked.

  ‘No. I told Moggs — with perfect truth — that I’m casting around for a small house in these parts for an elderly relative, and thought that Miss Escott’s might be suitable. I know him quite well, and as he was just going off in his car for the weekend he offered to let me have the keys, provided I’d undertake to drop them in first thing on Monday.’

  ‘So I gather you went over the house and found no sign of Miss Escott? That must have been a relief. Was there any clue to where she’s gone?’

  ‘None, but I had only a pretty superficial look round. However, I did find something which I feel you ought to know about. Perhaps I’d better explain here that I was present in a completely unofficial capacity at the discussion between
our CC and Daly and Cook, when the decision was taken to call in the Yard. So I know about the time within which that unfortunate girl could have died, also the fingerprints on the boiler house door handle made by her, X and Y. To come to the point, I found a pair of damp knitted gloves, hung up to dry. Add this to Miss Escott’s actions over the past three days, and it suggests to me that she could be Y.’

  Pollard clasped his hands behind his head and sat deep in thought for a few moments. ‘The time limit for Y’s trip to the Athenaeum is roughly from midnight, when the heavy rain set in, and 8.15 a.m., when the body was discovered. Can you think of any conceivable reason for Miss Escott to go round there during this period?’ he asked.

  ‘Absolutely none,’ James Westlake replied categorically. ‘The whole business seems baffling.’

  ‘Another thing, sir,’ Toye put in. ‘If Miss Escott is Y, she couldn’t have reckoned on being able to get into the boiler house and the library. It was chance that the wind blew the yard doors open, to start with. Doesn’t it look as though she must have gone round to see the Habgoods? You’d think she’d have rung them, if it was all that urgent or, anyway, knocked them up when she got there.’

  ‘I’m not absolutely sure about ringing them,’ Pollard said thoughtfully. ‘There are quite a lot of older people who don’t care about dealing with anything private or very important over the phone. Assuming that Miss Escott is Y, my guess is that the idea was to knock up the Habgoods but that something diverted her into the yard, just as it’s possible that Brown was diverted if she wasn’t in the break-in.’

  James Westlake shifted his position abruptly. ‘Are you going to ask for a search warrant?’ he asked. ‘I realize that I’ve sailed a bit close to the wind.’

  ‘This sort of navigation’s bound to be tricky,’ Pollard remarked. ‘There’s always that handy chap, Information Received, isn’t there? Yes, I think we’d better go along. The gloves are potential evidence and there’s no guarantee that Miss Escott won’t turn up at any moment.’