by David Case
“Nothing? Being as how your daughter is stopping at Mr. Mallory’s, I thought—anything at all, you know, even if it seems irrelevant. We’ve come to rather a dead end there. No one seems to know anything about him.”
“Why not ask my daughter?”
“Well, I did, actually, sir. She wasn’t very helpful. Seemed, well, distracted. I wondered if perhaps she wasn’t well?”
“Perhaps not.”
“And, of course, it’s no good asking a man about himself,” Peal said, as if revealing forensic secrets.
“I can’t help you.”
“Surely your daughter has mentioned something?”
“My daughter, Inspector, did not even tell me she was going there. I don’t see her these days.”
“Yet you moved to the village—”
“To no avail.”
“Um. You didn’t see fit, under the circumstances, to have him investigated?”
“If you can’t trace his background, Inspector, how in blazes do you suppose I could?”
“Yes, I see—”
“This is rather unpleasant for me, Inspector. If you have any specific questions?”
Peal withdrew a notebook from his breast pocket and flipped it open, apparently to secure a moment for silent deliberation. John looked at me. I felt uncomfortable. I was remembering Lucian Mallory in Cairo, drinking heavily, in the company of a half-naked belly dancer. I had no doubt that Mallory was a man of depraved appetites and that he certainly had no business with a girl like Arabella Cunningham. But Mallory wouldn’t give a damn what effect he had on the lives of others. I recalled the awe with which his servant, Sam Cooper, had spoken of his intellect. If he were capable of making a disciple of a hard-bitten old soldier like Cooper, how easily could he charm and overwhelm an innocent girl. I remembered his deep eyes and had a vision of Arabella peering into those depths, helpless to resist his basest whim. John was staring at my face, as if he had an inkling of the thoughts which disturbed me. That would never do, and I turned away, not wishing to compound his grief. He said he knew nothing of Mallory, and it was far better that way. Undoubtedly he had imagined the worst, but had he known Mallory—
“Mabel! Give us a drink,” John cried.
That worthy woman, who had been following the conversation under the guise of washing glasses, jumped at his command. She hastened to fetch the brandy bottle and proclaimed, “Mr. Cunningham is a registered guest, you know, Inspector. Registered right in the book.” She filled John’s glass, then looked at me. I shook my head. “Inspector?” she asked.
“No,” he responded automatically. Then he said, “Wait, yes, maybe I will. A small whiskey.” Mabel appeared amazed, certain this was a violation of ethics. She poured him a Scotch. He put away the notebook and took up the glass. Somehow his gesture of drinking manifested the difficulties he felt, the frustration of this investigation. He drained the whiskey in one swallow while John was sipping at his brandy.
“Just one more question, sir,” Peal said. “Would you know if Mallory is a doctor?”
“A doctor?”
“Yes, a medical man.”
“I shouldn’t think so.”
Peal frowned.
“Does he claim to be?” John inquired.
“Well, no. It was just an idea I had.”
I felt it was time to speak up: “Perhaps I can help you, Inspector.”
“And who might you be, sir?”
“Thomas Ashley.”
His face went blank for a moment, then seemed to expand with interest. His brow arched and his lips tightened.
“Ashley—” he repeated.
“Yes, that’s right. I sent the telegram.”
“I see.” He frowned. “How did you happen to know about that, then?”
“What?”
“The fact that the telegram was—never delivered.”
“Why—”
“I told him, Inspector,” Mabel said, looking up from the sparkling glass she was cleansing for the fifth time. Then she blushed, realizing she had revealed her eavesdropping. “Emma phoned from the post office.”
Peal snorted and shook his head.
“It figures,” he grunted. “You’d think this was a bloody circus come to town.” His words, like his drinking, betrayed his travail.
“You’re acquainted with Mr. Mallory, then?”
“Very slightly.”
“Your telegram stated you were arriving here. I assume you’ve come to see him?”
“Yes. He has some Egyptian hieroglyphs I’m interested in translating. Nothing to do with these murders, I assure you.”
“Yes, yes,” Peal nodded impatiently. “But do you know him?”
“I met him twice. In Egypt.”
“Would you know what he does?”
“If you mean, is he a doctor—”
Peal gestured, turning a palm up.
“He’s an Egyptologist,” I affirmed. “At least, he was when I met him. He did mention having some medical background, but I shouldn’t think he was a doctor. I’m sure he isn’t.”
“I see. An Egyptologist. He studies ancient ruins, things like that?”
“Things like that.”
“So he told me.”
“I see no reason to doubt him.”
“Oh, I don’t. We have to ask, that’s all.”
“Surely Mallory isn’t a suspect?”
“Not at all. He’s simply a new resident, and as I said, I’m naturally interested in anyone recently arrived here.” He had produced the notebook once again. “If you’d just tell me anything you know about him—”
I hesitated. I had no liking for Mallory, yet on the other hand it seemed wrong to discuss him behind his back. Peal sensed my reluctance and commented dryly, “Curious, how people—especially innocent people—are so unwilling to talk to the authorities. Makes them feel like spies, eh? Damn silly attitude. If a man is innocent, what they say can only help prove it. And if he’s guilty—I’m not talking about Mr. Mallory, you understand, just people in general—if a man is guilty, well, you’d think the citizens would be thankful to have him apprehended. But no. People seem to feel closer to criminals than to cops. It’s as if the citizens, good and bad, are all allied against the laws; as if people want to lead their lives and policemen have to stop them. Almost part of the balance of nature.”
“Is that a lecture?” I asked.
Peal looked at me.
“Laws, too, are good and bad,” I said.
“I’m afraid so. No matter. I can’t believe anyone would want to protect this killer. It’s a grim thing, Mr. Ashley. They’re always hard when there’s no apparent motive, when it’s the work of a madman. Oh, the madman thinks he has a motive, but how do you put yourself inside a twisted mind? There’s no way to deduce who it is. You just have to look for concrete clues. And if he leaves no clues,” Peal shrugged his shoulders, “well, then, you just have to wait and maybe you’ll catch him in the act. Maybe you won’t. Maybe, in the end, a pattern will emerge so we can predict where and when he’ll strike again. But in order to get a pattern, sir, you must have quite a number of separate events. Just like drawing a graph. And, in the case of a murderer, those separate events, well, you can see what that means.” The inspector was eyeing me fixedly. “Now, take Mr. Mallory. I don’t suspect him. I don’t think anything of the sort. But the fact remains that both these murders took place within a short distance of his house. That’s the only connection, but it’s also the only connection in the whole affair. So, if you’ll just tell me what you know about Mallory?”
I nodded, half-chastened and half-annoyed. Peal scribbled cryptic notes as I divulged what little I knew of Mallory. I made no mention of the belly dancer in deference to John’s feelings. When I had finished, Peal sighed and closed his notebook. He was understandably
less than elated over the meager gleanings I had managed to impart.
“You’ll be seeing Mallory tomorrow?” he asked.
“I expect so.”
“I may want to speak to you again. Are you staying here at the Red Lion?”
“Registered,” Mabel quickly confirmed.
I nodded.
“Thank you for your help, sir,” Peal said.
After Peal had left, John and I sat for a while in silence.
“What sort of man is he, Ashley?” he asked me.
“I really don’t know, John. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t suppose he’ll hurt her?”
“Hurt her? He’s not a likable man, but certainly no brute.”
“Ah, I’m being foolish. I—I went out to his house once. Just after Arabella moved there. I wanted to talk with her, see if I could persuade her to come home. Ashley, she seemed, well, stupefied by the man. Dazed. As if he’d put a spell on her.” He hunched his shoulders in a shrug or, perhaps, a shudder. “Well, it’s not your concern. But if you go to his place—if you see her, I mean—well, if you could just make sure she’s all right?”
“Of course, John.”
He nodded. It was late, but he apparently had no intention of leaving the bar. Mabel had disappeared. Suddenly I felt very tired and told John I was going to bed. He made no reply. I left through the side door. Mabel was on the telephone, assuring someone that Inspector Peal himself had told her that the killer was certain to strike again.
I retired to my room.
4
That night I slept badly.
The bed was softer than I preferred and enveloped my body, while my mind played over the events of the day. I had become accustomed to the routine of my cottage. The train journey had weakened me physically and left my mind easy prey for a confusion of thoughts. I considered the paradox of a quiet village as the scene of two ghastly murders; the coincidence of meeting an old friend whose daughter had succumbed to the dubious blandishments of the same strange man I had come to see; the clatter of unseen hooves and the subsequent tale of lust and vengeance which, explaining the sounds, left them all the more inexplicable. Eventually, as I ebbed toward sleep, I even marveled at the circumstances that enabled a medieval pub to bear a modern jukebox. When at last I slept, I had a jumble of dreams on various levels through which I sank; dreams of intangible substance but cloying mood.
There was a young lad on a green bicycle. The spokes made revolving shadows in a dusty road, and this was eerie in that there was no sunlight, no other shadows, the light diffused and constant. Something moved through the trees beside the road, paralleling the youth. He pedaled faster, but whatever moved in the undergrowth kept pace. Then trees and road converged and blurred. There were rustlings and whimpers, and old Melville Coots appeared, silently mouthing a word. “Monster, monster, monster,” he repeated as his face ballooned toward me, drawing so close that I lost focus, then receding to reveal that it was not Coots at all, but Arabella Cunningham, dressed in the scanty costume of a belly dancer, retreating from me with gyrating pelvis. She did not dance gracefully. She twitched like a marionette. Then she was a marionette, diminishing to a small doll jerking on strings. Lucian Mallory was working those strings. He wore Arabian robes. When he threw the cowl back, I saw that his face was swathed in brittle linen like a mummy, only his remarkable eyes exposed. I didn’t dare rush after Arabella. I was afraid he would put strings on me.
Then I woke up quite abruptly and looked around the room. Dim light carried from the window and blocked the opposite wall. The painting hung askew in this rectangle of illumination, manifesting the truth of physical laws in a world of illusion. Afterward I slept again, more soundly. When I again awoke it was morning and birds were singing.
I went downstairs and encountered Mabel Sinclair passing through the reception room. She seemed cheerful. “If you’d care to go into the breakfast room, I’ll be with you in just a moment,” she said.
“You seem to do everything here.”
“Yes, I have to. Except on Saturday nights there’s a barmaid, and sometimes I have some help on Sunday lunchtime. I had a cook here last year. A Chinaman. But I had to let him go. Didn’t pay. Don’t get many for dinner regular, and he wasn’t reasonable about adjusting his wages according to the business. Funny, that. You’d think a Chinaman would understand more about wages, being as how he was probably a coolie or something in the East. Think he’d of been thankful for the job instead of grumbling. Had quite a bit of trouble with him.”
Shaking her head she started to move on.
“May I use your phone?”
“On the counter. Local call?”
“Yes. I assume so. The Croft?”
“Oh, yes. Yes, that’s local. I heard you discussing Mr. Mallory with the inspector. Couldn’t help overhearing. Egypt, eh?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“My husband was in Egypt once.”
“Is that so?”
“Oh, yes. He was a naval man, like I told you. I don’t suppose you were a naval man?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Funny, you meeting Mr. Mallory in Egypt. I guess he must travel a lot. He was in the West Indies just before he came here, they say. ’Course, they say lots of things. Plenty of gossip in the village. Never met Mr. Mallory myself.”
“I don’t suppose he comes into the village much.”
“No. No, I guess he wants his privacy. Expect that’s why he took the old Hammond place. Secluded, you know. He only comes in once a fortnight or so to buy food. Got a big open motorcar, old-fashioned. Expensive, I daresay.”
I smiled and attempted to move toward the desk, but she continued talking: “ ’Course, he spent some time here while he was making arrangements for the house. Not at the Red Lion, though. But in the village. At first it was thought he was some sort of preacher or evangelist or something. Maybe a missionary, being as how he has traveled so much. That was before the trouble at the vicar’s garden party, of course—” She paused and studied me with a slight smile. She knew she’d captured my interest. I waited to hear more. She waited to be questioned. Finally she broke down and shrugged, “But who am I to pass on gossip about him? I wasn’t even there, only know what I’ve been told.”
“And what was that, Mrs. Sinclair?”
“Well, I can’t rightly say—”
“All right,” I said, and essayed another advance upon the telephone.
Mabel took a hurried step after me and spluttered breathlessly, “I only heard about it from a couple of the local gossips and you can’t always believe them and anyhow they didn’t really understand much of what went on—” I turned back. Mabel looked relieved. She continued, “The way I understand it is that your Mr. Mallory and the vicar had a terrible row. They say as Mr. Mallory had been drinking, you know. And they fell to arguing over religion. At first it was more of a discussion, but soon enough they became heated. They say Mr. Mallory deliberately provoked Grimm. He’s the vicar, Grimm,” she explained confidentially. “And Grimm got all excited, and what should he do but denounce Mr. Mallory as a heathen! Fancy that? Fire and brimstone talk. Didn’t trouble Mr. Mallory none at all, and they say he put Grimm pretty well in his place, although I’m sure I don’t know what place that would be. Got a way with him, your Mr. Mallory. All the ladies present—they were shocked at hearing him argue with the vicar, of course—but the way they described it to me, I could tell they considered Mallory quite the charmer. Anyhow, Grimm had to ask Mallory to leave in the end. All red-faced and flustered, pointing toward the gate, they say he looked like the Lord driving Adam from the Garden of Eden. Of course, that was said tongue-in-cheek, you know, not by way of sacrilege.” She paused and vouchsafed a smug look, then lowered her voice conspiratorially. “And Miss Cunningham left with him—”
I stared at her.
&n
bsp; “Just like that,” she said. She tightened her lips and bobbed her head up and down, relieved of her burden of knowledge just as a weary horse is relieved of the bridle. “First time she’d ever met him, to anyone’s knowledge, and she just up and left with him without a care as to what others would think.”
“Yes. Well, I must make my telephone call now.”
“Not that I’m speaking out against her—”
I gave her a crisp nod and walked over to the desk. Mabel went about her business. I could well imagine Mallory, drunk and aggressive, baiting some country vicar. It was quite in character. Still, his character didn’t concern me, and neither, I told myself, did Arabella Cunningham’s behavior. I was interested in Mallory’s hieroglyphs, nothing more.
Yes, the operator informed me, Mr. Mallory had a telephone and she would ring his number. I hadn’t known whether to expect him to be on the phone. Hating telephones myself, I rather presumed the same feelings in anyone immersed in the past, but then Mallory made no differentiation between past and present and certainly was the type to value convenience and expediency. The phone rang in my ear. Too bad, I thought, that my message hadn’t been called through to him instead of delivered by messenger. It would have prevented the murder. But, I supposed, in this rural village the traditions of delivery were too deeply ingrained, and the telephone too recent an invention to be trusted. I wondered if a second attempt had been made to deliver the telegram. It would be quite understandable if it had been forgotten in the excitement and commotion of the circumstances, or if it proved difficult to find a second messenger to follow in the tracks of that first unfortunate lad. Then the receiver was lifted at the other end. I recognized Mallory’s voice and identified myself.
“Ah, Ashley. Good of you to ring. Where are you?”
“Farriers Bar.”
“What? So soon?”
“I came in on last night’s train.”
“But I expected you this evening. Your telegram has only just arrived—”