by Cyril Hare
Chapter Six
A Visitor at Scotland Yard
Saturday, August 19th
Stephen was down late to breakfast next morning. Mrs. Dickinson, following the custom by which the privileges of invalids are always extended to the recently bereaved, was breakfasting in bed. Anne had already finished her meal some time before, but was still in the dining-room. Stephen came in just as she was jabbing the stub of her third cigarette into an ashtray. She had an air of impatient exasperation.
“Well?” she fired at him at once.
Stephen did not reply. He went over to the sideboard and helped himself to coffee.
“Stone-cold,” he remarked. “And the milk has a disgusting skin on it. What a filthy stink you have made in here. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen you smoking in the dining-room after breakfast.”
“Go on! Say it!” said Anne. “If Father was alive I shouldn’t be doing it. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”
“Well, there’s no harm in looking on the bright side, is there? You’re very pugnacious this morning, Anne.”
“I’m very impatient, if you like. I thought you were never coming down.”
“Impatient?” said Stephen, buttering a piece of toast with great deliberation. “What about?”
“About everything, of course. Are you getting on to Jelks today? When are we going to see the insurance person? What are we going to do first? There are scores of things I want to discuss with you. And then you ask what I’m impatient about!”
“The first thing I’m going to do,” said Stephen, “is to have my breakfast, and I wish I could feel that it was more than a forlorn hope that I should have it in comparative peace and quiet. After that—”
“Yes?”
“After that, I am not going to discuss matters with Jelks, or the insurance people, or, for the matter of that, with Martin. I am going to make a few quiet inquiries on my own. Now don’t start making a fuss,” he went on quickly before she could speak. “I know quite well what you are going to say. But I’ve thought this out, and I’ve made up my mind. I’ve read the evidence and you haven’t. There’s just one chance for us, as far as I can see, and I’m going to test it, and see if there’s a reasonable prospect of its coming off. If there is, we go right ahead. If not—”
“You mean that you’re looking for an excuse to back out. It’s just the sort of thing I might have expected!”
“Need we go into all this again?” said Stephen wearily. “I am not anxious to back out, as I think I explained to you last night. But you don’t understand the position at all. If,” he went on with a maddening assumption of superiority, “you had had the decency to let me eat my breakfast in peace, I dare say I should have explained it to you. As it is, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait.”
Anne got up and went to the door. With her hand on the latch she turned and said:
“Stephen, this is all very ridiculous. I’m sorry about last night, if that’s what you want me to say. Why on earth should this horrible thing have made us squabble like two children?”
“Because we look at it from two different angles, I suppose. Not that I admit for a moment that there is anything in the least childish in my behaviour, at any rate. So far as you are concerned—”
“Oh, very well!” Anne exclaimed, and flounced out of the room. A moment later she opened the door again, and did her best to repair the anti-climax by the sarcastic tone in which she asked: “Will your lordship be good enough to indicate where he is going to prosecute his inquiries, and whether he expects to be home to lunch?”
Bowing gravely over his boiled egg, Stephen replied: “I shall not be in to lunch. And I see no objection to informing you that I am going to Scotland Yard.”
* * *
Going to Scotland Yard was simple enough; doing anything when there turned out to be a difficult matter. The polite but inquisitive policeman at the entrance made that clear to Stephen. So he wished to see Inspector Mallett, did he? Precisely. In connexion with what case was it? Oh, a private matter? Just so. Had he an appointment, perhaps? No? That was unfortunate. Stephen, feeling uncomfortably warm with embarrassment and with a growing sensation that his collar was a size too small for him, agreed that it was unfortunate. No, he did not desire to state his business to any other officer. Yes, he quite understood that the inspector was a busy man, but the matter was urgent and would not detain the inspector long. Yes, here was his card. By all means he would wait. No, he really would prefer not to explain the position to the sergeant. No, not at all. . . . Oh, certainly. . . . Yes, rather. . . . Thanks, if you don’t mind. . . . I quite understand. . . . Yes. . . . No. . . .
These preliminaries occupied about half an hour, and the sojourn in the waiting-room that succeeded them some twenty minutes more. At the end of that time, Stephen was informed that the inspector was in conference with the Assistant Commissioner, and that when the conference was over he would be at his lunch. The tone in which this latter piece of information was delivered indicated that Inspector Mallett’s lunch was not a function to be treated lightly. After his lunch, if he was not otherwise engaged, the card of this importunate visitor would be put before him, and he might consent to receive him—if he thought fit. The officer obviously did not think it likely that the inspector would so think, but he indicated that there would be no harm in trying, and Stephen, by now thoroughly cowed, promised to return at two o’clock.
He lunched miserably in the neighbourhood and soon after Big Ben had struck the three-quarters was back again in the dirty brick quadrangle which seemed by now depressingly familiar. Resigned to another long period of unprofitable waiting, he was agreeably surprised to be met by the news that the inspector’s conference had finished earlier than was expected, that the inspector had had his lunch all right (this was a most important point, evidently), that the inspector had seen Stephen’s card, and that the inspector was free and would see him now, and would he come this way please?
Somewhat dazed, Stephen suffered himself to be led along many passages and up many flights of stairs, and finally found himself in a small airy room which overlooked the Thames, and which at first sight seemed to him to be distinctly overcrowded. The impression of overcrowding, he soon decided, was largely contributed to by the great bulk of the man who was its only occupant, and who now sat behind his desk regarding him with an expression that was at once genial and inquiring.
“Mr. Stephen Dickinson?” said Mallett in a voice surprisingly quiet and gentle for one of his large frame. “Won’t you sit down?”
Stephen did so, and opened his mouth to explain himself, but the inspector went on: “Are you the son of the late Mr. Leonard Dickinson?”
“Yes. In fact I—”
“I thought so. You are rather like him in some ways.”
The young man flushed.
“Oh, do you think so?” he said, in a tone of some annoyance. “I never thought there was much likeness myself.”
Inspector Mallett chuckled.
“One of my grandmother’s rules of conduct,” he observed, “was: ‘Never see a likeness.’ She had a theory that it was rude. I’m afraid manners were never my strong point, though. I joined the Force before the days of courtesy cops. But there is a likeness, all the same,” he added.
Recollecting the late Mr. Dickinson’s unattractive elderliness, he was not in the least surprised that his son should repudiate the suggestion so curtly. It was in any case, he reflected, a likeness of expression rather than of feature. It was difficult to pin down, as family resemblances so often are, but the fact remained that with his first glance at Stephen, his mind had gone back at once to old Mr. Dickinson. Oddly enough, he had been reminded of the dead man’s face, not as he had seen it pressed close to his own in garrulous confidences after dinner, but as it had appeared the next morning, silent and still, the lines of worry and disillusionment smoothed out in death. Then the essential cast of countenance had been revealed with the removal of the accidental tricks t
hat life had played with it. In Stephen’s case, experience had not yet had time to spin its web of disguise. And the common factor was—he fumbled for a definition—that each was essentially the face of a man who was before all things self-centred. At bottom, he felt, the likeness between father and son was a good deal more than skin-deep, though one was a weary pessimist and the other obviously alert and self-confident to the point of bumptiousness. Had he known it, this parallel between himself and his parent would have annoyed Stephen considerably more than the discovery that they possessed a similar nose or chin could possibly have done.
Meanwhile Stephen was speaking.
“At all events,” he said, “it was about my father that I came to see you.”
“Yes?” Mallett was friendly, but showed no inclination to help him out.
“Yes.” He hesitated for a moment, braced himself as though for a plunge into cold water, and then came out with: “I’m not satisfied with the verdict on my father’s death.”
Mallett raised his eyebrows.
“The coroner’s jury was wrong,” Stephen repeated.
“Yes,” said Mallett slowly. “I appreciate that that was what you meant. But in that case, Mr. Dickinson, don’t you think you ought to go and see the police about it? I mean,” he went on, smiling at the puzzled expression on the young man’s face, “the Markshire police. This is their affair, you know. My own connexion with it was purely accidental and unofficial. Perhaps if I were to give you a note to the local superintendent—”
“No,” said Stephen firmly. “I quite understand what you say, but that isn’t what I want. I came to see you personally, because . . .” He hesitated.
“Yes?”
“Because you were the person largely responsible for things going wrong at the inquest.”
It was a long time since Inspector Mallett had had a remark of this kind addressed to him, and he did not take it very kindly. For a moment he was tempted to deal very severely with this impertinent person, and it was perhaps fortunate for Stephen that he was still in a post-prandial mood of kindliness. His momentary look of annoyance, however, did not pass unnoticed, and Stephen was prompt to apologize.
“Please don’t think—” he began.
“Never mind what I think,” the inspector interrupted him. “It’s what I did that is in question, isn’t it? Let’s keep to that. I was a witness at the inquest on your father—a witness of fact, purely and simply. I hope I was an accurate witness. I certainly tried to be.”
“Exactly. And it was your evidence that caused all the trouble. Although it was accurate—because it was accurate—it resulted in the coroner and the jury being hopelessly misled.”
Stephen sat back with the air of one who has delivered an ultimatum. But Mallett showed no sign of being impressed. He merely laid his broad hands flat upon the desk in front of him, pursed his lips, and looked into space about a foot above the top of Stephen’s head.
“You know, I haven’t the least idea what you are talking about,” he murmured. “Now look here—” He suddenly brought his gaze down full upon the other’s face. “Suppose we start at the beginning. It’s much more satisfactory. Mr. Dickinson died from an overdose of Medinal. The medical evidence was conclusive on that point, to my mind at least. Are you disputing it?”
“No.”
“Very well. On the evidence, of which mine was part, the coroner’s jury came to the conclusion that he had taken his own life. That you say was wrong?”
“Exactly.”
“Apart from my evidence, do you think that the verdict would have been different?”
“I think there was a very good chance of a finding of accidental death.”
“I don’t altogether agree with you. As I recollect the evidence—but we can discuss that later. Do you think that accidental death would have been a proper verdict?”
“I should have been perfectly satisfied with it.”
“But do you think it would have been a proper verdict?”
“No. If by ‘proper’ you mean in accordance with the facts, I don’t think it would.”
A long pause followed these words. Mallett opened his mouth to say something, evidently thought better of it, and then said: “But you told me just now you would have been satisfied with that verdict?”
“That’s not quite the same thing, is it?”
“You needn’t tell me that,” said Mallett with some asperity. He looked at Stephen quizzically for a moment in silence and then said: “Mr. Dickinson, I don’t understand you in the least. You object to the verdict which was given because you think it was incorrect, but you would have been perfectly prepared to accept another, equally incorrect. Evidently you are not concerned about—abstract justice, shall we say? And at the same time you don’t strike me as a person who would worry very much about any stigma attaching to a finding of suicide. Or am I wrong?”
“No,” said Stephen. “I’m not very strong on abstractions. As to stigmas,” he grinned reminiscently, “some of my family seem to have them on the brain. Personally, I don’t care two hoots about them. But it so happens that a very large sum of money depends upon my establishing that my father did not kill himself.”
The inspector could not suppress a smile.
“And therefore you have determined that the verdict was wrong?” he said.
Stephen frowned at the imputation.
“No!” he protested. “I knew that the verdict was wrong as soon as I heard it. So would you, if you had known as much about my father as I do. But the wrongness doesn’t concern me; its consequences do. That is why I should have been content with a verdict of accidental death. And that is why, very much against my will, I find myself in the position of having to prove the truth, which for other reasons it would have been much better for all concerned not to have bothered about.”
To himself Inspector Mallett murmured with satisfaction, “Self-centred!” Aloud he said, “And what precisely do you mean by the truth, Mr. Dickinson?”
“That my father was murdered.”
The inspector tugged thoughtfully at the points of his fierce military moustache. If he was at all shocked at the suggestion, he gave no signs of it.
“Murdered?” he said softly. “Just so! Then in that case, don’t you think my original suggestion was the correct one—that you should put the case before the appropriate authority, the Markshire County Police?”
“I don’t know whether it was correct or not,” retorted Stephen with some impatience. “I do know that it’s no sort of use to me. For one thing, I have at the present moment no evidence whatever to put before the Markshire or any other police, and for another, I am not interested in proving that any particular person killed my father. I only want to show, to the satisfaction of the insurance company, or a court of law if necessary, that he was killed by somebody.”
“I see,” said Mallett. “You put the position very clearly. You can hardly expect a police officer to take the same rather—er—detached view of crime as you do, but I appreciate your position. I take it that your object now is to get what evidence you can in order to prove your case against the insurance company?”
“That is what I am here for.”
Mallett made a little gesture of impatience.
“But my dear sir,” he said, “we are back where we started from! How can I help you? Officially—”
“I am here quite unofficially.”
“Very good, then. Unofficially, I am simply an individual who was called to give some evidence which was perfectly accurate, and which the jury believed and acted upon. If you ever bring any proceedings in which your father’s death is in question, I should probably be called as a witness again, and should give the same evidence, which would presumably have the same effect on another jury. What can I do about it?”
To his surprise, Stephen replied airily, “Oh, I can dispose of your evidence easily enough.”
“Indeed!”
“Certainly. I should probably have done so a
t the inquest, if I had been there, instead of in Switzerland all the time, out of reach of newspapers and letters. After all, what did it amount to? You had a talk to my father the night before he died, or rather, if I know anything of the matter, he did the talking and you just listened and wished you could get away from such a shocking old bore. You found him a gloomy old man—as who wouldn’t?—full of complaints about life in general and his family in particular. That is the main effect of it, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” the inspector admitted. “But it went a good deal further than that.”
“I bet it did. You didn’t enter into very many details, but I expect I can supply a few for you. He told you that he had made a mistake marrying a woman so much younger than himself, didn’t he? He said that he had been born at Pendlebury Old Hall and that it meant much more to him than his family could ever imagine, because it was the only place where he had been happy in the whole of his life. And finally, he said that he felt like a snail, dragging its trail about with him wherever it went, and wondered with an air of deep significance where the trail would end.”
“But I never mentioned that in my evidence,” said Mallett. “How did you know that he used that expression?”
“Because he was always using it, of course. You don’t imagine that he invented it for your benefit, do you? In the home one could expect that sort of stuff to come up every month or so. The snail and his trail has been the theme song of my family for ages. In fact, I did actually write a song about it. It begins like this:
“How doth the melancholy snail
Invigorate his friends,
By looking back upon his trail
And wondering where it ends.
“Not very high-class verse, I admit, but it proves my point, anyhow. So far as your talk with him is relied on as evidence of suicide, you can wash it out altogether.”
“My evidence was not confined to my conversation of the night before,” Mallett pointed out. “And I don’t think that the coroner relied on that alone when he came to sum up to the jury.”