Suicide Excepted

by Cyril Hare

  Stephen paused dramatically. His air of boredom had disappeared and he was evidently enjoying his own recital.

  “Disregarding inessential details, what it amounted to was this: He is a clerk in a big City firm—she is a bit vague about it, but they appear to be stockbrokers. He is all alone in the world, except for an aged mother in Glasgow, whom he goes to see every Christmas. Very quiet, very shy, no girl friends, and pays his rent regular. (That, of course, was the most important thing about him. There was a sort of Go Thou And Do Likewise look in her eyes when she said it that impressed me a lot.) The only thing that distresses her about him is that he never goes out anywhere in the evenings, but sits indoors all the time writing. And that is the clue to the whole of the great Davitt mystery. He’s by way of being an author of genius. Whether his genius runs to epic poetry or plays or soap advertisements, she couldn’t tell me. Personally, I think a man must have genius of a remarkable order if he can find anything to write about, sitting in a front room in Hawk Street and never poking his nose outside to see what the world is like. But that’s by the way. Of course, his genius isn’t recognized as yet, not completely recognized, I should say, because a month or two ago he did achieve a bit of recognition. He won a prize. Naturally, my thoughts turned at once to Football Pools, but it was nothing so banal. It was a prize offered by a literary magazine—quite a lot of money, she told me. I imagine it was ten or twenty pounds. And what did I think he did with it? By this time, I could have told her but it seemed more satisfactory to let her tell me.”

  “You mean he spent his prize money on staying at Pendlebury?” Anne asked.

  “No less. It seems a pretty footling thing to do, doesn’t it? His only use for what he had won by his writing, apparently, was to go away somewhere quiet and do yet more writing. He had a week or so of holiday due to him about then, and he couldn’t do anything better with it than that. Rather pathetic, I thought. It seemed to me that he might just as well have saved his cash and stopped at Hawk Street all the time, but I forgot to mention among the charms of the neighbourhood that it’s a favourite by-pass for heavy stuff going to and from the big railway stations, and I quite appreciate what she meant by his wanting somewhere quiet. So there he stayed, right up to the last minute of the last day of his holiday, and came back, I was not surprised to hear, looking as pale and tired as when he started.”

  “But why did he have to take all his meals in his room?” Anne asked.

  “Same thing. He didn’t want to be disturbed in his writing, or the meditations incidental to his writing. Time and again Mrs. Thing—I never found out her name—had to drag him downstairs by the scruff of his neck to his supper, he was that taken up by his work, you wouldn’t believe. I suppose to have his meals—even Pendlebury meals—brought up to his room three times a day must have been the seventh heaven to him. Poor devil! I don’t expect he’s ever heard of cacoethes scribendi, but he’s got it pretty badly.”

  He ended his story, and then added after a pause: “Well, that’s all there is to it. I shook the dust of Hawk Street off my feet as soon as I could, once I’d got what I wanted. I said I’d let the old woman know about the back room. She’ll have to wait a long time before she catches me down there again, though.”

  Nobody said anything for a moment or two, and then Martin said: “You didn’t get hold of the name of the stockbrokers, I think you said?”

  “No. It didn’t seem to matter much.”

  “I was just wondering. Suppose it turned out that Vanning was a stockbroker—”

  “Well—” Stephen began, with a shrug that showed what he thought of the suggestion.

  “He’s not,” Anne put in. “At any rate, if he is, he doesn’t live in London, or anywhere near it.”

  “Lots of stockbrokers live at Brighton,” Martin said.

  “My good Martin,” said Stephen, exasperated, “if you want to pursue this ridiculous hare, why don’t you get hold of a list of members of the Stock Exchange and find out for yourself?”

  “Quite right, Steve, I hadn’t thought of that. Silly of me. Apologies and all that.”

  “And now,” said Stephen, turning to his sister, “who is Vanning, what is he? I hope the Directory has been useful.”

  “It all depends what you call useful,” said Anne. “This is what it says.”

  She fetched the little document which she had compiled and handed it to him. Stephen read:

  Vanning, Alfred & Co., Ltd., Fruit Mrchts., Covt Gdn. W.C.2.

  Vanning, Alfred E., Osokosi, Watling Way, Strthm.

  Vanning, Chas. C., Grngrcr, 42 Victoria Ave., S.W.16.

  Vanning, K. S. T., Barrister-at-Law, 2 Nisi Prius Row, Temple, E.C.4.

  Vanning, K. S. T., 46 Exeter Mans., S.W.11.

  Vanning, Mrs., 94b Grosvenor Sq., W.1.

  Vanning, Peter, Artist, 3 Hogarth Studios, Kingfisher Walk, S.W.3.

  Vanning, Thos. B., Grngrcr, 85 Brick St., N.1.

  Vanning, Waldron & Smith, Chtrd Acctnts, 14 Gossip Lane, E.C.3.

  “Quite amusing in its way,” he remarked. “Observe how Alfred E., no doubt the big noise of the firm at Covent Garden, establishes his younglings in the retail trade to the north and south of him! Wait a bit, though—perhaps they’re only nephews. He seeks higher things for his son, and sends him to the Bar.”

  “Where does the artist come in?” said Anne.

  “Oh, he’s obviously a sport from the parent stock, who sickened of the sight of whole oranges in crates, and went off to paint half ones on dishes instead. But I can’t quite work in Mrs. Vanning. Grosvenor Square clashes rather with Osokosi, don’t you think? Perhaps—”

  “The point is, it seems to me,” said Martin heavily, “does any of this help us to find J. S. Vanning?”

  “Not in the least. I suppose we could solemnly go through everyone on the list and try to find if any of them is harboring a son or brother with the initials J. S., but it seems a waste of time when we’ve got another line on him through Parsons.”

  “Just what I thought. Well, the upshot of the day’s work is, we’ve knocked Davitt off the list—subject to what I said about stockbrokers—and Vanning and Jones are left much where we found ’em.”

  “Jones!” said Stephen. “I forgot. You haven’t told me about him yet.”

  And Martin did tell him, with all and more than all the elaboration with which he had already told Anne. Soon the two men were comparing notes on their experiences and arguing like old hands as to the merits of different methods of detective inquiry. To Anne, sitting bored and tired between them, it was all very reminiscent of after-tea conversation in Devonshire. . . . “What you want to do, old man, is to drive the Long Wood first, and put three guns forward, with a stop in the hollow.”—“It’s no good, my dear chap, with the wind in the South—they simply break back over the boundary fence every time.”—“’f course, if you’d only taken my advice last year and cut another ride through the larch plantation. . . .” If it hadn’t been for the consciousness of that nagging little fact, ever present at the back of her mind, she would have gone fast asleep.

  Chapter Twelve

  Mrs. Howard-Blenkinsop

  Sunday, August 27th

  “That looks like the place,” said Martin.

  Anne peered through the window of the car.

  It was a house of medium size, square and plain, standing back from the road, to which it was connected by a curving drive. There was nothing in the least remarkable about it—it was the type of house that might be found in almost any country district of England. One could guess that inside there were at most two bathrooms, rather antiquated, and that somewhere in the background was stabling for at least three hunters. But the very fact that it was so ordinary in appearance made it seem all the more daunting to one of the investigators at least. Anne’s heart sank as she gazed at the somewhat shabby placidity of the Grange. These people, she reflected, had been there for years, probably for generations. They barely acknowledged the existence of an
ybody who had not lived in the neighbourhood for at least ten hunting seasons. As for visitors from London, unknown and unannounced, they would be regarded as no better than tramps. She smiled wryly as she remembered how simple the whole arrangement had seemed when she planned it in the study at Hampstead. Only one thing remained to give her any hope of success—the brief description of Mrs. Howard-Blenkinsop’s character in Elderson’s report. Obviously the woman was an eccentric, and with eccentrics anything was possible.

  She had said nothing, but Martin, as usual, seemed to divine her thoughts.

  “I dare say things’ll look a bit easier after a feed,” he said. “I vote we try the village pub. It’s only just down the road.”

  They lunched alone in the front room of the Black Swan. The food was more than tolerable, and by the time they had finished their meal, Anne was disposed to take a more cheerful view of life, though she seemed no nearer to ascertaining anything about the owners of the Grange than before. She had made one or two efforts to get into conversation with the landlord’s wife, who served them, only to find that she was both hard of hearing and incomprehensible of speech. A Sabbath calm brooded over the village, broken only by the hum of voices from the adjacent taproom and by the intermittent barking of dogs from the opposite side of the street. This latter sound attracted Martin’s attention. Going across to the window, he stared out for some time, sucking noisily at his pipe, and then called Anne.

  “Here’s something worth trying,” he remarked.

  Anne saw that he was pointing at a notice which hung over a yard gate almost immediately opposite the inn. It read:

  bentby kennels

  pedigree pups for sale

  scotties, cairns, fox-terriers

  Dogs Boarded Expert attention

  “I think a puppy would make rather a nice present for you,” said Martin. “Would you like a Scottie or a Cairn?”

  “Neither,” said Anne. “I’m not very fond of dogs.”

  “You ought to be,” said Martin, seriously. “There’s something about a dog which you don’t get in anything else.” He puffed silently for a moment or two and then added: “Anyhow, you could always inquire about boarding a dog. That won’t commit you to anything.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “About the Kennels, of course. It’s the best place to try any snooping in we could find. To start with, it’s the only place that’s likely to be open on a Sunday, it’s almost certain to be kept by a female—these places nearly always are—and with any luck it’ll be a centre for gossip. I can look at the dogs, while you get to work on the woman-to-woman stuff. If you can get a line on the old lady up at the Grange, I can always amuse myself in the kennels while you are trying to break in there. I think it’s rather a good spec, taken all round.”

  Anne had said from the first that interviewing Mrs. Howard-Blenkinsop was woman’s work. Rather to her annoyance, Martin had taken her at her word, and resolutely refused to take any part in the job himself, except the highly enjoyable task of driving her to the scene of action. It was therefore quite an agreeable surprise to find him planning a campaign on her behalf.

  “Of course,” Martin went on meditatively, still staring out of the window, “it may take a bit of time to get hold of la belle Blenkinsop. It’s rather a pity, in a way, we didn’t allow ourselves a bit longer. If I was on my own, I should certainly want to spend the night here, and give myself a full day tomorrow, so as not to have to rush things. Of course, as it is, that’s out of the question, I suppose—unless . . .”

  He left the sentence unfinished, and looked over his shoulder at Anne with an air that was at once malicious and appealing.

  “No,” she answered. “I’m sorry, Martin, but I’m not going to sleep here tonight. In the first place, I have no intention of losing my virtue without so much as a toothbrush to sustain me—”

  “As a matter of fact,” said Martin with an air of unabashed innocence, “I do happen to have a few odd things in the back of the car—including, as it happens, a new toothbrush.”

  “In the second place, I promised Mother I’d be home before she went to bed tonight.”

  “Oh, well—”

  “And in the third place, my darling, I’m not allowing any liberties until I’ve got my marriage lines. Sorry and all that, but I’m funny that way.”

  “Righto!” said Martin, with the air of one who was used to taking such rebuffs in good part. “In that case, I’d better pay our bill, and then we’ll see what is to be seen across the way.”

  * * *

  A tall young woman, dressed in a dirty kennel coat and corduroy breeches was walking across the yard when they entered. A cigarette depended from her mouth, and her short black hair would have been the better for some expert attention. She put down the pail which she was carrying and slouched in their direction, a predatory gleam in her eye.

  “Good afternoon,” said Martin politely. “We wanted to look at the Kennels.”

  The girl nodded.

  “That’s what we’re here for,” she said. “What are you interested in? Cairns? Scotties? We’ve got rather a nice litter of Dandies you might like to look at, but—Get down, Sheila!”

  The last observation was directed to a fox-terrier bitch, in the last stages of pregnancy, which was fawning round her boots.

  “Well, as a matter of fact we hadn’t quite made up our minds,” said Martin. “We just thought we’d have a look round first, didn’t we, Annie?”

  The girl’s interest in them waned perceptibly.

  “Oh, I see,” she said. “Well, you’d better come along and see if there’s anything you’d care for.”

  She led the way to a long range of kennels, the occupants of which set up a furious barking as they approached.

  “Nice place you’ve got here,” Martin observed. “I wonder whether—”

  “Not bad. We’re apt to have trouble about the water-supply, that’s all. Now these Scotties might interest you—six months old, guaranteed through distemper. Dogs, eight guineas; bitches, seven and a half. The sire got two reserves at Crufts and the dam was by Champion Watmough of Wakerly. You can see the pedigree if you like.”

  “They look very sweet,” remarked Anne, who felt that it was about time she said something.

  “Jolly little chaps,” chimed in Martin, with considerably more sincerity in his voice. “By the way, I suppose in this village—”

  “Now these two are all that we’ve got left of Sheila’s last litter. House-trained. Three and a half guineas, or you can have the pair for six. It’s a bargain, really.”

  “Awfully jolly,” said Martin. “I wanted to ask you, what is that house—”

  “These are the Dandies I was telling you about,” the young woman went on remorselessly, and once more the proper words of non-committal appreciation had to be found. Clearly it was not going to be a simple business to get any gossip from the Kennels. The whole affair began to seem to Anne more and more unreal and nightmarish as they trailed on from one noisy, bounding family to another. At last it seemed that they had reached the end of their tour. Only one compartment remained, and this was tenanted by a solitary red setter. He had a dejected appearance, and something about him made Anne, who did not care for dogs, feel that she had found a kindred spirit.

  “What a darling fellow!” she exclaimed.

  “Not one of ours,” said her guide in a chilly tone. “Just a boarder. He’s been convalescing after gastritis. His coat’s pretty bad still, isn’t it? I expect he’ll be going home in a day or two.”

  “Has he far to go?” Anne asked, stifling a yawn. But her boredom vanished instantly at the reply.

  “Oh, no. He’s only going up to the Grange.”

  Trying not to seem too excited, Anne said: “Is this Mrs. Howard-Blenkinsop’s dog, then?”

  “Yes. Do you know her?”

  “Yes—I mean, no—that is—”

  “I expect she’ll be down here directly to look at him. S
he looks in most afternoons.”

  Here was good fortune indeed! Hardly knowing what she was saying, Anne gasped out: “Really! How awfully nice!”

  Her companion looked at her in surprise.

  “Well, she’s not a bad sort really,” she said. “For all that she’s my landlord.”

  Pulling herself together, Anne said: “I’d like to have another look at the Scotties, if you don’t mind,” and walked back to the kennel nearest the entrance to the yard, determined at all costs to keep within the precincts until her quarry should appear. Martin had left them. From the corner of her eye she saw him half hidden by an angle of the wall, apparently engaged in deep conversation with the two young fox-terriers. Anne cursed him bitterly in her heart and grimly prepared to talk dogs for the rest of the day, if need be.

  Luck was with her. She had barely reached the litter of Scotties before somebody who could only have been Mrs. Howard-Blenkinsop appeared upon the scene. She was a fairly stout woman of early middle age, who looked as if she owned the earth she walked on—which in fact she did. Anne was rather taken by her face. It looked sensible. The same adjective might have been applied to everything about her. She wore sensible low-heeled brogue shoes, sensible thick stockings, and a tweed coat and skirt which could certainly only be justified by an appeal to reason, so rigorously had all the allurements of fashion been excluded. In one particular only did she show a certain lack of intelligence. She had elected to bring with her to the kennels a timid and elderly dachshund, who, evidently warned by previous experience, skulked miserably behind her skirts. This did not save him from repeated and savage assaults from Sheila, and conversation was continually being interrupted to placate or separate the unequal combatants.

  “Good afternoon, Mary,” Mrs. Howard-Blenkinsop began, as she hove in sight. “I came to see how my poor Rufus is getting on. (Now don’t be silly, Fritz, you know she won’t hurt you.)”