by Joyce Porter
‘And that brings us to the third point – how did she get away from Irlam Old Hall? Having seen those shoes of hers in her bedroom, I think we can rule out that all sixteen stone of her went on foot. I don’t see her hiking through the countryside, do you? We can rule out public transport because there isn’t any and I reckon we’d have had a report by now if she’d boarded a bus or train anywhere in the country. So now, Sergeant, what’s the only alternative?’
‘A private car, sir,’ said Sergeant MacGregor obediently.
‘Yes, but there’s a snag here too. Those damned wrought-iron gates! If it was a car already in the grounds, how did it get out? And if it was a car outside the grounds, why was she walking away from the entrance?’
‘Somebody might have arrived by car, left it outside the gates, run after her and persuaded her to go off with him.’
‘Yes,’ said Dover grudgingly, ‘I suppose that’s possible.’
‘Or,’ Sergeant MacGregor pointed out, ‘she may have stayed the night in somebody else’s house or flat up here and left the next day by car when the gates were open.’
‘Hm,’ said Dover frowning-he hadn’t thought of that – ‘but that would mean she’d run off with somebody from up here. We can check if anybody’s missing but, surely to goodness, we’d have heard by now. There are still lots of points that need clearing up, but everything we’ve discovered so far seems to indicate that something or somebody prevented her return home on Tuesday night. Question now is, what happened to her?’
‘Well, it’s likely to be one of two things, isn’t it, sir? I think we can rule suicide out, because where’s the body? So it must be either kidnapping or murder.’
Dover blew crossly down his nose. ‘Well, we can scrub kidnapping right away! It’s inconceivable that anybody kidnapped a girl of her weight and size, and anyhow there’s virtually no kidnapping in this country. Besides, who’s going to pay the ransom? Her mother?’
‘What about Sir John Counter?’
‘Well, it’s possible, but I don’t think so. He’s more likely to engage another maid. No, let’s use our common sense on this, Sergeant, kidnapping is out!’
‘Then you think it’s murder, sir?’
Dover nodded. ‘Yes, my money’s on murder.’
‘But where’s the body?’
‘How the hell do I know? If I knew where the body was, why in God’s name should I be sitting here discussing with you what might have happened to her?’
‘The local police have had a pretty good look round the district, sir, and if she’s been taken further afield, we come up against this transport business, don’t we? And when you think of trying to get rid of a sixteen-stone corpse, well, the mind boggles a bit, doesn’t it?’
‘Yours might,’ commented Dover nastily, ‘personally, I can think of half a dozen ways.’ He was careful not to enumerate them. ‘Anyhow, we’ve got to have a theory to work on, otherwise we’ll be running round in circles. I’ve told you before, Sergeant, when you’re dealing with crime, ninety-nine times out of a hundred the obvious explanation is the right one. I don’t think this girl committed suicide and I’m damned well sure she’s not been kidnapped, and it doesn’t look as though she’s just run away. Therefore she must have been murdered, and we shall work from now on that assumption.’
As a piece of deductive reasoning this had more flaws in it than Sergeant MacGregor dared to contemplate, but he had learned from bitter experience that it was no good arguing when the chief inspector was in this frame of mind. All you could hope for was that the blundering old fool would, even by accident, uncover the true facts of the case in the course of his so-called investigations. Sergeant MacGregor fell into his favourite day-dream in which he composed his umpteenth letter to Higher Authority requesting a transfer. Before he had actually got it signed and posted he was brought down to reality by Dover demanding yet another cigarette.
‘What about motive, sir?’ he asked as he flicked his lighter.
‘Could be dozens,’ said Dover grandly. ‘She might have been insured and her mother’s croaked her for the money. Sir John might have done it in a fit of senile jealousy – that man struck me as being capable of anything, supercilious old devil. Or his daughter might have done it to stop the marriage.’
‘Yes.’ MacGregor sounded doubtful. ‘And then there’s this Mrs Chubb-Smith business.’
‘What Mrs Chubb-Smith business?’
‘Well, her subsidizing Juliet before the baby was born.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Dover vaguely. ‘Well, while we’re up here, I suppose we might as well go and have a word with her. Get moving!’
Chapter Five
MRS CHUBB-SMITH was a very good example of a midtwentieth-century decayed gentlewoman, though she would have been very offended at the decayed part. The fact that she was a greengrocer’s daughter, who getting on for thirty years before had had the incredible luck to marry into the minor aristocracy, had been buried in the sands of time under layers of carefully acquired gentility.
Her story had hot, however, had the happy ending which she had been led to expect. Her husband was the well-born master of Irlam Old Hall but that was all he was master of. There was no money. But he was an ingenious man, if not very business-like. He decided to convert the Old Hall into flats and to build a select number of residences in the grounds. People, he argued, were always wanting to live in the country, but they didn’t want the complete isolation from their own kind which such retirement often involved. He intended to keep his prices high and envisaged Irlam Old Hall becoming a little colony of nice people, ‘from our own class’.
It was, on the whole, a very good scheme, and it worked. Just before his death – his health had never been robust – the whole project had been completed. He, his wife and small son had moved into the largest of the new houses, the one now occupied by Sir John Counter, and all the flats plus the five other new houses and the two converted lodges were let to acceptable tenants on enormously long leases. Mr Chubb-Smith died happy in the knowledge that his widow and son were well-cared for. No one could blame him for not foreseeing all the consequences of the Second World War which broke out some twelve months later.
Mrs Chubb-Smith, in telling the story of her life and hard times, took nearly twenty minutes to reach the outbreak of the Second World War, and both Dover and Sergeant MacGregor were looking a bit glassy-eyed as she gabbled inexorably on.
She was very bitter, and long-winded, about the Second World War itself which she evidently regarded as a bit of personal spite directed against her by Almighty Providence. Her grievance was, briefly, that property values, especially in safe country areas, shot up to heights beyond the dreams of the late Mr Chubb-Smith. The leases of Mrs Chubb-Smith’s highly desirable houses and flats changed hands at fantastic profits, all of which unfortunately went into the pockets of the leaseholders. The current tenants were more than content to pay her the originally agreed rents which, though they had seemed pretty hefty in 1938, were ludicrously small by 1945, and pitifully minute now. And, of course, Mrs Chubb-Smith was still, as landlord, responsible for the upkeep of the property, and costs here had proved that the sky was not the limit.
‘Would you believe it,’ exclaimed Mrs Chubb-Smith, throwing up her hands in far from mock despair, ‘some of the leases won’t expire until 2037! And most of the others are nearly as bad. Of course, Michael and I had to get out of the house Sir John has now. Luckily we were able to make a little profit on that deal, but I had to pay a fantastic sum to buy back the lease of this place. It’s really been too ridiculous for words! And then, about a year ago, the first lease on one of the houses expired – the middle one on the other side. I was having a lovely time planning how to spend the money-I thought of going to the South of France for the winter or, perhaps, taking a cruise – and what happens? Michael comes in and announces that he’s going to get married! Well, what could I do? I didn’t want Maxine’s father to think we were paupers! He’s frightfully rich and
just doesn’t understand that not everybody’s made of money these days.
‘So there it was! I had to give Michael and his wife the house. And now, just when another lease has expired-the Prentice’s place – and I’ve at last got an empty house of my very own to dispose of, this wretched girl has to disappear and I have policemen swarming all over the place. How can I impress people who come to look at it with all this going on? You can’t expect our sort of people to take a house with girls vanishing into thin air every five minutes, can you?’
She paused, mercifully, for breath and looked appealingly at Chief Inspector Dover. Kitty Chubb-Smith had been in her youth very pretty in a chocolate-box way, and she was, thirty years on, still fighting to preserve the wide-eyed, girlish innocence which had stood her in such good stead. Naturally the line of the chin was no longer so clear cut, the brow was not so smooth, the cheeks were not so unlined, the waist was not so trim, but, at the very least, she could be awarded high marks for trying. Her clothes were good and expensive, and only a trifle too young for her. And she was liberally drenched in the very latest Parisian perfume. In fact, Dover was finding the whole thing a bit overwhelming. The room was small and a large electric fire pumped out heat on both bars. There were huge vases of flowers everywhere and their scent fought valiantly with whatever seductive preparation Mrs Chubb-Smith was currently paying fifteen guineas an ounce for.
Dover grimly took out his handkerchief and wiped not only his brow but the back of his neck as well. Mrs Chubb-Smith’s smile grew a little stiff. Her first doubts looked like being confirmed. The fat one wasn’t a gentleman – not one of nature’s sort nor any other kind.
Dover belched, softly but audibly, and frowned. His stomach really did feel a bit queer. Perhaps he was going to be ill. They’d have to take him off the blasted case if he was sick. He brightened up at the thought and even managed a flaccid smile. Mrs Chubb-Smith acknowledged it with a gracious flash of brilliant white teeth.
‘We were wondering, madam,’ Dover began, ‘if you could perhaps give us a little help-some general information about the set-up here. For example, the main gates. I understand they are closed at nights?’
‘Yes, Bondy – he’s my caretaker up at the flats – he locks them every night, usually about ten o’clock, not before, anyhow.’
‘And he opens them again? At what time?’
‘At seven o’clock in the morning. The trouble was, er . . . Sergeant?’
‘Chief Inspector!’ snarled Dover.
‘Oh, Chief Inspector – the trouble was that on several occasions last year we had people – couples, you know – driving their cars into the grounds and staying all night. Well, naturally, we couldn’t have that sort of thing going on here so we’ve had to lock the gates at night. Some people have complained about it and I admit it is a little inconvenient, but, as I said to them, “Which do you want?” Anyhow, it’s most unusual for anybody to be coming back after ten o’clock and they can always leave their cars outside and walk up the drive. Michael and Maxine always do that if they’re out late.’
‘Bondy keeps the key, then?’
‘Oh yes, he keeps the key.’
‘Hm.’ Dover digested this moodily and tried another line. ‘Do you know this girl Juliet Rugg well? I mean, are you on friendly terms with her at all?’
‘Friendly terms!’ Mrs Chubb-Smith made a fair shot at an insulted-grande-dame pose and then, because even aristocrats these days have to watch their step, she switched to a sweet, more-in-sorrow-than-in-anger smile. ‘My dear Inspector, I don’t want to appear a snob but she was, or is – it’s so difficult, isn’t it – she is only a servant girl.’
‘But you did know her?’
‘I knew her by sight, naturally, everybody did, and I made a point of saying good morning or whatever it was when I met her. But that was, I’m afraid, the extent of our relationship.’
‘I see,’ said Dover mildly and, much to Sergeant MacGregor’s surprise, left the matter there. From time to time the chief inspector rather fancied a bit of subtlety – it made a change anyhow. He moved on to another line of questioning, skilfully designed to lull poor Mrs Chubb-Smith into a fragile sense of security.
‘I suppose, as ultimate landlord here, madam, you have the right to approve a new tenant when there’s a sub-let or when a lease changes hands?’
‘I have indeed, and I’m very particular, I may tell you.’
‘I wonder if you could just tell us something about the people here. We’ve got the names, but if you could just fill in a bit of background . . . ’
‘Well, I don’t know very much about the people in the flats. They had very good references, of course, but they’re all rather elderly, dull people, you know. They seem to live very quiet, decent lives, retired civil servants and people like that. Bondy would be able to tell you much more about them than I could.’
‘What about the people in the houses? We’ve already met Sir John Counter and his daughter, and Colonel What’s-her-name in the other lodge.’
‘Colonel Bing? Yes, a delightful person, isn’t she? Her bark’s much worse than her bite, I always say.’ Mrs Chubb-Smith tossed this off politely without much conviction. ‘Well, next to her, the first new house up on the other side from here, lives our celebrity, Miss Eulalia Hoppold. She’s borrowed the house for six months to write her next book. She says it’s completely hopeless trying to get peace and quiet in town.’
‘Eulalia Hoppold?’ repeated Dover scratching his head in a most unpleasant manner. ‘What does she do?’
Mrs Chubb-Smith watched the dandruff fall gently on to the shoulders of his overcoat, and shivered fastidiously.
Her voice was rather chilly. ‘She’s the world-famous explorer and anthropologist’
‘Oh,’ said Dover, deliberately unimpressed. ‘Does she live alone?’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Chubb-Smith.
‘Has she got a car?’
‘She has one of these tiny little two-seater sports cars. Very chic, of course, but rather noisy.’
‘Who lives next to her?’
‘My son, Michael, and his wife.’
‘And what does your son do for a living?’
‘Well, he’s not actually doing anything at the moment He’s got several openings in view but he’s still not sure that he’s found just the right thing for him, you know- Maxine’s father is coming back from abroad in a couple of months and we’re hoping he may be able to suggest something. All these large organizations are very keen to get public-school boys working for them, aren’t they? Meanwhile Michael helps me out running the business side of things up here – more as a hobby, really, than as a job. He’s not very robust, poor boy, and he can’t just take any job that comes along.’
‘I see. And how old is he?’
‘He’s twenty-six.’
Dover sniffed but offered no additional comment.
‘And the house next to his, the last one on that side?’
‘Oh, that’s this Bogolepov man. I’m afraid he’s been rather a disappointment.’
‘Yes’ – Dover cut this short – ‘we’ve heard about him. Has he got a car?’
‘No, he’s far too er, nervous to drive, I’m sure.’
‘Has your son got a car, by the way?’
‘Oh yes, they’ve got a Jaguar.’
‘Does it belong to your son or to his wife ?’
‘Well, it’s Maxine’s, actually, but naturally they both use it. It was a present from her father.’
‘Now, opposite this foreign chap is Sir John Counter’s house, has Sir John got a car?’
‘Yes, a very old Rolls – but then a Rolls is a Rolls, isn’t it, even when it’s very old? Bondy usually drives it for them, but they don’t use it often.’
‘Does Miss Counter drive?’
‘I don’t really know, I’m afraid. I rather think she does, but I’m not sure.’
‘And who’s in the house next to Sir John?’
‘That’s the one t
hat’s empty at the moment.’
‘Did the local police look in there? When Juliet Rugg was reported missing?’
‘Yes, I took the policeman in myself. He found nothing, of course. The place was locked up just as I’d left it.’
‘And the last house, the one here next door to you?’
‘Oh, that belongs to the Freels, Amy and Basil. They’re brother and sister. He’s a retired clergyman.’
‘They’re quite an elderly pair, then?’
‘No, middle fifties, I should think. He must have retired early, health perhaps. He spends his time marking exam papers, or something like that.’
‘Have the Freels got a car?’
‘Yes, but they only use it in summer. Basil props it up on bricks and takes the wheels off and things like that in winter. Why all this interest in cars, Inspector?’
‘Just something that may help us, madam,’ said Dover suavely. ‘Have you got one, by the way?’
‘Good heavens, no!’ Mrs Chubb-Smith laughed a silvery laugh. ‘Poor me, I can’t even afford a bicycle!’
‘Hm,’ said Dover, looking for no particular reason highly sceptical. His gaze was fixed, quite unconsciously, on Mrs Chubb- Smith’s plunging neckline. Although it was intended to attract roving masculine eyes, Mrs Chubb-Smith had not quite had a man like Dover in mind when she put it on. She raised a protective hand and fiddled idly with her string of pearls.
‘Oh well’ – Dover rose reluctantly to his feet – ‘I don’t think we need bother you any more, Mrs Chubb-Smith, at the moment. Thank you for being so helpful.’
‘It’s been a pleasure,’ responded Mrs Chubb-Smith, not seeking to detain them. ‘I’m only too glad to be able to do what I can to get this dreadful business cleared up – for the girl’s sake, of course, as well as everything eke.’
‘Quite, quite,’ said Dover, and moved towards the door. Mrs Chubb-Smith surged thankfully after him and Sergeant MacGregor, with a disloyal shrug of his shoulders, closed his notebook and prepared to follow.
