“Only because I couldn’t think of any other reason for their disappearance. I never mentioned murder, did I?”
“I do not remember, but it was clear to me that you had murder in mind.”
“Well, they were such good chaps, you see. I couldn’t imagine them just walking out on their jobs, let alone on their wives and children.”
“Have they wives and children?”
“Now that you ask me, I must confess that I’ve no idea.”
“You suggested, I remember—or somebody did—that they might have domestic troubles.”
“Oh, well, now! After all, their domestic complications are no business of mine.”
“Oh, quite. No doubt the police have made that sort of enquiry their affair, if only to be sure of getting the bodies identified if my fears prove to be justified.”
“Look here, you’re hinting at all sorts of horrible things. What do you think has happened? You’re holding out on me, aren’t you? You know something you haven’t told me.”
“It is not knowledge. It is merely surmise. Moreover, it takes me back to a question which, so far, you have not answered.”
“Where would I hide a murdered body? That is if I had been the murderer, I assume.”
“The murderer or his accomplice.”
“Are you serious?”
“On this occasion, yes.”
“You’re thinking of Derbyshire, I suppose. Well, there’s plenty of space on the moors.”
“And in West Wales?”
“Oh, I don’t know, but there must be plenty of places. I suppose it would depend upon how quickly one wanted to get rid of the body.”
“Yes, no doubt a great deal would depend upon that.”
“Look, what are you getting at?”
“I hardly know.”
“Well, I know this much: you wouldn’t be talking like this unless you had something to go on. Why don’t you tell me what it is?”
“Because I do not trust your walls.”
“Good God, they’re not bugged!”
“No, but they are said to have ears.”
“You don’t trust my drivers?”
“I am not sure that I have ever fully trusted anybody except Laura and my servants.”
“But that’s a terrible philosophy!”
“Not at all. Remember what Gilbert Keith Chesterton said.”
“About what?”
“‘Blessed is he that expecteth nothing, for he shall be gloriously surprised.’”
“Well, suppose you surprise me, and not necessarily gloriously. What are you getting at? Let’s go outside if you don’t want to talk here.”
“We could talk in my car.” They went out to it and took the back seat. “Drive us around a little, George,” said Dame Beatrice to her chauffeur. Then, as they moved into a stream of traffic, she settled herself as though she had no more to say.
“Well?” said Honfleur at last. His query was answered by another.
“I have it from you that Noone and Daigh were efficient drivers, but what kind of men were they?”
“I’ve already told you that I know nothing of their private lives.”
“I am not thinking of them as husbands and fathers, but as comrades and fellow-workers. You have indicated that your driver-couriers are closely knit. Were Noone and Daigh any different from the rest?”
“No, not in that way. They got on well with everybody, so far as I know.”
“Apart from the other drivers, who must be weary of police interrogations, have you any other employees who would know something about these two men?”
“Oh, I expect a certain amount of chatting-up and chaff goes on between our drivers and the two women behind the counter in our main booking hall. Any cancellations, you see, come in by telephone (often at the last minute, unfortunately for us), and are taken by the counter clerks. It’s then their business to contact me or my secretary and then to inform the drivers.”
“I should like to talk with one of these young ladies.”
“Not so awfully young, actually. Mrs. Wade has been with us ten years and Miss Morley for seven.”
“That is splendid. If they have been subjected to chat and chaff for those lengths of time, they must have formed some definite opinions about your various men.”
“Oh, I expect so. Anyway, talk to them by all means. At this time in the season they were unlikely to be very busy, as practically all the bookings will have been made, so there will be little except cancellations to be dealt with.”
Dame Beatrice interviewed Mrs. Wade first, and across her counter, as though it was an enquiry about travel. Mrs. Wade was a cheerful, plump, pretty woman in her mid-thirties, accustomed, because of her job, to answering questions and retaining a helpful demeanour. Such evidence as she could offer was independently reinforced by Miss Morley at a separate interview which took place just outside the booking hall.
“Cyril Noone was a quiet fellow. Not much to say for himself, but would do anything for anybody.”
“Including, perhaps, giving a stranger a lift in his coach when his passengers were out of it?” Dame Beatrice enquired.
“Oh, not casual strangers, of course. But if there was another coach-driver in trouble, especially one of our lot or even a man working for another tour company, Cyril would do his best to help him out, I’m sure, provided it didn’t hold up the tour at all.”
“What about Mr. Daigh?”
“Well, he was a different sort. Fond of his joke, but never nasty or embarrassing with it. Quite the gentleman in that sort of way, but—well, you know—liked his bit of fun.”
“Gentlemanly enough to take a sick person to hospital, for example? Someone who was not on the tour, I mean.”
“Oh, I couldn’t quite say that. The coaches are on a very tight schedule, you see. There wouldn’t be time for a driver to go off like that, although I’d say that, in the ordinary way, I’m sure Jack Daigh would do a good turn if he died for it.”
“Which he may well have done,” said Dame Beatrice, when she recounted to Laura the information she had received from the desk-clerks.
“So what will you do now?” asked Laura.
“I shall return to Derbyshire and talk to the County police. I have no doubt that they will have searched the moors. The search must be unsuccessful, or we should have heard. I shall suggest a different hiding-place for poor Noone’s body. If my suggestion is well received and their search of my rather unlikely hiding-place is successful, then I shall convey the same suggestion to the police who are conducting the search for Daigh in Wales.”
“But what is this long shot of yours?”
“I prefer not to say until I know whether or not it has reached its target.”
“And you do really think that these missing drivers have been murdered? But why?”
“Why do I think so?—or why have they been murdered?”
“Both, I suppose.”
“I think so because you think so. Isn’t that right?”
“Perhaps it is. It’s the fact that two are missing which bothers me.”
“As for why they have been murdered, well, the temporary theft of the Welsh coach—if a theft can be held to be temporary—indicates a robbery of a more serious kind, I think.”
“You mean our coach was commandeered to convey stolen goods?” asked Honfleur incredulously when she made the suggestion to him.
“It is a reasonable supposition, I think. I wonder why you think so?”
“Oh, I don’t! I think you’re jumping to conclusions far too readily. What kind of stolen goods would need a coach to transport them?”
“Thousands of cigarettes, cases of contraband liquor, a fortune in narcotics wrapped up in bales of textiles…or even an innocent-seeming suitcase.”
“Oh, all right! But we’ve no details of such stolen cargoes, have we?”
“We have not, but what about the police?”
“The police? Well, so far as we are concerned, all they know
at present is that two of our drivers are missing. That’s all I care about. In any case, your theories of theft and murder still have to be proved. How do you propose to set about it? Have you really any ideas?”
“I shall go back to Derbyshire and talk with the Chief Constable of the district in which Driver Noone disappeared. If he will agree to do as I ask, one of my theories—well, not theories so much as wild guesses, I fear—will either be proved or disproved. If I am right, and we find Noone, then I know where to find Daigh.”
“And it’s of no use to ask you any more questions?”
“At present, no. I am probably going on a wild-goose chase and a ridiculous one at that, and if it weren’t for Laura I should not be undertaking it at all.”
“I suggested it?” exclaimed Laura.
“No. You simply and quite unintentionally put a grotesque thought into my head.”
CHAPTER SIX
DEVIL-PORTER IT NO FURTHER
The Chief Constable of the district in which Hulliwell Hall was situated looked dubious.
“But what makes you think so?” he asked. “A body on a gatehouse roof? It seems such a fantastic idea.”
“In Monmouth my secretary remarked on the fact that there appears to be no admission to the watchman’s lodging which forms part of the fourteenth-century Monnow Bridge.”
“But Monmouth doesn’t come into the matter, except that County Motors stay there one night on their Welsh tours, but their Welsh tours are nothing to do with us.”
“After that, I discovered that, although there used to be a way in and out of the room at the top of the gatehouse to the bishop’s palace at Dantwylch, the passage between that and the ruins of the chapel has been bricked up for years.”
“I still don’t follow. In any case, what have I to do with all that?”
“Then I inspected the roof over the watchman’s dwelling on the Westgate at Winchester. The parapet there would conceal anybody who crouched or was lying down on the roof. This, all of it, made me think of the gatehouse which forms the entrance to your Hulliwell Hall.”
“I think this is all rather far-fetched, you know, Dame Beatrice.”
“You have searched the moors, you say.”
“Exhaustively, but it doesn’t mean that there aren’t dozens of hiding-places we could have missed. We’ve even had a helicopter out, but you can’t see into all the holes and crevices. There are stone-quarries, tumble-down drystone walls, disused sheep-pens, limestone caverns—any number of hiding-places and hazards. Besides, you’re going on the assumption that these men are dead. We don’t admit that. We shall continue to do our best to find them, of course, but, as we pointed out to the coach people when they made their first report, men do walk out of their own accord and are quite skilful at covering their tracks. Honestly, Dame Beatrice, don’t you think that is the case here?”
“I might very well think so if only one coach-driver had been missing, but the disappearance of two of them within such a short space of time gives one food for thought.”
“Well, yes, I suppose it does, but coincidences are not so very unusual and both men may have become tired of their jobs with the tour company, talked it over with one another, and decided to quit.”
“One in Derbyshire and one in West Wales?”
“Well, two men roaming together would be more conspicuous than if each man went off on his own. We’ve circulated a description of Noone and the Welsh police, with whom we’re in contact, have done the same for Daigh. Now we and they have combined and issued both descriptions in case the men have teamed up somewhere or other. I don’t see what more we can do, except continue with routine enquiries.”
“Did your helicopter fly over Hulliwell Hall?”
“Over the surrounding countryside it did, but there isn’t much cover there. It was the moorland terrain which we searched most thoroughly for hiding-places, but we’ve made lots of house to house enquiries as well, you know. We particularly asked whether anybody in the village saw anything suspicious or had taken in a lodger, for example, at about the time in question.”
“I wish you would get your men to inspect the gatehouse at the Hall. Would that be too difficult to arrange?”
“Well, no, I suppose not. The owners are away and I know the fellow who is agent for the estate. It can be managed if you’re especially keen on it. Nothing will come of it, you know.”
“I do not expect anything to come of it, but it would oblige me very much if the roof of that gatehouse could be eliminated, as it were, from my list of suspected hiding-places for a body.”
“Very well, but I think you’re looking for a mare’s nest.”
“That may be so, but I always pay attention to my secretary’s observations. She has Highland blood and sometimes that brings with it the unenviable gift of second sight.”
“Oh, come, now, Dame Beatrice! You will not persuade me that you indulge in superstitions of that sort!”
“To give some credence to the theory that extra-sensory perceptions do exist is not superstition. Besides, Laura has not claimed that Noone’s body is on the top of the gatehouse at Hulliwell Hall. She merely drew my attention to the fact that some of these defensive structures which were erected by our ancestors to keep out unwelcome visitors no longer offer admittance to the porter’s lodging and watch-tower.”
“There must be arrangements to have the fabric inspected from time to time. The body, if one was there—”
“When was the gatehouse at Hulliwell Hall last inspected, I wonder?” said Dame Beatrice.
“Oh, well,” said the Chief Constable, good-humouredly, “that will certainly give me a talking-point with Hutchings. He lives on the estate in what used to be the dower house. I’ll ring him up. If nothing else, he will be charmed to meet you. He loves celebrities.”
It was Mrs. Hutchings who answered the telephone. Her husband, she explained, was up at the Hall, where some workmen were repairing part of the stonework balustrade of the terrace. He would be back at tea-time. Would the Chief Constable (she called him Tom) bring Dame Beatrice along for a cup of tea and a chat? She and Hugh would be delighted to meet her.
The gatehouse? Oh, of course it was safe! If Dame Beatrice would like to see the view from the top, that could easily be arranged. The Hall was closed to tourists at six, so perhaps, when she had been shown over the gatehouse, Dame Beatrice might like to see some of those parts of the Hall which were not open to the public. Yes, if they would care to come along at about half-past four, Hugh should be in by then.
Hutchings turned out to be more than willing to show Dame Beatrice any part of the mansion she would like to see. The gatehouse? Oh, was she particularly interested in gatehouses? Had she seen the whacking great structure at Thornton Abbey and the charming little entrance to South Wraxall Manor? Then there was the mighty fortification on the house side of the moat at Kirkby Muxloe, and one of his own favourites was the half-timbered, cottage-style gatehouse at Lower Brockhampton Hall.
“But, then, I’m a Chester man,” he said. The conversation turned on to a comparison of Chester and York and might have continued indefinitely but for Mrs. Hutchings’ reminder to her husband of his promise to show Dame Beatrice the view from the gatehouse roof.
The dower house was separated from the Hall by about half a mile of park-land, the evening was mellow, and it still wanted a couple of hours to sunset, so the three set off on foot and approached the gatehouse from the inside. The cash customers who had come as sightseers had all been shepherded away, but the man on duty was still in his little kiosk checking the takings against the number of tickets sold that day. Hutchings greeted him and told him that he was taking the two visitors up to the roof to look at the view.
On the outer side of the archway a stout door had to be unlocked. Hutchings was carrying an electric torch, for the newel stair which they mounted was lighted only by one slit of a window and there was no handrail.
The porter’s room was tiny compared with that
above the Westgate at Winchester, but here, again, there was access to the roof and the soft, clear evening light. Hutchings had led the way up the winding stair, but when Dame Beatrice had made a brief survey, by the light of an electric torch, of the tiny, stone-walled room, she was the first to mount to the leads.
She stood aside at the top of the short, steep, straight flight of steps so that the way was not blocked for her companions, and as they joined her on the small, flat roof she said,
“Just as well that we are in the open air.”
“You must have known,” said the Chief Constable, visiting Dame Beatrice at the Dovedale hotel on the following morning.
“No,” Dame Beatrice responded. “It fell out just as I told you. Laura had this obsession about gatehouses and they did seem to offer possibilities as hiding-places. It has been pointed out, more than once, that to commit a murder is easy enough. It is the disposal of the body which presents the problem. Some bury the victim’s corpse in somebody else’s grave; others burn it; some dismember it and strew the remains over as wide an area as possible; others are content to dispose only of the head in the hope that the rest of the cadaver will defy recognition and identification; and there is also a school of thought which favours placing the remains in the left-luggage offices at railway stations and destroying the incriminating reclamation ticket. It was left to the fertile imagination of my secretary to envisage the possibilities of mediaeval gatehouses.”
“Your secretary may have been obsessed by gatehouses, but I don’t believe she thought of them as repositories for murdered bodies. That was your idea, Dame Beatrice. Well, you may as well make up your mind to stay on here for a day or two. You will be needed at the inquest. Mind you, we shall soon get the fellow who did this,” said the Chief Constable.
“You think so?”
“Bound to. Nobody could have got a dead body up that newel stair. It’s so narrow that I had quite a job to squeeze myself up, and I was carrying nothing but an electric torch. The chap or chaps must have had a ladder and reared it up to the gatehouse roof from outside. What’s more, they must have killed poor Noone—we must get the body formally identified, of course, but I have no doubt myself that it’s Noone—they must have killed him somewhere else while the coach-party was inside Hulliwell Hall. Then they brought the body back to the gatehouse by night and in a car. It will be hard luck if we can’t get a line on something there, because, as I say, they must also have brought a ladder. Well, you’ve certainly led us to discover the body. We should never have thought of that gatehouse for ourselves. Now the inquest—”
Noonday and Night (Mrs. Bradley) Page 7
