CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
SUNSET AND EVENING STAR
“Well, he certainly gave away the fact that Honfleur and Carstairs are one and the same man,” said Laura.
“Unintentionally, I think. In any case, we knew they were the same, so the information, except as confirmation, is of no value.”
“He seems to have known all about that bungalow.”
“Oh, yes, he was a junior partner to Honfleur and Vittorio in the thefts and transport of antiques. There is no doubt about that. As you once pointed out—or was it I?—his illness, which lasted three weeks, seems to have been covered by only one medical certificate. I doubt very much whether we were told the truth about even that one. I think he was engaged upon business for Honfleur and Vittorio while he was absent from duty.”
“But his mates, the other drivers, would have known about that.”
“Doubtful, I think. It was in mid-season for the tours. I don’t think any of them would have had leisure to pay him a visit and find that he was not at home.”
“Talking of the other drivers, I wonder why Noone and Daigh were the ones to be murdered?”
“They appear to have been indiscreet as well as uncooperative.”
“What makes you think so?”
“I received that impression from something two of the passengers told us.”
“As when and how?”
“Well, Noone seems to have made a jesting remark to Mr. Tedworthy which hinted that he sometimes carried more in the boot of the coach than his own and his passengers’ luggage. He meant it only as a joke, but if it ever came to the ears of anybody with as sensitive a conscience and as much at stake as Honfleur that he had a jovial babbler among his drivers, he may well have thought that he would be better off without such a man.
“The same could apply to Daigh who, in making himself pleasant to Miss Harvey and Mrs. Williams, mentioned that he was to pick up a girl-friend and her trousseau in the car-park at Dantwylch. He had only to repeat this untimely jest to Honfleur when he joined him in the car-park that midday to seal his own fate just as surely as Noone may have sealed his.”
“We’ve yet to prove that Honfleur was absent from his office on both occasions, so that depends upon what the police can ferret out.”
“We have given them all the help we can.”
“Do you think Knight was gunning (or, rather, knifing) for Vittorio simply because he believed Vittorio had murdered his mates?”
“I doubt it very much. He had no proof that Vittorio was their murderer, so I think he was also (I give him some credit for misguided altruism) pursuing a long-standing vendetta of his own.”
“About what?”
“The likeliest thing is that it was about a woman, but we need not concern ourselves with that aspect of the matter.”
“So what’s our next move?”
“I hardly think we need make one. The rest of the business may be left to the police. They will pick up Basil Honfleur sooner or later, Knight will either give himself up or be apprehended, and I fancy he will furnish details of the shipments of stolen property. Incidentally, I think we may bid farewell to our faithful bodyguard. There is no possible danger for me now and I shall be glad to be freed from surveillance.”
“So we can settle down and get on with your book. I shall be glad of something peaceful and static for a change. We appear to have done nothing these last weeks but chase all over the kingdom. Talk about Land’s End to John o’Groats!”
“You exaggerate. Besides, I have become accustomed to this roving life and should wish to continue it for a bit.”
“It’s George’s holiday next week, but I can take you anywhere you want to go.”
“Well, you may think it strange, but I have a great desire to take a coach tour.”
“What!”
“Yes,” said Dame Beatrice placidly, “a coach tour would be delightful, and there is still time to book before the season ends.”
“And County Motors goes into liquidation.”
“It is not going into liquidation. It is going to be merged with a greater and wealthier coach company, that is all.”
“With the result that it will lose its identity completely.”
“That is a sad thought. Rupert Brooke, if you remember, had a word to say about mergers, although he was referring not to coach companies but to the hereafter. He thought that there will be an end to kissing, when our mouths are one with Mouth.”
“Which tour do you want?” asked Laura, shortly, certain that she was being teased.
“We shall have to take what we can get so late in the season, but if there is a choice, I think I should like to re-visit the Yorkshire dales.” She passed a colourful brochure to Laura, who turned over the pages and studied the details of the Yorkshire tour. She soon tossed the booklet aside and asked:
“Is there enough evidence to get Honfleur convicted?”
“I think so. He will be identified by one of the attendants in the car-park at Dantwylch once his photograph is shown around by the police, and he will certainly be identified by the Whites.”
“I can’t imagine why the Whites don’t seem to have heard the rumpus when Knight and Vittorio had that scrap and wrecked the bedroom.”
“The bungalows are detached and I doubt whether the fight was as noisy as you think. There was no wardrobe to topple over and crash down and a good deal of the fighting seems to have taken the form of a wrestling-match on the bed.”
“What do you think happened to Vittorio’s clothes?”
“I think the clothes have been wrapped around a boulder, tied on with string, and are now at the bottom of Loch Linnhe. You know, Laura, a pleasant thought strikes me. I should like to take up a hobby.”
“I thought your work was your hobby. Anyway, occasionally you collect things, although sooner or later you get rid of them.”
“You are thinking not of me but of Basil Honfleur, whose collector’s mania led to his undoing. The acquisitive instinct, like most other instincts, shows a side of man’s baser nature. One should not wish to accumulate.”
She waved a yellow claw at the collector’s items she had received in exchange for her platters.
“Well, you’ve put Adam and Eve and the serpent behind you. What more do you want?” asked Laura.
“One should work with one’s hands, as Adam and Eve did,” replied Dame Beatrice. “When our coach tour is over, I think I shall carve a few love-spoons.”
About the Author
Gladys Mitchell was born in the village of Cowley, Oxford, in April 1901. She was educated at the Rothschild School in Brentford, the Green School in Isleworth, and at Goldsmiths and University Colleges in London. For many years Miss Mitchell taught history and English, swimming, and games. She retired from this work in 1950 but became so bored without the constant stimulus and irritation of teaching that she accepted a post at the Matthew Arnold School in Staines, where she taught English and History, wrote the annual school play, and coached hurdling. She was a member of the Detection Club, the PEN, the Middlesex Education Society, and the British Olympic Association. Her father’s family are Scots, and a Scottish influence has appeared in some of her books.
Noonday and Night (Mrs. Bradley) Page 19
