Shroud of Darkness

by E. C. R. Lorac

  “Cartoffel?” queried Macdonald. “Isn’t that a German name?”

  “Yes, but lots of good U.S.A. citizens have German names. Kartoffel is German for potato. It’s also the sort of name which might be remembered, because it’s a very odd name. Anyway, drawing a bow at a venture, I advertised, asking anybody who remembered Cartoffel, Dorward, or Freedman to communicate in the usual way. I’m getting a few answers—mostly to say that Cartoffel was killed by a V.1 in ’44—but something may turn up.”

  “Where did you advertise?” asked Macdonald.

  “Agony Column. Times, Telegraph, and so forth. Didn’t you notice them? I thought you always read the Times personal column—I do.”

  “So do I, generally. I enjoy it. When were your chits in?”

  “A fortnight ago—oh, it was when you were up in Inverness, so I take it you read The Scotsman. I’ll tell you if anything materialises, but I think it’s pretty remote.”

  “Try the name on Garstang and see if he reacts,” said Macdonald.

  James laughed. “It’s a pretty long shot. . . . Still, it might crop up in the course of conversation, so to speak.” He sat very still for a moment. “After all, Garstang was in Germany at the same time Dorward was said to be. I wonder if you’ve got something there. . . . It’d be damned odd . . .”

  “Odd things do happen sometimes,” said Macdonald.

  James nodded. “Do you remember a chap named Blakely in our set of toughs?” he asked. Macdonald pondered:

  “Was he the chap who was parachuted into Italy?”

  “That’s him: he got his when the Jerries released Musso. Blakely once told me that he believed Dorward was associated with an Itye named Francesco Revari: they’d got some sort of racket going in the way of an escape route into Switzerland. It all sounded pretty improbable to me, and I couldn’t follow it up at the time because Blakely was bunged off into Italy. I tried the name on the F.B.I., but they didn’t react—said it was all my eye. It’ll be a damned funny thing if Garstang does know anything about this old wives’ tale. . . . Of course I never tried him on the Dorward story.”

  “Well, now’s your chance,” said Macdonald. “You’ll be able to have quite a chat. What was your Italian brigand called?”

  “Francesco Revari. Don’t tell me you know anything about him?”

  “No. I’m pretty certain I don’t. It’s just that the sound of the name seemed to ring a bell.”

  “Oh Lord!” groaned James. “How often have I heard that one!”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  WHEN SALLY DILLON said to Brian: “Won’t you come in and have a drink and a talk? I somehow feel we might puzzle things out a bit together,” Brian had replied: “Thanks a lot,” and then turned to Jenkins, “if that’s all right by you, sir?”

  “That’s all right by me, son. You’ve had enough of our department for one day. But you’d better tell me—how do you get back to the chief inspector’s? I shall be in the soup if you’re posted missing.” Very carefully Jenkins explained the route to Millbank, and Sally laughed as she said:

  “Libby and I will take him to Oxford Circus and put him on an 88 bus, and then he can’t go wrong.”

  Jenkins drove off and Brian protested as they walked up the garden path: “I’m not such a mutt as all that. I’ve been around a bit—not spent the whole of my life singling turnips.”

  Sally opened the front door, switched on the lights and led Brian into the big, peaceful sitting room.

  “I’m sorry it’s only an electric fire: we generally have an open fire, but our treasure was sacked for us by the distaff side of the C.I.D. . . . Oh, but someone’s laid the fire and left me a little note.”

  “The C.I.D. again, perhaps,” said Brian. “Let me light it for you. I’m good at fires.”

  “Then do, and I’ll get the drinks,” said Sally. “Would you like gin, sherry, or just beer?”

  “Just beer, please,” he said, kneeling down in front of the fireplace. When Sally came back, the fire was crackling cheerfully up the chimney.

  “I can’t tell you how much I like this room, and being here,” said Brian. “Today’s been a sort of nightmare, one damned thing after another. Those C.I.D. chaps are about as decent as men can be, they’re kind and considerate and—well, just plain decent. But it was all right outside anything I’ve ever known, and pretty grim with it. This . . .” he looked round the spacious, softly lighted room. “It’s beautiful,” he said, “but it’s homely as well. It’s a happy room.”

  “I always feel that about it,” said Sally. “I’m glad you like it. Here’s your drink. I’m going to tell you straight out I was awfully glad to have you coming in here this evening. Libby’s sometimes kept late, and I’d have hated to sit here by myself, just wondering.”

  He took the tankard from her with a word of thanks, and said: “I’m awfully sorry you’ve been dragged into all this. It’s rotten for you, and it seems so unfair.”

  “Oh, I don’t feel a bit like that about it,” replied Sally. “You see, I liked Richard, and I did have the feeling I’d like to help him, because he looked so troubled. The only thing I’m sorry about is that I hadn’t the courage to butt in again when we got to Paddington and ask him where he was going and if he knew his way. I did think of it, but he’d forgotten all about me and gone all remote.” She curled up in one of the big armchairs and went on: “Would you like to tell me about him? You see, I was talking to him and noticing him for quite a long time, and you know all about him. Together we might think of something.”

  “Yes. I’d like to,” replied Brian. “I did my best to tell everything to Macdonald—he’s a fine chap, isn’t he?—but I expect I shall remember much more when I’m talking to you: just small things, which may not matter in themselves, but which add up to something real. . . .”

  Sally sat very quiet, curled up in her chair, while Brian talked, hesitatingly at first, then more quickly and easily. He began with his first meeting with Richard, when the latter was still virtually speechless, and went on through their school days, when Richard was always top of the form and Brian was well down in the middle. He told her of their school holidays together: how he went up to Moorcock in the spring and helped with the lambs and how Richard came to the Salcombes’ farm in August and helped with harvest: how in September they went off on their bikes and explored Devon from coast to coast, went down into Cornwall and up into Wales, always together. He told her how well Richard had done in his “School Cert” and Higher, and how he had been awarded his university grant and had gone to Reading to be interviewed by the college authorities before he and Brian went into the Army for their National Service.

  “Of course, I didn’t stay on at school as long as Richard did,” he explained. “I’m not brainy, not in that way. I did a course at an Ag Col—and jolly useful it was, but I knew it’d make a lot of difference when we started farming together if Richard was an expert on all the soil chemistry business, and the scientific side of breeding dairy cattle.”

  “Yes. I’m sure it would,” put in Sally, “but Brian, getting back to the here-and-now, Richard had been to Reading before that evening in the train.”

  “Why, yes. Just that once. But it was only to see the university people,” said Brian. “He didn’t stay there or anything.”

  “Did he tell you about it?” asked Sally. “And can you remember just what he said?”

  “I’ll try—but why this harping on Reading?” asked Brian. “Macdonald asked about that too——”

  “Never mind about Macdonald now,” she replied quietly. “It’s I who am asking you this time. You see, it was after we’d stopped at Reading that Richard got so much queerer. I couldn’t bear to look at him, his face looked so wretched. Before that he’d been queer and vague, but it wasn’t until the train stopped at Reading and that frightful-looking boy got in that Richard looked quite . . . well, abnormal. So do tell me anything you can remember about his going there for his interview.”

  “I’ll
try,” said Brian, “but I didn’t see him immediately afterwards—not for about a fortnight. He said the principal at the college, or whoever he saw, had been no end decent——”

  “Wait a minute,” said Sally. “What train did he travel by?”

  “Oh, he went up early from Plymouth, by the fast one. I think he got to Reading about four, and he saw the people he’d got to see—it didn’t take long—and mooched about the buildings and experimental station a bit, and then he went up to London and stayed the night. He could have caught the night train back, but he was a bit fed up with travelling, so he went up to London and stayed at a cheap place he found somewhere near to Paddington. He said it was pretty foul, but it didn’t matter for one night.”

  “But can’t you see—I’m certain something must have happened to him when he was in Reading that time,” cried Sally. “It was something that happened the first time which made him queer the time I was with him. I remember I went to sleep for a bit when the train was crawling along after we left Taunton, and when I woke up I asked Richard where we’d got to, and he said: ‘Somewhere between Newbury and Reading,’ as though he knew the line quite well. And he asked me if I was worried about the train running so late. He was nice about it—kind without being fussy. Of course neither of us expected the train to stop at Reading, and I think that upset him.”

  “I just can’t make out all this business about Reading and the other chap in the train—the bookies’ tout,” said Brian unhappily. “It’s as though you were all arguing that Richard got to know this blighter when he went to Reading the first time, and that he got involved in some mess—something he was ashamed of. Well, it doesn’t make sense to me. Richard may be a bit queer sometimes and have vague fits and get down when he tries to remember and can’t, but apart from that lie’s plenty of gump. And you know we were both brought up in the same sort of way—old-fashioned, I dare say, but very straight. You don’t suddenly go off the rails when you’ve been brought up like that.”

  “No, I know you don’t,” agreed Sally, “but sometimes something happens quite unexpectedly, and has results you can’t foresee—just like Richard and me talking in the train. It seemed so natural to talk to him, when we stood looking out over the sea, but it’s no use saying it didn’t have any result. I’ve got tied up in this thing, whatever it is. The result’s out of all proportion to the cause, isn’t it? It began when I said: ‘Doesn’t it look lovely,’ and Richard said: ‘Yes: it’s grand. I love that bit, across Shaldon Bridge to Maidencoombe.’ ”

  “Yes. I see what you mean,” said Brian unhappily. “You’re thinking Richard might have talked to that cosh boy before, the other time he went from Reading to London . . . lent him a quid, or something like that, and got mixed up in something he didn’t understand. But why was the cosh boy killed . . . ? They took me to see his body, in case I recognised him. . . . It was pretty grim. . . .” He broke off and sat listening for a moment. “Wasn’t that somebody coming in at your front door?” he asked.

  “I expect it’s Libby,” said Sarah. She got up to go to the door, but Brian jumped up and reached the door first, opened it wide, and stood staring out into the lighted passage. There was something so aggressive in his attitude that Sally’s heart gave an uncomfortable jump and a shiver ran through her.

  Staring past Brian, she cried: “Why, it’s Dr. Garstang! Goodness, you did give us a jump!”

  2

  Garstang came forward into the room. “Sorry, Sally—but you gave me a jump too. Do you know your front door wasn’t fastened—anybody could have walked in.”

  “I know it wasn’t fastened,” she retorted. “I left it on the latch for Libby. I always do, because she’s generally got a lot to carry and it saves her having to fiddle with a key. It’s all right—Brian was here, so there was nothing to worry about.”

  “I’m sorry, but I think there’s a lot to’worry about,” said Garstang unhappily.

  Sally stood in front of the fire, hands on her hips, arms akimbo. “Look here,” she said indignantly. “I’m not your secretary now: I’m just myself, and this is my home. I’m not going to be frightened into dithers and live behind locked doors and pretend everything’s abnormal and pathological and horror-making. Once I start doing that it’ll get me down and I shall expect to see murderers round every corner. I’m going to behave as though things were ordinary—and so are you, Dr. Garstang. So please sit down and tell me what you’d like to drink. Brian, the beer’s in a crate under the kitchen sink, so please go and get two more bottles.”

  “O.K.,” said Brian.

  Again Garstang said: “Sally dear, I’m sorry. I don’t want to be unreasonable, but you know nothing about this boy——”

  “And he knows nothing about you,” she flashed back, “so he thinks you were listening at the door, and you think he wants to bat me over the head, and I know you’re both being equally silly. So let’s forget all about that, and tell me why you came to see me.” She suddenly laughed. “It’s the first time you’ve called on me, Dr. Garstang. I haven’t behaved very nicely so far, but I feel very much honoured that you’ve come. Don’t you think this is a nice room? Libby chose all the colours and materials, and most of the furniture’s hers, too, so I’m not afraid to brag about it.”

  “It’s beautiful, Sally,” he replied, “and it looks just right for you.” He broke off as Brian came in with bottles and glasses.

  “I like your kitchen,” he observed. “You can stand in one place and reach everything. My farmhouse kitchen seems like a ten-acre field in comparison.”

  Sally turned to Garstang. “Sherry?—not a very good one I’m afraid—gin and lime or beer?”

  “I’ll have some sherry, please. To drink to your pleasant menage,” said Garstang. “You haven’t been here long, have you?”

  “Since September,” said Sally. “Libby and I picked one another up at the V & A, in the summer. We were both staring at furniture and found we liked the same things. We both lived in hostels then, and loathed it, so we decided to pool resources and find a flat. It’s been a great success.”

  “I’m sure it has—and I’m sure it will be again,” said Garstang. “Look here, Sally. I’ve only got a few minutes to spare, but I’m going to say what I came to say. I think it’d be much wiser if you were to go home and stay with your mother until all this confused business has been sorted out. I feel I have the right to say this, because it was my suggestion that brought you up to London.”

  Sally stood by the fire, her face flushed, her chin up. “I know you mean that kindly, Dr. Garstang. You’ve always been good to me and I’m not ungrateful—but I couldn’t possibly do it. I’m not going to leave Libby Maine alone here, just after we’ve settled down and got things running comfortably. And least of all am I going to run away, if you think there’s anything to run away from, and leave Libby to cope.”

  “But Sally, nothing’s likely to happen to Elizabeth Maine: this trouble’s nothing to do with her. It wasn’t she who spoke to that boy in the train——”

  “Look here, sir,” said Brian wrathfully. “I’m not going to pass that. Richard’s not a criminal, or a leper. Why shouldn’t Sally have spoken to him?”

  “Do you realise that the two men who walked up the platform with him have both been murdered?” cried Garstang, and Sally burst out:

  “Oh, do leave off, both of you. I don’t want to hear another word about it. And I’m not going back home. I’m staying here.”

  “You’re having quite a party, Sally,” put in an ironic voice from the door. “Are you in quarantine, or is Dr. Garstang giving you the sack?”

  3

  It was Elizabeth Maine. Soignee, unruffled, her cheeks tinged faintly pink with the chill air, her lips curving to a smile, she advanced into the room. “Good evening, sir,” she said to Garstang. “I’m sorry if I sounded flippant, but why do you want Sally to go home?” Without waiting for an answer she turned to Brian. “Good evening. I don’t think we’ve met.”


  “It’s Brian Salcombe, Libby,” said Sally. “He came up to see the boy in the train, who’s his friend. Oh dear, I’m sorry if that sounds confused, but I seem to be floundering. This is Elizabeth Maine, Brian. Pour her out some sherry. She likes some when she comes in—and it’s her sherry, anyway.”

  Brian grinned at Elizabeth and went across to the table where the drinks stood, and Garstang said:

  “I’m not trying to sack Sally, Miss Maine: quite the contrary. She’s the best secretary I’ve ever had and I don’t want to lose her, but I have suggested that she should go home until the C.I.D. has sorted out all this trouble about ‘the boy in the train,’ as Sally calls him.”

  “I see,” said Elizabeth, smiling at Brian as she took the glass he proffered. “Safer for Sally . . . nice and alliterative. Of course I don’t know all the details, but even so, I don’t know that you’re right. If anybody’s got a down on Sally they could get her in Devon quite as easily as in London; more easily, perhaps, for we’ve got a pet of a policeman outside. However, it’s really for her to decide, isn’t it?”

  “I’ve decided,” said Sally. “I’m staying here. And Dr. Garstang, if you write to my mother and tell her about all this, so that she gets in a panic, I’ll never forgive you. Never. So please do forget all about your idea of sending me home, because I’m not going, anyway.”

  “I think she’s right,” said Elizabeth. “Running away’s never any good.”

  “Of course it isn’t,” murmured Brian, sotto voce.

  Garstang stood and looked at them unhappily: three very young faces, but each of the faces with a lot of character in it. But it was their youth which struck him most: they all belonged to a generation which made its own decisions, and to them he was old and this awareness struck him like a blow.