A Six-Letter Word for Death

by Patricia Moyes

  “I’m afraid we haven’t the time, Mrs. Waterford,” said Henry. “I have to get back to London. I only called to ask you a couple of questions.”

  “Me?” Myrtle’s manner became glacial. “Questions? What about?”

  “About how well you knew Peter Turnberry.”

  Again, a pause. Then, “You’re not trying to tell me that you are here in your official capacity, I hope, Chief Superintendent?”

  Henry smiled. “Of course not. I’m just…curious, that’s all. Force of habit, I suppose. I’d be very grateful if you’d help me fill in a few blanks.”

  “In what?”

  “Oh, just an idea I have. Had you met Peter Turnberry before the Carnworth week?”

  “No, I had not.” No hesitation whatever.

  “But during the week, before Emmy and I arrived, you got to know him quite well?”

  “I really don’t see where this is leading, Mr. Tibbett. Of course, people at a small house party like that are bound to get to know each other.”

  “You knew he had an appointment with me at five o’clock on the day he died?”

  “Everybody knew it. We were all there when it was arranged.”

  “Have you any idea, Mrs. Waterford, what he wanted to say to me?”

  “None. How could I have?”

  Henry felt that he was losing ground. He had no right to ask these questions, and Myrtle had no reason to answer them. Without being downright rude, she was letting him understand that she was well aware of the fact, and would not put up with much more. He decided that an outright attack was the only hope. After all, he could only fail.

  He said, “I understand that Oppenshaw and Trilby may not be publishing any more of your books.”

  Myrtle went pale. Anger? Fear? It was difficult to tell. Then she said, a little shakily, “I can’t imagine where you heard such a silly story, Mr. Tibbett. Oppenshaw and Trilby are not the kind of firm to drop an author with whom they have dealt for years, just because—”

  “Just because what, Mrs. Waterford?”

  “Nothing. In any case, Jack Harvey is very well known. I could easily find another publisher.”

  “So you have considered the possibility?”

  “How dare you put words into my mouth!” There was no doubt about the anger now. Emmy was forgotten. So was the Lady of the Manor and the roses at their best. This was a fight, and Henry’s heart lifted. People do not become aggressive unless they have something to defend.

  He said, “I suppose what you really need is a good, original plot for your next book. Something that nobody could possibly call…derivative.”

  “Are you accusing me of—”

  “I’m accusing you of nothing at all, Mrs. Waterford. The rumor that I heard about you and Sir Robert was probably just jealous professional gossip. However, all authors must be in search of inventive ideas for books, and I don’t suppose that any one of them would be so philanthropic as to suggest one to another writer. On the other hand, Peter Turnberry was not an author. I just wondered if he might have come to you with an idea for a new Tex Lawrie story.”

  For a moment, Myrtle seemed to be wrestling between throwing Henry out and passing the whole thing off gracefully. He had given her the opportunity to do either. Lacking any brawny aid, she would have to do the job herself, and do it verbally. This might give the impression of some sort of guilty conscience. Myrtle quickly made up her mind. She actually smiled.

  “Well, Mr. Tibbett, I can see that Scotland Yard trains its officers well. No wonder you solved our little crossword with no difficulty. Yes, Mr. Tibbett—or should I say Mr. Holmes?—you are quite right. Peter Turnberry did come to me with an idea for a book. If you were a writer, you would know that this happens all the time. Everybody in the world has a wonderful idea for a book, if only somebody would write it down for him. I expect Peter hawked this idea around our whole group. I can tell you that it was quite hopeless. Sir Robert would certainly never have published it. So you see…” Myrtle shrugged her shoulders.

  Henry said, “Having hawked it around the group, as you say, don’t you think he might have intended to come to me with this idea?”

  “To you?” Myrtle laughed, but it was not entirely convincing. “Since when, Mr. Tibbett, have you been a writer of mysteries?”

  “Of course I’m not an author, Mrs. Waterford,” said Henry, “but my impression from what you said just now, and from what I gathered at Carnworth from the others, is that when a layman comes to an author with a perfectly marvelous idea for a book, it is generally based on a real-life incident—something in which that person has been involved. In America, there is an expression which I’m sure you’ve heard—‘Boy, I could write a book!’—meaning, of course, that some experience of the speaker’s would provide material for—”

  “Peter Turnberry’s idea,” said Myrtle, in a voice of ice, “could not possibly have come from his own experience.”

  Henry was unruffled. “Then perhaps from somebody else’s—somebody he knew well.” Myrtle said nothing. “After all, Mrs. Waterford, I may not write mysteries, but my profession is trying to solve them.” Another pause. “Would you tell me what this idea of Peter’s was?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “If it was so bad, and not based on any real incident—” Myrtle, quite in control of herself now, smiled. “I said no, Mr. Tibbett. I meant no. Now, would you like to see the garden, or must you be on your way?”

  “I think we should be going, Mrs. Waterford. I have a lot to do.”

  Myrtle turned to Emmy. “It has been most delightful to see you again, Mrs. Tibbett,” she said. She stressed the word “you” very slightly.

  “You have a most lovely house and garden here, Mrs. Waterford,” said Emmy with perfect sincerity, intending only to soothe ruffled feathers. “I’m sorry we haven’t had time to see it properly, but…well, good-bye.”

  She held out her hand. To her surprise, Myrtle was looking at her with a sudden hostility, as marked as she had shown in her exchanges with Henry. She shook hands silently, walked out of the drawing room to the front door, and held it open without a word. The Tibbetts left.

  Outside the gates on the country road, Emmy said, “That was pretty odd, wasn’t it? What did I say to upset her so much, for heaven’s sake? And how do we get back to Great Middleford from here? Walk?”

  Henry grinned. “To answer your questions one at a time—yes, but no odder than I’d expected. You mentioned the house, which is obviously affordable thanks to Jack Harvey, and would be in jeopardy should that author cease to write, for any reason. And—what was the last one?”

  “How do we get back to the Tabard, pick up our suitcase, and get to the railway station? We’re miles from anywhere. I thought at least she’d call a cab for us.”

  “There’s a bus-stop sign,” said Henry. “We’ll wait.”

  They were comparatively lucky. Half an hour later a bus arrived and took them back to Great Middleford, the Tabard, and the railway, whence there were twice-hourly trains to London. By half past six, they were home.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE LONDON SCHOOL of Economics informed Henry that Professor Coe lectured every Monday and Thursday morning. Henry had called the school as a last resort, for Fred and Alice Coe were not listed in the London telephone directory, and—apart from a complete lack of justification—Henry did not wish to use his status as a senior officer of the C.I.D. to force the post office to divulge the number. Out of interest, however, he got Inspector Reynolds to turn up an old London telephone book, the one for the year preceding the death of Miss Felicity Orwell. In it, Frederick Coe was listed, with an address in a modest northeastern suburb, a respectable but by no means expensive area. A call to that number had produced a surprised and faintly Cockney response from the lady of the house.

  “Professor Coe? Oh, you mean the people what lived here some time ago. No, can’t help you, I’m afraid. I did gather from Mrs. Donovan next door—now dead and gone, poor c
reature—that they’d come into a lot of money and left the district. No, I couldn’t say where they went. Perhaps the police might be able to help you.”

  “I doubt it very much,” said Henry gravely. “Thank you all the same.”

  And so he put through his call to the London School of Economics. It was a Friday, so there was nothing more to be done that day, but the following Monday, Henry called again, and was told that Professor Coe was indeed in the building, but could not be interrupted in the middle of his lecture.

  Henry said that he had no intention of interrupting a class, but requested that the professor might be given a message that Chief Superintendent Henry Tibbett of Scotland Yard wished to talk to him on a private matter, and would he be kind enough to call the Chief Superintendent’s extension at Scotland Yard as soon as he was free to do so.

  Coe could, of course, have ignored the message entirely, and then Henry would have had to resort to other tactics. However, he had a feeling that the call would be returned, and sure enough, at half past twelve, the switchboard operator informed him that Professor Coe was on the line.

  Henry was all quiet affability. “Fred, how very kind of you to call back. Hope it didn’t sound too official, but I knew I’d be in my office. I’ve been trying to trace you, but either you live out of London or your phone’s unlisted.”

  “Yes, it is unlisted. I don’t want to be bothered by frivolous callers. I’ll give you the number.”

  Henry scribbled it on a notepad. Then he said, “But that must be quite near us, out along the King’s Road. I can see that you live on the fashionable side of Berkeley Square…”

  “I live nowhere near Berkeley Square,” said Fred Coe, with some irritation.

  “Forget it…just a literary allusion. I hope it doesn’t sound impertinent, but I wondered if I might drop in and see you. Perhaps this evening.”

  “Of course. Alice and I would be delighted.” There was no hesitation, in fact Coe sounded positively pleased. “And you’ll bring Emmy, won’t you? I’ve been telling Alice about you both, and she’s most anxious to meet you. I had no idea that we were such close neighbors.”

  “You’re very kind,” Henry said. “You must think it odd, my inviting myself like this.”

  “Odd? Not in the least. Very flattered that you should.”

  Henry said, “I must warn you, Fred. I want to talk about Peter Turnberry.”

  “Ah, yes. Poor fellow. Were you at the inquest?”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “Barbara called and told me. Accidental death. Such a pity. A nice young man, even if not very bright.”

  “Not very bright? I understood from Sir Robert that he’d done exceptionally well at Oxford, and was completing his studies in—”

  “Shall we say six o’clock, or is that too early for you?” Coe broke into Henry’s sentence with what sounded like a little spurt of irritation. Henry was intrigued.

  “Six o’clock will be fine,” he said. “Just tell me exactly how to find your house…”

  The Coe residence turned out to be a small but charming Regency town house on a quiet street off King’s Road, Chelsea. It had a little front garden, with roses blooming behind the iron railings and gate. The house was painted white, with a pale blue front door. There was a gleaming brass knocker in the form of a human hand, and a more practical electric bell at the side of the door. Henry rang the bell, and the door was opened almost at once by a trim, well-dressed, gray-haired woman, as neat as a pin and a complete contrast to the untidy, shambling professor.

  The woman smiled warmly. “Mr. and Mrs. Tibbett. How delightful. And how refreshing to meet somebody who takes the trouble to be punctual. Do please come in. I am Alice Coe.”

  The small hallway was paneled in pine, and smelled deliciously of furniture polish. Through a door to the left, Henry glimpsed an elegant little dining room with a circular table and antique chairs with needlepoint covers. The door at the end of the hall presumably led to the kitchen. The staircase leading down from the upper floor had been stripped down to the pale pinewood and meticulously polished. Mrs. Coe led the way up the stairs. “Let’s go up to the drawing room. These narrow little houses keep us in good shape, don’t they? Always climbing up and down stairs.”

  The staircase led directly to a beautiful drawing room, which stretched the length and (such as it was) the breadth of the house. At the far end, French windows opened on a small balcony, from which a flight of stone steps led down into a little back garden. Like the front, this was impeccably tended—a central paved courtyard surrounded by beds of roses, delphiniums, geraniums, and larkspur. An English country garden in miniature. Inside the paling fence, beyond which lay other similar town gardens, privacy was ensured by trees—a couple of graceful lilacs, a flowering cherry, and even an apple tree. Henry knew that houses like these, so close to the center of town, commanded astronomical prices. A contrast, indeed, to the northeastern suburb. Was Miss Twinkley responsible for all this luxury—or was it that other little old lady, Miss Felicity Orwell?

  “I think it’s just a little too cold for drinks in the garden,” Alice Coe was saying. “Now sit down and tell me what you would like.”

  Henry and Emmy sat down on the comfortable sofa (curly Victorian cherrywood, upholstered in thick cotton scattered with a pattern of tiny blue and white flowers), and asked for Scotch and soda.

  A Regency armoire turned out to be the façade for a well-stocked bar. As Alice poured the drinks, she said, “I’m afraid Fred isn’t home yet. Typical of him. I just hope he’s remembered that you’re coming. I’ve given up trying to apologize for him. I suppose you just have to accept the fact that he’s the original absentminded professor.”

  “And also an author,” said Henry. “It must keep him very busy.”

  For a moment Alice looked surprised, even alarmed. Then she relaxed and said, “Of course. Fred met you at Carnworth, didn’t he? So you know he’s a writer.”

  “Or perhaps one should say, half a writer,” said Henry. “The Freda, one presumes, in Freda Wright. I’ve often wondered how collaborators work on a book, I mean, the actual methods. Does Dr. Cartwright think up the plots and Professor Coe do the writing? Or do they share both jobs?”

  Alice turned, with the full glasses in her hands. She did not look pleased. “I see that you know a great deal, Mr. Tibbett. I hope that you will keep it to yourself. It would damage Fred greatly if it was generally known.”

  “Naturally,” said Henry. He thanked Mrs. Coe as she handed him his drink. “Being at Carnworth made us sort of honorary members of the club, and bound by its rules of secrecy.”

  “I understood,” said Alice Coe, “that you were the visiting celebrity. I thought that the actual identities of the writers weren’t disclosed to—”

  Emmy said, “Henry’s a policeman, Mrs. Coe. He couldn’t resist a challenge like that—especially after the crossword puzzle.”

  “The what?” Alice had poured herself a small gin and tonic. Now she sat down abruptly in one of the wing chairs that matched the sofa, put her drink on a table beside her, and looked really surprised. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “Didn’t Fred tell you?” Henry asked.

  Alice shook her head.

  “Well,” said Henry with a smile, “it was just a little joke that the members of Guess Who thought they’d play on me, to see if I could function like a classic whodunnit detective. They sent me a blank crossword puzzle and a series of clues. You can guess who compiled the puzzle.”

  “Vandike,” said Alice, with deep distaste. “Just the sort of idea he would have.”

  “I’m not actually sure whether it was his idea or somebody else’s,” said Henry. “Anyhow, I managed to solve it—by cheating, of course.”

  “What do you mean, cheating?”

  “I happen to know one of Britain’s most dedicated crossword fans. I passed the whole thing along to him, and he solved it for me.”

  Alice said, “I fail to see
what a crossword could have to do with a whodunnit.”

  “Most of the clues,” said Henry, “when correctly solved, turned out to produce names. Yours, among them.”

  “Mine?”

  “Yes, and your husband’s. In connection with Miss Felicity Orwell.”

  “In that case,” said Alice Coe in a voice of pure ice, “I am not in the least surprised that Fred told me nothing about the crossword. And what, Mr. Tibbett, were you supposed to do?”

  Henry said, “The main clues came in batches—three of them. Each contained names which were in some way connected to each other. In your batch were Fred Coe, Alice, and Felicity Orwell. I presumed, correctly, that I was to find the connection between the names.”

  “And you say that you succeeded?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Coe. I found out that Miss Orwell was an aunt of yours, whom you brought to live in your house and nursed devotedly until her death. I fancy it was not in this house.”

  Alice managed a frigid smile. “You also know, without any doubt, that Aunt Felicity left us quite a lot of money. It enabled us—with the help of Fred’s work in both his fields—to leave the…the place where we were living and move here. You seem to have solved the puzzle, and I sincerely hope that you made Harold Vandike look very silly.”

  “There was a little more to it than that, Mrs. Coe. You see, the three sets of clues, each of which related to a member of the club, hinted that a crime might have been committed.”

  “A crime, Mr. Tibbett?”

  “Murder for money,” said Henry. “In two cases, at least.”

  “Including ours?”

  “Well, obviously. Now please believe me, I didn’t take any of the cases at all seriously, once I had solved the crossword and seen its implications. I realized that it was a bunch of sharp-witted people having a little harmless fun at my expense.” Henry paused and sipped his drink. “But then an odd thing happened. Peter Turnberry was accidentally killed by a fall from his horse.”

  “Peter who?”

  “You didn’t know him?”