Gory Dew (Mrs. Bradley)

by Gladys Mitchell

  “And you never saw Mr. Gorinsky again?”

  “No, I don’t believe I did. Why, does it matter?”

  “You didn’t see him when the party left the Swan Revived for London? We understand that they went to London after they left the inn.”

  “I didn’t see any of them. I went for a drive to pass away the time until the hour for my elevenses arrived, and when I got back to the pub the birds had flown and the landlord was left with a gilded cage and no oiseaux. Heartbroken, he was, poor chap. He’d expected them to stay another fortnight, particularly as Gorinsky’s girl-friend was joining them.”

  “Which of them did you see during that week?”

  “So far as I remember, two only, young Dave and the trainer. I was out jogging with Dave on the Saturday, Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday. Then on Tuesday, after I got back, the trainer brought me a rather insolent note from Gorinsky to tell me that my services were no longer required. I didn’t see anything more of any of them, except the boy, and when I went next to the Swan Revived they’d all gone.”

  “And what brought you to Yorkshire, sir? I still don’t understand why you interested yourself in the party to the extent of advertising in several evening papers and also in a journal devoted to professional boxing. You say you were anxious about the boy, but it was none of your business, was it?”

  “The kid is only eighteen, and I’m sure he’s being exploited, but I have a more personal reason for wanting to catch up with this lot—at least, with Maverick and Gracechurchstreet. How would you like it, Inspector, if, after you’d done months of research and had written a book, some unscrupulous operators swiped the results of your labours and bowdlerized them into a rotten play?”

  “I must request you not to interrogate me, sir. It is you who are being questioned. What’s more, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “If only you’d tell me what you’re talking about, I might be able to be of some help. I might be far more willing to answer your questions, too. May I ask whether you’re trying to get me to incriminate myself in some way? If so, I can assure you I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Now, now, sir, let us not lose our sense of proportion. You are at liberty to refuse to answer my questions if you wish.”

  “That wouldn’t be very sensible of me, would it? By the way, Inspector, you’re not a Yorkshireman, are you?”

  “No, sir. New Scotland Yard C.I.D. I am working closely, however, with Yorkshire colleagues and with the Dorset police.”

  “Then it’s murder you’re talking about!”

  “You must not jump to conclusions, sir. However, you have answered my questions frankly, even if not very willingly, so I can tell you this much: we have traced the parties under advisement as far as Leeds, but there all trace of them seems to vanish.”

  “Yes, Dame Beatrice’s information was that they’d gone to Leeds. Why do they have to be traced?”

  “Because on Sunday, February twenty-eight, a motorist picking his way among the stone quarries on the heath adjacent to the village of Heathcote Fitzprior in Dorset . . .”

  “A motorist among the stone quarries?”

  “He had left his car at the side of the road and retired at a distance from it in search of some natural cover for the usual natural purpose, sir.”

  “Oh, sorry! Yes, of course.”

  “At the foot of one of the quarries he saw a dead body. It has since been identified as that of Reuben Gorinsky.”

  “His body? Good Lord! But that must mean that he did not come up here to Yorkshire with the others.”

  “Exactly, sir. Now perhaps you can see why we are interested in your advertisement.”

  “Well, at least it proves I didn’t know he was dead.”

  “Or that you did, sir, and were trying to lay a smoke screen.” Without giving Toby time to do more than gasp at this blow to the solar plexus, the inspector went on: “Further to the discovery of the body, and the necessary adjournment of the inquest, came the matter of your advertisement. When they saw how things were going, the Dorset County Police asked for the inquest to be adjourned, as there was conflicting medical opinion as to the way the death had been caused. In pursuing their enquiries they also obtained outside evidence, which had not been called at the inquest, to the effect that Gorinsky was a most unlikely person to have gone out alone to wander among stone quarries, but that, if such a notion had occurred to him, he would have taken his car as far as the heath. The village is two and a half miles from the Swan Revived, where he was last seen by the landlord on the night before the party left for London, and from the village it is another three miles to the quarry where the motorist spotted the body.”

  “You don’t have to go right into the village to get to the quarries,” said Toby. “I mean, Heathcote Fitzprior lies off the main road. You can by-pass it all right, and go on to Affpuddle and Bere Regis and on to Dorchester one way, or to Wimborne Minster the other.”

  “Quite so, sir. No car was found at the stone-quarries, but a car was seen in the village of Heathcote Fitzprior that morning and its number taken by a Mrs. Spreadapple who lives opposite the churchyard there. She keeps a tally of all cars which park on her grass verge and is continually pestering the rural district council to abate a nuisance, which she claims the aforesaid parking to be.”

  “Oh, well, as to that, people who come to visit the grave of the poet Heathcote must find somewhere to park, I suppose. That’s what they come for, of course—to visit the grave.”

  “I wouldn’t know, sir, about that. It is outside the scope of this enquiry. The point at issue is this—and this is why we have been called in—a car was found abandoned in the forecourt of the town hall of a London suburb, and it turns out to be the one whose number was taken by Mrs. Spreadapple in the village of Heathcote Fitzprior. One of the police officers deputed to tow it away—they thought it had been dumped—realized that the number was one which had been circulated. By that time, you see, we were beginning to doubt whether Accidental Death would have been the right verdict on Gorinsky, and as the car turns out to have been his, we are treating his death as a possible case of murder.”

  “And how do you know that it was Gorinsky’s car?” asked Toby feebly.

  “The landlord of the Swan Revived recognized the number after we had asked witnesses to come forward—anybody who could give information about persons seen in the neighbourhood of the stone quarries round about what the doctors thought was the time of death. It appears that Mrs. Spreadapple was tired of appealing to the council about cars being parked on the verge outside her cottage, so when this one appeared she took the number of it and went to the police. Later, of course, they were on the alert, took a chance, sent in a report and we circulated the number to all stations. This London constable recognized it as the number of a car they had towed away from the town hall, and it looked to us as though there might be something worthy of investigation. We found it interesting that a car seen in Heathcote Fitzprior should be found abandoned in London, especially considering that the owner’s body had been found in a Dorset quarry.”

  “Then, I suppose, you traced Gorinsky’s party to Leeds. Very thorough, the police,” said Toby. “Wonderful organization.”

  “Quite right, sir. We traced the party and made a very unhelpful discovery.”

  “What was that, then?” Toby had forgotten his resentment and was now interested and alert.

  “The car found in London had never been to Leeds, sir. On the other hand, Gorinsky had.”

  “But I thought you said—I mean, if your dates are right, wasn’t Gorinsky . . . ?”

  “Dead before the party went to London and on to Leeds? According to the medical evidence, he must have been. The doctors disagreed about the cause but not about the time of death. Our theory—it doesn’t matter telling you this, because it will be in all the evening papers and in tomorrow’s dailies—is that Gorinsky never left the neighbourhood of Heathcote Fitzprior at all, and that somebody else sign
ed in for him at the Leeds hotel.”

  “The party put up at an hotel, then? Don’t the management know how many people arrived?”

  “They know how many took rooms, but not how many were actually in the party. The boy and the man who acted as his sparring-partner did not book in at the hotel. The names in the register are those of Gorinsky, room twenty-seven, Gracechurchstreet, room thirty-three, and Maverick, room forty, but the three appear to have been accompanied by others who helped the hotel porter with a considerable amount of luggage which was distributed among the three bedrooms and which included a quantity of rope and four stout metal poles.”

  “How many others were there?”

  “Two, the hall-porter thinks, which is what one would expect if the boy—his name is Holley—is included, but the descriptions we’ve been given are not much to go on.”

  “Did they arrive by car?”

  “Oh, yes, they asked for a lock-up at the hotel.”

  “Did they all come in just the one car?”

  “So far as we know. Why, sir, what makes you ask?”

  “Oh, well, so far as I know, they had two cars, but if the car that Mrs. Spreadapple complained about was Gorinsky’s, they couldn’t all have come in one car, unless it was a hired one.”

  “What causes you to say that, sir?”

  “Because the only other car which belonged to their outfit was a battered little two-seater owned by Maverick. Did Mrs, Spreadapple describe the driver of the car she complained about?”

  “She had plenty to say, but gave no description that would be of any help to us. We might infer that the driver was Gorinsky, but that is as far as we could reasonably go and, as the car seems to have been driven away after he died, the inference is that he was not alone in the car.”

  “And the car turned up again, abandoned in a London suburb? Somebody must have felt pretty desperate to leave an expensive 1968 Cosmo-Carrick to be towed away by the police!”

  “A what, sir? Oh, dear me, not a Cosmo-Carrick. This was a battered little bus bought second-hand, I should say, and a long time ago, at that. It was a Prendergast Minor, 1954.”

  “But that’s Maverick’s car!” cried Toby. “Are you sure the dead man is Gorinsky? It doesn’t sound likely to me! He wouldn’t have been seen in a little tin contraption like that! There must be some mistake.”

  “The body has been identified by the landlord of the Swan Revived, that’s all I know, sir.”

  “What’s the number of this little car that got towed away?” The inspector quoted it.

  “But that’s the number of the Cosmo-Carrick!” cried Toby. “And if Gorinsky’s dead, what has happened to the girl?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Hunt Is Up

  “. . . in the hopes of meeting something which might supercede conjecture.”

  William Cunnington—archaeologist, writing in 1803

  “The number of the Cosmo-Carrick?” said the inspector, ignoring Toby’s question. “Surely, sir, you are mistaken.”

  “I’m not,” said Toby flatly. “What’s more, I’ll give you the number of the Prendergast Minor.” He gave it. The inspector stared hard at him; then he said.

  “If you’re right, sir, then somebody changed over the number plates and our hunch that there’s been murder done, and that Gorinsky’s death was no accident, seems to have been about right, so our next job is to track down the parties concerned.”

  “They’ve left Leeds, I think you said. I heard they had joined this travelling fair, but that’s the latest information I have.”

  “Just so, sir. If any further pointers come your way, I trust you’ll let us know. You know our London number, I’m sure. I came here, sir, I might tell you, under the impression that you might be the person who signed the hotel register in Gorinsky’s name.”

  “Good heavens, Inspector! I assure you I’ve been nowhere near Leeds! It’s that wretched advertisement, I suppose. I wish I’d never thought of it!”

  “Not to distress yourself unduly, sir. All the same, I would like to be assured of your co-operation.”

  “Oh, yes, but I doubt whether I’ll have anything to tell you.”

  “Sir Ferdinand Lestrange and his contacts?”

  “Oh, I see. Well, of course I’ll do what I can. I want to find out where the boy is, so that’s my incentive, apart from finding out what Gracechurchstreet is doing about that play.”

  “Your duty is to help the police, sir.”

  “The police be damned!” said Toby loudly, but not until he had closed the door behind the inspector and the sergeant.

  “What was all that in aid of?” asked his friend. Toby told him, and then added,

  “I’m for Leeds. That’s my starting-point. Oh, damn! I ought to have asked the inspector for the name of that hotel.”

  “Will it wait until after lunch?”

  “Oh, yes, but I may not get back here. If I can get a lead I’ll follow it up. Which is the best way to Leeds from here?”

  “I should do Pateley Bridge and Harrogate, I think. Look here, I’ll come with you, if you like, but, honestly, don’t you think it would be better to leave the whole thing to the police? I mean, apart from the fact that they’ve got their eye on you, they must have far better facilities for tracking people down than you have.”

  “I’m concerned with Dave. Besides, I know him by sight, and the police don’t.”

  “Do you think he’s still with the others?”

  “Not if one of them is Gorinsky’s murderer. I should think, now the report of the death is in all the papers, the first thing the gang would do is to split up and ditch the kid. What I’d like to be certain about is that the dead man is Gorinsky.”

  “Well, he’s been identified, hasn’t he?”

  “Yes, by Smetton, the chap who keeps the Swan Revived.”

  “Well, then?”

  “It’s the car that bothers me. Gorinsky would never have been driving that ghastly little bone-shaker of Maverick’s.”

  “There must have been two people in the car when this Heathcote Fitzprior woman saw it.”

  “She doesn’t seem to have said so. All the same, that might make another line of enquiry, but that’s for the police, and they’re on to it. I don’t give a button who killed Gorinsky, or why. He was a pretty nasty bit of work, anyway. I’ll be quite content to pick up Dave. I only hope he’s all right.”

  “How do you mean—all right?”

  “He might be a dangerous witness against whoever did the killing. I mean, he’d know that Gorinsky didn’t come to Yorkshire with the rest of the party, and I assume he can read well enough to absorb the newspaper reports.”

  They set out immediately after lunch, and toured the Leeds hotels. Toby did not mention the names of Gorinsky, Maverick, and Gracechurchstreet for obvious reasons, but contented himself by giving a description of Dave and Harry. Chris, he thought, was most likely to have been the third man to have booked in, since Gorinsky himself could never have reached Leeds and yet three men, according to the police, had stayed at least one night, but probably only one, in hotel rooms. The murder, if murder it was, must have been the result of a conspiracy, unless, of course, the dead man was not Gorinsky, but that would make it appear as though Smetton was a party to the plot, and Toby found that difficult to imagine.

  At the third hotel on his list he obtained news. A man, accompanied by a boy of about eighteen, had called round, asking for a Mr. Maverick, but Mr. Maverick and his friends had left on the previous day, having booked in for one night only. Further enquiry produced the information that the receptionist remembered the boy because he was so very good-looking and the man because he was so very uncouth. Oh, no, not rude, just, well, he seemed more like someone like Alf Garnett. Oh, no, he didn’t use language, but he talked like him otherwise, and he and the boy seemed very put-out when they heard that Mr. Maverick and the other two gentlemen had left.

  Toby booked a room for the night, and continued the questio
ning. Had she seen the couple before? Happen she had. She believed they had helped upstairs with the gear. The luggage? Well, that, too—seven suitcases—but there was what she called gear as well, thick rope, lots of it, and poles and boxing gloves, and a punching ball such as you might have at a fair.

  A fair? Was there a fair in the neighbourhood? Not so far as she knew. That would be for Easter Monday, like, wouldn’t it? Could she describe the men who had been helped with the gear? Well, there was one of them, thinnish, with big teeth, and talked what she would call sort of Jewish. What she meant, he could pronounce without lisping, but he sounded and looked, well, sort of Jewish, or, come to think of it, he could have been American, and he added up the bill and worked out the ten per cent as though he thought he was being cheated. Yes, she had met lots of Jewish gentlemen, most being commercials; they got a rare lot of commercials in a big place like Leeds, and a good many of them were Jewish, so she did not think she could be mistaken, and then there was the name, wasn’t there? He had signed the register in the name of Gorinsky.

  Did his companions address him by name? Not that she had heard. They had stood by the swing doors while he totted up the bill and settled it, and then they had all gone out together. Taking their luggage and all the gear? Oh, yes, it had taken the three of them and the hall porter to get it all down. Could Toby have a word with the porter? Well, he wasn’t on duty again until six. Were they—with a very suspicious stare—the police? Toby reassured her and invented, on the spur of the moment, a story that he was Gorinsky’s brother-in-law and had a message for him from his wife, Toby’s sister, and added that he and his friend would come back at six, as the porter might have gathered, when he was helping to stow the baggage in the car, where the party had intended to go on leaving the hotel.

  “Well,” said the girl, “haven’t you read the papers? Sorry to say it, but you won’t find your brother-in-law, will you?”