“We never knew the body was inside it.”
“Then why did you drive it away? Look here, Smetton, you did know the body was there. There’s no point in trying to tell me the tale. I know you didn’t kill the bloke, and I know you didn’t throw the body into the stone-quarry where it was found, but the rest of the story fits and we can prove it, so the best chance you have of staying out of trouble is to come clean about the whole business, if you want any help from me and Dame Beatrice.”
“What do you want me to say, then?”
“Nothing, at the moment. I want to see the attic where young Dave was incarcerated while the murder was being carried out. I’ve got to know whether he was speaking the truth.”
“About what?”
“Never you mind. You’re in no position to begin asking questions. I might tell you, too, that if you show me the wrong room I shall know. Then there’s another thins . . .”
“Here, half a mo., sir! One thing at a time, if you don’t mind. You better come this way. You can see all the attics, if you wish. Think what you like. I’ve got nothing to hide. You can’t prove I knew the body was in the car, and if that Spreadapple bitch says she saw me and Daffy in the village that morning, well, I’ve got a good lawyer and he’ll soon make her eat her words.”
As the evidence had come from Martha Purse that Daffy had been in the village and by the churchyard that morning, Toby said no more but followed the landlord up the stairs. He soon realised that it was immaterial in which of the attics Dave had been incarcerated. All three were furnished alike with a single bed and a chest of drawers, and in each the solitary small window overlooked the road. He tested the windows. They opened easily enough and were smaller replicas of those on the floor below. Dave could have climbed through any one of them without experiencing much difficulty, but there seemed no way of reaching the ground except by attempting suicide. There was neither drainpipe, tree, nor creeper within human reach.
“Satisfied, sir?” asked Smetton ironically when they had inspected each room. Toby did not reply, but on the way down the stairs he stopped at the closed door of the erstwhile gymnasium.
“What are you going to do with the junk those fellows left behind?” he asked.
“I’ve offered it on loan to a boys’ club in Morchester, Mr. Sparowe. If Gracechurchstreet or any of them wants it back, they’ll have to fetch it from there. Can’t expect me to give it houseroom free, gratis and for nothing, can they now?”
“You know they seem to have bought another lot in Leeds or somewhere, do you?”
“I think Dame Beatrice mentioned it.” They went down to ground level and Smetton lifted the flap in the bar counter to allow Toby to go through to the customers’ side. “You’d like your usual, sir?” he asked.
“If there’s no ill-feeling, perhaps you’ll join me. I’m only concerned to get young Dave out of this mess he’s in, you know,” said Toby. “It’s not that I want to involve you.”
“I appreciate that, sir, but you can’t expect me to involve myself. When I looked at that car and saw Gorinsky—for I reckon I’d better come clean about that, you knowing as much as you do—well, I kind of panicked. I couldn’t get the thing off my premises quick enough, that’s what.”
“If you were only intending to leave it for Mrs. Spreadapple to find, why did you take Daffy with you?”
“Because she’d seen the body before I had. Daffy’s a good sort. She’d been to get our own car out to go for the shopping and she couldn’t, because Maverick, or one of them, had left his bunch of old iron in the way, so she come into the bar and said could I spare a minute, and when we got out in the yard she told me. Well, neither on us knew what to do, and it was her as suggested Mrs. Spreadapple. ‘She’ve been to the police about cars parked on her verge,’ Daffy says, ‘so that’s the best place to leave it, ’cos she’ll go to the police again and that’ll let them find out what’s happened,’ she says, ‘and if we both go there and nip out of the car quick and turn our back on old Mother Spreadapple’s front windows and go into the churchyard, we can take a short cut past the vicarage without coming back to the village,’ she says.”
“Taking a risk, though, wasn’t it?” asked Toby.
“Better than having the police find a dead man on my premises, we thought. However, the best laid plans of mice and men, sir, and I still don’t know how the body come to be in that stone-quarry, let alone how that car got itself to London.”
Toby made suitable noises expressive of equal ignorance, finished his pint and departed. He had reached the wicket gate which led to the “down” platform when he remembered that Dame Beatrice had mentioned the bottle of whisky. He returned to the inn to find the landlord pouring himself a “chaser” of gin.
“Hullo, sir! Back again?” he said uneasily.
“Just remembered something. You know that bottle of Dubonnet that went missing?”
“Hasn’t ever turned up, sir, and if that there doctor was right, it never won’t.”
“I’m not so sure. Murder will out, you know, and that usually includes the murder weapon. By the way, was Gorinsky drunk when he provoked Dave into attacking him?”
“Not that I know of. He was quite a drinking man—whisky, of course—but I never see him anything but in control of himself. I can’t speak as to what went on after they went up to their rooms, of course, but he had a bottle of Scotch sent up every second evening. Still, I never see him the worse.”
“Did the other two—Gracechurchstreet and Maverick—ever buy a bottle to take away with them?”
“Never, sir. I don’t have an off-licence for one thing, and, anyway, they could get what they wanted in Morchester, I don’t doubt. I got in the Bourbon or the Canadian rye and the Irish for ’em, but they never took no bottles away from here. Any special reason for asking, sir?”
“None—except that we’ve rather taken for granted that the bottle of Dubonnet was the murder weapon. It just occurred to me that a bottle of whisky would be even handier—a better neck to swing it by, if you see what I mean.”
Pleased at having conducted the interrogation in what he thought was a diplomatic manner, Toby went home, got out his car and drove into Morchester for lunch and then stocked up with tinned food for his larder. Home again, he had a quiet smoke, meditated a little and decided that, on the morrow, when he had written and typed his weekly article for his aunt’s paper, he would ignore Dame Beatrice’s suggestion that there was no reason for visiting the stone quarries, and would go to them to find out what he could. At about half-past three, therefore, he got out the car once more and drove past the loop of road which led to the village and pulled up at what, in the already lessening daylight, looked like the craters of the moon.
He hardly knew why he had come. He agreed with Dame Beatrice that the police, given the doctor’s unwilling statement that Gorinsky’s fatal injuries could have been caused by a blow from the base of a heavy bottle, would most certainly have returned to the quarry in which the body had been found in case the murder weapon had been tossed in as well. He admitted to himself therefore, that there could be nothing left for an amateur sleuth to discover.
The treeless, pitted landscape was deserted. If any quarrying had been taking place that day, it was over. Then he realized that it was Sunday, and that the probability was that no work had been done there since noon on the previous day. He left the car at the roadside and picked his way between heaps of rubble and discarded broken blocks to the nearest quarry. From its depths came a loud and sepulchral groan like that of a ham actor playing the part of the ghost in Hamlet.
“Good God!” said Toby. “Who’s there?”
“Hi, cocky, get me aht of ’ere. It’s Chris, You got nuffink agin me, mate, so git me aht and I’ll tell yer all yer warnts to know.”
“Can’t you climb up?” said Toby.
“No, mate. I can’t move ’and or foot. Knocked me cold vey did, and chucked me dahn ’ere to peg aht.”
“All right. I
’ll go and get help. Who are the ‘they’?”
“You git me aht and I’ll tell you.”
Toby thought quickly. It would take time to go for help, and the voice from the depths told of exhaustion and pain. Apart from this, the only help he could count on was that of the Morchester police, for he was certain that Smetton would be loth to involve himself further. Besides, there were reasons for thinking that for Dave’s sake it might be better that Toby should obtain a first-hand story from Scouse and telephone it to Dame Beatrice before it reached either the police or the newspapers, and was officially reported, diluted or enhanced. He said,
“All right, I’m coming down. Hang on a minute.” He returned to the car, unrolled his tool-kit and then exchanged his jacket for an ancient anorak he kept in the boot. It had deep, useful pockets, so he slipped a fairly heavy spanner into one of them. Following Gorinsky’s violent death, he was taking no chances with any of the gang, and the ape-like Scouse had never even affected to be his friend after their first encounter at the pub. Then he took up the torch he kept handy, returned to the quarry, and shone the torch into its depths.
These were not excessive, and it was obvious that the man lying in them was hardly likely to be dangerous. Toby pocketed the torch and climbed down. It was a long-abandoned hole in which plants and an occasional bush had begun to grow. Toby, moreover, in his capacity as amateur botanist and geologist, was accustomed to rough climbing and made short work of the comparatively easy descent.
At the bottom he shone his torch and inspected the injured man.
“Well,” he said, “how I’m going to get you out of this I don’t quite know. If you took it very steady, do you think you could climb up?”
“I dunno, mate. Me napper’s bad and I got the cramps on account vey tied me up. Couldn’t you piggy-back me up?”
“Afraid not. You must go all of twelve or thirteen stone,” said Toby, whose bump of humanity was not large enough to make him consider it imperative or desirable to take the ape-like creature on his back and climb with him skywards. “You take it easy, now you’re found, and get some feeling into your arms and legs, and I’ll get back as soon as I can.”
“Don’t leave me, matie! Don’t leave me dahn ’ere in the dark!”
“It isn’t dark yet, and it won’t be dark by the time I get back.”
“I can’t abide bein’ dahn in vis perishin’ ’ole no longer. Tell you what. You let me try and climb up fust, just to see if I can do it. Ven, if I can’t, p’raps you could break me fall.”
“I’m not undertaking to do that. I don’t want to have you squash me flat. Well, take your time and go ahead, then. If you can make it, I’ll run you to the Morchester hospital in my car and get them to have a look at your head.”
“Vat’s the spirit, matie. Just gimme a minute to get me cramps aht, and I’ll ’ave a go.”
“Good show.”
Five minutes later Scouse began his climb. He made laborious progress, but progress it was. He reached the lip of the quarry, heaved himself over and called feebly to Toby that he was up. He must have rolled well away from the edge, thought the young man, for he could see nothing of him, and, for no reason that he could ever explain, Toby suddenly thought of Jim Hawkins and his cat-and-mouse game with the treacherous Israel Hands. Instead of following Scouse up the easiest ascent of the quarry, therefore, he flung himself at the opposite side of it and scrambled up. As he was halfway to the top a heavy chunk of stone crashed into the side of the quarry a foot from his head.
“Of course, finding he’d missed me, he didn’t stop to fight it out,” said Toby. “I lost my footing when the chunk of rock crashed in, and slithered down to the bottom with a clunk that nearly shot my spine through the top of my head. By the time I’d got myself reorganized I heard my car drive off.”
“So you had to foot-slog it home,” said Laura, over the telephone. “Still, you were lucky to arrive in one piece, it seems to me. Get a good night’s sleep and we’ll come for you first thing in the morning. Dave’s case comes up again tomorrow. Had you forgotten about that?”
“Afraid I had. I didn’t realize a week had gone by. What are the chances, do you think?”
“Pretty rosy, according to Sebastian Lestrange. We’ll brief him about your experiences. That ought to be enough to tip the scale if it needs any extra weight. I suppose you’ve told the police about your car?”
“Yes, they came straight over and I put them in the picture. I expect they’ll pick up Scouse.”
“He rhymes with louse. I’m glad you had the rudiments of an education.”
“You mean the Jim Hawkins bit? Yes. You never know when the classics mayn’t come in handy. I suppose he thought I’d follow him up, and he was waiting for me. Well, be seeing you tomorrow morning.”
The proceedings on the following morning, so far as Dave was concerned, were almost ludicrously short. When the preliminaries were over, the solicitor for the police was called. He and Sebastian Lestrange had been conferring in low voices before the case came on, and he addressed the Bench in manly fashion.
“If it please Your Worships, I have received some information from the police which renders it unnecessary to continue with this case. I therefore ask that the charge against the defendant be withdrawn.”
The chairman of the Bench looked across the court at the impassive inspector, who rose and said,
“The police are satisfied that the defendant has been the victim of a conspiracy, Your Worship, which conspiracy we are already investigating.”
“I perceive the hand of Dame Beatrice in all this,” muttered Toby to Laura.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Various Bastards
“What’s the matter? Have we devils here? Do you put tricks upon us with savages and men of Inde? Ha! I have not ’scaped drowning to be afeard now of your four legs; for it hath been said, As proper a man as ever went on four legs cannot make him give ground.”
William Shakespeare—The Tempest
“So they found your car,” said Laura over the telephone a day or two later.
“Yes, The theory is that Scouse blacked out, because of the injury to his head, and crashed the car into a wall.”
“He’s dead?”
“Oh, yes.”
“I hope your car isn’t a write-off?”
“Complete and utter, I’m afraid. I’m waiting to hear what my company are going to do about insurance.”
“Oh, they’ll pay up. It’ll count that the car was stolen, and I suppose you’re insured against theft. How are you managing at present?”
“Private hire from my garage in Morchester, but not more often than I can help. It’s dashed expensive.”
“What happened to Dave after the magistrates discharged him?”
“He breezed off with Harry Biddle.”
“Oh, yes, the plug-ugly I saw him talking to when we left the court.”
“I expect so. In a way it’s a relief to have got rid of him, but, all the same, I was quite prepared to have him here at my place for a bit, while he decided what he wanted to do. I’d rather hoped to persuade him to go back and work for his father. It’s probably the only way a bonehead like him can keep out of the hands of unscrupulous blighters like Gorinsky.”
“Was his father in court?”
“I don’t know. I shouldn’t think so, as Dave went off with Biddle like that.”
“I saw the other witnesses, Gracechurchstreet and Maverick.”
“Yes. I wonder they dared appear. Surely the police can come to only one conclusion about the assault on Scouse.”
“They had to come to court. They were on a witness summons. As for the attack on Scouse, well, I expect they’ve a complete and perfect alibi for that, whether they’re guilty or not.”
“One thing—Dave is in the clear about that.”
“As the police were quick to note. Besides, don’t you think a man like Scouse would have sleazy acquaintances in London who might be glad to see t
he back of him? I mean, Gracechurchstreet and Maverick may be completely innocent of the attack on him.”
“Not if he was blackmailing them about the murder of Gorinsky.”
“You’re so certain they did murder Gorinsky. Suppose they’re innocent of that, too?”
“If they are, all I can say is that their conduct in leaving the Swan Revived so suddenly looks very fishy.”
“There might be all sorts of explanations. They might even have believed that Gorinsky had gone to London.”
“With both cars, at that point, still in Smetton’s car park? Oh, come now, Laura! That’s not logical.”
“Well, I’ll grant they seem to bring trouble with them, so, if they come within your orbit again, you might do well to steer clear of them.”
“Oh, they’re not likely to trouble me further. I’ve no doubt they’ll turn my book into their rotten play, but that’s the only thing I’ve got to fear from them, and I’ve ceased to make heavy weather over that.”
In the event, he was not left in peace for long. When the visitors arrived he had returned from the village on foot, having posted the current contribution to his aunt’s magazine, and was in his study turning over in his mind the possibility of preparing a new and definitive biography of the family of architects surnamed Bastard. They were responsible for much of the rebuilding of Blandford Forum. The mid-eighteenth century hall of Ranston House at Shroton, the earlier Chettle House in the little village of the same name, the original design for Sir Peter Thompson’s house in Poole, and the Old Rectory (John’s House) at Spetisbury, as well as other work in Dorset, were all assigned to them, including the rectory at Charlton Marshall. The family consisted of a father and two sons. Toby had just decided that he would have plenty of material to work on, and could include some fine architectural photographs if the publishers agreed, when his thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door.
Not too pleased at having callers, he laid aside his pencil and notebook and opened up. On the threshold stood four men. They were Gracechurchstreet, Maverick, Biddle, and Dave. Toby was surprised and not at all delighted and showed it.
Gory Dew (Mrs. Bradley) Page 20
