The Snark was a Boojum

by Gerald Verner

  Zoe sat back in her chair and breathed out slowly. “No, I don’t. She’s stupid, but not wilfully evil like Jack Merridew. She likes the power money can provide, and she’s foolish as I told you, but cold-blooded . . .?”

  “She must have known what Merridew was doing. After all, he wouldn’t get anything out of Bellman’s death except through her.”

  Bellman’s death . . .?

  It was hard to think that only a short while ago I was in his office working with him on his acquisition, and now he was gone.

  Zoe looked at me defensively. “I think she was prepared to wait. That wretched man obviously wasn’t.”

  I took a sip of wine. “I’d like to know more about him—about his past.” I smiled apologetically, “Gale has turned me into a bloodhound. It’s hard to give up the scent.”

  I could have sat all night talking to her in that restaurant. I looked at my watch. It was getting late and we needed transport.

  She read my mind. “Shall we have coffee and then get back to Hunter’s Meadow?” She suggested.

  “We’ll have to get a car,” I said.

  “Well, I’m not getting the train to Farley Halt!” she said. “You can rule that out!”

  “We couldn’t if we wanted to. The last train left ages ago.” I called the waiter over and asked him if he could arrange a car.

  Zoe ordered coffee and then turned to me. “Once we get back I’m packing, and returning to London in the morning. With Ursula under arrest and Mr. Bellman gone . . . Who will look after Hunter’s Meadow?”

  I was dismayed at hearing Zoe was packing and returning to London. It was all I could do not to let my disappointment show on my face. “I expect my father has asked Trenton to stay on, at least until things are sorted out,” I said.

  I hadn’t thought about leaving. I would also have to get back, and so would my father. He’d be anxious to get back to his London office to manage Bellman’s affairs and other duties.

  “I can give you a lift if you like,” she offered.

  I leapt at the opportunity to spend more time in her company. “I’d like that very much,” I said.

  “Where do you live?” she asked.

  “I have a flat in Bloomsbury.”

  She hesitated. “Do you live on your own?”

  “Yes. I like to be independent. My parents have a house in Highgate.”

  “My aunt left me a house in Chelsea, Markham Square. It needs renovating but when it’s all done I think it will be quite nice.” She gave me a tap on the arm. “You must visit and tell me what you think of the house. I would value your opinion. I quite often go to The Pheasantry Club, it’s just down the road, actors and artists go there. It has a restaurant and bar. Perhaps we could go there for a glass of wine, and catch up.”

  “I’d like that very much,” I answered.

  *

  The following morning Hunter’s Meadow felt strange and empty like we’d travelled in time. There were three of us in the dining-room, myself, my father and Zoe. Trenton managed to provide coffee, toast, and boiled eggs, for breakfast. Mrs. Jessop the cook had left, so there was no hot food. Trenton looked worn out and defeated, his routine permanently disrupted. He was obviously very worried for his future. I mentioned this concern to my father, who smiled. “Don’t worry, Bellman left him well provided for in his will.”

  After a scratch breakfast we set about leaving. There were boxes of deeds, accounts, and other paperwork connected with the acquisition that had to go with my father back to our London office.

  “I’ve arranged to take the Rolls,” he said. “I’ll return it when I come down for the inquest.”

  I chose a moment when Zoe and I were alone. “I have a request,” I began tentatively.

  “Of course we’ll visit Simon Gale before we go up to London,” she answered with a grin. “I intend to get him some flowers.”

  I didn’t think Simon Gale would be very interested in a bunch of cut flowers, but I didn’t say anything, because Zoe had given me an idea.

  “Could we stop off at Lance Weston’s on the way?” I asked apologetically.

  Zoe wasn’t quite so enthusiastic. “Why do you need to see Lance Weston?” she asked frowning.

  “You’ll see,” I answered mysteriously.

  *

  Gale lay propped up in his hospital bed, his left shoulder swathed in bandages, looking thoroughly bad tempered as Zoe and I walked in.

  “You have visitors,” said Nurse Gregory, by now used to his tantrums, and who treated him like her six year old son. “Sit up and try to behave!”

  “I hope we’re not disturbing you,” I said, coming fully into the room carrying a shopping bag. “I’m sure you need as much rest . . .”

  “I don’t need any rest at all!” snapped Gale, and upon seeing Zoe cocked an eyebrow and gave me a cheeky look.

  “Now, Mr. Gale!” warned Nurse Gregory giving him the evil eye. “We’ll have none of that!”

  Gale made a face at her. He turned to us and indicated two chairs with his good arm. “Please sit down,” he invited, glaring at Nurse Gregory’s behind, as she left the room.

  “Good God Almighty! That woman is not human! She took my tobacco!” he growled.

  “I thought you might like these . . .” Zoe held up a bunch of yellow chrysanthemums we had just bought.

  Gale eyed the flowers suspiciously. I could see he couldn’t care less about them.

  “Can I put them in this?” she asked, indicating an empty glass vase on the bedside table.

  Gale grunted affirmative.

  Zoe went over to a wash basin, filled the vase with water, and arranged the flowers delicately. She put the vase back on the bedside table and surveyed her handiwork. “There we are! That’s brightened the place up!”

  Gale grunted again.

  “Now, I’ll leave you two to have a chat while I go and have a cup of tea,” she said tactfully, giving me a meaningful look.

  Once she had left the room I delved into my bag and produced two packs. “I’ve brought you some marshmallows,” I said, with a reassuring grin.

  “Marshmallows!” Gale’s face contorted into something representing a gargoyle. “What good are marshmallows?”

  “Well . . .” I began.

  “What I need,” he insisted ungratefully, “is to escape from this torture chamber and get my hands on a tankard of beer!”

  “Ah!” I had got the result I was looking for but couldn’t resist teasing him some more. “Marshmallows are very good for packing,” I told him.

  “That’s about all they are good for!” he grumbled ungratefully.

  I delved into my bag again. I held up a quart bottle of Lance Weston’s homemade brew.

  The transformation of Gale’s features was a sight to behold. It was like the sun bursting through storm clouds. The scowl on his face evaporated completely replaced by a huge grin.

  “By Jove! Trueman you’ve brought home the bacon!” He tried to sit up and I saw him wince with pain. His eyes darted around the small hospital room and fixed on the vase of yellow chrysanthemums. “Throw those away, quick!” he snapped. “Chuck ’em in the sink!”

  I was about to protest, then realising I was dealing with Simon Gale, I laughed, did as I was bid, and held up the empty vase like a trophy.

  “It should hold nearly two pints!” he cried optimistically, as I emptied the entire contents of the bottle, gently so as not to create a froth, into the glass vase. He took it from me, wincing again as his shoulder felt the action, and swallowed a prodigious draft.

  “That was good!” he said, having emptied half of it. Then his face suddenly fell and he looked guilty. “Did you want some?” he asked.

  I shook my head, producing a second bottle. I reached for his more modestly-sized water glass for my own share, before topping him up.

  His huge grin returned.

  I delved into my bag again. “I thought you might like this to read,” I said, holding up the autumn number of The Motor
Cycle magazine.

  “Aha!” cried Gale, “feasting his eyes on the cover. You know young feller; you’ve turned out quite well!”

  Chapter Twenty

  It was three weeks since Jack Merridew met his demise after shooting Simon Gale, and Ursula Bellman had been arrested as an accessory after the fact, when I received an invitation to come to lunch. Scrawled across the bottom Gale had scribbled: Bring Zoe along. I telephoned her and she said she’d love to come.

  I followed a road map issuing directions, while she drove to Simon Gale’s house in Ferncross. It was a chilly October day, but the sky was clear, and it was lovely weather for a drive to the country.

  Gale’s house was hidden behind a very high and straggly hedge. It took us a few minutes to find the gate. We followed a short path through thick shrubbery wondering what to expect. We came to a long, low house in the shape of an L, against a backdrop of tall trees and open countryside.

  As we approached the door, looking for a knocker or a bell, or some means of announcing our presence, it opened as if by magic, and Simon Gale’s larger than life presence filled the threshold.

  He was dressed in the most extraordinary outfit of lime green and purple tartan trousers with an orange threadbare sweater.

  “Hello, hello!” he boomed, with a huge grin.

  “How did you know we were here?” I asked. “There’s no bell . . .”

  “The step, d’you see,” cried Gale cutting in enthusiastically, pointing to the large stone slab we were standing on. “Any weight on the step triggers a bell in the kitchen, and in the evening, my studio. Now come in! Come in!” He led the way through a square hall, with odds and ends stuffed in glass cases and on shelves, into an enormous room that obviously occupied the longer arm of the house.

  The room was a combination of living area and workshop that only a confirmed bachelor would have occupied.

  Immediately to my left was an open door that I could see led into a spacious kitchen. Along from this door was a great open fireplace of red brick with a stack of logs beside it, and several huge, comfortable-looking, armchairs scattered in front of it. There were books and magazines everywhere, crammed into shelves, which had obviously been built wherever there was a vacant wall space, and piled in heaps on the floor and on several tables. Further along the same wall was a long bench, littered with all kinds of debris and with a glue-pot in a tin saucepan standing on a gas-ring and a motor cycle exhaust pipe. Above the bench was a long rack stuffed with tools of every sort and description.

  At the far end of the room, in front of a large window, was an artist area. It was dominated by a big studio-easel next to an old dinner wagon on rubber wheels, laden with jars of brushes, tubes of paint, palettes, and all the paraphernalia of a painter. I caught the faint smell of turpentine and linseed oil in the air. Against the nearby wall was stacked a pile of canvases of all sizes and shapes. I thought of Ursula’s portrait and assumed this was where it had been painted.

  Dividing the painting and work area off from the rest of the room was an enormous desk that faced three more windows, through which I caught a glimpse of fruit trees and flower beds. There was a typewriter and a telephone on the desk and it was piled with books and papers and in front of it stood a swivel chair.

  The whole place was incredibly untidy, but with an untidiness that gave an impression of comfort.

  Gale gave Zoe an appraising glance. “Sit down my dear,” he said. “How have you been keeping? Have you seen a lot of this young feller, here?” He slapped me on the back, and I had to re-balance myself quickly to avoid falling over.

  Zoe blushed. “I suppose we have seen each other a bit . . .”

  “Good!” cried Gale. “That’s very good! Now, to really important things . . . Let me get you weary travellers something to drink.” He looked first at Zoe: “Whisky and ginger?”

  “You remembered?” she said.

  He roared with laughter. “I may have been shot but I’m not senile!” He searched for some whisky amongst a cluster of bottles and poured out a generous amount, added some ginger ale, and handed it to her. “One happy customer!” he chortled.

  “How’s the shoulder,” I asked.

  “A bit stiff, needs oiling, but could have been worse.”

  “You could have been killed,” said Zoe.

  “But I wasn’t!” He switched his attention to me. “And we’ll have some beer, eh?” He snatched two tankards from a shelf containing a collection of pewter tankards and old German drinking mugs. “I keep a pin in the kitchen.”

  I was feeling very thirsty after our trip. “Some beer would be very welcome,” I replied.

  While Gale disappeared into the kitchen, I stood before the roaring fire and admired Zoe with a grin. She grinned back, shaking her head with disbelief at the general appearance and eccentricity of our host and, reaching forward, looked humorously into my eyes as she touched my hand.

  “This is fun,” she whispered.

  “I raised my eyebrows and grinned. “Don’t speak too soon!” I retorted in a low voice. I could hear Gale banging about in the kitchen.

  She opened her green eyes wide. “I wonder what we’re going to get for lunch.”

  “Simon Gale is the inventor of Gale’s Golden Flakes,” I retorted, “Perhaps we’ll get a large bowl of them!”

  Gale burst back into the room carrying two foaming tankards and proudly handed me one. “There you are young feller. See how you like that!”

  I took a draft of very agreeable ale.

  “That’s very good!”

  “It’s local, d’you see? The real stuff! It’s nice to see you two again!” he cried, then cocked one eyebrow. “When are you getting married?”

  We both simultaneously burst out laughing.

  “We’ve haven’t even become engaged!” I blurted out, feeling my face flush red. I saw Zoe didn’t know how to respond either. If Gale had wanted to embarrass us he had succeeded, but he didn’t seem to be aware of the effect he’d had.

  Simon Gale looked astounded. “Not engaged!” he cried, stepping back in mock amazement. “You must remedy that immediately!” He grabbed Zoe’s hand and scrutinized her ring finger. Seeing no ring he shook his head is disappointment. “It’s quite obvious to me that you ought to be!” He drank the remains of his beer, waved a big arm impatiently, and threw a huge log onto the fire. “Come, bring your drinks into the kitchen, and let’s eat!”

  The kitchen was spacious, with a Swedish AGA, a number of pots and pans hanging from a ceiling frame, a free standing beech work surface that looked to be about four inches thick, and at the window end, overlooking the garden, a large scrubbed farmhouse table laid for three. In a corner, by an outside door and washroom, a pin of beer rested on a trestle. It was a warm and friendly room.

  “Sit yourselves down while I get this ready.”

  He grabbed a bottle of red burgundy, which he had already opened, and banged it down on the table. “Help yourselves to that,” he ordered, crossing over to the pin on its trestle and turning on a tap refilled his tankard. “I’ll stick with beer.”

  I poured us out some wine and we watched him entranced as he busied himself very efficiently with an assortment of vegetables, neatly putting them all in a large serving dish. Then he opened one of the AGA’s heavy cast iron doors and took out a roast suckling pig that filled the kitchen with the most appetising smell.

  “That looks wonderful!” said Zoe in anticipation. “Do you like cooking?”

  “Of course I do. I like most things Miss Anderson, particularly inventing new things to eat—or even reinventing old things!” He placed the roast suckling pig on the table. “Easiest thing in the world to cook—five hours in the oven and there we are! Now, I hope you are hungry!”

  Gale carved us succulent slices of pork. The meat was pale and tender and the skin was crisp and delicious and for a while we were so busy eating we didn’t say much. Then he took a draft of his beer and slamming down the tankard, asked Zoe: “Ha
ve you been in touch with Ursula?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “She’s out on bail and back at Hunter’s Meadow. She signed the custody papers for Peter. I think she realised it was a burden she didn’t want.”

  “More like couldn’t cope with,” grunted Gale disapprovingly. “How was she?”

  “She seemed very distant and very cold. She’s a bag of nerves waiting to see if they prosecute.”

  “Ah!” cried Gale. “Yes, I bet she’s squirming . . .”

  “Do you think they will?” I asked. “It’s hard to believe she didn’t know Merridew killed those people,” I looked at Gale’s shoulder, and added, “. . . nearly killed you.”

  Gale nodded. “It might be difficult to prove intent. You have to prove intent, d’you see? If she unwittingly helped a criminal by getting him a job, that’s not exactly being an accessory to murder.”

  “Of course she knew who Merridew really was,” I retorted, “and we know he was a con man only there to get a share of Bellman’s money eager for his death—otherwise why was he there?”

  Gale nodded. “But, did she know he was capable of committing murder? Did she unwittingly get him a place in that house for other reasons? She insists it was for other reasons.”

  “What other reasons?” asked Zoe.

  “To continue his role as her lover,” I jumped in, “under the same roof!”

  “He was genuinely employed by Bellman as his secretary, albeit at Ursula’s suggestion,” answered Gale. “She’s not committed a crime by getting him a job, however unethical the whole situation was.”

  “How can it ever be proven she persuaded Merridew to bump off Bellman?” I asked. “I thought it was his idea because he got impatient waiting for Bellman to die. Keeping up that pretence must have been quite a strain on him.”

  Gale grunted, stuffing a huge fork full of crackling into his mouth. He chewed this for a few moments making a dreadful noise, obviously formulating a reply. “We can guess, but we can’t prove it. She admits she got him the position, but will only admit he was there as a friend, and of course the father of her child, to support her in a difficult time. She won’t admit he was there as her lover. She also refuses to accept she married Bellman for his money. She insists she had no idea Merridew committed the murders . . . She insists she assumed the murders were the actions of a lunatic.” Gale threw up his hands. “Many others thought so too, including the police, so she was on firm ground there—exactly what the Snark wanted everyone to believe!”