"Oh. What about him?"
"Well; what about him? A chap can picnic, can't he? I didn't know him from Adam. He seemed a queer bloke, though. He was sittin' in a car with 'Hire and Drive' printed on the mudguard. The sun was blazin' hot, but there he was, with the top of the car shut and him inside, munchin' his sandwiches. It must 'ave been like an oven sittin' in that thing."
"Think hard, Hubert. Tell me more about him."
"Why? What's he got to do with it?"
"Just tell me some more."
"Let me see. . . ."
Stroud looked a figure of fun sitting there in mid-air, his hat on, his umbrella clutched, going through the gestures and grimaces of racking his brains.
"I could only see his 'ead and shoulders. He wore a cloth cap . . . a check pattern, shading his face. Yes . . . and 'e had a pair of binoculars in one hand. It was a rare place for viewing the country round . . . lovely view . . . I didn't blame him. In the other 'and he'd got a sandwich. Oh, yes . . . and he had dark glasses on. The sun was shining bright. Nothin' funny in that, either."
"No, maybe not. All the same, you might have given us a valuable lead there. I'm much obliged, Hubert. Maybe, someday I'll be able to return the favour. Anything else you can think of?"
"Not at the moment. Sure you won't have a drink? Just one for the road?"
"No thanks. . . ."
Cromwell left the discreet detective drinking his own very good health. Littlejohn had gone to the airport to make some inquiries and now Cromwell was due back at Netherby on an inquisition of his own.
Florrie Judson, the barmaid at the Naked Man, was at her place among the assorted bottles. She was frustrated and perplexed. Finloe Oates had left her his money, according to what she'd heard. The money had mysteriously disappeared and the police were on the job. She couldn't find out from anywhere whether the legacy had been spent or not. Was it real, or just a mirage? Florrie dreamed dreams about what she would do with the money. First, she'd resign from the Naked Man and throw a pint of beer over her boss, who was always making passes at her when his wife's back was turned. . . .
"Good afternoon. . . . Any news?"
"Good afternoon, Miss Judson. Sorry, nothing fresh. But I'd like a pint of beer, please."
Cromwell took a sip, entered the cost in his notebook for inclusion in "Sundry Exes." and smiled at Florrie.
"If we could only discover who saw Mr. Finloe Oates about the time he died. His brother was here, of course, but there must have been somebody else. Did nobody call and ask for him?"
"Not a soul. I lie awake thinkin' and thinkin'. If only I could think of who might have wished to see him or do him harm. Then we'd know who'd taken the money, wouldn't we? I could do with that money. . . . It's undignified here serving beer and puttin' up with people's insinuations and all that money waitin' somewhere for me. . . ."
She sighed and looked reproachfully at Cromwell. He might have taken it and hidden it himself! Cheap scent, face powder and a sweaty feminine aroma hung on the air round Florrie. Mr. Chubleigh, the landlord, entered in his horsey attire, nodded suspiciously at Cromwell, as though the sergeant might have designs on Miss Judson's virtue, and gobbled her up with his own eyes.
" 'Ot," said Mr. Chubleigh, à propos either the state of the weather or Miss Judson herself.
But Florrie was immersed in her own affairs.
"I remember Mr. Lysander in the village. He called in here, but 'e didn't approach me. We was busy, I recollect, and the barman served 'im. I found that out since you was here before. Not that Joe . . . that's the barman . . . could tell me much. Mr. Lysander must 'ave been a cautious one. Joe saw him later talkin' to Mr. Lapwing, who lives just over the road. I asked Mr. Lapwing, but 'e looked at me queer, and dried-up. Some people get a bit above themselves. He's only the sexton and undertaker here, but you'd think he was Lord Almighty since he made that garden. Swankin' and showin' people over it. Proper pest he is. . . ."
Cromwell finished his beer and promised to report news to the heiress very presumptive, should there be any developments. She escorted him to the door and speeded him like an honoured guest.
The sergeant crossed the road to find Mr. Lapwing. It might turn out worth while. He did not need to seek the sexton far.
Mr. John Henry Lapwing had been a modest and humble servant of the church, digging graves and making coffins, until one day the devil tempted him in the shape of a plot of stony ground under the churchyard wall. To Mr. Lapwing had suddenly come the idea of constructing a rock-garden, summer-house and lily-pond in his spare time. The diversion had become an obsession. As the vast structure of this New Jerusalem of crazy-paving, granite chippings, plaster figures, exotic plants, pools and little streams, water-wheels and summerhouses, had grown under his hand, his pride had waxed accordingly. He spent all his time there. He regarded coffins, corpses and graves with contempt, except as a means of raising more money to invest in his fantastic enterprise. When not at work among the dead, he stood at the gate of his grotesque paradise, inviting visitors from their bikes, charabancs and private cars to step inside and view his landscape o'er. Tips or fees he dismissed with scorn, seeking only the appreciation of his clients and feeding on their admiring cries.
"Come in the garden," he said to Cromwell as soon as the sergeant asked his name.
They commenced the grand tour. They ascended a flight of crazy stone steps, the interstices of which were filled with rare mosses. Mr. Lapwing told Cromwell their English and Latin names but Cromwell forgot them both. The palm-walk, the monkey-puzzle, the mock orangery, the love-lies-bleeding, the lobelia borders. Mr. Lapwing paused to tell the visitor of the medicinal properties of lobelia. Then came the first rest-house, a miniature of the Place of Peace of some Eastern Emperor, constructed exactly to scale, said Mr. Lapwing. The pair of them thereupon sat down on a carved seat facing a lily pond in which goldfish lay like lifeless models, and Mr. Lapwing told Cromwell all about how he came to erect his masterpiece, how long it had taken him and how many parts of the earth he had combed—from an armchair of course—for ideas for its glorification.
"All with me own 'ands, too. . . ."
Cromwell expressed his amazement and asked Mr. Lapwing about Lysander Oates.
"Oh, yes. I showed 'im round, sir. . . ."
Mr. Lapwing looked incongruous amid all this wealth of curious edifices and flora. He spent all his money on it and his dress suffered. He wore a shabby suit, made up of trousers of grey tweed, a waistcoat of blue serge, and a coat of green broadcloth which had once been black. On his head, a black billycock. In his garden, in his workshop, amid the shavings of coffins, in the mortuary laying out corpses, down the graves flinging up earth, he always wore his billycock. It was suggested that he slept in it. The only time he removed it in public was in church when there was anybody there; otherwise he kept it on—and at funerals during the committal. The wire round the brim of the hat showed in many places.
"Yes, I showed 'im round. Didn't know 'is name at the time, but tumbled to it later. Remembered seein' 'im at the funeral of the lamented Mrs. Finloe. . . . Bad business that. Was present myself at the disinterment of the poor woman. . . ."
He rose, pulled crumbs from his pocket and started to feed the fish, which he addressed in familiar terms through the water. Cromwell remembered that one was called Walter.
"They all know me. . . . That Walter's an artful one . . ." he said as he returned. "Shall we be gettin' on? Lots more to see. . . ."
"Wonderful! A great credit to you, Mr. Lapwing. Just before we move—I don't want to talk while we're going round; I like to hear of things from you—just before we go, will you answer me another question?"
"Certainly, sir. If you're thinkin' of making sich a place round your own 'ome, I'll be very pleased to put you wise as to 'ow to begin. . . ."
"It's not that, Mr. Lapwing. Did you, by any chance, show anybody else around who was interested in Oates or his brother? Somebody seeking information about one or the other?
"
"Mr. Lysander, of course, was more interested in his brother's affairs than in wot I was showing 'im. I don't like those sort. I show 'em over here free; it's up to them to enjoy it, not talk a lot about outside things. . . ."
Cromwell felt a bit rebuked, but persisted.
"You don't say ! Impolite, to say the least of it. You mean he found mere gossip more interesting than all this wonderful place you've made with your own hands and brains?"
"He did. That Judson woman from the bar of the Naked Man was the same. I told her nothing, though Mr. Lysander Oates brought 'er into the picture, I can tell ye. Asked if I knew his brother. I said yes, for many years. Had 'e been happy with the late Mrs. Oates? I said, yes, though there was some talk of his bein' a bit sweet on Florrie Judson and meetin' her on the quiet. I wouldn't 'ave told him that, only he asked if there was any other woman in his brother's life. He said he wanted right to be done, whatever he meant by that. Well . . . I must confess that when I'm in me garden, I kind of feel friendly to everybody and I told Mr. Lysander. He said he appreciated it and wouldn't say a word. You see, he didn't ask me angry like. He was laughin'. 'With 'is money, I bet our Finloe's a pretty lady or two after 'im,' he says. 'Eh?' That laughin' sort of put me off my guard. I laughs, too, and mentions Florrie. Then he stops laughin'. Looks mad enough to murder somebody, and off 'e goes without so much as a thankew. . . . "
"This Oates business seems to have taken possession of the whole village. It's become a sort of horror sideshow, hasn't it?"
"It has. This garden 'ud do 'em far more good. Good for the 'eart and mind, is a garden. There was another funny little chap come here, too. Got me fair wild. No use for the flowers and sich. All on about the Oateses. I kept tryin' to turn his mind to loftier things, like plants and the wonders o' nature. But no; all he wanted was the Oates tale. He didn't get much change from me, I can tell you."
"What was he after? I'm surprised he persisted among this . . . this . . . feast of beauty and industry. . . ."
Cromwell was growing lyrical in his efforts to appease Mr. Lapwing.
" 'E asked how Mr. Finloe was after his wife's decease. Then, after I'd passed that off in a sort o' defunct manner, 'e starts again. 'Ad I seen Mr. Lysander about of late? I says, yes, he'd been 'ere in the garden, looking round, and had been appreciaytive. A sort of 'int, like, you see. But it didn't sink in. He walked round, quizzing me, not looking to left or right, just quizzing. Then, he asks, was Finloe thinkin' of leavin' his bungalow . . . sellin' up and goin' elsewhere? I told him, not that I was aware. Why, I told 'im, Mr. Oates was very interested in my garden and what I'd done and 'ad only a week before, asked me for advice on puttin' up a summer-house, a sort of mandarin's place. 'Come up, John Henry,' said Mr. Finloe. 'I'm thinkin' of smartening up my place and you're the very one to 'elp me.' 'Any time you like, sir,' I tells him. But after that he got himself killed, or dropped dead seemly, and nothin' happened."
"You got the idea that the stranger had heard that Finloe was selling out?"
"Yes. But it wasn't true. Now I know what Finloe wanted my 'elp for. There's gossip in the village that he was plannin' to wed that Judson woman—the 'ussy—and he was goin' to make his place smart for 'er."
They started their perambulations again. Another monkey-puzzle, hydrangeas, palms, little cokernut trees, Japanese dwarf oaks, fuchsias and japonicas. Then, another tiny crazy stone staircase, beside which a little stream descended a series of steps, bordered by exotic grasses and weeping willows. It was quite a little wonder!
"What was this rude fellow like . . . I mean the one who asked about Finloe removing and selling up?" asked Cromwell as they entered a pagoda made of tree branches and guarded by two almost life-size Chinese figures in plaster of Paris.
"Eh? Oh yes. . . . Little slip of a fellow. Sports coat, flannels and check cloth cap. Said his eyes were weak and wore smoked glasses. I recollect 'im well, because I kept lookin' him all over. It was them smoked glasses. I told 'im he'd better take them off. It's shady here and he never see the colours and sights o' things with 'em on. But no; his lordship wasn't here for seeing the garden. He'd come to gossip and quizz. So, I soon got rid of 'im. Had the cheek to offer me a pound note as he left! A pound note! 'No,' I sez. 'My reward is the pleasure this place gives to them as sees it. You haven't seen much in them glasses, if I may be so bold. Why come 'ere at all?' Just like that, I sez it. He took off at that."
They visited other fishponds, this time full of murky-looking carp.
"Got 'em from an old mill reservoir, one as they was fillin' in. Saved their lives, I did. Them old carp's hundreds o' years old, if they're a day. Whenever I feel a bit beside myself, I come to look at 'em, lyin' there all still and wise in the water. Very 'umbling, is carp. Wot is man, with 'is three score and ten beside them carp with their 'undreds of years . . . ?" He threw crumbs in at the fish, but showed no familiarity out of respect for their great age.
The surprise of the tour was when the rockery and crazy paving suddenly levelled into a lawn like a green velvet carpet, with another pool in the centre and a bird bath and a plaster faun in the middle of it. There were other statues, too, peeping through the surrounding willows. It made you think that Mr. Lapwing had been robbing graves of their embellishments. That would be an unkindness, however, for in the course of his labours as mortician, he came across bargains in monumental masons' yards and bought them cheap to peer from behind his bushes like angels guarding or marvelling at his handiwork.
Mr. Lapwing made Cromwell a freeman of his maze. He bade him return as often as he minded and seek peace in his grottoes, thickets, pagodas and gazebos and practise humility whilst contemplating the ancient carp. He inquired concerning Cromwell's facilities for erecting summer-houses, pools and exotic gardens around his own home and, on hearing that few such opportunities presented themselves in the neighbourhood of Shepherd Market, he urged the sergeant to remove to more suitable parts when he would come and superintend operations personally.
It was only when they were parting that Mr. Lapwing, as an afterthought, divulged some more startling news.
"I saw that feller in the smoked glasses again. . . . Nosin' round Finloe Oates's place, he was. I'd been to look over the garden there, as requested by Finloe. I found nobody about at all. I was on my knees in the little thicket pickin' up a bit of rare moss, when suddenly up pops the little chap, looks through the window and then, findin' nobody in, starts to examine the fastenin's of the sashes. But just then, somebody passes . . . the man with the laundry, I think . . . and smoked glasses ups and offs. . . ."
"When was that . . . ?"
"I can't exactly say. . . . No use sayin' I can. . . . But it wasn't more than a couple of days after Finloe Oates vanished. I know that because of what I told you about Finloe askin' me up to see the garden. I gave it a day or two before I went, just to make it seem I wasn't runnin' after him. The place was empty."
Cromwell pressed a few more questions on Mr. Lapwing but without success, and wishing him well, left him with promises to return soon.
Littlejohn was back at the Yard when Cromwell arrived. He had been to Northolt examining the passenger lists of 'planes leaving for the Isle of Man on the fatal dates around the death of Lysander Oates. He had not had any success, as far as a superficial scrutiny went. The bookings all seemed harmless enough. It was hardly likely that any of them would be involved in the murder.
"It was obviously somebody closely in touch with what had been happening previously," he told Cromwell. "Someone who found out—presumably by accident—that Lysander had amassed a small fortune from his brother's estate, someone who had access to information about the liquidation of the estate, the death of Finloe, Lysander's hide-out. . . ."
"Gamaliel?"
"Yes. . . . ? He moved in Lysander's orbit. You recollect, too, that he saw Nellie Forty about Lysander's whereabouts. . . . Our man must also have discovered Hunt's connection with the frauds. . . ."
"Come to think of
it, sir, Gamaliel doesn't seem to tally with the man in smoked glasses, who Stroud saw and who snooped round Lapwing, also who probably quietly broke in the house after Lapwing went and left the coast clear for his return. Perhaps he was inside when Fishlock let himself in with the key. Lapwing said the intruder was looking for a likely window to get in by. . . . No, it couldn't have been Gamaliel. Once we lay our hands on the little fellow with the cap, sports suit and dark glasses, the rest'll fall into shape, sir. . . ."
"No doubt. It's not a coincidence, is it, that the same man should be asking about Finloe, spying on the bungalow and trying to get in, probably killing Fishlock and later, watching the mine and chapel at Snuff the Wind? Of course, it may have been a team of them again, with Gamaliel as a sort of scout, spying out the land. We'd better call at Pimlico Hospital and see if we can get any more sense out of him. He's obviously scared to death of someone and I'll bet my last dollar it wasn't Lysander he carried a gun for. It might be check-cap who scared him and, if what Gamaliel says is true, tried to kill him by throwing tiles off the roof at him."
"So, it all boils down to this, then, sir: Lysander found out that Finloe had poisoned his wife so that he could marry Florrie. They quarrelled and Finloe had a heart attack and died. Lysander, suspecting that Finloe might have left all he'd got to Florrie, got hold of the Will from the bank to make sure and found he was right. He couldn't destroy the Will, say Finloe had died intestate, and cash-in as next of kin, because the bank knew there was a Will. So, with the help of Hunt, he frauded and forged and realised Finloe's assets, pretending his brother was still alive and doing it himself. The meter-man called unexpectedly and looked like ruining the whole affair, so Lysander . . ."
"Wait a minute! Fishlock died after Lysander, if the meter-book and the old newspaper I found at Snuff the Wind and Hunt's story are to be credited. . . . No; our friend check-cap comes in there. He must have been the one who struck down Fishlock. He must have been in the act of seeking information about Lysander's doings or whereabouts when Fishlock, poor chap, walked right in on him. So . . ."
Death in Dark Glasses (Inspector Littlejohn) Page 15
