Malice in Wonderland

by Nicholas Blake

  “Actually, we took the air for a little, instead. Oh, and as Strangeways no doubt has got his ears pricked for an alibi, I must point out that Miss Jones was called away and I was alone—for about ten minutes.”

  “You did not spend that time, I take it, depositing dead animals in people’s beds?” asked Nigel with equal effrontery.

  “As it happens, no. I just smoked a cigarette and looked at the beautiful night. I felt I’d enjoy it more than the exposure of flesh that was going on inside. My error, evidently.”

  Paul Perry wiped his mouth, rose, and left the table.

  “What a beast he is,” Sally muttered self-betrayingly. ’‘I wasn’t wearing less than any of the others. Everyone goes about like that in the camp.”

  “Exiguous though it may be,” her father declared, “the modern female costume has the virtues of frankness and hygienic freedom. I should be the last to censure the modern girl on the score of immodesty.”

  Soon after breakfast Nigel repaired to the manager’s office. Esmeralda Jones confirmed that she had gone out of the concert hall with Paul Perry before the South Sea maiden turn began, and had then been called away by one of the staff to answer the telephone. She pointed out, however, that no final conclusions could be drawn from this; for the interval had immediately followed this turn, and during the interval most of the audience had left the hall to take a stroll in the fresh air or visit one of the bars. Nor could the attendant, who had been on duty round the chalets, fix quite accurately the time when he had seen the figure emerge from Nigel’s. All he could say was that he thought it was somewhere between 9.30 and 10, and this was elastic enough to cover both the interval and the South Sea turn.

  During this conversation, Captain Wise flicked over the papers on his desk in an irresolute, dejected way. Nigel now suggested that they should ring up the Applestock Gazette and, Miss Jones having made the connection, waited for Captain Wise to speak. The manager, however, indicated the telephone, and said:

  “You’d better handle this, Strangeways. I can’t trust myself to speak civilly to them.”

  Nigel, accordingly, asked to be put through to the editor. He gave his name, said he was a private detective who had been called in by the Wonderland management, and asked if he might interview the reporter whom the Gazette had sent yesterday morning to the holiday camp. The editor was at first rather wary. Yes, he admitted presently, his paper was owned by the Daily Post company: possibly one of his staff had sent up the story: if Mr. Strangeways would look in at the office during the morning, he might be able to help him further.

  “That’s that. Could somebody drive me in? We’ll take Miss Thistlethwaite, to identify the reporter if necessary. And Wednesday’s the day Old Ishmael’s to be found at the Mariner’s Compass.”

  Miss Jones raised her delicately-pencilled eyebrows. “You don’t still think that he——?”

  “I’m interested in a recluse who frequents pubs. There seems to be a certain contradiction. Do many of the visitors go over to Applestock?”

  “When they go anywhere, they go there. But most of them prefer to stay in or near the camp, especially if they’re only here for a week.”

  “Do you suggest one of them is an accomplice of this hermit fellow?” asked Captain Wise.

  “Oh, I’m not embarking on any theories yet. There are so many loose ends in the case, the first thing is to get them tidied up.”

  Captain Wise deputed one of the Wonderland hostesses to drive Nigel into Applestock. Presently Nigel, Sally and Mr. Thistlethwaite were speeding out of the camp in the manager’s Lagonda. Quarter of an hour’s drive along the coast road brought them to the top of a hill from which they could see Applestock spread out below them. The old part of the town, a huddle of red-tiled houses close by the waterside, formed its nucleus. Westward there were the docks, warehouses and mole of the naval harbour, in which several warships lay. A modern sea-front stretched eastwards: while, straggling up the hill towards them, were streets of new houses, bungalows and shops—an index of the prosperity brought to the town by its naval establishment.

  At the office of the Applestock Gazette Nigel alighted and, taking Sally with him, was shown up to the editor’s room. Mr. Ainsley was a large man, lazy of movement but sharp of eye. After skirmishing with Nigel for a few minutes in a guarded way, and convincing himself that his visitor had come without hostile intent, he sent for Mr. Leeson, his senior reporter. Mr. Leeson lounged into the room, pipe in mouth, and cocked a quizzical eye at Sally, who at once recognised him as the stranger of the bathing beach.

  “I hope the sun-tan is coming on nicely, Miss Thistlethwaite,” he said.

  There was a free-and-easiness about the office that seemed refreshing to Nigel after the formidable atmosphere of certain London editorial rooms with which he was acquainted. Mr. Ainsley gazed ruminatively at the ceiling while Nigel put his questions. Yes, Mr. Leeson had sent up the story to the Daily Post. He had gone over to Wonderland in answer to a telephone call received by him the evening before.

  “Who was it rang you up?”

  “No names were given. A man’s voice, I’d say.”

  “Disguised at all?”

  “Well, he didn’t squeak or gibber at me. He just said there was some hoky-poky going on in the camp, gave me the names of the victims, said something about a Mad Hatter—I thought it was a hoax at first, but I’d nothing much on the next morning, so I came over. Oh yes, and he warned me that I shouldn’t be very popular with the authorities, so I’d better not announce my presence. As it was, I got chased off the premises in the end. The story was worth it, though.”

  “Did any of the residents you interviewed suspect you were a pressman?”

  Mr. Leeson looked slightly wounded, as if this were a reflection on his technique. He admitted, though, that one of the victims, Albert Morley, had asked him if he represented the Press. Nigel professed himself satisfied and turned the conversation to the subject of Old Ishmael. Did they know anything about him, apart from the controversy over the holiday camp in which he had been involved.

  “We’re the eyes and ears of Applestock and district,” said the editor sardonically, cocking one leg over the arm of his chair. “What exactly do you want to know about the old eremite?”

  “Does he fly, for instance?”

  Sally started, remembering too vividly the flapping, crow-like figure they had met in the wood. The editor was taken aback, too.

  “Fly?” he said. “He’s not a wizard, as far as I know.”

  “I mean, is he likely to have taken trips in an aeroplane around here?”

  “Christmas, no! He’s dead against anything as new-fangled as an aeroplane!”

  “Can you buy aerial photographs of this district—Wonderland, Applestock, and so on?”

  “Yes. Except of the harbour, of course. No civil aircraft is allowed to fly over that nowadays.”

  “Has he changed his habits at all lately—during the last year, say?”

  “Well, he comes into Applestock more often. It used to be only twice a week, Wednesday and Friday; you could set your calendar by him. Lately I’ve seen him about occasionally on other days. Nobody pays much attention to him, though. He’s a local landmark and taken for granted.”

  Nigel thanked the editor for his information, and took Sally out again. Together with her father, they set out through the narrowing streets into the old part of the town, and after five minutes’ walk reached the Mariner’s Compass. It was an old inn which had recently been reconditioned, a brassy, pretentious, glazed-tile affair now. Entering the private saloon, they ordered drinks. By craning round the corner of a partition, it was possible to see into the public bar. Several bluejackets and warrant officers were sitting at round tables or in the high-backed oaken settles that had survived the modernisation of the pub. In a corner apart, on one of these settles, a large sack dumped on the floor beside him, sat Old Ishmael. There was a tankard of beer at his side, and he appeared to be sitting in a kind of stu
por, his mouth munching a little from time to time, his eyes fixed trancedly upon a garish cigarette-advertisement on the opposite wall. He was an eccentric figure in that place; ragged, grey-bearded, wrapped in some private contemplation or merely suspended in vacancy: as Mr. Ainsley had said, nobody took any notice of him at all.

  “Shall I go in and tug his beard?” whispered Sally. “If it comes away in me ’and, you’ll know he’s the Mad Hatter.”

  “You most certainly will do nothing of the sort,” Nigel answered firmly. “Besides, a really good false beard won’t come off as easily as all that. Spirit gum, my child.”

  Presently he got into conversation with the landlord. The Mariner’s Compass, the man said, catered chiefly for seamen of one sort and another. Now and then holiday visitors dropped in, but the place was a bit rough for them sort, especially of a Saturday night.

  “I see you’ve got Old Ishmael in there?”

  “Yes. Regular as clockwork he drops in. Wednesdays and Saturdays. Buys his pint and sits there—for hours, sometimes. The boys offer him a drink now and then, but he never accepts it.”

  “Does he never talk to anyone? I wonder what he comes in for if he isn’t sociable and doesn’t want to drink much.”

  “Living alone up in that wood, I suppose he needs a bit o’ company at times. Drive me daffy, it would. No, the only time I ever seen him open his mouth, except to pour beer in, was last year. Just about this time last year, it would be. A gentleman, who was staying over to Swetenham’s—that’s the farm above the Wonderland holiday camp—this gentleman made him talk. Dunno how he did it. Bloody miracle, if you ask me, begging your pardon, miss. Yes, they were quite thick together, those two.”

  “What did they talk about?”

  “I don’t rightly know. Heard ’em on about the holiday camp one evening. The old ’un was evicted, you know, when they built it. I reckon this chap must’ve got on the soft side of Old Ishmael by cussing at them as promoted the camp.”

  Sally peered round the edge of the partition again. The recluse was still wrapped in his senile trance. Mechanically, as though some outside will had commanded it, his hand went out to the tankard: he drank, eyes still fixed on the opposite wall or some infinitely more distant horizon: his trembling hand replaced the tankard on the table. Sally felt a little gust of revulsion, as if she had been spying upon a monster that twitched in its sleep. Suddenly the swing-door of the public bar opened and a group of sailors came in, laughing and chattering. They were talking about dog-racing. One of them, a sallow, beady-eyed fellow in naval artificer’s uniform, ordered drinks for the rest. He sounded as if it was not the first pub he had visited this morning.

  “You got anything for Reading on Saturday, chum?” a companion asked him.

  “Reading? There’s a dawg running couldn’t lose if yer put ’im on roller-skates. He’s got it in the bag. In the bag, that’s what I say.”

  “What’s ’is name, chum?”

  “Blue Blanket,” the man shouted. “Put yer money on Blue Blanket and yer needn’t never go to sea again. He’ll make yer fortunes. Cor, Old Ishmael over there isn’t listening. Put yer money on Blue Blanket, Ishmael, and buy yerself a new suit.”

  “He’s deaf, chum. He can’t hear yer.”

  “I’ll write it down for him. Never keep a good thing to yourself, that’s me, that’s Nobby.”

  The man pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, wrote on it, and thrust it into the recluse’s hand. Ishmael, looking up vaguely, caught sight of Sally’s face beyond his benefactor’s. An extraordinary croaking sound came from his throat: the next moment he had snatched up his sack and was out of the pub.

  “Jees, that’s Ishmael, that was!”

  “Ain’t ’arf in a nurry to place his bet!”

  “Ooh, the naughty old man—gambling at his age!”

  Sally turned a white face to Nigel, who was at her side. The hermit had given her only one look, but that was quite enough for her.

  “Did you see——?” she began.

  “Yes. I saw quite a lot. Let’s push on, shall we?”

  They walked up to where the car had been parked. As they drove out of Applestock, Mr. Thistlethwaite, who was sitting at the back with Nigel, cleared his throat and said:

  “A highly significant interview, did you not think, sir?”

  “Yes, indeed. Have you got a theory now?”

  Mr. Thistlethwaite bounced with dignity as the Lagonda hit a rut.

  “An alternative theory,” he corrected. “I had previously suspected that these outrages were leading up to, and at the same time providing a smoke-screen for, a crime of a more deadly character. I do not at all, as yet, relinquish that theory. But the passages between the hermit and the unknown visitor—I allude, not to the naval person who was behaving in there with such lack of savoir-faire and common politesse, but to the visitor staying at the Swetenham farm last year—are susceptible of an interesting interpretation.”

  “You mean, perhaps, that the visitor for some reason entered into a conspiracy with Ishmael?”

  “You apprehend me correctly, sir.” Mr. Thistlethwaite beamed, then looked severely sagacious. “Why did the hermit, a notorious misanthrope, so quickly strike up acquaintance with an unknown stranger? The publican heard them talking about the holiday camp. There is our solution, I submit. They both had reasons—different reasons, possibly—for wishing the place ill. They form a compact. They lay their plans. This week we are witnessing the fruit of their machinations.”

  “What reason do you suppose the other chap had? And what part is he playing at the moment? If he enlisted the hermit’s aid, it must have been because he could not carry out the practical jokes in person, or unassisted at any rate. Which implies that the hermit has been doing some of them himself. Well, can you imagine that old bag of bones disguising himself as a Wonderland visitor and ducking people in the sea and all?”

  “Well, sir. If you put it like that——” Mr. Thistlethwaite looked rather crestfallen. Sally, however, who had been listening, turned round from the front seat and said:

  “I can. There’s something phony about that horrid old man. I believe he could change his appearance much more easily than you think. There’s something—I don’t know how to describe the feeling he gives me—something artificial about him, as if he was put together out of horse-hair and parchment and old doormats.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Thistlethwaite, warming to his work again, “and the reason for the other fellow’s complicity—well, it’s a fact that several rival holiday camps would like to see Wonderland put out of the running: the man might be the agent of one of these. Or is my fancy soaring, sir, beyond the bounds of logic?”

  “No,” said Nigel slowly. “It’s not impossible. Something of the sort may be going on.”

  XIII

  NIGEL DIRECTED THE driver to stop at Mr. Swetenham’s farm on the way back. There he revealed the real reason for his presence at Wonderland and made further inquiries about the mysterious visitor of last year. The farmer could give him little help. The visitor, a Mr. Charles Black, had certainly heard the gossip about Ishmael and his feud with Wonderland early during his stay. He had signed the visitors’ book, but given as his address only “London”: he was a reserved gentleman, the farmer remembered, though agreeable enough—talking little about himself. Nigel asked if Mr. Swetenham by any chance had a photograph of him.

  “Funny you should ask that. My eldest kid took a snap of him when he wasn’t looking one day. When she developed it and showed it to him, he got into quite a taking. Wanted to buy it off her first—the negative as well, I mean; then threatened to tear it up, joking like, saying he was so ugly he couldn’t have photos of himself lying about the place for everyone to look at. In the end he made her promise not to show it around. I dare say she’ll have it still. She took a fancy to the gentleman, there’s no two opinions about it.”

  Nigel persuaded the farmer to let him take away the snapshot and the visitors’ book:
he would return them as soon as possible. The signature might well be in a disguised handwriting, and it was not likely that Charles Black was the gentleman’s real name, but the camera at least, which showed him in half profile an oldish, robust-looking, grey-haired man, could not lie.

  Returning to the camp, Nigel first showed the photograph, without comment, to the Wise brothers and Miss Jones. None of them recognised its subject, however. He then asked Captain Wise whether it was possible that one of the rival holiday camp companies could be behind the outrages at Wonderland. The manager paused to consider his reply.

  “It’s not impossible,” he said at last. “But it’s improbable to the highest degree. The Beale people have got their knives into us, I admit—we’ve put them badly in the shade. But I can’t believe they’d resort to such measures as these: it’d ruin them if they were found out.”

  “I’d like to interview your staff this afternoon, if it could be arranged. Everyone who works in the buildings or on the grounds. Singly.”

  “That’ll be a tall order. We can manage it though, I think. Perhaps you’d like to discuss it with Miss Jones now?”

  Nigel and the secretary went into her office, that adjoined the manager’s room. Producing a huge time-chart, which showed how every member of the staff was occupied at all times of the day, she rapidly worked out a scheme of interviews for Nigel. Her grasp of detail was quite remarkable: Nigel idly wondered how Captain Wise would fare with the organisation of Wonderland if his talented secretary decided to leave him.

  “Do you like doing all this?” he asked. “I suppose you must, or you wouldn’t be so good at it.”

  “It’s a job … And it keeps my mind off other things.”

  “What other things? Or don’t I ask that?”

  The secretary’s full, red lips curved down, in a kind of humorous self-pity. “Oh, the days that might have been. Vanished glories. I was Lysaght Jones’s daughter.”