“Good heavens, no!” Felicity Tirle exclaimed with mock horror. “We all feel most strongly about the self-contained aspect of our homes. Have quite a thing about it, in fact. I went down and round if you follow me. In any case, I don’t possess a key to the door from the public rooms into the west wing.”
“I see,” said Pollard. “And when you returned shortly before midnight, you came in by way of your own front door? I’m sure you see the point of all these questions, Mrs. Tirle?”
“Certainly I do. It sticks out a mile. To answer the last one, my brother-in-law dropped me outside my front door before driving round to his own, as he will have already told you, no doubt.”
Pollard had an exasperating feeling of being deftly outmanoeuvred.
“Was this flat empty while you were at Fulminster?” he asked rather abruptly.
“To the best of my knowledge and belief, yes. I only have daily domestic help, and my husband and two sons are away.”
“Has anyone contacted you to say they rang you at about nine-forty on Tuesday evening, and couldn’t get an answer?”
“No one.”
For the first time he felt that he had taken her by surprise.
“I want you,” he said, “to think back to last Tuesday night, after you came home from Fulminster. Can you remember anything, however trivial, which struck you as unusual?”
Felicity Tirle frowned slightly, and seemed to hesitate.
“It really is hardly worth mentioning, especially as I may quite well have imagined it. I was tired when I got in, and went straight to bed. I read for about ten minutes, and then put my light out and went to sleep almost at once. The next thing I knew was that I was sitting bolt upright in bed, convinced that a door had slammed. It was daylight — ten minutes past five. I listened, but everything was perfectly quiet, and decided that I had had one of my tiresome recurring nightmares. You may know something about my war service.”
“I do,” Pollard replied, “and greatly respect you for it, if I may say so. But I rather think that you did get up, Mrs. Tirle, and went to see that all was well in the public rooms.”
“You’re quite mistaken,” she replied urbanely. “I lay down and went to sleep again, only too glad that it wasn’t time to get up. You know, I don’t quite see the point of this suggestion, unless —” she looked at him quizzically — “you suspect me of carrying over the least mentionable of my Resistance activities into civilian life.”
“I wonder who trained her for Occupied France?” Pollard said, as he and Toye were making for the car a few minutes later. “You spotted the technique, of course? However good and convincing a liar you are, nothing but the actual truth ever has quite the authentic ring, as we well know. So you include some verifiable facts in your statements, which makes it a lot easier to get deliberately misleading stuff across. I’m positive she’s either involved in this affair herself, or knows something about it.”
“Could she have been in with Peplow on the theft idea, seeing she’s half a foreigner herself? International racket of some sort?” propounded Toye.
“In theory, yes. But after all, she’s the heir’s mother. Would she go in for looting the family treasures?”
“Insurance?”
“You might have got something there. None of them seem to be hard up, but we could have their finances vetted more thoroughly. The thing that interests me is the slamming door yarn. I’ve got a hunch that’s one of the true bits. Was it Peplow’s basher making off? But Dr. Netley, you remember, put the latest possible time of death at five on Wednesday morning, and he’ll have safeguarded himself by allowing a margin. So why should the chap have hung around like that, for heaven’s sake? It’s broad daylight by that hour at this time of year. Once again, it doesn’t make sense.”
“I reckon you’re dead right about the lady getting up and going through to the public rooms,” Toye said, settling himself at the wheel and letting in the clutch. “She wouldn’t turn a hair at the thought of meeting a burglar, not after the Gestapo. Most likely she’s still got a gun, and took it along. Suppose she found that panel open, and looked down and saw the body. Women’ve got a funny way of looking at things. She might have thought it would make less of an upset for the family if it wasn’t found till a lot of visitors were in the place.”
“Too intelligent, and too much know-how, I think, like Lord Seton. If she was mixed up with Peplow, of course… Wait a bit, though. Did she go in, and find a door open, and decide to shut it? That would explain how someone got away without trace, and it lets Emmett out.”
“That’s more like it,” exclaimed Toye. “Proves she was involved though, doesn’t it? If not, and she thought there’d been a break-in, why didn’t she raise the alarm?”
There was a stream of traffic on the main road, and he drew up at the gates.
“There are possible explanations of that,” Pollard said thoughtfully. “She might have checked up, and found nothing was disturbed or missing, and come to the conclusion that Emmett had overlooked the door, and that she’d heard it just banging in the wind. Or, of course, if she was involved, the whole thing might have been prearranged. But that still leaves us with the difficulty of the time. People get up early in the country, even these days.”
The car shot out in a brief lull, and headed for Crockmouth.
“Going back to Emmett, there’s those dogs creating ten-thirty Tuesday night,” Toye reminded him.
“Blast the dogs, and everyone else in the ruddy place,” Pollard retorted with feeling. “Look here, we simply must get what facts we’ve got down on paper, and see if they add up to anything, I doubt it. The whole business is haywire. We’ll make them lay on a cuppa at the station, and then have a go.”
On arrival they were greeted with a request to look in on Superintendent Perry, a tall, gaunt man with small sagacious eyes which reminded Pollard of an elephant’s. He was a firm believer in delegating responsibility, and hastened to explain that Inspector Diplock had had to go out on a job.
“One more break-in. A packet of valuable stuff lifted, too. You think people might have learnt to take a few simple precautions after all the propaganda we’ve put out, wouldn’t you? I told Diplock I’d pass on a couple of reports that have come in for you. Put the tray down there,” he ordered a constable who had appeared with tea. “Pour it out yourselves, the way you like it.”
“Thanks,” replied Pollard, helping himself, and pushing the tray over to Toye. “Got anything useful for us? We can do with it.”
“Dr. Netley’s report, to start with. It’s full of possible alternatives and qualifying statements, but the gist is that there’s no trace of poison or dope. Peplow’d only taken a dollop of whisky and a small quantity of food within about six hours of his death.”
“Any narrowing down of the probable time of death?”
Superintendent Perry grinned. “You won’t catch Dr. Netley risking a challenge in court from another medico. All he says is that in his personal opinion death is more likely to have taken place before midnight than after. But if you want my comment on that, you can bet he’s right. He’s a very sound chap on his own line. Any help to you?”
“It could be, I suppose. At the moment we’ve got on to a rather fishy phone call to Brent at nine-forty on Tuesday evening, and a suggestion that somebody may have scarpered from the public part at ten past five on Wednesday morning.”
“Your headache, not mine, thanks be. The next thing is that we’ve found out where Peplow lunched on Tuesday for you.”
Pollard was warm in his congratulations. “Tell your C.C. he can call us in any time he likes,” he said.
“He picked the Magnificent,” Superintendent Perry continued, concealing obvious gratification. “It’s a big new place, very posh and pricey. Packed at this time of year. Wonderful where the money comes from, isn’t it?”
Pollard agreed that it was. “How do the times work out?” he asked.
“Reasonably. Unless Peplow came down on the 1:50
a.m. which I should think we can rule out, he’d’ve got the 9:30 from Paddington, getting in here at 11:45. Our chaps have been on to the taxi rank, but none of the boys seem to have driven him anywhere. If he’d walked to the pub, he’d’ve had ample time to drop in at Blennerhasset’s and book a seat. There’s a barman at the Magnificent who’s pretty sure he served him sometime round a quarter to one, and one of the waiters took a look at the photo and the description of the clothes, and said he’d swear to him. He seems to have been in the dining-room from about one to two, lunching alone. After that nobody seems to have noticed him around until he joined the coach about ten to three.”
“How could he have known there would be a coach trip to Brent? Doesn’t it point to his having been down last week for a recce?”
“Needn’t. Blennerhasset advertises his trips in that guide to Brent that Peplow had on him. Gives the times and everything. The daily trip they run in the season goes at two-fifteen, but if there’s a demand, they put on a later one as well, usually going along the coast first, and having tea at a joint called the Wreckers before turning up at Brent. Peplow was in luck on Tuesday. The later trip being on meant that he didn’t have to hang about so long at Brent. By the way, the C.C.’s been in, asking about a conference on the case.”
Pollard groaned. “Try to head him off a bit longer, there’s a good chap. There’s damn little to confer about up to now.”
“OK,” promised Superintendent Perry. “I’ll do my best. I’m not hard up for jobs myself, come to that.”
“Thanks. Well push off and leave you to get on with it.”
The room allotted to the Yard team was small and stuffy. Pollard flung up the window, and gazed across the car park at the depressing backs of a row of houses. He was seized with one of his periodic spasms of loathing for his job, and the squalid conditions under which so much of it had to be done. At this time of day most chaps were making for their homes and gardens… The sound of Toye moving chairs with unnecessary vigour brought him sharply back to reality. Peeling off his coat he draped it over the window-sill and sat down at the inconveniently small table.
“Let’s draw up a timetable first,” he said. “It clears the mind a bit.”
According to their usual practice they first worked independently, then compared the results, and finally produced a fair copy of a finished version.
Tuesday, 10 July (approximate times)
11:45 Peplow arrives at Crockmouth railway station
12:45 Peplow in bar of Magnificent (?)
1:00 Peplow lunching in the hotel until 2.00 p.m.
3:15 Peplow joins coach trip
4:45 Coach arrives at Brent
5:00 Peplow gives Gudwinkle message for driver
5:30 House closed to public. Emmett starts locking up
5:50 Emmet finishes his round. Lady Arminel closes shop
6:00 Grounds of Brent closed to public
6:30 Lord Seton returns from London
7:00 Lord and Lady Seton and Mrs. Giles Tirle leave for Fulminster
9:40 Mrs. Pringle gets wrong number call, and at once hears the Giles Tirles’ telephone ringing
10:00 Emmett goes out with dog for look round
10:15 Emmett returns to his quarters
10:30 Emmett’s dog and the Seton spaniels bark
10:50 Lady Arminel goes to bed
11:00 Mrs. Pringle goes to bed. Seton spaniels on front door mat
Wednesday, 11 July a.m.
12:20 Lord Seton in bed. Lady Seton in bath
12:50 Lady Seton wakes up in her bath, sees that it is nearly 1:00 a.m., and hurries to bed, finding her husband asleep
5:10 Mrs. Giles Tirle hears door slam
p.m.
12:15 Mrs. Lessinger discovers Peplow’s body in priest’s hole
Toye carefully screwed on the cap of his pen and replaced the latter in his pocket. Pollard pushed back his chair and sat with his legs stretched out in front of him, contemplating the timetable through the smoke of his cigarette.
“The thing that sticks out,” he remarked presently, “is that Lord Seton had roughly half an hour, and Mrs. Tirle the whole blessed night in which they could have done the job. On paper Emmett’s even better placed, with a possible earlier start. As far as the others go, well, at times you’ve got to use common sense in default of actual evidence. I’m prepared to rule out Lady Seton and Mrs. Pringle provisionally, and Lady Arminel for the moment, although I expect she could have managed to get herself keys if she’d wanted to.”
“If Dr. Netley’s right about death having occurred before midnight, doesn’t it point to Emmett?” Toye suggested.
“Yes, it does. But as principal or accessory, do you think? Somehow I can’t see him as the actual killer, you know. He’s a simple blustering soul, without any subtlety or poise to him. Could he have faced Lord Seton, and Diplock, and the rest of us without giving himself away, if he’d accidentally killed Peplow? I very much doubt it. He could so easily maintain that he was defending his employer’s property… expect a lot of kudos, in fact, for tackling a burglar. But if he was merely an accessory, we’re up against X again. I’m getting X in my hair. He just won’t tie up with Peplow sitting for hours in that stinking hole, all fitted out to bust open the showcases and escape with the loot.”
There was a lengthy silence, finally broken by Toye. “Next thing’s another go at the Emmetts, I take it, sir?”
“We’ll go over first thing tomorrow morning. It shouldn’t be too difficult to break them down about their caller that night, with the three of them in it. Hell — who’s this? Come in!”
A solemn-faced young constable entered, saluting smartly. “Lady asking to see you, sir. A Mrs. Flack, from London. She says she’s deceased’s sister.”
“Good lord!” exclaimed Pollard. “Well, I suppose it’s not all that surprising. She could have seen one of the midday editions, or heard something on the one o’clock news.”
“That’s right, sir. That’s what she says — the one o’clock news.”
“Hasn’t she been in touch with her local station or the Yard? What’s she like?”
The constable anxiously searched his vocabulary to find an appropriate word. “Very respectable, sir,” he pronounced at last.
“Bring her along, will you?” said Pollard, snatching up his coat. “And we’ll have to fit in another chair.”
Mrs. Flack had a pale lifeless face, and wore the muted out-of-date clothes of a middle-aged woman of her type in modestly comfortable circumstances. As he shook her limp hand Pollard scrutinised her face, and fancied he could detect a faint resemblance to Raymond Peplow.
“Do sit down, Mrs. Flack,” he said. “It’s very helpful of you to come along so promptly.”
She subsided on to the chair proffered by Toye, sitting upright and clutching a large black handbag on her lap. “I felt it was only right to come,” she said in a flat voice with a cockney edge. “My hubby, he thought the same. He comes home to his lunch, and we always turn on the news, one o’clock. He’d’ve come with me, only for them being short-handed at the shop with the holidays. I’m Ray’s sister, and there’s no other relatives near enough to matter. But I’m not certain I’ll know him for sure, not after all this time. 1935 it was, when he went off.”
“You mean he left home in 1935?” Pollard asked.
“That’s right. Without as much as a word to any of us. Mum and Dad never properly got over it.”
“Didn’t you hear from him again?”
“Only the postcard next morning, saying he was sick of Finchley, and was going to see a bit of the world. Last we ever heard of him, that was.”
“I suppose your parents contacted the police? How old was your brother?”
“Just short of eighteen. No, Dad wasn’t going to bring the police into it. He was sure Ray’d got into trouble, and that was why he made off. No end of a worry he’d been ever since he left school. Never held down a job for more than a month or two. Then he’d got in with
a nasty lot of Reds, and went to their meetings. It made Dad real wild.”
“He’s not in our records in this country, Mrs. Flack,” Pollard told her. “Nor in those of the police in the Argentine as far as anything criminal goes. As you probably heard on the news, he’s been living out there since 1937.”
“You’d think he might have given a thought to his own flesh and blood, not to mention coming back to fight for his country, instead of skulking in a foreign country while the bombs were coming down on London.” Mrs. Flack gave an indignant sniff.
Feeling some sympathy for Raymond Peplow, Pollard turned to the matter in hand. “We don’t want to distress you, Mrs. Flack, but I’m sure you understand that it’s very important for us to get a positive identification of your brother. Will you think back to the time before he left home, and try to picture him in your mind? Take your time. Try to remember your family life in those days… Now, had Ray any distinguishing marks of any kind? Birthmarks, for instance, or operation scars?”
Mrs. Flack stared straight in front of her with lack-lustre eyes. “There’s nothing of that sort I can call to mind,” she said at last. “It’s so long ago, and a lot’s happened since then, what with the war, and one thing and another. Mum and Dad’s gone, of course. Dark, Ray was. Not out of the ordinary tall or short. There were photos, but they went in the blitz, else I’d’ve brought them…” Her voice trailed off.
Pollard waited patiently. He was on the point of broaching the subject of a visit to the mortuary when she suddenly spoke again.
“Why, I’d forgotten about his teeth. Dreadful teeth he had, right from a child. He had to have a top plate by the time he left school.”
The silence which followed was so prolonged that she looked up to find Pollard’s eyes riveted on her.
“Mrs Flack,” he said, “the man who was killed at Brent isn’t your brother, then.”
Leaving Toye to get the bewildered Mrs. Flack’s signature to her statement, and give her any necessary assistance for her return journey to London, Pollard went to put through a call to the Yard which took some time. Its upshot was the setting on foot of some fresh enquiries, including one on Mrs. Flack herself, and arrangements for submitting Raymond Peplow’s photograph to the authorities in Argentina for identification at the earliest possible moment. He found the room empty on his return, and rightly surmised that Toye had driven Mrs. Flack to the railway station. He picked up her signed statement from the table, and was reading it when Toye came in.
Death on Doomsday Page 10
