“Like Whitesisters?” By now Toye was showing unusual excitement. “And the one who had the other firm, well, could be the owner didn’t agree his place wasn’t worth opening, and called in somebody else.”
“You’re dead right. Or even taken a scunner at Corden — I did myself — and paid his consultation fee, and then gone elsewhere. Toye, do you see what all this is leading up to? If the damaged car is Corden’s, he must have come down on Tuesday, but not to Whitesisters, surely? How could he have got back there during the night without his car? It was in that car park on Wednesday morning. Did he spend Tuesday night — or what was left of it — in Crockmouth, and then pick up the car again, and go on to Whitesisters on Wednesday? We’ve got to go out there, and find out when he turned up, and what car he was using. And, of course, get on to the Yard to find out what car he owns. Could he have hired one to come down? Here, come on. We can’t stick around speculating all night.”
After the stagnation of the past few days Pollard felt revitalised. At the police station he put through his call to the Yard, and then asked Inspector Diplock to brief him on Whitesisters and its owners. He learnt that General Ormiston was a real gentleman of the old school. Retired now, and well on in his sixties. The family had owned the place for generations, but rumour had it that the General was up against it, with costs rising all the time. He was struggling to keep things going for his grandson, a boy at school. His son had been killed in a car smash a couple of years back: a terrible blow to the old people. Thinking of opening Whitesisters to the public, was he? Inspector Diplock thought this would be a doubtful proposition, Brent being the sort of set-up it was, and doing so well. Whitesisters was a nice enough place, but not in the same class.
“I’m on to something that’ll probably fizzle out,” Pollard told him. “Tell you about it when we get back.”
Toye had been studying a map, and they took the coast road running westward from Crockmouth in the direction of Wythe Bay. About four miles out of the town they branched right over a ridge on to a secondary road. This followed a valley roughly parallel to the coast. The road rose gently as they passed through a succession of villages.
“It’s about a mile beyond this one,” Toye said. “Steepleford, it’s called.”
Rather a claustrophobic valley, Pollard thought, unless it was just the oppressive evening. The trees were absolutely motionless, dark and solid in their heavy July foliage. The road curved slightly to the left, and Whitesisters suddenly loomed up, sited like Brent at the foot of a wooded ridge. Whatever the religious house from which it derived its name had been like, the present building was late Georgian, slightly top-heavy in appearance and surmounted by a stone balustrade. The approach was by way of a long drive in need of resurfacing, which ran through an unkempt-looking park.
“They’d never get coaches in this way,” Toye said, negotiating a narrow wooden bridge.
“Might be another entrance, I suppose. The general effect’s a bit down at heel, isn’t it? Unless there’s some pretty hot stuff inside, I’m inclined to agree with Corden about the place.”
Their reception bore out these first impressions. General Ormiston was a tall, distinguished-looking man, with the beginning of a stoop and a worried expression. Mrs. Ormiston had a faded prettiness, and a determined brightness of manner. Drinks were offered and accepted. They sat in a splendid room which called for handsome furnishings, but the carpet was worn and faded, and the curtains at the fine windows shabby.
Pollard apologised for the lateness of his call. “As I told you over the telephone, sir, Sergeant Toye and I are working on the Brent case. At the moment we’re interested in the movements of a grey Austin car which was in this part of the world last week. You’ll understand that I can’t be more specific. It’s been reported that a car of this type was seen on this valley road on several occasions, and we felt it was possible that you or Mrs. Ormiston might have noticed it. We’re looking for responsible confirmation, you see.”
The slightly puzzled expressions on the Ormistons’ faces cleared.
“I’m afraid you’ve come out on a wild-goose chase,” the General told him. “There certainly was a grey Austin — a Princess — about here in the middle of last week, but not the one you’re after. It belonged to a guest of ours.”
Pollard registered humorous resignation. “We’re quite hardened to finding ourselves barking up the wrong tree,” he said. “The trouble is there are so many Austins around. I wonder if there could possibly have been a second one? When exactly was your visitor here, sir?”
“Let me see. He got here just before lunch on Wednesday, didn’t he, dear?”
“Yes, at about a quarter to one,” Mrs. Ormiston agreed. “I remember I was beginning to hope he wouldn’t be late, because of lunch getting overcooked.”
“Wednesday,” repeated Pollard with slight emphasis. “One of our reports spoke of a grey Austin on the road on Tuesday.”
“Then if it’s correct, there must have been a second one,” said General Ormiston. “Our guest arrived for lunch on Wednesday, and left after tea on Thursday.”
“About what time would that have been?” queried Pollard.
“I can tell you exactly.” Mrs. Ormiston smiled at him brightly. “He drove off at five minutes to five. We were due at friends on the other side of Crockmouth for drinks at six, and I was beginning to wonder how we were going to make it. Dear me, that sounds dreadfully inhospitable, doesn’t it? Actually it wasn’t quite like having a guest in the ordinary sense of the word.”
“To tell you the truth,” General Ormiston said, refilling Pollard’s glass, “we’d asked a chap to come down and look over the place with a view to opening it to the public. Not what one would choose, but in these hard times… He was the same fellow the Setons had: Corden, of Stately Homes Limited.”
“That was really the trouble about the time,” Mrs. Ormiston explained. “You see, when we heard about this terrible affair at Brent, Mr. Corden felt he must run over and have a word with poor Lord Seton. He went on Thursday morning, and that delayed him over finishing up here. He’d meant to leave after lunch.”
“Ah,” exclaimed Pollard. “That explains the reports of the car being seen on Thursday morning.”
Both the Ormistons started to speak at once.
“Can’t even allow you that, I’m afraid,” said the General, winning by a short head. “Corden didn’t go in his own car. It had sprung a puncture during the night. My wife lent him her little runabout. It’s a black Ford Anglia.”
Concealing his interest, Pollard started on another track.
“Would it have been possible for Mr. Corden’s car to have been taken out during the night without his knowledge or yours?” he asked.
The Ormistons were emphatic that it would have been quite impossible. The car had been garaged in the old stables, and would have had to have been driven round the house under the bedroom windows.
“And it’s so beautifully quiet here at night,” Mrs. Ormiston assured him, “that I wake if a car drives along the valley road.”
To Pollard’s satisfaction, it was suggested that they should go and have a look at the lie of the land. He noted that the police car was drawn up with its off side next to the portico of the house, and that Corden could have parked in the stable with the near side of his car close up against a wall.
The rear of Whitesisters was even more depressing than the approach from the road, consisting of a series of outbuildings in various stages of dilapidation.
“Whole lot ought to come down,” the General said. “It’s impossible to keep ’em in repair. Demolition costs the earth, that’s the problem. We don’t use more than a couple of ’em these days.”
“Still,” Mrs. Ormiston said almost gaily. “I’m sure something will come from Mr. Corden’s visit. He took infinite pains, you know, going into everything, inside and out.”
“I expect you find staffing a problem?” Pollard asked, as they walked back to the house.
/>
“Staffing is an overstatement where we’re concerned,” replied General Ormiston. “We’re reduced to one old boy who helps with the garden, and a couple of daily women. All non-resident, of course. They come up from the village.”
“Jim Doubleday gets through a surprising amount, though,” insisted Mrs. Ormiston. “He can turn his hand to almost anything, too, which is so useful. He changed Mr. Corden’s wheel for him, for instance.”
After chatting for a few minutes longer Pollard thanked the Ormistons for their hospitality and help, and joined Toye in the car.
“Sic transit gloria,” he remarked. “The end of an epoch. It’s all right: I’m just blethering. Now for Jim Doubleday, who changed Mr. Corden’s wheel.”
They had unusual luck in Steepleford. On drawing up to enquire of an elderly man where Mr. Jim Doubleday lived, they were informed that Doubleday was the name, and what could their informant do for the gentlemen?
The Ormistons’ elderly retainer was both observant and articulate. Yes, he’d changed the wheel for the gentleman with the Princess staying up to Whitesisters, while he’d gone out in the Ford. No nail nor nothing, so it must have been one of those slow punctures. Maybe a leaking valve. The gentleman said he’d stop off at a garage on the way home, and have it seen to. The spare only wanted a bit of air. Very nice car, it was. Pity it had taken a nasty knock on the side. In a car park, the gentleman said, and no chance of finding out who’d done it. Yes, a real nice car. Jim Doubleday’s grandson who worked in a garage in Crockmouth said that model had a Rolls-Royce engine. Gentleman had given him a quid for his trouble, which was a bit of all right, too.
Ignoring this premature hint, Pollard asked the old man if he had seen Mr. Corden again.
Yes, he had, when he’d come off work Thursday evening. Five o’clock was knocking-off time. The gentleman had driven off a minute or two before, but when he, Jim Doubleday, came along on his bike, the car was drawn up by the hedge, a bit past the gates, and the gentleman was looking out his road on a map, with a pencil in his hand, and had given him a wave.
A couple of coins changed hands, and after thanking Jim Doubleday, Pollard told Toye to carry on.
“The details about Corden’s car ought to have come in by the time we get back,” he said, lighting a cigarette. “It could mean running up to Town and getting a warrant.”
He expelled a mouthful of smoke, feeling both relaxed and exhilarated. This was it — this first real sighting of your quarry. It cancelled out all the waiting and worry and grind. His excitement mounted as the miles fled behind the car, the distant rumble of thunder and intermittent flashes of lightning assuming the character of an overture to a high-powered performance. As they came into Crockmouth the windscreen was suddenly spattered with gold as big drops of rain refracted the lights of the town.
Pollard strode into the police station and was handed a typewritten slip. The Yard informed him that Mr. Maurice Corden of Stately Homes Limited, and 11, Robertson Road, W8, was the owner of a smoke-grey Austin Vanden Plas Princess, registration number 2AO 779Z. He had hardly finished reading it when he was hailed by Inspector Diplock, looking triumphant.
“A report’s come in on that car, from the enquiry we got out this morning,” he said. “It was reported stolen from a street in Fulminster last Thursday evening, while the owner, a Mr. Corden, was having a meal in the town. There’s been no news of it since.”
The words were barely out of his mouth when a simultaneous blinding flash and a deafening crash of thunder directly overhead were followed by a hiss of rain like a giant fire extinguisher, dowsing Pollard’s newfound optimism. He swore so uninhibitedly that Inspector Diplock looked startled.
“Corden’s our man, and the bastard’s managed to get rid of the car,” he concluded. “I’m getting on to the Yard. It’s bloody well got to be found.”
He vanished in the direction of the telephone, leaving Toye to explain the latest developments to Inspector Diplock. Presently he returned, looking tense.
“That ought to have got them off the ground,” he said. “Every force in the country’s being alerted. What time was the car reported missing on Thursday?”
“A quarter to nine,” Inspector Diplock told him. “According to Fulminster, Corden came in to the station, saying he’d left the car in St. Edmund’s Street, near the cathedral, at about ten to eight, and gone off to have a meal.”
“How long does it take to drive from Whitesisters to Fulminster?”
“Say an hour and a half, under normal conditions.”
“Corden left Whitesisters at just on five. He should have got to Fulminster by half-past six, then. That allows an hour and a quarter — assuming he’s speaking the truth — for getting rid of the car. It’s not long. Unless someone else was involved, which doesn’t seem likely, it can’t be far away.”
Assured that both Fulminster and Crockmouth had put extra men on the search, Pollard’s thoughts reverted to Maurice Corden.
“The more circumstantial evidence we can line up the better,” he said. “Where did he spend Tuesday night, after getting away from the sandpit?”
Inspector Diplock remarked that there was nothing unusual in a chap spending the night in his car in a lay-by, and that enquiries had better be made from patrols on duty.
“Don’t you think it’s more likely he’d have had something perfectly normal lined up, sir?” asked Toye. “After all, if he was acting independently, he couldn’t have expected to come on Peplow. He could have found out about that dinner at Fulminster, and fixed his break-in to fit in with Lord Seton and Mrs. Tirle being off the premises. Then he’d have gone on to an hotel somewhere in the ordinary way, with the miniatures in his luggage. Quite reasonable for him to spend the night in Crockmouth, seeing he was due at Whitesisters next day. He said he’d been making enquiries about the place on Wednesday morning, before going over there.”
“You’ve got something there,” Pollard said. “A damn good point. What are the most likely hotels?”
Inspector Diplock made various suggestions.
“Thanks,” said Pollard. “Let’s go and try our luck, Toye. Better than hanging around doing nothing. We’ve had enough of that lately.”
It was deluging with rain. Turning up their coat collars they ran for the car. The shining streets were almost deserted. After several damp and profitless sorties they arrived at the Golden Bay, the Magnificent’s rival. Here the manager was a youngish man, with an eye to some valuable free publicity for his hotel.
“I’ll take you along to the night porter,” he said. “It’ll be the same chap who was on last Tuesday. There’s a good bit of coming and going at this time of year, but he might remember anyone clocking in unusually late.”
The hotel register was produced, and showed that the last arrival on the Tuesday night of the previous week had been Maurice Corden, of 11 Robertson Road, W8.
Pollard realised that he had been holding his breath.
“One up to you,” he remarked in an aside to Toye, and turned to the night porter, an elderly man who looked dependable.
“Can you remember what time this gentleman came in?” he asked.
“Few minutes after half-past twelve, sir,” the man replied without hesitation.
“How is it you’re so sure?”
“I’d noticed from the list there’d been a room booked, and not taken up. Then we lock the front door at midnight. Guests wanting to come in after that has to ring. I remember I’d just gone to make meself a cuppa in the kitchen, an’ had to switch off the kettle while I went along to the door.”
“Did Mr. Corden arrive by car?” Pollard asked.
The porter looked at the register.
“Couldn’t have, sir, or the car number’d be entered here. We always asks for it, in case the car has to be moved.”
“He could have missed out on that column, of course,” remarked the manager. “I’ll have some enquiries made in the morning, if you’ll give me the number and a descriptio
n. One of the maintenance chaps might have noticed it.”
“Thanks,” replied Pollard. “That could be very useful. Can you remember what this Mr. Corden looked like?” he asked the porter.
“Can’t say I call him to mind very clearly, sir. There’s so many in and out in the summer. Not old, he wasn’t — in his forties, I’d say, with dark hair. I do remember that about him. Very pleasant-spoken gentleman. He said he’d had engine trouble on the way down from London, and that was why he was so late. I asked him if I could get him anything, but he said no, and I needn’t trouble to show him up to his room, if I’d let him have the key. He’d only got a smallish case.”
“Did he seem excited or upset?”
“Not that I noticed, sir. A bit tired, I’d say.”
Feeling that there was no further information to be gained from the porter, Pollard thanked him, and moved away with the manager.
“Anything more we can do for you?” asked the latter.
“I’d like to know when the room was booked, and what time Corden cleared out on Wednesday morning.”
After a brief delay this information was forthcoming. The room had been booked some weeks earlier, from the Stately Homes office. After breakfasting in his room and paying his bill, Maurice Corden had apparently left the hotel on foot.
“He might have got the hall porter to whistle him up a taxi,” said the manager. “I’ll enquire into that too, if you like.”
Pollard thanked him again. “I needn’t urge complete discretion on anyone in your job, I know,” he added, with a grin.
“You’re telling me! Haven’t you noticed that I’ve asked no questions? I’m busting with curiosity, of course.”
“I’ll go so far as to tell you that we’re working on the Brent case, which I’m sure you know already. Also that it’s possible that your pub may feature in the news one of these days.”
“Attaboy!” said the manager happily.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Pollard came down to breakfast the next morning with two alternative plans of action which he proceeded to put before Toye. The first assumed that there was still no news of the missing car. After ringing the owners of the other stately homes which had been robbed, to check on their contacts with Maurice Corden, they would attend the Peplow/Lambrooke funeral, and go on to Brent. Here they would try to discover, by indirect questioning of Lord Seton, if Corden was known to have had access to any of the Brent keys.
Death on Doomsday Page 15
