‘You’re sure you can manage?’ asked Molly.
‘Absolutely,’ Debby answered with an assurance not entirely justified by the pain in her ankle. ‘It isn’t far, and I know Luke will still be down with the engine.’
In fact it was more Mrs Dogwall’s platform-heeled shoes than Debby’s disability that slowed the progress of the three women to the railway shed, and it was fifteen minutes before Sir Dafydd, driven by a slightly bewildered Luke Murphy, emerged from the yard with the State carriage in tow.
‘It’s just like Disneyland,’ Mrs Dogwall cried as she stepped aboard, exhibiting a delicacy and balance appropriate to embarking on a badly-moored rowing boat.
‘Actually it’s the other way round,’ Debby countered with feeling. ‘This is quite an old-established railway and the engine’s a collector’s piece’ – observations that earned her a grimace of approval from the driver who was in earshot of these loud exchanges.
The little train threaded its way over the bridge and through the outskirts of the town on to the cultivated plain beyond. The journey was proving quite as exciting as Molly Treasure had hoped – if a trifle less comfortable. The carriage had no sides, though the four pairs of cushioned, double wooden seats were fitted with arms. As the engine gathered speed the rocking of the whole contraption suggested that unwary passengers might be inadvertently ejected on sharp curves.
‘I expect you and your husband do a great deal of travelling, Mrs Dogwall.’ Molly offered this by way of polite conversation to the occupant of the seat in front.
‘Mm, but not by twain.’ The comparison with Disneyland was palling. ‘I guess jet airplanes have it over steam engines.’
‘Both British inventions,’ Debby put in loudly. ‘Did your husband enjoy his ride this morning, Mrs Dogwall?’ She was leaning backwards over the front seat. ‘Daddy drove the breakfast special up before daylight. He said Mr Dogwall was on board.’
‘Oh, he thought it was tewific. He got off half-way ’cos he was jogging back.’
‘He was what?’ Molly asked.
‘Jogging, Mrs Tweasure. Glen wuns evewy morning – even when we’re in Chicago. He’d have gone to the Mass, ’cept we’re sorta Baptists.’
Molly resisted the temptation to enquire whether the ‘sorta Baptists’ were affiliated to the Southerns or the Anas. She peered ahead at the cane fields the train was approaching. ‘Debby, I think you could ask nice Mr Murphy to start signalling on his whistle. Remind him it’s a short, two longs and a short – di-da-da-di.’
‘Sounds kinda long for a little letter like p,’ said Mrs Dogwall earnestly. ‘Gee, I hope Pewegwine weally does know this horse code.’
‘Morse code, my dear – and Peregrine was an officer in the Brigade of Guards.’ The confidence in Molly’s tone conjured up pictures of Peregrine leading calvary charges armed with an Aldis lamp.
Debby shouted her instruction across to Luke Murphy whose following first attempt to make the steam whistle emit anything approximating to the Morse cipher for the letter p was confounded by the vagaries of the ancient mechanism at his command. The first shrill blast came out well enough but its unscheduled isolation was as marked as its intended brevity. Luke primed a recalcitrant valve and tried again. The result, though breathy in parts, was a just distinguishable signal. The third and quickly following fourth renderings were spirited and true. ‘Di-da-da-di, di-da-da-di,’ went the whistle.
‘Deep in the heart of Texas,’ sang Mrs Dogwall, off key but demonstrating a singular rhythmic acuity. ‘Say, shouldn’t we stop the twain now and again? I mean, Pewegwine’s never going to catch us’ – but he did.
CHAPTER XIII
Treasure filled a pipe while waiting for Chief Inspector Small to finish his telephone conversation. They were seated in Small’s office at the Rupertstown Police Station. The modern whitewashed block in the main square behind the harbour was also – on its seaward aspect – the headquarters of H.M. Customs and Excise. In addition, on the way in, Treasure had noted a plaque directing those involved in business with Radio-KCI to ascend to the upper floor and turn left, in contrast to any wishing to pay their telephone accounts who were instructed to follow the same route and to turn right. From all this he concluded he was at the nerve centre of the law, order, and electronically-controlled communication applying on the island.
On the short drive from Government House the Chief Inspector had explained his one year secondment to KCI from the Avon and Somerset Constabulary. The island’s Chief of Police was on a senior officer’s training course in Britain, and being within a year of retirement Small – a widower – had been glad to volunteer as his temporary replacement.
In general he found the life agreeable and the paramilitary force of thirty men under his command willing if ill-trained. Since crime had been reported non-existent on King Charles he had been looking forward to a quiet sabbatical on full pay. The murder of Joe O’Hara had shaken him more than he cared to own to anyone save Treasure: he was not a CID man and it had been some years since he had been directly involved in a murder investigation.
Small replaced the receiver. He smiled at Treasure. ‘Well, the body’s reached Kingston, courtesy of Mr Dogwall’s jet aeroplane. We should have an autopsy report in a few hours.’
‘Of course, there is a hospital here.’ Treasure had taken cognizance of this fact before his departure. He tried to avoid visiting communities devoid of proper medical facilities – a habit he regarded as an elementary precaution; his wife called it hypochondria.
Small nodded. ‘Two doctors. Nice chaps. One’s on leave in Canada and the other went down with food poisoning yesterday.’ Treasure made a mental note to avoid the local water, unwashed fruit, and undercooked meat; more elementary precautions. Small continued. ‘I doubt either of ’em would have been too keen about doing this particular post-mortem. Anyway, it was I who suggested Jamaica, and the Governor agreed.’
‘And Paul O’Hara?’
‘Wasn’t a bit keen – but I didn’t give him the option. It’s probably high-handed, but I’m playing this by the book, sir.’
‘Quite right, Chief Inspector.’ Treasure paused. ‘You said earlier you were certain death wasn’t caused by the decapitation . . .’
‘No blood, not to speak of, that is. Oh, there was a bit – and a lot of mess, of course. But if Mr O’Hara had had his head chopped off while he was still alive there’d have been blood everywhere. Even Father Babington mentioned as much. It was he who put the head in the coffin with the rest of the body.’ Small hesitated. ‘Strange situation, that was. They were close friends until . . . well, I suppose until Father Babington sounded off at the Mass. Then, when we’d finished at the Falls and I told them to take the corpse away nobody’d touch the head – not the medical orderlies nor my policemen. Was going to do it myself – then the padre stepped forward and picked it up. Very dignified and reverent, he was – but somehow cold with it.’
‘Unemotional?’
‘That’s it. And the crowd knelt – as though it was a funeral service. Lot of people there by that time. Made a big impression on me, that did.’ Small reflected for a moment, then looked up sharply. ‘I don’t mind telling you I’ll be glad of any help you can give, sir – you being familiar with the procedures and so on, and not local too.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘I remember Superintendent Bantree introducing you at that dinner as the best amateur copper in the business.’
Treasure chuckled. ‘Colin Bantree and I have cracked more jars than cases – but of course I’ll assist in any way possible. You’re not going to get CID officers in from Jamaica or London?’
‘Certainly not from Jamaica – Carleons have a traditional dislike of anyone official from there poking into affairs here. If we have reason to believe Mr O’Hara was more than the victim of a common assault by some vagrant, then I’ll bring in the Yard . . .’
‘Reason to believe?’ Treasure felt this piece of police jargon was intended to carry a special significance. ‘You mean if
it appears that a top person with a special motive could be responsible. D’you think that could be?’
Small shrugged his shoulders. ‘I hope not, sir. I sincerely hope not. That baccy smells good.’
Treasure pushed his pouch across the desk. ‘Help yourself, it’s a private mixture from Lewis in St James’s.’ He frowned. ‘I see your point. Of course there aren’t many top people in a place like this . . .’
‘And not one I’d care to book for speeding, let alone suspicion of a serious crime – not unless it was open and shut, if you see what I mean, sir.’
Treasure took the point. ‘Meantime you’ve taken photos, combed the cabin for evidence . . .’
‘Including fingerprints,’ the Chief Inspector cut in. ‘There were plenty of dabs but those that don’t belong to Mr O’Hara and your Mr Gore were probably made – or spoiled – by the rush of outraged citizens. We’ll see. Anyway, the place is now locked and cordoned. I’ve posted a day and night guard so nothing will spoil.’ He paused, and then let out a disconsolate sigh. ‘Frankly, I don’t believe I’ve got a blooming thing to go on, sir, not so far at least. If you’d like to look over the cabin yourself I’d be glad to take you up there.’
‘Perhaps after we’ve found Gore.’ Convinced as he was of Peregrine’s innocence, Treasure deemed it more sensible to stay away from the scene of the crime until that conviction was shared universally. He did not want to be open to a charge of destroying evidence against Peregrine – though if the circumstances and consequences had not been so grave, he reflected bitterly, he might be more in the mood to invent some. ‘About the top people?’ he asked. ‘Any fancied runners?’
The Chief Inspector spent a moment longer than was strictly necessary lighting his pipe. He gave a smile of appreciation. ‘Mm, very mellow, sir. There was this dinner-party last night at Government House. On the face of it, only the people there would have known the late Mr O’Hara was intending to sleep at the cabin – them and Mr Paul O’Hara.’
‘On the face of it?’
Small shrugged his shoulders. ‘He apparently made up his mind to go up to the cabin when he saw his brother’s yacht arriving – and said so loud enough for most people to hear. He or any of them could have told others – or the servants might have . . .’
‘But you’re quite right – it gives us a starting-point, Chief Inspector. D’you know who was there and how they spent the rest of the night?’
‘This is a copy of the guest list, so the answer to your first question’s easy.’ The policeman extracted a paper from the worn leather brief-case he had placed before him on the desk. He handed Treasure the typed sheet.
‘Were you there?’ the banker asked before glancing down at the list. The question was intended to suggest that the Chief Inspector was as likely and entitled as anyone else to be on dining terms with the Governor. That this was not the case had been more evident from the man’s treatment and demeanour at Government House than it was from the fact that his name was not listed. The assumption was nevertheless appreciated.
Eric Small gave a wry smile. ‘Not on this occasion, sir, no. I did get invited to lunch once – with the Harbourmaster and the Postmistress, as I recall. There’s what you might call a . . .’
‘A Governor’s pecking order?’ Treasure interrupted, and the two men exchanged understanding looks.
‘Governor’s lady, actually, sir. Probably thinks coppers belong below stairs.’
‘Mm. Wonder where she places bank managers?’ Treasure purposely completed his levelling tactic. ‘Anyway, you didn’t know Joe O’Hara was . . . er . . . going up country for the night, which rather makes your point, since you’re head of a pretty important grapevine. Of the people who did know . . . let me see now –’ he studied the list – ‘who’s Mr Angus McLush? Is he a VIP or does he just play the bagpipes after dinner?’
‘Journalist, friend of Sir Archibald’s.’ Small offered the last comment as though to explain why Lady Rees had allowed a reporter over her threshold. ‘Odd sort of cove as a matter of fact – what you might call a failed intellectual forced into making a living.’ This comment at once covered the Chief Inspector’s view of McLush and – by implication – all those whose tutored understanding left them short of Senior Wrangler status. ‘Funny you should pick on him because we can’t find him.’
‘Which suggests you think he’s worth looking for?’
‘Not me especially – not up to now, that is. No, he gets a salary as the island’s information officer – PRO, I suppose you’d call him. Obviously the Governor wanted him toot sweet this morning but he hasn’t shown up. We’ve enquired at his house – he lives alone – and all we’ve got is that he went out some time after midnight. He woke the little girl in the house next door as he was leaving.’
‘Did he get on with Joe O’Hara?’
‘That I couldn’t say, sir. Mr O’Hara was his employer in an indirect kind of way so it’s likely they were on friendly terms.’
‘Well, we’ll need an account of his movements since midnight when he reappears.’ Treasure looked up. ‘This not knowing the time of death keeps us in the dark in more ways than one.’
‘True, sir. But young Mr Gore should be able to . . . to throw some light on the subject when we find him. He certainly slept at the lodge and since that must have been by invitation chances are he was the last to see Mr O’Hara alive.’
‘Last but one,’ Treasure put in with a smile. ‘At least, we hope so. What about the other people on this list? I suppose they were all innocently tucked up in bed with witnesses during the relevant hours of darkness.’
‘Not quite all – and not strictly innocently, I’m afraid, sir.’
Treasure drew in his breath in mock surprise. ‘You mean Lady Rees was out on an immoral engagement?’ Small clearly enjoyed savouring this suggestion. ‘Nothing so spicy, I’m afraid, nor unlikely. Mr Dogwall was up pretty early – I don’t know how early because I haven’t asked him, but the Governor told me he was on one of the first trains out. That was the one they call the breakfast special that takes up the food and equipment for feeding the people after the service.’
‘And Dogwall was on it?’
‘As far as the Gull Rock spur – that’s about half-way. According to the Governor who was driving the train, Mr Dogwall got off there and ran . . . er, jogged back.’
‘He’s not religious – or else he didn’t trust the Governor’s driving. What time would that have been?’
‘Around five fifty-five.’
‘Have you met Dogwall?’
‘I haven’t had that pleasure yet, sir. I met his wife for a minute this morning. Proper bobby-dazzler, she is.’
Treasure considered this might offer more reason for Dogwall to stay in bed than to get up at unconventional hours, but he kept the thought to himself. He glanced again at the list. ‘We must assume Father Babington spent the night alone but that if he’d done in O’Hara he wouldn’t have bothered denouncing him during the sermon.’
‘I’d come to the same conclusion, sir.’ Small’s tone was matter of fact and indicated that as a good Protestant he had no scruple about assessing the homicidal tendencies of Catholic priests – at least given special circumstances. ‘What he said was pretty strong stuff, of course. I was there. He fairly laid into Mr O’Hara.’
Treasure nodded. ‘Verbally, at least. Did he also take the train?’
‘I don’t know, but I wouldn’t think so. It’s a point of honour, as you might say, with the islanders that the ablebodied walk to this particular service – makes it into a sort of pilgrimage. Mind you, it’s quite a step.’
‘Past the O’Hara cabin?’
‘You can go that way but there are plenty of easier footpaths up this side of the island – less winding than the river path, and not so steep at the end. I drove up myself in a Land-Rover – it being an on-duty occasion.’ Small thus indicated that though able-bodied he placed his responsibility as chief crowd controller before any intent to be
a pilgrim. ‘As things turned out, it was just as well I was mobile. Anyway, there were a good many walkers on the road at six-thirty. I didn’t see Father Babington, but whichever route he took he’s bound to have fallen in with others.’
Treasure had purposely been bringing up the names of those who by some stretch of imagination or known fact might have had cause to dispatch the murdered man. He wondered whether his next choice from the list might prove to be the butt of the policeman’s earlier barb. ‘I see the Chief Minister’s wife was with him at dinner.’
‘As she is on most public occasions.’ Small shook his head before continuing. ‘He’s a good-looking chap – oh, as you saw for yourself.’
‘But his bedtime alibi . . .’
‘Will either be embarrassing or it’ll involve him and others in a slight case of perjury, sir. He keeps a mistress at the end of the road.’
‘How very convenient.’
Small’s views on such matters clearly did not run to jocularity. ‘It’s not exactly common knowledge, more what you might call an open secret. The lady’s English, and wealthy by all accounts. I’ve seen her about – name of Lady Cynthia Franks-Barrett.’
Treasure’s eyebrows lifted. ‘You’re right about the wealth – in terms of the family anyway. They’re what might vulgarly be described as rolling in it. And she lives here on the island?’
‘A good deal of the time, sir. She has an estate in Jamaica and some sort of establishment in New York. She’s unmarried – no chicken, and not much of a looker, come to that.’
‘But the Chief Minister is captivated by her riches?’
‘That and her liberal views, sir – politically speaking, I mean.’
‘I must say you’re singularly well informed on this subject.’
Treasure Up in Smoke Page 12
