Murder Underground

by Mavis Doriel Hay

  “On calling at the house in Tavistock Square where Mr. Basil Pongleton, the nephew of the deceased, and heir to her considerable fortune, occupies bachelor apartments, our representative was informed that Mr. Pongleton had not yet recovered from the shock occasioned by his aunt’s death in such tragic circumstances, and that he was too distressed to receive visitors. He finds his only consolation in music, being a devotee of the more serious items in the radio programmes. Our representative learnt from an intimate friend of Mr. Pongleton that he appears to have had a strange premonition of his aunt’s fate, though at the time he could not account for the feeling of depression that overcame him at the moment when she met her tragic end.…”

  Chapter VII

  Basil Elaborates

  “We’re just in time, I gather,” exclaimed Gerry, panting from his hurried climb of two flights of stairs.

  “What d’you mean? For tea? Yes, I suppose you are.”

  “Oh no; I wasn’t thinking of anything so gross as my material needs. Merely anxiety for your welfare, Basil, my boy. We met old Slowgo on the stairs, with his face as long as a boa constrictor, and old Waddletoes told us he’s been lunching with you. You must be about ready for spiritual consolation!”

  “Did you ask him to lunch, Basil?” Beryl enquired, as Gerry relieved her of her coat. “And if so, why ever?”

  “He was a great friend of Aunt Phemia’s, y’know. She put no end of trust in him and always consulted him. Though, come to think of it, he doesn’t seem to know much about her affairs. But, anyway, he’s a wise old bird, and generally knows all about everything, and I thought he might have some theory about this rotten business.”

  “And has he?” Beryl asked in a weary voice.

  “W-e-l-l, I dunno that he has—yet. Seems to think that Thurlow had the chance to get hold of that leash of Tuppy’s and the chance to meet Aunt Phemia on the stairs, and good cause for being mad with the old lady, too; but I simply can’t believe that he’d—he’d strangle her.”

  “It’s difficult to believe that of anyone,” said Beryl, sinking into a chair by the fire. “And Bob Thurlow seems a bit of a noodle but not really vicious or desperate—isn’t that what you think about him, Gerry?” Gerard Plasher nodded agreement. His general tendency was to agree with Beryl unless he felt strongly opposed to her view. “I can’t believe that he’d attack an old lady in that horrible way,” Beryl went on, “just because he was furious with her for keeping the brooch. And the idea that he murdered her in order to recover the brooch is fantastic, for he didn’t take it.”

  “Perhaps he couldn’t find it,” Basil suggested.

  “That’s not possible,” Gerry declared. “He would have had plenty of time to search for it. It’s more likely that he never thought of the possibility that she had it with her. But, as Beryl says, I don’t really think he did it at all.”

  “He might have heard someone on the stairs and been scared and done a bolt,” said Basil, without much conviction, but apparently unable to abandon conjecture as to what happened on the stairs.

  “But there wasn’t anyone on the stairs, except the murderer and me!” Gerry pointed out. “If there had been—I mean anyone not mixed up with the crime—Miss Pongleton’s body would have been found by them, much earlier than it actually was found.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” Basil told him. “If you, galloping down those stairs, had met Aunt Phemia dead, instead of alive, what would you have done?”

  “Why, rushed down and given the alarm, of course.” Gerry was quite sure. “There’d be nothing else one could do.”

  “I don’t know. It wouldn’t do any good, and I should think your one idea might be to get out of it and not be mixed up in the business.”

  “No one could be so silly,” declared Beryl impatiently. “It might easily be found out afterwards that you had been there, and then, of course, everyone would think it frightfully fishy that you had kept it dark. Oh!”—she shook herself disgustedly—“it’s all so beastly! Why must we keep on talking about it? And no one seems to think about poor Aunt Phemia herself—only what did the murderer do, and what would you do, and so on without end. And it’s no use!”

  “I’ve often thought anyone might act like that,” Basil persisted, disregarding his cousin’s protests. “Do you remember the Crumbles murder, and the Crowborough murder?”

  “But they did it, in both cases,” cried Gerry. “Do shut up, Basil.”

  “The jury said they did,” Basil continued obstinately; “but it always struck me that they had pretty plausible cases, especially the young man who said he came into his bungalow and found the girl hanging from a beam. It seemed to me that he really might have been so scared and so shaken that he’d think the only safe thing to do was to hide the body and pretend he knew nothing about it.”

  “That was different,” Gerry explained. “That young man was to blame in any case, even supposing he hadn’t actually murdered the girl; and there she was in his own bungalow. The case of anyone going down the stairs and finding your aunt’s body would be quite different. I say, you’re not suggesting, are you, that I found the old lady dead? I tell you I said good morning to her!”

  “No, I wasn’t suggesting anything,” Basil assured him. “I was only trying to work out whether it was possible that Thurlow did murder Aunt Phemia in the hope of recovering the brooch and was then scared away before he’d got hold of it, and hadn’t found the opportunity to go back again for it before they discovered her body.”

  “I wish you’d stop these silly speculations,” Beryl implored. “I’m sure it wasn’t Bob Thurlow. I suppose it couldn’t have been an accident?”

  “Accident?” Basil exclaimed incredulously.

  “I mean that she fell headlong downstairs and the leash somehow got hooked on to the railings and throttled her?”

  “Of course, it did look a bit like that at first glance,” said Basil, to the astonishment of the others.

  “Look like that? How do you mean?” Beryl asked him.

  “Oh, when I read how she was found—lying upside down on the stairs; of course, the first thing I thought was that she’d stumbled and gone headlong.”

  “It never struck me like that,” said Gerry, still puzzled by Basil’s remark. “Of course, the first thing I saw in the paper was the headline: MURDER IN UNDERGROUND STATION, or something of that sort, so I got the idea of murder into my head straight away.”

  “I think the paper I saw had a different heading—something about a mystery; anything’s a mystery to the Press; and then, naturally, reading of old Aunt Phemia head downwards on a staircase, the idea of her falling down came into my mind.”

  “Well, could it have happened like that?” Beryl asked.

  “Not possible,” said Basil. “The police would have noticed at once if the leash was hitched round the railings or anything of that sort.”

  “I’m afraid the accident idea really isn’t tenable, Beryl dear,” said Gerry gently.

  “No,” Beryl admitted. “But I do wish something would come to light. I hate the idea of anyone being found guilty of such a horrible thing, but it’s dreadfully unsatisfactory at present, and so worrying for everyone; and I equally hate the idea of people who aren’t guilty being suspected.”

  “Yes, that must be perfectly beastly,” Basil agreed. Strolling to the window he looked out into the square and quickly retreated.

  “How about tea?” he suggested. “I’ll see if Waddletoes can get us crumpets or something.” He left the others to themselves.

  Gerry crossed to the window and looked out, as Basil had done.

  “D’you remember the chap who was lolling against the railings as we came in, Beryl? He’s still there; funny-looking fellow in a purple suit.”

  Beryl showed no interest in the lounger. She sat looking into the fire, occasionally giving it a half-hearted jab wit
h the poker. Gerry watched her for a few minutes, realizing that what made him feel so wretched was not the untimely death of a distinctly forbidding old lady, but the droop of Beryl’s mouth, and the unusually listless attitude of her slim figure bent forward in the chair. Her face, under the little black hat with her fair hair smoothed away from her forehead and tucked back behind her ears, looked very pale. All her delicate colouring seemed faded to pallor, whether by her anxiety and distress or merely in contrast with the black which she wore, he could not determine.

  She hit a large lump of coal with a resounding whack.

  “Can’t we do something, Gerry?”

  Gerry crossed the room towards her and whipped off her soft felt hat. “That’s better. I don’t like the look of you with your head encased in that object!”

  “I know.” Beryl smiled at him faintly. “But it’s the only black one I’ve got, and Mother thought it looked disrespectful to Aunt Phemia to wear colours. I hate mourning, myself. I always have a feeling that it’s either ostentatious or hypocritical. But as Mother felt like that about it I had to wear black. And goodness knows I feel gloomy enough at present.”

  “ ‘’Tis not alone thy inky cloak’…You look pretty wretched, I must say. I wish we could do something, but I don’t see what. I’ve done what I can for young Thurlow by getting my solicitors to take him in hand. They tell me that although he’s awfully upset he’s quite clear and unshaken in his story, and accounts for all his doings on Friday in a way that seems perfectly satisfactory, though, of course, it’s difficult to check it all. If only we could find out anything about your aunt which would suggest that anyone else had a motive for murdering her… ”

  “I should think a lot of people may have disliked her. It seems horrid to say it now, but everyone knows she was mean and liked to have power over people. But I can’t see what motive anyone can have had for murdering her, except to get her money, and, as far as we know, no one had any claim on that except Basil and me. That reminds me, I haven’t told Basil about the wills.”

  “The police may find some clue. I hear they’ve been making a thorough search of her room.”

  “They have to do that. You know what a habit she had of hiding things in odd places?”

  “Crumpets for tea!” announced Basil, flinging open the door and coming in with a paper bag, plate, knife, and butter. “I said we’d toast them ourselves. Waddletoes says she’s been ‘that put out’ with callers. Oh, what a mess you’ve made of the fire, Beryl!”

  “I’ll soon find a red place,” said Gerry, going down on his knees on the hearthrug.

  “Basil, I forgot to tell you about Aunt Phemia’s will,” Beryl said.

  “Oh; how did you hear?” Basil tried to seem indifferent.

  “Mother has seen her solicitor, Mr. Stoggins. I suppose he’ll write to you. The police have been searching Aunt Phemia’s room, you know. I think they had an idea they might find something more to throw light on her connection with Bob Thurlow. They came across a will, made fairly recently, under the paper at the bottom of a drawer. They consulted Mr. Stoggins and found that he had another one, made some years before. They are practically the same, I gather, and of course they don’t help to clear up the mystery. She has left most of her money to you, except for five thousand, I think it is, to a dogs’ home, and some hundreds to provide for Tuppy, and her pearls and some jewellery to me.”

  Basil gave her a startled look, but he breathed a sigh of relief. “So they haven’t found the other one?”

  “What other one?”

  “Oh, some time ago she told me that she had made another, leaving the spoil to you because I annoyed her.”

  “Do you mean last summer? Poor Aunt Phemia! She was rather pleased with me because I sent her three picture postcards while I was on holiday, and you had been neglectful. But she tore that will up; you told me so yourself.”

  “Yes, of course; I’d forgotten. I thought she might have made another one since. She often told Betty Watson that I wasn’t going to get her money. She thought Betty was after it—and me.”

  “Oh, the one they found was made last spring, I think. I don’t think she made quite so many as she talked about, but they may find another yet.”

  Gerry had succeeded in uncovering some glowing coals, and Beryl knelt on the hearthrug beside him and began to toast the crumpets, whilst he melted the butter. Mrs. Waddilove, bringing the tea, put a stop to conversation about Miss Pongleton’s will. Basil strode restlessly about the room, occasionally casting a sidelong glance out of the window.

  “I must say I’m relieved,” he said at last, when Mrs. Waddilove had gone, “that they’ve found the right will. I know you didn’t really want the money, Beryl, and goodness knows I need it.”

  “Of course I didn’t want it,” Beryl agreed. “It ought to go to you, and it would have gone to you anyway. But I expect you’ll find you’re just as impecunious after you’ve got it as you always have been—unless you get Betty to look after it.”

  “I’ll be able to give you a decent wedding present, anyway. By Jove, when I was haggling over it with old Peter, I was, as it were, coming into a fortune all the time, had I but known it.”

  “How about the picture?” Gerry enquired. “When is Beryl to sit?”

  They discussed the portrait—what Beryl was to wear, and what pose Gerry liked best.

  “Do, for heaven’s sake, cheer up before the sittings begin,” Gerry admonished her. “Of course, you feel wretched, but you mustn’t mope—that’ll do no one any good.”

  “I’m sure Peter’s quite capable of painting a smile, if a smile is asked for, even if it isn’t there,” Beryl assured him a little sadly. She was pouring out tea.

  “But it might be someone else’s smile, and that wouldn’t be at all the same thing,” Gerry objected. “D’you remember, we had meant to see the film of The Constant Nymph at the New Vic. this evening? But I don’t suppose you want to go now, though I’m not sure that it wouldn’t be a good thing to flout the conventions and go—just to switch your mind off this beastly affair and give you a rest from worry.”

  Beryl shook her head at him, but seized on the opportunity for normal conversation.

  “You saw it on Thursday, didn’t you, Basil?”

  “Yes—no, on Friday.”

  “But you said you were taking Betty on Thursday?”

  “We went somewhere else after all. I went alone to the New Vic. on Friday.”

  “Whatever for—Friday?”

  “Yes; after I came back from seeing Peter. I was feeling rather blue and thought I’d like to see it. Of course, I didn’t get the evening paper and read about Aunt Phemia until I came out of the cinema.”

  Beryl was looking at him intently—so intently that she continued to pour tea into a cup already full, until Gerry noticed what she was doing.

  “Look out, Beryl—you’re flooding the tray!”

  “Oh, what an idiot I am! I’m so sorry. Gerry, take the teapot while I clear up this mess.”

  Everyone’s attention was directed to the tea-tray, and by the time order was restored the cinema had been forgotten.

  But Basil realized that he still had not put matters right.

  “I say, Beryl,” he began in a pause, looking self-conscious. “You remember what I told you about what happened on Friday—I mean the various things I did? Do you remember what I said about supper? I was all hot and bothered when I saw you that evening just after I’d read about the murder and heard that the police had been to see me, and I’m not sure what I did tell you.”

  “You said that you had supper in Soho with a friend. I don’t think you gave any more details. Why?”

  “I say, Beryl—you’d better not mention that friend to anyone. I don’t suppose you have talked about it. Fact is, I didn’t tell the police anything about a friend. ’S not important—not in connection wit
h Aunt Phemia’s death—but, ’s a matter of fact, the friend isn’t awfully reputable, and I didn’t want the police nosing around on that track, so I just told them I had supper alone in Soho because it was too late after the cinema to come back here for it—which is true.”

  “But, Basil, isn’t that frightfully rash, to cook your story to the police? It might make them think you had something to conceal? And why?”

  “Well, I have. But I haven’t cooked my story. I wasn’t under oath to tell the whole truth—only the chief facts; and, anyway, what is the whole truth? And does anyone ever tell it? I left out lots of other details—f’rinstance, how many times I blew my nose.”

  “Don’t be so idiotic!” Beryl admonished him. “Really, Basil, wouldn’t it be better to confess to a—an—indiscretion than to let the police think you may be hiding something truly fishy? Don’t you think so, Gerry?”

  “I certainly do,” agreed Gerry. “They’ll be on their hind legs at once if they think you’ve got something up your sleeve.”

  “But it’s nothing to do with them.”

  “That’s just it,” Gerry insisted. “When they know it they won’t bother any more about it; but so long as they don’t know it, if they get on the track of something unknown, they’ll smell a guilty secret.”

  “Surely, Basil, it’s nothing that matters telling?” said Beryl. “I don’t want to know what it is, and I won’t say a word about it to anyone. I’ll forget it at once, and I know Gerry will, too.”

  “Of course,” muttered Gerry, rather unconvincingly.

  “But I do think it would be much less worrying for you, and prevent awkward complications, if you told the police about it now, before they happen to find out from someone else. You could easily explain why you didn’t tell them before, but the longer you wait the worse it gets.”