Murder Underground

by Mavis Doriel Hay

  “I wish you’d let me manage my own beastly affairs,” grumbled Basil. “I tell you they don’t know me in the restaurant, and they won’t remember whether I was with anyone or not, and no one else saw me—us.”

  “I don’t know all the details and I don’t want to, so perhaps it’s difficult to judge,” Beryl admitted. “But I should have thought there were enough complications in this case already. Don’t be so annoyed with me, Basil. I think Gerry and I had better be going. I shall see you later on when you bring your people along. You’ll stay to supper, won’t you?”

  “I’ll go and warm the engine,” said Gerry, and ran down the stairs.

  “Which way are you going?” asked Basil.

  “I thought we’d go for a drive. It’s a lovely fine night.”

  “D’you think Gerry would give me a lift to Hampstead—if that’s on your way? To the Frampton?”

  “Why, yes. But you’ll be awfully cold and uncomfortable in the dickey. The underground would be much snugger—or a bus,” she added hastily.

  “I don’t feel specially keen on the underground; and I hate the bus route past all the Camden Town fish shops.”

  “All right; come along. Don’t forget about the train at King’s Cross.”

  “No; I’ve got time. You go down and tell Gerry. I won’t be a minute.”

  “May I just go and look in your mirror?” Beryl asked, with her hat in her hand. She went behind the curtain at one end of the room—for Basil’s apartments, grandly called “rooms”, consisted only of one long room on the second floor with a partition and curtain shutting off his dressing-room at one end. His bed, metamorphosed as a couch, adorned the sitting-room.

  When Beryl emerged from the curtain Basil was standing with his back to the room, looking out of the window. Beryl hesitated in the middle of the room, but as Basil gave no sign of noticing her, she went quietly out. As soon as she had gone, Basil went beyond the curtain and, tipping the small hanging mirror forward from the wall, disengaged a pearl necklace which hung behind it, looped over the suspending wires.

  Meanwhile Beryl was standing on the pavement whilst Gerry caused his Alvis two-seater to execute elaborate backing and turning manoeuvres, which were really designed to throw his headlights towards the centre of the square, so that he could discover whether anyone were still lounging there in the dusk. Yes, he distinctly caught sight of the purple suit, proceeding with a steady stride along the railings, as if on its way somewhere.

  “Whatever are you doing?” Beryl enquired, when he drew up by the kerb. “You could have gone round the square instead of turning.”

  “Stupid of me! I wasn’t thinking. Imagined I was outside your house at Hampstead. Where do we go now?”

  “Basil wants a lift up to the Frampton, and I’d like a drive. Fresh air would do me good, and I can always think better in a car.”

  “Right-o! What about the Barnet Road? But don’t think too much.”

  He climbed out and adjusted the dickey seat, smiling to himself. Basil emerged and clambered in, and in a moment the car shot off towards Euston. They nipped dexterously through the traffic of Seymour Street and Camden Town and roared up Haverstock Hill and dropped Basil at the corner of Church Lane.

  “Good move, that of Basil’s,” chuckled Gerry. His words were drowned by the roar of the car as it crested the hill to Spaniards Road. When they were running more quietly down North End Road Beryl began to talk.

  “This is nice.” She tucked her hand under Gerry’s arm, and he gave it a sympathetic squeeze with his elbow.

  “You know, I feel that if we could go driving on and on all night, this horrible mystery would clear itself up. Perhaps it’s just that driving gives you the sensation of getting away from things. I felt myself getting more and more muddled, and more and more depressed, in Basil’s room. Gerry, what do you think is the matter with Basil? Of course, he always was given to unloading his private affairs on to other people and then stopping short, with a sudden access of caution, at some vital point. He has often related some secret history—nothing really important, you know—to two different people, keeping back from each one a different part of the story. It was rather embarrassing sometimes, because one of his confidants, perceiving that the other knew the story, would then refer to the part of it that the other one did not know. There’s a curious strain of secretiveness in the family, I think. Aunt Phemia had it strongly. I don’t suppose anyone knew all about all her affairs. She confided a lot to old Slowgo, I know, but I’m sure she kept back a good deal; and Uncle James used to complain that she made it difficult for him to attend to her business matters because she wouldn’t tell him everything. But I don’t think I’ve got any of the secretiveness in my make-up.”

  “I’m sure you haven’t, darling,” said Gerry with conviction.

  “Basil kept making such queer remarks,” Beryl went on. “As if he really had something to hide; but I can’t see what there would be that he couldn’t tell us. And he does seem to have got the police on his mind rather. That struck me when first I saw him after the murder—on Friday evening. I suppose the police must look around for anyone with a possible motive, and would naturally ask who would come into Aunt Phemia’s money; but Basil has a perfectly good alibi for Friday morning, if they really should be suspicious of him, which seems preposterous. Mrs. Waddletoes told me, when I rang her up on Friday afternoon to ask where Basil was, that he went out at twenty past nine; and we know from the time when you saw poor Aunt Phemia on the stairs that she must have been—have been—killed a few minutes after that. Besides, how could the police suppose that he really had a motive, for he never knew what the state of Aunt Phemia’s will might be; in fact, he seemed to think that she had cut him out of it again lately.…Oh, it’s perfectly horrid the way we calmly discuss such ghastly ideas, but I’m trying to clear my mind.”

  “I understand, darling. You aren’t really talking of the possibility of Basil having a motive, but only of a police theory unrelated to human fact.”

  “Yes, that’s it,” said Beryl eagerly.

  “Your aunt was quite attached to Basil, wasn’t she, in her own curious way?” Gerry asked.

  “Undoubtedly. And also I think she had an odd belief in his genius. It was a form of family pride with her: she felt sure that a Pongleton could do anything he set his hand to better than anyone else.”

  “It has just struck me, Beryl, that the police won’t know of your aunt’s habit of altering her will. Basil was generally acknowledged to be her heir, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes—it was always understood that Uncle Geoffrey intended the money to go to him; and I’d privately made up my mind that if, through Aunt Phemia’s erratic fits of dislike, it should come to me, he should have it somehow.”

  “I suppose Basil knew that?”

  “In a general way, yes; I have mentioned it and I think my mother has. It was agreed upon between her and me. But still, he would hardly count on it. Poor old Basil, he’s always hard up, you know, and, without being grasping, he couldn’t help being anxious about Aunt Phemia’s money.”

  “I’m afraid he’s not making much by his writing as yet?”

  “No. I wish he could make a tremendous success of it. He has a small allowance from his people, but they’re not too well off. If Aunt Phemia’s will is all right he’ll be quite opulent now, and I’m sure the first thing he’ll do is to ask Betty Watson to marry him. Perhaps he’s doing it now.”

  “I wondered about that.”

  “I hope he will. Betty’s a nice girl and has a lot of sense. Aunt Phemia disliked her, for some reason, and used to tell her that Basil wouldn’t get her money. That was another point of difficulty lately: Aunt Phemia was sure to make a fuss if Basil took Betty out or seemed to be too friendly with her. It was too bad of her, for Betty was the only girl who was at all possible who had ever seemed seriously fond of Basil; and he
really is very fond of her.”

  Beryl paused, and Gerry drove on in silence, realizing that there was more to come.

  “I don’t want to tell tales about Basil,” she began again, “but you must be guessing about the mysterious ‘friend’ with whom he had supper on Friday, and I’m pretty sure it was a girl he picked up somewhere—probably in the cinema—and then took to supper. He told me once before about doing the same thing; I think he was just lonely and wanted someone to talk nonsense to, and, you see, he was afraid to ask Betty to go out with him too often for fear of a fuss from Aunt Phemia. The only thing I can’t understand is why he should be so anxious to keep it dark.”

  “Probably he is anxious that it shan’t get to Betty’s ears.”

  “Yes; he would be, of course. But he knows he can trust me, and he might have enough commonsense to know that the police wouldn’t give two thoughts to the affair if he told them all about it. If it should come to be general knowledge, I should think he could trust even Betty to overlook it. After all, it’s nothing very desperate—we know he got back to his rooms about a quarter to nine.”

  “I wonder what Basil talked about to old Slowgo for so long,” said Gerry after a pause during which they negotiated Chipping Barnet. “If the old chap is really as sagacious as Basil makes out, and if Basil has told him about the complications he’s been creating for himself, Slowgo must have advised Basil to tell the police the whole story.”

  “I’m not so convinced of Mr. Slocomb’s wisdom myself,” said Beryl dubiously. “Aunt Phemia thought a lot of him, but although she was always very wary I’m not sure that she was a good judge of character. Look how she misunderstood Betty! He probably flattered her, and, after all, any old lady likes that! You know, I wondered at one time whether old Slowgo could be after her money. I think Uncle James put the idea into my head. It sounds a mean thing to say, and probably it’s quite unfair, but I couldn’t see why else he should take so much trouble to please her. After all, she was very difficult.”

  “Do you mean he thought she might marry him? I suppose it’s possible. One hears of such things. He’s not a gentleman, but old ladies do sometimes run off the rails.”

  “It sounds fantastic. No, I daresay he’s all right. Isn’t it perfectly rotten the way we all keep discussing people and criticizing them and suspecting them of this and that?—and no one gives a thought to Aunt Phemia except to her failings and to her death because it happens to be the centre point of a mystery.”

  “I say, Beryl …” Gerry tactfully changed the subject. “How about supper somewhere? Isn’t there a good pub at Hatfield?”

  “Sorry, dear; impossible. Basil’s people arrive this evening and I must be there. Mother may be fussed if I’m late. Perhaps we’d better turn.”

  “All right. But could we just look in on Peter Kutuzov on the way home?” Gerry suggested. “Basil seems to have arranged with him about your picture, and we might fix the first sitting definitely. It’s awf’ly decent of Basil to give us such a topping present. If we take the new road through the Garden Suburb we shall very nearly pass his house.”

  “Yes, we might do that, if we don’t stay long.”

  In the little house in North Way Beryl found only Peter’s wife Delia at home.

  “Peter’s dining out,” she explained. “Actually with Puffin, the art critic; a useful man. I hope it really is settled about your picture, but Basil seemed awfully vague when he was here on Friday. I didn’t think he was at all himself—even more woolly than usual.”

  “His aunt’s death was a terrible shock to him,” Beryl explained shortly. She disliked Delia and Delia’s criticisms and was only thinking of getting away.

  “But we didn’t know about it then—no one knew, except Miss Pongleton’s murderer,” Delia pointed out coldly. “When we read about it next morning Peter remarked that it almost seemed as if Basil had second sight. He had been so distrait when he was with us—just as if he had received a bad shock already, as you suggest. Of course that sort of thing doesn’t seem out of the way to Peter, being Russian.”

  “It seems very out of the way to me,” Beryl replied. “I didn’t mean to suggest that Basil knew; of course he couldn’t have known. I was just muddled. I think Basil has been worried about various things lately. The editor of that provincial paper for which he was doing a series of articles on London scenes said he didn’t want any more of them because Basil was so unpunctual with them. That upset him, because he had counted on it as a regular thing. Aunt Phemia was annoyed about it too, for she thought the articles very fine.”

  “Yes,” said Delia meditatively. “You know, I don’t think his aunt’s influence did Basil any good, so far as his writing was concerned. The sort of thing she admired was the pot-boiling stuff. Oh, I know one has to do it—like Peter’s magazine covers—but I think Basil was beginning to over-estimate its value, because not only did he get paid for it in the usual way, but he often got a fiver from his aunt as well. I told him on Friday that his style was getting aunt-ridden. Peter said he could even detect the Euphemistic touch in the poem which Basil got into the Mercury.”

  “If Peter said that to Basil it would account for him being distraught! He thinks a tremendous lot of the Mercury poem,” Beryl told her.

  “The police seem rather interested in Basil’s movements,” Delia remarked. “They’ve been to ask me what time he arrived here on Friday. I happened to be out, and of course when Peter is at work time means nothing to him whatever. But I’m sure I didn’t go out till after ten. And Basil seems to have lost his hat and says it’s here, but it’s certainly not. He really is behaving very oddly.”

  “Lost his hat? Well, I’m really not surprised,” Beryl declared. “Basil can lose anything. He once lost an enormous manuscript in a bus.”

  “I don’t think the police have enquired about the hat yet; but if they do I really can’t say it’s here.”

  “Why should you if it isn’t?” asked Beryl sharply. “But I really must go: Gerry’s waiting for me in the car. No, he won’t come in because we really must be home in time for dinner. Please tell Peter that I’ll come on Monday week if I don’t hear from him. Goodbye.”

  “The woman’s a cat,” she told Gerry as they drove back to Beverley House.

  Chapter VIII

  Basil Appeals to Betty

  At the Frampton Nellie opened the door to Basil.

  “Is Miss Watson in?”

  “Oh yes, Mr. Pongleton. Why, it seems weeks since you was last ’ere; Wednesday, wasn’t it? An’ such doin’s since! Oh, sir, it’s orful, and oo’d ’ave thought it? An’ my poor Bob—you know ’bout ’im, sir? But ’is sister Louie says it’s not so bad reelly; it’s the burglary they’ve got ’im for, not the other, though that’s bad enough, with ’is job gorn an’ all. But won’t you come into the drorin’-room, sir?”

  “Look here, Nellie; I want to see Miss Watson but I don’t want to see Mr. Slocomb—or any of the others. Do you know where she is?”

  Nellie was not unused to a desire on Basil’s part to see Betty privately. “Mr. Slocomb, sir, ’e’s sittin’ in the drorin’-room with the evenin’ papers; I’ve jus’ taken ’em in to ’im. An’ Miss Watson’s in there, too.”

  “Well, Nellie, just go into the drawing-room and say to Miss Watson…let’s see; the old man’s pretty sharp…Yes, say: ‘Miss Sanders to see you and she won’t come in.’ Do you understand, Nellie?”

  Nellie understood, and with an air of great importance she vanished into the drawing-room, whilst Basil pulled the front door nearly shut and waited outside it. When he heard steps in the hall he opened the door cautiously and held up a warning finger at Betty. Nellie hovered in the background, round-eyed.

  “What’s up?” whispered Betty.

  “Quick! Get a hat and coat and come out—up Church Lane and you’ll catch me up. Don’t tell anyone I’m here. And just warn Nellie
not to say I called. She can say Beryl came with some message for you.”

  He slipped away in the darkness and Betty bounded upstairs, after a hasty word of warning to Nellie who still lingered in the hall.

  A few minutes later Basil, moving with lagging steps along Church Lane, heard quicker ones overtaking him to the accompaniment of small scuffling sounds, snorts and a kind of sneezing.

  “Whatever have you brought that beastly pug for?” he protested as Betty came into the lamplight, dragging the indolent Tuppy who was raising desperate objections to her rapid progress.

  “It gave me an excuse for coming out, and the poor brute must need exercise. Now we can stroll and he’ll be all right. What he likes is the gentle amble of Bob and Nellie arm-in-arm. But what’s the matter?”

  “Look here, Betty—I’m in a hole and you’re the only person who can help me. I’ll have to explain things to you a bit. Is there anywhere we can talk?”

  “You know how impossible the Frump-hole is—”

  “Not there. I don’t want Sl—the others—to see me there. You know how they all chatter; they’d talk some criminal intent into your lightest word. But there’s no time to get far. What a curse it is, living in public like this. Oh damn!”

  Tuppy, making a dart across the pavement towards a friend on the other side of the road, entangled himself with Basil’s legs. “I wish you hadn’t brought the poodle.”

  “I think we’d better just go on to the Heath,” Betty suggested. “It’ll be pretty empty now and we can find a seat.”

  “We’d better. I can’t talk with this beastly animal scuffling round my legs.”

  “Tuppy!” Betty admonished him severely. “Tuppy, to heel!”

  This did not seem to convey much to the stout terrier, but a stranglehold on the cord tied to his collar brought him to Betty’s side, where he trotted along fairly quietly.