Murder Underground

by Mavis Doriel Hay

  “I suppose he didn’t stay with you after that?”

  “He did not! But he stayed in Coventry for a bit and he spread a story about that he strangulated that poor dog in self-defence. Made out that it was vicious! There was a lot who believed him, for he had such a smooth tongue with him and, as I told you, seemed so gentle and complacid that it was hard to believe ill of him. But my poor mother was a great sufferer to the day of her death, though never one to complain; the doctors could never diagonize her properly, and it’s my belief that the shock of poor Dido’s death was the root of her trouble.”

  “Most likely,” Mrs. Daymer agreed. “The effect of shock upon the system is only just being studied with the attention it deserves. But did you ever hear more of the young man—what did you say his name was?”

  “Joe Slocomb. That was his real name. And that was a funny thing. I don’t suppose you’ve noticed it, not knowing the young man and not being interested in his name, if you take my meaning—but in the papers his name was given as Sokam—S-O-K-A-M—and that’s how it was given in court, and that’s the name he answered to there. Of course those who knew him knew that he was the one, but it was only when the papers came out that we noticed the mistake. My father made a to-do about it; it’s what you might call mis-reputation, he said, and you could be had up for it. My mother said, ‘It’s all over and done with now,’ she said; ‘let it be.’ So that’s how it was—but it’s my belief to this day that Joe knew what he was about when he gave that wrong name; or maybe he didn’t give it, but they got it wrong and he didn’t correct them.”

  “And his real name, you said, was…?”

  “Slocomb. Sounds a bit like the other, you see, but spelt quite different. S-L-O-C-O-M-B. And there was something a bit mystrious about his first name too. Joe he was always called, and we took it to be short for Joseph, but he gave his name in court as Jonah! Did you ever hear of such a thing? When we came home from the court that day, I well remember—did I tell you what a day it was?”

  “Yes; torrentential rain!” put in Gerry quickly, longing to try the word.

  Mrs. Daymer frowned at him severely, but Mrs. Birtle seemed pleased.

  “That’s right, Mr. Daymer—”

  “Just a friend of mine,” interrupted Mrs. Daymer hurriedly.

  “Well, as I was saying, it was just such a day as this and—where was I?—oh yes—as we were coming home my father—he was always one to have his joke and he was rather pleased, having won his case, and that was the only time he was ever mixed up in the law, for he was a clean-living man—well, my father remarked in his jocacious way, ‘Jonah,’ he said—‘Jonah—well it’s a good name for him. Looks as if he had swallowed a whale!’ That was just my father’s joke, of course, for he knew his Bible as well as any.”

  “And a jolly good joke too,” declared Gerry emphatically.

  Mrs. Birtle beamed upon him. “The gentlemen always enjoy a good joke,” she remarked. “Now there was one of my young gentlemen—”

  “Can you remember any more about how this young man—Sokam or Slocomb—strangled the dog?” Mrs. Daymer interrupted.

  “Well, Dido was a great big dog, you know—one of these Sitters, if you know the kind of dog I mean. It’s my belief to this day that Joe was jealous of that dog, though he never showed it till that last dastardily act. One day when my mother was out he entigled Dido up to his room. There was a sloping roof under his window—the roof of the scullery it was—of that congerated iron. He must have taken off Dido’s collar and got that leash round her neck and pushed her out of the window, down the slope, and pulled it tight, all in a minute. There wasn’t a sound anyone heard.”

  “And what did he do with the body?” Mrs. Daymer enquired eagerly, as if expecting to hear that he deposited it on the stairs of an underground railway.

  “That was the cunning part! He was that artful! He hitched the leash round a hook on the window, so that it would look as if the poor dumb creature strangulated itself. And then he went out for a walk, just as if nothing had happened. There’s callosity for you!”

  “And how did you ever bring it home to him?” asked Mrs. Daymer.

  “Ah! That was the invention of Providence, if you like! It just happened there was a boy scrambling on a fence, as boys will, and he happens to look up and sees the whole deed. He didn’t say anything at the time, being afraid they’d ask him what he was doing on the fence, and not his own fence neither; but after a day or two he heard them talking about how poor Dido had strangulated herself out of the window and he says, ‘That dog didn’t ever strangulate itself—it was strangulated intently.’ So of course that got round to our ears—though we couldn’t hardly believe it, young Joe had seemed so cut up about Dido’s death—and Father took it up.”

  “It must have been a dreadful shock to all of you,” Mrs. Daymer declared. “And you never heard any more of the young man? He would be older than yourself, I suppose?”

  “Not so much older. He was a young chap then, twenty perhaps; I reckon he’d be getting on for fifty now. It so happened we did hear of him again. You see, my sister Dollie was walking out with a young fellow by the name of Parsons; a decent chap he was, though it wasn’t him she married in the end. Well, Dollie got a little money saved up; she was always a careful one, and she was a waitress at the Grand Hotel, and a nice little bit she used to get in tips sometimes, and living at home of course she hadn’t much expense. Well, Dollie wanted to put this money safely away, and Parsons, he was in the same office with young Joe, and he told her that Joe knew of a good thing. Dollie didn’t like the idea of that at first, but Tom Parsons got round her and in the end Joe took the money and got Dollie to sign some papers and that was the last she saw of it.”

  “Do you mean to say he embezzled it?” demanded Gerry.

  “I wouldn’t say that. He declared it was all a piece of bad luck and that his own savings were in the same concern, and he was in a concern too, or pretended to be. He did take on about it, Dollie told me. He said she’d get her money back in the end, and more too. But she never did, and it’s my belief to this day that that’s what wrecked Tom Parsons’ chance with Dollie. She never forgave him, though I don’t think the lad was to blame; it was said he lost his own money too.”

  “Did your sister sue Slocomb for the money?” Mrs. Daymer asked.

  “She did see a lawyer about it, but it was all a bit awkward, seeing that Dollie didn’t dare tell Father that she’d had dealings with Joe. She daren’t make it public, and the lawyer said it would cost a lot and he wasn’t sure they could get the law of him anyway, for there was nothing to show that it had gone into Joe’s pocket, though it’s my belief to this day that that’s where it went. And would you believe it, that lawyer sent her in a bill for just telling her that. There’s no accounting for some people!”

  “His advice doesn’t seem to have been worth much,” Mrs. Daymer agreed. “This was a long time ago, I suppose?”

  “It would be soon after Joe left us. I believe Dollie did hear more talk of how he’d got money out of others too, but soon afterwards he left that office and went up to London to reprove himself. Dollie married Fred Smithers, who was in the drapery. Father was in a nice way about that, our family not being in trade, though drapery is a gentleman’s business, I always say! And Fred’s got his own shop now, in Warwick Street, and doing well.”

  “We are extremely obliged to you, Mrs. Birtle, for telling us all about that unfortunate affair. I suppose this young man—Slocomb did you say his name was?—wasn’t of a local family? Do you know where he came from?”

  “That I can’t remember. He thought a great deal of himself, but I daresay his family wasn’t such great shakes as he made out.”

  “What was he like in appearance, this Joe Slocomb? I am not asking out of mere idle curiosity, you understand. Such matters are of great importance to me in my study of the types who are guilty
of these excesses.”

  “Excessive you may well call it,” declared Mrs. Birtle. “Even if poor Dido had got in his way—and of course she was a great big dog—did I tell you?—but house-trained—well, that wasn’t any justifyment for such a deed. But you were asking what he looked like. A dapper little chap he was, not very big, with the smallest feet I ever saw on a man. Very fussy about his appearance he always was, forever brushing and polishing. A sort of betwixt and between in his colouring, so far as I remember, and quite a good-looking young fellow, though perhaps a bit sharp. Very good indoors he was too. A very fussy way of speaking he had and used long words—though that’s nothing against him, for I always think that long words sound genteel.”

  “Now I really think we must be going,” said Mrs. Daymer. “We have taken up a great deal of your time, and it is very good of you to have told us so much. It will be of great assistance to me.”

  “You’ll have a cup of tea, won’t you?” suggested Mrs. Birtle.

  “I don’t think we ought to trouble you further,” Mrs. Daymer began, but Gerry was accepting the invitation with enthusiasm. He seemed to be fascinated by Mrs. Birtle’s conversation.

  “A pleasure!” Mrs. Birtle declared. “I like a nice cup of tea myself and a chat about old times.”

  Over tea Mrs. Birtle indulged in further reminiscences about her family, and Gerry listened with rapt attention and even drank two cups of the purplish mixture which she offered them. No further significant facts about Joe Slocomb were gleaned by the investigators, and the exact fate of Dollie’s money remained a mystery, except for the recollection that Joe promised to “put it into a company”.

  As Mrs. Daymer and Gerry made their way to the station to catch the 5.20 train back to Town, Gerry expatiated on the charm of Mrs. Birtle.

  “I never knew that such people existed. She’s a gem—a dream! By Jove, I’m glad I came!”

  His pleasure was to receive a douche of cold disillusionment on his arrival in London.

  Chapter XIX

  Conspiracy!

  Beryl and her uncle drove back to Beverley House from the Frampton in silence, and on their arrival they stood looking at each other in the hall, realizing that James’ wife and Beryl’s mother would be waiting for them, bristling with awkward questions. People’s personalities seem to be changing, thought Beryl: Uncle James, who had always been rather ferocious and alarming, had become a pathetic old man who must be protected; whilst kind, fluffy Aunt Susan had become alarming and must be prevented from worrying Uncle James.

  Beryl put her hand on her uncle’s shoulder.

  “Suppose you go into the study, Uncle. Don’t worry—I’ll see Basil later and find out what it’s all about; I know it isn’t as bad as it looks. Now I’ll go and talk to Mother and Aunt Susan.”

  The old man moved uncertainly, with bowed head, towards the study door, and Beryl drew a deep breath. Could Basil give a satisfactory explanation of this pearls business?

  Her mother looked up cheerfully as she entered the sitting-room.

  “Well, dear? Is it all right? The pearls?”

  Beryl rushed into a vague description of all that had happened at the Frampton and tried to fix their attention on what seemed to her the minor details.

  “Well, really!” her aunt declared. “In the chair! I consider that the police are a great deal overrated. I’m afraid that inspector is quite incompetent. I hope James is writing to The Times about it. You would think they might have discovered by this time who did that horrible crime, especially when they have got the man under lock and key, and without causing us all this inconvenience.”

  “But where is Basil?” asked Mrs. Sanders.

  “At the police-station with Inspector Caird, trying to clear up some of this muddle.”

  “Well, if Basil can clear anything up I shall be surprised,” his mother admitted. “Poor boy! He takes after me. Full of ideas but no head for business! And all the Pongletons are splendid business men. Such a pity!”

  Beryl had a bad hour listening to a rambling discussion by her aunt of the situation and trying to lead them away from the more awkward points. When the telephone bell rang she leapt to her feet, thankful for an interruption as well as for the prospect of news.

  “That you, Beryl?” came Gerry’s welcome voice.

  “Gerry! My dear! Thank goodness you’re back! Where are you?”

  “Euston. Sorry, darling, that I’m so late. Everything all right?”

  “No!” declared Beryl desperately. “Everything’s frightful. It’s been a ghastly day, and wherever have you been? Inspector Caird wants you; he was in an awful state because you vanished so suddenly. I really think he believed you were running away.” Beryl found that her voice was becoming trembly. The immense relief of knowing that Gerry, at least, was all right had brought her almost to tears.

  “Suppose I’d better go and see him at once. I wonder where—”

  “Hampstead police-station; he’s there with Basil. We found Aunt Phemia’s pearls and another will too, but there’s some frightful mystery about the pearls and Basil’s explaining—at least, I hope he is. Come round here afterwards. My dear, I shall be glad to see you!”

  “So shall I,” Gerry assured her ungrammatically. “Are you all right? Your voice sounds queer.”

  “The telephone,” Beryl murmured.

  “I was going to Hampstead police-station with Mrs. Daymer anyway, so that’s all right,” Gerry continued.

  “Mrs. Daymer? Why on earth?”

  “I’ll explain later. All’s well! G’bye, darling.”

  Meanwhile Basil had been escorted in a taxi from the Frampton to Hampstead police-station by Inspector Caird. In the gloomy silence of the journey the inspector mentally reviewed the situation. A foul case, he thought to himself. All these blasted clues, pointing in different directions: a brooch, pearls, wills, to say nothing of the extraordinary behaviour of Basil and of Gerry and the co-operation of such unlikely collaborators as Gerry and Mrs. Daymer. Basil and Mr. Slocomb too; his sleuths had reported three interviews between them, and now Slocomb appeared as a legatee under the new will. How did he come in?

  The inspector ran through the evidence against Basil. He had to confess that Basil’s own incriminating behaviour was the chief point against him. But there was one important point which Basil did not know about yet. He had left his fingerprints on the rail of Belsize Park spiral staircase, above the spot where the body was found. When the inspector interviewed Basil on Sunday night he had invited the young man to smoke, and indicated a silver box on the table. Basil, in helping himself, planted several fingers firmly on the polished surface without misgiving, and those prints had been identified, after a lot of trouble, with some of the multitude on the stairs. In the hope that Basil might give away something really useful, the inspector was keeping this evidence in reserve, but he had a suspicion that Basil might, with his engaging air of ingenuousness, be able to show conclusively that he had helped his aunt up those stairs on some previous occasion.

  The footprint had seemed a piece of luck for the police, but it hadn’t helped much as yet. Bob Thurlow, who had been pasting up notices on the platform, had slopped some paste out of his bucket in a dark corner near the foot of the stairs. Someone—presumably the murderer—had trodden in it and had left the mark of a rather pointed shoe, of small size for a man, on the lowest step, pointing upwards. It was not Bob’s nor Gerry’s; conceivably Basil might wear shoes which would fit it, but none could be traced among his possessions. Yet he had got rid of a bowler hat—could he have disposed of shoes also? He probably had time between leaving Tavistock Square and arriving at Golder’s Green to commit the murder en route, though the times were a little difficult to vouch for accurately.

  But how does the latest will fit in? thought the inspector. It disinherits Basil and therefore takes away his motive for the murder, whic
h in any case seemed slight since the disposal of the money was always rather uncertain and there was evidence that his aunt, while she lived, frequently supplied him with cash.

  His thoughts turned to Gerry. He was engaged to Beryl, who inherits under the new will. They were pretty certain that either Beryl or Basil would inherit. A ray of inspiration shot through the dark confusion of the inspector’s thoughts. The whole thing’s a damn conspiracy! he concluded. The pearls found in the chair, probably put there by Betty Watson, are fakes; these weren’t ready in time for Basil to hand them to his aunt on Wednesday, and the letter—ah! the letter!—which Basil received from his aunt on Friday morning, telling him of her appointment with the dentist, provided him with the opportunity of meeting her on the stairs and made him decide to act at once. Young Plasher has gone off to sell the real pearls—but why so suddenly, at this juncture?

  However, that may be cleared up; the thing is straightening itself out. The letter also told Basil of the will and gave a clue to its whereabouts. One of the gang abstracted it—is this where the Daymer woman comes in? They needed another accomplice in the boarding-house, since they dared not let Betty Watson into the whole plot. Betty—a really human feeling for Betty was breaking through the inspector’s usual impersonal attitude towards every individual connected with a criminal case. He couldn’t help liking that nice little girl, and he could hardly keep his hands off Basil, slouched in the opposite corner of the taxi, when he reflected that the brute had involved Betty in this nasty business. For she was involved—she had been detailed to put the fake pearls in the chair—and she’d be loyal to the last. Of course that was why she had lied about Basil having entered the Frampton on Thursday night; he had gone in and had snatched the leash, though Betty hadn’t noticed at the time. Perhaps she now guesses this and is trying to defend him.