Johnny Under Ground

by Patricia Moyes

“So you and your friend were together in Dingley for the whole of Saturday afternoon and night.”

  “I’m afraid so, Inspector. That’s my guilty secret.”

  “I suppose the lady could confirm this…”

  Baggot raised his hand. “No,” he said. “There I draw the line. It would take the entire majesty of the law to drag her name out of me. But you can check with the pub and”—he scribbled something on a piece of paper and pushed it to Henry—“there. You’ll recognize the writing in the hotel register. Further than that I am not prepared to go.”

  Henry looked at the paper. Baggot had written, “Mr. and Mrs. Reginald Derbyshire-Bentinck.” He tucked the paper into his wallet.

  “Well,” he said, “I’ll have to be content with this for the time being. But you must understand that you may possibly be required to give us the lady’s name later on. Still, I hope not. Thank you very much, Mr. Baggot.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, call me Jimmy.” Baggot was quite at ease. “Now, tell me more about poor old Lofty. Did he leave—I mean, had he started on the manuscript, do you know?”

  “We found nothing to indicate that he had.”

  “No notebooks, nothing of that sort?”

  “Absolutely nothing.”

  “It did occur to me,” said Baggot, “that Emmy must have all her notes. She’s been doing the research, hasn’t she? If I were to put one of my scriptwriters on to the job, cooperating with Emmy…”

  Henry stood up. “That is where I draw the line, Mr. Baggot.”

  Jimmy looked surprised. “What on earth do you mean, old man?”

  “Emmy,” said Henry firmly, “is having no more to do with this business. The project has been cancelled, and I would advise you to drop any idea you may have of reviving it.”

  “But why on earth…?”

  “That is, if you want to be absolutely sure of staying alive,” said Henry. “Good-bye, Mr. Baggot, and thank you very much.”

  For several moments after Henry had left, James Baggot sat quite still at his desk, doodling on his blotting pad. Then, suddenly, he began to laugh. “Poor old Lofty,” he said aloud. “Poor bugger.” Then he picked up his house telephone and said, “Get me the script-writing department…”

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE SUFFOLK HOTEL was only a short walk from the offices of the television company. The receptionist informed Henry courteously that Mrs. Meadowes had left the hotel. She had paid her bill and checked out shortly before midday that very morning. Once again Henry produced his official card, but it caused hardly a ripple on the surface of the receptionist’s serenity. The Suffolk Hotel was so unimpeachably respectable that it would have taken more than a visit from a Chief Inspector to ruffle it.

  The receptionist did, however, agree to make some inquiries, and came back with the news that, as Henry had suspected, Mrs. Meadowes’s luggage was still in the hotel. She had checked out before noon in order to avoid paying for an extra day, but had left her baggage in the care of the porter, telling him that she would return for it later, as she was catching the night train for Aberdeen. Henry suggested that it might be worth paging the lounge in case Mrs. Meadowes had returned to the hotel for tea; and, sure enough, it was only a matter of minutes before Annie appeared from the direction of the gilt chairs and tinkling tea cups. She was dressed for her journey in comfortably shapeless tweed, and Henry could almost smell the heather and honeysuckle of her native habitat.

  Annie greeted Henry briefly. “Emmy’s husband?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I’m glad you came. D’you want a cup of tea?”

  “I really want a quiet chat with you, Mrs. Meadowes.”

  “You couldn’t have chosen a better spot,” said Annie. “There are only three other people in the lounge, one of whom is stone deaf and the other two asleep.”

  Annie led the way back to her table, ordered more tea for Henry, and then said, “I suppose Emmy is furious with me. I did behave very badly, but I want to tell you straight away that I’m not sorry. I’d do it again. So if she wants an apology from me, she can whistle for it.”

  “I’m sure she doesn’t want an apology,” said Henry, intrigued. Emmy’s account of her talk with Annie had been noncommittal, merely recording that the latter had been strenuously opposed to the idea of the book and had mentioned a fantastic theory that Beau Guest might still be alive. “I told her this was utter rubbish, which it is,” Emmy had added. Nevertheless, Henry had not forgotten Emmy’s strange frame of mind on the evening following that meeting.

  Annie was smiling. “Well, that’s good,” she said, “because I’m very fond of Blandish and I hate parting this way with an old friend. Do explain to her that everything I said was for her own good.” She gave Henry a direct look from her clear blue eyes. “You seem a sensible sort of man,” she added—an unwarranted assumption, Henry thought, for he had barely had a chance to open his mouth. “Surely you must see how dangerous it is for her to go on with this crazy scheme?”

  “Why do you call it dangerous?”

  “I don’t think I’m betraying any confidences,” said Annie, “if I tell you that Emmy was madly in love with Beau.”

  “I had gathered as much,” said Henry.

  Annie sighed impatiently. “It’s all so long ago now,” she said, “and it was never more than a schoolgirl infatuation. Unfortunately, Beau didn’t live long enough for Emmy to realize that. The whole episode had become crystallized in her mind as a great, tragic, doomed romance.”

  “I don’t think Emmy is quite as foolish as that,” said Henry.

  “Don’t you? I do. In any case, what frightens me is that if she carries on probing into the past, she may uncover things which—well—which would be better left covered up. People might get hurt.”

  “I’m afraid it’s too late, Mrs. Meadowes. People have been hurt already.”

  “Not seriously, as yet,” said Annie. Evidently she had not heard about Lofty—Emmy’s letter had been sent to her Scottish address. “You see, Emmy, in her innocence, didn’t realize some of the things that were going on.”

  Henry leant forward. “What things?”

  “Even if I knew the details I certainly wouldn’t tell you,” Annie replied, calmly. “It can do Beau no possible good to try to whitewash him after all these years, just as it would be pointless to dig up dirt about him. As for Barbara—she’s paid for her sins in many ways, poor woman. And Vere has got what he deserves, no more and no less.”

  “Emmy tells me,” said Henry, “that you think Guest may still be alive.”

  There was a tiny pause. Then Annie laughed. “Surely she didn’t take that seriously?”

  “You mean, she shouldn’t have?”

  “She certainly didn’t appear to,” said Annie.

  “But of course,” said Henry, “things are different now. One has to make what are known as agonizing reappraisals.”

  “What on earth do you mean?”

  “Lofty’s death,” said Henry, “has changed everything.”

  Annie put her cup gently on the table and said quietly, “Why didn’t you tell me at once?”

  “You were doing the talking,” said Henry.

  “So I was. And you hoped I’d give something away. Is that it?”

  “I was interested to hear what you had to say.”

  “I sincerely hope,” said Annie, “that you are none the wiser for it.”

  “That’s not a very cooperative attitude.” Henry grinned at her, but there was no answering smile. Annie seemed lost in brooding thoughts.

  “Poor old Lofty. What happened?”

  “He was found in his kitchen with the gas turned on full.”

  “Suicide?”

  “So the police think.”

  “But you don’t.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “My dear man,” said Annie, “the fact that you are here at all. And anyhow, Lofty wasn’t the type. He had the resilience of rubber; he’d bend, but neve
r break. When did this happen?”

  Henry said, “He was alive at nine on Saturday evening. He was found dead on Sunday morning. We think he had a caller about five-past nine on Saturday and I’m anxious to trace who it was, to get a line on Lofty’s frame of mind.”

  “It wasn’t me,” said Annie promptly. “I don’t even know where he lived. And on Saturday evening I went and dined with an old school friend and her husband in Kensington.”

  “Any idea of times?”

  “Roughly. I took a cab from here at seven, so I suppose I got there about half-past. Poor Mary had a nasty cold coming on, so I made my excuses and left early, around ten-thirty.”

  “Getting back here before eleven.”

  “No. It was nearer midnight. I walked most of the way back, you see. It was a fine night and I couldn’t find a cab. Anyhow, I like walking.” After a pause Annie added, “What will happen now? About the book, I mean?”

  “The whole thing is off.”

  “Definitely?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, thank God for that anyhow.”

  “Mrs. Meadowes,” said Henry, “will you tell me some more about the mysterious things that were going on at Dymfield that Emmy didn’t know about?”

  “I really don’t know what you mean.”

  “A few minutes ago, you hinted…”

  “I hinted nothing. Don’t put words into my mouth.”

  “Mrs. Meadowes,” said Henry, “you quite definitely…”

  Annie stood up. “Excuse me, Mr. Tibbett,” she said, “I must go. I have a train to catch. Give my love to Emmy and tell her I hope to meet her again one of these days.”

  She left the lounge majestically, like a great ship leaving harbor, and Henry heard her commanding voice in the lobby ordering a taxi and checking her luggage. She was going to be a good two hours early for her train, and in view of this interesting fact, Henry decided that it might be worthwhile following her taxi at a distance.

  It turned out to be a waste of time. Annie was driven straight to St. Pancras Station, where her cases were wheeled away to the Left Luggage Office. Annie herself, followed unobtrusively by Henry, made her way to the Ladies’ Waiting Room. Unable to penetrate this sanctum, Henry hung about on the platform outside, among the rush-hour travelers. Twice, as the door opened to admit a Lady, he caught a glimpse of Annie. She was sitting at a table writing a letter. At half-past seven she came out, collected her luggage, and boarded the first-class sleeping car compartment of the Aberdeen express.

  Henry made his way home, cross with frustration, and well aware that he was late for dinner again. He found Emmy in the kitchen stirring a sauce with a look of worried concentration. Her face lit up as he came in.

  “Oh, darling, I’m so glad you’re back. I was beginning to…”

  “Sorry, love. I know I’m late. But you need never worry about me, you know. Safe as houses.”

  Emmy kissed him. “I wish I could be sure of that,” she said. “Anyhow, I was longing to see you, because I want to know if I’ve done the right thing.”

  “What about?”

  Emmy stirred the sauce again. “Barbara rang me half an hour ago,” she said.

  “What did she say?”

  “She knew that Lofty was dead.”

  “She’d had your letter I suppose.”

  “Yes. But she knew already. She’d seen it in the paper. She must be one of the few people who knew his real Christian name. She was obviously livid about my letter, in a honeyed way—if you know what I mean. She said it was quite out of the question to abandon the project now and that I had already done such valuable work, and so on. She’s as stubborn as a mule, that woman,” added Emmy with an extra-vicious stir of her wooden spoon.

  “So what did you say?”

  “I’m afraid I was rather spineless. She—she fillets me,” said Emmy resentfully. “The best I could do was to bleat something about you not wanting me to go on with the book. Passing the buck, I’m afraid. She replied sweetly that it was too unfortunate that you should be against the project just when she’d managed to get Vere really enthusiastic about it. I said, ‘I suppose that’s why he got his solicitors to write to Lofty, is it?’ That really rattled her. She obviously didn’t know about it. She seemed quite relieved when I told her what was in the letter; I suppose she thought Vere might have been threatening to sue or something. Anyhow, she calmed down and said that obviously the whole matter should be discussed quietly, and she invited both of us to go down there for lunch tomorrow. So I said we’d go. I do hope I did right. I feel a bit out of my depth.”

  Henry put his arm around her shoulders. “You did splendidly, darling,” he said. “I was wondering how I could engineer an invitation to visit the Prendergasts, and here it is, tied up with blue ribbon. At their suggestion, what’s more.”

  “At Barbara’s suggestion. There’s no guarantee that Vere will even be there.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s just a hunch,” said Emmy, “but I think that Vere imagines that Lofty’s death has put an end to the project and that he has no notion that Barbara’s planning to carry on with it. I’ve no real reason for thinking it, only instinct.”

  “Your nose, perhaps?” said Henry smiling. He was referring to his own instinct for detection known to his colleagues as “Tibbett’s nose.”

  Emmy smiled back. “I dare say,” she said. “Anyhow, supper’s ready.”

  “Before we eat,” said Henry, “I ought to make a phone call.”

  “Where to?”

  “If we’re going to Whitchurch tomorrow we ought to call in and see the Reverend Sidney Guest.”

  Emmy stopped in mid-gesture, the wooden spoon held up like a conductor’s baton. “Do you have to?”

  “I said ‘we,’” Henry pointed out. “I’m sorry, darling, but I think you should be there. Anyhow, he’s expecting you, isn’t he?”

  “Not tomorrow. Thursday.”

  “In that case I’ll have to ring him.”

  Emmy was suddenly brisk. “Come along,” she said. “If we don’t eat now everything will be cold.”

  With which patent untruth, she swept the piping-hot dishes onto a tray and carried it into the living room. Henry, taking the hint, did not refer to Beau’s father again until they had finished their meal. Then, glancing at his watch, he said, “Ten to nine. I don’t suppose the reverend gentleman is in bed yet. Can you give me his number?”

  “It’s on the pad by the telephone. I’ll go and do the washing up.” Emmy’s voice was so deliberately light as to be almost unrecognizable. She assembled a trayful of dirty plates and vanished into the kitchen.

  Henry found the number scribbled in his wife’s handwriting and dialed it. For some time the telephone buzzed, unanswered. Then a bad-tempered masculine voice said, “Well? What is it?”

  “My name is Tibbett,” began Henry.

  “What? Speak up! What’s the matter? Who are you?”

  “Is that Mr. Sidney Guest?”

  “Of course it is. Who do you think it would be? I asked who you were. Don’t you understand plain English?”

  Loudly and deliberately Henry said, “This is Chief Inspector Henry Tibbett of Scotland Yard.”

  “Tibbett? Tibbett? Where have I heard that name? Oh, yes. Some fool of a woman. Came around here asking questions about my son Alan. Well, I told her all she wanted. Isn’t that enough, without bothering me with telephone calls at all hours of the night…?”

  “Mr. Guest,” said Henry very firmly. “I am an officer of the Criminal Investigation Department, and I shall be calling on you tomorrow in connection with…”

  “Oh, dear me.” The voice at the other end of the line seemed to collapse, to become suddenly old. “I suppose it’s about—yes, yes—again. Can’t the hospital manage to…? Oh, well—can you tell me…?” The voice became pathetically tentative. “What—what is it this time? Nothing—too serious, I hope…?”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Guest,” s
aid Henry briskly. “I just want to ask you a few routine questions.”

  “Routine—I’ve heard that before…” The voice was recovering a little of its truculence.

  “We’ll be with you at half-past four tomorrow afternoon, if that’s convenient,” said Henry quickly. “Good. Until then, good-bye, Mr. Guest.”

  He rang off. With suspicious promptness, Emmy appeared at the door with two cups of coffee.

  “He’s an old beast, isn’t he?” she said. “Was he very rude?”

  Henry shook his head. “He was pathetic,” he said.

  Emmy put the coffee on the table. “Good heavens,” she said, “he must have changed since I saw him.”

  “The other evening,” said Henry, “you asked me about a hospital—Sandfields.”

  “That’s right. You said it was a loony-bin.”

  “Why were you interested in it?”

  Emmy looked embarrassed. “Oh—no special reason.“

  “Don’t be silly, Emmy,” said Henry sharply. “Somebody connected with Sidney Guest is a patient at Sandfields. Who is it?”

  For a moment Emmy did not answer. Then she said, “I don’t know why I didn’t want to tell you. Some sort of protective mechanism coming into action, I suppose. You must have guessed. It’s Beau’s mother.”

  It was some time later that it occurred to Henry that Emmy had referred to the invalid as “Beau’s mother” rather than as “Sidney’s wife.” In fact the thought struck him as he lay sleepless during the despairing hour between three and four o’clock in the morning. Beside him, Emmy turned, moaned, and settled herself to sleep again. Henry looked at her serene face, etched by white moonlight. “In her innocence…,” Annie had said. Emmy was innocent still; but forces that were far from innocent were gathering in the shadows. Henry shivered.

  With maddening predictability, sleep eluded him until the moment when dawn began to lighten the late September sky. His last waking impression was of a whispering murmur from outside the open windows, which he failed to identify as falling rain. When Emmy woke him a couple of hours later, at eight o’clock, he roused himself slowly and reluctantly and surveyed the world in a disgruntled mood. Emmy had closed the windows, but the rain streamed dismally down the panes. Outside, the plane trees on the pavement jostled and complained, as a vicious wind whipped their flat leaves together like clapping hands.