by J F Straker
Mace shook his head. He liked the little man, and supposed him to be honest. But no solicitor in his right mind could have advised a client to invest in any scheme of the Colonel’s. A more unpractical person never existed.
Colonel Gresham was not depressed by the refusal; he had expected little else. But, as he cheerfully remarked, ‘It was always worth trying.’ He got into the Morris and drove slowly onto the main road, with Mace walking beside him.
As the car turned south instead of north Mace said, surprised, ‘Not going home yet?’
‘No.’ The Colonel’s face was suddenly tight, all his cheerfulness gone. ‘Got to see a man about a dog.’
Mace stood for a few moments watching the red tail-lights vanish in the direction of Cheswick. Then he turned and walked slowly back to the house.
Curious, he thought, how such a trite remark could sound so menacing.
*
The village of Cheswick lies on the main London to Tanbury road, six miles north of the latter town. In the centre of the village is the junction of the main road with that leading east to Market Lacing, and a hundred yards south of this junction stands the Mytton Arms.
Most of the regulars were in the public bar that Saturday evening. Left to himself John Cluster would have preferred the less crowded saloon; he had a scheme afoot that needed careful planning. But Bright had insisted on the public bar, and Bright was necessary to the success of his plan. Did Bright suspect that? he wondered, eyeing the other across the trestle table. It would depend on how much he remembered of the previous evening.
And that, Cluster hoped, was very little.
Cheswick considered William Bright to be something of an enigma. He had come to the village eighteen months previously, to work as a gardener for Miss Justin at Fir Cottage; but why, asked the village, should one who looked and spoke like a gentleman choose such lowly employment? He had told Jacob West, in whose house he lodged, that he liked gardening and lacked ambition, and that was all there was to it. But the explanation did not entirely satisfy. For one thing, the experts said he was a bad gardener (although this Miss Justin denied). For another, he was far too reticent about his background. They suspected he had something unsavoury to hide.
Yet despite their doubts the village, and the women in particular, were prepared to accept him. He was good-looking, easy-going, and friendly. It was only his occasional drinking bouts with John Cluster that disturbed them. Cheswick was almost unanimous in its opinion of Cluster. He was bad all through; bad farmer, bad husband, bad citizen.
The two of them made uneasy companions that evening. Bright sat with a frown on his face, drinking moderately and saying little. Cluster, morose and saturnine, watched him thoughtfully. For once he too was temperate in his drinking.
And the other men in the bar pretended to ignore them and eyed them covertly, the previous evening still fresh in their minds.
‘They’re taking it easy tonight,’ Erich Stolpe said, watching Cluster over the top of his glass. His accent was that of the county, although he was of German parentage. ‘William can’t be feeling so good after yesterday’s skinful. It was practically running out of his ears.’
Tom Shannon grunted. ‘Plenty of time yet, mate. What beats me is how Cluster finds the money. He don’t get it from farming, that’s for certain. Up to his eyes in debt, he is. And no wonder, the way he neglects his land.’
They looked an incongruous pair. Stolpe was tall and red-cheeked, with fair curly hair; rather similar in appearance to Bright. Shannon at thirty-seven was the elder by ten years; short and squat, with long, powerful arms and a plunging, almost simian gait. But they also had some things in common. Both were shy and reserved, and both had a respect amounting almost to veneration for Miss Mytton, their employer. Shannon had particular cause to be grateful to her, since it was she who had employed him after he had been sacked by John Cluster; although there were some who said that anyone who fell out with Cluster as violently as Tom Shannon had done, qualified automatically for Emily Mytton’s friendship.
Cluster got up and went over to the bar, ordering two whiskies. Standing with his back to the room, his fingers drumming impatiently on the damp counter, he did not see Colonel Gresham come in. For a moment the Colonel stood by the door, eyeing the drinkers. Then he strode purposefully over to Cluster and tapped him on the shoulder.
‘I’d like a word with you in private, Cluster,’ he said quietly.
The farmer turned slowly, glass in hand. His back arched against the counter, he said, ‘No call for privacy between you and me, Colonel. If you’ve anything to say you can say it right here.’
His speech was slovenly against a background of culture. Robust and swarthy, he almost dwarfed the little Colonel.
‘Why did you shoot my dog?’ demanded the latter.
‘Who says I shot him?’
‘I do.’
Cluster shook his head. ‘If you’re right — and I’m not saying you are — it was because he was on my land and worrying my sheep. And that’s a good enough reason for any farmer.’
‘Dandy never worried sheep in his life.’ The Colonel fairly bristled with indignation. ‘It was a sadistic, cold-blooded attempt to kill a harmless animal, and I’ll see you pay for it.’
Cluster laughed insolently. ‘You and who else?’
He drank his whisky and turned to bang his glass on the counter, shouting for Bert Cummings, the landlord. William Bright, scenting trouble, walked across to the bar.
‘Is the dog dead, Colonel?’ he asked.
‘No. Got him in the hindquarters. Vet says he’ll be all right. But Dandy isn’t the first dog Cluster’s peppered without cause, and this time I’m not letting him get away with it.’
There was a sympathetic murmur from the other men in the bar, but Cluster ignored it. Glass in one hand, he was feeling for money in his pocket with the other when Colonel Gresham, infuriated by his silence, grabbed him roughly by the sleeve and swung him round. Caught off balance, Cluster flung out an arm, shooting whisky from his glass into the Colonel’s face.
No one spoke. Even Bert Cummings was too aghast to protest. The Colonel, breathing heavily, glared at Cluster, fists clenching and unclenching spasmodically. His weather-beaten face glistened damply, a few drops of whisky trickled down the front of his jacket to be absorbed by the cloth. Then, without another word, he turned and walked quickly out of the bar.
William Bright was the first to break the silence. ‘That was a dirty trick,’ he said angrily.
Cluster was annoyed, resenting the accusation. ‘I didn’t do it on purpose,’ he growled. ‘You think I’d waste good whisky on a little runt like that? You’ll mind your own ruddy business if you know what’s good for you.’
‘Of course you meant it.’ Bright was unperturbed by the threat. ‘What’s more, I’ll bet you did your damnedest to kill his dog. Not because it was worrying sheep a fat lot you’d care if it did — but because you’ve got it in for the Colonel.’
Cluster turned on him. ‘Are you going to shut that blasted trap of yours, or do you want me to do it for you?’
Some of the men made for the door. Bert Cummings signalled frantically to Bright to keep quiet. But if Bright saw him he took no notice. He said disdainfully, ‘The trouble with you, Cluster, is that you’re so pickled with booze that half the time you don’t know what you’re doing. Or what you’re saying. It’s addled your brain. But you’re not—’
Cluster hit him — a savage, powerful blow to the point of the chin. Bright sagged and fell and lay still, and his assailant, with a defiant glare at the others, stepped over his body and walked out of the bar.
Stolpe made to go after him, but Shannon stopped him.
‘Let him go, mate. It’s not our quarrel. Sooner or later he’ll get what’s coming to him.’
With the others they crowded round the prostrate man. ‘Give him a chance to breathe,’ Bert Cummings said, leaning over the counter with a tot of brandy.
Bright
sat up, shaking his head to clear it. With Shannon’s help he got to his feet and leant against the bar, sipping the brandy. He grinned at them sheepishly. ‘Cluster was right. I ought to have kept my big mouth shut,’ he said, rubbing his chin.
‘Next time you want a fight, you pick some place else,’ Bert said. ‘That sort of thing don’t do me any good.’
‘Nor me,’ Bright said. ‘He packs quite a wallop, damn him!’
Jacob West shook his head. ‘I don’t hold no brief for the bastard,’ he said ponderously, ‘but seems to me he never meant to throw that whisky at the Colonel. ’Twas an accident, I reckon.’
Bright nodded. ‘Maybe.’
He knew well that it was an accident, that he had used it to vent on Cluster some of the anger and doubt that had possessed him since the previous evening. Cluster had got him drunk and he had talked; but what had he said? Enough to give Cluster a lead? No more than that, surely, or Cluster would not have suggested another visit to the pub; their joint drinking bouts had never been frequent. Well, Cluster had got nothing out of him tonight. But then he had got nothing out of Cluster — apart from a sore chin. Neither had wanted to be first to broach the subject, for fear he might give away more than he learned. So they had sat drinking and glowering across the table, each waiting for the whisky to loosen the other’s tongue.
‘How’s the head?’ asked Shannon.
‘It’ll do.’ He drained his glass and put it on the counter. ‘Give us another brandy, Bert, and then I’ll be going.’
‘This one’s on you,’ the landlord told him. ‘I don’t know what come over me, giving good brandy away. Must be going soft in the head.’
A short, haggard-faced man stepped forward. He had a bad limp, his body twisting as he walked. ‘I can give you a lift,’ he said. ‘I’m just going.’
Bert Cummings winked slyly at a friend. They all knew why George Colling was leaving. With Cluster on the loose George wanted to be home to keep an eye on his wife. Gwen Colling was one of Cluster’s weaknesses.
But Bright declined the offer, saying the walk would help to clear his head; and George Colling nodded and limped out to his car. He ran a small garage and taxi-service on the Market Lacing road, and as he neared home he saw the lights on the pumps go out and the red tail-lights of a car dwindle and vanish in the direction of Market Lacing. He frowned, and his hands gripped the steering wheel more tightly, knowing that Gwen had had a visitor. She’d never bestir herself to go down to the pumps at that late hour merely to serve a passing motorist.
As he turned the car into the garage he consoled himself with the thought that at least her visitor had not been Cluster. Yet it was only a small consolation; if not tonight it would be some other night, he could not watch her all the time. And once again he cursed the meagre frame and twisted body that prevented him from inflicting on his rival the hiding he so dearly longed to give him.
For George Colling hated Cluster with an intensity that at times almost consumed him.
Chapter Two
Monday, November 14
When Emily Mytton left the train at Tanbury Station at eight-thirty that morning she was struck by the unhappy, almost frightened expression on George Colling’s face as he limped forward to take her bag. He was no stranger to unhappiness, she knew that. But why the fear?
‘Good morning George. You’re not looking too perky this morning,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Anything wrong?’
‘Nothing, Missemily, thank you.’
Well, there’s no need for him to tell me, she thought, as she settled herself on the back seat of the taxi. I can guess. That damned Gwendoline has been up to her tricks again. And more than somewhat, by the look of him.
Emily Mytton had been brought up by her father to believe in the responsibilities of squirehood. She still attempted to shoulder them, although it was no longer required of her; and George Colling had been one of those responsibilities. She had admired the way in which he had struggled against physical infirmities and lack of capital; and although she had given him no financial support it was partly due to her patronage and encouragement that in four years he had managed to transform the once derelict garage into quite a nice little business. But to what purpose? Miss Mytton sometimes asked herself. Merely in order that his good-for-nothing, flibbertigibbet of a wife might enjoy herself at his expense.
She tried to draw him out on the journey back to Cheswick, but he was in one of his black moods and would not respond. Presently she desisted, and turned her thoughts inward to her own problems.
They came to the high stone wall that formed the eastern boundary of Mytton Hall; the wall ended at the gates, and beyond lay open fields, with Trant Farm in the distance. As the taxi bumped down the uneven, tree-lined approach to the cottage Miss Mytton saw with approval that her two employees were already hard at work.
They’re a good pair, she thought. ‘Open the front door for me, will you, George, and leave my bag in the hall,’ she said, as the taxi pulled up on the hardstanding. ‘I want to have a look at the puppies.’ And added unnecessarily, ‘The key’s in the usual place.’
Miss Mytton had a horror of fire; not on her own account, but for her treasured possessions, all that remained of the past glory of the Myttons. If she left the cottage for any length of time she always hid the key under a flowerpot in the greenhouse. Shannon and Stolpe knew where to find it, and so did Sir Richard; all three lived near enough to be early on the scene in case of fire.
And George Colling was another to whom she had entrusted the secret.
She was playing with the puppies in the big kennel when Colling came round to report that he had found the front door open and the key in the lock. ‘But there’s no one around, Missemily,’ he added.
She thought he looked worried, and nodded reassuringly. ‘Probably Tom,’ she said. ‘He knew I’d be home early.’
Colling was obviously anxious to be gone, and she sent him off with a good tip, shut up the puppies, and went into the cottage. The back door was still barred, the milk had not been taken in. Apart from a few muddy footprints on the hall carpet everything seemed just as she had left it the day before. Tom’s ideas on preparing a welcome-home were obviously not extensive.
She lit the gas stove and put a kettle on to boil, and then went upstairs, carrying the suitcase with her. The door of her bedroom was open, and as she reached it she paused in astonishment. A man was lying on the bed, face downward; he was fully clothed, even to his boots. The eiderdown lay on the floor beside the bed.
Miss Mytton was angry, but not afraid. Slightly short-sighted, she advanced farther into the room to inspect her uninvited guest at closer range. Whoever he might be he had no right to go to sleep on her bed. And certainly not with his boots on.
Then she stopped. One hand flew to her throat, as though to strangle a scream; with the other she clutched at the door-knob for support. For the man on the bed was not sleeping. The green handle of a knife protruded angularly from his back. And as she saw the knife she recognized the man.
It was John Cluster.
*
Miss Mytton watched the inspector as he moved quietly but purposefully about the bedroom. He was a tall, raw-boned man in the fifties, with a rather sad expression; no doubt the constant investigation of crime did not encourage one to view life cheerfully, she reflected. But Detective-Sergeant Norris-Kerr was obviously of a very different stamp. The corpse on the bed had seemed to arouse in him a naïve delight; Emily had watched his red head bobbing up and down, this way and that, as he poked and pried, his gaze returning every now and then to the defunct cause of all the commotion. Perhaps this was his first murder; he was certainly much younger than the inspector. He had a square, Churchillian face with a boyish grin, and a marked public-school accent. Quite a nice young man, thought Miss Mytton, apart from his rather ghoulish preoccupation with death.
But then death, after all, was the reason for his presence there.
The arrival of Doctor Adair (this was
his second visit; he had already called to make a brief examination of the body before the police arrived) had driven the young sergeant from the neighbourhood of the bed. He was now gazing out of the window, and Miss Mytton cautiously tiptoed a few paces farther into the room in an endeavour to ascertain what had awakened his interest. She had an idea she ought not to be there, but no one had told her to leave.
John Carter, the local constable, was talking to Shannon and Stolpe in the yard below. An ambulance had backed into position by the front door, and farther down the drive a group of villagers waited, morbidly hopeful of a glimpse of the corpse. But the sergeant seemed more interested in a girl who stood on the far side of the fence separating the cottage from the Hall. Miss Mytton fished her spectacles from the pocket of her tweed jacket, and frowned as she recognized Penelope Hooper. The frown deepened when Penelope looked up, and, after a short pause, smiled at the sergeant. Most unladylike, thought Miss Mytton. Those Hooper children had too much freedom.
‘From the rectal temperature I’d say he’s been dead about thirteen hours,’ Adair said. ‘Rigor mortis complete, and the trunk’s cold as well as the extremities.’
Miss Mytton looked at her watch. Thirteen hours. That meant John Cluster had been killed at ten o’clock the previous evening.
A further group of men tramped up the narrow stairs and swarmed into the room, pushing Miss Mytton aside. She was uncertain whether they were reporters or more policemen, but when one of them produced a camera she decided it was wiser to be gone. No doubt the newspapers would get a picture of her from somewhere, but at least she would not be photographed with her own corpse-laden bed as a background.
She went downstairs and put a kettle on the stove. She had a firm conviction that all policemen drank large quantities of tea or coffee, day and night, during their investigations; and she had not enough milk for coffee. Then she seated herself comfortably in the large living room and awaited developments.
