The ploy may have been a diversion in one respect but in another it was less successful. Fabius emitted a strangled howl of rage followed by a profusion of profanity. Mercifully this soon ceased and from amid the ensuing silence came a lingering snore.
Cedric drove on grimly. ‘Clearly a madman as well as a drunk,’ he observed. ‘Do try to be more selective over your dinner invitations in future dear boy.’
Felix closed his eyes and thought of bed.
When they arrived at the cottage Fabius was still asleep. ‘We had better wake him up,’ said Cedric, ‘though it seems a shame, there’s bound to be another outburst. If we can get him into the house we can just leave him there and then take off pronto.’
Felix agreed but warned the other of the mess they would encounter. ‘He is not the neatest of householders.’
After a couple of prods Fabius opened his eyes. ‘Here already?’ he said brightly.
Manoeuvring him up the path was not as difficult as they had feared. His sleep had made him placid, and although taller than both of them they were able to ease him along with little resistance. However, at the front door he stopped and muttered, ‘I don’t really want to go in there, not sure if I can face it.’
Felix was puzzled: if he was referring to the mess, he must surely be used to it by now.
With a little coaxing they succeeded in getting him inside and then into the sitting room. At the threshold they stood aghast.
Apart from the ordinary shambles, which Felix had expected, there was something much worse. He gazed horrified at the centre of the room which on his previous visit had displayed the exquisitely adorned dining table. It was still there, but, as if by thunderbolt, virtually every piece of its splendid setting was destroyed … the shimmering crystal and Meissen porcelain dashed to smithereens and even the white napkins doused in lurid red wine, the decanters cast to the floor.
There was silence, during which Fabius stumbled to the sideboard and uncorking a bottle of brandy took a long spluttering swig. ‘You see what the fucker has done?’ he cried, ‘I told you didn’t I! Christ, I’ll get him if it kills me!’ Rage, pain and alcohol made him slump to the floor, while Cedric and Felix looked on stupefied and helpless.
At last, having gently disengaged him from the brandy they were able to calm him down and ease him into an armchair. They unearthed cushions and a rug, and urged him to drink some water. Then they watched irresolute as Fabius sprawled in the chair, his bony fingers kneading the rug while listless eyes stared into space.
Felix leant forward and said diffidently, ‘I say, shall I see if I can find one of your cats?’
Fabius looked up. ‘Most thoughtful,’ he said, ‘the darker one will do. It’s called Tom.’
After Felix had slipped out, Fabius looked at Cedric and nodded approvingly. ‘Bright little guy, your friend, isn’t he? He shares my interest in shire horses, you know. Do you like them too?’ he asked conversationally.
‘Remarkable creatures,’ Cedric replied blandly. At least the man had ceased effing and blinding, and if Felix could find the damned cat it might distract him further. He shot a glance at the table and wondered vaguely if they should try to clear some of the debris: it was hardly a cheerful spectacle for the poor chap.
Felix returned with a protesting cat in his arms. He placed it firmly on Fabius’s lap where it settled down and began to purr. Mechanically Fabius started to stroke its back.
For a moment nothing was said. And then clearing his throat, Cedric took the bull by the horns: ‘You seemed to imply that you know who was responsible. Are you going to press charges and report it the police? I take it there was a break-in.’
Fabius continued to stroke the cat. And then he said quietly, ‘There was a break-in, yes, I do know who was responsible and no I am not going to report it to the police … or at least not just yet I am not. Got a bit of thinking to do first and then I shall act – you can be sure of that. The bastard’s gone too far, too far …’ He looked up at them and added simply, ‘Those things were very precious to me.’ He lapsed into silence and was clearly not going to be drawn further.
‘Well,’ said Cedric briskly, ‘I think a little tidying up is needed and then we’ll be off. You could do with a good sleep, I imagine.’ He gestured to Felix and they set about transferring the bulk of the broken bits into an empty box found in one of the corners.
When they had finished things still looked a mess but at least all the shattered pieces were out of sight. By this time it was clear Fabius was on the edge of sleep; but as they moved to the door, he said drowsily, ‘I appreciate your help, but I should be grateful if you would mention this to no one. Do you understand? No one.’
They assured him they fully understood and with some relief let themselves out.
‘Astounding,’ exclaimed Cedric as they regained the car. ‘What on earth was all that about? I must say that some of that tableware was very valuable – and beautiful. No wonder he was hopping mad!’
Felix shuddered in agreement thinking of his own collection of exquisite valuables in London. How frightful to come home and discover them in that state!
He lit a cigarette and pondered. ‘Difficult to tell in a room like that but it didn’t look as if anything had actually been stolen – just vandalised. Who could have done it? Some cretinous philistine with a grudge?’
‘Well it was obviously malicious and there is no doubt that Fabius knows the person, or thinks he does. He made that abundantly clear.’ Cedric gave a dry chuckle: ‘If he does seek him out I shouldn’t like to be in that chap’s shoes. Fabius at full throttle would be like a one-man lynch mob!’
‘Talking of throttle, do you think you could go just the teeniest bit faster – I am desperate for my bed. It has all been rather exhausting. I shall look utterly drained tomorrow.’
Cedric obliged and then said slyly, ‘Well one thing is for certain, you have definitely made a hit with the chap; quite the bosom pal! I gather the pair of you bonded over cart horses, or so he believes. And I must say he was most impressed with your suggestion regarding the cat – as was I. What made you think of it?’
‘We had one at home, a frightful fellow called Denis. Whenever my mother walloped me, which was not infrequent, the cat and I would curl up and go to sleep together. Most soothing, I can recommend it.’
As they drove through Snape on the road to Aldeburgh Felix stared out at the expanse of reed beds and darkened marshland, and for a disturbing moment was reminded of his encounter with the monster coypu – beastly thing! But then glimpsing the shape of an abandoned pillbox in the middle of a field he thought of something else: the war and the ever-present threat of enemy fire from the skies or invasion by hordes of parachutists. He closed his eyes. Well at least thank God that was all over and done with …
But the image of parachutes dangling from the heavens returned his thoughts to the man they had just left. ‘Do you think Fabius really did fly dangerous missions in the war? He must have been a rather more stable character than he is now … Mind you, had he been captured I should think he would have confused the Germans all right. I cannot imagine Oberstleutnant Fritz having a happy time interrogating him!’
‘Oberstleutnant Fritz would have had him for breakfast,’ replied Cedric dryly, ‘which is why he would have been supplied with a cyanide capsule. It was obligatory.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The inspector was none too pleased. There had been little progress with the two cases, the press was on his tail, his tooth ached, some tiresome woman from the flower festival had reported her purse stolen (why leave it in the lavatory for God’s sake!), and worst of all the superintendent was leaning on him: ‘Have another go at the Dovedale lot,’ he had directed, there must be more to get from that quarter. I would do it myself except I’m up to my ears with the Beccles fraud case. We’ve got them on the run – won’t be long now before yours truly can make an arrest.’ He had given a cheery grin.
All right for some, the i
nspector thought gloomily, smug so-and-so!
At the door the superintendent had paused and said, ‘My money’s on the butler like in the novels; probably hid the cyanide behind that eye patch!’ He laughed heartily at his own joke (poor in the inspector’s estimation); and then growing serious, said curtly, ‘Anyway see to it, we can’t hang about – doesn’t look good.’
Hang about? What did he think he did all day – file his nails? Besides he doubted if the butler had also dispatched the chap on the cannon. No, the more he thought about it the more he was convinced the deaths had been caused by separate people. Jennings’ suggestion about the murderer having an arsenal of weapons was absurd of course. The publisher’s death had been a quick snappy business, a single shot well aimed and immediately lethal. Why should someone with a pistol at his disposal have bothered with the poisoning charade when she could so easily have been gunned down swiftly in a back alley – or more likely from cover of the garden hedge when walking those piddling pugs! No, he brooded, different means, different mentality, different person.
Recalling the piddling pugs he sighed, thinking of the recent directive. Another interview with the ‘grieving’ son was not a cheerful prospect. Having clearly established that he had been elsewhere when it happened, the man seemed to assume that no further assistance was required. Like getting blood out of a stone it had been! Well at least he could push him more about his mother’s past life: it might just yield the odd clue he supposed.
He turned his mind to the butler: he hadn’t been easy either. All very aloof and correct; the soul of discretion. But then that was probably typical of that sort – too busy guarding their rumps to be useful. Still he had certainly been present at the prize-giving event, he had been roped in to help with the washing up … The inspector grinned. Perhaps he could pin it on the pair of them: the absent young master being the instigator, the poor old servant his poisoning lackey. That would make a handy package! But then of course they would still have to find the Third Man who had done the dirty work on de Lisle. He scowled. And then getting up he opened the door to the outer office. ‘Jennings,’ he called, ‘what was that pseudonym you were burbling about?’
‘Shall I telephone ahead and tell Mr Dovedale we are coming?’ Jennings asked.
The inspector shook his head. ‘No, we’ll surprise them. Sometimes it’s better that way, you get what one might call a more spontaneous response as they don’t have time to prepare themselves – or their stories.’
Thus they arrived unannounced and initially their knocking yielded no reply although the distant sound of a dog’s yap could just be heard. They went back down the steps and peered in at a downstairs window. This also yielded nothing. And then Jennings spotted a well-padded posterior bent among the begonias. ‘It looks like the gardener, sir,’ he whispered.
They approached and enquired the whereabouts of the owner.
‘He’s not here,’ the man said, ‘he’s gone off. Who are you?’
On being told they were police officers he pushed his cap to the back of his head and sucked in his breath. ‘Ah, s’pose you’ve come about the mistress. A bad business if you ask me, she were a nice lady. And she really liked her flowers, very keen she was. Now young Mr Dovedale, he ain’t so keen – don’t know a daisy from a daffodil. But he likes to see the garden neat and tidy, very particular in fact; so I expect he’ll still be wanting me. Leastways let’s hope so otherwise there’ll be a hole in my wages!’ He grinned ruefully.
Unconcerned with the gardener’s job prospects, the inspector asked when Mr Dovedale was likely to be back. The man shrugged and said he didn’t rightly know but Mr Hawkins could probably tell him.
‘Oh, so he is here? There was no answer when we knocked.’
‘That don’t mean nothing. It’s his afternoon off – doesn’t like to be disturbed. Pretends he can’t hear.’ He grinned again and added, ‘No flies on old Hawkins. Try knocking again. If the dogs set up a good racket he’ll answer soon enough.’
They tried again and this time were greeted by Hawkins roused and distinctly disgruntled.
‘I fear there is no one here,’ he informed them stiffly. ‘Our guests have gone over to Aldeburgh and Mr Dovedale is in London. It is good for him to get away, he has found this whole affair most distressing.’ This was said in a tone of mild reproof. Clearly Hawkins felt their presence an imposition.
‘I am sure he has, but if justice is to be done matters must be pursued. We simply wanted to ask him a few more questions about Mrs Dovedale’s life before she came to Southwold.’
Hawkins paused fractionally, and then said, ‘You mean when Mr Dovedale’s father was posted abroad in the diplomatic service?’
‘Yes, and I believe you were with them, were you not?’
‘I was with them for a period before the war in Switzerland and subsequently afterwards in Paris when they were there for a brief spell prior to returning to England. Since then you could say I have been a permanent fixture,’ he added dryly.
‘Hmm. Well when Mr Dovedale returns we will explore that with him. But meanwhile, Mr Hawkins, perhaps you could be of help. For example can you think of any incident when you were with them in Europe that might have prompted someone to hold a grudge against the deceased or indeed anything of that period which might be linked with her murder?’
Hawkins sniffed and said tartly: ‘My role in the Dovedale household is entirely professional. As such I was not privy to my employers’ private lives or that of their associates.’
‘Oh, come on sir,’ Jennings protested, ‘surely you might have picked up something. I mean – you know – straws in the wind, that sort of thing.’
The other gave a dry smile. ‘I can assure you, Constable, had I observed such straws it was hardly my place to draw conclusions from them. I dislike rash assumptions and even more, inappropriate curiosity.’
‘So in other words,’ the inspector said sharply, ‘during that period you didn’t see or hear of anything that might have a bearing on her murder.’
‘Not that I am aware of.’ He cleared his throat and added, ‘Now, sir, would you like me to inform Mr Dovedale of your enquiries when he gets back? I am sure he will be entirely at your disposal.’
‘We will contact him as necessary,’ replied the inspector shortly. He hesitated and then said, ‘There is just one more thing, Mr Hawkins. Does the name Millicent Merrivale mean anything to you?’
The old man looked startled; but then shaking his head said thoughtfully, ‘Merrivale? No, no I can’t say it does … unless of course you refer to that Newmarket favourite Major Merrivale, he’s tipped for a big win I gather.’ He flashed a rare smile and then enquired if that would be all.
‘Well he’s not exactly a bloke to pass the time of day with!’ Jennings exclaimed as they returned to the drive. ‘A bit shifty if you ask me.’
‘Put you in your place though, didn’t he,’ the inspector observed with a whiff of satisfaction. ‘But yes, you’re right – he’s a rum bugger and I suspect he knows more than he’s letting on. Did you notice that the one time he lost his balance was when I asked him about the name Millicent Merrivale? Caught him on the back foot there I fancy. What did that gardener say? No flies on old Hawkins? Well what’s the betting that just at that moment one may have landed!’
‘So what you are saying is that if my theory is right about Millicent Merrivale being an alias for Delia Dovedale, then Hawkins could have known she was writing the thing and under an assumed name. In fact,’ Jennings added excitedly, ‘maybe Hawkins was her amanuensis!’
‘Her what?’
‘You know – doing dictation and such, sort of literary assistant.’
‘Unlikely I should think. The old boy probably had enough to do polishing the silver and playing guard dog at the front door without having to be her clerical whatsit as well … No, that’s a bit of a no-ball I should say. But what I do think is that given our theory about the real author, then it is quite likely that Hawkins knows
or at least guesses its contents. Wouldn’t you say?’
Stung by the dismissal of his inspired suggestion, and having noted his boss’s replacement of ‘my theory’ with ‘our’, Jennings merely grunted and looked at his watch.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Walking home that night down Pier Avenue the inspector brooded on the case.
Yes, he mused, the key to the whole affair surely lay with that ruddy novel. The woman had been killed because she was writing it; the man because he had intended to publish it. Quite clearly the object of the break-in had been to steal the manuscript – the open money box a clumsy effort to confuse the issue. Find the novel or its bits and all would be revealed … Except of course the thing wouldn’t be found: the murderer was bound to have destroyed it by now. Conceivably a draft or rough scraps might exist somewhere but certainly nothing of that nature had emerged when they were checking the deceased’s desk and private papers. At the time, of course, they had been looking for clues of a different kind: diary references, threatening letters etc., but any written pages would have been thoroughly checked; and the bank strongbox had yielded nothing except the usual pile of share certificates and other financial documents.
His thoughts were interrupted by a youth bicycling by whistling his heart out. Huh! It was all right for some! He scowled unreasonably at the boy and stopped to light his pipe.
His mind returned to the butler. Apart from that hesitation over the name of Millicent Merrivale the man had been coolly composed; but as he had said to Jennings, he felt pretty sure the old boy knew something. Unfortunately gut feeling alone would hardly licence them to grill the chap until he broke! (A device favoured in the Yankee films). A pity really – in his present mood he wouldn’t mind doing just that. Anyone would do, it didn’t need to be Hawkins.
A Southwold Mystery Page 18
