by John Bingham
“Did you go to the cottage yourself?” I asked.
“No, I didn’t. I had another job on hand. It didn’t seem worth it. He’d spent the weekend alone, and obviously got tight and set the house on fire. There’s nothing in it, but I can go down there, if you like.”
I told him not to go. Bitterly I regretted it later. Had he gone, things might have been so different. But the fact is, once the shock of Prosset’s death was over, I saw nothing surprising in the correspondent’s report. I knew he liked whisky.
I had seen the small heap of bottles by the back door as recently as Saturday, the day before Prosset was to die in the flames and smoke. I had gone down to stay with him on the Saturday. Previously, I had cancelled the visit; but then, in the end, I had gone all the same, and stayed until early Sunday morning, when I had driven back.
Had I stayed on, I reflected, the thing would probably never have happened. Prosset would still be alive and well.
I looked at them curiously when they arrived.
The Chief Detective Inspector was a broad-shouldered man, well above average height. I should say he was in his late forties. He had a round head, with closely cropped fair hair, receding slightly at the temples, and a brick-red face so keenly shaven that it seemed to radiate hygiene and good health. His features were regular, the nose and jaw clean-cut, but the lips were thin and the general impression you had was of a hard character in which sympathy, or indeed any of the more human emotions, had long since died. His eyes were not large, but were of a curious light brown, tawny colour, and he very rarely seemed to blink; it was as though he were afraid to allow his eyes to shut for even a fraction of a second, in case he missed something.
He did not impress me as the sort of man who would have a single one of those endearing little habits or whimsical sayings which are so often attributed to police officers. He wore a reasonably well-cut black pinstripe suit, a white shirt and hard collar, a dark-grey tie, black Homburg hat, and carried dark-brown gloves and a black briefcase.
The Detective Sergeant was a very different type.
He was slim and dark, aged about thirty-two, and when he spoke I noted that his voice still retained a slight Welsh lilt. His face was naturally sallow, the nose rather pronounced. His eyes were large and dark, and he wore a clipped military-style moustache. To offset his grey flannel suit he wore a green tie with a thin white stripe, which might have been the tie of some cricket club or school, and brown shoes; he, too, carried gloves.
I summed them up as a first-class working team: the Inspector, a competent, ruthless, police machine, thorough, well versed in the routine methods of crime detection, highly experienced. And the Sergeant, more mentally elastic, more subtle, helped by the imaginative strain in his Celtic blood.
When I had closed the door, the elder man said, “We are police officers.” He introduced himself and his colleague, and as he did so he dipped his right hand into his jacket pocket, flashed a warrant card in a leather holder, and replaced it. The movement was slick and smooth, synchronizing with his words. You had the impression of a man who had spent so many years of his life doing the same thing that it had become second nature. You could see him, day after day, saying, “We are police officers,” and following the words with that quick movement with the warrant card.
Probably nobody had ever had the courage to demand to examine it more closely. It occurred to me that for all practical purposes it might just as well have been a golf scorecard or a laundry list.
The Inspector said, “It’s about the death of Mr. Prosset, sir.”
“Sit down. What about a drink?”
The Inspector lowered himself carefully into my smaller armchair, placing his hat on the floor beside him. The Sergeant went and sat on the bed-settee by the wall. I thought they might refuse my offer, but they didn’t.
“Thank you,” said the Inspector. “Don’t suppose a drop would do us any harm.”
He looked across at the Sergeant, who said he didn’t suppose it would either. The Sergeant smiled, showing good white teeth. I went across to a corner cupboard, and poured out three whiskies and sodas. While I did so, the Inspector opened his briefcase and brought out a buff-coloured folder containing papers. I handed them their drinks.
“Cheerio,” I said.
“Good health, sir,” said the Inspector.
“Cheers,” murmured the Sergeant.
“It’s just a routine call,” went on the Inspector. “As I said, it’s about the death of Mr. Prosset. You’ve seen it in the papers, I expect.”
“Yes, I have. I thought you’d call.”
“Why, sir?” The Inspector looked at me with his hard, pebble eyes.
“Because I knew him very well. Besides, I’m a newspaper reporter. I know a certain amount about police methods.”
“Well, that’s an interesting job, I expect, sir. Better paid than ours, too.” He smiled ruefully, and looked across at the Sergeant.
“I don’t suppose my pension will be as big as yours, even supposing I get one,” I replied. We discussed our different jobs for a few moments. Police officers are easy to get on with. They meet all sorts and classes of people, and are good conversationalists.
“Well, Mr. Sibley,” said the Inspector at length, “I don’t suppose we’ll keep you very long. I would just like you to tell us what you know of Mr. Prosset. I’d be very grateful, sir.”
He spoke now in a polite, almost wheedling tone, in striking contrast to the natural harshness of his voice when he was not asking a favour.
“I’ll tell you all I can.”
I was on the point of adding that as a matter of fact I had seen Prosset the day before he died, and had been at Ockleton with him. In fact, I was looking forward in a mild sort of way to the look of interest on the Inspector’s face when I should tell him. But although the words were on the tip of my tongue, the Inspector spoke again before I could get them out. I didn’t mind. I thought they would sound even more dramatic a little later.
He said, “I don’t suppose you mind if the Sergeant takes a few notes?”
“Of course not.” I smiled at them. They smiled back.
“Well, let’s start right at the beginning. That’s always the easiest way, sir. What are your full names, Mr. Sibley?”
“Michael Sibley.”
“And you are a journalist? What paper, if I may ask, just so we can give you a tinkle about anything during the daytime?”
I gave him my office address and a few more personal particulars. “And how long have you known Mr. Prosset, sir?”
“About fifteen years, off and on. We were at school together.”
“Were you, indeed? Well, we’re in luck. I expect you know all about him.”
“I know him fairly well,” I said.
“Only fairly well? I see, sir. I thought you said when we came in that you knew him very well.”
“Well, I did, in a way. I knew him very well at school. But I haven’t seen an awful lot of him since then. Not an awful lot.”
The Inspector nodded.
“Well, it’s a pity in a way,” he said.
“Why?”
“Well, sir, no offence of course, but you’re a newspaper man—” He paused and looked at me hesitantly.
“You can talk off the record.”
“Have I your word for that, sir?”
“You have. Definitely.”
He looked at me again carefully. He seemed reassured by my promise.
“Well, then, between ourselves, sir, it’s not quite as straightforward as people think.”
“What do you mean? What isn’t straightforward?”
“Well, Mr. Prosset had head injuries, for one thing.”
“From falling beams or something?”
“No, sir. He was found in rather a protected position, as a matter of fact, with his head under the kitchen table. He hadn’t been injured by beams or falling masonry. And there were traces of petrol. See what I mean? What’s more, although the whisky bo
ttle contained the remains of pure whisky, there was a good percentage of water in the remains in the beer bottles, sir. You might almost think they had been brought in from the pile at the back of the house to give the wrong idea.”
I stared at him. “You mean he was killed? Murdered?”
“I didn’t say that, sir. I just pointed out there were one or two odd features. That’s all. I didn’t say anything about murder, did I, Sergeant?”
The Sergeant looked up. “I didn’t hear you, sir.”
The Inspector thought for a moment. “Well, anyway, Mr. Sibley, that’s neither here nor there. Let’s get back. As I understand it, you didn’t keep up the association much lately, is that it?”
“Not much,” I said. “He went into a bank, and I went up to Palesby on the Gazette. We drifted apart a good deal, though we kept in touch by letter from time to time. Of course, after I came down to London, last year, I saw a bit more of him. In recent months, that is. Now and again.”
In spite of the careful official attitude of the Inspector, I saw clearly that this was a murder case. Though he might pretend formally that there were only one or two odd features which might easily be cleared up, it was obvious that he thought quite differently. I felt overwhelmed by the news, and inevitably found myself groping in my mind for some pointer as to who could have done it. I found none. It seemed that it could only have been some tramp or burglar in search of easy money; and I cursed myself for not sending the correspondent down to Ockleton itself. On the spot, he might well have picked up some hint that more was afoot than a mere inquiry into an accidental death. Now, after giving my word in the matter, I could do nothing further, at any rate for the time being. I was tied hand and foot.
I heard the Sergeant’s pencil travelling over the paper, and presumed he was taking a shorthand note. The Inspector said nothing. He seemed to be waiting for me to continue.
“He left the bank, of course. I think he was disappointed at not being sent out East. He had always set his heart on it. I think that is why he left. He went into business with a man called Herbert Day, as I expect you know, Inspector. Something to do with buying up bankrupt stock and stuff, and I believe they also did some importing from abroad.”
The Inspector sat with his tawny eyes fixed on my face; he had a habit, which I found disconcerting, of sitting perfectly still and saying nothing, not even “I see,” or “Yes.” It was as though he was hardly listening to my words. I have never been a fluent talker, and if I find that my audience is not friendly or receptive I am not at my best.
I continued, rather lamely, with a few more details about Prosset, floundered once or twice and corrected myself; this annoyed me, because I was telling the truth as far as I knew it.
The Inspector turned over one or two pages in his file. Once again, it was on the tip of my tongue to tell him I had been down at Ockleton, but now a new picture was developing in my mind, and I wasn’t at all sure I would enjoy the look of suspicious interest which would inevitably flash across his face when I told him I had been with Prosset so shortly before his death. Moreover, I was trying to sort something out, to think quickly between questions, while still talking, and that is not so easy in practice.
The Inspector looked up from his file and said, “What about this Mr. Herbert Day, sir? His partner, I mean. Know anything of him?”
“I only met him twice. Once, many years ago, before I went to Palesby. We had some drinks one evening. He, Prosset and I, and a few others. I believe he was something to do with the Stock Exchange at that time. The other time was a few weeks ago, when I saw him for a few seconds only in Prosset’s car.”
The Inspector made no comment. After a moment, he put a few questions about Prosset’s family in Ireland, which I answered as best I could. Then, after referring once more briefly to his file, he suddenly said, “I would like to ask you one rather confidential question, sir, just between ourselves, since you were Mr. Prosset’s pal. What impression did you form of this Mr. Day?”
“I didn’t much care for him personally.”
“Why not, Mr. Sibley?”
“There’s no particular reason. Some people one likes instinctively, and others one doesn’t. That’s all, really. But I shouldn’t say he was the type to have the courage to do a murder, if that’s what’s on your mind.”
The Inspector looked at me reflectively. He said, “There’s nothing on my mind at all, sir. I was just asking, that’s all. Do you know any other friends of his in London—or anywhere else, if it comes to that?”
I shook my head. “I’m afraid not.”
“Nobody at all?”
I thought then of the party in the public house before I went to Palesby. “Well, I once met a girl he was quite keen on, called Margaret Dawson.”
The Sergeant raised his head. “Did you say Dawson, sir, or Lawson?”
“Dawson. But she’s married now, to some theatrical producer. I don’t know his name.”
“And you never saw him with anybody else—recently, I mean?”
“No. At least—”
“Yes?” The Inspector paused in the act of lighting his pipe.
“Well, I once saw him with a man in a public house in Chelsea, but I don’t know who he was. He looked like a foreigner, but I may be mistaken. And I know he knew one or two people near Ockleton, where his cottage was, but I never met them. He said they had interests in the import side of the business. He used to go over and visit them. He never invited them to the cottage when I was there, because he said they were bores.”
“When did you last see Mr. Prosset, sir?” asked the Sergeant. I looked across at him. He was absent-mindedly tapping his teeth with the end of his pencil. It is difficult to explain why I replied as I did.
Perhaps it was due to my upbringing, which was hardly calculated to encourage that toughness of character which enables a person to face boldly a challenge when it arises and take the straight, if difficult, path. I had largely overcome certain weaknesses since I left my Aunt Edith, but now and again, in some sudden and unfortunate predicament, they would reassert themselves; it is not easy to eradicate the blemishes of early youth, especially such as may be bred into the blood and nurtured in favourable soil. Possibly thrown off my balance by the revelation that Prosset’s death had not been accidental, I tossed aside the cool, analytical training learnt in the previous ten years, and lied like a sneak thief caught in compromising circumstances. The struggle satisfactorily to solve the problem I knew would present itself, to solve it between questions and answers, had been lost, and the Sergeant’s question found me still undecided.
But now I had to decide in a split second. I had a quick mental picture of driving down to Ockleton, on the Sussex coast, arriving through deserted lanes in the evening, staying with Prosset, driving back, again through deserted lanes, early the following morning. I recalled the local correspondent’s words: “He spent the weekend alone.” I took the easy way out. The temptation to have done with the whole thing presented itself, and I fell. In the flash of time in which I had to decide, I decided not to face up to matters. It was perhaps moral inertia more than weakness.
“When did I last see him?” I replied, and was surprised at the smoothness of my tone. “About ten days ago. The weekend before last. I stayed with him at the cottage with my fiancée.”
The Sergeant nodded and made a note. “You’re engaged, are you, sir?”
I told him I hoped to be married in two months’ time. The Inspector made some joke about marriage. We all laughed. I felt relieved. The crisis was over. It had been easy.
“What’s your fiancée’s name, sir?” asked the Inspector in his strong, hard voice.
“Kate Marsden,” I replied. “Why?”
“Did she know Mr. Prosset?”
“Very slightly, that’s all.”
“I was just wondering if she would know anything; any other friends of Mr. Prosset, for instance. That’s all.”
I gave him her address, though I assured hi
m that she knew no more than I did. I felt pretty certain that was true.
“Just one more question. Have you any ideas at all, Mr. Sibley, about this case? Any theory, perhaps, which you think we might look into? It’s not often we ask a question like that, but your position is rather a special one.”
“How do you mean?” I asked.
“Well, after all, he was your friend, wasn’t he?”
“He was, yes. He was a very good friend of mine, but at the moment I don’t know what to suggest.”
The Inspector swallowed the rest of his whisky, put the file back in the briefcase, and stood up.
“All right, Mr. Sibley,” he said. “Let’s leave it at that for the moment. I’m very much obliged to you.”
The Sergeant shut his notebook and stood up as well. We shook hands, and I saw them to the front door. On the steps the Inspector said: “If you think of anything else about Mr. Prosset, perhaps you’ll be good enough to give us a buzz on the phone?”
“With pleasure,” I said.
I could not help smiling as I watched them walk away. There was so much more, in actual fact, which I could have told him. But I could not have told him then, in the course of that short talk, and indeed I doubted if he would ever really understand. On second thought, I decided he certainly would not; not the Inspector, with his hard eyes, so strong and down to earth and unimaginative.
It would have needed a better talker than I to have been able to explain the position to the Inspector that evening. Even I myself sometimes find it hard to understand the story of John Prosset and Michael Sibley.
CHAPTER 2
I cannot say accurately at which particular point I should have broken off our acquaintanceship, or even whether it was possible for me, or for any normally polite individual, to have done so.
You have to have a good cause, a terrible row about something, before you can abruptly terminate an association with a man whom you have known for years; and Prosset had a devastating ability for preventing a row from properly developing. The way he did it was to assume an attitude of amused tolerance directly he saw that you were becoming annoyed. He would look at you with his slightly mocking blue eyes, and stroke his raven-black hair, and his cigarette used to bob up and down between his lips as he spoke, and before you realized it you would find yourself in a position where if you became angry you would, compared to Prosset, merely look silly and ineffectual. You can’t have a row with a man who at the critical moment just laughs at you, however jeeringly he may do it.
