Hopkinson nodded gravely. He hadn’t much sense of humour nor was he anything of a gourmet.
‘The manager was in a bad temper when we met him this morning. If he’s improved, you might see him and contrive, if possible, to have Dawson sitting beside you and Lever beside me at the dinner.’
‘Suppose the mayor’s made all the arrangements?’
‘That’s easy. Tell the manager to explain to His Worship that the moves have been made at my request as we don’t wish to be conspicuous on the top table in the circumstances.’
Hopkinson hurried off again to cajole the manager.
Meanwhile, Littlejohn sat in the hall and watched the red carpet being laid and then a cavalcade of employees of the town’s parks and gardens committee carrying and arranging under the eye of the parks superintendent large pots of palms and flowering exotic plants. By the time Hopkinson returned Littlejohn was sitting in a jungle of foliage and extravagant flowers.
‘That’s all arranged, sir. There’s some doubt about the mayor being present now. It seems he’s very prone to seasickness and was watching the races from the mayoral barge when the storm struck the place. By the time they got him to land he was in a state of collapse. If he comes, I wonder how he’ll face up to the scallops and the surprise omelettes. . . . By the way, it’s as well we’ve arranged not to be on the top table. Dinner jackets optional everywhere, except on the top table, where they’re compulsory. I haven’t got mine with me.’
‘Neither have I. I could do with a drink and a bath after all that. We’ll meet down here at 7.15, shall we?’
‘I don’t know Dawson and Lever – do you, sir?’
‘No. But it’s my guess that when they see the table plan and find we’re at their elbows, they’ll be round us like bees at a honeypot.’
The dinner should have been preceded by the mayor’s receiving the guests as they arrived in the hall. Mr. Pollitt had fully recovered from his attack of mal-de-mer except that he still had an aftermath of liverish torpor and was slow in performing his reception duties. The arriving guests exceeded Mr. Pollitt’s ability to deal with them and part one of the affair ended in a scramble.
After the scrimmage for places had died down and the Bishop of Portwich – who had in his day been an Oxford oarsman and regarded himself now as a sort of patron saint of yachting – had completely silenced the shouting and randy laughter of those who were already half-drunk by uttering over them two Latin words of grace, the scallops were served.
‘Why didn’t they make it oysters and be done with it?’ said Dawson to Hopkinson, tucking-in with zest.
John James Dawson was a smallish, stocky man, who looked like an army sergeant-major in mufti. He had started with Todds as a boy of 15 and risen from the bottling shed to be their senior traveller. Now he was 55. Forty years in the wood, professionally speaking, except for five years in the army in the last war which ended in his reaching the rank he resembled. It didn’t take him long to reach familiar terms with Hoppy, whose heart sank at the thought of putting him through a diplomatic police interrogation in the circumstances. He looked at Dawson’s florid complexion, bloodshot eyes and large red nose, then at the bottle of hock half of which had already gone the way of the scallops, and wondered where it was all going to end. He need not have worried. ‘J.J.’ never lost his lucidity however much he consumed. He was immunised by the fumes and consumption which went with his job.
Dawson, who sat at Hopkinson’s right hand, introduced himself straight away.
‘Dawson’s the name. Locally known as “J.J.”. I’m the rep. for Todds’, the vintners. You one of the sailing lot?’
In his cordiality, he blew a blast of hock and scallops across Hopkinson’s face. The young detective had to confess why he was there and Dawson assumed a look of appropriate melancholy, said it was a sad and alarming business and, finding a waitress removing his used plate, chucked her under the chin, called her Sandra, and said that finding her at his elbow had made his day.
Fortunately for Hopkinson, his left-hand companion was a clergyman who had apparently found one of his flock on his other side and discussed matters of ecclesiastical finance with him through most of the proceedings, to the neglect of Hoppy, who was very thankful for it. The clergyman was so engrossed in his subject that he ate Hoppy’s bread-roll as well as his own.
Now and then Littlejohn caught Hopkinson’s eye and nodded genially. He was sitting next to a thin, nervy, hatchet-faced man who looked more like an undertaker than a wine salesman, and who was drinking from a bottle of Vichy water. Hoppy wondered if he had somehow got the guest-lists mixed up and landed Littlejohn with the local mortician instead.
‘Is that your boss sitting with Lever?’ said Dawson in a testy voice, as though, as senior ‘rep.’ he himself ought to be there with the boss detective.
Dawson, in keeping with his daily occupation, had plenty of patter about one thing and another and he and Hopkinson might have been lifelong friends by the time they reached the omelette surprise. Hoppy wondered if it would terminate in Dawson soliciting an order for wine. One thing was particularly noticeable : Dawson never mentioned the murder and showed no inclination to discuss it.
Thus they reached the end of the meal without Hoppy having a chance to gather even a few crumbs of local gossip. The speeches began : the mayor, the mayor of Portwich, the bishop, and, for the guests, a man who had sailed round the world several times and was rabelaisian and well in his cups. The trophies were presented, too, by Mr. Pollitt, who had drunk so many toasts that he got them mixed up. So they sang ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow’ and the toastmaster sorted out him and his cups and plaques and all was well. Then they all sang the National Anthem and the party slowly broke up.
Hopkinson was unsteady himself when they rose to go and to add to his embarrassment Dawson proposed that they should adjourn for a farewell drink.
‘Let’s go and have a nightcap together and get away from this lot. The manager here and me are pals and I’m always welcome in his private room. We’ll have a little drink in peace. . . .’
And he linked arms with Hoppy and led him out. As they passed his table Littlejohn gave Hoppy a broad smile. He looked as if he’d had a good session with the mortician whereas Hoppy’s was only just beginning and the idea of combining business with more drinks was bothering him.
It was obvious that Dawson was persona grata in the Trident. He led the way to a private back-stage sitting-room, which the manager was not using as he was rushing here and there ingratiating himself with the notables or whipping-up the staff to added efforts.
‘We’ll not be disturbed here,’ said Dawson, and he disappeared and quickly returned with a bottle of whisky and a syphon of soda. He poured a couple of drinks and, indicating an armchair, told Hopkinson to make himself at home, just as though he owned the place.
‘I’ve enjoyed your company tonight and I thought that, as I’m what you might almost call a member of the family, having worked for them for close on 40 years, I could perhaps be of some use to the police in the way of information. . . .’
Hopkinson got the idea that Dawson had staged the private meeting for reasons of his own. He sipped his drink cautiously. If Dawson was going to grow garrulous Hopkinson was going to be sober enough to remember it all and form his own opinions.
‘That’s very civil of you, sir. This is a difficult case and we’re glad of all the help we can get. You must have known Mr. Hector Todd very well?’
‘Better than most people, I can tell you. It was like this, you see. I knew him as a boy playing in the warehouse. He was an intelligent little beggar and seemed to take to me. Always asking questions and, though I say it myself, through having children of my own, I’m patient with youngsters and I understand them. Young Heck was very interested in wine and could well have become a connoisseur. But after he left school and had to earn his living dealing with cheap brands, that didn’t suit him at all. His heart wasn’t in it. His mother was running the
business at that time and I told her more than once she ought to send him to London to a high-class wine merchant to learn the top-ranking trade, and then bring him home to run a branch of the firm dealing in the finest wines. But she wouldn’t. . . .’
He paused for breath. He had a hoarse, boozy voice, as though there was an obstruction in his gullet. Every now and then he began to croak and cleared his throat by a noisy cough and a large swig of whisky.
‘I wonder why?’
‘It was obvious. Heck was one who liked the good things of life. Easy come, easy go, including the girls. His mother was afraid to let him off the leash. She thought if he got mixed up with people like himself in London he would soon forget the business at home. But, of course, he didn’t need to go to London to kick up his heels; he managed that all right in Fordinghurst.’
‘Women, wine and song, eh?’
‘Yes. He’d been spoiled and had too much of his own way. After their father’s death their mother turned her affection on the boys. You’ve met Mr. Kenneth?’
‘Not yet. I was introduced to him, but I don’t think he even noticed me.’
‘Well, when you’ve met him you’ll understand why she preferred Heck to him. He’s a cold fish, immersed in the business and I’d say, on the face of it, incapable of much warmth or reciprocating affection. Heck was his mother’s favourite and she didn’t conceal the fact. He took full advantage of it.’
Dawson filled up his glass and eyed Hopkinson’s.
‘You’re not drinking. Fill up. . . .’
‘I was interested in what you were saying.’
Hoppy wondered how much more Dawson had to tell him. Dawson seemed quite unaffected by all he’d drunk. But at this rate Hoppy felt he himself would pass out before the full tale was told.
‘He married a nice girl. I think it was a shotgun wedding, so to speak. Everybody thought she was Ken’s girl. But no woman was safe where Heck was concerned. Suddenly the news broke that she and Heck had married at a London registry office. She was the daughter of a Colonel Penderell, of Portwich, a prominent local family and she had two formidable brothers. I calculated at the time that there was a child on the way and the wedding was forced medicine. I was proved right. Nobody knows what went on between the two families behind closed doors. As usual, I guess, Mrs. Todd settled it all. You’ve met her?’
‘Yes. This morning.’
‘What do you think of her?’
‘A charming old lady.’
Dawson, who was lighting his pipe, made wuffing noises to indicate that he was amused at the naive reply.
‘All milk and roses, eh? She’s iron underneath. What she’s had to put up with since she married Todd would have killed most women, or else put ’em in an asylum. She was the daughter of the Dean of Portwich, daddy’s darling, everybody’s darling, including the bishop. Then she married Ephraim Todd, known as Teddy. They met for the first time – you won’t believe it, but it’s true – they met when Teddy called at the deanery in an effort to sell communion wine. It was a love match. By God, it was! They fought like cat and dog. Teddy was merchanting cheap wine in an old brewery on the site where their big warehouse is now. He took his new wife to live in the lodge at the brewery gates, a little dark two-up and two-down place. He was hardly making enough to live on, but she soon pulled it round. He drank a fair amount of his own stuff and once, when he was drunk, he hit her. She hit him back with a rolling-pin and they had to take him to hospital. After that, she was the boss, with a capital B. Funnily enough, with all her troubles and struggles, her appearance changed very little. She was always a handsome woman, smallish, graceful, but resolute and iron inside. She had to be or else she’d have gone under.’
He paused to light his pipe again. He smoked strong tobacco and Hopkinson, to counteract it, lit the cigar which, earlier in the evening, a convivial fellow guest had thrust in his pocket.
‘I guess you’re wondering how I know all this. It was family history before my time. But there was an old chap called Finch, who was book-keeper and general factotum to Teddy Todd, who went through it all. He spent his time between the Big House and the office and all this went on around him. There used to be a little club in Fordinghurst until it went bust with the arrival of the motor-car, which made the members able to get down to Portwich for their entertainment. Ben Fitch used to tell me things after he’d had a few drinks at the club. One night, after he’d had one too many, he walked in the harbour; and that was the end of poor Ben.’
‘You mentioned the family arrangements after Hector married his brother’s fiancée. Do you mean to tell me that Kenneth remained under the same roof as the married couple when they returned to Fordinghurst?’
‘Not at first. Heck and his wife took a flat in the town and lived there for a time. Then the widow Todd took ill and had a very serious operation. She must have effected what, on the surface, was a complete reconciliation between her sons. When she returned home from hospital Heck and his wife took up residence in a flat in the Big House and Heck’s wife, who’d been a nurse, looked after her mother-in-law, who was bedridden for almost a year after the operation. Kenneth never married. He took complete control of the firm. Heck drifted back into his old ways. Before his marriage there was a scandal in the family, which they couldn’t hush up. He got involved with a London actress, there was a divorce case, and Heck had heavy damages to pay. It came at a bad time in the company’s history, too. An epidemic among the foreign wines had caused their sources of supply in the way of wines to dry up, there was a shortage of money in the firm, and Mrs. Todd, senior, had to straighten out Heck’s finances from her private means. I believe she had to sell some of her jewellery. After his marriage he had several affairs, some local, others farther afield. I know because in the course of my rounds of duty I come across in restaurants, hotels and other places I visit all the gossip of the district. . . .’
‘Did his wife know of this?’
‘She knew a lot of it. She refused to divorce him. She had grown very fond of her mother-in-law and then, of course, there were the children, two boys. If Heck hadn’t died he would have found himself in queer street with the family. His mother and brother were heartily sick of his line of conduct, and there was talk of him being dismissed from the firm and made into a sort of remittance-man.’
Hopkinson felt it time to terminate the interview. The place was thick with smoke and he had drunk quite enough whisky. He wondered what Littlejohn would say when he met him in his present unsteady condition. Dawson, on the other hand, seemed settled for the night.
‘Where do you live, Mr. Dawson?’
‘Between here and Portwich. A little place called Cullin-brook.’
‘Married, sir?’
‘I’m a widower. Wife died five years ago. My youngest daughter looks after me. I’ve two more daughters, both married. One lives in Cheltenham and the other married a soldier and lives in America.’
Dawson seemed very communicative. The whisky bottle was half empty and it gave Hopkinson a shock when he saw it. He certainly hadn’t drunk so much! And Dawson, who must have been tippling as he went along, was no worse for his share. It had only made him more matey. At this rate they’d be there until morning. Then it suddenly dawned on Hopkinson that as he was a guest at the Trident he could drink after hours and entertain his guest as well. Dawson was using him to have his little binge within the law!
‘Was there anything else you wanted to know?’
‘I suppose you know all the details about Mr. Hector and his many peccadillos?’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘You and Mr. Lever keep Mr. Kenneth posted with all the gossip and news you hear in your rounds, don’t you?’
‘I thought you said you didn’t know Mr. Kenneth? Who’s been talking to you?’
‘Never mind. It’s true, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t like the hint that I might have been spying on Mr. Heck and telling tales. But somebody had to do it. You never knew what
he’d be up to next. After all, I’m almost one of the family after being with them all this time. It’s up to me to protect their interests. . . .’
Dawson had grown sulky as though Hopkinson had rebuked him and he needed to justify himself.
‘For instance, it was me who overheard in one of the pubs I visit on my rounds that Heck was thinking of selling his shares in the firm to a company who wanted to make a takeover. I told Mr. Kenneth and he made Heck sell his shares to him.’
‘I suppose by the same token you heard of all Heck’s love affairs as well. In the course of gathering this information, Mr. Dawson, did you ever get the impression that Heck had enemies, people he’d affronted who might wish him ill? Hated him enough to murder him?’
Dawson took so long answering that Hopkinson thought he had fallen asleep.
‘I was just thinking. As far as I know, he never got mixed up with any more married women. Not after his expensive escapade with the divorce case. Besides, nowadays illicit love affairs aren’t talked about as much. They’re commonplace. Now, when I was young, every little whore in the neighbourhood had a reputation, everybody knew it and the respectable ones avoided her. Now it doesn’t matter. So, you see, Heck could do as he liked without shocking anyone.’
‘Yes, but people would talk. They enjoy talking about other folks’ amours. . . .’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, don’t try to make Heck’s death a crime of passion! If it was that, he’d have been murdered long ago. Has it never struck you or your Chief that there are other motives than that? What about illicit imports of drugs? The coast round here is ideal for such business. Heck wouldn’t hesitate to dabble in it if there was money in it. It wouldn’t surprise me if he took drugs himself now and then. He was that sort, Heck. Has it not struck you that Heck must have had a bigger source of income than his allowance from the family? Where did the cash come from to buy his expensive new cabin cruiser and his nippy little car? If you get mixed up in Heck’s sex life you’ll miss the obvious. He was in some racket or other which brought him a good income and something went wrong. That’s why, in my opinion, he got himself killed.’
Murder Adrift Page 6
