Death of a Commuter

by Bruce, Leo

  “I wouldn’t have minded so much if I’d had my hands free,” he confided in Carolus later.

  Mr. Hopelady had a neck which grew like a thin pink stalk out of his clerical collar. His face was all teeth and cheek-bones, the chin receding woefully. Carolus watched him without affection as he made his round of the guests, greeting everyone—not effusively but as though certain of his own popularity.

  “He’s a crashing bore,” said Patsy. “And of course means well. He’ll have some jolly pleasantry for you when he gets round to us.”

  Hearing this, Rupert Priggley seemed about to make for the door but Carolus restrained him because Elspeth’s niece, unfortunately known as Bunty, was already half-way upstairs.

  “You can’t do that,” Carolus said.

  At that moment Mr. Hopelady reached them and unfortunately chose Rupert as his victim, stopping to speak in his ear.

  “Excuse me, old chap, but your zip’s open,” he said.

  Rupert’s reaction was admirably swift.

  “So’s your mouth,” he said truthfully, and picking up a block of ice-cream from the table beside him he rammed it between Mr. Hopelady’s jaws, already wide in anticipation of laughter.

  There was a scream from Mrs. Hopelady, but her husband’s splutterings and chokings alarmed her and she led him from the room.

  “Darling,” said Chatty to Rupert, “that was rather beastly of you. Funny, I suppose, but not very polite. However, have a drink, darling.”

  When Mr. Hopelady returned he came up to Carolus as the responsible adult.

  “I did not think that was very funny,” he said severely.

  “Not a bit funny,” echoed his wife.” The suit will have to go to the cleaners.”

  “No, it was not respectful,” agreed Carolus. “But I’m afraid there was a certain amount of provocation.”

  “Provocation? A harmless little leg-pull like that? Has your son no sense of humour?”

  “Priggley is not my son,” said Carolus.

  “Well, whatever he is. That’s what’s lacking in the modern generation of youngsters. They can’t take a joke against themselves.”

  “It’s a common failing,” said Carolus mildly.

  “If you mean George,” said Mrs. Hopelady furiously, “he’s the first to laugh when someone pulls his leg. But that wasn’t a joke. It might have been dangerous.”

  The vicar seemed to realise that it was time to beam magnanimously. “Anyway, no harm done,” he said. “We mustn’t get heated over ice-cream.”

  “Priggley, you owe Mr. Hopelady an apology,” said Carolus.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” said Priggley rather too readily. “But don’t ever, ever play practical jokes on me again. Can I get you a drink?”

  Mr. Hopelady smiled.

  “A rather mixed form of apology,” he said. “But yes, I should like something warming. A little Scotch perhaps?”

  “Ice?” asked Priggley, but there was no reply.

  “I wanted to have a talk with you if you can spare the time,” Carolus told the vicar. “Could I call on you, perhaps?”

  “Delighted. Please do. Tomorrow if you wish. I shall be at home all day.” Then rather anxiously, “Anything urgent?”

  “Don’t bring that detestable boy with you,” said Mrs. Hopelady.

  Carolus, having arranged to call at the vicarage in the morning, crossed the room to where Mr. Scotter, a tall unsmiling man in his forties, stood alone.

  “May I introduce myself?” he said, and did so.

  “I’ve been watching that little incident,” said Scotter. “It was time someone did something like that. I don’t like larks.”

  “I’m not mad on them myself.”

  “I’m not a believer in conventional religion, but when a man receives a salary as a minister of a church he should behave like one,” continued Mr. Scotter severely. “I expect you’re wondering what a man like me is doing in a place like this. I feel that the modern man should be able to move up and down the scale.”

  “And which is this? Up? Or down?” asked Carolus wondering when Mr. Scotter would make a remark that did not start with ‘I’.

  “I come from the Masses, myself,” continued Mr. Scotter, “but I don’t feel out of place in any society. I told the late Mr. Parador…”

  “How did you get on with him?”

  “I respected his position and he respected mine.”

  “He was a customer of yours?”

  “I had the pleasure of supplying him, yes. I found him somewhat opinionated, of course. I don’t think he agreed with me politically speaking, but I was pleased that he invited me to his house on several occasions.”

  Carolus did not think this the time or the place to ask any more questions and in any case was interrupted by the last and most surprising event of that disturbed occasion. His back was to the door, but he saw Mr. Scotter stiffen. His eyes opened wide and he so far forgot himself, quite literally, that he asked a question.

  “Who’s this?”

  Carolus turned and saw in the doorway a woman in her thirties. She looked either doped or drunk and she was wearing a fur coat and a hat. It seemed that she was a stranger for a silence fell over the room and everyone watched the newcomer.

  “Is she here?” she asked in a loud, dramatic voice. “I want to speak to Elspeth Parador.”

  Elspeth stood up. It was like an old-fashioned play.

  “Henrietta!” she said. “Whatever’s the matter?”

  “As if you didn’t know!”

  Elspeth remained calm and looked somewhat disgusted.

  “Are you drunk?” she asked the woman. They did not approach one another but talked across several people as though unaware of an audience.

  “Yes. I am rather. But I was determined to see you. You drove him to it.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about Felix. I loved him just as much as you. You drove him to it, I said, and I meant it.”

  “I think you had better go away,” said Elspeth with admirable calm.

  “Yes, you can’t come here like this, whoever you are,” said Willy James Dogman, moving towards her.

  Henrietta Ballard ignored him, and addressed Elspeth again.

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know. You introduced us yourself. Where do you think he used to go at night? You made his life hell.”

  “Did he tell you that?” asked Elspeth.

  “No. He believed in you. I supposed you told him he had to leave me?”

  Elspeth lost her calm.

  “I did not know… I hadn’t heard of you for years…” she said rather brokenly.

  “Then you stopped him giving me what he promised. He’s left me without a sou and it’s all your doing!”

  Willy James had reached her now, supported by James Rumble.

  “You must go,” he said. “You can’t come to my house and shout like that”

  “I’ll go,” said Henrietta Ballard. “I’ve said what I want.”

  She turned towards the door.

  “But she’ll hear more from me. Or my s’licitors.”

  It looked as though she was going to stumble through the door but she made it.

  Carolus joined the group round Elspeth. She was being given a brandy and much sympathy.

  “It’s true,” she said tearfully. “I did introduce them … but I’d no idea. I don’t believe it of Felix.”

  “She was drunk,” said Rumble.

  “I know … but she said those things.” Elspeth had been so calm during the attack that the reaction, now that it came, was violent. “I won’t have her saying I drove him to it… my dear old Felix. It’s wicked. And he didn’t leave her without a sou. She was always deceitful, even when I first knew her. I don’t believe Felix used to go… oh it’s too beastly. Chatty, dear, I’m sorry your party’s been upset…”

  “Don’t worry about that, darling,” said Chatty. “What you want is another little drink. Willy James, do give Elspet
h a drink, darling. She just needs a drink.”

  “No, dear. I want to go home. I’m … it was … please let me go home.”

  Chapter Eight

  BUT THAT WAS NOT QUITE THE END OF THE PARTY. CHATTY DOG-man was making vigorous gesticulations to Rupert Priggley and Bunty and they appeared with another tray of food towards which Mr. Hopelady and his wife edged their way. Rumble had taken Elspeth home, but the Thrivers remained and Carolus was with them.

  “Seen any more faces at the window?” he asked Patsy.

  “No. Wasn’t I absurd? I still jump every time I hear a motorbike.”

  “Is that often?”

  “Not up our road. But there are plenty on the main road. One woke me up the other night, just under my window, I thought it was.”

  Thriver called Carolus aside.

  “I suppose that’s the new beneficiary,” he said.

  “Yes, if the will turns up.”

  “Dreadful young woman.”

  “I don’t think she was drunk,” said Carolus. “I was watching her carefully. It may have been marijuana.”

  “Whatever it was she must have had some object in coming here and making a scene. Elspeth was wonderful, I thought. Terrible thing for her. She’s a very plucky woman. Enid, dear, we ought to be going.”

  “Yes, Graham. I’m trying to think where I put my—ah, there they are. Patsy, your father says we must go. It’s not far to walk.”

  “Mumsie, we’ve got the car.”

  They said good night to Chatty who said she was awfully sorry without specifying the cause. Mr. Scotter followed them out Carolus gave him enough time to be out of the way then said his good nights and thanks. Rupert Priggley, after reminding Bunty of their date tomorrow, followed.

  “I’m going to take her primrosing tomorrow,” he told Carolus. “In Langley Wood.”

  “You? Primrosing?”

  “Why not? I like primrosing. Lovely little spring flowers. The trouble with you, sir, is that you have no romance in you.”

  Next morning at breakfast Rupert Priggley had the politeness to ask Carolus what he intended to do.

  “Just odd bits and pieces.”

  “Then I know you’re getting warm. I know those odd bits and pieces of yours. They always lead to the heart of the matter. Who are you going to see?”

  “The vicar, perhaps. Edward Limpole’s garden. That sort of thing. Loose ends, you might say.”

  “I might but I know better. What I want to know is—when is something going to happen?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” said Carolus. “We haven’t been here three days and already you’ve had a man run down by a car, a face peering in at the window of a solicitor’s house, a vicar with an ice-cream rammed down his throat and a woman gate-crashing a party to tell another woman she was being kept by her husband, or something like it. What more do you want?”

  “Murder,” said Priggley, “or what are we wasting our time for?”

  “Oh go primrosing,” said Carolus.

  The vicarage was a modest villa in Manor Lane and its garden looked like a school playground. The door was opened by a fat boy of twelve who was in such a hurry to join some activity out of sight that he interrupted Carolus before he had finished asking for his father and pointed to a door saying, “He’s in there.” Then raised his voice to shout, “COMING!”

  “I’m afraid they’ve no manners,” said Mr. Hopelady, appearing in the doorway. “Do come in. Take a pew. Have a cigar?”

  There was only one in the box and something told Carolus it would explode as soon as it was lit.

  “You don’t mind if I smoke my own? I’m used to them.”

  The vicar was downcast but let it pass.

  “Now what can I do for you?” he asked.

  Carolus gave him the insurance company bit at some length then appealed for his help in clearing up one or two little scraps of information.

  “Of course. Anything I can tell you,” said Mr. Hopelady, who seemed to be having a lot of trouble with his pipe.

  “First about the night on which Felix Parador was … died.”

  “Ye … e … e… s?” said the vicar on two notes, his eyes still on the bowl of his pipe.

  “Did you have occasion to go out that night?”

  “Out? Certainly not. I never go out at night.”

  “By ‘night’, I mean in the late evening.”

  “Certainly not after ten. Never.”

  They were interrupted by the crew of a space ship which had apparently earthed in the garden. But the vicar was equal to it.

  “No! No! I told you!” His voice had an edge to it such as Carolus had only heard when he had complained of Priggley yesterday. “I can’t be an inhabitant of Mars this morning. I’m far too busy.”

  “We’re going to put his car into orbit then,” said an astronaut grimly.

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort,” said the vicar. He went to the door and called his wife, who appeared in a moment but with wet hands. “Willa, I wish you’d not let them play these interstellar games. I’m busy this morning.”

  Willa’s flush deepened.

  “You taught them, dear. They’ve left Elizabeth tied up by the leg in the back garden. She’s got to be twenty minutes in space, they say, and the poor child’s crying her eyes out”

  “I only taught them to keep them out of the house. Matthew! Luke! Ann! What shall I tell them to do?” asked the vicar desperately.

  “Go primrosing,” suggested Carolus. “I’ll give them sixpence a bunch for what they gather in Langley Wood.”

  There was a united screech and the space ship was abandoned.

  “Now where were we?” asked the vicar.

  “You were just saying that you were not out after ten o’clock on the night Felix Parador died,” Carolus reminded him.

  “I said I was never—but wait a minute. There was one night when I was called out to see old Mrs. Grantham.”

  “Yes?” said Carolus watching him intently.

  “Dying, poor soul. Her sister telephoned for me. Twice, in fact. Could it be? Yes, I believe it was the night Parador died.”

  “You went, of course?”

  “Indeed yes. Although she lived five miles out. I was there for an hour the first time and no sooner had I got home than she phoned again. It must have been well past midnight when I finally got to bed.”

  “Did Mrs. Grantham recover?”

  “I fear not. She died two days later. I buried her.”

  “She lived alone with her sister?”

  “She lived quite alone for many years. Her sister had come to nurse her.”

  “Where is the sister now?”

  “Went back to America, I understand. She knew no one here. Except of course, Dr. Sporlott. A splendid fellow, that”

  “I wonder if you noticed anything at all unusual when you were out that night, Mr. Hopelady?”

  “Dear me! Is it as serious as that? Almost an interrogation, one might say. No, I observed nothing.”

  “You were not on speaking terms with Parador, I believe?”

  “You heard last night A ridiculous little dispute. I chanced to have a very lifelike representation of a poisonous snake in my pocket one day when I went to see him. Just a little joke of mine, but unfortunately very lifelike. I did not know that Parador had an absolute terror of snakes of all kinds. His experiences in the East, I daresay. He saw it and really behaved like a lunatic. I tried to explain and picked the thing up, but this made it worse. When he realised the truth he ordered me out of the house. He had no sense of humour, you know.”

  “I see. But he was the godfather of one of your children?”

  “Yes. Mark. No, Matthew.”

  “One other question which will seem to you quite idiotic…”

  “I’m bound to admit I don’t quite see where this is leading. But go on, my dear fellow. I’m quite willing to answer if it is helpful.”

  “I think you called on Mrs. Parador that afternoon.”


  “Which afternoon?”

  “Of the same day. The day you went to Mrs. Grantham’s sick-bed. The day of Parador’s death.”

  “Did I? I may have.”

  Willa Hopelady entered with a tray on which were two cups of pale beige coffee with some arrowroot biscuits. Carolus feared she might join them, but she went out closing the door. Mr. Hopelady had had time to remember.

  “Yes!” he cried. “You’re quite right. It was that afternoon. I called on our dear Elspeth.”

  “Would you mind telling me if you had any particular reason?”

  Carolus thought there was something a little sly on the vicar’s usually innocent face. He seemed to be wondering how much Carolus knew.

  “Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “I had something in mind. I liked calling on Elspeth. We all do. She’s a great favourite in the parish. But I hoped to persuade her to act as peacemaker between me and her husband. It was so ridiculous to keep up a quarrel over nothing. I thought she would be as glad as I to put an end to it”

  “Did she agree?”

  “Oh yes. She said he wouldn’t be coming down that evening but she would talk to him when she had a chance. Unfortunately, as you know, she never had a chance.”

  “What did she mean when she said he had so many calls on him?”

  “Really! You are well-informed. I don’t remember her saying that but it may have referred to something else. It is one of my unfortunate duties to ask for subscriptions for our various local charities. I may have just mentioned some deserving cause.”

  “I see. I’m most grateful to you, Mr. Hopelady …”

  “You haven’t drunk your coffee! My wife won’t forgive me if you spurn our simple hospitality.”

  Carolus made an effort.

  “I have to see Limpole,” he explained.

  “The younger? Ah, yes. He’s at home this week. I hope your efforts are successful And thanks for your ingenuity in thinking of primrosing. I’m afraid you may have more than you bargained for. It depends on the size of the bunches, of course.”

  “It’s raining!” said Carolus as the vicar began to open the front door, then realised that a watering can was spraying water from an upstairs window.

  “Ha! ha!” Mr. Hopelady’s laugh followed Carolus out to his car. “Ha! ha!” he shouted at Carolus’s wet shoulders and head. Even as Carolus took his seat he could still hear it, a mite hysterical, mocking, moronic, ha, ha, ha.