Dead Man's Quarry

by Ianthe Jerrold

  “But it’s such a rum subject of conversation for people who’re just passing the time of day! ‘Good morning. Nice day. Looks like rain. Do you know Mr. J. Hufton? He is in the habit of taking what isn’t his’n.’ I mean to say, Miss Browning, is it likely?” Nora half laughed, half frowned.

  “No. But—one never knows what people may talk about! Why didn’t you ask Isabel where she heard it?”

  “I did, practically. She started picking wild strawberries.”

  “Picking strawberries! Whatever for?”

  “Partly, I thought, but that may be merely my low, suspicious mind, to give herself time to recover from a faux pas. And then she said it might have been one of the servants.”

  “Well, of course, so it might,” said Nora slowly.

  She looked uncertainly and rather coldly at John. “But Mr. Christmas, if—”

  “I know just what you’re going to say. You’re going to say: ‘Isabel is a great friend of mine, and if aspersions are cast on her good faith, I’m off.’ Aren’t you?”

  “Something of the kind.”

  “But we can’t turn every line of investigation into a cul-de-sac as soon as we find one of our friends standing on it, can we? Our business is to find out whether Mr. James Hufton purloined the notes and ring, and incidentally what grounds there are for supposing he might have done. We must verify the things we hear, even the things we hear from our friends. Remember, Miss Browning, we’re trying to save a man from being brought to trial for a murder we firmly believe he’s not guilty of. We can’t afford to take anything on trust.”

  “All right,” said Nora simply. “I understand. Oh, what asters! I love asters, don’t you?”

  “I do. All great detectives have simple, rural tastes. Sherlock Holmes kept bees. Sergeant Cuff grew roses. I, when I retire, shall cultivate the simple aster. Let’s go and ask if we may pick some, for a consideration.”

  “Oh, no! There’s lots of them at home!”

  “Yes, really. One must start a conversation somehow. This,” said John, shutting off the engine, “is where our investigations start.”

  They walked up the narrow brick path.

  “‘Ginger-beer, Lemonade, Licensed to sell Tobacco,’” read Nora from a board painted above the door. “Let’s have some ginger-beer instead. I feel thirsty. Besides, it gives one an excuse for lingering.”

  “Awfully sorry, but the cottage is let to a lady with a soul above ginger-beer. You’ll see.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  SORROWS OF A LANDLORD

  “No, young gentleman, I doesn’t allow nobody to help theirselves to my hasters. They be all I got left to show for the work my nephew put into the garden back in the spring. What with the raspberries all ate, and the beans all picked and the flowers all scratted about and the weeds a-growing as tall as houses, I bain’t hardly sure if this be my garden I left so trim, or no. So, young gentleman, it bain’t no use a-talking to I about picking flowers, and a-jingling of the money in your pockets. Your young lady must just make do with buttercups. And I must bid you good morning, for the place inside is in that state like you never saw, nor you, miss, and I can’t rest till it’s put to rights, no, not if my daughter-in-law has twenty times twins.”

  She did not, however, immediately shut the door, but lingered on the step, blinking ferociously in the strong sunlight, a hand grimed and shrivelled with floorscrubbing held above her eyes. Her large bosom, draped with layers of aprons, heaved with the immense, eternal grievance of the landlord against his tenant.

  “Port drunk in bed,” she exclaimed tragically, heedless of John’s murmured condolence, “and Prince Albert smashed in four pieces. That’s what’s been going on here, young master, while my daughter-in-law was a-giving of birth to twins.”

  John produced a guttural sound meant to indicate sympathy.

  “Yes,” said the old woman with enormous emphasis. “That’s what I find, master, and that’s why I say never, no, never shall London ladies set foot in my cottage again, not though I’ve a daughter in Walton and one in Hereford, and a daughter-in-law down Wensley, and two in Australia, and likely to be called away any time.”

  “Yes,” agreed John faintly.

  Nora came to his rescue.

  “And how are the twins going on?”

  The light of battle dimmed somewhat in the old woman’s eye.

  “Fine, thank you, miss, though both girls, making five in all. Drat these girls, that’s what I say, they’re that stubborn in coming where they’re not wanted! There’s my daughter in Walton has four fine boys and three girls, all nicely mixed. But with my daughter-in-law it’s nothing but girls, poor woman!” The natural inferiority of daughters-in-law to daughters was nicely indicated in the patronizing pity of her voice. “But there!” she added. “If the Lord sends girls, He’ll send husbands for them!”

  John judged it time to re-awaken the landlord in the grandmother.

  “I’m very sorry you had such bad luck with your tenant,” he remarked sympathetically. “I’ve seen her about. She didn’t look the sort of person to be a bad tenant.”

  “All persons is bad tenants,” replied the landlord briefly. “Though some is worse.”

  “I knew her slightly,” went on John. “In fact, we called here the other day. A Mrs. Sinclair, wasn’t she, from Hampstead?”

  “I dunno where she come from, but Field’s the name she goes by.”

  “Yes, of course,” said John with duplicity. “How stupid of me! I thought she was going to stay longer than this.”

  “So her was. Her took the cottage by the week, meaning to stay a month, her said. But thank the Lord in His goodness her niece were took ill in London, and her went home when a week was up. Went home yesterday, her did, and sent a note to I by postman that her was off. So I come to look over the place, and Prince Albert and port spilled on the sheets and the bed not so much as made up is what I finds. And wet stockings hung up over the chiny textses, and to crown all a note will I send them on when they be dry? I’m not one to keep another’s stockings, not even to defray expenses, so send them on I will, though the address I don’t know, only the agents in Hereford.”

  “She took the cottage through an agent?”

  “Eade & Mainspring of Hereford, they took the cottage for she, her wanting one in these parts and not many to be had. And a good rent her paid, I will say that, but not enough to defray damages and all the raspberries and garden stuff pulled about like ’tis. Five pounds a week her paid. Five pounds when her come in, in advance like, and five pounds her left I for notice in the table drawer.”

  John, who did not think there was any more information to be had from this outraged house-owner, was about to make his adieux when she added in an aggrieved tone:

  “But I’d ruther have had the money more ordinarylike. ’Taint easy to get change for these foreign-looking notes, though they say the post office’ll change them.” And inserting a grimy hand bearing two large wedding-rings into the bosom of her inmost apron she drew out a worn leather purse. Opening it cautiously, as if she thought its contents might jump out and bite, she picked from its recesses and held gingerly out to John a folded five-pound note.

  It was all John could do not to seize it out of her hand. Glancing at Nora, he saw in her look the reflection of his own wild surmise.

  “Ah!” he murmured nonchalantly, and nonchalantly took the note and spread it out. “A five-pound note. It’s perfectly all right, you know. No reason why anybody shouldn’t be perfectly willing to change it.”

  Its owner looked at it with mingled affection and distrust.

  “I never had one before but once,” she said, “and a rare job I had to get Mr. Miller up at shop to change it.”

  “Mrs. Field didn’t pay her first week’s rent with a bank-note, then?”

  “No. I ent seen one of these but once, and that was when old master give I one for a silver-wedding present.”

  “Well, it’s quite all right,” said John reassuringly
. He added in a careless tone:“I’ll change it for you now, if you like.”

  She seemed to hesitate, and for a moment John feared that her pride in this rare possession might outweigh her dubiety. He took his note-case from his pocket, and counted out five clean one-pound notes. The old woman hesitated no longer, but plumped for safety.

  “Well!” said Nora excitedly, as they left the landlord among the terra-cotta ruins of Prince Albert and returned to the car. She added immediately:“But of course it may not be one of those bank-notes. Shall we go back and see whether Felix has got the numbers? Or shall we go on and see Hufton while we’re here?”

  “I think we’ll go to Hereford,” replied John, getting into the car, “and interview Messrs. Eade & Mainspring. Mr. Hufton can wait, perhaps for ever. After all, we had nothing against him except the fact that Isabel said he was a thief. This may be a perfectly innocent five-pound note. But quite apart from the note, this Mrs. Field may prove, I think, to be an interesting person.”

  “Why?”

  “Well,” said John, starting the car up Rodland Hill, “wait a second while I get my thoughts clear about her. By the way, did that old lady’s remark about raspberries convey any idea to you?”

  “No.”

  “No, I suppose not. You weren’t here the other day when your young brother Lion accused Isabel of having pinched raspberries out of the garden.”

  “What, when she disappeared, you mean, after coming down the hill? She said they were wild ones. And anyhow, Mr. Christmas, really, Isabel wouldn’t do a thing like that. Lion was only joking.”

  “Yes,” agreed John meekly. “I think he was.”

  “But,” went on Nora sternly, “do you mean to say that you think Isabel ”

  “No, oh, no! I don’t think she pinched them. But never mind that, Miss Browning, it’s only a side-issue at present. Now, about Mrs. Field: firstly, I’ve seen her, and she didn’t look at all the sort of person who would enjoy pigging it by herself in a primitive cottage in a remote part of the country.”

  “That’s nothing. You can’t tell what a person will enjoy.”

  “Nothing by itself, of course. But all these little things mount up. Secondly, she was anxious to get a cottage in this part of the country and employed an agent to find her one.”

  “Well? It may have had associations for her, or she may have had friends living in the district, or anything.”

  “Quite. I like your commonsense comments, Miss Browning, they help to clear the air. Please continue them. Thirdly, she departed in a hurry three days after the murder, on the day of the inquest.”

  “Her niece was taken ill.”

  “So she said. But of course she would have to say something. Fourthly, Morris Price has a wife, who, although she hasn’t been seen by his relatives for twenty years, is still, as it were, extant.”

  “I know,” said Nora slowly. “She was a barmaid or something, and ran away. But you can’t mean that this Mrs. Field is Mr. Price’s wife! Or can you? Did she look like a barmaid?”

  John laughed.

  “Dear me, this barmaid legend! How it crops up! You’ll notice, Miss Browning, that whenever a man makes a mésalliance, rumour has it that it’s with a barmaid. Though heaven knows there aren’t enough barmaids to go round. No, no. Miss Blodwen told me that she was an hotel-keeper’s daughter. And after all, there are hotels and hotels. No need for her to have served in the bar. I gathered from Miss Blodwen that she was a very presentable and rather awe-inspiring lady. Fifthly, there was a visitor at Rhyllan Hall—”

  John recounted the story which he had heard from Mrs. Maur.

  “Oh!” said Nora when he had finished. “Well, I’ve got no commonsense comment to make on that! It does sound suspicious, doesn’t it? And of course if she were Morris Price’s wife and meant to make it up with her husband, there would be a motive, wouldn’t there, for the murder?” She paused a moment, as the first houses of Hereford came in sight and John slowed down to pass a large flock of sheep which were moving in mass formation from the town under the command of a small collie and a man on horseback. “Oh, Mr. Christmas! I’ve just thought: mightn’t Mr. Price’s business in Hereford on the day of the murder, that he won’t tell anybody about, have something to do with her?”

  “Good for you, Miss Watson,” said John approvingly.

  “It might. Oh, blow! Can’t this man control his sheep? He seems to want them run over! It’s a funny thing, but whenever I motor through a town it’s always market day. I vote we run the car into a garage and venture on foot among these horned monsters and savage drovers. Don’t you? And we can inquire after Messrs. Eade & Mainspring at the same time.”

  Eade & Mainspring, House-Agents, Valuers and Surveyors, had their offices in a pleasant old stucco house fronting on the main street of the town. Its interior had an agreeably deserted air after the jostle of the market street. A young clerk sat on the edge of a large pedestal desk at the end of a long, dim room, looking contemplatively at the ceiling with the air of a shipwrecked mariner watching the sky for signs of storm. As Nora appeared he engineered himself into his chair with one supple, practised movement, and began to make play among the numerous ledgers on the desk, frowning the frown of the busy and humming the tune of the slightly embarrassed. He was a little disappointed to find that these two promising clients did not require to buy a mansion nor even to lease a cottage.

  “Mrs. Field?” he murmured, examining the tip of a pen-holder with minute care. “Yes, I remember, sir. The lady who took a cottage near Wensley. Rather out of our line, leasing cottages for short periods, but the lady was so anxious to have one near Penlow that we were glad to oblige. Though the only cottage available was a good deal farther from Penlow than she wanted. About eight miles this side, wasn’t it? Sheepshanks Cottage, yes. Queer name.” And the young man smoothed back his glossy hair and appeared to contemplate from his urban height the grotesque place-names of rusticity.

  “Her address? Yes, of course, we have her address—in our books.” His tone indicated that extracting the address from their books would be a matter of great difficulty. He hesitated. “Pardon me, sir, we have found it wiser to make a rule not to give our clients’ addresses, except to—except when—except in matters of great urgency.”

  “This is a matter of great urgency. She’s been called home suddenly, owing to illness, and hasn’t left me her address.”

  “Perhaps, sir, you had better see our Mr. Mainspring.”

  “Certainly. Where is he?”

  “At the moment he is away. But if you care to call to-morrow morning ”

  “Let me see your Mr. Eade.”

  The young man assumed the slightly hurt and sorrowful expression suitable to the occasion.

  “Our Mr. Eade, sir, is not an active partner. He is, in fact—ah! dead.”

  “Then,” said John firmly, “I’m afraid you’ll have to take the responsibility of giving me that address. I must have it. Come now, do I look perfectly respectable or do I not? I’ll stand with my face to the light, so that you can have a good look at me.”

  “Oh, yes! Oh, yes!” murmured the clerk in an agony of deprecation. “It isn’t that at all, sir. But ”

  “But a rule is a rule, eh? I know. I make it a rule always to have my own way. Come on! It’s somewhere in Kensington, isn’t it?”

  With a subdued sigh, the young man turned over the leaves of a large book.

  “8a Featherstone Terrace, W.8,” he uttered hopelessly, as one whose soul is lost. “Mrs. Margaret Field, 8a Featherstone Terrace, W.8.” He gently closed the tome and looked sadly at his persecutor. “Shall I write it down?” he asked, completing his damnation.

  “Please. Thank you. Well, good afternoon! When I want to buy an estate in Herefordshire I’ll certainly come to you.”

  The young man smoothed his shining locks, smiled a pensive, sceptical smile and opened the door.

  “Ornamental creature, wasn’t he?” said John, as he and Nora turned down the
narrow pavement. “But too docile to rise high in his profession. He’ll never be the Emperor of Estate-Agents. Hullo! What is it, Miss Browning? Aren’t you glad we’ve got one step nearer to the elusive Mrs. Field?”

  “I don’t know,” said Nora in a subdued manner. She had gone rather pale, and as they approached a crossing was about to step in front of a large motor-lorry when John grabbed her by the arm. Her eyes had a vague, stern look.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I didn’t notice it.”

  They crossed, arm in arm.

  “I say!” murmured John, stopping a little way up the quiet side-street to look at her pale face. “Is it the heat?”

  He had a sister who was, to put it euphemistically, not a good traveller, and he recognized that pensive, remote and other-worldly look as a familiar presage of disaster.

  “No,” said Nora with a pale smile. “It’s all right. I’m not going to be sick. I’m just—rather surprised.”

  “Whatever at?”

  Nora looked up at him solemnly.

  “That address.”

  “Mrs. Field’s?”

  “Isabel’s. I don’t think I like being a detective.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  POSSIBLE MURDERERS

  “I suppose,” said John, making a neat parcel of three banana-skins and several paper bags and handing it to Nora to put in the basket, “that Mrs. Margaret Field, Clytie Meadows and Isabel’s aunt are one and the same person. Let’s see where it leads us.”

  It was the morning of the day following the visit to Hereford, and John, feeling a need to discuss his discoveries with Rampson far from the dangers of doors, walls and windows, had suggested a trip to Radnor Forest. True to her compact, Blodwen did not offer to come; but she would have come, John knew, had he asked her. He did not do so. He felt a strong desire to get away from the Prices and the Price point of view for a time. Their close connection with the murder introduced an emotional note that was fatal to impartial discussion. Besides, to the impersonal investigator that a detective should study to be, Blodwen herself was a possible suspect. She had been out in her car on the afternoon of the murder; and there was no witness to confirm her statement that she had celebrated her return to her native land by joyously touring the roads from one beloved landmark to another. Yes, on the whole it was better not to admit the Prices to these conclaves. Blodwen was a possible suspect, and Felix, though he had stiffened to a more cheerful frame of mind since his interview with the bank manager, was a youth of that uncertain and impulsive temperament that can never quite be trusted to be discreet.