The Department of Dead Ends

by Roy Vickers

  The magenta scarf he placed ‘carelessly’ on the folding-table. The crocodile bag, emptied at The Laurels, he put on the floor near the stove, as if the girl had flung it down after emptying its contents into another bag.

  By midnight, he was back at The Laurels.

  He had brought his tools from the garage and a spade and pick from the adjoining tool shed. He moved the table and chairs from the morning-room into the hall. Then he untacked the carpet in the morning-room and removed some of the floor boards.

  This gave him no serious difficulty – he had finished before one. Below the beams holding the floor-boards he had expected to find soft earth. Instead, he found rubble, evenly spread to a depth of some eighteen inches. Clearing this was extremely laborious: he had to work very slowly because the rubble made a dangerous amount of noise. His courage fluctuated: while he was wielding the spade he was steady: but when he rested, which was often, he would fancy he heard footsteps on the garden path and would climb up and listen, to reassure himself.

  It was half past three before he had cleared a sufficient area. Temporarily exhausted, he went into the kitchen and revived his strength with tea. When he re-started work, with the pick, he realized that his own stamina would be a major factor. Though the house had been built before cement was commonly used for the purpose, the foundations had been well laid and the earth was dry and very hard.

  In an hour his strokes with the pick became feeble. By six o’clock his physical condition resembled that of a boxer who has just managed to keep on his feet for a twenty-round contest. His wrists were numb and his knees were undependable. It was all he could do to hoist himself back onto the floor of the morning-room. As he lay panting he knew that, in his present condition, he could not possibly carry the body and complete his task before eight o’ clock, when Bessie, the daily help, would arrive. If he were to make the attempt and fail he would be worse off than if he were to leave it in the drawing-room.

  He was moving so slowly that when he had replaced everything in the morning-room and re-tacked the carpet with his hammer-head muffled, half past seven was striking.

  Having washed, he went upstairs, got into bed for a minute in order to tumble the bedclothes, then did his best to shave as usual. When he heard Bessie arrive he came down in his dressing-gown.

  The drawing-room door was locked: the blinds were down, as he had left them the previous evening: the french windows giving on to the garden were bolted on the inside. He had only to keep his head and, as Gertrude had promised, everything would be all right.

  ‘Mrs Cummarten,’ he told Bessie, ‘has had to go to her mother who has been taken ill. If you’ll get me some breakfast, that’ll be all. You can have another day off.’

  ‘All right, sir!’ Bessie was not overjoyed. After Sunday and the holiday on Monday there would be arrears of cleaning which would have to be made up later. ‘But I’d better do the drawing-room before I go.’

  ‘You can’t,’ said Cummarten. ‘It is locked and Mrs Cummarten has evidently taken the key with her.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter,’ returned Bessie. ‘The key of the morning-room fits.’

  To keep his head was the first essential. But what was the use if you couldn’t think of things quickly, not being that sort of man.

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t, Bessie.’ With sudden misinspiration, he added: ‘Before Mrs Cummarten left yesterday morning she started to clean the china. She had to break off to catch her train – and she left the pieces all over the floor. She asked me to keep the room locked.’

  Bessie stumped off to the kitchen. She heard him remove the keys from the morning-room and the dining-room. Knowing that something was being kept from her, she went into the garden and tried to look through the edges of the blind, but without seeing anything except part of a cushion from the settee lying on the floor.

  Instead of leaving for the office at nine-fifteen, Cummarten stayed on in the morning-room, so that she could not clean it. Bessie left at ten. But before going home, she stepped across the road to The Cedars to tell her friend, who was help to Mrs Evershed, all about the locked drawing-room and the nonsense about the china being on the floor.

  Cummarten was dozing in his chair at eleven when Mrs Evershed knocked at the front door.

  ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you, Mr Cummarten – I thought you’d be at the office. Can I have a word with Gertrude if she isn’t busy?’

  ‘Sorry, but she’s in Ealing looking after her mother. I don’t suppose it’s anything much, but the doctor says the old lady had better stay in bed for a bit. Don’t know when Gertrude will be back.’

  Mrs Evershed delivered the usual polite platitudes, and then:

  ‘Did she leave a message for me about Thursday? She said she’d know for certain by Monday night.’

  ‘I haven’t seen her since yesterday morning,’ said Cummarten.

  ‘Oh!’ said Mrs Evershed, who was amongst those who had seen Gertrude return, ‘I thought she was coming home last night.’

  ‘She was, but she didn’t. On her way back from Brighton she stopped off at Ealing, then phoned me that she would stay there.’

  Bessie’s friend had already repeated to Mrs Evershed the tale of the locked drawing-room. Mrs Evershed carried the tale to others. Before noon, there were two more callers for Gertrude, who received from Cummarten the same explanation.

  During the afternoon he was left in peace and slept in his chair until nine. By midnight he was at work again on the grave. He was more careful of his strength this time and completed his task by four. The remains of Isabel and the contents of her crocodile bag and of the suitcase he had brought from the flatlet were buried four feet in the earth, with another eighteen inches of rubble on top. The floor boards and the furniture were replaced.

  In the drawing-room, the dozen odd pieces of china had been moved from the cabinet and placed on the floor, to give substance to the tale told to Bessie. Cummarten bathed, went to bed and slept until Bessie called him.

  At breakfast he was surprised at his own freshness. ‘I must be as strong as a horse, when I’m put to it,’ he reflected with pride. That he had killed Isabel Redding ranked in his mind as a tragic misfortune, over which he must not allow himself to brood. He had a moral duty to Gertrude and, so far, had made a pretty good job of it, as Gertrude herself would have to admit.

  When he arrived at the office he decided to ring Gertrude and let her know that the coast was clear – was about to do so when his secretary came in.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Kyle; has Miss Redding been in to collect her belongings?’

  ‘I have not seen Miss Redding since Friday last,’ replied Miss Kyle with some hauteur, ‘and her belongings are still here.’

  ‘She came to my house on Monday and made it clear she would not be working for us any more. I fear,’ he added, ‘that Miss Redding has not been a success in this office.’

  Miss Kyle, who was well aware of their intimacy, said nothing.

  Having dealt with his mail, he rang his mother-in-law’s flat in Ealing, but could get no answer. He tried again before going out to lunch and again when he returned. Then he rang the porter of the flats – to learn that Mrs Massell, his mother-in-law, had gone away for the week-end, had not yet come back and that the flat was therefore empty.

  ‘Has Mrs Cummarten – my wife – been to you to make enquiries?’

  ‘No, sir, there’ve been no enquiries for Mrs Massell since she went away last Friday.’

  Cummarten replaced the receiver and found himself badly at a loss.

  ‘Then where on earth is Gertrude?’

  Chapter Four

  Others were already asking that question – including Mrs Massell herself. On her way back from a long week-end at Salisbury she had stopped off at Thadham to have a chat with her daughter. Arriving after Bessie had left, she was unable to obtain admission to the house. Mrs Evershed popped out of The Cedars. Explanations were being exchanged in the front garden of The Laurels when
Cummarten himself appeared …

  ‘That’s what Gertrude told me on the telephone,’ said Cummarten doggedly.

  ‘But she knew I had gone to Salisbury!’

  ‘I’m not saying what she knew. I’m saying what she told me.’

  His mother-in-law walked him, by the sidepath, to the garden at the back of the house.

  ‘You said all that because that Evershed woman was listening. Where is Gertrude?’

  ‘I don’t know! That’s the maddening part of it!’ cried Cummarten in genuine exasperation.

  ‘When did you last see her?’

  ‘Monday morning when she was going off to Mabel’s.’ He added a flourish: ‘At least, that’s where she said she was going.’

  Mrs Massell gave him a hostile stare.

  ‘Look here, Alfred, it’s no use your trying to hint that she has run off with a lover. She’s not that kind and wouldn’t need to run when she could easily divorce you, as I happen to know, though you may have thought I didn’t. If she has disappeared, something has happened. She may have lost her memory, like those people you hear about on the radio every night. Or she may have met with an accident – she might even have been murdered, for all you know or seem to care.’

  A long, bitter laugh broke from him, which angered her further.

  ‘You may not care much about her, but I warn you that you will find yourself in a very awkward position if anything has happened to her and you doing nothing about it.’

  ‘But what can I do?’

  ‘Come straight to the police with me and start inquiries.’

  ‘That’s no good!’ he said sulkily. ‘The police will take no notice.’

  ‘Then I am going myself,’ said Mrs Massell and promptly went.

  Chapter Five

  In the Crippen case, the very similar lies were exposed within a few days of the murder. Nevertheless, six months passed before the police were able to take even the preliminary steps. But Crippen had no mother-in-law, nor did he employ domestic help.

  Mrs Evershed’s maid, in whom Bessie had confided, was being courted by a young constable, to whom she passed Bessie’s tale and Mrs Evershed’s comments. This she did to entertain the young man, not with any idea of informing the police as such – for even at this stage there was no suspicion that a crime had been committed, in spite of the locked drawing-room.

  But everyone’s sense of proportion was shattered by the arrival of Mrs Massell. When she was seen to enter the local police headquarters there was hardly anyone in the neighbourhood who was not ready to believe that Cummarten had murdered his wife. In drawing-rooms, in gardens, at the local tennis club, the case of Crippen was recalled, the younger generation tactfully pretending they had not heard it all before.

  If the police did not jump to that conclusion, they would seem to have toyed with it. By half past nine, when he went to The Laurels, Superintendent Hoylock had tapped all sources and primed himself with every available fact, even to the details of Isabel Redding’s magenta scarf and crocodile bag. He wanted, he told Cummarten, confirmation of Mrs Massell’s statement, before he could ask the BBC to broadcast an inquiry.

  Cummarten took him into the dining-room, which was rarely used. He heard his mother-in-law’s statement read and nodded confirmation of each item, inwardly fearing that Gertrude would be very angry at having her name called on the radio.

  ‘When did you last see Mrs Cummarten?’

  ‘About the middle of Monday morning – before she went to Brighton.’

  Superintendent Hoylock folded the statement and returned it to his pocket.

  ‘Mr Cummarten, your wife was seen to enter this house within a few minutes of nine o’ clock on Monday night.’

  It had not yet dawned on Cummarten that he was in immediate danger of anything but Gertrude’s wrath. He looked positively angry.

  ‘It’s all Gertrude’s fault for not telling me where she’s gone!’ he blurted out spontaneously. In spite of what Gertrude had said, he would now have to admit that she had returned on the Monday night. His anger stimulated him to a certain ingenuity in adapting the story which Gertrude had concocted.

  ‘I’d better begin at the beginning, Superintendent. A young lady I employ at my office – a Miss Isabel Redding – came to see us in the afternoon. She has been here often – spent several week-ends. She looked on us almost as relations. Lately, my wife became jealous, and everything was – well, not so pleasant as it used to be. Isabel came down to talk it all over. She waited until my wife came home. Words passed, and you may say there was a bit of a row. Soon we all calmed down and I drove the girl back to her flatlet. When I got back here – must have been about midnight – my wife had gone. Next morning the neighbours asked where she was. I wasn’t going to tell ’ em what I’ve been telling you, so I told ’em the first thing that came into my head. My wife may have walked out on me for all I know.’

  The story held up under Hoylock’s questions, because it covered all the facts known to him – with one exception.

  ‘With one thing and another, Mr Cummarten, you’ve set people talking their heads off. There’s a tale about something funny in your drawing-room –’

  ‘That must be Bessie, our maid,’ said Cummarten. ‘You see, after breakfast on Monday, before my wife left for Brighton, she thought she’d clean the china –’

  ‘So I heard,’ interrupted Hoylock. ‘It wouldn’t do any harm to let me see that room.’

  Cummarten produced a number of keys from his pocket, unlocked the drawing-room door. The Superintendent saw drawn blinds, and a litter of china on the floor – also on the floor, near the window, a cushion.

  ‘Shows what people will say!’ remarked the Superintendent. ‘Now I’ll tell you what we’ll do. If nothing develops by tomorrow morning, we’ll put it up to the BBC. People really do get lapses of memory sometimes when they’re upset. Good night, Mr Cummarten. Don’t you worry! We’ll stop people talking!’

  Talking! What were they saying?

  Why, of course! Why hadn’t he seen it before! They were saying that he had murdered Gertrude!

  And what did they think he had done with her body?

  Buried it under the floor boards?

  Chapter Six

  On Thursday, as Cummarten was about to leave the office for lunch, Superintendent Hoylock turned up, in plain clothes.

  ‘Miss Redding might be able to help us find your wife,’ he said. ‘Can I have a word with her?’

  Cummarten explained. He was pleased when Hoylock asked for her address, because he wanted the police to ‘discover’ the magenta scarf and the crocodile bag.

  ‘It’s a bit difficult to find. It’ll save your time if I take you there.’

  Outside the flatlet, Hoylock pointed to three milk bottles with the seals unbroken.

  ‘Tuesday, Wednesday, and this morning!’ he remarked and rapped on the door. ‘Looks as if we shan’t get an answer.’

  Cummarten indicated that he was not surprised, and added: ‘I have a key – she used to like me to have one.’

  Inside the flatlet, the Superintendent behaved, as Cummarten hoped he would, by immediately noticing. the magenta scarf on the folding table.

  ‘Is that the one she was wearing on Monday afternoon?’

  ‘Let’s have a look! Yes, that’s the one all right.’

  Hoylock’s eye travelled to the crocodile bag lying on the floor near the stove.

  ‘Wonder why she hasn’t taken her bag with her!’

  ‘She had more than one.’ Cummarten picked up the bag and displayed the empty interior. ‘She evidently shifted her money and whatnots to another bag.’

  ‘So she’s disappeared too!’ exclaimed Hoylock. ‘That’s what I call a most peculiar coincidence!’

  ‘Not much coincidence in it, really!’ said Cummarten quickly. ‘When I was up here with her on Monday night she said she was going straight off to a feller.’

  ‘There and then? Without telling the man she was coming?’
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br />   ‘I didn’t believe it any more than you,’ said Cummarten. ‘She started packing things before I left, but I thought she was putting on an act.’

  ‘What’s the man’s name?’

  ‘Don’t know. She used to refer to him as “Len”. I saw him hanging about outside once. Tall, dark chap, thick eyebrows and sidewhiskers. Like a Spaniard. Sort o’ chap who appeals to women. Probably a dancing partner by profession.’

  Hoylock made a note of the description. Next, he opened the wardrobe, then the drawers of the dressing-table. Cummarten wished he would ask if there were anything missing from the dressing-table. But Hoylock said the wrong thing.

  ‘She didn’t take much with her, did she!’

  ‘There was very little room in her one suitcase,’ said Cummarten, ‘because she had to take her dressing-table set- brushes, combs, scent bottles – eight pieces in all. I saw her packing them.’

  ‘What! All that junk when she’d only got one suitcase! You’d think she’d leave that sort of thing till she came back for her clothes and furniture.’

  ‘It was a very valuable set,’ explained Cummarten. ‘A present from myself – with my wife’s approval, of course! It was real tortoiseshell. I paid Perriere’s a hundred guineas for it.’

  ‘A hundred guineas!’ Hoylock was impressed and elaborated his notes.

  Everything, thought Cummarten, was going just right, though he wondered why Hoylock was showing such detailed interest in Isabel’s movements.

  ‘Miss Redding,’ he said, ‘is certain to turn up in a few days to collect her things. Is it your idea, Superintendent, that she and my wife have gone off together?’

  ‘I don’t say they have. But I do say that if Mrs Cummarten doesn’t turn up after the radio appeal we shall have to find this girl.’

  Superintendent Hoylock returned to Thadham to file a detailed report – Cummarten to his office to spend the afternoon wondering what had happened to Gertrude.