The front door opened again. Carrington came out, paused, felt his head, went back for his hat, came out once more and joined Jack at the car.
‘It’s awfully good of you to take me,’ he said, climbing in over the side. ‘I’ve never actually learned how to drive.’
‘Haven’t you?’ asked Jack, pulling away from the kerb. ‘I bet you know more about engines than I do, though.’
‘The theory, perhaps,’ agreed Carrington, diplomatically. ‘I wish my uncle was interested in science,’ he added in a worried way. ‘It’s hard to think what we can possibly have in common. I hope he’s not going to be difficult,’ he added, his worry visibly increasing. ‘I sent him a telegram to say we were coming but he’s never met me and he might resent my turning up with a complete stranger. Perhaps I should have gone by myself. That didn’t occur to me.’
‘As a matter of fact, I’ve got an introduction,’ said Jack, to whom it had occurred. ‘You know I said I thought my Aunt Alice had mentioned a Colonel Willoughby? One of her old friends is a Reverend Colthurst, who knew your uncle out in India.’
Now this was true, but, until last night, Jack had been unaware of the Reverend Colthurst’s existence. He’d telephoned Aunt Alice and asked her if she knew anyone who might have been in India at the same time as Colonel Willoughby. As the whole point of his journey was to see the Colonel together with Carrington, he didn’t want to spend his time in Stonecrop Ash kicking his heels in the parlour while Carrington had a tête-à-tête with his uncle. Aunt Alice phoned back less than half an hour later with the name and necessary biographical details of a Samuel Colthurst, now retired and living in the next parish but two, who had been an army chaplain. ‘I’ve been instructed to convey Mr Colthurst’s good wishes and sympathies.’
Carrington’s face cleared. ‘That’s just as well. At least it’ll give us something to talk about.’
‘Was your uncle in India for a long time?’
‘Most of his life. From what Steve tells me, this country doesn’t suit him. He only came back a year or so ago and went down with severe bronchitis almost immediately. He almost bought it then. He recovered, but it left him terribly weak and more or less confined to the house. It’s a rotten shame, because I gather he’d been a very active, out-of-doors type. There was this horrible attack, too.’ He sucked his cheeks in. ‘I’m glad I’ve made the effort to see him. It sounds as if the poor old beggar might not have long left.’
Colonel Willoughby’s house looked as though it was on parade. It stood up to attention, a smart brick box of a bungalow on the outskirts of the village, with a shining black-painted door and window frames, set squarely at the end of a gravel path flanked by rows of regimented flowers.
No doubt it was far pleasanter and more convenient to live in than the straggling, wriggly-roofed houses of Stonecrop Ash proper but there was no doubt which was nicer to look at. Sentimentalist, Jack told himself as he and Gerry Carrington opened the gate and walked down the path. It’s just a pity it didn’t seem possible to combine the picturesque with modern drainage.
Taking a deep breath, Carrington raised the highly brassoed doorknocker. ‘Mrs Tierney?’ he asked, raising his hat to the white-aproned, comfortable-looking woman who answered the door. ‘I’m Gerry Carrington and this is Major Haldean. I sent you a telegram.’
Her face fell. ‘Mr Carrington?’ She ran her tongue round her lips. ‘I . . . I don’t know how to tell you this, I’m sure, but I showed your telegram to the Colonel and he said he wasn’t going to see you, not no how.’ She had a soft, Irish voice which was a delight to listen to. Honest distress showed on her face at Carrington’s crestfallen expression. ‘He didn’t approve of your little bit of trouble, sir.’ That was, thought Jack, a tactful way of referring to an arrest for murder. ‘I’m terribly sorry.’
A bell jangled in the hall behind her. Mrs Tierney looked utterly distracted. ‘That’s the Colonel wanting to know who’s here, I expect.’
‘Look,’ said Jack kindly. ‘Why don’t you let us step into the hall for a moment while you go and see what it is the Colonel wants? You could say I’ve got a message for him from Mr Samuel Colthurst. I believe he knew him in India. If he really won’t see us, we’ll trundle off nice and quietly.’
The bell jangled again. ‘Well . . . if you would just step inside,’ said Mrs Tierney with a glance over her shoulder. ‘I can’t see that’s going to hurt.’
‘This is a turn-up for the books,’ said Carrington quietly after her departing figure. ‘I am sorry, Haldean. I didn’t think the old man would take it like this.’
‘It’s a bit rough on you, I must say.’ Voices, muffled by the distance and a shut door, came to them. ‘Someone sounds upset. Hello, here’s Mrs Tierney again.’
She walked towards them, smoothing down her apron. ‘I told the Colonel you were here,’ she said quietly, ‘and he says if you’ve got a message from Mr Colthurst he’d better hear it and you’re to go in, please? But he’s not happy, sir. You know he’s ill?’
‘That’s partly why I’m here,’ said Carrington.
‘Well, you will remember that, won’t you, sir? You’ll have to make allowances for him. He’s had a very bad time.’
‘We’ll remember,’ promised Carrington and, with a grimace at Haldean, followed in Mrs Tierney’s footsteps to the end of the hall and into the bedroom.
Colonel Willoughby was sitting up in a stiff-backed winged armchair. He had a white military moustache and fierce blue eyes. Jack was irresistibly reminded of being summoned to the Headmaster’s Study. ‘Which one’s Carrington, eh? That’ll be all, Mrs Tierney.’
Carrington waited until the door closed behind her. ‘I am, Uncle.’
The old man winced. ‘Never thought I’d hear you say that. Come closer, boy!’ Carrington stepped up to the chair. The Colonel drew his breath in. ‘Yes . . . You’ve got a look about you I recognize.’
Jack froze. He couldn’t help it. Carrington, however, seemed unperturbed.
‘I’ve always been told I take after my mother.’
‘So you do,’ said the Colonel thoughtfully. ‘Yes, that’s it.’
Was it really just a family resemblance the Colonel had seen or was there more? Carrington could have been prepared for this, but his manner seemed entirely natural.
‘Edith was a stubborn girl,’ continued Colonel Willoughby. ‘Still, she made her bed and she had to lie on it. What d’you want with me, eh? Money?’
Carrington flushed. ‘Certainly not.’
‘Really? Because you’re not getting any. Everything I have goes with me, young man, so if you were looking for rich pickings, you’d better look elsewhere. I’ve told Stephen as much. I’m not having anyone think I’m trying to buy attention. There’ll be nothing for a pack of relatives to squabble over, take my word for it.’
Carrington drew himself up to his full height and for a moment looked as fierce as his uncle. His fists clenched, then he swallowed, pausing before he spoke. ‘I think we’d better leave. I appreciated your letter on the death of my father, sir, and would like to apologize for not replying. I’m sorry that you misinterpreted my motives for coming and I’m sorry to have bothered you. We’ll leave you in peace. Come on, Haldean.’
The old man looked at him and nodded. ‘You looked exactly like Edith then. She had a temper, too. I shouldn’t have said that. My apologies. Sit down. Please. Got yourself mixed up with the police, didn’t you? I don’t like the idea of a member of my family being involved in that sort of thing. Stephen wrote to me about it. I’m glad to see you’re out of prison at any rate.’ He turned his gaze to Jack. ‘Major Haldean?’ Unconsciously Jack stood to full attention. The Colonel’s voice, although weak, held exactly the same intonation as he’d heard on the barrack square. ‘I believe you’re acquainted with an old friend of mine.’
‘Yes, sir. Mr Colthurst. He’s a neighbour of my aunt, Lady Rivers. He sends you his good wishes and trusts you will enjoy a speedy recovery.’
Colonel Willoughby acknowledged the familiar name with a nod. ‘I think there’s little chance of that,’ he grunted. ‘He always did hope for the best. Comes of being a parson, I suppose. I haven’t got much time for parsons as a general rule, but Colthurst wasn’t a bad chap. How’re those daughters of his?’
‘Married with children, sir.’
‘He’ll like that. Being a grandfather will suit him. Is he in good health?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Tell him I appreciate his concern. Obliged, sir.’ He looked at Carrington once more. ‘So you’re young Gerard, are you? If it’s not money you’re after, what do you want?’
‘I wanted,’ replied Carrington, picking his words carefully, ‘to see you.’
The Colonel gave a short laugh. ‘Before I died, eh? It sounds as if you nearly beat me to it. You’ve got a lot of your mother about you. You’ve got her mouth and a certain look. It’s very familiar. Are you sure that’s all you had in mind?’ He waved a hand. ‘No, don’t answer that. I can see it is. Odd thing. I didn’t want to see you but I’m glad to have met you. D’you get on with your cousin?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Glad to hear it. You’ve turned out better than I’d hoped for. Pity about your father.’ His eyelids flickered, then shot open again. ‘I haven’t got much to leave but it’s going to Stephen.’
‘I’m glad to hear it, sir.’
‘Good.’
‘Pity I never knew you.’ His voice was fading and his eyes closed momentarily once more. Carrington glanced at Jack with a ‘let’s go’ look but he was halted by the Colonel jerking himself awake. ‘Why did you say you’d come?’
‘I wanted to see you, sir. After all, apart from Stephen, you’re my only living relative.’
‘He’s a good boy, Stephen,’ muttered the Colonel. ‘He doesn’t take after his mother. Just as well. Agatha didn’t have a patch of Edith’s spirit. Not much to look at but a kind heart. Comes to see me.’ He put a hand to his forehead. ‘What happened to me? Something did. I can’t remember.’
‘You were hit by a burglar, sir,’
‘That’s right. Damned scoundrel. Stephen came.’ His eyes closed again and his head sunk down on his chest.
Mrs Tierney was at the far end of the hall, waiting for them. ‘He’s asleep now,’ said Carrington. ‘Can I have a word with you, Mrs Tierney?’
‘We can go into my sitting room,’ she offered, leading the way.
‘I didn’t realize my uncle was so weak,’ said Carrington, after they had sat down in the comfortable room.
‘He’s ailing, sir, there’s no two ways about it. Mind you, his chest was never very strong. He had this awful bronchitis and the doctor nearly gave up on him then, but what can you expect? It must be a big shock coming from India to here and he was taken poorly right at the start. I’ve been more nurse than housekeeper, and that’s a fact.’
‘Don’t you have a nurse?’ asked Haldean. ‘I’d have thought he needed one.’
‘We did have one, sir, but the Colonel didn’t like the fuss. I do all that’s needed, sir. I’ve looked after him for nearly a year now, ever since he got back from India. There’s some who won’t go to an Indian gentleman, what with wanting curry and bogurrah and kedgeree and such-like and being used to different ways, but I’ve always got on with him.’
‘I’m sure he’s fortunate to have you,’ said Haldean sincerely. ‘This dreadful attack he suffered must have caused a lot of extra work.’
‘As if I should mind about that! Whoever attacked him was a fiend, sir, a fiend, to strike down a poor old man like that. I heard a terrible groaning in the middle of the night and went into the dining room and there was the poor Colonel, stretched out and weltering in his blood. The doctor expected to lose him, but the Colonel’s a fighter through and through.’
‘You sent for the Colonel’s nephew, didn’t you?’ asked Jack, remembering that Mrs Dunbar had to be reassured. Stephen Lewis wouldn’t thank them if they’d taken the trouble to visit and then neglected to mention him.
‘I did, sir, as soon as I could. Constable Horrocks sent the telegram for me, as I didn’t like to leave the Colonel. Mr Lewis arrived at lunchtime and it was a relief to have a man in the house, knowing there were these burglars about, I can tell you. I’ve always appreciated Mr Lewis’s visits. He’s such a nice, quiet, well-spoken gentleman and always grateful for any trouble you take. He’s the only relative the Colonel has – saving you, sir,’ she added, nodding to Carrington.
There didn’t seem much doubt about that, but he might as well make sure that Mrs Dunbar had no room for argument. ‘He left the same afternoon, though, didn’t he?’
‘Indeed he did not, sir. He stayed overnight, as you’d expect, and would have stayed longer, if it wasn’t for neglecting his business in London. He left after tea the next day. I remember that, because it was the last of the raspberry jam I’d made and I had to open the blackcurrant. He’s very partial to blackcurrant, is Mr Lewis. After what had happened to the Colonel, it made me feel as if things were getting back to normal to do something as ordinary as make a bed, air the room and cook the dinner. I’m very fond of Mr Lewis. He’s a pleasure to cook for, and so appreciative, too. “I’ll have what’s easiest,” he says, “Or I’ll go to the pub if you’d rather.” “Indeed you won’t,” I said, and made him a nice cutlet with blackberry tart and custard to follow. He said it was the best fruit tart he’d ever had and I could see he’d really enjoyed it. I’d bottled the fruit myself and the poor Colonel can’t take it because of his false plate, so there were two bottles unopened.’
Even Mrs Dunbar couldn’t argue with this welter of detail, Jack decided. Mrs Dunbar could be reassured. Not that, he thought uneasily, Mrs Dunbar had ever really doubted it. Her accusation of Stephen Lewis had surely never been anything more than a smoke screen to cover either herself, Mr Bryce or Hector Ferguson. He hoped Hector Ferguson’s alibi held up. He liked Hector Ferguson.
But Bill Rackham had severe doubts about Ferguson. Bryce, he reckoned, was in the clear, even if Jack had probably been right about the manager’s relationship with Evelyn Dunbar. Dunbar’s manager had, according to Inspector Frazier of the Falkirk police, been innocently managing the day Dunbar was killed. However, Inspector Frazier had added a note that there was a persistent rumour in the small and censorious world of Falkirk society that Mr Bryce’s concern for Mrs Dunbar was thought to be a little more than seemly.
‘An affair?’ asked Jack, when he called into Scotland Yard on his return from Stonecrop Ash.
Not really; it didn’t seem to have got that far. Bryce, in Rackham’s opinion could be counted out and Colonel’s Willoughby’s semi-recognition of Gerard Carrington was so semi, nothing could be based on that either. But Hector Ferguson on the other hand . . .
Rackham had hopes of a Mr Wilfred Wallace, the senior clerk of the Shanghai and Oriental Shipping Company. Although he had affirmed Hector Ferguson’s alibi, there was a hesitation in his manner that was promising. He proposed to leave Mr Wallace to think things through overnight before paying him another visit tomorrow.
The next day a crisis broke out at On The Town, resulting in a frenzied telephone message to Haldean’s rooms.
‘For Pete’s sake, Jack,’ said Archie Keyne in a harried way as Jack walked into the magazine office at eleven o’clock that morning. ‘I said it was urgent!’
‘Calm down, old bean. It’s less than half an hour since you phoned.’
‘I know, I know, but this month’s issue’s up the spout unless we can do something quickly. Have you got a ten thousand worder?’
Jack tapped his briefcase. ‘All present and correct. What’s up? I gather from what you said to my landlady there’s something adrift.’
‘We can’t run the lead story for at least another couple of issues, and we need another one. You haven’t got poisoned beef or pork or anything in your story, have you? It’s useless if you have.’
Jack raised his e
yebrows. ‘Er, no. That’s a fresh approach to literary criticism, Archie. I haven’t really stressed the meat motif. My victim gets knocked off by an electrified window-frame. It’s rather well worked out, actually. You see . . .’
‘Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes,’ said Keyne impatiently. ‘As long as there isn’t any meat in it, I don’t mind. He’s not a politician, is he?’
‘It isn’t a he, it’s a she. Why this down on the roast beef of Old England? You haven’t become a vegetarian, have you?’
‘I’m likely to become a cannibal if I don’t get a bit of cooperation. The new issue of the Piccadilly is out this morning and they’re running virtually the same story as us. A cabinet minister gets bumped off from eating a poisoned chicken casserole.’
‘That’s a neat trick,’ said Jack admiringly. ‘Poisoning a casserole, I mean. Everything’s mixed up, you see.’
Keyne contented himself with a look. ‘Ours is about poisoned shepherd’s pie and a Home Secretary but the principle’s the same. Damn these ruddy writers. It’s hard enough to tell the magazines apart as it is and if we start running the same stories at the same time, we haven’t a chance.’
‘D’you know,’ said Jack, mildly, ‘when I first started this writing game I had no idea that the lack of shepherd’s pie would prove essential to success.’
Keyne propped his chin on his thumb. ‘An electrified window frame, eh? Have you got the girl looking through it?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Put that scene in. We can use one of the illustrations to the shepherd’s pie story.’
‘I could make it her reflections or thoughts or something – you know, looking back into the past.’
‘Yes, that’d do it. Take a look at the other pictures we’ve got and see what you can work round them.’
‘Can’t I have at least one picture of my hero?’
Off the Record Page 15
