by Anne Morice
‘Well, I won’t argue. You are free, white and twenty-one, as they were so fond of saying in my youth.’
‘Unlike Henry,’ I reminded him.
CHAPTER TWELVE
1
The most direct route from Roakes Common to Missendale lay through the village of Eglinton but since this involved certain potential hazards which I could well do without, I mapped out a wide detour round to the north, whereby to approach my destination from the opposite direction.
During the first part of the drive I applied myself to putting some flesh on the bones of Robin’s mythical nephew, but failed to make a convincing job of it, being constantly obliged to break the thread in order to check on my whereabouts. Very few of the villages I had so carefully listed actually figured on the signposts, and those that did had a whimsical habit of vanishing again whenever I came to a crossroads. Twice I had to turn round and go back on my tracks and finally I gave up altogether and stopped at a hamlet to ask for directions. It consisted of one shop and half a dozen houses, but contained the usual high proportion of deaf mutes and recent arrivals from Outer Mongolia, and the depressing outcome was that I eventually found myself bowling along the very road I had been at such pains to avoid. The suspicion was finally confirmed when I saw, just ahead of me, the inn sign of the Eglinton Arms. However, at least I was sure of my way from this point and as I slowed to a crawl, before making the sharp left turn into the lane, I felt reasonably confident that my presence in the danger area had not been observed.
Nevertheless, there was one most unfortunate sidekick to all this deliberate and unintentional circumnavigation, for I was now faced with the prospect of arriving at the Potteries at about ten minutes to two, which was really no time to drop in to discuss the career of even the most loaded and beautiful of nephews. There was nothing for it but to put him into cold storage while I worked out some emergency measures and, estimating that I was within a mile or so of my objective, I stopped the car on a straight, deserted stretch of road and got out to attend to the nearside back wheel.
The roar of an engine approaching at speed caused me to straighten up again in a hurry, just in time to see a motor cycle go hurtling past, in the same direction as myself and missing my offside wing by a couple of centimetres. This gave rise to some rather disturbing speculations and I was half tempted to drop the quest and turn for home, but a little reflection assured me that, even if I had been recognised, I could just as well have been examining the tyre’s defect as creating it. Moreover, I no longer had much choice. A last bedraggled limp to the Potteries was about the most that could be expected of a tyre that had already had half the air let out of it.
All was silent and deserted when I arrived, and repeated knocks and rings brought no response. Feeling as deflated as the tyre, I was about to turn away when the door was flung open by Walter. He was at his most truculent and informed me curtly that neither of the Grahams was at home.
‘Any idea when they’ll be back?’
‘Nope. Mr Graham’s over at the museum, fixing up about the exhibition. B’lieve Mrs Graham meant to drop him off and go on to the golf club. All I know is they were to be back here by one and not a sign.’
‘But that probably means they’ll be home any time now?’
‘No telling. Mr Graham is liable to skip meals when he gets stuck into something like this. Wouldn’t bother to wait, if it was me.’
He was wearing his motor cycling gear, with gloves sticking out of the pockets, but his leather jacket was unbuttoned and the straps of his helmet hanging loose and I said:
‘Are you going out, or coming in?’
‘Going out. I’m supposed to be in charge here till they get back, but you get to feeling hungry after a while. Thought I’d take myself down for a snack at the pub.’
‘Well, I don’t want to stop you, but do you happen to know whether there’s a pump on the premises?’
‘What kinda pump?’
‘The kind that pumps things up. I’ve got a flat tyre. It’s probably a slow puncture, but it might get me home all right if we could just put some air in it.’
‘Let’s go take a look,’ he said, emerging on to the door-step, and then rather surprisingly slamming the door behind him and pocketing the key.
‘It doesn’t seem to have got any worse,’ I admitted, as we stood gazing down at the tyre.
‘Could be a slow puncture,’ he said, with the solemnity of a surgeon making rather a horrid diagnosis. ‘Best thing might be to leave it awhile and see if it goes down any more. Feel like joining me for a bit to eat?’
‘On your pillion?’
‘Well, why not, at that?’ he asked, staring at me in an oddly speculative way.
I was tempted to accept, for I was feeling hungry myself, but there was a shiftiness in his manner, suggesting that his invitation sprang mainly from a desire to get me off the premises, even at the cost of being, literally, saddled with me. On the whole, I considered that my best chance of discovering what lay behind this scheme was by thwarting it. Gambling on his not being so unchivalrous as to leave me standing in the road, I said:
‘Thanks, but I really should be on my way. My cousin’s expecting me. Are you sure there isn’t a pump somewhere?’
‘Not that I know of,’ he replied, and then, as though reluctantly bowing to the inevitable, he gave the tyre a smart kick, saying: ‘You gotta jack?’
‘In the boot. I’m not quite sure how to use it though.’
‘Shouldn’t take long to find out. How about the spare?’
‘Yes, there’s one of those too.’
‘Okay, I’ll change the wheel for you.’
‘Oh, Walter, you are kind! What about your lunch though?’
‘Only take a minute. Nothing to it,’ he replied, with the quiet confidence of the expert.
Nevertheless, he made fairly heavy weather over it, examining each tool in turn and whistling through his teeth, in evident disapproval of its design and manufacture. After several abortive attempts to get the jack into position I diffidently suggested consulting the handbook, but he waved this amateurish suggestion aside, and finally removed his helmet, lay down on his back and wriggled headfirst underneath the car, dragging the jack after him. No further conversation was permissible and as it had occurred to me that the spare tyre was also likely to need some air, I seized the chance to make a personal inspection of the garage.
I did not find a pump, which proves nothing, for I barely had time to scratch the surface. Although the door was shut, it was not locked, but I had to squeeze my way very carefully into the interior, because practically the whole space was taken up by a shabby, mud splattered Ford Cortina, and any incautious movement would have sent me rubbing up against either it or the equally grimy garage wall. It was vaguely surprising to find that people who lived in such down-at-heel style as the Grahams should own two cars, particularly as this was such a demonstrable one-car garage, but my thoughts were chiefly concerned with picking my way forward with the right mixture of agility and caution, and it was not until I was about half way between the entrance and the end wall that a fresh surprise caused me to undo all the good work by reeling sideways against the wall.
I was on a level with the car’s rear door by this time and my eye had been caught by a vivid patch of pink and yellow tweed. When I dared a second look, I saw that Babs was leaning forward over the steering wheel. It was an unlikely spot to have chosen for a siesta, and remembering all the tales I had heard about people being asphyxiated by exhaust fumes, I nerved myself to move forward again and place a hand on the bonnet. It was quite cold, but the movement had naturally brought me within close-up view of the figure in the driving seat, and I opened my mouth to let out a piercing yell. The extraordinary thing was that the piercing yell which simultaneously rent the air came not from me at all, but from outside the garage. Rigid with terror, I just managed to turn my head in the direction of the sound and saw Walter standing in the doorway:
‘He
y!’ he bellowed. ‘What goes on? You in there, Mrs Price?’
Panic having now subsided a little, I scraped and bumped my way towards him. His face was distorted with rage, which I vaguely attributed to my having wandered off without permission, but it was no time for explanations and I said:
‘Walter, I’m afraid something has happened to Mrs Graham. Did you know . . . ?’ then broke off as I realised that he was not listening to me, but staring in a demented fashion into the alleyway which separated the garage from the house. This was a narrow path, overgrown with nettles and made even dingier by the fact that the light at the far end was partially blocked by a line of washing hanging out to dry. Apart from that, there was nothing to be seen except a pair of battered and rusty dustbins, so choked with rubbish that their lids sat rakishly askew and some of the mess had overflowed on to the ground. It was a squalid sight, but I could see nothing to arouse such frenzied emotions, until Walter rounded on me, saying in a high pitched, tremulous voice:
‘Where the hell’s my bike gone?’
‘I’ve no idea; but listen to me a moment, Walter, please!’
‘What? Oh, okay, but when I get my hands on the bastard who’s taken it—you sure you didn’t see anyone?’
‘No, I didn’t, and for heaven’s sake stop going on about it. I’m trying to tell you that Mrs Graham’s in there, and I think she must be ill, or she’s passed out, or . . . anyway, you’ve got to come and see.’
His rage subsided and the high colour drained from his face as he took it in at last.
‘In the garage? How could she be?’
‘That’s what we have to find out. Maybe she’s only fainted, but I don’t think so, and you must come and help me.’
‘You must be crazy,’ he mumbled, trailing reluctantly after me. ‘What would she be doing in there?’
This time I continued on past the driver’s door, barely glancing inside to confirm that the figure slumped over the wheel had not moved, and then waited for Walter to catch up with me. He, meanwhile, had seen her too and had collapsed against the car, his face the colour of wet clay and his adam’s apple gyrating violently.
‘You’d better get the door open. There may still be something we can do for her,’ I told him though reconciled, even as I spoke, to the fact that this was asking too much of him.
I waited with diminishing hope, then gritted my teeth and wrenched the door open myself. The movement caused the body of the car to swing a little, dislodging the other body inside, so that it slithered sideways and I had to ram the door shut again, to prevent it sliding halfway out of the car. I was just fast enough to avert this particular horror, but something else had slid through the gap and stopped the door from closing completely. It was a steel shafted golf club, with a piece of paper, covered in red scrawls, wrapped round the leather hand grip.
Had I been alone I might have been tempted to pull it off and read the message and could just as well have done so for when I turned round I found that Walter had flopped on to the ground in a dead faint. So I was on my own again and there were more urgent matters to attend to than catching up with the latest bulletin from the Clean Up Britain Crusade.
I found a garden spade hanging from a nail on the garage wall, and by jamming the blade into the ground and propping the handle against the car door, I managed to hold it in place. When I was satisfied that it was secure, I bent down and groped in Walter’s pocket for the front door key, then picked my way over his recumbent form and let myself into the house to look for a telephone.
2
There was nothing of the slow-speaking, burly British Bobby about Dedley’s Chief Inspector Arnold Payne. In fact Nature, with a little help from his tailor, had designed him for the exactly opposite role and if he had walked into the Studio casting office and applied for the part of the chief crook, I feel certain he would have got it on the spot, possibly at gun point.
He was a sharp-eyed, sinister looking man, with black sideburns running down to his jaw. He also had a very low forehead and this, combined with a trick of shooting up his heavy black eyebrows in an exaggerated expression of astonishment, gave me the idea that I might eventually produce something so startling in the way of evidence that the hair and eyebrows would finally make contact. Curiously enough, this unusual appearance in one of his calling was distinctly reassuring, conveying the suggestion that even the wiliest criminal would need to get up fairly early in the morning to put anything across Arnold.
The fact that he was an old mate of Robin’s, although senior to him in age and rank, also helped things along and the seal was put on our friendship by the revelation that he was an ardent movie fan. How far these favourable winds contributed to the closing of the credibility gap I cannot tell, but he listened in sympathetic silence to the tale of my journey to Missendale and all that had followed from it, and, so far as I know, no attempt was made then or later to verify it. In fact, he complimented me on the pertinence and brevity of my statement.
No such tribute could be paid to Walter. On returning to the garage, after notifying the police, I had found him on his feet again, though still groggy, and presumably the sight of me revived all the shocking memories, for a terrified look sprang into his eyes and he covered them with his hands and leant against the boot of the car while I was speaking to him.
‘Try and get a grip, Walter. The police are on their way but one of us had better stand guard here until they arrive. Any idea how we could find Mr Graham?’
He shook his head, neither speaking nor uncovering his face.
‘Oh, do try and be sensible, Walter! You must see that he ought to be told, preferably before the police get to him. Doesn’t the museum have a telephone?’
He still did not answer and, not even sure that he had heard me, I was about to try again when he said in a muffled voice,
‘Whassa time?’
‘Ten past two. Why?’
‘Then we won’t be able to reach him. The museum is closed between one and three.’
‘Oh, never mind that. It may be closed to the public, but there must be someone in charge. If you don’t know the number, just tell me the name and I’ll probably find it in the book.’
My brisk tones were finally having an effect, for he now looked up at me, saying quite calmly:
‘Yes, you’re right, Mrs Price. Sorry to be dim. It just knocked me out for a while, but I guess I can find the number. There’s a card in the office. Would you be okay on your own here, if I was to deal with that end?’
It was not quite the arrangement I would have chosen, but in my relief at seeing him function again I was prepared to fall in with it.
‘Yes, but have you thought what you’ll say to him?’
‘Just that there’s been an accident. Isn’t that right?’
‘As far as it goes, but he’ll want more than that.’
‘Then I’ll have to play it by ear. Don’t worry, Mrs Price, I know him a whole lot better than you do, and this is really my job.’
He had become commendably sane and responsible all of a sudden and, watching him walk away, I congratulated myself on my tactful handling. It was not until almost an hour later that it dawned on me that I had just perpetrated one of the stupidest actions of my life.
3
‘Oh yes, and what message would that be?’ the chief inspector asked during his second and more detailed interrogation. We were on such a comfortable footing by this time that I had ventured to put a question of my own.
‘The one wrapped round the handle of the golf club. You must have noticed it, surely?’
My voice faltered as his forehead contracted to a narrow white stripe and he waited for me to continue:
‘I presume she was killed with the golf club?’
‘Yes, that seems likely.’
‘Then you must have examined it pretty thoroughly and you can’t have missed the paper. Do you mean there was no writing on it?’
I would not say that his manner had become at all hostile b
ut a certain reserve had crept in, and in one stroke we had moved into the realm of interrogator and witness, and not such a bright witness at that.
‘Well now, Mrs Price, you’ve been most helpful, but naturally it was a shock, and it’s not surprising if you’ve become a little confused. Not to worry, it’s a perfectly normal reaction.’
‘No, I promise you, inspector, it’s not like that at all. I admit it was a shock, but it wasn’t my first experience of that kind, and I hardly knew Mrs Graham, so there are no emotional complications. There really was a piece of paper attached to the golf club, and I really do believe it could be important.’
‘Fair enough! And I’ll tell you what we’ll do. You run along and put your feet up in the other room, and I’ll get someone to bring you a cup of tea. We’ll need your finger-prints, just for elimination you understand, and while that’s being done I’ll have a word with the chaps who are checking over the garage and tell them exactly what to look out for. How’s that?’
I shook my head, too dispirited to answer, for during this soothing little monologue I had been reviewing the events in the garage, in particular the scene where Walter had risen so manfully to the occasion and strode away to telephone Martin Graham, and it had dawned on me how foolishly I had under-rated him.
‘You won’t find it,’ I said, after a long and most un-pregnant pause. ‘No, I’m not dotty. There really was a note of sorts, but I think I know now what’s become of it, and also the gist of what it said.’
‘Indeed? But I understood you to say you hadn’t touched it?’
