‘Oh . . . er, no, of course not, my dear,’ said Sir Philip, regarding the pit which he had dug. ‘Completely grey, indeed! What an idea! Besides, it suits you. Very . . . becoming. Not that it would matter if you were, of course. Grey, that is. All over.’
‘Who is Mrs Verrity, anyway?’ asked Haldean, throwing his uncle a lifeline. ‘I’ve heard her mentioned, of course, but I only met her this afternoon. She seemed a very capable sort of person. Is she English? I thought I heard the trace of an accent.’
‘She’s French,’ said his uncle gratefully, ‘but she’s lived in England for years.’ He added soda water to his whisky and rocked the glass thoughtfully. ‘She married Michael Verrity, whose family owned Thackenhurst. You remember him, Alice? He was in the diplomatic corps and we ran into them in Cairo before the war. They got posted to Vienna for a time and I gather she made quite a stir in society there. Verrity was well on the way to making a name for himself when he fell ill and got sent home. He must have died about 1914 or was it ’15? Anyway, Mrs Verrity developed a taste for nursing and after his death set up a hospital near Auchonvillers. Ran it jolly well, too. As you say, she’s a capable woman.’
‘You still find her slightly exotic though, don’t you, Mother?’ asked Isabelle.
‘Well, I do, dear. I suppose a lot of it has to do with the way she dresses. She wears country clothes, admittedly, and nothing out of place, but such style! She looks more like someone from a magazine rather than a real person. The house is like that, too. Thackenhurst was always very pleasant but in a lived-in sort of way, but after the war I believe Mrs Verrity had someone down from London to design the rooms for her and it shows. It’s hard to realize it’s actually someone’s home. Of course she often has visitors and I suppose as she is French and lived in Vienna when it really was Vienna, she feels she has to make a show.’ She stood up and yawned delicately. ‘Oh dear. I think if you’ll excuse me I really must go upstairs. It’s been a long day. The fête was enough and then with this tragedy on top of it . . . I feel so sorry for Mrs Griffin. I must call in on her tomorrow. She only stepped in at the last minute because I asked her to and I can’t help but feel slightly responsible. Goodnight, everyone.’ She left the room.
Haldean looked at Rivers. ‘Fancy a last pipe on the terrace?’
‘Don’t mind if I do.’
Together they went outside and strolled the length of the house, smoking in companionable silence. The moon had risen and was riding low in the sky, drenching the lawns in silver light. A breeze ruffled the top of the grass, sending little dancing shadows flickering across the lawns. Moonlight was odd, Haldean thought. It was as if the shadows were real and the things they were shadows of were themselves unsubstantial tricks of the light. A bit like Boscombe. The real man, the living man with a body, organs, a brain and, he presumed, a soul, was gone, an unsubstantial memory. But his death – an event of minute importance compared to his life – was the part that cast the shadow. And as for him? He had to chase that shadow, seeing whom it would darken. Better than chasing rainbows, he thought, with a touch of humour, and put another match to his pipe.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Rivers eventually. ‘About Boscombe, I mean. Damn funny business altogether. What was he doing at the fair in the first place, Jack? And why did he go in that tent to be killed?’
Haldean turned the question over. ‘He must have come to the fair to meet someone,’ he said eventually. ‘I’m assuming that was Colonel Whitfield.’
‘You could be right, Jack, but I think he saw someone else as well. Someone he knew, I mean. Don’t you remember? He was rattling on about his book in the beer tent, and I was wishing he was very much elsewhere, when he looked up and sort of jumped. We were sitting by the tent flap, if you remember, and I thought he’d seen someone in the crowd. Then Colonel Whitfield came in and Boscombe latched on to him.’
‘And that somebody else might be the murderer? You could have something there. In which case it’s a chance meeting . . .’ Haldean shook himself. ‘What else did you ask? Why did he go in the tent to be killed? That’s a good question, Greg, and pretty rum, when you come to think of it. I mean, once he’s in the tent he’s out of sight. No one could know he was in there apart from those of us who saw him go in. And that’s you, me, Mrs Griffin and Colonel Whitfield.’
‘And anyone else who happened to be watching.’
‘Was anyone else watching?’
Rivers shrugged. ‘Blessed if I know. We weren’t keeping it a secret, were we? And although it all seemed innocent enough at the time, if someone wanted to murder the chap, then it doesn’t seem very far-fetched to say that same someone would be keeping a fairly close eye on where he had got to.’
Haldean sucked his pipe regretfully. ‘No, damn it, you’re right. I’ll tell you something that’s occurred to me, though. It can’t have been a planned murder. Someone just saw their chance and took it on the spur of the moment. Hang on a mo. They’d have to have a gun on them, and that’s odd, too. You don’t go armed to a village fête unless you’re expecting trouble.’
‘And that knocks your idea of it being an impulsive murder on the head.’
Haldean half-laughed. ‘If I go on worrying at it I’ll end up thinking he wasn’t murdered at all. I’m going to forget it until tomorrow.’ He stretched his arms out lazily ‘I love staying here. I always sleep like a top.’ He glanced at his cousin. ‘Is something bothering you, Greg?’
Rivers leaned over the balustrade. ‘Yes, it is. Murder, you know? I know I pulled your leg earlier about it being fun, but it’s not fun, is it? There’s someone out there who thinks it’s up to them if another person lives or dies. I’ve got to go back to Town soon and I don’t like the thought of leaving you all. You didn’t like Boscombe. Lord knows, neither did I, but that’s where it stops. But someone else . . . They’ve killed once and if you start stirring things up they might try again. It’s a dangerous game, Jack. I’m not happy about you being mixed up in it.’
Haldean paused. Greg was right. Murder wasn’t fun. It was a warm night, but he looked once more at the shadows on the lawn and shivered.
The next morning, lured by brilliant sunshine and what sounded like every sparrow in Sussex cheeping outside his window, Haldean got up at the indecently early hour of seven o’clock and, leaving the house swathed in Sabbath silence, climbed into his car and went to hear early Mass in Lewes, where the words of the offertory went home with unusual force: Illumina oculos meos, ne unquam obdormiam in morte: nequando dicat inimicus meus: Praevalui adversus eum. Enlighten my eyes, that I may never sleep in death; lest at any time my enemy say: I have prevailed against him. Enlighten my eyes: there were worse prayers for an investigator and Boscombe had certainly had an enemy who had prevailed.
At the same time Superintendent Edward Ashley, who was also thinking of Boscombe but on a more earthly plane, was carrying a cup of tea up the stairs to his wife. Giving her a peck on the cheek, he explained that no, he really couldn’t say when he’d be home, and he’d have his dinner heated up when he got back.
By the time Haldean had spiritually fortified himself, Ashley was sitting on a dilatory bus wheezing its way to the Talbot Arms, Breedenbrook, where Boscombe’s room had been kept locked until he could look at it in far greater leisure than he could spare on the previous day.
Arriving back at the house, Haldean shed his suit and, arrayed in elderly, unfashionable but comfortable flannels and an open-necked shirt, spent an agreeable half-hour in, variously, ejecting the kitchen cat from his bed, relieving the housemaid of a cup of tea and leaning over his windowsill, cigarette in hand, whilst the perfect title and rudiments of plot for his next story formed themselves in his mind.
Descending to the morning room, he armed himself with a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon from the sideboard just as Ashley, in the company of Mrs Dorothy Plaxy, landlady, was ascending the old, oak and lethally polished staircase of the Talbot Arms. She was assuring him at great length that every
thing had been left just as he had told them to, and re-emphasizing that they’d never had any trouble in their house. No, not even after-hours drinking, which could be checked with Constable Hawley. As she panted on to the landing she was giving forcible and frequent expression to the view that it didn’t seem right to her, not anyhow, that any guest of theirs should go and get himself murdered.
As Mrs Plaxy opened the door, Haldean was raising his coffee cup to his lips, but what Ashley saw in that room was not only the cause of Mrs Plaxy’s violent hysterics but also the reason why the telephone bell rang in the hall of Hesperus Manor.
Haldean’s breakfast (which he was looking forward to) remained half-finished on its plate.
Chapter Three
Albert Plaxy, a big, awkward man, still wearing the old clothes in which he cleaned out the beer pipes every Sunday morning, took the cup of tea and put it with clumsy sympathy into his wife’s hands. ‘Here you are, Mother. Drink this and you’ll feel better.’ He turned to Superintendent Ashley. ‘I don’t know what to say. We’ve never had nothing like this happen before. It’s always been such a quiet house.’ He glanced at the little maid who had brought the tea. She, round-eyed with excitement, was still standing beside him. ‘What do you want, Betty?’
Betty swallowed and bobbed in a nervous essay at a curtsy. ‘Please, Mr Plaxy, it’s Mrs Jones and Mr Holroyd. They’m saying they won’t stop here a moment longer if this sort of thing goes on.’
There was a renewed outbreak of sniffing from Mrs Plaxy. Albert Plaxy shuffled, unable to find words to express his irritation with this fresh nuisance.
‘You tell the staff,’ said Ashley, his voice hard with impatience, ‘that . . .’ He stopped, seeing the fright in the girl’s eyes. She was only as old as his own daughter and he softened his voice. ‘You tell Mrs Jones and Mr Holroyd that they’re very valuable and important witnesses and I’m looking forward to seeing them again. They’ve already been very helpful and I’m sure they’ll want to go on helping the police. You can do that for me, can’t you, Betty? And I know that Mrs Plaxy can rely on you and them to keep everything running smoothly until she’s feeling up to things again. And if the doctor, a Major Haldean or any more policemen arrive, you’ll send them to me, won’t you?’ He gave her a warm smile. ‘I know I can depend on you.’
She pinked with pleasure. ‘I’ll tell them, sir.’
They turned to the door as a knock sounded and Haldean’s long, dark face peered round into the sitting room.
‘Hello. I couldn’t see anyone at the front of the house so I came to where I could hear voices.’ He took in Mrs Plaxy’s tear-stained face. ‘I say, I can see you’ve had a nasty shock.’ He pulled up a footstool and sat beside her. ‘Superintendent Ashley only told me that something was the matter. I don’t know what’s happened yet.’
That was true. Ashley had been urgent but uninformative and Haldean, knowing that every word he said would be heard with goggle-eyed enthusiasm by Mrs Sweeliman and her daughter, Gladys, who took it in turns to operate the local telephone exchange in the back room of Stanmore Parry Post Office, hadn’t pressed him. And that, he thought as he looked at Mrs Plaxy, had been the right decision. Mrs Plaxy would usually emanate an air of kindly, well-fed, unruffled calm, but now her face had an unhealthy greyish tinge, she was breathing in little rapid bursts and the hand that held her handkerchief continually scrunched open and closed.
Albert Plaxy scuffed his feet noisily, wanting, at a guess, to find physical relief in vigorous movement, but that, in this comfortable, cluttered sitting room with its sagging chairs, lace antimacassars, dotted tables, silver-framed photographs and presents from Eastbourne, was impossible. Haldean felt real sympathy for Albert Plaxy, so anxious to do the right thing and so obviously incapable of doing it.
‘I didn’t want to say too much on the phone,’ said Ashley, but Haldean ignored him, concentrating on Mrs Plaxy.
‘Can you tell me what happened?’ he asked quietly.
The concern in his voice was unmistakable and the sympathy in the way he hunched forward, looking anxiously at her, was like soothing ointment to her wounded nerves. Her breathing slowed, her hands relaxed and she straightened up and managed a watery smile. ‘It’s silly of me to take on so, sir, but it gave me such a turn.’ She took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘I don’t know what you must think of me, sitting here, but . . . but . . .’ She caught sight of young Betty who was watching with undisguised interest and frowned. ‘Betty, go and make a cup of tea for the gentlemen. Or would you like something else, sir?’
‘No, tea’ll be fine. Thank you very much. It’s Mrs Plaxy, isn’t it? Are you up to telling me about it?’
‘Yes, I . . .’ She stopped, looking at him doubtfully ‘Excuse me, sir, but are you a policeman?’
Haldean shook his head. ‘No, but Mr Ashley asked me to come because I’d known Mr Boscombe during the war. I’ve driven over from Hesperus. You know, in Stanmore Parry. I’m Major Haldean, Sir Philip Rivers’ nephew.’ As he had hoped, she brightened at the mention of Sir Philip. Anything to do with Hesperus was known, familiar and respectable and gave her the comfort of being able fit him into local life.
She looked at him with gathering confidence. ‘Well, sir, I was showing the Superintendent here to Mr Boscombe’s room. Off you go, Betty,’ she added in a near normal voice. ‘Don’t stand there gawking.’ She smoothed the corner of her apron. ‘The Superintendent came last night and told us what had happened to Mr Boscombe and we had a look at his room and there was nothing wrong, was there, Bert?’ Her husband grunted an affirmative. ‘And the Superintendent told us he didn’t have time to look at it properly then but we was to keep it all locked up and he’d come along today, first thing. And we did that, sir,’ she said, turning to Ashley, her voice rising. ‘You were there when I locked it and not another soul went into that room, I can swear it.’
‘I saw you do it, Mrs Plaxy,’ said Ashley, reassuringly.
‘Well then,’ she continued, her fingers fluttering on her apron. ‘I took the Superintendent up there this morning and we opened the door and there was a man laid across the bed. I didn’t see him at first, because the bed’s in the corner, and when I did, I just screamed because – because –’ her hand clutched, showing the knuckles white – ‘because his face had blood all down it. He was a mask of blood, sir,’ she gulped, falling back on the cliché. ‘A mask of blood.’ Haldean took her hand in his, feeling it tighten. ‘I’ve read of such things – Bert always has the News of the World – but to see it with my own eyes in our own house . . . Well, I don’t know what I did next, sir, and that’s a fact. It was bad enough to hear of Mr Boscombe being shot but to have someone killed here and to see them weltering in their own blood . . . I’d give a hundred pounds not to have had it happen here.’
Haldean stood up. ‘It must have been awful for you. Now, if I were you, I’d drink your tea. Have you got plenty of sugar in it? Good. It’s the best thing for a shock. And perhaps Mr Plaxy could put a drop of brandy in it? Good man. You look as if you could do with one yourself, Mr Plaxy.’
‘I’ll be ruined when folks get to know what’s gone on,’ said Mr Plaxy with a groan. ‘Ruined.’
‘No you won’t,’ said Haldean briskly ‘Why, when this gets out it’ll be standing room only in the bar for months on end. You’ll be turning custom away if I know anything about it. People will come from miles around and Mrs Plaxy’ll be the talk of the town if she describes what happened. They’ll be queuing up to hear the real story behind what’ll be in the newspapers. You just wait.’
‘Do you really think so, sir?’ asked Mrs Plaxy. ‘That folks’ll want to hear all about it?’ Haldean nodded vigorously. ‘Why, that’s dreadful, wanting to dwell on such things,’ but her voice showed a certain pleasure in the prospect.
‘Mr Plaxy, can you stay with your wife? Superintendent Ashley and I are going to have a look at the room. You know the way, don’t you, Mr Ashley? Good-oh. Then we won’t disturb you any
further for the time being.’
‘You did that beautifully,’ said Ashley with deep approval as they mounted the oak staircase. ‘Calmed her down, I mean.’
‘Thanks.’ He frowned at Ashley. ‘There’s another body? It seems incredible.’
‘I know. He was shot too, plumb in the middle of the forehead. Once again, there’s no sign of the gun, so we can rule out suicide. He’s about the same age as Boscombe and gave his name as Morton. He booked in late yesterday afternoon. He signed the book, but the only address he gave was “London”. I did wonder, as you knew Boscombe, if you might know this chap as well. If you do, then it’ll save a lot of work.’
Haldean shook his head. ‘I’ve never come across a Morton as far as I know. I’m glad you were with that poor woman when she found him.’ They came to the top of the staircase and Haldean glanced round. ‘Nice old oak here, isn’t it? If you were arranging a murder this would be a wonderful place to stage it with this high polish and these twists and turns. You could break your neck quite happily and who’s to say that you weren’t pushed?’ He looked along the landing. ‘Three doors, opening on to this corridor. Are they all guest rooms?’
‘They are. The one at the end here is Boscombe’s and the one at the far end belongs to our new body. If you don’t know him we’ll have to get Scotland Yard to try and find out who he is. Take a look anyway. The doctor and some of my men should be arriving shortly but I think we’ve got ten minutes or so before they show up.’
Haldean’s first impression of the room was that of incredible untidiness. The chest of drawers stood open, the wardrobe gaped wide and a suitcase was upended on the floor, its contents thrown down beside it. All this he took in with a glance, then his eyes moved to the bed and stayed there. It was an old-fashioned, four-poster bed complete with steps and curtains. The pillows and the great bolster underneath had been flung on the floor. One of the curtains was disarranged, pulled away from its rail. The man lying on the bed had his hand entangled in the material, dragging it on to him so it half-covered his body. He lay with one leg dangling over the steps, the rest of his body flung back on the counterpane. Haldean’s first thought was that his face appeared to be in odd shadow. Almost instantly he worked out that the shadow was dried blood. Instinct made him walk softly. Stooping down beside the man on the bed, he peered into the distorted face before turning to Ashley with a shrug. ‘I’ve never seen him before, poor devil. His name’s Morton, you say?’
A Fête Worse Than Death Page 5
