Catriona was beginning to sympathise with the unlamented departed.
Clever Dick sorted through strews of papers on the desk.
“I think you’d better leave those alone,” she said, mildly.
“I don’t think that and you can’t make me.”
He patted his hands on the papers to prove it, pawing around the desk.
“See. I’m not leaving these clues alone. And there’s nothing you can do about it. I can identify seventy-eight different types of type-witer letter. I can hold my bweath for four and a half minutes. I have a medal from Scotland Yard.”
“So have I,” she said. “But it’s not done to brag, is it?”
Clever Dick whirled around and looked at her for the first time, applying all his reputed intellect. He was genuinely puzzled by what she’d said, and didn’t like the sensation.
“Whyever not? If you’ve earned something, it’s yours. Why shouldn’t you bwag?”
“Nobody likes a smart-arse,” she suggested, mildly.
The boy waved it away.
“Nonsense. You are a silly person. And a girl, besides. I didn’t know they let girls in the police. Or old smelly men without teeth.”
Harbottle grunted. “‘Ere, you mind your manners, Sonny-Jim-me-Lad.”
The brainiest boy in Britain stuck out his tongue at them.
Catriona looked at the papers on the desk. Correspondence with lawyers, courts, newspapers. Blame kept copies of all his letters.
“Those are my clues,” said Clever Dick. “You find your own!”
This was becoming tiresome.
“I’m ever so much cleverer than you. I can deduce masses of things about you. You live in a house in Bloomsbury but were bwought up in Somerset or Dorset. You had marmalade on toast for bweakfast with a man who has a moustache.”
“It’s a flat.”
“I meant flat when I said house!”
“Somerset.”
“I knew it. Your type-witer has a faulty shift-key. You don’t spend much money on clothes. That purse was a gift fwom someone Canadian. You have a two-inch scar just above your knee. It’s no use pwessing your skirt down. I’ve seen the wolled tops of your stockings.”
She deduced that in a few years’ time, Clever Dick was not going to be popular with the ladies.
“You were wecently nearly killed by a Chinaman. (So was I, so there!) You have no bwothers or sisters. And you lied about being a police girl. No, you didn’t. You were twying to be clever when you said you were ‘with the police’ because this fathead is a policeman and you are with him. It’s no use twying to be clever, because I’ll always outfox you. Do you play chess? I can beat anyone, without looking at the board. You’re married but you won’t wear a wing.”
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. Your husband is the bweakfast fellow.”
She wasn’t about to explain her domestic arrangements to an eleven-year-old.
Sweetly, she said “I don’t believe you can really hold your breath for four and a half minutes.”
“Can so.”
“Prove it.”
He huffed in a breath, expanding his cheeks and screwing his eyes shut, then began to nod off the seconds.
She looked cursorily around the room, but thought she’d learned all she could for the moment. Later, she would have to spend hours going through all the papers and files, mulling over and rejecting dozens of leads. It was the sort of investigative work the Splendid Six never had to deal with, any more than they cooked their own supper or cleaned their own guns.
Clever Dick’s face went red, then distinctly blue. He continued nodding.
She pressed a finger to her lips for quiet and shooed Harbottle out of the room and cottage, following him on tip-toes.
She heard a certain straining behind her, but thought little of it.
Outside, she found a shining reception committee.
* * * *
Three more of the Splendid Six were crowded into the tiny cottage garden. Blackfist, the All-Rounder, and the Aviatrix. The space wasn’t quite suitable for suchbig persons, though only the tall, wide, shambling Lord Piltdown was really much larger than the ordinary.
When her feet were on the ground, Lady Lucinda—Catriona was slightly shocked to realise—was tiny, at least a handspan shorter than her own five foot two. From that first sight, she had reckoned the Aviatrix a full fathom of Amazon glory. Without wings, the woman was a petite, long-faced debutante whose jodhpurs wrinkled over thin legs.
Captain Rattray, Blackfist, was a smiling, casual fellow with patent-leather hair and arrow-collar features. On a thin gold chain around his neck hung the famous Fang of Night, the purple-black gemstone he had plucked from the forehead of a prehuman cyclopaean idol discovered in a cavern temple under the Andes. The story was that when the Captain made a fist around the jewel, his body became granite-impervious to harm and his blows landed with the force of a wrecking-ball. Unconsciously, or perhaps not, he fingered his magical knuckle-duster all the time. The fingertips of his left hand were stained black, as if qualities of the gem were seeping into his skin.
He stuck out his free hand to shake hers.
“Miss Kaye, welcome to Heathrow. I’m in the way of being Dennis Rattray.”
She shook his hand. He had a firm but not crushing grip.
“Blackfist, don’t ch’know? Silly cognomen, hung on me by the yeller press, but have to live with it. This lively filly is Lalla d’Aulney...”
Catriona nodded at the woman, who gave a token curtsey like a little girl presented to disreputable foreign Royalty.
“And dear old Pongo Piltdown. Don’t be alarmed by his fizzog and the massive shoulders business. He’s the compleat gent.”
Lord Piltdown extended a yard-long arm and took her hand with supple, thick, complex fingers. His immaculate cuff slid back over a thickly-furred wrist. He bent low and kissed her knuckles with his wide, rubber-lipped mouth.
The All-Rounder had been found frozen in a glacier under the Yorkshire estate of an aristocratic family whose son and heir had just been lost in the Boer War. The bereaved parents raised “Pongo” as their own, sending him to Uppingham, where he gained his nickname by captaining the rugby and cricket sides, proving himself nigh-unvanquishable at the bat and nigh-unstoppable as a bowler. He was also the author of several slim volumes of privately published poetry, favouring as subjects courtly love, English country sports (he was a Master of Fox Hounds), and the superiority of tradition over shallow modernity. His views on the proper place of women made Sir Henry Merrivale seem like Dame Ethel Smyth.
Lord Piltdown gave her back her hand, which was slightly moist. His beetle-browed face was marked by a distinct blush, and he screwed a monocle into one of his eyes.
“Pongo likes you,” said Lady Lucinda, looking at her sideways. “Watch out, or you’ll be showered with rhymes.”
The All-Rounder covered his face with his enormous hands, peeking out shyly between banana-fingers. His perfectly tailored tuxedo would have served her as a survival tent. Two-thirds of his body was barrel torso, supported by bent, spindly legs that gave the impression of powerful, coiled springs. She noted he wore stout, polished leather gloves on his feet.
“It’s a shame you should visit in such unhappy circumstances,” said Blackfist. “This is an idyllic spot, sheltered in the bosom of Mama England. It’s almost sacred to us, untainted by the bloodier businesses for which we are best known. I don’t mind telling you it strikes home, such a common-or-garden crime right smack next door. We shall not rest until our good neighbour has been avenged.”
Harbottle tugged what little forelock he could find.
“A burglar did it, sir,” he said. “We’ll feel his collar soon.”
From inside the cottage came a spluttering explosion. Catriona checked her watch. Nearly five minutes. Clever Dick had broken his record.
The boy came into the garden. His comrades broke out in identical, indulgent, tolerant smiles. Black
fist patted Clever Dick on the head, mussing his hair.
“We sent our best and brightest to lend a hand,” he said.
“Thank you very much,” she responded.
“I found a big fat clue,” announced Clever Dick. “A missing file.”
“Very significant, I’m sure,” said the Aviatrix.
“It could be,” Catriona admitted.
“The beginning of the year is missing,” said the boy. “Wemember what happened then? After the New Year’s Eve lock-in at the Coat and Dividers? Old Blarney made a gang of enemies. I’d venture one or more took bloody wevenge on him.”
“That’s a theory,” she said.
Captain Rattray’s smile grew. “We’ve found young Master Richard’s theories often have a funny way of hitting the nail right smack on the jolly old head.”
“It’ll be that Beamish,” said Lady Lucinda. “You can tell he’s a wrong ‘un.”
“Frightful rotter,” said Blackfist, “drunk as a lord—no offence, Pongo—from noon til Maundy Thursday, and spouting off all manner of resentment against the deceased. That’s a throbbing eyesore of a motive.”
As he spoke, Rattray grasped the Fang of Night. His hand turned black-purple instantly, skin taking on a rough, gritty texture. A flush of colour appeared at his neck and swarmed up around his jawline, extending vein-tendrils across his cheek, stiffening around his lips and eyes. Inside his Norfolk jacket, the upper left quarter of his body became swollen and lumpy.
“Give the fellow a good grilling and he’ll crack, spill the beans.”
Blackfist’s speech became slurred. He apprehended the change and let go of his jewel. The effect rolled back and he smoothed his face, dabbing spittle from his mouth with his breast-pocket hankie.
“Sorry about that,” he said. “No call for the Auld Blackie here.”
“When are you arresting Beamish?” demanded the Aviatrix.
Four of the Six looked at Catriona, expectantly, intently. Even Harbottle joined in.
She had never felt smaller, and mentally cursed Edwin for sending her here. He must have known what she’d be contending with. These people were accustomed to purported master crooks who usurped the BBC’s airwaves to issue proud boasts about the authorship of atrocities as yet uncommitted, helpfully outlining their wicked plans in good time for them to be thwarted. The Splendid Six specialised in crimes that were vastly complicated but easily solved.
“I’m not strictly supposed to make an arrest. That’s Sergeant Harbottle’s duty. I’m here to advise him.”
“I’ll have Beamish in jug before tea-time,” said Harbottle.
“I wouldn’t advise that.”
“Really, I think you should consider it, Miss Gayle,” said the Aviatrix. “The fellow has practically been bragging about it. Sitting there drunk and celebrating.”
“It’s ‘Miss Kaye,’ Lady Lucinda. Before we arrest anyone, we’ll need to establish some things. My reading of the situation is that at first everyone assumed Mr. Blame was killed during a burglary, robber or robbers unknown being the culprits. Now, general opinion seems to have swung around to indict someone with a grudge against the victim.”
“Items were stolen to make it look like a burglawy,” said Clever Dick. “It’s an old, old twick.”
“Absolutely.”
“The Mountmain Gang only stole the Cwown Jewels as a distwaction. The weal point of their waid on the Tower of London was to assassinate the Sergeant-at-Arms who shot Aoife Mountmain during the Iwish Civil War. I was the only one who wealised.”
“It’s the copper-bottomed truth, Miss Kaye,” said Blacklist. “We were all haring off after the orb and sceptre, while brainbox Dickie saw the veritable answer to the mystery. Made us all feel proper clods and no mistake. Still, turned out all right in the end. There are two nations who’ll be glad never to hear from the Mountmains again.”
“See, I’m clever and you’re stupid. Now, awwest Beamish.”
Catriona’s back was literally against a wall, covered in ivy. Through the window, she saw the untidy desk, the missing file.
“It’s a mistake to harp on the solution of your last case when dealing with this one,” she said. “If a murderer can fake a burglary to conceal his identity, could he not also fake a ransacking for the same reason? If ex-Sergeant Beamish or any of the others who lost their livelihoods after the New Year’s party were guilty, why would they take away the file covering their grudge against Mr. Blame?”
“To hide their motive, twitty girl.”
“But it doesn’t hide their motive. The missing file points directly at it. Why not take away a file covering something else, say the nuisance suit that led to the bankruptcy of the local newspaper? And point the finger of guilt at someone else? In fact, that’s what I think has been done. The missing file isn’t evidence against Beamish, it’s evidence for him.”
She saw Clever Dick follow her reasoning. His face started to go red, as if he were holding his breath again. He got bad-tempered, which she took as an admission that he, junior genius, was forced to agree with her, a girl.
“But the missing file, which contains nothing of value, also rules out the unknown burglar theory.”
“Ah-ha,” said Clever Dick, trying to trump her again, “but what if it didn’t just contain papers but also something pwecious, something concealed...”
“Then why take the whole file? If it were a golden penknife or the deed to an oil-well or something, the burglar would just have taken it, rather than be burdened with a lot of irrelevant letters of complaint and dry-as-dust writs. No, the missing file is just a distraction...”
“You’re rather good at this, aren’t you?” said Blackfist, admiring.
Lord Piltdown nodded, bristly chin squashing his four-in-hand cravatte, and—without bending over—fingered the lawn, raising little earthy divots.
“I don’t like to blow my own trumpet,” she said.
“So ‘oo should I arrest?” demanded Harbottle.
Everyone looked at her again. Lady Lucinda lit a cigarette and sucked on a long white holder, pluming smoke through her nostrils. Clever Dick held up his magnifying glass and big-eyed at her.
“I’m not quite ready to stick my neck out yet,” she admitted.
There was evident disappointment.
“She’s got no idea,” said Clever Dick.
Catriona had to admit, though not out loud, that the brat wasn’t far off the mark. She’d shot down two theories and it wasn’t yet time for lunch, but had no suitable replacement.
Maybe it was natural causes?
Or suicide?
Or one of those fiendish suicides supposed to look like murder so an innocent was hanged and which, therefore, are acts of attempted homicide as much as self-slaughter?
That was ridiculous—the sort of thing she’d expect Clever Dick to suggest.
Her head was beginning to ache.
* * * *
At last, she was alone in the cottage. Harbottle had tottered off on his bike to the Coat and Dividers for his lunch, while the Splendids had got bored with watching her mundane sleuthing and gone back to the Drome. Sifting through wastepaper baskets, opening drawers, and the like were all pursuits far less exciting than following a trail of burning corpses left in the wake of the Witch-Queen of Northumberland or skirmishing with the terror lizards of Maple White Land.
Catriona sat in a chair with a wonky wheel at the small desk in Peeter Blame’s study, wriggling a little in the dead man’s seat, trying to think herself back into the crime. One surprisingly useful thing Harbottle had done—prompted, he admitted, by a suggestion from ex-Sergeant Beamish—was to employ the victim’s own photographic apparatus to take flashlight snaps of the scene of the crime before the “deader” was taken away. Prints rush-developed by a local photographical society, of which the deceased had been a member until he found cause to sue the chairman and committee, now lay before her on the blotter. Though the desk was shoved up against a window—the moderne
arches and watch-tower of the Drome were visible beyond the forsythia at the end of the back garden— the study was gloomy even in early afternoon. She snapped on a green-shaded reading lamp to examine the snaps.
Blame lay in a huddle, a spatter from his caved-in head on the rug, his chair—the one in which she was sitting—overturned. From the proximity of body to chair, she assumed he had been at his desk when attacked. The thought made her swivel round (the wonky wheel complained) to look at the low doorway through which the murderer must have entered. She had an intuition-flash of a dark, strong shape stepping quickly across the room, blunt instrument raised but arcing down, colliding with Blame’s cheek...
The Secret Files of the Diogenes Club - [Diogenes Club 02] Page 24
