I saw Bathwick shoot him a glance of dog-like gratitude which enhanced my sense of injustice, while Janet smouldered at me across the hearthrug.
We went out through the french windows on to as fine a marble terrace as any you’d find in Hollywood today, and Kingston took my arm.
‘I say,’ he began, ‘that chap Peters …’
It took me back years to the little patch of grass behind the chapel at school and old Guffy taking me by the arm, with the same words uttered in exactly the same tone of mingled excitement and outrage.
‘That chap Peters …’
‘Yes?’ I said encouragingly.
Kingston hesitated. ‘This is the nature of a confession,’ he began unexpectedly, and I fancy I stared at him, for he coloured and laughed. ‘Oh, I didn’t rob the blighter,’ he said. ‘But I took down his will for him. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. He came down to my place to recuperate after appendicitis, you know. He made the arrangements himself by letter, and on the way down he picked up a chill and developed roaring pneumonia and died in spite of everything. He came to me because I was fairly inexpensive, you know. Someone in the district recommended him, he said, and mentioned a chap I knew slightly. Well, when he was very ill he had a lucid period, and he sent for me and said he wanted to make a will. I wrote it down, and he signed it.’
Kingston paused and fidgeted.
‘I’m telling you this because I know about you,’ he went on at last. ‘I’ve heard about you from Janet, and I know Sir Leo called you down on this Harris business. Well, Campion, as a matter of fact, I altered the will a bit.’
‘Did you though?’ I said foolishly.
He nodded. ‘Not in substance, of course,’ he said, ‘but in form. I had to. As he dictated it it ran something like this: “To that unspeakable bounder and unjailed crook, my brother, born Henry Richard Peters – whatever he may be calling himself now – I leave all I possess at the time of my death, including everything that may accrue to my estate after I die. I do this not because I like him, am sorry for him, or sympathize in any way with any nefarious business in which he may be engaged, but simply because he is the son of my mother, and I know of no one else.”’
Kingston hesitated, and regarded me solemnly in the moonlight.
‘I didn’t think it was decent,’ he said. ‘A thing like that can cause a lot of trouble. So I cleaned up the wording a bit. I simply made it clear that Mr Peters wanted everything to go to his brother, and left it at that. He signed it and died.’
He smoked for a moment or so in silence, and I waited for him to continue.
‘As soon as I saw Harris he reminded me of someone,’ he said, ‘and tonight at dinner, when you reminded me of that funeral, I realized who it was. Peters and Harris had a great deal in common. They were made of the same sort of material, if you see what I mean, and had the same colouring. Peters was larger and had more fat on him, but the more I think about it the stronger the likeness becomes. You see what I’m driving at, Campion? This man Harris may well be the legatee’s brother.’
He laughed apologetically.
‘Now I’ve said it it doesn’t sound so very exciting,’ he said.
I did not answer him at once. I knew perfectly well that the Peters in the mortuary was my Peters, and if there was a brother in the business, I took it that it was he who had been Kingston’s patient. It confirmed my earlier suspicions that Pig had been up to something characteristically fishy before retribution in the flower-pot had overtaken him.
‘I sent the will along to his solicitors,’ Kingston continued. ‘I took all instructions about the funeral and so on from them, and they paid my account. I’ve got their name at home; I’ll let you have it. Tomorrow morning do?’
I assured him it would, and he went on:
‘I was down at the Knights this morning when it happened,’ he said, not without a certain pride. ‘We were playing poker. I’d just netted a queen-pot when I heard the thud and we all rushed out. There was nothing to be done, of course. Have you seen the body?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I haven’t examined it yet. Was that the first time you’d seen Harris?’
‘Oh, Lord, no! He’s been there all the week. I’ve had to go along there every day to see Flossie Gage, one of the maids. She’s had jaundice. I didn’t talk to Harris much because – well, none of us did, you know. He was an offensive type. That incident with Bathwick showed you the type he was.’
‘Bathwick?’
‘Oh, didn’t you hear about that?’ Kingston warmed to me. Like most country doctors he relished a spot of gossip. ‘It had its humorous side in a way. Bathwick is an earnest soul, as you may have noticed.’
I agreed, and he chuckled and hurried on:
‘Harris talked about a dance hall and a bathing beach he was going to build on that bit of land which runs down to the creek on the far side of the cricket pitch. Bathwick heard the gossip and was appalled by it. It didn’t fit into his own scheme for Kepesake’s development, which is more on welfare lines – communal kitchens and superintended crèches, and so on. He rushed down to see Harris in a panic, and I believe there was a grand scene. Harris had a sort of sense of humour and took a delight in teasing old Bathwick, who has none. They were in the lounge at the Knights, and Bill Duchesney and one or two other people were there, so Harris had an audience and let himself go. Bill told me Bathwick went off at last with his eyes bulging. Harris had promised him dancing houris, secret casinos, and God knows what else, until the poor chap saw his dream yokel walking straight out of the church clinic on one side of the road into the jaws of hell on the other. Bill tried to soothe the Vicar, I believe, but he said he was scared out of his wits and shocked to the marrow. You see the sort of fellow Harris was. He liked to show off. There was no need for him to tease old Bathwick, who’d be quite a good chap if he wasn’t so solemn. However, that’s not the point. The question is, who killed Harris? I’ll bring down that solicitor’s name, and any papers I can find first thing in the morning, shall I?’
‘I wish you would,’ I said trying not to sound too eager. ‘Thanks for telling me.’
‘Not at all. I wish I could be really helpful. It’s so seldom anything happens down here.’ He laughed awkwardly. ‘That’s a bit naïve, isn’t it?’ he murmured. ‘But you’ve no idea how dull the country is for a fairly intelligent man, Campion.’
We went back to the drawing-room. Janet and Bathwick were listening to the wireless, but she got up and switched it off as we appeared, and Bathwick sighed audibly at the sight of me.
Leo looked in after a bit, but he was plainly preoccupied, and he excused himself soon after. Not unnaturally the party broke up early. Kingston went home, taking the reluctant and smouldering cleric with him, and Janet and I wandered out on the terrace. It was warm and moonlit and rather exotic, what with night-scented stocks in the garden below and nightingales in the ilex.
‘Albert.…’ said Janet.
‘Yes?’
‘You’ve some very peculiar friends, haven’t you?’
‘Oh, you meet all kinds of people at school,’ I said defensively, my mind still clinging to Peters. ‘It’s like knowing a lot of eggs. You can’t tell which one is going to grow into something definitely offensive.’
She drew a long breath and her eyes glinted in the faint light.
‘I didn’t know you went to a co-ed,’ she said witheringly. ‘That accounts for you, I suppose.’
‘In a way,’ I agreed mildly. ‘I remember Miss Marshall. What a topping Head she was, to be sure. Such a real little sport on the hockey field. Such a demon for impositions. Such a regular little whirlwind with the birch.’
‘Shut up,’ said Janet unreasonably. ‘How d’you like Bathwick?’
‘A dear fellow,’ I said dutifully. ‘Where does he live?’
‘At the Vicarage, just behind the Knights. Why?’
‘Has he a nice garden?’
‘Quite good. Why?’
‘Does
his garden adjoin the Knights’ garden?’
‘The vicarage garden runs up to the chestnut copse at the back of Poppy’s place. Why?’
‘I like to know a man’s background,’ I said. ‘He’s rather keen on you, isn’t he?’
She did not answer me, and I fancied she considered the question to be in bad taste. To my astonishment I felt her shiver at my side.
‘Albert,’ she said in a very small voice, ‘do you know who did this beastly murder?’
‘No, not yet.’
‘You think you’ll find out?’ She was almost whispering.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’ll find out.’
She put her hand in mine. ‘Leo’s very fond of Poppy,’ she murmured.
I held her hand closely. ‘Leo has no more idea who killed Harris than a babe unborn,’ I said.
She shivered again. ‘That makes it worse, doesn’t it? It’ll be such a dreadful shock for him when he – he has to know.’
‘Poppy?’ I said.
Janet clung to my arm. ‘They’d all shield her, wouldn’t they?’ she said unsteadily. ‘After all, she had most to lose. Go back to Town, Albert. Give it up. Don’t find out.’
‘Forget it,’ I said. ‘Forget it for now.’
We walked on in silence for a little. Janet wore a blue dress and I said I liked it. She also wore her hair in a knot low on her neck, and I said I liked that, too.
After a while she paid me a compliment. She said I was an eminently truthful person, and she was sorry to have doubted my word in a certain matter of the afternoon.
I forgave her readily, not to say eagerly. We turned back towards the french windows and had just decided not to go in after all, when something as unforeseen as it was unfortunate occurred. Pepper came out, blowing gently. He begged our pardons, he said, but a Miss Effie Rowlandson had called to see Mr Campion and he had put her in the breakfast-room.
CHAPTER 7
The Girl Friend
AS I FOLLOWED Pepper through the house, I ventured to question him.
‘What’s she like, Pepper?’
He turned and eyed me with a glance which conveyed clearly that he was an old man, an experienced man, and that dust did not affect his eyesight.
‘The young woman informed me that she was a great friend of yours, sir, which was why she took the liberty of calling on you so late.’ He spoke sadly, intimating that the rebuke hurt him as much as it did me. He opened the breakfast-room door.
‘Yoo-hoo!’ said someone inside.
Pepper withdrew and Miss Effie Rowlandson rose to meet me.
‘O-oh!’ she said, glancing up at me under fluttering lashes, ‘you’re not really, truly cross, are you?’
I am afraid I looked at her blankly. She was petite, blonde, and girlish, with starry eyes and the teeth of toothpaste advertisements. Her costume was entirely black save for a long white quill in her hat, and the general effect lay somewhere between Hamlet and Aladdin.
‘O-oh, you don’t remember me,’ she said. ‘O-oh, how awful of me to have come! I made sure you’d remember me. I am a silly little fool, aren’t I?’
She conveyed that I was a bit of a brute, but that she did not blame me, and life was like that.
‘Perhaps you’ve got hold of the wrong man?’ I suggested helpfully.
‘O-oh no …’ Again her lashes fluttered at me. ‘I remember you – at the funeral, you know.’ She lowered her voice modestly on the last words.
Suddenly she came back to me with a rush. She was the girl at Peters’s funeral. Why I should have forgotten her and remembered the old man, I do not know, save that I recollect feeling that she was not the right person to stare at.
‘Ah, yes,’ I said slowly. ‘I do remember now.’
She clapped her hands and squealed delightedly.
‘I knew you would. Don’t ask me why, but I just knew it. I’m like that sometimes. I just know things.’
At this point the conversation came to an abrupt dead-lock. I was not at my best, and she stood looking at me, a surprisingly shrewd expression in her light grey eyes.
‘I knew you’d help me,’ she added at last.
I was more than ever convinced that I was not her man, and was debating how to put it when she made a surprising statement.
‘He trampled on me,’ she said. ‘I don’t know when I’ve been so mistaken in a man. Still, a girl does make mistakes, doesn’t she, Mr Campion? I see I made a mistake in saying I was such an old friend of yours when we’d only met once – or really only just looked at each other. I know that now. I wouldn’t do it again.’
‘Miss Rowlandson,’ I said, ‘why have you come? I – er – I have a right to know,’ I added stalwartly, trying to keep in the picture.
She peered at me. ‘O-oh, you’re hard, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘All men are hard, aren’t they? They’re not all like him, though. O-oh, he was hard! Still,’ she added, with a wholly unconvincing attempt at gallant restraint, ‘I ought not to talk about him like that, did I, when he’s dead – if he is dead. Is he?’
‘Who?’
She giggled. ‘You’re cautious, aren’t you? Are all detectives cautious? I like a man to be cautious. Roly Peters, of course. I used to call him Roly-Poly. That used to make him cross. You’d never guess how cross that used to make him. Poor Roly-Poly! It’s wrong to laugh when he’s dead – if he is dead. Do you know?’
‘My dear girl,’ I said. ‘We went to his funeral, didn’t we?’
I suppose I spoke sharply, for her manner changed. She assumed a spurious dignity and sat down, arranging her short black skirts about her thin legs with great care.
‘I’ve come to consult you, Mr Campion,’ she said. ‘I’m putting all my cards on the table. I want to know if you’re satisfied about that funeral?’
‘It wasn’t much to do with me,’ I countered, temporarily taken aback.
‘Oh, wasn’t it? Well, why was you there? That’s pinked you, hasn’t it? I’m a straightforward girl, Mr Campion, and I want a straight answer. There was something funny about that funeral, and you know it.’
‘Look here,’ I said, ‘I’m perfectly willing to help you. Suppose you tell me why you think I can.’
She looked at me steadily. ‘You’ve been to a good school, haven’t you?’ she said. ‘I always think it helps a man to have gone to a good school. Then you know he’s a gentleman; I always say that. Well, I’ll trust you. I don’t often. And if you let me down, well, I’ve been silly again, that’s all. I was engaged to marry Roly Peters, Mr Campion, and then he went and died in a hole-and-corner nursing home and left all his money to his brother. If you don’t think that’s suspicious, I do.’
I hesitated. ‘You think it’s odd because he left his brother everything?’ I began.
Effie Rowlandson interrupted me.
‘I think it’s funny he died at all, if you ask me,’ she said. ‘I’d threatened him with a lawyer, I had really. I had the letters and everything.’
I said nothing, and she grew very pink.
‘Think what you like about me, Mr Campion,’ she said, ‘but I’ve got feelings and I’ve worked very hard to get married. I think he’s done the dirty on me. If he’s hiding I’ll find him, if it’s the last thing I do.’
She sat looking at me like a suddenly militant sparrow.
‘I came to you,’ she said, ‘because I heard you were a detective and I liked your face.’
‘Splendid! But why come here?’ I demanded. ‘Why come to Kepesake, of all places?’
Effie Rowlandson drew a deep breath. ‘I’ll tell you the truth, Mr Campion,’ she said.
Once again her lashes flickered, and I felt that our brief period of plain dealing was at an end.
‘I’ve got a friend in this village, and he’s seen my photographs of Roly Peters. He’s an old man, known me for years.’
She paused, and eyed me to see if I was with her or against her, and apparently she was reassured, for she went on breathlessly:
�
��A few days ago he wrote me, this friend of mine did. “There’s a gentleman in the village very like a friend of yours,” he wrote. “If I were you I’d come and have a look at him. It might be worth your while.” I came as soon as I could, and when I got here I found this man I’d come to see had got himself killed only this morning. I heard you were in the village, so I came along.’
I began to follow her. ‘You want to identify him?’ I said.
She nodded resolutely.
‘Why come to me? Why not go to the authorities?’
Her reply was disarming. ‘Well, you see, I felt I knew you,’ she said.
I considered. The advantages of a witness at this juncture were inestimable.
‘When can you be down at the police station?’
‘I’d like to go now.’
It was late for the country, and I said so, but she was adamant.
‘I’ve made up my mind to it and I shan’t sleep if I’ve got it hanging over me till tomorrow. Take me down now in your car. Go on, you know you can. I am being a nuisance, aren’t I? But I’m like that. If I make up my mind to a thing, I fret till I’ve done it. I should be quite ill by the morning, I should really.’
There was nothing else for it. I knew from experience that it is safest to catch a witness as soon as he appears on the scene.
I rang the bell, and told the girl who answered it to send Lugg round with the car. Then, leaving Miss Rowlandson in the breakfast-room, I went to find Janet.
It was not a very pleasant interview. Janet is a dear girl, but she can be most obtuse. When she went to bed, which she did with some dignity a few minutes after I had located her, I went back to the breakfast-room.
Lugg seemed a little surprised when I appeared with Miss Rowlandson. I tucked her into the back of the car, and climbed into the front seat beside him. He let in the clutch, and as we roared down the drive in fourth he leant towards me.
‘Ever see a cat come out of a dawg-kennel?’ he murmured, and added when I stared at him: ‘Gives you a bit of a turn. That’s all.’
The Case of the Late Pig Page 5
