The Skeleton in the Closet

by M C Beaton

  They knocked at the door. A woman answered it. She had her hair tied up in a scarf. Fell judged her to be about the same age as himself. She had a pleasant open face.

  “We’re looking for Mr. Flint.”

  “Dad’s in the garden. What’s it about?”

  Fell explained, bracing himself for a tirade, for no one else had been particularly friendly. But she smiled and said, “Oh, you’re that pair from the newspaper. I mean, I saw the story about you. Dad’ll be delighted to see you. He kept saying to me, he said, ‘I could tell that pair a thing or two’.”

  They followed her through the dark little house and into a long garden at the back which was a blaze of colour. A hosepipe lay on the lawn and the flowerbeds had been recently watered. “Don’t you go telling the authorities I’ve been watering the plants,” she said. “I’m not going to sit by and see all my work ruined.”

  There was an abundance of roses, hollyhocks, delphiniums, pansies, and gladioli crammed into flowerbeds, and in a glass-fronted shed at the bottom of the garden they could see an old man looking out at them.

  “Dad, this is Dolphin’s son and his girl – you know, the couple you read about in the paper.”

  He was a tortoise of a man, with a scrawny neck poking out of his shirt collar. He wore rimless glasses. Despite the heat of the day, his knees were covered by a rug.

  “Come in,” he said. “Dottie, get a couple of chairs.”

  “Do you mind if we sit just outside the door and talk to you?” pleaded Fell. “The heat is awful.”

  “We’ll sit in the garden then.”

  The daughter brought two kitchen chairs into the garden and then her father heaved himself to his feet by the aid of two sticks. When they were all seated, Fred Flint said, “So you’re wondering about that there robbery. Well, you’ve come to the right place.”

  “You know who did it?” asked Fell eagerly.

  “I do that. I know three of ‘em, anyway.”

  “Who were they?”

  “Dolphin, Johnny Tremp, and Tarry Briggs.”

  “You mean my father…?”

  “Came into money, didn’t you? Where d’ye think it came from?”

  “I’ve been through the accounts and the lawyer can bear me out. My mother and father were misers and saved every penny. They had high-interest accounts and stocks and shares. So what gives you the idea my father was in on it?”

  “He was in the signal box when he should have been having a day off, wasn’t he? He was the one that stopped the train.”

  “But he wasn’t arrested and you have no proof!”

  “Stands to reason he did it.”

  “We know about Tarry Briggs. What about Johnny Tremp?”

  “He was always an evil, nasty bastard. I never liked working with him. If ever there was a villain it was Johnny Tremp.”

  Fell slumped in his hard little chair, suddenly weary. “But you have no real proof.”

  The old man tapped the side of his nose. “I know,” he said.

  “So who masterminded the whole thing?”

  “One of those villains from London. They promised that precious three a cut of the robbery.”

  “Why not you?”

  “ ‘Cause I was always as honest as the day and they knew it.”

  “But weren’t Johnny Tremp and Tarry Briggs at work that day?”

  “That’s the thing. They weren’t. Tarry Briggs wasn’t due on duty until later and it was Johnny’s day off. Funny that, hey?”

  Fell would have liked to make his escape then and there, but the old man began to reminisce about days on the railway until, after an hour, when Fell thought he couldn’t bear much more of it, Fred Flint fell asleep. Fell signalled to Maggie that they should leave. Dottie was working in the kitchen.

  “Your father’s asleep,” said Fell, “and we’ve got another appointment.”

  “I’d best go and help him to bed. You will call again, won’t you? The company does him good.”

  Feeling guilty, Fell said they would call again although he had no intention of doing so.

  “So what now?” asked Maggie.

  “It’s dark now. We could go to Bramley-in-the-Hedges and watch Johnny Tremp’s for a little. Watch who comes and goes.”

  “All right,” said Maggie, “but let’s find a place where we can’t be seen from his house. Those dogs terrify me.”

  ♦

  They stopped a little away from Johnny Tremp’s house where they could watch the gates. Maggie had parked the car under a stand of trees whose branches all but blocked a view of the house, but the little they could see was enough. There was a bright security light above the door of the bungalow which lit up the front of the house and the drive.

  They had been there an hour when suddenly Maggie became aware that Fell had covered his face with his hands and was shaking. “What is it, Fell?”

  “I’m falling apart,” he said. “It’s all come down on me, Maggie. My birth, the robbery, Andy Briggs, the attempt on my life, everything.”

  “We’re going home,” said Maggie. “It’s delayed shock. Hang on. I’ll soon have us back home.”

  ♦

  Fell had lost his enthusiasm for cooking, so it was usually Maggie, armed with new cookery books, who prepared the meals. After they had eaten, she suggested that Fell go to bed. Just then the phone rang.

  “If it’s Melissa, tell her I’m out,” said Fell quickly. “I don’t feel like talking business.”

  Maggie picked up the phone. It was Peter.

  “I’m sorry about the other night,” said Peter. “Don’t know what came over me, falling asleep like that. Must have been doing too much.”

  Doing too much drinking, thought Maggie.

  “Anyway,” Peter went on cheerfully, “I’m reporting on a fashion show over in Cheltenham Town Hall tomorrow afternoon. Too far off our track usually for the Courier, but this one’s high-fashion clothes – Versace, Gucci, Armani – all those bods. Like to come? I could pick you up at two o’clock.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Maggie. “I think Fell and I are doing something. Wait a minute.” She turned to Fell. “It’s Peter. He wants to take me to some fashion show at Cheltenham Town Hall tomorrow.”

  “Then why not go?” asked Fell. “I wouldn’t mind a quiet day here.”

  Maggie quickly masked her disappointment. “All right, Peter,” she said.

  “Grand,” he said. “The photographer’s making his own way.”

  “How long does the show last?”

  “An hour and a half.”

  And then, thought Maggie, what? If he phones over his story, it will be a tour of the pubs all the way back to Buss.

  “I’ve got something to do earlier in Cheltenham, Peter,” she said. “I’ll take my car and meet you there.”

  “I’ll wait for you outside. The show starts at three.”

  “See you.” Maggie put down the receiver.

  “What was that about?” asked Fell curiously. “I mean, what have you got to do in Cheltenham?”

  “I thought I could look for a new dress, if that’s all right with you.”

  “Of course. Have a good time.”

  “Off to bed with you and try to get a good night’s sleep.”

  “It’s so hot,” mourned Fell.

  “This weather can’t last forever. I’ll clear up here. Off with you.”

  Fell lay awake upstairs, listening to the domestic sounds from below as Maggie washed and dried and put away the dishes. He would need to pull his weight a bit more, he thought. Maggie was doing everything. She would make a good wife. He supposed if she was keen on Peter, they’d probably get married.

  His life stretched out in front of him, empty and bleak. Without Maggie, he would be so very much on his own.

  ♦

  Maggie did go to Cheltenham before she was due to meet Peter and went from shop to shop trying to find a dress which would make Fell look at her as a desirable woman and not as a cosy friend. />
  She was pleased with her new trim figure, but mourned the fact that nothing could be done to thin her legs, which were thick and stocky below the knee. At last she found a black dress which was cut lower on the bosom than anything she had ever worn before. It fitted her beautifully and was long enough in the skirt to hide her legs. She had taken the money Fell had given her, but felt guilty at paying so much. She could have bought several pretty cotton dresses for the same price.

  The sight of herself in the fitting-room mirror when she tried on the black dress had depressed her. Somehow, she felt the new hairstyle and contact lenses might have transformed her a good deal from the old Maggie, but she could not see much of a transformation.

  Peter was waiting outside the town hall. He was relatively sober. “You look great,” he said. “That was a good time we had the other night.”

  “Is your idea of a good time getting drunk and passing out?” asked Maggie curiously.

  He burst out laughing and put an arm about her shoulders. “All I need is the love of a good woman to straighten me out. What does Fell think about you going out with me?”

  “He doesn’t mind. He thinks it’s a good idea to have the press on our side,” lied Maggie, who had no intention of telling Peter that Fell did not seem to care at all, and, furthermore, they were not even engaged.

  “Couldn’t get front seats,” said Peter. “The bigger papers like the Birmingham Mercury and the Gloucester Echo have those, but here we are in the second row, so it’s not too bad.”

  “Is there enough money around Cheltenham to pay for designer creations such as Gucci and Versace?” asked Maggie.

  “Lots of money in the whole of Gloucestershire. About the richest county in England. But this show is for charity, Save the Children. Mind you, if any of these women want to buy something, they can mark it down and get it ordered in at that new boutique Femme Fatale on the Parade.” Maggie looked nervously around at all the fashionably dressed women. “How much does a ticket to this show cost?” she whispered.

  “One hundred pounds.”

  Maggie gulped. “That’s an awful lot of money.”

  “It’s all in a good cause.”

  There was a long catwalk running down the centre of the main room in the town hall. Just before the lights went down, Maggie thought she saw a familiar face. She scanned the room again but, with a roll of drums, the catwalk was lit up and the faces of the audience sank back into darkness.

  The models strutted past. Peter scribbled furiously in a notebook, muttering to Maggie, “I’ll never remember the names of these creations if I don’t take notes.”

  “They’re all in the catalogue,” whispered Maggie.

  “I need my own descriptions or I’ll never be able to tell one photograph from another when it comes to doing the captions,” said Peter. “I mean, what the hell is faille?”

  Maggie sat back to enjoy the show. The outfits were not the outrageous creations usually designed only to catch the headlines at the Paris shows, but beautiful designs which got round after round of applause. The models pouted and swayed. There was one model who looked about fourteen years old. She was thin to the point of emaciation. Her arms and legs were like sticks, and her collarbones jutted out.

  What a world, marvelled Maggie, when they are dropping like flies from starvation in Africa, and yet that anorexic little girl is wearing a dress the price of which could probably feed a whole orphanage for quite a time.

  At last the show finished. The photographer joined them. “Better get back with this, Peter.”

  “No time for a drink?”

  “No,” said the photographer.

  “What about this evening, Maggie?” asked Peter.

  “I’m going out with Fell,” said Maggie, shuddering at the thought of another evening watching Peter getting drunk.

  “I’ll phone you.”

  Maggie stood on the steps of the town hall blinking in the sunlight. Then she walked towards the Parade. May as well have a look at the boutique, Femme Fatale.

  Cheltenham is a Regency town, with one beautiful street of white stuccoed houses after another.

  The Parade boasts the most expensive shops.

  Maggie found the shop, Femme Fatale, and went inside. She looked at a few price labels and then shot out again. Even if she won the lottery, would she ever contemplate paying that much for one dress?

  She walked to the car park and then drove home, wishing she had the courage to persuade Fell to take her out for dinner in the French restaurant so that she could wear her new dress.

  But when she got home and had answered Fell’s questions about the show, he said, “I’m getting my courage back. I think we should go to Johnny Tremp’s again this evening and keep watch.”

  “All right,” said Maggie weakly.

  So they spent a long evening watching Johnny Tremp’s bungalow, but no one came in and no one went out.

  “Maybe we’d be better to risk the wrath of the villagers and go back and snoop around during the day,” said Fell as they drove back home.

  “I s’pose,” said Maggie. “Did I tell you I bought a new dress today?”

  “Nice?”

  “Bit of an extravagance, actually. Black and slinky and only to be worn in the evening.”

  “Then we’d better give it an airing. We’ll take a break and go to the French restaurant.” The French restaurant was actually called Chez Nous, but the locals had just called it ‘the French restaurant’ ever since it had opened in Buss five years before.

  “You are good to me, Fell,” said Maggie.

  “You saved my life.”

  “I don’t want your gratitude, Fell.”

  “But you’ve got it. Something’s happened to me. I’m not frightened any more.”

  “That’s good.” Maggie laughed. “If you’re not frightened, then I’m not frightened.”

  She parked the car outside the house, feeling, as they went in and reset the burglar alarm, that for the first time in her life she was really coming home. Then the miserable thought struck her that this was only a temporary arrangement. A strangled sob escaped her.

  “Why, Maggie!” said Fell. “You’re upset.”

  He put an arm around Maggie’s shoulders. She moved quickly away. “I’m all right, really,” she said. “Delayed shock, I think. Let’s take a drink into the sitting room and have a nightcap before we go to bed.”

  ♦

  Jerry Grange and Wayne Baxter were sloping along the road which led past Fell’s house. They were two of the most unsavoury examples of Buss youth.

  “You told me the old boy lived alone,” complained Jerry again. Wayne had told him that Fred Flint was an easy target, old and crippled. So they had broken their way in by smashing a glass panel in the garden door, only to be met by the sight of Dottie Flint coming down the stairs with a shotgun in her hand. They had fled in terror and had hidden out under the Mayor Bridge, hearing the sound of police cars racing over their heads.

  They had waited until the coast was clear and then had begun to make their way into town.

  Wayne moodily tried the handles of parked cars as they walked along. A car radio might get them enough for some drugs. Outside Fell’s house, he tried the handle of Maggie’s car.

  To his surprise it opened. He turned to Jerry with a grin on his face. “They’ve even left the keys in the ignition. Let’s go for a spin.”

  They both climbed in, Wayne in the driver’s seat and Jerry next to him in the passenger seat. Wayne glanced in the driving-mirror. Down the long road behind them, he saw the flashing blue light of a police car.

  “Christ! The filth!” he said, and turned the ignition key.

  There was a great roar as the whole car exploded in flames, shattering the night silence, blowing in the windows of Fell’s house and Mrs. Moule’s house next door.

  Then all was still again, apart from the occasional sound of tinkling glass as another shard of Fell’s broken windows dropped out.

 
; The police car stopped. A policeman ran up with a fire extinguisher while his partner called for help.

  One by one, shocked people began to emerge from the houses. Fell and Maggie in their dressing gowns stood white-faced on the front step.

  “That was my car,” said Maggie, turning her face into Fell’s shoulder. “My car. I left the keys in my car. That was meant for us, Fell.”

  The street was filling up with fire engines and more police cars.

  And then, appearing among the flashing blue lights, the bulk of Dunwiddy emerged.

  He walked up to Fell and Maggie and then turned and surveyed the burnt-out shell of the car. He turned back. “Yours?” he asked them.

  “Yes, mine,” said Maggie through white lips. “That must have been meant for us.”

  “Could be,” he said. “We’ll see. Let’s go inside.” He signalled to another detective. “This is Detective Sergeant Mc-Indoe. Can we go inside?”

  “Careful, Maggie,” cautioned Fell, supporting her inside. “There’s broken glass everywhere.”

  They went into the sitting room. The thick curtains had been drawn and had stopped most of the window glass from flying into the room.

  Dunwiddy began the questioning. Where had they been that evening? Fell and Maggie exchanged a look. “We were just driving around,” said Fell. “We drove over in the direction of Moreton and then around the villages.”

  “Why?”

  “The heat,” said Maggie. “We had the windows of the car rolled down trying to get a breeze.”

  “And when did you get back here?”

  “It must have been around eleven o’clock,” said Fell. “We had a drink and then we went to bed.”

  “I left the keys in the ignition,” said Maggie. “I’ve never done that before.”

  “We think we know who might have been in the car,” said Dunwiddy. “We were looking for a couple of youths who broke into Fred Flint’s. Know Fred Flint?”

  “Yes,” said Fell. “We visited him, about the train robbery.”

  “So we come back to the train robbery again. Nothing major happens in this town for years and then you pair start poking around in an old crime and all hell breaks loose. What did you get out of Fred Flint?”