by Mark Place
If it occurred to Mrs Hemming that Colin was hardly speaking in the proper role of sergeant of police, no trace of it appeared in her face. She merely murmured vaguely: ‘They always know, the dear things, don’t they?’
A handsome grey Persian put two paws on Inspector Hardcastle’s knees, looked at him in an ecstasy of pleasure and dug his claws in hard with a kneading action as though the inspector was a pincushion. Goaded beyond endurance, Inspector Hardcastle rose to his feet.
‘I wonder, madam,’ he said, ‘if I could see this back garden of yours.’ Colin grinned slightly.
‘Oh, of course, of course. Anything you please.’ Mrs Hemming rose. The orange cat unwound itself from her neck. She replaced it in an absent-minded way with the grey Persian. She led the way out of the room. Hardcastle and Colin followed.
‘We’ve met before,’ said Colin to the orange cat and added, ‘And you’re a beauty, aren’t you,’ addressing another grey Persian who was sitting on a table by a Chinese lamp, swishing his tail slightly. Colin stroked him, tickled him behind the ears and the grey cat condescended to purr. ‘Shut the door, please, as you come out, Mr—er—er,’ said Mrs Hemming from the hall. ‘There’s a sharp wind today and I don’t want my dears to get cold. Besides, there are those terrible boys—it’s really not safe to let the dear things wander about in the garden by themselves.’ She walked towards the back of the hall and opened a side door.
‘What terrible boys?’ asked Hardcastle.
‘Mrs Ramsay’s two boys. They live in the south part of the crescent. Our gardens more or less back on each other. Absolute young hooligans, that’s what they are. They have a catapult, you know, or they had. I insisted on its being confiscated but I have my suspicions. They make ambushes and hide. In the summer they throw apples.’
‘Disgraceful,’ said Colin.
The back garden was like the front only more so. It had some unkempt grass, some unpruned and crowded shrubs and a great many more laurels of the speckled variety, and some rather gloomy macrocarpas. In Colin’s opinion, both he and Hardcastle were wasting their time. There was a solid barrage of laurels, trees and shrubs through which nothing of Miss Pebmarsh’s garden could possibly be seen. Diana Lodge could be described as a fully detached house. From the point of view of its inhabitants, it might have had no neighbours.
‘Number 19, did you say?’ said Mrs Hemming, pausing irresolutely in the middle of her back garden.
‘But I thought there was only one person living in the house, a blind woman.’
‘The murdered man was not an occupant of the house,’ said the inspector.
‘Oh, I see,’ said Mrs Hemming, still vaguely, ‘he came here to be murdered. How odd.’
‘Now that,’ said Colin thoughtfully to himself, ‘is a damned good description.’
Chapter 9
They drove along Wilbraham Crescent, turned to the right up Albany Road and then to the right again along the second instalment of Wilbraham Crescent.
‘Simple really,’ said Hardcastle.
‘Once you know,’ said Colin.
‘61 really backs on Mrs Hemming’s house—but a corner of it touches on 19, so that’s good enough. It will give you a chance to look at your Mr Bland. No foreign help, by the way.’
‘So there goes a beautiful theory.’ The car drew up and the two men got out.
‘Well, well,’ said Colin. ‘Some front garden!’
It was indeed a model of suburban perfection in a small way. There were beds of geraniums with lobelia edging. There were large fleshy-looking begonias, and there was a fine display of garden ornaments—frogs, toadstools, comic gnomes and pixies.
‘I’m sure Mr Bland must be a nice worthy man,’ said Colin, with a shudder. ‘He couldn’t have these terrible ideas if he wasn’t.’ He added as Hardcastle pushed the bell, ‘Do you expect him to be in at this time of the morning?’
‘I rang up,’ explained Hardcastle. ‘Asked him if it would be convenient.’
At that moment a smart little Traveller van drew up and turned into the garage, which had obviously been a late addition to the house. Mr Josaiah Bland got out, slammed the door and advanced towards them. He was a man of medium height with a bald head and rather small blue eyes. He had a hearty manner.
‘Inspector Hardcastle? Come right in.’
He led the way into the sitting-room. It evinced several proofs of prosperity. There were expensive and rather ornate lamps, an Empire writing desk, a coruscated ormolu set of mantelpiece ornaments, a marquetry cabinet, and a jardinière full of flowers in the window. The chairs were modern and richly upholstered.
‘Sit down,’ said Mr Bland heartily. ‘Smoke? Or can’t you when you’re on the job?’
‘No, thanks,’ said Hardcastle.
‘Don’t drink either, I suppose?’ said Mr Bland. ‘Ah well, better for both of us, I dare say. Now what’s it all about? This business at Number 19 I suppose? The corners of our gardens adjoin, but we’ve not much real view of it except from the upper floor windows. Extraordinary business altogether it seems to be—at least from what I read in our local paper this morning. I was delighted when I got your message.
A chance of getting some of the real dope. You’ve no idea the rumours that are flying about! It’s made my wife quite nervous—feeling there’s a killer on the loose, you know. The trouble is they let all these barmy people out of lunatic asylums nowadays. Send them home on parole or whatever they call it. Then they do in someone else and they clap them back again. And as I say, the rumours! I mean, what with our daily woman and the milk and paper boy, you’d be surprised. One says he was strangled with picture wire, and the other says he was stabbed. Someone else that he was coshed. At any rate it was a he, wasn’t it? I mean, it wasn’t the old girl who was done in? An unknown man, the papers said.’ Mr Bland came to a full stop at last. Hardcastle smiled and said in a deprecating voice: ‘Well, as to unknown, he had a card and an address in his pocket.’
‘So much for that story then,’ said Bland. ‘But you know what people are. I don’t know who thinks up all these things.’
‘While we’re on the subject of the victim,’ said Hardcastle, ‘perhaps you’ll have a look at this.’
Once more he brought out the police photograph. ‘So that’s him, is it?’ said Bland. ‘He looks a perfectly ordinary chap, doesn’t he? Ordinary as you and me. I suppose I mustn’t ask if he had any particular reason to be murdered?’
‘It’s early days to talk about that,’ said Hardcastle. ‘What I want to know, Mr Bland, is if you’ve ever seen this man before.’
Bland shook his head. ‘I’m sure I haven’t. I’m quite good at remembering faces.’
‘He hasn’t called upon you for any particular purpose—selling insurance or—vacuum cleaners or washing machines, or anything of that kind?’
‘No, no. Certainly not.’
‘We ought perhaps to ask your wife,’ said Hardcastle. ‘After all, if he called at the house, it’s your wife he would see.’
‘Yes, that’s perfectly true. I don’t know, though…Valerie’s not got very good health, you know. I wouldn’t like to upset her. What I mean is, well, I suppose that’s a picture of him when he’s dead, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Hardcastle, ‘that is quite true. But it is not a painful photograph in any way.’
‘No, no. Very well done. The chap might be asleep, really.’
‘Are you talking about me, Josaiah?’
An adjoining door from the other room was pushed open and a middle-aged woman entered the room.
She had, Hardcastle decided, been listening with close attention on the other side of the door.
‘Ah, there you are, my dear,’ said Bland, ‘I thought you were having your morning nap. This is my wife, Detective Inspector Hardcastle.’
‘That terrible murder,’ murmured Mrs Bland. ‘It really makes me shiver to think of it.’
She sat down on the sofa with a little gasping sigh.
&nbs
p; ‘Put your feet up, dear,’ said Bland.
Mrs Bland obeyed. She was a sandy-haired woman, with a faint whining voice. She looked anaemic, and had all the airs of an invalid who accepts her invalidism with a certain amount of enjoyment. For a moment or two, she reminded Inspector Hardcastle of somebody. He tried to think who it was, but failed. The faint, rather plaintive voice continued.
‘My health isn’t very good, Inspector Hardcastle, so my husband naturally tries to spare me any shocks or worry. I’m very sensitive. You were speaking about a photograph, I think, of the—of the murdered man. Oh dear, how terrible that sounds. I don’t know that I can bear to look!’
‘Dying to see it, really,’ thought Hardcastle to himself.
With faint malice in his voice, he said:
‘Perhaps I’d better not ask you to look at it, then, Mrs Bland. I just thought you might be able to help us, in case the man has called at this house at any time.’
‘I must do my duty, mustn’t I,’ said Mrs Bland, with a sweet brave smile. She held out her hand.
‘Do you think you’d better upset yourself, Val?’
‘Don’t be foolish, Josaiah. Of course I must see.’
She looked at the photograph with much interest and, or so the inspector thought, a certain amount of disappointment.
‘He looks—really, he doesn’t look dead at all,’ she said. ‘Not at all as though he’d been murdered. Was he—he can’t have been strangled?’
‘He was stabbed,’ said the inspector.
Mrs Bland closed her eyes and shivered.
‘Oh dear,’ she said, ‘how terrible.’
‘You don’t feel you’ve ever seen him, Mrs Bland?’
‘No,’ said Mrs Bland with obvious reluctance, ‘no, no, I’m afraid not. Was he the sort of man who—who calls at houses selling things?’
‘He seems to have been an insurance agent,’ said the inspector carefully.
‘Oh, I see. No, there’s been nobody of that kind, I’m sure. You never remember my mentioning anything of that kind, do you, Josaiah?’
‘Can’t say I do,’ said Mr Bland.
‘Was he any relation to Miss Pebmarsh?’ asked Mrs Bland.
‘No,’ said the inspector, ‘he was quite unknown to her.’
‘Very peculiar,’ said Mrs Bland.
‘You know Mrs Pebmarsh?’
‘Oh yes, I mean, we know her as neighbours, of course. She asks my husband for advice sometimes about the garden.’
‘You’re a very keen gardener, I gather?’ said the inspector.
‘Not really, not really,’ said Bland deprecatingly. ‘Haven’t the time, you know. Of course, I know what’s what. But I’ve got an excellent fellow—comes twice a week. He sees the garden’s kept well stocked, and well tidied up. I’d say you couldn’t beat our garden round here, but I’m not one of those real gardeners like my neighbour.’
‘Mrs Ramsay?’ said Hardcastle in some surprise.
‘No, no, farther along. 63. Mr McNaughton. He just lives for his garden. In it all day long, and mad on compost. Really, he’s quite a bore on the subject of compost—but I don’t suppose that’s what you want to talk about.’
‘Not exactly,’ said the inspector. ‘I only wondered if anyone—you or your wife, for instance—were out in your garden yesterday. After all, as you say, it does touch on the border of 19 and there’s just a chance that you might have seen something interesting yesterday—or heard something, perhaps?’
‘Midday, wasn’t it? When the murder happened I mean?’
‘The relevant times are between one o’clock and three o’clock.’
Bland shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t have seen much then. I was here. So was Valerie, but we’d be having lunch, you know, and our dining-room looks out on the roadside. We shouldn’t see anything that was going on in the garden.’
‘What time do you have your meal?’
‘One o’clock or thereabouts. Sometimes it’s one-thirty.’
‘And you didn’t go out in the garden at all afterwards?’
Bland shook his head.
‘Matter of fact,’ he said, ‘my wife always goes up to rest after lunch and, if things aren’t too busy, I take a bit of shuteye myself in that chair there. I must have left the house about—oh, I suppose a quarter to three, but unfortunately I didn’t go out in the garden at all.’
‘Oh, well,’ said Hardcastle with a sigh, ‘we have to ask everyone.’
‘Of course, of course. Wish I could be more helpful.’
‘Nice place you have here,’ said the inspector. ‘No money spared, if I may say so.’
Bland laughed jovially.
‘Ah well, we like things that are nice. My wife’s got a lot of taste. We had a bit of a windfall a year ago.
My wife came into some money from an uncle of hers. She hadn’t seen him for twenty-five years. Quite a surprise it was! It made a bit of difference to us, I can tell you. We’ve been able to do ourselves well and we’re thinking of going on one of these cruises later in the year. Very educational they are, I believe. Greece and all that. A lot of professors on them lecturing. Well, of course, I’m a self-made man and I haven’t had much time for that sort of thing but I’d be interested. That chap who went and dug up Troy, he was a grocer, I believe. Very romantic. I must say I like going to foreign parts—not that I’ve done much of that—an occasional weekend in gay Paree, that’s all. I’ve toyed with the idea of selling up here and going to live in Spain or Portugal or even the West Indies. A lot of people are doing it. Saves income tax and all that. But my wife doesn’t fancy the idea.’
‘I’m fond of travel, but I wouldn’t care to live out of England,’ said Mrs Bland. ‘We’ve got all our friends here—and my sister lives here, and everybody knows us. If we went abroad we’d be strangers. And then we’ve got a very good doctor here. He really understands my health. I shouldn’t care at all for a foreign doctor. I wouldn’t have any confidence in him.’
‘We’ll see,’ said Mr Bland cheerfully. ‘We’ll go on a cruise and you may fall in love with a Greek island.’
Mrs Bland looked as though that were very unlikely.
‘There’d be a proper English doctor aboard, I suppose,’ she said doubtfully.
‘Sure to be,’ said her husband.
He accompanied Hardcastle and Colin to the front door, repeating once more how sorry he was that he couldn’t help them.
‘Well,’ said Hardcastle. ‘What do you think of him?’
‘I wouldn’t care to let him build a house for me,’ said Colin. ‘But a crooked little builder isn’t what I’m after. I’m looking for a man who is dedicated. And as regards your murder case, you’ve got the wrong kind of murder. Now if Bland was to feed his wife arsenic or push her into the Aegean in order to inherit her money and marry a slap-up blonde—’
‘We’ll see about that when it happens,’ said Inspector Hardcastle. ‘In the meantime we’ve got to get on with this murder.’
Chapter 10
At No. 62, Wilbraham Crescent, Mrs Ramsay was saying to herself encouragingly, ‘Only two days now. Only two days.’ She pushed back some dank hair from her forehead. An almighty crash came from the kitchen. Mrs Ramsay felt very disinclined even to go and see what the crash portended. If only she could pretend that there hadn’t been a crash. Oh well—only two days. She stepped across the hall, flung the kitchen door open and said in a voice of far less belligerence than it would have held three weeks ago: ‘Now what have you done?’
‘Sorry, Mum,’ said her son Bill. ‘We were just having a bit of a bowling match with these tins and somehow or other they rolled into the bottom of the china cupboard.’
‘We didn’t mean them to go into the bottom of the china cupboard,’ said his younger brother Ted agreeably.
‘Well, pick up those things and put them back in the cupboard and sweep up that broken china and put it in the bin.’
‘Oh, Mum, not now.’
‘Yes, now.’
> ‘Ted can do it,’ said Bill.
‘I like that,’ said Ted. ‘Always putting on me. I won’t do it if you won’t.’
‘Bet you will.’
‘Bet I won’t.’
‘I’ll make you.’
‘Yahh!’
The boys closed in a fierce wrestling match. Ted was forced back against the kitchen table and a bowl of eggs rocked ominously.
‘Oh, get out of the kitchen!’ cried Mrs Ramsay. She pushed the two boys out of the kitchen door and shut it, and began to pick up tins and sweep up china.
‘Two days,’ she thought, ‘and they’ll be back at school! What a lovely, what a heavenly thought for a mother.’
She remembered vaguely some wicked remark by a woman columnist. Only six happy days in the year for a woman. The first and the last days of the holidays. How true that was, thought Mrs Ramsay, sweeping up portions of her best dinner-service. With what pleasure, what joy, had she contemplated the return of her offspring a bare five weeks before! And now? ‘The day after tomorrow,’ she repeated to herself, ‘the day after tomorrow Bill and Ted will be back at school. I can hardly believe it. I can’t wait!’
How heavenly it had been five weeks ago when she met them at the station. Their tempestuous and affectionate welcome! The way they had rushed all over the house and garden. A special cake baked for tea. And now—what was she looking forward to now? A day of complete peace. No enormous meals to prepare, no incessant clearing up. She loved the boys—they were fine boys, no doubt of that. She was proud of them. But they were also exhausting. Their appetite, their vitality, the noise they made.
At that moment, raucous cries arose. She turned her head in sharp alarm. It was all right. They had only gone out in the garden. That was better, there was far more room for them in the garden. They would probably annoy the neighbours. She hoped to goodness they would leave Mrs Hemming’s cats alone. Not, it must be confessed, for the sake of the cats, but because the wired enclosure surrounding Mrs Hemming’s garden was apt to tear their shorts. She cast a fleeting eye over the first-aid box which lay handy on the dresser. Not that she fussed unduly over the natural accidents of vigorous boyhood. In fact her first inevitable remark was: ‘Now haven’t I told you a hundred times, you are not to bleed in the drawing-room! Come straight into the kitchen and bleed there, where I can wipe over the linoleum.’
