by Mark Place
‘Well, not really,’ said the inspector smiling. ‘Of course, we only took down the bare details the other day and I’m not sure really whether I’ve even got those right.’ He made a show of consulting his note-book once more. ‘Let me see. Miss Sheila Webb—is that her full name or has she another Christian name? We have to have these things very exact, you know, for the records at the inquest.’
‘The inquest is the day after tomorrow, isn’t it? She got a notice to attend.’
‘Yes, but she needn’t let that worry her,’ said Hardcastle. ‘She’ll just have to tell her story of how she found the body.’
‘You don’t know who the man was yet?’
‘No. I’m afraid it’s early days for that. There was a card in his pocket and we thought at first he was some kind of insurance agent. But it seems more likely now that it was a card he’d been given by someone. Perhaps he was contemplating insurance himself.’
‘Oh, I see,’ Mrs Lawton looked vaguely interested.
‘Now I’ll just get these names right,’ said the inspector. ‘I think I’ve got it down as Miss Sheila Webb or Miss Sheila R. Webb. I just couldn’t remember what the other name was. Was it Rosalie?’
‘Rosemary,’ said Mrs Lawton, ‘she was christened Rosemary Sheila but Sheila always thought Rosemary was rather fanciful so she’s never called anything but Sheila.’
‘I see.’ There was nothing in Hardcastle’s tone to show that he was pleased that one of his hunches had come out right. He noted another point. The name Rosemary occasioned no distress in Mrs Lawton. To her Rosemary was simply a Christian name that her niece did not use.
‘I’ve got it straight now all right,’ said the inspector smiling. ‘I gather that your niece came from London and has been working for the Cavendish Bureau for the last ten months or so. You don’t know the exact date, I suppose?’
‘Well, really, I couldn’t say now. It was last November some time. I think more towards the end of November.’
‘Quite so. It doesn’t really matter. She was not living with you here previously to taking the job at the Cavendish Bureau?’
‘No. She was living in London before that.’
‘Have you got her address in London?’
‘Well, I’ve got it somewhere,’ Mrs Lawton looked round her with the vague expression of the habitually untidy. ‘I’ve got such a short memory,’ she said. ‘Something like Allington Grove, I think it was—out Fulham way. She shared a flat with two other girls. Terribly expensive rooms are in London for girls.’
‘Do you remember the name of the firm she worked at there?’
‘Oh, yes. Hopgood and Trent. They were estate agents in the Fulham Road.’
‘Thank you. Well all that seems very clear. Miss Webb is an orphan, I understand?’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Lawton. She moved uneasily. Her eyes strayed to the door. ‘Do you mind if I just go into the kitchen again?’
‘Of course.’
He opened the door for her. She went out. He wondered if he had been right or wrong in thinking that his last question had in some way perturbed Mrs Lawton. Her replies had come quite readily and easily up to then. He thought about it until Mrs Lawton returned.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, apologetically, ‘but you know what it is—cooking things. Everything’s quite all right now. Was there anything else you want to ask me? I’ve remembered, by the way, it wasn’t Allington Grove. It was Carrington Grove and the number was 17.’
‘Thank you,’ said the inspector. ‘I think I was asking you whether Miss Webb was an orphan.’
‘Yes, she’s an orphan. Her parents are dead.’
‘Long ago?’
‘They died when she was a child.’
There was something like defiance just perceptible in her tone.
‘Was she your sister’s child or your brother’s?’
‘My sister’s.’
‘Ah, yes. And what was Mr Webb’s profession?’
Mrs Lawton paused a moment before answering. She was biting her lips. Then she said, ‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘I mean I don’t remember, it’s so long ago.’
Hardcastle waited, knowing that she would speak again. She did. ‘May I ask what all this has got to do with it—I mean what does it matter who her father and mother were and what her father did and where he came from or anything like that?’
‘I suppose it doesn’t matter really, Mrs Lawton, not from your point of view, that is. But you see, the circumstances are rather unusual.’
‘What do you mean—the circumstances are unusual?’
‘Well, we have reason to believe that Miss Webb went to that house yesterday because she had been specially asked for at the Cavendish Bureau by name. It looks therefore as though someone had deliberately arranged for her to be there. Someone perhaps—’ he hesitated ‘—with a grudge against her.’
‘I can’t imagine that anyone could have a grudge against Sheila. She’s a very sweet girl. A nice friendly girl.’
‘Yes,’ said Hardcastle mildly. ‘That’s what I should have thought myself.’
‘And I don’t like to hear anybody suggesting the contrary,’ said Mrs Lawton belligerently.
‘Exactly.’ Hardcastle continued to smile appeasingly. ‘But you must realize, Mrs Lawton, that it looks as though your niece has been deliberately made a victim. She was being, as they say on the films, put on the spot. Somebody was arranging for her to go into a house where there was a dead man, and that dead man had died very recently. It seems on the face of it a malicious thing to do.’
‘You mean—you mean someone was trying to make it appear that Sheila killed him? Oh, no, I can’t believe it.’
‘It is rather difficult to believe,’ agreed the inspector, ‘but we’ve got to make quite sure and clear up the matter. Could there be, for instance, some young man, someone perhaps who had fallen in love with your niece, and whom she, perhaps, did not care for? Young men sometimes do some very bitter and revengeful things, especially if they’re rather ill-balanced.’
‘I don’t think it could be anything of that kind,’ said Mrs Lawton, puckering her eyes in thought and frowning. ‘Sheila has had one or two boys she’s been friendly with, but there’s been nothing serious. Nobody steady of any kind.’
‘It might have been while she was living in London?’ the inspector suggested. ‘After all, I don’t suppose you know very much about what friends she had there.’
‘No, no, perhaps not…Well, you’ll have to ask her about that yourself, Inspector Hardcastle. But I never heard of any trouble of any kind.’
‘Or it might have been another girl,’ suggested Hardcastle. ‘Perhaps one of the girls she shared rooms with there was jealous of her?’
‘I suppose,’ said Mrs Lawton doubtfully, ‘that there might be a girl who’d want to do her a bad turn.
But not involving murder, surely.’
It was a shrewd appreciation and Hardcastle noted that Mrs Lawton was by no means a fool. He said quickly:
‘I know it all sounds most unlikely, but then this whole businessis unlikely.’
‘It must have been someone mad,’ said Mrs Lawton.
‘Even in madness,’ said Hardcastle, ‘there’s a definite idea behind the madness, you know. Something that’s given rise to it. And that really,’ he went on, ‘is why I was asking you about Sheila Webb’s father and mother. You’d be surprised how often motives arise that have their roots in the past. Since Miss Webb’s father and mother died when she was a young child, naturally she can’t tell me anything about them. That’s why I’m applying to you.’
‘Yes, I see, but—well…’
He noted that the trouble and uncertainty were back in her voice.
‘Were they killed at the same time, in an accident, anything like that?’
‘No, there was no accident.’
‘They both died from natural causes?’
‘I—well, yes, I me
an—I don’t really know.’
‘I think you must know a little more than you are telling me, Mrs Lawton.’ He hazarded a guess. ‘Were they, perhaps, divorced—something of that kind?’
‘No, they weren’t divorced.’
‘Come now, Mrs Lawton. You know—you must know of what your sister died?’
‘I don’t see what—I mean, I can’t say—it’s all very difficult. Raking up things. It’s much better not raking them up.’ There was a kind of desperate perplexity in her glance.
Hardcastle looked at her keenly. Then he said gently, ‘Was Sheila Webb perhaps—an illegitimate child?’
He saw immediately a mixture of consternation and relief in her face. ‘She’s not my child,’ she said.
‘She is your sister’s illegitimate child?’
‘Yes. But she doesn’t know it herself. I’ve never told her. I told her her parents died young. So that’s why—well, you see…’
‘Oh, yes, I see,’ said the inspector, ‘and I assure you that unless something comes of this particular line of inquiry there is no need for me to question Miss Webb on this subject.’
‘You mean you needn’t tell her?’
‘Not unless there is some relevance to the case, which, I may say, seems unlikely. But I do want all the facts that you know, Mrs Lawton, and I assure you that I’ll do my best to keep what you tell me entirely between ourselves.’
‘It’s not a nice thing to happen,’ said Mrs Lawton, ‘and I was very distressed about it, I can tell you. My sister, you see, had always been the clever one of the family. She was a school teacher and doing very well. Highly respected and everything else. The last person you’d ever think would—’
‘Well,’ said the inspector, tactfully, ‘it often happens that way. She got to know this man—this Webb—’
‘I never even knew what his name was,’ said Mrs Lawton. ‘I never met him. But she came to me and told me what had happened. That she was expecting a child and that the man couldn’t, or wouldn’t—I never knew which—marry her. She was ambitious and it would have meant giving up her job if the whole thing came out. So naturally I—I said I’d help.’
‘Where is your sister now, Mrs Lawton?’
‘I’ve no idea. Absolutely no idea at all.’ She was emphatic.
‘She’s alive, though.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘But you haven’t kept in touch with her?’
‘That’s the way she wanted it. She thought it was best for the child and best for her that there should be a clean break. So it was fixed that way. We both had a little income of our own that our mother left us. Ann turned her half-share over to me to be used for the child’s bringing up and keep. She was going to continue with her profession, she said, but she would change schools. There was some idea, I believe, of a year’s exchange with a teacher abroad. Australia or somewhere. That’s all I know, Inspector Hardcastle, and that’s all I can tell you.’ He looked at her thoughtfully. Was that really all she knew? It was a difficult question to answer with any certainty. It was certainly all that she meant to tell him. It might very well be all she knew. Slight as the reference to the sister had been, Hardcastle got an impression of a forceful, bitter, angry personality. The sort of woman who was determined not to have her life blasted by one mistake. In a cold hard-headed way she had provided for the upkeep and presumable happiness of her child. From that moment on she had cut herself adrift to start life again on her own.
It was conceivable, he thought, that she might feel like that about the child. But what about her sister? He said mildly:
‘It seems odd that she did not at least keep in touch with you by letter, did not want to know how the child was progressing?’
Mrs Lawton shook her head.
‘Not if you knew Ann,’ she said. ‘She was always very clear-cut in her decisions. And then she and I weren’t very close. I was younger than she was by a good deal—twelve years. As I say, we were never very close.’
‘And what did your husband feel about this adoption?’
‘I was a widow then,’ said Mrs Lawton. ‘I married young and my husband was killed in the war. I kept a small sweetshop at the time.’
‘Where was all this? Not here in Crowdean.’
‘No. We were living in Lincolnshire at the time. I came here in the holidays once, and I liked it so much that I sold the shop and came here to live. Later, when Sheila was old enough to go to school, I took a job in Roscoe and West, the big drapers here, you know. I still work there. They’re very pleasant people.’
‘Well,’ said Hardcastle, rising to his feet, ‘thank you very much, Mrs Lawton, for your frankness in what you have told me.’
‘And you won’t say a word of it to Sheila?’
‘Not unless it should become necessary, and that would only happen if some circumstances out of the past proved to have been connected with this murder at 19, Wilbraham Crescent. And that, I think, is unlikely.’ He took the photograph from his pocket which he had been showing to so many people, and showed it to Mrs Lawton. ‘You’ve no idea who this man could be?’
‘They’ve shown it me already,’ said Mrs Lawton.
She took it and scrutinized it earnestly.
‘No. I’m sure, quite sure, I’ve never seen this man before. I don’t think he belonged round here or I might have remembered seeing him about. Of course—’ she looked closely. She paused a moment before adding, rather unexpectedly, ‘He looks a nice man I think. A gentleman, I’d say, wouldn’t you?’
It was a slightly outmoded term in the inspector’s experience, yet it fell very naturally from Mrs Lawton’s lips. ‘Brought up in the country,’ he thought. ‘They still think of things that way.’ He looked at the photograph again himself reflecting, with faint surprise, that he had not thought of the dead man in quite that way. Was he a nice man? He had been assuming just the contrary. Assuming it unconsciously perhaps, or influenced perhaps by the fact that the man had a card in his pocket which bore a name and an address which were obviously false. But the explanation he had given to Mrs Lawton just now might have been the true one. It might have been that the card did represent some bogus insurance agent who had pressed the card upon the dead man. And that, he thought wryly, would really make the whole thing even more difficult. He glanced at his watch again.
‘I mustn’t keep you from your cooking any longer,’ he said, ‘since your niece is not home yet—’
Mrs Lawton in turn looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Only one clock in this room, thank heaven,’
thought the inspector to himself.
‘Yes, she is late,’ she remarked. ‘Surprising really. It’s a good thing Edna didn’t wait.’
Seeing a slightly puzzled expression on Hardcastle’s face, she explained. ‘It’s just one of the girls from the office. She came here to see Sheila this evening and she waited a bit but after a while she said she couldn’t wait any longer. She’d got a date with someone. She said it would do tomorrow, or some other time.’
Enlightenment came to the inspector. The girl he had passed in the street! He knew now why she’d made him think of shoes. Of course. It was the girl who had received him in the Cavendish Bureau and the girl who, when he left, had been holding up a shoe with a stiletto heel torn off it, and had been discussing in unhappy puzzlement how on earth she was going to get home like that. A nondescript kind of girl, he remembered, not very attractive, sucking some kind of sweet as she talked. She had recognized him when she passed him in the street, although he had not recognized her. She had hesitated, too, as though she thought of speaking to him. He wondered rather idly what she had wanted to say. Had she wanted to explain why she was calling on Sheila Webb or had she thought he would expect her to say something? He asked:
‘Is she a great friend of your niece’s?’
‘Well, not particularly,’ said Mrs Lawton. ‘I mean they work in the same office and all that, but she’s rather a dull girl. Not very bright and she and Sheila
aren’t particular friends. In fact, I wondered why she was so keen to see Sheila tonight. She said it was something she couldn’t understand and that she wanted to ask Sheila about it.’
‘She didn’t tell you what it was?’
‘No, she said it would keep and it didn’t matter.’
‘I see. Well, I must be going.’
‘It’s odd,’ said Mrs Lawton, ‘that Sheila hasn’t telephoned. She usually does if she’s late, because the professor sometimes asks her to stay to dinner. Ah, well, I expect she’ll be here any moment now. There are a lot of bus queues sometimes and the Curlew Hotel is quite a good way along the Esplanade.
There’s nothing—no message—you want to leave for Sheila?’
‘I think not,’ said the inspector.
As he went out he asked, ‘By the way, who chose your niece’s Christian names, Rosemary and Sheila?
Your sister or yourself?’
‘Sheila was our mother’s name. Rosemary was my sister’s choice. Funny name to choose really.
Fanciful. And yet my sister wasn’t fanciful or sentimental in any way.’
‘Well, good night, Mrs Lawton.’
As the inspector turned the corner from the gateway into the street he thought,
‘Rosemary—hm…Rosemary for remembrance. Romantic remembrance? Or—something quite different?’
Chapter 13
Colin Lamb’s Narrative
I walked up Charing Cross Road and turned into the maze of streets that twist their way between New Oxford Street and Covent Garden. All sorts of unsuspected shops did business there, antique shops, a dolls’ hospital, ballet shoes, foreign delicatessen shops. I resisted the lure of the dolls’ hospital with its various pairs of blue or brown glass eyes, and came at last to my objective. It was a small dingy bookshop in a side street not far from the British Museum. It had the usual trays of books outside. Ancient novels, old text books, odds and ends of all kinds, labelled 3d., 6d., 1s., even some aristocrats which had nearly all their pages, and occasionally even their binding intact.
