by Carola Dunn
Pure speculation! Alec recognized he was postponing his duty, a part of his job he loathed. He walked down the hill.
The windows of the public bar were lit by the soft glow of gaslight behind curtains. One was open and through it came a subdued murmur of voices. No rumble and clatter of skittles. Alec remembered seeing a sign: NO SKITTLES ON SUNDAYS. On the far side of the open front door, the windows of the dining room were also lit. Of course, it was dinnertime for the hotel guests. Mrs. Enderby must be cursing her absent husband.
Or had she pushed him?
Alec entered. The narrow lobby was empty, the cubby-hole behind the registration desk unlit. He rang the bell on the desk, to no effect. As he stood there, wondering whether to knock on the middle door to his left, which must lead into the space behind the bar counter, Mrs. Enderby came out of the dining room, harassed and hurrying. A babble of voices and the chink of china and cutlery cut off as she shut the door behind her.
“Oh, did you ring, sir? Sorry, I’m short-handed and all the rooms are taken. You’ll be lucky to find a place at this time of year but you could try—”
“I must ask you to spare me a moment, Mrs. Enderby. Police. Is there somewhere quiet we can go?”
She took in a sharp breath. For a moment she held absolutely still, then she exhaled and said, “If you’re looking for him, I don’t know where he is. If you’ve got him, you can keep him. What’s he done now? Don’t tell me his latest victim is below the age of consent?”
The door to the lounge bar opened and a man came out. He nodded to Alec, who recognized one of Peter Anstruther’s pals from the previous evening. “’Night, Mrs. Enderby. I’ll send one of the lads first thing tomorrow to get that drain running properly.”
“Thank you, Mr. Dale. Good night.” As Dale stepped out into the street, she lifted the counter of the reception desk. “We’d better go through here, Officer.” She led him through a door into a tiny but comfortable sitting room and lit a lamp, keeping the gas turned quite low. “Something to drink? Well, you won’t mind if I do. Have a seat.”
He watched as she poured herself a short gin from a bottle in a corner cabinet, filled the glass with tonic water, and took a swig. Apart from unnaturally blond hair, Nancy Enderby was good-looking, with brown eyes, naturally dark brows and lashes, and a minimum of cosmetic assistance—carmine lips and a dab of powder on the nose. Her artificial silk frock was tight-fitting but the neckline suggested a compromise between the barmaid and the business-woman. She sank wearily into the nearest chair, and Alec sat down.
“My name is Fletcher. I’m afraid I have bad news.”
Her unblinking stare disconcerted him. So did her words: “That depends on what you mean by bad, don’t it?” When he hesitated how to respond, she went on. “It is something about George, I reckon? I obey the licensing laws, and if I didn’t, Fred Puckle’d be round here like a shot wi’ Ellen Hammett chivvying ahind him, not a plainclothes gentleman-copper as was drinking in the lounge last evening.”
“Yes, it’s your husband. He fell from a cliff. I’m sorry … he’s dead.”
She breathed a long, deep sigh. Alec thought her lips quivered momentarily, perhaps recalling the early days of courtship and marriage, then her mouth hardened and she said harshly, “Fell—or was pushed?”
“That’s what I have to find out. I’ll need to ask you about any enemies he may have had—”
“May!” she snorted.
“As well as whatever you can tell me about his movements today, and your own.”
At that she gave a sour smile. “That’s easy. I were right here, doing his share o’ the work along o’ my own.”
“But first,” Alec said gently, “as next-of-kin, you’ll have to come along to the police station and make a positive identification of the deceased.”
“If it’s right now you mean, Mr. Fletcher, that’s just what I can’t do. I’m a working woman. I’ve got a good staff but they need overseeing. There’s customers to be attended to.” As she spoke she stood up, her mind apparently already returning to business.
Alec rose with her. “That’s all right, Mrs. Enderby. Come round at closing time, and you might want to bring a friend with you.”
Much better than right now, actually, he thought with relief. By half past ten, either Vernon’s uncle or the police surgeon would have had a chance to prettify the battered remains of George Enderby’s face.
11
As Daisy left Alec on the corner in the twilight and turned back along the quay, she was startled by a faint, despairing wail. Then she recognized the sound of a distant foghorn. The local one was silent, and stars were beginning to show in the darkening sky, but far ahead, at the mouth of the inlet, a bank of white fog lurked like—in Belinda’s words—a cat waiting to pounce.
And like a cat, the law was waiting to pounce on Peter Anstruther. Things looked black for him, though at least Alec would make sure all possible suspects were given due consideration.
Daisy hadn’t told him what she had heard when she and the girls returned to the house after reporting the “accident” to Constable Puckle. They had entered by the back door. The kitchen door was ajar, and from within came Anstruther’s sombre voice.
“What’s done is done, Cecily,” he said. “It’s no good crying over spilt milk.”
Hurrying the girls past, Daisy had heard no more. She didn’t know if he was referring to Cecily’s fall from grace or Enderby’s fall from the cliff, but she did know the police were bound to put the worst possible construction on his words.
She could only hope he had an unimpeachable alibi, one not provided by his wife.
Baskin, on the other hand, with his solitary tramping habits, was most unlikely to have an alibi. Alec said he had been up on the cliffs, not off across the inlet or wherever else his wanderings took him. If only she knew what had prompted his interest in the Enderbys! Would he reveal all to Alec, or would he try to keep the secret that wasn’t his to tell? Whatever it was, the police would ferret it out sooner or later. But might he not find it easier, given a little encouragement, to confide in Daisy?
Climbing the steps to the garden, she chided herself. She mustn’t give Alec any justification for accusing her of meddling. In fact, perhaps she ought rather to take the girls away. Sakari wouldn’t be pleased to hear her daughter was staying in a house with two men suspected of murder.
There was no need to upset Sakari by telling her, though. After all, Daisy had every intention of keeping the girls in ignorance. And being a witness of sorts, she ought to stay within reach of the investigation.
Mind made up, she went into the house. The kitchen door was closed, so she knocked and peeked in. Cecily Anstruther was stirring something on the stove. Her husband, in his shirt-sleeves at the table, stood when he saw Daisy They both smiled at her.
“Mmm, that smells good. Don’t get up, Mr. Anstruther. I just wanted to make sure my message reached you.”
“Sandwiches for Mr. Fletcher? Yes, that’s all right. I’ll leave them on the table in the dining room if he’s very late.”
“Thanks awfully.” Daisy ignored the curiosity in both faces. “I hope the weather’s not going to change again. There’s a terrific mass of fog sitting out there on the sea.”
“I shouldn’t worry, Mrs. Fletcher,” said Anstruther. He seemed quite calm and contented, not at all like a man who has just pushed another man off a cliff. Or perhaps it was the tranquil satisfaction of a job well done. He had not been around when Cecily was packing up the picnic tea, Daisy recalled. “The fog sometimes lies out there for days without ever coming up the inlet, though at this time of year it’ll likely be gone by morning.”
“I hope so.” Daisy wondered whether to suggest that the Anstruthers dine with her and Baskin, but Baskin was more likely to talk freely if they were alone together. “Time I was getting those girls to bed.”
Anstruther grinned. “Baskin’s entertaining them, and having a grand time by the looks of it. Says he’
s never had much to do with female children, except for his sister. He claims their minds are fascinatingly different from the little boys he schoolmasters.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” said his wife, “and a very good thing, too. They’re in the sitting room, Mrs. Fletcher.”
Daisy found the three sitting on the floor of the pleasant room with its faded chintzes and gleaming wood. They were studying an Ordnance Survey map of the area. Belinda jumped up and ran to hug her.
“Mummy, Mr. Baskin saw Sid’s house.” As she spoke, Bel guided Daisy to an easy-chair, settled her in it, and fetched a footstool. “He showed us on the map. He talked to him and he says he’s really quite clever.”
“It’s remarkable what he manages to convey without speech and, as far as I can gather, without any sort of education, scarcely even what you might call an upbringing. His house, too, though it’s no more than a shack, seems very soundly constructed, entirely out of bits and pieces he finds on the beach. I found him working on a sort of lean-to shed at the side, to keep his cart in.”
“Poor chap.” Daisy was really more interested in the fact that Baskin seemed more relaxed and cheerful than he had since he started asking questions about Enderby. “What a pity most people don’t take the trouble to communicate with him.”
“I mentioned—didn’t I?—that a friend of mine in London teaches the deaf and dumb. I believe Sid is quite bright enough to learn standard sign language, perhaps to read and write, as well.”
“But do you think he could be happy away from his home, from the sea and people and places he knows?”
“He’s afraid of that horrid policeman, Mummy.”
“That’s why we haven’t seen him since he fetched his cart,” Deva explained. “Mr. Baskin found out Sid won’t come down to Westcombe any longer. So he might as well go to London, don’t you think?”
“He could always come back,” said Baskin. “I’d be quite prepared to pay his fare if necessary. This is such a beautiful part of the country, I wouldn’t blame him for missing it.”
“Mrs. Fletcher, Mr. Baskin showed us on the map where he went today, up the little stream that comes down to the beach, the one we dammed? It sounds just like Ratty’s river in The Wind in the Willows. Bel and I would like to explore it tomorrow. May we, please?”
“It’s a bit of a scramble.” Baskin eyed Daisy doubtfully. She wondered if the girls had told him she was pregnant. Surely they realized it wasn’t something to be chattered about. “But of course you’ll have Mr. Fletcher with you.”
“I’m afraid my husband’s going to be rather busy tomorrow. It’ll have to wait, Deva.”
“Well, if you wouldn’t mind entrusting them to me … I’m a Boy Scout leader, you know, and would take good care of them.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Baskin, but won’t you want to be going on one of your long hikes?”
“As a matter of fact, I had been thinking of leaving this morning. I’ve done what I came … That is, I’ve covered most of the country hereabouts. But another day is neither here nor there. The stream is very pretty and full of creatures I didn’t take the time to investigate.”
Deva looked as if the mention of “creatures” was going to change her mind, but Bel said enthusiastically, “Oh, it would be such fun, Mummy.”
“We’ll ask your father,” said Daisy. Curiouser and curiouser, she thought. Baskin had been going to leave today, having done what he came for. Alec would have put a stop to his departure, at least until he had questioned him thoroughly. But what had Baskin come for, if not to make sure Enderby was the man he was after, and what had he accomplished, if not Enderby’s death? Yet he was ready and willing to put off his departure just to give the girls some fun.
Perhaps he realized the police would stop him leaving openly and therefore intended to sneak out tonight and do a moonlight flit. Or perhaps he really wanted to stick around and watch the course of the investigation. Criminals often did, Alec had told Daisy, and often it was what got them caught.
“Bedtime, girls,” she said. “You may read in bed. I’ll come up after dinner to turn out the lights. Don’t forget to brush your teeth.”
She went to the downstairs lavatory to wash her hands and tidy her hair. No need to change—Baskin had not brought a dinner-jacket and Alec had made quite plain that he absolutely refused to have anything to do with stiff collars while on holiday. Then she rejoined Baskin in the dining room.
The maid brought in the soup. Looking at her with a new eye, Daisy decided she would be absolutely hopeless at giving anyone an alibi or reporting overheard conversations.
A plump, fair, pink-faced farm-girl of sixteen or seventeen, Vera was an efficient, hardworking housemaid and passable parlour-maid. However, she worked like a well-oiled machine, her head in Hollywood. She lived for her weekly day off. She spent Wednesday mornings and early afternoons at home on the farm, but late afternoons and evenings were dedicated to the picture-palace in Abbotsford, where she managed to fit in two shows before the last ferry back to Westcombe.
Though a question connected with her duties usually elicited an adequate response, trying to engage her in conversation was pointless. She would half-emerge from her dream, only to go into raptures over Rudolf Valentino or John Barrymore.
Daisy had long given up any attempt at friendly chat. Now she gave up hope of Vera as a witness.
The maid served them and departed. Daisy tasted the soup, fresh green pea with just the right amount of mint—delicious.
“Your husband’s not home yet?” Baskin enquired. “The police are keeping him rather a long time.”
“I dare say there are formalities to go through,” Daisy said vaguely, trying to avoid awkward questions which might lead to a premature disclosure of Alec’s profession. “Especially as Enderby wasn’t exactly popular in certain quarters. You weren’t terribly keen on him yourself, were you?”
“I?” Voice and face were guarded. “I never spoke to him except to order a pint. That business in the pub last night suggests he was a rotter, doesn’t it? Unless, of course, Anstruther went off the deep end over nothing but rumour. He seems on very good terms with his wife now.”
“He’s a frightfully nice chap.”
“Yes. Yes, he is a good fellow. I suppose they’ll have an inquest.”
“Alec will have to tell the coroner about finding the body.” Botheration, she thought, she hadn’t meant to display her familiarity with the legal requirements following unnatural death. “I’ve read a few detective stories,” she explained.
“So have I.” He grinned. “I’m constantly confiscating Sexton Blake from my boys. For myself, I’d rather see them reading those than nothing, but my headmaster has other ideas.”
“Oh, your pupils, of course. You’re a bit young to have children old enough to read Sexton Blake, but when you said ’my boys’ I thought for a moment maybe you had sons.”
“Not I. I’m not married and I live in the school. We have both day-boys and weekly boarders who go home at the weekends.”
Daisy nearly asked whether he had nieces or nephews, as a way of finding out whether his sister was married. She decided regretfully that such probing into his family on short acquaintance would be unforgivably ill-bred, worthy of Mrs. Hammett.
Baskin took a last spoonful of soup and changed the subject. “What a wonderful cook Mrs. Anstruther is. These holiday boarding-houses usually feed one on tinned soup, fat mutton and cabbage boiled till it’s grey, just like at school.”
Vera came in with crisply breadcrumbed fillets of Dover sole and went out with the soup plates. Thoughtfully, Daisy squeezed lemon juice on her fish. So Baskin had no wife for Enderby to have seduced. The sister was a possibility, though. He had spoken of her several times without mentioning a husband. Assuming she was single, he might have come to Westcombe hoping to force Enderby to marry her.
How had he known Enderby was here?
Daisy recalled his saying Mrs. Anstruther’s had been recom
mended to him. And the friend who gave the recommendation had mentioned the Schooner. Now just suppose the friend had known that Baskin had a bone to pick with one George Enderby, and coming across a man by that name had passed on the information. Then Baskin had come down to check whether it was the right man, and if so, to deal with him.
It wasn’t the sort of thing either Baskin or his sister were likely to have talked about to anyone else, though, Daisy thought, eating absent-mindedly.
But the friend need not have known exactly what Baskin’s quarrel with Enderby was. Or perhaps he had been courting Miss Baskin and knew the whole story. No, in that case he would have taken his own revenge instead of calling in her brother, wouldn’t he?
How complicated it all was! Daisy realized crossly that her sole had disappeared without her tasting a morsel and she hadn’t even come to any conclusion. She might just as well have wasted brainpower on the young woman she had seen in the street—the one who had looked so upset when Nancy Enderby was accusing George of multiple affairs—or the unidentified farmer’s daughter who was apparently his latest love.
The friends and relatives of both women must be considered suspects. Beyond that fact, Daisy knew precisely nothing about either of them. However, she was acquainted with someone who probably knew all there was to know. Could she bring herself to call upon the abominable Mrs. Hammett?
12
When Alec returned from the inn to the police station, the small front room was so crammed with people he could only just open the door and squeeze in. At least three conversations were taking place, all in raised voices to be heard over each other. He stood there for a moment, leaning against the door, gathering his energy to make his presence known.
Young Vernon had retained his place at the high desk. Catching sight of Alec above the massed heads, he banged on it with his fist and cried, “Here’s Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher of Scotland Yard!”
