by Carola Dunn
Much as he deplored his daughter’s casual attitude towards the violent death of a fellow human being, Alec could only be relieved that the girls were not shocked or frightened. “Yes, you may go with Mr. Baskin. I’m sorry I can’t go too. They’ve put me in charge of the investigation.”
“That’s because they know you’re the best detective,” said Bel, “but it’s not fair. You must make them give you another holiday instead.”
“I will. Now, if Mr. Baskin’s changed his mind, you’re not to make a fuss.”
“That’s what Mrs. Fletcher said,” sighed Deva. “Grown-ups shouldn’t say they’ll do something and then not do it.”
“Sometimes it can’t be helped. Believe me, I wouldn’t be off to work now if I had any choice in the matter!”
15
Descending the steps to the track, Alec glanced to the south towards the mouth of the inlet. The bank of fog had dissipated, but clouds were blowing in from the south-west. Rain would make searching the cliff-top almost as difficult and dangerous as fog. The sooner he sent his men out, the better. The search ought to have been accomplished yesterday, and he could only blame his own reluctance to take charge.
He turned towards the village and quickened his stride.
Few people were about as yet. Most of those Alec saw ignored him, but two or three eyed him curiously. If he knew anything about small towns, it wouldn’t be long before he couldn’t walk through the streets without everyone staring and whispering.
The parish hall was revealed by daylight as a shabby, weather-boarded building in need of a coat of paint. As he approached, a figure rose from the front step and came eagerly to meet him: Andrew Vernon.
“Good morning, sir! I’ve been waiting for you. They won’t let me in.”
“Quite right, too.”
His face fell. “Oh, I say, sir! You’re not going to shut me out now, after I made all the arrangements for a hearse to pick up the body? It’s on its way to Abbotsford now, and Dr. Wedderburn says I can attend the post mortem this afternoon.”
“Thank you! Isn’t that enough for you?”
“And after I battled with that pen to write a decent report for you, too! Look, my fingers are still stained with the ink the damn thing spluttered all over me. There must be something I can do to help this morning.”
“Writing reports?”
“Well, if that’s what you need,” he said disconsolately. “At least I have my fountain pen today.”
“Is that yours?” Alec indicated a small green canvas box with a shoulder-strap, in the porch of the hall.
“Yes, it’s my Portable Laboratory.”
“Modelled on Dr. Thorndyke’s?”
“As much as I could. Freeman doesn’t give all the details. Anyway, I couldn’t afford a high-powered miniature microscope.”
“You did a good job yesterday with your medical bag. I should think you’d better take your kit and go with Sergeant Horrocks to help to search the cliff-top.”
“Really? Do you mean it?”
“If you’ll follow his instructions without quibbling, and not try to teach your grandmother to suck eggs.”
“I will! I won’t! Gosh, thanks, sir!”
“And remember, absolutely everything you learn is confidential.”
“Of course, sir. Being a policeman’s sort of like being a doctor, that way, isn’t it?”
They went into the hall. A couple of long trestle tables had been set up, and several of the kind of folding chairs that seem designed by someone with the most cursory knowledge of human anatomy. On one table lay two unused notebooks, a dozen sheets of official writing-paper, three envelopes, four paperclips, an eraser, half a dozen pencils, a bottle of blue-black ink, and the pen Vernon so despised. This was the total contents of Puckle’s stationery drawer. He seldom filled a whole notebook in the course of a year, he had said.
On the other table was spread his map of the area. Over it pored Inspector Mallow, Sergeant Horrocks, and the two constables from Torquay. They all looked up as Alec and Vernon entered. The uniformed men came to attention and saluted.
“Good morning, sir,” said Mallow, with a gentle benevolence that ought to have been followed by a sympathetic enquiry as to whether Alec had slept well. However, illumined by the natural light squeezing in through high, narrow windows, the inspector’s kindly image was belied by the watchful, even sceptical look in his eyes. He didn’t enquire after Alec’s health but went straight to business. “Constable Puckle knocked up the local photographer early and he should be here with the prints any minute. The GPO will send someone this morning to run a telephone line extension down from the police station.”
“Excellent,” said Alec. He had already decided to put Mallow in charge at the parish hall to collect and collate reports, rather than letting him interview and antagonize witnesses. “Well done.”
“The Abbotsford station is sending someone with supplies, an officer you can keep if you need him. He’ll come on a motor-bicycle so that we can get to these places people claim to have been.”
“Good thinking. When he arrives, you can send him straight to the Ferries Inn with a description of Baskin. If they recall his stopping in at lunchtime for a drink, I don’t see how he could get back in time, especially if the ferryman remembers taking him across the river. And I want enquiries made for a small sports car, light blue or grey, which drove between Westcombe and Malborough yesterday afternoon. It may be well known locally, or if it’s a visitor, it may have stopped for petrol somewhere.”
“Number plate?” Mallow queried.
“We haven’t got it. That’s what we want, so as to track down the driver, who may have seen Anstruther.” Alec noticed that Horrocks was looking past him, with a badly concealed grin. He swung round to see Vernon practically dancing with impatience. “You know the car?”
“I didn’t want to interrupt, sir, but yes, I know one like it. Mr. Wallace’s son has one.”
“Mr. Wallace the lifeboat coxswain?”
“And solicitor. Rory has an eggshell blue Bugatti, or at least he had last summer. I haven’t seen him this year.”
“He lives with his parents?”
“No, he solicits too, and he’s junior partner in the firm, but he and his old man don’t see eye to eye. There isn’t really enough business in Westcombe for two, anyway, so Rory has a separate office in Plymouth. He might have motored over to see his parents, though.”
“Check it, Mallow. You can send Puckle when he gets here. As soon as we have those photos to help in identifying the right spot, Horrocks will take your two men and Mr. Vernon up on the cliffs to search. Vernon, what can you tell me about Thomas Stebbins?”
“He’s a jobbing gardener. Surly type. He works at the Vicarage on Thursdays. Julia—Miss Bellamy—might know where he goes the other days.”
“Am I right in thinking that you have the run of the Vicarage and could pop in now, in spite of the early hour, to ask Miss Bellamy where he lives and where he’s to be found at this time?”
Vernon blushed. “Yes, sir. It’s just next door. I’ll be right back.” He dashed off.
Turning to the sergeant, Alec said, “I hope you don’t mind taking the lad along, Horrocks. He’s very keen and I’ve impressed upon him that he’s under your orders.”
“Another pair of eyes can’t hurt, sir. Besides which, he’ll be able to show us the way, us being unfamiliar with these parts.”
“Good.” Alec went on to explain what they were to look for, in particular Enderby’s jacket and any piece of wood which might have served as a bludgeon. As he finished, the sound of an altercation came through the open windows.
“I call it too utterly shabby of you!” exclaimed a youthful female voice indignantly.
“This isn’t a game, Ju,” young Vernon responded. “It’s a real murder. Girls are too squeamish to be real detectives.”
“Well, I like that! Lots of girls are nurses, and in the War they were right in the middle of battles.
Don’t tell me they didn’t cope with all sorts of gruesome things! As a matter of fact, I’m thinking of going into nursing myself. I’m sure it must be more interesting than typing.”
“Don’t change the subject. You can’t come, and that’s that.”
“They can’t stop me walking Popsy on the cliff path.”
“Bet they can.”
“Bet they can’t. And what’s more, I bet we get there before you!”
Horrocks’s dismayed glance met Alec’s. Before either could speak, Constable Puckle came in with the photographs.
“These here,” he announced importantly, “are what you might call extra-quick prints. Mr. Ledwick says they’ll fade pretty quick. So I says to him, they’ll be needed in evidence. And he says to me, d’ye want me to wash the negatives prop’ly and make another set o’ prints as’ll last, acos it’s going to cost extra? And I says to him, yes, make ’em and you can send the bill to the County Constabluary in Exeter. So I hopes as how that’s all right, sir, acos I wouldn’t want ’em docked off my pay, sir, or Martha’ll carry on something terrible.”
“That’s quite all right, Constable. Good thinking.”
Swelling with pride—making his girth even more impressive than usual—Puckle spread the prints on a table. In spite of acrid fumes catching at the back of the throat, everyone crowded around to look, including Vernon, who had re-entered hard on Puckle’s heels. Of the twelve photos, the close-up shots were out-of-focus, too blurred to be useful. The one of the cliff face was sharp but the details were too small to be made out plainly, even with a magnifying lens. Worth trying an enlargement, Alec decided, at the expense of the Devonshire “Constabluary.”
The rest were clear and sharp. The impact of Enderby’s superficial injuries was lessened by the absence of colour, but the horribly unnatural positions of his limbs and head brought a gasp from one of the constables.
Alec picked out the shot he had taken after climbing to a higher spot, showing the pattern of rocks surrounding the body. “This should help you find the place where he went over, Sergeant, even if the tide is covering some of these rocks. But for heaven’s sake don’t risk anyone falling after him. If it seems too dangerous to look over the edge, I’m sure Mr. Vernon can give you a pretty good idea of where to look. Vernon, you got the information about Stebbins?”
“Yes, sir, he should be at the Hammetts’ today.”
“Thank you.” Alec sent the search party on their way.
Vernon hadn’t mentioned Miss Bellamy’s threat. If the girl turned up, with or without her dog, Horrocks would just have to deal with her as he would any encroaching member of the public.
Puckle provided directions to the Hammett and Stebbins residences. Leaving Mallow to organize their makeshift headquarters and the evidence so far gathered, to await the arrival of supplies, and to start the search for the unknown sports-car, Alec set off to find the jobbing gardener. He had seen and heard enough of Tom Stebbins to know the interview was going to be anything but easy.
“But it looks like rain.” Daisy spread marmalade lavishly on her toast.
“Oh, Mummy, what does it matter? We’ll prob’ly get wet anyway.”
“I asked Anstruther,” said Baskin, “and he says it won’t rain before afternoon. A sailor is never wrong about the weather.”
“Why not?” Deva wanted to know.
Baskin explained the importance of the weather to a ship at sea, keeping Deva’s interest by using the monsoons and typhoons of the Indian Ocean as an example. Daisy thought he must be an excellent teacher. His pupils would miss him if he were arrested for the murder of George Enderby. She wished she knew the reason for his interest in the philandering landlord. No doubt Alec knew by now or would find out soon. Surely she could persuade him to tell her, since he would be unaware of Baskin’s possible connection with the case if she had not alerted him.
After breakfast, they all set out. The cloudy day was cool and Daisy’s path was a gentle slope requiring no great exertion, little more than a rutted farm track, with grass growing down the centre. Except for occasional gates and stiles, high hedges hid the view, but the dullness was relieved by foxgloves, white campion, ragged robin and festoons of fragrant honeysuckle. Armed with Baskin’s Ordnance Survey map, she managed without great difficulty to find the bridge and two fords where she was to meet them, well before they arrived.
At the final rendezvous, Bel and Deva were wet, muddy and happy. Baskin was damp, cheerful and quite willing to take them back the same way, as that was what they wanted.
“There’s a fallen tree-trunk right across the stream, Mummy,” Belinda explained. “Mr. Baskin wouldn’t let us walk on it in case we fell in and got completely soaked, instead of just splashed, but he said we could on the way home if you say so because we can go straight home and change.”
“It’s such fun, Mrs. Fletcher! My ayah would never let me do anything like this.”
“Nor would my gran,” Bel agreed.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Fletcher, they won’t come to any harm. The tree-bridge isn’t high, the water isn’t deep, and they’d be in the sea if they weren’t in the stream.”
“True. Right-oh, girls, but if you get any wetter, change and dry off as soon as you get back. I’m going to take a different way back so you may get there first.” Daisy had decided to walk back by the lane Inspector Mallow had suggested Peter Anstruther could have taken, the one that allowed easy access to the cliff. At least it looked easy on the map. She wanted to see for herself.
Before seeking out Tom Stebbins, Alec paid a call on the gardener’s wife. The Stebbinses lived in the end cottage of a row on the edge of the village, with nothing but fields beyond. The small front garden was a riot of roses: bushes, standards, and a glorious pink climber beside the door. Alec, who enjoyed gardening but rarely found time for it, noted and admired the luxuriant foliage and the absence of green-fly and black spot.
As he walked up the short, paved path, he saw that the garden at the side of the house was equally well cared for. Scarlet runner beans climbed to the eaves, and neat, weedless beds nourished a variety of other vegetables. A huge marrow peeked coyly through its screen of leaves. Apparently gardening was Stebbins’s hobby as well as his job.
The house, what could be seen of it between the roses, was another matter, with peeling paint, cracked windowsills, and a couple of missing slates on the roof. Those were probably the landlord’s responsibility, but the other cottages in the row looked to be in good condition, so Alec inferred that the Stebbinses didn’t care enough to request repairs.
He knocked on the door.
The woman who opened it wasn’t quite what he expected of “a common little piece.” Her figure was trim, her bobbed hair naturally corn-gold, and though she had darkened her eyelashes, the bloom in her cheeks owed nothing to rouge. Her flowered frock was up-to-date in style but shoddy as to material. Bright, curious eyes studied him briefly. She sighed.
“A rozzer,” she said resignedly. “Blimey, I didn’t think you’d get here so quick.” Her voice was pure Cockney.
“You’re a long way from home, Mrs. Stebbins.”
“Too true, ducks. You better come on in.”
“Thank you. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher.”
“Pleased to meecher, I don’t think.”
He followed her into a narrow, dark passage. A door on his left was probably the front parlour, but apparently rozzers didn’t rate the front parlour. The doorless wall on the right was the party wall, shared with the next cottage. They passed a staircase and emerged into the brick-floored and very untidy kitchen. Breakfast dishes were stacked in dirty water in the stone sink, which had a single tap and no hot-water geyser. On top of the small coal-fired range was a frying-pan with congealing grease.
“Bloody mediaeval, innit? Give me a nice gas cooker any day. Take a seat, do.” They sat at the crumby, sticky table. “Got a fag?”
“Sorry, I smoke a pipe. What brought you to Devon, Mrs.
Stebbins?” Alec asked with real interest.
“One port and lemon too many, that’s what. Me and a couple of friends thought it’d be a giggle to enlist in the Land Army, get away from the bloody Zeppelins. Gawd, Jerry gave us ‘ell in the East End! They sent me to a farm ’ereabouts, and that was anuwer kind of ’ell. No shops for miles, and the clothes we had to wear! It got so bad it made Westcombe look good, and besides, getting married got me out of the muck. And Tom brought me flowers, roses and carnations and that.”
“Your husband wasn’t in the services?”
“Nah, too busy turning the nobs’s flower gardens over to veg, not that there’s any what I’d call real nobs ’ereabouts, not like the West End. He’s ten years older’n me, too, and I’m pushing thirty, I kid you not.”
“You don’t look a day over twenty.”
“Garn!” she said, but she looked pleased. “I got to admit it’s good for a girl’s complexion, living out here in the middle of nowhere, but when you said that, you said it all. I did ‘ope he’d go back ’ome wiv me after the Armistice, but nuffing doing. Won’t leave his bloody gardens. If you want to know, that’s why I took up with Georgie. The lousy bastard promised he’d take me back to the Smoke, and next fing I know he’s having a bit off wiv some farmer’s little girl wiv mud under her fingernails.”
“Do you happen to know her name?”
“Nah. Who cares?”
“Does your husband know about your relationship with George Enderby?”
She shrugged and said again, “Who cares? He can divorce me if he wants. Only it costs money to get a divorce, dunnit? Fat chance.”
“He hasn’t spoken to you about it?”
“Not that I ’eard, but I don’t always listen. He’s always got somefing to grouse about.”
“Where were you yesterday afternoon?”
“Me? I didn’t push Georgie off the cliff!” she declared indignantly.
“It’s just a matter of routine, Mrs. Stebbins. We have to check everyone in any way associated with the victim.”
