A Pack of Lies

by Geraldine McCaughrean

  Behind them, their plain-clothes inspector, prowling the shop with his hands clasped behind his short gabardine car coat, uttered a cry of triumph and fell on the glass display case balanced on the wash-stand. ‘And how do you account for having this salmon in your possession?’

  Unperturbed, MCC stepped between the constables and explained to the inspector about the car boot sale at the railway sidings and how he had gone there to buy stock for the shop. ‘Oh yeah?’ said the inspector with a contemptuous twist of the mouth. ‘That’s what they all say: “Picked it up at a jumble sale, Inspector. Can’t remember when or where or who sold it to me.”‘

  MCC was not dismayed. He took a deep breath and said, ‘I purchased this row of books here, the bookcase they are in and that distinguished salmon from an X-registration red Cortina belonging to a stocky man with a Latvian accent and a large sticker in his back window saying These other books I purchased, along with a marquetry writing box (now sold), from a blue two-door converted van registered in Liverpool. The receipts are in the top right-hand drawer of that roll-top desk behind you - although the Latvian gentleman would only go as far as to write “Cash reseeved, Ta, Mickey Mouse” on the back of an envelope, which is why I took the precaution of writing his registration number on the envelope as well.’

  The inspector sprang at the desk and rummaged feverishly in the drawer. He asked to use the telephone, and Mrs Povey said yes, of course, and wouldn’t he like some tea; wouldn’t everyone like some tea? So while the detective inspector checked on the Latvian gentleman’s car registration number, his two constables perched themselves uneasily on a horsehair sofa and fumbled with their notebooks with one hand while trying to balance a cup of tea and ginger biscuits in the other. One remembered that he had been half-way through noting down MCC’s name. He was about to ask for it again when MCC, slumped back in the basket chair with his outstretched legs crossed at the ankles, waved his teaspoon in the direction of the gaping desk and said, ‘In fact you might be interested in the history of that rolltop. It was Exhibit Number One in a celebrated court case, you know. A murder.’

  The police constables’ teacups rattled on their saucers. Ailsa, who had not read one word of the book in her hand, glanced at its spine. It was called The Case of the Bloodstained Blotter.

  ***

  ‘I shall have to ask - gentlemen, ladies - that nobody leaves the house,’ said Detective Inspector Farrell. ‘A murder has been committed and statements will have to be taken. Sergeant. Be so good as to take notes?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  Out at sea, the tide was turning, a bitter sleet began to rattle against the windows of the remote Scottish farmhouse where they now sat. The high wind set the electricity wires swinging, straining at their insulators, and the lights in the house flickered. In the next room, Angus Costick had been found slumped over the closed lid of his roll-top writing desk, a paper-knife in his chest and an IOU clutched in his hand.

  In the living room, Costick’s houseguests sat aghast and silent. A middle-aged woman, her greying hair fastened in an untidy bun, sobbed quietly into a handkerchief and kept saying, ‘Poor Angus. Poor dear Angus!’

  ‘Calm yourself, Miss Pyke,’ said the inspector. ‘I’m sure we can clear this matter up in no time at all. After all, the drive was blocked by snow from Friday night until this morning and there were no tracks outside when the police were summoned. So no-one has either come to the house or left it since then. I think we may safely assume that someone in this room is the murderer.’

  Miss Pyke gave a sort of a wail and burst into renewed sobbing. The others looked at each other with bulging, startled eyes full of mistrust: Neville Costick (the dead man’s nephew) was a large, shabby man with a whisky glass forever in one hand; Enid Costick was the victim’s daughter; Timothy Gribley (the dead man’s secretary) was a dwarf and one-time circus performer, and Wembley Poole was a business partner of the murdered man. There was also Mrs Beattie the housekeeper, lurking in the background, nervously flicking a duster across the sideboard from time to time. Outside, the undertaker’s van drove away with what remained of Mr Costick.

  Inspector Farrell drew his sergeant aside and said, hardly moving his lips, ‘I shall now retire to the scene of the crime and there interview each suspect in turn. I always find the scene of the crime makes a guilty man jumpy — easier to catch out, you know. Remember these things, Sergeant. You may be in criminal investigation one day.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘I’ve got it ninety per cent sewn up. It’s the nephew, and I’ll show you for why.’ He led the way through the broken office door and sat his sergeant down where the dead man had been sitting five minutes earlier. ‘You see, Troughton, death was caused by an upward blow to the chest - clearly a blow struck by someone very tall standing behind the man and reaching over his head … so!’

  ‘Yes sir,’ said Sergeant Troughton, easing the point of the inspector’s fountain pen away from his tie.

  ‘And who answers that description?’

  ‘Either Wembley Poole or Neville Costick, sir.’

  ‘Exactly. And whose IOU was clutched in the dead man’s hand showing a debt of one thousand pounds due yesterday?’

  ‘Neville Costick’s, sir.’

  ‘There you are, then. He owed the old money-lender money — couldn’t pay — and stabbed him instead.’

  Sergeant Troughton licked one finger and tried to wipe the ink off his shirt-front. ‘There is just the matter of the locked door, Inspector, sir. The office door was locked on the inside. The housekeeper had to ask Neville Costick to break it down before they could get in and find the body. And there are no windows in this room for a murderer to have made his getaway.’

  ‘Hmm … Well, of course I’m keeping an open mind about this, Sergeant … The only person we can eliminate altogether is the secretary, Gribley. He’s not tall enough to have reached Costick’s chest even when they were facing each other. He certainly couldn’t have reached over a seated man and stabbed him in the chest. Send him in first, Sergeant. I need someone trustworthy to tell me about the others - and about the dead man.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Timothy Gribley was ushered in. He eyed the desk with an expression of bitter grief, and blew his nose on a large handkerchief. His head was on a level with the top drawer of the roll-top desk, but after he clambered on to a chair, with the ease of long practice, he faced Inspector Farrell, looking anxiously eager to help.

  ‘What manner of man was your late employer, Mr Gribley?’

  ‘Oh! A dear, kind, generous man, sir!’ exclaimed Gribley. ‘Firm but fair, I always call him … called him. I know there was some as didn’t care for him, but I never had anything but kindness from him from the day I began work here. And generous with his wages, too, sir.’

  ‘I see.’ Inspector Farrell tapped on his teeth with the fountain pen. ‘Who exactly did you mean when you said “some didn’t care for him”?’

  Gribley seemed embarrassed. ‘I’m not one to tell tales. There’s confidential secrets involved. I was a confidential secretary.’

  ‘A murder has been committed here,’ said the inspector sternly.

  ‘In that case … I’m loath to say it … but you do know that Mr Costick’s nephew Neville borrowed a large sum of money from Mr Costick only a year ago … and I don’t think he’s in a position to pay it back.’ (Inspector Farrell gave his sergeant a knowing look.) ‘And then Mrs Beattie the housekeeper was given notice last week for drinking her master’s sherry and other pilfering around the house.’ (The sergeant’s pencil scraped busily across his notebook.) ‘And I believe Mr Costick quarrelled with his business partner, Mr Poole, about certain … well, certain irregularities in the accounts. That’s to say, Mr Poole was embezzling money from the firm. Enid … that’s to say, Enid Costick loves her father, naturally … but I think there was some cooling off after she found out he was going to change his will when he got married and cut her off without a penn
y.’

  ‘Married! Was Costick going to marry, then?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir. He was going to marry Miss Pyke out there. Can’t say why. Odd woman. Not right in the head, I sometimes think.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Gribley. Thank you. You’ve been most helpful! If you would go and wait with the others … and kindly ask the housekeeper to step in here.’

  ‘Well, Sergeant!’ exclaimed Farrell, as the dwarf clambered out over the broken door. ‘There’s a whole pack of motives! What have we got? Read out your notes!’

  Sergeant Troughton read out: ‘Mr Neville Costick in debt, £1,000 and couldn’t pay.

  - Mrs Beattie fired for pilfering.

  - Mr Wembley Poole caught embezzling from the business.

  - Enid Costick cut out of will.

  - Miss Pyke engaged to be married to the deceased.’

  ‘So we can rule her out, Sergeant. The daughter, on the other hand, would gain by killing him before he changed his will. She’s quite tall, isn’t she?’

  ‘Pretty tall, sir,’ said Sergeant Troughton thoughtfully, moving across to the roll-top desk. He put on his uniform gloves and carefully raised the lid and began searching the various compartments. The blotter was stained a deep, unpleasant red. ‘In my limited experience, sir, these Biedermeier desks sometimes have … ah yes … a trigger which releases … a secret compartment. Yes. Here it is.’ He took out a pencil drawer and pressed a length of wooden beading, and a drawer sprang open spilling loose papers across the bloodstain.

  ‘Let me see!’ exclaimed the inspector. ‘Don’t go smudging fingerprints, Sergeant!’

  ‘No sir. Sorry sir. This one seems to be a letter from a detective agency, sir, concerning Miss Pyke. It seems Mr Costick was checking up on his future bride.’

  Inspector Farrell looked sulky. ‘Let that be a lesson to you, boy. Never eliminate anyone from an investigation till you’re sure.’

  ‘No sir. Thank you sir.’

  ‘Ah! Mrs Beattie! Come in. I have some questions to ask you about the sherry …’

  The housekeeper denied categorically that she had ever drunk Mr Costick’s sherry or stolen so much as a teaspoon. She also denied Mr Costick had given her the sack. ‘He were a right misery and a money-lender, but ‘e never had cause to complain about my work nor my honesty, and that’s God’s own truth!’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Farrell when she had gone. ‘Of course she can afford to lie now Costick’s dead.’

  Miss Pyke, the dead man’s fiancee said, ‘That’s right! That’s right! We were engaged to be married. It was all going to be wonderful and now … and now … oh!’ Another burst of tears rubbed out her sentence.

  The inspector sat back, unmoved, and with a small sardonic smile on his lips. ‘Were you aware that your betrothed employed a private detective to look into your past, Miss Pyke … or should I say Mrs Pyke? These papers from Mr Costick’s desk make very interesting reading, madam.’

  The handkerchief fell to the floor. The tearful face froze into a pallid mask. ‘So. What’s to say? You’ve found me out. When he read that, it was as if he changed into somebody else. Do you know what? He didn’t just call off the wedding. Oh no! That I could have understood. That I could have stood. But he wanted money! He wanted money to keep quiet about my … my little secret. He said, “You’ve got money enough,” he said. “That’s the only reason I was going to marry you, after all.” I’m glad he’s dead. I’m glad! I’m glad! If someone hadn’t murdered him, I would’ve!’

  The sergeant recovered her handkerchief from under the table and asked her to wait with the others in the living room. As he returned from helping her across the wreckage of the door, his commanding officer said, ‘That’s the one, then. She did it.’

  ‘If you say so, sir,’ said the sergeant, putting on his heavy black gloves again and delicately opening each long drawer of the desk in turn. He lifted out some old accounts books and cheque-books torn in half so that only the stubs remained. ‘But haven’t you often told me, sir: once a blackmailer, always a blackmailer.’ He thumbed through the stubs. ‘Perhaps … WP. Yes and here it is again: WP. A paying-in every four weeks with the initials WP against it. Do you suppose Mr Costick might have been blackmailing Mr Wembley Poole over the matter of the embezzlement?’

  Inspector Farrell slapped his thighs. ‘By Jove, Troughton!’ Then he sobered himself and dusted his jacket-front thoughtfully, studiously. ‘And he’s tall enough, of course. Ask Mr Poole if he would be so good as to honour me with his presence,’ he said, in a voice steeled with sardonic wit.

  Wembley Poole stumbled into the room — a man built like a side of beef, with a red face and a loud wheeze.

  ‘Tell me, sir,’ said Farrell succinctly. ‘Is it true that the dead man was blackmailing you?’

  It took time to break down the man’s outraged bluster, but at last Farrell reduced Poole to a panting, wheezing heap of remorse. ‘Yes. True,’ admitted Poole, his breath only sufficient for telegraphic sentences. ‘Didn’t kill’m though!’

  ‘Wembley Poole, I arrest you for the …’ The inspector’s dignified delivery of the formal arrest was interrupted by his sergeant’s sudden, hacking cough.

  ‘If I might have a word, sir.’

  ‘Not now, Sergeant, I’m arresting …’

  ‘Just a little query about procedure, sir.’

  Flustered, Inspector Farrell told Wembley Poole to wait outside, and would not let him out of sight until two burly police constables were seated on either side of Poole on the chintz sofa. Back in the office, it was possible still to hear the laboured, wheezy breathing coming from the living room.

  ‘Well, Sergeant?’ snapped Farrell.

  ‘I was just wondering, sir, how Mr Poole got out of the room after murdering his blackmailer. The door was locked on the inside, you see, when the body was found … well, I don’t need to remind you of that, sir, of course.’

  The inspector’s eyes gleamed and he sprang up athletically. ‘I’ve worked all that out, Sergeant! He hid until the body was discovered, then crept out in all the noise and confusion!’

  ‘Hid where, sir?’

  ‘Here, Troughton!’ and he dived behind the curtains.

  ‘Mr Poole is a man of considerable bulk, sir,’ said the sergeant, looking sceptically at the big bulge of the inspector’s stomach through the curtain, and the pair of black socks and shoes still showing.

  ‘Well … here, then,’ said Farrell irritably, sprinting over to an ornamental Chinese screen and disappearing behind it. ‘Stand by the door as if you just came in. Can you see me now?’

  ‘No sir … ‘

  ‘Well then! That wraps it up.’

  ‘… but I think I might hear Mr Poole’s laboured breathing coming into a silent room, as it were.’

  ‘Damn!’

  The inspector re-emerged and flopped down in a threadbare, dusty armchair. ‘Damn!’ he said again, and added sulkily, ‘Well that’s how someone did it … unless, of course, we’re dealing with a conspiracy here. Everybody has motives except Gribley.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Sergeant Troughton doubtfully. He had returned to the roll-top desk, and he took a small magnifying glass out of his pocket. ‘The forensic department may be useful, sir. I took the liberty of telephoning them when I found these hairs earlier on.’

  ‘Hairs! It’ll be rabbits next! Come away from that confounded desk, Sergeant. You’ll mess up all the clues …’

  ‘Yes sir. Very good, sir.’

  ‘What hairs?’

  ‘Hairs caught on the inside of the lock mechanism, sir. Not Mr Costick’s colour. And of course there’s blood inside the desk compartment, sir, indicating that the roll-top lid was open when the murder was committed, not shut as it was when the body was found.’

  ‘An interesting line of argument, Sergeant,’ said Farrell, rubbing his jaw in a gesture of profound thought. It rather contradicted the unhappy look in his eyes.’ Go on, Sergeant.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to have Mr
Gribley back in now, sir?’

  ‘The dwarf? But he’s the only one who actually liked Costick!’

  ‘We only have his word for that, sir.’

  ‘And he was well paid!’

  ‘So he says, sir, although the accounts books from the desk show no weekly or monthly outgoings on wages. In fact, it rather looks as if Mr Gribley worked for nothing at all.’

  ‘Huh?’

  When the sergeant went to the door and called out Gribley’s name, the little secretary came scurrying eagerly in response, and written on his face was an almost dog-like keenness to be of service. He gazed at Farrell expectantly. Farrell stared back and said, ‘Ah, yes. Mr Gribley. Hmm.’ There was an embarrassed silence.

  ‘The Inspector has asked me to run over one or two points with you, sir,’ said Sergeant Troughton.

  ‘Ah! Yes! Absolutely,’ said the inspector and, pressing his fingertips together and slumping into a Sherlock-Holmesian attitude in the armchair, the inspector prepared to listen. ‘Go ahead, Sergeant.’

  ‘As Mr Costick’s secretary, you must have been well acquainted with his desk, Mr Gribley. I mean he probably sent you to it from time to time to fetch papers, accounting books and so on.’

  ‘From the drawers, sir, yes. The top’s a different matter, of course, given my size, sir.’

  ‘But surely, Mr Gribley, with the use of a chair …’

  ‘Well maybe … but I didn’t, I mean he didn’t … send me to the desk, I mean.’

  ‘Not often, you mean to say. Otherwise how could there be strands of your hair caught in the lock, sir? The Inspector wonders.’

  Gribley clapped a hand to his head. ‘Well sir. Yes. On occasions maybe.’

  ‘Well perhaps only the once, eh, Mr Gribley?’ The sergeant pushed the chair hard up against the bureau and indicated that Gribley should show him. The dwarf clambered up on to the chair and leaned across on to the open desk-top. ‘So that to reach the secret compartment, Mr Gribley, you would virtually have to pull yourself on to the writing surface.’