Death in Albert Park

by Bruce, Leo

  “Anyway, thank you. I think there are some … Indexes behind you who seem to expect you to join them so I’ll run along.”

  Six

  WHILE Carolus was at the Crucible Theatre that evening there was a violent quarrel between Mrs. Whitehill and her niece Viola at number 10 Crabtree Avenue, a quarrel which led to yet another public incident.

  Viola was twenty-seven, a moderately nice-looking girl, a little too eager in manner and lacking natural charm. She wanted a husband and had been disappointed several times, till a discontented droop began to appear at the lips of her mouth and her eyes had a look of anxiety and strain which made her less attractive. Her parents had been killed in a plane crash when she was fifteen and the Whitehills had adopted her in a businesslike way as though moved by conscience rather than inclination. Stella Whitehill had a temper, but only once or twice during the twelve years of Viola’s stay with them had shown any impatience with the girl.

  But it was not an altogether happy situation. Viola was useful to her aunt in the house and so had not been encouraged to seek employment, but not so useful that Stella Whitehill wanted to keep her from marriage. On the contrary aunt and niece were united only in their wish to find a husband for Viola. It was a somewhat old-fashioned situation but nonetheless real to the two women who never discussed it except obliquely.

  Stella Whitehill was short and heavy, yet gave an impression of power as though she had a powerful bony frame under folds of flesh. She had dark quick eyes and wore too much jewelry and her husband feared her. She was not an unkind woman and had tried in a way to do what she felt was her duty towards Viola, but on that evening her reserves fell away and she became an angry primitive who wanted her cave to herself. Perhaps in the stress of events in Crabtree Avenue she had taken to a nip too many of the gin-and-peppermint she liked, perhaps it was a natural fit of exasperation. At all events she spoke outrageously to Viola.

  It was about Stanley Gates, who lived at the lower end of the avenue with his parents. This pleasant pink-faced insurance agent had spoken several times to Viola of late on affairs of the avenue, and this evening, an unusually warm one for March, they had walked through the park together. Stella Whitehill, hearing of this from Viola, said unforgivably—“Well, this time, for goodness sake don’t try to rush him.”

  Viola, flushing furiously, asked “What do you mean ‘this time’?”

  “You know very well what I mean. Give the man a chance to breathe.”

  “Aunt Stella you …”

  “Don’t say it, because you’d be sorry afterwards. I’m only talking for your own good.”

  “You’re being beastly. I don’t ‘rush’ people.”

  “What about that Captain Greaves? And that poor fellow at Sidmouth? You’ll never get a man if you don’t show some restraint.”

  “How can you talk like that? I’ve never …”

  “Oh yes, you have. And you know it. It’s time I told you this. I’ve watched it over and over again. You behave as though you were desperate. If you are, for God’s sake don’t show it, Viola. It scares a man. It scares me, for that matter.”

  Viola just managed not to cry.

  “It’s all lies,” she said a little hysterically. “Stanley told me this evening …”

  “Who is Stanley?”

  “Stanley Gates. He told me this evening that I was one of the most reserved people he had ever met.”

  Stella gave a nasty chuckle.

  “It’s not a question of reserve. I’m not saying you’re not reserved in a way. It’s something worse than that. You show your cards. You as good as say you’re twenty-seven and unlucky. Not by lack of reserve.”

  “How, then?”

  “I don’t know. It’s something in your manner. Just give this man a chance to decide for himself.”

  “So that you won’t have to go on keeping me, I suppose?”

  If Viola expected reassuring denials she was disappointed.

  “Well, there is that side of it,” said Stella Whitehill. “I’ve never mentioned it before but naturally your uncle and I when you came to live with us thought it would be for five years or so …”

  “Oh!” cried Viola and burst into tears.

  “It had to be said, sooner or later,” went on Stella philosophically.

  “How can you?” cried Viola and grew somewhat incoherent. “After all these years … slaving. I’ve never … Oh, you’re cruel.”

  “Cruel to be kind,” said Stella. “It’s time you realized. We’re getting on and the time comes when middle-aged people want to be on their own, have their home to themselves.”

  Viola stood up.

  “You shall have your home to yourselves,” she shouted. “Now. This minute. I’ll go and take my things. Tonight. Now.”

  “Don’t be silly, Viola. Where will you go?”

  “I’ll go to Stanley!”

  “To Stanley? To young Gates? He lives with his parents.”

  “I don’t care. I’m going to him.”

  “That would be the end of any chance you might have.”

  “How dare you talk like that?”

  “But wouldn’t it, Viola? To arrive on the doorstep. It’s ridiculous.”

  “I’m going. I’m going,” cried Viola and rushed from the room. A few minutes later Stella heard the front door slammed.

  Viola with a small handbag, went to the gate and looked out. For the first time she remembered the murders in Crabtree Avenue.

  It was a gusty night, but not too cold and there was no rain. She looked down the street and saw no one in sight, no police patrol, no Vigilantes, but on the other hand no single mysterious figure. The trees near St. Olave’s Ladies’ College waved their arms wildly and shadows seemed to be dancing everywhere. Should she return to the safety of her aunt’s home? Her uncle would welcome her, at least, when he came in. But how could she face her aunt? She had shown the resolution to walk out, now she must go on.

  After all it was not far. Down the avenue, just visible before it reached the better lighted Inverness Road, was number 52 where Stanley would be sitting with his parents. Stanley who had said that very afternoon that he wished he could have the chance to look after her. Just down there on the left. She would be there in five minutes.

  She decided to walk in the middle of the road, neither on the pavement near the gardens of Crabtree Avenue, nor near the railings along the side of the park. Hadn’t she heard that the… the Stabber was believed to have hidden in one of those gardens and stepped out behind his victim? Or, some said, come over the park railings. She would walk right in the centre.

  Still no one was in sight. She saw several cars parked along the curb, but that was as usual. If only a police-man could have been walking up the street. Just one policeman. Or Stanley himself. How wonderful that would be. Stanley coming to meet her.

  She was approaching the first of the parked cars, which was alone, a good many yards from the others. Suddenly she stopped, breathing heavily. For she saw, not very plainly but still beyond any hope of mistake, that in the driving seat was a man.

  It seemed to Viola that she stood there a long time. She and the man must be glaring at one another though she could not see his eyes. Then she started to take paces backwards, not daring to turn. As she did so a terrifying thing happened. The door of the car began to open and a being emerged. She could not see the face but she was aware of glasses, a cloth cap and a raincoat.

  She tried to scream, but no sound would come. She opened her mouth wide, but all that emerged was a squeak from the back of her throat. Then as the man shut the door of his car and stepped towards her the scream came, long and piercing. She caught a blurred glimpse of the man getting back in his driving seat then the car was disappearing fast towards the lights of Inverness Road. She screamed again, then collapsed painfully on the pavement.

  Half an hour later on the settee ofher aunt’s drawing-room to which she had been carried by scared neighbours, she was able to tell her story to one
of Dyke’s assistants. It was not without embellishments, none of which were conscious lies but had been added by hysterical double vision.

  She had seen, for example, his red glaring eyes. Wasn’t he wearing glasses? Yes, but she had seen them, under the peak of his cap, like a wild animal’s eyes. And somewhere, she was not sure where or at what point, she was sure she had seen a blade. A long blade, like that of a butcher’s knife. Was the man carrying it? She couldn’t be certain. She had seen it, that was all she could say.

  Had the man spoken to her? No. That was the awful part. That silence. It had gone on and on as he came crouching towards her. Crouching? That’s what it seemed like. How many paces? She didn’t know. He had been advancing on her for a long time while she couldn’t scream. But where she had fallen was only seven yards from where the car stood. She couldn’t tell that. It seemed ages, anyway.

  The detective inspector examining Viola asked his next question with concealed suspense. He had some experience of hysteria and the curious contradictions of its victims.

  “Did you notice the car, Miss Whitehill?”

  “Oh yes. The man was sitting in it.”

  “Did you notice what make it was?”

  “No. Not the make.”

  “What colour was it?”

  “Black, I think.”

  “Sure it wasn’t light grey?”

  “It might have been.”

  “There was a green car standing there this evening.”

  “That was it. Green. Or was it blue? So hard to tell in that light.”

  “Was it large or small?”

  “Not very large. Not a mini-minor, or anything tiny like that. Yes, fairly large, now I come to think of it. I saw the man through the windscreen. I knew at once who it was. I can see his eyes now …”

  “But could you then, Miss Whitehill? There couldn’t have been much light on him and you say he was wearing glasses.”

  “Yes, I’m sure he was wearing glasses. I saw them when he got out and started coming for me. I can’t remember any more. I can’t even remember twisting my ankle.”

  “That was when you fell down. Was the man coming for you then?”

  “No, no,” said Viola with sudden lucidity. “No. Not when I fell. He was getting back into the car then. I saw the car drive away, fast down the road.”

  “You didn’t, of course, see anything of its number?”

  “Oh no. It just went away. I can’t tell you any more.”

  “One other thing, Miss Whitehill, while it’s fresh in your memory. Was the man tall or short?”

  Viola tried to think, but shook her head.

  “Just ordinary, so far as I could tell.”

  “Had you ever seen him before?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “Did he remind you of anyone?”

  “Not at the time.”

  “Has he made you think of anyone, since?”

  “A little, yes, of my father.”

  “Is your father living?”

  “No. He died twelve years ago.”

  “Thank you, Miss Whitehill. If anything else occurs to you, you’ll let us know, won’t you?”

  “I’ve told you everything.”

  The doctor arrived soon afterwards and gave her a tranquilizer. But Viola, as her aunt said crisply, was never quite the same again. She had fits of vacancy and had to give up Bridge-playing because she could not concentrate.

  “A tragic thing,” said Stella Whitehill, and for her and her husband it was.

  It was not even of much help to the investigation. It was quite possible, as Dyke had at once realized, that the stranger in the car was a normal citizen waiting for someone to join him from the house outside which he was parked. This was Number 28, and questioning of its occupants, the Turnwrights, and those of the neighbouring houses, revealed nothing. But the man could have been quite harmless and when he started to get out it could have been to reassure Viola when he saw her stop in the road. The glaring eyes and the knife could be the result of hysteria, the crouching approach was almost certainly this. As for the man’s quick retreat —the most harmless person, knowing what had been happening in Crabtree Avenue, might have done what the man did. Finding himself screamed at by a young woman he could easily have fled before the neighbours came out of their houses.

  On the other hand it could, of course, have been the Stabber, scared away at the last moment by that piercing scream, the first uttered by one of his victims. If it was, a car may have been used in the other cases and the Stabber have come from a considerable distance. It was all hypothesis and speculation.

  Carolus heard nothing about it that evening when he returned from the Crucible Theatre and had to gain his knowledge next day from newspaper reports. These were lurid in the extreme and according to one the butcher’s knife was actually raised above the girl when neighbours, hearing her screams, had come to her rescue. Carolus decided to be content with what he read rather than attempt to see Viola for the present. The hostility of Dyke and his own lack of status in the whole affair made it difficult for him to do any more than wait and hope that presently he might have an opportunity of meeting the Whitehills and their niece and asking his own kind of seemingly innocent questions.

  In fact, he found this case exhausting and decided to return to Newminster for the week-end. The method he had chosen seemed to him to give some hopes, but it would be a lengthy process for he yet had to examine the circumstances surrounding the deaths of Joyce Ribbing and Mrs. Crabbett.

  It was a relief to come from the murky respectability of those Hibernian-titled avenues to his own quiet house and be among familiar objects. But when Mrs. Stick brought in his bottle and siphon on a scrupulously polished tray, he saw at once that he was under suspicion.

  “It’s to be hoped you’ve been having a nice holiday, Sir,” she observed with a note of enquiry.

  “Splendid, thank you, Mrs. Stick.”

  “Perhaps you’ve been down at the seaside.”

  “No. No. Not the seaside this time.”

  “We did hear, though I’m sure we didn’t wish to believe it, in spite of someone telling us straight out, that you’d been up to that Albert Park where all the murders are. I was only saying to Stick, I don’t believe it, I said. Mr. Deene would never get himself mixed up with anything as nasty as that, not after all he’s said in the past. Because if he was to, I said to Stick, we should have to go, that’s all. We couldn’t have another upset like that last one, when we never knew from one day to the next whether you wouldn’t be banged over the head with a hammer.”

  “Yes, that was an unpleasant affair, wasn’t it, Mrs. Stick?”

  The little woman watched Carolus through her steel-rimmed glasses.

  “It’s not for me to ask questions, Sir,” she said. “But with my sister already half thinking we oughtn’t to be where we are, with all these murders and that, I must go so far as to say that we couldn’t have another. We should have to give our notice. But lets hope they were telling us wrong about Albert Park.”

  “What have we got for dinner, Mrs. Stick?”

  “Well, I thought you might like it for a change, Sir. I’m going to do some brochits. Shooshky babs, they call them. Over charcoal, which I got in specially. Then there’s some cream fright afterwards.”

  Carolus stared for a moment.

  “Crème Frite” he gasped as understanding dawned. “Excellent, Mrs. Stick.”

  Seven

  WHEN Carolus reached Albert Park next morning he drove straight to Dr. Ribbing’s house and asked for him. He was received by a smiling little man.

  “I’m Ribbing’s locum,” he explained. “Poor chap has been sent away for a holiday. He broke down altogether, you know.”

  “Sorry to hear that. Can you tell me where I can find him?”

  “No. I certainly cannot. If you’re a patient of his I’ll see you.”

  “I’m not a patient,” Carolus explained. “It was a personal matter.”
/>   “It will have to wait for his return in about a week’s time, then. I can’t give his whereabouts to anyone.”

  Carolus, thinking this over at the Golden Cockerel, decided that it was not a serious setback. There was no reason why he should, in his casual-seeming investigations, follow the same order as the murderer. He would look into the death of Mrs. Crabbett first and when Ribbing returned, tackle the other case.

  His first interview must clearly be with the widower, and he was grateful to the Press for the knowledge that Crabbett lived in Bromley and to the Telephone Directory for his address—Crabbett, James d’Avernon, 24 Bentink Hse, Maidstone Rd, Bromley. He set out to chance finding his man at home.

  Crabbett was of medium height, a modest-looking man in his fifties with a rather shy smile. To make opening conversation, Carolus said he knew some d’Avernons and wondered whether they were relations. This seemed rather to embarrass Crabbett.

  “To tell you the truth that is not my name,” he said. “The wife had an aunt who became a Mrs. d’Avernon and she took a fancy to the name. She liked to be addressed as d’Avernon Crabbett. Her first name was Hermione so it made a bit of a mouthful. Harmless, really. I didn’t mind.”

  Carolus carefully explained why he had called, pretending to no official status and apologizing for troubling Crabbett.

  “Oh, that’s all right. It’s a relief to talk about it. The police did not seem to understand how I felt and the Press were terrible. I should like to give you any help I can. I don’t want others to suffer.”

  “That’s kind of you. Am I to gather from what you tell me of your wife’s name that she took that sort of thing rather seriously?”

  “You mean, was she a snob? I daresay some people thought so, but they did not know her kind nature underneath it. My wife was well-to-do, Mr. Deene, and very generous. She supported many local charities.”

  “You speak as though it was she who did all the good work.”

  Crabbett looked rather bashful, almost boyish.

  “Well, we both did our best, of course.”

  “You are in business, Mr. Crabbett?”