by Leo Bruce
He phoned Mrs Dalbinney’s flat at lunch time but there was no reply. It was not until the evening that his call was answered and then by the voice of a young man.
“Mrs Dalbinney?”
“Out,” said the voice.
“Are you expecting her? This is Carolus Deene.”
“Oh, Carolus. Do you remember me at Newminster? I’m Paul Dalbinney.”
“I seem to recall a rather impudent boy in Holling-bourne’s house.”
“That sounds like me. What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to have what Mr Gorringer would call a Word with you.”
“So would I. With you, I mean. Where are you staying? The Hydro?”
“No. The Queen Victoria.”
“Ah yes. That’s where this type stayed who is supposed to be my uncle. I see why you’ve chosen it. Shall I run round?”
“Later,” said Carolus.
“What time?”
“Not before nine-thirty, if you don’t mind.”
“I’ll be there.”
Carolus went into the bar.
“You know what?” said Doris. “It’s Christmas in three days’ time and we haven’t got a bit of holly up yet. I told Mr Rugley tonight and George is going to see to it tomorrow. How are you getting on with your old murder? Caught anyone yet? Vivienne says you never will, don’t you, Vivienne?”
“Mmmm,” assented Vivienne.
“She may well be right.”
At nine-thirty almost to the moment Paul walked into the bar. He was a handsome youth with a lot of yellow hair and a healthy complexion.
“Hullo, Carolus,” he said exuberantly. “This is something, isn’t it? I never thought when you were boring me with history that you would be investigating the murder of my uncle. How does it go?”
“Slowly,” said Carolus. “Where were you that night?”
“Oh round and about. I don’t remember exactly.”
“On the promenade at all?”
“I expect so. I saw this character, anyway. At least I suppose it was the one. I noticed these staring eyes they all talk about.”
“Where was this?”
“I can’t for the life of me remember. I just saw that face somewhere. But I don’t see it can be much help to you. I didn’t cosh him with a coal-hammer, you know. Though I might have if I’d known who it was. And if I’d had a coal-hammer, of course.”
“You’re very vague about your movements. Surely on the following day when you heard there had been a murder you must have recalled them carefully?”
“Not really. I’d had a couple of pints that night. But can you imagine the effect of the whole thing on the family? It kills me to hear them.”
“Does it?”
“There’s mother practically calling it a blot on the escutcheon. Aunt Emma feels it, quite sincerely, though. And in a different way so does Uncle Bertrand. It’s startled the old boy out of his wits, I think. He lives very quietly with this young woman of his and doesn’t want to be disturbed by his long-lost brother turning up and getting himself coshed.”
“What about Locksley Rafter?”
“Oh he’s a stick. Wait till you meet him. You never know what he’s thinking. Stiff as a ramrod and never speaks if he can help it. I quite like the old boy but he used to scare me. You can imagine that this has been a blow to him, with a solicitor’s practice in the district. It has to all of them, but I think Uncle Locksley is the most put out. Of course they’re all as mean as sin. In their different ways. Mother’s money-mean. Uncle Bertrand is generous in big things and mean in little ones …”
“You have all been questioned by the police?”
“Yes. That was a laugh, really. I honestly think they look on us as suspects.”
“They do,” said Carolus. “After all you are the only people known to have any reason to wish Ernest Rafter out of the way.”
Paul laughed.
“But it’s silly, Carolus. How were we to know some character who turned up in the town was Ernest? We didn’t even know the sod was alive. And even if we had, can you imagine any of us banging him on the head? It’s too far-fetched.”
Carolus looked at his watch.
“Let’s take a stroll,” he said.
Paul followed him willingly enough.
“To the promenade? “he suggested.
“Why not? “agreed Carolus.
With any luck they would find Sitwell, he was thinking, and Sitwell might recognize Paul as the young man he had seen on the promenade on the night of the murder. Carolus resented the necessity for this when John Moore could tell him in a word whether or not Paul had been recognized, but his understanding with Moore was a firm one and he would not abuse it for the sake of a question so easily answered.
Sure enough Sitwell hove, as they say, into sight.
“Good-evening,” said Carolus when they were level.
Sitwell’s eyes were fixed on Paul.
“I’ve seen you before,” he said wonderingly.
“Congratulations,” said Paul cheekily. “Who is this character, Carolus?”
“You were down here on the night of the murder.”
“Yes. Windy, wasn’t it?”
“Have you been asked for a statement?”
“Of course. I made a beauty.”
“But not,” said Carolus coldly, “on the grounds that you were here on the promenade that night. You made it as one of the family.”
“Was that it? These subtle distinctions between suspects are beyond me.”
“They’re not subtle. And in your case they are not distinctions. You are in both categories of suspect, that of people with a motive and that of being in the vicinity of the crime.”
Paul whistled.
“I’ve practically got a noose round my neck, haven’t I?”
“If you haven’t told Detective Inspector Moore where you were that evening,” said Sitwell ponderously, “I shall have to ask you to do so.”
“That’s all right,” said Paul. “I rather like making statements. When do you suggest?”
“Mr Moore is in his office now.”
“You mean …”
“Why not?” said Carolus. “Get it over.”
“It’s late,” said Paul.
“Not very. It won’t take long,” Carolus reassured him.
“But what have I got to tell him?”
“That I don’t know,” said Carolus. “I expect he’ll ask you among other things whom you met that evening.”
“How on earth should I know? Really, what bores you all are with your eternal questions! I want to get to bed. However, I’ll come quietly. I believe you let me in for this on purpose, Carolus.”
“It’s nothing to do with this gentleman,” said Sitwell huffily. “It was I who recognized you. Please remember that.”
Carolus watched while the two walked away side by side. He was about to follow when he saw a small round figure approaching at a brisk pace.
“Evening, Mr Biggett,” he said.
Mr Biggett eyed him. In that uncertain light Carolus could not be sure but it seemed to him—perhaps it was his imagination—that there was a hint of triumph in the eyes visible between hat and scarf.
“Flwbble,” replied Mr Biggett.
Nothing could be gathered from that.
13
CAROLUS realized rather wearily next morning that he must be conscientious and see the remaining two members
of the family, Bertrand and Locksley Rafter, but he had a strong feeling that he was wasting his time in interviewing these people whose only known connection with the crime was something that was vaguely thought of as a motive, simply because no better motive had appeared.
That remained the crucial question—who in the world so much wanted this man’s death that he was prepared to lure him to that lonely shelter and murder him in a brutal manner? It was, as Paul had said, frankly farfetched to suppose that any member of this highly respectable family cared so much whether or not Ern
est reappeared that he or she would carry out a scheme of this kind, even if he knew of the man’s survival and arrival in Selby. But it was equally far-fetched, on the known facts, that anyone else would.
‘I’ll get it over’, he thought and made for Bertrand’s house in Marine Square.
This was quite a sizeable Victorian house looking towards the sea, though some two hundred yards back from the promenade. All the houses in Marine Square were solid stucco erections with heavy metal balconies before their first-floor windows.
The interior was of a kind he knew well, the retired army officer’s home, rich with the spoils of war and peace in the East. Magnificent rugs and elaborately beaten Indian silver, a profusion of teak and ivory, a scent of sandalwood and cigars, the atmosphere was rich and unmistakable.
But Bertrand Rafter when he appeared was not the typical retired officer. He was neat and clean-shaven, young-looking for fifty, with a pleasant friendly voice and manner. Carolus was at once at ease.
“Yes, I heard my sister had persuaded you to come over,” said Bertrand. “I think it’s very good of you. I hope the puzzle comes up to expectations?”
“It does.”
“I feel we ought to be helpful but it’s not easy. We lead pretty uneventful lives. Do you know all our movements at the time?”
“I don’t know yours.”
“If I’ve got the time right, I was in bed. I turned in at ten. My secretary, Molly French, lives here normally but she was in town that night so I was in the house alone from tea-time onwards. Fortunately I did not go out at all that evening. But I suppose that even the police could scarcely want alibis from us, so perhaps it doesn’t matter that I have no witness to my early retirement.”
“I don’t know,” said Carolus. “You see the wretched part of this case is that you and your family are the only people who have anything worth calling a motive.”
“I know. It’s absurd, but we can’t get away from it. What makes it so fantastic is that obviously a murder would do more than anything to give publicity to Ernest’s identity, as indeed it has done. ‘Murdered man a Jap collaborator’, and so on. It was the very last thing any of us would have wanted. The money could have been arranged easily enough.”
“Could it?”
“Oh yes. My father did not leave such a vast sum and my mother died after Ernest was presumed dead and never mentioned him in her will at all. I suppose that to get rid of Ernest we should all have been willing to contribute. We could have satisfied him, I think, and sent him back to Australia.”
“You don’t think he would have demanded more later?”
“No. He couldn’t blackmail us. We should not have paid. After all, it would have been dangerous for him to reveal who he was and not by any means a matter of life and death for us. That is what we should have done if he had lived to approach us.”
“I see your point though,” said Carolus. “So far from having a motive for murdering Ernest you all had a very good motive for not murdering him, since his murder would do exactly what you did not want—call attention to him.”
Bertrand smiled.
“I don’t think we need take it so seriously,” he said. “It’s so plain that we had nothing to do with it and did not even know he was alive. But I wish you could make the police see that.”
“What do you think was the murderer’s motive?” asked Carolus.
“Oh theft, probably. That seems to be the motive of most murders. Some thug who went out that night determined to rob the first person he saw.”
“But the police do not think Ernest was robbed.”
“Why not?”
“He had a pocket-case with seven pounds in it in his hip pocket and his wristwatch hadn’t been taken.”
“Seven pounds. A wristwatch. Modern thieves don’t bother with such things. Ernest was probably robbed of a good sum.”
“You think so?”
“Certainly. Find out what he had on him that night and you’ll have your motive. Surely you or the police can do that.”
“You may be right. Of course, the motive might have been revenge.”
“You’re thinking of this man Lobbin, who claims to have known him in Burma. Most unlikely I should have thought.”
“Everything’s most unlikely,” said Carolus.
“I know Lobbin,” said Bertrand. “A good fellow, I think. I hear he’s in the bar of the Queen Victoria every night from opening to closing to escape from his wife, who nags him. Not at all the type for a murderer.”
They were interrupted by the entrance of Molly French. She was an extremely attractive young woman with a frank cheerful face and good movements. Carolus was glad to see that Bertrand Rafter made no attempt to conceal their relationship, which seemed a very happy one.
“Deene is working on the murder,” Bertrand explained, ‘and we’ve been trying to find a motive. He has not yet asked where you were on the night of the crime.”
“In London,” she said. “Staying with my sister. It’s a pity, really, or I could have supplied Bertrand with an alibi. I’ve always wanted to be someone’s alibi. It sounds so intimate.”
“He doesn’t think he needs one,” said Carolus.
“But it’s a good thing I didn’t go down to the promenade that night as I sometimes do,” said Bertrand. “Then I would have been suspect number one in this Alice-in-Wonderland affair.”
They had a drink together and chatted rather aimlessly about the case for a while.
“I’ve only got three more interviews,” Carolus said. “Then I think I’ve exhausted all I can do. If ever there was a case for the police, with all their resources, and for no one else, this is it. I’m sorry in a way that I started.”
“Who are your interviews with?” asked Molly.
“Mr Locksley Rafter …”
“Oh no!” said Bertrand. “You can’t suppose my poor brother had anything to do with it!
“He might have some information,” said Carolus. “Perhaps without knowing it. At all events, in the interests of thoroughness I can’t leave him out. Then there’s a man called Stringer.”
“I don’t know him,” Bertrand said.
“You wouldn’t. He’s an assistant in an ironmonger’s shop.”
“You are going to find out who bought the coal-hammer?”
“No. Not that. But this man was among those on the promenade that night.”
“I see. Suspect by propinquity, not by consanguinity?” said Bertrand, rather pleased with his remark.
“I don’t know what to consider a suspect at all,” admitted Carolus. “The whole town’s suspect, so far as I’m concerned.”
“Why limit it to the town?” asked Bertrand. “There is transport, you know. Why not the whole country?”
“One must prod about somewhere. Thanks for what you’ve told me—and the drink. I’ll let you know if I get any farther.”
“You haven’t told us who the third interview is with,” said Molly French as they came to the front door.
“Oh, Lobbin, I suppose,” said Carolus.
“Is he seriously suspected?”
“I don’t know, but I should think so. He knew Ernest in Burma and probably suffered by his collaboration. He is thought to have recognized him that evening. And he was on the promenade at the relevant time. He is the only person known to fulfil all the three conditions.”
“He has always seemed a very decent fellow to me,” said Bertrand.
“Oh, by the way,” said Carolus, “there is one routine question I must ask. Have you got a coal-hammer similar to the one used by the murderer?”
“We don’t use coal,” said Bertrand. “We’re all-electric. And we’re not very handy with tools in this house. I doubt if we’ve a hammer at all but we can look in what is euphemistically known as the tool-chest, if you like.”
He led them to a small cold room at the back of the house and opened a drawer there which held the usual miscellany of household ironmongery. Among the blunt chisels and rust
ed screwdrivers was a fairly heavy hammer.
“We’re better off than I thought,” said Bertrand. “But the one used was surely heavier than this?”
“I haven’t seen it but I should think so,” said Carolus.
Before he left they had asked him to lunch with them on Christmas day, an invitation which Carolus readily accepted. The thought of roast turkey at the Queen Victoria hotel was not very attractive.
He went to his car and drove off in the direction of Bawdon. He had decided to make his visit to Locksley Rafter unannounced and take the chance of not being able to see him.
Bawdon, he found, was just nine miles away. It was the county town and Carolus passed the Sessions House on his way to the offices of Rafter and Mohawk. These were on the ground floor of a large Georgian house.
Rather to his surprise he was shown in to Locksley Rafter’s room at once. It was large and comfortable, refreshingly free from files and documents.
No family likeness was noticeable in Locksley, though in the few words he spoke Carolus could hear the rich and plummy accent he had noted in the voices of Emma, Bertrand and Isobel Dalbinney. He wondered whether Ernest had spoken like this, too.
“You know why I’ve come to see you, Mr Rafter?”
The spare, thin-lipped solicitor said, “I do.”
“I may say at once that I am having a very difficult time with this case, which your sister asked me to investigate. May I ask you a number of questions?”
“You may.”
“They will probably seem absurd to you as they have seemed to your brother and sisters. But if I am to get anywhere at all I must know what were the movements of each member of the family on the day of the murder. I understand you called on Mrs Dalbinney that day?”
“I did.”
“Do you remember when you reached Selby?”
“At four.”
“And your sister’s flat?”
“At four-five.”
“You remained until?”
“Approximately six.”
“You had your car?”
“I had.”
“And after you left your sister you drove straight home?”
“I did not.”
“Perhaps you called on some other members of your family?”
