by Bruce, Leo
“I can’t quite see why not.”
“Me? When everyone knew how I felt about the man? When I’d said a dozen times that I’d like to strangle him. Would I be such a fool?”
“On that I have no opinion. What had you against Sime? Apart from the congenital loathing you felt for him about which you are so frank.”
Stanley sounded very contemptuous.
“Only that he was trying to get possession of the school—that’s all.”
“How do you know that?”
“Believe it or not, he actually told some of the boys that he would be headmaster next term. He also said something of the sort to me during one of our rows. How this was to come about he did not say. But he seemed quite sure of it. I don’t know how he proposed to get rid of the Sconers. Or perhaps he saw himself as their partner. He had it all planned out, anyway. You may be sure that if anything of that sort ever did happen the first change he would make would be to sack Kneller and me. But I did not take the threat seriously.”
“Did anyone?”
“I don’t know. I shouldn’t think so. Oh, by the way, Stella Ferris asked me to ask you if you’d come to their place for cocktails this evening. About six. She says they’ve scarcely met you yet.”
“Yes. I’d like to.”
“Perhaps you’ll give Mollie and me a lift then? We can show you the way.”
So at six o’clock Carolus drove to the pretentious entrance of a large Cotswold house built about eighty years ago in the style of an earlier century. The garden was well-kept, but given to statuary and artificial pools rather than flowers, and the door was opened by a butler or at least an individual dressed as one; perhaps a survival or perhaps an impersonation, Carolus thought.
The hall was rather grand but lacked mammalia or any sign of taxidermy because Bill Ferris was (unexpectedly in such a hearty good mixer,) anti blood sports. The house smelt of expensive cigar smoke, expensive flowers, expensive scent.
“Mr. and Mrs. Ferris are in the library,” said the character who had opened the door in a suitably bass voice as he showed them the way.
The library was a charming room, given its name, presumably, because there was a small book-case near the window containing modern novels. Carolus managed to sit beside this and saw, as he expected, all the right names—Murdoch, Snow, Braine, Sillitoe, Waugh, Greene, but under them, with a more used look about them, Christie, Ailingham, Queen, Blake and other writers of crime novels.
Bill Ferris opened a drink cabinet and began to handle its utensils with an air which suggested an exhibition of cocktail mixing.
“The usual, darling?” he said in his rich plummy voice to his wife.
“Need you ask?” returned Stella, without much good humour, Carolus thought.
“My wife always has a Bronx,” Bill explained to Carolus after pouring, shaking and pouring in a deft and practised manner. “I expect you’d rather have a dry Martini?”
“Thanks. I’d like a Scotch and soda, please,” said Carolus dampingly.
“Not a cocktail man?” said Bill. “You’re right, of course. They’re Out at the moment except the old Dry Martini. But we like them.”
“Darling, don’t talk such nonsense,” said Stella in a tired irritable voice. “What has fashion to do with it? Surely we can drink what we like?”
“Oh to hell,” said Bill Ferris impatiently. Then, “I’m sorry, Mollie. I’m neglecting you. What will it be?”
Mollie Westerly had changed her manner with her clothes since this afternoon and returned to her crisp almost harsh way of speaking.
“Gin on the rocks,” she said appropriately.
“I’ll have the same,” Stanley announced.
There was silence when everyone had been given a drink.
“I miss the old archery,” said Bill, breaking it. “I was getting quite hot in the last few weeks.”
“Darling, anyone would think you were a marksman, the way you talk,” said Stella sharply. “You were only just above average. Kneller was a far better shot.”
“Perhaps. Shooting at targets. Give me tir a la perche. I could have seen him off at that.”
“Really, darling, you do bore me when you talk like that. Who wants to hear how brilliant you were at shooting birds out of trees? All Mr. Deene wants to know is whether you shot Sime.”
“And if so, why!” added Carolus disconcertingly.
There was an uncomfortable pause.
“I’ve got the beset alibi in the world for that,” said Bill Ferris. “I couldn’t have done it. Not because of circumstances, or times, or anything like that, but because I just haven’t the skill.”
“My husband has a theory about Sime’s death,” said Stella.
“It’s an anti-theory. I just don’t believe that Sime was shot from the archery lawn.”
“No?” said Carolus watching him intently.
“No. I think someone went up to his window, pulled the curtains aside and shot him from there. Point blank range. That would account for the accuracy and force of it.”
“You don’t think such a person would have been seen?”
“Not necessarily. If it was early in the afternoon, before any of us were out on the archery lawn.”
“What about Matron?”
“Matron is only human…”
“Human?” said Mollie.
“Biologically, I mean. Even Matron’s eyes, trained and skilled and indefatigable as they are, cannot see round corners. Sime’s window was invisible from hers.”
“But not the approach to it,” said Stanley. “If someone did what you suggest he would have had to carry a bow and arrow from the summer-house.”
“And back,” said Carolus.
“Difficult, but not impossible,” Bill Ferris pronounced. “Much easier to believe than that someone shot him as accurately as that from the archery lawn.”
Carolus seemed determined to be difficult.
“If he went to the summer-house as you say before anyone was out, he couldn’t have got a bow and arrows. Because Kneller kept it locked.”
Kneller’s name produced a thoughtful silence and after a few moments Carolus returned to the attack.
“What about the curtains?” asked Carolus. “Jumbo Parker drew them over before two o’clock to allow Sime to sleep. They were still pulled close at three when two boys came down from the cricket field to speak to him.”
“Why not? My man could have pulled them again from the outside, couldn’t he?”
“But they had been pulled back when Duckmore found Sime dead at four fifteen,” Carolus pointed out.
“I thought it was Mayring who found him dead.”
“Duckmore had found him already. How did the curtains get pulled back according to your theory?” Carolus asked Ferris. “If your murderer had done his job before you were all on the archery lawn at three, or thereabouts, and Chavanne found the curtains closed at three, who pulled them back before four?”
“Perhaps they weren’t back. Duckmore’s not very reliable, poor chap. He could have pulled them back himself.”
“He could, but he didn’t,” said Carolus curtly.
“What’s your theory, then, Deene?” asked Bill Ferris. He spoke with good humour but also with a note of challenge.
“Don’t be silly, darling,” said Stella. “You don’t expect him to come out with it at this stage, do you? They never do. That all comes with the denouement. Mr. Deene’s a professional, remember.”
“Oh no,” said Carolus, “A free-lance amateur.”
“But you have the professional approach. You see all, hear all, and say nothing.”
“I know enough to look for a motive every time,” said Carolus quietly, his eyes never leaving the group.
Bill Ferris laughed noisily.
“Then you must have the hell of a job this time,” he said. “There wasn’t anybody who hadn’t a motive…”
“For murder?” asked Carolus.
“Well, perhaps not for killing th
e bastard. But everyone had something against him.”
“Had you?” asked Carolus in the same mild voice.
It was evident that they all thought the question in the worst taste. Glances were exchanged and Bill Ferris looked uncomfortable.
“I couldn’t stand the fellow,” he said. “Now, what about another drink?”
The moment was lost, passed over but not altogether forgotten. There was a certain restraint over them as a second round was poured.
Stanley tried to relieve this by asking Bill Ferris if he thought the school, as a flourishing preparatory school, could survive the scandal.
“Difficult to say,” said Ferris. “We haven’t taken Patrick away yet, as you know, but then we’re here to keep an eye on him. He’s more interested in playing Quince the Carpenter than anything else at the moment.”
“Good idea, that, of Mayring’s,” said Stanley. “The little wretches have almost forgotten about Sime already.”
“Whether other parents will feel like that I can’t say. I think it depends very much on the findings at the Inquest on Thursday. Nobody will feel very easy at having a son at a school where there has been a murder.”
“Personally, if I knew nothing of it at all, I should be more worried by a fatal archery accident where my son was,” said Stella.
“You may be right,” said her husband. “But we know it couldn’t have been an accident, don’t we Deene?”
“It couldn’t have been a stray arrow,” agreed Carolus.
Bill Ferris stuck to his point. “I’m convinced that if they find on Thursday that Sime was murdered it will empty the school.”
“It’s a pity, in a way,” said Stella. “I don’t want Patrick’s education interrupted. And there’s no doubt that St. Asprey’s had a high standard of teaching.”
“Teaching—yes. Sconer himself, that is. They’ve had more scholarships than most schools. Sime wasn’t anything like as good as he was cracked up to be,” said Bill Ferris. “Or as good as Sconer thought him.”
“Do you think he really did? I often wonder,” said Stanley. “He certainly listened to Sime as though he was mesmerized by the fellow. But Mrs. Sconer had his measure. She wasn’t fooled by him.”
“You’re prejudiced, Jim,” said Mollie Westerly.
“Perhaps. But I knew his work. If you really want to know what I think, it is that Mrs. Sconer wanted badly to get rid of Sime and Sconer for some reason didn’t, and built up this idea of him being irreplaceable as a teacher as an answer to her.”
“I suppose you got that from Matron?” said Mollie unkindly.
“Did Matron know you were coming here this evening?” asked Bill Ferris.
“She didn’t but there isn’t the smallest doubt that she knows by now we’re here,” said Mollie.
“How?”
“How does Matron know? You might as well ask ‘what song the Syrens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when he hid himself among women’,” replied Mollie with unexpected aptness. “She knows about it all, she knows, she knows,” she misquoted confidently and no one disputed it.
Chapter Fourteen
Carolus, coming somewhat late to breakfast next morning, noticed an air of tension among the boys and an empty chair where Matron usually sat.
“Please, sir, Chavanne’s going to get the stick after breakfast,” Lipscomb informed him.
“Most suitable,” said Carolus stirring his unduly weak tea.
“He pulled Matron’s chair away,” Lipscomb went on, “just as she went to sit down. She went a most terrific crasher.”
“I don’t think that was very funny,” said Carolus.
“Please sir, nor did she, sir. She went most terrifically red in the face. She told Mrs. Sconer and Mrs. Sconer told Mr. Sconer to give Chavanne six of the best.”
“Is this true, Chavanne?”
“It’s frightfully unfair, sir. I was only rehearsing ‘Then slip I from her bum, down topples she’.”
“Don’t be vulgar, Chavanne.”
“Please sir, that’s not vulgar. It’s Shakespeare.”
“Thank God the two are sometimes synonymous,” said Carolus. “Now finish your breakfast.”
“I bet Mr. Sconer lays it on terrifically hard,” said Lipscomb enthusiastically.
“Bet he doesn’t. Bet he’s only doing it because Mrs. Sconer told him to,” retorted Chavanne less confidently.
“Bet he gives you six terrifically juicy ones.”
Carolus did not wait to hear the sequel but went straight to his car. He had warned his temporary colleagues that he would be away that day, and he knew the route he must take. Through the brilliantly sunny air of that perfect June morning he drove happily, making for the village of Bucks-field in Somersetshire.
Was it natural, Carolus wondered, for one on such a morbid errand to feel insuppressible joie-de-vivre? But this was the first really warm day of summer, and the Cotswolds smiled under a blazing sun. Moreover, Carolus was deeply interested in the case he was investigating which had all the teasing perplexities he loved and, as yet at least, no very tragic features. Besides, he had almost reached the point of tying up loose ends.
He found Bucksfield to be a small sleepy village dominated by a huge grey house built in the 1870’s. This was Holly House, one of the most famous private mental homes in England.
Carolus knew the professional secretiveness of such places, how the identities of the inmates were concealed, how visitors were treated with suspicion. He sat in his car looking at the grey pile surrounded by lawns and rhododendrons with an almost defiant absence of wall or railing. It was all very expensive-looking and not too gloomy in the sunlight but it was impossible not to have doubts and unhappy imaginings about the interior.
Carolus made no attempt to enter but following the principles he had learned from previous cases he drove to the local inn, the Fox and Geese. He found a somnolent landlord of immense girth who spoke huskily and without much animation. Carolus ordered his drink and the two stood alone in the room eyeing one another at intervals. Was it necessary to start with the weather? Carolus wondered, then decided against it. The landlord did not look as though he had energy to spare for more than essentials.
“Do they allow visitors at Holly House?” he asked.
The landlord raised a sleepy eyelid and said, “Not if they can help it.”
“Do you get any customers from up there?”
“Cases, you mean? No. Can’t say we do. Not cases. One or two of the staff look by.”
“I want to talk to someone who works there,” confided Carolus.
“Who?”
“Doesn’t really matter as long as it’s someone who has been there some years.”
The landlord nodded and fell into a not unpromising silence. He was evidently thinking.
“Tell you what,” he said presently. “There’s Tom Hopper.”
“Who’s he?”
“One of the nurses. Red-headed chap. Walks with a little bit of a limp. Always whistling. Lives next door to the post office.”
“Yes?” said Carolus.
“Wears an old-fashioned watch-chain. Talks very loud. Rolls his own cigarettes. Likes a pint or two.”
“What about him?” asked Carolus.
“He comes in every morning. Regular as clockwork. He worked at Holly House for a long time. He may be able to tell you what you want to know.”
“Thanks.”
“Likes a pint or two,” said the landlord who once launched on identification did not seem anxious to abandon it even at the cost of repetition. “Rolls his own cigarettes. Talks very loud. Wears one of those old-fashioned watch-chains. Lives next door to the post office.”
“Always whistling?” queried Carolus.
“That’s it. You’ve got him. Walks with a bit of a limp. Red-headed chap. Tom Hopper his name is.”
“You think he’ll be in this morning?”
“Sure to be. Comes in every day. You can’t mistake him.”
“No. I’m sure I can’t.”
“You’ll see him coming down the road in a minute. Walks with a bit of a limp…”
“Will you have a drink?” suggested Carolus hurriedly.
“Thanks. I’ll have a drop of bitter. Yes, you’ll know him as soon as you see him. Tom Hopper, his name is. Wears an old-fashioned…”
“Lovely morning, isn’t it?” asked Carolus fervently.
“This looks like him coming up the road now. Yes, that’s him. You talk to him about Holly House. He’ll tell you. Some of the things he says about the Cases would make you die laughing.”
“I don’t somehow think so,” said Carolus.
Tom Hopper when he entered answered to the landlord’s description in every detail, but he also had very foxy little eyes.
“Gentleman was asking about Holly House,” said the landlord. “I told him he should ask you.”
“Ah,” said Tom Hopper.
“You know more about it than anyone,” went on the landlord.
“Was it about one of the Cases?” Tom Hopper asked Carolus.
“Yes, I suppose it was,” Carolus admitted.
“Not supposed to talk about any of the Cases,” said Hopper.
“Have a drink?”
“I don’t mind. Only we have to be careful about discussing the Cases. Are you from a newspaper?”
“No. I have personal reasons for asking. Do you remember a man named Duckmore?”
Hopper set down his glass and blinked at Carolus.
“That’s a funny thing,” he said.
“What’s that, Tom?” asked the landlord.
“There was another chap asking about him a couple of months back. Big chap. Wanted to know all about him.”
“Were you able to tell him.”
“Oh yes. Of course I was. I knew Duckmore well. He was one of my special charges. But we’re not supposed to talk about the Cases.”
“You’ll lose nothing by doing so to me,” said Carolus significantly.
“Thank you,” said Hopper. “What was it you wanted to know?”
“He was a voluntary inmate?”
“They all are, at Holly House. Or so they say. It’s mostly their families put them there. He came on his own and stayed two or three years. Very unusual case.”
