“He must have been a very fine man.”
Beatrice Kent rose like one possessed.
“To me, he was the finest man who ever lived. And let anyone beware who says otherwise, yourself included, Inspector.”
“Where did Doane live before he came to Beyle?”
“In rooms in London. It’s said he was in practice in Madrid at one time. But he threw it up for music and then made a miserable failure at his first concert. He must have been in England twenty years or more.”
“When did he come to Beyle?”
“Shortly after Nick’s marriage.”
“That tallies with his own story.”
“So, he’s been telling you his sorry story. He’s very plausible, and has managed to eke out a very comfortable existence for many years through his pathetic tales. He’s as mad as the rest of his family...”
Her sentence was interrupted by a violent ringing of the doorbell. They heard Margery hurry to answer it, but before she could ask any questions or announce anybody, loud footsteps thudded in the hall, and then in the doorway of the room in which Littlejohn was sitting, appeared Alec. He was drunk and held himself upright with difficulty. He did not see the Inspector and went straight to his aunt.
“Alec! What are you doing here in that disgraceful condition? You ought to be ashamed...”
“Go on, go on, complete the sentence, Auntie Bee. I oughter to be ashamed and my mother not yet in her grave...Very unkind of you, I must say, when I’ve walked all the way from Beyle to express my condolence. We oughter get together, you an’ I, Bee. Fellow-mourners; simultaneously bereaved, so to speak. I left the police busy on the body, auntie...Gave ‘em a very satisfactory alilibi...Twenty-four people can testify I’ve been all the afternoon at the airport bar. No’ so bad, eh?”
“Alec! Control yourself...This is no time for levity...”
“Levity? Who? Me? No, aunt. You know as well as I do, what I’m thinkin’. Somebody’s avenged my mother...You know as well as I do, who we think murdered her. Uncle Arthur did it, because she insisted on lovin’ him and wantin’ to tell all the world she did, when all the time, Uncle Arthur had got tired of her and wanted to be his old respectable self again...We know, don’ we?”
“You’re drunk...”
“I maybe...I maybe...But how does it go: In vino veritas. What are you doin’ here? Din’ see you...”
Alec turned and spotted Littlejohn sitting in the gloom outside the orbit of the standard lamp.
“What are doin’ here? Bloody copper...Damn’ snoop...This is a family affair. We’ll settle it our own way. Gerrout...”
He made as if to do violence to Littlejohn, tripped over the carpet, and measured his length on the floor. There he remained, swearing and snorting, until Cromwell, who had followed him and was standing keeping Margery quiet in the doorway, helped Littlejohn to raise him and throw him on the couch like a sack of potatoes. There Alec at once fell asleep and there they left him, snoring, to the tender mercies of his aunt.
Eight – Discomfiture of Tom Trumper
CROMWELL halted in front of an old-fashioned shop with a bow-window which held an excellent position in the High Street. In banner headlines, ornamented with holly and mistletoe, was emblazoned: TRUMPERS FOR VALUE AND SERVICE. Beneath it, in smaller type: ONLY NORFOLK POULTRY SOLD. In the window itself stood a plaster Santa Claus bearing a banner like a fire-screen: A MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ONE AND ALL. The figure had, until Christmas Eve, nodded jovially with the help of clockwork, but in its frenzy of greetings had dislocated its machinery and now held its head pathetically awry with stiff-neck. A sign between first and second storeys announced what everybody knew by heart: B. TRUMPER & SON, GROCERS AND WINE MERCHANTS. EST. 1858. B. Trumper had been with God (we hope) over twenty years, and now the son ruled alone.
The shop was dark inside and smelled on this particular morning of cinnamon, a bag of which had been accidentally burst. The floors were of old wood and the counters, where most used, were hollowed out by generations of customers. The shelves which ran round the place from end to end and from counter height to ceiling were full of good and bad things, particularly in the section which held strange kinds of canned fish. Facing you as you entered, the wine department stimulated your thirst with its bottles of coloured alcohol in many forms, and a large card : BONAVENTURA (ENGLISH) PORT. Mr. Trumper’s recent unofficial appearance in the Crake affair had improved his Christmas trade to the extent of clearing out most of his seasonable fare and now a solitary stack of plum puddings in basins and a box or two of withered looking almonds and peanuts were all that remained. An easel supported a blackboard on which was written in coloured chalks amid a flurry of snow, holly and mistletoe, TRUMPERS WISH YOU A HAPPY NEW YEAR. SEE IT IN WITH OUR MONSTER TWO GUINEA BARGAIN PARCEL. 1 Bott. Australian Sherry. 1 Bott. Bonaventura Port. 1 Bott. Cocky Dick Cocktail.
“Yes?” said someone hopefully to Cromwell, who was reckoning up in his own mind whether or not the parcel was a bargain or a fraud.
“Yes?”
The questioner was a large, portly man in a huge white apron like a tablecloth tied round his middle. He wore lozenge-shaped spectacles and had wrapped some wool round the bridge to prevent their lacerating his button nose. His grey, drooping moustache added a touch of permanent melancholy to his face. He was busy piling up items from the shelves on the counter as he read them from an order-book.
“Mr. Trumper?”
“Did you want to see ’im? I’m not ’im. But I’m manager ’ere, and if there’s anythin’ I can do...”
“I’d rather see Mr. Trumper, if I may.”
“You travellin’ for somethin’, because we shan’t be orderin’ till we’ve stock-took on the 31st?”
“No. I’m from the police. Will you tell him I’m here?”
The man in the apron placed his two palms flat on the counter and leaned confidentially towards Cromwell.
“And not before it’s time, eether. Shameful the gossip that’s goin’ on. I’m surprised that Tom Trumper should countenance it. I was with them carol-singers and I didn’t see nothin’ of all that’s bein’ scandalously talked of. Poor Mr. Crake...”
“I’d like a word with you after, then. What did you say your name was?”
“Call me Oscar...”
Oscar’s surname was Bloater and he didn’t like it. In fact, he’d contemplated changing it to Bloader or Boater, but his old father, still living at eighty-four, had kicked up such a fuss that Oscar had given up the idea. It had been his downfall economically, however. At one time, he’d been sweet on Tom’s daughter and Tom had talked of making him a partner. But the father, having envisaged Trumper and Bloater on the sign over the door, had finally blown cold on the matter; and the daughter, contemplating-changing a name like Trumper to an even worse one, had run away with a wine traveller called Macnamara and divorced him for one called Heginbotham. Mr. Bloater was bitter. He was too old to change his job, but he never lost a chance of secretly doing down Tom Trumper. He made horrified gestures to anybody who inquired about the tinned fish and whispered here and there that an eighteen-shilling bottle of Tally-Ho Port would cheer you up for letting-in the New Year far quicker than two bargain parcels.
“I’ll call Mr. Trumper, and if you’ll have a word with me when you’ve done with ’im, I’ll tell you a thing or two...”
Mr. Trumper was in the back room mixing bottles of Cocky Dick for his festive customers. One of gin to four from an unlabelled bottle which looked to contain home-made Vermouth, and a dash of bitters. “Taste it,” said Mr. Trumper genially, after introductions had been effected.” Bloater, the assistant in the shop, says you want a word with me?”
No wonder he wanted to be called Oscar! thought Cromwell.
Mr. Trumper might have been Bloater’s brother, except that he looked twenty years older and wore steel-framed pince-nez instead of spectacles. These balanced precariously on the end of his nose as he measured out the ingredients of his potions. Cromwell
took a drink from the proffered measuring glass. The liquor crossed his tongue and palate very benignly and he was just about to congratulate Mr. Trumper on it, when it struck his stomach like a soft-nosed bullet. He hiccupped violently and held on to the table for support.
“He, he, he,” cackled Tom Trumper. “Got a bit o’ kick, wot?”
Cromwell felt like one who has been given an explosive cigar. He could have kicked Trumper’s large rear, which shook like a jelly in his mirth.
“I want to ask you a question or two, sir,” he said formally, and took out his little black book to make it look official. Mr. Trumper grew solemn, removed his pince-nez, shut them in a spring box with a loud bang, and indicated that he was ready.
“Did you really see Mr. Crake naked at the window with his wife helping him to catch his death of cold on the night before he died...or had you all been drinking Cocky Dicks and didn’t know what you did see?”
The bad wine had gone to his head now and he didn’t care a damn how Trumper took the question.
“’Ere, ’ere, ’ere. What you getting at? I said nothin’ about seein’ Mrs. Crake doing any such thing to her ’usband. All I said was, ’e was at the window and his wife pulling of him back into the room...”
“Did you actually see it?”
Mr. Trumper cleared his throat and paused to consider. Cromwell hiccupped softly and cleared his own throat, too.
“Now, look here, sir,” he said gravely. “This matter is very vital. In fact, a man’s life might depend on it...”
Mr. Trumper took a drink of his homemade Vermouth from the measuring glass.
“’Oose life?” he asked, and he put on his pince-nez again.
“Never you mind, sir. Police secrets. But I can tell you that the thing will soon be aired in court and if you assure me that you did see Mr. Crake in the circumstances mentioned, you’ll be called upon to repeat it in public under oath.”
Mr. Trumper paused.
“Let me give you another drink, sir. A proper one, this time. Good sherry, eh? That was just my little joke. I mixed it different just to have you on...I’m a proper one for my little joke.”
Cromwell assumed his most disapproving air.
“Was the affair at St. Mark’s a little joke, as well, Mr. Trumper? Because if it was, it was in very bad taste, like the one you just played on me. Come now, sir, I’ve no time to waste.”
“Oh, very well, if you’ve no sense of ’umour...Strictly speakin’, I didn’t see it myself. Not with my own eyes. But one of my choir saw it and told me. I...ahem...I...”
Mr. Trumper began to look queer. He licked his dry lips and mopped the sweat from his shiny forehead.
“You mean, you passed it off as if you’d seen it, sir. You took the limelight, so to speak.”
Tom Trumper grew humble.
“H’I didn’t see any harm in it. A tradesman like me ’as to ’ave somethin’ to chat about to his customers. It’s part of the goodwill is a choice titbit of noos. It ’ad happened, so I didn’t see any wrong in passin’ it off as if I’d seen it myself.”
“No? Who did see it?”
“Willy Kneeshaw, one o’ my basses. He told me...”
“When did he tell you?”
“The follerin’ morning when the noos got round town as the Recorder was breathin’ his last. ‘No wonder,’ says Willie, callin’ in the shop for his deliveries — he runs the van for me — ‘No wonder he’s on his last legs’...and he tells me the tale.”
“And that’s all there is to it?”
“Yes. Sure you won’t ’ave a little proper sherry...?”
“Nope. Enough’s as good as a feast, sir, thank you all the same. Where can I find Willie?”
“He’s out with the van, now. He lives at Bright’s Buildings across the way, in the ’ouse on the top. He’s caretaker of the offices there and runs my van in his off time...”
“Right. I’ll be off then, sir, if you’ve no more to tell me. Have you?”
“Only that Mrs. Crake owed me quite a bill. Never ’ad any money. The Recorder used to settle them for her, although I did hear he allowed her enough for all she wanted, and more besides. But she couldn’t make ends meet. Poor Mr. Crake...”
“Very well, sir, thanks. Good morning.”
“Good mornin’. No ’ard feelings. Just my little joke.”
“I ought to charge you for obstructing the police in the discharge of their duties...”
And with that, Cromwell passed into the shop. Mr. Bloater was serving a lady, but hastily disposed of her. Then he removed his large apron as though it might impede him in his chat with the police. He looked hard at Cromwell’s flushed face.
“You been getting cross, sir?”
“No. Drinking Mr. Trumper’s poison. Cocky Dick, indeed!”
“You don’t mean to say he’s tried that trick on you. Give you a drink from the Fernet Branca bottle instead of the Vermouth! That’s one of his so-called jokes. He’s got a nerve tryin’ it on the police! But then, ’e never had a sense of wot was proper. I see him peepin’ at us through the glass door, so I’d better tell you. I was with the carol-singers. I’m a bit of a tenor myself. All I want to say is, neither Trumper nor anybody else saw Mr. Crake at that window. I was there. I’d have known. How ’e has the nerve to say he saw it...It was the next to the last place we’d to call at. We sang ’Ere we come a-Wassailin’ and Midnight Clear and then out comes Mrs. Kent an’ stops us. Her brother was ill on ’er ’ands, she said. So we went off. Usually have a good spread at the Kents. But this time we ’adn’t. Although I say it myself, the ’ospitality we’d already received by the time we got to St. Mark’s, was enough to stop us seein’ very much. All we could do was sing and that off pitch, as you might say. And Tom Trumper was as bad as the rest. Half tight and more. I see no Mr. Crake at the winder and I was right under it, singing away for dear life. That’s as true as I’m here...”
From behind the glass panels of the back room Mr. Trumper was watching them. He had changed his steel-rimmed pince-nez for shell-framed spectacles, the better to see what was going on.
“Who is Willie Kneeshaw?”
“Our vanman. Drives the horse and cart. Can’t be trusted with the motor van, so we just use him and the old vehicle at rush times. He’s caretaker of a block of offices. All he’s good for really. A bit simple. Difficult to make him understand sometimes and as difficult to get him to talk.”
“He seems to have talked to Mr. Trumper, though. It seems he was the one who saw the scene at the bedroom window.”
“Wot! Well, I never! Now what’s afoot, I wonder? Why should Trumper be so interested in idle gossip of that sort that isn’t true, and make out he saw it when he didn’t, and then say it was Willie as is a bit short in his wits, just to get out of it.”
“He said it was gossip and good for trade.”
At this, the glass door opened, Mr. Trumper appeared, and made for the front door. He had removed his apron and was wearing a tall, black bowler hat.
“Good day,” he said very formally to Cromwell. “H’I’m jest going to the bank. I want to see you when I get back, BLOATER,” he added ominously and offensively to Mr. Bloater and closed the door with a bang.
“Well!” said Bloater. “Wot’s he up to? He’s not goin’ to the bank at all, if you ask me. He put all his takin’s in the night safe last night and the manager won’t be there yet. It’s market day and Grimes, that’s the manager, always goes to the markets branch before he turns in here. He’s off somewhere else. I wonder where? Did you hear ’im at me? As if he was goin’ to give me the sack? As if he could? This shop’s mortgaged to the hilt. I’ve a thousand pounds loan money in this show, too, and he can’t repay. He was hard-up when my mother died and he persuaded me to invest what she left me. Promised a partnership and went back on ’is word...”
“Is he hard-up then?”
“Since these chain-stores opened up here, a lot of his trade’s gone. The shop’s mortgaged and he’s
been over-drawn at the bank. The manager’s been after him, I know.”
“Well, I must be off, Mr. Bloater. Thanks for what you told me. Be seeing you again, I hope.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll let you know if I get the sack.”
On his way to the police station Cromwell passed the post office and called in to buy a stamp for his daily letter to his wife. In one of the telephone booths, he recognized the tall bowler hat of Mr. Trumper. Tom didn’t notice Cromwell. He was too engrossed in his call. Whoever he was talking to must have been giving him a rough time, for Trumper kept mopping his brow and between his neck and his collar with his handkerchief. He looked very unhappy.
Littlejohn was with Mr. Trotman, discussing the Will and other things, and Cromwell called at the police station to wait for him. Superintendent Simpole was in his office surrounded by papers and looking more sardonic than ever.
“Been calling on Trumper, I see...”
“How did you know?”
“I don’t miss much that goes on in this town. Were you confirming the tale about Crake’s behaviour and his wife’s attempt to murder him when Trumper and his crew were singing carols, like a diabolical accompaniment, under the window? Because, if you were, I could have told you all you want to know...”
Simpole’s voice was acid.
“Yes. And by the way, sir, we’re not here deliberately poaching on your ground. We were invited, you know. So don’t take it so badly. We only want to co-operate.”
“Sorry. I’m a bit sore about this. I could have managed very well myself. But to return to Trumper. He didn’t see what he said he saw, did he?”
“No. He said somebody called Kneeshaw told him.”
Crime In Leper's Hollow Page 10
