“Yes, sir?”
“You’ve read my notes on the Finch case, Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir. Of course.”
“I’ve just spoken to Miss Cecily Smeed and Mr. Denton Westbury. Get your notebook and sit down. I didn’t take formal statements from either of them, but I want at least a record of my recollections of what was said.”
Leaning back in his chair, eyes half closed, Henry dictated a precis of his recent interview, not omitting the subjects’ final words.
When he had finished, Hawthorn said, “I’ll go and type this up, shall I, sir?”
“No,” said Henry.“Leave it with the typing pool. You and I are taking a trip to the country.”
“The country, sir?”
“Tenley Green, near Guildford. We’re going to talk to Mr. and Mrs. Bertram Hamstone.”
Tenley Green was a pretty village far enough off the beaten track to have survived its comparative closeness to London. Mellow red-brick houses clustered round a triangular village green, complete with pond and horse trough. As Henry braked to a stop, the doors of the ancient gray stone church opened, and the congregation began straggling out into the grassy churchyard and down the path to the lych-gate—tweedy men and women turning up coat collars and knotting scarves against the chill January air, exchanging village gossip and remarks about the weather to the accompaniment of inexpert organ music from inside the church.
Henry got out of the car and went up to a large, red-faced man, who was dressed in prickly tweeds, a British Warm overcoat, and porkpie hat.
“Excuse me, sir, I wonder if you could tell me where to find a house called Hollyhocks?”
The man looked surprised and exchanged a quick glance with his companion—a thin middle-aged woman with a beaky nose. “Hollyhocks? What business do you have there, may I ask?”
Henry said, “I’ve come down from London to see Mr. and Mrs. Bertram Hamstone.”
“You have?” Unexpectedly, the man gave a sharp roar of laughter, and the woman smiled apologetically. “Well, sir, you’re looking at them now. May one ask the nature of your business? I don’t think we have met.”
“No, we haven’t, Mr. Hamstone,” Henry agreed. He took out his official identity card. “Chief Superintendent Tibbett, CID. If we might—”
“Good heavens, d’you mean Scotland Yard?” Bertram Hamstone had a penetrating voice, and several people turned and looked inquiringly. “So the crime wave has hit Tenley Green at last, has it? Well, well, well. Got a car?”
“Right there,” Henry said.
“Then you’d better follow me. Mine is the yellow Mercedes.”
Hamstone took his wife’s arm and strode off toward a very elegant automobile parked alongside the horse trough. Henry, under the concentrated gaze of Tenley Green’s population, climbed back in beside Sergeant Hawthorn and restarted his engine. Soon he was tailing the Mercedes as it wound out of the village and down a narrow lane between steep banks and trees, which reached out from either side^to form a natural cloister. After a couple of miles, the Mercedes began flashing its right-hand signal, and Hamstone turned around in the driver’s seat to make sure that Henry was close behind him. With a chubby forefinger he jabbed toward his right, underlining the message of the turn signal; then the car turned right and abruptly disappeared, as though swallowed up into the landscape.
Henry slowed down, and realized the reason for Hamstone’s emphasis. Even had he been looking out for it, he might easily have missed the small, unmarked dirt track that turned off the tarred road and immediately lost itself in a series of tight bends among overshadowing trees. After a few hundred yards, however, the last bend suddenly brought the car out into a big circular parking area in front of a house that only a private banker could possibly have described as a cottage. It was a small Elizabethan farmhouse, red-brick and half-timbered, with a newly thatched roof and diamond-leaded windows. It had been immaculately restored, and was surrounded by a small, well-tended flower garden. Smoke rose from tall red-brick chimneys, and broad stone steps led up to a terrace that ran the length of the building.
As Hamstone climbed out of his car, the oaken front door was opened from inside, and two golden retrievers came tumbling out, tails thrashing in welcome. Elizabeth Hamstone patted the leaping dogs as introductions were made, and then Bertram Hamstone said, “Come inside and have a glass of sherry. Can’t offer you lunch, I’m afraid, but you’ll get a very decent meal at the Fox and Pheasant down in the village. Down, Miranda! Down, Major! I suppose you’re here over this Finch affair . . .”
In the drawing room, a log fire blazed in a vast stone fireplace. Henry and Sergeant Hawthorn refused drinks. Hamstone poured himself a generous measure of pale sherry and stood with his back to the fire,, legs astraddle. Elizabeth had disappeared into the recesses of the house.
Hamstone said, “Bad business, this. No doubt that the young man was murdered, I suppose?”
“None at all, I’m afraid,” said Henry.
“So I gathered from Quince. Curious thing to do, wasn’t it?” Henry said, “How do you mean, curious?”
“Well, somebody wants to get the fellow out of the way—that’s understandable. But an obvious murder, right there in Ambrose Quince’s waiting room . . . well, I’m no expert, but I should have thought there’d have been subtler ways of disposing of Simon Warwick.” Hamstone noticed Henry’s look of interrogation, and gave a robust laugh. “Oh, I don’t mean more sophisticated means of murder, Chief Superintendent. I mean legal ways.”
“What sort of legal ways, Mr. Hamstone? I’ve read the file—” Bertie Hamstone snorted. “So have, I,” he said, “and I can tell you that Ambrose is by no means on to a sure thing. The evidence is pretty convincing at first glance, I’ll give you that, and if there was nobody contesting the suit, I daresay a court would concur.” Henry said, “You mean—people are going to contest the fact that Simon Finch was Simon Warwick?”
Hamstone chuckled. “Not anymore, sir. Not anymore.” Enlightenment dawned on Henry. He said, slowly, “You mean that a person who wished the old will to be reinstated would have contested the claim of a live Simon Finch, to prevent him from inheriting. But once Simon Finch is dead, it’s to everybody’s advantage to prove that he really was Simon Warwick.”
“Of course,” said Hamstone. “Obvious, isn’t it? The only living person who now has any interest in disproving Finch’s claim is—Simon Warwick.”
“So if Harold Benson should turn out to be the real Simon Warwick, he’d be the last person to want his rival dead.” Hamstone nodded approvingly. “Quite right. I see you take my point, Chief Superintendent. Benson could have challenged a live Simon Finch in the courts, and would have had the backing of a whole lot of people who were equally anxious to dispose of Finch’s claim. If he now challenges a dead Simon Finch, he’ll not only be one man against the world, but he’ll be creating a very bad climate of public opinion against him, if he should be accused of murdering Finch.”
Henry said, slowly, “He may not have thought of that.”
“I never met the young man myself,” said Hamstone, “only heard about him from Ambrose. I suppose if he teaches at a university he can’t be a complete idiot, although one never knows these days.”
Henry, feeling that he was being led off the track, said, “I daresay we’ll soon know a lot more about Harold Benson, Mr. Hamstone. Meanwhile, I’m afraid I have to ask you to tell me where you and Mrs. Hamstone were yesterday morning between nine and ten o’clock. It’s for your own protection, you understand.”
Hamstone gave Henry an unfriendly look. “I’m not at all sure that I do understand,” he said, “but the answer is very simple. Elizabeth was here—Martin drove her down on Friday evening, and you can be sure there’s no shortage of witnesses to that, because there was some sort of village do—bingo evening for the Animal Welfare Fund, or some such thing. As for me—well, I don’t mind admitting that that sort of affair is not my cup of tea, so I pleaded a business dinner
in London and drove myself down in the Mercedes yesterday morning. I left the London house at around half-past eight—the housekeeper will be able to tell you—and got here soon after eleven.”
Henry said, “Two and a half hours? We made better time than that, didn’t we, Sergeant Hawthorn?”
Hawthorn said, with the trace of a grin, “Hour and forty minutes, sir.”
“Good God, man, don’t you know the difference between Saturday and Sunday?” Hamstone sounded rattled. “Ever tried getting out through Putney High Street on Saturday morning? Traffic’s solid from the World’s End to Wimbledon Common. Sunday is an entirely different matter.”
“Yes, of course it is,” said Henry soothingly, which provoked a sharp and suspicious look from Hamstone. He went on. “By the way, Mr. Hamstone, I understand you employ a lot of Americans in your office.”
“A lot of Americans? In my office?”
“Well, in Sprott’s Bank.”
“Yes, there’s a handful of young Americans in our organization, but none in my personal office. Why do you ask?”
“Somebody,” Henry said, “telephoned Ambrose Quince’s secretary on Thursday, purporting to speak from your office, and asked for Simon Finch’s telephone number in Westbourne. Later on Thursday, somebody else called that number, spoke to Mr. Finch’s landlady, and left a message that Mr. Quince had altered the time of Mr. Finch’s appointment on Saturday from ten to nine-thirty. Mr. Quince, of course, never authorized such a call. In each case, the caller was a man with an American accent.”
Very definitely, Hamstone said, “That call was not made from my office, Mr. Tibbett. I told you, I have no Americans on my immediate staff, and I would have had no possible interest in Mr. Finch’s telephone number. I was especially careful not to meet either of the claimants personally. That side of the matter was entirely up to Ambrose.” He paused, and then said, “Benson, one presumes?”
“One doesn’t presume anything at this stage,” said Henry. “Well, I think that’s all for the moment, Mr. Hamstone. We’ll be on our way to the Fox and Pheasant.” He stood up.
Hamstone said, “Keep in touch, won’t you, Chief Superintendent? Naturally, this whole affair has complicated matters concerning Lord Charlton’s will. Ambrose is anxious to press ahead with court proceedings to ratify Finch’s claim, but . . . well, it would be easier to do if the murder was cleared up.”
“We’ll do our best, Mr. Hamstone,” Henry assured him, and Hawthorn nodded his earnest agreement.
In the Fox and Pheasant, Henry and Tom Hawthorn split forces, Henry making his way into the saloon bar while Tom headed for the public. The pub was crowded with the usual Sunday-morning post-Matins drinkers, and gossipy information was easy to come by. By the time that Henry and Tom foregathered in the dining room for lunch half an hour later, they were able to compare notes and reach some conclusions.
Tom Hawthorn had managed to get into conversation with Dick Martin, the Hamstones’ chauffeur, who without doubt had driven Mrs. Hamstone to Tenley Green in the Rolls on Friday afternoon. Henry had overheard a large lady in a mink jacket criticize the ineffectual way in which Elizabeth Hamstone had distributed the prizes at the end of the bingo evening. Martin had complained of the way Mrs. Hamstone had tried to make him help her in the garden on Saturday morning, when he should have been cleaning the Rolls (“She think I’m a ruddy plowboy or somethink?”); while a thin lady in a beaver coat had remarked in the saloon bar that Bertie Hamstone was going to get himself into hot water with the local magistrates if he persisted in driving that frightful, vulgar yellow car of his through the village at sixty miles an hour, like he did yesterday morning. He might kill a chicken or so and get away with it by paying compensation, but one day it would be a child, or even a dog . . .
By and large, Henry and Hawthorn agreed over their excellent lunch of pork pie and cheese, local evidence confirmed the Hamstones’ stories. On the other hand, there were the gaps and the small inconsistencies.
Driving back to London, Henry gave Hawthorn his work schedule for Monday. He was to find out as much as possible about the previous lives and careers of Mr. and Mrs. Hamstone and Mr. Denton Westbury. Miss Cecily Smeed’s life story, as Henry well knew, was firmly rooted in Warwick Industries, and he himself intended to visit Warwick House first thing in the morning. He planned to call on Sir Percy Crumble in his office just as soon as possible after the private jet had ferried that captain of industry from Scotland to Gatwick Airport.
Back in the comfortable, untidy apartment in Chelsea where the Tibbetts lived, Emmy was curled up on a sofa drinking a cup of tea and reading a Sunday newspaper. She got up with a pleased smile as Henry came in.
“Good, darling. You’re back sooner than I expected. All through for today?”
“I hope so, Any more tea in the pot?”
“Half a moment. I’ll put in some more hot water and get you a cup.”
Emmy disappeared into the kitchen, and Henry picked up the paper. On the front page, but tucked into a corner, was the headline murder IN CITY SOLICITOR’S OFFICE, will beneath it a blurred but recognizable reproduction of the photograph of Simon Finch that Ambrose had had taken to assist him in his United States inquiries. The story under the picture was suitably vague. The victim was described as Mr. Simon Finch of Westbourne. There was no mention of Simon Warwick.
Emmy came back with a cup of tea. She said, “There’s a telephone message for you. Derek Reynolds called from the Yard. Apparently he took the call, but the lady wouldn’t speak to anybody but you.”
“Lady?”
Emmy consulted the notepad by the telephone. “Miss Cecily Smeed. I’ve got her number written down. She’d like you to call back as soon as possible.”
Cecily Smeed sounded positively cordial. She had been thinking back, she said, to those old days in the 1940s, and she thought she might be able to suggest a possible line of investigation for Henry. “Oh yes, Miss Smeed? What sort of line?”
“Percy Crumble, Mr. Tibbett. I told you that Mr. Alexander had brought him down from the mill to be his administrative assistant, after Mr. Dominic pulled out of the firm. Well, I know that Mr. Alexander was very busy himself, and he delegated a lot of things to Percy. I hadn’t thought about it for more than thirty years, but when Ambrose Quince mentioned the name Humberton at that dinner party, it seemed to be vaguely familiar. Now I’ve been able to put two and two together. I remember Percy Crumble making several telephone calls to Mr. Humberton—somewhere on the south coast, I think—and talking rather mysteriously about ‘the consignment’ and ‘the goods to be delivered.’ I remembered asking him about it—I said that I had no record of any customer of that name, or any consignment due, and he simply told me to shut up and mind my own business. Well, now I realize he must have been talking about the Warwick baby. You should ask him about it.”
“Thank you, Miss Smeed. I’ll certainly do that,” Henry assured her.
9
Sir Percy Crumble’s office in Warwick House, Mayfair—a well-aimed stone from Berkeley Square could have broken its window—was opulent in the extreme. Percy Crumble had apparently never heard of the one-upmanship of the super-executive who chooses to work in surroundings of Spartan simplicity: if he had, he would have considered the idea to be potty, just as he had regarded it as a sign of senility when Lord Charlton himself had refused a suite of offices in the new steel and plate-glass building, preferring to do what work he did for the company from his library in Belgrave Terrace.
Cecily Smeed, of course, had until recently occupied an office not so very inferior to Percy’s at Warwick House, where she was always at Lord Charlton’s disposal for confidential secretarial work. Nevertheless, memos from the old man had frequently turned up on the desks of his top executives, handwritten with an old-fashioned pen dipped into the silver inkwell that Cecily was now to inherit. These memos always caused great confusion, because they photocopied very badly, and there was no authorized distribution list for them. Cecily wou
ld only smile infuriatingly and say, “I think Lord Charlton simply meant it as a personal note to you, Sir Percy.” If you asked Percy Crumble, Warwick Industries was bloody well better off without the both of them—Cecily and the old man. But, of course, one couldn’t say so in public.
He received the news that Chief Superintendent Tibbett of Scotland Yard wished to see him, with some irritation but no alarm. He had read his Sunday paper in Scotland and was well aware that Ambrose Quince’s candidate for Simon Warwick had been murdered in Ambrose’s own office. He realized that Scotland Yard would have to make an investigation, and that Warwick Industries was bound to be a part of it. He asked his secretary—an attractive but unostentatious blonde—if he could fit Chief Superintendent Tibbett into his morning schedule.
“You could see him right away, Sir Percy. You remember, we kept this morning free in case there was any delay in your flight from Scotland.”
“Okay. Send ’im in. Better get doon with it.”
Like most people meeting Sir Percy Crumble for the first time, Henry was impressed that such a titan of the business world should have been able to remain so unsophisticated, so North Country, so bluff and foursquare and commonsensical. With many people— those lucky enough never to find themselves in a competitive situation with Sir Percy—this impression remained permanent. Others had to learn the hard way that Percy Crumble’s provincial accent was a deliberately variable characteristic, and that his country-bumpkin facade disguised one of the sharpest minds in big business. Henry was deceived for about fifteen seconds. Then his brain took over.
“So poor yoong Finch was doon in, and in Ambrose’s own office? Well, ’oo’d ’ave thought it. I suppose ’twas t’oother chap did it.” Crumble beamed at Henry. “ ’Ave a cigar.” He pushed a Venetian tooled leather box across the gleaming desk.
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