Apparently Tom did understand. He brought the message next day during his dinner-hour. Mr. Tolley did not sell his tomatoes but would be delighted to send Camber Abbey a consignment when they were in season. He had no hot-house and so could only produce his tomatoes when they chose to ripen in the open air, and it was still too early in the year for that to be possible.
“I suppose Tolley is above suspicion?” said Hugh gloomily, when Dame Beatrice had returned to Camber Abbey. “He doesn’t want Catherine to marry me, you know, although he’s managed to swallow his first bitterness about it.”
“If my present surmise is correct, Mr. Tolley is not the only jealous and bitter person in this village. What is more, this person knows something about Stephen Camber’s death but doesn’t intend to come out into the open.”
“But the question must be…why were the tomatoes sent at all,” said Hugh, “if they weren’t lethal.”
Dame Beatrice did not answer. Then she demanded, with some suddenness, “Do you grow tomatoes, Mr. Camber?”
“No. I’ve never had the opportunity,” said Hugh, returning her gaze with one of astonishment. “A man I knew at the Ministry did, though. He was very keen. Nothing he didn’t know about them.”
“I should be most interested to meet him. Can you put me in touch with him?”
“Why, certainly. How soon do you want to meet him?”
“The sooner the better.”
“I’ll get him on the telephone.” He glanced at the clock. “Yes, I’ll get him now. Perhaps—I mean, do you want to meet him personally, or can you talk over the telephone if I contact him?”
“It will have to be face to face, I’m afraid. The time and place of meeting will be, of course, at his convenience.”
The meeting was arranged for Tuesday in the following week, and Dame Beatrice spent the intervening days at her Kensington home catching up on some of her clinical work, and acting as unpaid and devoted baby-sitter for her secretary, whose husband had allotted himself a week’s leave. The man who grew tomatoes with so much enthusiasm lived in Middlesex where he and his wife occupied a small bungalow with a large garden. There was a lawn surrounded by flower-beds immediately behind the bungalow, then came two trellis-work screens with rambler roses trained on them and a narrow gap between them through which ran a path of crazy paving.
The tomato-grower led the way to an impressively large greenhouse and gestured at its inmates.
“Of course, there’s nothing to interest you at present, Dame Beatrice,” he said. “Just the young plants, as you see. No flowers, no fruit. Of course, if I had some heating in here the things would get on faster, but I always think of tomatoes as being too hardy to be treated as hot-house plants.”
“As a matter of fact, I do not need to see fruit or flowers, Mr. Brown, and, apart from admiring yours as very healthy and promising specimens of the genus, I do not really need to see the plants. What I am after is a little botanical information which I hope you can supply. What would you say if I told you that there is a tomato-grower, either amateur or professional—I am inclined to think the latter, although I have nothing to go on—who is grafting tomato plants on to the deadly nightshade and distributing the resultant fruits to certain carefully-chosen acquaintances?”
“What should I say? Good heavens, Dame Beatrice, you’re not serious!”
“Perfectly serious. Do you happen to know whether it could be done?”
“Well, tomatoes and deadly nightshade and, I believe, potatoes, belong to the same family, of course. But what would be the object of such grafting?”
“Murder would be the result, if not the object.”
“Oh, but deadly nightshade by itself would hardly kill any but a young child. A graft on to it from a harmless tomato plant would cause it to become weaker still, surely, so far as its poisonous fruits would be concerned.”
“That is what I should suppose. Mr. Brown, will you make the experiment?”
“No, madam, I fear not. I would do much to assist your researches but my training as a Civil Servant militates against my placing myself in the equivocal position of issuing a poisonous tomato. Besides, apart from all other scruples, I love my tomato plants and could no more bear to tamper with them than I could bear to vivisect my pet monkey, if I had one.”
Dame Beatrice wagged her head in solemn agreement.
“I do see what you mean,” she said. “At any rate, you do not dismiss my fantastic theory as mere moonshine.”
“I should hesitate to dismiss any theory of yours as moonshine, Dame Beatrice, although this one, I am bound to admit, does sound a little far-fetched. You’ll stay for tea, won’t you? My wife has made a special baking and is longing to have a talk with you over the cup that cheers.”
Dame Beatrice did not use (apparently) any means of persuasion, but, by the time she left, the Browns had agreed to make the experiment of coupling the poisonous deadly nightshade with the innocuous tomato and to apprise her of the time of the hybrid fruiting.
“What we shall do, I expect,” said Brown, “is to graft a scion of the tomato on to the stock of the deadly nightshade, making a transverse cut on each so that scion fits on to stock and the two can be bound together. A possible alternative would be to cut a long narrow V-shaped wedge in the scion and fit it into a V-shaped depression cut in the stock. We might try both methods, Dame Beatrice.”
“However successful you are with one or both, the results will not be lethal, even to a small child,” said Dame Beatrice. “All that my suspect needed was to produce the symptoms of alcoholic excess in his victim.”
“Diabolical!”
“In this case, I am not quite sure about that.”
She thanked the Browns and returned to Camber.
“Any luck?” asked Hugh.
“Oh, yes. Mr. Brown is quite prepared to make an experiment in the interests of science.”
“In the interests of detection, you mean?”
“In the interests of the science of detection.”
“What is the story behind the poisoned tomatoes?”
“I think I know. It stems from two facts: one, that Paul Camber was a rabid abstainer from alcohol in any shape or form; two, that more people than Verith and Farmer Beresford disliked him.”
“That wouldn’t surprise me. The poisoned tomatoes, therefore, were intended for Paul’s consumption.”
“With the rider that it would not trouble the donor—or should I say the grower—if young Stephen ate some of them, too. What I am perfectly certain the person concerned did not foresee nor intend was to occasion the death of Stephen because he had eaten the tomatoes. I have said all this before.”
“Any use asking you to explain?”
“I do not propose to explain at present; I may be totally wrong.”
“I bet you’re not! Incidentally, did you get any sense out of Hildegarde?” asked Hugh. “About that night, I mean.”
“I think—no, I was told—of a visitor who creates the necessity for Hildegarde to occupy a room from which the fire-escape is available.”
“Good Lord! I’d never have thought of such a thing! But why the necessity for secrecy? I mean, if she wants to bring a man in, why the devil shouldn’t she? I should have no objection!”
“You might not, but brother Jacob might have other ideas.”
“Oh, but Hildegarde rides rough-shod over Jacob.”
“Does she? I hardly think so. I have not had much opportunity of seeing them together, it is true, but, to my mind, it is a case of Tom and Maggie Tulliver, the male being, in the end, the tougher character of the two.”
“Really? This is rather interesting.”
“Oh, I don’t know. You get the Salaman situation in more than one of the old ballads, and they show a considerable knowledge of human follies, frailties, and inversions, do they not?”
“I can’t think what you mean.”
“What about ‘the Cruel Brother’? Did he not stab his sister, and that on her wedd
ing day?”
“You don’t mean Jacob is jealous where Hildegarde is concerned?”
“I am sorry for both of them if he is.” She changed the subject without mentioning the name of Hildegarde’s nocturnal visitor, and began to talk with animation of the Broads, their fauna and flora, and of the scheme for making them a National Park.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Apples of Discord
“Find out some uncouth cell,
Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings,
And the night-raven sings.”
Milton
Dame Beatrice took thought for the next two days before deciding upon a course of action. To the surprise of Hugh, she removed herself to the small inn at which George was already putting up, explaining that as she knew she was going to brood instead of to detect, she thought it unethical to trespass upon his hospitality while she was ignoring his interests.
“What do you propose to brood upon?” he enquired, amused rather than offended by her defection.
“The Reverend Arthur Tolley,” she replied. “I suppose he has a greenhouse, even if he hasn’t a hot-house?”
“I have no idea. He may have one at the back of his cottage manse. There certainly is not one in that long front garden. You are still thinking in terms of tomatoes, I take it?”
“Yes, I am, but there are other matters, quite (I hope and trust) unconnected with tomatoes which, all the same, must claim attention.”
“Well, you know your own business best. Am I to hope that you will return to my house when you have brooded?”
“I am most grateful for the invitation. What do you think of the mentality of the Reverend Arthur Tolley?”
“Not much,” said Hugh. “He’s the type to stick his neck out in the pursuit of his calling. That’s all right if the right person does it, but Arthur Tolley, in my opinion, is of the stuff of which silly asses, not martyrs, are made. I’ve heard of lots of crazy things he’s done. He even offered marriage to the Beresford girl, so I was told, to give the baby a name. Beresford told him to take his adjectival charity elsewhere and set the dog on him, and young Tom Adams, my gardener, uttered dark threats in the pub.”
Dame Beatrice nodded.
“Really?” she said; but it was not so much a question as an indication that she was not in the least surprised.
“Why, what’s he been up to now?” asked Hugh. “Tolley, I mean.”
“Looking for converts.”
“Good heavens! He can save himself the trouble where Jacob Salaman is concerned. Jacob pays lip-service only to his Jewish faith, but he certainly wouldn’t change it for anything else. Some parsons are shockingly obtuse.”
“Obtuse is the word,” Dame Beatrice agreed, thinking not of religion but of Hildegarde’s matrimonial plans for the Reverend Arthur. “Would you call him easily led?”
“Only by his own nose. I should call him rather a pigheaded type. When, if ever, do I hear the result of your brooding?”
“I shall certainly keep you informed, but there may need to be a considerable time-lag.”
She remained for two days at the inn, decided not to tackle her immediate problem until she had given it still more thought, and, on the third day, without a word to Hugh, she and George returned to London and she telephoned for company to come to dinner and attend a conference.
“So now,” she said to Laura Gavin and her husband Robert, a detective chief-inspector of the C.I.D., “we have to find the man who grows these tomatoes. He cannot live far from Camber village. In fact, he may live in the village itself. How do you suggest we begin?”
“It won’t be easy,” said Laura. “He won’t exactly advertise. It looks to me more like a snooping police-job than anything we can tackle by ourselves.”
“Thank you for the adjective,” said her husband. “In my submission, there is no case for the police to take on unless Dame Beatrice can find evidence that the murderer did, as she suggests, actually hook the victim into the river, knowing that he would be too stupefied by the poison to be able to save himself. And that is going to take a mighty lot of proving.”
Dame Beatrice concurred in this view but offered no comment on it.
“Well,” said Laura, “what is the plan of campaign? In other words, what are we actually going to do?”
“We are going to enquire into a matter of motive, and you are going to visit Somerset House. Then I shall return to Norfolk and put up in the City of Norwich.”
“Rather a long way from Camber. I should have thought we’d need to be on the spot to keep an eye on things,” protested Laura.
“What I have to keep an eye on, at present,” said Dame Beatrice, “are the hotel registers of that ancient and beautiful city.”
“More cagey work by the mysterious Mr. Verith?”
“Not so far as I know.”
“Goodness knows how many hotel visitors there must be in a place the size of Norwich! Dozens, I should imagine. In a commercial city the hotel clientèle are here today and gone tomorrow.”
“Yes, but, you see, short of putting an advertisement in the newspapers, which I am not anxious to do in case it should come under the observation of the wrong persons, there seems to be nothing else for it but to check the hotel registers.”
“I suppose you mean you don’t want Hugh Camber to know. But hotels won’t give away their clients’ affairs to casual and enquiring strangers. It was pretty sticky in Scotland, if you remember. How do you propose to work the oracle?”
“With the connivance of the chief constable, child. I happen to know him quite well. He will supply me with a letter of introduction and a valid, although slightly exaggerated, reason for my enquiries. What, dear Robert, do you say to that?”
“What should we do in this life without useful contacts?” said Detective Chief-Inspector Gavin with an impudent grin. “And what, if any, is my part in all this?”
Instead of answering, Dame Beatrice described the situation obtaining at Camber between Arthur Tolley and the lively, unscrupulous Hildegarde Salaman and asked him what he would do about it.
“Good Lord!” said Gavin. He began to laugh.
“Stop it!” said Laura. “He’s the most frightful ass, but it wouldn’t do him any good with his bishop if it all came out. Who on earth would believe that his motives are what Hildegarde Salaman says they are?”
“His bishop, most probably, if he knows the chap,” said Gavin. “I think it’s a howlingly funny situation, all the same.”
“Well, what’s Mrs. Croc, going to do about it?—although why she should ask your advice I don’t know,” said Laura.
“Dame B., with her usual graceful tact and exquisite sense of timing, will enquire of this fat-headed cleric what the hell he thinks he’s playing at, I should imagine,” said her husband.
“It might be the best plan,” Dame Beatrice agreed. Laura glanced sharply at her. She realised that her employer’s thoughts were elsewhere.
“Something clicked about the tomatoes?” she asked hopefully.
“A glimmering, as of will o’ the wisp—a flicker against the surrounding gloom, child. Even to me, attuned as I am to your own fantastic imaginings, it seems too far-fetched to be feasible, and yet…”
“I thought you’d get on to something if you brooded long enough,” said Laura. “I do myself. Nothing like the subconscious mind for turning up the silver hoard of knowledge with the ploughshare of long and wide experience.”
“You’d better have a cup of tea and some aspirin,” said her husband. “Tell us what you’ve hit on, Dame B.”
“Only that, if you want coal, Newcastle might be a likely place to find some.”
“Carrying coals to Newcastle,” said Laura, screwing up her face. “That ought to ring a bell, but it doesn’t. When do you want me to go to Somerset House, and what am I to do when I get there?”
“Find Paul Camber’s will and make a digest of its main provisions.”
Laura came back to th
e Kensington house next day hungry, tired, and disgruntled.
“There ain’t no cause to suspect Paul Camber’s will,” she announced. “Hugh Camber has succeeded to the estate with the utmost legality. You’d better ask him how he managed it.”
“There is no need for that. I am not in the least surprised that there is a valid will. From what I know of him, I cannot imagine Hugh Camber consenting to inherit the property by default, as it were, and because, apart from Mrs. Hal Camber’s little son, he is the only Camber left alive—unless”—she paused for a moment and then resumed—“unless there is a nearer and more obvious heir to the estates than Hugh.”
“Not the Beresford baby?”
“It is an avenue which will need to be explored, child.”
“But I thought you told me Farmer Beresford’s whole grievance was that the baby was b.w.s.o.b. Wasn’t that so?”
“Well, that is what—if I translate your abbreviations correctly—Hugh Camber was given to understand, but it might not be true. If it was not, then the whole problem of young Stephen Camber’s death needs thinking out again.”
“I haven’t yet thought it out the first time. When do you go to Norfolk?”
“The day after tomorrow. I shall not need your help at present. You had better take Hamish to Bournemouth. He loves the seaside and all seasons of the year appear to be alike to him. I have never known such a healthy, contented child.”
“If by a healthy, contented child you mean a fiend in human guise, you’re about right! Very well, then. I’ll send you a telegram when I know where we’re staying. Where can I find you in Norwich?”
“At the Ket and Colman hotel, child. I will wire you if I move from there.”
Dame Beatrice did not move from the Ket and Colman. She conducted the next part of her enquiry from there. It made a good base and a secret one. It seemed to her, at this point in the enquiry, that the number of suspects must certainly include two—that is, if Mrs. Hal Camber and Hugh himself could be eliminated. The two were Farmer Beresford, to whose interest it would undoubtedly be to have his daughter’s baby son recognised as the Camber heir (supposing that Paul had fathered the child and married the mother), and Paul Camber himself, whose motive might be more obscure than Beresford’s but to whose dining-room sideboard the poisoned tomatoes could be traced.
The Man Who Grew Tomatoes (Mrs. Bradley) Page 15
