by Clara Benson
‘What does it matter where he went?’ said Gertie impatiently. ‘The time we’re interested in is after ten o’clock.’
‘It matters because of what you said. If he’d discovered something about someone—something that would provide a motive for his murder, I mean—then it’s worth finding out whom he spoke to in the hours leading up to his death. Now, I spoke to an old duffer at Skeffington’s who talked to Douglas on the evening he died, and he said more or less the same thing you did—that Douglas had been given a shock about something, and he didn’t know what to do about it.’
‘I knew it!’ said Gertie triumphantly. ‘You see? I wasn’t just making it up.’
‘It seems not. As a matter of fact, he went further and said that if he didn’t speak up then he was party to murder, although afterwards he said he’d been exaggerating. Gertie, I don’t suppose you noticed Douglas’s shoes that night, did you?’
‘Shoes? What a ridiculous question. Why on earth do you want to know about his shoes?’
Freddy explained.
‘How very odd!’ she said at last. ‘Do you mean to say he exchanged shoes with someone? Might he have run home and changed them? Perhaps the new ones were giving him blisters.’
‘No, they weren’t his—Banning was quite sure of that. But you’ve given me a thought. If his shoes were so uncomfortable he couldn’t bear to stand up in them, then perhaps he borrowed a pair from someone at the Browncliffes’ house.’
‘But from whom?’
‘I don’t know. Lord Browncliffe, perhaps? Who else was staying at the house that night?’
‘Nobody, as far as I know. But they might have dug out a pair of old shoes from somewhere.’
‘The question is, when did he change into them?’ said Freddy. ‘Do you remember whether he wearing his new ones at the dance?’
‘No, of course I don’t—oh!’ Gertie thought for a second. ‘Yes, I do,’ she went on excitedly. ‘He was wearing new shoes. He told me so. Not that I was interested, but he’d reached that stage of drunkenness in which one harps on about trivialities as though they’re the most important things in the world. It was the first time he’d worn them, and they were very comfortable, he said. Then he started recommending the shop he got them from, and I pointed out that I was hardly likely to buy a pair myself, but he would keep talking about them and so in the end I was forced to kiss him just to shut him up.’
‘Oh, so that’s how you went about it. Listen, Gertie, could you call Tatty now and ask her to find out whether anybody in the house lent Douglas a pair of size ten shoes? I can’t imagine Lord Browncliffe doing it, but one never knows.’
‘All right,’ said Gertie, and hung up. Fifteen minutes later she rang back.
‘She hadn’t the faintest idea what I was talking about,’ she said. ‘But I made her go and ask, and she came back and said all the men’s shoes in the house are accounted for.’
‘I see,’ said Freddy. ‘How very odd.’
‘Which shoes was he wearing when you found him?’
‘I only wish I could remember,’ he said. ‘I shall make further inquiries.’
‘I dare say it’s not important,’ said Gertie. ‘We’ll probably find out there’s quite a simple explanation.’
On the contrary, this was the first suspicious circumstance Freddy had discovered in his investigation so far, but he could not explain it. His thoughts were interrupted by Gertie, who had to go out.
‘I’ll speak to you soon, and we’ll decide what to do next,’ she said, then rang off.
As it happened, Freddy himself also had an appointment that evening, with a young lady. He went out and had a most pleasant time, and forgot all about Douglas Westray’s suicide for a while.
Chapter Nine
It seemed there was no answer to the question of what had happened to Douglas Westray’s shoes; nobody could remember which shoes he had been wearing when he was found dead in Lady Browncliffe’s dressing-room, nor was anyone able to shed any light on who was responsible for breaking into Douglas’s drawer, since nothing was missing from it as far as anybody knew. Freddy therefore felt he had reached a dead end and could not proceed any farther in the investigation. Certainly, there were one or two queer circumstances surrounding Douglas’s death, but those in themselves were not enough to point definitely to foul play, and in the absence of more evidence, Freddy concluded that it would be a waste of time to continue at present.
So Freddy put the thing out of his mind and turned his attention to other matters. July passed into August, and there were many public events which required his attendance for the Clarion. One of these was an air show at Heston, which was to be graced with the presence of the King and many great luminaries of the armed forces, particularly the Royal Air Force. A number of well-known names in the field of aircraft design and manufacture were to present their wares at the show, including Nugent Corporation and Westray Enterprises. Freddy was curious to see how they were all getting on since the death of Douglas Westray, so he took the assignment willingly when it was offered him and looked forward to a day spent in the open air in the pursuit of entertainment.
On the day of the show the weather was warm, clear and bright, with just the slightest touch of a breeze—perfect for flying, and for observing too. It seemed the people of London agreed, for they had flocked to Heston in their multitudes, attired in their best summer clothes, and were milling about the aerodrome, gazing at the exhibits as they waited for the air displays to begin. The exhibitors had erected large, white pavilions for the purpose of providing some respite from the hot sun, while stalls sold ices and lemonade and other comestibles, and the general air was one of festive enjoyment. When Freddy arrived he followed the stream of people who were heading as though drawn by a magnet towards the exhibits: a display of smart, shiny new aeroplanes, their paint gleaming in the sunshine. But there were so many people that it was difficult to get close, and so in the end he gave up and retreated towards a pavilion whose sign declared it to be that of the Nugent Corporation. There he found Gertie, wearing an enormous hat and a dissatisfied expression. She was attending the air show with her mother, the Countess of Strathmerrick, and was chafing under the necessity of being on her best behaviour. She brightened when she saw Freddy.
‘It’s awfully frustrating,’ she said. ‘I’ve been speaking to people all day, and nobody can help or tell me anything about Douglas. In fact, everyone seems to have practically forgotten him.’
‘What do you expect? His death is over and done with officially. The inquest said it was suicide and there’s no real reason to suppose anything different. To be perfectly frank I’m rather starting to come to that conclusion myself.’
‘Oh but it can’t be true,’ said Gertie.
‘Whether it is or not we’ve no evidence. I think perhaps you ought to let it lie, old girl. I know you feel bad, but he was responsible for his own actions.’
‘I don’t feel bad—I just know it wasn’t suicide, I feel it in my bones. Well, if you won’t help me I shall have to continue alone. Today is the perfect opportunity to speak to people who were at the dance, and that is what I intend to do.’
There was no arguing with her, so Freddy gave it up. He had a job to do in any case, and so he went off to do it. A little way from the Nugent pavilion, Lord Browncliffe was standing with Tom Chetwynd and a man of military bearing. Freddy approached with his notebook and an ingratiating air, and was introduced to Tom’s father, Air Chief Marshal Sir Thomas Bryce Chetwynd, who was Chief of the Air Staff and a man of no little importance to the Royal Air Force, the British air industry, and himself. It appeared the Air Force and the Air Ministry were seeking to commission a new fighter plane, and Sir Thomas was attending the air show in his official capacity. His demeanour was stiff and reserved, and while there was some physical resemblance between him and his son, their characters were clearly very different. Tom Chetwynd the younger greeted Freddy’s arrival with every appearance of relief, and took him to o
ne side.
‘All this business talk is a frightful bore,’ he said in an undertone, ‘but I have to take part and pretend I like it. Father wanted me to join the Air Force, you know, but I couldn’t stand the idea. Now I suppose I’ll have to come and work for Nugent Corporation after the wedding. I can’t very well say no a second time, can I?’
There was a discontented look on his face as he said it.
‘Aren’t you interested in this sort of thing, then?’ said Freddy.
‘Not I! Far too many rules and regulations to remember. I spent some years out in Kenya as a boy, and I should have liked to go back out there and take up farming, but Father wouldn’t hear of it, and I don’t know whether it would suit Tatty. She’d have to leave all her friends.’
‘So would you.’
Chetwynd gave a short, humourless laugh.
‘What friends? I’ve no friends, and no-one to leave behind, not now—’
He stopped.
‘You mean now Douglas has gone?’ said Freddy.
‘What? Oh, yes—yes. Poor old Doug. And poor old Tatty. She’s been distraught about it, but can’t tell me. It’s perfectly obvious she was still in love with him, but it wouldn’t be quite the thing to mention it, would it? Not now that we’re supposed to be getting married.’
‘Supposed to be?’
‘Are getting married, of course. I gather the preparations are already under way, and we’ll soon be quite the happy couple.’
There was a bitterness to his tone that he could not hide. Freddy raised his eyebrows but forbore to pry. He was remembering the night of the dance and the sight of Douglas squaring up to Tom and calling him an unprincipled bounder. Was that because Tom had taken Tatty from him, or was there something more to it? Tom had been upset and agitated that evening, even before Douglas had begun to cause trouble, so perhaps there was some other reason. He also remembered that old Colonel Lomas had mentioned that Douglas had gone to see a friend, and had received a shock. Was that friend Tom? Freddy was curious to know, but he could not think of a suitable way to introduce the subject, so he decided to leave it until another time.
The crowd around the display of aeroplanes was beginning to thin out, and so he wandered across again. Close to, the machines looked very fine, and Freddy admired the ingenuity which had gone into them. A whole display was dedicated to aeroplane engines and other components, and seemed to be presided over by Leslie Penbrigg, who was polishing the shiny metal surface of a large propeller with his handkerchief. At the end of a row of new aeroplanes stood an aircraft which was clearly much older. It was a Sopwith Camel, and here the crowd was larger. Freddy soon saw why, for standing by the plane was Captain Dauncey, who was laughing and evidently enjoying all the attention. According to a notice, the plane was the same one in which Dauncey had shot down so many of his German opponents during the war, and he was regaling his audience with tales of that time. Freddy stood for a minute or two and scribbled down a few notes, then began to observe the crowd. To his right a group of former servicemen were reminiscing about the war, and he listened with interest until they moved away. He noticed with amusement that the men in the crowd were mostly looking at the plane, while the women were mostly gazing, rapt, at Captain Dauncey. Freddy spoke to two gaudily-dressed young women who were enthusiastic in their praise of the great man, and the faded widow of an aircraft engineer who was scarcely less so, and who regretted the fact that her husband was no longer with them to see today’s splendid exhibition, then he took some snapshots with his folding camera and wrote down a few notes with a view to composing a descriptive piece for the paper later on. He wished to take a photograph of Dauncey, but it was difficult to get close enough, so he turned his attention to the display of aircraft parts. The engineer’s widow was also looking at the display, and was inclined to latch on to Freddy and talk at length about her husband. He had been a great one for inventing things, she said, and had left a whole notebook of ideas behind him when he died. Freddy got away from her at last and turned to see Gertie talking to Leslie Penbrigg, who, it seemed, was shy on all subjects except his job. When Freddy arrived Gertie was gazing glassily at Penbrigg as he described in great detail his latest work in the matters of crankshafts and engine mufflers and propeller reduction gears.
‘There you are, Freddy,’ said Gertie, interrupting Penbrigg rudely in the midst of a discourse on a new design of sparking plug. Penbrigg took the hint and coughed.
‘Hallo, old chap,’ said Freddy. ‘Rather a jolly exhibition, what? You’re here representing Westray, I take it? Are these all your inventions? Did you think of them all yourself?’
‘What? Oh—er—mostly,’ said Penbrigg. ‘Of course, many of them are still in the early stages of development, but Sir Stanley wants to show the public the sort of thing we are likely to see in future.’
Freddy was about to ask a pertinent question about one of the devices on display, but Gertie evidently had other ideas and changed the subject abruptly.
‘I don’t believe we’ve seen you since the night of Tatty’s ball,’ she said. ‘You remember, don’t you? The night Doug died.’
If Leslie Penbrigg was disconcerted at this inelegant introduction of the theme he gave no sign of it. He looked grave, then took off his spectacles and polished them.
‘It was a very dreadful thing,’ he said soberly. ‘It came as an awful shock to us all, and the family in particular. Nobody dreamed that he intended to kill himself.’
Freddy saw that Gertie was about to announce her suspicions to him quite openly and threw her a warning glance.
‘Did you speak to him that night at all?’ he said hurriedly. ‘I mean to say, in view of what happened presumably you’ve thought back to the events of the evening. I know I’ve racked my brains as to whether Westray gave any hint of what he was planning to do, but I can’t say he did—or not to me, at any rate. I don’t suppose he said anything to you that night, or in the days leading up to his death?’
Penbrigg replaced his spectacles.
‘No, certainly not. He’d been off work that week, and when he turned up at the ball it was the first time I’d seen him in days. I hadn’t the faintest idea he was feeling so down. I’d have told them so at the inquest, but as it happens I wasn’t required to give evidence.’
‘How did Sir Stanley take his death?’ said Freddy.
‘Sir Stanley’s one of the old sort,’ Penbrigg replied. ‘Doesn’t like to show his feelings, but I imagine he was as upset as the rest of us.’
‘Were you upset?’ said Gertie bluntly. ‘I understood you were angry with Doug because he lost you the Woodville Prize last year.’
Penbrigg looked blank, then comprehending.
‘Oh, that. Yes, it was very unfortunate. I was a little annoyed at first, I won’t deny, but he was so horrified and apologetic when he realized what he’d done—or rather, not done—that I told him not to worry. This business moves very fast, you know, and one has to be quick, or someone else will get there first.’
Freddy remembered his conversation with Alida Westray at the ball, when he had remarked upon the seeming coincidence of Nugent’s and Westray’s coming up with the same idea at once.
‘Did it never occur to you that someone might have stolen the idea for the wing slots?’ he said.
‘What do you mean, someone might have stolen it?’ said Penbrigg, startled.
‘Well, it was rather a coincidence that Nugent just happened to think of the same thing at the same time as you, don’t you think?’
‘Oh—oh, yes, I see. As a matter of fact, I believe there was some suspicion that Douglas might have accidentally let the thing slip to the Nugent side when he was still engaged to Tatty. I know Sir Stanley thought so, although Douglas denied it. But I have no idea whether it was accident, theft or pure coincidence.’ He shrugged. ‘At any rate, Nugent won the prize.’
A muffled voice now issued from the loud-speaker just comprehensibly enough to communicate to them that the air displ
ay was about to begin, and the crowds began to drift down the airfield towards the runway. Freddy and Gertie followed.
‘Hmph,’ said Gertie. ‘Far too good to be true!’
‘What, old Penbrigg?’
‘Who else?’
‘You don’t mean to say you suspect him?’
‘Why not? He’s the only person with any motive. He lost out on the Woodville Prize because of Doug, and he killed him for revenge.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘And he looked awfully shifty when he spotted you in the crowd, taking photographs.’
‘Well, which is it? Too good to be true or shifty-looking? He can’t be both at once. And in any case, why should the sight of me make him look shifty?’
‘Because he knows you’re a reporter and might dig up the truth at any moment.’
‘I find your thesis unconvincing. Do you have any concrete evidence?’
‘No,’ admitted Gertie. ‘I didn’t see him up on the balcony that night, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t there.’
‘Well, then, if he did go up there, how did he get in through the window? He wasn’t carrying a penknife.’
‘He might have used something else. And besides, there’s no reason to assume he got in that way. I thought we’d agreed the murderer might just as easily have gone through the door and come out through the window. If that’s what happened, then he wouldn’t have needed a knife. He could have just banged the window and the catch would have fallen down.’
They were passing the Nugent Corporation pavilion as she spoke, and they stopped as Captain Dauncey emerged from it, strapping on his helmet.
‘Hallo, Freddy,’ he said. ‘Going to watch the show?’
‘Rather. I say, may I have a photograph for the Clarion?’ said Freddy.
‘Certainly,’ said Dauncey, glancing appreciatively at Gertie. ‘Lady Gertrude, isn’t it?’
