Give a Corpse a Bad Name (18 page)

‘Adrian?' said Daphne.

‘Yes,' said her mother. ‘You remember, you'd just gone off to London in a rage because of the things I'd been saying about him. I decided I'd better have a talk with him, a fairly cool and reasonable talk without you there to confuse the issue. I wrote him a note, asking him to drop in, if he could manage it, about six o'clock. But he couldn't, or didn't want to, and at a quarter to seven I decided I couldn't wait any longer on the chance that he'd turn up. That's your explanation, Eggbear. I'm sorry it's probably a disappointment.'

Eggbear made a jotting or two, and looked at Adrian. ‘That right, Mr Laws? You got the note.'

The young man was pushing his fingers through his tawny hair. ‘Yes, of course—that is, I mean—oh, Anna, what's the good of it? They're bound to find out.'

She regarded him blankly. ‘Find out what?'

His face showed distress and bewilderment. ‘I'd back you up all I could if I could see the slightest good in it. But, well, it'd be so easy to prove that – you see, I'm never up very early in the morning, and my charwoman always takes in the post. She knows absolutely everything about my correspondence. So if anyone went and questioned her—I mean—damn it, ‘I'm most frightfully sorry, Anna, but it just isn't any good.'

She was leaning forward tensely in her chair. ‘You mean you never got that note?'

‘Of course, it may have gone missing in the post,' he said hurriedly. ‘I dare say it did. It does happen sometimes.'

She repeated: ‘You never got that note!'

He shook his head regretfully.

Anna Milne rose suddenly to her feet and turned away.

Daphne exclaimed: ‘Adrian, I do think you might have—!'

He slipped an arm round her shoulders. ‘Absolutely no good, my dear. Wouldn't have paid in the end. Don't be angry with me. But I don't think I'll stay. Not the right moment for making peaceful approaches, d'you think? I'll go and drive round and round for a bit in my little car. Coming with me?'

She shook her head, her eyes on her mother. Adrian shrugged, nodded to the men, and went out. Mrs Milne turned round.

‘So,' she said, looking at Eggbear, ‘my story's no good.'

‘Well, ma'am—' he began uneasily.

She laughed—an unattractive sound.

Toby remarked: ‘Perhaps you'd like to alter it.'

‘Oddly enough, not,' she answered.

‘Perhaps you're wise,' he said.

‘After all,' she said, ‘it isn't a bad story. I rather like it. It's simple, it's homely, it's easy to repeat. The next one might be even less reliable. Now is there anything else you want to ask me? I'm not sure, Eggbear, that you oughtn't to have warned me that anything I say may be taken down and used in evidence. And next time you come I'm not sure I shan't have a solicitor present.'

‘Certainly, ma'am, if you wish,' he answered without expression.

Outside in the car on the way back to Chovey, the sergeant said: ‘Her'd have to be put through a mangle to squeeze any admissions out o' she. I'll lay she knows all about this Henry Rhymer. That story o' hers!'

‘Yes,' said Toby, ‘and it's queer she trusted Laws to back her up when there's so little friendship between them. What I'd like is a chance to talk to the girl. She wants to talk to me, but she's afraid of something.'

‘Tobe always thinks any nice girl wants to talk to him only she's afraid,' George explained to the sergeant.

‘No,' said Toby, ‘there's something really queer—'

But George interrupted: ‘Queer! I'll give you something queer to think about. When that bloke Laws up and contradicts her and she turns away all champing with anger to the window …'

‘Well?' said Toby.

‘Well,' said George, ‘why,
why
, I ask you, was she looking as pleased as hell? Why—and maybe since you're a brilliant and intelligent bloke you can tell me—why was it that when her story'd just had a hole blown in it big enough to swallow a horse and cart, why should she pick on that particular moment to start grinning all over her face?'

Inspector Whitear had chiselled features, a delicate golden tan, violet eyes and a streak of a moustache like a plucked eyebrow on his upper lip.

He was intelligent, fairly well educated, and naturally friendly. Only a high-pitched, wheezy voice detracted from an arresting personality.

‘Now here's something you'll be interested in,' he told Eggbear and Toby. ‘Information just came in before I started out. That suitcase—'

Eggbear interrupted with a slight cough. ‘In my report—'

‘Ah yes, you've located it, I know. Good work. Very good work. But nevertheless, here's a point of interest. We've been making inquiries around the place about that suitcase, and this morning the cloakroom attendant at Knightsteignton—'

‘Knightsteignton?' said Toby.

‘Station before Wallaford,' Whitear replied. ‘This cloakroom attendant gets to hear of it and does a bit of thinking, and then phones up to tell us that on Thursday morning a lady came and collected a suitcase that answered to the description of the one we were looking for—an old, battered, leather suitcase. What's more, it had the initials SM stamped on it. She was a young lady, smartly dressed; he didn't remember much else about her. Then on the evening of the same day another lady comes in. He remembered her a bit better—middle-aged, dark, expensive fur coat, diamond rings—'

‘Mrs Milne,' said Eggbear.

‘Yes, and Daphne in the morning,' said Toby. ‘I knew that girl came in somewhere.'

‘Quite, quite,' said Whitear. ‘Well, this lady in the fur coat comes in and asks him does he remember who it was that deposited the suitcase and when. He says yes he does, it was Wednesday midday, and the person who did it was—'

‘A tall, dark man with glasses,' chanted George from his place very close to the stove.

‘That's right,' said Whitear, looking round at him and nodding. ‘That's right, a tall, dark—excuse me, Mr er—?'

‘Pilskin,' said George.

‘—Mr Pilskin, but haven't I seen you somewhere before?'

Shaking his head emphatically, George sank closer to the stove.

Whitear continued: ‘A tall, dark man with glasses. It appears, in fact, that this man picked the suitcase up in Wallaford and went straight off and deposited it in Knightsteignton.'

‘I'll bet,' said Toby, ‘that—'

‘How much?' said Whitear quickly.

‘Any amount you like,' said Toby, ‘that he found time to open it on the way. You know, Sam, this turns things round a bit. We've been rather assuming that the man who collected the suitcase was doing it
for
Mrs Milne. But now, unless she was trying to cover his tracks—'

‘Which she'd be quite spry enough for, you take my word,' said Eggbear.

Toby nodded. ‘Yes, but if by any chance the inquiry was a genuine one, then it's between the man and Daphne that we've got to look for collaboration.' He picked up one of the pencils lying on Eggbear's desk and began to tap with it.

‘Well,' said Eggbear, ‘that makes it easier to understand. I've always had a feeling that man'd turn out to be young Laws, only I couldn't see him and Mrs Milne carryin' out a job o' work in harmony like. But if 'tis Miss Daphne then there ain't no difficulty.'

‘Except …' said Toby, frowning and still tapping away with the pencil. Suddenly he glanced up. ‘Hullo, George,' he said, ‘where you off to?'

‘Phone my girl,' said George and went out. Toby, the pencil growing still in his fingers, looked after him with a smile.

Whitear waited a moment, then prompted him: ‘You don't think the daughter's mixed up in it, Mr Dyke?'

‘Oh, I'm sure she is,' said Toby. ‘No doubt about it at all. Only so's a retired major who can't sleep at nights, and hates his brother; and so, perhaps, is the brother, and perhaps even the brother's wife. And when, I wonder, is the next helpful hint from the anonymous letterwriter coming? I'm sure he won't leave us in the lurch at this point. I think, if you don't mind, I'm going to pop over to the pub to see if there's any afternoon post for me.'

But when he was out in the street Toby did not go towards the Ring of Bells, but, sauntering in the opposite direction, stopped and waited outside the post office—or grocer's, or tobacconist's, or chemist's, as one might choose to call it. After a few minutes George came out.

Lighting a cigarette, Toby inquired: ‘Did you have the idea I think you did, George?'

‘My idea,' said George, ‘was train or car.'

‘That's right,' said Toby. ‘Which was it?'

‘Well, I've been talking to the cloakroom fellow,' said George, ‘but when it comes to the local dialect I find I'm just an amateur with the telephone. Still, I gather he's certain the man arrived by train. There's an eleven forty-seven from Wallaford that gets to Knightsteignton at twelve-three. He says the man came by that. Swears to it.'

‘And,' said Toby, ‘as you've probably remembered, Major Maxwell's car was out of order.'

From behind a voice broke in upon them: ‘Mr Dyke, sir.'

‘Hullo,' said Toby.

It was the postman.

‘I got a letter for 'e, Mr Dyke,' he said. ‘Shall I give'n to 'e now or go on and leave'n for 'e up to the hotel?'

‘Glad to have it now,' said Toby, and, taking it, tore it open.

‘RIVERFIELD HANTS NOVEMBER 1917,'
said the anonymous correspondent.

In the morning twilight, some time between half-past seven and eight o'clock, Toby stirred in bed and groaned miserably.

With eyes that detested the sight of day, he blinked, and saw a jar of barley-sugar standing on the corner of the washstand.

The washstand was just within his reach.

Ten minutes later George came in and found Toby, his cheek bulging, lying with hands folded under his head, his gaze following the interweavings of the roses on the wallpaper opposite with a look of almost human interest.

George shut the door, sat down on a corner of the bed, and reached for Toby's cigarettes.

Sucking, Toby remarked: ‘You know, it works.'

‘Didn't I tell you?' said George.

‘Mmm.' The bulge shifted from one cheek to the other. ‘George, I've been thinking.'

A match spurted in the half-light as George lit the cigarette.

‘How d'you feel,' said Toby, ‘about another little job of housebreaking?'

‘Well, Tobe, I'm not in the best of practice, and then there's the question of conscience, and—'

‘I want that flask, George.'

‘That flask! But that ain't housebreaking, that's only in the garage. Oh, I could get that for you—goes without saying.'

‘Then get it, will you, as soon as you can? And don't handle it.'

George nodded.

‘And tell me something,' said Toby. ‘This letter—' He reached for his jacket and extracted the sheet of paper from a pocket. ‘Anything special strike you about it?'

George stared at it for a minute or two. ‘That “
NOVEMBER
”,' he said, ‘it's in a funny sort of type.'

‘Yes, that's true. Not the sort of type you often see in newspapers, is it? But doesn't anything else strike you? … Oh, well, it's only a guess at this stage, but d'you know, George, I've an idea this fellow's played right into our hands. Now see about that flask—and remember, don't handle it!'

Later in the morning Toby said to Sergeant Eggbear: ‘Sammy, I think it'd be a good idea to find out what Stuart Maxwell was doing with himself all Wednesday morning.'

‘Wednesday,' said Eggbear, ‘why, what was Wednesday, Toby?'

‘Wednesday was the day the suitcase was picked up from the Wallaford Left-Luggage and taken to Knightsteignton.'

‘Ah,' said Eggbear, ‘so 'twas.' He nursed his round red chin in his hand. ‘So 'twas. So you'm a-thinkin' …'

‘I'm going to find out myself what Laws was doing,' said Toby. ‘I'm going out there now. Where's his place? How do I get to it?'

‘'Tis up over the other side o' Purbrook,' said Eggbear, ‘right on the edge of the moor. You keep straight on when you get through Purbrook till the road splits in two, then you go to the right, and the cottage is about half a mile down—a sort o' stone place, lonesome, you might say, only these authors, I allow, they like it that way. But I was goin' to tell you, Toby, last night Whitear spent a long time talkin' to some folks in Riverfield on the telephone. He talked to the police station and the vicarage and the doctor.'

‘Did he get anything?'

‘Not much. But he's put the police there on to askin' questions.'

‘I see. Well, I'm on my way to visit friend Laws. And you'll deal with the major?'

‘That's right,' said Eggbear.

Toby mounted into his stately car and drove away.

Of the two roads to Purbrook he took the one he knew. Down its narrow length, round its sudden blind corners, over its humpbacked bridges, the big, old car with its seventeen-year-old brakes made necessarily a slow and cautious progress. But it reached Purbrook at last, threaded its way through the one or two streets that composed the village, and continued along a road that divided in two a stretch of heathery common. Straight ahead lay Dartmoor, hunching its round shoulders, always a little sinister in its bleakness.

Adrian's cottage was easy to find. There were no others near it. Of grey stone, with its shabby thatch repaired in places with sheets of corrugated iron, its garden a neglected patch of sprouted cabbage-stalks, its fence broken down, there was little about it to fit the mind's usual picture of a country cottage. Behind it the ground rose in a steep slope, grown over by rusty heather and bracken beaten to the earth by wind and rain.