Hand in Glove

Suspicion runs rampant among the gentry of an English village, as Inspector Alleyn tries to find a method in murder — before a crafty killer can strike again!

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Alfred Belt —
Manservant to Mr. Period

Mrs. Mitchell —
Cook to Mr. Period

Mr. Percival Pyke Period

Nicola Maitland-Mayne

Désirée, Lady Bantling —
Now Mrs. Bimbo Dodds, formerly Mrs. Harold Cartell, n
ée
Désirée Ormsbury

Andrew Bantling —
Her son by her first marriage

Bimbo Dodds —
Her third and present husband

Mr. Harold Cartell —
Her second husband

Constance Cartell —
His sister

Trudi —
Her maid

Mary Ralston (“Moppett”) —
Her adopted niece

Leonard Leiss

George Copper —
Garage proprietor

Mrs. Nicholls —
Wife of Vicar of Ribblethorpe

Superintendent Williams —
Little Codling constabulary

Sergeant Noakes —
Little Codling constabulary

A foreman drainlayer

Superintendent Roderick Alleyn —
C.I.D. New Scotland Yard

Agatha Troy Alleyn —
Wife of Superintendent Alleyn

Inspector Fox —
C.I.D. New Scotland Yard

Detective Sergeant Thompson —
C.I.D. New Scotland Yard

Detective Sergeant Bailey —
C.I.D. New Scotland Yard

Sir James Curtis —
Pathologist

Dr. Elkington

While he waited for the water to boil, Alfred Belt stared absently at the kitchen calendar:
with the compliments of the Little Codling garage. Service with a smile. Geo. Copper
. Below this legend was a coloured photograph of a kitten in a boot and below that the month of March. Alfred removed them and exposed a coloured photograph of a little girl smirking through apple blossoms.

He warmed a silver teapot engraved on its belly with Mr. Pyke Period’s crest: a fish. He re-folded the
Daily Telegraph
and placed it on the breakfast tray. The toaster sprang open, the electric kettle shrieked. Alfred made tea, put the toast in a silver rack, transferred bacon and eggs from pan to crested entrée dish, and carried the whole upstairs.

He tapped at his employer’s door and entered. Mr. Pyke Period, a silver-haired bachelor with a fresh complexion, stirred in his bed, gave a little snort, opened his large brown eyes, mumbled his lips, and blushed.

Alfred said: “Good morning, sir.” He placed the tray and turned away, in order that Mr. Period could assume his teeth in privacy. He drew back the curtains. The Village Green looked fresh in the early light. Decorous groups of trees, already burgeoning, showed fragile against distant hills. Woodsmoke rose delicately from several chimneys, and in Miss Cartell’s house, across the Green, her Austrian maid shook a duster out of an upstairs window. In the field beyond, Miss Cartell’s mare grazed peacefully.

“Good morning, Alfred,” Mr. Period responded, now fully articulate.

Alfred drew back the curtains from the side window, exposing a small walled garden, a gardener’s shed, a path, and a gate into a lane. Beyond the gate was a trench, bridged with planks and flanked by piled-up earth. Three labourers had assembled beside it.

“Those chaps still at it in the lane, sir,” said Alfred, returning to the bedside. He placed Mr. Period’s spectacles on his tray and poured his tea.

“Damn’ tedious of them, I must say. However! Good God!” Mr. Period mildly ejaculated. He had opened his paper and was reading the obituary notices. Alfred waited.

“Lord Ormsbury’s gone,” Mr. Period informed him.

“Gone, sir?”

“Died. Yesterday, it seems. Motor accident. Terrible thing. Fifty-two, it gives here. One never knows. ‘Survived by his sister…’ ” He made a small sound of displeasure.

“That would be Désirée, Lady Bantling, sir, wouldn’t it,” Alfred ventured, “at Baynesholme?”

“Exactly, Alfred. Precisely. And what must these fellows do but call her ‘The Dowager’! She hates it. Always has. And not even correct, if it comes to that. One would have expected the
Telegraph
to know better.” He read on. A preoccupied look, indeed one might almost have said a look of pleasurable anticipation, settled about his rather babyish mouth.

Below, in the garden, a dog began to bark hysterically.

“Good God!” Mr. Period said quietly and closed his eyes.

“I’ll attend to her, sir.”

“I cannot for the life of me see… However!”

“Will there be anything further, sir?" Alfred asked.

“What? No. No, thank you. Miss Cartell for luncheon, you remember. And Miss Maitland-Mayne.”

“Certainly, sir. Arriving by the 10:20. Will there be anything required in the library, sir?”

“I can’t think of anything. She’s bringing her own typewriter.” Mr. Period looked over the top of his paper and appeared to come to a decision. “Her grandfather,” he said, “was General Maitland-Mayne. An old friend of mine.”

“Indeed, sir?”

“Ah — yes. Yes.
And
her father. Killed at Dunkirk. Great loss.”

A padded footfall was heard in the passage. A light tattoo sounded on the door, and a voice, male but pitched rather high, called out: “Bath’s empty. For what it’s worth.” The steps receded.

Mr. Period repeated his sound of irritation.

“Have I or have I not,” he muttered, “taken my bath in the evening for seven uncomfortable weeks?” He glanced at Alfred. “Well, well,” he said. “Thank you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Alfred rejoined and withdrew. As he crossed the landing, he heard Mr. Cartell singing in his bedroom. It won’t answer, Alfred thought, I never supposed it would — and descended to the kitchen. Here he found Mrs. Mitchell, the cook, a big and uninhibited woman. They exchanged routine observations, agreeing that spring really did seem to have come.

“All hotsy-totsy in the upper regions?” Mrs. Mitchell asked.

“As well as can be expected, Mrs. M.”

A shrill yelp modulating into a long-drawn-out howl sounded outside. “That dog!” Mrs. Mitchell said.

Alfred went to the back door and opened it. An enormous half-bred boxer hurled itself against his legs and rushed past him to the kitchen. “Bitch!” Alfred said factually, but with feeling.

“Lay down! Get out of my kitchen! Shoo!” Mrs. Mitchell cried confusedly.

“Here — Pixie!”

The boxer slavered, ogled and threshed its tail.

“Upstairs! Pixie! Up to your master.”

Alfred seized the bitch’s collar and lugged it into the hall. A whistle sounded above. The animal barked joyously, flung itself up the stairs, skating and floundering as it went. Alfred sent a very raw observation after it and returned to the kitchen.

“It’s too much,” he said. “We never bargained for it. Never.”

“I don’t mind a nice cat.”

“Exactly. And the damage it does!”

“Shocking. Your breakfast’s ready, Mr. Belt. New-laid egg.”

“Very nice,” Alfred said.

He sat down to it, a neat dark man with quite an air about him, Mrs. Mitchell considered. She watched him make an incisive stab at the egg. The empty shell splintered and collapsed. Mrs. Mitchell, in a trembling voice, said: “First of April, Mr. B.,” and threw her apron over her face. He was so completely silent that for a moment she thought he must be annoyed. However, when she peeped round her apron, he shook his eggspoon at her.

“You wait,” he threatened. “You just wait, my lady. That’s all.”

“To think of you falling for an old wheeze like that.”

“And I changed the calendar, too.”

“Never mind. There’s the genuine article, look. Under your serviette.”

“Napkin,” Alfred said. He had been in Mr. Period’s service for ten years. “I don’t know if you’re aware of the fact,” he added, taking the top off his egg, “but April Fool’s Day goes back to pagan times, Mrs. Mitchell.”

“Fancy! With your attainments, I often wonder you don’t look elsewhere for employment.”

“You might say I lack ambition.” Alfred paused, his spoon halfway to his mouth. “The truth of the matter is,” he added, “I like service. Given favourable circumstances, it suits me. And the circumstances here are — or were — very nice.”

A telephone rang distantly. “I’ll answer it,” Mrs. Mitchell offered. “You take your breakfast in peace.”

She went out. Alfred opened his second egg and his
Daily Mail
and was immersed in both when she returned.

“Miss Cartell,” she said.

“Oh?”

“Asking for her brother. ’Oh,’ she says. ’Mrs. Mitchell!’ she says. ‘Just the person I wanted to have a word with!’ You know her way. Bluff, but doing the gracious.”

Alfred nodded slightly.

“And she says, ‘I want you,’ she says, ‘before I say anything to my brother, to tell me,
absolutely
frankly,’ she says, ‘between you and me and the larder shelf, if you think the kweezeen would stand two more for lunch.’ Well!”

“To whom was she referring?”

“To that Miss Moppett and a friend. A gentleman friend, you may depend upon it. Well! Asking me! As far as the kweezeen is concerned, a nice curry can be stretched, as you know yourself, Mr. Belt, to ridiculous lengths.”

“What did you say?”

“ ‘I’m sure, Miss,’ I says — just like that! Straight out! ‘My kitchen,’ I says, ‘has never been found wanting in a crisis,’ I says. And with that I switched her up to his room.”

“Mr. Period,” Alfred said, “will not be pleased.”

“You’re telling me! Can’t stand the young lady, to give her the benefit of the title, and I’m sure I don’t blame him. Mr. Cartell feels the same, you can tell. Well, I mean to say! She’s no relation. Picked up nobody knows where and educated by a spinster sister to act like his niece, which call her, as you may have remarked, Mr. Belt, he will not. A bad girl, if ever I see one, and Miss Cartell will find it out one of these days, you mark my words.”

Alfred laid aside his paper and continued with his breakfast. “It’s the Arrangement,” he said, following out his own thought, “and you can’t get away from it: Separate rooms, with the joint use of the bathroom, and meals to be shared — with the right of either party to invite guests.” He finished his tea. “It doesn’t answer,” he said. “I never thought it would. We’ve been under our own steam too long for sharing. We’re getting fussed. Looking forward to a nice day, with a letter of condolence to be written — Lady Bantling’s brother, for your information, Mrs. M., with whom she has not been on speaking terms these ten years or more — and young lady coming in to help with the book; and now this has to happen. Pity.”

She went to the door and opened it slightly. “Mr. C,” she said with a jerk of her head. “Coming down.”

“His breakfast’s in the dining-room,” said Alfred.

That light tattoo sounded on the door. It opened and Mr. Cartell’s face appeared: thin, anxious and tightly smiling. The dog, Pixie, was at his heels. Alfred and Mrs. Mitchell stood up.

“Oh — ah — good morning, Mrs. Mitchell. ’Morning, Alfred. Just to say that my sister telephoned to ask if we can manage two more. I hope it won’t be too difficult, Mrs. Mitchell, at such short notice.”

“I daresay we’ll manage quite nicely, sir.”

“Shall we? Oh, excellent. Ah — I’ll let Mr. Period know. Good,” said Mr. Cartell. He withdrew his head, shut the door and retired, whistling uncertainly, to the dining-room.

For the second time in half an hour Alfred repeated his leit-motif. “It won’t answer,” he said. “I never thought it would.”

“
Sawn-lee
,” a hollow voice on the loudspeaker announced. “
Sawn-lee. The four carriages in the front portion of the train now arrived at No. 1 platform will proceed to Rimble, Bornlee Green and Little Codling. The rear portion will proceed to Forthamstead and Ribblethorpe. Please make sure you are in the correct part of the train. Sawn-lee. The four carriages.
..”

Nicola Maitland-Mayne heard this pronouncement with dismay. “But I don’t know,” she cried to her fellow passengers, “which portion I’m in!
Is
this one of the first four carriages?”

“It’s the fifth,” said the man in the corner. “Next stop Forthamstead.”

“Oh, damn!” Nicola said cheerfully and hauled her typewriter and overcoat down from the rack. Someone opened the doors for her. She plunged out, staggered along the platform, and climbed into another carriage as the voice was saying: “
All seats, please, for Rimble, Bornlee Green and Little Codling.
”

The first compartment was full and so was the second. She moved along the corridor, looked in at the third, and gave it up.

A tall man, further along the corridor, said: “There’s plenty of room up at the end.”

“I’m Second Class.”

“I should risk it if I were you. You can always pay up if the guard comes along but he never does on this stretch, I promise you.”

“Oh, well,” Nicola said, “I believe I will. Thank you.”

He opened the door of the First Class compartment. She went in and found nobody there. A bowler, an umbrella, and
The Times
, belonging, she supposed, to the young man himself, lay on one seat She sat on the other. He shut the door and stood in the corridor, his back to her, smoking.

Nicola looked out of the window for a minute or two. Presently she remembered her unfinished crossword, and took her own copy of
The Times
out of her overcoat pocket.

The train had roared through a cutting and was slowing down for Cabstock when she ejaculated: “Oh, good Lord!
Carillon
, of course, how stupid!” She looked up to find the young man smiling at her from the opposite seat.

“I stuck over that one, too,” he said.

“How far did you get?”

“All but five. Maddening.”

“So did I,” Nicola said.

“I wonder if they’re the same ones. Shall I look?”

He picked up his paper. She noticed that under the nail of the first finger of his right hand there was a smear of scarlet.

Between them they continued the crossword. It is a matter of conjecture how many complete strangers have been brought into communication by this means. Rimble and Bornlee Green were passed before they filled in the last word.

“I should say,” the young man remarked as he folded up his
Times
, “that we’re in much the same class.”

“That may be true of crosswords, but it certainly isn’t of railway carriages,” Nicola rejoined. “Heavens, where are we?”

“Coming in to Codling. My station, what a bore!”

“It’s mine too,” Nicola exclaimed, standing up.

“No! Is it really?
Jolly
good,” said the young man. “I’ll be able to bluff you past the gate. Here we go. Are you putting your coat on? Give me that thing. What is it, a typewriter? Sorry about my unsuitable bowler, but I’m going to a cocktail party this evening. Where’s me brolly? Come on.”

They were the only passengers to leave the train at Little Codling. The sun was shining and the smell of a country lane mingled with the disinfectant-cardboard-and-paste atmosphere of the station. Nicola was only mildly surprised to see her companion produce a Second Class ticket.

“Joy-riding as usual, I suppose, Mr. Bantling,” said the man at the gates.

Nicola gave up her ticket and they passed into the lane. Birds were fussing in the hedgerows, and the air ran freshly. A dilapidated car waited outside, with a mild-looking driver standing beside it.

“Hullo,” the young man said. “There’s the Bloodbath. It must be for you.”