Nothing Like Blood (14 page)

“If it was, it was the first, then,” said Mrs Tukes venomously. “She's been kept, to my knowledge, three times. The last time I saw her …”

“When was that?”

“Only a month or two back. She drove herself to the door in a car, if you please. Though I will say that time she Gave Me Something. Well, she couldn't do anything else, really, could she? All tarted up like that. It wasn't much, but it was something. When I think of all those years I worked like a galley-slave to keep her. But I was going to tell you—that last time she came to see me she told me she was going to get married.”

“Really?”

“I remember it as though it was yesterday. I was lying down at the time, tired out, I was. I felt as though I should never be able to get up again. Suddenly there's a rat-tat on the door to make my heart jump. I went out and there she was with a posh motor car standing by the kerb. ‘Whatever is it now?' I said. ‘Don't you know I have to rest in the afternoon? ‘So she gave me this Little Bit she'd brought for me and we came in here and sat down. I was glad to, I can tell you. I'd been on my feet all the morning.
So then she tells me. ‘I'm getting married,' she says. ‘Whoever to? “I asked. ‘Him at the music shop?' ‘No,' she said, ‘don't be silly. He's married and got two kids. No, this is someone quite different.'”

“Did she mention his name? “Carolus had to ask.

“She called him ‘Steve', that's all. It was Steve This and Steve That till I thought I'd have a headache.”

“Did she tell you anything about him?”

“Not much. To tell you the truth, I was too tired to ask a lot of questions. Only that he was to do with horse-racing.”

“You say this was a month or two ago. Can you be a little more accurate, Mrs Tukes?”

“No, I can't. I can't go racking my brains trying to remember things. It would be too much for me altogether, after a day like today's been. All I remember was someone had just died in the house where she was living. I remember that, because I couldn't help thinking I wasn't far off it myself, with these stairs to climb every time I go up to bed.”

“Oh, this was after Mrs Mallister's death?”

“Yes, I think that was the name. Sonia had been quite friendly with her towards the end, and she went off sudden with her heart, same as any of us might do. I remember Sonia told me.”

“Thank you. That dates it exactly.”

“I went down to Sonia's funeral,” sighed Mrs Tukes. “Well, I couldn't do other, could I, though it was nearly the death of me. I wouldn't do it again, mind you, whoever was to die. I got back here like a fish on a slab, thinking I was breathing my last. That travelling! Never again! My feet were swollen up for weeks afterwards, and my varicose veins looked like a map of the war. I couldn't get up for two days. Still, I had to Show my Respect. She had no one else to, being an orphan.”

“How do you account for her death, Mrs Tukes?”

“It doesn't bear thinking about, does it? It made me quite dizzy to see the place. I can't believe she did it with a purpose, but then you never know. People are funny. The only thing I can think of is that it was a naxident.”

“Was she ever subject to vertigo?”

“Dizziness and that? Not that I know of. It was me suffered from dizziness, and do still if I move about too much. She was as healthy as could be. I saw to that, the way I brought her up. The best of everything she had as a little girl, though I had to nearly kill myself working for her. Never had a day's illness in her life that I ever heard of. Still, she might have toppled over, mightn't she?”

“She might. She didn't tell you anything, that time she came to see you, about her life at Cat's Cradle?”

“What sort of thing?”

“Money, or anything like that?”

“She wouldn't talk about money to me. She was too ashamed, after all I'd done for her. She just gave me this little present, in notes, it was, and said no more.”

“She didn't seem worried?”

“No. But then she never was a one to worry. It was me did the worrying—she just enjoyed herself.”

“She didn't by any chance suggest your looking after some papers for her?”

“Whatever are you getting at? No, she never said any such thing. All she talked about was getting married and this Steve.”

Carolus rose. But it seemed that Mrs Tukes was not anxious to end a conversation which, she had first foreseen, would tire her out.

“There was one other thing she said,” she gasped, “that afternoon she came to see me. I thought it was funny at the time. She seemed to be talking quite sarin
castic. ‘You know, auntie dear,' she said, though she scarcely ever called me ‘auntie' and never said ‘auntie dear' in her life, ‘there are people who take me for a fool.' I thought she was getting at me, so I said: ‘I'm sure I've never taken you for a fool, Sonia, whatever else I've taken you for.' ‘Not
you,'
she said. ‘Someone else. But thanks to your careful upbringing, I'm not such a fool as they think. They'll have to come crawling on their knees before I give in. And then it won't be for nothing.' I didn't like the sound of that. ‘You be careful,' I said. ‘If I can't be good,' she said, and went out to her car and drove off. Funny, wasn't it?”

“No,” said Carolus seriously. “It wasn't funny, Mrs Tukes. Goodbye and thank you. You've told me more than you know. In fact, I may say you've told me everything.”

“You mean you know how she died?”

“I know why she died,” said Carolus. “That's better still.”

T
HE
Academics was one of those clubs—all
decor
and
ambience,
a single vast flower arrangement and a young man called Peter who never stopped improvising on the piano. But the customers looked tougher and more prosperous than at most similar clubs, bluff and beefy characters, bookmakers or wine-merchants, Carolus thought, mostly accompanied by very young men. He went through the farce of becoming a member, giving Steve Lawson's name as that of his sponsor. He could not have done
better, for it brought the tall, youngish, but rather raddled club-owner from behind the bar.

“I'm Gerry Somerset,” he said, taking the chair next to Carolus. “I hear you're a friend of Steve Lawson's.”

“An acquaintance, yes,” said Carolus.

“You don't know him well then?”

“Not very, I'm afraid. Why?”

“He owes us a lot of money,” said Mr Somerset. “More than we can afford to lose.”

“I've always understood he was very well off,” said Carolus.

“So have I! “exclaimed Mr Somerset. “Everybody thought so. I mean, his car and clothes and everything. He always
seemed
to have plenty of money, too. Spent quite a lot. He had that
way
about him, as though he was very rich. Everyone thought so.”

“And isn't he?”

“My dear, he owes money to
everyone.
Many of my best customers. Then there's that horse he's supposed to own.”

“He doesn't?”

“No one knows who owns it with the number of half-shares he has sold in the poor beast. Cyril Nutt-Campion talked of going to the police about it, but I persuaded him not to. I didn't want anything to do with Miss Law. But Cecil Waveney-Long—that's him over there with that very good-looking boy—says that he doesn't see why Steve Lawson should get away with it. Well, nor do I, if it comes to that.”

“You have his address?”

“Oh yes. Cat's Cradle, Somewhere-or-Other. In fact Adrian Stokes-Grey talks of going down there to see if he can get anything back. Everyone wants him to.”

“You knew there was a possibility of his getting married, didn't you?”

“Not that piece with the music shop? He brought her here a couple of times. I thought she was common.” Carolus did not say that, common or not, she was dead, but thinking it time he asked a question, he said: “What is known about Lawson?”

“Nothing, really, when it comes to it. That's what everyone said when it began to look peculiar—we don't really know anything. Except what he said, of course, and you can't take any notice of that. I mean you hear so much. He said he was at Harrow College but Ronnie Bright-Wilson looked him up in a book somewhere and said his name wasn't there. When he asked Steve about it, he said he meant Wellington School. So what can you say?”

“Nothing, I'm afraid.”

“Then he was supposed to be coming into all this money from somebody who'd died. I forget how many thousand pounds it was. He told everyone about that. But we never heard any more of it.”

“When did he tell you this?”

“The last time he was here. About a month ago, I should think.”

“How long have you known him?”

“Well, he's been
about
for ages. Lionel Stone-Richards used to know him when he lived in London four or five years ago. He says Steve had plenty of money then. So you don't know what to think, do you?”

“Yes,” said Carolus. “I think he made or came into a good deal of money once and has done what plenty of others have done—got through it.”

“I suppose that must be it. Everyone liked him till this happened. I was hoping when you gave his name you'd be able to tell us something about him.”

Carolus did not say that the hope had been mutual. He finished his drink and went out to return to his club for
the night. He felt he had done pretty well so far. If his other potential informants were as obliging, he would soon be able to return to Cat's Cradle.

He made three telephone calls next morning. Mr Arthur Picknet, the solicitor whose name Mallister had given as a reference, regretted that he could not see Carolus. He was far too busy. But he could say there and then on the telephone that he had known James Mallister for many years and had always found him punctiliously honest. If it was a matter of credit or a contract or hire-purchase agreement, he had no hesitation in saying that from his knowledge of Mallister the utmost confidence could be placed in his word. He, Mr Picknet, could not actually underwrite such a contract; it was against his principles. But he could recommend it.

Carolus tried to explain that it was a more personal matter and again asked for a few minutes of Mr Picknet's time.

“Quite impossible, I'm afraid,” he was told. “I simply haven't a moment. A client is waiting to see me now. But I've always found Mallister a splendid fellow. Sad about his wife. Long expected though, I believe. Yes, Mallister's as sound as a bell.”

“Thank …” Carolus began, but the receiver was put down.

He resolved not to give the Reverend Ralph Cracknell the same opportunity. He phoned his address in the suburb of Grange Hill, and was answered by a jolly voice saying, “Hallo-o!”

“Mr Cracknell?”

“In person! “called the voice with a chuckle.

“My name is Deene. I wondered if you would be kind enough to let me call on you? There is something I should like to discuss.”

“What's the nature of the complaint?”

Should he say ‘Murder! ‘and see if that did away with the chuckle? No, he wanted his interview.

“It's a personal matter. I'd rather not discuss it on the phone.”

“Quite. Where are you speaking from? Or should I say ‘whence-'?”

Carolus gave the name of his club.

“Ah-ha. And you want to come out here and see me?”

“If I may. This afternoon, perhaps?”

“Let's see. Yes! About four?”

Carolus was about to take his leave when he heard the chuckle again.

“Don't bring the Chapter with you, will you, Mr Deene?”

This, he thought, will be hard going.

Mrs Cremoine Rose's telephone was engaged continuously for the next three-quarters of an' hour, but he eventually got through.

“Ye-es?” said a rich but dubious voice.

Carolus explained that he was staying at Cat's Cradle.

“That tr-ragic name!” said Mrs Rose.

“For you, yes, I'm afraid it must be,” said Carolus. “I am sure you don't wish to be reminded of it. But the truth is, Mrs Rose, there are one or two things I feel you ought to know.”

“Really? Concerning?”

“It is a little hard to explain this on the phone. Perhaps I could see you?”

“Who, exactly, are you?” asked Mrs Rose reasonably enough.

“I'm afraid I shall seem to you a very interfering sort of person. I'm a guest in the house who has gone to live there since your sister's death. Mrs Derosse, the proprietress, gave me your name and address.”

“This is all very irregular,” said Mrs Rose.

“I'm sorry …”

“I shall see you. Whether or not my solicitor will be present, I shall decide in the meantime. You may come here at 12.30 this morning. I will give you ten minutes.”

“That's in an hour's time?”

“Precisely.”

Carolus began to feel he had congratulated himself too soon. Mr Cracknell's jokes and Mrs Rose's grandeur would not be easy to bear. But he fortified himself with a whisky-and-soda and set off for Alexandra Gate.

The house had an entrance so expensive-looking and decorative that he could not at first find the electric bell. Topiaric shrubs in the shape of peacocks grew in pale-green tubs bound with burnished copper, ships' lanterns hung on wrought-iron brackets above them, a ship's bell on a more elaborately wrought-iron bracket was there, the knocker was a lion's head, the letter box a slit in a piece of cut and shining brass. But when the green front door opened the splendour temporarily vanished because it revealed a fussy and untidy char.

“Yes, you're to come in,” she said. “Mrs Rose is in the drawing-room on the first floor.”

She was indeed. She rose majestically from a study of
Vogue
and pointed to an armchair. The room was heavily perfumed and furnished with baroque profusion.