The Old English Peep Show (17 page)

“Oh, in that case I could just as easily go over.”

The deadness again, rather longer, then a rustling and Mr. Singleton's voice.

“Pibble? Best if we go over, as a matter of fact. I have someone I must see over there, so you may stay where you are.”

“OK, fine.” Click.

But who? The Kitchen Wing had looked as black as a slab of slate in a Welsh churchyard when they were talking in the drive.

“That makes life easier, Mr. Waugh,” said Pibble. “If you could just check that Mr. Singleton and Miss Scoplow do go over to the other wing. . .D'you happen to know if the telephone over there is on a different line?”

“That is correct, sir.”

“Then all you've got to do is go and make small talk to Mrs. Singleton.”

“Will she be in the mood for small talk, sir?”

Interesting point. Pibble looked at him. The big oval face seemed uncommon white.

“Yes,” he said, “I think she will. She was very matter-of-fact about her father's death when I talked to her ten minutes back. But in any case you don't have to say anything; just see she's not listening in. There they go, by the sound of it.”

Mr. Waugh crossed to the door as the voices outside lost their volume. The erect butlerine stance seemed to have wilted, but he edged the door quietly open and peeked through the cranny. Then he nodded and went out.

The Ass. Cam. was in his bath, his man said.

“Get him out,” barked Pibble edgily. “Tell him it's Pibble.”

Clunk, and then silence.

At the prospect of saddling someone else with his load of guilt and doubt, Pibble began to breathe like a man in a fever, quick and shallow. In effect he had killed—he, Pibble, personally—the last English hero. Now he was busy grubbing up trifles to show how far the legend had sickened, how much the whole of Herryngs smelt of the sweetish odor of decaying timber. He needed horribly to be told that he had done, was doing, right. And there was the way he'd completely shoveled aside all standard police procedure: it'd been his original brief, but not in any words he could use to justify himself, just hints and …

“You in trouble, Jimmy?” said the thin, tired voice. “It's damn cold out here in the hall.”

“Sorry, sir, but it really couldn't wait till tomorrow, you'll agree when I tell you.” Pibble realized he was gabbling but couldn't stop. “The whole thing has turned out the most horrible mess, they're both dead and he tried to kill me three times, and—”

“James! Pull yourself together, man. Who's dead beside the servant who committed suicide?”

“Sorry, sir. Both the Claverings are dead. A lion ate them.”

“Jimmy, are you sure you're all right? If I didn't know you better, I'd say you'd been on the bottle.”

“I've had one whiskey, sir.”

“Carry on, then. A lion has eaten both Sir Ralph and Sir Richard Clavering. Not at one sitting, I take it.”

“No, sir. Sir Ralph killed Sir Richard in a duel four days ago and fed him to the man-eating lion they keep here because that was his last wish, he told me they were both drunk at the time—”

“Slower, Jimmy. Sir Ralph told you this?”

“Yes, sir. I had a hunch something was wrong with Deakin's suicide, that's the coxswain I came down to see about, and the lion had something to do with it, so I went to look for evidence in the pit where they keep the lion and Sir Ralph followed me and let the lion out but I managed to climb up to a sort of balcony where Sir Ralph was and he pretended he hadn't known I was there.” (Pull yourself together. Talk in short sentences, slowly. Drown the squeak of hysteria with deep, manly tones. Try.) “He told me all about the Raid, sir, and then about the duel. It was over a girl. He was trying to catch me off my guard, sir, and he did and near as dammit threw me over again, and then the lion climbed up to the balcony and we ran away and he tripped me up but the lion ran past and got him instead, and—”

“Dear me. What a comfort I didn't send Harry down. What next?”

“Then Mr. Singleton, that's the son-in-law, killed the lion, and then he asked me not to set the police machine going until tomorrow morning, which would give them time to prepare for an invasion of journalists. Apparently the force down here has a permanent line to William Hickey direct. I said yes, because there's a couple of things I want to check on before the whole situation sets hard, and—”

“What things?”

“I don't know, sir.”

“James!”

“Nothing tangible, sir, I mean. Except for some noises which somebody heard in the middle of the night, that is, and she's not the world's best witness. But there's several things I feel don't really fit in …”

A longish silence, and then the tired sigh.

“I hope I don't have to tell you, Jimmy, what you're asking me. I can't believe that a few oddities of behavior are remotely exceptional in the milieu of Herryngs. Will you please assure me that you are in full possession of your senses, not suffering from shock, not seeing murderers under the bed? You realize that if you put a foot wrong you are liable to release a most unrewarding stink.”

“I've put all my feet wrong already, sir.” The hysterical squeak was back and Pibble tried to modulate into his lower register—it didn't sound good. “I mean if I'd gone quietly this morning and just sniffed at the evidence that was shown me and said yes, yes, I could have come away by now with nothing but the suicide of a whiskery old coxswain to show for it, but they'd have been getting away with … I mean I felt uneasy this morning and I feel the same again now. First time there was something in it, and there may be again. But I'll take it very carefully, sir. Only I wish to Christ I hadn't killed the General.”

“From what you told me just now, it sounded as though he was entirely responsible for his own demise.”

“I suppose so, sir.”

“All right, Jimmy. The position is this: you have found one very gruesome skeleton in the Herryngs cupboard and think there may be another. The family want a lull, so that they can stand by to repel Fleet Street. You are asking me to sanction that lull while you look for your second skeleton. I hereby do so. Presumably you didn't ring me up at the office because your local bobbies aren't the only ones with a direct line to Hickey, so if anything more comes up you'd better ring me here. I'm going out to see my first blue opera, but I'll be back soon after eleven. You can ring me then.”

“Right, sir.”

“Take it easy, Jimmy. I trust you will forgive my saying so, but you must recognize that if half of what you say is true you have been under a considerable strain. What I said about shock just now was not intended as a joke.”

“No, sir.”

“You do understand me, don't you? I have to trust you, Jimmy, because you're the only one there, but if I'd the slightest chance I'd take you off and put someone else on—even Harry Brazzil.”

The voice was deliberate, bloodless, cruel. It was as though the Ass. Com. had taken a bucket of icy water and sloshed it into the receiver, forcing it along the wires so that it should gush chillingly out over poor Pibble, driving him out of his self-pity, back into sanity and responsibility.

“I quite understand, sir. I'll play it down the middle.”

“Good. If anything really urgent comes up, I'll be at the Cruelty Theatre, Seat D8, but I don't fancy being paged while Donna Whatnot's being raped in top C. Try and ring me here at half past eleven, even if nothing's happened.”

“Right, sir. I hope you enjoy your evening.”

“The things I do for Art.”

Click.

Another small whiskey would be excusable. It really tasted like five quid a bottle—probably was, too. However hard Singleton had wrestled with the finances, the General had still talked of himself as rich, a rich old hero. With his glass in his hand Pibble went out to look for Mr. Waugh and, led by the resonance of a woman's voice, found him in a pretty little sitting room, a bit
Voguey
with its persimmon walls, two doors down the corridor. Mr. Waugh was cradling an empty glass and looking very somber while Mrs. Singleton, spilt lissomely across the arm of a chaise longue, told him a tale about grooms dead before the war; she did the rustic accents with great accuracy but managed all the time to underpin them with the subliminal presence of her own expensive vowels. She nodded at Pibble as he came in, and carried on to the end of her story. Mr. Waugh smiled gamely, drowned in his own puddle of misery.

“I'm afraid I've made a bloomer, Mr. Pibble,” she said when she'd finished. “I didn't realize you hadn't told Mr. Waugh everything that had happened, so I waded right in as if he knew, and then I
had
to tell him—I hope that's all right. Since then we've been talking small talk.”

“I should have told him,” said Pibble. “I'm sorry, Mr. Waugh. I'm afraid it's a very shocking business.”

“Too right, too right,” muttered Mr. Waugh.

“Why don't you have another drink, Mr. Waugh?” said Mrs. Singleton. “It's ten minutes till supper still. Mr. Waugh's going to dine with us, Superintendent, supposing there's anything to eat. Elsa's in a record tantrum, banging her pans down as if she wanted to crack the Aga. I do wish you could have found a different bucket and a different bail of string.”

“I'm sorry,” said Pibble. “Would it help if I went and apologized?”

“Good God, man, she'd
eat
you,” said Mrs. Singleton. “Oh, hell, isn't it frightful how one can't keep off a subject once it's sensitive, like sitting with someone everybody knows is dying and all the conversation seems to be about shrouds. Mr. Waugh, do go and get yourself another, really.”

“Thank you,” said Mr. Waugh, rising. “Perhaps it would be appropriate.”

He went out slowly, missing the handle of the door at his first attempt.

“Poor Mr. Waugh,” said Mrs. Singleton. “He's such a very sentimental man at heart, and just as loyal as if he really were an old family retainer. Old family retainers are the worst, actually. Elsa's a most frightful pest, even if she does cook like a dream, but we'll be able to pension her off now. Funny how he uses his butler act as a sort of spiritual truss; you feel he'd melt and run all over the floor without it.”

“And Deakin?” asked Pibble.

“Oh, he was an old sweetie, willing to do anything anyone asked—any of
us
asked, I mean. I'm sorry we had to tell such frightful lies about him. But really he belonged to Uncle Dick. Here's Harvey back.”

The euphoria of action had not worn off the tall man; as he held the door for Miss Scoplow and then chivied Mr. Waugh into taking a guest's precedence, every gawky angle of his body seemed to throb with a subdued pleasure, though his face retained its puppet­like stolidity.

“All is now satisfactorily arranged,” he said. “Can we do anything for you before supper, Superintendent?”

“I want to go down and look at the Dueling Ground by moonlight, but that can wait until after supper. While I'm there, I'd like to take a look at the dueling pistols, if you can tell me how they work. I'll need Mr. Waugh to come with me.”

“I would prefer it if Waugh stayed and listened to the briefing I shall be giving to all senior members of the staff.”

“Would it be possible to brief him separately?” said Pibble.

“Harvey,” said Mrs. Singleton, “Mr. Pibble has already bent his police conscience for us as far as it will go. It's our turn now.”

“Of course, of course,” said Mr. Singleton, in his walking-dead voice. “I apologize, Superintendent—I confess I have much on my mind. Judith, would you be so kind as to fetch one of those duplicated maps out of the third drawer on the left-hand side of my desk, and the big ring of keys from my safe?”

She looked as miserable as Mr. Waugh, but she nodded and scuttled out.

“The dueling pistols,” said Mr. Singleton, “are kept in the old icehouse, which I will mark on the map for you. I can assure you that the actual well where they stored the ice has been filled in, so you need have no apprehension of falling down it. All the equipment is there, but there is no electricity, so you will need to take a torch, which I will provide. The pistols will have been cleaned after today's duels. You will find a small vise screwed to the bench, into which you fit one of the pistols muzzle upward. The powder flask will have been refilled, so all that is necessary is to unscrew the cap, fit the nozzle into the muzzle of the pistol, pull out the flange on the side of the flask's neck, count three, push it back, and count another three.”

“It works just like one of those gin-dispenser doofers in a pub,” said Mrs. Singleton.

“Exactly,” said Mr. Singleton. “It is a measure. Next you insert a wad with the ramrod. Provided you get it in level, it will go down level. Finally you take a ball from the box on the shelf above the bench and insert that. The ball is an oblate spheroid—”

“Not quite round, on purpose, he means,” said Mrs. Singleton.

“Precisely,” said Mr. Singleton. “That is to say, it will only fit into the barrel along one axis. You push it down with the ramrod, which you then rap smartly on the end with the mallet provided. This has the effect of reshaping the ball into a round, and at the same time forcing it against the sides of the barrel, so that it cannot fall out if the pistol is held pointing below the horizontal.”

“I've always wondered how they did that,” said Pibble.

“Why do you want to know all this?” said Mrs. Singleton.

“I'd like to see the place by moonlight,” said Pibble. “The General told me it was a night very like this. And if I can see how difficult it is to load the pistols it will help me to estimate how drunk they were, which may well be important.”

“Nobody told me they were drunk!” said Miss Scoplow, in a sobbing wail behind him.