Death by the Lake, Chapter Eight

Death by the Lake

CHAPTER EIGHT

Carolus was not good in a situation like this.  Cynical and unemotional, it was years since he had tried to comfort a woman obviously in a state of strain and exhaustion.  But there was something else.

“What address did you give them?” Marie asked accusingly, when she had fought back her tears.

“Why do you want to know, Marie?  You haven’t given them any address.  Don’t let’s talk about it now, anyway.  You’re all in, my dear, and we’ve got to get out of this place.  I’ve got no car here.  Do you think you can walk across to Ben Tanner’s bungalow?”

“I suppose so.  You haven’t answered my question . . .”

“I’m not going to, just at present.  Or any other question, Marie.  At any rate not till we’ve got to some place where you can sit down and have something to eat and drink.  Later, we’ll talk.”

They left the house and started to walk through the farmyard.  Fortunately, before they had gone far, Ben Tanner’s jeep appeared and he stopped beside them.

“Ben, can you take us to your cottage?  I will explain everything later, but Miss Morton needs . . .”

“I can see she does,” said Ben briskly.  “Get in, both of you.”

No questions were asked till he reached his bungalow and called Elsie.  He quickly said something inaudible to her about Marie and she took charge.  The two women disappeared and left Carolus and Ben together.

“You don’t look so good yourself,” said Ben.  “I think I can find a drop of Scotch if it will help.”

“It will,” said Carolus.

“How much should he tell Ben?  “Remembering the other experience they had shared he decided that he could trust him, not perhaps to keep silent about all he heard but for secrecy in the essentials of the matter.

“Marie was kidnapped,” he said.

“Kidnapped?”

“Yes.  A couple of old-time villains who wanted to get some information from her.  She was kept up at the farmhouse for two nights.”

“Good God!  I was up at the farm yesterday evening.”

“Didn’t notice anything?”

“Not a thing.  The light’s been cut off, but you’d have thought I should have seen or heard something round the place.  Two of them, you say?  Did they have a car?”

“Yes.  They ran it into a barn.  They only had candles apparently.”

“What about you?”

I came out with one of them last night, to try to find Marie.  I was fool enough to let him blindfold me because I guessed where he was going and thought my knowledge of the hide-out would surprise them.  I was being too clever.  One of them put me out while I still had plaster over my eyelids.  It shews what comes of trying to score off bastards like that.  Anyway, they’ve gone now.”

“Did they find out what they wanted?”

“Not from Marie.  I told them something.  Whether it was what they wanted or not remains to be seen.  Anyway, they’ve gone.  They’ll be on a plane to Spain in a few hours.”

“You do seem to get mixed up in things,” said Ben with a touch of admiration, or perhaps envy.  “First George Garrison’s death, and then this.  Think the two were connected, by the way?”

“Everything in this affair is connected, but if you mean, do I think either of these two birds of last night killed George Garrison, no I don’t.”

“But you don’t know who did?”

“Not with any certainty.”

“Are you going to let the police in on this?”

“It depends on Marie.  It was her party.  She must do as she likes.”

When Marie returned to the room with Elsie she looked much better.

“Your wife’s been wonderful,” she told Ben.  “I’ve been eating masses of breakfast cereal in the kitchen, and had a huge cup of coffee.”

“I told Ben that you were kidnapped,” said Carolus.

At once her face clouded.

“Kidnapped?” she said.  “Why did you say that?  It wasn’t kidnapping.”

“I don’t know what else you would call it.”

“I spent two nights in George Garrison’s house.  That’s all.”  Marie had become defiant.  “That’s all that will ever be said about it.  Please!”

“I shan’t say anything more,” said Ben.

“It’s none of our business, is it?” put in Elsie.

“There’s no need to say any more,” Marie went on.  “I am perfectly all right now, thanks to Mrs. Tanner.  Can’t we just forget about it?”

“I can.  If you want it that way,” said Carolus.  “But I think probably your sister will have been to the police.”

“She would!  I shall just have to tell them that I stayed out here.  People don’t expect me to tell them everything.  I have a reputation for being uncommunicative.”

Carolus smiled.

“Yes.  You have.  Anyhow, this is up to you.  If you don’t want to charge that precious pair.”

“I don’t.  Let’s not talk about it any more.”

Yet, later that day when Carolus went to Marie’s cottage they found themselves, inevitably, returning to the subject.

“You know, my dear, this simply can’t go on.  I’ve told you I don’t mean to question you about the past but I didn’t anticipate this sort of thing.”

“What sort of thing?”

“Thugs appearing and kidnapping you.  Because that’s what it was.  You know and I am know what they wanted.”

“I know what they asked for.  But they didn’t get it—from me at least.  You haven’t told me what information you gave them.”

“Fair’s fair, Marie.  If you’ll tell me what you know, what you’re hiking, I’ll tell you everything I have found out about the case.”

“I know nothing.”

“That’s not true.  You may not know the whole truth but you certainly could tell me something which would enable me to find it out.”

“But why should I, Carolus?  Even if I could.  I’ll sound unkind, but what business is it of yours?”

“Marie, a man has been murdered and you know perfectly well it is related to the events of five years ago.  Then you’re taken out to Garrison’s farm and kept there for a whole day and two nights.  This too comes from the same cause.  I don’t want to say that your life is in danger but it may well be true.”

“My life in danger?  What on earth do you mean?  From Dobell and Werner?

“I didn’t say so, but that’s not impossible, either.  They’ll be back, you know.”

Marie looked at Carolus accusingly.

“So you sent them off on a false trail?” she said. 

Carolus did not answer directly.

“When I said your life was in danger I meant that whoever killed George Garrison may have just as much motive in killing you.”

He was talking bluntly and she responded to this.

“Motive?” she said scornfully.  “All you think of is motives and clues—the stock-in-trade of the detective.  I am not afraid.”

“Why aren’t you?  You must know who there is to be afraid of.  You must know who killed George Garrison and feel sure that you have nothing to fear from him.”

“I don’t know who killed George Garrison!” said Marie passionately.  “I will give you my word on that.”

“Then why aren’t you afraid?”

Even as he repeated that question, Carolus realized that—though proof was still lacking—he knew the answer.

“Oh Carolus, do let’s forget about this.  Just take it that I’m not afraid, and leave it at that.”

“I want to help you, Marie.”

“I don’t need help.  Really I don’t.  I’m not in any danger, and I have never been.”

“Not even five years ago?”

“Not even then.  Anyhow, I have decided to go away for a time.”

“I think at least you should tell me where you’re going.”

“London,” said Marie.

“Is that all you’re going to say?”

“Yes.  I’m afraid so.  Now don’t try to make a mystery about that.  I often have a week or two in London.  Theatres, and so on.”

“Extraordinary girl.  Do you really think I’m going to accept that as an explanation?”

“There is no other.  I want to be friends with you, Carolus.  I don’t want to be mysterious and secretive.  But you must accept a few things about me, and one of those is that just now I need to get away and be on my own for a time.  So don’t try to find out where I’ve gone.”

“But Marie . . . I can’t let you go away like that.  I . . . You know I . . .”

“Don’t say any more.”  She spoke a little sadly.  “You can’t feel anything much for someone who doesn’t tell you the truth.  It may be that some day . . . we can know one another, really know one another, with all the rubble of mystification cleared away.  But not yet, dear Carolus.  Not here.”

There was a long pause.

“When do you mean to go away?” asked Carolus.

“Tomorrow, probably.  There’s a good train up in the afternoon.”

“I’ll see you before then.  I will come round after breakfast and see if you have changed your mind.”

But after breakfast Julie Nantwich ’phoned.

“Marie’s left for London,” she said.  “Took the last train yesterday evening.  She told me she was going.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“She particularly asked me not to.  There’s nothing odd about her going to London.  She does this from time to time.”

“Where does she stay?”

“That I’ve never discovered.  She has friends somewhere.  It wouldn’t be Marie if she gave her address!”

“I suppose not.”

“I’m used to it,” said Julie.  “I used to think she created mysteries on purpose, just for the pleasure of it.  But don’t think so now.  She has a whole life of her own which no one knows about.  These secret visits to London have been going on for several years.”

“How many?”

“Well, ever since you know what,” said Julie.  “I don’t think anything of them now.”

“She has a friend named Margot Denver.  You don’t think she goes to see her?”

“Margot Denver?  No!  She works in Liverpool and there’s no mystery about Marie’s visits to her.  She has even been known to call at Marie’s cottage and go out on the lake in our old dinghy with Marie.  I’ve never met her as it happens; she came while Bertram and I were away.  But other people have, and Marie talks quite freely about her.  They’ve been friends since their school days.  She wouldn’t need all this elaborate camouflage if she was going to see Margot Denver, I can assure you.  No, it’s someone in London.  She always comes back from a visit talking about the shows she has seen and all that.  But surely with your inquisitive mind, you can find out?”

“There’s a limit to that,” said Carolus rather stiffly.  “I don’t see how I could justify invading your sister’s privacy if, as you say, she has just gone for a holiday to London.”

“No . . .” said Julie, evidently dismissing such objections.  “Unless you two were engaged, or anything.”

“We’re not engaged—or anything.  And she doesn’t want me to know where she has gone.  I’m certainly not going to try to follow her.”

Yet what Carolus did during the next few days did not argue the scrupulousness he had claimed.  Among the informants and experts who have helped in previous cases, was one who specialized in matters connected with the telephone.  By devious means he could read more from a telephone account then the recipient of it and when Carolus had sent him Marie’s telephone bill, which Carolus had borrowed for the purpose, he was able to tell him a number in Liverpool with which Marie had been in frequent communication. 

Carolus dialled it and was answered by one of those unnaturally cheerful voices cultivated by young ladies whose profession calls for endless bright replies to telephone callers. 

“Good morning.  Merseyside supermarket . . .”

This was rather baffling.  But nothing could be lost by trying and the odds against results were not so enormously long Will stop

“Could I speak to Miss Denver, please?”

“Mrs. Denver is not here at the moment.  Can I take a message?”  Carolus thought quickly.  He did not want to arouse any suspicion.

“Yes.  Please tell her that Mountney and Company called.  Mr. Philips speaking.”

“Certainly, Mr. Philips.  I will give her the message.”

Carolus relapsed into one of his moody periods of absentmindedness.  He took little notice of things immediately about him and remained in his Lakeside house, avoiding any outside contacts. 

He was faced with the gruelling problem of two murders: one of five years ago for which he had a suspect but knew little or nothing, except by hearsay, of the circumstances; the second of less than a fortnight back of which he knew almost everything about the circumstances but had no logical suspect.  That they were connected he did not doubt but, for the rest, had only and intimidating collection of suspicions, deductions, circumstantial evidence and sheer guesswork.  He had never been so much at a loss for facts and the worst of it was that he was involved, through Marie, in a more personal way than in any other case which had occupied his leisure and intelligence. 

As never before he was floundering—there was no other word for it.  He would not admit that he was feeling his age but was irritated to find that at this point, just after retiring from the school in which it worked since the war, he should be faced by a problem which seemed to have no way out.  Here was no scope for his special talents of deduction and the technique of the chess-player.  And if he felt that, in both cases of murder, the police with all their technical appointment, their reliance on Interpol, their professionalism and discretion were as baffled as he was, it was small consolation to him in his present troubles.

It was at this point that he was at first dismayed to receive a letter from the headmaster of the Queen’s School, Newminister, under whom he had served.

My dear Deene (wrote Mr. Gorringer),

You will be aware—for I make no doubt that you recall the events of a profession you had so recently left—that the school has broken up for the summer holidays.  My wife has gone to stay with her kinfolk in Cornwall, ‘a little more than kin and less than kind’ she remarked recently when she accepted the somewhat grudging invitation, and I find myself désœuvré for a week or two.

I intend to accept the pressing invitation of some friends unfortunately resident in the remote city of Carlisle and propose to break my journey thither by calling at your lakeland fastness to see you.

If, by chance, you care to offer this measure of hospitality to your former headmaster I shall not hesitate to accept it, arriving at Millgrove Junction, which I understand is some four miles from Millgrove Water, at 6.22 on the evening of the 24th inst.  Doubtless your excellent motor car will await me there.  I shall look forward to recalling the years in which we have laboured together for the greater enlightenment of youth.

Should you, by any chance, be prevented by circumstances from giving me the great pleasure of visiting you, perhaps you would be kind enough to telegraph without delay as I shall then be constrained to refuse my Carlisle friends and join Hollingbourne and his family at Clacton. 

Your former mentor and sincere friend,

Hugh Gorringer.

Amused by the headmaster’s characteristic verbiage Carolus send him a welcoming wire and on the appointed day drove to Millgrove Junction.

“My dear Deene,” Mr. Gorringer boomed heartily.  “I am indeed delighted to see you!”

Carolus remembered that the headmaster had once been extremely extremely annoyed by the frankness of his wife when she had called him “Dr. Watson to Carolus Deene’s Holmes”, but there was a faint suggestion of the relationship in the headmaster is solid acceptance of Carroll’s lighthearted leg-pulls and breezy way of dismissing Mr. Gorringer’s pretentions to theorizing.  But Carolus delighted in the other’s pompous clichés and artless self-importance and look forward to be considered banality of his conclusions in the current problem. 

After dinner—‘a princely repast, my dear Deene; I see that your good Mrs. Stick has lost none of her cunning’—they lit cheroots and Carolus gave him a fairly detailed outline of what Mr. Gorringer called “the case under consideration”.

After a long pause the headmaster promulgated.  “It seems to me,” he said, “that the key lies in the words of your informant William Rudge.  If the scoundrel Flitcher has indeed indulged in some form of transvestism and has taken on the outward characteristics of a woman . . .”

“There isn’t the smallest evidence that he has done so.”

“Except, Deene, the word of the proprietor of the filling station, Gerald Farleigh.  He actually mistook him for one.”

“Aren’t you rather jumping to conclusions?  We have no evidence that Flitcher murdered Garrison.”

“Evidence, in the strict sense of the word, no.  But logic, common sense, natural deduction all point to it.  Who else would wish to get the unfortunate farmer out of the way?  It is clear to me that the wretched Flitcher, either in the person of a male or female, has effectively changed his appearance and, armed with the ill-gained wealth from his life of crime, is lurking not too far away to be able to observe events in Millgrove as they take place”

“Good heavens.  Do you think so?” said Carolus with exaggerated alarm

“How else can you account for all the features in the case?” asked Mr. Gorringer.

“In that event none of us is safe.”

Mr. Gorringer became thoughtful.

“I trust you’re armed?” he said.

“Oh yes.  But Flitcher had the reputation of a cat burglar.  He was an acrobat; they tell me he could lead over any obstacle.  If your theory is right we must be ready to protect ourselves.”

“I have learned by long association with you in your varied investigations always to be so prepared,” said Mr. Gorringer.  “I little thought, when I proposed to visit your rustic retreat, that I should be plunged so quickly into the maelstrom of murder or I might have armed myself with some handier weapon.  As it is, I have in my suitcase what I think is called a blackjack: a flexible, loaded life-preserver.”

Carolus smiled.

“Let’s hope you never have cause to use it,” he said

When he had accepted a nightcap of a last whisky-and-soda, Mr. Gorringer meditated further on the situation.

“We’re dealing with no ordinary murderer,” he announced.  “A man who is capable of killing his wife and committing her body to burial under several times of concrete, then assuming the guise of a woman with none of her gentleness and pity, and finally, on learning that the adipose George Garrison threatened to give you details of his present identity, coolly shooting him through the head, is no run-of-the-mill assassin.  You will do a service to humanity when you unmask him, Deene.”  Mr. Gorringer paused.  “I have made no study of that curious phenomenon on of transvestism, which, carried to criminal lengths, the man Flitcher’s alibi resembles.  But a picture begins to form in my mind of a creature, unnaturally effeminate yet with what you have described as the hands of a strangler, a creature so ruthless and immune to pity that he thinks nothing of murdering a woman at one minute and acting the buffoon in a public house in the next!  It is not a pleasant picture, Deene.  You remember the words of Macbeth in Shakespeare’s immortal tragedy—‘I dare do all that may become a man; who cares do more is none . . .’ ”

Carolus sat up.  His face shewed genuine excitement.

“Would you repeat that?” He requested Mr. Gorringer.

“Certainly,” the headmaster replied, and did so.

“Thank you.  I thought that was what you said.”

“My theorizing has led you to enlightenment?”

Carolus nodded.

“Yes.  Thank you,” he replied.  “You have a remarkable memory.”

“For circumstances once described?  Yes, I rather think I can pride myself on that.”

“Not for circumstances, headmaster.  For quotation.  You had helped me more than you know.  I must leave for Liverpool in the morning.”

“This is the first mention you have made of the port of Liverpool.”

“There is a little matter I must clear up in the only way open to me.  Mrs. Stick will look after you.  She’ll be delighted to do so, as you know.  I shan’t be absent longer than I can help.”

“Ah, Deene, you do not change,” said Mr. Gorringer reproachfully.  “How often in past years have I known you to abandon some urgent duty, even perhaps a school cricket match, for the sake of one of your investigations.  Now it is your old headmaster that you abandon.”

Mr. Gorringer looked so downcast that Carolus relented.

“That must not be!” he said, in Mr. Gorringer’s own manner.  “I shall postpone my visit to Liverpool.”

“Most gracious of you.  Particularly as I must leave for Carlisle early on the following morning.”

As it turned out Carolus had reason to be glad that he had made the small concession to good manners.

❦

Death by the Lake, Chapter Seven

Death by the Lake

CHAPTER SEVEN

Carolus stayed the night in Dunstoun and arrived back in Millgrove Water at lunchtime.  Mrs. Stick greeted him with reserve. 

“Mrs. Nantwich has been on the ’phone for you,” she said.  Two or three times this morning.  I couldn’t tell her when you’d be back because you hadn’t told me.”

“I didn’t know, Mrs. Stick,” said Carolus good-humouredly. 

As he was enjoying what his housekeeper called ‘treat oh blue’ the ’phone rang.  Julie Mantwich sounded anxious. “Has Marie been with you?” she asked.

“No.”

“She hasn’t?  Well, she hasn’t been home all night.  I’ve never known her to go away without telling me.”

“Go away?  D’you mean she’s packed anything?”

“Not that I can see.  That’s what worries me.  No one has seen her.  When I heard you were away for the night I hoped she was with you.  Can you explain it at all?”

“I’m afraid I can’t.  You’ve been to the cottage, of course?”

“Yes.  I noticed the light over the front door was burning at ten o’clock this morning and went to tell her.  So unlike Marie to leave a light on.  But there was no one there and the bed had not been slept in.  I looked about to see what she had taken and found the suitcase she usually takes with her if she goes away still in the cupboard.  She had eaten something last night, cold ham I think, and the plates were not washed up.  Another very unusual thing for her.  It looks as though she had just gone out for a minute . . .”

“What time does she usually eat in the evening?”

“About eight, I suppose.  She’s not very exact about times.”

“So it must have been after that?”

“Yes.  It looks like it.  What had I better do?  Bertram says we should report it to the police.”

“I agree with him.  But beyond making a note of it, I don’t think they can do much yet.  It’s rather soon to feel alarmed, isn’t it? And they get so many reports of people who are missing and turn up an hour or two later.”

“You don’t think there’s any cause for worry, then?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say that.  Of course I shall do everything I can.  You can’t suggest anything that might explain it?  However far-fetched it may be.”

“Nothing.  Bertram and I have gone all over this.  We can think of nothing.”

“You don’t know whether anyone has called on her recently?  Anyone from away from here?  Or anyone unexpected?”

“No.  If there was, Marie probably would not have told us.  You know how secretive she is.”

“I do, unfortunately.  I’m working in the dark.  But I’ll try to think of anything that may help.”

“Bless you.  And you’ll let me know if anything turns up?”

“Of course.”

He put the receiver down thoughtfully.

“Your trout’s getting cold,” said Mrs. Stick who had come in and heard the last part of his conversation.  “It’s about the young lady, isn’t it?  I heard she’d gone off.”

“Don’t talk as though she was something rancid,” said Carolus irritably.  “What did you hear?”

“Well, Stick happened to meet the postman this morning.  He’d had a parcel for her and couldn’t make anyone hear when he called.  She oughtn’t to live alone and I’ve said so more than once.”

“Don’t look at me as though I’m to blame for that,” said Carolus.

“I am not saying you’re to blame, sir.  Not what anyone would call to blame.  Though I have thought . . .”

“Oh don’t talk nonsense, Mrs. Stick.”

“So I suppose you’ll be going off to find her, sir?”

“Yes.  Where do I start?” asked Carolus sharply, not expecting an answer to his question. 

But one came.

“You best find out if anyone called for her last night.  Someone’s bound to know in a place like this.”

As it happened Carolus did not need to do a lot of vague questioning in the village because information came from an unexpected source; and although he admitted that information of any kind was welcome, this was disturbing.

Quite openly the car which he had seen being driven from the Rudyard Arms by the man with pebble lenses after their uncomfortable interview, drew up at his house and the same burly and unpleasant-looking character came to the door.  Carolus opened it himself.

“Come in,” he said as if he were expecting the other.

“I haven’t got much time . . .”

“Nor have I.  Come in.”

The man followed him.

“My name is Dobell,” he said. 

“Is it?  How long has it been?”  Carolus had done his homework on the past history of Desmond Flitcher.

“Now don’t start being funny otherwise I shan’t tell you what I’ve come to tell you.”

“Oh yes you will.  Or I’ll tell you.  You’re kidnapped Marie Morton.”

“Not kidnapped.  Just want to ask her couple of questions.”

“The Law will tell you it’s kidnapping, anyway, and send you down for several years.  Where is she?”

“You know a lot don’t you?  I said when you started talking to me the other night, you know an effing sight too much.  Do you want to see her alive and well?”

“I’ll be sorry for you if I don’t.  And quickly.”

It was all very well for Carolus to take this confident tone, he thought.  In fact he was faced by the problems that faced all victims of a kidnapping and those who cared about the person kidnapped.  He was pretty sure of Dobell’s identity and motive.  He wanted money, but not Marie’s money or his own, which he would judge to be peanuts.  And in order to get money he wanted information which he believed Marie could give him.  His reason for coming to Carolus was not immediately clear.  He was taking a certain risk in doing so.  He must suppose that Carolus had information for him, too, or would induce Marie to tell him what he knew.

“Well, you can see her,” said Dobell.  “On certain conditions.  First you come with me, straight away, without speaking to anyone before you go.  Then you won’t try any funny business with a shooter or anything like that.  If you’ve got one you’ll leave it here.  You’ll leave your car here too, of course.”

“All agreed,” said Carolus.  “But I make no promises about the future, Dobell.  You’re running up a pretty nasty account for yourself, but I suppose you know that.”

Dobell seemed strangely confident. 

“I can take care of myself,” he said.  “Coming?”

Carolus stood up and followed Dobell to his car.  He saw Mrs. Stick was watching him leave but made no sign to her.

“How far are we going?” Carolus asked.

“You’ll see.  I’ll have to put blinkers on you presently,” he added.

“It’s the accepted practice, I believe.  Particularly in the film world.  Of course in the English countryside it might attract the attention of passers-by, but I have no objection.”

He was interested to see that Dobell had taken the Borden Road which would lead past the cottage that had once been the Flitchers’ and the farm which until lately had been George Garrison’s.

A mile or two on, Dobell stopped the car and got out a box of Elastoplast squares.

“I’ll put a couple of those on,” said Carolus.  He felt a strong distaste for being touched by the other.  “You can see they are well-placed.”

Dobell watched suspiciously as Carolus peeled off the tape exteriors.  Carolus felt as he plastered the lids of desires that the man was still watching closely.  But apparently he was satisfied as he started the engine and drove on. 

“You’ll have to keep your hands away from your eyes,” he said.  Better put them in your pockets in case you try getting the plaster off.”

Carolus knew that he would not have time to do this before the other could intervene and obligingly thrust both hands in the pockets of his trousers.

He calculated that they had passed the cottage and was surprised when they did not turn into Garrison’s farm.  They drove on, however, and Carolus lost count of their twists and cornerings after that.  They seemed to continue for about five miles after the farm and he was surprised when the car drew up.

“Come along,” said Dobell.

As Carolus got out of the car he became conscious of a farmyard smell and in a few moments, without being able to see at all, he guessed the truth, Dobell had circled a bit and brought him back to the farm.  The car was in an out-building but not the one used by Garrison since his car was probably still there.  He passed through the little gate which led the way to the garden and back door of the house.  Pleased to have recognized his surroundings he made no attempt to remove the plaster and pretended to grope blindly as though utterly unaware of anything about him.  Dobell guided him roughly towards the back door.

“All right.  We’ll have them off in a moment.  Soon as you’re inside,” said Dobell.

But before they crossed the threshold Carolus felt a thundering blow across the back of his skull.  He had just time to think what a dirty and treacherous blow it was, before he passed out altogether.

•               •               •               •               •

  
He became dimly conscious of a candle burning somewhere near his eyes.  Or was it near?  It had seemed to flicker and recede and come close again.  More acutely he was aware of a blinding headache.  Then slowly and painfully he knew other things—that he was lying on a settee, that his hands and feet were tightly bound, that it was night time and that the candle which had awakened him was the only light in the room. 

Clear impressions came slowly and painfully.  He saw that he was alone in the room.  And the room itself was in some way familiar.  The pain in his head seemed, if anything, to increase with returning awareness of the world about him but he could distinguish voices—men’s voices he thought—probably in the next room.  At last he became fully conscious of the fact that he was lying, painfully cramped and tightly bound on the settee in the sitting-room of what had been George Garrison’s farmhouse.  He remembered that he had been knocked out by a blow delivered when he had been blindfolded.  He remembered the man Dobell and what had made him, Carolus, consent to accompany him.  He decided to give no sign of having awakened but to lie, apparently still unconscious, when someone came into the room.  He might learn something in that way and in any case he was not in a condition to answer questions or even decide what you should do.

Voices came nearer.

“Still out?” asked one.

“Out like a light, was the reply from, he was almost sure, Dobell.

“You might have killed the bastard.  There was no need for it, either.  We could have kept him quiet easy enough.”

“He’ll come round presently.  There’s plenty of time.”

“Who says there is?”  The first voice was querulous as the two moved away.  “Can’t stay here for ever, you know . . .”  They returned to the kitchen.

Carolus considered his bonds.  Tying him up had been a quick and amateurish job intended only to provide temporarily safe keeping.  He could probably, with time, release his feet.  But whoever had tied up must be aware of that and would be keeping an eye on him. 

Where, he wondered was Marie?  Perhaps not here at all.  Perhaps the promise that he should see her were itself a lie and he had walked into an obvious trap for no good reason.  Or was she somewhere else in the house, as helpless as himself?  Or could it be—an uglier doubt—that she was here of her own will and had consented to his own kidnapping?

When next the door from the kitchen opened, he decided, he would reveal his own returned consciousness.  Nothing further was to be gained by trying to conceal it.

So you have come round?” said Dobell when the two men returned to look at him.  “Feeling uppish, are you?  You shouldn’t know so much.  That’s your trouble.  It isn’t good for you.  This is Mr. Werner come to see you.  He’ll tell you the same.”

“There’s a time for everything,” said Mr. Werner in a queer high-pitched sanctimonious voice.  “A time to every purpose under the heavens.  A time to keep silence and a time to speak.  It was the time for you to keep silence before, when you were needling Fred here.  It will soon be time to speak and I hope you realize it.”

“I congratulate you on your knowledge of the Bible,” said Carolus.  “I suppose there wasn’t much else to read where you were for three years and four months.”

“Clever, aren’t you?” said Dobell.  “So clever.  And knowing all that, you can guess what we’re going to ask you, I suppose.”

“Of course I can.  You want to know where Desmond Flitcher has gone with all the lolly.”

“That’s just it,” said Dobell.  “You’ve got it in one.  Where has Des Flitcher gone with the lolly?  Aren’t you a clever boy to guess that?  Well.  Where has he gone. 

“Don’t rush me,” said Carolus.  “Some mean-natured cowardly bastard has given me a crack over the head and I shan’t be able to think clearly for a long time.  And where is Marie?”

“So it’s you who wants to ask the questions is it?”

“I tell you what,” said Carolus.  “Let’s both ask.  Now where is Marie?”

“Are you going to tell me where Desmond is?”

“Not yet.  Not for a long time yet.  And only with a lot of conditions.”

“But you do know?”

Carolus knew that a great deal depended on his finding exactly the right tone in which to answer that question.

“Oh yes.  I know, all right.  I could have told you without all this melodramatic nonsense.  And the inconvenience you must have caused Marie.”

“So you know, said Mr. Werner.”  He was a thin bald man with shifty eyes.  “Just like that.  How do you know?”

“That,” said Carolus, “would be telling.  But I may say I have been following this case for years.”

“Perhaps you’re after the lolly, too?” suggested Dobell.

“It never comes amiss,” said Carolus.

“So that’s it.  You found where Des went after he’d finished here . . .”

“A delicate way of putting it,” said Carolus.

“And now you want your corner.  You’ve got a bloody nerve.”

“Only twenty-five percent,” said Carolus.  Your three lots and my little piece.  For telling you where Desmond is.  I doubt if you’ll ever find out otherwise.  I assure you that rough stuff would not be of the slightest use.  And this as a hideout is laughable.”

“What as a hideout?  You don’t know where we are.”

“We’re in the sitting room of the late George Garrison’s farmhouse.  But we shan’t be here much longer.  I had enquired about it with a view to purchase.  The agent will be up here in the morning, if Ben Tanner doesn’t walk in before.  No, I’m afraid everything is against you, Fred.”

The man named Werner gave a cunning smile. 

“All right.  All right,” he said.  “Keep your cool.  I’m not saying that we might not be able to come to terms.  That’s if you can prove you know where Desmond is.”

“Don’t be bloody silly.  Prove.  How can I prove it, or anything else about this case?  I can give you the address and you can take it or leave it.”

How do we know it is the address?

“How do I know I shall ever see you again when you’ve got the money?  There’s got to be a certain amount of—for the want of a better word—trust in a case like this.  Though you might not find I’d be an easy sort of person to give a soldier’s farewell to.”

“No,” admitted Dobell.  “I daresay not.”

“I don’t like it,” said Mr. Werner cautiously. “ I don’t see why we want to bother with this mug.  Never have seen it.  It was you wanted to bring him here.  We could have found out from Marie.”

“Marie doesn’t know,” said Carolus scornfully.  “Haven’t you realized that yet?  If Marie knew she’d have grassed Flitcher straight away for the murder of her sister.”

They both seemed a little impressed by this argument.

Then Carolus, with some difficulty, looked at his watch.

“I’ve no wish to hurry you,” he said.  “But I think you should make up your minds.  You won’t find out where Desmond Flitcher is except from me, and you won’t find out at all unless you produce Marie pretty quickly and I find she’s alive and well.  On the other hand I think I can promise you that you will hear no more of this silly bit of kidnapping.  Unless, of course, the police are already on to it, or Ben Tanner discovers you’re here or any other of the . . .”

“Changes and chances of this mortal life,” put in Werner.  “Well, I am willing to risk it, if you are, Fred.  I think we’re both crackers.  But there you are.”

“All right.  It’s a deal,” said Dobell.  “We leave you here and go to wherever Desmond is.”

“First you produce Marie,” said Carolus.

He watched their faces and was relieved to see that this caused them no embarrassment.

“We produce Marie.  You give us the address.  We leave quietly and at once in our car.  You and she keep your mouths shut.  We do the rest.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” said Carolus sweetly.  Twenty-five per cent.”

“That’s it,” said Dobell, who was already occupied in thinking how any unwelcome complication of this kind could best be avoided in the future. 

At that moment Marie walked into the room. 

“Had a nice sleep, have you?” said Dobell.

“Carolus!” exclaimed Marie. 

She looked anxious and pale and had to find a seat at once.

“All right, my dear.  I have just been having a chat with these gentlemen.”

“We shan’t have to ask you any more questions,” said Dobell to Marie. 

“I’ve told you I don’t know.”

Carolus spoke impatiently.

“And I’ve told you she doesn’t know where Desmond Flitcher is.”

“But he does,” grinned Werner to Marie.  “He’s agreed to tell us.”

“Oh no!” said Marie.  It was involuntary and Carolus saw the danger of it.

Werner looked at Marie suspiciously.

“Perhaps you’d better write it down on a piece of paper,” he suggested to Carolus.

Carolus nodded and indicated the rope round his wrists.  “If I can,” he said.

Dobell brought a knife from the kitchen and cut away the rope.  Carolus stretched his fingers and was able to use them, though he wrote with difficulty in large letters.  Hotel Manchego, Torremolinos, Southern Spain.

“Been there for years,” he added.

Dobell frowned as he read the words then put the paper in his pocket.

Carolus and Marie sat listening to the sound of the two men’s car as it left the farmyard.  Then Marie began to cry.

❦

Death by the Lake, Chapter Six

Death by the Lake

CHAPTER SIX

Carolus did not expect to see Marie’s visitor again, or at any rate not for some time, but in this he was mistaken for he came into the Rudyard Arms that evening just as Carolus had settled down to chat, as he usually did, with Bill Rudge. 

Carolus watched him as he went up to the bar and was interested to notice that Bill Rudge was watching him too. 

“Do you know that man?” he asked Bill.

Bill made the same reply as Marie had done.

“I’ve never seen him before in my life,” he said.

“Then why are you looking at him so closely?”

“Awkward sort of character, that,” replied Bill, as though in explanation of his own interest.  “Something I don’t like about him.”

Carolus had time to examine the man more carefully.  He wore rather smart new clothes but his suit was not tailor-made and his tie was ill-chosen.  Those thick lenses hid the expression in his eyes, giving him an enigmatic look without good nature.  He looked as Bill had said ‘an awkward sort of character’ like a bull with hidden eyes.

On his usual principle of giving information in order to obtain it, Carolus said, “He called at Marie’s cottage this afternoon.”

“Oh, did he?  What did he want?”

“She wouldn’t tell me exactly.  She only said ‘information’.”

“That’s enough, isn’t it?  Going to tackle him?”

“Perhaps.  In my own way.”

After a few minutes Carolus went up to the bar.

“I think you know a friend of mine,” he said. 

The man, who looked older from close at hand, nearing forty, Carolus thought, gave him a look without any friendliness in it at all.

“Friend of yours?” he repeated.

“Yes.  You called at the cottage this afternoon.”

The man’s face remained expressionless.

“Oh yes.  I called at a cottage to ask the way.”

“The way to where?”

“The way I wanted to go.  Who are you?”

“My name is Deene.  I happened to be in that cottage when you called.  I should choose some other house to call at next time you want to make inquiries about the way, if I were you.” 

The man looked nonplussed but hostile.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked.  “I wanted to ask the way.  Same as anyone might.”

“Is that all you wanted to ask?  I thought you might be inquiring about something—someone—quite different.”

“Oh you did?  Well, it’s nothing to do with you, is it?”

“I don’t know.  I fancy it may be very much to do with me.  I fancy we shall meet again, you and I, and it won’t be a social occasion.”

“You fancy a lot.  The best thing you can do is to go back to your friend over there and lay off me.”

“It’s my incurable curiosity,” explained Carolus mildly.  As soon as I saw you come in I found myself wondering what the man I had seen at Miss Morton’s door this afternoon what’s here in Millgrove.  Information, of course.  But what information?  And why?  Such teasing questions.  Certain things of course were obvious about you with your past history.  But not the things I wanted to know.”

“Have you quite finished?” asked the man with half-suppressed fury.

“Not nearly,” said Carolus.

“I don’t know whether to smash your face in.”

“I shouldn’t try, if I were you.  Quite apart from the fact that I should have to shew you what the nearest smattering of judo was needed to throw you into the street and give you the old leather, it would call attention to your visit here.  And we don’t want that, do we?”

“You’re crackers, that’s what you are,” said the man with an ugly little smile.  “Quite, quite crackers.  And what the effing hell d’you mean by talking about my past history?”

“I thought that would go home.  You know the answer, don’t you?  You carry it about with you.  Now I’m going to give you some advice.  You won’t find what you’re looking for here, so don’t waste time.  Get out of the place while the going’s good.”

“Or else?”

“Or else I shan’t be satisfied with a little friendly talk over the bar another time.  No.  You needn’t ask.  I’m not the Law.  I am not nearly so well behaved as the Law.  I know a great deal about you and I shall know a lot more if you give me cause to find out.  Can’t you see I’m giving you a chance?  Get out and stay out, and don’t enquire into things that don’t concern you.  No one here has the information you want.”

The man forced a laugh.

“I’ve never heard so much crap talked in my life.  D’you always go up to strangers and talk like this?  You ought to be put away.  Coming up to a stranger and going on like that.”

“Not quite a stranger,” said Carolus.

The big man turned to the bar, swallowed what remained of his drink and without a word to Carolus or the barman made for the door.  Carolus followed, but only to notice the make and number of the car he was driving.  Then he returned to Bill Rudge.

“I was bluffing,” he admitted.  “Not very effectively, I’m afraid.  I puzzled our friend more than he puzzled me.  But I’m no nearer to finding out who killed George Garrison.”

“Do you think he’ll be round here again?” asked Bill. 

“Not openly.  That’s certain.  But it’s all that is certain.  You were quite right, Bill.  A very awkward sort of character.”

“I didn’t like the look of him.”

“Tell me, Bill didn’t you say that Desmond Flitcher did a mail robbery with two other men?”

“That’s it.  But they were caught.  Got five years each.”

“I thought so.  Allowing for remission, three years and four months.”

“You think that’s one of them?”

“I think he has been inside.”

“So that’s it.  He’s come back to find Flitcher and get his share.”

“Could be.”

“But surely this is the last place to look for Flitcher?  Unless you believe the stories about him being seen in Millgrove?”

“I certainly listen to them.  And anything else that’s said about him.”

“Why didn’t you follow that character?  It would have been easy with your car.”

“Not so easy.  I wouldn’t have gone ten miles before he knew I was tailing him.  Besides, he’ll turn up again.  Quite soon, probably, wherever he’s gone.”

“And lead the way to Flitcher?”

“That’s what he’s hoping I shall do.  Or will be when he thinks over what I’ve said.  That’s if we’re right about him.  It’s only a guess, remember.  A lot of people you meet, quite ordinary-seeming people, have done time.  We can’t assume he’s one of Flitcher’s associates.”

Bill shook his head but it was evident that he did not willingly relinquish this promising assumption.

“What else are you on two?” he asked Carolus.

“Nothing much.  Marie will tell me nothing and I’m not going to badger her to do so.  Julie knows nothing, unless I’m very much mistaken.  You’ve told me everything you know.  Unless I find a break-through somewhere I’m stymied.”

“I told you about this man Morrow,” Bill reminded him.

“Oh yes.  In charge of the road works.”

“Not the engineer.  I suppose you’d call him the foreman.  But he seemed to be quite important.  He’s moved away from here now.  He’s working on the M 22.”

“Where’s that?”

“Over the border.  Lowlands of Scotland.  But I can find out where he is.  He married a local woman when he was here and took her with him.  Her people will know.  Why?  Do you think he’s worth trying?”

“Everything is, in a case like this.  If you let me know where he is I’ll run up and see him tomorrow, Sunday.”

When he had the address, in the small Midlothian borough of Dunstoun, Carolus wondered whether he should invite Marie to accompany him.  He would have liked to do so but it emphasised the contradictory nature of the whole relationship.  He was going in order to investigate something which affected Marie, something on which she might be able to him to inform him herself, but she maintained her strange silence about the past which both recognized.  How could he invite her as though his mission were a pleasurable drive into the Scottish Lowlands?  If, and only if, the shadow of mystery could be lifted he and Marie could be friends, as, in the first days of their acquaintance before the call at the door which had frightened her, he had hoped they would be.  He decided to go alone.

Throughout the long drive northward, Carolus considered this.  He had not any great hope of an important revelation from Morrow but the old curiosity, the old determination to find out the truth which had brought him through a score of investigations, was fully awake in him now.  Morrow had been in charge of the work in that particular section of the M 16 at the time of the events which had first roused his curiosity and left their mark on the whole population of Millgrove Water.  His information had been important enough to interest the investigating CID men and he had, according to Bill Rudge, been cross-examined several times.  Although the basic mystery, the belief in Jessie Flitcher’s burial under the road and the disappearance of Fletcher himself and been lately complicated by the murder of George Garrison and the appearance of the caller at Marie’s cottage, that seemed to constitute the heart of the matter and Carolus had enough confidence in his gift for eliciting information to believe that something, even after five years, might come from what Morrow had to tell him.  If Morrow could be induced to talk at all.

He reached Dunstoun and found its cobbled streets and grey buildings reminiscent of a town in northern France.  It was not oppressively sabbatarian though he arrived as many of its people were on their way to evening service in the several churches and chapels.  He left his car in a car-park and made for the address which Bill Rudge had discovered for him.

“Mr. Morrow?” he asked confidently when the door was opened by a tall middle-aged man who examined him closely. 

“That’s me,” he said cheerfully.  “Wanted to see me, did you?”

There was nothing north country about his speech.  Carolus decided that he probably came from London, or at any rate the Home Counties.

“Yes.  I come from Millgrove Water,” said Carolus as though that were all the explanation he needed to give.

“Do you now?  I remember the place.  Not likely to forget it, I suppose.  What brings you from there, if I may ask?”

Standing on the doorstep Carolus knew that he must justify his visit and his impression of Morrow was that he would accept frankness.

“I went to live there a few months ago,” he said.  “Retired.  I like the place.  But since I’ve been there I have been told a great deal about what the people of Millgrove call ‘our murder’.  I’ve always been interested in crime and somehow I’ve got caught up in this one.  Bill Rudge told me about you . . .”

“I remember Bill Rudge.”

“And thought you might be willing to give me a tip or two.”

Morrow had watched him narrowly during this recital and now said, “Come in.  I’m all on my own this evening.  The wife’s gone to church.”

Carolus followed him into a neat unpretentious sitting room.

“So you’re trying to find the truth about that old murder, are you?  I suppose they’ve never caught the chap who did it?  No, and never will, very likely.  He was a clever villain.”

“They haven’t,” said Carolus.  “But just lately there has been another murder.  Chap named Garrison who was supposed to be a friend of Flitcher.  They haven’t found out about this one, either.  Or if they have, they haven’t made arrest.” 

“Garrison?  Big fat chap used to come in the Rudyard with Fletcher and Jessie?”

“That’s right.”

“No idea who’s done it?”

“Well . . .”

“You don’t want to say.  Quite right.  It doesn’t do to know to much.  Well, I don’t know whether there’s anything I can tell you.  It’s a long time ago and I told the police what I knew.  And it’s not easy to explain.”

“Why?”

“The road-construction, I mean.  There’s a good many think they know all about it, but when it comes to it they don’t know anything at all.  However, if you want to ask me, I’ll try to put it in simple language for you.  Even the wife doesn’t follow all of it.  She says it’s too complicated for her.  Well, it is complicated, all the various processes and that.  It takes a lifetime of study.”

Carolus recognized this is something of an obsession with Mr. Morrow, and was warned not to behave as though he found the other’s profession an easy one to understand.

“In the first place, what made the police so sure he buried her under the road?” proceeded Mr. Morrow, posing the very question which Carolus wanted to ask and as promptly answering it.  “Well, it stands to reason, doesn’t it?  They left the pub that night and drove up to where we were making the road . . .”

“How did you know that?”

“Found this bloodstain next morning, didn’t we?  Only we didn’t think anything about it at the time.  We had no reason to.  No one was missing that we knew of.  It might have been some animal’s blood all we knew.  It was only afterwards when they came to analyse it and that and found out it was Jessie Flitcher’s that they thought anything about it.  Then the whole thing was clear.  How he’d driven her up to the point we’d got to, done for her and put her where the next lot of concrete would bury her next morning.”

“But it didn’t.  I mean they broke up the surface and found no sign.”

“Ah.  That’s where it comes in knowing something about road-construction.  I could have told them they’d find nothing.  Drop a few tons of concrete on a dead body and nothing remains of it.”

“Nothing?”

“How can it?  Just imagine what a few, well twenty or thirty tons of concrete going down on a human frame will make of it.  It would be obliterated.  Wiped out.  Nothing left of it at all.  That’s what happened to her, poor girl.”

Mr. Morrow paused impressively.

“But they’d have charged him if they caught him.  You don’t need to produce the corpse nowadays before you try anyone for murder.  There have been several cases like that.  They knew he’d done it, didn’t they?  He’d have Gone Down all right.  But they never did find him, so there it is.”

“You say that it was on the morning after the Flitchers left the Rudyard Arms together that you found this bloodstain?”

“That’s right.  Didn’t think anything of it at the time . . .”

“Was there any sign of a car having been driven up there?”

“That’s what we shall never know for sure.  Some of the chaps say there was and some never noticed.  The old road ran alongside and that’s where they would have driven.  I personally believe he left the car on the old road and did for her at the very spot on the new road where he was going to bury her.  You wouldn’t have seen any tracks then.”

“But no one noticed anything about the new road at that point?  I mean you didn’t see any signs of disturbance of the surface which might have led you to think . . .”

“Not at the time we didn’t, or we’d very soon have done something about it.  One or two of them thought afterwards they’d noticed noticed something but I can’t say I did.  It wasn’t really my responsibility.  I was in charge of the whole piece of construction, on the practical level I mean, and it wasn’t my place to go poking about with what we laid down yesterday.  There was some said I ought to have done, mind you.  But that only shews what they know.  Who’s going to expect a body to be covered up ready to have a load of concrete dropped on it?  And mind you I’m only saying concrete to explain the process to you.  Construction materials are far more complicated than that.  Anyway, it wasn’t for me to interfere with what we’d done on the chance of finding a corpse under it.  I’d got too much to think about.  And it wasn’t for the best part of a week that anything was thought back on.”

“How do you mean?”

“It was only when the police found out who this Flitcher was and how he’d disappeared that they began to think anything.  He stayed at his cottage for two nights after he’d murdered her, anyway.  Then he went off in the night.”

“Did you see him during those two days?”

“No.  But plenty did.  They never saw her, though, because she was dead and buried.”

“Tell me, Mr. Morrow.  Wasn’t there a night watchman on the spot?”

“Not on the spot there wasn’t.  Best part of half a mile away where did the diversion was.  He never saw anything, either.  Well, he wouldn’t, would he?  If the car went past him on the old road he’d never have thought anything about it.  There’s several used to drive out there—young couples generally.  You wouldn’t expect old Munsey the night watchman to go peering in their windows like the Law used to do in London, would you?  He was a decent old boy and minded his own business.”

There was another pause.

“I tell you what, said Morrow.  “My wife will be back from church in a minute and she might have something to tell you.  She comes from Millgrove Water and remembers it all, better than what I do.  From the non-technical point of view, that is.  She doesn’t know anything about road-construction because, as I tell you, that takes years of study.  But she has her own ideas about people which is another thing.”

Mrs. Morrow in due course appeared, a large serious woman who listened to her husband’s explanation of Carolus’s visit without much comment.

“What I’d like to know, she said, “is what made that Jessie Flitcher go with him to the road work at all.  She must have known what he was.  Why did she walk right into it, as you might say?”

“Perhaps she trusted him,” suggested Morrow. 

Carolus made no comment but seemed to be thinking over Mrs. Morrow’s words.

“But she knew he was a robber,” she argued.  “You wouldn’t think that anyone who knew what she did about his past would go out there with him at night so that he could do for her without anyone seeing.  Jessie wasn’t a fool.”

“She was fool enough to marry him,” Morrow pointed out.

“Then again, wouldn’t you haven’t thought there’d have been some sign of a struggle?  I know I would.”

“They were quite friendly at the Rudyard Arms that evening.  I do know that.”

“Oh yes, I know,” said Mrs. Morrow.  “I noticed them, which was more than you did, Herbert.  I was sitting quite close to them in the ‘Arms’.  She had on a new grey coat and skirt.  Very smart she looked.”

“Trust a woman to notice that.  What use is that as a bit of observation?”

“I find it interesting,” said Carolus.  “Did you tell the police that?”

“No.  I can’t say I did.  It didn’t seem all that important.  She must have been buried in it, Poor woman.  They found all her other things at the cottage when they searched it after he’d disappeared.  He’d taken all his, of course, and left hers where they were.  Or that’s what I was told.  It doesn’t really bear thinking about, does it?  And they still haven’t found the man.”

“That’s what Mr Deene’s come about.  He’s going to find him.”

“Well, I hope you do.  I thought he was a horrible man.  I said so all along, didn’t I?  All that jumping about.  Like a cat burglar.  And those eyes of his.”

Soon afterwards Carolus took his leave.  His visit to the Morrows had not been wasted.

❦