Death on Romney Marsh, Chapter Thirteen

Death on Romney Marsh

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

When he reached home he found Aunt Vicky in state of indignation.

“He actually rang me up,” she said.

“Who?”

“That appalling man.”

Carolus would have liked to pretend he did not know whom she meant but it was too palpable.”

“What did he want?”

“To speak to you.  I told him . . .”

“I bet you did.”

“I asked him how he had the impudence to approach me even at the length of the telephone.  I said you were out investigating and I hoped it would bring to light enough evidence to convict him for his crimes.  I said . . .”

“Yes.  I can guess.  What did he reply?”

“He . . .  but the insolence of it!  He asked when you would be in.  I said I had no idea and threatened to complain to the telephone company.  ‘I’ll ’phone again this evening’ he said.  So I slammed down the receiver.”

“Too late, Aunt Vicky.”

Carolus, who had rather anticipated some such move from Cuchran, took care to answer the ’phone himself when it rang just before dinner that evening.  A silky-voiced Cuchran told him that he was anxious to see Carolus ‘on a matter of mutual interest’.  Would he care to come up to the house?

“If there would be any point in it I shouldn’t mind,” said Carolus.  But there wouldn’t.  You think you can bribe me off.  It’s a waste of time.”

Cuchran sounded curiously unruffled.

“There are good reasons why we should discuss this thing.  May I expect you this evening?”

The prospect was chilly and grim.  That gloomy house at night with the possibility of real danger was enough to deter anyone.  But Carolus felt the old thrill, the love of discovery for its own sake, the chance of further elicitation.

“Still got those two thugs up there?” he asked lightly.  ”

“There is no one here except my wife and myself.”

“I wonder why you bother to say that.  But I’ll come up.  About 9:30?”

Carolus took only two small precautions.  He went immediately, not giving Cuchran time to prepare for his coming, and he carried a revolver.  He gave no explanation to Aunt Vicky and he left the house without being seen by Mrs. Stick.  He was not afraid of Cuchran in his gloomy house but he feared meeting his housekeeper if she knew he would not be in for dinner.

The iron gates were open and there were lights in several windows as he drove up the drive.  The front door swung back as he touched the bell and Cuchran, in a velvet smoking jacket looking sober and amicable, asked him to come in.  He seemed unperturbed by the arrival of Carolus almost two hours before the arranged time.

Carolus did not seriously anticipate any violence but he took the usual precautions and when he followed Cuchran into the study sat with his back to the wall with the door in sight.

“I have asked you here to make a certain proposal.”

“Why didn’t you make it when I came here last?”

“I hadn’t yet decided.”

“You mean you thought you could scare me off?  What is your proposal?”

“Let me ask you a question.  What brought you into this affair?”

“I told you when I first saw you.  You were trying to evict my aunt from the house she had occupied for more than fifty years.  She has lived in Mortboys since 1917.  I came to see you about it and found you had no valid reason for what you were doing and this aroused my curiosity.  Since then I’ve grown more and more curious.”

“Exactly.  It was the matter of your aunt’s house.  Now I will make you an offer.  In exchange for an undertaking by you to drop this whole inquiry and leave things here in the status quo, I will make over your aunt’s house to her, to be her property absolutely.”

“You can’t be as naïve as that, Cuchran.”

“I haven’t finished yet.  I propose, under certain conditions, to give you a complete statement on this whole series of incidents beginning with my first association with the family right down to the disappearance (as you call it) of Mowlett.”

“What conditions?”

“That if you find this does not make you an accessory after the fact of murder, In other words if you not expected to condone the killing of a human being, you will keep to the conditions I have named—that is your leave this case entirely where it stood.”

“When?  Where it stood when, Cuchran?  You talk about the status quo.  What is the quo? ”

“When you first began to interest yourself in it.”

“It’s not a very intelligent proposal.  First of all it puts me in the position of a blackmailer on my aunt’s behalf.”

“Not at all.”

“And the obvious question arises—if you have nothing to hide, why do you make this offer?”

“I did not say I had nothing to hide.  I’m saying that I did not kill my first wife.”

“Or Mowlett?”

Cuchran made an impatient sound.

“Of course not Mowlett,” he said.

“Then who did?  Because I simply don’t believe in this picture of Mowlett taking his ease in the South of France.”

“My statement will answer all your questions.”

“I think you’re mad.  Or you’ve lived out of the world to long.  My aunt would never accept her house in these conditions.  And I really don’t think I have any need of your statement.  I certainly should never, whatever you might offer, agree to drop this investigation.”

Cuchran was silent.

“Is that irrevocable?” he asked.

“Oh, absolutely.”

“You realize what you are forcing me to do? ”

“What you tried to do yesterday.  But it won’t come off.”

“We are talking without witnesses.  I must warn you that you seriously underrate me.  That sort of incident—of last night, I mean—is not going to happen again.  I have other, much more valuable resources to call.  One thing you have not troubled to investigate is my own position.  I have made you a fair offer.  If you refuse it you won’t live a week, Mr. Deene.”

Carolus did not mistake this for bravado.

“I’m afraid you underrate me too,” he said quietly.  “It has been your mistake from the first time you saw me.  A schoolmaster, you thought, Vicky Morrow’s nephew who plays at cops and robbers.  No, Cuchran.  ‘Not for cadwallader and all his goats.’  You are a desperate man and that makes you a dangerous one.  But I am learning the truth about one of the most interesting set of circumstances I have ever investigated.  And that makes me just as determined.”

“You will regret it.  What is more if you do find what you’re looking for you will regret that, too.  You might remember that.”

“I’ve never regretted doing my small piece for the sake of justice.  But we’ve talked enough.  My cancer is categorical—no.  I will not drop this case.”

Suddenly Carolus stood up.

“Who’s outside the door?” he asked.”

Cuchran did not move.

“If it is anyone,” he said, “it is my wife.  She behaves eccentrically at times as I daresay you’ve noticed.  You needn’t be alarmed.  Nothing threatens you tonight.  This was a peace conference.  After tonight, unless you change your mind, I shall not be responsible.  Good heavens, man, you don’t think I’m alone in this?  You don’t think I am the only person in whose interest it is that you should drop your enquiries?”

“I haven’t the smallest idea,” said Carolus steadily.  “But I don’t think it was your wife I heard in the hall just now.”

“Jittery, said Cuchran.  “There was no one out there.  Unless it was one of our ghosts.  We have several, which is remarkable in a house less than one hundred years old.”

The change in Cuchran since the time of Carolus’s last visit was extraordinary.  Then he had spoken in a surly aggrieved way supported by whisky.  Tonight he was talkative and assured.  Drugs, obviously.  Marijuana, probably.

“Did you say that you and your wife were alone in the house this evening?”

“Yes.  If it is anyone else he has come while we have been talking.”

“Or they?”

“Or they.  But I don’t think you’ll see anything of them.  I told you you are safe tonight.  I want you to have time to think it over.  You may after all be sensible.  If you do my offer will hold.”

“Until Saturday?” Carolus asked.”

“Very well.  Until Saturday.  After that you’re on your own.”

Once again Carolus had the strange nightmare-like sensation of being alone against ruthless and powerful enemies.  He had felt this before but never so menacingly as now.  There were presences in this house, hostile and perhaps murderous and although for some unaccountable reason he was inclined to believe Cuchran when he said he was ‘safe’ here tonight, he felt no absolute security.

“Do you know a man called Mottimer?” Carolus asked suddenly.

Watching Cuchran closely he saw that the name touched off a nerve.

“Mottimer?  Ought I to?  In what connection?” asked Cuchran, gaining time.

“A solicitor.”

“No.  I don’t think so.  I know as few solicitors as possible.”

“Mowlett’s solicitor,” said Carolus.

“Then I’m quite sure I don’t.  I never knew that Mowlett had a solicitor until you told me.  But we’re not here for you to ask me more questions.  We’re here to understand one another.  Will you have a drink?”

“No thanks,” said Carolus unexpectedly.  He did not suppose there was any old-fashioned scheme to poison or drug him but he did not want to eat or drink in this house.

“Well I’m going to.”

‘On top of all that pot’ Carolus would have liked to say, but kept quiet.

When at last Carolus rose to go, Cuchran moved to the door before him, talking loudly, as if to warn someone outside that they were coming out.  The hll was empty and ill-lit and its great mahogany constructions stood round like deserted shrines.  Again Carolus had the sense of being watched and hated by beings in the shadows above or about him.

He nodded to Cuchran, stepped out into the night and looked back at the hideous building.  Only one window on the first floor shewed a light but it would be from a dark room that he would be watched if anyone were up there.

He drove towards the gates which were still open but a hundred or two yards beyond them he saw a dark figure in the road.  A man turned towards him, and his face, with a white scarf under it, came into the headlights.  It was the deeply lined, sensual, but not all together brutal face of a man in his thirties.  He raised his arm to stop Carolus.

This was a situation which Carolus could deal with.  He knew that if he drove on fast he might be forced to run the man down or pull up suddenly.  It only needed courage and determination on the man’s part.  So he slowed down at once as though he meant to make him a passenger and would stop alongside where he was standing.  The device was an old one but it worked perfectly.  The man went into the side of the road in order to get into the car and just as Carolus reached him he shot forward and left him standing there.  A passenger at this time and in this place was the last thing he wanted.

But he had learned a lesson from this.  To remain at Aunt Vicky’s might be asking for trouble for her and the Sticks.  He believed he knew the weight of Cuchran’s threats and it was not negligible.

“At breakfast next morning he told his Aunt that he must leave today.

“I haven’t finished with Shirley Cross,” he said, “but I must get back to Newminister before the new term starts.”

“Oh, dear.  Must you?  I thought you were going to find the truth of this horrid business once and for all.  It’s so very disagreeable living next door to unsolved murders.”

“Yes, I’m sure it is.  I don’t think it will be for much longer.”

“I so often think of those two lovely girls as I first knew the,” Aunt Vicky smiled sentimentally.  “I wish you could have seen them.”

“I wish that, too.”

“We shall never know the truth about that.  But Mowlett is another matter.  You must find out what happened to Mowlett.”

“I will.”

“I thought you said the term didn’t begin for another ten days?” said Aunt Vicky suspiciously.

“But I have to prepare for it.”

When Mrs. Stick came in he told her they were leaving for Newminister today.

“I shan’t be sorry, sir, what with all this going on up at the house.  Stick Feels It too, having nothing to do with his time.  He doesn’t like to interfere with anything in the garden.  What’s more I don’t rightly know how to treat Mrs. Churcher, though she seems to know her work, I must say.  But I’ve never heard of anyone coming to look after anyone in a fur coat with a car at the door.  It seems unnatural, somehow.”

“Not really, Mrs. Stick.  You must remember we’re anachronisms.”

“You may be, sir, but if you think I want to go flying off to the moon in a spaceship you’re mistaken.  No more wouldn’t Stick.  The earth’s good enough for us though it has got in a muddle with all these wars and that.  What time would you be leaving? ”

“About eleven o’clock if you can manage it.”

“I can manage it, sir, but what about lunch?”

“We’ll get a sandwich on the way.”

Mrs. Stick gave him a severe look but said no more and at eleven, with a good deal of fuss about the baggage being brought out to be stowed in the boot, they prepared to leave.

But first he called on the Churchers and told them enough of the situation to make them anxious about Aunt Vicky.

“I’ll tell you what,” said Pam Churcher.  “She’s been wanting her bedroom done up for a long time.  Why don’t we suggest it should be done now and meanwhile she could sleep over here.”

“Excellent.  I should feel much easier about her.”

“Will it be for long do you think? ”

“No.  I hope this week-end will see it through.”

“I’ll suggest it to her then.  I can’t answer for her agreeing.  You know what she is about having only way.  But I expect she’ll come.”

❦

Death on Romney Marsh, Chapter Twelve

Death on Romney Marsh

CHAPTER TWELVE

Carolus knew the town of Hastbourne Hill, a resort in the region of Hastings, Eastbourne and Bexhill, which resembled in different ways all three of them.  He had learned that Messrs Neatherd and Ely, the solicitors with whom (according to Gaston) Mowlett had entrusted his Will, were the longest established in the town, the most respected and the richest.  The firm was so old that the names of the original partners had long-since disappeared from its letter-headings and one saw a collection of names dissembled over the last half-century.  Waistely, Elias, Mottimer and Sprott.

He did not expect a very friendly reception from any of these when they learned his business.  He had no recognizable standing in the affair and even if he had their client’s instructions were probably explicit.  But in the hope of a miracle he drove over to Hastbourne Hill and found the firm’s office.

He asked for the senior partner and after waiting some time in a cubby-hole was joined by a furtive individual who said he was the firm’s senior clerk.

Carolus examined him with some care.  He looked like a camel snuffing the air for possibilities; even his neck was abnormally long so that he seemed to curve forward from the waist in an arc.  He wore dingy clothes and his finger-nails were grimed.  When he spoke it seemed to be from high in the roof of the mouth, though the voice was not shrill or whining.  He was a lofty, sly and patronising man.

“Could you give me some indication of your business with Mr. Mottimer?  I am his confidential clerk.”

Carolus wanted to ask him how confidential but he replied curtly—“I want to consult him.”

“My name’s Aschermole,” said the clerk giving Carolus a pitying glance which said ‘I shall know all about it later’.  “I usually give Mr. Mottimer an idea of the business on new clients.”

“No comment,” said Carolus.

“Mr. Mottimer is a very busy man,” said Aschermole, his manner growing more and more superior. 

“So am I, so don’t let’s waste a lot of time nattering.  Go and tell Mr. Mottimer I want to see him urgently.”

The corners of Mr. Aschermole’s mouth turned down. 

“He’s got someone with him now.  When he’s free I’ll ask him whether he’ll see you.”

Carolus supposed he would be kept waiting a long time after that but he was wrong.  Aschermole had time to do no more than enter an inner office and return. 

“Mr. Mottimer will see you now,” he announced.

Mr. Mottimer was the sort of man who wanted people to say of him, “He’s a gentleman of the old school’ but only succeeded as far as the old school tie.  He was over-courteous, over-dressed and overwhelming.  He called his clients ‘my dear sir’ and talked of being ‘in his position’. 

“And to what do I owe the honour of your call?” he asked Carolus.

“It’s a rather difficult matter to explain.”

“Ah.  But we’re used to difficult matters,” Mr. Mottimer returned encouragingly. 

“I am a schoolmaster,” Carolus said.  “I teach at the Queen’s School, Newminster.”

“Do you, by Jove?  My young nephew is going there next term.  Quite a good school, I believe.”

“Quite,” said Carolus.  “But in addition to teaching I occasionally undertake some investigations.”

“Of what nature?”

“I have more than once helped to solve certain problems connected with crime,” said Carolus, finding himself as pompous as his interlocutor.

Mr. Mottimer smiled benignly.

“Something in the nature of a private investigator, heh?  Bit of a Sherlock Holmes, what?”

“Hardly.  Just a hobby.”

“Very interesting.  Very, very interesting.”

“Just recently I have been asked by Mr. Gaston Mowlett . . .”

“Mowlett?”

Mr. Mottimer looked grave. 

“Mowlett,” repeated Carolus.

“Please proceed,” said Mr. Mottimer sternly. 

“By Mr. Gaston Mowlett to discover the whereabouts of his uncle, Edwin Mowlett.  He has, it seems, disappeared.”

The ebullience had left Mr. Mottimer’s manner.

“In what sense disappeared?”

“In every sense.  He was employed, as you may know, as a butler at a house called Shirley Cross on Romney marsh for many years.”

“Yes, yes.  I am aware of the circumstances.”

“His employer there, a Captain Cuchran, states that on a certain night three months ago he drove him down to Dover.  Mowlett has not been heard of since.”

Mr. Mottimer considered this for some moments, then said, “Why should he have been heard of?  Who was there to hear of him?”

“His nephew, for one.”

“Was he a communicative man?”

“Not particularly.”

“Then I fail to see where any mystery lies.  He goes abroad and doubtless decides to settle in a kinder climate.  Who can blame him?”

“There is a lot more to it than that . . .”

“Tell me, Mr. Deene, what is your business with me, exactly?”

“I hope you might be able to throw some light on these circumstances.”

“Are you aware of the fact that Edwin Mowlett was a client of mine?”

“Of course I am.  That’s why I’ve come to see you.”

“Do you mean to say that you thought I should discuss the affairs of one of my clients with . . . with a private detective?”

“No.  Not his affairs.  His whereabouts, If he has any.”

“I am astounded.  I should have thought the reputation of this firm was well-enough known for you to have been dissuaded from anything so foolish.  And what exactly do you imply by ‘his whereabouts, if he has any’?”

“He may be dead.  That’s obvious, surely.”

“And if he were, if by any chance he were, do you suppose our discretion ends with a demise of a client?”

Carolus had an uncomfortable feeling that this conversation was being listened to.  Had the confidential clerk his ear to the door, or was there a tape recorder?

“You were very rash if you supposed anything of that kind,” thundered Mr. Mottimer. 

Carolus watched him calmly, assessing the genuineness or otherwise of his indignation. 

“You have Mowlett’s Will,” he said. 

“Even if that were so, and I can make no statement in the matter, the supposition that I should give you any information about it is far-fetched.”

“You also have a sealed envelope left by Mowlett to be opened in case of his death.”

“If such a thing exists, and I make no affirmative or contrary suggestion, it would be a matter solely for the executives of the deceased.”

“I quite realize that.”

“Please be sensible, my dear Sir,” said Mottimer expansively.  “If you were to come to me and say ‘Edwin Mowlett has died.  Here is his death certificate.  Here is his executor, or executors as the case may be’ do you know what I should say of Edwin Mowlett?  I should say that after the proper investigations and confirmation of identities I should be prepared to act as called upon by the circumstances.  But to come to me, utterly unauthorised, not knowing whether my client is alive or dead, and to ask for information shews that you are unaware of the traditions of the legal profession.  I can say no more.”

“But you can.  You can tell me if you’ve heard from Mowlett during the last three months.  That would be no breach of confidence.”

“I trust you will allow me, my dear sir, to decide what would or would not be a breach of confidence.”

“You’re not very helpful, are you?”

“I believe I am not thought to be an unhelpful man.”

“Suppose Gaston Mowlett himself comes to see you?”

“On what matter?”

“His uncle’s disappearance.”

“Supposing that he was able to give proof of his identity, and supposing he is named as executor in his uncle’s Will, and bears proof that his uncle is dead, I might be prepared to see him.  But only if all those conditions are fulfilled.”

“You realize that you are impeding what may be very urgent enquiries?  A life may quite possibly be in danger.”

“In that case surely the police would be the proper people to consult me?  No, my dear sir, I have nothing whatsoever to say to you.  I will not say that your coming to me was an act of effrontery, rather of ignorance of the traditions of correct conduct which govern this firm.”

“I don’t want to see the Will,” said Carolus.  “It’s that sealed envelope.”

“Please!” said Mr. Mottimer, holding up his hand.  “I don’t want to have to speak more cleanly.  I have no doubt your intentions are not offensive.  But any further discussion is useless.”

It was what Carolus had expected and he said no more.  Mr. Mottimer rose with rather exaggerated courtesy and shewed him to the door. 

But in the outer office he had a surprise.  Mr. Aschermole craned his neck over him and simply perfectly clear voice:  “I usually go to the Merry Widow Café when I leave here.  About five.”

Carolus, though willing to take advantage of this, could not bring himself to answer cordially.  He nodded, and this was all Mr. Aschermole required. 

In the street Carolus enquired the way to the Merry Widow Café and was told it was ‘straight down on the left-hand side’.  When he saw its new bow-fronted window and display of home-made confectionery and biscuits made from oatmeal and jams with handwritten labels and solid blocks of fudge, he knew what he was in for but courageously entered.  He was greeted by two middle-aged ladies who wore green overalls and artificial pearls.  That was no one else in the cafe. 

“China tea, please,” said Carolus. 

“You’ll have some home-made cakes, won’t you?”

“Just tea.”  But seeing disappointment in their faces added—“unless I could have some buttered toast.”

“With Barberry jam and Devonshire cream?”

“No, thanks very much.”

Carolus remembered Miss Skipton, governess long ago of the Two Graces, and wondered whether this were the sort of competition she had to face in Rye.

“My partner will soon get your tea.  My post is here in the shop,” said one of the ladies, smiling. 

“And which of you is the merry widow?” asked Carolus with fatuous amiability.

“We both are!” cried the lady archly.  “We often get asked that.  Though we haven’t opened so very long.  This is a comparatively new venture.”

Carolus could think of absolutely nothing to say. 

“Before this we tried pottery.”

“Yes?”

“No,” said the lady.  “It wasn’t a success.  My brother suggested this.  ‘Give them something to put in their tums,’ he said, ‘if you want to make money.’  Ah, here comes your tea and toast.”

At the same moment Mr. Aschermole entered wearing a long black mackintosh and a cloth cap.  He nodded to the merry widows and came to Carolus. 

“Mind if I join you?”

Carolus nodded a grudging agreement.

A party of chattering teenagers had fortunately entered behind him and sitting near the door occupied the full attention of the windows.

“It seems to me,” said Mr. Aschermole, “that there’s only one question we’ve got to decide, viz how much?”

‘Viz nothing,’ Carolus wanted to say.  But at least Mr. Aschermole’s approach might shorten this unpleasant interview.

“Well, how much?”

“It’ll have to be a hundred quid,” he replied, sadly shaking his head as though he were a doctor giving an unwelcome diagnosis.  “Can’t be done for less.”

“I’m not interested in the Will,” said Carolus. 

“Oh no.  I didn’t suppose you were,” said Mr. Aschermole in his maddeningly superior voice.  “If it had been the Will it would have been more.  Considerably more, in fact.  The sum quoted is to cover the contents of the sealed envelope.”

“Your hearing must be particularly good.”

“Not necessarily.  But that’s by the way.  Is it on?”

This was really very unpleasant, an outrage to all sense of decency.  It was also criminal.  That worried Carolus less than the feeling that he was involving himself in a sordid conspiracy. 

He stalled. 

“When could you deliver?” he said.

“It all depends.  You don’t want to run away with the idea that it’s easy.  I’ve got to wait for a reason to work late at the office.  Then there’s the seal.  It all takes time.”

“And skill,” said Carolus sarcastically.

“And skill, agreed Mr. Aschermole eagerly.  “It’s not everyone who can deal with a seal like that, to leave it as though it was untouched.  I really ought to have said twice the money.”

“What is the latest date for delivery?  It’s no good to me if it’s not soon.”

“It’s not, eh?  I suppose I could do it this week.”

“I should want an undertaking to that effect.  Say Friday.”

“Fifty now.  Fifty on delivery,” intoned Mr. Aschermole.

“No.  Twenty-five now.  The rest on Friday.”

Mr. Aschermole looked hostile but turned aside to give his order.

“The usual please, Mrs. Sich.”

“Yes.  Tea and cream cakes.”

“Lots of cream cakes,” said Mr. Aschermole.  “I like cakes with cream in them,” he told Carolus.  You wouldn’t get anyone else to do this, you know,” he went on.  “What about my position?

“You doubtless considered that.”

“It may mean a lot of copying out.”

“It may.  I shouldn’t think so, but it’s possible.”

“In cash, of course?”

“You don’t think I’m going to write you out a cheque, do you?”

“On the nail, I mean.  I don’t know anything about you, do I?”

“No.  But I know quite a lot about you.”

There was a long pause. 

“I wanted fifty now,” said Mr. Aschermole, regretfully.

Carolus did not comment.  He did not need to.

“I’ve never done anything of this kind before,” claimed Mr. Aschermole.

Carolus appeared to eye him anxiously.

“You haven’t?  Then how do I know you can manage that seal?  I understood it was a skilled job.  Perhaps we had better . . .”

“I can deal with the seal all right.  I told you that.”

“You have experience?”

“I said I’d deliver.”

“On Friday.  We could meet here at this time.”

Mr. Aschermole’s tea arrived and he set himself with ferine eagerness to demolish the cream cakes. 

“Are you going to give me the fifty now?”

“Twenty-five,” said Carolus. 

“All right then.  Twenty-five.”

“It’s already in your overcoat pocket.”

Mr. Aschermole stared. 

“Mean to say you trusted me?” he asked in astonishment.

“Trusted you?  You’re joking.  But I knew you’d agree.”  He turned with a smile to Mrs. Sich to ask for his bill. 

“Don’t go for a minute,” pleaded Mr Aschermole, cream whitening his lips.  “Why are you so keen on knowing what’s in that envelope?”

“Curiosity,” said Carolus.

“You must have some reason.  I suppose you get a commission from Gaston Mowlett?”

“Could be,” said Carolus.  “I’ll see you on Friday.”

“If all is well,” said Aschermole who was fumbling hurriedly in his overcoat pocket.

“Wouldn’t you like some more cream cakes?” asked Carolus.

“Yes, I think I will.”

As Carolus at last escaped the café, Mr. Aschermole had already started on his second dish.

❦

Death on Romney Marsh, Chapter Eleven

Death on Romney Marsh

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The situation for Carolus would have been tricky, not to say dangerous, if there had not been in his pocket sufficient change for the box.  By one of those lucky chances there was.  His luck held when he got through to the Churchers and found that Dennis was in.

“I’m in trouble,” Carolus told him.  “If you’ve got your MG there would you do me a favour?”

“Okay.  Spill,” said Dennis.

Carolus gave him the location of the pub.

“Drive right up to the door of the Saloon Bar; it’s the door farthest from you as you drive in, going towards Dover.”

“Check.”

“Don’t sound the horn but rev the engine up and keep it running.  The hood will be open?”

“Can be.”

“Leave it open and clear the nearside front seat.  I shall come out like a rabbit with a ferret behind it and dive straight in.  You’ll have to be out of the car park before two characters here can come out after me.”

“Easy.”

“Not so easy.  These are not nice gentleman at all.”

“What about the Bentley?”

“We shall have to leave it here.”

“I’ll be right over,” said Dennis.

“Thanks.”

Carolus saw through the glass-panelled door of the box that Withers, though apparently deep in conversation with two women, had backed up to be near enough to the box to hear at least the tail end of the conversation.  He blessed the two women for keeping him away so long and prepared to satisfy his curiosity.

“Goodbye then, darling,” he said, doubtless to the momentary bewilderment of Dennis.  “I shan’t be late.  No, of course I don’t think so.  How could I?  Of course I love you.  Bye, then.”

Carolus left the box with a happy smile and returned to his place beside the bar.  As soon as he caught the blonde’s eye, he ordered another Scotch.

He was fit and knew his Unarmed Combat, but he also knew that type with whom he had to deal and against two of them he would not have a chance.  Nor had he any intention of dragging young Dennis Churcher into this.  With his pretty clothes and his hair worn long and curly like that of a Restoration dandy he had not struck Carolus as a fighting man.  But he could help him to get away.

The two were still sitting there, apparently taking things easy, and apparently not interested in Carolus.  The room had filled up now but they were near enough to the door to be beside him if he tried to go out.

It could only be Withers who had sent for them, yet they could not have been so very far away, and once again Carolus found himself up against forces he did not understand.  He knew that these were trained and practised toughs and without bringing on their heads a murder investigation could put him out of action for a considerable time and this was doubtless their intent.  But why?  What did he know?  Or what was it feared he would know soon?

Withers was no longer in the saloon bar but was doubtless on the other side of the door into the private part of the house to prevent Carolus from making any attempt at escape that way.

The two men, Carolus calculated, were too experienced to suppose that he had called the police, or to think that if he had they were in any danger of interference.  There was nothing Carolus could say that would bring a police car out here on a moment’s notice.  They probably felt confidence in the fact that the Bentley was outside.  In their world it was scarcely conceivable that he would leave that to take care of itself.  So one read an evening paper and the other yawned over his drink.

Carolus manœuvred himself to be in line with the door but not suspiciously near it.  A tubby little man stood beside him, talking about golf with another.

It was impossible to calculate by timing the approach of the MG.  He simply waited for the sound of an engine being revved up at the door and when at last he heard it he pushed the golfer towards the two men as they rose, and in a continuous series of swift movements got to the door, opened it, jumped in the car which moved off without a jerk, accelerating with gratifying promptness.  Carolus had just caught a backward glimpse of the two men stumbling over the infuriated golfer.

Dennis said nothing and waited for Carolus to report on activities behind them.  The two men were surprisingly quick in following and just as Dennis rounded the first bend, lights came out of the car park.

“How many of them?” Dennis asked.

“Two.  But they’re killers.”

“What with?”

“I don’t know.  Anything handy.”

“Why don’t we see to them?”

Carolus glanced at the calm young man wearing funny clothes beside him.  It suddenly dawned on him that Dennis was not an effeminate boy, but in spite of his garb a tough and determined young man.

“I could manage one,” he said.

“What are we waiting for, then?  I’ve got something very handy under the seat.”

“Know any judo?” Carolus asked.

“I might get by.”

“Right.  Up the first side street and stop in the middle of the road.  I’ll stay this side for the driver.  You cross the road and get the other.  We’ve just got that blessed moment as they’re climbing out.  Right?”

“Right,” said Dennis.

With a fiendish swerve and a scream of tyres Dennis took a turn to the left.  Carolus remembered afterwards that he saw on a signpost the words ‘To Bindley 3 miles’.  The MG came to a halt and he and Dennis moved into their respective positions as the following car roared up.

The driver of this made one tactical error.  He should have stopped far short of the MG to give himself time to get out.  As it was Carolus was at his door and swung downwards while the driver was half-out of the car.  He seemed to slump but was up again in a moment.

With a sort of exultation Carolus found it all coming back to him from the past and was amazed at his own agility and strength.  The man was down before having time to get out a knife—or anything else.

Dennis was not interested in the Queensberry rules.  He came round to Carolus’s side of the car and seeing the driver of the car down but not out gave him a sickening kick in the stomach and would have followed it if Carolus had not restrained him.

His own man he had struck once, with something heavy, on the head.

“You wicked little bastard, I believe you’ve killed him,” said Carolus.

“No.  He’ll lie peaceful for a bit though.  You said they would not nice gentleman at all, didn’t you?”

“I did.  But I didn’t mean you to murder them.”

“We can’t get past all this,” said Dennis coolly.  “It’s a Jag they’ve got, I see.  I hope one of them can drive it.  We’ll have to keep on this road and work our way back to the pub.”

“What for?”

“Not going to leave your motor-car out all night, are you?  Besides, I want a drink.  Jump in, Mr. Deene.  I’m enjoying this.”

Just as Carolus had got in the MG Dennis turned back.

“Waking up,” he explained and shot his foot out again, this time at the driver’s face.  Then he drove away.

Dennis chuckled.

“I hope you weren’t telling stories about them,” he said.  “It would never do if you’d made a mistake and we’d quietened a pair of nice friendly citizens.”

“You needed worry about that.”

“Will there be any more to come?”

“Shouldn’t be surprised.  Somebody wants me out of this.”

“Ah.  Well, there won’t be any more from those two.  One’s a hospital job and the other will never have those handsome features back.  But we shall have to take care if there are any more when they come from.  We shan’t have all the luck again.”

After a wide circuit they came back to the Blue Boys and entered the same bar.  Carolus saw Withers at the counter and knew that the landlord was trying to conceal his surprise at the sight of them.

“You’d better take a run up the road,” said Carolus.  “What are you having, Dennis?  Two Scotch, then.”

“Up the road?”

“Yes.  Your friends need you, I think.  They’ve been fighting together.”

“They’ve been what?”

“Silly boys.  Having a fight in the middle of the road.  Quite a lot of damage, I’m afraid.  Perhaps you should take an ambulance.”

Withers pulled himself together.

“What friends are you talking about?” he asked haughtily.

“Those two nice-looking gentleman who followed me out.  Your health, Dennis.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No?  Forget it then.”

“They’ll keep till morning,” put in Dennis.

Withers was not very consistent.

“Where did this happen?” he asked.

“That’s better.  I’m glad you feel some responsibility.  After all, you sent for them.  But you must tell them to be good boys in future, Otherwise when I do get access to that sealed envelope of Mowlett’s . . .”

Withers made his first serious mistake.

“You’ll never do that,” he said.

Carolus smiled to shew that this had registered, then went on—“Yes, tell your friends not to try it that way.  They might get away with it, but it wouldn’t do you any good.  Any good at all.  Even if I was washed up with the tide, as you put it.  Now I must be running along.”

“What’s this about . . .  Where are they?” said Withers.

“Oh that.  Straight up the main road till you see a turning off to the left, ‘To Bindley 3 miles’.  Go up there for a few hundred yards and you’ll see a Jaguar in the road with the driver fast asleep.  You can’t miss it,” ended Carolus.

To his surprise the Bentley started at once.  The two must have been very sure of themselves.

“Race you home,” said Dennis.

“You’ll do nothing of the sort.  There’s been quite enough fast motoring tonight.”

“May I come in to Mortboys for a drink?”

“Please do.  But take it easy before my aunt and housekeeper.  Just a little contretemps.”

“See you,” said Dennis driving off.

Aunt Vicky looked very calm and old-world in her fireside chair when Carolus came in.

“There!” she said.  “You’ve missed such a nice little dinner.  Pin tardy, oh Syd Ree I think Mrs. Stick said.  It tasted like guinea-fowl cooked in cider.  Wherever have you been?”

“Across to Dover.  I found Withers.”

“You mean he’s not dead?”

“Not in the least.  He has a very successful pub on the main road.”

“Oh, I am glad.  He was such a nice young fellow.  Did he say why he went off without telling anyone?”

“He said he was tired of the place.”

Mrs. Stick came in to say there was someone at the front door—she was not quite certain whether it were a young man or a young woman.

“That will be Dennis Churcher,” said Aunt Vicky equably.  “He often comes in for a chat in the evening.  Such a well-mannered young man.”

Carolus was reflecting that Mrs. Stick would not have had much doubt if she had seen him an hour or two earlier, but it was perhaps as well that she hadn’t.

“Beat me to it,” said Dennis to Carolus when he had greeted Aunt Vicky.

“So you two have seen another this evening,” said Aunt Vicky who missed nothing.  “What mischief have you been up to?”

Mrs. Stick, who remained in the room, looked as though she would like to know that too.  Her tight mouth shewed that she feared the worst.

“I’m to take it you’ve had your dinner, sir?” she said to Carolus severely.

“To tell the truth, Mrs. Stick, I’ve been rather busy.”

“It will have to be cold then.”

“Of course, Mrs Stick.”

“I told Stick when you didn’t come, I said, ‘I’m not going to keep Miss Morrow waiting while he’s out goodness knows where’.”

“And what did Stick say?”

“I really don’t know what’s come over Stick lately.  He said, as though there was anything funny about it, ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he was after another murderer,’ he said.  I told him, ‘Don’t you dare talk like that,’ I told him.”

“He didn’t suggest that the murderers might be after me, I suppose?” Carolus could not resist asking.

“He did not, sir.  I should be very sorry to think Stick would ever say anything like that, even in the way of a joke.  Because if I was to think, after all we went through the last lot and poor Mr. Gorringer with a pistol in his stomach . . .”

“You exaggerate, Mrs. Stick.  Now what about something to eat for Mr. Churcher and me?”

Mrs. Stick brightened a little as she always did when there was someone extra to enjoy her food.

“It will have to be Assy ate on glaze,” she said.

“Do for you, Dennis?  Assiette anglaise—cold mixed things.”

“I could manage a pottage provincial first,” admitted Mrs. Stick.

“You just give us anything handy,” said Carolus.  “And tell Stick I wasn’t chasing murderers.  Quite the contrary.”

When Mrs. Stick had left them, Aunt Vicky turned to Carolus.

“I hope you haven’t involved Dennis in anything?  He’s inclined to be delicate and he’s very young.”

“I’m twenty-two, Miss Morrow,” said Dennis.

“Are you really, dear boy?  You don’t look anything like that, with your complexion.  And my nephew goes in for such dangerous investigations.  But I’m sure you wouldn’t allow him to leave you astray.  Was Withers able to tell you anything about Mowlett, Carolus?”

“Not consciously.  But I think I’m beginning to get some inkling of the truth.”

“That’s nice,” said Aunt Vicky cosily and became absorbed in her needlework.

❦

Death on Romney Marsh, Chapter Ten

Death on Romney Marsh

CHAPTER TEN

But was he?  Carolus wondered as he looked across the bar of the Laughing Cavalier at Little Goble next day.  The man he saw might be Withers himself, for all he knew, but did not seem able to tell him anything at all.

“Withers?” he repeated indifferently.  “Can’t say I know the name.”

“It may have been some years ago.”

The landlord was polite enough to reconsider in the light of this fresh detail.

“No,” he said at last.  “Don’t remember ever hearing the name.  Used to come in, did he?”

“I really don’t know.  He may have been the landlord.”

“Shouldn’t think so.  I’d know the name if he was.  I’ll ask the wife.”  He opened a sliding door in a serving hatch and shouted—“Rose!”

A shrill voice answered from regions out of sight.

“What you want?”

“What was the name of the people who were here before we were?”

“MacGregor!”

“What about before them?”

“I don’t know.  I’ve got my work to do.  Ask old Fred!”

The landlord glanced towards the only other occupant of the bar, an ancient who had shewn the most complete indifference to his surroundings so far.

“Trouble is to make him hear,” said the landlord, coming round to the customer’s side of the bar.

“Fred!” he shouted lustily.

Fred nodded, acknowledging that contact had been made.

“Know anyone called Withers?”

“Who?”

“Withers.”

“Yes.”

“What was he?”

Fred thought for a long time.

“He was the landlord,” he said.

“What, here?”

“Yes.”

“Before the MacGregors?”

“Yes.  Used to buy me a pint very often.”

“Never mind your pint,” said the landlord quietly, winking to Carolus.  “What became of him?”

“Can’t say,” said Fred emptying his glass.

Carolus asked for its replenishment.

“Move away, did he?” shouted the landlord.

“Couldn’t say,” replied Fred, drinking.

“I’m afraid that’s all he knows.  He’d say if there was anything else.”

But suddenly the voice from the back regions was heard again raised in a high-pitched shout.  It was a morning for shouting.

“It was some people called Withers.  I’ve just thought of it.”

“Yes.  Fred’s told us that.  What happened to them?”

“How should I know?  It was before we came.”

“There you are,” said the landlord to Carolus.  “No one seems to know.”

Carolus waited.  The landlord was roused now to the pursuit and would only have to wait till the next customer appeared.

As a matter of fact he did not have to wait so long.  The voice rang out again.

“They took over a pub just outside Dover,” it yelled.  The Blue Boys at High Latham.”

“Dover?” said Carolus involuntarily.

“That’s what the wife says, and she’s very seldom wrong about anything like that.”

Carolus expressed his gratitude, bought everyone another drink and departed in search of yet another pub.  He could think of less pleasant ways of spending a day of the Christmas holidays.

The Blue Boys was a very different sort of house.  Though it may once have been no larger or more pretentious than the Laughing Cavalier its position on a main road had meant reconstruction, enlargement, modernisation, and the car park was as large as a football ground.  There was soft lighting in the bar, a formidable display of snacks and a titty barmaid waiting to take his order.

As he entered he looked up at the licensee’s name over the door and was relieved to find it was Leslie Withers.  His search, presumably, was ended.

He ordered a large scotch.

“Is Mr. Withers about?” he asked the pink-and-gold young woman behind the bar.

“He’ll be down in a minute,” she said.

“He was.  A large man in his fifties who had been handsome and had a certain easy-going confident air about him greeted Carolus.

“You wanted to see me?”

“Yes.  My name’s Deene.  I’m trying to find a man named Edwin Mowlett.”

“All the ease and self-confidence left Withers.  He paused for a moment, then said—“I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“Did you know he was missing from Shirley Cross?”

“I have heard something.  I didn’t take much notice.  I’ve got too much to do.”

“You see, Mr. Withers, your own departure from Shirley Cross—about ten years ago, wasn’t it?—caused a good deal of talk.  When Mowlett disappeared, too, people remembered it.”

“Well, here I am,” said Withers, a little of his easy matter returning.

“But you did leave rather suddenly.”

“I don’t know.  I just left.  How do you come into this, Mr. Deene?”

“I’ve been asked by Mowlett’s nephew . . .”

“Gaston?”

It was Carolus’s turned to be surprised.

“Yes.  That’s it.  He asked me to try to find his uncle.”

“Oh, he did?”  Was there something sceptical in that question?

“I thought you might be able to help me.”

“Sorry, old man.  I don’t know anything about it.”

“On the contrary you know quite a good deal about it.  You knew he had a nephew called Gaston, for instance.”

“Oh, he told me about him when I was there.”

“But you’ve heard nothing since?”

“Not a word.”

“Or of Mowlett himself?”

“Nope.  I’m afraid I’ve got a lot to do now.”

“My aunt remembers you,” said Carolus in a more friendly tone.  “Victoria Morrow.”

Withers smiled.

“I remember Miss Morrow.  I thought a lot of her when I was a young man.”

“Do you mind if I recall one or two things to you?  Ten years ago, in 1958 in fact, you’re still living up at Shirley Cross.  You had lost your wife during the war and remained alone.  I believe you had a cottage.”

“That’s right.”

“Cuchran was living it up quite a bit.  Entertaining what are still remembered in the district as horsey types.  Or at least race-going.  Then suddenly everything changed.  You left.  Cuchran produced his second wife.  The entertaining ceased.  The house settled down to gloom and desolation.  Why?”

“As you say, I left before all that happened.”

“I wish you would tell me why you left.”

“That’s easy.  I’d had another of it.  I went there first before the war you know, and went back.  I was fed up with gardening.”

Carolus looked at the expensive suit which Withers wore, his carnation and his well-kept hands.

“Yes.  I understand that.  Had your going anything to do with the other events?”

“Don’t know.  I’d left before they happened.”

“There had been a lot of talk at the time of the first Mrs. Cuchran’s death.  My aunt still believes she was murdered.”

Withers surprised Carolus.  He looked at him squarely and said with angry emphasis—“Well, she wasn’t.”

“I’m glad you say that.”

“You can put it right out of your head.”

“You seem very sure.”

“I am very sure.  But I can’t stop here talking now.  But there’s something I want to tell you—for your own sake.  Are you lunching here?”

“Probably.”

“Then we could talk after I close and have a rest.  Say five o’clock?”

“Very well,” said Carolus.

He waited until Withers had left the room then quickly followed him through the door.  He was in time to see him leave the hall by a door marked Private.”

The pink blonde had not observed him go, he thought.

“Where does the door in the hall marked Private lead to?” he asked her.

“Only to Mr. Wither’s office.  Where he does his accounts and that.”

“Is that where he’d go to telephone?” Carolus asked with shameless curiosity.

“That’s right,” said the blonde.

But when Withers was waiting for him later in the hall, Carolus found a very different man from the genial landlord of the morning.  They went into an empty room called The Lounge.

“I know all about you,” said Withers without much friendliness.

“Quick, weren’t you?  It’s this new dialling system.”

Withers seemed to be considering Carolus.

“Look here, Deene,” he said at last.  “I’m going to advise you seriously to keep out of this affair.”

“What affair?”

“Don’t let’s play question and answer.  I’m in earnest.  You think Cuchran is a drunk with a crazy wife, quite alone and unprotected.  You’ve never been more wrong in your life.  He was a powerful man once and can be again at any time he wants.”

“Powerful?  In what milieu?”

“A damned dangerous one.  He could have your corpse washed ashore any morning he wanted and it wouldn’t cost him much, either.”

“Has he given proof of that sort of power already?  Is that what you’re worried about?  Anyone can hire thugs.”

“Can they?  You try, without the connections.  The very least that can happen to you if you go on meddling is to get beaten up beyond recognition.  I’m telling you this in time.  Can’t you see this isn’t the sort of thing you go in for?  This is no chess problem for an amateur sleuth.  There are dangerous people involved in this.”

“You keep talking about ‘this’.  So far as I’m concerned an old butler has disappeared and his nephew and heir wants to find him.”

“Does he?  I shouldn’t be too sure of that.”

“When did you last see your . . . Mowlett?” Carolus asked.

“When?  About ten years ago.  You’re a difficult man to help.  I’ve told you Cuchran did not kill his wife.  Isn’t that enough?”

“You haven’t told me what I’m trying to discover—What happened to Mowlett?”

“I told you I left there ten years ago and have never been back.  How should I know anything about Mowlett?”

“You will own that there are a lot of interesting questions here.  That sudden departure of yours, so discreet that no one in the district knew for certain you had gone.  Then Mowlett.  Why does Cuchran behave as though he’d seen a ghost every time I mention you?  It’s all most intriguing.”

“It’s all far better left alone.”

“But there’s so much else to make it irresistible.  For instance, Mowlett left a Will.”

Watching the somewhat puffy and mottled face of the once handsome gardener, Carolus knew that this had scored.

“Left a Will?  You mean he has made his Will, like everyone else.”

“If you like.  But with it he left a sealed envelope, addressed to his executors, only to be opened after his death.”

“Well?  Not unusual, is it?”

“Tell me, Withers, what was the secret that you shared with Mowlett?”

Withers grinned.

“So now there’s a secret between me and Mowlett?  You’re really going to far, Deene.  You’ll be looking for a corpse in my cellar next.”

“Why not?  I found Cuchran’s cellar immensely revealing.  I’m not playing around with this case, Withers.  It’s silly to try to scare me off as you had tried.  You had far better tell me what you know.  I shall discover it eventually.”

Again Withers seemed to be considering.

“I can’t do that,” he said.

“Perhaps you’ve forgotten.  It’s a long time ago.”

“No.  I haven’t forgotten.”

“I’ve got certain ideas about this case,” said Carolus.  “They’re pretty vague up to now.  But if I am right it is you who are in danger, Not I.  You know that, don’t you?”

“In danger of what?”

“Prison.  A lot of it.  I think you should consider your position.  It is not the same as it was yesterday.  Because since yesterday I’ve learned a great deal.  It will never be the same again for you.”

“I can tell you nothing,” said Withers.  “Nothing at all.”

“You can’t?  Oh well.  Your bar has just opened so let’s drink to that.”

As they entered the saloon bar, in which they had met that morning, Carolus was immediately aware of two individuals sitting side-by-side on a settee.  Expensively dressed, with highly polished shoes and too much jewellery, they belonged to a type he knew.  He did not minimise their danger to himself.  It would not be too melodramatic to say that these were killers.

Withers did not speak to them but there was a secretive exchange of glances between the three of them.

Carolus felt very much alone.  In a way Withers was right—there were dangerous people involved in this.  Under the hooded scrutiy of the two thugs on the settee he drank his whisky and felt the menace about him.  Three men, one of them perhaps desperate, who would stop at nothing to remove him, were watching him from different angles.  He did not suppose that they intended to kill him, but as Withers said, the very least he could expect was to be beaten up beyond recognition.

His brain worked quickly.  The two had presumably been summoned by Withers after their conversation that morning.  He guessed they had put his car out of order and were waiting for him to go out to it when they would either beat him up in the car park or hustle him into their own car and take him somewhere less open to view.

The saloon was filling up now and they were unlikely to take any action in this room.

There was a single hope.

“May I use your telephone?” he asked the blonde.

“Over there.  That box in the corner.”

Withers said—“You can go to my office if you like.”  He spoke loudly enough for the two men on the settee to hear.

“No thanks.  This’ll do.  It’s nothing important,” said Carolus and entered the box.

It was as important, he knew, as his wholeness of limb for a long time to come, perhaps for life.  And the chances even then were against him.

❦