Death of Cold, Chapter Twenty-Four

Death of Cold

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Arrived at Oldhaven on Wednesday, Carolus drove first to the offices of The Evening Call, the local paper which Mr. Wirral had owned.  He asked to see the editor, and when he explained that he was investigating matters connected with the late proprietor at the request of Mr. Wirral’s daughter and son-in-law, he was shewn into a dingy office where he faced a little man called Nutter.  They shook hands, but Mr. Nutter said nothing, so that Carolus had to explain himself.

“There is a small point I want to clear up,” he said.  “You remember, of course, that Wirral disappeared on the day on which his daughter gave birth to her first child.”

Mr. Nutter looked dubious.  He seemed to be wondering whether he could be committing himself too far if he admitted that he remembered that.  After a moment he gave an unwilling nod.

“You published the news of the birth?”

He did not answer, but pressed a bell and told the young woman who appeared to bring a copy of the relevant issue of The Evening Call.  Then he stared defensively back at Carolus.

When the newspaper was brought, Carolus found the paragraph he wanted.

“Here it is.  But you announced the birth of a daughter.  Mrs. Fyrth had a son.”

Mr. Nutter rang again.

“Tickle,” he said enigmatically to the young woman.

A few moments later a stout young man bustled in.

“You want me?” he asked Nutter.

The editor pointed silently at Carolus, who exchanged nods with Mr. Tickle.

“Perhaps you can tell me about this announcement which appeared on the day the late Mayor disappeared.”

Tickle glanced quickly at the paragraph Carolus indicated.

“Yes,” he said.  “I wrote that.”

“The sex is wrongly stated.”

“I know.  They made a mistake at the hospital.”

“Oh, come now!  One hears occasionally of babies being attributed to the wrong mothers, never to the wrong sex.”

“I don’t mean that.  I suppose they can tell.  Though I’m dammed if I can with pigeons.  I keep fantails, and no one knows . . .  However.  The thing is that whoever ’phoned me made a blunder.  Said a baby girl had been born to Mrs. Firth.”

“Who ’phoned you?”

“He said he was the receptionist.”

“At what time?”

“Must have been about half-past three or four.  Just in time for our Final Very Late Night Super and Last Edition, which comes out about half-past five in the afternoon.”

“Have you ever checked up with the hospital?  Found out who mislead you?”

“Yes.  I ’phoned them next day.  They disclaimed all responsibility.  They have no receptionist, they said, and asked me how they could have ’phoned the news at four, when the baby wasn’t born till nearly six.  But I got the message clearly enough.”

“Thank you, Mr. Tickle,” said Carolus.  He turned to the editor.  “Thank you, Mr. Nutter,” he said.

In silence Mr. Nutter raised a deprecatory hand.

“Good-bye,” said Carolus brightly and firmly.

It seemed that Mr. Nutter had not heard.

From the newspaper office Carolus walked to the police station, leaving his car in the car-park.  Here he asked for Detective Sergeant Cotter, adding that he had an appointment with him.  He was taken upstairs and given a chair in a bare room.  Presently the plain-clothes man came in with his lanky assistant.

“I got your message, Mr. Deene,” said Sergeant Cotter.  “You say you have something of vital importance to tell us in the matter of the disappearance of Miss Pepys.”

“I have.”

“Well, I hope it is of vital importance, that’s all,” said Cotter.  “The last time we met you with tinkering round asking questions about the late Mayor.  I had to warn you about that, I remember.  You amateur detectives never seem to remember that we’re busy men.  Detective Constable Hawkins and I scarcely have a minute to ourselves.”

“Been a good season in public morality?” asked Carolus mischievously.

“Very good,” replied Cotter.  “Sixteen convictions, two on remand and one arrest pending.  I shouldn’t be surprised if we got Chummy tonight, would you, Detective Constable Hawkins?”

“I shouldn’t, Detective Sergeant Cotter.”

“Yes, a very good season.  Nine of them got prison sentences.”

“You must feel pleased with yourselves.”

“Well,” admitted Cotter, “it’s nice to get a few convictions, isn’t it?”

“Meanwhile two people in the town have been murdered.”

“Who are they?” asked Cotter affably.

“Wirral and Miss Pepys.”

“Aren’t you being rather silly, Mr. Deene, making statements like that?  You know the case of the Mayor is closed and won’t be re-opened.  As for Miss Pepys, she’s probably gone away for a few days without telling her landlady.  We get scores of these so-called disappearances, but they always turn up.  Except some of the married ones, poor devils.  If you had just a little bit of police experience you wouldn’t say she had been murdered.”

“I think perhaps I should, even then.  You see, I have seen the dead body.”

There was a long pause.

“This is a very serious matter, Mr. Deene.  If you have information like that and have not given it to the proper quarters you will find yourself in serious trouble.”

“I’ll risk that,” said Carolus.

“Where is this body?”

“I’m going to take you to it presently, provided you agree to certain conditions.”

“I’m afraid you’re not in a position to make conditions, Mr. Deene.  We shall require to know where the cadaver is.  It sounds to me as though there might be a charge against you of accessory after the fact.  What do you think?” he asked his assistant.

“Sounds very much like it,” said the tall man.

“In that case you’d better make the charge now,” said Carolus.  Because I’ve no intention of giving you any information at all unless my conditions are fulfilled.”

There was another pause.

“Let’s hear what you have to say,” conceded Cotter.

“Wirrall was murdered,” said Carolus flatly.  “I know roughly when and where and certainly by whom, but one very important detail is lacking.  I cannot see quite how.”

“He was drowned,” Cotter pointed out.

“I know.  It’s not as simple as that.  But we’ll go into that later.  Wirral, as I say, was murdered.  Only one person knew the murderer’s identity, and she didn’t know it as the murderer’s identity.  I mean only one person had a piece of information which, rightly interpreted, would shew who killed Wirral.  That person was Miss Pepys.”

“All this seems like wild guesswork to me, Mr. Deene.  But go on.”

“But a nice substantial corpse concealed in a safe place would not seem like guesswork, even to you, would it?  That’s what I can produce.  Wirral was murdered and the crime was a great success.  The police publicly ceased to be interested in the case and the murderer had got away with it.  Then up comes Miss Pepys with a little piece of knowledge which endangers the whole thing.  There is only one remedy for it.  She has to be killed, too.

“But the point is this.  I can tell you who was the murderer.  I can tell you how it was planned and to some extent how it was carried out.  I can give you every detail of time and place.  But I cannot support it with a scrap of evidence that is not wholly circumstantial.  You wouldn’t have a ghost of a chance of a conviction on what I have.  You might find something concrete to support it when you came to search in various places, but that can’t be risked.  The murderer of these two people must be identified by surer means than that.”

“This is all in the air,” said Cotter.  “I don’t see what there is to suggest that Wirral was murdered and I have only your word for it that Miss Pepys was.  We like facts, not theories, Mr. Deene.”

“So do I,” said Carolus.  “That’s why I intend to provide you with some.  There is only one way to do so.  The murderer has eliminated one person who knew too much.  Another such person must be provided.”

“You mean?”

“I mean that the murderer now knows that I know.  If that murderer tries to kill me just as I am about to discover (as he thinks) the corpse of Miss Pepys, would that be sufficient evidence for you? ”

“Evidence of what?  Come down to earth, Mr. Deene.  If someone was to try to kill you, it would be evidence that he was trying to kill you.  What more?  It might be because you knew something about it, but we should have no proof of that.”

“No proof, no.  But if he knows that I have guessed where the corpse is and am on my way to find it, and he tries to kill me to prevent my doing so, surely there would be enough evidence against him to make you investigate with the fact in mind?”

“Possibly, yes.  Only I wish I could make you see that this is not a boy’s adventure story or a radio serial, Mr. Deene.  The police can’t work with all this supposition and theorizing.  Nor can I provide you with a lot of publicity by standing by to see if you’re attacked.”

“I want no publicity,” said Carolus rather sadly.  “I want this murderer hanged.”

“We all do, if there is a murderer.”

“But there is.  Surely you’ll let me prove it to you.”

“What exactly do you want?”

“A very simple thing.  I want to go alone to the place where the corpse of Miss Pepys is hidden.  It can be surrounded at a distance, if you like.”

“What good will that do?  You don’t think the murderer will be sitting beside the woman he is killed, do you?”

“Yes, Sergeant Cotter.  Oddly enough, I do.  Or waiting near.  The murderer is expecting me there this evening.  The murderer knows that I’m coming to that place tonight.”

Once again Cotter turned to his assistant.

“What do you think of all this?” he asked.

“It sounds a lot like a lot of skylarking to me.”

“That, Mr. Deene, is what it does sound like.”

Carolus was tired and exasperated.

“You talk of convictions in your cases,” he said wearily.  “Don’t you want a conviction for murder?  I can promise you all the details you need, and they will be substantiated by the murderer’s attempt to silence me.  I want no part in the case as it eventually unrolls.  I’m just a chance visitor who came on the corpse and was attacked by the murderer.”

“Yes.  I see that.  But you haven’t told us who the murderer is.”

“You’ll see that tonight.”

“At least you undertake to lead us to the body of Miss Pepys?”

“If I have your word that I approach it first alone.”

“I should be taking a grave responsibility.”

“You would be arresting a murderer.”

“I don’t like it, Mr. Deene.  I don’t like amateurs and muddlers.  I am a police officer with cut-and-dried duties, and a lark of this kind is right outside our procedure.  On the other hand, I don’t deny that if you really do know where the body of Miss Pepys is concealed, you will be saving us a great deal of time and trouble by taking us to it.”  He appealed to his assistant for support.

“Do you agree?” he asked rather sharply.

“I think it’s a bit of a pantomime, but it’s worth a try.”

“That settles it, then, Mr. Deene.  What time do you suggest?”

“About nine,” said Carolus.  “But clearly I shall have to tell you in advance where it is so that you can make arrangements.  Have I your word that when you have the information you will play fair?”

“Yes, Mr. Deene, you had the word of a police officer.”

“I should prefer the word of an ex-Gunner, as I understand you are.”

Detective Sergeant Cotter hesitated.

“You can have that, too,” he said.  “Now where shall we be making for?”

They went into conference.

Death of Cold, Chapter Twenty-Three

Death of Cold

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

When Mr. Gorringer, the headmaster of Queen’s school, Newminster, wanted to see one of his staff he had two ways of effecting the interview, according to his reasons for requiring it.  If it was some small matter to be settled by ‘a word’ with the victim he would call forcefully but surely across the quadrangle—“Ah, Deene!” or “Ah, Hollingbourne!”  But if it were some more formal occasion on which Mr. Gorringer wanted to ‘point out’, ‘bring to the notice’, ‘insist on a change’ or ‘require an explanation’, he would take up his place behind the large writing-table in his study and stretch out a resolute finger to an electric bell-push.  This summoned the school porter.

On the Tuesday after the visit of Carolus too Oldhaven, the headmaster did precisely this.

Muggeridge, the porter, was an aggrieved individual who wore an archaic uniform designed by the headmaster to give dignity to his office.  It consisted of a silk hat with gold braid and a dark blue frock-coat with silver buttons.  When he had first appeared in this garb, soon after Mr. Gorringer had been appointed, there was a great deal of what the headmaster called ‘unseemliness’ from the boys, and Muggeridge have never become quite reconciled to his costume.  He had, two, a tired and resentful way of addressing Mr. Gorringer which irritated the headmaster.

Today, for instance, instead of presenting himself smartly and saying, “You rang, sir” in a cheerful, willing voice, he half entered the headmaster’s door and said “Yes? ”

Mr. Gorringer privately decided that he must find a new school porter whose manner conformed to the period of his uniform.

“Find Mr. Deene,” said the headmaster sharply.

“He’s having his dinner,” said Muggeridge resentfully.  “Same as I was.”

“I did not ask what you were doing.  Be so good as to find Mr. Deene as soon as he returns to the school and ask him to come and see me.”

Muggeridge withdrew, and Mr. Gorringer stirred in his chair, his large ears red with anger or constipation or possibly both.  When Carolus appeared there was no affable “Ah, Deene,” but a grim request to him to be seated.  Carolus waited while the headmaster deliberately read and signed a report which, as both men new, had been kept on the desk till Carolus’s arrival for this very purpose.

Mr. Gorringer looked up.

“Mr. Deene,” he began solemnly.  “It is not my habit to inquire into the activities of my staff out of school hours, provided these bring no discredit on the good name of the school.  Mr. Hollingbourne, as you know, is engaged in poultry-farming on quite a large scale, I understand, while Mr. Beardley deals in antiques, using the house which the school has provided for him as a show-room for his choicer pieces of furniture.  I make no demur.  I am a broad-minded man.  I have never wished to be carping or critical.  But you, Mr. Deene, have put me in an intolerable situation.  You force me to speak frankly.  I have been astonished, nay shocked to hear that you had again become involved in murder.  This is you perfectly well know, I cannot for a moment countenance.  Poultry and antiques are one thing—murder is quite another.”

“Obviously,” Carolus could not resist retorting.

Mr. Gorringer ignored this.  It was plain that he had decided what he wished to say and would not be deflected from it.

“On a previous occasion when you thrust yourself on the police—who, I cannot help feeling, were entirely adequate to deal with the matter without your aid—you brought us all into ridicule and notoriety by making yourself the centre of two incidents described by the Press as attempts on your life.  It became known that the Senior History Master of the Queen’s School, Newminster, had been dabbling in detection and had nearly met his deserts.  Paragraphs even appeared in the national Press.  I hoped at the time I had shewn you how much this pained me.  I did not think it necessary to remonstrate with you, but strove to indicate by my manner the displeasure I felt.”

“I thought it was a bout of dyspepsia,” said Carolus

“I felt chagrin and disappointment that a member of my staff should have become embroiled in a matter so sordid.  But it seems that I failed to shew you this, for I can scarcely believe that you would again have allowed yourself to be entangled in crime if you hadn’t realized your headmaster’s sentiments.”

There came to Carolus during this tirade a swift and disturbing vision of the dead body of Miss Pepys still lying, undiscovered except by him, in the locked bathing-hut.  What, he wondered, would Mr. Gorringer think if he knew of Carolus’s action, or failure to act, in that matter?  What would he say if he knew of the plans which Carolus had for Wednesday?

“When I was first told, by the parents of a boy related to one of the persons involved in the events at Oldhaven, that you actually spent your holiday poking and prying into the unfortunate suicide of a respected citizen, I thought my ears must be betraying me.  You had given me as your reason for visiting a resort so little suited to your station is a member of my staff the fact that the local repertory company was presenting a series of the plays by late George Bernard Shaw.  I refused to believe that the demise of the Mayor had beeen responsible for your presence in the place.”

“It wasn’t.  I was there when it happened.”

Mr. Gorringer raised his hand.

“You will have an opportunity to excuse yourself in a moment, Mr. Deene.  Pray allow me to conclude my remarks.  My natural incredulity, however, was overridden.  I now have it, on unimpeachable authority, that you have again spent the week-end at Oldhaven, nosing and hobnobbing with undesirables, and a boy from the school, whose conduct had already been the subject of my anxiety expressed to you, was down there with you.  I am frankly horrified.  That you should yourself shew a morbid interest in the misdemeanours of barmaids in salesmen of dubious literature is bad enough.  That you should have allowed the mind of a pupil to be corrupted by such things is surely inexcusable.  Quite inexcusable.”

Mr. Gorringer now sat in silence, and Carolus sensed that his great ears were out like feelers, eager for his answer.

He spoke cheerfully, with a casual politeness not well suited to Mr. Gorringer’s rhetoric.

“I am sorry, headmaster,” he said.  “You’re certainly right about Priggley.  I did not ask him to come down, but I ought to have sent him back at once.  As a part of my investigation that day took me to church I was tempted to watch the effects of a sermon on that tiresomely sophisticated youth.  I should not, however, have let him come with me afterwards.”

Mr. Gorringer gravely nodded, as though in acknowledgement of that much conceded.

“But as for the rest of it, I must be as frank you.  I am not going to see a man murdered, cruelly and deliberately, and allow his killer to escape when I can prevent it.”

“Surely the local detective force . . .”

“The local detective force could not spare time from their work on what they call public morality.”

“Mr. Deene!”

“I’m sorry, headmaster, but, as I have told you, I was on holiday in Oldhaven when this happened.  I was appealed to by a young doctor and his wife, relatives of the dead man, to discover the truth.  I should have felt it was a mean and cowardly betrayal not to have done so.”

“But your position . . .”

“This was a matter of life and death, headmaster.  No consideration of any kind would have justified me in funking the issue.  That I was right has been proved by the fact that there has been a second murder.”

Carolus watched Mr. Gorringer struggling with himself.  Finally his curiosity triumphed.

“Who?” he whispered.

“A harmless little woman who knew too much.  I understand your predicament, but there are things more important to me even than my post in the school.  I think in the circumstances, since you feel so strongly about it, my best course will be to res—”

It was clear that the matter was going farther than Mr. Gorringer had intended.

“There is no need for any precipitate decision, Mr. Deene,” he said hurriedly.  “I have the liveliest appreciation of your gifts.  I have asked you here because I must ensure that the good name of the Queen’s School shall not be jeopardized by any thoughtless action.”

“I know.  But if that good name is so sensitive it may well be.  I am going down to Oldhaven tomorrow, when I hope to clear up this whole beastly case.”

“If that can be done discreetly . . .”

“It’s very doubtful.  All my evidence against the murderer is circumstantial.  If I don’t succeed in trapping the creature in a certain spot, my work will have gone for nothing.”

“You mean you intend once more to invite an attack on your person.”

“It’s the only way.  And this time there will be no nonsense about it.  This one’s a killer, cold and ruthless.”

“But, Mr. Deene, this may mean a repetition of the unwelcome publicity of the last occasion.”

“It may.  I’m sorry, headmaster.”

Mr. Gorringer frowned.

“Is there no way in which it can be avoided?”

“None.”

“I hardly know what to say.”

“Let me again offer you my resig—”

“No, no.  That is no solution.  Is there nothing that I can say which will dissuade you?”

“I am afraid not.”

“At least I have done my duty,” said Mr. Gorringer.  “I have made my attitude clear and shewn you the full consequences of what you propose to do.  I forbid you to go, Mr. Deene.  Formally and with all the authority of my position I forbid you to go.  I also appeal to you as a man of experience and as a friend to abandon this folly and allow the police to do the work for which they are paid.”

“I’m sorry, headmaster.”

“I can say no more.  I shall have to consult the governors.  My resources are at an end.  It is clear that I have no influence with you.”

“In this matter, no one has.”

“I unwillingly concede that.  I shall say no more.  Perhaps you would like a cigarette.”

Carolus stared incredulously at Mr. Gorringer.  This was the first time since the headmaster’s arrival at the school nine years ago that he had been known to offer anyone a cigarette.  Carolus accepted.

“I wonder whether you would care to join me in a glass of port wine.  You’re not due in your classroom for another half-hour, I think.”

Carolus was only just able to control himself.  This was not only unprecedented, it was unbelievable.

“I . . . I shall be delighted,” he gasped.

Mr. Gorringer went to a cupboard and brought out a decanter with an inch of red liquor in it which looked as though it might have been there for a month or more.  He poured a little into each of two dusty glasses.  Carolus raised his.

Then the headmaster produced his greatest surprise.  Looking Carolus straight in the eyes he spoke solemnly.

“Cheerio,” he said.

After a moment’s silence, in which Carolus gazed wonderingly at his chief, the headmaster spoke again.

“I was afraid it would be useless,” he said.  “But my duty was clear.  I hope that nothing I have said has hurt your feelings.  The thing had to be put clearly and with emphasis.”

“Quite so.”

“I should not wish there to be any ill-feeling between us.”

Carolus sipped some of the dark syrup in his glass and said, “Of course not.”

The headmaster drank too, apparently with enjoyment.  Then he leaned across the table to Carolus.

“Tell me, Deene,” he said.  “Who murdered the Mayor of Oldhaven?”

Carolus smiled, but did not answer.

“Of course,” said Mr. Gorringer irritably.  “Your lips are sealed.  But you can tell me one thing.  Were both murders the work of one person?”

“I can tell you that, said Carolus.  Yes.  They were.”

❦

Death of Cold, Chapter Twenty-Two

Death of Cold

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“So, having nipped round to see Mrs. Thump,” said Rupert Priggley, “you must pop down to interview Rowlands, slip in to see Mrs. Hammock and hop over to have tea with the Tiplocks.  Quite an athletic afternoon.”

“I think we can manage it.  Mrs. Thump, by the way, carried our knowledge of Wirral’s movements a stage farther.  The last we knew of him before was that he had left Gladys’s bar somewhere round about six-thirty, promising to return shortly to celebrate.  Now we know that he went in the direction of the pier gates.”

“And may have gone through them?”

“There we’re up against the evidence of Old Hammond, who is positive he would have seen him.  However, we’ll see what Rowlands has to say.”

Rowlands at first had nothing to say.

“I’ve already told you, Mr. Deene, that I do not approve of private detectives.  I hear you were engaged in all that wish-wash and flapdoodle up at the church this morning and that my daughter gave you to understand that I have some further information.  She had no business to say anything of the kind.”

“Your daughter, like all decent people, is concerned by the disappearance of Miss Pepys, whom you have often seen on the pier.”

“Another psalm-singer and Pharisee,” commented Rowlands.

“Did she ever do you any harm?”

“No.  But . . .”

“Then for goodness’ sake don’t talk like a penny tract.  You atheists are more narrow and intolerant and bigoted than any sect of Christians ever formed.  What is it you have to tell me, now?”

Rowlands stared at Carolus, then a slow smile spread over his face.

“I always say, I like a man who speaks his mind,” he observed.  “I will tell you what I heard that night.  Or rather in the small hours of the morning.  I had been having a nap, as I am perfectly entitled to do.  In the stalls of the theatre, as a matter of fact.  I do not know whether any sound woke me, but I suddenly found myself listening.

“My duty was plain.  I stood up and made my way out of the theatre, then went on deck.  There was almost no wind now and the sea was calm, but it was very dark.  As I stood there I wondered at the stillness of the night.  You see my God is the moonlight over the sea, the clouds in the night sky . . .”

“The dog in the manger?”

“The dawn on the downs,” assented Mr. Rowlands.  “Everything, everywhere.  I felt the presence that night, though there was little I could see in the blackness.  Then, as I stood there, I heard in the distance the thud of an engine.  A motor-boat was moving in the darkness and carried no light.  At first the sound was muffled and distant, but I waited as it came nearer.  It was hard to tell from what direction it came.  It seemed to be approaching from the open sea.  I stood quite still, listening.”

Carolus did the same now.  He seemed entranced by this narrative.

“It was soon clear to me that the boat was making for the pier.  Then quite suddenly it seemed to be almost underneath.  Sounds in the darkness have that trick—you can’t tell where they come from until they’re suddenly quite near you.  I wondered whether the people in the boat knew the pier was there.  They must be able to see it outlined, I thought.  I shouted down.”

“What?” asked Carolus. 

“Ahoy!” said Rowlands.  “I do not claim to be a nautical man.  I do not dress up as an old sea-dog.  But I believe that to be correct word to use to the occupants of a boat.  ‘Ahoy!’ I shouted.  There was no reply.  Then suddenly the engine of the boat was switched off.  I shouted again:  ‘Ahoy there!’  Still no answer.  So I began going towards the landing-stage.  I could not hurry, for I had left my torch in the theatre and had only my knowledge of the pier to guide me.  I went as fast as I could.  But before I had reached the landing-stage the engine of the boat had restarted and already she was moving away.  I shouted again, but to no avail.  The boat was travelling fast, I think.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes.  I went up on to the deck of the pier and heard the sound of the engine growing less and less until I could hear it no more.”

“Had you been down to the landing-stage earlier that evening?”

“No, Mr. Deene.  That was no part of my duties.  You are in inferring, perhaps, that someone, possibly Mr. Wirral, could have been waiting there and have been taken off by the boat?  Yes, that is possible.”

When Carolus and Rupert were alone it was Rupert who voiced their irritation with this late piece of information.

“Just as it began to look as though Wirral walked off the pier that evening when he passed Mrs. Thump, it now begins to look as though he was still on in the small hours.  The thing gets harder instead of easier.  Who’s next? ”

“The Original Gypsy Lee,” said Carolus.

“Oh, goody.”

They found Mrs. Hammock wearing her regalia in a slightly shamefaced manner.

“They wouldn’t listen if I didn’t,” she explained.  “They’d think I wasn’t genuine.  You can’t believe how mean some of them have been lately.  Poking and prying and asking questions.  One tried to catch me up yesterday—a thin party dressed in mourning.  Wanted to know when her father had died.  I could see there was a catch it, and said that if she didn’t know, who did?  She said surely I could tell, but I was too quick for her.  I looked at the crystal a minute and said, ‘Your father isn’t dead.’  That made her jump because she’d been trying to have me.  ‘Suppose I was to say I’d been to his funeral?’ she asked.  ‘If so,’ I told her as quick as a flash, ‘it was only your father in name.  Your real father’s alive.’  She began to turn nasty.  ‘What are you trying to say?’ she asked.  ‘It’s not what I say,’ I told her.  ‘It’s what the stars say.’  She couldn’t find anything to answer.  What is it you want to ask me about this time?”

“I don’t quite know,” admitted Carolus.  “I just had the feeling that there was something more you could tell me.”

Mrs. Hammock chuckled.

“Had the feeling, did you?  That’s supposed to be my line, not yours.  What sort of thing?”

“Something you overlooked, perhaps.  Or that didn’t seem important to you.  Almost everyone I talked to about the case has remembered something since.”

“I’ve got a good memory,” said Mrs. Hammock.  “You have to have in this job.  You wouldn’t believe they were so artful and dirty but they come back again and pay another half-crown to see if they can make you contradict yourself.  Well, they do.  But I never forget a face.  There’s nothing I forgot to tell you, either.”

“Something you held back on purpose, perhaps?” ventured Carolus.

Mrs. Hammock was amused.

“So you know about that, do you?  I thought perhaps you might.  Been talking to the party with the ginger wig, then?”

“I have.  Yes.”

“There’s no reason why you shouldn’t know, I suppose.  I held it back because I didn’t want to be mixed up in it.  Yes, she did come here to have a consultation that afternoon.  And I told her what Mr. Wirral told me to.”

“About her life being in danger?”

“Yes.  Well, it only seemed a sort of joke, then.  How was I to know it was to be murders and that?  I was only trying to oblige Mr. Wirral, I’m sure.”

“How did you put it?” asked Carolus.

“I may have said it rather too strong,” said Mrs. Hammock.  “And coming from an Original Gypsy Lee it seemed to upset her properly.  ‘In danger?’ she said.  ‘What kind of danger?’  ‘The stars don’t say that,’ I told her.  ‘You can’t expect them to be able to tell you details,’ I said, ‘but danger’s there, red and horrible, waiting to strike.’  ‘Is it from a man?’ she said, as though she was half hoping it might be.  ‘A man or men,’ I told her.  ‘An old friend?’ she wanted to know, and I saw what this was leading up to.  ‘No,’ I said, ‘not from an old friend.  But there are those who feel jealousy and hatred for you because of an old friend,’ I said.  ‘If I was in your shoes I should flee!’ I told her.”

“Did you really?  Flee? ” put in Rupert Priggley.  “Such a splendid word, I always think.”

“She seemed ever so upset.  ‘I can’t, not till tomorrow,’ she said.  ‘Then off you go first thing in the morning out of harm’s way,’ I said.  ‘And don’t walk alone today or you never know.’  What do you think she asked me then?  ‘Is it all right for me to go and have my hair done?’ she asked because she’d got an appointment with Esmée’s at half-past five.  ‘Yes, but don’t linger,’ I told her.”

“Linger!” said Rupert appreciatively.

“She went out looking ever so white.  I was half sorry I’d gone so far because I don’t like upsetting anyone.  But I was only doing what Mr. Wirral asked me.”

“Of course you were.  But I’m very glad you told me now.  Do you remember what time it was when she left you.”

“Not much after five, it couldn’t have been.”

“Did she say anything to make you suppose she had spoken to Mr. Wirral when she came to you?”

“Yes.  When she talked about her old friend she said something about having been talking with him that afternoon.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hammock.  I won’t keep you any more.  I see you have some clients waiting.”

“Oh, they can wait,” said Mrs. Hammock unkindly.  “Ten to one they’ve only come to try and catch me out.”

When Carolus and Rupert were alone and pacing the resounding planks of the pier, little was said for some minutes.  Then Carolus looked at his watch and remarked that it was time to go round to the Tiplocks.

“If these are up to standard it will have been a pleasant Sunday afternoon,” said Rupert.

Tiplock himself opened the door beside the shop.

“Don’t take any notice of her,” he whispered confidentially to Carolus.  “She can’t get it out of her head you’ve got something to sell me.  She’s been a bit funny about anything like that ever since they pinched me.  Come on up.”

They climbed the linoleum to the first floor and entered a sitting-room.  Mrs. Tiplock was evidently a woman who believed in furniture and floor polish, for everything shone and smelt of it.  There was an uncompromising neatness and symmetry about the arrangement of the room which made one feel an intruder in a furniture shop window.

“Sit down,” said Mr. Tiplock.  “She’ll bring us in a cup of tea in a minute.  You can imagine how upset she was when the Law came and turned out all these drawers and cupboards, can’t you?  The dirty, nosy creepers.  All for a few little photographs you could almost have had on your walls.  Now what is it you want to know about?  I thought I told you all there is to tell about that afternoon.”

“You may have,” said Carolus.  “But on your own admission you remained on or near the pier until much later that day, and I can’t help feeling you must have seen Wirral again.”

Tiplock made no direct answer.

“I can’t see why I should go out of my way to tell you anything about that old bastard,” he said.  “I don’t care how he died after what he did to me.  ”

“You’ve no proof that he did anything.  Besides, that’s not really the point.  If you know any more it may help other people.  I’m only asking as a favour, but, since Miss Pepys has disappeared, the police may have to take up the whole case and they will want to know a good deal more about your movements.  After all, you did talk of throwing Wirral into the sea.”

“Suppose I had something else to tell you which might involve me further?”

“I should still advise you to tell me.”

They were interrupted by the entrance for Mrs. Tiplock with a tray.  She gave a curt nod to Carolus and Rupert.

“You know what I told you,” she said to Tiplock.

“It’s all right, ducks.  He only wants to know about old Wirral.”

“Well, you don’t know anything.”

She avoided speaking to Carolus.

“I don’t see any harm . . .” began Tiplock.

“You know what happened before.”

“That was nothing to do with it.”

“You please yourself.  If you go inside again I shan’t stay here, I tell you that.  I shall sell the shop and go back to London.”

“That’s all right, ducks.  No one’s going inside again.”

“You far better keep your mouth shut.”

“Oh, leave off, ducks.  It’s nothing much I’ve got to tell the man.”

“You don’t know what they’ll make of it.”

Tiplock turned to Carolus.

“I did see Wirral again that night,” he said defiantly.

“I am warning you!” said Mrs. Tiplock.

“What time would it have been?”

“I shan’t keep the shop on this time,” said Mrs. Tiplock.  “Working my fingers to the bone for you to come out to.”

“Soon after half-past six it must have been.”

“Where?” asked Carolus.  He could scarcely keep the interest out of his voice.

“If you say any more I shall get up and go,” said Mrs. Tiplock fiercely.  “You’ll only get yourself into trouble.”

“In Albert Place.  Not twenty yards from the pier.”

“Had he come from the pier, then?”

“I should have thought once was enough, without your asking for it again.  You must like being in prison and all the customers asking me where you are, though they know quite well.”

“Don’t keep on, ducks.  I’ve got to tell the man, haven’t I?  Yes, he’d just come off the pier, and was in a hurry.  I’d been having a few quick ones in the Albion and felt just like telling him what I thought of him.”

“Perhaps you don’t mind making your wife a laughing stock.  It’s all very well for you with nothing to do but stitch a few mailbags.  What do you think people say?”

“And did you tell him?”

“Did I not?  I went straight up to him and let him have it.  ‘You mean hypocritical old so-and-so,’ I told him.  ‘I have a good mind to punch your face,’ I said.  He was he was walking on.  Then he said, ‘I’m going to ’phone for the police and give you in charge,’ he said.”

“There you are” said Mrs. Tiplock.  “That’s what comes of it.  What you want to put your head in a noose for I don’t know.”

“What happened?”

“I left him at the corner.  I just saw him going across to the telephone box and I went off.”

“You are sure you did not go across with him?”

“Dead sure.  I cleared off.”

“Did you see anyone else about?”

“No.  Not to notice.”

“You’ve done for yourself now,” said Mrs. Tiplock.  “Don’t come to me for sympathy, that’s all.  I shall tell you it’s your own fault, talking your head off like that.”

Even as she spoke she was refilling Carolus’s cup without asking him, a hostess in spite of herself.

❦

Death of Cold, Chapter Twenty-One

Death of Cold

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Carolus woke next morning to a clear, cold Sunday, but he felt anything but sparkling.  It was not that he was worried by being now on the wrong side of the law, though he knew perfectly well that in not reporting his discovery of the previous evening he was guilty of a serious offence.  It was not that he felt any threat to himself, though this must exist.  He felt a deep bitterness and horror over this crime, and these were new to him.  His academic investigations of the crimes of history had never reduced him to such sour disillusionment.

But for some days he could not report the presence of the body of poor little Miss Pepys in the bathing-hut.  To do so would be to abandon all chance of bringing the murderer to justice.  Every scrap of evidence he had so far was entirely circumstantial.  He was up against a distorted intelligence brilliant enough in crime to save the murderer from all consequences.  Unless the plan he had evolved should work—as with Lily Wirral’s promised aid it should—there would be no conviction.  It was a dangerous plan which could easily go wrong, but it was the only possible one.

So the body must remain unexamined, unburied and unmourned until it had played its part.  Only his fixed determination, more resolutely held than ever, that the murderer should hang, justified Carolus.  He knew all too plainly how he would be criticized for what he was doing, but he believed that it was right.  He had his own code and needed its support.

It was impossible to put his plan into execution for some days, and he had chosen Wednesday because it was a school half-holiday.  But that left him all today, Sunday, in Oldhaven, a valuable time in which to collect the new information which he needed in the light of the second murder.

He was nearly dressed when there was a knock at his door and Rupert Priggley came in.

“Can’t I escape from you for a single day?” moaned Carolus.

“Oh come, sir.  Don’t be like that.  You know I’m a likely lad when it comes to investigation.”

“I know you’re an odious little wretch far too old for your years.  Who won the match?”

“Match?  Oh, that.  I’d almost forgotten.  We did, I think.”

“Did you distinguish yourself?”

“I believe so.  The headmaster congratulated me.  You were rather a notable absentee.  Well, how’s the sleuthing?”

“All right, I suppose, if you mean have I formed an idea of the truth.  But this is a truly abominable business, Priggley, and I don’t feel cheerful about it at all.”

“What are our plans for today?”

“You’re going back to Newminster.  I’m going to have another talk with one or two people I’ve seen already.”

“Ha! ha!” said Rupert Priggley mirthlessly.  “Where do we start?”

Carolus looked at him, and for the first time a small smile was on his lips.

“At St. Winifred’s church,” he said.  “We’re going to what is called, I understand, the Eleven O’Clock.”

“Hell!” said Rupert.  “Must we?”

“We must.”

“Lots of nice suspects in the congregation?”

“Several people I want to see.”

“All right.”  He began to enter into the spirit of the occasion.  “But you can’t wear that tie.  Not for Church, sir.  Your whole get-up is in the worst possible taste.  Dark, sober clothes are demanded.”

“Let’s have some breakfast,” said Carolus.

An automatic chime was sounding from the miniature steeple of St. Winifred’s as they approached.  Carolus was watching the gathering congregation, and when he and Rupert had entered the newish building, he took a seat at the back.  Three women came in.

“Involved?” asked Rupert, seeing his interest.

“Yes.  The short one . . .”

“With the moustache?”

“Is Mrs. Thump, the late Mayor’s housekeeper.  The girl is Glad, the barmaid on the pier, and the other woman, I imagine, is her mother.  Her father also works on the pier but doesn’t believe in ‘running round churches’.”

“Anyone else in sight?”

“The nice ordinary woman who has just come in with her husband is the Original Gypsy Lee.”

“Really?  You surprise me.  She looks as though she had just been putting the joint in a low oven.”

“She probably has.  She is a splendid housewife, I believe.  Ah, and these are Mr. and Mrs. Tiplock.  I didn’t know they were church-goers.  I also see Mrs. Kemp, the landlady and friend of Miss Pepys who has recently disappeared.  I notice she’s wearing black.  And that stringy little woman with the fat, pimply son also gave me information.  I don’t know her name, but the boy’s is Len.”

“Who have we got to speak to after it’s over?”

“Mrs. Thump, chiefly,” said Carolus, and gave his attention to the Service as Mr. Pickthorne, the Vicar, entered in a clean and flowing surplice and a severe black stole.

The psalms, the hymns were sun, the responses chanted, the traditional Eleven O’Clock going forward to its climax—Mr. Pickthorne’s climb to the pulpit.  He preached so dully and deliberately and with such succulent enunciation that Carolus wondered why the B.B.C. had not discovered him.  But it was over at last, and Carolus hurried out to await Mrs. Thump and her friends.

“Well, you haven’t found out much, have you?” Mrs. Thump said, while Gladys Rowlands looked reproachfully at Carolus.

Carolus said something about it taking a long time to discover the truth.

“And where’s Miss Pepys?  That’s what I want to know,” went on Mrs. Thump.  “We were never what you might call friends, but I don’t like to think of her disappearing like that.”

“No.  I rather wanted to see you for a few moments, Mrs. Thump.  I think you may be able to help me.”

“Well, I’m not saying I’m not willing, if there’s anything I can do.  I’m going back to Glendower now, if you want to nip round after you’ve had your lunch.”

“Thanks.  I will.”

Gladys Rowlands drew him aside.

“Are you really any nearer to knowing how it happened?” she asked.  “I’ve been ever so upset about it.”

“Yes.  I think I am.”

“You don’t think he did for himself, do you?” she pleaded.  “I mean, I shouldn’t like to think that.”

“No, Gladys, I don’t.  I’m afraid Mr. Wirral was murdered.”

There were tears in her eyes.

“I’ve thought it all along,” she said, “though I’ve not like to say so.  What a wicked shame!  Will you be able to find out who did it?”

“There’s still a lot I want to know.”

She became thoughtful.

“Dad knows something,” she said at last.

“Something he hasn’t told me?”

“Yes.  But you mustn’t blame Dad.  He’s funny about a lot of things.  He doesn’t approve of private detectives.”

“I am not altogether surprised.  Do you think I might persuade him to tell me what he knows?”

“Well, he’s on duty this afternoon if you would like to pop down.  You can only try.”

“Thank you.”

Carolus left her and hurried to Mr. and Mrs. Tiplock.  The former greeted him amiably enough, but Mrs. Tiplock was very reserved, not to say hostile.

“Found out who did for the old man?” asked Tiplock cheerfully.

“I’m getting on,” said Carolus.  “I should like to see you again for a few minutes.”

“He doesn’t know anything about it,” put in Mrs. Tiplock snappily.

“I know I’d like to shake his hand, whoever it was,” said the bookseller.  “Tell you what, though, if you think I can help you pop round this afternoon and have a cup of tea.”

“You’ve got to go out,” said his wife.

“Not till later, though.  I don’t see what I can tell you, mind, but since you’re not the Law, I’m willing to try.  ’Bout five?”

“Thank you,” said Carolus.

Mr. and Mrs. Hammock were just leaving when Carolus caught up with them.

“This is the gentleman I told you about trying to find out about poor Mr. Wirral,” explained Mrs. Hammock, who looked as unoriginal as she was ungypsy-like this morning.  “Lovely service, wasn’t it?  I like a bit of singing, I must say.”

“Yes.  You don’t open your . . . you’re not at your place of business on Sunday, I expect?”

Mrs. Hammock became conspiratorial.

“Well, yes, I am,” she whispered.  “Just for an hour or so in the afternoon.  It’s such a good time I don’t like to miss it.”

Her husband grinned.

“Can’t keep her way from that lark,” he said.

“It’s not all beer and skittles, being an Original Gypsy Lee, said Mrs. Hammock.  Why?  Did you want a consultation?”

“You might call it that,” he said.

“You slip in, then.  About four would be the best time.”

At last Carolus and Rupert were free to leave the precincts of St. Winifred’s.

“A nice little programme,” gloated Rupert.  “Almost worth sitting through that sermon.  I counted seventy-three clichés in eighteen minutes.”

“Let’s go and have some lunch,” said Carolus.

He was feeling a little less gloomy now, but still very conscious of the diminutive corpse lying in the bathing-hut.

“I shall have to see Mrs. Thump alone,” he told Rupert Priggley when they were approaching Glendower, “because I’ve got to persuade her to tell me something she wants to keep to herself.  You can sit in the car or study the truly remarkable architecture of the house.”

“A beauty, I suppose?”  They drove into the short carriage-way.  “A turret, too!  1880, I should think.  Probably John Betjeman and I are the only people in England to appreciate it.”

Mrs. Thump was still masticating when she answered the bell.

“But you can come in,” she conceded.  “I’ve just finished.”

The heavy smell of food suited that house.  The rooms seemed even more portentous in style and decoration than when Carolus had seen them last.

“We’ve got the sale next week,” said Mrs. Thump, “then I’m going to my sister’s place for a bit till I make up my mind.  It’s difficult to know what to do for the best.  Now, what did you want to ask me about?”

“Mrs. Thump, I have reason to think that both Mr. Wirral and Miss Pepys were murdered,” said Carolus, trying to sound impressive.

“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised,” returned Mrs. pumped calmly.  “I always thought Miss Pepys was a bit too nosy for her own good.”

“That may be.  But surely you don’t want to hear of two people being murdered without doing all you can to bring the murderer to justice?  After all, it might be you next.”

Mrs. Thump, who had seemed a little phlegmatic, perhaps after a heavy lunch, now started.

“Whatever do you mean, me next?” she asked.

“Miss Pepys, I believe, was murdered because she knew too much.”

“Well, I don’t, do I?”

“I can’t say.  You’ve never told me how much you do know.”

“I’ve told you everything.”

“Not quite, Mrs. Thump.  You haven’t told me when you left the pier or when you last saw Mr. Wirral.  Surely whatever reason you had for holding this back is gone now?  For your own sake as well as for others’, I do ask you to tell me.  I assure you it’s really important.”

Mrs. Thump sat deliberating for more than half a minute.

“I suppose there isn’t quite all that reason for not telling you now, though mind you I shall always deny having said anything of the sort if you try to repeat it.  I’ll tell you what little there is to tell, but you must keep the part that’s only my business to yourself.  You’ll soon see what I mean.”

“All right,” said Carolus.

Suddenly a fearsomely ogling expression spread over her hispid face.

“I’d like a little flutter,” she admitted.

“We all do.”

“Sometimes it gets the better of me,” said Mrs. Thump.  “I don’t seem able to help myself.  I just fancy something and willy-nilly I must back it.  There’s no holding me.  Come what may, I have to have my fling.  I say to myself, ‘You know you oughtn’t.’  But it’s no good.  What’s bred in the bone, I suppose.  My father was brought up with horses, and drove the last fly in this town.  If somebody tells me something it’s as good as betted on . . .”

“I quite understand,” said Carolus, who saw this vivid piece of description of the gambling fever extending itself through the afternoon.

“It’s all right while it’s all right,” went on Mrs. Thump explicitly.  “I’ve had some nice little flutters from time to time.  Only yesterday a horse called Atom Bomb . . .”

“Yes, yes.”

“But of course, it doesn’t always go how you want it,” said Mrs. Thump, recalled.  “Do you what you may, it doesn’t seem as though it will make any difference.  When luck’s against you, you can’t win.  I was having a turn like that just at the time when Mr. Wirral disappeared.  Two weeks, and not a sausage.  Not a smell of a winner.  Well, I had to pay my bookie, didn’t I?”

“You mean?”

“That’s what I told Mr. Wirral when we went on about the housekeeping money.  ‘Bookies have to be paid,’ I said.  ‘But not out of the money I give you for housekeeping,’ he shouted.  This was on the morning of the very day he vanished.  ‘I can put it back,’ I told him.  But he went on about dishonesty and that.  Anyone would think I’d stolen the money.”

“And what had you done?” asked Carolus curiously.

“Only just borrowed it until the next Monday.  But do you think he’d see it?  He boiled up like a steam pudding.  ‘You wretched woman,’ he said.  ‘You take a week’s notice.  I knew what that meant.  I’d be out of his Will, besides losing my job.  But he wasn’t in a mood to be spoken to them, so I let him go off fishing while I thought what best to do.”

Mrs. Thump was breathing heavily now, but rather enjoying herself.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,” she reflected.

“Nor do I quite.  What I want to know . . .”

“I’m coming to that.  There was only one thing to be done.  There was a horse running that afternoon called Apple Charlotte that I had a great fancy four.  Four to one, it was.  So I rang up Mr. Bunting—who’s the bookie I do most with—and I told him I wanted a fiver on it.  That would give me an enough to put the housekeeping right and pay the one or two little bills that Mr. Wirral had been all on about.  It was in the three o’clock and at twenty past I telephoned Mr. Bunting from opposite the pier to hear the result.  My heart was in my mouth as you might say because I don’t usually do more than ten shillings.  But it was all right.  Apple Charlotte had won buy a length.  So I went on the pier to tell Mr. Wirral.”

“What do you think he said?  ‘It’s no use, Mrs. Thump,’ he said.  ‘It’s not just the money, it’s the principle of the thing.  Besides, how do I know you won’t lose it all before next Monday?’  Try as I would I wouldn’t couldn’t change him.  So I saw what I had to do then.  I went all the way along the front to wear Mr. Bunting’s office is.  I had to wait a long time to see him—till after the last race.  Then I asked him if he could let me have the money.  ‘It’s not etiquette,’ he said, but when I’d explained all about Mr. Wirral, he agreed.  It was very good of him, because they don’t like paying out before the time.  Then I went back to the pier to give Mr. Wirral the money.”

“What time was this?”

“I can tell you about.  I’d had one in the bar of the Grand, and they open at six.  I daresay I was a quarter to half an hour over that.  So it was somewhere between quarter past six and quarter to seven when I went through the turnstile.  And I met Mr. Wirral walking towards the gates.  ‘I can’t stop now,’ he said.  I tried to tell him what I’d come for, but he just had the news of Miss Greta’s baby.  Only he got it wrong.  ‘It’s a girl,’ he said.  As you know, it turned out afterwards it was a boy.  He wouldn’t listen to me.  And to tell you the truth I felt quite overcome, what with rushing along to Mr. Bunting’s and hearing about the baby, and I had to sit down a minute.”

“How far down the pier would you say you met him.”

“Not more than twenty yards from the gates at the most.”

“And he was making for the exit?”

“He was when I met him.  Where he went afterwards I don’t know.  I was so upset.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

Mrs. Thumped looked a trifle mysterious and severe.

“There are those,” she said, “who would have liked to have proved that I was Under Notice when Mr. Wirral went.  It might have upset the Will.  That’s the part I’m trusting you to keep to yourself.”

“I’ll promise you that.  I’m very grateful for all you have told me.  It is more helpful than you can guess.”

“I am glad of that,” said Mrs. Thump.  “I never wanted to keep anything back.  But there was the Will to think of.”

Carolus sensed the inevitable beginning of repetition and rose to go.

“When did you leave the pier?” he asked hurriedly at the door.

“Not ten minutes later.  I went back to the bar of the Grand.  I was so upset.”

“You didn’t see Mr. Wirral again?”

“No.”

“Or anyone else you knew?”

“No, I didn’t.  Well, I’m glad to have got it off my chest.  I can trust you, I know.”

“You can,” Carolus repeated and escaped at last to his car.

❦