‘Yes, I am. I zee nobody. Not up to quarter to two, anyway. After that, I couldn’t swear one way nor t’other, ’avin’ my own business to mind, like I zaid.’
‘Did you see any other boat in the neighbourhood?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Very well. If your memory should improve in the next few days, you’d better let us know.’
Mr Pollock muttered something uncomplimentary, and removed himself.
‘Not an agreeable old gentleman,’ said Wimsey.
‘An old scoundrel,’ said Superintendent Glaisher. ‘And the worst of it is, you can’t believe a word he says. I’d like to know what he was really up to.’
‘Murdering Paul Alexis, perhaps?’ suggested the Inspector.
‘Or conveying the murderer to the scene of the crime for a consideration,’ added Wimsey. ‘That’s more likely, really. What motive should he have for murdering Alexis?’
‘There’s the three hundred pounds, my lord. We mustn’t forget that. I know I said it was suicide, and I still think so, but we’ve got a much better motive for a murder than we had before.’
‘Always supposing Pollock knew about the £300. But how should he?’
‘See here,’ said the Superintendent. ‘Suppose Alexis was wanting to leave England.’
‘That’s what I say,’ interjected Umpelty.
‘And suppose he had hired Pollock to meet him somewhere off-shore with his boat and take him across to a yacht or something. And suppose, in paying Pollock, he’d happened to show him the rest of the money. Couldn’t Pollock have put him ashore and cut his throat for him and made away with the gold?’
‘But why?’ objected Umpelty. ‘Why put him ashore? Wouldn’t it have been easier to cut his throat aboard the boat and drop the body into the sea?’
‘No, it wouldn’t,’ said Wimsey, eagerly. ‘Ever seen ’em stick a pig, Inspector? Ever reckoned how much blood there was to the job? If Pollock had cut Alexis’ throat on board, it would take a devil of a lot of swabbing to get the boat properly clean again.’
‘That’s quite true,’ said the Superintendent. ‘But in any case, how about Pollock’s clothes? I’m afraid we haven’t got evidence enough to get a warrant and search his place for bloodstains.’
‘You could wash ’em off oil-skins pretty easily, too,’ remarked Wimsey.
The two policemen acquiesced gloomily.
‘And if you stood behind your man and cut his throat that way, you’d stand a reasonable chance of not getting so very heavily splashed. It’s my belief the man was killed in the place where he was found, murder or no murder. And if you don’t mind, Superintendent, I’ve got a little suggestion which might work and tell us definitely whether it really was murder or suicide.’
He again outlined the suggestion, and the Superintendent nodded.
‘I see no objection whatever, my lord. Something might quite well come of it. In fact,’ said Mr Glaisher, ‘something of the same kind had passed through my own mind, as you might say. But I don’t mind it’s appearing to come from your lordship. Not at all.’
Wimsey grinned and went in search of Salcombe Hardy, the Morning Star reporter, whom he found, as he expected, taking refreshment in the hotel bar. Most of the pressmen had withdrawn by this time, but Hardy, with a touching faith in Lord Peter, had clung to his post.
‘Though you’re treating me damn badly, old man,’ he said, raising his mournful violet eyes to Wimsey’s grey ones, ‘I know you must have something up your sleeve, or you wouldn’t be hanging round the scene of the crime like this. Unless it’s the girl. For God’s sake, Wimsey, say it isn’t the girl. You wouldn’t play such a shabby trick on a poor, hardworking journalist. Or, look here! If there’s nothing else doing, give me a story about the girl. Anything’ll do, so long as it’s a story. “Romantic Engagement of Peer’s Son” – that’d be better than nothing. But I must have a story.’
‘Pull yourself together, Sally,’ said his lordship, ‘and keep your inky paws off my private affairs. Come right away out of this haunt of vice and sit down quietly in a corner of the lounge and I’ll give you a nice, pretty story all to yourself.’
‘That’s right,’ said Mr Hardy, in a burst of emotion. ‘That’s what I expected from a dear old friend. Never let down a pal, even if he’s only a poor bloody journalist. Noblesse oblige. That’s what I said to those other blighters. “I’m sticking to old Peter,” I said, “Peter’s the man for my money. He won’t see a hardworking man lose a job for want of a good news story.” But these new men – they’ve no push, no guts. Fleet Street’s going to the dogs, curse it. There’s nobody left now of the old gang except me. I know where the news is, and I know how to get it. I said to myself, You hang on to old Peter, I said, and one of these days he’ll give you a story.’
‘Splendid fellow!’ said Wimsey. ‘May we ne’er lack a friend or a story to give him. Are you reasonably sober, Sally?’
‘Sober?’ exclaimed the journalist indignantly. ‘J’ever know a pressman who wasn’t sober when somebody had a story to give him? I may not be a blasted pussyfoot, but my legs are always steady enough to go after a story, and what more could anybody want?’
Wimsey pushed his friend gently into position before a table in the lounge.
‘Here you are, then,’ he said. ‘You take this stuff down and see that it gets a good show in your beastly rag. You can put in trimmings to suit yourself.’
Hardy glanced up sharply.
‘Oh!’ said he. ‘Ulterior motive, eh? Not all pure friendship. Patriotism is not enough. Oh, well! as long as it’s exclusive and news, the motive is imma – imma – damn the word – immaterial.’
‘Quite,’ said Wimsey. ‘Now then, take this down. “The mystery surrounding the horrible tragedy at the Flat-Iron deepens steadily with every effort made to solve it. Far from being a simple case of suicide, as at first seemed probable, the horrible death—” ’
‘All right,’ interjected Hardy. ‘I can do that part on my head. What I want is the story.’
‘Yes; but work up the mystery part of it. Go on, now: “Lord Peter Wimsey, the celebrated amateur of crime-detection, interviewed by our special correspondent in his pleasant sitting-room at the Hotel Bellevue—” ’
‘Is the sitting-room important?’
‘The address is. I want them to know where to find me.’
‘Right you are. Go ahead.’
‘– “at the Hotel Bellevue, Wilvercombe, said that while the police still held strongly to the suicide theory, he himself was by no means satisfied. The point that particularly troubled him was that, whereas the deceased wore a full beard and had never been known to shave, the crime was committed—” ’
‘Crime?’
‘Suicide is a crime.’
‘So it is. Well?’
‘– “committed with an ordinary cut-throat razor, which shows signs of considerable previous hard wear.” Rub that in well, Sally. “The history of this razor has been traced up to a point—” ’
‘Who traced it?’
‘I did.’
‘Can I say that?’
‘If you like.’
‘That makes it better. “Lord Peter Wimsey explained, with his characteristically modest smile, that he had himself been at pains to trace the previous history of the razor, a search which led him—” Where did it lead you, Wimsey?’
‘I don’t want to tell ’em that. Say that the search covered many hundred miles.’
‘All right. I can make that sound very important. Anything else?’
‘Yes. This is the important bit. Get ’em to put it in black lettering – you know.’
‘Not my business. Sub-editor. But I’ll try. Carry on. “Leaning over the table and emphasising the point with an eloquent gesture of his artistic hands, Lord Peter said—” ’
‘ “The trail,” ’ dictated Wimsey, ‘ “breaks off at the crucial point. How did the razor get into the hands of Paul Alexis? If once I could be satisfied of
that, the answer might at once set at rest all my doubts. If Paul Alexis can be proved to have bought the razor, I shall consider the suicide theory to have been proved up to the hilt. But until that missing link in the chain of evidence is reconstructed, I shall hold that Paul Alexis was foully and brutally murdered, and I shall spare no efforts to bring the murderer to the judgement he has so richly deserved,” How’s that, Sally?’
‘Not too bad. I can work that up into something. I shall add, of course, that you, knowing the enormous circulation of the Morning Star, are relying on the wide publicity it will give to this statement to etcetera, etcetera. I might even get them to offer a reward.’
‘Why not? Anyway, pitch it to ’em hot and strong, Sally.’
‘I will – for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer. Between you and me, would you be satisfied that it was suicide if the reward was claimed?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Wimsey. ‘Probably not. In fact, I am never satisfied.’
XII
THE EVIDENCE OF THE BRIDE’S SON
‘How I despise
All such mere men of muscle!’
Death’s Jest-Book
Monday, 22 June
Wimsey looked at his watch. It was half-past one, and he had had no lunch. He remedied the omission, took the car and drove out to Darley. He had to wait for a few moments while the gates were opened at the Halt, and took the opportunity to check up on the police inquiry. He found that the lame gate-keeper knew the mysterious Mr Martin by sight – had, in fact, met him one evening in the bar of the Feathers. A pleasant gentleman, with a hearty way with him. Suffered from some trouble with his eyes, which obliged him to wear dark glasses, but a very nice gentleman for all that. The gate-keeper was quite positive that Mr Martin had not passed through the railway-gates at any time on Thursday – not in any car or cart or on a cycle, that was to say. As for passing on foot, he couldn’t swear to it, and you couldn’t expect it of him.
Here, however, a new witness suddenly came forward. The gate-keeper’s little daughter, Rosie, ‘just going on for five, and a wonderful quick girl for her age,’ as her father proudly remarked, was emphatic that ‘the nasty man with the black glasses’ had not been seen at the railway-gates during the critical period on the Thursday. Rosie knew him and disliked him, for she had seen him in the village the day before and his horrid black glasses had frightened her. She and a small friend had been ‘playing Bluebeard’ at the railway-gates on Thursday. She knew it was Thursday, because it was market day, when the 10.15 stopped there. She had been Sister Anne on her tower, and had called out to her companion when she saw anybody coming along the road. They had played there from after dinner (12.30 according to the gate-keeper) till nearly tea-time (four o’clock). She was absolutely sure the nasty man had not come through the railway-wickets. If he had, she would have run away.
This seemed to dispose of the last lingering possibility that the mysterious Mr Martin might have left the Feathers rather earlier than he was supposed to have done, walked to the crossing and been picked up by a car on the other side. Wimsey thanked Rosie with grave courtesy, gave her sixpence and drove on.
His next port of call was, of course, the Feathers. The landlord, Mr Lundy, was ready enough with his information. What he had told the inspector was quite right. He had first seen Mr Martin on Tuesday – the 16th, that would be. He had arrived about six o’clock and left his Morgan parked on the village green while he came in and took a glass of mild and bitter and asked the way to Mr Goodrich’s house. Who was Mr Goodrich? Why, Mr Goodrich was the gentleman that owned the land down by Hinks’s Lane, where Mr Martin had been camping. All the land thereabouts belonged to Mr Goodrich.
‘I want to be clear about this,’ said Wimsey. ‘Did Mr Martin come here from the direction of Hinks’s Lane, or which way did he come?’
‘No, sir; he drove in along the Heathbury Road and left his car on the green, same as I said.’
‘Did he come straight in here?’
‘Straight as a swaller to its nest,’ replied Mr Lundy, picturesquely. ‘We was open, you see, sir.’
‘And did he ask anybody about where he could camp? Or did he ask at once for Mr Goodrich?’
‘He didn’t ask no questions at all sir, only that: Where was Mr Goodrich’s house?’
‘He knew Mr Goodrich’s name, then?’
‘Seemingly he did, sir.’
‘Did he say why he wanted to see Mr Goodrich?’
‘No, sir. Just asked the way and drank up his beer and off in the car again.’
‘I understand he had lunch here last Thursday?’
‘That’s right, sir. Came in a big open car with a lady. She set him down here and drove off again, and he came in and set down to lunch.’ He thought it would be about one o’clock, but the girl could tell better than he could.
The girl knew all about it. Yes, as she had already told Inspector Umpelty, Mr Martin had come in about ten minutes to one. He mentioned to her that he had been to Wilvercombe, and thought he would make a change by lunching at the inn. His car, it seemed, had got something the matter with it, and a passing car had picked him up and taken him to Wilvercombe and back. Yes, he had lunched heartily: roast leg of mutton with potatoes and boiled cabbage and a rhubarb pie to follow.
Wimsey shuddered at the thought of roast mutton and cabbage on a red-hot June day, and asked when Mr Martin had left the inn.
‘It would be half-past one, sir, by the right time. Our clocks are all ten minutes fast, same as the clock in the bar, that’s set by the wireless every day. I couldn’t say but what Mr Martin might have stopped in the bar on his way out, but half-past one was when he paid me for his lunch. I couldn’t be mistaken about that, sir, because it was my day off and my young man was taking me over to Heathbury on his motor-cycle, and I was watching the clock, as you might say, to see how soon I’d get my work finished with. There wasn’t nobody come in after Mr Martin, so I was able to clear away and get dressed and very pleased I was about it.’
This was clear enough. Mr Martin had certainly not left the Three Feathers earlier than 1.30. Undoubtedly he was not the murderer of Paul Alexis. Nevertheless, having begun his investigation, Wimsey determined to carry it through to the bitter end. Alibis, he reminded himself, were made to be broken. He would suppose that, by means of a magic carpet or other device, Mr Martin had been miraculously wafted from Darley to the Flat-Iron between 1.30 and two o’clock. In that case, did he come back that afternoon, and if so, when? and how?
There were not a great many houses in Darley, and a door-to-door inquiry, though laborious, seemed to be a fairly safe and certain method of answering these questions. He pulled up his socks and set to work. He had no difficulty in getting the villagers to talk. The death of Paul Alexis was a local event of an importance that almost swamped last Saturday’s cricket match, and the revolutionary proposal to turn the disused Quaker meeting-house into a cinema; while the arrival of the Wilvercombe police to make inquiries about the movements of Mr Martin had raised the excitement to fever pitch. Darley felt strongly that, if this kind of thing was going to happen, it might get into the papers again. Darley had actually been in the papers that year already, when Mr Gubbins, the vicar’s warden, had drawn a consolation prize in the Grand National sweep. The sporting half of Darley had been delighted, but envious; the pious half had been quite unable to understand why the vicar had not immediately dismissed Mr Gubbins from his privilege of handing round the plate and sitting on the Church Council, and thought that Mr Gubbins’s action in devoting a tithe of his winnings to the Restoration Fund merely piled hypocrisy on the head of debauchery. But now, with the hope that they might be found to have entertained an angel of darkness unawares, they foresaw all manner of publicity. Wimsey discovered several people who thought that Mr Martin’s manner odd and had not liked his face and who said so, at considerable length. It was, however, only after nearly two hours’ patient research that he discovered somebody who had actually se
en Mr Martin on Thursday afternoon. This was, of course, the most obvious person in the village – namely the proprietor of the little tin bungalow that did duty for a garage, and the only reason why Wimsey did not get this information a great deal sooner was that the said proprietor – one, Mr Polwhistle – had gone out when he first called upon him, to tackle the internals of a sick petrol-gas engine at a neighbouring farm, leaving behind him only a young woman to attend to the pump.
Mr Polwhistle, when he returned in company of a youthful mechanic, was most discouragingly informative. Mr Martin? – oh, yes. He (Mr Polwhistle) had seen him on Thursday afternoon all right. Mr Martin had come in – just upon three o’clock, weren’t it, Tom? Yes, three o’clock – and asked them to come and have a look at his Morgan. They had gone round, and found that the Morgan wouldn’t start, not for toffee. After prolonged investigation and exercise on the starting-handle, they had diagnosed trouble with the ignition. They had taken everything out and looked at it, and eventually it had occurred to Mr Polwhistle that the fault might be in the H.T. lead. On their removing this and putting in a new one, the engine had started up at once, sweet as a nut. There could be no doubt about the time, because Tom had entered it upon his time-sheet; 3 p.m. till 4 p.m.
It was now nearly half-past four, and Wimsey felt that he had a good chance of finding Mr Goodrich at home. He was directed to his house – the big place up the first turning off the Wilvercombe Road – and found the good gentleman and his family gathered about a table well spread with bread and cakes and honey and Devonshire cream.
Mr Goodrich, a stout and hearty squire of the old school, was delighted to give any assistance in his power. Mr Martin had turned up at the house at about seven o’clock on the Tuesday evening and had asked permission to camp at the bottom of Hinks’s Lane. Why Hinks’s Lane, by the way? Well, there used to be a cottage there that belonged to an old fellow called Hinks – a regular character – used to read the Bible through regularly every year, and it was to be hoped it did him good, for a graceless old scamp he was and always had been. But that was donkey’s years ago, and the cottage had fallen into disrepair. Nobody ever went down there now, except campers. Mr Martin had not asked for information about camping-grounds; he had asked straight out for permission to camp in Hinks’s Lane, calling it by that name. Mr Goodrich had never set eyes on Mr Martin before, and he (Mr Goodrich) knew pretty well everything that went on in the village. He was almost certain that Mr Martin had never been in Darley before. No doubt somebody had told him about Hinks’s Lane – it was a regular place for campers. They were out of the way down there, and there were no crops for them to damage and no gates for them to leave open, unless they were to go out of their way to trespass on Farmer Newcombe’s pasture on the other side of the hedge. But there was no necessity for them to do so, as it didn’t lead anywhere. The stream that ran through the pasture came out on to the beach only fifty yards away from the camping-ground and was fresh, except, of course, at flood-tide, when it was brackish. Now Mr Goodrich came to think about it, he believed there had been some complaint from Mr Newcombe about a broken hedge, but the story only came through Geary the blacksmith, who was a notorious talker and he (Mr Goodrich) didn’t see that it had anything to do with Mr Martin. Mr Newcombe was not altogether a satisfactory tenant in the matter of repairs to hedges and when there were gaps, animals would sometimes stray through them. Apart from this, he (Mr Goodrich) knew nothing to Mr Martin’s discredit. He seemed to have been quiet enough, and in any case, Hinks’s Lane being out of sight and sound of the village, campers couldn’t make nuisances of themselves down there. Some of them brought gramophones or concertinas or ukuleles, according to their taste and social position, but Mr Goodrich had no objection to their amusing themselves, so long as they didn’t disturb anybody. He never made any charge for camping on his ground – it didn’t hurt him, and he didn’t see why he should take payment for letting the poor devils who lived in town help themselves to a mouthful of fresh air and a drink of water. He usually asked them to leave the place as tidy as they could, and as a rule he had found them pretty decent in this respect.