The Snark was a Boojum Page 3

  Beatrice welcomed us with a smile as glittering as her jewellery. “I was wondering if you two would be coming in,” she said, reaching for a pint tankard for Gale. “Nicer in here than out there . . .”

  Gale gave her a beaming smile. “Neither wind nor rain, thunder or tempest, could keep me away from you!”

  Beatrice loved this kind of banter. Coyly, from under mascara laden eyelashes, she looked at Gale as she set a full and foaming tankard down on the bar.

  “You men!” she exclaimed, with a slight lift of one shoulder, as she proceeded to fill a second tankard for me.

  Simon Gale swallowed an enormous draught of beer and banged the tankard down on the bar. It was at that moment that the door opened and a girl came in demanding my full attention.

  In spite of being a junior partner in an old-established firm of solicitors, I’ve met quite a number of pretty girls in my thirty-five years—and not all of them in a professional capacity! But this girl who had just entered the saloon bar struck me at once as being different. It wasn’t that she was prettier. Actually, I suppose she wasn’t pretty at all—but she had something about her that would have singled her out even among a Hollywood beauty chorus. She had a cute face and sex-appeal in spades.

  Her face was small and rather impish. At each corner of her large but nicely shaped mouth was a trace of a dimple which gave it the suggestion of a humorous quirk. Even the loose and fleecy coat she wore couldn’t hide an admirable figure. I judged her to be in her late twenties.

  She walked quietly over to the bar and spoke in a husky, attractive voice, asking for a whisky and ginger-ale.

  I caught sight of Gale’s quizzical grin and cocked eyebrow and realised I must have been staring at her like a goop. Hastily I picked up my tankard and drank some beer to mask my embarrassment.

  Beatrice was pushing a whisky and ginger across the bar towards the girl when she asked a totally unexpected question: “I wonder if you could tell me the way to a place called Hunter’s Meadow?”

  Simon Gale swung round. “Hunter’s Meadow, hey?”

  The girl turned her black and glossy head towards him. Her eyes, green under dark lashes, surveyed him coolly and appraisingly. “Yes. I need to get there.”

  “We’re staying there, d’you see?” Gale explained, waving one arm vaguely in my direction. “If you’re not in a desperate hurry to rush off, we can take you there, hey?”

  She looked at him and then at me. Her face crinkled into a smile. “That would be kind,” she answered. “I’m not in a hurry. I have a car outside.”

  “That’s even better!” cried Gale. “We can show you the way if you can give us a lift back. It’s an infernally damp and muddy walk, d’you see? How’s that, eh?”

  Her smile widened and the dimples at the corners of her mouth deepened. She laughed. “Just tell me when you’re ready. My name’s Zoe Anderson . . .”

  “Mine’s Simon Gale, an’ this young feller is Jeff Trueman. He’s a solicitor, but don’t hold that against him, he can be quite intelligent! Hey, Beatrice!” He bellowed across the bar. “We’re thirsty! Same again!”

  Beatrice was just completing our order when Lance Weston came in. He hesitated near the door, his eyes flickering swiftly round the bar.

  “Hello, hello!” greeted Gale, in a voice that made the bottle and glasses ring. “Come on, Weston. You’re just in time for Trueman’s round. The more the merrier!”

  Lance Weston approached us slowly. His face looked pale. He mumbled shakily: “I could do with a drink—whisky . . .”

  Gale looked at him sharply. “Something wrong?”

  “Wrong?” Weston uttered a dry laugh, thin and mirthless. He gave a slight nod. “You won’t believe it . . .”

  There was an expression behind his eyes that puzzled me. He looked in shock as if he’d just avoided a bad accident. He had our undivided attention as we stared at him curiously.

  “What’s happened is impossible . . .” he said.

  Zoe Anderson fumbled in the pocket of her fleecy coat and took out a packet of cigarettes. Her green eyes were wide with the expectancy of some sort of revelation. She pulled a cigarette from the half-filled packet and twiddled it about in her fingers, staring from Lance Weston to us and back again . . .

  “Don’t talk in riddles,” bellowed Gale.

  Weston looked at him accusingly. “It’s your fault,” he said. “Those people and The Hunting of the Snark . . .”

  “What about it?” snapped Gale.

  “William Baker.” Lance Weston’s voice was hard and brittle. “Your Snark was a Boojum right enough, Gale. Baker’s vanished—literally into thin air! He walked out of his house at a quarter past nine and disappeared . . .”

  “Nonsense!” cried Gale impatiently. “He must have gone somewhere . . .”

  “Without his clothes?” demanded Weston belligerently.

  The atmosphere in the pub had become tense. I had a sense of foreboding. I saw a curious expression come into Gale’s eyes. It was compounded of incredulity, uneasiness, and—something else. In a voice totally unlike his bull roar, he asked: “What do you mean—without his clothes?”

  Beatrice, avid with curiosity, placed a whisky on the bar.

  “They’re all that’s left of him,” answered Lance Weston, grabbing his whisky and downing it in one. “The clothes he was wearing . . . Just a heap of clothes lying on the pavement where he disappeared . . .”

  Chapter Three

  It was late that night before I learned the full details of the vanishing of William Baker. They only served to make his sudden disappearance more inexplicable.

  Nothing would satisfy Simon Gale, after he heard what had happened, except the fullest information at first hand. He found out from Beatrice at the pub, who was a fountain of knowledge concerning most things that were going on in the local community, that Baker had lodgings with a Mrs. Tickford in Goose Lane, the entrance to which faced the Golden Crust on the other side of the Green.

  “We must go there at once!” boomed Gale making for the door.

  I could see Zoe Anderson was bemused by all this, and I suggested I should accompany her back to Hunter’s Meadow, but she wouldn’t hear of it, insisting on driving us to Goose Lane. Gale was delighted at this offer, bubbling over with an intense and feverish curiosity that he was determined to satisfy without delay. We left Lance Weston, who refused to come with us, downing whiskies in the saloon bar.

  *

  Goose Lane turned out to be L-shaped and semi-rural. One end of it, the longer arm, was shut off by a high wall of brick that formed part of some farm buildings, and there was no outlet at all this way. The other and shorter arm came out on the Green within a few yards of the cottage in which Lance Weston lived.

  There were only four houses in Goose Lane, and these had been built on the left hand side, almost under the high brick wall that shut off the farm buildings at the upper end. Below these four houses, which were small and more modern than the rest of Lower Bramsham, was a high wattle fence that continued, in an unbroken line, until it joined the tarred fence surrounding the garden of Lance Weston’s cottage. On the opposite side of the lane, and running down from the brick wall to the Green, was a thick hedge that enclosed farm land.

  Mrs. Tickford’s house was the first of these four. When we arrived, Mrs. Tickford herself, a gaunt woman with a high thin and distinctly unpleasant voice, was standing at her garden gate, discussing with her immediate neighbours the extraordinary and altogether inexplicable disappearance of her lodger.

  There was no difficulty in getting them to tell us what had happened. William Baker’s disappearance had made such a powerful impression on them that they were only too eager to go on repeating the story until someone told them to stop.

  William Baker occupied the upstairs front room in Mrs. Tickford’s house as a bed-sitting room. He had his own latchkey to the front door and, except for his breakfast, which was served in his room on a tray, had all his meals out. He had bee
n living there for the past three weeks, and according to Mrs. Tickford had proved an exemplary lodger in every way—which meant that she hadn’t had to bother herself very much about him.

  That Monday morning, Baker had remained in his room until just before one o’clock when as usual he had gone out for his lunch. Mrs. Tickford had been in the hall when he came down the stairs, and they had exchanged a few remarks about the unpleasant change in the weather, and how bad it was for her sciatica. She had noticed that he was wearing an oilskin mackintosh and a black-and-white check cap. They were the things he usually wore when the weather was wet. He did not return home until a few minutes after nine that evening. At a quarter past nine he went out again and then vanished into thin air leaving his clothes behind.

  What had actually occurred was corroborated by two eye witnesses. They were Mr. Jack Freeman, who lived in the house next door but one to Mrs. Tickford, and a Mr. Charles Hocknell, who lived next door to Mr. Freeman.

  Mr. Freeman had been standing in his porch, trying to make up his mind whether to venture out to the Golden Crust for a beer, or stay in front of his warm and cosy fire, when he saw William Baker leave his cottage. Still undecided in his own mind, Mr. Freeman had watched Baker walk towards the sharp turn in the lane which led to the Green. He was unable to see whether he reached it because it was very dark at this point.

  At precisely the same time, Mr. Charles Hocknell, more enterprising than Mr. Freeman, had already been to the Golden Crust, enjoyed a couple of pints, and was walking up the lane towards the bend, from the direction of the Green on his way home. Just before he reached the bend in the lane he heard a cackling chuckle, a disembodied mocking laugh. He paused and listened. The chuckle didn’t happen again. He couldn’t tell where the laugh had come from, but it made him feel uneasy. As he turned the sharp corner he had stumbled over something that lay on the damp and narrow pavement. To his surprise, he discovered it was a heap of clothing!

  Back to Jack Freeman—whose desire for a beer had won over the desire for warmth and security—who had set off for the Golden Crust after all, until he bumped into his neighbour standing over the pile of clothing, which consisted of a shirt, tie, socks, shoes, a set of underclothes, a tweed suit, an oilskin mackintosh and a black-and-white check cap.

  Mr. Freeman immediately recognised the cap and mackintosh as the property of William Baker. He had been wearing them when he had seen Baker leave Mrs. Tickford’s home a few minutes before.

  Startled and not a little alarmed, Mr. Freeman and Mr. Hocknell had called Mrs. Tickford into immediate consultation. Complaining loudly at being dragged out into the damp night air, her curiosity compelled her to see for herself what the fuss was all about. She also identified the clothing as belonging to William Baker.

  Of William Baker there was not a trace!

  In the very short time that had elapsed between the time Mr. Freeman had seen him leave his house, and the time Mr. Hocknell had stumbled over his clothes, William Baker had vanished!

  “The whole thing is absurd,” growled Simon Gale angrily, as Zoe Anderson drove us back to Hunter’s Meadow.

  “Probably a simple explanation,” I suggested.

  “But I don’t like it, d’you see? I don’t like it one bit.”

  “Maybe a practical joke,” I offered, to make conversation. “He remembered your bit about the Snark and . . .”

  “Did Baker strike you as having that sort of sense of humour,” Gale snapped back. “Did he strike you as having any sense of humour at all?” He slumped back into a corner of the back seat and thrust his fingers irritably through his hair. “Something’s not right. It’s all wrong . . .”

  “Mr. Weston certainly took it seriously,” broke in Zoe, concentrating on the misty road ahead. “When he came into the bar he looked really shaken up. It’s rather frightening.”

  We had reached the top of the High Street and I directed Zoe round by the church and into the steep and narrow lane that led up to Hunter’s Meadow. The headlights turned black hedgerows a vivid and startling green as the tyres hissed over wet leaves . . .

  Rather frightening . . .

  I was willing to agree. Simon Gale was easily riled and I couldn’t help thinking this was someone’s elaborate joke to pull his leg. Was it Lance Weston’s little joke? He was a good actor if it was. His shocked appearance at the bar looked real enough, had fooled them all . . . That heap of clothing . . . I suddenly recollected from The Hunting of the Snark: In the midst of the word he was trying to say, in the midst of his laughter and glee, he had softly and suddenly vanished away—for the Snark was a Boojum, you see . . .

  Jack Freeman had heard a laugh hadn’t he? He’d certainly thought he had heard one. He’d described a cackling chuckle, a disembodied mocking laugh—all part of an elaborate joke? I wasn’t so sure . . .

  The open gates to the drive loomed up ahead and a few seconds later we stopped in front of the massive iron-bound oak door of Hunter’s Meadow. Gale apparently was so absorbed in his thoughts that I had to nudge him before he realised that we’d arrived.

  Only Trenton, the butler, was up. He took Zoe’s coat revealing her very attractive figure in a cream silk blouse and tweed skirt which accentuated her narrow waist. There was a fire in the drawing room, where sandwiches and a tray of drinks had been left for us. We took Zoe in there, while Trenton fetched her suitcase from the car, promising to inform Ursula of her arrival. She warmed her hands at the fire which Trenton had stirred into a blaze. “I suppose I ought to have sent a wire or telephoned or something . . .” she said.

  “Aren’t they expecting you?” I asked in surprise.

  She shook her head and her face crinkled up into that little puckish grin that was so attractive.

  “I thought I’d give Ursula a surprise,” she said. “A spur of the moment decision . . .” She stopped abruptly, her green eyes staring . . .

  Simon Gale, completely oblivious to our presence, was striding about the big room, to the imminent danger of any small articles of furniture that happened to be in his way. His fingers were twisted in his beard and the expression on his face would have made a gargoyle look angelic. It didn’t surprise me that Zoe looked alarmed.

  “Don’t take any notice,” I said in a low voice. “He’s only thinking. He’s not dangerous . . .”

  “Dangerous, hey?” The word seemed to penetrate through to Gale’s brain with a kind of splendid isolation, for he stopped prowling about the room and glared at me. “It could be young feller. It could be exceedingly dangerous, d’you see?”

  “Do you really think something serious has happened to that man?” asked Zoe, her hands plucking nervously at her skirt.

  “I hope not. I’m worried, d’you see?” retorted Gale. “I hope Baker turns up tomorrow and we all laugh till our sides ache . . . But suppose he doesn’t. I have a feeling this may be more than a joke.” He slumped into an armchair by the fire and scowled.

  I didn’t want to upset him so I said nothing, but I thought Gale’s preoccupation with the incident was arrant nonsense. He was making a mountain out of . . . My thoughts were interrupted as Ursula Bellman came in.

  She was wearing a cherry-coloured housecoat of corded velvet over her nightdress, and on her small bare feet, slippers of the same shade. Except for the nightdress she might never have been in bed at all. There was not a hair out of place . . .

  She welcomed Zoe with delighted surprise.

  “My dear, how lovely to see you!” she greeted, kissing her affectionately. “But why didn’t you let me know you were coming?

  “I didn’t make up my mind until the last moment,” answered Zoe, laughing. “I just threw some things into a case and climbed into my car and here I am! I should have let you know . . . But it doesn’t matter does it? I’m not putting you to any trouble am I?”

  Ursula waved such a suggestion aside with a graceful gesture. “Of course you’re not,” she answered. “The place is empty except for Simon and Mr. Trueman—and there
would always be room for you . . .”

  Zoe tilted her dark head to one side and eyed her critically. “You haven’t changed a bit. Not one bit, Ursula.”

  Ursula laughed an altogether charming and delightful laugh. Her beautifully pencilled brows rose slightly. “It has been rather a long time hasn’t it? I haven’t seen you since I married Joshua. To think at one time we were inseparable. How time flies . . .”

  It all sounded very nice and charming but there was a false note somewhere. I got the impression that in spite of her smiles and sweetness Ursula Bellman wasn’t as pleased by Zoe’s unexpected appearance as she made out. There was no tangible reason for this, some vague undercurrent beneath the surface charm. If Zoe were aware of it she gave no sign. She was as friendly as could be.

  Zoe started to tell her how she had met us, and what had happened to William Baker, but Ursula wasn’t listening.

  “You must be ravenously hungry and terribly tired. I’ve told Trenton to take a cold supper tray to my room while he lights a fire in yours. We can have a nice cosy chat over a glass of something.”

  With that she carted Zoe off.

  Gale was still hunched up in the armchair by the fire and only grunted when I spoke to him. With Zoe’s departure the life seemed to have gone out of the room. I’d had a long tiring day, what with the confounded acquisition and all the excitement over Baker’s disappearance, so I went to bed.

  I didn’t sleep well. Usually I drop off as soon as my head feels the touch of the pillow, but that night I lay staring into the darkness of the room and listening to a clock somewhere distant striking the hours. Eventually I did fall asleep; my last conscious thought was of Zoe Anderson’s crinkly smile and the dimples at the corner of her mouth . . .

  *

  When I came down to breakfast on the following morning, Gale was standing at the long table in the dining-room staring at a letter that had arrived by the morning post. He took no notice of me when I greeted him, but continued to stare at it, totally preoccupied, twisting his fingers thoughtfully in his beard.