The Snark was a Boojum Page 6

  “But of course you know more about it than any of us, Mr. Gale. You and Mr. Trueman were at Farley Halt with the police, weren’t you?” asked Gifford.

  Gale lowered his tankard from which had just swallowed a prodigious draught of beer. He looked at Gifford over the brim. “So you’re interested in murder, eh?” he said with a peculiar intonation.

  Gifford frowned. He didn’t look too pleased. His hand went up and fingered his neat grey moustache. “We’re all interested,” he said curtly. “As we should be when a murder has been committed right on our own doorstep and I was sitting right next to the unfortunate victim at dinner that night . . .”

  Cranston nodded slowly. “The circumstances surrounding the death of poor Baker are distinctly unusual,” he said, in a beautifully modulated High Court voice. “Such a bizarre . . .”

  “Dressed up, I agree,” interrupted Gale. “Underneath all that theatricality it’s just cold-blooded murder.” He finished his beer and waved his empty tankard at Beatrice, who glittering like a Christmas tree as usual was busy at the other end of the bar. Gale turned back to our little group. “Did any of you know Baker?” he asked.

  “Knew him by sight,” said Gifford, shaking his head. “I’d never met him before we dined at Hunter’s Meadow. He seemed a very nervous man . . .”

  “I’d never met him before Friday night,” remarked Cranston weightily. “Not the sort of man you’d remember meeting . . .”

  I could see Ursula was listening but I don’t think she really heard a word. She was somewhere else that had no connection with us or the Golden Crust.

  Beatrice, finally free for a moment, took Gale’s tankard as he ordered a fresh round of drinks. “You’re lovelier than ever, Beatrice,” he cried with a wink.

  Zoe caught my eye, and her face crinkled up into that delightful puckish smile which I found so alluring. I glanced again at Ursula but I could see she still wasn’t with us. The door opened and I noticed her eyes flick over to it hopefully. Was she waiting for someone?

  A few minutes later I had my answer.

  Beatrice had finished our drink order. Gale was paying with a handful of loose change which he had scattered on the bar, while managing at the same time to hand the drinks out, when Lance Weston came in.

  He paused just inside the entrance to take off his hat and shake the rain from it. The light from the bar fell on his dark hair. I caught sight Ursula’s face. For a fraction of a second, before she had once more regained her self-control, a flame had kindled in her eyes. She was back to normal in the moment . . . It was like life had been breathed into a waxwork . . .

  Weston saw us and came over. He glanced at Ursula, their eyes met, and there was that flame again. It was gone in an instant and they both acted casual and normal. But I had seen it and so had Zoe.

  Joshua Bellman’s wife and Lance Weston were in love with each other.

  Chapter Seven

  I sat before the electric fire in my bedroom at Hunter’s Meadow comfortable in pyjamas and dressing gown. It was nearly one o’clock. The rest of the household had been in bed for more than an hour. I had never felt less like sleep in my life.

  The old house was very quiet. I had heard Gale, whose room was next to mine, tramping about for some time, and once something fell over with a dull thump, but there was no sound in the house now.

  Outside the wind had risen. It came sighing across the Downs, gathering strength before it buffeted the house, and hurled the rain with a noise like thrown gravel at the glass of the windows.

  I lit another cigarette and shifted more comfortably in my chair, stretching out my feet to the warmth of the fire. In spite of these physical amenities, there stirred within me a vague and disquieting uneasiness caused by that momentary revealing look which had passed between Ursula Bellman and Lance Weston in the Golden Crust earlier that evening. Why was I letting it worry me? It was really none of my business if a young and beautiful woman like Ursula married a dried-up old stick like Joshua Bellman. But I did worry. It had also worried Zoe. I had seen the flash of understanding come into her green eyes and the troubled frown which had wrinkled her forehead . . .

  As I sat staring at the glowing red filaments of the electric fire I wondered how long it had been going on and if Joshua had any inkling of it. I doubted he had. He wasn’t the type to sit back and ignore such a thing. There would have been trouble. It was clear every time he looked at his wife there was adoration and devotion in those small, monkey-like eyes—and something more I thought—a fierce and jealous possessiveness.

  Inside that withering body burned a flame that was as intense as the one I had seen leap up behind Ursula’s eyes at the sight of Lance Weston—the more revealing because of the contrast between that moment and her usually cold and emotionless exterior. Ursula was playing on the brink of a volcano that might be sleeping but was by no means extinct.

  I drifted back to the day five years ago when I had only just joined my firm as junior partner. Bellman had come into our office in Bedford Row and casually mentioned to my father that he was getting married the following day to a Miss Ursula Grant. After he had gone, there was a great deal of head-shaking and tut-tutting between my father and old Timothy Wyse. They had both disapproved of Joshua’s choice. The main reason for this disapproval, so far as I had been able to judge from what I overheard, was the disparity between the ages of the bride-elect and the groom.

  “There’s thirty-three years difference between them,” I heard my father remark to old Wyse. “That’s a recipe for trouble . . .”

  But there hadn’t been any trouble. The marriage had turned out all right, with nothing we knew about to justify my father’s pessimism. Until now—that revealing look which had passed between Ursula Bellman and Lance Weston I had noticed earlier. Maybe my father’s prophesy was coming true after all?

  I got into bed finally, and although I fell asleep pretty quickly, it was an uneasy and broken sleep that left me feeling tired and jaded when I woke in the morning, feeling less like tackling Bellman’s acquisition than ever. So it was with great relief that I learned that the telephone call from Glasgow on the previous night necessitated a visit by him to his London office. He was fully dressed, had finished his breakfast, and didn’t expect to be back until late in the evening.

  I couldn’t have been more pleased.

  He had just driven off in the big Rolls when Simon Gale put in an appearance looking more flamboyant than usual. He was wearing an open-necked shirt of the most vivid tartan with a bright yellow scarf knotted round his neck and a pair of wine-coloured corduroy trousers that were practically shapeless. When he heard that Bellman had gone up to London he was delighted.

  “Couldn’t be better, d’you see? You can come along with me.”

  “Where?” I demanded.

  “I’m meeting Halliday,” he explained. “We’re going to look at Baker’s room. Before we can begin to hit on a motive, we’ve got to know a lot more about William Baker. That’s the first job, hey?”

  “If there is a motive,” I retorted, helping myself to coffee and toast and marmalade. I didn’t fancy anything else. “If you’re dealing with a nut . . .”

  “That’s the last resort.” He sat down to a huge plate of bacon and eggs. “We’ll fall back on that when we’ve exhausted every other angle. It’s too easy, d’you see?” He took a gulp of hot coffee. “There’s a plan somewhere amongst the craziness. I can feel it . . . There’s a method in the madness.”

  He demolished his breakfast in a few mouthfuls, lit a cigarette, and sprang to his feet impatiently. “Come on, young feller,” he cried. “Finish up. It’s time to go. I’ll take you over on the back of my bike.”

  *

  I shall never forget that ride over to the police station. Like a lamb to the slaughter, I climbed onto the back of that infernal contraption. The motor-cycle roared into life and shot forward. I almost lost my balance and fell back off it. It propelled itself along with a series of pops and loud back
fires—explosions that threatened at any moment to blow the whole thing to smithereens and us along with it.

  Clinging onto Gale for dear life, I coughed and gasped from the cloud of blue smoke that enveloped us like a smoke screen, as we careered wildly through the countryside at breakneck speed. Gale had no regard for the safety of life and limb and it was a miracle we arrived at the little police station intact, pulling up with a jerk that almost shot me off the pillion-seat again. I felt bruised and battered as I staggered off it, vowing never, no matter what the urgency, to ever get back on it again.

  Both Chief Detective Inspector Halliday and Sergeant Lockyer came out to see what all the noise was about. Gale, quite imperturbable, introduced his beloved orange machine to them with pride, explaining loudly the merits and uniqueness of what can only be described as a death-trap that shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near a public road.

  I discovered our visit to Baker’s lodging was purely for Simon Gale’s benefit. Halliday told us, as the police car took us to Goose lane, he had already been over there and discovered nothing additional to what was already known about the dead man. Except for a few cloths and personal belongings of no significance, Baker might never have existed.

  Mrs. Tickford was cleaning the step when we drew up outside the house. She didn’t look best pleased to see us. Complaining in her high, thin and unpleasant voice about the painfulness of her sciatica, she grudgingly led the way up the staircase.

  I saw at once that William Baker’s room was poorly furnished. The bed didn’t look very comfortable. There was a narrow wardrobe and a chest of drawers of imitation oak, a round mahogany table in the window, and an armchair by a small fireplace. The floor was covered in linoleum of a hideous pattern, with a rug before the fireplace and a strip of carpet by the side of the bed. It was a room uncared for, a room no one would want to be in if they could avoid it.

  There were smears of grey powder all over the place, visible signs of Halliday’s previous visit. Otherwise everything was as William Baker had left it.

  “I’d be glad if you can take ’is clothes away,” Mrs. Tickford requested from the doorway.

  “We’ll arrange that,” promised Halliday.

  “It won’t be easy to re-let the room of a murder victim,” grumbled Mrs. Tickford without compassion.

  “What did you know about Baker?” Gale asked her. “Any friends call?”

  Mrs. Tickford shook her untidy head.

  “I never seen anyone,” she answered. “Kept ’isself to ’isself—nice and quiet. Always ready with a word if ’e ’appened to meet yer—polite like.”

  “How long was ’e here?” asked Gale.

  “Well, only three weeks.”

  “Did he get letters?” Gale inquired, striding about the room and peering at things with a ferocious frown.

  “I never seen any,” answered Mrs. Tickford shaking her head and looking as if she had answered enough questions. “He was always up early so he might ’ave got ’em then.”

  “Do you have a telephone?” Gale asked.

  Mrs. Tickford looked horrified. “No I don’t! I can’t afford one of those . . .”

  Gale was peering malignantly at a few cheap paperback novels on the iron mantel shelf. He flicked through a couple as if he expected to find some sort of clue. I imagined a coded message falling out, and smiled.

  “The post office may help,” remarked Halliday. “I’m calling in on our way back.”

  “It’s almost as if Baker had taken care not to leave a trace . . .” I began.

  Gale rounded on me. “The murderer was up here for several minutes. If there was anything . . .”

  A cry from Mrs. Tickford interrupted him.

  “What!” she exclaimed, clutching at her chest while taking a gasping breath. “He was ’ere? ’E was in my house! Lord . . . Oh, lord . . .”

  Halliday gave Gale a warning look and going over to her tried to soothe her, edging her away from the doorway. “Have you finished here, sir?” he said to Gale pointedly.

  Gale had finished prowling about. He was standing scowling at a brass knob on the bed, obviously disappointed at not finding anything—though of course I reasoned, not finding anything was indicative of William Baker’s character. Gale suddenly swung round on Halliday. “Did you find a key?” he asked.

  “A key?” Halliday looked puzzled.

  “Where is Baker’s front door key?” repeated Gale impatiently, “and his Railway ticket? There was no one at Farley Halt to collect it.”

  Halliday shook his head. “We haven’t found anything.”

  “No! Because the murderer took them!” exclaimed Gale.

  “I see what you mean . . . I’ll tell Mrs. Tickford to get her locks changed.”

  Gale shrugged. “I very much doubt the Snark will be coming back,” he growled. “To the post office then . . . This thing’s got a hold of me, d’you see? It won’t let me go.”

  Back in the police car Halliday turned to him. “I don’t mind admitting I’d be very glad of your help, sir. That business at Ferncross last year . . .”

  “Inspector Hatchard . . .” remembered Gale.

  “He was impressed with the work you did on that,” continued Halliday. “Told me what a good job of work you did.”

  Gale was hugely delighted. “That was a pretty little problem, hey? Everyone had a headache over that . . .” He became suddenly serious. “You know Halliday, this is ugly—this business of Baker. I have a feeling we’re up against something very bad.” He frowned and ruffled his hair. “This joker who sends cards an’ makes nonsense verses come true . . . It worries me. It worries me a great deal.” His face looked grim. “I think this is just the beginning . . .”

  Chapter Eight

  The post office in Lower Bramsham was situated half-way up the high street and combined a sweet-shop, newsagents, and tobacconists. Miss Wittlesham, who looked after these varied interests, was an elderly and voluble lady with a highly developed curiosity. Her short and frizzy hair was greyish-white and grew high on her forehead. She had a small button of a nose that seemed inadequate for the size of her face. Her conversation was punctuated by a series of disconcerting sniffs so that she appeared to suffer from a permanent cold in the head. Her eyes, that had a steely glint in them indicating shrewdness, were constantly watering.

  “Letters?” she repeated in answer to Chief Detective Inspector Halliday’s question. She passed the tip of her tongue rapidly over her thin lips. “Mr. Baker had quite a lot of letters. Yes, quite a lot. Mrs. Tickford wouldn’t know about them because they never went to the house. Mr. Baker made arrangements to call for ’em here. Unusual, I thought at the time . . . mysterious I thought . . . But none of my business . . .”

  I thought her declaration of none of my business was most likely an understatement. I thought Miss Wittlesham would make everything her business.

  “Can you remember any of the postmarks?” asked Halliday.

  “Oh, yes, easily. They nearly all came from the same place you see.”

  I noticed Gale’s expression of intense excitement. He was having trouble repressing himself.

  “The same place?” repeated Halliday to make sure.

  “Yes.” Miss. Wittlesham looked at him sharply as if he hadn’t been paying sufficient attention. “London WC2—that’s Covent Garden. That’s where they were posted from. They were mostly typewritten—business letters.”

  “Why did you think Mr. Baker’s arrangement mysterious,” asked Halliday.

  Gale nodded with satisfaction. The question had been on his mind also.

  Miss Wittlesham sniffed and knowing she had the floor took her time considering how to reply. “Partly,” she answered, leaning forward with her knuckles pressed hard on the edge of the counter so that they showed white against her red hands, “it was his manner. His manner struck me as furtive.” She stood up letting this sink in. “Furtive is what it was. You see, he’d never ask for his letters if there was anyone else in the shop. I
notice things like that.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “For example what was he doing snooping round the village? What did he do during all the time he spent walking about?”

  “Well what did he do?” demanded Gale, unable to contain himself.

  Miss Wittlesham recoiled, giving him a suspicious stare.

  “That’s for you to find out,” she said with finality.

  I consider that if I’d been stuck in that horrid little room, I’d have spent most of my time walking about—anything to get out of it.

  The door of the shop opened with a sudden jangling of the bell above it, and Lance Weston came in.

  “Hello,” he greeted. “What are you all doing here?”

  Avoiding the question Gale introduced Halliday.

  “Ah, yes,” said the detective Chief Inspector. “Mr. Weston. I was about to contact you.”

  “What about?” asked Weston.

  “Just a word or two about this business,” answered Halliday. “Nothing to be alarmed about.”

  “Have as many words as you like,” retorted Weston. “I know nothing about it.”

  “Probably not, sir,” agreed Halliday. “We have to interview everyone who was at dinner at Mr. Bellman’s last Friday night. Just routine, you understand?”

  Weston looked at Gale with that supercilious curl to his upper lip which was almost a sneer. “Looking for a Snark, eh?”

  Gale thrust his face forward aggressively. “Seek and ye shall find!” he boomed.

  Halliday cleared his throat and looked at his watch. “I have to see the Coroner about the inquest,” he told them. “If you’ll be in this afternoon Mr. Weston . . .?”

  “I shall be in all day,” answered Weston. “I’m working on my book.”

  “Then I’ll come round at four o’clock if it’s convenient. That’s your cottage by the entrance to Goose Lane, isn’t it, sir?”

  Weston nodded.

  Halliday looked round at Miss Wittlesham. “If any more letters arrive for Mr. Baker I’d like you to notify Sergeant Lockyer immediately.”