A Night of Errors (10 page)

‘I doubt there being anything like that.’ Hyland was tapping his fingers nervously on the desk, and Appleby suspected that his confidence was waning as the night wore on. ‘He was heard in this room, talking in a normal way, not so very long before they found him dead.’

‘That so?’ The police surgeon was cutting the clothes from the body. The effect, as the white lower limbs and torso began to show, was rather that of some dark-skinned animal under the hands of a taxidermist. And the flattened polar bear grotesquely enhanced this impression. But the surgeon’s mind had taken another turn. ‘Marsyas,’ he said. ‘Wasn’t he flayed? And a fair number of saints and martyrs too, I should imagine. Not that our late friend was anything of a saint, if report speaks true. And I doubt if he had the stuff of the martyrs in him. Take a pinch at the buttocks here and you’ll see he was a flabby sort of cove.’ The surgeon ignored the expression of disapproval with which Hyland received this. ‘Type of the athlete taken to living soft, I’d say. And what is nastier than that? No very obvious marks of violence on the body. But of course it would still be rash to say that it was positively the knock on the head that killed him.’

Appleby stepped forward. ‘Not a saint?’ he said casually. ‘Then I gather he had a bit of a reputation in the county?’

‘Lord, yes! Vain, self-conscious chap. Attractive to women, it seems, and none too scrupulous as to how he exploited the fact. Been between a good many sheets where he had no business, if you ask me.’

Hyland frowned and jerked his head meaningfully in the direction of his subordinate at the door. But the young surgeon laughed bluffly – a nervous young man concerned to vindicate the possession of a good smoking-room manner. ‘Not,’ he continued, ‘that there’s much in all that, is there?’

‘Much?’ said Appleby. ‘Dear me, no. Nothing at all.’

‘So there must have been something else that really offended people in Dromio. Well-nourished, isn’t he? Tummy full of comfortable dinner, and kidneys no doubt just beginning to think of dealing with half a bottle of claret. In the midst of life we are in the county morgue.’

‘He offended people?’ asked Appleby.

‘Quite a heap. Do you know, they wouldn’t have him in the Plantagenet? My uncle’s a member and he told me so.’

Appleby, like an old actor picking up his tricks again, let an expression of discreet respect flit over his face. Your uncle, he was thinking, wouldn’t thank you for your wagging tongue. ‘Is that so?’ he said. ‘Well, that’s very bad.’

‘Just every now and then somebody would decide that he wasn’t going to know Oliver Dromio any more. Interesting to see how this damned fire and his roasting has affected the body temperature.’

‘Would his business affairs be in a bad way?’

‘Rotten, I should say. This place is tumbling to bits. Saved appearances by keeping up a lot of servants. Cheaper than masons and painters by a long way. My uncle has quite a decent little manor house down in Kent. Help me heave him over, will you? Nothing much, but been in the family for centuries. And he says–’

‘You think there was something more than just shaky finances?’

‘My dear fellow’ – and the young man laughed a patronizing laugh – ‘they wouldn’t blackball a man at the Plantagenet just for that. Plenty of them hard put to it to pay their own sub, I’d say. Particularly with this damned government. Odd about those buttocks… But what was I saying? Oh, yes. Every now and then people dropped him – and for good. I wonder if he could have taken money from women? Nothing rottener than that.’

‘Nothing,’ agreed Appleby. ‘Absolutely un-English.’

‘That’s it!’ The young surgeon gave Appleby an approving glance. ‘Dagos, you know, really. Came to England in the time of Elizabeth. I have an ancestor who was Lord Chamberlain at that time. Gapes like a fish, doesn’t he? Bit his tongue through, too.’

‘Ah,’ said Appleby. ‘I have an ancestor who followed Sir Thomas Malory. Crusades, and that sort of thing. Funny jobs we come down to, don’t we? Mucking about with
parvenu
corpses.’

Hyland gave an expostulatory cough. Clowning of this sort was not to his taste. But the young surgeon was delighted. ‘By jove, yes!’ he said. ‘Disgusting, isn’t it? But, you know, there’s a very decent girl in the house. Not out of the same stable at all. Old lady’s adopted daughter. Clean-limbed lass. I wouldn’t mind–’

‘About the time of death.’ Hyland was brusque. ‘Perhaps you can tell us something useful about that?’

‘Nothing at all, at the moment. Fire mucks it all up. Nor much about anything else. Have to be a PM tomorrow.’ The surgeon stood up. ‘Bloody fools, those murderers. Can’t think beyond a clout on the head. And consider all the indetectable ways it could be done! You know, the physiological poisons–’ And the young man, having aired a little learning, packed his bag and made for the door. ‘Family coming in to have a dekko?’ he asked. ‘Better get something to cover him. He looks dam’ ugly naked on that fool rug. Cremate him, I suppose. Job part done already, after all. So long.’

He was gone. Appleby went to the window and took a breath of fresh air. ‘In five years,’ he said, ‘that youth will be the soul of tact and humanity. At the moment, he’s a bit raw.’ He paused. ‘By the way, is there a family doctor?’

‘Yes. Old gentleman of the name of Hubbard. He’s out at a confinement and ought to be along any time. As soon as he’s been here we’ll get the body away.’ Hyland frowned. ‘Do you know, I doubt if Dr Hubbard will quite approve of those scissors and the skinned rabbit effect? Thomson, go and get a sheet or a tarpaulin. And tell the sergeant to ring for the ambulance.’ He looked at his watch and turned to Appleby. ‘Time’s getting on. I’ll give you the hang of it as quickly as I can.’

‘Thank you. And it is a beautiful murder, isn’t it?’

Hyland greeted this echo of his first exuberance with a disapproving grunt. His bright silver buttons twinkled on him altogether incongruously now. A temperamental officer, Appleby thought – and brought out a pencil and notebook. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘fire away.’

‘At a quarter to twelve,’ said Hyland, ‘Mr Sebastian Dromio rang up the police station and when the sergeant on night duty realized what he was talking about he put him straight through to me. Dromio told me quite a story – which was odd, when you come to think of it. A bare summons would have been more natural.’

Appleby considered. ‘Perhaps so. But he may have felt that when put through to you a fuller account was the proper thing.’

‘That may have been it.’ Hyland was gratified. ‘Well, what he told me was this. He had come down this evening with no notion of meeting his nephew Sir Oliver, whom he supposed to be in America. A neighbour, a Mrs Gollifer, came to dinner and left fairly early, driving herself home in her own car. At about half past eleven the others – that is to say Sebastian Dromio himself, Lady Dromio and the young lady who goes by the name of Miss Lucy Dromio – were sitting in the drawing-room when they heard a nightingale singing somewhere in the park, and as the night was warm they went out to listen. When they strolled back some ten minutes later they were met by Swindle with the news that Sir Oliver had been found dead in his study. Sebastian thereupon took the ladies back to the drawing-room, came along here and ascertained that the report was true, and then immediately phoned first Dr Hubbard – who was out – and then the police.’

‘All eminently correct.’

‘Quite so. And yet the fellow was in the deuce of a stew. Well, I gave you a call and then came straight out to Sherris. A footman showed me into this room, where Mr Sebastian was waiting for me. He said that he had returned to it immediately after telephoning, thinking it inadvisable to leave the body alone. He then asked me to hear the butler’s story while he went and did what he could for the ladies. He also said he proposed to ring up Mr Greengrave, the vicar, judging that he might be of some comfort to them in this tragic moment.’

Appleby raised his eyebrows. ‘This Sebastian sounds rather too good to be true.’

‘Well, I see what you mean.’ And Hyland considered. ‘But I haven’t told you the one out-of-the-way thing he did say. It was early on in his telephone call, and it gave me the idea I’m inclined to work on.’

‘Ah,’ said Appleby.

‘“He’s been burnt,” he said. “I knew that damned fire would come home to roost on us one day.” That was queer, don’t you think?’

‘Almost as queer as the metaphor it was couched in.’

‘Yes, I think something slipped out there, all right.’ And Hyland nodded with satisfaction. ‘There’s only one way of making any sense of this thrusting Sir Oliver’s body into the fire. It was by way of a nasty pointer to that conflagration forty years ago.’

Appleby, with something like an apologetic glance at the corpse, lit a cigarette. ‘So you’ve suggested already.’

‘And I admitted I was a bit baffled. But now I think I see one possibility. Somebody was quite likely blamed for that big fire in which the two other infants were killed. I haven’t looked it up yet, but it’s conceivable even that there was negligence and that a servant was dismissed or sent to gaol. Well, that might rankle. And years later–’

‘
Forty
years later.’

‘Well, why not? For instance, the butler–’

A knock at the door made Hyland fall silent. Appleby turned in time to see it open upon an ancient creature whom he at once guessed to be Swindle. He was followed by a robust youth carrying a tray.

‘Her ladyship,’ said Swindle, ‘has given orders that refreshments should be served. Sandwiches, coffee and’ – he turned and surveyed the tray – ‘a caraway cake the vicar didn’t care for.’ The tone in which Swindle delivered himself of this unseemly fragment of information was displeasing; it seemed to indicate that, were he to have his way, the bloodhounds who had descended upon Sherris might more suitably be regaled on a couple of bones. ‘As for brandy, you’ll find it on the side table. And whisky too.’ He stopped and peered myopically across the room. ‘At least there
ought
to be whisky. But after what happened to–’

Hyland interrupted impatiently. ‘Never mind about the whisky. And let the man put the stuff down and go away. We want another word with you and we may as well have it now.’

With an uneasy glance at the shrouded body on the rug, Swindle gave the necessary instructions to his assistant. ‘I told you all I done and know,’ he said in a sullen croak. ‘A man can’t do more than that.’

‘Quite true. But you may know more than you think. Were you in service here when there was the big fire forty years ago?’

‘The fire?’ Swindle was startled. ‘Yes, I was. Sixty-five years, man and boy, I’ve been at Sherris. And had six liveries under me at one time, I did. Now there’s nobbut two men, a boy and a gaggle of women. And the work something chronic.’ His voice sank into a snarl. ‘You should see the boiler. Urrr!’

Senility, Appleby supposed, had robbed this toad-like being of that dignity of speech which upper servants commonly affect. But he was not sure that Swindle wholly repelled him. And as if aware that some flicker of human sympathy had come his way, the butler advanced with a salver. ‘Take some coffee while it’s ’ot,’ he urged unprofessionally. ‘It may keep you awake – which is ’ow you’ll ’ave to keep to fathom this ’ere.’

Appleby accepted coffee. Hyland took a piece of the rejected caraway cake without enthusiasm, hunger apparently contending with a sense of the indecorum of this refection in the presence of the dead. ‘Well, then, about that fire,’ he said. ‘Did anyone get into trouble over it?’

‘Sir Romeo did. It sent him mad-like. They did say ’e died of it, in a manner of speaking.’

Appleby set down his cup. ‘Sir Romeo was the dead man’s father? Had he always been a bit mad, more or less?’

‘I wouldn’t care to say that.’ Swindle was cautious. ‘But none of the Dromios be common folk.’

‘I see. Would you say it was good service?’

Swindle considered this technicality more cautiously still. ‘We don’t a get on badly,’ he said at length. ‘The boiler’s the worst by a long way.’

Hyland reached unobtrusively for a sandwich. ‘Who else got into trouble?’

‘Grubb did. Gardener’s boy, he was then. The police – they was long before any time of your’n – raked about and raked about, and that very night they gaoled ’im.’

‘Did they, now?’ And Hyland glanced triumphantly at Appleby. ‘What would they do that for?’

‘Seems ’e ’ad a grudge against the master. Sir Romeo was a great one for keeping the menservants in order. A kick on the backside, ’e’d give them. And if they wouldn’t take that they could take their money.’

‘Dear me!’ Hyland was scandalized at this glimpse of the Edwardian baronetage.

‘And it seemed as not long before the fire ’e’d done something to put this young Grubb’s back up. The lad swore something dreadful to the other outdoor servants as to what ’e wouldn’t do to master. And when fire came ’e was skulking where ’e hadn’t no business. So the police gaoled him. But her ladyship sent and got him out next day.’

‘Next day!’ Hyland was frankly dismayed.

And Appleby chuckled. ‘A day in the local lock-up forty years ago. Somehow it doesn’t seem a very substantial–’

‘You never know. You never know what
does
rankle.’ Hyland’s tone was unconvinced. ‘This Grubb may have been an uncommonly sensitive lad.’

‘Lady Dromio must have been an uncommonly conscientious woman.’ Appleby was frowning into his coffee cup. ‘As I understand the matter, she had recently given birth to triplets and now two of them were tragically killed. But the very next day she sends down to the local police station and sees that they let out a young lout of a gardener’s boy.’

‘It’s wonderful’ – Hyland was sententious – ‘what the gentry could do in those days.’

‘Unquestionably. But she must have been pretty sure of what she was about.’ Appleby looked sharply at Swindle. ‘Do you know anything out-of-the-way about that fire the children lost their lives in?’

‘Nothing at all.’ The butler’s tone had become surly once more. ‘Nor what concern it is of anyone’s now.’

‘Very well. We’ll turn to other matters.’ Appleby paused. ‘But one further question there. What became of young Grubb in the end?’