Death of a Commuter (21 page)

“And you have been with him?”

“All the time, of course. Now I must really …”

“Yes. Once again I'm sorry to have disturbed you. I hope the vicar will soon recover.”

Willa Hopelady made no reply but firmly closed the front door.

There was nothing for it now but to go to the police station.
Carolus could only hope that someone more intelligent than Sergeant Beckett would be in charge.

But he was disappointed.

“So it's you again,” said the sergeant as soon as Carolus walked in. “What is it this time? Your car has been scraped again? I know all about you, Mr. Deene; you're a schoolmaster who's been a nuisance to the police with your larking about with crime. But you're not going to be a nuisance to me again. You deliberately gave me false information last time you were here and it's not decided yet what steps we shall take about it. What have you come to report this time?”

“Murder,” said Carolus quietly.

“What do you mean, murder?” shouted Sergeant Beckett. “You'll find yourself in serious trouble, you know. A police station is not a place to try that sort of game in.”

“Can I see someone in the plain clothes branch?”

“That's for me to decide. You've led us up the garden once. I don't know whether you've been drinking or not, but you can't come in here talking about murder. We've got work to do.”

“You certainly have. Now listen to me. A man was shot in the back of the head tonight…”

“All right. All right. Have it your own way. Only I warn you, Mr. Deene, if this is more of your foolery it will be a serious matter. What is it you wish to bring to my notice?”

“I've told you. A dead man—with a bullet through his head.”

“Did you make the discovery or were you told about this?”

“Oh, for God's sake!”

“There's no need for blasphemy, Mr. Deene. Will you please make a detailed report in proper terms.”

Carolus sighed.

“I was proceeding along the road from Buttsfield to Brenstead at approximately 9.50 this evening …”

“By car?”

“By car. As I approached the side-turning which leads to the Great Ring…”

“The Great Ring,” said Sergeant Beckett who was scribbling busily.

“I noticed the headlights of a car approaching the road from the direction of the Great Ring.”

“Speed?”

“Slowish. It turned into the main road and proceeded towards Brenstead. I turned at the junction and proceeded towards the car park of the Great Ring.”

“Why did you do that?”

“Why not? As I reached the car park I saw the figure of a man prone on the ground beside an overturned motor-cycle from which the petrol was running.”

“Registration number?”

“BYY018.”

Sergeant Beckett referred to some papers.

“That's the number you gave us before! In that other story of yours. Now I'm warning you for the last time, Mr. Deene…”

“I saw a Criterion motor-cycle, registration number BYY 018, lying on its side with petrol running from it. A dead man was beside it.”

“How did you know he was dead?”

“He had a bullet hole through his head. From the back of the skull. I then proceeded to come here to report the matter.”

“Are you subject to illusions of any kind? Any mental trouble in your family?”

“Lots,” said Carolus, “but there is my report and you'd better get moving on it. You can't leave the man there all night.”

“I will ask you to sign this,” said the sergeant “Thank you. Now this matter will be investigated. If it should prove that you have again been attempting to mislead us, proceedings will be taken against you. If there should happen to be anything in your report you will be required for further questioning. You are returning to Newminster where I understand you own some property?”

“I have a house. Yes, I shall be returning to Newminster tonight.”

“Then in either case you will be hearing from us. You've no idea of the identity of the dead man, of course?”

“Oh yes. His name is George Catford.”

“You are aware that that is the owner of the motor-cycle you gave the number of, and said it had scraped your car?”

“Yes. He was the owner.”

“I see,” said Sergeant Beckett, considering deeply. “There's something I don't understand about this. The same things keeping turning up in some way.”

“Here's my address and telephone number in Newminster. I should be glad to see the detective-inspector who investigates the murder. I think I may be useful to him.”

“If there has been an … accident of any serious kind you will be asked in due course to account for your movements. For the moment you may go.”

Carolus decided that before he started on the long drive to Newminster he would go to the Old Manor House and see if Elspeth was still up. He badly wanted a drink.

He found lights on.

“Oh, Carolus, it's you. I was just going to bed. I've got some news for you.”

Carolus took off his overcoat and noticed Rumble's hanging there. He joined Elspeth by a good bright fire.

“You won't be the first to hear it because it was settled last night.”

“You're going to be married?”

“That's it. Jimmy wanted not to tell anyone because he thinks it's too soon after Felix's death but I tell him that's hopeless.”

“Where is he?” asked Carolus. “I'd like to congratulate him.”

“He's staying in this evening for an early night.”

Carolus remembered the overcoat but thought it would not be tactful to press the point.

“Anyway, you must drink to us,” said Elspeth. “What will you have?”

Carolus sat by the blazing fire and gave his congratulations.

“What brought you back to Brenstead?” Elspeth asked. “You're not still worrying about the other thing?”

“No. I've finished with that.”

“I'm glad, now. I want to get away from here with Jimmy and perhaps live abroad. After all that's happened I don't want to keep this place on. It was always more Felix's home than mine. And the people are really rather awful.”

“Some of them.”

“Most, I think. They seem to think I'm responsible for Felix's will and I knew nothing about it. Hopelady's nearly off his head I'm told.”

“He's not a very stable character, anyway. Where do you think you will go?”

“Spain, probably. I've persuaded Jimmy to sell his share in the travel agency. There's no point in our staying in England.”

“I see your point. Personally, I'm never tempted to live abroad.”

“By the way, you were going to find the man in the railway carriage. Did you succeed?”

“Yes. At least I found the man I think it was. I couldn't get him to say anything about it, though. He won't bother anyone any more now. You can be sure of that.”

Elspeth smiled.

“He never bothered me,” she said. “It was you who were so curious about him.”

“I hate loose ends when I try to get at the truth. But I could learn nothing from him. And now he's dead.”

“Dead?”

Elspeth was appalled at Carolus's cool announcement.

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“Everyone will know tomorrow. But don't let it worry you. He wasn't a very pleasant person. I wouldn't have told you if you hadn't asked me. Whether he knew anything or not he has taken his secrets with him, as they say.”

“Poor, wretched man. Don't you sometimes think the world's a pretty rotten place, Carolus?”

“No. Never. And you shouldn't either, after the news you've given me.”

Elspeth smiled.

“Yes. You're right. But it's when one's happy that things like that seem so rotten.”

Carolus finished his whisky and rose to go. It was past midnight and he had eighty miles to drive.

C
AROLUS
W
OKE TO A
B
EAUTIFUL
S
PRING
M
ORNING. THE
S
UN
C
AME
in his open window and made the events of last night a phantasmagoria.

His first step was to phone Mrs. Stick.

“It's all clear, Mrs. Stick,” he told her.

“Are you in the house alone, sir? We'll pop straight down this morning then. I was going to ask you whether my sister and her husband could come with us, just for the week-end?”

Mrs. Stick's sister in Battersea had often been quoted as a model of propriety who, with her undertaker husband, would disapprove of her sister working where there were murders going on, as Mrs. Stick put it As Carolus was expecting that day to be tackled if not apprehended by the police of Buttsfield for smashing a car window, and questioned none too amicably by those of Brenstead, it did not seem a very apposite time for Mrs. Stick's sister's stay. But he could not refuse.

“Of course, Mrs. Stick,” he said. “Have you still got that monster with you?”

“If you mean the young gentleman, sir, it's been a pleasure to
have him, and he's met ever such a nice young lady.”

Carolus groaned.

“We'll put our things together straight away,” said Mrs. Stick, “and be down before lunch.”

Carolus now felt himself menaced from four quarters. The Buttsfield police, the Brenstead police, his housekeeper and her formidable sister and almost certainly the headmaster. Of these the most easily placated would be Mr. Gorringer, who would be so consumed with curiosity to know the results of Carolus's researches in Buttsfield that he would forget his disapproval of his senior history master's unfortunate hobby.

In this he was right. Before eleven o'clock that morning Mr. Gorringer appeared at his front door.

“Ah, Deene,” he said, “the news of your return has already reached me. I owe it to the keen observation of our school porter, the estimable Muggeridge who noticed your car this morning, How blows the wind?”

“A murder last night” said Carolus. “But come in, headmaster.”

Mr. Gorringer stopped dramatically on his way through the door.

“You are not serious, Deene?”

“Yes. Shot through the head from behind, I think.”

“These are grim tidings,” said Mr. Gorringer. “Who was the victim?”

“A young man named George Catford.”

“And the police?”

“I've informed them. They'll probably be over here presently.”

Mr. Gorringer seemed to sway a little.

“Here?” he repeated.

“Well, yes. They'll want to know how I found the body.”

“You mean that your evidence may be required in court?”

“Just a formality I should think. I happened to be the first to arrive on the scene. Someone has to be.”

“Deene, this is a graver matter than you seem to recognise. I was willing to overlook the disgraceful scenes of the other night
when I myself was actually threatened with a loaded pistol, but what am I to say to our Board of Governors when one of my staff has to be relieved from his duties to give evidence at an inquest —or even worse at a trial for murder?”

“It might happen to anyone.”

“You may be right. The point is that it only happens to you. Could you not have prevented this act of savagery?”

“I might have. I tried, in fact Have a drink, headmaster?”

“It is far too early in the day for any such indulgence. And yet, in view of the shock … perhaps. You have some theory by which to identify the murderer?”

“I know who shot George Catford.”

“His murder is connected with the death you were investigating? That of Stick's former employer?”

“Indirectly, yes. But I shall have to give these details to the police when they arrive. I don't want to anticipate that.”

Mr. Gorringer, who was facing the window, suddenly paled.

“Deene,” he cried. “A police car has just pulled up at the gate and two men in uniform have alighted from it!”

“In uniform? Oh, that's only Buttsfield. Nothing to worry about. I'll let them in.”

A grey-haired sergeant entered without removing his peaked cap.

“Your name is Carolus Deene?” he said solemnly. “I have a summons here for you to appear before the Buttsfield magistrates on Friday the twenty-seventh of this month.”

“What's the charge?” asked Carolus.

“Wilful damage to property.”

“Oh, that car window.”

“Yes. That car window. It seems you deliberately smashed it with some heavy implement.”

“I had to, yes. I shall of course pay the damage.”

“You will doubtless be ordered to do so apart from a fine. We can't have that sort of hooliganism. It is only the fact that we know you to be a person of previous good character …”

“I can answer for that, Sergeant,” put in Mr. Gorringer.

“That will not be necessary,” said the sergeant curtly. “We
have made our own enquiries.” He turned to Carolus. “You have the summons. That will be all.”

The sergeant strode importantly to the door.

“Is there no end to this?” asked Mr. Gorringer, when he had gone. “Wilful damage to property. Hooliganism in a member of my staff! Deene, you are driving me to desperate remedies. Much as I value your services to the school… But another car has stopped at your gate. What new embarrassment awaits us?”

Carolus looked out.

“It's only Mrs. Stick's sister from Battersea,” he said calmly. “And her husband. An undertaker, I understand.”

Mr. Gorringer was moved to heavy humour.

“I cannot but think it an appropriate profession for your housekeeper's relative,” he said. “But the person approaching scarcely resembles an undertaker, I should have thought.”

Carolus could only agree. Mrs. Stick's brother-in-law was a floridly happy-looking individual in a cloth cap while his wife was a stout blonde in her fifties whose trousers fitted so tightly round an enormous bottom that no one could have called them slacks. They were both smiling cheerfully as Mrs. Stick led them to the front door.