Here Comes a Chopper (17 page)

At this point one of their late opponents came in.

‘Hey, you!’ he said, noting Roger. ‘What’s the idea?’

‘Air,’ said Roger, clinging to the captain’s shoulder. ‘Nice, clean, rain-washed air.’

‘What happened, exactly? It wasn’t our fellows, was it?’ asked the enemy. ‘Lean on me as well, old man. This is foul luck, after those two tries.’

‘Some damn fool of a spectator,’ said the captain, ‘sitting just inside the wooden barrier. Grabbed up the ball, took a drop kick, missed the ball, and landed on Hoskyn.’

‘I thought I picked up the ball myself,’ said Roger. ‘But I hardly remember what happened. After I got the try two or three of them got up off me, and that was all right, but then I felt my ankle go, and
as I went down someone kicked me. Did we win, does anybody know?’

‘I’ve told you once that we did. You know, you ought not to be walking about. You’re concussed.’

‘I should think the fellow who kicked you got pretty well lynched by the crowd at that end of the ground,’ said the enemy. ‘One thing, you needn’t worry. You’ve got a sitter next round.’

‘Who?’ Roger looked at his captain.

‘An Old Boys’ team from somewhere off the map. We ought to eat ’em, so don’t you worry. Anyway, I shan’t play you. I refuse to have an inquest on my hands.’

‘Oh, Lord!’ said Roger with a groan. The other two looked at him anxiously. ‘How’s the time?’ he added.

‘Oh, we’ve got tons of time, I’m glad to say. There are four more first rounds to be worked off yet before we play our second,’ replied the captain.

‘Let’s go and see how they shape.’

‘I should think you’d better take it easy.’

‘Oh, no. I’d rather get some air. Come on. Support the weak.’

He walked on gingerly, supported by his two stalwarts, until they were encountered by another player who was just coming into the dressing-room.

‘Bad luck, Hoskyn,’ said this man. ‘I say, I don’t want to sound hysterical, but it looked to me as though that kick at your head was done a-purpose. Who have you been annoying of? Why should
you get yourself disliked? Caggers and I made a bee-line for the fellow, but the crowd was a bit annoyed, too, and he was off before we could get near him.’

I don’t see why anyone should lay for me,’ said Roger. ‘I haven’t a quarrel with anyone, so far as I know. But it felt like a boot all right. I can tell you that. My skull feels horrid like jelly.’

‘Well, I’d like to have got the bloke by the neck,’ said the captain. ‘I’d have screwed it round for him, and that I do know.’

As soon as they came out by the side of the grandstand Dorothy came up and stood before them.

‘How is it?’ she asked. Roger grinned. Two players got up from a bench, the captain and the opponent melted away, and Roger and Dorothy sat down. ‘I suppose you won’t play any more?’

‘Oh, I think I shall be all right,’ he responded, putting a hand to the bandage. ‘And the ankle’s fine, so long as I don’t get a kick on it.’

‘Roger,’ said Dorothy, after a pause, ‘you don’t know a square, dark man with an astrakan coat-collar and a long, rather ragged moustache?’

‘Sounds like a moneylender. If it is, I’m not guilty. Don’t owe a sou to a soul.’

‘I’m serious. He’s the man who kicked you on the head.’

‘Oh, well, these things happen.’

‘Yes, but he did it deliberately, and as soon as he’d done it, and people began to surge round, he dived through the crowd and went off. We left
our seats and ran round to the gate, but couldn’t see any sign of him. Bob would have killed him, I think, if we could have caught him.’

‘Bob’s always been an admirer of my beauty. No, honestly, I’m glad you didn’t find him. I know Bob in moods like that. But it couldn’t have been deliberate. No one would kick a bloke’s head in because he happened—more by luck than by judgment—to score a try. And if it wasn’t for scoring a fairly fluky try …’

‘It was a very good try. You needn’t be modest about it.’

‘I’m not. That remark was conceit.’

‘I thought it might be. Well, next time, you see that somebody else scores the try if he’s going to get his head kicked in for it.’

Roger laughed. Then he said soberly:

‘Tell you what, though. Ever since Mrs Denbies’ recital I’ve had an idea that someone has followed me about. Furthermore, I’ve a hunch I know who.’

‘How horrid. Who is it? Anybody I know?’

‘Sim, that chauffeur. Remember?’

‘Whatever makes you think that?’

‘Well, he keeps popping up. I found him near me in a pub one night in Guildford.’

‘Guildford isn’t so very many miles from Whiteledge.’

‘Then at the Dogs …’

‘Everybody goes to the Dogs.’

‘Again in Regent Street.’

‘Regent Street?’

‘Yes. By the way …’ He felt in his pockets. ‘Oh, damn! Of course, I’m in shorts. I’ve got something to show you. Remind me.’

‘Of course I shall. What?—Another poem?’

‘No,’ said Roger, blushing. ‘And you shut up!’

‘I’d better get back to Bob and Mrs Bradley.’

‘Good heavens! Is Mrs Bradley here?’

‘Oh, yes. I think she’s taken rather a fancy to Bob. They discuss the murder——’

‘And the inquest, I suppose. Have you fully realized that you and I may have to make a public appearance?’

‘You will. I shan’t. Do you think they suspect Mrs Denbies? The inspector and the sergeant, I mean.’

‘Well, of course they suspect her! As far as is known, she was the last person to see the fellow Lingfield alive.’

‘Yes,
as far as is known
. I’ll never believe she had anything to do with it, though. She couldn’t have! She isn’t that kind of person.’

I agree, but why our certainty? Red-haired people are notorious for preferring to hand out the swift slosh rather than the word of admonition and remonstrance.’

‘Yes, but—his head!’

‘She was out on the night it was done—and in her car. She admits that to everybody now.’

Yes, but the car that was found abandoned and wrecked wasn’t hers.’

‘That was the only thing that saved her, I believe, from being arrested after the first inquest.’

‘Oh, well, that inquest was only formal, wasn’t it? I wonder whether she’ll stick to her story that the dead person wasn’t Mr Lingfield? Rather silly, I thought, to have said that at all.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. If she killed him, you see, it would work out best for her if she could throw doubt on the idea that he was dead. It was rather intelligent really.’

‘I don’t agree at all. And even if that’s true, it would only have been intelligent if she really had killed him, and I thought we were agreed that she didn’t do it.
You
don’t think she did it, do you?’

‘No, of course I don’t think she did it…. Only, you see, there’s no alibi, and … well … she did admit they quarrelled.’

‘A fine friend
you
are! I hope
I
never get mixed up in murder or crime!’

‘Murder
or
crime?’

‘Yes. They are not the same thing; not always, anyhow.’

‘It depends on the motive, doesn’t it?’

‘I thought it went badly against Mrs Denbies that Mr Lingfield appears to have left her a good deal of property.’

‘Oh, did he? I didn’t know that. Any money?’

‘I understand there wasn’t much money. Hadn’t he drawn most of it out?’

‘I don’t know, I tell you. How do you come to be so well-informed about all this?’

‘I don’t know. We were in Mrs Bradley’s drawing-room feeling rather aimless, and she came out with one or two things.’

‘The devil and all she did!’ said Roger, staring. ‘And when are the rest of us going to hear any news?’

‘I should think it would come out at the inquest.’

‘Will it? Perhaps I shan’t be listening. What did he leave her, then?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Shares in things, and some houses….’

‘Mostly mortgaged, I expect.’

‘You don’t like what you know of Mr Lingfield, do you? I thought men always backed up other men.’

‘They do, when they know them. I didn’t know Lingfield, and that lets me out, you see. As I see him, he was a swine, and what he got serves him right.’

‘Does it? I suppose that’s all right then. By the way, if Mrs Denbies—I mean, suppose that they thought she
did
murder Mr Lingfield, she couldn’t—I mean, could she inherit anything?’

‘No, of course she couldn’t. You can’t, under English law, gain anything by murdering your benefactor. I’m perfectly sure of that.’

‘Something ought to hang on that, somehow, but, in this case, I can’t see what.’

‘Some
one
, you probably mean, but—take it as read. I say, I feel a lot better. I think I’ll go and smoke a cigarette. One should always break training (into which, incidentally, I never really go) before the final round.’

‘But this won’t be the final round.’

‘I expect it will for us,’ said Roger with great philosophy.

‘So you lost in the final round?’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘There is something Greek about that.’

‘Of all things, not to be born into the world is best,’ said Roger, grinning. He looked fagged but cheerful, and his scalp wound had been found to be superficial. The aggressor had either missed his kick or not kicked hard enough. Nevertheless, the victim, having played three games since the accident, was feeling that he had had enough for one day. He said as much.

‘Never mind. You played a splendid game. My hearty congratulations,’ said Mrs Bradley. She patted his muscular shoulder. ‘And did you enjoy the matches?’

‘Not so that you’d notice,’ said Roger, touching his bandaged head. ‘One of the spectators seemed to think this was the ball.’

‘I know. Too bad. May I look?’

‘Oh, I think it’s all right. I didn’t have any concussion.’

‘That
can
come later. Let me look.’

‘No, really, it’s quite all right.’

‘You weren’t thinking of going on the spree tonight by way of celebration, by any chance?’

‘Well, we did think we’d go up to town.’

‘Not you, child. Alcohol won’t help this head of yours.’

‘Oh, but really …’

Mrs Bradley made an almost imperceptible sign to Dorothy.

‘Please come with me, Roger,’ said the girl.

‘Come where?’ He looked surprised.

‘To Mrs Bradley’s country place at Wandles. We’re invited there for Sunday, and as long as we like to stay.’

‘Are we?’ He looked very pleased and, suddenly, very young. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m not feeling much like a night on the roof with the lads. When and how do we go?’

‘At once, if you like. Henri and Célestine went down this morning, and Mrs Ribbon is always there to keep the place aired,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘My secretary also is there. I think you’ll both like Laura. Bob also has promised to come, but he has to go back tomorrow evening.’

‘I’ll have to go back to my digs and pack a bag.’

‘I’d better come with you,’ said Dorothy.

‘I’ll pick you up at your lodgings,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘I am sorry to say that Claudia cannot come.’

‘Thank goodness for that,’ muttered Roger. ‘No, I’m going straight home,’ he added to two members of his Seven who were just coming out of the gate. ‘Sorry and all that. Some other time.’

‘Are you really glad Mrs Denbies isn’t coming?’ Dorothy asked, as they took the road towards the station.

‘You bet!’ said Roger emphatically, tucking her arm in his. ‘I say, it’s cold! What’s this place of Mrs Bradley’s? I’ve never heard of it.’

‘Just a nice old stone house, she says, with a garden and stables and a garage. And she’s got a French cook and a French maid (husband and wife), and a Highland secretary….’

‘Who’s Laura, then?’

‘The secretary. Educated partly in England….’

‘You mean partly educated, don’t you?’

‘—and perfectly tame, although rather large and energetic. And we can do exactly as we like all the time.
Exactly
as we like.’

‘As long as we like the same things,’ said Roger grinning. ‘Do you think there’s any chance we might?’

There were various answers to this question, and there were those among them which Dorothy had half a mind to give. However, the kick on the head and his bandage had given him a pale and interesting appearance, and she found him, apart from this, not unattractive, so she compromised by smiling her secret smile and then observing:

‘I wouldn’t know. Would you?’

‘I could make a guess,’ said Roger. ‘Do you think we could stay until Tuesday, and then go under her wing to this damned inquest?’

‘You’re scared of it. Why?’ asked Dorothy.

‘Oh, I don’t know. Here’s the trolley. I don’t know where we have to change.’

‘Don’t you bother. I’ll find out.’

She was rather concerned at his blackened eyes and the listless expression of his mouth. She did not ask whether his head hurt him, but, having
got him to his lodgings, she made him drink some tea and then lie on the bed and direct the packing of his suitcase. His landlady happened to be out, so they had the place to themselves, and left her a note when Mrs Bradley’s chauffeur, a respectable, kindly man, came up to the door and knocked for them.

M
ICHAEL
D
RAYTON
,
Nymphidia: The Court of Fairy

CLAUDIA’S PANIC-STRICKEN LETTER
broke upon the household at Wandles Parva just after the newspapers were delivered on Monday morning. Claudia stated that she knew she was going to be arrested for the murder of Harry Lingfield, and would be cautioned (‘in that loathsome way’) that anything she might choose to say would be taken down in writing and might be used in evidence.

Claudia’s response to this timely warning, she added wildly, would be—and the police could make
the most of it—’I didn’t kill Harry, and you know it! I didn’t kill anybody, and anyhow, the dead man isn’t Harry, as I keep on telling you! In any case, it’s such nonsense to talk to me about his silly will! I didn’t want his money, and, even if I did, he hadn’t any!’