Jack on the Gallows Tree (11 page)

“Yes, thank God. Wife and I agreed to differ some years ago and I look after myself. I don't like digs.”

“Pity, though, from one point of view. It means you have no alibi for your aunt's murder.”

“I know. Awkward, isn't it? But do they know what time poor old Sophia was done for? Because I may have an alibi. I was here about this time and don't suppose I left till nearly eight. Then I was back at half-past nine. It doesn't leave a lot of time.”

“It didn't need a lot of time.”

“But listen … what did you say your name was? But listen, Deene, does anyone seriously think I murdered Sophia? It's so far-fetched that I can't believe I'm really suspected.”

“I should think the police have serious suspicions.”

“It's quite absurd. Sophia was a dear, really. Helped me out no end of times.”

“She was popular?”

“She didn't mix much here. She had friends in London. Cosmopolitan crowd—you know, talked a sort of bastard English …”

“Mr Carew!” called Miss Shapely. “Please be careful of your Language. I won't have words like that used in my bar as well you know.”

“What words?” asked Carew innocently.

“You know very well. Begins with a B.”

“Yes, Sophia knew any amount of foreigners. I didn't see many of them. People who had read her books. Germans, Swiss, that sort of thing. I remember there was a Doctor Fuchs …”

“I'm listening, Mr Carew,” said Miss Shapely ominously.

“But to return to yourself,” said Carolus. “Can't you produce any sort of an alibi for that hour and a half?”

“How can I have one? I was in my house frying myself a bit of steak and eating it. I'm there every evening at that time. If I had known I'd need an alibi I'd have called on the neighbours or something. But no one saw me come in or go out to the best of my knowledge.”

“You see, what makes your situation so tricky is the lack of any other suspect. The only other people to benefit from your aunt's death are the Baxeters and Martha Tissot. She is physically incapable of it and the Baxeters scarcely seem …”

“The type? But I thought you investigators laughed at the idea of a murderous type.”

“We do. But there are limits. Have you got any suggestions to make?”

“Not really. Unless it could have been someone from outside. London or somewhere. As I've told you, she had a wide acquaintance.”

“You don't want me to consider
Sign of Four
sort of possibilities, do you? Someone appearing from her past with a lust for revenge. A Tuareg, perhaps?”

“No. But it needn't have been someone from Buddington. I see what you mean about the Baxeters. They don't seem exactly bloodthirsty, do they? I had dinner there once. Christ! I shall never forget it!”

“Mr Carew—Language, please,” called Miss Shapely with exasperation.

“It was terrifying, old man. Positively terrifying. Beetroot and dandelion soup. Then a
hors d'oeuvres …”

“Mr Carew, I shan't speak to you again!”

“Consisting of grated raw carrot and figs, followed by mock duck and sweet potatoes with semolina and fruit juice as a sweet. It turned me up, old man. The frightful thing is that Mrs Baxeter was supposed to be a wonderful cook. How can people prostitute their talents …”

“I shall have to ask you to leave in a minute, Mr Carew.”

“Still, even offering a guest that sort of thing is not murder in the ordinary sense of the word. I had taken the trouble to buy Mrs Baxeter some flowers, too. Sorry, she said, we don't have flowers in the house. Lovely bunch of Love-Lies-Bleeding …”

“That's enough now, Mr Carew. You finish up your drink and leave, please. If I've told you once I've told you a thousand times I will
not
have Language.”

“It was only the name of a flower.”

“I daresay, but there's no need to use those words with it. Beginning with B, I mean. Well, I'll give you one more chance.”

Carew looked towards the door.

“Here's old Johnson,” he said. “He'll shake her. He always does.”

Ben Johnson looked as though he might. His garb was an affected version of the farm-labourer's, corduroy trousers and a handkerchief knotted at the neck. He had not shaved for at least two days and whitish stubble showed on a face which looked otherwise rather young. His teeth were in urgent need of a skilled and ruthless dentist, and the hand in which he held his brandy and soda seemed a little uncertain.

“Hullo, Johnson,” said Carew. “This is Carolus Deene. He's investigating the two murders.”

“Evening,” said the artist. “You're wasting your time. Who cares who bumped off the old crows?”

Carew giggled.

“I do rather. One was my aunt.”

“Well, I know. But after a certain age what good are we to anyone? I hope when I get there someone will do me in.”

“Someone probably will, if you talk like that,” said Carolus. “Only a man scared of death would even do that kind of whistling in the dark.”

“What in hell do you mean?”

“Er … Mr Johnson …” called Miss Shapely, mildly for such a mild expletive.

“I mean that you talk like a fool. What difference does the age of people matter when they are murdered? A murderer is arrogating to himself the powers of God. It is damnable presumption and if we, the rest of humanity, let it pass we should be pusillanimous rats. Whoever killed those women is going to pay for it with his life or liberty, I can assure you of that.”

“Nice piece of tub-thumping,” said the artist.

“I admit it. I just don't find murder funny, that's all. Did you know Sophia Carew?”

“Just met her. Bit of a gorgon, I thought.”

“And Mrs Westmacott?”

“No, thank God. There I did draw the line. I never met that bitch …”

“Mr Johnson, will you please control your Language in my bar?” called Miss Shapely.

“What's the matter? I was talking about a female dog. How would you refer to it?”

“You could quite easily say a lady-dog. There's no need to use words beginning with B.”

“You don't know the provocation I've had,” said Ben Johnson, then turning to Carolus, Carew and Priggley went on: “You ask if I knew her. I did not, but it has cost
me a year's work to say so. The woman was indefatigable. She'd been patted on the head as a child by Burne-Jones or someone, and it had turned her artist-mad for the rest of her life.”

“What was wrong with Burne-Jones?” asked Carolus provocatively.

“Nothing, except that he couldn't paint. A glazier …”

“You mean he did stained glass?”

“A paviour …”

“He was a mosaicist.”

“A tiler, a blacksmith, a needleman, plasterer, organ-decorator, upholsterer, book-illustrator, anything you like, but don't call him an artist. As for Rossetti …”

“Yes?”

“Jejune. Timid. Thin,” said Ben Johnson.

“Really. I'd no idea. Is that why you disliked the idea of meeting Mrs Westmacott?”

“Partly. She and her circle were still living with those old arty-crafties. But partly it was the woman's shameless persistence. She never let up. On the very evening she died I had a call from her, as you probably know.”

“I didn't know. Do the police?”

“Must do. I made no secret of it at the time.”

Ben Johnson looked a little uncomfortable, as though he had let out more than he meant.

“What time was it?”

“Eightish, I should say. Extraordinary. Began talking about when I should come round presently. Seemed tickled to death. Expecting me.”

“What did you say?”

“I worked the old receiver gag on her. It never fails. You can buy me a drink for telling you. It'll save you quids in time and boredom. When you get some garrulous nuisance on the phone you hang up, but while
you're
talking, not while he or she is. Talkers like that never suppose that anyone will cut himself off. You remove the receiver for five
minutes and you're free. It works every time and never gives offence. ‘Oh but Mrs Westmacott …' I said that evening and bang! ended the conversation.”

“Most interesting,” said Carolus. “I daresay we all have occasions for that. She did not come through again?”

“No. I went out soon afterwards.”

“Where?”

“None of your business.”

“So you've still never seen Mrs Westmacott, nor she you?”

“Never hide nor hair, as they say. And now, what
do you
think about it?”

“I haven't got to the stage of suspicion backed with more than guesswork.”

“You think it was a homicidal maniac?”

“No. I think these were carefully planned murders by person or persons with motives.”

“For both?” asked Johnson sceptically. Carolus did not answer.

After a while both Johnson and Carew went to talk to others of their acquaintance. Carolus found himself alone for a moment with Priggley.

“Have you ever seen any of that man's paintings?” asked Rupert.

“No.”

“God!”

Miss Shapely cleared her throat.

“It's unbelievably bad. Fetches thousands. It's the
avant-garde
of last year and there's nothing more dated than that.”

“What does he paint?”

“Crucified spiders. Skulls caught in cobwebs. Tortured vultures. You know the sort of thing.”

“I don't, but I'll try to guess. Now who else is there? I wonder if that farming character is here. The one with the ocelot.”

Carolus leaned across the bar somewhat and asked Miss Shapely.

“Mr Raydell? Yes, that's him talking to Mr Carew. Mr Raydell! Here's a gentleman asking for you.”

The farmer was as beefy and sanguine-looking as a farmer is expected to be, and seemed quite ready to talk. He had heard that Carolus was investigating the case.

“They tell me you've got an ocelot,” said Carolus.

“Yes. Friendly little beast. Not very popular in this bar though.”

“I should think not,” said Miss Shapely. “Don't you ever
think
of bringing that savage brute here again.”

“Wouldn't hurt a fly.”

“That may or may not be true, but my bar's
not
a menagerie, Mr Raydell.”

Miss Shapely moved away to honour someone by serving him.

Raydell laughed.

“She didn't take kindly to Angela,” he said. “I had to come and make peace with her a few nights later. At first I didn't think she'd serve me, but, as you see, she relented. It was old Dan Westmacott who brought her round.”

“Dan
Westmacott?”

“Yes. Dante, his full name is. Neighbour of mine and a dam' good chap. Not like that sissified brother of his. We came in together.”

“Which night would that have been?”

“The night those two poor women were murdered. In fact driving home I must have passed quite close to the body of one. Just near Goggs' cottage. Goggs works for me.”

“Yes. You must have if you went that way home after ten.”

“More like one in the morning. I had to meet someone after they shut.”

“I see.”

“You must allow us rustics our pleasures.”

“I should be the last to want to interfere with them. What about Westmacott?”

“Oh, he went off somewhere soon after we'd conciliated Shapely.”

“You didn't see him again?”

“Not that evening.”

“And you arrived here at what time?”

“Couldn't have been long after opening time. When I eventually got in my old housekeeper was waiting for me. She's deaf as a post and gets very worried if anything unusual takes place. That evening she happened to be sitting near the telephone soon after we'd gone out when she heard it ring. She never hears it in the ordinary way. She picked up the receiver but couldn't get a word. She thinks it was a woman's voice. She imagined all sorts of things, poor old girl. Thought I'd driven into a ditch or dropped dead or something. When I was late coming home she nearly went out of her mind.”

“Did you ever hear what the call was?”

“Never; I don't get many calls, either.”

“You say you came in to town with Dante Westmacott. Do you mean you shared a car?”

“No. We both had things to do in the town. We came in each under his own steam, agreeing to meet here. You should come and meet Dan. Nice chap. His wife's our local beauty. When you've had enough of the old trouts at the Hydro come out to Lilbourne and feast your eyes on Gloria Westmacott. She's something.”

“Thanks. Was either of you acquainted with Miss Carew?”

“I wasn't. I believe Dan had met her once. Anyway, why not come out for a drink tomorrow evening? I'll ask Dan and Gloria and you can have a good natter. You may find out something useful. Say about six?”

“Thanks. I'd like to.”

“I'd be pleased to see this thing cleared up. Damnable business—two old ladies.”

“Did you know Mrs Westmacott?”

“Not directly. But funnily enough my old housekeeper did. Years ago, it seems. She can tell you a good deal about her in her young days.”

“What's your housekeeper's name?”

“Lightfoot. Grace Lightfoot. Most inappropriate because she clumps about like an elephant. Well, see you tomorrow.”

Carolus watched him push his way to the other end of the bar, where he joined a large group.

“Wonder
why
he should be so keen on my going out there.”

“Perhaps he wants you to see his ocelot.”

“Perhaps. This place is getting packed, isn't it?”

“But not out of control. Shapely's got them where she wants them. Is there anyone else with whom you want to scrape acquaintance?”

“Yes. Three if we're lucky enough. Gilling the carpark man from the Granodeon. I gather he never misses. Two other possibles—Wright the chauffeur and Bickley who works for the Westmacotts.”