The Mystery of a Butcher's Shop (19 page)

‘Well, I'm better off than you,' he said. ‘I went to the “Queen's Head” for a nightcap, and got embroiled in a row with a great oaf of a farmer called Galloway. Didn't finish the scrap until nearly closing-time. Choice, wasn't it?'

‘Did you get hurt?' asked Mrs Bradley.

‘Got pretty badly knocked about,' said Wright carelessly. ‘Never mind.' He grinned again.

‘And you bear Mr Galloway no malice?' said Mrs Bradley musingly. ‘That is so nice, I think. It is what they call the true sporting feeling, isn't it? They teach it at the Public Schools now, don't they?'

Wright glared at her suspiciously. Women, especially ancient dames like this one, were fools, he knew. Yet was it possible – ? But Mrs Bradley's wrinkled yellow face was mild and sweet as that of a grandmother – which, owing to the extreme distaste displayed by her only son for the whole female sex, she certainly was not! – and Wright was forced to the conclusion that – alas for the progress of feminism! – it
was
possible! The woman was an idiot. Why had he shivered when she smiled?

He grunted and moved towards the door. Mrs Bradley followed him, but on the way she paused at some shelves of books. On top of the bookcase was a fine array of silver sports trophies.

‘Old Savile's, mostly,' said Wright.

Mrs Bradley drew out her reading-glass and scanned the engraved inscriptions closely.

‘But you have two,' she said, with a beam of senile futility. ‘How very nice! What did you do to win such lovely cups? Oh, and there's a belt! How extremely amusing.
What
are they for?'

Wright shrugged his shoulders.

‘Oh, for boxing,' he said carelessly. ‘About the only thing I'm any good at in the sports line.'

‘They
are
pretty things,' said Mrs Bradley, even more fatuously than before. ‘You
must
be clever!'

When she had gone, Wright pulled on an old pair of boxing-gloves, made one or two preliminary sparring movements, and then, by way of relieving his feelings, measured the distance with his left hand and then with his powerful right he split a panel of the studio door from top to bottom.

Mrs Bradley entered the bar of the ‘Queen's Head' in some trepidation. It is not often that respectable elderly ladies, expensively, albeit hideously, clad in magenta silk dress, summer coat to match, large black picture hat (quite ludicrously unbecoming, the last-named, to Mrs Bradley's beaky bird-like profile and sharp black eyes), walk into the bar of a public house. At the ‘Queen's Head' such an occurrence was absolutely unknown.

Wandles Parva (or those three-quarters of it which could command the entrance to the house of refreshment from the cover and vantage-point of the upstairs bedroom window) was keenly interested.

‘Be going to ask Billy Bondy for a subscription for the church, like?'

‘What, she? Never you need think so! Her don't never go into church without it might be on a weekday like any of they heathenish Catholics, and then her only goes there-along to gape at the old door and the windies, like silly folks in they charries from London do come and do!'

Mrs Bradley addressed herself to the landlord, a small, alert, bright-eyed Cockney.

‘Kindly call to mind,' she said, ‘the evening of Sunday, June 22nd.'

The landlord looked perplexed. Would there be any special reason – ‘Oh, ah! Of course! That there murder!'

‘No, not the murder. I heard rumours down in the village of a fight between –'

‘Alfred Owen Galloway, of this town, and what's-his-name Wright, late of Somewhere Else,' supplied the landlord humorously. ‘Quite right, mum. So there were. ‘Ere they stood, right in this very bar. We pushes back the old table to give 'em room. On my right, Mr Galloway. On my left, Mr Wright – only 'e' appened to be all wrong that evening. There was no seconds as you'd notice, and the rules was 'ardly Queensberry, nor yet N.S.C. I acts as timekeeper, referee, stooards, manager and permoter, and
Evening Star
special reporter all at once. And at twenty past nine, mum, I starts 'em 'orf by me watch – Greenwich time.

‘It wasn't too bad, mum, for about a round and a 'arf. Mr Wright was nicely inside 'imself, and looked to me to 'ave the style and the science in 'itting. But at the end of Round Two 'e lets Galloway put 'im to the ropes – which is to say this 'ere counter – with a nasty left 'ook, and only the call of time saved 'im from punishment. Well, when the fight was resoomed in the third round, Wright was seen to be weakening. 'E stopped a left-'anded wallop to the jaw, but Galloway's right found 'is claret, which began to flow 'eavy. A sharp exchange o' blows follered, but Galloway, gettin' excited, steps in and mixes it as nice as I ever see. It weren't science, mind you, but it was real meaty! A nice two-'anded scrapper only wants a bit o' training to be a world-beater, mum, as you know. Well, Wright took some nasty body-blows, and we 'ears 'im grunt as they got 'ome on the short ribs. Suddenly Galloway gets 'im in the stummick – a foul blow, by boxin' law, but we was bein' broad-minded that evenin' – and as the pore feller comes forward – doubled-up, you know – Galloway gets 'im under the jaw with a cosh what made the glasses rattle on this 'ere tray.

‘Well, I counts Wright out, and we brings 'im round and 'elps 'im on with 'is coat, and some of the fellers would 'ave 'elped 'im 'ome, but 'e preferred to go orf on 'is own. Well, the chaps stands Galloway a pint or two as the winner, and we shakes 'ands with 'im all round, and '
e
goes 'ome.'

‘I have to thank you, Mr Bondy,' observed Mrs Bradley, ‘for a most exceptionally concise, clear, and interesting account of the proceedings. You are not a Wandles man, I take it?'

‘Wandles?' The landlord found the spittoon in the corner with unerring aim. ‘King's Road, 'Ammersmith – that's me. Used ter be a perfessional footballer, I did. Played for Fulham. Unlucky team, Fulham is. Still, me benefit was all right. After I collected it, I retires, and buys this 'ere little 'ouse. It's a nice little 'ouse, but sometimes I finds myself thinkin' wistful-like of the lights and the trams and the drunks and the gals and the Pally Dee Danse where we went when we was flush, and the little 'all orf the Bridge Road – billiards and pool and snooker – where we went when we wasn't – and takin' the old lady to the' Ammersmith Palace or the Shepherd's Bush Empire to see 'Etty King and them – I tell you, mum, it's an 'orrible thing to be 'omesick. There's bin nights in Bossbury when I could 'a' sit and cried just with the stink of the fried fish shops remindin' me of the old Grey'ound Road!'

Mrs Bradley paid his homesickness the tribute of a few moments' unbroken silence. Then she said:

‘And how did this quarrel between Mr Wright and Mr Galloway begin?'

‘It began,' said the landlord, with a reminiscent grin, ‘it began, mum, with Mr Wright taking an 'og-pudden and 'itting Mr Galloway over the napper with it. It would a-bin a lovely fight if only Wright 'ad stood up to 'im,' he went on regretfully. ‘But 'e give in, and Galloway fair et 'im. I'd give a pound note 'ere and now to see a match between Galloway, if 'e'd 'ad a bit of trainin', and Battlin' Kid Stoner of Parsons Green. Of course, if young Mr Redsey, what there's some nasty rumours about down in the village on account of the murder of 'is cousin Squire Sethleigh – if only 'e'd bin 'isself 'stead of sitting there as screwed as an owl or a bookie's tout on Derby Day from about 'arf-past eight till closing time, we might 'ave put '
im
up against Galloway. I see 'im in an exhibition bout at a charity fair down in Culminster a week or two back. Nice style, mum, but too much of the gentleman to suit me. Ever see Bombardier Wells fight, mum? Ain't yer? Well, if you 'ad, you'd know more what I mean. Afraid to 'urt the other chap's feelings, like. Plucky as they make 'em – so's this Mr Redsey – but don't seem to go in and mix it like the rough-necks do. I remember a little Sheeny as used to doss orf the Gold'awk Road – regular lovely little two-'anded fighter, 'e was. Take on an elephant and make it look sick, 'e would, if the boys 'ud trot out the dough. 'Ad to give 'im the purse first, though, we did. 'E wouldn't fight without. No charity matinees for '
im!
But 'e'd come up grinnin' at the end of fifteen rounds like the bloomin' little thoroughbred 'e was! Reminded me of a fox-terrier dawg I used to 'ave. Game as game! And, as I say, carried a two-'anded punch as wouldn't do no discredit to a middle-weight champion. No temper, y'know, mum! 'Eart of gold! But 'e'd fight with 'is 'ead and 'e'd fight with 'is guts and 'e knowed when a bit of rough stuff was the goods, and would 'and it out liberal! Cut and come again, like! But this 'ere Mr Redsey – 'e was more like a dancin'-master. You know – tap and prance, tap and side-step – it were more like the Russian bally than anythink
I
ever see. 'E'd be a stretcher-case in a rough-'ouse, 'e would. And that's why,' said the landlord, very earnestly, 'when I 'ears silly ginks in this 'ere bar talking about 'im doin' this 'ere murder, I says to 'em that they 'ave no business to think the young gent done it, no matter what anybody says. I says so to Constable Pearce me own self. I says to 'im, “Pearce,” I says, “you oughter know more about charicter,” I says, “than to try and get evidence agin' a young gent,” I says, “what I've seen – yes, me, with these 'ere eyes,” I says, “with a chap's guard right down and 'is jaw just askin' for the count of ten,” I says, “just flick it with 'is open 'and and then grin silly-like. 'Tain't likely,” I says to 'im, “as a chap that can't bring 'imself to slosh a jaw what's 'anded 'im on a plate, is goin' for to do a murder,” I says. “Especially
this
murder which is by way of being what I calls a very nasty murder indeed. It ain't in nature, Mr Pearce,” I says to 'im. And in my experience, which is wide and deep, what's not in nature, mum, don't 'appen!'

Mrs Bradley was about to reply when she observed that two labourers had entered the bar. So she thanked the landlord and departed, leaving the astonished villagers with half a crown apiece and an admonition to spend at least a portion of it in drinking the health of Battling Kid Stoner of Parsons Green.

Outside the door a new thought struck her. She re-entered the place, and, having waited near the door until the labourers had been served and were seated, she again approached the landlord.

‘By the way, Mr Bondy,' she said casually, ‘where did Wright obtain the – er – the hog-pudding with which he struck Galloway on the head?'

‘Where? Why, mum, 'e pulled it out of Galloway's coat-pocket, Galloway 'avin' been give it by 'is grandmother over by Short Woodcombe for 'is Monday morning breakfast. Galloway wouldn't a-minded so much if it 'adn't bin 'is own 'og-pudden, you see. Sort of add insult to injury, that were. They tied the 'og-pudden round Mr Wright's neck arterwards,' he concluded, with hearty relish, ‘and told 'im 'e was born to be 'anged! It was a good length 'og-pudden, and the ends just met nice at the back.'

The Culminster Collection Acquires a New Specimen

T
WELVE
little girls and three little boys lined themselves up at the crossroads and waited for Felicity Broome.

‘Now don't forget to look behind the Roman shield,' was Mrs Bradley's parting injunction, ‘and not a single word to anybody about what you see. Good-bye, my dear. I should like to come with you, but there are several little jobs I must attend to this morning. Give the dear children my kind regards, and see that they all have something they like for tea. That's the main part of an outing to children – that and the ride in the bus.'

She waved to the party until the bus turned a corner, and on the way back to her house she encountered the inspector. Grindy looked warm and felt worried. He was making no appreciable headway with the case, and he was resolute in refusing to arrest James Redsey without some proof either that he had dismembered the body or else that he had found an accomplice to carry out that part of the crime. Failing to prove either of these things, and irritably conscious that the chief constable of the county had already been twice to talk matters over with the superintendent at Bossbury, his deputy, the inspector was a moody and disgruntled man. Scotland Yard had been mentioned, and Grindy had all the provincial police officer's dislike of handing his cases over to the Yard for solution. The public, however, was becoming restless. Local magnates were writing letters to the
County Times
and the
Bossbury Herald
. The superintendent had given up clicking his tongue sympathetically every time Grindy reported his complete lack of progress, and was beginning to avoid his comrade's eye and mutter remarks concerning ‘lack of initiative in making an arrest', and ‘doing something to shut the mouths of fatheads who didn't realize what the police were up against', and – even less encouraging to a conscientious police officer who had won his present position through efficiency, keenness, hard work, and scrupulously just dealing – ‘no good being a thin-skinned sissy when it came to a clear case of murder. Make an arrest and stick to your guns!'

Grindy, however, was staunch to his own opinion. In his heart of hearts he felt that the case against James Redsey had broken down. A man of few words, he contented himself with grunts of disagreement with the superintendent's opinions, and occasionally by the terse statement that he was damned if he would arrest a man on assumptions that could be blown to bits before they ever reached the ears of a grand jury. Assumptions were not facts. It was facts he was after.