Bland Beginning (15 page)

Vicky’s voice was a squeak, and she lowered it hastily. “I was only going to say that it might not have been someone he knew. Miss Cleverly here has told us” – she squeaked again and coughed – “that he was very keen about his book. Supposing whoever it was rang up and said they had some terribly important information about it – and supposing it was somebody Jebb knew by name – some famous person – he’d have seen him. Wouldn’t he, Miss Cleverly?” She finished rather out of breath.

“I think he would,” Ruth said. “Nothing else mattered except that book. He’d been so neglected, done so much hackwork. He was so sure it would make him recognised as a fine scholar. And he meant to keep it a secret, but he talked about it to so many people. Poor Arthur.” Two large tears rolled down her cheeks, and she blew her nose hard. The Inspector watched her appreciatively.

“Are many of Jebb’s papers missing?” Basingstoke asked.

“There are
no
papers connected with the book to which Miss Cleverly refers. Presumably they have all been destroyed. Or almost all.” From his capacious inside pocket the Inspector took yet another envelope, and extracted a sheet of blue paper from it. “I shall get myself into trouble for showing you all these things,” he said amiably. “I’m too good-natured. This was under the blotter on the desk.”

“It’s the kind of paper he made notes on for his book. He was always making notes,” Ruth said.

“I see. This seems to be a note connected with your researches. It’s a pity perhaps that his visitor wasn’t five minutes later. This is what the note says.

“MARTIN RAWLINGS

“The case of the forged edition of
Passion and Repentance
(dated 1860) is in a different category from the other items. I am inclined to think that the secret here is not solely a matter of pecuniary gain. A study of…

“It’s a pity he didn’t live long enough to say a study of what.” His eyes were on Ruth as he added: “It’s true that in a way this adds a spice of interest, for now we have to find out.”

Ruth Cleverly sobbed and Anthony’s fair face went very red. “Damn you, Inspector, how can you be so infernally callous? It’s just a blasted game to you, isn’t it? Why don’t you get after the murderer instead of tormenting this poor girl?”

“You’re very much concerned for Miss Cleverly. I thought you were engaged to Miss Rawlings?”

“You said that just to torment her, and you know it,” Anthony cried. “Can’t you see she’s upset? Why don’t you do something useful for a change, and get after the murderer?”

“Who is the murderer, Mr Shelton?”

“Why, this chap Cobb, of course. It’s as plain as a pikestaff.”

“Isn’t it obvious,” Vicky cried. “He knew that Jebb was going to expose him. Cobb’s the forger, so he must be the murderer too.”

“You have a straight forward mind, Miss Rawlings,” the Inspector said. “What do you think, Mr Basingstoke?”

The side of Basingstoke’s face twitched. “I suppose what you’re getting at, Inspector, is that you haven’t enough evidence.”

“
Enough
evidence,” the white-haired man said contemptuously. “I haven’t any evidence. What does it amount to? You tell me a complicated story about a first edition which you think is forged, although apparently some experts don’t agree with you. You don’t even possess the book, because it’s been stolen from you. You tell me a story about a bookseller in Blackheath, which tells me no more than that the bookseller is eccentric. Miss Cleverly says that this man Jebb was preparing a book which would tell the story of a whole lot of forged first editions – and there is no sign of the book here. Everything you have told me may be true – but there is uncommonly little proof of it.” He looked at them with a bright and frightening light in his greedy eyes. “What I am sure of on your own admission is your own connection with this man, and interest in him. That interests me profoundly.”

“I say,” Anthony said. “What’s that?” He pointed to the blotter. “It wasn’t there when we were here yesterday morning. I remember because I noticed him making that sketch of Ruth – Miss Cleverly – and the rest of the blotter was blank then.” They crowded round to look. On the blotter was a firm pencil drawing of Ruth’s head, encircled by what looked at first like a simple scroll, but was seen at second glance to be heads of corn. “Ruth amidst the alien corn,” Basingstoke said. A little below and to the left of this was another drawing, a kind of medallion showing within it a face in profile, a remarkable, long-nosed intellectual face, with curling hair running back from a high forehead. “Portrait of the murderer,” Basingstoke added.

The Inspector raised his eyebrows, but made no other comment.

“Are you sure, Mr Shelton, that this little sketch was not there yesterday morning?”

Anthony was dogged. “I tell you the blotter was blank until he began to draw on it.”

“And none of you recognise it?” Nobody spoke.

The Inspector put the sheet of blotting paper carefully into his briefcase. “The question is a formal one, but I suppose that you, Miss Rawlings, did not go out again after you went indoors. What time did you say that was?”

“Just before half-past ten. I went straight to my room.”

“And to bed?” The Inspector’s little eye was predatory.

“I – why, no. I had some letters to write.” She would not for the world have said that she was writing in her diary. Suppose he asked to see it – with such a man one really never knew!

“Letters?” His raised eyebrows and scornful glance made it clear that he thought she was lying, even before he said with an offensive drawl, “Rather late for writing letters, Miss Rawlings, wasn’t it? I should have thought you would have been tired.”

“I – I –”

For the first time since she had known him, Basingstoke appeared genuinely annoyed. “This is insufferable,” he said sharply. “You’ve no need to answer him, Vicky.”

Anthony and the Inspector spoke at once, and then the Inspector said, with his lips drawn up over his teeth in a snarl, “I am so sorry to have interrupted you, Mr Shelton. Were you saying that Mr Basingstoke should mind his own business? Do tell me.”

Anthony muttered something inaudible, and the Inspector resumed gratingly: “Passing over the subject of your letters, Miss Rawlings, which Mr Basingstoke feels so strongly should not be disclosed, perhaps you would not mind telling me when you finally – um – turned out your light and sought repose?”

Vicky’s mouth was open, and she closed it with an almost audible snap. She was both alarmed and confused, and did not dare to lie. “About half-past eleven.”

“So you were writing letters for an hour. What an interesting correspondent you must be, Miss Rawlings. And what about you, Mr Basingstoke?” The Inspector spoke deliberately. “You did not permit late hours to interfere with your – beauty sleep, I trust?”

In the dull flush of Basingstoke’s face only his disfiguring scar stayed white, but when he spoke his voice was low and deliberately controlled. “I am staying in Barnsfield with my uncle. You heard when I left Miss Rawlings. I got indoors about half-past ten, talked to my uncle for half an hour, and went to bed.”

“Where God, I trust, saw to it that you slept soundly after your busy day. And Mr Shelton, you kindly saw Miss Cleverly to the train – did you wait to see her off, by the way?”

“Yes.’’

“I take it that you went straight home and to bed, and slept peacefully? What a blessing sleep is to be sure, knitting up the ravelled sleeve of care as it does. But then you had no sleeve of care to be knitted, had you, but only a bump on the head to go down?”

“I felt all right.” Anthony’s brow was fiercely corrugated. “I drove straight home.”

“Did anybody see you come in?”

“My father said good night to me when I was going upstairs.’’

“What time was that?”

“How the devil should I know? I don’t look at my watch every five minutes. It was some time round about eleven.”

“Time, Time, how the spirit of youth denies you,” the Inspector said with unbearable archness. His voice was sharp again as he said, “Miss Cleverly, what time did your train reach Charing Cross?”

“Three minutes to eleven.”

“A servant of Time’s sickle, like myself. The telephone call made to Mr Jebb from a call box near Charing Cross Station was, by an odd chance, made just after eleven o’clock. You are sure that you didn’t make it?”

“Yes. I went straight home to Red Lion Street. I walked,” she added suddenly. “It was a fine night. I wanted to think. I got in about half-past eleven, or just after.”

Inspector Wrax shook his white head with a ghastly playfulness. “Nobody yet added a cubit to their stature by taking thought. But perhaps you did not wish to add a cubit to your stature. What were you thinking about?”

“Nothing to do with this case,” she said, and blew her nose violently.

The Inspector looked at them all deliberately. “I have no further questions for the moment. There will, of course, be an inquest. I will notify you if your single or collective presences are needed.”

They looked at each other, and Basingstoke spoke for them all. “Look here, Inspector, aren’t you going to see Cobb? You can easily check what that bookseller Jacobs told us. Surely he’s your obvious suspect.”

Inspector Wrax put his fingertips together, and stared at them from behind Jebb’s desk with cool unfriendliness. “What is an obvious suspect? A police investigation involves the casting of an enormous net, which gathers in all sorts of material. It includes such items as fingerprints, forged or genuine first editions, telephone calls, a hold-up on the Barnsfield road, relatives in Edinburgh, and many other things, including the stubs of Player’s No. 3 cigarettes – by the way, all of you smoke, I presume –”

They all smoked.

“Those items are sifted. The probable is weighed against the possible. Some items are rejected, others appear more and more important as fresh evidence appears. Let us assume, for example, that our routine investigations reveal that Jebb left a considerable amount of money, that it was inherited by a near relative, and that this relative was seen entering this flat last night. It would then immediately become apparent that your adventures are a red herring.”

“But that’s all conjecture,” Basingstoke protested. “We’re presenting you with facts.”

“So you tell me. But they exist only upon the evidence of your word, and if I choose to disbelieve them, they make
you
” – he jabbed forward a finger – “individually or collectively my suspects. I might, for instance, if I wished to be unfriendly, ask why you did not inform the police that you had been attacked and robbed, Mr Shelton.”

Anthony ran his hand through his hair, and winced. “Didn’t want to seem a fool, I suppose.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps you have invented the whole story.” They looked at him, startled. “If I may offer you a word of advice, my young friends, it is to abandon your search for this stolen first edition, and leave the police to their pedantic but effective investigations. The mills of God, you remember, ground slowly, but they ground exceeding small. Let the mills grind – or, not to lose our previous metaphor, let the net be gathered. And then when the right time comes we shall have the murderer” – he cupped his hands together, and a curiously complacent expression showed on his face – “like that.”

Anthony and Vicky drove home in almost complete silence. Once or twice he turned to her, looked as if he were about to speak, and sighed heavily. Vicky also seemed absorbed by completely private thoughts. When they reached her house Anthony said, “Vicky, I must speak to you. Let’s go into the garden.”

The garden of the Rawlings’ Edwardian Tudor house was neat and small. Behind a hedge at the bottom of the semicircular gravel path a rather uncomfortable garden seat was placed, hidden from the house. “Shall we sit down?” Anthony said, and she sat down obediently, like somebody in a dream. “What are you thinking about?”

She turned her dark eyes towards him, and seemed to bring him into focus. “I was thinking what I would buy if there were a reward offered for the murderer, and I won it.”

“Really, Vicky, you’re too callous for words. That poor little cripple battered to death like a fly –”

“You don’t batter flies to death. You squash them.”

“It’s all the same. I think it’s horribly callous. Look here, Vicky. I’ve got to talk to you.” Anthony hesitated like a swimmer on the edge of the bath, and then plunged. “I want to play cricket this year.” She made no reply, and he repeated, “I want to play cricket.”

“Yes. Do you think something you said when you saw Jebb yesterday morning could have made him get in touch with the murderer? Perhaps some phrase you let drop. Can you remember what you said?” Her dark eyes were earnest.

Taking Vicky by the shoulders, he shook her vigorously. “Look here, old girl, wake up. You know you don’t want me to play cricket. We agreed I shouldn’t. Now I’m telling you I want to.”

With a devastating return to rationality, she said coldly, “There’s no need to shake me as if I were a doll. I suppose you mean you want to break off our engagement because of that sluttish little Cleverly girl with her dirty face and crafty ways.”

“She’s not crafty.”

“She certainly is – and I shouldn’t be at all surprised if she hadn’t a great deal to do with that attack on you – and with the murder. How did those people know you’d be going home by that road? Somebody told them.”

“They’d probably been following me all day. But look here, old girl –”

“And I suppose it’s a coincidence that she happened to be at Charing Cross at the time that telephone call was made.” Vicky was magnificent. It was a scene for her diary. “Since you prefer a murderess to me, here is–” She stopped, remembering that she had neither ring nor book to return.

“I didn’t mean that at all.” Anthony was almost wailing.

“Then why did you say you were going to play cricket? You know I hate the beastly game. I had to play it at school.’’

“I don’t believe you’ve ever seen a first-class match.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“And you talk about me, but what about you and that fellow Basingstoke? You seem to be jolly thick together.”