Bland Beginning (16 page)

“We have artistic interests in common.” Feet sounded on the path.

“
There
you are,” said Mrs Rawlings. “I saw the car outside and knew you must be somewhere about. You are naughty young things to hide yourselves on a love seat. Youth, youth,” sighed Mrs Rawlings, in a kind of unintentional parody of the Inspector. “Rose-white youth, passionate, pale – how does the song go? You’ll come in and have a cup of tea, Anthony, won’t you?”

“No, thank you, Mrs Rawlings,” Anthony said in a choking voice. “I must be going.” The garden gate slammed behind him.

“I’m afraid the manners of the young are
not
improving,” sighed Mrs Rawlings. “Where has he gone?”

“Off to play cricket, I expect.”

“Oh yes. But
need
he have been in such a hurry? How did you find the man you went to see this morning?”

“We didn’t find him. He was dead.”

“Was he really?” They walked across the lawn. “Well, in the midst of life, as they say. I rang up the Labour Exchange, and they are sending a new cook tomorrow.”

As they reached the house the telephone bell was ringing.

Basingstoke had announced his intention of spending the afternoon at the British Museum, and had arranged to drink a cup of tea with Ruth Cleverly at a local café. As soon as she pushed open the swing door she saw his tall, untidy figure, with the disfiguring scar running across his face. He looked up with a smile.

“The only difference between the tea and coffee here is that one is brown and the other grey,” he said. “You look as if you need a cup of it. It’s so horrible that it will certainly drive other troubles out of your mind. What’s the matter?”

Her lipstick was smudged. She gave him a watery smile. “Had a conference with Henderson all afternoon – planning books for winter. Very trying.” She stopped, as though doubtful whether to go on, and then said, “Can’t get poor Arthur out of my mind.”

“Did you tell Henderson about it?”

“He wasn’t much interested. Nobody will be.” A tear dripped down her cheek and she pushed it away impatiently with a small, grubby hand. “Did you know him?”

“I met him once or twice at the
New Arts Magazine
office, hobbling about with crutches. He came in for some books.”

“Poor Arthur. He was a good scholar, though nobody recognised it because he did so much hackwork to keep himself alive. And now nobody ever will. It’s a damned shame.” She gulped a mouthful of liquid. “How did you get on at the BM?”

“I did a few odds and ends of research. There’s a copy of our little pet edition of
Passion and Repentance
there. It’s a presentation copy. Can you guess who presented it? None other than our friend, James Melton Cobb.”

Ruth smacked her small hand on the marble tabletop.

“That damned Inspector – I don’t believe he took any notice at all of what we told him. Oh, why did God make policemen so stupid?”

“He’s not stupid. I think he took a good deal of notice of what we said, or of what
you
said. After all, you were the only one of us who knew Jebb well, weren’t you? And you
were
at Charing Cross when that telephone call was made.”

She stared at him. “But that’s damned silly. Why on earth doesn’t he do something about Cobb? And why should I – ? No, he can’t think that. It’s too ridiculous.”

“You may be right. But why shouldn’t we do something about Cobb ourselves?”

“Well – Anthony has written that letter. And everyone knows Cobb’s eccentric and won’t see anybody.”

“He won’t answer the letter, or he’ll refuse to give any information. If we could see him we might do something. Now, I have a plan.” His thin face was eager as he bent over the table towards her, and she drew back involuntarily as she saw the thick whitish scar at close range. At once Basingstoke sat back in his chair, and Ruth, who prided herself upon a considerable sensitiveness to the feelings of others, cursed herself for clumsiness. With no perceptible change in his voice, Basingstoke went on: “Now, I don’t think we shall get to see Cobb by any ordinary means. We shall have to appeal to some special interest.”

“But we don’t know his interests.”

“Simple enough to find out – with the aid of
Who’s Who.
Do you play chess?”

“I know what the men are called.” Her monkey-face looked alarmed. “Why?”

“Because unless I’m much mistaken chess is Cobb’s Achilles’ heel. Listen to this – it’s an extract from the piece about him in
Who’s Who:

“Recreations. Has found during a long life that most of the activities labelled ‘recreation’ are infinitely less interesting than those characterised as ‘work’. The single exception to this is the noble game of chess, of which he has been for years an enthusiastic but incompetent exponent.

That shows you,” said Basingstoke parenthetically, “what a pompous old fool he is. Now, we know that he won’t see anybody in the ordinary way, but he might see someone interested in chess. A reporter from Chess News and Views, who wanted to get an interview called, let’s say, ‘A Bibliophile looks at Chess’. First of all a telephone call to make the appointment, with a delicate suggestion that ‘Chess News and Views’ has heard of his interest in the game, and would very much like to have his views on it. Has the training in accurate examination of texts demanded by bibliography a value when carried over into the game of chess? Does he analyse the games of the great players as he analyses the structure of a book? And so on. I think he’ll fall for it. Then, once past the barrier, face to face with the old rascal, it must surely be possible to get something out of him.”

He was glowing with enthusiasm. Ruth’s face was screwed up thoughtfully. “Suppose he won’t speak to you when you ring up?”

“Then tell his secretary, and hang on for an answer.”

“Suppose he says, ‘All right. I’ll send you an article.’”

“No good. We must have the personal touch. But there’s nothing lost, even if he does refuse.”

“No, I suppose not.” She considered it again, looked at his delighted face, and gave him a reluctant smile. “I think it’s a very good idea.”

“That’s the first time I’ve seen you smile today. You’ll do it, then.”

“
Me
?” She almost fell off her chair. “You didn’t say anything about me. I thought you were going to do it.”

He said dryly, “My appearance doesn’t inspire confidence. And he’s much more likely to talk to a woman than a man.”

“Then why not Miss Rawlings?”

“She doesn’t know anything about books.”

“I don’t know anything about chess.”

“That isn’t necessary,” he countered impatiently. “I’ll do the telephoning and arrange the appointment. Once you’re in there’s no point in keeping up the chess pretence for more than a couple of minutes. Then come straight out with the story of Jebb’s murder, and ask if he won’t help the cause of justice.”

“Suppose he just turns me out?”

Basingstoke’s face twitched slightly. “Don’t expect that you’ll be able to unveil him dramatically as the murderer. The point is this – we may be altogether up the wrong tree with Cobb. He may have some perfectly good and reasonable way of accounting for his connection with this book, and if that’s so we ought to know it.” She still looked doubtful. “What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know. All this is such – musical-comedy stuff. It seems so beastly to be doing it when Arthur’s dead.”

He pushed his cup away. It rattled a little as he did so. “All right. Don’t do it if you don’t want to. I thought Jebb was a friend of yours.”

Her face was puckered in thought. “I’ll do it.”

Half an hour later Basingstoke telephoned her at her office. His voice was gay. “It’s all fixed for ten-thirty tomorrow morning. You’re from
Chess News and Views
.” She heard the glee in his voice as he said, “Do you think you’d like to wear a disguise?”

“Did you speak to Cobb himself?”

“I talked to his secretary first of all, then to Cobb. I must say he sounded rather quavery – not much like a murderer. But he’s looking forward to your visit.” He chuckled.

“What’s the matter?”

“It’s just that I said you’d watched all the important chess congresses of the last five years.”

Vicky crossed the hall to answer the telephone, feeling the curious foreboding of evil that had oppressed her at times ever since Uncle Jack had suggested calling in the police because of the theft of his book. Something terrible was about to happen, she felt, something that would bring down the structure of life in ruins around her, as surely as if an earthquake had destroyed Barnsfield. It was an effort for her to lift up the receiver, and when she did so she was in some obscure way relieved to hear Uncle Jack’s voice. But whose voice had she expected to hear, and what words would it have been saying?

“Hello, hello,” said the voice. “Vicky. Thought you were going to keep in touch with me.”

“Hello, Uncle Jack.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that chap Jebb had been killed? Never heard of such a thing in my life.”

“I’m sorry – everything’s been so confused. How did you know?” she said curiously. “Is it in the papers?”

“Know, indeed!” Uncle Jack’s bellow was so furious that Vicky held the receiver away from her ear. “Just had a damned policeman to see me. Wax, or some such name.

“Wrax.” The Inspector had not told them that he might go down to see Uncle Jack. “Whatever did he want?”

“What
didn’t
he want. Asked me a lot of damnfool questions about that book. Where was it? Who could have stolen it? All that stuff. Asked my housekeeper a lot of things too; good as called her a liar, and made her snivel. Nasty type. I didn’t like him.” Uncle Jack’s bellow suddenly loudened. “I said to him, ‘Look here, Inspector Wax or Waxy, or whatever your name is, do the Reds pay you to make servants cry?’ That gave him something to think about.”

“I’m glad you stood up for the servants.”

The front door slammed. That would be Edward back from his round. Mrs Rawlings had wandered into the kitchen, and now she wandered back. “Is that your uncle? If he’s lost a servant, he should ring up the Labour Exchange.”

“And how’s young Sherlock what’s-his-name?” asked Uncle Jack.

“He’s all right. We think we know the forger’s name. Who does the Inspector think it is?”

“He suspects everybody, from me to old General Brett.” An enormous sigh came over the telephone. “If I weren’t an old man, I’d do some Sherlocking myself. Matter of fact, I’ve got a few ideas about this thing. How’s your other young man – young Shelton? Waxy tells me his copy’s been stolen too. You’re a fine reporter, not telling your old uncle about that.”

“Oh Lord, Uncle Jack, I
am
sorry. I simply forgot. Every-thing’s happening so fast –” She thought of her quarrel with Anthony and found herself in a flood of unexpected tears. She hiccuped “Sorry” into the telephone, and wept into a handkerchief as she thought of the decisive click of the garden gate. A series of confused noises indicating distress came through the receiver. When she picked it up again Uncle Jack’s voice was gentle.

“Look here, Vicky, don’t let an old fool like me upset you.” He paused, and then said, “Come out and have tea with me on Saturday, eh, my girl? Bring young Shelton and Sherlock too, if he’s free. Give your old uncle a treat. Who knows – he may be able to think of a clue for you.”

“That would be lovely.” She sniffed. “Don’t take any notice of me. I don’t know why I’m crying. What about Mamma and brother Edward?”

“Oh, bring them by all means – if they care to come.” There was a noticeable lack of warmth in Uncle Jack’s tone. “But tell Edward not to say that I’m looking my age. May be true, but it ain’t tactful. Goodbye for now, my girl. Don’t forget – Saturday.”

“Goodbye.” Her mother called out from the drawing-room and asked what Uncle Jack had wanted. Vicky said miserably, “He asked us all over to tea on Saturday.”

“Can’t go,” said Edward immediately. “Can’t leave the practice.”

“Don’t go, then,” Vicky said. “I’m sure I don’t care. He’s asked Anthony and Basingstoke and all of us, but you needn’t come if you don’t want to. I don’t think he particularly wants to see you.”

Edward swallowed the last half of a bun in one gulp, ran his hand through his thinning hair, and assumed the anxious manner which patients found so unconvincing. “That’s as may be, but I want to talk to you about something else, Vicky – about this.” He tapped the early edition of the evening paper at his side, and read, “‘Crippled Journalist Murdered. Mystery of Missing Papers.’ You shouldn’t have got mixed up in this disreputable affair.”

“Oh, don’t be such a fool, Edward. How could I help getting mixed up in it?”

“I am the head of the family now,” said Edward. He got up and stood with his back to the empty fireplace, a man prematurely old with anxiety. “And I think you should pay my words the respect due to that position. You will remember that when the young man Basingstoke raised this whole question –”

“An odious young man,” Mrs Rawlings murmured, sipping her tea.

“–I was much against the idea of pursuing it. You insisted, however, on making these investigations. I don’t suppose they will reveal anything at all, but if they do we can be sure it will be something undesirable. As a result of this nonsense, a man has been killed; there will be an inquest and a great deal of undesirable publicity.” Edward drew himself up to his full height – he was not very tall – and said, “It will be bad for the practice.”

The words “bad for the practice” were familiar. It had been bad for the practice when Vicky decided to attend Art School, it was bad for the practice when she came home late from dances, it was bad for the practice when she was seen at work in the front garden. And these words, never pleasing to her ear, were altogether unbearable in her present mood.

“Bad for the practice,” she cried at the top of her voice. “Damn you and your practice – if you were a better doctor you wouldn’t have to worry so much about it.”

Mrs Rawlings put down her cup. “Pray don’t scream so, Vicky. It goes through my head like a knife.”