Case with No Conclusion (12 page)

A sort of cracked cow-bell on a rusty spring sounded flatly as Beef pushed the door open, and after a minute's delay a little, sallow man, still gently masticating portions of the lunch which he had left in the back room, was blinking at us from behind steel-rimmed spectacles. The scanty grey hair on his head was like thin lichen, and his moustache had a hopeless droop. “Yes,” he said, concentrating in that syllable all the resignation in the world, all the indifference to the rest of humanity, to past and future, to beauty and sorrow, that could have been voiced in a long, diffuse poem by a disgruntled modern poet. He had no
hope of us, or of anything else. He was prepared, without enthusiasm, to take our money; without either courtesy or discourtesy, hurry or distaste, to hear what we wanted; and he was absolutely determined that he would go to no trouble in the matter of serving us, or feel the slightest disappointment if we spent nothing at all.

In contrast, Beefs gusto was almost adolescent. “That dart-board,” he gasped, grinning.

“Seven-and-six,” said the man passionlessly.

“I'll have it,” said Beef. “Would you wrap it up for me?”

“I don't know whether I've got any paper,” said the shopkeeper as he wearily brought the dart-board from the window.

“Newspaper would do,” said Beef enthusiastically.

“I'll see,” said the shopkeeper, and disappeared through his private door again.

Beef gave his head a characterisitc sideways jerk and said, “There you are.” Then, as he got no response from me, he began once again to look round the shop. His eye fell on an earthenware pot like a long piece of glazed and coloured drain-pipe, such as one still finds used for umbrellas in the front halls of vicarages. It was not, however, this piece of earthenware which had attracted Beef, but the collection of sticks, whips and umbrellas which it held. Presently, with a gurgle of pleasure, he drew out one of these objects and held it up to me. “Do you know what that is?” he said.

I confessed that I did not.

“It's a swordstick,” said Beef in a low and conspiratorial voice. “Wouldn't half be useful for anyone engaged in my work, would it? I mean I really ought to have something like that. You never know what characters I may come up against, and anything like that would come in handy at an awkward moment. I applied for a licence to carry firearms the other day, but they said I hadn't sufficient grounds. Still, I think I ought to have something of this sort. How much do you think it would cost?”

I sighed. “I've no idea,” I said. “But really, I think that at your age you should be too old for toys.”

“No, but I mean, you never know, do you?” said Beef, “I'll just ask the price.”

Just then the shopkeeper returned. “How much is this?” Beef said, showing him the article.

“Ten shillings,” he was told.

A little damped, but not finally discouraged, he continued to pull the blade in and out. “Lot of money,” he commented; “do you think you could take less?”

“No, I couldn't,” said the shopkeeper. “It cost me seven-and-six.”

“Still, you'll have a job to get half a quid for it, won't you?”

“No, I shan't,” said the shopkeeper. “I've only had it ten days. It'll go all right.”

“I wonder where you'd buy a thing like that?” asked Beef inquisitively. “I mean it's not what you'd expect to find in Sydenham, is it?”

“I don't know,” said the shopkeeper, again appearing fatigued. “I bought that from an old chap who brought it in here himself. I remember because I was having breakfast at the time.”

“Oh,” said Beef thoughtfully, “it was early in the morning, was it? Ten days ago, was it? That would be about the time when the Sydenham murder took place?”

During this conversation I had been aware of the fact that the lace curtain had more than once been pulled aside from the glass-topped door that led into the private part of the house, and the red face of a middle-aged woman with eager eyes had peered out. At this point its owner, whom I took to be the shopkeeper's wife, could restrain herself no longer and burst into the shop.

“It was the very day it was discovered,” said the lady excitedly, “because I remember remarking on it at the time. I asked him if he thought it had anything to do with it.”

“I see,” said Beef, still thoughtful. “So it was brought in on the morning after the murder, was it? That's interesting. And you say it was brought in by an old tramp? What was he like?”

It was the woman who answered again, her husband seeming to take as little interest in the drama of detection as in all the other vanities and stupidities of human life.

“Oh, he was a regular old tramp,” she said, “nasty scruffy old fellow. I didn't like the look of him.”

Beef became even more solemn. “That's very interesting,” he said.

“Why?” asked the woman eagerly, “are you Something To Do with the case?”

“I'm investigating the matter,” said Beef grimly.

“Are you really?” said the woman. “Well, I never.” And it was quite obvious that she never had.

She continued to talk. “I'm ever so interested in anything like that,” she said, “my husband'll tell you. I've always got my nose in a detective novel. Wouldn't it be funny if this very swordstick turned out to be the evidence you were looking for? I mean it would be nice to think I had something to do with it.”

Beef grew grand. “Had you ever seen that tramp before?” he asked loftily.

“Never!” cried the woman. “Had you, Frank?”

“Can't say I had,” returned her husband indifferently.

“But I should know him again,” she went on.

“You would?” said Beef. “That's good. Now I'll tell you what,” he added. “I'm anxious to interview that man in connection with the murder of Doctor Benson. If you was to help me find him you'd be making quite a name for yourself.”

“Well! I'll do anything I can to help,” said the woman.

“I'll tell you what you can do. If ever you should clap eyes on him again, don't let him out of your sight. Follow him through thick and thin, up hill and down dale, till you find out where he goes.”

The picture which Beef's exaggerated phraseology suggested to me was a vivid one. I could see the shopkeeper's wife leaping surreptitiously in the wake of the swordstick-vendor over the greater part of England's main roads until she brought him to earth in some remote workhouse. However, I said nothing as Beef gave his final instructions.

“As soon as you've snared him,” he said, “get on the 'phone to me. If I'm not there, tell my wife she must get hold of me as quick as possible. She'll very likely know where I am,” he added, less cheerfully, “but don't you forget. There's my number; put it in a safe place. And remember, you may be the means of bringing a criminal to book, saving the life of an innocent man, and getting your photo in the newspapers. Now, I've got important matters to attend to, and I must be getting along.”

Suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, the shopkeeper spoke. “What about that stick?” he asked. “Are you going to buy it?”

Beef pulled out a ten-shilling note, and at last we left the shop.

“I
T'S
time,” announced Beef, “that we interviewed a parson.”

“A parson?” I repeated, with the air of surprise that is expected of me. “Why a parson?”

“Comic relief,” said Beef; “must have a parson. Wouldn't be a case without a parson.”

“But you can't just go off like that and interview a parson.”

“I don't see why not,” said Beef. “I've noticed you enjoy writing about them.”

“Still, you mustn't forget,” I pointed out, “there's such a thing as realism. This is a murder mystery, not a comedy of manners.”

“Well, you never know with parsons,” said Beef. “It's a gamble, I grant you. But you might easily learn something handy. They always know everyone else's business, and in a place like this I shouldn't be surprised if he hadn't got some real information. We know that Stewart Ferrers handed money over to him, so there must be some connection.”

“All right,” I agreed. “I gather it was St. Jocelyn's that the family attended. We'll find out where the vicarage is.”

It turned out, however, that the Reverend Percy
Smyke was not at home. “He's with the Scouts,” explained the servant knowingly.

“Funny time for scouting,” commented Beef.

“Mr. Smyke always takes a week-end camp at this time. He's wonderful with boys, you know.”

“Where would it be?” asked Beef, and being told that it was at Sevenoaks, he asked me to drive him down there in the car. We found the St. Jocelyn's Troop encamped on a piece of level pasture-land, well secluded from the nearest road. Three small tents seemed all that were visible, but there was evidently a great deal of organization and sign-writing necessary for their maintenance. On a board was scribbled the word “Latrines,” with an arrow pointing towards the wood. On another was “Officer's Tent,” while the two remaining tents were labelled “Crocodiles” and “Titmice.”

A number of perspiring boys wore, not only uniform, but an assortment of impedimenta—utensils, a complete armoury of knives and hatchets, rolls of blankets, cameras, kettles and sport clothes. Some of them had evidently just arrived. As we walked over to the group they seemed mildly curious about their two strange visitors. And when Beef asked if Mr. Smyke could be found they answered in chorus that he was in his tent. Their excitement grew terrific as one shouted “Smykie,” and the others dashed towards the tent labelled “Officer's.”

The vicar finally emerged, followed by a small boy with curly chestnut hair and an ingratiating smile. Mr. Smyke resembled Señor Largo Caballero,
having large sunburnt ears and protuberant blue eyes. His clothes were designed to exhibit a pair of ageing, though sunburnt, knees and a tuft of manly grey hair on the torso.

“Mr. Smyke?” inquired Beef unnecessarily.

“Indeed, yes,” said the parson. “You're one of the boys' fathers, I suppose. Well, here we all are. You can choose your son,” he added heartily.

“No. If I
had
a son,” Beef explained, “he wouldn't be dancing around here dressed up like a Boer soldier. But it's not that that I wanted to see you about. I'm Sergeant Beef, late of His Majesty's Police Force.”

“Oh, I see,” said Mr. Smyke. “And what can I do for you?”

“I'm investigating the murder of Doctor Benson.”

The vicar seemed to find this happy news, and smiled broadly. “Ah, the murder,” he said. “Quite. Charmed, I'm sure. Anything I can do. Delighted. Quite a pleasure.”

“I don't know whether there is,” said Beef, “but I thought there might be. Did you know any of the family well?”

“Mr. Stewart Ferrers,” explained the vicar, “was a very good Christian. He supported our projects most helpfully. He bought us, in fact, one of those tents when we were a little overcrowded last year, and he has always been most willing to come to my assistance in any little matter I have in hand.”

“Did you know his brother?” asked Beef.

“I did,” said Mr. Smyke, and his voice had that
plummy quality which sometimes comes with public speaking. “Quite a different type, however. A worldlier character altogether. Most unfortunate political tenets, I believe. I have found that the modern tendency to condone poorly disguised communism undermines much of my work here. The boys get Ideas from some of the masters in the local schools which I greatly deplore, and lately our troop has shrunk in numbers.”

Beef interrupted. “But you're not blaming Mr. Peter Ferrers for that, surely?” he said.

“Oh no,” said Mr. Smyke, “he's not in my parish. But it's the general tendency, the general tendency. And one fostered by that atheistic periodical of his.”

“And Doctor Benson?” asked Beef. “What was your opinion of him?”

Mr. Smyke hesitated. “I really scarcely know what to say.
De mortuis
, you know.
De mortuis
. But I can't say that I was by any means an admirer of his methods.”

“His methods?” persisted Beef. “What was wrong with his methods?”

At this point we were interrupted by a small boy with a piece of stick in his hand who asked if Mr. Smyke was ready for him to pass his fire-lighting test. Whereat an enormous smile passed over the vicar's features as he gently patted the boy's shoulder. “In a few moments, Archie,” he said kindly, and turning apologetically to us, “such little enthusiasts,” he murmured. “Full of life. Full of
fun. The pleasantest part of my work.”

“You were saying,” grunted Beef.

“Oh yes, about Doctor Benson. Excellent, no doubt, scientifically most efficient, but not, I regret to say, orthodox.”

The word defeated Beef. “How do you mean?” he asked.

“Unchristian doctrines,” explained the vicar with a quick shake of his head as though he were enjoying the suspense.

“Such as?”

“Chiefly on the subject of burial.”

“Burial?”

“Yes, indeed, burial.”

“I didn't know there were any doctrines on the subject of burial. I mean, I thought when you'd snuffed it, you'd snuffed it. And when you were dead you were finished with all that sort of thing.”

The parson gave him a patronizing smile. “You may find that you're just, in a sense, beginning with it. But in any case I was speaking of the corporal remains. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes, you know,” and he sadly shook his head, while with his right forefinger he scratched the back of his sunburnt knee. “Perhaps you'll just excuse me while I give the boys something to do. Crocodiles! Now, boys, peg your brailing down, there's a storm coming up. And you, Titmice,” he said to an oafish young man with an incipient moustache and his bespectacled junior, “light the fire. We've got to have some cocoa.”