Death at Hallows End (11 page)

The distance was approximately sixty miles over not very fast roads, with a run of about eighteen miles on one of the great motorways. But just after he came through a village called Sneldon, he was thumbed by a young man with a haversack, and decided to give him a lift. The youth accepted this with a nod, and settled down in taciturnity, but the little incident gave Carolus a suggestion which had not yet occurred to him in relation to Humby. Might he not, too, have been thumbed? And by someone expecting him to come this way? Someone who knew his car? Someone who could drive it if Humby was no longer capable of it? Someone who might be identical with the man seen by Stonegate in Church Lane after he had passed Humby's car with Humby asleep in it? Guesswork of course, but it could be interesting.

“Ever been this way before?” he asked his passenger.

“No.”

“Making for the coast?”

“No.”

“Not very talkative, are you?”

“No.”

Carolus desisted and ten miles further on was relieved to hear the hitchhiker say, “Here, please.”

Carolus reached the Falstaff just before one, and again lunched there, for he did not wish to reach Monk's Farm till the afternoon, and had time to kill.

Mr. Sporter was glad to see him.

“There's been nothing much doing customer-wise,” he said. “It's a bad time of year for us. Our business in the spring and early summer is fab. Falls off in September.”

“What about Christmas?” asked Carolus, who never discouraged loquacity.

“Christmas-wise we do pretty well. Oh, by the way, did you see Stonegate?”

“Yes. I gave him a lift here.”

“So you did. Only he's in the public bar now. I thought you'd like to know.”

Carolus found Stonegate enjoying one of the Farm Fresh Pork Pies advertised on the bar, and washing it down with a pint of bitter.

“Now let's see,” he said importantly. “Which was you? Television was it, or the old-fashioned radio? No. I remember now. You're Private Enquiries, aren't you? I've had such a lot of them I can't remember it all. And the police don't hardly give me any peace. There was one along this morning with a picture of the chap I saw in the car to see if I recognised it.”

“And did you?

“Course I did. It was him as plain as a pikestaff.”

“Mr. Stonegate …”

“You're lucky to catch me here. I don't often come up at midday, only Doll's gone over to her friend Frede's at Swanwick. What was it you wanted to know this time?”

“Do you work on Sunday mornings, Mr. Stonegate?”

“Do I work on Sunday mornings? What's that got to do with it? I was the last to see that chap alive. That's what I was.”

“I know. I was thinking of something else. You may have other important information without knowing it. I should have said, were you up at Monk's Farm on the Sunday, the day before you found that car in the lane?”

“I was.”

“Was everything as usual?”

“Pretty well. Except this chap Darkin went off to chapel in his boss's car.”

“Mr. Grossiter had a car at the farm then?”

“Yes. He came in it. It's there now as a matter of fact because this chap Darkin's still up there. Big car, it is. Like a Rolls Royce.”

Carolus smiled.

“There's no car
like
a Rolls Royce,” he said.

“Then it is a Rolls Royce. This Darkin went off to chapel in his boss's car.”

“How do you know?”

“Because the missus was Chapel, and Doll takes after her. I don't hold with it myself. Too much hymn-singing for me, and sermonising. Anyway, Doll was there that morning and she saw him.”

“The Neasts were church-goers?”

“Not that morning they weren't. At least Cyril Neast, the younger one, wasn't. His brother drove over to Swanwick where there's a church they favour. Low, it is. They don't like anything High. I saw him go off but the younger one, Cyril, wasn't with him.”

“Did you see Cyril again that morning?”

“No. I was busy. But I never saw him go out either, as ten to one I should have if he had of gone.”

“One other thing, Mr. Stonegate. That man you saw in the lane after you passed the car. Can you remember anything about him?”

“Ah!” said Stonegate. “They all ask me that. I can see him now. Walking quickly he was. Wearing a raincoat.”

“Young or old?”

“I only saw the back of him, remember. I'm not one to turn round and stare. But I should say he was youngish by the way he walked.”

“Was he tall?”

“A little on the short side for being what you'd really call tall.”

“Stout?”

“Not extra. No, I shouldn't say stout. He wasn't thin, mind you. I can see him now.”

“Did you notice whether he was well dressed?”

“You can't tell much from the back, can you? He didn't look down-and-out if that's what you mean. But no more did he look smart.”

Carolus gave it up.

I
T WAS AGAIN A GREY
and sullen afternoon when Carolus drove down Church Lane to Monk's Farm. The mile of road with its thick hedges twisted sharply in places so that it was impossible to see far ahead. He passed Puckett's cottage on his right, and in a few minutes stopped his car in the road outside the Neasts' large bungalow.

From the front door to the little wooden gate by the roadside ran a cinder path; nothing grew near it but a few weeds. The gardens of farmhouses were frequently neglected, but this abandoned ground appeared to have been willfully left to waste. No dog barked and the afternoon seemed ugly and silent as the gate clicked behind him and he started to walk to the door.

He had a strong sense of being watched from somewhere. He was familiar with this sensation, knowing that it was apt to touch any man who has to advance towards uncurtained windows through which he cannot see, yet here it seemed particularly strong as though the two brothers were standing out of sight watching his every movement.

This impression was confirmed by the swiftness with which the front door was opened by the elder brother, who stared down at Carolus (himself half an inch less than six foot tall) quite silently but with enquiring eyes.

“Mr. Neast?”

Holroyd nodded.

“I wonder if you could spare me a few minutes. I'm making some enquiries about Duncan Humby.”

A lethargic smile appeared on Holroyd's features.

“Certainly,” he said. “We are only too glad to give any information we can. Please come in.”

The narrow entrance passage of the house had a stale and musty smell. Holroyd opened the first door on the left, and Carolus entered a room which seemed to be both sitting-and dining room. Two men were seated at a large mahogany dining table at which a third chair was pushed back as though Carolus had interrupted a conference of three. The two men rose somewhat awkwardly and Carolus recognised Cyril Neast and the man Darkin. He had last seen them at the crematorium.

“This is Mr. Deene,” said Holroyd still with that dreary smile on his long pale face.

“How did you know my name?” asked Carolus sharply.

Holroyd was unmoved.

“We are not quite out of the world here,” he said. “And Mr. Darkin comes from Newminster.”

“That may be how you knew
of
me,” returned Carolus. “But how did you know I was here?”

“Perhaps Stonegate.”

“Stonegate does not know my name.”

“Or possibly Mrs. Rudd.”

Carolus saw at once that whatever else Holroyd might be, he was not the man to be at a loss for an answer. There was already an air of velled hostility in the room, and Carolus found the atmosphere oppressive and somewhat sinister. Neither Cyril Neast nor Darkin had spoken yet.

“Please sit down,” said Holroyd and to Carolus's surprise indicated the fourth chair at the dining table, so that he found himself among them like a fellow conspirator.

The table was covered with a dark-red baize cloth much stained and very worn. In its centre was a painted tin ashtray advertising a hop-spray. The room was unkempt, indeed positively dirty, and the stale smell was as noticeable here as in the hall, unaffected by the tobacco smoke from their three cigarettes.

“Yes,” said Holroyd. “We shall be pleased to further your enquiries in any way we can.”

Carolus thought that possibly the whole scene had been rehearsed and that two or all of these three men might have agreed on answers to any questions he would put. This was not to say that their answers would be wholly untrue or that they were guilty of anything worse than a little face-saving, but it was extremely uncomfortable and rendered some of his enquiries futile. But truth could appear in ways other than by the spoken word.

He looked about him. A drab and unpleasant room that, it seemed, had never been anything else. There were no pictures on the walls, not even an oleograph, and very little furniture. A settee with a broken spring and covered with imitation leather, a couple of wicker armchairs and a Victorian sideboard were the only sizeable objects in sight. Carolus would have welcomed a merely untidy room, with perhaps a few samples of cereals, a pair of hedge-clippers and a mongrel dog such as he had seen in other bachelor farmhouses. This was frowsy and dull without being picturesque.

Nor did he care for the appearance of the three men, now that he saw them close at hand. Holroyd was thin and tall with thick short hair and a long pale face on which the frequent slow smile seemed a contradiction. He had dirty fingernails and wore old-fashioned shabby clothes. His younger brother was crimson of face and looked like a heavy drinker, with a surly bullying expression. Darkin was no taller than Holroyd but his splaying
hands and feet suggested pathological giantism. His large nose seemed to sniff the air like that of a running camel.

Yes, here in this room by this precious trio almost any conspiracy could have been entered into. Whether any of them was capable of murder was another matter. Carolus was certain that none of them was trustworthy, and he could believe any one of them dangerous.

“Then may I ask my questions as they occur to me?”

“By all means, Mr. Deene.”

“Your uncle had been here only six days, I believe?”

He saw Cyril Neast look up. He evidently had not expected an attack from this quarter.

“That is so. Our uncle's visit was a complete surprise to us. We received a telephone call on the Tuesday morning—it was made on my uncle's behalf by Mr. Darkin here—asking if we could put him up for a night or two. It was the first communication in many years which we had received from him; we were astonished.”

“How did you account for it?”

“After a while the explanation occurred to us. His son and his son's wife had recently been killed in a car crash in South Africa. In spite of his quarrel with my uncle, Raymond Grossiter had, we believed, remained his heir. Now the old gentleman wished to see whether he found us worthy to inherit all or a part of his fortune.”

“That was your guess?”

“It has been proved correct by subsequent events. The man who has disappeared was his lawyer and was actually bringing him a will to sign.”

How easily Holroyd spoke of “the man who has disappeared,” how almost genially he gave his account of his uncle's behaviour.

“But you did not know that at the time?”

“At what time, Mr. Deene?” asked Holroyd severely,

“At the time your uncle proposed himself as your guest.”

“As I say, we guessed it was something of the sort. And of course we were pleased and determined to do all we could to make him welcome. A large sum of money is not to be refused by any sensible man, is it? Even if it's only in prospect.”

There was something so articulate and professional about Holroyd's way of explaining matters that Carolus asked him whether farming had always been his profession.

“No. I'm a doctor,” he said casually.

“You mean you're a fully qualified doctor, Mr. Neast?”

“Yes. I don't practise, however.”

“But you are on the register, or whatever it is called?”

“Certainly.”

“Then why did you have to call in another doctor when your uncle died?”

“Mr. Deene, surely that must be self-evident. My uncle had a large fortune, and my brother and I were presumably his heirs. Was it not natural that I should want the certificate to be signed by another doctor, and one in whom I had every trust? In my place, wouldn't you have done the same thing?”

“But you knew the cause of death?”

“It was impossible to mistake it. These cardiac cases are really not at all puzzling.”

“Dr. Jay board only confirmed what you yourself had already decided?”

“That is so.”

“What did you think about it, Mr. Darkin?”

Darkin cleared his throat.

“I had always known that Mr. Grossiter suffered with his heart,” he answered ponderously. “Dr. Thomas himself had told
me that something of this kind could be expected, consequently his sudden death was no surprise to me. But still it was a blow, a severe blow. I had been with Mr. Grossiter for seventeen years.”

“Did you know that he had made no will?”

There was something a trifle sanctimonious in Darkin's answer. “I never gave a thought to such a thing,” he said.

Holroyd spoke genially.

“It seems to me,” he said, “that we are getting rather far away from the problem of Mr. Duncan Humby. We are very ready to assist you, Mr. Deene, but I feel I should remind you that you are not investigating my uncle's death, but the disappearance of his solicitor. Unless you connect the two?”

“Not necessarily. All the same I can't investigate one without the other. You have kindly said you will answer my questions. May I have some account of your movements on the Sunday we are discussing?”