Death in Albert Park (6 page)

“Yes, thanks.”

“There's one of them that's had her picture in the papers still here if you want to catch her before she goes. Miss Buller, it is. The games mistress. She's down in the bike shed trying to start her motor-scooter,
as
usual. Want a word with her? This way then.”

Grace Buller was perspiring.

“Oh Titchcock,” she said to the caretaker.
“Can
you start my engine? You did the other night.”

“I'll see what I can do. There's a gentleman here from the newspapers wants a word with you.”

“Oh! Hullo! I'm afraid I'm in rather a state. Are you from the
Daily Post?”

“No. I'm not a pressman. But I do want to ask you a few questions about Hester Starkey.”

“You do? What for? You're not the police.”

“I've just seen Miss Cratchley. I'm trying to be of some assistance. Did you have the same trouble with your engine on the night Hester Starkey was murdered?”

“Yes. That's the awful thing. If it had started at once I might have been there to save her. I still can't bear to think of it. And we'd quarrelled, you know.”

“Yes. What about?”

“Nothing, really. That's what makes it all so dreadful. It was just that during the Break that morning … well, she always had a chat with me in the Break. I wanted to tell her something rather funny one of the girls had said. I went to the staff common-room as usual and poured out her coffee as I always do and took it over to the two chairs in the corner where we sit.
Our
chairs I always called them. And she never came in. I waited the whole half hour. Afterwards I heard she'd been up in … one of the classrooms.”

“Which one?”

“Gerda MunshalPs, as a matter of fact. She's the French mistress.”

“A great friend of Hester's?”

“I suppose she was, sometimes. They had terrible quarrels though. Hester used to tell me about them. She liked to confide in me. It's dreadful to think she's … she's …”

“Yes, but it's rather foolish to blame yourself, Miss Buller.”

“I know. But how can I help it? She was a wonderful person.”

“Tell me about that evening. How long did it take you to get your engine started?”

“It seemed a long time. I told the police it was twenty minutes, but it may have been more.”

“And when you came out at last there was no one in the avenue?”

“Not a soul. I can swear to that. I've been over it in my mind a thousand times. Do you think I wouldn't have noticed.”

“Yes,” said Carolus calmly.

“You mean, I mightn't have?”

“You had no reason to, that night.”

“But looking back I should have. Knowing what I did then.”

“Will you just think again, Miss Buller? Anything you might have noticed. For instance, did you pass a policeman?”

“A policeman? I should have noticed, wouldn't I?”

“Not necessarily. He would be part of the street, like Chesterton's postman.”

“I'm sure I didn't. I'd have noticed. I always think I'm doing something wrong on the scooter. I haven't had it very long, you see. I'd have been wondering if he was going to stop me. No I'm sure I didn't. There wasn't anybody. I saw Mr. Slatter, of course …”

“Mr.
Who?”

“Slatter. He's the park-keeper. He lives in the little lodge in the park. I see him almost every night as I go home.”

“Have you just remembered this?”

“No, certainly not. I'm not a fool.”

“You told the police?”

“About Mr. Slatter? Of course not. He's the park-keeper. Everyone knows him.”

“Where was he?”

“Just going to his lodge, I suppose. Along Inverness Road. He'd probably been to the Mitre on the corner.”

“But he could have been in Crabtree Avenue?”

“Mr. Slatter? Whatever for? He's a dear old man. Well not old, really. Anything else you want to know?”

“Did you know Hester's brother?”

“No. She never asked me to her home. I believe Gerda Munshall has been. You'd better ask her.”

“Yes, I will.”

“I don't know when you're going to see her, though. She'll be off to the Continent as soon as term's over tomorrow. At least she always
was,
with Hester. She has private money, you see, and could afford to invite Hester. Well, not invite her exactly but I'm sure she paid more than half of everything. They wouldn't tell
me
that, of course.”

“I think the caretaker has got your scooter started.”

“Thank heavens. Now I shall be able to get home.”

“Where's that, Miss Buller?”

“Greenwich. It takes me nearly an hour sometimes when the traffic's bad.”

“What time did you get home on the night of…”

“Oh, I don't know. I didn't notice. Late, anyway.”

“Thank you, Miss Buller.”

Carolus found the Golden Cockerel Guest House, a large Georgian place standing in the remains of its own ground, pleasantly situated and promising. He was shown a large room and told the terms, which were high. He had a bath and went down to the discreet little
bar set in a corner of the lounge. No one was behind it but a bell-push was marked “Please Ring for Service” and brought a smart young waiter from the dining-room who gave him his whisky-and-soda. It all seemed well-organized and, as Miss Cratchley had said, professional.

While Carolus sat at the bar, a large man entered and walked purposefully across to him.

“Your name Deene?”

“Yes.”

“I'm Superintendent Dyke. What the devil do you mean by questioning Miss Cratchley?”

“You'd better calm down a little,” said Carolus amicably. “Have a drink?”

“It's a damned impertinence. I gather you're some kind of private investigator. You'd better understand that I won't have that kind of thing in a case of mine. What other police officers may have put up with I don't know, but I won't have it. You'd better get out of this place at once.”

Carolus watched the man's puffy face and keen intelligent eyes, but did not answer.

“Haven't I enough to do keeping the blasted Press away? This isn't a case for amateur dabblers. It's a serious matter and I've got a heavy responsibility. I should have thought you might have the intelligence to see that.”

“I do think you should have a drink,” said Carolus.

“You'll leave this case alone, you understand? If I catch you hanging round or interfering with any of my witnesses I'll run you in for impeding the police in the execution of their duty. You're up against the wrong man this time, I can tell you. What d'you think you're up to, anyway? What's your object?”

“I? Oh, I'm just interested,” said Carolus mildly but infuriatingly.

“Just interested, are you? Well, you'd better find something else for your interest. There's nothing for you in this.”

“Well, now you've got that off your chest, may I repeat my invitation?”

“I don't want to drink with you. I've had amateur messers round a case before and they've never done anything but make difficulties.”

“I've every sympathy. But just now and again, you know, one does hit on some little thing that's helpful. And I don't quite see how you can prevent me staying in this hotel and mooching round Albert Park during my school holidays.”

“Maybe I can't. But let me catch you, just once, doing something that gives me a chance to run you in, and you've had it.”

“Right. Now on
that
understanding?”

“I'll have a Scotch,” said Dyke.

Carolus ‘rang for service' and replenished his own glass while ordering Dyke a double.

“I only arrived today,” said Carolus blandly. “But quite by chance a little thing did happen to fall into my lap, this evening. You probably know all about it from some other source.”

It was Dyke's turn to say nothing but now his sharp hostile eyes watched Carolus.

“I had a talk to that games mistress,” said Carolus and stopped, determined that the other should show some interest.

“Well?” said Dyke grudgingly.

“She
did
see someone that evening. Someone so much a part of the landscape that she never thought of mentioning him to you.”

“In Crabtree Avenue?”

“Just round in Inverness Road I gather.”

“Who was that?”

“So you don't know? Well, well. I don't suppose it has the least significance. It was the park-keeper, Slatter.”

Carolus watched, and was rewarded. Dyke could not quite control his plump poker face.

“Slatter,” he said, with something like a gasp, in that sound revealing that consciously or sub-consciously some suspicion had already entered his mind connected with Slatter.

“He was probably only going to the Mitre for a pint,” Carolus pointed out.

Dyke pulled himself together.

“He probably was. And in any case, Deene, don't think for a moment that piece of information gives you the slightest status in this thing. I warn you again. Keep away from it or you'll find yourself in trouble. Serious trouble. I'm not a man to fool about. I mean what I say.”

“Cheerio,” said Carolus raising his glass, and Dyke gave a grunt.

I
T
was with some relief that Carolus had learned from Miss Cratchley that Gerda Munshall lived in London. He was beginning to feel the atmosphere of Albert Park seep into him like a damp mist and although this was part of his object in remaining there, or nearby, to
feel
that grim respectable suburb and know some of its people, he welcomed the chance to leave it for an evening.

He telephoned Gerda Munshall after dinner on that first night at the Golden Cockerel and she at once asked him to call on her next day.

“I shall be home soon after six and shan't go out again,” said a sugary voice. “Tomorrow is our Break-ing-Up day and I shall be dead beat. What time would you like to come?”

“Could I come early? Soon after you get in?”

He did not want to commit himself to taking Gerda out to dinner till he had met her, but he had this in mind.

“But certainly. Say six-thirty? You know the address?
Titan House, near Victoria Station. It's the twelfth floor, number 317.”

He found Titan House—who could fail to?—and eventually the cell number he sought. His ring was answered by a tall dark sanguine woman with prominent eyes. “A little too much emotion,” Miss Cratchley had said and he at once thought Gerda Munshall somewhat excessive in other ways—too much hair, too much make-up, too much scent and too much
manner.

“Do
come in,” she said, “and forgive the pig-sty. You haven't left me time to put it straight. I just
snatched
a few daffodils from a stall because I can't
bear
to be without flowers but what it needs is a good old dusting. Helene told me you would call”

“Helene?”

“The Head. Hester and I
always
called her Helene, though not to her face, poor sweet. Can I give you a drink?”

She drank sherry, Carolus noticed, but kept whisky and put the bottle beside him with a siphon.

“Before we discuss the tragedy,” went on Gerda, “may I say how
glad
I am that someone intelligent and sensitive is looking into it. I'm sure the police mean well but this is a complicated affair, don't you think? Some dreadful schizophrenic at work. It needs someone with imagination to see into the dark places of his mind. I shall never
rest
till he has been discovered.”

“Revenge?”

“Oh
no!
How can one hope to be revenged on a madman? Hester herself would never have felt like that. She was the
least
vengeful person. She forgave
all
her enemies.”

“She had enemies?”

Gerda stared at him a moment.

“Not particular enemies. But she was discriminating, you know. She
couldn't
suffer fools gladly. She had exquisite taste, in people as in everything else. She hated everything and everyone second rate and
handle.
This, of course, roused resentment at times.”

“I daresay.”

“That silly girl Buller for instance. I believe you met her last night? Poor clumsy wretch, there were times when she almost hated dear Hester. Sheer jealousy, I suppose. She could not bear to see Hester and me together. We had a very beautiful friendship, you see, something that could not be cheapened by the ‘long littleness of life' or the attitude of uninteresting people.”

“I see. Any others who could be said to hate Hester Starkey at times?”

“Well, Hester wasn't very tolerant. And she could speak her mind. One or two of the parents upset her at different times, and she wouldn't stand for that. Helene used to
shudder.
Only a week before her death she told one girl's father not to behave like an idiot. A Mr. Sutton. I'm telling you this to show what kind of person she was. She was proud, proud. She feared absolutely no one.”