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Authors: Carola Dunn

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Before seeking out Tom Stebbins, Alec paid a call on the gardener's wife. The Stebbinses lived in the end cottage of a row on the edge of
the village, with nothing but fields beyond. The small front garden was a riot of roses: bushes, standards, and a glorious pink climber beside the door. Alec, who enjoyed gardening but rarely found time for it, noted and admired the luxuriant foliage and the absence of green-fly and black spot.
As he walked up the short, paved path, he saw that the garden at the side of the house was equally well cared for. Scarlet runner beans climbed to the eaves, and neat, weedless beds nourished a variety of other vegetables. A huge marrow peeked coyly through its screen of leaves. Apparently gardening was Stebbins's hobby as well as his job.
The house, what could be seen of it between the roses, was another matter, with peeling paint, cracked windowsills, and a couple of missing slates on the roof. Those were probably the landlord's responsibility, but the other cottages in the row looked to be in good condition, so Alec inferred that the Stebbinses didn't care enough to request repairs.
He knocked on the door.
The woman who opened it wasn't quite what he expected of “a common little piece.” Her figure was trim, her bobbed hair naturally corn-gold, and though she had darkened her eyelashes, the bloom in her cheeks owed nothing to rouge. Her flowered frock was up-to-date in style but shoddy as to material. Bright, curious eyes studied him briefly. She sighed.
“A rozzer,” she said resignedly. “Blimey, I didn't think you'd get here so quick.” Her voice was pure Cockney.
“You're a long way from home, Mrs. Stebbins.”
“Too true, ducks. You better come on in.”
“Thank you. I'm Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher.”
“Pleased to meecher, I don't think.”
He followed her into a narrow, dark passage. A door on his left was probably the front parlour, but apparently rozzers didn't rate the front parlour. The doorless wall on the right was the party wall, shared with the next cottage. They passed a staircase and emerged into the brick-floored and very untidy kitchen. Breakfast dishes were
stacked in dirty water in the stone sink, which had a single tap and no hot-water geyser. On top of the small coal-fired range was a frying-pan with congealing grease.
“Bloody mediaeval, innit? Give me a nice gas cooker any day. Take a seat, do.” They sat at the crumby, sticky table. “Got a fag?”
“Sorry, I smoke a pipe. What brought you to Devon, Mrs. Stebbins?” Alec asked with real interest.
“One port and lemon too many, that's what. Me and a couple of friends thought it'd be a giggle to enlist in the Land Army, get away from the bloody Zeppelins. Gawd, Jerry gave us ‘ell in the East End! They sent me to a farm 'ereabouts, and that was anuwer kind of 'ell. No shops for miles, and the clothes we had to wear! It got so bad it made Westcombe look good, and besides, getting married got me out of the muck. And Tom brought me flowers, roses and carnations and that.”
“Your husband wasn't in the services?”
“Nah, too busy turning the nobs's flower gardens over to veg, not that there's any what I'd call real nobs 'ereabouts, not like the West End. He's ten years older'n me, too, and I'm pushing thirty, I kid you not.”
“You don't look a day over twenty.”
“Garn!” she said, but she looked pleased. “I got to admit it's good for a girl's complexion, living out here in the middle of nowhere, but when you said that, you said it all. I did ‘ope he'd go back 'ome wiv me after the Armistice, but nuffing doing. Won't leave his bloody gardens. If you want to know, that's why I took up with Georgie. The lousy bastard promised he'd take me back to the Smoke, and next fing I know he's having a bit off wiv some farmer's little girl wiv mud under her fingernails.”
“Do you happen to know her name?”
“Nah. Who cares?”
“Does your husband know about your relationship with George Enderby?”
She shrugged and said again, “Who cares? He can divorce me if
he wants. Only it costs money to get a divorce, dunnit? Fat chance.”
“He hasn't spoken to you about it?”
“Not that I 'eard, but I don't always listen. He's always got somefing to grouse about.”
“Where were you yesterday afternoon?”
“Me? I didn't push Georgie off the cliff!” she declared indignantly.
“It's just a matter of routine, Mrs. Stebbins. We have to check everyone in any way associated with the victim.”
As usual, the invaluable formula worked.
“Oh, well, if you want to know, I took the ferry to Abbotsford to see a friend.”
“Her name and address, please?”
“I don't see why you need to know that.” Rita Stebbins didn't blush—she probably wasn't capable of it—but she did look more than a touch self-conscious.
“A gentleman friend,” Alec guessed dryly.
“'S matter of fact, it was, then. And I don't know his address. He's a commercial I met in the village Friday. He's got a friend in London that might give me a job and he asked me to go and have a … a cuppa at his hotel and talk abaht it. Gawd, I'd do anyfing to get out of this dead-alive 'ole! I've had enough, I have.”
Alec persuaded her to part with the commercial's name—at least the name he had given her—and the name of the hotel. In return, he agreed not to let her husband know that the friend she had spent the afternoon with was male.
“If I can possibly avoid it,” he qualified. “What was he doing while you were out and about?”
“Gardening!” she snorted. “'S all he ever does on his day off.”
“Your garden, I take it?”
“
His
garden.”
“His garden.” That should be easy enough to check with the neighbours, a job for a constable. “Whose garden is he working in this morning?”
“Dunno. Don't care.”
Alec took his leave. Portrait of a disastrous marriage, he reflected, breathing in the rich scent of roses. Ten years was no great difference, but the gulf between a stolid country gardener and a flighty East Ender seemed to be far wider and deeper than that between a middle-class copper and the daughter of a viscount.
No wonder Thomas Stebbins was a morose, deeply disgruntled man. But was that sufficient reason for him to have broken the news of Cecily Anstruther's affair to her husband? The cause was more likely an existing grudge against Peter Anstruther added to a desire to know someone else was suffering as he had suffered from his wife's unfaithfulness. Misery loves company.
From what Alec had seen of Stebbins, he was not likely to have brooded over his grievance in silence, but no doubt Rita had turned a deaf ear to his reproaches. Alec could imagine her indifference goading the man to violence. After killing Enderby, he would have had plenty of time to get back from the cliff to his cottage before the exploding maroon's flare and boom summoned the lifeboatmen.
On the other hand, could he possibly be a good enough actor to have looked so surprised when he joined his mates on the beach and saw Enderby's body?
Alec turned towards the Hammett residence. He wanted to know whether Stebbins would claim to have been in the garden all yesterday afternoon, until the maroon's summons, or would produce some other alibi. With any luck, his response to being questioned would reveal whether he had known of his wife's affair.
The Hammetts' substantial house was halfway up the hill, with a steeply terraced front garden. Climbing the stone steps, Alec saw in the flourishing flowerbeds and wall-growing plants the evidence of Stebbins's care, but the man himself was nowhere to be seen.
Alec rang the bell. Waiting, he heard a shout within. After a lengthy silence, the door was opened by a breathless house parlour-maid.
“Sorry, sir, I were doing the upstairs. The master's at work, sir, and the mistress went out.”
“It's the gardener I want to see, miss. Thomas Stebbins.”
“Tom Stebbins?” she asked in surprise. “He'll be out there. Didn't you see him as you came up?” Coming out onto the front step she looked around, then shook her head. “Well, sir, I dunno where he's got to, that's for sure.”
“The back garden, perhaps.”
“There isn't no back garden, sir. The house is right onto the street. The upstairs, ‘tis. And round the one side 'tis the dustbins by the kitchen and the other side's the carriage-house. I wonder where Tom's got to?”
So did Alec. “He wouldn't be taking a cup of tea in the kitchen?”
“Mrs. Beecher, the cook-housekeeper, she's gone down to do the shopping. There's only me and the daily here, and Mrs. Watson wouldn't dare mess about in Mrs. Beecher's kitchen. I'll go look, though.”
“Thank you.”
The girl came back shaking her head over the mysterious disappearance of Stebbins. “I'll say this for him, he's reg'lar as clockwork and a hard worker. I can't think where he's got to!”
Alec had no more notion than she as to the gardener's whereabouts, but he could make a good guess as to the reason for his absence. It looked very much as if Thomas Stebbins had done a bunk.
W
hen Alec returned to the parish hall, Puckle reported on his call upon the Wallaces. Rory Wallace had indeed driven over from Plymouth on Sunday, arriving shortly before his father was called out to the lifeboat.
“Damn!” said Alec, studying the map. “That's much too late. Anstruther said he saw him just before Malborough, but it wouldn't take young Wallace more than a few minutes to get to Westcombe. Anstruther should have reached South Huish by then if he rode straight there, or even the camp, if he didn't hang about waiting for his friend.”
Inspector Mallow rubbed his hands together in a satisfied way. “So Anstruther went round by the cliff and shoved the victim over, just as I thought. It's a wonder how you cleared up the case so quick. Scotland Yard methods, eh? D'you want me to apply for a warrant, sir, or will you do it?”
“Not so fast! In the first place, we don't know that it was Wallace he saw. Secondly, Wallace may have stopped to see a friend in the village before going to his parents' house. And in the third place, Mrs. Stebbins confesses to an affair with Enderby and Tom Stebbins is not at home nor at his place of work, though I'm assured he's a regular, steady worker.”
“That he is, sir,” put in Puckle.
“Hopped it, has he?” Mallow frowned. “Well, that's a puzzler, for sure.”
The telephone had still not been connected. Alec sent Mallow up to the police station to try to get hold of Rory Wallace; to ask the Abbotsford police to send someone to enquire at the hotel Mrs. Stebbins had named for the commercial traveller she had named; and to ring up Exeter with a request to alert all South Devon officers to keep a lookout for Stebbins. The gardener was not likely to flee far from home. In particular, because of his unhappy experiences with his wife, London surely figured in his mind as anything but a refuge.
In fact, he had probably gone to roost with some local relative or friend. Alec set Puckle to calling on Stebbins's known associates and family connections.
During Alec's absence, Mallow had brought order to the piles of rough notes of which the investigation had hitherto consisted. He had obtained a third table for Alec's exclusive use, and on it had placed the two reports he had already completed in spite of the scant supplies of stationery available. However unlikable, the man was efficient.
Alec had just sat down to read the report of DS Horrocks's enquiries at the Schooner when a hideous roar rent the peaceful morning. It grew louder, approaching, then suddenly cut off just outside the hall. A moment later, a young man in dusty overalls bounded in, goggles in one hand, a large canvas satchel in the other. This he set with a thump on the nearest table before coming to attention and saluting.
“Sergeant Tumbelow, sir, from Abbotsford. I brought the stuff you asked for, sir, and my motor-cycle. With a side-car, sir. I can take you wherever you want to go, right away!”
“Nowhere just now, thank you. But I do have a job for you,” he added as Tumbelow's face fell. He introduced himself, then asked, “Are you wearing uniform under that kit?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Here, take a look at the map. You see the Ferries Inn. I want you to make enquiries about a hiker who dropped in yesterday for a drink with his picnic lunch. He claims to have then crossed over the river and immediately back again on the ferry.” Alec described Donald Baskin, realizing in the process what an undistinctive young man he was—medium height, medium build, medium-brown hair, a pleasant, ordinary face. “Khaki trousers, brown boots, canvas knapsack, pipe-smoker. Oh, and a Norfolk jacket, nondescript colour. It's not much to go on. Do your best.”
Tumbelow saluted and went out. A moment later, his machine roared to life and the racket receded up the street.
As quiet returned, Alec continued reading Horrocks's report. The staff of the inn confirmed that Enderby had sneaked out sometime between two and half past, and that his wife had remained on the premises, “run off her feet.” No one admitted to knowing where he had gone or whom he was going to meet. An account of the quarrel between the Enderbys added nothing to what Daisy had overheard.
The chamber-maid confirmed that when Enderby first came to Westcombe, he and his “sister” had shared a bed. When he took up with Nancy, they had been heard to part discreetly and amicably, with a gift of twenty quid on one side and best wishes for good luck on the other.
Mallow came back just as Alec turned to the second report. “The word's out all over the county, Mr. Fletcher,” he announced, rubbing his hands together briskly. “I don't doubt we'll have Stebbins under lock and key in no time.”
“What of Rory Wallace?”
“He was out of his office, an appointment with a client. His clerk will have him telephone here when he gets in. But now Stebbins has scarpered—”
“And the commercial traveller in Abbotsford?”
“No one of that name's been staying at that hotel. I expect he gave Mrs. Stebbins a false name. But he don't matter now we know it's
Stebbins we're after … or do you think him and his missus was in league together, sir?”
“Not a chance,” Alec said immediately, remembering the perky Cockney and the morose countryman. Then he reconsidered.
There were no flies on Rita Stebbins. Suppose she had thought up the uncheckable story about the traveller, then persuaded Enderby to meet her for one last fling on the cliffs and pushed him over. Meanwhile her husband was to provide himself with an unbreakable alibi before disappearing, temporarily. With a hue and cry out for Tom, no one would question his unfaithful wife too closely. Reappearing, Tom would produce his alibi and the couple would be written off as suspects.
It sounded like one of Daisy's wilder theories, far-fetched but possible. Alec sighed. “On second thoughts, could be. When your chaps get back, we must check door-to-door with the Stebbinses' neighbours and question the crew of the ferry to Abbotsford, as well as the hotel staff. If Rita Stebbins travelled to Abbotsford yesterday afternoon, she'd not pass unnoticed.”
“Right, sir.” Mallow made a note. “Still, we've narrowed it down to him with maybe her help.”
“Great Scott, no! We can't by any means write off Anstruther or Baskin yet, and there's still the farmer's daughter to be found. We haven't the shadow of a clue as to who she is.”
 
Andrew Vernon burst into the parish hall like a whirlwind, followed closely by a girl and a large black dog. Vernon skidded to a halt in front of Alec, holding up a tweed jacket.
“We found it! Oh, Julia, this is Chief Inspector Fletcher. Miss Bellamy, sir. Actually, one of the bobbies found the jacket. Then, of course, we concentrated on that area and we found a—something else. I've got it in here.” He set his Portable Laboratory on the table. “I'll show you as soon as Julia leaves.”
“Mean beast!” Julia Bellamy was a pretty girl not a day over eighteen, with a fair bob beneath her brown, green-banded cloche. A dark
green skirt, good but well-worn, and bulky hand-knitted jumper failed to disguise a trim, athletic figure. Sturdy walking shoes emphasized long slim legs. No wonder Vernon was attracted. “I suppose,” she accused him, “you're going to try and hog the credit for the earring, too!”
“Earring?”
“Julia found it. The rest of us were working back towards the cliff edge …”
“Actually, it was Popsy. Popsy, say ‘How do you do.'” The dog sat down and raised a paw, regarding Alec with soulful brown eyes. Miss Bellamy patted her head. “Sorry, I haven't any biscuits, girl. She's awfully clever, isn't she? She was sniffing around where they found the jacket and she found an earring under a heather bush.”
“And Julia picked it up so it's got her fingerprints all over it. Isn't that just like a girl?” Vernon extracted a small envelope from his case and handed it to Alec. “I put it in this, anyway.”
“Most men would have done exactly the same,” Alec assured Miss Bellamy as he opened the envelope and slid a dangling diamanté earring onto the table.
“Hijjous,” she observed dispassionately. “Cheap and nasty.”
But the sort of thing that would please a Cockney tart, or a farm-girl. He had to find out who Enderby's latest flame had been.
“It's so bright and shiny, it can't have been there long,” Vernon pointed out. “I expect Enderby took it as a present for the girl he was meeting.”
Mallow had come up, giving the dog a wide berth when she wrinkled her lip at him. “Where's the other one of the pair?” he wanted to know. “And where are my men?”
“Still up there, looking for it, and for the weapon—whatever he was hit with. Horrocks said we could bring you this one and the jacket.”
“Thank you.” Alec suspected the detective sergeant had been only too glad of an excuse to rid himself of his amateur assistants. “The sooner the better.”
“Shall I dust it for fingerprints?” Vernon offered eagerly.
Alec doubted that the single earring bore useful prints on its tiny, multi-faceted surfaces, especially as Miss Bellamy had handled it. He was inclined to let the young almost-doctor have a go, but Mallow's disapproval was obvious.
“We'd better leave that to the experts,” Alec said. After all, if they ever found out who the farm-girl was, she might very likely deny having met Enderby, in which case fingerprints could prove her presence. “Why don't you watch and learn? Miss Bellamy's prints will have to be taken, too, for elimination.”
“Gosh, really?” The vicar's daughter was wide-eyed. “What a lark!”
“Did you touch it, too, Vernon?”
With regret, the young man admitted, “No, I took it from her with my forceps.”
“Good for you. Inspector, it's all yours.” As Mallow, Vernon and Miss Bellamy moved away, Alec said, “Oh, just a minute, Vernon.”
“Yes?” He turned back.
In a low voice, Alec asked, “What is it you found that you couldn't mention in front of Miss Bellamy?”
With a grimace, Vernon reached into his carrying case and took out one of the stoppered phials, saying, “Rather disgusting, sir. I handled this with forceps, I can tell you. A French letter, used, recently. He was up there with a woman, all right!”
“So it would seem.”
“What else could it mean, sir, with this and the earring?”
“For a start, we'll have to have Mrs. Enderby confirm that the jacket was her husband's.”
“Oh yes, but then—”
“Then we can be pretty certain Enderby was up there with a woman.”
“And if she didn't push him over herself, she must have seen who did.”
“It seems likely,” Alec agreed. “The only trouble is, we haven't the least idea who she is.”
 
Waving goodbye to Belinda and Deva as they set off back down the stream, Daisy took out the map Baskin had lent her. On it, she found the lane she wanted, parallel to the cliff-tops and a few hundred yards inland. Her shortest route thither was mostly by right-of-way footpaths. She set off briskly, hoping she would not meet any of the cross-country obstacles Baskin had described.
The way tended steadily upward through farmland, mostly pasture with the odd arable field. The worst barrier she came across was a broken-down stile leading into a field infested with thistles, dock, nettles and brambles. The overgrown path seemed more a matter of disgraceful neglect than deliberate obstruction. She battled through, scratching her leg, and came out at last on the lane she was making for.
The lane continued gently uphill to her left, while on the opposite side rose a steep slope of bracken, gorse and heather interspersed with bare rock and short, wiry grass. A faint path wound upward. Daisy rather doubted anyone could actually ride a bicycle up it, especially where it appeared to plunge into a gorse thicket. It wasn't on the map.
But between her present position and Westcombe, the map showed a couple more paths and a track leading off from the lane towards the sea. Anstruther could have taken any of them.
Realizing she couldn't possibly explore them all—not, at least, without missing lunch, Daisy turned homeward.
She had nearly reached the crest and was hoping the rest of the way would be downhill when she heard a motor ascending the hill behind her with a horrid grinding of gears. Stepping aside, for the lane was scarcely one car wide, she glanced back to see a Humber touring car of pre-War vintage. The chauffeur, who wore the usual peaked cap along with a grubby brown jacket and no collar, looked disgruntled. Behind him sat a woman Daisy recognized.
As the clash of gears ceased, Mrs. Hammett poked her driver in the back and said loudly, “Stop, I say!”
The car shot forward for a few feet then jerked to a halt and stalled beside Daisy. “I'm a gardener,” the chauffeur said sullenly.
BOOK: Fall of a Philanderer
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