Read Fall of a Philanderer Online
Authors: Carola Dunn
Fall of a Philanderer (22 page)
“Well, it's good to know I'm not the chief suspect, now that Anstruther's out of it.”
Daisy hoped she wasn't misleading him. But no, Coleman must be top of the list because of his obvious motive and his violent character.
No doubt Alec had put Sid on the list now, but right at the bottom, she hoped, after what she had said about his meekness. He was far more the sort to be a victim than a villain.
No doubt Alec had put Sid on the list now, but right at the bottom, she hoped, after what she had said about his meekness. He was far more the sort to be a victim than a villain.
A horrid thought struck Daisy: What if the murderer heard that the police were hunting for Sid as a possible witness? The beachcomber might be in deadly dangerâand she simply couldn't think of anything useful to do about it.
Baskin departed for the parish hall. Daisy fetched her book and went out to the garden. Though the wind had strengthened, it had cleared the last clouds from the sky, and she found a sunny, sheltered spot to set up a deck-chair. She opened the book, but the latest Edgar Wallace could not hold her attention. Worrying about Sid, she watched the swells roll up the inlet. Their rhythm proved hypnotic. Her eyelids drooped and she fell asleep.
A
lec was simultaneously reading reports and eating sandwiches brought in from the Schooner when Baskin arrived at police headquarters.
lec was simultaneously reading reports and eating sandwiches brought in from the Schooner when Baskin arrived at police headquarters.
“Tell him I'll be with him in five minutes,” he said to Mallow.
The inspector went to meet Baskin, ushered him to a seat at the map table, and returned to announce, “He says not to hurry. He's told us all he can remember about his movements and he hasn't got anything to add.”
“We'll see about that.”
“D'you want me to have a go at him, sir?”
“No, leave him to me. I want you to see if you can get anything out of Coleman when they bring him in.” Alec looked at his watch. “Which should be any minute. You can hardly have less success than I did.”
“Belligerent, wasn't he?” said Mallow uneasily.
“He won't have his dog or his bull with him. Smith can leave off his typewriting and stand by to give you a hand if he gets obstreperous, and Puckle's due back from his lunch. Horrocks and Tumbelow are to get on with following up any leads they've obtained as to the girl's possible whereabouts.”
“Right, sir.”
Maybe he was making a mistake in letting Mallow tackle the farmer, but the inspector's sneaky ways just might be more effective than Alec's own more straightforward approach. He finished a last bite of beef with rather more horse-radish than he cared for, washed it down with the Schooner's first-rate ale, and joined Baskin.
“Thank you for coming along.”
“I was rather under the impression that it was the sort of invitation one cannot refuse.”
“Not at all, though a refusal would certainly give the wrong impression. You can always send for a lawyer, if you wish.”
“No need. I haven't anything to say.”
Alec regarded the young man with exasperation. “We'll find out what your interest in Enderby was, whether you tell us or not. I've had a man at Scotland Yard put on to ferreting.”
“Good luck to him. He's not likely to find anything before the inquest. It's later this afternoon, isn't it? If I tell you now, my business is bound to come out at the inquest, and then the press will get hold of it. So far, the London papers haven't been interested, but as soon as word gets out of a verdict of murder ⦔
“At least you're not denying an association with the deceased.”
“I can scarcely expect get away with that,” Baskin conceded with a touch of sarcasm, “after having turned for information about him to the chief investigator's wife.”
“Daisy had to tell me,” Alec defended her.
“Oh, I don't hold it against Mrs. Fletcher, I assure you. A charming lady, but not one in whom one might choose to confide if one had the slightest expectation of getting mixed up in a murder case.”
“We can be discreet, you know, if it's nothing to do with the case.”
“It's nothing to do with the case in the sense that I didn't kill Enderby, therefore it's irrelevant.”
“But it gave you a motive for doing away with him.”
“I'm sorry to be disobliging,” the schoolmaster said politely, “but I think on the whole it's timeâin the vernacularâto button my lip.”
Was it worth pressing him? He had more or less admitted to a
motive. Exactly what that motive was ought to be revealed by the Yard's digging, and in any case did not have to be proved, though convincing a jury without one was difficult.
motive. Exactly what that motive was ought to be revealed by the Yard's digging, and in any case did not have to be proved, though convincing a jury without one was difficult.
Means and opportunity were another matter. Baskin's walking stick had been thoroughly examined and was definitely not the weapon. Someone might yet turn up to give him an alibi. The forces at Alec's disposal had not yet looked for any of the yokels with whom he claimed to have exchanged greetings, in indeterminate places. The police were too busy hunting first for Olive Coleman and now for her uncle Sid. When found, one or the other or both should be able to identify the murderer, whether Baskin, Alfred Coleman, or some as yet unguessed third party.
Alec was very conscious that he hadn't yet delved into the history of George Enderby's philanderings in the district. That Mrs. Anstruther had been his first mistress here seemed unlikely. Nancy Enderby might be able to provide more names, or the abominable Mrs. Hammett, or any of the gossipy villagers.
It was one more thing to be gone into, if Olive failed to turn up and provide a name. Where were Tumbelow and Horrocks?
“May I go, Mr. Fletcher?” Baskin asked.
“What?” Alec jerked out of his brown study. “Oh, no, not yet.”
“I really am not going to say anything else.”
“Let's just go one more time over your route on Sunday afternoon.”
Baskin sighed heavily and turned to the map. “Even if I'd made it up, which I didn't, I've described it so many times already I could do it in my sleep.”
“One more time, and this time try harder to think of anyone you spoke to. The bar at the Ferries Inn was crowded. Surely you exchanged a word or two with a customer or two. Who did you sit next to on the ferry? You're not the sort of chap to sit in silence.”
“I suppose Mrs. Fletcher's told you how I butted in on the ferry here,” Baskin said with a grin. “Yes, I did speak to two or three chaps, but we didn't exchange names. They were ordinary sort of chaps, fellow hikers, nothing distinctive about them, and all going off in different
directions. I couldn't give you a useful description of them to save my life, any more than Anstruther could tell you the make of motor-car he saw.”
directions. I couldn't give you a useful description of them to save my life, any more than Anstruther could tell you the make of motor-car he saw.”
“Did you by any chance mention that you're staying in Westcombe?”
“Yes, we all talked about where we were staying and where we were going. As a matter of fact, I wrote down the Anstruthers' address for one of them.”
“For pity's sake, why didn't you say so? If we have to, we can probably track him down. What can you remember of where they all said they were staying? Come on, put your mind to it!”
Baskin was busy putting his mind to it when Tumbelow's leonine roar approached. Outside the hall it throttled down to a snarl. A backfire rang out like a gunshot, and the beast fell silent.
Mallow and Puckle moved towards the door. Constable Smith stopped pounding on the typewriter keys and sat up straighter, alert. The general air of expectation diverted Baskin from his quest for an alibi. He and Alec both turned to watch.
“What's up?”
“My two sergeants are supposed to be bringing in Alfred Coleman. He may or may not be a murderer, but he's unquestionably a brute with an explosive temper. Altogether a nasty piece of work.”
A couple of minutes passed in tense anticipation. Then voices were raised outside. Puckle went out, drawing his truncheon.
Puckle returned, walking backwards. After him came Coleman, handcuffed, a mutter of mingled profanity and barnyard obscenity issuing from his lips. Tumbelow followed, also with drawn truncheon, and then Horrocks. Horrocks's hand was tied up in a bloodstained handkerchief.
“Set his dog on me,” he explained, his voice slightly shaky. “If Tumbelow hadn't taken along his truncheonâ”
“I gave the beast a little tap on the head. Not to worry, sir, it'll live to wake up with a headache. No signs of hydrophobia, just trained to be nasty, but his hand could do with a couple of stitches.”
“Smith, ring up Dr. Vernon,” said Alec. “See if he or his nephew can drop by. If they're both out, try the Vicarage. For heaven's sake, sit down, man.”
“I'm all right, sir.”
“Good, because as soon as you're stitched up, I have work for you. Go and wash the bite thoroughly for a start. Tumbelow, you did get the information I sent you for?”
“Yes, sir. No trouble there.”
“Excellent.” Alec contemplated Coleman. The farmer stood in sullen silence, having either run out of curses or bored himself with repetition. “Inspector, he's all yours. Right-oh, Baskin, where were we?”
With half an ear he heard Mallow suavely expounding to Coleman the penalty for assault upon a police officer in the execution of his duty. Baskin also seemed to have one ear cocked in that direction. Nonetheless, he managed to provide enough information about the hikers he had met to make it worth looking for them.
Alec let him go, with the usual warning not to stray too far from Westcombe nor change his lodgings without notifying the police.
“I don't suppose you'd let me stay and watch?” Baskin said persuasively. “My boys are going to be thrilled to death that I've had a chance to see Scotland Yard in action, and they'll think it a very poor show if I just walk out when you're making an arrest.”
“Unfortunately, we're not, at least not for murder.”
“Assaulting a policeman will do. Better, in fact, as an object lesson. It's the sort of thing any high-spirited lad might contemplate, whereas murder is, I trust, rather beyond their purview.”
“I hope so!” Alec was about to refuse his request when Andrew Vernon arrived, black bag in hand.
The young would-be Thorndyke was panting and his step had lost some of its accustomed bounce. “I ran all the way to my uncle's and back to get my bag,” he announced breathlessly, giving Baskin a curious look and a nod of greeting before turning back to Alec. “Didn't
think I'd need it for the inquest. I say, sir, jolly clever of you to guess I was at the Vicarage.”
think I'd need it for the inquest. I say, sir, jolly clever of you to guess I was at the Vicarage.”
Alec smiled. “Not at all.”
Vernon's cheeks turned pink. “Yes, well ⦠A dog bite, is it? Not rabid, I hope! Those shots of Pasteur's vaccine are a pretty painful business, and he'd have to go to Plymouth or Exeter to get 'em. Where is heâmy patient?”
“There's a sort of scullery at the back.”
“Oh yes, home of the dreaded urn tea. You've no idea what one suffers, being devoted to a vicar's daughter!” He dashed off, bag swinging.
Alec sent Baskin off, ironically aware that he would in all probability go straight back to the boarding-house where he'd spend the rest of the afternoon with Daisy and Belinda. Still, he never had fancied the schoolmaster as a murderer, and the possible alibi witnesses he'd come up with sounded pretty convincing.
Setting Smith to telephone a bulletin to the police in the districts where those witnesses might be found, Alec glanced over at Mallow and Coleman. The farmer had sat down but he appeared to be stubbornly silent. The inspector's voice, soft and insidious, continued its undermining efforts. Alec left him to it and went on into the scullery.
The men stood by the sink. Vernon was examining the wounds, a set of tooth-marks and a nasty, ragged tear across the ball of the thumb.
“It's a bit of a mess all right. Hold on while I dissolve some permanganate.” He found a thick white china cup in a cupboard and ran some tapwater into it. With a glass rod he stirred in purple crystals from a phial in his bag. “Right-oh, hold your hand over the sink while I slosh it on, then we'll stitch it up and paint it with iodine. You'll need to get it re-dressed daily till the stitches come out, by someone who knows what to look for in the way of infection.”
Sergeant Horrocks looked rather green about the gills. Tumbelow
came in with a couple of the folding chairs and set them up. Patient and doctor sat, and Vernon delved into his bag for his needle and sutures. Alec and Tumbelow met each other's eyes and quietly left the room.
came in with a couple of the folding chairs and set them up. Patient and doctor sat, and Vernon delved into his bag for his needle and sutures. Alec and Tumbelow met each other's eyes and quietly left the room.
“Pop along to the Schooner and fetch him a tot of brandy,” said Alec, taking out his wallet. “Leave me your notebook with the names and addresses you got from Mrs. Coleman.”
The elderly dairy-maid had spoken nothing less than the truth: in the past two years no fewer than five girls had come and gone from the Coleman farm. Mrs. Coleman had provided their names and the names of the farms or villages where their families lived, all in the Malborough area. What had become of them after they left her service she was unable or unwilling to say.
PC Leigh of Malborough was sure to know some of the answers. Where he didn't, Tumbelow could run out on his bike and ask the families. By this evening they should have found out where all the girls had ended up, and at latest tomorrow morning they'd know whether Olive Coleman had taken refuge with any of them.
And if she hadn't? Alec didn't want to think about that possibility. It might mean she had somehow managed to run away to London, where finding her would be next thing to impossible, or it might mean she was lying dead or injured on the cliffs, or in the sea below.
Tumbelow came back with brandy. Alec set him and a neatly bandaged Horrocks to follow up the leads on Olive. He and Vernon and Puckle in their turn set out for the Schooner, where the inquest was to be held. There they met Dr. Wedderburn, the police surgeon, and Mr. Wallace in his capacity as coxswain of the lifeboat.
The coroner was a solicitor, and a friend of Wallace. Without fuss, he took a minimum of necessary evidence from the men, followed by Nancy Enderby's identification of the body as her husband's. His direction to the jury was a masterpiece of brevity. It brought an inevitable verdict of murder by person or persons unknown.
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