Have His Carcase (50 page)

you might say. Not but what it might be a good thing for them as was ailing, but

he thought it made the young folks lazy and disrespectful-like. He himself hadn’t

missed going to Sunday church for twenty year, not since he broke his leg

faling off the hayrick, and while he had his strength, please God, he would sit

under vicar. Why, yes, he did remember a strange young man coming through

the vilage that afternoon. Of course he could describe him; there wasn’t nothing

wrong with his eyes, nor his memory neither, praise be! It was only his hearing

as wasn’t so good but, as Mr Ormond might have noticed, you had only to

speak up clear and not mumble as these young people did nowadays and Mr

Gander could hear you wel enough. One of these rickety-looking town-bred

felows it was, in big glasses, with a little bag strapped to his back and a long

stick to walk with, same as they al had. Hikers, they caled them. They al had

long sticks, like these here Boy Scouts, though, as anybody with experience

could have told them, there was nothing like a good crutch-handled ash-plant to

give you a help along when you were walking. Because, it stood to reason, you

got a better holt on it than on one of they long sticks. But young folks never

listened to reason, especialy the females, and he thought they was going a bit

far, too, with their bare legs and short pants like footbal players. Though Mr

Gander wasn’t so old neither that he didn’t like to look at a good pair of female

legs. In his days females didn’t show their legs, but he’d known men as would

go a mile to look at a pretty ankle.

Constable Ormond put al his energy into his last question.

‘What time did this young man go through?’

‘What time? You needn’t shout, young man – I may be a bit hard of hearing,

but I’m not deaf. I says to vicar only last Monday, “That was a good sermon

you give us yesterday,” I says. And he says, “Can you hear al right where you

sit?” And I says to him, “I may not have my hearing as good as it was when I

was a young man,” I says, “but I can stil hear you preach, vicar,” I says, “from

My Text is taken to Now to God the Father.” And he says, “You’re a

wonderful man for your age, Gander,” he says. And so I be, surely.’

‘So you are, indeed,’ said Ormond. ‘I was just asking you when you saw

this felow with the glasses and the long stick pass through the vilage.’

‘Nigh on two o’clock it was,’ replied the old gentleman, triumphantly, ‘nigh

on two o’clock. Because why? I says to myself, “You’l be wanting a wet to

your whistle, my lad,” I says, “and the Feathers shuts at two, so you’d better

hurry up a bit.” But he goes right on, coming from Wilvercombe and walking

straight through towards Hinks’s Lane. So I says “Bah!” I says, “you’re one o’

them pussy-footin’ slop-swalowers, and you looks it, like as if you was

brought up on them gassy lemonades, al belch and no body” (if you’l excuse

me), that’s what I says to myself. And I says, “Gander,” I says, “that comes

like a reminder as you’ve just got time for another pint.” So I has my second

pint, and when I gets into the bar I see as it’s two o’clock by the clock in the

bar, as is always kept five minutes fast, on account of getting the men out legal.’

Constable Ormond took the blow in silence. Wimsey was wrong; wrong as

sin. The two o’clock alibi was proved up to the hilt. Weldon was innocent;

Bright was innocent; Perkins was innocent as day. It now only remained to

prove that the mare was innocent, and the whole Weldon-theory would

colapse like a pack of cards.

He met Wimsey on the vilage green and communicated this depressing

inteligence.

Wimsey looked at him.

‘Do you happen to have a railway time-table on you?’ he said at last.

‘Time-table? No, my lord. But I could get one. Or perhaps I could tel your

lordship—’

‘Don’t bother,’ said Wimsey. ‘I only wanted to look up the next train to

Colney Hatch.’

The constable stared in his turn.

‘The mare is guilty,’ said Wimsey. ‘She was at the Flat-Iron, and she saw

the murder done.’

‘But I thought, my lord, you proved that that was impossible.’

‘So it is. But it’s true.’

Wimsey returned to report his conclusions to Superintendent Glaisher, whom

he found suffering from nerves and temper.

‘Those London felows have lost Bright,’ he remarked, curtly. ‘They traced

him to the
Morning Star
office, where he drew his reward in the form of an

open cheque. He cashed it at once in currency notes and then skipped off to a

big multiple outfitters – one of those places al lifts and exits. To cut a long story

short, he diddled them there, and now he’s vanished. I thought you could rely

on these London men, but it seems I was mistaken. I wish we’d never come up

against this qualified case,’ added the Superintendent bitterly. ‘And now you

say that the mare was there and that she wasn’t there, and that none of the

people who ought to have ridden her did ride her. Are you going to say next

that she cut the bloke’s throat with her own shoe and turned herself into a sea-

horse?’

Saddened, Wimsey went home to the Belevue and found a telegram waiting

for him. It had been despatched from a West End office that afternoon, and ran:

DOING

BRIGHT

WORK

HERE.

EXPECT

RESULTS

SHORTLY.

COMMUNICATING CHIEF INSPECTOR PARKER. HOPE FIND OPPORTUNITY

DESPATCH LOVAT TWEEDS FROM FLAT. – BUNTER.

XXVII

THE EVIDENCE OF THE FISHERMAN’S GRANDSON

‘Has it gone twelve? –

This half-hour. Here I’ve set

A little clock, that you may mark the time.’

Death’s Jest-Book

Wednesday, X July

‘There’s one thing that stands out a mile,’ said Inspector Umpelty. ‘If there was

any hanky-panky with that horse round about two o’clock at the Flat-Iron,

Polock and his precious grandson must have seen it. It’s not a mite of use

saying they didn’t. I always did think that lot was in it up to the eyes. A quiet,

private, heart-to-heart murder they might have overlooked, but a wild horse

careering about they couldn’t, and there you are.’

Wimsey nodded.

‘I’ve seen that al along – but how are you going to get it out of them? Shal I

have a go at it, Umpelty? That young felow, Jem – he doesn’t look as surly as

his grandpa – how about him? Has he got any special interest or hobbies?’

‘Wel, I don’t know, my lord, not without it might be footbal. He’s reckoned

a good player, and I know he’s hoping to get taken on by the Westshire

Tigers.’

‘H’m. Wish it had been cricket – that’s more in my line. Stil, we can but try.

Think one might find him anywhere about this evening? How about the Three

Feathers?’

‘If he’s not out with his boat, you’d most likely find him there.’

Wimsey did find him there. It is always reasonably easy to get conversation

going in a pub, and it wil be a black day for detectives when beer is abolished.

After an hour’s entertaining discussion about footbal and the chances of various

teams in the coming season, Wimsey found Jem becoming distinctly more

approachable. With extreme care and delicacy he then set out to work the

conversation round to the subject of fishing, the Flat-Iron and the death of Paul

Alexis. At first, the effect was disappointing. Jem lost his loquacity, his smile

vanished, and he fel into a brooding gloom. Then, just as Wimsey was deciding

to drop the dangerous subject, the young man seemed to make up his mind. He

edged a little closer to Wimsey, glanced over his shoulder at the crowd about

the bar, and muttered:

‘See here, sir, I’d like to have a word with you about that.’

‘By al means. Outside? Right! Dashed interesting,’ he added, more loudly.

‘Next time I’m down this way I’d like to come along and see you play. Wel, I

must be barging along. You going home? I can run you over in the car if you

like – won’t take a minute.’

‘Thank’ee, sir. I’d be glad of it.’

‘And you could show me those photographs you were talking about.’

The two pushed their way out. Good-nights were exchanged, but Wimsey

noticed that none of the Darley inhabitants seemed particularly cordial to Jem.

There was a certain air of constraint about their farewels.

They got into the car, and drove in silence til they were past the level

crossing. Then Jem spoke:

‘About that business, sir. I told Grandad he’d better tel the police how it

were, but he’s that obstinate, and it’s a fact there’d be murder done if it was to

get out. None the more for that, he did ought to speak, because this here’s a

hanging matter and there’s no cal as I see to get mixed up with it. But Grandad,

he don’t trust that Umpelty and his lot, and he’d leather the life out of Mother

or me if we was to let on. Once tel the police, he says, and it ’ud be al about

the place.’

‘Wel – it depends what it is,’ said Wimsey, a little mystified. ‘Naturaly, the

police can’t hide anything – wel, anything criminal, but—’

‘Oh, ’tis not that, sir. Leastways, not as you might take notice on. But if they

Bainses was to hear tel on it and was to let Gurney know – but there! I’ve

always told Grandad as it wur a fool thing to do, never mind if Tom Gurney did

play a dirty trick over them there nets.’

‘If it’s nothing criminal,’ said Wimsey, rather relieved, ‘you may be sure
I

shan’t let anybody know.’

‘No, sir. That’s why I thought I’d like to speak to you, sir. You see,

Grandad left a bad impression, the way he wouldn’t let on what he was doing

off the Grinders, and I reckon I did ought to have spoke up at the time, only for

knowing as Grandad ’ud take it out of Mother the moment my back was

turned.’

‘I quite understand. But, what was it you were doing at the Grinders?’

‘Taking lobsters, sir.’

‘Taking lobsters? What’s the harm in that?’

‘None, sir; only, you see, they was Tom Gurney’s pots.’

After a little interrogation, the story became clear. The unfortunate Tom

Gurney, who lived in Darley, was accustomed to set out his lobster-pots near

the Grinders, and drove a very thriving trade with them. But, some time

previously, he had offended old Polock in the matter of certain nets, aleged to

have sustained wilful damage. Mr Polock, unable to obtain satisfaction by

constitutional methods, had adopted a simple method of private revenge. He

chose suitable moments when Tom Gurney was absent, visited the lobster-pots,

abstracted the greater part of their live contents and replaced the pots. It was

not, Jem explained, that Mr Polock realy hoped to take out the whole value of

the damaged nets in lobsters; the relish of the revenge lay in the thought of

‘doing that Gurney down’ and in hearing ‘that Gurney’ swearing from time to

time about the scarcity of lobsters in the bay. Jem thought the whole thing rather

foolish and didn’t care for having a hand in it, because it would have suited his

social ambitions better to keep on good terms with his neighbours, but what

with one thing and another (meaning, Wimsey gathered, what with old

Polock’s surly temper and the possibility of his leaving his very considerable

savings to some other person, if annoyed), Jem had humoured his grandfather in

this matter of lobster-snatching.

Wimsey was staggered. It was as simple as that, then. Al this mystification,

and nothing behind it but a trivial local feud. He glanced sharply at Jem. It was

getting dark, and the young man’s face was nothing but an inscrutable profile.

‘Very wel, Jem,’ he said. ‘I quite see. But now, about this business on the

shore. Why did you and your grandfather persist in saying you saw nobody

there?’

‘But that was right, sir. We didn’t see nobody. You see, it was like this, sir.

We had the boat out, and we brings her along there round ’bout the slack,

knowin’ as the other boats ’ud be comin’ home with the tide, see? And

Grandad says, “Have a look along the shore, Jem,” he says, “and see as there’s

none o’ them Gurneys a-hangin’ about.” So I looks, an’ there weren’t a soul to

be seen, leaving out this chap on the Flat-Iron. And I looks at him and I sees as

he’s asleep or summat, and he’s none of us by the looks of him, so I says to

Grandad as he’s some felow from the town, like.’

‘He was asleep, you say?’

‘Seemingly. So Grandad takes a look at him and says, “He’s doin’ no

harm,” he says, “but keep your eyes skinned for the top of the cliffs.” So I did,

and there wasn’t a single soul come along that there shore before we gets to the

Grinders, and that’s the truth if I was to die for it.’

‘Now, see here, Jem,’ said Wimsey. ‘You heard al the evidence at the

inquest, and you know that this poor devil was kiled round about two o’clock.’