Jack on the Gallows Tree (10 page)

She was a splendid woman, august and stately, who moved like a ship under sail and talked in a throaty contralto. She spoke of her domain as ‘my bar' and seemed so much a part of it that she could scarcely be imagined elsewhere. Young barmen were employed to assist her, but none had lasted more than a few months and some had left after a week. She called them all Fred, ignoring any hopes they might voice of keeping their own names. If one of them, serving a customer at the far end of the bar, attempted a snatch of conversation Miss Shapely would call him briskly to another duty. It was her bar and there must be no whispered pleasantries by her assistant.

If Miss Shapely was not beloved in the town, she was revered and the favour of her smile and recognition was eagerly sought. She accepted a drink as Queen Victoria might have accepted a gift from some flamboyant and barbaric tributary. No one had ever discovered her Christian name, but that was a small matter, since the man with the courage to use it had not been born.

Carolus, entering with Rupert, found that they were the only customers.

“Good evening,” he said brightly and asked for his drinks.

“Fred will serve you,” announced Miss Shapely and seemed interested in far-away serious things.

How did one start, wondered Carolus, at a loss for once. Nice bar you've got here? Been a lovely day? No. Neck or nothing. He stood square in front of Miss Shapely.

“I have come to see you,” he said, “on a matter of some importance.”

Miss Shapely's eyes reluctantly met his.

“If it's anything to do with the business …”

“No. No. I shouldn't trouble you with that. I wanted your opinion.”

“I never talk to the press,” said Miss Shapely.

“Naturally not,” said Carolus.

“I do not approve of opinion polls.”

“Of course you don't. I entirely sympathize. I am investigating the two murders …”

“I couldn't give any statement to ordinary police officials. The Chief Constable is a customer of mine and if he requires any information from me he will ask for it.”

Carolus was desperate. He decided on a gamble.

“No. No,” he said, “you misunderstand me. I'm not a policeman. I'm investigating for Television.”

He watched the effect of that magic word. Yes. It worked. Miss Shapely smiled.

“I see,” she said. It was not effusive, but it was enough.

“We are organizing a programme. We need your assistance, Miss Shapely.”

“It depends. I couldn't allow anything of that sort in my bar, of course.”

“No. It was your personal co-operation I was hoping to obtain.”

“I do not often have an opportunity of seeing television programmes,” said Miss Shapely, “but such as I have seen have been most interesting.”

“May I ask you a few questions? Then I can get an idea of how to arrange the programme. I feel it should be built round you.”

“Certainly,” beamed Miss Shapely.

“I understand that Charles Carew comes here?”

Miss Shapely sighed.

“He is not exactly the type of customer I seek to encourage,” she said. “I never allow any language in my bar and
have had to Speak To Mr Carew more than once. But he certainly comes in here.”

“Will I see him this evening?”

“He usually comes in at about seven and again at nine.”

“Not in the mornings?”

“Very seldom. The last occasion on which he came in during the morning was about a week before the murders. I remember it because I had some Trouble that day.”

“Really? With Carew?”

“Oh no. I should never have any trouble with him. He would be Asked To Leave at once. No. This was with a farmer named Raydell. Usually a very quiet and respectful man. On that occasion he abused his position.”

“How?”

“He took a liberty which I could never permit.”

“No!”

“A quite unforgivable liberty. I had to be firm.”

“I hope he didn't …”

“He brought a wild animal into my bar.”

“A wild animal?”

“Yes. A creature resembling a small leopard. He called it an ocelot.”

“Good heavens!”

“You may well say that. It wasn't only the impudence of it, it was the sly way he did it. He waited till my back was turned. Nobody saw it as he led it in on a chain. The first to see it was old Mr Sawyer, one of my very best customers. He suddenly found the thing sniffing at him. He does like a drop of gin, I won't deny, and just recently has been a little liberal with himself. When this creature appeared to him he thought … it seems he occasionally suffered from delusions after spells of over-indulgence. He dropped his glass and fell into convulsions. When I glanced over and saw what had caused it I … fortunately I did not quite swoon, but I was not myself. For the first time in the fifteen years I have been in charge of this bar I was unnerved. A
lady in the corner began to scream. It was a most scandalous scene. Nothing like it had ever taken place while I have been here.

“Then Mr Raydell instead of instantly taking the creature out began to explain that it was quite harmless and slept on his bed. ‘Mr Raydell,' I said, ‘you will please remove that beast at once and never bring it into my bar again. I'm surprised at you doing such a thing.' ‘It's only an ocelot,' he said. ‘
Only
an ocelot—that's quite enough, I should think,' I told him. ‘If you don't take it away immediately I shall call the police. I won't have ocelots in my bar!' ‘There's only one,' said Mr Raydell. ‘I don't care if there is one or fifty,' I told him. ‘It's the principle of the thing. Now take it away at once, please. Suppose it went for anybody? It might kill some poor old lady before you could stop it.' ”

“Who was in the bar at the time?”

“Oh, a number of people. It was my busy time. Mr and Mrs Baxeter were present. They do not often come in and never have anything but Lemon Barley, but they happened to be here. Then Mr Bickley who worked for Mrs Westmacott. As I say, Mr Carew. There was Mr Gilling who looks after the car-park at the Granodeon Cinema, a very quiet respectable person; also a chauffeur from the Royal Hydro named Wright.”

“Splendid collection. Anyone else?”

“Yes, unfortunately. One of my Crosses. Mr Ben Johnson, an artist. There was the lady who screamed, with her husband, but they were just passing through and staying in the hotel.”

“And they all heard you say that about killing an old lady?”

“When I mean my voice to be heard it
is
heard.”

“So Mr Raydell went off?”

“At once. Yes. But I was upset. I didn't show it, but I was very upset indeed.”

“I'm not surprised. Mr Raydell is a familiar figure in the town?”

“Oh yes. He's a farmer in quite a big way. Everyone knows him and until this occasion he had never given me any cause for offence. His farm is well known, because he has some successful dairy cattle, or something of the sort. I understand they have taken prizes for the quantity of milk they have given. Someone explained it one evening, but I had to discourage the topic. It did not sound very nice …”

“Now tell me about Mr Ben Johnson, Miss Shapely. Do you think he would fit into the programme?”

“Not if I'm in it. I couldn't possibly appear with Mr Johnson. He is a most violent and self-assertive man. His Language is dreadful. He drinks more than is good for him. I have heard things about his private life which are shameful. Quite shameful. I have begged him not to come here, but it's no use. On more than one occasion I have had to put him in his place for familiarity.”

“I gather he wasn't fond of the Westmacotts?”

“He spoke disgracefully about them. I've heard him call Mrs Westmacott awful names.”

“No. Really?”

“Yes. He didn't know her, but it seems she had wished to befriend him. ‘The old …' (you know what I mean), he shouted. For a long time Mr Johnson was unsuccessful as an artist. No one was prepared to buy the pictures he painted and I must say I wasn't surprised. I don't know much about art, but I do like a picture to look like what it says it is. Years ago, before Mr Johnson had been taken up, he brought one of his paintings in here. He wanted me to hang it up and try to sell it. It was a most peculiar picture which I thought represented a tropical bird in a cage. I asked him what he called it and he said it did not matter much. ‘Fresh herrings,' he said. ‘No, call it Nude Figure. They like that better.' Of course as soon as he said that I told him to take the thing away. But you see the kind of
artist he is. While he was unable to sell his pictures he did not come to the notice of Mrs Westmacott, but after people began to buy them and he became known, Mrs Westmacott wished to meet him. He spoke in the most dreadful way of her. He said he would never so-and-so well meet her …”

“So-and-so?”

“Beginning with B,” explained Miss Shapely. “Oh he never went farther than that. I had to speak to him. ‘Language, Mr Johnson, language!' I said to warn him. Then I pointed out that he did not even know Mrs Westmacott. ‘Never set eyes on the old …' ”

“Yes?”

“He used a disgraceful word.”

“Beginning with B?”

“Certainly not! Not in my bar. He called her … I scarcely like to say it … he actually called her a cow. ‘Never set eyes on her, nor she on me. And never likely to.' You see the kind of man he is? He had no consideration for the family. Spoke most disrespectfully of Mr Gabriel Westmacott.”

“Why?”

“Mr Gabriel Westmacott is a well known lecturer.”

“I must say I had never heard of him.”

“Oh yes. Only a fortnight ago the
Buddington Courier
published an announcement that he was going up to Lancashire to lecture on the following Thursday. We all read that.”

“All?”

“All my regulars. It was handed round. I particularly remembered it afterwards, because the lecture was on the night his poor mother was murdered. Mr Johnson was quite violent about it. The school of art on which Mr Gabriel Westmacott lectured was not at all one he liked, it seemed.”

At this moment the first of Miss Shapely's regular
customers arrived, an elderly gentleman who stumped in and asked for a double gin and soda. Miss Shapely served him herself with a queenly smile.

“There you are, Mr Sawyer. You well this evening?”

“As well as can be expected after that shock,” said Mr Sawyer.

“There! That's weeks ago now, you know. You should forget it.”

“What did he call it?”

“An ocelot.”

Mr Sawyer turned to Carolus.

“What would you say to an ocelot attacking you in a bar in England?” he asked stertorously.

“I shouldn't speak to it,” said Carolus.

“Um,” said Mr Sawyer and swallowed his gin.

“Why, what did you say?”

“Um,” repeated Mr Sawyer, then turning to Miss Shapely demanded another gin.

“One thing,” said Miss Shapely, “you'll never see it again. Mr Raydell knows better than that. Not in my bar, anyway.” Suddenly the richness left her voice and the brightness went from her eyes as another customer entered. “Good evening,” she murmured disagreeably in answer to his greeting. “Fred will serve you, Mr Carew.”

C
AROLUS
examined the much-discussed Charlie Carew, police suspect number one, beneficiary from the will of Sophia Carew, bankrupt reprobate with a motive for murdering his aunt. He saw a man such as one expects to see
on most nights of the week in the hotel bar of any provincial town. Carew looked good-natured, waggish, not very intelligent and given to regular but not extreme over-indulgence. He would talk, one knew before hearing him, of cricket in the summer and football in the winter or, all the year round, of greyhound racing, television, horse-racing, what happened to him that morning, what he had dreamt last night, what somebody had said to him, the weather, football pools, the intelligence of his dog if he had one, the number of cigarettes he smoked and any ailments from which he might be suffering.

Miss Shapely, so far from effecting an introduction, seemed determined to ignore Carew's presence and became closely interested in Mr Symonds. But no introduction was necessary.

“Good evening,” said Carew. “What did you think of the fight last night?”

For one moment Carolus wondered whether Miss Shapely had had more Trouble in her bar. But he remembered in time that another white hope of British boxing had faded.

“Tough,” said Carolus. “Your name's Carew, isn't it? I have been asked by Miss Tissot to try to clear up the double murder.”

Carew smiled.

“I'm your man,” he said. “The odds are about three to one on. My Aunt Sophia left me her money. I haven't an alibi for that evening. I'm obviously a desperate sort of villain, anyway.”

“Have a drink?” asked Carolus.

“I won't say no. Mine's a rum and Coca-Cola.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Rum and coke. Nice drink. Refreshing and potent…. Cheerio.”

“Where were you that night, Mr Carew?”

“Looked in here about seven. I wasn't here long. Just
to wet my whistle. It was a dull sort of a day and I felt bloody tired.”

“Language, Mr Carew!” called Miss Shapely imperiously.

“Then I came back as usual, didn't I, Miss Shapely? Night of the murder, remember?”

“Rather later than usual. It wasn't far short of closing time when you got back.”

“Where had you been in the meantime?”

“Home, old man. Back to my little place for a snack. I always make a point of that. Doesn't do to drink unless you eat something.”

“Where is your house?”

“Know the Granodeon? Not far from there. Up the back. Number 7 Quincey Street.”

“You live there alone?”