Not to be Taken (16 page)

3

Harold was right, as usual: Scotland Yard had been called in. Two of them came to see me not ten minutes after Glen and Rona had left, and with only a bare quarter of an hour before dinner-time. Under pretence of summoning Frances, who was upstairs changing her frock, I sent a hurried message out to the kitchen to hold dinner back indefinitely. Scotland Yard or no Scotland Yard, domestic details come first.

The two men introduced themselves with the utmost courtesy. They gave me their names, but of course I never gathered them; I did realise, however, that one was a detective chief inspector and the other a detective sergeant.

They were quite unlike what I should have expected from Scotland Yard, and still more unlike the local police officers. The chief inspector was round-faced and gave an impression of tubbiness, though presumably his height must have conformed with official requirements. The sergeant was tall and slender and rather elegant. Both spoke in cultivated voices, but with a manner in which blandness seemed to have been carried too far, almost to the point of obsequiousness. Quite five minutes were wasted in their apologies for troubling me and my protestations that it was no trouble. Would they like to see my wife? Well, if it really wouldn’t be too much inconvenience, they would be grateful for the opportunity. Would they like to see her alone, or with me? That was just as I, and she, preferred. Would they have a glass of sherry? Why, that was exceedingly kind, almost too kind of me, but they found it better not to drink on duty. But I was just going to have a glass of sherry myself; and it was awkward to drink alone. Oh well, in that case they would come to the rescue – but only just a drain in the bottom of the glass, really. Ha-ha. Yes, yes. Dear, dear.

Having been regaling myself lately with a selection of American detective stories from Evesham’s library in Torminster, I marvelled. The bullying, hectoring, loudmouthed, exceedingly unpleasant detective of American fiction would have considered these men almost imbecile in their softness; yet presumably they got results.

The interview lasted half an hour and was conducted in the same charming spirit throughout. Frances joined us in ten minutes or so, and the proceedings were more in the nature of an informal chat than a police interrogation. In point of fact Frances and I did chat, quite garrulously. A question from one or other of our visitors would produce not merely an answer, but a confirmation, an allusion, an anecdote, all manner of divergencies. I think that secretly Frances and I felt that the two men, so far from being frightening, were so pleasant, and so much at sea, and so rather helpless, that we became doubly talkative in a kind of subconscious effort to help them out.

We chatted, therefore, of Angela (and the officers appeared quite to share our conviction that, whatever had happened, Angela was not guilty), of the conversation once more the last evening we had dined there (and the officers quite agreed that, since the poisoning had been proved to be acute and not chronic, John’s spasms on that and similar occasions had no importance), of Glen as man and doctor (and the officers almost outdid us in their admiration of Glen in both capacities), of village life (and the officers, who surprisingly both turned out to come from rural homes, each regretted their change to urban surroundings), and of twenty other things. Only when they had already risen to go did the detective inspector, in the most courteous way possible, explode a small bombshell under my feet and with it blow up all my pitying assumptions of their helplessness and inefficiency.

‘There’s only one thing I don’t understand,’ he said in an even more apologetic tone than before, ‘but no doubt you can explain it. I should have thought you would have mentioned to the local police officers the fact that Mr Waterhouse was here on the morning of his death. We have to try to trace all his movements that morning, you know.’

I stared at the man. ‘
Here
?’ I repeated incredulously.

‘Why, yes,’ apologised the chief inspector. He consulted a little red notebook. ‘He was in this house roughly between 11.20 and 11.45 a.m. He came by way of the meadow that divides his land from yours, and your pear orchard. Some nice trees you have there, too, sir, if I may say so.’

‘But – but I have no idea of this,’ I expostulated. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Oh yes.’ The chief inspector was gently reproachful. ‘I think there can be no doubt about it.’

‘Did he see me?’ asked Frances suddenly.

‘Our information is that he did, madam. You received him, I believe, in this room. He had a glass of sherry with you, did he not?’

‘Yes, he did. I remember now. At least I suppose it was that day. But it was such an ordinary thing for Mr Waterhouse to stroll round here, especially in the mornings, that I’d forgotten all about it. Yes…that would have been the last time… Yes, it must have been that day. He came to see you about some winter wash for his fruit trees, Douglas,’ Frances added, turning to me. ‘At least that was the excuse. Really, he wanted to tell me about his pains and drink a glass of sherry.’

‘Yes, he’d been making some experiments in fruit-tree washes, in the intervals of building,’ I said mechanically. ‘He was always saying the standard washes were no good for the type of bug his trees bred. John had an experimental mind.’ I was talking quite at random, for the sake of talking. It was not like Frances to have forgotten such an important detail as that John had been actually in our house, to say nothing of having had a drink there, between the very hours which Glen had fixed as the probably fatal period. On the other hand it was inconceivable that she had deliberately concealed the fact.

‘You didn’t see Mr Waterhouse that morning, then, sir?’

‘No,’ I said slowly. ‘I remember the morning well. It was a wretched one, and I had to be out in the rain all the time.’

‘Yes, that fixes it,’ Frances said quickly. ‘John said he hadn’t seen you on the way over, and it was too wet to go looking for you. He’d talk to you about the wash another time.’

‘I see,’ said the chief inspector. ‘Mr Waterhouse’s visit seemed to you quite unimportant, then, madam?’

‘Oh, quite. He would come over like that two or three times a week.’

‘And he said nothing significant about his aches and pains? I think you said he discussed them?’

‘Oh, nothing: except that he let me understand that he was rather more worried about his indigestion than he would have liked everyone to know. I think he used to tell me, or rather hint, things like that, because he knew I didn’t talk. He just said he was really rather glad that we’d bullied him into consulting Glen professionally, and he supposed he’d have to go on a diet and all the rest of it like any other middle-aged crock. I laughed and told him he was just as vain about his health as a woman about her looks.’

‘I see. Well, there doesn’t seem to be much in that, does there? It’s very good of you and Mr Sewell to have answered our questions so frankly. I’m afraid we’ve repaid you rather ill by keeping you from your dinner, so we won’t detain you any longer.’

I accompanied the officers out into the hall, and there was the usual pause by the front door.

‘Expensive sort of hobby, Mr Waterhouse’s,’ remarked the chief inspector casually.

‘You mean building? Yes, very,’ I agreed, my hand on the latch.

‘A bit of a weakness of mine, if only I could afford it. What I should like to build would be one of those real old houses, with secret cupboards and concealed staircases and priest holes and all the rest. That must be real good fun, planning a place like that.’

‘Yes,’ I said perfunctorily, ‘I expect they got some fun out of it.’

‘Was that how it took Mr Waterhouse, I wonder?’

‘Not that I know of,’ I said in some surprise. ‘Why?’

‘Oh, I was only trying to get some idea of his mind. But perhaps it takes a twisted one like mine to have a weakness for secret hiding places, ha-ha. Not that they wouldn’t be useful, for storing valuables in when one was going away. I should have thought, from what I can gather of him, that might have appealed to Mr Waterhouse.’

‘Well, he hardly ever went away.’

‘To stay away, you mean, sir? But I suppose he was in to Torminster often enough?’

‘Oh yes. I think he used to run in there fairly often, in his car. He had a weakness for the cinema, I know.’

‘Did he indeed? Well, it all helps to make a picture. Good night then, sir, and thank you again.’

I went back to the drawing-room and poured myself out another glass of sherry.

‘Well, I seem to have put my foot in it again,’ Frances said cheerfully. ‘Poor John! The last time he came, too. And I never thought about it again. Do you think they’ll arrest me and not Angela after all?’

‘I shouldn’t be surprised,’ I said. ‘In any case I don’t think I should do it again if I were you. But what I want to know is, how the deuce did those two know John had been here when I didn’t even know it myself?’

‘They’re not so soft as they look,’ said Frances. ‘I began by feeling rather sorry for them. Now… I don’t know… I think I’m a little frightened.’

4

At a quarter to ten that evening the telephone bell rang. I
answered
it.

‘Hullo!’ said a voice. ‘That you, Douglas? Alec here. Are you and Frances alone?’

‘Yes,’ I said wonderingly. ‘Why?’

‘Could you give me a bed tonight?’

‘Of course. Where are you?’

‘Speaking from Torminster. Sorry, and all that, but it’s a bit urgent. All right, I’ll be with you in half an hour.’

I went back to the sitting-room.

‘Alec’s just rung up from Torminster,’ I told Frances in the slightly guilty tone of every husband when one of his own relatives is to be entertained. A wife takes for granted that hers have a prior claim. ‘He wants a bed tonight. I said we could give him one.’

‘Well, really.’ Frances rose. ‘It’s a little late, isn’t it?’

‘He said it was urgent.’

‘The maids will have gone to bed. All right. I shall have to see to it myself. The room isn’t aired, but I can’t help that.’

‘Of course not,’ I soothed. ‘He won’t mind. What on earth can he want to see me about?’

‘I should ask him,’ said Frances, and made her exit. The best of women are apt to turn a little acid before the unexpected and untimely guest. They seem to think that guests, even male guests, expect so much more than they do. I was quite sure Alec would not notice whether his bed was aired or not. So long as he had something to sleep on, and bacon and eggs for breakfast, he would be perfectly content.

Alec Jeans, I should explain, is a cousin of mine and an excellent fellow. He retired from the Indian army with the rank of major two or three years ago, found leisure very heavy on his hands, and in consequence managed to land some kind of a job at the War Office which occupies him adequately except when he wants to get away for a bit of shooting or fishing.

He drove up to the front door just half an hour later. I helped him put his car away in the garage, watched him instinctively stoop as usual as he came in at the front door, for he is an extremely tall man and many bumped foreheads have made him wary even of doors with six inches clearance for him, and took him into the sitting-room.

From Frances’ greeting no one could have suspected her views as implied, but nobly not expressed, half an hour earlier. As a matter of fact Frances has rather a weak spot for Alec.

‘Well, what brings you to these parts?’ I asked when we were furnished with drinks and settled in our chairs.

‘Oh, nothing much. Just mooching round the country, you know. Hope I didn’t put you out, by the way, dropping in at this hour?’

‘Not a bit,’ Frances said sweetly. ‘I like informality. It’s unexpected, and that’s always welcome in a humdrum life.’

I said nothing. Alex had accompanied his explanation with an almost imperceptible wink at me. I interpreted this as a request to ask no questions, so asked none.

I had been right. Not till Frances had gone to bed and left us to ourselves did Alec say a word that was not frivolous. Then he grinned at me.

‘Good for you. Not that Frances isn’t safe as houses, but what the mind doesn’t know the imagination can’t worry over.’

‘It is something urgent, then?’ I said.

‘Well, yes, in a way. Look here, mind if I keep you up a bit late tonight?’

‘Not in the least. What about?’

‘You knew this chap Waterhouse pretty well, didn’t you?’

‘Very well.’

‘I thought so. In fact that’s why I’m here. I want you to tell me everything about him that you can. And that’s official.’

‘Official?’ I repeated stupidly.

‘That’s right. I’m hot from headquarters. I told them one of the blokes in the case was a cousin of mine, and they sent me down right away.’

‘Headquarters? Do you mean Scotland Yard?’

‘No, no. The War House.’

‘But what have they got to do with Waterhouse?’

‘Well, strictly between ourselves, quite a bit. Waterhouse was doing a job of work for us, and the theory is that he got bumped off as a result. But it seems so darned unlikely that we can’t believe it. I’ve been sent down to try to find out what I can.’

A light slowly dawned on me. ‘Oh! You’re Military Intelligence, of course. Yes, I believe John told me he was in the branch for a short time at the end of the war. But what’s all this? Do you mean he was doing spy work of some sort?’

‘No, no,’ said Alec disgustedly. ‘None of your cheap thrillers. He was just doing a bit of routine organisation work in this district. Nothing out of the ordinary. Dozens of chaps who were in the branch during the war still lend a hand. You’d be surprised if I told you some of their names. And in addition this chap Waterhouse had sent in a few darned useful reports when he was working out East. But nothing that anyone would want to bump him off for. Still, he had a German in the house, hadn’t he? Girl called Bergmann?’