Murder every monday, p.14
Murder Every Monday, page 14
“Mr. Thurlow,” said Flush.
“Oh, goody!”
“You wanted me?” asked Bill three minutes later.
Flush had been sitting on the wrought-iron chair. He rose. Mrs. Barratt laid aside her knitting. The Colonel turned with a siphon in his hand. The Creaker was asleep on the sofa with a newspaper over his face. Dina smiled encouragingly.
Flush indicated the chair. “Kindly pick this up,” he said. “Wield it as you naturally would were you about to strike somebody.”
Bill hesitated.
“Come along, Mr. Thurlow. I am waiting.”
Bill picked up the chair gingerly by one front and one back leg. “It’s quite light,” he said, surprised.
Flush pulled at the lobe of his ear. “Surely, Mr. Thurlow, a man of your intelligence must realize that if you were to strike with the weapon held so, the victim’s head would in all likelihood become wedged under the arm?”
Bill put the chair down. “To tell you the truth,” he said with an attempt at sarcasm, “I’d forgotten that. I haven’t killed anybody with a chair for weeks.”
“I think he’s most unlikely,” said Mrs. Barratt as he left the room. “I see him having an accident with a lanyard or felling a tree in the wrong direction, but not this. No, not this.”
“I agree,” said Flush. “Unless …” He stopped. “Dina, how well did you know the body?”
Manelli came into the room without knocking. He was holding a cigar in a perpendicular position, balancing three inches of ash.
Flush pushed an ashtray towards him. “The chair, if you please, Mr. Manelli. Pick it up.”
Manelli tapped the ash off his cigar. He picked up a small gilt chair. “This fella?” he asked.
“No, Mr. Manelli, not that one. That one.”
Manelli picked up the wrought iron chair by its fluted back, raised it slowly above his head and dropped it behind him. “Sorry,” he apologized. “It’s so heavy. I’m right outa shape.”
He was succeeded by Cyril and Mrs. Carlisle.
“How ghoulish,” said Cyril. He picked up the chair by one back leg and staggered slightly. “I thought it was going to be heavy,” he explained.
“I thought that you were left-handed,” said Flush, interested.
“Well,” said Cyril. “Actually, I hate to be difficult but I’m ambidextrous. Between ourselves, I can write with either.”
“A different calligraphy?”
“Oh, entirely.”
Flush nodded. “Mrs. Carlisle, please.”
“I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Carlisle. “I just can’t.”
“We are not accusing you. Just a formality.”
“No, no, no!”
“Yes!”
Mrs. Carlisle swayed. “No,” she insisted. “It’s out of the question. I couldn’t even touch it. I’d faint at once.” She clutched her forehead and sat down heavily on the chair. “Excuse me,” she murmured. “I’m just a trifle dizzy. So silly. I’ll be all right in a moment.” She sat for a moment, then lurched to her feet and, supporting herself on the furniture in her way, blundered out of the French window. “No, no,” she said although nobody had spoken. “Don’t try to stop me. Just a breath of air.”
Cyril put his hands into his pockets and sauntered after her.
“Next,” called Flush.
Paget ushered in Grossi. He stood in the doorway watching with tight lips as Grossi snatched the chair, tossed it into the air, caught it, balanced one front leg on the point of his chin, stretched his arms and raised one foot off the ground.
“Please, Mr. Grossi,” said Flush. “This is no occasion for music hall antics.”
Grossi swung the chair back onto the floor. “Whaddya want me to do?” he snapped. “Hit somebody?”
“Do you often hit people with chairs?”
Grossi raised his upper lip to indicate that he was not amused, pushed past Paget and left the room.
Paget, without turning round, sketched a motorist’s sign to overtake. Blackie shuffled into the room and stood twisting a cap he had borrowed from Hobson.
“Honestly, sir,” he said with the earnestness he usually reserved for the East London magistrates. “I know I got a record, but now I got a missus an’ two kids at school …”
“You are not married and you have no children,” Flush reminded him. “If you had, I should dislike them. Kindly pick up that chair.”
Blackie took the chair by its arms and strained at it. “’Fraid you’ll ’ave to ’elp me, sir,” he said pathetically. “I was never much at ’eavy weights.”
“You may go,” said Flush.
“Thank you, sir,” said Blackie humbly. He was a little disappointed. This was his favorite impersonation and he had not yet done the piece about his mother. “Thank you very much, sir. You’re a good, just man. I ’ope the world treats you, sir, as generously as …”
Paget tapped him on the shoulder and jerked his head half an inch backwards.
Blackie shuffled towards the door. “My old mum, sir,” he mumbled, “said you could always tell real …”
“Out,” said Paget from the side of his mouth.
Blackie smiled sadly from the door. “I’m sure she’ll write to you, sir.” He twisted Hobson’s cap and stumbled away.
“Paget,” said Flush. “Has that man become smaller?”
“Yes, sir,” said Paget. “He is always doing it. It is maddening, sir.”
Al marched into the room. He picked up the chair by one front leg and twisted it around. He then put it down, dusted his hands together and started towards the French windows. “Sure I can whirl it around,” he said over his shoulder. “So could a kid with the bends, so, so what?” He swung out onto the terrace.
“I believe, sir,” said Paget, “that you will not wish to see Barker.”
“Send him in.”
“I advise against it, sir.”
Barker stood in the doorway, bowing and smiling foolishly. He laid a finger on his lips and shook his head. He sidled up to the chair, strained at it, failed to move it, then clawed at his collar and staggered out of the room. The staff heard him cannoning down the passage.
“Paget,” said Mrs. Barratt. “It appears that the staff is not itself.”
“A temporary condition, madam. Will you see Mr. Hobson, sir?”
Hobson came into the room at a slow lope. “Last but not least, eh?” he said with a rough laugh. He looked at the chair. “Wot that?” he guffawed. He lifted the chair contemptuously with one finger. “Now look,” he grumbled. “I gone an’ bent the bleeder.”
“It is perfectly apparent,” said Flush ten minutes later, “that this chair must be weighed. Is it heavy or is it light?” He stood looking out of the window, watching and yet not seeing the rooks circling above the pine copse halfway down the hill.
“Of course, Hobson,” began Mrs. Barratt reflectively.
The Creaker snatched the newspaper off his face and sat up. “No, ’e didn’t,” he growled. “Not ’is line at all.” He could never resist imparting revolting information, so he added, “’E’s got the ’ang o’ me new one a treat. See, we take some magnesium ribbon an’ …”
“That will do, Creaker.”
“… an’ a wonky geyser an’ …”
“Creaker!”
The Creaker lost his temper. “Aou shuddup!” he bellowed. “You all talk shop, why not me ever? ’Snot fair!” He hurled his newspaper across the room and leapt to his foot. “Proper browned off, I am,” he roared. “You watch out. I’m warnin’ you.” He hobbled rapidly away, kicking the couch as he passed. He slammed the door behind him. A shower of plaster fell from the ceiling.
Flush had not turned round. “Follow him, Colonel.”
The Colonel put down his glass. “Alone?” Flush did not answer and he left the room unwillingly.
Flush sat down. “If the Creaker is in for another bout …” he began moodily.
“Do you think that he could have been responsible for last night’s affair?” Mrs. Barratt poked at her hair with a knitting needle.
“Frankly, I don’t know. There were one or two aspects which appeared to be … well, too studied. Did you notice that curious footprint on the tiles which apparently had two heels?”
Mrs. Barratt nodded. “And the slight skid at forty-five degrees? A splendid touch.”
“By accident, Naomi, or design?” Flush rose and stood drumming his fingers on the back of the sofa. “It’s infuriating. Are we seeking an expert or a lucky bungler? Is this a masterly illusion, planned down to the last slovenly clue? Or an impromptu bloomer, a blot on the name of Dankry?” He pulled Mrs. Carlisle’s cigarette case from his pocket and hit it with the back of his hand. “Look at this damned thing,” he said furiously. “What am I intended to deduce from it? An intelligent plant left by a gifted operator? A rapid attempt to confuse by a spiteful amateur? Or an oversight by a boisterous lunatic? Which, which?”
Mrs. Barratt studied him for a long moment. “Clifford,” she said. “You walked again last night.”
Flush sat down. “Where?”
“I found you in the passage. You were smoking a cigar.” She hesitated. “My dear, since the Armitage affair, you have not been yourself. Are you certain that this case is not a recurrence of your old trouble?”
Flush’s eyes flashed. “And you, Naomi?” he countered. “Perhaps you succumbed to your much-discussed desire to try a new line?”
Mrs. Barratt laughed gently. “Really, Clifford,” she protested. “Do you see me, at my age, running about in my nightdress and a pair of borrowed boots?”
In his pantry, Paget pushed Grossi’s bodyguard under the sink and began to prepare the martinis. He moved slowly, sorrow and shame as heavy upon him as a suit of armor. That such a degrading calamity should have happened at Dankry! Never in all the glorious years he had served the earl had there been a breath of scandal, a whisper of impropriety. Bloodshed, yes; but in the pursuit of sport. The gory hares, the matted partridges, the last of the stags. But this, no, impossible. His old mind boggled.
The gin overflowed from the shaker onto the back of his hand and ran up his sleeve.
“Drat,” he said without heat. He undid his wet cuff, flapping his arm, hoping the gin would evaporate. Why, oh why had this presumptuous beaver elected to get himself assassinated in the grounds? There was the track, the dark and lonely track down to the village; the meadow to the east of the boundary, where arrowheads and forgotten currencies appeared after rain; the antique and reticent tumuli; the cliff to the northeast with its long, concealing grass and wreaths of buttercups. But no, it had to be in the grounds.
Paget looked into the shaker. It was full of gin. There was room for neither vermouth nor ice. He did not care. He blew his nose and with the other hand began to snatch glasses from the cupboard and bang them onto the tray. He dropped one and ignored it. Trampling on the fragments, he picked up the tray, shot a venomous glance at the body under the sink and pushed open the door with his shoulder.
As he reached the door of the library, he heard footsteps. He paused. The Colonel came round the corner, his eyes drawn to the shaker. His face was scarlet, his white hair ruffled. There was an ugly bruise behind his ear and a shred of linen dangled from his waistcoat button. He was feeling one of his front teeth.
“Are you all right, sir?” asked Paget.
“Oh yes.” The Colonel took injury philosophically. The Creaker resented being followed. It was always the same. “That for the guests?”
“A draught of alcohol, sir,” murmured Paget, “speeds up the bloodstream, prevents unsightly contusion.”
The Colonel helped himself from the shaker. “By the way, Paget,” he remarked, squinting into his glass, “decided not to call police. Lot of unpleasantness, so on. Good brew, this. Dry. Any objection?”
Paget leaned back against the lintel. His knees felt strangely weak. “No, sir,” he said.
The Colonel looked at him suspiciously. “Why not?”
“The earl, sir, would not have liked a scandal.”
“Count on you, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Water under the bridge,” said the Colonel vaguely. “Don’t want a lot of stuff. Speak to Barker, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Quite.” The Colonel blew up his mustache and went into the library. Lightheaded with relief, Paget tottered along the passage. The Manor’s reputation was safe. His own prestige in the village, the only comfort now left to him, was restored; his future stretched before him, unremarkable but proud and peaceful. There was, of course, the problem of the body, but the staff would make no mistake about that. Between them, they knew many fanciful disposal routines.
As he passed through the hall, he suddenly had the curious impression that somebody, a second before, had stood where he stood now. He stopped, uncertain, vaguely uneasy. There was no sound except the murmur of voices behind him in the library, the thud of a bee against the great south window. A shaft of light fell on the dingy parquet, the dust motes swirled placidly in the evening sun. A flower dropped with a soft little plop from a vase of wilting delphiniums.
Paget looked around him. His eye fell on the notice board. There was a typed slip pinned to it announcing a class upon Gases and their Uses across which somebody had written canceled. Below this, also neatly typed, was the Thought of the Day. Gentle friends, it read. Let’s kill him boldly, but not wrathfully; Let’s carve him as a dish fit for the gods, Not hew him as a carcass fit for hounds.
Stuck to the bottom of the latter slip of paper with a blob of sealing wax and shockingly askew, was a hairy piece of lined notepaper. On it, in sprawling capitals and written in lipstick, was the inscription DAINTY DOGS EAT DIRTY PUDDINGS.
Chapter Eleven
An hour and a half later, when the students filed into the dining room for dinner, the disgraceful message had been removed from the notice board. It had been taken to the laboratory and tested for fingerprints by the Colonel. He had found three of his own, but no others. He had reported this to Flush, who had laughed jovially and told him to consider himself gated. As the staff followed the students along the dim passage, Flush paused to attach a notice to the board announcing a compulsory after-dinner lecture upon Court Etiquette and Procedure.
“We shall carry on as usual?” asked Mrs. Barratt. She picked at the blob of sealing wax which had secured the anonymous message. “Clifford, do you imagine that this is a clue?”
“Who cares?” said Flush. He flicked it with his finger. It fell onto the floor and broke in half. Flush laughed and stepped on it.
Mrs. Barratt looked at him suspiciously. “You are suddenly very genial, Clifford,” she remarked.
“Of course,” said Flush. “I have only to prove that these two ribald crimes are connected to clear myself even in your eyes.”
“Why?”
“Surely even you, Naomi, will allow that never, even under the most extreme duress, would I have used lined notepaper.”
Mrs. Barratt looked thoughtful. “Clifford,” she said slowly. “Provided that it was not you, do you much care who rested that fellow?”
“Frankly,” began Flush. He stopped and cleared his throat. “My authority was flouted,” he said.
Dinner, owing to Barker’s indisposition, was a cold meal prepared by Paget. The rules of the establishment forbade any mention of homicide before the coffee and the students, feeling that other topics were inadequate under the circumstances, drank their iced Bovril in silence.
The staff were not so inhibited. Flush and Mrs. Barratt talked across the table about fainting in the dock, a subject upon which they had always disagreed. Mrs. Barratt maintained that one should faint just before an adjournment. Flush insisted that one should wait until all but one of the jurors had left the Court. Flush was in favor, when revived, of the classic, “Where am I?” Mrs. Barratt preferred, “Of course, it’s just a horrible dream.” Both agreed, however, as the argument broadened, that one should pass notes to one’s counsel or ask for a glass of water only after the Accused had made some point slightly in favor of the prosecution.
The Colonel offered his system of Jury Control. He liked them to feel disgruntled and out of sympathy with all connected with the Law. He attended to this by complaining persistently of a draught or the heat according to the season. If the jury looked cold, open the windows. If they were hot, close the windows.
Manelli reminded Grossi of the occasion when the latter’s counsel had failed to challenge an underling of Manelli’s on the jury and Grossi had won four months in the penitentiary.
Flush interrupted smoothly to inquire whether any of the students admitted authorship of the message on the notice board. Receiving no answer, he nodded.
If, he mused, this new vexation were the work of the joker who had so presumptuously engaged Grossi’s bodyguard, then the field of suspects had perhaps narrowed. The adage was not a common one and typically British. The flavor of the thing smacked of Cyril’s sour humor. The lipstick in which it had been written had proved to be one of Mrs. Carlisle’s large supply. The repeated desire to cast suspicion upon the novelist was interesting. Was it a personal grudge against the woman herself or merely a formal protest against her products?
He looked around curiously at his companions. They were trying to eat an undercooked cold roast goose. What part did diet play, he wondered, in the spiritual doldrums between the premeditation of murder and the deed itself? Were the energy-forming carbohydrates a deterrent or a stimulus to the moment of action? Did a balanced intake of starch inflame or stifle? Did a sudden increase of calories feed the Jekyll or the Hyde?
Paget circled the table, offering a white thing covered with raspberry jam. All refused it. Paget retired to the shadows. He decided against serving the cheese. It was the same piece. None of the students had ever eaten it and none of them ever would. He waited patiently until they left the room. They filed out in twos and threes. Their conversation was slightly subdued but apparently amiable. The murder seemed to have revived them. Paget stacked the plates on a tray and carried them along the damp passage to the kitchen. Passing his pantry, he pushed open the door with his foot and glared at the blanket-covered form under the sink. Tomorrow had been his day off and now, presumably, he would have to spend it helping to dispose of a corpse he hardly knew.
