A Fête Worse Than Death (7 page)

Betty swallowed and bobbed in a nervous essay at a curtsy. ‘Please, Mr Plaxy, it's Mrs Jones and Mr Holroyd. They'm saying they won't stop here a moment longer if this sort of thing goes on.'

There was a renewed outbreak of sniffing from Mrs Plaxy. Albert Plaxy shuffled, unable to find words to express his irritation with this fresh nuisance.

‘You tell the staff,' said Ashley, his voice hard with impatience, ‘that . . .' He stopped, seeing the fright in the girl's eyes. She was only as old as his own daughter and he softened his voice. ‘You tell Mrs Jones and Mr Holroyd that they're very valuable and important witnesses and I'm looking forward to seeing them again. They've already been very helpful and I'm sure they'll want to go on helping the police. You can do that for me, can't you, Betty? And I know that Mrs Plaxy can rely on you and them to keep everything running smoothly until she's feeling up to things again. And if the doctor, a Major Haldean or any more policemen arrive, you'll send them to me, won't you?' He gave her a warm smile. ‘I know I can depend on you.'

She pinked with pleasure. ‘I'll tell them, sir.'

They turned to the door as a knock sounded and Haldean's long, dark face peered round into the sitting room.

‘Hello. I couldn't see anyone at the front of the house so I came to where I could hear voices.' He took in Mrs Plaxy's tear-stained face. ‘I say, I can see you've had a nasty shock.' He pulled up a footstool and sat beside her. ‘Superintendent Ashley only told me that something was the matter. I don't know what's happened yet.'

That was true. Ashley had been urgent but uninformative and Haldean, knowing that every word he said would be heard with goggle-eyed enthusiasm by Mrs Sweeliman and her daughter, Gladys, who took it in turns to operate the local telephone exchange in the back room of Stanmore Parry Post Office, hadn't pressed him. And that, he thought as he looked at Mrs Plaxy, had been the right decision. Mrs Plaxy would usually emanate an air of kindly, well-fed, unruffled calm, but now her face had an unhealthy greyish tinge, she was breathing in little rapid bursts and the hand that held her handkerchief continually scrunched open and closed.

Albert Plaxy scuffed his feet noisily, wanting, at a guess, to find physical relief in vigorous movement, but that, in this comfortable, cluttered sitting room with its sagging chairs, lace antimacassars, dotted tables, silver-framed photographs and presents from Eastbourne, was impossible. Haldean felt real sympathy for Albert Plaxy, so anxious to do the right thing and so obviously incapable of doing it.

‘I didn't want to say too much on the phone,' said Ashley, but Haldean ignored him, concentrating on Mrs Plaxy.

‘Can you tell me what happened?' he asked quietly.

The concern in his voice was unmistakable and the sympathy in the way he hunched forward, looking anxiously at her, was like soothing ointment to her wounded nerves. Her breathing slowed, her hands relaxed and she straightened up and managed a watery smile. ‘It's silly of me to take on so, sir, but it gave me such a turn.' She took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘I don't know what you must think of me, sitting here, but . . . but . . .' She caught sight of young Betty who was watching with undisguised interest and frowned. ‘Betty, go and make a cup of tea for the gentlemen. Or would you like something else, sir?'

‘No, tea'll be fine. Thank you very much. It's Mrs Plaxy, isn't it? Are you up to telling me about it?'

‘Yes, I . . .' She stopped, looking at him doubtfully ‘Excuse me, sir, but are you a policeman?'

Haldean shook his head. ‘No, but Mr Ashley asked me to come because I'd known Mr Boscombe during the war. I've driven over from Hesperus. You know, in Stanmore Parry. I'm Major Haldean, Sir Philip Rivers' nephew.' As he had hoped, she brightened at the mention of Sir Philip. Anything to do with Hesperus was known, familiar and respectable and gave her the comfort of being able fit him into local life.

She looked at him with gathering confidence. ‘Well, sir, I was showing the Superintendent here to Mr Boscombe's room. Off you go, Betty,' she added in a near normal voice. ‘Don't stand there gawking.' She smoothed the corner of her apron. ‘The Superintendent came last night and told us what had happened to Mr Boscombe and we had a look at his room and there was nothing wrong, was there, Bert?' Her husband grunted an affirmative. ‘And the Superintendent told us he didn't have time to look at it properly then but we was to keep it all locked up and he'd come along today, first thing. And we did that, sir,' she said, turning to Ashley, her voice rising. ‘You were there when I locked it and not another soul went into that room, I can swear it.'

‘I saw you do it, Mrs Plaxy,' said Ashley, reassuringly.

‘Well then,' she continued, her fingers fluttering on her apron. ‘I took the Superintendent up there this morning and we opened the door and there was a man laid across the bed. I didn't see him at first, because the bed's in the corner, and when I did, I just screamed because – because –' her hand clutched, showing the knuckles white – ‘because his face had blood all down it. He was a mask of blood, sir,' she gulped, falling back on the cliché. ‘A mask of blood.' Haldean took her hand in his, feeling it tighten. ‘I've read of such things – Bert always has the
News of the World
– but to see it with my own eyes in our own house . . . Well, I don't know what I did next, sir, and that's a fact. It was bad enough to hear of Mr Boscombe being shot but to have someone killed here and to see them weltering in their own blood . . . I'd give a hundred pounds not to have had it happen here.'

Haldean stood up. ‘It must have been awful for you. Now, if I were you, I'd drink your tea. Have you got plenty of sugar in it? Good. It's the best thing for a shock. And perhaps Mr Plaxy could put a drop of brandy in it? Good man. You look as if you could do with one yourself, Mr Plaxy.'

‘I'll be ruined when folks get to know what's gone on,' said Mr Plaxy with a groan. ‘Ruined.'

‘No you won't,' said Haldean briskly ‘Why, when this gets out it'll be standing room only in the bar for months on end. You'll be turning custom away if I know anything about it. People will come from miles around and Mrs Plaxy'll be the talk of the town if she describes what happened. They'll be queuing up to hear the real story behind what'll be in the newspapers. You just wait.'

‘Do you really think so, sir?' asked Mrs Plaxy. ‘That folks'll want to hear all about it?' Haldean nodded vigorously. ‘Why, that's dreadful, wanting to dwell on such things,' but her voice showed a certain pleasure in the prospect.

‘Mr Plaxy, can you stay with your wife? Superintendent Ashley and I are going to have a look at the room. You know the way, don't you, Mr Ashley? Good-oh. Then we won't disturb you any further for the time being.'

‘You did that beautifully,' said Ashley with deep approval as they mounted the oak staircase. ‘Calmed her down, I mean.'

‘Thanks.' He frowned at Ashley. ‘There's another body? It seems incredible.'

‘I know. He was shot too, plumb in the middle of the forehead. Once again, there's no sign of the gun, so we can rule out suicide. He's about the same age as Boscombe and gave his name as Morton. He booked in late yesterday afternoon. He signed the book, but the only address he gave was “London”. I did wonder, as you knew Boscombe, if you might know this chap as well. If you do, then it'll save a lot of work.'

Haldean shook his head. ‘I've never come across a Morton as far as I know. I'm glad you were with that poor woman when she found him.' They came to the top of the staircase and Haldean glanced round. ‘Nice old oak here, isn't it? If you were arranging a murder this would be a wonderful place to stage it with this high polish and these twists and turns. You could break your neck quite happily and who's to say that you weren't pushed?' He looked along the landing. ‘Three doors, opening on to this corridor. Are they all guest rooms?'

‘They are. The one at the end here is Boscombe's and the one at the far end belongs to our new body. If you don't know him we'll have to get Scotland Yard to try and find out who he is. Take a look anyway. The doctor and some of my men should be arriving shortly but I think we've got ten minutes or so before they show up.'

Haldean's first impression of the room was that of incredible untidiness. The chest of drawers stood open, the wardrobe gaped wide and a suitcase was upended on the floor, its contents thrown down beside it. All this he took in with a glance, then his eyes moved to the bed and stayed there. It was an old-fashioned, four-poster bed complete with steps and curtains. The pillows and the great bolster underneath had been flung on the floor. One of the curtains was disarranged, pulled away from its rail. The man lying on the bed had his hand entangled in the material, dragging it on to him so it half-covered his body. He lay with one leg dangling over the steps, the rest of his body flung back on the counterpane. Haldean's first thought was that his face appeared to be in odd shadow. Almost instantly he worked out that the shadow was dried blood. Instinct made him walk softly. Stooping down beside the man on the bed, he peered into the distorted face before turning to Ashley with a shrug. ‘I've never seen him before, poor devil. His name's Morton, you say?'

‘According to the register, yes. Reginald Morton. You can see why neither Mrs Plaxy nor I saw him right away, up in that dark corner. She was exclaiming at the mess in the room, which certainly wasn't in this state when I saw it yesterday, and she looked up and said words to the tune of ‘Oh dear, the curtain's been pulled off.” Then she started screaming. My word, she didn't half yell! Mind you, it gave me a bit of a turn, seeing him like that. Mrs Jones, the chambermaid, who's an older woman in her fifties, came along and
she
started having a fit, which brought the barman up. He joined in the general hubbub and then Mr Plaxy heard the din and came upstairs with that little maid at his heels. I don't think she got to see anything, there were so many people in the way, thank God, and Mr Plaxy just stood there rubbing his hands through his hair, looking as if he'd been struck dumb. I got everyone out of the room at last and Mr Plaxy, once he'd taken a closer look, identified the body as this man Morton who booked in about five o'clock yesterday afternoon. We know a little bit about what Morton did after he got here. He put his things in the room at the end, then went down to the bar for a drink. He didn't say why he had come here and, although he only booked for one night, told Mr Plaxy he might be staying for longer. He ordered an early dinner which was served in the dining room at about ten past six. He was served by the barmaid, who only comes in in the evenings, because Mrs Plaxy, who usually waits on the guests, was showing me up here. Needless to say, the room was all right then.'

‘Would Mrs Plaxy or anyone else have told Morton what had happened at the fête? After all, Boscombe's death must have been a pretty hot piece of gossip.'

Ashley shook his head. ‘I asked her that, Major. She says not and I believe her. I rather gather they wanted to keep the whole thing as quiet as possible. It was talked about in the bar in the evening, of course, but after his meal Morton went out in the garden with his coffee and a brandy. No one saw him come in again, but the empty cup and glass were found by the table under the tree out there. The barman remembered the cup because, strictly speaking, the crockery isn't allowed out of the dining room and it was the only cup and saucer in use all evening. But what I can't get over is the fact that we've had two deaths on the same day. Morton's death has to be connected with Boscombe's murder, it just has to be.'

‘Oh, undoubtedly,' agreed Haldean. ‘You can't have two murders of blokes from London on the same day in a one-horse place like this without there being a common link. It stands to reason. Besides that, this is Boscombe's room, and that alone tells us there's some connection between the two men. Which means, of course, a common murderer and probably a common cause as well. Was anyone unusual seen coming into the pub? Anyone who wouldn't normally be here, I mean?'

‘I asked that. There were just the usual faces. A few more, perhaps, than average, wanting to talk about the fête and what happened to Boscombe, but they were all regulars.'

‘Of course,' said Haldean, walking to the deep windowsill, ‘there's nothing to say that the murderer came in through the door at all. Was this window open all night?'

‘It would have been, I imagine. It certainly wasn't shut when I left the room yesterday. It was a sweltering day, after all.'

Haldean crouched down and peered at the windowsill. ‘No marks that I can see. No dust either, unfortunately, disturbed or in its virgin state.' He looked out of the window. ‘It'd be an easy climb, though. There's an old apple tree plonk outside the window. It wouldn't take much to shin up that and get across. This must smell lovely when it's in blossom.'

Ashley disregarded the apple tree's probable scent and joined Haldean at the window. ‘I see what you mean. It's a bit of a stretch at one point, but nothing a man of reasonable size couldn't tackle. But there are at least three doors downstairs. Why should anyone climb through the window?'

‘Because that way they wouldn't need a key. And talking of keys, how did Morton get in here?'

‘I don't know,' said Ashley slowly. ‘Boscombe's key was on his body, but there are spare keys for all the rooms on a board downstairs in the little office off the hall.'

‘And come to think of it, I bet Morton's key would fit this lock with a bit of jiggling.'

‘Well, that's something I can check easily enough,' said Ashley. ‘I'll go and get the other key to Morton's room and see if it will open the door.'