Black Ship (17 page)

“You read too many of those.” Ardmore had arrived. “Dr. Ridgeway should be able to tell us what shape we’re looking for.”

“Doesn’t much matter what shape,” Piper pointed out, “seeing none of us has found anything that could be it. Leastways, I don’t see either of you carrying a life preserver or a crowbar or even a heavy walking stick.”

“Whatever it is,” said Warren, “it’s not in the pond. No
need to call in divers. It’s less’n a foot deep and there’s nothing in it bigger’n a twig.”

“The children drop toys in regularly,” said Daisy, “but the nannies always fish them out. If it’s a walking stick, I can’t see how you’d ever find it. I mean, the murderer could just have walked off with it and stuck it in an umbrella stand somewhere, or thrown it in the river.”

“Prob’ly has done just that,” said Warren.

“It’s not that bad,” Piper insisted. “This here’s a private garden, isn’t it, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Yes, sort of. Not belonging to one family, but to all the residents of Constable Circle.”

“Not like a public park at any rate. You don’t get Tom, Dick, and Harry using it. It’s not by way of being a shortcut either, is it? I looked at a map before I came.”

“No, not really. There are footpaths to the Heath up here and to Well Walk down there, but they don’t really cut corners for anyone not living here.”

“Right. So chances are, if the victim wasn’t a resident, which he prob’ly wasn’t, or the Chief’d’ve recognised him, then he was somehow connected to a resident. These houses here, they’re big houses and you can bet they all have servants. It’s not likely he could have called on anyone without being seen by someone else, so it shouldn’t be too hard to find out which house he was connected with. And chances are, it was someone in that house that killed him, and chances are, he just went home afterwards and stuck the walking stick in the umbrella stand, like Mrs. Fletcher said,” Piper concluded triumphantly.

“Always s’posing it was a walking stick he used,” Warren said sourly.

“Whatever it was, he’d have trouble getting rid of it this morning,” Ardmore put in. “He’d’ve looked funny carrying anything but a brolly.”

“Whatever it was,” said Daisy, “it probably doesn’t have nice helpful fingerprints on it. Last night was so cold and wet, no one would have gone out without gloves.”

“True.” Warren sank still further into gloom.

“Might the weapon have been chucked down into an area?” Daisy proposed. “That would be a quick and easy way to get rid of it without going far.”

Piper nodded. “It’s a thought. Only thing is, it must have been heavyish, would have made a noise landing. Unless the servants were listening to the wireless or something … but still they’d’ve found it this morning.”

“Might not think anything of it,” said Ardmore. “Not enough to call it to our attention anyway. It needn’t be very big. Dr. Ridgeway was pretty sure it wasn’t getting clobbered that killed him.”

“Really?” said Daisy. “What killed him?”

All three men looked at her. She realised at once that she had inadvertently stepped over an invisible boundary. She had reminded them, even Ernie Piper, that they ought not to be discussing the case with her, even though she was the chief inspector’s wife. On his own, Ernie might have answered her question, but not with the other two as witnesses.

“Gosh,” she said, “Nurse and the babies are out of sight! I’d better catch up with them. Come along, Nana. Good luck!”

Hurrying along the footpath, she pondered what she had learnt and found herself impressed by Piper’s chain of logic. Unfortunately, it led to the inescapable conclusion that one of her neighbours was a murderer.

“
Mackinnon, you
give Mr. Tring the details, please.” Alec started skimming through the papers on his desk, but as he initialled some and put them on a new pile, and set others in a third pile to be read more thoroughly, he was listening intently.

He wanted to know whether the young detective sergeant understood and remembered all the information they had gathered so far and what conclusions—if any—he had drawn. It was also possible that he had picked up something Alec himself had missed.

Tom Tring listened with appropriate gravity, making a note now and then. His amusement every time Daisy’s name came up was apparent to Alec, but sufficiently discreet to evade Mackinnon’s notice. His moustache, the magnificent hirsuteness compensating for the vast baldness of his head, twitched occasionally as Daisy and her red umbrella wove their way through the narrative.

Tom was very fond of Daisy, and vice versa. In fact, he was Oliver’s godfather. But his fondness didn’t make him consider her an infallible oracle, as Ernie Piper did.

Mackinnon’s view seemed to be somewhere in between. He was a fervent admirer, but he failed to believe she was always right.

His exposition brought out one fact that Alec had failed to enquire after. “Constable Norris didn’t recognise the deceased,” Mackinnon said. “He was pretty certain he’d never seen him about. As he pointed out, though, he’s been on the early-morning beat for several weeks, so unless the Yank was an early riser, he could well have missed him.”

“We’ll give the local station a copy of the photo,” said Tom, “and make sure everyone takes a look at it. You want to circulate it elsewhere, Chief?”

“Not yet. Go on, Mackinnon.”

“Well, sir,” Mackinnon said tentatively, “Norris did say a different American has been seen aboot the area, a laddie that was known to be staying with you and Mrs. Fletcher, it seems.”

“Lambert. He left us some time ago.”

“But he’s still aboot, sir, according to PC Norris.”

“The devil he is! I wonder what bee he has in his bonnet now. Two shady Americans haunting Hampstead—it’s not quite beyond the bounds of coincidence, but …” Alec sighed in exasperation. “I can’t see Lambert as the murderer of his fellow countryman, but he may conceivably have useful information for once. Next time he’s spotted, or if they can find out where he’s lodging, he’ll have to be brought in.”

Tom made a note. “You have a picture of him, Chief?”

“No. The embassy does, and may even know where to find him, as he’s supposed to be on official business, but for heaven’s sake, let’s not get them involved yet.”

“Mrs. Fletcher’ll be able to identify him for us,” said Tom with an innocent expression.

Alec scowled at him. “For heaven’s sake, let’s not get Daisy involved, if we can possibly avoid it.”

Tom made no attempt to hide his grin. “We’ll do our best, Chief.”

Mackinnon continued to brief Tom, laying out the known facts without attempting interpretation.

When he finished, Tom asked, “Mrs. Fletcher didn’t actually view the body, then?”

“I believe not, Mr. Tring. Sir …?”

“No.” Alec abandoned the papers with relief. He hated desk work. “At most, she saw the outstretched hand, gloved.”

“I’m glad to hear it, Chief. It’s an odd business, for sure. This empty holster now. I’ll be blowed if I can think of any reason he’d go out wearing it without a gun, bloody uncomfortable as they are. So what was he doing walking about London with a gun? And where is it now?”

“They’re looking for it in the garden, for a start,” said Mackinnon, “along with whatever was used to bash him over the head.”

“Ah.” Tom ruminated for a moment. “Now that’s another odd thing. Just supposing the victim started this whole bit of bother by drawing his gun. Hitting him on the head could have been self-defence. But the business with the pressure on the arteries, that’s plain cold-blooded murder.”

“That’s what it looks like,” Alec agreed. “We’ll have to wait for the autopsy to be certain of the cause of death.”

“Why go so far as murder when the chap’s out of it and you could just run away?”

“Because you were afraid he’d come after you?” said Mackinnon, hazarding a guess. “When he came round, I mean.”

“Which makes it sound like it’s the victim that’s the real villain.”

“Cold-blooded murder,” Alec reminded them. “You can speculate to your hearts’ content on your way to Hampstead. I’ve got this damn report to finish and an irate AC to placate. Tom, between the two of you, can you work out what questions you need to ask my neighbours in this preliminary round?” Alec was being tactful. He knew Tom was perfectly capable of doing the job, but he wasn’t sure of Mackinnon. Now, Tom would instruct the young sergeant under the guise of a discussion.

“I reckon so, Chief. Let me just get the times straight. The doctor saw the body about eight o’clock this morning and said he’d been dead twelve to twenty-four hours?”

“That’s right.”

“So he was killed before eight in the evening. Sounds like the body must have been pretty much out in the open before it was moved, so not before dusk, probably. Say around five o’clock. Between five and eight.”

“Close enough, for the present. They should have finished photographing that passport by now, and made a couple of quick prints for you to take with you.”

“D’ye want us to drop the passport—the original—off at the American embassy, sir?”

“Ah,” Tom said weightily.

Alec grinned at him. “Are we of one mind on this, Tom? As soon as they know an American is involved, or possibly two, they’ll want to ‘muscle in,’ as they themselves would put it. We can’t turn over evidence in a murder case at the drop of a hat. It will have to go through the proper channels—as many channels as we can dig.”

“We’ll give ’em the number and a copy of the photo in a couple of days?”

“Depending on how our enquiries proceed.”

“Right, Chief. Any questions you want to ask Mr. Fletcher before we go, Mr. Mackinnon?”

“I canna think of any,” Mackinnon said hesitantly.

“If there’s anything we can’t work out between us, there’s always the telephone. Let’s be off, then.”

Alec had a sudden thought. “Hang on a sec, Tom. Do you happen to recall the name of that chap at the British Museum who was a cryptographer in the War? The one who helped us round up the Gloucester Customs raid gang last year? Poplar, Pollard, something like that.”

“Peplow? I couldn’t swear to it, Chief, but young Piper will know. Or if there’s no hurry, you could always ask Records, but don’t hold your breath. Why?”

“His job at the museum is actually deciphering palimpsests.”

“And what may a palimpsest be when he’s at home?”

“Another useful word to add to your dazzling vocabulary. It’s a used parchment that’s been scraped clean and written on again. Often the obliterated text is of more interest than the overwriting. This chap—Popkin? Yes, I believe it’s Popkin—he’s an expert at making out the original writing. Perhaps he can get the victim’s name from the passport.”

“Worth a try,” Tom agreed.

“Will he need the original, sir?” Mackinnon asked. “I doot a photograph will do as well.”

“Good point. I’ll deal with it when I’ve dealt with the AC.” He turned to his report at last as the two sergeants went out.

By the time Daisy and her entourage returned homeward from the Heath, the sun was shining. The change in the weather, as much as the change of scene and the passage of several hours, made the murder in the garden seem like a bad dream, or at least an event that had taken place aeons ago.

Reality intruded all too soon. From the end of the alley, Daisy saw DS Mackinnon and one of the detective constables coming down the steps of number 8. They turned down the hill, then ascended the steps of number 9.

Number 9, the Ormonds, she thought. Inherited money; four children, all away at school; Mr. Ormond dabbled in painting and had turned up at the Jessups’ drinks party with longish hair and a flowing cravat; Mrs. Ormond, very smart, kept busy with the sort of committees that organised charity balls. Disappointed to learn that Daisy didn’t play bridge, she had attempted without success to co-opt her onto one of these committees. The lure she held out was the chance to hobnob with the aristocracy.

Unlured, Daisy had been relieved that the Jessups had not revealed her own family background, though doubtless Mrs.
Ormond would find out sooner or later. In the meantime, the Ormonds were pleasant enough neighbours, but she didn’t anticipate their becoming great friends.

The same applied to all the residents of Constable Circle apart from the abominable Bennetts at one end of the scale and the Jessups at the other.

Perhaps by now, Mackinnon had talked to the Jessups and they had given him satisfactory answers to all the questions Daisy hoped he had confronted them with. She wished she had had a chance to suggest exactly what questions ought to be posed.

Or perhaps she didn’t. If there was something fishy about the Jessups’ conduct, she didn’t really want to be the one to draw it to the attention of the police. They would soon enough uncover it without her help. Wouldn’t they?

Nor could she make up her mind whether she had rather talk to Alec, who would know at once if she prevaricated, or to one of the others, who might not notice.

She wondered whether Mackinnon had already called at number 6 in her absence. She was tempted to wait for him to come out of the Ormonds’ house to ask if he had any questions for her. She nobly resisted temptation, the more easily because she was carrying Miranda, who was hanging on to her with a death grip.

A few minutes ago on the Heath, when she had tried to put her daughter in the pushchair to give Oliver a turn in her arms, Miranda had produced an eldritch screech that turned all heads for a hundred yards. The audience included Mr. Bennett and his spaniels. Daisy was certain he would subsequently spread the word that she was cruel to her children. She only hoped he wouldn’t go so far as to report her to the NSPCC. Not likely, she thought. He and his wife preferred “insinuendo” to outright accusations that could be disproved.

Thus, despite Nurse Gilpin’s protests about spoiling the child so that she would always expect to be carried in future, Daisy had Miranda on her hip when they reached the Circle.
Somewhere in the back of her mind she could hear her mother rebuking her, saying she looked like a gypsy, carrying a baby on her hip, but it was quite the most comfortable way to do it.