Bones in the Barrow (19 page)

“Have I spent fourpence for nothing?”

“No. I'll read the
Picture Post
in the train going back. Don't you want to know what he was reading?”

“That magazine on archaeology, I suppose?”

“Just that.
The Archaeologist
.”

“Not seriously?”

“Quite seriously.”

“Oh, dear me!” said David. “Hilton. Sims. And now this fellow! All so tenuous, so hopelessly vague.”

“Never mind,” said Jill. “I'll ask Mrs. Sims if she ever calls her husband Peter, shall I?”

Basil Sims arrived just as the Wintringhams were leaving. He had been kept in town, he said. His business was hell in the summer: it was their rush time, with foreign buyers, particularly. While he explained himself, he kept raising his eyebrows at his wife, as if he were desperately trying to find out by signal what all this was in aid of, so that he could take the correct line with the visitors. But Margaret Sims was helpless. These Wintringhams were quite nice people, but their call was most peculiar and utterly pointless. Except for the breakdown. Only why send for a London garage? Wasn't Billings good enough for them?

“Did you ask them that?” asked Basil, returning from the gate after showing them out of the garden.

“Yes. They didn't seem to have heard of Billings.”

“Why should they?”

“Why not? Seen the garage, I mean. You can't go through Boxwood from end to end as they have, coming from London, without passing the crossroads. Why didn't they go to Alastair's? They seem to know him and Felicity. It was about her, you remember, that Dr. Wintringham came here the first time. Mrs. Wintringham kept mentioning her.”

“If they know the Hiltons, then they know he's away. Or didn't they seem to know that?”

“They knew he was going, but they didn't know when exactly.”

“Did you tell them he was away?”

“I can't remember. Yes, I must have. I said something about him being back next Monday.”

Basil Sims nodded.

“I hope you told them he had gone to Duckington for a few days' peace and quiet, and perhaps,” he added softly, “to do a little digging.”

“Yes, we talked about his hobby. Dr. Wintringham asked if you were going, too.”

Mr. Sims looked very much astonished.

“Me? Why me?”

“Oh, I don't know. Except, as Dr. Wintringham said, you have taken to archaeology lately.”

“Really, Margaret, how absurd! I found Alastair's magazine less boring than I imagined, on the one or two occasions I took it up to him, so I started taking it myself, to learn a little history in an amusing way. That hardly constitutes making a hobby of the subject.”

“All right. All right.” Mrs. Sims stared resentfully at her husband. “I don't see why you should bite my head off for saying a simple thing like that.”

There was a message for David when he got home. It was from Chief-Inspector Johnson, asking him to get in touch in the morning. David went round at lunch time.

“Hilton's done a bunk,” the inspector told him.

“Why do you say that?”

“He's gone to Duckington again.”

“If he left his address I don't think you can call it a technical bunk. He made no secret of it. Mrs. Sims told us he went on Wednesday.”

“What you said about the moon,” began Johnson, and stopped.

“Oh yes. Jill and I are thinking of going down there ourselves. In fact, we've booked a room at the Royal Arms for Saturday night.”

“Not the White Hart?”

“Well, no. We want to keep on the outside; better experimental conditions that way.”

“I might come myself, after all,” said Johnson.

David smiled at him.

“Any particular reason?”

“Yes. I was down at Boxwood yesterday checking up on Mrs. Hilton's clothes. It was a convenience having him out of the way. The housekeeper, Mrs. Mason, was quite helpful. There's a lot of stuff missing, and it's my belief it's been got rid of by degrees. Mrs. Mason says Mrs. Hilton came for things from time to time. But I think he's the one chiefly responsible. What do you think I found in the dustbin?”

“Mrs. Hilton's feather boa?”

“I'm serious,” said Johnson severely. “I found Hilton's old mac that was supposed to have been burgled. Under a lot of ashes and that. I'm having it examined for stains. I'm not at all sure he didn't stage the burglary himself.”

“Why should he?”

“To cover up disposing of Mrs. Hilton's clothes. And to get rid of that mac, perhaps.”

“But why put it in the dustbin? Knowing how long they take to come and empty things. Much more likely someone else planted it for you to find. Part of this attempt to place suspicion on Hilton. Anyway, why should he bother to dispose of his wife's clothes? At this particular moment, too?”

“If he didn't, where are they?”

“There now,” said David. “Now you
have
given me an idea.”

“What are you doing?” Jill asked.

“Writing out an advertisement in block capitals.”

He showed her a piece of paper. On it she read: “UNPAID HOTEL BILLS. WHY SUFFER THE ABSCONDING GUEST? DISCRETION AND TACT A SPECIALTY. ADVICE FREE.”

“For the local trade journals,” said David. “Particularly in the Battersea area.”

“I don't understand,”

“Unless Harding took over more than he confesses to, and Johnson thinks not, somewhere,” he told her, “according to my theory, there is an irate landlady, or perhaps more than one, still hanging on to a suitcase or two containing clothes belonging to Felicity Hilton.”

“Oh! Oh, I see,” said Jill. “You mean because Rust had so little personal luggage with him? Won't Inspector Johnson have thought of that one?”

“Perhaps. But not of my method.”

“Advice,” said Jill. “Free. But David, you can't! They'll come here! What about Mrs. Matthews? She'll leave in a week. What about Nanny? I can't risk upsetting her now. She's our last stand-by.”

“I don't really believe that. And now the children are all off her hands I think she leads a thoroughly pampered existence. But she won't be upset. You'll see. She'll rise to the occasion like a—like a—Well, never mind like what.”

“A heroine,” said Jill fondly. “But perhaps no one will come for advice, after all.”

“Perhaps,” said David, folding up his advertisement. “It's worth trying, though.”

Mrs. Norbury was worried, and, for the second time that year, Mr. Hilton was the cause of it. He seemed to her to be going downhill at an alarming pace.

“That man's ill,” she said to Norah. “Properly ill. He ought to see a doctor.”

“Why doesn't he?”

“It's not for want of a hint,” went on Mrs. Norbury. “The minute I set eyes on him, I said, ‘Oh, Mr. Hilton, you do look done up! You oughtn't to drive all this way at the end of a day's work.' ‘Hardly a full day,' he said, with that funny little smile of his. ‘I left town at three. I've been taking my time over it.' And so he must have done, not getting here till seven.”

“He stopped for his tea, I expect,” said Norah.

“He may have. He's not much hand at tea, as a rule. So then I told him straight he ought to see a doctor. And what d'you think he said?”

Norah could not think. Mrs. Norbury lowered her voice.

“He said, ‘Doctors can't cure damaged hearts.' Then he went off to his room. What bothers me is, which way did he mean it? Broken heart, meaning he's unhappy, or something wrong with his heart. His tone was bitter, if you know what I mean, and sort of hopeless. I don't like it at all.”

“It wouldn't do to have anything happen here—in the season, too,” said Norah, with practised calm.

“You mustn't say such things!” responded Mrs. Norbury at once. “We ought to think of Mr. Hilton for his own sake.”

And though, as a business woman, she could not help agreeing with Norah that all steps must be taken to prevent a public disaster at the hotel; as a kindhearted, sentimentally inclined person her greater concern was for the man himself. It was Thursday, and he was staying until Sunday evening. No doubt he intended to do some more of his digging, since he had brought the haversack, with his tools in it; the trowels and little pick, and the long thin crowbars that had given Daisy's imagination such a jolt. But if she could persuade him, he'd leave the digging till Saturday, when he'd had a chance to rest. She took matters into her own hands and, without consulting Hilton, rang up Mr. Symonds, the vicar.

This bold move succeeded beyond her expectation, for Mr. Symonds arrived at the White Hart that same evening, and spent over an hour with Mr. Hilton in the residents' lounge. And the upshot of it all was that Hilton agreed to join an expedition to the Saxon farmhouse on the Saturday, an all day expedition. The vicar accepted his offer of transport for some of the members, including himself, who were making up the party. He was to bring his car to the vicarage at ten in the morning, Mr. Symonds said. They parted very cordially, and Hilton went up to his room immediately afterwards.

That was on Wednesday evening. And on Thursday morning Mrs. Norbury saw with satisfaction that the downs were lost in grey cloud, while a steady drizzle fell on Duckington itself.

“You'll never think of going up there today, Mr. Hilton, will you?” she said, stopping him in the hall as he was leaving the dining-room after breakfast.

“No,” he answered, smiling at her. “I've plenty of time before Sunday. All tomorrow, if this rain clears off. Saturday is booked with the local society: an invitation from Mr. Symonds. It was kind of him to call last night. I suppose you told him I was here?”

“Yes, I did,” said Mrs. Norbury. “I hope you didn't mind. I knew he'd want to show you that fresh place they're working at.” She hesitated, then went on. “If you meant anything by what you said about your heart, I don't think you ought to go in for this digging. I don't really.”

“So that was why he came.” Mr. Hilton did not seem to be annoyed, but he did not seem to be impressed, either. “I was joking, of course,” he added.

“I don't believe that.”

Mrs. Norbury, quite shocked by her own boldness, felt her cheeks go hot. But Hilton only laughed.

“You spoil me,” he said. “But naturally, I enjoy it.”

As he turned to the staircase he said: “I shall put on the fire in my room and have a thoroughly lazy day. Will that please you?”

“It'll do you a world of good,” she replied gaily, not answering his question. And then she went on to her kitchen, wondering why she felt so cheerful on such an altogether lousy morning.

The rain continued. On Thursday night, instead of stopping when a wind came up to blow away the clouds, fresh clouds arrived, and the rain, no longer a summer drizzle, lashed the windows of the White Hart with a most unreasonable fury. Mr. Hilton spent a second day of total inaction, and seemed to enjoy it. Mrs. Norbury gave thanks to Providence for coming so signally to her aid.

“He looks a different being,” she said to Norah, on Friday evening, when the girl passed her, taking coffee to the lounge.

“He'll be up to anything tomorrow if it clears,” said Norah.

“The vicar won't let him,” replied Mrs. Norbury. “They're making a day of it out at Flitton. It'll only be looking at what they've done, and going round that museum place they've set up in the remains of the barn.”

“But some of them dig,” said Norah. “I know because of what Fred Stiles told me.”

“I warned Mr. Symonds to stop him if he tried,” said Mrs. Norbury. “But don't you let on to him, even if he asks you.”

“He's not likely to,” answered Norah. She thought her employer was making too much of the visitor; taking quite a personal interest. She looked at Mrs. Norbury with curious eyes, and the latter turned away, feeling more disturbed than she had at any time since Pat Norbury's death.

The Wintringhams drove down to Duckington on Saturday afternoon. They settled themselves in the room they had booked at the Royal Arms, and then went down to the big lounge hall where they could sit and watch the traffic in and out of the hotel doors. Chief-Inspector Johnson had arranged to meet them there at six. He was exactly punctual.

“Drinks, I think,” said David. “Before we get down to briefing.”

“I've been in to see the parson,” began Johnson, when they were all served. “I rather wish I hadn't.”

“Why?” asked Jill. “Doesn't he want to help?”

“That's the trouble,” replied Johnson. “He does. Much too eager, in fact. Of course, he has no idea Hilton is the man we're after.”

“I'm not after Hilton,” said David.

“And not only the parson,” went on Johnson, ignoring this interruption, “but the chief constable in these parts, who turns out to be a buddy of Parson's from World War I.”

David nodded his head slowly.

“So they want to come along with us, do they? Show us how to lie for an indefinite period in a muddy trench, I suppose?”

“They'll come along with us, I'm afraid,” said Johnson. “And probably give the whole show away.”

Jill looked thoughtfully into the distance.

“I don't suppose there'll be any show to give away,” she said. “After all, Mr. Hilton has been in Duckington since Wednesday evening, hasn't he? He's had plenty of time to do what he came to do. If it is Mr. Hilton.”

“It isn't,” said David. “If it's the man I'm beginning to feel sure it is, he won't come to Duckington until after dark, and he'll be on his way directly he's finished.”

“You think it'll be someone on a motor-bike, the chap who spoke to Joe in this hotel the time before?”

“Yes.”

“That could have been Hilton,” said the inspector.