Smallbone Deceased (11 page)

The only thing in the drawer was a book, which he saw, when he'd taken it out, was an appointment diary for that year. This didn't seem very promising and John was on the point of putting it back when a further idea occurred to him. He searched round among the papers on Eric Duxford's desk and presently unearthed another similar diary. This second one was clearly used for ordinary office appointments. John looked through it quickly, recognizing the names of several clients.

“Then what the hell's the other one?” said John. He picked it up carefully and walked over to the window. At first sight it seemed very similar. Times were noted on various days in the weeks just gone by, only here, instead of names, were sets of initials. H.V.S. cropped up in most of the entries. Against February 20th was “H.V.S. and self to see C.P.G.,” and later, “H.V.S. to see M.L. I am to see him next Tuesday if possible.” John turned the page to next Tuesday which was, in fact, the Tuesday of the previous week. Sure enough, against 3 p.m. was the entry, “M.L. re 20 H.G.” The only other notable point about the entries was that a lot of them seemed to be rather late at night; 8 p.m. and 9 p.m. were favourite times.

“Damned suspicious,” said John. “Obviously comes back here after everyone else has gone.” He slipped the book into the drawer and withdrew the spade. The top settled back quite comfortably. John cleaned off the marks as well as he could.

“I wonder,” he said to himself, “if I ought to tell the inspector about this. Rather a pity to spoil the fun. I can always tell him later if it turns out to be serious. Better put this spade away before Cockerill comes back.”

As he left the office he noticed that the time was a quarter to one.

IV

Scotland Yard, like the British Army, is fond of its weekends. But once war has been declared even Sundays are apt to go by the board. Sergeant Plumptree caught the two o'clock train from Charing Cross and. after a leisurely progress, arrived at Tubs Hill, Sevenoaks, shortly before three. It was a warm afternoon, with April beginning to relent toward May, and enthusiasts were already out for a net on the Vine cricket ground.

A lot of Sergeant Plumptree's troubles would never have occurred if he had managed to secure the proper address of either of the ladies he was visiting. The receipts unearthed by Mr. Hoffman had both said “Styleman Road, Sevenoaks.” No number in either case. Sergeant Plumptree debated for a moment the advisability of going to the police station and looking at the householders' list, but then thought better of it. After all, he reflected, Groot and Holding weren't terribly common names. Also he was in plain clothes, and if he went to the police station it would mean presenting his credentials and giving a long account of what he was up to: also, while Styleman Road was conveniently close to the railway the police station was uphill and at the other end of the town; also it was a hot day.

Fortunately, Styleman Road was not a very long thoroughfare – one large house at the near end and about fifteen small houses on either side. Sergeant Plumptree selected one of these at random and knocked. The door was flung open at once by a lady of indeterminate age. Her light yellow hair was cut in a pageboy bob, and she was wearing a smock.

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” said Sergeant Plumptree, with well-simulated surprise. “My fault entirely. I thought this was Mrs. Groot's house.”

“That's right,” said the lady.

“Oh, I see. What a bit of luck.” Sergeant Plumptree wished that thirty-to-one chances came off as frequently on the race course.

“Are you Mrs. Groot?”

“That's right.”

“I wonder if I might have a word with you.”

“Yes.”

“Shall we go inside? It's rather a confidential matter.”

“Very well,” said the lady. “Come into the parlour and be confidential in there.”

She led the way into the front room, folded up on to the edge of a chair, and planted her hands, in a masculine manner, on her knees. Since she had not invited him to sit, Sergeant Plumptree, who was punctilious in these matters, remained standing.

“I wonder,” he began, “if you could help us. We are inquiring about a Mr. Smallbone—”

“Oh, yes.” Either she had never heard the name or was a fine natural poker player.

“I don't suppose you've heard of him?”

“Oh yes, I have,” said the lady. “Often.”

“You have! I wonder if you could tell me when you saw him last?” The lady pursed her lips and opened them slightly, closed both eyes and then said faintly:

“The day before yesterday.”

Fortunately, at this point. Sergeant Plumptree's system was spared further shocks by the arrival of a nurse, who led him out into the hall.

“Is she—er—?”

“Yes,” said the nurse. “She is. Sometimes it's worse than other times.”

“I'm very sorry to hear it.” Some explanation, he felt, was necessary. “A friend asked me to look Mrs. Groot up—”

“Her name isn't Groot.”

“She said—”

“She'd say anything. That's the form it takes. She told the postman yesterday that she was Mrs. Roosevelt.”

“I see.”

“As a matter of fact her name is Lemon.”

Sergeant Plumptree found himself outside.

The next house he tried was either empty, or its inhabitants were all asleep. He crossed the road, walked along a few yards, and tried again.

This time a small, shrewd, grey-haired woman answered the door and denied any knowledge of Mrs. Groot or Miss Holding. What number did they live at? Sergeant Plumptree was afraid he didn't know. What did they look like then? Sergeant Plumptree didn't know that either. The grey-haired woman said it was a pity he hadn't obtained a little more information before he had started. Sergeant Plumptree agreed and took himself out into the street once again. The grey-haired lady looked thoughtfully after him and then picked up the telephone.

Accordingly, when Sergeant Plumptree came out of the next house but two, and was beginning to doubt the existence of Mrs. Groot and Miss Holding, he found himself face to face with a member of the Kent Constabulary, who opened the conversation with a request for a sight of his identity card.

So he had to walk up the hill to the police station after all.

When they discovered who he was, the Sevenoaks police were, of course, helpful. They were also amused, and made little attempt to disguise their amusement. “‘Suspicious character,' according to our Miss Parkins,” said the station inspector, “‘snooping round the houses, with a very unlikely story about some ladies who lived there.' What were the names? Groot and Holding. Just take a look in the householders' register. No, no one of that name. That's an up-to-date list, too. You're sure you weren't mistaken in the name of the road?”

“No. It was Styleman Road right enough,” said Sergeant Plumptree absently. His thoughts were elsewhere.
If
there was no Groot and no Holding in Styleman Road was that not in itself significant? Might the fiasco not have served a useful purpose? It certainly looks as if those two receipts – but wait a bit, the addresses
had
been in Miss Cornel's book. That fact began to assume an interest of its own.

“I think I'll make another call,” he said. “Miss Cornel—Red Roofs—I understand that it's a bungalow out on the Wrotham Road.”

“That's the one,” said the inspector. “Would you like me to send a man with you?”

“Thank you very much,” said Sergeant Plumptree with dignity, “but I think I can manage this by myself.”

He found Red Roofs without difficulty and Miss Cornel driving a mower across a well-disciplined lawn. A few words with her cleared up quite a number of misconceptions.

“Mrs. Groot and Miss Holding? Yes, of course I know them. They both live in that corner house in Styleman Road—the large one. You probably noticed it. It calls itself the Rochester Homes. It's an almshouse, really, only they're both a bit shy about admitting it. I expect that's why they just put Styleman Road on their letters.”

“I see,” said Sergeant Plumptree. “Could you explain what these payments were?”

“Why on earth do you want to know?”

“The inspector asked me to check up,” murmured Sergeant Plumptree. “Apparently he found the receipts and wondered—”

“What snoops you are,” said Miss Cornel. It was difficult to tell whether she was annoyed or amused. “Well, if you'd looked far enough you'd have found three or four others—there's a Mr. Abetts, of Northampton, a Miss Mutch and a Mrs. Hopper, of Melset, and—let me see—yes, a Miss Percy, of Potters Bar.”

“And who are these persons, miss?”

“They're a private charity. Abel Horniman had certain sums of money left him, from time to time, which he could spend at his absolute discretion. It wasn't very much—the income amounted to three or four hundred pounds a year. That was how he spent it. All those people have been servants or governesses in big families, and they're all in what is commonly called reduced circumstances. Mr. Horniman used to divide the money among them—it amounted to about sixty pounds a year each. I acted as unofficial almoner. I used to send them their money each quarter, and I'd visit them when I could. Particularly Mrs. Groot and Miss Holding, being almost on my doorstep.”

“I see, miss.”

“I observe in your eye a barely-suppressed desire to check all this up,” said Miss Cornel. “I'll give you the addresses of the other four to write down in your notebook. And you might call on Mrs. Groot and Miss Holding on your way to the station. Ask for the matron and mention my name.” “Thank you,” said Sergeant Plumptree. “I'll do that.” It was late when he got back to London, but he found Inspector Hazlerigg at his desk. When Plumptree had finished his account the inspector took out a sheet of paper headed “Ideas.” It contained a list of numbered items. The inspector crossed one of them out.

Chapter Eight

… Monday …

DISCOVERY OF A DOCUMENT

Women never reason, and therefore they are (comparatively) seldom wrong. They judge instinctively of what falls under their immediate observation or experience, and do not trouble themselves about remote or doubtful consequences. If they make no profound discoveries, they do not involve themselves in gross absurdities.

Hazlitt:
Characteristics

Mr. Birley started the day in a bad temper.

He was never at his best on Monday mornings. He regarded the presence of the police in the office as a personal affront; and his outlook had not been improved by a masochistic weekend among the newspapers.

Accounts of the Lincoln's Inn murder were, in fact, less numerous and circumstantial than they might have been; this was partly due to shortage of space and partly to the climax of the Association Football season.

However, one paper had rubbed salt into his wounds by speaking of “the firm of Horniman, Barley and Craine,” and the
Sunday Scribe,
which ought to have known better, had referred to them as “the well-known firm of divorce lawyers.” (It was true that Horniman's had recently abandoned their prewar niceness in this matter – as had most of their professional brethren – and the firm now clutched out occasionally at the lucrative hem of the goddess of matrimonial discord; but well-known divorce lawyers! Good God, people would be coupling their names with – and – next.)

And then, no sooner had he reached the office, than Inspector Hazlerigg had come asking for him, with impertinent questions about a Mrs. Groot, and a Miss Holding, and a Miss Someone – or – other else. Questions, too, which Mr. Birley found himself annoyingly unable to answer.

“Now look here, Inspector,” he said, in his most intimidating voice, “I can understand that you have to ask questions about this—er—death, and about Smallbone, and his affairs and so on. But questions about the private workings of my firm, I cannot and will not tolerate. If you persist in wasting my time and my staff 's time in investigating matters which have no possible connection with this—er—death, then I shall have no alternative but to speak to the Commissioner—close personal friend of mine.”

“I am here,” said Inspector Hazlerigg without heat and without rancor, “to investigate a murder. I shall question whom I like when I like and about what I like. If you inconvenience me in any way I shall apply for an order to close this building, and no business will be able to be transacted until I have finished my investigation. And if you would like a word with the Commissioner, ring Whitehall 1212 and ask for extension nine. I will see that you get put through.”

“Oh, well—ah—hum—really,” said Mr. Birley. “I don't want to be obstructive.”

When Hazlerigg had gone he sent for Bob.

“Who are these Groots and Holdings?”

“I've just been asking Miss Cornel,” said Bob. “It's quite all right. They're beneficiaries under Colonel Lincoln's discretionary will trusts. You know he left Dad about five thousand to use the income as he thought fit—”

“Whether or not it is quite all right,” said Mr. Birley heavily, “I cannot say, since I have never been favoured with a sight of the will in question—”

“I'll get Miss Cornel to look you out a copy.”

“If you please. I was about to add that as head of the firm I might perhaps expect to have been informed—”

“Well, I—”

“Your father saw fit to make you his sole beneficiary. That, of course, was entirely his affair. He also handed over to you, as he had power to do under our Articles of Partnership, his full share in this firm. In my opinion, and if you will excuse my saying so, that was a mistake. But it does not alter the fact that I have certain rights as the senior partner.”

“Of course,” said Bob.

“And another thing. I notice you lean a great deal on Miss Cornel. She is an admirable person in her way, but when all is said and done, she is only an employee—”

“Miss Cornel,” said Bob, flushing a little, “was very attached to my father. She is also extremely useful to me. Neither fact seems to constitute any very good reason for wanting to get rid of her.”

“I wasn't suggesting that we get rid of her,” said Mr. Birley coldly. “But it is not a good thing for anyone to get too fixed in their routine. Supposing we made a change. Miss Cornel might work for Mr. Craine and you could have Miss Mildmay.”

The blood rushed to Bob's face, and departed again as suddenly, leaving him white.

Fortunately Mr. Birley, who was in the full tide of oratory, noticed nothing.

“You know what we used to say in the army,” he went on. “It's a bad officer who allows himself to be run by his N.C.O.'s.”

Mr. Birley's experience of the army was, in fact, confined to one year in the R.A.S.C, which he had joined in 1917 when it became clear that it was either that or conscription into the infantry, and Bob toyed for a moment with the unkind idea of reminding him of it.

Seeing no point in provoking hostilities, he said something noncommittal and got out of the room.

Mr. Birley then rang for Miss Chittering, and as soon as she got inside the room started to dictate a lengthy lease at high speed. Miss Chittering was a competent shorthand typist, but no one other than a contortionist could have taken down dictation at the speed at which Mr. Birley was speaking. As soon as she was forced to ask for a repetition Mr. Birley snapped at her and increased his speed.

Five minutes of this treatment was sufficient to reduce Miss Chittering to tears and to restore a certain amount of Mr. Birley's
amour-propre.

II

In the secretaries' room Anne Mildmay and Miss Cornel, faintly assisted by Miss Bellbas, were trying to sort out the weekend roster for Bohun's benefit.

“I'm sure,” said Anne, consulting a small diary, “that I came in on February 27th, because that was the day after my admiral took me out to the Criterion and tried to get me tight on gin.”

“Who's your admiral?” said Miss Bellbas.

“A friend of father's,” said Anne. “He's over ninety. He commanded a gunboat in the Crimea. He's been trying to rape me ever since I left school.”

“My goodness,” said Miss Bellbas. “What a persistent man.”

“So I remember perfectly well, I had a hangover like nobody's business. Every time the telephone rang I felt like screaming.”

“It was me the Saturday before. That's right, anyway,” said Miss Cornel. “It shouldn't have been my turn at all, you remember, but Cissie asked me to take it for her. I can't think why—”

“Possibly she had a date,” suggested Henry.

This suggestion was greeted with a certain amount of levity, but Miss Bellbas said: “Do you know, I believe Miss Chittering has got a boy friend.”

“Nonsense,” said Miss Cornel. “She doesn't know one end of a man from the other.”

“Then why does she come up to town on Saturday mornings? She lives right out at Dulwich.”

“Shopping,” suggested Henry.

“Don't be so Victorian,” said Miss Mildmay. “Girls don't spend their Saturday mornings shopping in the West End. They do all that during their lunches.”

“Where did you see her?” asked Miss Cornel.

“In the Strand, about twelve o'clock. I believe he works in a shop opposite Charing Cross, and she comes up and meets him when he gets off at midday on Saturdays.”

“Oh! A counter jumper. She's welcome to him.”

“Anne. You're a snob.”

“Certainly,” said Miss Mildmay with composure.

“Be that as it may,” said Henry. “Can anyone tell me about the other Saturdays?”

“What do you want to know all this for?” asked Miss Cornel.

“Don't be silly,” said Miss Mildmay. “It's Hawkeye the Inspector. He thinks we murdered the little man on a Saturday morning.”

She said this lightly enough, but Bohun thought he detected a very slight edge of strain in her voice, an artificial lightness which was not so very far from the fringe of hysteria.

The others evidently noticed something as well, and there was an awkward silence, broken as usual by Miss Bellbas, who said with alarming frankness:

“I didn't murder him.”

“Of course you didn't, Florrie,” said Miss Cornel. “If you had you'd have told us all about it, immediately afterward. What are the other weekends you've got on your little list? Saturday 13th—well, that was Cissie, of course. She did mine, in return for me doing hers. March 6th, that would have been you, Florrie.”

“Oh, dear. I expect so,” said Miss Bellbas. “If the list says me, then that's right. All I know is, I did my own turn.”

“Who was it with?”

“Mr. Craine.”

“That's right, according to the list,” said Miss Cornel.

“I don't expect you'd forget a long morning spent alone with Tubby” said Anne. “It's a thing that lingers in a girl's memory. Did he make you sit very close on his left-hand side so that every time he opened his desk drawer he practically undressed you?”

“Good gracious, no,” said Miss Bellbas. “Is that what he does to you?”

“Of course,” said Miss Cornel. “It's all right, though, isn't it—he went to Marlborough.”

“Well,” said Anne. “What about that time he took you to the station in a taxi after the staff dinner?”

Henry withdrew.

III

“My husband's a jockey, a jockey, a jockey, my husband a jockey is he,” sang Mr. Cove. “All day he rides horses, rides horses, rides horses—”

“Mr. Cove.”

“Yes, my love.”

“There's a man to see you,” said Miss Bellbas.

“What sort of man, heart of my heart?”

“A little man, with grey hair.”

“Indeed?”

“Mr. Cove.”

“Yes, my sweet.”

“You oughtn't to say things like that.”

“Good God!” said John. “I only said ‘Indeed.'”

“You said ‘my love' and ‘my sweet' and something about your heart. You oughtn't to say that to me unless you're in love with me.”

“But I am,” said John. “Madly.”

Miss Bellbas considered this.

“Then why don't you ask me to marry you?”

“I would,” said John, “but—please don't tell anyone, it's not a thing I want generally known—I'm married already.”

“Who to?” said Miss Bellbas.

“A female taxing master in Chancery,” said John. “Show the gentleman in, there's a dear. You mustn't keep the aristocracy waiting.”

“He said his name was Mr. Brown.”

“That's just his incognito,” explained John. “It's the Earl of Bishopsgate.”

The gentleman whom Miss Bellbas brought in certainly didn't look like an earl. His salient features were, as she had said, smallness and greyness. He looked not unlike a little beaver. John addressed him as Brown and gave him a number of instructions which were accepted with servility. At the end of the interview a couple of pound notes were pushed across the table and the stranger departed, almost colliding, on his way out, with Mr. Bohun.

Henry, however, was too occupied with his own troubles to ask any questions.

“What unsatisfactory witnesses girls are,” he said. “I've spent about half an hour with them and I'm still not absolutely certain who came in on what day.”

“If it's your precious list you're worrying about,” said John, “you needn't. It's all right. I've asked Sergeant Cockerill.”

“Good,” said Henry absently. He was still thinking about that curious little incident in the secretaries' room.

“Do you know Anne Mildmay well?” he asked abruptly.

“No,” said John. “But it's not for want of trying. I rather went for her at one time, you know.”

He sounded serious. Henry looked at him for a moment and then said: “Yes, a very nice girl.”

“There's a certain lack of conviction in your tone,” said John. “But don't apologize. Anne is that type. Either she gets you completely, or she leaves you cold. Cove on Love.

“Anyway,” he went on, “I left
her
cold. She didn't allow me any doubts about that. If she didn't actually throw a lump of mud in my eye, that's only because it wasn't a muddy day. I then behaved in the most traditional manner, and went out and got roaring tight, and finished up in the fountain in Trafalgar Square and spent the night at Bow Street. Since then we've been fairly good friends.”

“I see,” said Henry. He hadn't invited the confidence, and he felt no scruple in docketing it for future reference. There was a point of chronology which it might be useful to confirm.

Later that morning the opportunity presented itself. John had gone out to examine deeds and Bob Horniman, dropping in to borrow a volume of Prideaux, stopped to chat.

“You were in School House, too, weren't you?” he said.

“Years ago,” said Bohun. “I'd be lying if I said I remembered you.”

“Well, that's a good thing, anyway,” said Bob. “I remember you very well. You were aloof, thin, scholarly and mysterious.”

“Good God!” said Bohun. “I expect I was covered with spots as well, but you're too kind to say so.”

“How are you finding it here?”

“Splendid, thank you,” said Bohun. “Never a dull moment, really.”

“We can't guarantee a corpse a week. How's the work? I expect it's all quite easy. With your Final only just over you've probably got everything in your head.”

There was a note of envy in his voice, and Bohun guessed that the responsibilities of partnership might be sitting shakily on an almost complete lack of technical knowledge.

“Here a bit and there a bit,” said Bohun. “I'd hate to have to go through with my articles again. That really was uncomfortably like hard work. John Cove seems to bear up all right, though.”