Smallbone Deceased (20 page)

It occurred to him that quite a lot of problems were due for solution over that weekend.

IV

The oddest event of an eventful day was yet to come.

Bohun left the office at six o'clock, went home and did absent minded justice to one of Mrs. Magoli's collations before setting out on his evening stroll. It was a night of low clouds, with rain behind the clouds, and he buttoned his mackintosh round his neck determined to keep his mind rigorously away from anything to do with Horniman and Birley and Craine.

It was outside the Temple Concert Hall that he saw a name. It was a poster announcing a performance that evening by the Equity Choir of Bach's St. Matthew Passion. The leading soloists were well-known singers. And there it was, in smaller letters: “Second Tenor, Eustace Cockerill.”

“There couldn't be two people with a name like that,” thought Bohun.

He pushed the door softly and went inside.

The small concert hall was packed, and as no one appeared to pay any attention to him he placed himself quietly behind a pillar and disposed himself to listen.

Part One of the performance was more than half over. The chorale, “Here would I stand,” drew to a close, and Bohun, locating himself by means of the Tenor and Bass Recitatives that followed, knew that he had come in at exactly the right moment. The second choir were on their feet and he saw Cockerill get up quietly to join them.

There was an unmistakable touch of confidence in the way he held himself and after the first two notes of the “O Grief,” Bohun's impression was confirmed. The man had a more than ordinarily fine voice. It was not one of the great tenor voices of the world. It lacked perhaps the tight consonantal finish which die stamps the work of the professional; but full compensation was offered: the tone and the good temper and the clear sincerity of the singing. “O grief, how throbs His heavy laden breast. His spirit faints, how pale His weary face.” It was as if the singer was hearing the words for the first time. The mutter of the choir: “My Saviour, why must all this ill befall Thee?” The tenor voice spoke again: “He to the Judgment Hall is brought. There is no help, no comfort near.”

The words set off a train of pictures, like an uncut cinema film, starting with an old and evil judge mouthing over the words of the death sentence and finishing in a small concrete shed in a high-walled yard at dawn.

When he brought his thoughts back, Cockerill was on his feet again for his second solo. “I would beside my Lord be watching.” This is a difficult passage for any amateur, but the singer rode through it with a sort of innocent triumph, taking the long runs with perfect judgment, until it fell away into its final chorale.

“And so our sin will fall asleep. Will fall asleep. Our sin will fall asleep.”

Taking a quick look round him, as the last notes died, Bohun saw that he was not alone in his appreciation. The audience having paid the tribute of silence and stillness to a moving performance, broke into the momentary shuffle which is the complement of this sort of attention.

Bohun saw something else, too.

Three rows ahead of him was a head on a thickset neck, topping a pair of blacksmith's shoulders.

It was a figure that he had every reason to recognize.

It occurred to him to wonder what had brought Inspector Hazlerigg out at night to the Temple Concert Hall.

Chapter Fourteen

… Saturday …

PREPARATIONS FOR COMPLETION

A house may be habitable but entirely different to the house contracted for.

Bickerton Pratt:
Conveyancing Practice

“I see,” said the Assistant Commissioner.

He drew a truculent rabbit on the scribbling pad in front of him: thought for a few minutes, then took out a four-colour propelling pencil from his inside pocket and dressed it in a Harlequin tie.

“The ball's in your court,” he said.

“I can't see any way round it,” agreed Hazlerigg. “The trouble is that all this recent stuff has come in so fast that I haven't had time to put any of it to him.”

“He's been questioned, of course.”

“On the preliminary matters—like everyone else—yes.”

“I see.” The Assistant Commissioner returned to the rabbit and presented it with a top hat, an eyeglass and, as an afterthought, a wooden leg. “He certainly had the opportunity for both murders. The means weren't beyond him. And he'd got plenty of motive.”

“Too much motive, in a way, sir.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well,” said Hazlerigg diffidently. “I've always believed that a certain type will kill in anger and another type for gain. In a sort of way he seems to have done it for both.”

“Too much motive makes a nice change, anyway,” said the Assistant Commissioner. “Look at Aspinall's chap! However, there's also the fact that he lied about his movements on both occasions. That's the sort of thing a jury can appreciate. By the way, I think Sergeant Plumptree might get a pat on the back for tracing that Saturday morning phone call. It was sound work.”

Hazlerigg nodded.

“I don't see what else we can do,” went on the Assistant Commissioner. “You're quite right. He'll have to be given a chance to explain this new stuff. Where is he now?”

“Somewhere on the North Sea, I imagine.”

“Oh—yes, he's staying down at that weekend cottage, isn't he?”

“He arrived late last night. I've got the local sergeant keeping an eye on him. He rings me up from time to time. He's a good man, too.”

“It mightn't be a bad thing—from our point of view—if he did try to bolt.”

“He's not the sort of chap who'll lose his nerve easily,” said Hazlerigg.

The Assistant Commissioner appeared to make up his mind.

“I can't see that we stand to gain anything by waiting,” he said. “Take a warrant and go down this afternoon. Whether you use it or not is entirely up to you. You'll just have to see what you think of his explanation. I can't give you any guidance—you've had as much experience in that sort of thing as I have. I needn't remind you that once you
do
make up your mind—”

“I know, I know,” groaned Hazlerigg. “I shall have to caution him. It's going to need the most devilishly accurate timing. How any police officer can be expected to decide at exactly what point in an interview—he thinks the man he is questioning is the guilty party when the sole object of his questions is to arrive at exactly that proposition—”

“Save it for the Court of Criminal Appeal,” said the Assistant Commissioner callously.

II

“I don't like the looks of it,” said Sergeant Rolles.

He and Hazlerigg were standing together in the darkness of Sea Lane. Somewhere in front of them, a dim box, was The Cabin. Visibility was limited.

“Four o'clock he brought her in, sir. He's been up and down the estuary all afternoon—beating about and getting the feel of her, you might say. She's a thirty-two foot cutter, sir, with an Austin ‘7' Marine converted engine. A two-berth boat really—but he handles her alone and it's wholly pretty to watch him.”

“Didn't he come ashore at all?”

“He did. Came back to the house and had his tea which Mrs. Mullet had got for him. Then went aboard again. He's there now.”

“What's he doing?”

“Just sitting on his bottom,” said Sergeant Rolles. “One thing, she
is
still there. He hasn't taken her off to Rooshia.”

“You've got better eyes than mine, then,” said Hazlerigg handsomely. He could scarcely see the house, let alone anything beyond it.

“I've been standing here longer in the dark, sir,” said Sergeant Rolles. “Now who's that? Oh—it's Mrs. Mullet.” A heavily coated and skirted figure loomed up.

“What's this?” said Mrs. Mullet. “A police smoking concert?”

“You keep a civil tongue in your head, Mrs. Mullet. This is Chief Inspector Hazlerigg of Scotland Yard.”

“We've met,” said Mrs. Mullet.

“And he wants to know what your Mr. 'Orniman's doing in that boat.”

“It's a free country,” said Mrs. Mullet. “If you want to find out why don't you ask him.”

“I think that's quite a good idea,” said Hazlerigg. “But I'd like you to do it, if you wouldn't mind.”

“I could oblige,” said Mrs. Mullet. For all the indifference in her voice, they could see her black eyes winking and snapping with curiosity.

She moved away down the path, and round the house. The two men followed discreetly.

Bob Horniman's voice hailed out of the darkness: “is that you, Mrs. Mullet?”

“That's right, Mr. 'Orniman, it's me. And I've brought your milk for brekfus. Are you coming ashore?”

“Not yet,” said Bob. The edge in his voice, which had been scarcely noticeable before was now more evident. “Leave it in the porch, would you? Has that wire come?”

“Not when I left the cottage it hadn't,” said Mrs. Mullet. She walked back from the jetty. “You see,” she said. “Non committal.”

“All right,” said Hazlerigg. “I suppose we've got to take the chance.”

He was liking the situation less and less. He could make Bob Horniman out, now, against the light reflected off the water. He seemed to be crouching on the low roof of the well deck, legs crossed, looking down, apparently oblivious to the cold night wind that was whipping off the foreshore. The boat, at stern anchor only, was ten feet or more from the jetty which itself ran a good fifteen feet out on to shelving beach. Certainly too far to risk a jump.

Ever since the Assistant Commissioner had asked him whether he thought Bob would bolt, he had an uncomfortable feeling that he knew the answer. He had said nothing. It had seemed stupid to prophesy about something which would have to be answered one way or the other so soon.

He took a deep breath.

“Mr. Horniman.”

“Hallo. Who the hell's that?” said Bob.

“Inspector Hazlerigg here. I wanted a word with you.”

There was a very short silence.

“You've chosen a condemnation odd place for it, then,” said Bob.

“I know,” said Hazlerigg. “But what I've got to say happens to be rather important.”

There was another rather longer silence.

“Then we'd better not stand here shouting at each other across the water.” Bob was on his feet now. “Sound carries across water, you know.” He had undone a hand rope and was kedging himself inshore against the pull of the anchor chain. When he had closed the gap sufficiently he stepped on to the jetty and tied the hand rope neatly through a ring. “Come up to the kitchen,” he said. There was no expression left in his voice at all now.

Hazlerigg followed him up the little flagged path. For the life of him he couldn't say whether he was more relieved or surprised.

Ten minutes later he was still undecided.

Bob Horniman had not fenced with his questions. Neither, Hazlerigg was sure, had he answered them quite candidly.

The two men were facing each other across the table in the back kitchen. Under the strong unshaded light Bob's face looked whiter than ever, and his eyes behind his heavy glasses were wary.

Suddenly he broke in on what the inspector was saying.

“Will you answer me one question?”

“If I can,” said Hazlerigg.

“Am I supposed to have murdered Smallbone?”

Now this was the one question in the world which Hazlerigg wished to avoid having to answer. But before he could temporize, Bob went on, with a suggestion of flippancy. “Was I supposed to be sitting back debating whether or not to cast myself into the waters of self-destruction?”

“Well—”

“Look here, Inspector, if I were to promise you, on my most solemn word, that there
is
an explanation for the apparent discrepancies in my statement about Saturday morning and Tuesday night, but that it has got nothing at all to do with Smallbone's or Miss Chittering's death—would you be prepared to leave it at that?”

“No,” said Hazlerigg steadily. “I shouldn't.”

“Very well,” said Bob, and his jaw came forward dangerously. “I suppose I can't prevent you nosing round and looking for what you can pick up in the way of information. Only don't expect me to help you.”

“In that case,” said Hazlerigg, taking a deep breath, “I have no alternative but to caution you—”

A sharp double rap made both men jump. Then, before either of them could say a word, the door burst open, and the aged Mr. Mullet appeared. He was out of breath and mauve with excitement.

“It's come,” he piped. “I thought you'd like to have it at once, so I brought it.” He was waving an opened telegram in the air. Seeming to feel that some explanation was necessary, he added: “It's all right, m'dear. I looked.”

Bob smoothed the orange form on the table and Hazlerigg read over his shoulder.

“A–Z negative. McNeil.”

“Thank God for that,” said Bob. “Excuse me a moment, I've got to use the telephone.” He strode out of the kitchen into the hall and they heard the “ting” as he took off the receiver.

“Have you got any idea what all this is about?” said Hazlerigg. He found himself speaking to Mrs. Mullet, who seemed to have materialized behind her husband.

“Trunks,” said Bob's voice in the hall. “Sevenoaks 07632.”

“It's that young teddy,” said Mrs. Mullet. “The one he brings down here for the weekends.”

“Good God,” said Hazlerigg. “Of course. What a fool I've been.”

“Ten minutes? Well. I'll wait for it.” Bob came back into the room. He was holding himself straighter and seemed somehow to have grown in size. “Now,” he said. “What would you like to know?”

“The truth would be helpful,” said Hazlerigg. “That is, if you've no objection to—”

“Oh, Mrs. Mullet knows most of it,” said Bob. “She thought you were a divorce sleuth the first time she saw you. However, I expect it would be easier without an audience. Would you mind taking your husband into the front room, for a few minutes, Mrs. Mullet. You might make the tire up, and open one of the bottles in the sideboard and get some glasses out. I think we might have something to celebrate.”

“Bottles it is, Captain,” said Mr. Mullet, who seemed to have a remarkable facility for picking up promising messages. “Leave it to me.”

“Now, Mr. Horniman,” said Hazlerigg. “Perhaps you'll explain what it's all about.”

“It's Anne Mildmay, of course,” said Bob. “I'm madly in love with her, and in about seven and a half minutes I intend to propose to her over the telephone.”

“And that telegram was …?”

“Yes. I thought—we both thought—she was going to have a child. My child. Now we know that she's not. She had an Aschheim-Zondek a fortnight ago. That telegram was the result. Don't you see? If she's not going to have a child it makes it easy. I can ask her to marry me.”

“I should have thought,” said Hazlerigg doubtfully, “that if she
had
been going to have a child you'd have felt bound—”

‘That's just it,” said Bob. ‘I
should
have felt bound. So would she. It would have been a hopeless basis for marriage. Now everything's all right.”

“If you say so,” said Hazlerigg. “It's your marriage. Now perhaps you wouldn't mind explaining—”

“Of course,” said Bob. “Well, that evening Miss Chittering was killed, of course, we were having dinner together. Not at that place in the Strand. At a little restaurant in Frith Street. I had a table booked for a quarter to seven.”

“Do they know you there?”

“They ought to,” said Bob. “I've been going there, on and off, for the last ten years. It's quite a tiny place—just the proprietor and his brother who does the waiting. They both know me.”

Hazlerigg recognized the truth when he heard it.

“I'd better have the name,” he said. “Now what about that Saturday?”

“Well,” said Bob, “that really was rather awkward. You see, that was the day well—that was when all the trouble started.”

Hazlerigg stared at him for a moment, and then in spite of himself he started to laugh.

“Do you mean to say—” he began.

“Yes,” said Bob uncomfortably. “I'm afraid I do.”

“No wonder you were too busy to answer the telephone,” said Hazlerigg.

“Yes,” said Bob. “Well, as you can imagine, we neither of us felt like doing much office work. We pushed off at about a quarter past eleven, as a matter of fact, and caught the midday train for Chaffham. It gets in at two o'clock. I expect Mrs. Mullet would confirm—oh, there's the phone.”

He jumped for the door. Hazlerigg got up and warmed the seat of his trousers at the hob. He heard Bob pick up the receiver and say: “Sevenoaks—Oh! Is that you. Miss Cornel? It's Bob Horniman here … Could I speak to Miss Mildmay?” Then a pause. Then Bob's voice: “Anne, darling, it's all right.”

Hazlerigg shut the door, and returned to his place in front of the fire. He could no longer hear what Bob was saying, but he judged from the tone of his voice that everything was all right.