The Case of the Late Pig (5 page)

‘What were you playing? Bridge?’

Leo looked scandalized. ‘Before lunch? No, my dear boy. Poker. Wouldn’t play bridge before lunch. Poker, that’s what it was. Kingston had a queen-pot and we were settlin’ up, thinkin’ about lunch, when there was a sort of shadow past the window, and then a sort of thud that wasn’t an ordinary thud. Damned unpleasant. I didn’t like the look of him, did you? Looked a dangerous fellow, I thought, the sort of feller one’d set a dog on instinctively.’

‘Who?’ I said, feeling I was losing the thread of the argument.

Leo grunted. ‘That feller we met in the drive at Poppy’s place. Can’t get him out of my mind.’

‘I think I’ve seen him before,’ I said.

‘Oh?’ Leo looked at me suspiciously. ‘Where? Where was that?’

‘Er – at a funeral somewhere,’ I said, not wishing to be more explicit.

Leo blew his nose. ‘Just where you’d expect to see him,’
he
said unreasonably, and we turned into the drive of Highwaters.

Janet came hurrying down the steps as we pulled up.

‘Oh, darling, you’re so late,’ she murmured to Leo and, turning to me, held out her hand. ‘Hello, Albert,’ she said, a little coldly, I thought.

I can’t describe Janet as I saw her then. She was, and is, very lovely.

I still like her.

‘Hello,’ I said flatly, and added idiotically because I felt I ought to say something else: ‘Give us to drink, Ambrosia, and sweet Barm –’

She turned away from me and addressed Leo.

‘You really must go and dress, pet. The Vicar’s here, all of a twitter, poor boy. The whole village is seething with excitement, he says, and Miss Dusey sent up to say that “The Marquis” is full of newspaper men. She wants to know if it’s all right. Has anything turned up?’

‘No, no, m’dear.’ Leo spoke absently and kissed her, unexpectedly, I felt sure.

He seemed to think the caress a little surprising himself, for he coughed as though to cover, or at least to excuse it, and hurried into the house, leaving her standing, dark-haired and attractive, on the step beside me.

‘He’s worried, isn’t he?’ she said under her breath, and then went on, as though she had suddenly remembered who I was, ‘I’m afraid you must go and dress at once. You’ve only got ten minutes. Leave the car here and I’ll send someone to take it round.’

I have known Janet, on and off, for twenty-three years. When I first saw her she was bald and pinkly horrible. I was almost sick at the sight of her, and was sent out into the garden until I had recovered my manners. Her formality both hurt and astonished me, therefore.

‘All right,’ I said, anxious to be accommodating at all costs. ‘I won’t wash.’

She looked at me critically. She has very fine eyes, like Leo’s, only larger.

‘I should,’ she said gently. ‘You show the dirt, don’t you? – like a white fur.’

I took her hand. ‘Friends, eh?’ I said anxiously.

She laughed, but not very naturally.

‘My dear, of course. Oh, by the way, your friend called at about half past six, but didn’t stay. I said I expected you for dinner.’

‘Lugg,’ I said apprehensively, a great light dawning upon me. ‘What’s he done?’

‘Oh, not
Lugg
.’ She spoke with contempt. ‘I
like
Lugg. Your girl-friend.’

The situation was getting out of hand.

‘It’s all a lie,’ I said. ‘There is no other woman. Did she leave a name?’

‘She did.’ There was grimness and I thought spite in Janet’s tone. ‘Miss Effie Rowlandson.’

‘Never heard of her,’ I said honestly. ‘Was she a nice girl?’

‘No,’ said Janet explosively, and ran into the house.

I went into Highwaters alone. Old Pepper, pottering about in the hall doing the odd jobs that butlers do do, seemed pleased to see me, and I was glad of that. After a gracious though formal greeting, ‘A letter for you, sir,’ he said, in the same way as a man might say, ‘I am happy to present you with a medal.’ ‘It came this morning, and I was about to readdress it and send it on to you, when Sir Leo informed me that we were to expect you this evening.’

He retired to his private cubby-hole at the back of the hall and returned with an envelope.

‘You are in your usual room, sir, in the east wing,’ he said, as he came up. ‘I will send George with your cases
immediately.
It wants but seven minutes before the gong.’

I glanced at the envelope in my hand as he was sauntering off, and I suppose I hiccuped or something, for he glanced round at me with kindly concern.

‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

‘Nothing, Pepper,’ I said, confirming his worst fears, and, tearing open the envelope, I read the second anonymous letter as I went up to my room. It was as neatly typed and precisely punctuated as the first had been, quite a pleasure to read.

‘
O,’ saith the owl. ‘Oho,’ sobbeth the frog. ‘O-oh,’ mourneth the worm. ‘Where is Peters that was promised us?
’

The Angel weepeth behind golden bars. His wings cover his face. ‘Piero,’ weepeth the Angel
.

Why should these things be? Who was he to disturb the heavens?

Consider, o consider the lowly mole. His small hands are sore and his snout bleedeth
.

CHAPTER 5

Nice People

‘IT’S THE NATURE-
note
motif
I find confusing,’ I confided to Lugg as I dressed. ‘See any point in it at all?’

He threw the letter aside and smiled at me with unexpected sheepishness. Sentiment glistened all over his face.

‘Pore little mole,’ he said.

I gaped at him, and he had the grace to look abashed. He recovered his truculence almost at once, however.

‘That walk,’ he began darkly. ‘I’m glad you’ve come in. I’ve bin waitin’ to talk to you. What do you think I am? A perishin’ centipede? Green bus, my old sock!’

‘You’re getting old,’ I said offensively. ‘See if your mental faculties have failed as far as your physique has deteriorated. I have four minutes to get down to the dining-room. Does that letter convey anything to you or not? It was sent here. It arrived this morning.’

The dig touched him and his great white face was reproachful as he reread the note, his lips moving soundlessly.

‘A owl, a frog, a worm, and a angel are all upset because they can’t find this ’ere Peters,’ he said at last. ‘That’s clear, ain’t it?’

‘Dazzlingly,’ I agreed. ‘And it would suggest that the writer knew Peters was not dead, which is interesting, because he is. The fellow I’ve been to see in the mortuary is – or rather was – Peters himself. He died this morning.’

Lugg eyed me. ‘’Avin’ a game?’ he inquired coldly.

I considered him with disgust as I struggled with my collar, and presently he continued without help, making an obvious effort to get his mind working.

‘This mornin’? Reelly?’ he said. ‘Died, did he? What of?’

‘Flower pot on the head, with intent.’

‘Done in? Reelly?’ Lugg returned to the note. ‘Oh, well then, this is clear, ain’t it? The bloke ’oo wrote this knew you was always anxious to snuff round a bit of blood, doin’ the rozzers out of their rightful, and ’e kindly give you the tip to come along ’ere as fast as you could so’s you wouldn’t miss nothink.’

‘Yes, well, you’re offensive, muddle-headed, and vulgar,’ I said with dignity.

‘Vulgar?’ he echoed in sudden concern. ‘Not vulgar, cock. I may say what I mean, but I’m never vulgar.’

He considered a moment.

‘Rozzers,’ he announced with triumph. ‘You’re right, rozzers is common. P’lice officers.’

‘You make me sick,’ I said truthfully. ‘The point you seem to have missed is that Peters died this morning, and that letter was posted to me at this address from central London some time before seven o’clock last night.’

He took in the facts and surprised me by getting up.

‘’Ere,’ he said, ‘see what this means? The bloke ’oo wrote you last night
knoo
Peters was goin’ to die today.’

I hesitated. It was the first time I had felt the genuine trickle up the spine. Meanwhile he went on complaining.

‘You’ve done it again,’ he mourned. ‘In spite of all I’ve done for you, here you are mixed up in the first bit of cheap mud that comes along. Lumme! You don’t ’ave to whistle for it, even. It flies to you.’

I looked at him. ‘Lugg,’ I said, ‘these words are in the nature of a prophecy. The puff paste has a sausage inside it, after all.’

The gong forestalled him, but his comment followed me as I hurried to the door.

‘Botulistic, most likely,’ he said.

I arrived in the dining-room with half a second to spare,
and
Pepper regarded me with affection, which was more than Janet did, I was sorry to see.

Leo was talking to a slim black back in a clerical dinner jacket, and I sat down to find myself beside the pleasant-looking person with whom I had chatted at Pig’s Tethering funeral.

He recognized me with a pleasing show of warmth, and laughed at me with deep lazy grey eyes.

‘Always in at the death?’ he murmured.

We introduced ourselves, and I liked his manner. He was a big fellow, older than I was, with a certain shyness which was attractive. We chatted for some moments, and Janet joined us, and it was not until some minutes later that I became aware of someone hating me.

It is one of those odd but unmistakable sensations one experiences sometimes on buses or at private dinners, and I looked across the table to observe a young cleric whom I had never seen before regarding me with honest hostility. He was one of those tall, bony ascetics with high-red cheek and wrist bones, and the humourless round black eyes of the indignant-hearted.

I was so taken aback that I smiled at him foolishly, and Leo introduced us.

He turned out to be the Reverend Philip Smedley Bathwick, newly appointed to the parish of Kepesake. I could not understand his unconcealed hatred, and was rather hurt by it until I saw him glance at Janet. Then I began to follow him. He positively goggled at her, and I might have felt sorry for him had it not been for something personal that there is no need to go into here.

He was doubly unfortunate, as it happened, because Leo monopolized him. As soon as we were safely embarked on the fish the old man bellowed, as he always does when he fancies the subject needs finesse: ‘That fellow we were
talking
about before dinner; where d’you say he’s staying?’

‘At Mrs Thatcher’s, sir. Do you know the woman? She has a little cottage below “The Swan”.’

Bathwick had a good voice, but there was a tremor in it which I put down to his suppressed anxiety to listen to the conversation at our end of the table.

Leo was not giving him any respite.

‘Oh, I know old Mrs Thatcher,’ he said. ‘One of the Jepson family on Blucher’s Hill. A good woman. What’s she doin’ with a feller like that in the house? Can’t understand it, Bathwick.’

‘She lets rooms, sir.’ Bathwick’s eyes wandered to Janet and away again, as if the sight hurt him. ‘This Mr Hayhoe has only been in the village a little under a week.’

‘Heigh-ho?’ said Leo. ‘Idiotic name. Probably false.’

As usual when he is irritated he blared at the unfortunate young man, who gaped at him.

‘Hayhoe is a fairly common name, sir,’ Bathwick ventured.

‘Heigh-ho?’ repeated Leo, looking at him as if he were demented. ‘I don’t believe it. When you’re as old as I am, Bathwick, you’ll give up trying to be funny. This is a serious time, my dear feller, a serious time.’

Bathwick grew crimson about the ears at the injustice, but he controlled himself and glowered silently. It was a ridiculous incident, but it constituted, I submit, the whole reason why Leo considers Bathwick a facetious ass to this day, which is a pity, of course, for a more serious-minded cove was never born.

At the time I was more interested in the information than the man, however, and I turned to Kingston.

‘D’you remember a fantastic old man in a top hat weeping into an immense mourning handkerchief at that funeral at your place last winter?’ I said. ‘That was Hayhoe.’

He blinked at me. ‘Peters’ funeral? No, I don’t think I
remember
him. There was an odd sort of girl there, I know, and –’

He paused, and I saw a kind of excitement come into his eyes.

‘– I say!’ he said.

We were all looking at him, and he became embarrassed, and struggled to change the subject. As soon as the others were talking again, however, he turned to me.

‘I’ve just thought of something,’ he said, his voice as eager as a boy’s. ‘It may be useful. We’ll have a chat after dinner, if you don’t mind. You didn’t know that fellow Peters well, did you?’

‘Not intimately,’ I said guardedly.

‘He wasn’t a nice chap,’ he said and added, lowering his voice, ‘I believe I’m on to something. Can’t tell you here.’

He met my eyes, and my heart warmed to him. I like enthusiasm for the chase, or it’s an inhuman business.

We did not have an opportunity to talk immediately we broke up, however, because the Inspector in charge of the case came to see Leo while the port was still in circulation, and he excused himself.

Left with Bathwick, Kingston and I had our hands full. He was a red-hot innovator, we discovered. He spoke with passion of the insanitary condition of the thatched cottages and the necessity of bringing culture into the life of the average villager, betraying, I thought, a lack of acquaintance with either the thatched cottage or, of course, the villager in question, who, as every countryman knows, does not exist.

Kingston and I were trying to convince him that the whole point of a village is that it is a sufficiently scattered community for a man to call his soul his own in it without seriously inconveniencing his neighbour, when Pepper arrived to ask me if I would join Sir Leo in the gun-room.

I went into the fine old chamber on the first floor, where Leo does both his writing and his gun cleaning with impartial enthusiasm, to find him sitting at his desk. In front of him was an extremely attractive soul enjoying a glass of whisky. Leo introduced him.

‘Inspector Pussey, Campion, my boy. Able feller. Been workin’ like a nigger all day.’