Death of a Commuter Page 11

  “Oh, poor Hopelady. He’s a simple soul”

  “You think so? He came here on that Thursday afternoon, I believe?”

  There was no need to explain which Thursday. But Elspeth was puzzled for a moment.

  “Did he? Yes, so he did.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  “Yes. I’m afraid it was the usual. He wanted money for something. He hoped I could put things right between him and Felix. They really are very poor.”

  “You mean he wanted to borrow money? For himself or his family?”

  “That’s what it came to, really. Felix had lent him money before, you see. Well, given it would be more accurate. You can’t blame Hopelady. I can’t think why he’s not paid sufficiently.”

  “Did you give him any?”

  “No. Not that time. I really couldn’t, you know, without persuading Felix. I said I’d try to do that but I really hadn’t any to spare. Of my own, I mean. He was a bit crestfallen but I told him I would do what I could.”

  “Did you see him again—until last night?”

  “Oh yes. He was at the inquest, I think. Then, of course, he buried Felix.” The voice grew restrained. “I suppose I ought to be thankful they’ve done away with that ‘unhallowed ground’ wickedness. Anyway, I saw poor Hopelady at the funeral. He’s a bag of nerves, really. All that practical joking is the result of nerves, I’m sure of it Where do you think our children have got to?”

  With more feeling than seemed necessary Carolus said, “I should hate to guess.”

  Elspeth went to the door and called “Bunty!” several times without result.

  “Haven’t you a fire alarm or something you can set in motion?” asked Carolus.

  After a few moments, however, the two appeared, Rupert as cool as usual, Bunty a trifle ruffled.

  “Wherever were you?” asked Elspeth.

  “Bunty was showing me her needlework,” said Rupert.

  Elspeth did not lose her good humour and Carolus and Rupert went round to the car and drove off.

  “Is that child dumb?” asked Rupert rhetorically. “Hullo, what’s this?” For standing in the drive facing them was a car with sidelights on.

  Carolus pulled up and waited till the driver of the car came to his window. It was James Rumble.

  “I thought it was you, Deene. Have you been bothering Elspeth with questions?”

  Carolus could see that the man was choking with anger.

  “Yes,” he said simply.

  “Then I’m going to tell you that I won’t have it. She’s been through quite enough already. You have no possible right to worry her any more. None!”

  “Don’t get hysterical,” said Carolus. “Mrs. Parador asked me to come and see her.”

  “Because her conceited ass of a brother-in-law asked her to. Can’t you see she doesn’t know which Way to turn? What do you think she must feel, an autopsy on her husband’s body, an inquest, haven’t you any feelings? Can’t you realise what she’s been through?”

  “I can. Yes,” said Carolus. “But unfortunately the truth isn’t reached without some disturbance of people’s feelings. As a matter of fact I think you will find Elspeth feels better for telling me all she has.”

  “I very much doubt it. She wants to forget the whole nightmare. I know she does. The verdict has been given …”

  “Listen, Rumble. Tell me honestly. Do you think Felix Parador committed suicide?”

  Rumble tried to answer, mouthing his words. Then, almost shouting, he said, “What’s that to do with it? I tell you I won’t have her pestered in this way. She is just beginning to get over the ghastly business and you come along delving into it, upsetting her. I won’t stand for it. I’m telling you, if you go on like this you’ll have me to reckon with. You can question whoever you like, do what you like, but I won’t have Elspeth upset.”

  Carolus was not provoked to an angry retort. On the contrary he spoke with some sympathy.

  “I know what you feel,” he said. “But you’re mistaken, I assure you. I have done nothing to upset Mrs. Parador. It’s only you who are ‘upset’, as you put it. Go up and see her and you will find that what I tell you is true. Now please back your car and let me get past.”

  Rumble hesitated, then began to turn away.

  “Don’t forget what I’ve said,” he suddenly shouted back. “I mean every word of it.”

  Then he got into his car and started, rather inexpertly, to back towards the gate.

  “Highly-strung character,” commented Priggley.

  “The man’s in love.”

  “Oh, don’t talk like a Victorian novel, sir. It’s so morbid. I see what you mean, though. Think he’ll give any more trouble?”

  “No. She’ll cool him down.”

  “Did you learn all you wanted?”

  “Yes. I’ve finished with what is called interrogation.”

  “Thank God for that Let’s go and have a drink.”

  The saloon bar of The Royal Oak was empty but for Mr. Gray-Somerset who was thoughtfully filing his nails.

  “You didn’t tell me,” he said when he had served their drinks, “that you were some kind of detective. I could probably have been helpful to you. I’ve rather a flair for that sort of thing. M.I. you know for a number of years.”

  “You must have had lots to talk about with Felix Parador then.”

  “Not really. Different branch. Mine was very hush hush stuff.”

  “Atomic research?” suggested Carolus.

  The idea was evidently irresistible to Mr. Gray-Somerset.

  “That sort of thing,” he agreed. “I happen to speak Russian.”

  Carolus made a series of semi-articulate sounds.

  “Ah. I see you do, too. Excellent. But about this man Parador. I rather doubt if he was M.I. Between ourselves I thought there was something rather phony about him, to be honest.”

  “Did he come in here much?”

  “Here? No. I met him at Gerry Petersfield’s.”

  “Does Lord Petersfield live near here?”

  “No. No. No. This was some time ago. Gerry’s a distant relation of mine. He agreed with me about Parador. Not quite ‘right’ he said. I’ve thought of it since this thing happened. I met a lot of phonies when I was in the Congo. Seemed to collect there.”

  “Really?”

  “Definitely. But I had an interesting job there, Security sort of thing, only more on the active side. I was talking about it once to Dogman when a most extraordinary thing happened. He suddenly jumped up and said, ‘I don’t want to hear anything about Security. Understand? I don’t want to hear the word’. I said it was quite an ordinary word and he shouted, ‘Well, don’t use it to me’. Then he walked out of the bar. What do you make of that?”

  “Interesting,” said Carolus. “Has he been in here since?”

  “Oh yes. Often. Soon forgot all about it. He once bought a horse I used to own. I lost a packet on that one. Picked it up later on the St. Leger.”

  “Do you know the vicar?” asked Carolus.

  “The vicar? Here, you mean? Hopelady? No! I’ve just seen him. Keeps the rival establishment down the road. He’d be surprised if he knew how many customers we have in common.”

  “You don’t subscribe to any of his charities, then?”

  “No,” said Gray-Somerset sharply. “Not in my line.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “I WANT TO USE THAT MOTOR-CYCLE OF YOURS FOR A FEW minutes tomorrow morning,” Carolus told Rupert.

  “I didn’t know you could ride a motor-cycle.”

  “Yes. One of the few things I learned in the army. Mind if I do that?”

  “It’s insured,” said Rupert ungraciously.

  “I have to be up early. Suppose you meet me at the Great Ring at ten o’clock?”

  “Look, sir, don’t be mysterious, please. Is this part of your so-called investigation?”

  “It is. Quite an important part.”

  “OK then.”

  “Do
n’t say OK,” said Carolus with pedantic fretfulness.” You know I detest the expression. There are perfectly good English equivalents. I don’t mind Americanisms when they have particular force, as many of them have, but…”

  “You’ve got something on your mind. That kind of irritability always means there’s something brewing. But all right, then, I’ll meet you at the Great Ring at ten.”

  Carolus rose at seven and by twenty past eight was sitting in his car in the parking place by the station. Billy Flood hobbled across. “What do you want to know this time?” he asked with a greedy twinkle.

  “Nothing, Mr. Flood. I just want to watch the departure of the commuters.”

  “The big lot’s gone on the 8.12,” he said. “You’ll have to wait for the 8.52 now. That’s the train most of this lot take,” he said, indicating his half-empty car park.

  He was called to see a newly-arrived car into place.

  “C’m’on, c’m’on, c’m’on, c’m’on,” he said. “Bit farther, c’m’on, c’m’on …” Crash. The car had hit the low wall. “That’ll do,” said Mr. Flood, his duty accomplished.

  “What about my bumper?” asked the driver furiously.

  “What are bumpers for?” asked Mr. Flood, making out his ticket. “I like to get them close up to the wall,” he explained to Carolus. “Looks tidier that way.”

  It was fifteen minutes before the arrival of anyone Carolus knew by sight, but in the meantime an almost continuous stream was arriving at the station, more female than male, he noted. It was thirty years since, as a preparatory schoolboy on holiday, he had seen his father off to the city on a morning train and he was interested by the changes, superficial though they were, in the scene. Less bowlers, less headgear altogether, more brief-cases, less baskets of produce, as many neatly rolled umbrellas. But there was the same rather uncommunicative manner, the same intentness on the matter in hand.

  Thriver’s car drew up driven by Patsy, and the solicitor got out, apparently without saying a word to his daughter. Patsy saw him and waved her hand as she drove away. Then up the road came Edward Limpole on foot accompanied by a taller, sterner man whom Carolus assumed to be his elder brother Charles. Not a word passed between them as they strode side-by-side to the station entrance and disappeared.

  “There’s a pair for you,” said Mr. Flood. “Tramping down all that way to save paying for parking. It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

  “No,” said Carolus. “They want the exercise, perhaps”

  “Exercise! They wouldn’t want exercise if it cost money. Here’s Mr. Rumble coming. He’ll park in here near you. Or always has done.”

  Rumble drove in without seeing Carolus, then catching sight of him, came across.

  “I owe you an apology, Deene,” he said hurriedly.” You were quite right Elspeth was glad you looked in. I can’t wait now but I had to just tell you.”

  “That’s all right” said Carolus cordially.

  The pedestrians were beginning to hurry as they entered the station now. How did women manage to walk fast in stiletto heels, he wondered idly. Then he saw Dogman who parked quite near him.

  Dogman took trouble to see his car was locked and all the windows up.

  “If anyone comes for it” he told Flood, “say it’s broken down. Won’t start”

  “You’ve locked it anyway.”

  “I know, but there might be a duplicate key. I don’t think there is but there might be. It’s not to leave here, anyway.”

  “OK,” said Flood, and Carolus shuddered.

  The train left on time. Carolus gave Flood a couple of half-crowns and drove away. He had seen all he needed.

  He reached the Great Ring well before ten o’clock but Priggley was already there.

  “Why choose this God-forsaken place?” he asked. “There isn’t a soul about.”

  “That’s what I hoped,” said Carolus. “Now we will proceed to Operation Smash-up.”

  “What d’you mean?” asked Priggley anxiously.

  “Don’t be alarmed.”

  Carolus instead of putting the Bentley as Mr. Flood would have liked it at right-angles to the edge of the tarmac to form the first of a line of parked cars, had stopped it well out in the open space.

  “Now let me try that thing.”

  “I don’t like this a bit,” said Rupert “I don’t know what you’re up to but I don’t like it”

  “Just repeat the Arab’s Farewell To His Steed, then. ‘My beautiful, my beautiful, that standeth proudly by …’”

  Carolus mounted the Criterion and examined it critically.

  “Shan’t be a moment” he said and rode out of the car park. Rupert could hear him accelerating up the road, then changing down, then returning. He entered the car park apparently in complete control but as he approached the Bentley quite slowly he seemed to lose his head, and coming up on its right side too close, badly gashed its wing and nearly went over.

  “Are you mad, sir?” shouted Priggley running forward. “Look what you’ve done! And what about my bike?”

  “Examine it,” said Carolus curtly.

  “And the Bentley. What on earth happened to you?”

  “It is a bit of a dent isn’t it?” said Carolus complacently.

  “Dent! My God! It will never be the same again.”

  “You’d be surprised what can be done by a good bodybuilder. But I think it’s convincing, don’t you?”

  “I suppose you’re going to ask me to believe you did that on purpose?”

  “I don’t ask you to believe anything. In fact the less you believe the better. What I ask you to do is keep your mouth shut If I couldn’t trust you to do that I wouldn’t have brought you here.”

  “It’s the last time I get mixed up with one of your lunacies, sir. I really think your mental age must be sixteen or so.”

  “Now I want you to go back to Newminster. I’ll follow you as soon as I can. I’ll have your things packed and bring them with me. But don’t go back through Brenstead. You can take that to Wayland’s garage and get them to check up on it at my expense, but I don’t think it’s come to any harm.”

  Rupert stared at him.

  “What is all this?”

  “Tell the Sticks I’ll be over as soon as I can.”

  “I shall be delighted, sir. To tell you the truth I feel as though I’m escaping from a dangerous lunatic.”

  “I’m not altogether sure you’re not. Off you go.”

  Carolus watched him ride away then started to drive back to Brenstead. It was half past eleven when he reached the police station.

  He found Police Officer Brophy behind the counter, looking important.

  “Can I see the sergeant in charge?”

  Carolus spoke politely enough but his words found no favour with Police Officer Brophy.

  “I am the Police Officer in charge,” said Police Officer Brophy.

  “So I see. But as this is rather a serious matter?”

  “The plain clothes lot’s all out,” said Police Officer Brophy, with not very well concealed disgust. “If that’s what you want”

  “No, I don’t think I need trouble them.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  “I want to report an accident”

  “Traffic?”

  “You could call it that”

  Police Officer Brophy picked up some papers beside him and prepared to take notes.

  “Your full name and address, please,” he said severely.

  “What time will the sergeant be back?”

  Police Officer Brophy took this as a challenge.

  “If you wish to report an accident I shall be glad to take particulars,” he said.

  “Thank you, but…”

  “Perhaps you want to see the Chief Superintendent? Or the Chief Constable?” he suggested sarcastically. “You don’t think yours is the only accident on the roads, do you? Now please give me your name and address and we won’t waste any more time.”

  Carolus was
about to do so when the door opened behind him and a tall man with a sergeant’s insignia and sharp, narrow eyes in a pale blue-chinned face entered.

  “What’s this, Brophy?” he asked sharply.

  “Traffic accident, sir,” said Police Officer Brophy.

  “Anything serious?” the sergeant asked Carolus.

  “Yes. The other party failed to stop,” said Carolus.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked Brophy. “I’ll take particulars.” He passed behind the counter and Brophy disappeared. “Now then, sir. Is that your car outside?”

  “Yes.”

  “I made a cursory examination of the damage as I came in,” said Sergeant Beckett. “What happened?”

  Carolus decided to enter into the spirit of the thing.

  “I was proceeding along the Buttsfield road …”

  Sergeant Beckett nodded as though delighted with the word.

  “Time?”

  Carolus became vague.

  “It must have been about ten,” he said. “Or it may have been earlier.”

  “You didn’t notice the exact time?” said Sergeant Beckett with some disappointment.

  “No, not exactly.”

  “Should have done, sir. It’s always helpful to have the exact time in these cases. What was your speed?”

  “About thirty miles an hour,” said Carolus.

  Sergeant Beckett sighed.

  “You’d be surprised how often cars are travelling at about thirty miles an hour,” he said. “Whenever we have to investigate an accident it’s always about thirty miles an hour they’re travelling. Sure you weren’t going faster?”

  “If I had been the fellow would have been killed.”

  “We’ll come to that” said Sergeant Beckett ambiguously. “You were proceeding along the Buttsfield road at approximately thirty miles an hour. Yes?”

  “I became aware that a man on a motor-cycle was anxious to pass me …”

  “Steady now. Steady. How did you become aware?”

  “In my driving mirror.”

  “I see. Did you take any note of his appearance or manner of dress?”

  “None at all, I’m afraid.”

  “Pity that. You should always note the appearance and manner of dress.”

  “But I didn’t know…”