Blue Murder Page 15

  “Ay,” agreed the stevedore cautiously. “I’ll do my best.”

  “First of all, what are you doing here? I understand from Superintendent Cheam that you came down from Wescastle on a day trip.”

  “Ay, that’s right.” (He said “that’s reet” and matched the rest of his pronunciation to those words). “But I changed my mind, like.”

  “You went to see Mr. Hardstaffe at his house, made a scene in the dining-room in front of his guests, and threatened him. He took you to his study. What happened there?”

  Ramsbottom looked at Driver from beneath his thick black eyebrows.

  “Nowt,” he said shortly. “That was the trouble. He said nowt but a lot of claptrap that wouldn’t fool a babby. But when he said it, see, it sounded sense. Yes, he fair put it across me, and I went out without getting owt out of him.”

  “What did you expect to get?”

  “Satisfaction, sir, that’s what! No one’s going to treat our little lad that way without paying for it.”

  “Yes, I thought it was money you were trying to get out of him. Well, you didn’t get it. What happened then?”

  “I walked about a bit, then went into The Fox and Feathers for a drink. And I sat down with my mild and bitter and did a bit of thinking, see. And I had a few more drinks and thought that I ought to have stuck to him a bit longer. I’d got him shaking like a jelly inside of that dining-room, see, and what does he do but get round me with his well-off talk. ‘And it won’t do,’ I says. My old woman’d never forgive me if I go back without satisfaction. Satisfaction’s what I’ve come to get, and satisfaction’s what I’ll get, I say to myself. So I come back to supper and say I’m not going to catch the train after all. And I go upstairs after, and wait till Mrs. Selby’s in bed, and then I come down again and let myself out and go back to see Mr. ’Ardstaffe.”

  “What for?”

  “‘Get some satisfaction out of him or murder him’ was what I said to myself,” replied Ramsbottom frankly. “But I never meant it. I’d had a few drinks too many, what with being worried and being a stranger in the village. On my way, I broke a stick off of one of the trees alongside the road, but I never used it on the old man. I’ll swear to that. I only wanted to catch him alone and shake the stick at him.”

  “Well, what happened when you reached the house?”

  “I walked round the garden and had a look at the windows. It was pitch black and I didn’t like to use my torch. I’d forgotten about it being black-out. It must have been the beer.”

  “You’d be lucky to get into that state on war-time beer,” remarked the Inspector. “You must have had a barrel full. Well, go on.”

  “When my eyes got kind of used to the dark, I did see a light in a room downstairs, but it was only a bit of a slit and I couldn’t see inside but I felt the window was open. Then—then I came back here.”

  “Mr. Hardstaffe was in that room, and you know it!” exclaimed Driver. “You climbed through the window, crept up behind him, and murdered him!”

  Ramsbottom look frightened.

  “Nay, I did not. I swear I didn’t do it. I never used the stick I tell you. I never meant to hurt him. I only wanted—”

  “All right, we know,” put in Driver. “You wanted to force Hardstaffe to give you a compensation for bruising your son. I’ve met fellows like you before. But if you’re by any chance telling the truth, why didn’t you try to see Hardstaffe? Having gone so far why didn’t you climb through the window? And why did you wait here for us to come and question you? Why didn’t you go home by the first train in the morning?”

  Ramsbottom moved uneasily in the chair.

  “I knew he’d tell you that he’d seen me,” he said. “A bit of bad luck it were, that.”

  Driver looked puzzled.

  “Who? Do you mean Mr. Richards?”

  “Ay, happen that’ll be his name. As soon as he flashed his torch on me I knew it was all up wi’ me.”

  “Let’s get this clear,” said Driver. “What time was this?”

  “I reckon it’d be as near half past eleven as makes no difference. Happen the bit of light caught his eye, and he was going to warn them at the house.”

  “You’re not going to tell me that it was a police constable!” exclaimed the Inspector.

  Mr. Ramsbottom looked surprised.

  “Nay. I saw his uniform plain in the light. ’Twere one of them Home Guards!”

  CHAPTER 30

  Arnold was surprised to find that the present atmosphere in the Hardstaffe’s house was not in the least conducive to the writing of a detective novel.

  It had previously seemed an extraordinary thing that the author with whom he had a first name in common, if nothing else—a man named Bennett—had been able to picture so vividly the Siege of Paris although he had not been in the same country at the time. Now, however, he perceived that this admirably realistic description might have been less convincing, had the author of it actually been there.

  Here I am, Arnold thought, living in a house in which two murders have been committed, a house overrun by the police who suspect me among others, yet if I were to describe it in a book exactly as I see it, everyone who reads it would say, ‘It’s evident that he’s never had any first hand experience of murder!”

  For after the second hurrying of police procedure, of photographing, sketching, searching, and questioning, the house had settled down again to a normal way of life.

  Even the people within the house became quite natural. Leda, once again wearing her tweeds or uniforms by day, because she “didn’t believe in mourning anyhow”; Stanton and his wife Betty, occupying the two recently-vacated seats at table, and their baby son darting about the house like a particularly plump butterfly; Cook carefully measuring a minimum of sugar for the apple tart; Frieda indulging in outbursts of temper and hysterical weeping, and so remaining normal in her very abnormality.

  There were no outward signs of strained nerves or over-wrought grief. There was no embarrassment between the members of the family. They spoke, ate, laughed, much as usual. They did not even avoid speaking of the two whom even murder had not put asunder, not, in speaking, did they lower their voices or utter hypocritical platitudes. They no longer used the drawing-room: that was all.

  Arnold could not decide whether all this was due to the desire of the living Hardstaffes to maintain an air of serenity in front of their guest, or to a fanatical belief in the infallibility of Scotland Yard. But he reflected that it was a state of affairs which would have amazed his literary agent, if that suave, bald-headed gentleman were any longer capable of registering such an emotion.

  Nevertheless, his book was progressing slowly.

  One afternoon, he came down to tea in the breakfast-room, a little dazed from having concluded a new chapter in which his detective, Noel Delare, had become more than usually daring, and blinking because concentrated writing had made his eyes sore.

  The dogs rushed towards him in ecstatic friendliness, and he stooped in an absent-minded way to pat the one nearest to his hand. They had become so much a part of his life that he no longer noticed the white hairs scattered over the legs of his trousers, nor worried that his bedroom smelled strongly of dog. At meal times now, he even threw bones under the dining-room table, and put down his empty plate to be licked.

  He knew that such behaviour pleased Leda, and it had become a habit with him to try to please her.

  He found that Betty Hardstaffe was holding out a cup of tea for him, and he stammered an apology. Leda chaffed him loudly about his preoccupation, then broke into a long account of her activities at a recent W.V.S. meeting, which enabled her sister-in-law and Arnold to enjoy their tea without the necessity of uttering a word.

  When they had finished, Leda got up, gave Arnold a playful pinch on the ear, and said gaily, “Come on, Lazy bones, you haven’t had any fresh air to-day. A walk will do you good.”

  She turned to Betty. “I have to look after him, otherwise he’d either kil
l himself with working on his old book, or else would suffocate to death.”

  She slipped her arm through his, and urged him into the hall, followed by the dogs, howling and snarling in their excitement at hearing one of the few words of the human language they cared to understand.

  Once out of doors, Leda’s animation left her, however, and she walked along in silence until they came to their favourite path through the wood beyond the paddock.

  “Arnold, I’ve got a confession to make,” she said.

  Arnold turned to her with a startled look on his round, placid face.

  To one whose mind was as engrossed with the intricacies of crime as his, the word ‘confession’ could convey only one meaning. For one brief second, he saw Leda as a murderess.

  Then he as quickly shook the thought away.

  “A confession?” he asked. “Do you think I’m the right person to tell it to? I mean, perhaps it would be better if you told—er—someone else.”

  Leda looked at him strangely for a moment.

  “You sound as if you think I ought to go to the police,” she said.

  “No, no. That’s not what I meant at all,” he lied. “But I’m not much good at giving advice, that’s all.”

  “I don’t want advice,” returned Leda. “I only want to tell you that I’ve done something which may offend you.”

  Arnold smiled in relief.

  “That’s quite impossible,” he said.

  “Is it?” Leda regarded him mischievously. “Would you mind being engaged to me?”

  Arnold was so much taken by surprise that he could find no immediate reply. He wondered for a moment whether it was Leap Year, but a hasty division of the year by four reassured him.

  Engaged to Leda? Engaged to be married? Married to Leda?

  He was honest enough to admit to himself that the idea was not new to him. She had made him very comfortable since he had come to live in the village. She would soon be a rich woman, and she would be generous to him. They had become great friends and had much in common.

  The lines of a once popular song recurred to his mind.

  “You like to tramp the hills and heather, and so do I.

  You like to stay in doors in stormy weather—”

  or words to that effect.

  But he had decided some time ago that this wasn’t enough.

  After all, he wasn’t so old yet. At fifty, a man wasn’t past feeling passion for a woman, and he found the idea of marrying just for a home and an insurance against old age irksome. And how could he feel passion for a woman who always looked lady-like, played a good game of golf and a good hand at bridge, was a thundering good sort, but had no—no ‘oomph’ whatever?

  He was aware of Leda’s clear eyes regarding him earnestly as these thoughts skimmed through his mind, and, anxious not to hurt her feelings, he answered her with another lie.

  “I’m afraid I hadn’t thought about it.”

  “Oh, that’s all right,” replied Leda. “You needn’t be afraid that I want to try and hook you or anything. You know me better than that, I hope. I’ll try to explain.”

  She paused, and appeared to be listening to the faint yapping of the dogs which told of their distant pursuit of conies.

  “It’s all Betty’s fault,” she went on. “She button-holed me this morning and asked me when you were going to leave.”

  “Well—yes—I—to tell you the truth, I was thinking about that myself,” stammered Arnold.

  “Liar!” exclaimed Leda. “Now, Arnold, do let me tell you about this in my own way. You know very well that I never hint at anything: I always say straight out what I mean and people can like it or lump it as far as I’m concerned. If I really thought you ought to leave here, I should tell you without all this rigmarole. Can’t you see that what I’m trying to tell you is that I don’t want you to go away? I’ve got used to seeing you around the place, and I don’t see any earthly reason why you shouldn’t stay if you want to.”

  She paused, obviously awaiting a reply, and Arnold, sighing for the glib tongue of Noel Delare, said awkwardly.

  “Of course I do. I should be very sorry to go away. You’ve made me so welcome, and I’m comfortable—and—happy. We’re such friends—”

  “Well? there you are,” smiled Leda. ‘We’re both agreed on that. But Stanton’s wife is very strait-laced in some ways. Oh yes, she is—you’d be surprised,” she went on as she sensed Arnold’s disbelief. “I’m far less conventional than Betty, in spite of all her modern ways. I tell you she was quite horrified when I said that you and I had every intention of living in the same house together after she and Stan have left. ‘What–alone?’ she said, in a voice that would have done credit to Queen Victoria. Of course I laughed at her.”

  “But,” protested Arnold, “it’s a point of view that must be considered. I did mention it to you before, if you remember, but we decided that it would be more convenient for me to stay for a bit on account of the police always wanting me for questions. I’m so used to being here that I regard it as my home, and I haven’t wanted to think about leaving. But if people are going to talk—”

  “They’re not,” said Leda positively. “They wouldn’t dare to talk about me in the village. Besides, I’ve arranged it all now. I just wanted to know how you felt about it. I did it on the spur of the moment, but of course I had to tell you about it.”

  “I don’t quite understand,” said Arnold.

  “Well,” explained Leda, “I just told Betty that you and I are engaged to be married. My dear, you should have seen her: she simply crawled! Oh, these conventions make me laugh. It always seems so much worse for two engaged people to be left alone together—but there you are. It’s all right now.”

  But—but,” spluttered Arnold, “you can’t let people believe that we’re engaged to be married. It isn’t true.”

  “Of course it isn’t,” said Leda, “but they don’t know that.”

  As if realising suddenly the reason for his embarrassment, Leda began to roar with laughter.

  Oh, you poor dear!” she exclaimed, patting his shoulder. “You surely don’t think that I mean to marry you, do you? I’m not quite so unconventional that I could propose to a man, and if I were, I do hope I should make a better job of it than this. I haven’t any matrimonial designs on you, Arnold, I assure you, and I’m sure you haven’t. But if people like Betty are going to be foolish over our being friends, the only sensible thing to do is to let them believe that it’s quite proper according to their poor lights.”

  “Yes, but—”

  Leda looked at him in sudden suspicion.

  “You’re not engaged to anyone else, are you?” she asked.

  “No, no,” replied Arnold. “You know I’m a confirmed bachelor.”

  “Sometimes they are the most susceptible,” said Leda, “but I must say there’s no one in this village likely to turn your head. But I can see that the idea of being engaged to me is hateful to you. We’re such good friends that it didn’t occur to me that you’d loathe it so much. I just thought it was the best way of avoiding an awkward situation. But, of course, if you feel like that about it—”

  “Oh, it’s not the idea of being engaged to you that worries me,” Arnold hastened to explain. “It’s just that I wonder if it’s wise. But if you really think—”

  “That’s settled then,” said Leda happily. “I’ll try and ward off all the congratulations from you: people make such a fuss over an engagement. You don’t need to bother about a pledge of our affection. I’ve plenty of rings, and of course I couldn’t accept one from you as it’s all a pretence. And now let’s forget all about it. Where are those damned dogs?”

  CHAPTER 31

  “Are you going to have any children?” asked Betty Hardstaffe. “I know it’s awful of me to ask such a personal question, but after all, I’m one of the family, and I’m interested. It’s seeing you with Paul like that, I suppose, that made me ask. I hope you don’t mind.”

  She was
sitting on the painted garden seat under the larch tree on the lawn, watching while Arnold played St. Bernard to her little son’s Pomeranian. At her question, he rose to his feet, and dusted the knees of his trousers.

  “No more,” he said to the child. “Good dog, then. Kennel.”

  The child obediently backed on all fours under the seat, whence he uttered spasmodic growls and barks, until he forgot, and became a white rabbit instead.

  “No, I don’t mind,” replied Arnold. “Why should I? I’m fond of children, always have been, but I don’t imagine that I shall ever have any of my own now.”

  Betty looked puzzled.

  “You mean—”

  “I mean it’s no use thinking about it until I’m married, and that may never happen.”

  “But Leda told me—” Betty hesitated. “That is, I thought that you and Leda would be getting married soon. There’s no need for a long engagement, and neither of you is so very young, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  Arnold took a long time to walk the few paces to the seat.

  Of course, the engagement! His engagement to Leda.

  Somehow he could never remember it, and was always placing himself in some such awkward predicament as this. He wished he had never agreed to playing in this farce.

  “Leda and I haven’t discussed the subject,” he said stiffly.

  “Well, I think you ought to,” said Betty, “for both your sake and hers. Leda may not be able to have children, though I believe there are cases where women of fifty have had babies quite safely, and she’s not as old as that yet, of course. Perhaps she might not like to discuss it, though she’s always boasting that she’s very unconventional.”

  “And isn’t she?” asked Arnold.

  Betty raised her delicately pencilled eyebrows.

  “Who? Leda? She’s the most conventional woman I know, barring none. Why, old Mrs. Hardstaffe would have run away years ago if it hadn’t been for Leda. That nice old lawyer who’s the coroner for this district was in love with her for years, and they’d decided to elope and snatch a little happiness together. But Leda found out somehow and threatened to tell her father. Stan says that it finished his mother: she became an old woman overnight. She never tried to run away again.”